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, SSgt. 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.

"Gentlemen," Paul began after Collins introduced him, "how many of you have eighty-five points?"

Eighty-five points was the magic number a man needed to be rotated back to the States and discharged. The number was based on a formula that included a man's total years in service, time in combat, number of dependents at home, and a handful of other things. But the bottom line was simple. Eighty-four or less and he stayed put.

There were exceptions, of course, and they almost always worked in the army's favor. First, the program only included combat soldiers, so support and administrative types were in for the duration. Also, if a person had a unique skill, such as the ability to speak Japanese, then he was screwed no matter how many points he had.

Paul looked at his men. "Since I don't see any hands raised, I guess nobody's going home. Well, I'm not either, and I'm not any happier than you are. In fact, I'm kind of pissed off about it. I don't have eighty-five points or anywhere near that, so we're stuck with each other."

Paul had spent a little time going over their service records and knew that a few of them were achingly close to that magic number. Most, however, weren't anywhere near it.

"Let me be blunt. Like you, I'd much rather be home with my family and friends too, but it's not gonna happen. I'm not going to give you a bullshit rah-rah speech or insult your intelligence about how much we're going to do to win this war. But we're not going home until this thing is over, so we're all gonna have to make the best of it. Captain Ruger's goal, and mine too, is to have everyone make it through this safely. By the way, that includes my ass getting back in one piece too.

"In order to do that, we're going to start first thing tomorrow morning doing some of the hardest training you've ever seen. It's gonna make basic training look like a high school dance. The purpose will be to get you back in shape- some of you look like you haven't exercised since the Japs hit Pearl Harbor- and improve your weapons training along with small-unit tactics. We figure we've got about a month before we ship out, and we're going to make the most of it."

With that, Paul dismissed the men to get a meal and a good night's sleep. He saw Collins looking at him carefully.

"How badly did I do, Sergeant?"

"You gonna be marching with us tomorrow, Lieutenant?"

The question surprised Paul. "Of course. Where the hell else would I be?"

Collins relaxed and smiled. "Well, not every officer does what he asks his men to do. I was on Luzon with an officer who rode in a jeep every chance he got, regardless of what his men were doing. Nobody was too upset when his jeep ran over a mine. You march with them and share their problems with them, then they'll come around. They won't love you, but they'll respect you." Collins saluted casually. "See you in the morning, Lieutenant."

Paul looked around at the small and undistinguished portion of Okinawa his platoon called home. He heard a throbbing noise and looked skyward to see a pair of American fighters streak overhead. In the darkness, he couldn't see what they were exactly, although he thought they might have been F4U Corsairs from one of the outlying carriers.

It struck him that they were on patrol, and that he was a few hundred miles from Japan, on an island jammed full of targets. He wondered if the next planes he saw or heard would be Japs and shuddered.

It occurred to Joseph Grew, the former ambassador to Japan, that an assassin with a bomb could force the United States to end the war simply by killing the people who were now staring at him in some expectation.

In the Oval Office along with President Truman and Secretary of State Byrnes were Secretary of the Navy James Forrestal and Secretary of War Henry Stimson. Directly representing the military were General Marshall and Admirals Leahy and King.

"I have asked Ambassador Grew to talk to us today to help us put the Japanese situation in perspective," Truman began. "You will recall that Mr. Grew served as ambassador to Japan from 1932 until that fateful month of December 1941. Along with his staff and their families, they were exchanged for the Japanese ambassador and their staff and returned to the United States in early 1942."

Grew nodded. "First, let me say that my own opinions are not particularly in total favor at State." He glanced at Byrnes, who smiled slightly and nodded for him to go on.

"I learned to love the Japanese people and their culture during my almost nine years as ambassador. I found the ordinary people to be gentle and friendly. However, a few, primarily some of those in the military, have proven capable of the most bestial cruelties to their fellow man, and that includes their own fellow Japanese. In my opinion, this war should be ended by negotiations and we should forswear the idea of forcing the Japanese to accept unconditional surrender. To do anything else will only extend the bloodshed needlessly."