The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [155]
Ushijima stared down at the thick brown water, his boots, knew that farther down into the vast network of tunnels the water was much worse. He had come out into the corridor to travel once more to the mouth of the great cave, and Cho had of course notified the guards to accompany him. But Ushijima had sent them away, a change of plans, had stood in the wetness of the softening earth and scolded himself for the romantic notion that he should find any enjoyment from a visit to his favorite vantage point. The lofty perch that gave him a view of Naha, the distant beaches, the vast American fleet, had become itself a far too dangerous place. American tanks were within range now, and any movement on the rubble of the hillside, any sign of a break in the carefully designed camouflage could bring a torrent of shelling. For a brief time he had considered the inevitable assault on his lookout as somehow appropriate. The plan had formed in his mind, and he retrieved his best-preserved uniform, his medals, had thought that finally, the time had come. He would march to the mouth of the great cave, would pull aside his curtain of protection, and stand there in full view of the Americans who drove toward him. His death would come as one glorious show of defiance, something to inspire his troops, and perhaps they would stand tall and face the enemy with no fear, nothing but a brutal certainty that death was welcome. But that fantasy had slipped away, replaced by the practical. The teacher found one more reason to scold himself, knew that ultimately his leadership was still more important than martyrdom. The shrine will still be there, he thought, and my ancestors can wait a bit longer.
No matter the overwhelming strength of the Americans, his men continued to do what they could to hold their ground, vicious fights from dwindling forces, the dedicated struggle to offer their lives by taking as many of the Americans as they could. It was one advantage of the rains, that the Americans would have to keep their aircraft grounded, could not advance their machinery with as much force. The soldiers would again be swamped by oceans of mud, deepening once more, neither side able to maneuver effectively, an advantage to his men, who kept to their wonderfully designed hiding places. The reports continued to come in from the field that the Americans were adding new equipment to the fight, equipment he had seen himself. His own artillery was nearly nonexistent. What had not been destroyed in the great failure of his counterattack had been virtually obliterated by the ongoing assaults from the American naval guns, or the dive-bombing runs of their carrier planes. Now the tanks had come, and there was little he could do to keep them away. For the first time the deadly attacks on the American armor had almost ceased, not because his men were unwilling to die in the process, but because the supply of satchel charges had been almost completely consumed. The suicide squads no longer had the tools to carry out the job.
He stepped back to his room, could not escape the water, a thin and slippery pool, mud oozing down the walls everywhere he looked. On the desks, the maps, the tables and chairs, a film of dank wetness coated every surface. On a small table to one side, a sheaf of papers rested on a china plate. He stared at them