The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [105]
Cho had insisted that the Americans were losing two thousand men every day, a number that Ushijima knew was ridiculously high, but he did nothing to correct his chief of staff, even if the bluster of that made Colonel Yahara cringe. The Americans might know how high their losses are, but surely they are listening to our communications. Someone out there might believe Cho’s figures, or at least might believe it is possible. If their soldiers who kneel in mud and filth stop believing what their generals tell them, we will have won another kind of victory. We may defeat their morale. Cho’s boasting is certainly improving our own. If we receive no more support from Tokyo, morale might be the only thing my army will have left.
The shift in the American position had been carefully documented, reports confirming that the battered infantry was being pulled back, especially along the western flanks. Ushijima knew that those lines were now filling with Marines who were being trucked down from the north. The first to arrive had been the Marine First Division, filling the positions vacated by the badly mauled Twenty-seventh Infantry. Directly behind the First, he knew that the Sixth Marine Division was moving into place, and it was inevitable that once those forces were in position to attack, they would. He shared the grudging respect many of his commanders felt for the Marines, knew that all throughout the Pacific island campaigns, it had mostly been Marines who had come across the beaches and crushed the Japanese defenses. Whether Tokyo acknowledged that or not didn’t matter. On Okinawa his own defenses had held up well, despite being vastly out-manned by American infantry, and the toll suffered by the Americans had been deeply satisfying. It was after all his primary mission, that if his precious Thirty-second Army was to be sacrificed, they would take as many Americans with them as they could. But the butchery inflicted on the American infantry had not sent them scampering back to their ships as Cho had long predicted. With fresh troops moving in to face him, Ushijima had finally consented to Cho’s wishes that the Americans be attacked in a massive show of Japanese force. Despite Colonel Yahara’s passionate opposition, Ushijima had to accept Cho’s logic, that with so much shifting of troops, there could be confusion and uncertainty in the American lines. There might be no better time.
A young girl appeared in his doorway, holding a tray, made a short, respectful bow. He waved her in, and she moved close, bent low, offering him a single glass of sake. He shook his head and the girl backed away, a silent exchange that had been repeated for the past couple of hours. She shuffled slowly away and he watched her, focused on her colorful floor-length dress, the slight shift of her hips, hidden by the soft silk. She has no place here, he thought. None of them. Even the nurses. If Cho’s plan is a failure, this army can prepare itself for what we must do. If we fail, it will mean an inevitable withdrawal southward.
He tried to drive those thoughts from his mind, punched the side of a fist into his leg. You owe your army more confidence than this, more faith in what they can do. What is wrong with you? Is it the sake? He had tried to convince himself that Cho’s counterattack would accomplish all that Cho insisted it would. But I am not a dreamer, I do not embrace fantasy. There is a simple truth to this plan. I sanctioned this attack because it will be our best opportunity, perhaps our only opportunity to extend this campaign. He saw the girl at the doorway again, holding another tray, some kind of food. He shook his head, tried not to notice how pretty she was, a small flower who was there only for him.
“You may retire. I have need of nothing further.”
She bowed again, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes, disappeared into the corridor.
He felt a strange sense of pity, thought, I am not her master, I am not her sanctuary. I cannot be anything to her, to any of them, except … protector. Of everything