"Admiral, so many of the fine young men we've sent to Kyushu have been killed or wounded in the fighting, while many others never even made it to the cursed island. It is a closely guarded secret, but only about half the men sent on the journey ever arrive. The American planes kill them en route or sink their boats in the straits. The same is happening with the men we are trying to bring from Korea. The slaughter of the young is incredible. An entire generation of Japanese men is being destroyed. If we do not end this, we will be like France was after the last war. Emasculated."

Ozawa thought for a moment. There was something he had to say, but it had to be said carefully. "In your opinion, is the military situation hopeless?"

"Yes."

"Is nothing going right for us?"

"Well, the Americans haven't quite figured it out, but with our hidden airstrips on Kyushu just a few miles behind the front lines, suicide attacks are no longer as necessary as they had been. The planes can actually load up with bombs and return without too much difficulty. Many now fly but a few feet off the ground, bomb, and return to their hideouts. American supplies are in such abundance that it is virtually impossible for even the most inexperienced pilot to miss dropping a bomb on something important. Our fliers will not resume actual suicide attacks until the counterattack, which will not come until the weather grounds the American planes."

"But what about the secret weapons? Are they but rumors?"

Homma shook his head. "Some of them are real, but may bring more harm to Japan than to the Americans. We have quantities of poison gas and plague germs to use against them, but I fear for American retaliation, which could utterly destroy what little remains of Japan."

Gas? Germs? Ozawa was appalled. What kind of war was Anami waging? Ozawa's voice nearly broke in despair. "Is there nothing we can do?"

Homma laughed harshly and took the leap of faith that Ozawa was with him. "Are you suggesting a coup?"

"Why not? That's how Anami came to power, isn't it? It would be justice to turn the tables on that drunken buffoon."

"Indeed, but Anami has the emperor and claims to speak for him. As long as that is the case, any coup would be ignored. Besides, Anami has surrounded himself with those loyal to him and they are not under my command. He is very careful and trusts very few in the army. Myself, I am watched very closely when I am near his headquarters. I believe I was chosen for my current assignment because I was available, not out of any great confidence in my abilities or in my loyalty."

Interesting, thought Ozawa. "Where is the emperor? We've heard rumors, but what is the truth?"

"The emperor is at some undisclosed place on Kyushu. Incredibly, he was sent there before the invasion because it was deemed safer than Tokyo. It is now considered too dangerous to try and bring him back."

"Amazing," the admiral commented. "So we will continue to fight until the last young man is dead and until the Americans have stormed the Imperial Palace. But what if we found the emperor and he announced a desire for peace?"

"Then much would be changed, my friend. Perhaps what remains of Japan could even be saved."

They spoke for a while longer, this time of families and friends, many of them recently dead. Much later, the admiral departed and Homma fervently wished him a safe journey.

Homma went to his bedroom, undressed, and lay down on his back on the sleeping mat. Fujito came and knelt beside him. She was his second wife and younger than he. She was one person who had brought stability to his otherwise wild and erratic youth. She was priceless to him. Without her, he would have wound up an irresponsible and drunken fool.

"Did it go well?" she asked as she ran her hands down his muscular chest.

"Very well," he said with a smile as he enjoyed the gentle touch of her hands. He knew full well that she had been listening all the time. "The good admiral understands everything. I believe I have planted a seed, although there may have already been one present. We will now have to see what grows."

Fujito's hands roamed lower. "Ah." She giggled softly. "I have found something that is growing already!"

Homma laughed. She slipped off her robe, then swung her slender, naked body over his and led him into her. He was strong tonight and she moaned happily and reveled in each powerful upward thrust. The inaction of the previous years had almost driven him to despair and sometimes sapped his manhood. He was a tiger, not a domestic animal to be kept penned. His new command and its challenges were so much better for both of them. Fujito had sublime confidence in her general. If anyone could solve Japan's terrible dilemma, she was confident that her husband could.

When Captain Ruger had dictated what Paul Morrell referred to as his "last will and testament" while on the troopship off Kyushu, both had thought that the personnel changes in it would occur after his being killed or wounded. Promotion had not been a thought.

The killing of Major Redwald, their battalion commander, had changed that. Ruger had been promoted to the temporary rank of major, and Paul was given Ruger's old command, although not the rank of captain. First lieutenant was a common enough rank for an inexperienced company commander. In the absence of any other available junior officers, Sergeant Collins assumed command of Paul's old platoon. Sergeant Orlando continued to provide support with his tank.

Both Paul and Major Ruger had made it clear that they didn't want to break in any rookie second lieutenants at this stage of the battle. Paul in particular found that amusing. Only a few months earlier he had been the unwanted and untested rookie. Now he was considered experienced and part of the old guard.

First Sergeant Mackensen put down the field phone. "Lieutenant, there's a problem with Lieutenant Marcelli. I think you'd better go over."

Paul swore softly and scrambled out of his foxhole and through the light cover of brush to where the second platoon was dug in. Mackensen and a radioman followed close behind.

The company had been back in the lines for several days after their all too brief respite. Little had changed in their absence, although a cockamamy rumor said that they were to seize some good defensive ground and hold on until the Japs starved to death.

Bullshit. They had continued to inch up increasingly steep hills and fight their way through strong Jap positions. Paul had lost track of the date. Was it Christmas yet? If so, he thought as he stumbled on a rock and almost lost his helmet, how would Santa find him? At least he'd gotten some mail and managed to send some good letters off to Debbie. Thank God he could count on her.

"Over here, Lieutenant," one of Marcelli's soldiers yelled.

Paul covered the last few yards to where a small group of men clustered about a large lump that lay in a foxhole. It was Marcelh. He was facedown and still, but his chest moved from the effort of breathing.

"What happened to him?" Paul asked. The men shrugged and moved off. They didn't want to know.

Mackensen slid into the hole and tried to move Marcelh. He was curled up in a fetal position and unresponsive. The stink of feces and urine wafted up from the hole. Lieutenant Marcelh had fouled himself.

When Mackensen moved Marcelh's head, his eyes were squinched shut as if daring the world to make him look. Mackensen tried to straighten him out, but he returned to his curled-up ball position like a preformed rubber toy. It was ghastly to look at. This creature looked nothing like the eager young officer who was Paul's friend.