The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [158]
He moved out through a thin stand of trees, some kind of orchard, the land around him undisturbed by shelling. The wet smells washed over him, and he glanced back, caught the shadow of a single guard. The man kept his distance, and Ushijima knew that the guard would be Cho’s idea, assigned no doubt to make sure Ushijima did not wander off or stumble into some dangerous place. There is no danger here, he thought. No Americans, certainly. The worst we have encountered are the civilians, and they must endure a danger far greater than our own. They are, after all, not Japanese. They do not appreciate the sacrifice we make, that it is the most positive end we can seek.
The civilians had poured out onto the roads from Naha and the smaller villages, a dreadful parade of filthy, frightened people in a mass exodus that led anywhere the shells did not fall. His troops had been unmerciful in moving them aside, the army’s retreat far more of a priority. Colonel Yahara had issued instructions that any civilians encountered be ordered to clear the way by moving to the east, to the Chinen Peninsula, the one place on the southern half of Okinawa where there would likely be no fight. Some of them actually listened to the officers, slogging along muddy roads with wagons and carts, or carrying what remained of their possessions on their backs toward a place many of them had never seen. But many others ignored the officers, and so endured brutal punishment by the army who moved past them, all of them heading to the south. Most of the soldiers were as desperately ignorant of their destination as the civilians, the agonizing misery of a march through mud that to some would end along the way. Unseen by Ushijima were the vast fields of civilians, shoved off the roads by the army. Many seemed too bewildered to obey anything the officers told them; they huddled along the muddy ground, enduring sickness and wounds, caring weakly for children or the very old, watching the Japanese retreat with blank hopelessness, or utter disinterest.
As their retreat passed through the smaller villages, Ushijima had seen some of the civilians up close. The sight of young men had grabbed his attention. Those were few, and usually they tried to shirk away, to be unnoticed. Ushijima said nothing, gave no orders to anyone on his staff to gather those men into the army’s ranks, ranks they may have deserted. He knew they would serve very little usefulness now. Whether they were laborers or had been issued a Japanese rifle, Ushijima knew that those men would know the truth about what was happening to their island. They would know that the army was retreating, and if they believed the outrageous propaganda fed to them about American brutality, they would be far more desperate to escape, would seek out their families and their homes. Despite what Tokyo had preached, the Okinawan people had no loyalty, no patriotism for Japan’s great cause. He also knew that General Cho would have had any deserters executed, had Ushijima allowed it.
Ushijima felt a slight breeze drifting through the trees, the rain a heavy mist. In the distance the rumble of artillery continued, muffled by the rustling of the leaves above him. The air was strange, pungent with the soggy earth, and, he realized, it was clean. He had not experienced fresh air for many weeks, thought, do not forget this moment. The new headquarters will be … less than perfect. Yahara is full of apologies for that, but it cannot be helped. The caves at Shuri were the best we could have provided, and that has passed. While this fight continues we will once again huddle low in the stink of our own making, dug into the earth like rats, awaiting our fate. He glanced toward the truck, thought of Cho. Even he has accepted