Shattered jade, p.1
Shattered Jade, page 1
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BOOKS BY
LARRY ALEXANDER
standalone novels
Shattered Jade
76 Hours
nonfiction
Bloody Ridge and Beyond (with Marlin Groft)
A Higher Call (with Adam Makos)
In the Footsteps of the Band of Brothers
Shadows in the Jungle
Biggest Brother
Copyright © 2024 by Larry Alexander
E-book published in 2024 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Gunjan Ahlawat
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Any historical figures and events referenced in this book are depicted in a fictitious manner. All other characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-200-81606-4
Library e-book ISBN 979-8-200-81605-7
Fiction / Historical / World War II
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
This book is dedicated to the memory of the many thousands of soldiers, sailors, and civilians who perished in the twenty-four-day Battle for Saipan. They are all Shattered Jade.
CONTENTS
Map #1
Prologue
Map #2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Map #3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Map #4
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Map #5
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Map #6
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Map #7
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgments
About the Author
PROLOGUE
The olive-drab staff car, a US Army Plymouth captured in Manila in 1942, rolled along the unpaved coastal road, then slowed to a halt amid a swirl of dust. An enlisted man popped out and quickly opened a rear door. Major Tadashi Tanimura stepped from the vehicle, followed by his friend and aide Captain Kisaburo Hanaya. A gaggle of officers standing a few feet away sprang to attention. One man broke away from the group and approached Tadashi. Tadashi knew him to be Colonel Hikoki Kogiwara, who commanded all the engineer units on the island.
“You come from General Saito,” Kogiwara said, returning a perfunctory salute.
Tadashi, island commander Yoshitsugu Saito’s aide-de-camp, nodded, then said, “The general wishes a status report on our defenses.”
Tadashi slid a rolled document from a brown leather case carried by Hanaya and spread it out on the hood of the Plymouth. The document was a map of Saipan. Tadashi always thought the island looked very much like an eastern-facing bear sitting on its haunches, with Kagman Peninsula as the front paws and Nafutan Point as the rear. On the map were four defensive zones traced in red ink.
Within these four zones, dug in and waiting for the Americans to arrive, General Saito and his naval counterpart, Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, could count some thirty-five thousand men determined to defend Saipan to the death.
Tadashi tapped his finger on the map at the location where he now stood, which was on the coastal highway about three hundred yards inland from where the Pacific Ocean washed the western beaches. He turned and glanced back over his shoulder. A few yards beyond the road lay the steel rails of the narrow-gauge railroad that in peacetime had carried tons of sugarcane from the fields to the refinery at Charan Kanoa. Some two thousand yards beyond that rose up a jagged limestone ridge that bristled with caves. Hard work and long hours by a legion of sweating laborers had transformed many of these natural fortifications into formidable bunkers for artillery pieces. Most of these guns, deadly 75mm weapons, were placed in such a way that they could be fired, then pulled back into a cave to reload. This also protected the guns from enemy shells and bombs.
But it was here on the beach, amid the undulating wilderness of tall grass, gnarled trees, and sugarcane fields, where the first fighting would occur. Here the men of Nippon had to hold back the American juggernaut that had been rolling westward across the Pacific since Guadalcanal fell nearly seventeen months ago.
“You have been working on our beach defenses, our first line against the Americans,” Tadashi said. “How are your preparations coming along?”
Kogiwara began to describe the greeting he had planned for the American landing forces, starting with the lagoon itself.
“Before a single American boot tramps on our shore, the killing of our enemies will be well underway,” he said with obvious pride. “I’ve had swimmers out in the water all day planting small red flags. These will mark the channels through the barrier reef that the American landing boats must take. These flags are aiming points. Our machine guns and coastal guns are zeroed in on them.”
Tadashi nodded.
Kogiwara continued.
“We are fortunate that Saipan’s rugged coastline leaves the American devils with few choices on where to land,” Kogiwara said. “Saipan has fifty-four miles of coastline, but very few of those miles contain suitable landing beaches. Mostly these are along the western and southern coasts. It’s almost certain that they will storm the western beaches between where we now stand and south to Charan Kanoa. It is here that their troops will be harshly punished.”
He began to describe how almost every yard of beach would be subjected to intense mortar and artillery bombardment. Equally deadly would be scores of machine guns, both heavy and light, whose interlocking fire could sweep the entire shoreline. Then there was the long but narrow tree line about twenty yards from the water’s edge.
“The few Americans who survive the beach will push into that wide band of scrub trees and vines, where our snipers will take a heavy toll,” Kogiwara said. “Those woods also contain more machine guns as well as men in cleverly secreted spider traps ready to take the Americans under fire from the rear as they pass by. Beyond the tangle of the woods, of course, we have a wide swath of open ground, where the Americans will find more rifle pits, trenches, machine guns, and pillboxes. Our intention is to turn the invasion area into an American graveyard.”
Wrapping up, Kogiwara’s outlook now reflected deep concern.
“When they come, we will certainly kill many,” Kogiwara said. “I know the general wants the Americans destroyed on the beach and pushed back into the sea. But I realistically don’t see how we can prevent the enemy from gaining a toehold before darkness falls.”
“We can’t,” Tadashi confirmed. “But a toehold is just what General Saito wants. All our beach defenders need to do, Colonel, is keep the American invasion contained. The more men they jam onto a narrow and confined beachhead, the easier it will be to destroy them when we launch our counterattacks. Between our six batteries of guns on the ridge plus our howitzers, we’ll have almost seventy field pieces laying down fire on their heads. Nowhere on that beach will they find safety. To make things worse for them, Colonel Goto has ninety tanks ready to crash through their lines.”
Kogiwara understood that but said, “That is all well and good, Major. But how long will our defenses hold? Our fortifications may seem daunting, but many of our bunkers are not as strong as they should be to withstand the punishment the Americans can throw against them. As General Saito is aware, we have done our best with what we have, but our resupply efforts have been strangled by American submarines. We cannot strengthen the fortifications appreciably unless we can get more materials. If I don’t get that support, I cannot promise how long our defenses will stand.”
“The men will have to work harder,” Tadashi suggested, taken aback by Kogiwara’s fall from exuberance to borderline defeatism. “Use as many men as you need.”
“We already have every spare soldier working,” Kogiwara said. “Work crews are working two twelve-hour shifts. I have Korean workers and also islanders, both Japanese civilians and native Chamorro. But the Chamorro are undependable unless we apply the lash to their backs. We even have girls from the Girls’ School of Saipan helping. But no matter how many workers I have, the lack of materials leaves them nothing to do but sit around with their arms folded. I respectfully ask that General Saito address this shortage of construction materials immediately.”
Tadashi was well aware of the problem. Earlier, on his inspection tour, he’d spoken to Captain Sake Oba, who had over one hundred men digging gun positions in the hills overlooking the town of Garapan. Oba expressed shock at the lack of materials, including concrete and explosives, plus a complete absence of tractors.
“Your points are well taken, Colonel, and I will pass them along to General Saito,” Tadashi replied. “ Unfortunately, the Navy reports that the Americans have left Eniwetok. That’s only two thousand kilometers east of us. Saipan is their most likely target. General Saito is aware of the handicap you are forced to work under, but know that when the Americans get here, we will fight, and any shortages of materials will be offset by the code of Bushido, where every Japanese soldier swears to kill ten Americans before he dies. General Saito knows the value of our holding Saipan. This island and all the Marianas are key elements in Japan’s outer ring of defenses. Losing it would doom any hope we have of emerging from this war victoriously.”
“What about the Imperial Fleet?” Kogiwara asked. “Do you think they can arrive in time to defeat the American Navy in the Decisive Battle?”
Tadashi was silent. Unlike many of his peers, Tadashi had little confidence in the Japanese Navy’s “Decisive Battle” scenario, where the Combined Fleet would do battle with the Americans and crush them. Yes, the Navy had Yamato and Musashi, the two most powerful battleships in the world, each packing nine 18-inch guns with a maximum firing range of twenty-six miles. Still, he no longer believed that the Navy had the sufficient strength, particularly in aircraft carriers.
After a brief silence, he said, “The general has told Imperial Headquarters that Saipan is absolutely invincible. And so it shall be.”
With a final salute, Tadashi returned to the Plymouth. Hanaya was by his side.
“Tokyo misinformed us, my friend,” Tadashi told Hanaya as the driver opened the car door. “Our leaders assumed we would not have to face a possible invasion before November. How we could’ve used those five extra months to more fully prepare.”
“Maybe Tokyo was wrong about where the Americans are heading,” Hanaya said.
Tadashi shook his head.
“A troop convoy is known to be sailing on a westward course,” he said. “The only logical place they could be bound for on that particular heading is the Marianas. They’re coming for us, my friend.”
CHAPTER 1
Peter “Hardball” Talbot glanced at his Timex. All around him, US Marines in full battle array were clomping down the iron staircase that led into the bowels of LST 968. Below them on the tractor deck, two dozen amphibious landing craft, amtracs, waited impatiently to ferry the men to the shores of Saipan.
It was 0625.
Reveille had sounded at 0400, and the Marines had been herded into the compartment that passed for a mess hall aboard this Large Slow Target, as the sailors dubbed the LST. Men whose appetites hadn’t been squelched by seasickness or outright terror wolfed down the traditional steak and eggs breakfast, with a coffee chaser served scalding hot and blacker than Satan’s soul.
At 0542, the loudspeaker bellowed, “Land the landing force. Marines, lay up to your debarkation stations.” Outside, the rumble of naval guns roared. The preinvasion bombardment had begun.
Wordlessly, the Marines filed down the iron stairs into the dimly lit, cavernous hold. The steel bulkheads echoed amid the clamor as Marines boarded the boats using the rear-mounted ramps. It was like being inside a church bell on Sunday morning. What sounded like the ringing of a telephone jangled three times, alerting the Marines that loading needed to be completed.
“Second Squad,” Pete bellowed. “Let’s move ass!”
When the last of his twelve men boarded, Pete followed as the ramp began to close.
Outside, the forty-two heavily laden LSTs closed to four thousand yards of the beach. This was the Line of Departure.
Red lights now flashed overhead, and buzzers blared harshly as the LST’s forward doors slowly swung open. A ramp began to extend outward, then sloped down toward the wave tops. Twenty-four seven-cylinder Continental engines roared to life, heavily scenting the stale, sweaty air with gasoline fumes. Along each side of the hull, exhaust fans worked to blow the increasing clouds of fumes outside.
One by one the amtracs advanced, scaling a slight incline before the dizzying descent down the ramp. Each vehicle paused on the ramp so the coxswain could time his drop into the water to coincide with the four-to-six-foot ocean swells. Missing the crest of the wave could mean the difference between safely leaving the LST or dropping into a watery trough and possibly capsizing or sinking outright.
Splashing into the sea nose first, each amtrac kicked up a torrent of foamy water that washed back along the vehicle’s length. Then, like some ponderous water bug, the craft churned away from the LST to clear the way for the next.
After finding its assigned spot in the gathering armada, Pete’s amtrac began to circle monotonously, awaiting the signal to head for the shore. In the distance, Pete could hear the crash of naval guns; the sharp bark of the cruisers; and the distinct, deep-throated thump of the behemoth barrels aboard the battleships. Overhead, the ripping sound of large- caliber shells made inexperienced Marines flinch instinctively.
This was day three of the naval bombardment of Saipan. Now it was invasion day, and the Navy had allotted just three hours for softening up beach defenses. This fire was to be delivered by two battleships, two cruisers, and seven destroyers at a range of just over two thousand yards.
At 0630, the rhythmic drumbeat of the naval guns suddenly ceased, replaced by the drone of airplane engines. Within moments, the sky became alive with dive-bombers, both older Dauntlesses and the newer Helldivers. These were accompanied by F6F Hellcat fighters. As the Marines watched, clouds of flyboys approached at treetop level, strafing and dropping bombs on the Japs’ heads.
An angry ball of fire roiled skyward after a plane buzzed over the island.
“Think they hit an ammo dump?” Corporal Walter “Honeybun” Hullihen asked Pete.
“Them’s napalm bombs,” one of the boat’s forward-mounted .30-caliber machine gunners shouted above the engine’s rumble. “It’s new. Like an airborne flamethrower.”
“Ah’ll be gawdamned,” Pfc. William “Reb” Marshall said with awe. “What’ll they think of next?”
Carrier planes continued zooming above the Marines, when suddenly objects began falling from the sky, pummeling the men in the landing boats. Many of the Marines cowered in terror. Pete and two other NCOs—Reb Marshall and First Squad’s Sgt. Bill “Biff” Hodges—yelled that the objects raining down on them were spent brass casings ejected from the wing-mounted machine guns on the fighter planes. Still, many of the men calmed down only when the deluge from above ceased.
Pete leaned his back against the amtrac’s steel ramp as the vibrations from the engine coursed through the craft’s steel carcass. Pete studied the twelve men he’d be leading into battle.
He’d been given command of the squad on May 7, immediately upon his return to the company. He’d been gone nearly five months for recuperation and rehabilitation after having his right leg peppered by Japanese grenade shrapnel, suffered two hours before Tarawa fell. He was no sooner off the truck that had brought him to Camp Tarawa on Hawaii’s Big Island, when Master Sgt. Thomas O’Leary wrangled him into a tent that bore a hand-painted sign that read: “2nd Div., D Co. HQ.”
Inside the tent, behind a desk that looked as if a grenade had exploded on it, sat Captain Thomas Jackson Stacey, a tall, athletic Virginian lovingly called “Stonewall” by his men. The nickname pleased him, though he’d never let them know it. Beside the captain, First Lt. Woodrow Long sat in a wooden straight-backed chair, his long legs stretched out casually. Hailing from Daytona Beach, the lanky Floridian commanded First Platoon and had served as Stacey’s executive officer following the death of First Lt. Ed Pfeffer on Tarawa. Seated to Stacey’s left was an officer Pete did not recognize. What caught Pete’s attention was that the man looked Japanese.
