The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [205]
The words were loud, intended for the guards, who made no movement at all. Hamishita turned to thank the captain, but the man was already moving away, back toward the castle, the activity there much more intense, a column of soldiers emerging from an upper doorway, more gathering in the wide grounds to one side. Busy man, he thought. I suppose … if someone was trying to drop bombs on my clinic, I would be busy too.
He moved up the walkway, past the guards, no one looking at him. The driveway was lined on either side by flowers, more greenery beyond. The house itself was very old, two stories, ornate carvings perched in various crevices in the stone architecture. There were more guards at the entry-way, a heavy bronze door that was suddenly opened for him.
“Thank you. Very kind.”
The guards did not respond, and Hamishita moved inside, caught the wondrous fragrance of food being prepared. For many months his own meals had consisted mostly of rice and dried fish, a necessity impressed on the civilians by the needs of the army. He had made his fights with the local military headquarters, protesting to anyone who would listen that the needs of his patients were a priority that even the local military commanders should understand, since he had been called upon to treat soldiers as well as civilians wounded in the bombing attacks. But so far there had been no promises of anything more than meager rations, and no other supplies at all, including the desperately needed medicines. He understood the needs of the army, but still he hoped that his status as a doctor would open someone’s eyes to the necessity of a helping hand. Whatever medicines and supplies he had used on his patients had been scrounged from places the army would not have appreciated. It had been risky, but the doctor knew that each barracks was stocked with a first aid kit. Even the small doses of morphine or disinfectants would be useful, and if those kits were discovered to be missing, he had convinced himself, a doctor would be low on the list of suspected thieves.
The smells in the grand house were overwhelming him, erasing the sickening odor of the castle, and he searched for someone, anyone, heard a voice.
“Doctor! I have a small pain in my toe. I insisted that you be the one to treat it. There is no one in the empire more qualified to clip my toenails.”
The voice was strangely familiar, and he saw the man at the top of the grand staircase, stared up into a wide, beaming smile.
“Shunroku!” He froze, saw the grandeur of the man’s uniform, realized this was no time for such informality. “Forgive me, please. Field Marshal Hata! It is my honor to be in your presence.”
“Yes, of course it is, Okiro. It is my honor too. I look in the mirror and announce myself every morning when I awaken. ‘Hata Shunroku, you have the honor once more of adorning yourself with the uniform of a field marshal. Be worthy, or they will strip it from you.’ How I manage to fill such enormous shoes is yet a mystery to me.”
“I heard you had come to Hiroshima, that you were in command now. I have wondered how you were doing, but your fame has answered those questions. I never thought you would have time to see me … or even remember me. It has been years.”
“Fifteen years. You treated a member of my staff when we were on maneuvers, just before the Manchukuo affair began. I recall being impressed that my old friend should have accomplished so much.”