1945

Paul Morrell craned his neck to see out one of the plane's few tiny windows. Okinawa, roughly sixty miles long, narrow, and only 340 miles from the Japanese mainland, had been invaded by Lt. Gen. Simon Bolivar Buckner's Tenth Army on April 1, 1945. For a while it seemed as if the Japanese weren't going to fight as the Americans overran the northern two-thirds of the narrow island in only a few days, with little in the way of resistance. The army's big problem had been the care and feeding of the thousands of terrified Okinawan civilians who had clogged the island's few roads. The gentle Okinawans had been told that Americans were monsters and they had been delighted to find out otherwise.

But as the Americans moved toward the southern tip, the island became a study in hell. It took until June 22 for them to secure Okinawa, although individual Japanese soldiers and a few small units were rumored to be still hiding in Okinawa's more rugged areas.

Both sides paid an enormous price. Of the almost one hundred thousand Japanese soldiers on the island, only seventy-four hundred had been taken prisoner. Most of those taken were Okinawan militia who had been poorly trained and equipped, and not as fanatic about fighting to the last man as their Japanese neighbors. The nearly eighty thousand Japanese regulars had chosen to die along with their commanding general, Mitsuru Ushijimi, who had committed suicide on the last day of the battle.

General Buckner had been killed in an artillery barrage at about the same time. Nearly eight thousand soldiers and marines had died in the campaign, and another thirty-two thousand had been wounded.

The campaign for Okinawa had brought additional terror as Japanese kamikazes were used in large numbers for the first time in the war. A large number of ships had been sunk or damaged by these kamikazes, and many, many sailors had been killed or wounded. If Okinawa was a forecast of the future, both men felt the future was to be dreaded.

Yet, as Morrell and Ruger drew closer and overflew the anchorage, their spirits were buoyed. The waters around Okinawa were filled with what looked like limitless numbers of warships of all sizes and types, all massing for the assault ahead. Battleships and carriers, along with attendant cruisers and destroyers, were arrayed farther offshore in the deep waters, while transports, landing craft, and other and more plebeian and utilitarian craft huddled nearer the shore.

The island itself appeared to have been transformed into a floating military base. The central and northern portions in particular were an ocean of tents and temporary buildings that made the transit camp back in California look minuscule in comparison. The flatter central portion contained several airfields, and their C-47 landed without incident and taxied quickly off the crowded runway to make room for the next plane. They were just another flight ferrying in from somewhere as part of the huge buildup of forces.

As they climbed, stiff-jointed, out of the transport and onto the hot field, Ruger remarked, "One more plane and the goddamn island's gonna sink, Lieutenant." Several other planes circled and waited their turn to land, while hundreds of others were parked wingtip to wingtip on the fields adjacent to the air bases.

"I almost wonder if there's any room for us. My God, why doesn't someone take a picture of this and send it to the Japs. It'd scare them into surrendering," Paul said in awe.

Ruger and Morrell had arrived at the shattered island several days ahead of the troopship carrying the other officers and the enlisted men of the company. This gave the two men time to reconnoiter the area and make plans for the training the men would have to have. Paul took it as a compliment that Ruger seemed to both like him and respect his opinions. Why the hell hadn't he had a captain like Ruger back in Germany?

Thus, when the rest of their men came ashore from their cramped transport, the situation was fairly well organized. What Paul and Ruger were not prepared for were the sullen looks on the men's faces, along with the hatred and disgust in their eyes. They bitterly resented that they had been sent out to fight while so many of their buddies were heading home.

"Shit," Ruger whispered, "we got a helluva morale problem on our hands. I thought the troops would be unhappy, but this is a lot worse than I ever thought it would be."

With that, Ruger distributed the almost 250 men in his command to their respective platoon officers. Before they got settled in their barracks tents, Paul gathered the sixty men in his platoon around him in a large and informal cluster. Only his platoon sergeant, S. Sgt. Frank Collins, a rawboned and red-haired Kentuckian, looked even remotely friendly. Collins looked exhausted; it had been a rough and tedious transit from California as he and the other officers and NCOs had gotten little sleep. Much of their time was taken up with breaking up fights.