The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [176]
Ushijima had tossed the letter aside, the others on his staff reacting with loud derision and insults. But Ushijima’s reaction had surprised even his staff. The note made him laugh, the first real laughter he had enjoyed in many weeks. Buckner’s letter seemed to offer a compliment for Ushijima’s skills while also showing what seemed to be pity. It was obvious that Buckner assumed that Ushijima had options, one of which was surrender. He had not replied to the letter, could think of nothing at all that would educate the American commander in the ways of his army, his culture, in the vows that bound the Japanese to only one outcome. Now, as he sat alone in his room, reading the transcript of the radio message from Tokyo, he had another laugh, different this time. For the first time, Ushijima felt pity for the man whose complete ignorance of the Japanese had now resulted in an extraordinary piece of history. Ushijima had not believed it at first, assumed that the dispatch from the High Command was pure fiction, still more propaganda flowing out of Tokyo that only insulted the truth. But on the ground out beyond his headquarters, his own communications officers confirmed what the message said, others, artillerymen, reporting to Ushijima what they had seen. The final confirmation of the news had come from the Americans, the Japanese listening posts picking up amazingly blunt transmissions that echoed across their positions.
It had happened as so many monumental events happened, by pure accident. On June 18, Ushijima’s artillery spotters had caught the glimpse of a cluster of men gathered in an American observation post, a small clearing that was guarded by tall boulders. The Japanese had known of the place for days, Americans staring back at them through binoculars, a guessing game that might result in a duel between the vast power of the American guns and those few that remained tucked into Ushijima’s defensive line. The Japanese had no reserves of ammunition, and so wasting shells on an observation post made little sense. But on this one day, the officer in command of Ushijima’s only remaining heavy gun along that part of the front had sensed that what he saw through his glasses were more than observers. And so the Japanese gun had fired five shells in quick succession toward the fat rocks that offered protection to the Americans. The gun had been rolled back quickly into hiding, the officer knowing that five bursts of fire were all he could dare before the Americans would find him with guns of their own. What that artillery officer could not yet know had come to Ushijima days later from Tokyo. In the American observation post, one of those men had been General Buckner himself. As a result of the accuracy of Ushijima’s gunner, or more likely, by pure dumb luck, Buckner had been struck by a blast of shrapnel from the rocks and the shells themselves, and had died in a matter of minutes.
Ushijima sipped from his teacup, thought, it is arrogance, the same arrogance that put the pen in General Buckner’s hand, daring to tell me how hopeless my situation must be. It was arrogance that took him to his own front lines, puffed up by the need to strut among his troops, displaying his plumage, like some fat peacock. What inspiration has his army drawn from their commander’s stupidity?
Ushijima set the cup down, tried to find some comfort on the hard mat beneath him, the wetness in the earth around him sucking any joy out of the moment. He had watched his staff react to the news of Buckner’s death with outright joy, and Ushijima thought, that is appropriate, certainly. Is that not what war is about? My equal, my foe has been destroyed by my guns. Not so long ago that would mean victory for my army, the enemy crushed by the mere symbolism of it, the slicing off of their head. Throughout history, how many wars have been lost by the death of a single man, the leader who would inspire his army by bearing the mantle as his army’s greatest