The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [182]
JUNE 23, 1945
He found sleep, the steady roar of the fight offering him a strange comfort. But now there were voices, and he lurched awake, blinked in the darkness, the candle extinguished. A light flickered outside, and he pulled himself up, straightened his uniform, the light close, illuminating his room. The voice came softly, one of his aides.
“Sir, I beg your forgiveness. You asked to be notified when it was three o’clock.”
“Yes. Please summon General Cho.”
“As you wish, sir. Shall I leave the candle?”
“I prefer you not stumble about. I will be fine in the dark.”
The man was gone, the light flowing away. At first Ushijima’s room had received a single lightbulb, hanging tenuously from an unconcealed wire. But the power was out now, the cave no more than a warm, damp tomb. The fight still raged above but seemed to slow, the machine guns and thumps of mortar fire exhausted by the long night, a battle of attrition that had spent itself in blood and the death of too many men. He stood, moved in the dark space by memory, thought of Cho, the room next to him, the man’s thunderous snoring apparent even through the thick dirt walls. He heard commotion from that way, knew that Cho had spent much of the evening consuming a generous amount of spirits, and Ushijima had no patience for that now. After a long minute, the candlelight returned, and Cho was there now, said, “Sir. It is time, yes?” Cho’s words were slurring, and there was a strange cheerfulness to the man, something Ushijima had seen before. “I have been waiting for you to awaken, sir. You took a good rest.”
Ushijima fastened the buttons on his coat, said, “You as well, General. Your snoring carries more thunder than the enemy’s guns.”
Other aides appeared now, and Ushijima knew it was the work of Yahara, that word had been passed. Ushijima saw a familiar face in the candlelight, said, “Captain, summon Colonel Yahara.”
Cho stumbled into the room, sat heavily on a small bench to one side, and Ushijima could smell the man’s drunkenness, saw the bottle still in his hand, something stronger than sake. Cho said, “So. Who will go first? You or me? Shall I die first and lead you to another world?”
“I will take the lead.”
Cho laughed, took a slug from the bottle.
“Sir, you will go to paradise, I to hell. I cannot accompany you to that other world.”
Ushijima ignored the comment, could see more men gathering outside the room, emerging from the offices that spread out down the musty corridor. One man stepped forward, dropped to his knees, soft cries.
“Please, sir, accept my respects. It is my honor to serve you.”
Another man came in, one of the staff officers, and the man seemed drunk as well, said aloud, “Sir, I wish to inform the general that our final message has been transmitted to Imperial General Headquarters. I need not read it. The words are imprinted upon my brain, as it has no doubt been received so many times by those in Tokyo. ‘Your army has successfully completed preparations for the defense of our homeland.’ ” The man laughed, slicing through the somber mood of the others. “Is that not what we are supposed to say, sir? Is all well here? Victory within our grasp, then?”
Ushijima retrieved his newest uniform coat from his trunk, said quietly, “Thank you for your service, Major. You will retire to your room.”
The man stumbled into the others, took some of them with him, the crowd thinning, nothing else for them to say. Yahara was there now, and Ushijima saw his face in the candlelight, the colonel not hiding the tears. Ushijima pinned a large medal upon his own chest, something he had not displayed in over