Robert Conroy - 1945_玖贝云文库

1945

Robert Conroy

BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW YORK

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, I am thankful to my wife, Diane, my daughter, Maura, and friends for their support of my

lifelong dream of having a career in writing, however belated. And thanks to Tim Mak for his insights into

editing, and Ron Doering for buying the book in the first place.

INTRODUCTION

By the summer of 1945, the Japanese were thoroughly and utterly defeated. Their cities were rubble,

their navy nonexistent, their economy destroyed, and their people near starvation. By all rights, they

should have surrendered.

But surrender wasn't in the vocabulary of the militarists who ran the nation. They lived by the code of

Bushido, which condemned surrender. Instead, they wished to fight until an honorable peace was

achieved and felt they had good reasons for doing so.

First, they considered the recent agreement among the Allies, the Potsdam Declaration, to be a plan to

destroy both Japan and her culture. This was intolerable to them.

Second, they considered any possible occupation of Japan and any subsequent war crimes trials to be

mortal insults. So too were any thoughts of making the powers of the emperor subject to the will of the

people. After all, didn't the emperor own the people?

Third, a few were pragmatic and felt that defeat would mean their personal doom.

Many in the military felt otherwise, and a great number of the civilian government and population wanted

peace, but these people were powerless to do anything about it. In the naïve and racist hatreds of the

day, many Japanese thought that the Americans would rape, murder, and then cannibalize Japanese

dead.

It took the shocks of the nuclear assaults on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, along with the Soviet attack into

Manchuria and elsewhere, to give the Japanese peace movement the motivation and the rationale to seek

peace. Even then, the governing Japanese hierarchy was sharply divided. The military, led by the army,

wished to continue fighting. The army was largely intact and had several million armed and trained men

ready to defend the home islands against invasion.

When Emperor Hirohito required that they sue for peace, the army bent to his will.

Yet peace was still far from certain. That night, a handful of rebellious officers led several hundred

enlisted men on a rampage throughout the Imperial palace in search of Hirohito and the recordings of a

peace message he'd made to be broadcast to the world the next day.

The rebels begged the war minister, army general Korechika Anami, for support. Anami was torn

between his desire to continue the war and his loyalty to his emperor and, as a result, did nothing. If the

coup succeeded, he would support it. If not, he would not oppose the surrender.

The rebels then confronted the commander of the Imperial Guards at the palace. When he refused to

support them, the rebels shot him. This infuriated the guards, who then began to fight the rebels, thus

dooming the coup. By morning the coup was over and most of the rebel leaders had committed suicide.

But what if Anami, who had all the armies of Japan at his disposal, had decided to support the coup? The

Imperial Guards would have aided the rebels, Hirohito would have been captured or killed, and the war

would not have ended on August 14, 1945. Instead, it would have required an invasion of the Japanese

home islands by the armed forces of the United States of America. Instead of peace, the United States

would have been forced into Operation Downfall, the bloodiest campaign in its history.

The first phase, Olympic, would have been the invasion of Kyushu on or about November 1, 1945, while

the second phase, Coronet, would have been the invasion of Honshu about six months later. Most

American planners agreed that a bloody American victory would have been won by the end of 1946.

The soldiers, sailors, and marines who would have constituted the invading force were nowhere near as

optimistic.

Additional atomic weapons would have been used against Japan. Cities such as Kokura and Niigata

were already on the short list of targets, and more would have been added.

This novel tells what could have occurred if the coup had succeeded, and the United States been

required to invade Japan.

* * *

TO simplify matters, I have given all Japanese names and relevant terms in the American manner and

have ignored any references to dates that might be different because of the international date line.

My major sources for the planned invasion were The Invasion of Japan by John Ray Skates, Downfall

by Richard Frank, and Code-Name Downfall by Norman Polmar and Thomas B. Allen, all of which

give great detail and were invaluable resources. Also, Mr. Truman's War by J. Robert Moskin provided

marvelous insights into the issues, personalities, and motives of the people involved, while The Fall of

Japan by William Craig detailed the attempted coup.

— Robert Conroy

PROLOGUE

The Son of Heaven sat cross-legged and stoic on the simple bamboo mat that covered the stark concrete

floor of the shelter. His head and shoulders were covered by a fine layer of dust, and his nostrils recoiled

at the smell of smoke that carried the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh. He felt as if he were

suffocating, but he willed himself to remain calm. This squalid room was almost all that remained of an

empire that, only a few short years earlier, had encompassed half the world.

The bomb shelter had been constructed to provide him and a select handful of others in the government

and the Imperial family with a degree of safety from the incessant rain of American bombs. Although the

B-29s and other bombers appeared to have been ordered not to aim for the Imperial palace grounds,

mistakes occurred and the sacred buildings in central Tokyo had sustained damage, enough to set up

protection of the mortal body of the frail and nearsighted emperor from the death that fell from the skies.

Someone explained to the incredulous emperor that a demonic gust of wind could send a bomb far off its

intended course. He thought it amazing that mere air could alter the course of a falling bomb and change

the fate of those beneath it. Some would live and some would die, all because of an errant zephyr.

But now, Hirohito thought bitterly, the concrete and steel shelter that had cost such great manpower and

material was likely to be his tomb, not his refuge. Above him, Japanese soldiers fought and died to

change Japan's future. Tragically, these were not Japanese fighting the Americans, but Japanese fighting

other Japanese over the right to die for him and for Japan. Like the wind on the bomb's descent,

uncertainty of his and his nation's fates pervaded his thoughts.

Hirohito had fully understood the determination of the military, particularly the army, to prolong the

uneven struggle against the hated Americans beyond all reason. Their fanatic devotion to the code of the

warrior, Bushido, screamed their defiance of an implacable enemy who had the power to destroy all life

on the home islands of Japan. Hirohito decided on a course of action that would preserve life, not

destroy it.

The first atomic bomb used in warfare had destroyed Hiroshima in a ball of fire that consumed many tens

of thousands of men, women, and children and left many thousands more to live their lives in unspeakable

horror. Three days later, a second bomb had incinerated Nagasaki with the same results, although

Hirohito's experts had informed him that the death toll was somewhat lower than Hiroshima's. Why, they

did not know.

This, coupled with the continuing nonnuclear fire bombings and bombardments of cities and towns

throughout Japan, convinced Hirohito that there was no sense in further struggles against the inevitable.

Most of Japan's cities were scorched rubble, and there was no way of stopping the Americans from

inflicting more pain on his beloved nation.

At a meeting with his war cabinet, he shocked them by doing something never before done in such a

meeeting. He had spoken directly to them. The emperor, always present, maintained a regal silence

regarding the issues under discussion. It was, in fact, against the Japanese constitution for him to voice an

opinion.

There were eight on the council: Hirohito and the seven others who debated and voted. Five of the seven

were militarists, and even he had been shocked when they'd acquiesced with his demand that they

surrender.

This time, however, he told his cabinet that it was time to think the unthinkable and endure the

unendurable: to surrender the nation unconditionally to the Americans. If they did not, no Japanese child

would grow to adulthood and thus preserve the exquisite and priceless culture that was uniquely

Japanese. Of that Hirohito was convinced. He was also convinced that the only alternative to

unconditional surrender was death. Several in the group had broken down in tears, but they had agreed

to comply with his wishes. For his part, he now bitterly regretted his earlier enthusiasm for the war, which

had cost the people of Japan so much and which even threatened the continuation of his throne. How

could he have been so foolish? Now he had to salvage what he could of his honor, his country, and his

throne.

The meeting took place in this same shelter, where now, alone but for his hopes, Hirohito awaited his

fate. The emperor knew that the radicals in the military would rebel with a maniacal fury to prevent

Japan's surrender. All of Japan should die and become a scorched cinder rather than a degraded vassal

of the hated and despised Americans.

Hirohito had recorded a message to the Japanese people, then gone into hiding. The message was to be

broadcast by radio to the steadily shrinking empire, and the war would come to a swift end.

Hirohito cocked his head. Again he heard the chatter of machine gun fire as it echoed down the corridors

of the upper levels. A grenade exploded nearby, causing another rain of fine dust to fall upon his head

and onto the lenses of his thick glasses. He took a handkerchief and tried to wipe them off and

wondered, had War Minister General Anami found the will and support within the army to defy him, or

was this uprising spontaneous, the actions of a few score of misguided young zealots?

General Anami believed in fate and would likely let the efforts of others decide his destiny. There was

much precedent in current Japanese history for such an uprising by angry young officers. In recent years,

other such young warriors had developed the unpleasant habit of murdering their political enemies and

often did so without fear of retribution. They had learned it in the 1930s when they had set the nation on

a course of conquest through the simple expedient of assassinating their more peaceful and reasonable

opposition. That course of conquest, initially so glorious and successful, had now nearly brought an end

to Japan.

Hirohito winced in surprise at another sharp burst of gunfire, this one close by. Whatever his and Japan's

future would be was going to be determined in a short time.

The shelter's door flung open and an army colonel stood silhouetted by the smoke and light behind him.

He wore the uniform of the Imperial Guards, but with a white sash about his waist. He looked young for

his rank, probably in his early thirties, but he carried himself like a grim-faced veteran. He was covered

with dust, and blood from a cut on his forehead had carved a path down his face. Hirohito did not know

him and did not speak.

The officer entered and bowed deeply. "Your Excellency, I am here to take you to a place of safety."

"Do you have a name, Colonel?"

The colonel flushed. In his haste he had forgotten the courtesy and respect due his emperor. "Forgive me,

Your Excellency. I am Col. Tadashi Sakei and I am on the staff of the Twelfth Area Army, which is

responsible for the safety of the city of Tokyo."

Hirohito declined to look directly on Sakei. "And this place of safety, where is it and why should I

accompany you? Am I your prisoner or your emperor, and what is the significance of the white sash you

wear?"

"Your refuge will be away from Tokyo, Excellency. Here we fear that your life is in danger from more

than just American bombs. More I am not at liberty to say. As to your other questions, you are my

emperor. The sash signifies that I am one of those who are your protectors. Your enemies wear no sash."

Sakei again bowed deeply, reverently.

"And what does General Anami know of your actions?" The man still had not said which side he was on.

The term protector meant nothing. Protection from whom? Would there be blessed peace or the

continuation of death?

The colonel raised himself proudly to full height. He was quite tall for a Japanese, and the blood drying on

his face made him look barbarically fierce. "General Anami," he said with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes,

"has finally condoned the actions of men of honor who wish to preserve Japan and keep her safe from

her enemies. He now supports us and honors us with his leadership."

Hirohito began to grieve inside for his beloved nation, but did not let his disappointment show. General

Anami, once his friend, had betrayed him.

"It does not matter that you have me. My message will go forth without me," Hirohito said proudly.

Colonel Sakei smiled tightly. He left the room for a moment and returned with two small packages

wrapped with string and brown paper. "Do you mean these? The treasonous message your traitorous

advisers forced you to make and record for broadcast to the world?"

Now it was all Hirohito could do to keep from sobbing in his dismay and frustration. His enemies had

both himself and the recordings of the royal rescript. His voice calling for peace would not go forth to the

people of Japan. There would be no end to the war. The killing would go on. And on. And on.

"Do you have any idea what you are doing?" Hirohito gasped.

"Saving Japan," Sakei snapped.

"By destroying her? Why don't you kill me?" Hirohito asked sadly. "The shame of your foolishness is too

much to endure. Get it over with and then depart and return to your misguided comrades." Hirohito

shook his head in dismissal. Colonel Sakei was now beneath his contempt.

Sakei reacted as if slapped. A couple of white-sashed soldiers who had peered into the room gasped

and darted away. If the angry colonel had seen them in his shame, he would have had them beaten to a

pulp, perhaps killed. That was the way discipline was maintained in the Japanese army.

"Excellency," Sakei said in a strained voice, "you are a living symbol of Japan, her living god. Your

presence and your pronouncements will add credence to our efforts to defend the home islands from

invasion by the Americans."

Proclamations would be issued in his name, but by the hand of Anami and officers like Sakei. On the

other hand it seemed obvious that he was the only member of the royal family who had been taken, and

that the twelve-year-old Crown Prince Akihito was elsewhere and safe, as were the emperor's two

younger brothers. If he, Hirohito, was assassinated, then Akihito would become emperor. With Hirohito

alive, any comments that might be made on behalf of or by Prince Akihito would have no weight. It was a

small ray of hope, but he grasped it. Most important, his only and well-loved son was alive and

apparently safe, if only for the moment.

"Why would you extend this battle?" Hirohito asked. "The Americans will drop more atomic bombs on

our cities and then invade our few islands. Our lands are already surrounded by their warships, and their

planes fly overhead without opposition. If you persist, all Japan will be destroyed because of your

misguided stubbornness."

Sakei gestured for the emperor to rise and follow him. Reluctantly, Hirohito did as he was told and

emerged into the hallways that connected the palace to the shelter. He was dismayed to see several

bodies lying in bloody disarray. Some wore sashes and some did not. It grieved him to realize that loyal

soldiers had died on his behalf. Sakei, however, did not share his feelings. Instead, he pointed to a dead

soldier who also wore a sash.

"Then we die with honor, not as prisoners!" Sakei said proudly. "Let the Americans bomb our cities. We

will live in the countryside. Let them destroy our homes and we will live in caves in the hills. Let them

invade our shores and we will fall upon them with every weapon we have. If we must, we will tear at

them and destroy them with our hands and teeth. We have millions of soldiers and tens of millions of

civilians willing to die to preserve our sacred culture. We will gnaw at their throats, and eyes, and

testicles, and bleed the Americans until they come to their senses and negotiate an honorable end to this

war."

It was all Hirohito could do to keep from laughing at Sakei's pompous and irrational speech. How could

the deaths of all those people preserve anything Japanese? He had been told that the Americans thought

of December 7, 1941, as the Day of Infamy. Now he had his own Day of Shame— August 14, 1945.

God help the people of Japan.

PART ONE THE WAR UNENDING

CHAPTER 1 GERMANY

The muffled sounds of the nearby explosions cut through his sleep-fog and Lt. Paul Morrell leaped from

his cot. A surge of fear ruined his warm and pleasant dream about his girlfriend, Debbie Winston. He

grabbed his carbine and ran outside the tent and looked for the source, all the while trying to ignore the

nausea and splitting headache that assailed him.

Another explosion came from behind the low hill just to the rear of the camp.

Morrell looked about for help as he ran up the hill. No one was around. They were probably still out

celebrating the end of the war, although it sounded as if someone didn't believe it. Could they be under

attack from some Nazi fanatics? It sure as hell sounded like it.

Another blast jarred him. He breasted the hill on the run and looked down below him. Then he started

swearing softly. Two of his soldiers, Sgt. Cecil Wiles and Cpl. Tommy Nevins, were standing by the

stream that ran through the gentle valley. Wiles, staggering ever so slightly, pulled the pin on a grenade

and lofted it into the center of a wider section of the stream that formed a nice little pond.

Water geysered up from the pond and so did a number of dead fish. Wiles and Nevins whooped loudly

at the sight.

"What the hell are you men doing?" Morrell snapped as he approached. He was furious at their stupidity

and enormously relieved that he was not again at war. The two NCOs looked at him dumbly, then Wiles

made a waving motion with his arm that might have been a drunken attempt at a salute.

"Fishing," Wiles said, then after a long pause, "sir. We are flicking fishing." Nevins giggled at the witticism

and almost fell into the water.

Morrell looked about. The banks of the stream were littered with dead fish. Some had been blown to

pieces by the grenades, while others had had their lives snuffed out by the concussion.

"All right," Morrell snarled, "this is enough." His anger was growing. Not only had they scared the crap

out of him, but they were endangering themselves along with anyone else in the vicinity. They were

destroying government equipment as well as blowing up someone's private property. Worse, his

headache was throbbing and he felt as if he would heave.

It wasn't the first time the duo of Nevins and Wiles had gotten into trouble, usually alcohol-related. Even

when sober they were only marginally efficient. He wondered just how they had gotten their stripes.

"Why is it enough, Lieutenant?" Wiles asked with mock innocence.

Morrell iterated the reasons and added a last one. "Because I'm ordering you to, that's why."

Nevins hiccuped. "Lieutenant, why don't you flick off."

Morrell was stunned and took a deep breath to calm himself. "Tell you what. You're both drunk, and so's

probably half the army. Now I'm gonna be a real nice guy and pretend I didn't hear that. You two get

back to camp right now."

Nevins's face flushed in anger and he looked as if he might take a swing at Morrell. However, he quickly

thought better of it. Along with being an officer and someone you just didn't hit, Morrell was sober and

fit-looking. At five-eleven, he weighed a compact 180, and despite his curly blond hair and

innocent-looking blue eyes, Morrell looked as if he could take care of himself, especially in a fight with

two staggering drunks.

"No," said Sergeant Wiles. "Let's not forget about it. What the hell's the matter with you, Lieutenant?

You know you got a reputation around here as being the choirboy officer. You're a pain in the ass,

Lieutenant. Look, the war's over and we got a right to celebrate, and if you don't like it, why don't you

get the flick back to your tent and stay there."

Morrell was livid with anger. He'd been with the outfit only a short time in comparison with many others,

and he knew he wasn't getting respect from many of the men. Second lieutenants were the lowest of the

officer ranks and all too often the butt of jokes by others with more experience. A joke, or even a veiled

insult, he could deal with, but this was outright insubordination.

He turned to Wiles. "I think you and your little pal have gone too far. I regret this, but I am going to see

Captain Maxwell."

Wiles and Nevins looked at each other, then burst out laughing. "Sure," said Wiles, "you go see the

captain. You just do that."

Morrell turned and, in a rage, his headache and hangover forgotten, almost ran the half mile to where

Captain Maxwell had set up shop.

Captain Maxwell had commandeered an old two-story farmhouse that had escaped the ravages of both

the German retreat and the American advance. Like so many places in Germany outside the major cities,

the area in which they were camped looked as if nothing had changed in it for a hundred years.

Whenever he saw Maxwell's ornate headquarters, Morrell was reminded of the story of Hansel and

Gretel.

Maxwell's clerk looked uncomfortable at Morrell's request, but told him the captain would be downstairs

in a minute. Morrell nodded and went into the living room, which served as the captain's office. Maxwell,

a stocky National Guard officer about thirty years old, arrived and waved him to a chair. Morrell briefly

explained the situation regarding the grenade-tossing and the two NCOs' drunken insubordination. The

captain lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling.

"Dammit," Maxwell finally said.

"Captain?"

"Lieutenant, how long you been with us?"

"About three months. Just before the Nazis finally surrendered."

Maxwell leaned forward. "That's right, just before the war ended. That means you came in on the ass end

of a lot of fighting those boys had been going through for more than a year. You even replaced an officer

who, while not particularly smart, was fairly well liked. So, how much combat did you see?"

Morrell flushed. "Not much at all, Captain." Only a few minutes, and he'd been scared to death and

scarcely able to function. It was nothing in comparison with what the others had gone through, even the

two assholes, Nevins and Wiles.

"That's right, and what were you doing a year ago?"

"I had just finished college and been called up."

"That's right, Lieutenant, you finished college. Then you did your basic training in the good of US of A,

became an officer, and then got your butt shipped over here to us just in time to see the curtain go down.

Do you know what we were doing a year ago? We had just arrived in France and had begun shooting

our way across Europe. Know what I was doing four years ago?"

"No, Captain."

"I was managing a grocery store with my father. Then I got called up, and while I was gone, my dad died

and they had to sell the store. All that while you were starting college and maybe reading War and

Peace. When you go back, you'll have a degree and a future, but for people like me and a lot of others

out there, there'll be nothing but shit for a future."

"Captain, are you saying I should have let them keep doing what they were doing?"

"Why not? They were just a couple of hillbilly assholes blowing up some grenades we don't need

anymore and killing some kraut fish. Think, Lieutenant, what should you have really done?"

Morrell took a chair and sat down. His anger ebbed. "You're right. I should have taken any remaining

grenades off them and left them there to do whatever they wished. If they had protested, I should have

gone back for you or someone else to help me."

Maxwell relaxed after his tirade. "Paul, it gets worse. You want me to discipline those guys and I'll do it,

only it'll just be an ass-chewing and nothing more. They know they deserve to lose their stripes, but it'll

be their word against yours as to what they said, and you know they'll both lie like rugs. When I'm

through chewing on them, they'll go back to their ugly friends and laugh at you because they got away

with fucking with you."

Maxwell stood and paced the little room. "Look, I dislike those two clowns as much as the next guy, but

they're veterans, NCOs, and heroes with Bronze Stars, even though they'll steal anything that ain't nailed

down."

Maxwell told him that the two men had been ambushed by some Germans and had to shoot their way

out, thus getting their medals. In his opinion, they had been looting a farmhouse when the Germans caught

them, which made their fighting their way out something less than heroic.

Damn, thought Paul. He had really screwed up.

"It gets worse, Paul. They've got more than enough points to be discharged. So, in a couple of months,

maybe sooner, they'll be home screwing their women and their sheep, and newcomers like you'll be here

trying to run an occupation army. Who knows, maybe I'll be away from here too."

Morrell seized on the comment. "And that's the point, Captain, we are still an army, not a mob. Those

guys are destroying what we came here to liberate."

Maxwell laughed harshly. "Liberate? Let me tell you something, Lieutenant; we liberated Belgium and

France, but not Germany. This fucking country we conquered with a lot of our friends getting killed or

wounded in the process, and there's a helluva lot of difference."

"To the victor belong the spoils?"

"Exactly."

"But what about our orders to maintain discipline and protect the people?"

The question amused Maxwell. "Things don't always work out like they were intended, now do they?

Take Ike's nonfraternization order, for instance. Did anyone really think they could keep a couple of

million horny GIs away from German pussy when the kraut chicks will give you anything you want for

some cigarettes, or chocolate, or even a meal? Hell, the Russians are raping them wholesale and we're

willing to pay for it. That makes us the good guys."

Grudgingly Paul agreed. That particular order truly was nonsense.

"And, Lieutenant, I am also supposed to employ Germans to run this area and get their local economy

going again. Only orders say I can't use anyone who was a Nazi. Now tell me, just who the hell does that

leave in a country where even the little krauts became Nazis before they could walk and wore swastikas

on their diapers? Communists, that's who, and the brass'd kill me if I used commies to run the joint. At

any rate, there aren't too many commies left after Herr Hitler got through with them, so I work with what

I got, and that's what you're going to do as well."

"I see the problem," said Paul softly.

"Yeah, and we might as well settle down and enjoy it while it lasts. And might I ask just where the hell

were you last night?" Maxwell said with a sneer.

Paul flushed. "At the gasthaus celebrating the Japanese surrender," he said sheepishly. There was no way

he could lie about it. The captain had been there as well. It was where he had gotten this morning's

headache, which was starting to come back. Shit.

"Yeah, and Herr Gasthaus-meister, or whatever the flick his name is, probably was a good little Nazi just

a few weeks ago. Now he's doing his smiling best to get rich and get the U.S. army drunk and laid, and

that makes him one of the good guys too."

"Okay, you've made your point, Captain. Now what do you think I should do?"

"Take some aspirin for your hangover and let me think. Now get out of here."

After Morrell had left, Maxwell's clerk told him that Major Lewis had come in the rear door and gone

upstairs. Maxwell nodded, went upstairs, and found the major sitting on the edge of the bed in the largest

of the bedrooms. One of the two dark-haired fräuleins they'd brought back from the gasthaus the night

before was still sleeping, while the other sat in front of the dresser and combed her hair. Both were

naked. The sleeping one snored slightly. He couldn't recall just which one he'd fucked and seemed to

recall they were sisters. He was slightly concerned that they looked so much younger than they had last

night.

The major looked extremely somber, and that worried Maxwell. "What's the problem, Bob?" Maxwell

asked.

Lewis pulled a bottle of schnapps from a drawer and took a long swallow. "Tell me first about young

Lieutenant Morrell. What's his problem?" Maxwell quickly filled him in on the situation.

"The problem is," Maxwell went on, "that those two idiots are gonna tell everyone they made a fool out

of him, and it'll be difficult for him to regain control of the troops. He barely had it in the first place."

Major Lewis took another swallow. It was apparent to Maxwell that the major wanted to get drunk and

do it right now. Why? Maxwell wondered.

Lewis belched. "Then ship him out. Put him on the levy to Japan."

Maxwell blinked in surprise. As a prelude to invading Japan, the army had begun sending individuals off

to the Pacific. It was rumored that full units would follow. People with a lot of combat experience in the

European theater would be returned home to civilian life, while others with less experience would either

be retained in Germany or used in the invasion of the home islands of Japan. Orders had come down

asking units to "volunteer" individuals, which meant that everyone was taking the opportunity to get rid of

oddballs, troublemakers, and incompetents.

Maxwell shook his head in confusion. "Bob, the Japanese just surrendered, didn't they? I thought the levy

was going to be canceled?"

Major Lewis looked at the naked woman at the dresser. She had completed combing her hair and was

now picking at the remains of some C rations, ignoring them both. "I have bad news for you, my friend.

The Japanese may have just unsurrendered."

"Bullshit!" Maxwell sagged into a chair in disbelief.

"It's the truth. Seems there's been some kind of a coup or revolution over there, and the crazy people are

back in charge. The invasion is on, at least until the next revolution, and the levy is not likely to be

canceled anytime soon. So get Morrell out of here while you still have the chance. Send him off to fight

the Japs with our blessing."

Maxwell nodded assent. It was an easy decision to make and would solve a lot of problems. If only he

could get rid of Nevins and Wiles just as easily. At least, he consoled himself, they'd be shipped out

somewhere soon enough.

Too bad for Lieutenant Morrell, though. He genuinely hoped nothing happened to the young man.

Despite being naïve about some things, Morrell was a pretty good kid. On the other hand, Maxwell had

a life to live in Germany for the foreseeable future.

God, Maxwell thought, let it be in Germany and not invading Japan. He reached for the schnapps and

patted the sleeping woman on her bottom. She moaned slightly but didn't move. Maybe people would

get their heads out of their asses and end this thing for good. Maybe the war would end a second time

before Lieutenant Morrell even got there. But, what the hell, he had his own life to lead.

CHAPTER 2

Nothing in the first six decades of his life had indicated that Harry Truman of Independence, Missouri,

would ever become president of the United States and one of the most powerful men in the world. Born

in 1884, he'd seen combat as an artillery captain in World War I, served as a county judge, and, to the

astonishment of many, was elected to the U.S. Senate in 1934. He'd stayed there, accruing seniority and

serving his nation honestly, anonymously, and well. In 1944, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt had

surprised everyone and tapped him to be his vice-presidential running mate.

Although a high honor, the office under FDR was a thankless one. Roosevelt ignored his vice president

once the election was done. Roosevelt considered it his constitutional obligation to have a vice president,

but nothing said he was required to actually use one. One of Roosevelt's earlier vice presidents, John

Nance Garner, had referred to the job as not being worth a pitcher of "warm piss." The word piss had

later been changed to spit in an attempt to sanitize history. Roosevelt could accept this comment, but not

Garner's temerity in trying to unseat Roosevelt as president. Garner had been dumped from the ticket,

and it had brought about the 1940 pairing of Roosevelt with Henry Wallace. When Wallace's infatuation

with Joseph Stalin and all things politically far left, if not Communist, became known, he too became

Robert Conroy - 1945

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