The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [183]
“Colonel, is there any change?”
“No, sir. I have not been outside myself, but the last report I received indicated that the enemy was massing near several entrances to the cave. We have blockaded them as effectively as we could, but with their high explosives, and the guns of their tanks, I do not see how we can hold them away. The flamethrowers will certainly follow, sir.”
“They shall not capture us, Colonel, and they shall not have the satisfaction of destroying us.” He paused, looked at the few remaining faces, flickers of candlelight, saw many tears, and now the face of Captain Sakaguchi. “Captain, I am pleased you have come. Are you prepared?”
“I am at your service, General.”
“Then it is time. General Cho, are you able to walk?”
Cho ignored the insult, removed his coat, tossed it on the floor, was now opposite in appearance from his commander, who stood now for a long silent moment, straight backed, one hand touching the display of medals on his chest, each one a small memory of some ceremony, utterly meaningless now. Cho stood unevenly, and Ushijima moved past him, past the others, out into the corridor. The candlelight followed him, lighting the way, and after a short march the cave’s wide opening was visible. Without any order the candle was extinguished, no opportunity offered the enemy to target the entrance from some lookout at sea. Ushijima stood at the opening, felt the warm breeze, could see moonlight on the water, felt a mist rising up from the cliffs below, a spray of salt air. He stepped outside, a ledge to one side, saw that the preparations had been made, exactly as he had requested. A soft mat had been spread on the rocky flat ground, a white ceremonial cloth draped on the rocks just behind. He moved without a word, sat, curled his legs in, faced the sea. Cho followed, settled down clumsily beside him. Cho leaned low, as though peering off the edge of the cliff, one last glimpse of something Ushijima knew nothing about, and he avoided the thought that somewhere below, a woman huddled low in some shacklike corner of this grotesque hell. With Cho’s back revealed to the moonlight, he realized there was writing on Cho’s white shirt, large brushstrokes, the details made clear not just by the moonlight, but the hint of dawn just rising in the east.
With bravery I serve my nation; With loyalty I dedicate my life.
Ushijima said nothing, thought, he is right, of course. There is nothing more valuable we can claim, no greater message to bring our ancestors. He stared out at the water, knew that very soon the daylight would reveal this piece of ground to the American ships, the white cloth a highly visible target. There was little time to waste. Ushijima turned, a half-dozen men standing close to one side of the ledge, and he saw Yahara, the man’s head low, more tears.
“Colonel, please compose yourself. You may order the staffs to depart. And you will carry out my order for yourself.”
Yahara snapped to attention, made a short, crisp bow. He turned, the word passing quickly, quietly, the men emerging from the cave as though awaiting this very moment. They moved in a single line, no hesitation, dropping onto the steep pathways that wound down the cliff. Ushijima turned again toward the sea, could hear new sounds now, from above, the thump of grenades. He felt a pang of urgency, his fingers fumbling, then finding the control, loosening the buttons on his coat, and then his shirt. His abdomen was bare, and beside him, the small grunts told him that Cho had done the same. He turned to see Sakaguchi, who held the sword at his chest, the sword that would bring the final blow to both men. Ushijima saw the strength in the man, trained for this ceremony, the man who understood exactly what his duty would be. But first there was a task that only the two men could perform themselves. The aide was there, dutiful, nervous, holding the white cloth that held