The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [160]
Yahara seemed to slide away from him, turned to Ushijima, composed himself.
“I regret to inform the commanding general that our retreat-and-attack plan has not been a success. The forces we positioned on the enemy’s flanks were not sufficient to accomplish the task we assigned them. The enemy has succeeded in destroying our efforts while preventing us from driving into their positions with much effectiveness. Our losses have been substantial. We just did not have the artillery to support our troops.”
Ushijima absorbed the words in stoic silence, had suspected this might be the result of Yahara’s grand plan, though, he knew, Yahara had to make the effort. It was, after all, sound strategy.
“No excuses are required, Colonel. It was necessary that we do everything we could to inflict doubt and uncertainty on the enemy. Our troops have surely made a valiant effort. Do we know if the enemy advance has been slowed at all by our efforts?”
Yahara shook his head.
“That is something of a mystery, sir. Colonel Ieko reports that the enemy was not making much effort to advance at all. They seem more engaged in consolidation, and there is little evidence that they know we have abandoned the front. If they are aware, they are not making any significant effort to pursue our retreat.”
Cho stepped close again, the old fury showing itself.
“Then your grand flank attack should have caught them by complete surprise! What kind of treachery is this? We fail to inflict losses on an enemy who does not plan a fight? Colonel Ieko shall be pulled by his ears to my headquarters …”
Ushijima held up a hand, a clear signal that for once Cho obeyed, the fury silenced.
“I will not condemn the men who made this effort. Colonel Ieko was once a student of mine. He understands tactics, and when he says we could not give him artillery support, that is a sufficient explanation. The Americans have secured every advantage, in men and in machines. In case you have forgotten, General, that is why we are making this retreat.”
22. ADAMS
FIELD HOSPITAL,
NORTH OF THE ASA KAWA RIVER, OKINAWA
MAY 31, 1945
“Good God, what are you two doing here?”
Clay sat up on the bed, stared in amazement, the two Marines in front of him more like filthy scarecrows than men. Welty had not shaved in days, his red beard more like a growth of some odd fungus, and beside him, Sergeant Mortensen looked older and leaner than any time before. Welty smiled, said, “Got leave to come get you. The captain checked with the brass, and they said a lot of the cases … the guys who got sent back …”
Mortensen shook his head, the older man interrupting.
“Some of the nut jobs aren’t in such bad shape after all. Like you. The captain called back here to some chief headshrinker, and the guy said you hadn’t gone totally Asian, that he thought you were fit. He said you just needed a few days on some white sheets, maybe a nurse or two to rub your feet, trim your toenails, and you’re good as new.”
Welty seemed embarrassed for Mortensen’s lack of delicacy.
“Look, Clay, they said you could come back to the outfit. That okay with you? You doing all right?”
Adams felt a strange rush of glee, smiled broadly.
“No disrespect intended, Sarge, but you two are about as ugly as a mule’s asshole. I gotta say … damn, it’s good to see you. Yeah, the doc here says I’m okay.” He was already wearing the uniform, tried as much as possible not to fit in with the others, who mostly kept to the rows of beds. Most of them were army, the hospital itself in the army sector, the pair of psychiatrists army doctors. He tugged at the waistband of his new dungarees, showed a wide gap from the thick cloth to his belly. “I musta lost twenty pounds out there. The doc says all I needed was to fatten up a little bit, eat a few squares, and it would help out my head. I guess I shoulda listened to you, Jack, eaten some more of that stew you always carry around.”
“I