Pacific Sniper

His plan was exceedingly simple. He would throw everything he had at the weak middle. After his troops had broken through, they could wipe out the staging areas on the beach and attack the Americans from behind, prompting confusion. It was a strategy favored time and again across the Pacific by desperate, uncreative Japanese commanders, who seemed to believe that the Americans would crumble in the face of a determined attack.

“Remember this,” General Takashina told his officers. “Victory belongs to the bold and the swift!”

He outlined his plan to attack in force at dawn. For the general, a dawn attack carried special significance, considering that the symbol of Imperial Japan was itself a rising sun.

Then Takashina unsheathed his sword and raised it high, shouting in a booming voice, “Banzai!”

His officers responded in unison. “Banzai!”

Some of the men looked uneasy. They knew well enough that a banzai charge was a desperate gamble that would either crush the enemy and sweep them back into the sea—or spell doom for the Japanese.

And yet the word brought looks of joy to some of their faces. These officers and their men were ready to fight. Soon they would be shouting that battle cry as they drove the American barbarians before them.

Okubo was among the officers who had gathered for the briefing with General Takashina. Okubo respected Takashina and thought that the planned banzai charge might prove to be an effective tactic. After all, it was what a true samurai would do—face the enemy head-on, without fear.

“The Americans are weak and undisciplined,” he explained to Private Kimura, who had been waiting outside the bunker, holding Okubo’s rifle.

“Hai,” Kimura agreed, falling into step half a pace behind him, out of respect for Okubo’s rank. Kimura and the other enlisted men waiting outside the bunker had exchanged anxious glances, although they knew better than to speculate out loud. Something big was up.

“Our forces will crush them with a single blow and send them back into the sea.”

Kimura liked the sound of that, but what did it mean for him? “We will join the charge at dawn, sir?”

“No,” Okubo said. “I have other plans for us. Gather some food and water—whatever you can find. We are going to get into position early and support the attack. I will eliminate any machine gunners that I can to help make the attack a success.”

Having sent Kimura on his way, Okubo watched him go with satisfaction. He was pleased so far with this soldier, who did what he was told and asked just enough questions to show that he had some spark. I must not grow too fond of him, Okubo reminded himself. He is expendable—as are we all. Serving with Okubo had proved dangerous—on Guadalcanal, no fewer than two men had died serving as his kosho. This was not a military term but the traditional title of a samurai’s official assistant, similar to how a Western knight was served by a page.

While returning to his quarters, Okubo passed a group of soldiers who were loitering. Their uniforms looked slovenly, and they were joking with each other. Thinking of the task that awaited them all in a few hours, he stopped and glared at the men.

“Do you have nothing better to do?” he demanded. He reached for one of the soldier’s rifles, grabbing it from the man’s grasp. “Look at this weapon! It is a disgrace!”

Enraged now, Okubo struck the soldier’s face a stinging blow with his open hand. Many of the Japanese officers had been incredulous when General Patton had been reprimanded for slapping a shell-shocked soldier in France. The incident had been much publicized in Japan as a sign of American weakness.

Having been struck by Okubo, the Japanese soldier knew better than to react in any way but saying, “Yes, sir!”

Okubo jabbed a finger at the chrysanthemum symbol stamped onto the receiver of the rifle. “Do you not see the Emperor’s mark? This rifle belongs to the Emperor, and you will show it respect. Go clean it immediately! That goes for the rest of you as well!”

The men had snapped to attention when Okubo stopped, and now they scrambled to do as he ordered. It did not matter if Okubo was their direct superior or not. An officer could do what he pleased to an enlisted man without consequence. He could shoot a man who shirked his duty. Lately, more than a few would-be deserters who had tried unsuccessfully to slip away into the jungle had been summarily beheaded. The swords that the officers carried were for more than show.

Okubo reached his quarters, a simple tent erected within a quick sprint of a dugout that offered protection from bombardment and aerial attack.

He glanced at his Seiko wristwatch. There was much to do to prepare for the morning, and very little time.