So be it. Ushijima was buying time. His life and career were now distilled to a single unwavering duty: to prolong the battle for Okinawa. If he succeeded, j.a.pan might still be spared.

The withdrawal succeeded. On the morning of May 28, when Marines of A Company, 1st Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment, stormed into the courtyard of Shuri Castle, they met almost no resistance. The town of Shuri, at the base of the ancient castle and once the home of 17,500 Okinawans, was obliterated. So was the castle, and so was every man-made object in view. The labyrinth beneath the castle that had been the headquarters of General Ushijima's 32nd Army was deserted.

The enemy had gotten away.

It was the same story on each flank, skeleton j.a.panese units fighting holding actions while the bulk of the army slipped southward. Realizing what was happening, Buckner ordered his forces to converge to the south of Shuri to isolate whatever remained of the j.a.panese 32nd Army around Shuri Castle.

He was too late. The same mud that had slowed the Americans' advance up the Shuri Line now hindered their pursuit of the retreating j.a.panese. Most of Ushijima's forces were already settling into their new positions four miles to the south where a pair of hill ma.s.ses called Yuza-Dake and Yaeju-Dake formed a jagged wall across the southern tip of Okinawa.

Buckner tried to put a positive spin on the situation. "Ushijima missed the boat on his withdrawal from the Shuri Line," he told his subordinates on May 31. "It's all over now but cleaning pockets of resistance. This doesn't mean there won't be stiff fighting but the j.a.ps won't be able to organize another line."

No one believed it, of course, especially the weary soldiers and Marines who were mad as h.e.l.l that the enemy had been allowed to slip away from the Shuri Line. It meant that all the suffering and sacrifice they'd endured trying to dislodge the j.a.panese from Shuri would have to be repeated on the next ridge to the south.

Criticism of Simon Buckner's generalship was swelling both on Okinawa and on the home front. Now that the war was over in Europe, military reporters in the United States were turning their attention to Okinawa. The appalling casualty figures were getting front-page coverage. Journalists and armchair generals were comparing Buckner's strategy to the attritional battles of World War I, where generals flung entire armies at each other in frontal a.s.saults.

One of the noisiest critics was Homer Bigart of the New York Herald Tribune New York Herald Tribune, who had been at the Anzio and Salerno landings. Bigart was scathing about Buckner's refusal to conduct amphibious landings behind the j.a.panese line. "Our tactics were ultra-conservative," Bigart wrote. "Instead of an end-run, we persisted in frontal attacks. It was hey-diddle-diddle straight down the middle. Our intention to commit the entire force in a general a.s.sault was apparently so obvious that the j.a.panese quickly disposed their troops in such a way as most effectively to block our advance."

In his syndicated column, "Today in Washington," David Lawrence took an even harsher line. "Why is the truth about the military fiasco at Okinawa being hushed up?" Lawrence postulated that the stalemate was due to an ArmyMarine Corps dispute over strategy, implying that Buckner and his Army generals didn't "understand the dynamics of island warfare."

Even the imperious MacArthur weighed in. Without naming names, he accused the Okinawa commanders of "sacrificing thousands of American soldiers." Instead of the frontal a.s.sault, MacArthur thought they should have done as he did in the southwestern Pacific, leapfrogging j.a.panese strongholds, isolating them from the rest of the war. With most of Okinawa already in American hands, the j.a.panese could have been contained on their southern tip of land while the United States had free use of the airfields and harbors for the coming invasion of j.a.pan. The saving in American lives would have been immense.

MacArthur, of course, was biased. Buckner had become a "Navy general" by virtue of serving under MacArthur's chief rival in the Pacific, Adm. Chester Nimitz. In a Manila meeting with Lt. Gen. Joseph Stilwell, MacArthur let it be known that in the coming invasion of j.a.pan, he would see to it that Buckner would not play a role.

Nimitz, who had already invested his own credibility in Buckner's leadership, defended the general against Lawrence's accusations. "The article, which has been widely reprinted, shows that the author has been badly misinformed, so badly as to give the impression that he has been made use of for purposes which are not in the best interest of the United States."

For the diplomatic Nimitz, it was a blunt statement. No one could be sure, though, whether he was defending his designated ground commander or just heading off another Army-Navy turf war.

Simon Buckner, for his part, wasn't a general who took fire without firing back. He called a special press conference at his Okinawa headquarters on June 15. "If we'd scattered our forces," he told reporters, "we might have got licked, or it might have unduly prolonged the campaign; or we might have been forced to call on additional troops, which we did not want to do."

The journalists dutifully reported Buckner's statement, but it didn't stop the criticism. The controversy, like the battle itself, continued to fester like an open wound. The end was in sight, and at this point no one in Washington or in Pacific Fleet headquarters was willing to change strategies or commanders on Okinawa. Buckner would stay until the end. Or so everyone thought.

By the morning of June 18, Simon Buckner had every reason to be upbeat. The heady scent of victory was in the air. The general flashed his confident, white-toothed grin for the photographers as he made his way up to the observation post at the Kunishi ridge-line. Against the advice of his staff, he was headed for the front line to observe an a.s.sault by the 2nd Marine Division against an enemy holdout. It would be one of the last actions of the long battle, and he was determined to observe it close up. As was his habit, he carried his own compact camera to capture the moment for his personal archives.

Escorting Buckner was the regimental commander, Col. Clarence Wallace, whose Marines were making the a.s.sault. Buckner settled himself into the observation post, which was sheltered on either side by boulders. He focused his attention on the battle unfolding in front of him, unaware of the events on the adjoining ridge.

From the concealed entrance of their cave, the j.a.panese gunners observed the scene. The men in the American observation post appeared to be high-ranking officers, judging by the deference being shown them. The gunners' artillery battery had been reduced to one remaining 47-millimeter mobile gun. They had been waiting for an opportunity to use the gun before it was destroyed or captured.

Here was such an opportunity. They hurried to ready the weapon. They knew they would have one tiny window in which to fire before the fury of a hundred American artillery sh.e.l.ls came crashing down on them.

They fired the first round. The loaders crammed fresh sh.e.l.ls into the breech, and in quick succession they pumped out four more rounds. Then they whirled and retreated back inside their cave.

Buckner was pleased. He'd gotten what he came for-a look at what might be the last a.s.sault of the Okinawa campaign, some shots on film, and some goodwill points with the Marines. It was 1315, time to move on to the next outpost. Buckner was shaking hands all around, saying goodbye to his hosts, when the first sh.e.l.l exploded.

It wasn't a direct hit. Nor were the next rounds, which landed so close, one behind the other, that they seemed almost to arrive in salvo. One of the rounds exploded into the ma.s.sive coral boulder that protected the observation post. Debris slashed like a cleaver across the narrow s.p.a.ce, missing all the men standing in the observation post.

All except Simon Buckner.

Before anyone could fathom what had happened, Buckner was down. His chest and abdomen were punctured by the pieces of shrapnel. Corpsmen rushed to his side, trying to stanch the flow of blood. Semiconscious, the general lay on the ground while the life ebbed from him. Despite the efforts of the corpsmen, his wounds were too severe. Buckner was dead in ten minutes.

The news stunned both sides. To the Americans in the foxholes and on the sprawling, muddy landscape of Okinawa, it was incomprehensible that the man who had led them to within two miles and a few hours of final victory was no longer with them. To Buckner's critics in the press and in the military establishment, it seemed a profound irony. The general they accused of needlessly expending American lives had just joined the twelve thousand men lost at Okinawa.

To Buckner's enemies still clinging to the southern tip of Okinawa, it meant something else.

Huddled in their cave beneath Hill 89 near the village of Mabuni, the staff officers of the j.a.panese 32nd Army could hardly believe their good fortune. They had killed the American commander! Their army was almost annihilated, but even as they approached their own deaths, they had won this symbolic victory. Gen. Isamu Cho, the fire-eating samurai who had argued against this slow battle of attrition, was beside himself with joy. So were most of the other headquarters officers.

There was one exception. Mitsuru Ushijima, the courtly general who had been Buckner's chief antagonist these past three months, was not rejoicing. "He looked grim," recalled Colonel Yahara, "as if mourning Buckner's death. Ushijima never spoke ill of others. I had always felt he was a great man, and now I admired him more than ever."

The day before, Ushijima had received a message from Buckner. "I believe that you understand as clearly as I," wrote Buckner, "that the destruction of all j.a.panese resistance on the island is merely a matter of days." Buckner urged Ushijima to surrender to avoid "the necessity of my destroying the vast majority of your remaining troops."

Ushijima's only reaction had been to smile. Surrendering to Buckner was never a consideration. Now, with the battle of Okinawa nearing its conclusion, Ushijima intended to exercise his final option. He would join the American general in eternity.

In accordance with Buckner's orders in the event he was killed, Maj. Gen. Roy Geiger, USMC, took command of the Tenth Army, making him the only Marine ever to command a field army. It was a distinction that wouldn't last. The a.s.signment immediately ignited memories of the old Army-Marine blood feud. Five days later Geiger was relieved by Army Lt. General Joseph "Vinegar Joe" Stilwell, who was a MacArthur ally and one of Buckner's most vocal critics. As far as the Army was concerned, order had been restored.

It no longer mattered. The campaign was over. By the time Stilwell took charge, the American flag had been raised on the southern tip of Okinawa. After the mop-up, the new commander's primary task was to preside over the occupation.

On June 21, while the remainder of Ushijima's 32nd Army was being exterminated on Okinawa, a gloomy Admiral Ugaki gave the order to launch kikusui kikusui No. 10. The calamity unfolding at Okinawa only convinced the admiral more than ever that j.a.pan's survival depended on destroying the enemy at sea. No. 10. The calamity unfolding at Okinawa only convinced the admiral more than ever that j.a.pan's survival depended on destroying the enemy at sea.

The problem, of course, was that his tokko tokko a.s.sets-airplanes and airmen-were becoming scarce. For what would be the last of the floating chrysanthemum attacks, only forty-five airplanes could be mustered. Six of these would be Ohka-carrying bombers, and for the first time they would receive an umbrella of fighter protection. a.s.sets-airplanes and airmen-were becoming scarce. For what would be the last of the floating chrysanthemum attacks, only forty-five airplanes could be mustered. Six of these would be Ohka-carrying bombers, and for the first time they would receive an umbrella of fighter protection.

At dawn on June 22, Ugaki watched the bombers and fighters rumble into the pinkening sky. As usual, he a.s.sumed his trancelike solitude in the underground shelter to await reports. Also as usual, the scratchy, blurted radio messages led him to the same erroneous conclusion: the attacks were a brilliant success.

In truth, one American ship took a direct kamikaze hit. A Nakajima Ki-84 "Frank," a high-performance j.a.panese fighter, managed to penetrate the air defense screens around Kerama Retto and crash the seaplane tender USS Curtiss Curtiss on the starboard side forward. The ship blazed like a torch all night, and forty-one of her crew were dead. on the starboard side forward. The ship blazed like a torch all night, and forty-one of her crew were dead.

Of the six Ohka Ohka-carrying bombers, only two released their human-guided bombs in the target area. Both missed. Two others failed to release, and two were forced to turn back. Despite Ugaki's high hopes, the exotic Ohka Ohka guided bomb had turned out to be a dismal failure. guided bomb had turned out to be a dismal failure.

Kikusui No. 10 was the last major No. 10 was the last major tokko tokko mission. Not only Admiral Ugaki but most of his airmen sensed that Okinawa was a lost cause, not worth the expenditure of lives and airplanes. From now on, Ugaki would h.o.a.rd his resources for the fiery final battle on j.a.panese soil. mission. Not only Admiral Ugaki but most of his airmen sensed that Okinawa was a lost cause, not worth the expenditure of lives and airplanes. From now on, Ugaki would h.o.a.rd his resources for the fiery final battle on j.a.panese soil.

Ushijima was cut off. It was the night of June 21, and inside the rabbit warren of caves and tunnels beneath Hill 89, Ushijima and his chief of staff, General Cho, were delivering their final orders. Ushijima had already received an urgent message from his 24th Division, fighting a battle to the death a mile away. The situation was hopeless, reported the commander.

Ushijima didn't need to be told. From directly over his head he could hear the thump of enemy grenades, the chatter of their machine guns. That evening Ushijima and Cho held a farewell party for their staff, complete with fish cakes, cabbage, rice, and plenty of sake. For the occasion Cho broke out his remaining stock of captured Scotch whisky.

Soon after midnight, most of the 32nd Army's remaining staff officers and men took up their weapons and went outside. In the glow of a full moon, they made a final banzai banzai charge to the hilltop. The frenetic chattering of enemy machine guns lasted for less than ten minutes, then it was over. charge to the hilltop. The frenetic chattering of enemy machine guns lasted for less than ten minutes, then it was over.

A few minutes before 0400, Ushijima and Cho, in full dress uniform, went out to a ledge overlooking the ocean. Each opened his tunic to expose his abdomen for the ritual. Standing behind them was the hara-kiri hara-kiri a.s.sistant, Captain Sakaguchi, a master swordsman. a.s.sistant, Captain Sakaguchi, a master swordsman.

Ushijima, being senior, went first. He thrust the short dagger into his belly. An instant later Sakaguchi, wielding his sword in both hands, swung the razor-sharp blade downward, beheading the general. A minute later, General Cho followed suit. Again Sakaguchi's unerring sword flashed in the moonlight.

The ritual was finished. The few remaining soldiers in the headquarters broke ranks and ran down the cliff to meet the enemy in their own fashion. The death of their commander was also the death of the 32nd Army-and the end of organized resistance on Okinawa.

38

SETTING SUN SETTING SUN SAN FRANCISCO

MAY 19, 1945

The sign said it all. Someone stuck it on the dock alongside Intrepid Intrepid at the Hunters Point shipyard: "This Fighting Lady has a date in Tokyo. at the Hunters Point shipyard: "This Fighting Lady has a date in Tokyo. DON'T MAKE HER LATE! DON'T MAKE HER LATE!"

The carrier's voyage from Pearl Harbor had taken five days. Now everyone was in a hurry. The airedales of the air group and most of the ship's crew headed off for two weeks' leave while the workers at the shipyard labored nonstop to repair Intrepid Intrepid's battle damage.

The Tail End Charlies scattered like Gypsies across the continent. Maurie Dubinsky headed straight for Kansas City to see his family and sweetheart. Wes Hays jumped on a train for Texas to rejoin his wife and infant son. Charlie Schlag was on his way to meet his family in West Virginia. Phil Kirkwood, the Grim Reapers' leading ace with twelve kills, had an appointment in New Jersey to collect on the promise of $100 for every j.a.panese airplane he shot down. Eric Erickson headed for his home town of Lincoln, Nebraska, to become acquainted with the fiancee he still knew mainly through letters.

In late June, while the pilots were returning to the Intrepid Intrepid for the long voyage back to the war, they heard the reports. The battle for Okinawa was over. The longest and bloodiest campaign of the Pacific war had finally ground to a halt. for the long voyage back to the war, they heard the reports. The battle for Okinawa was over. The longest and bloodiest campaign of the Pacific war had finally ground to a halt.

To the Tail End Charlies it was good and bad news. It meant that this time they really were were catching the tail end of the war. But what they were catching was going to make Okinawa look like a picnic. catching the tail end of the war. But what they were catching was going to make Okinawa look like a picnic.

It was a now-familiar pa.s.sage. Erickson, Hill, Dubinsky, and most of the rest of the squadron were lined up on Intrepid Intrepid's flight deck. Gliding past them were the gray hump of Alcatraz, the stark skyline of San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge bearing another contingent of underwear-waving girls. Then came the barely perceptible rolling motion as the great ship entered the open ocean.

There were few hangovers this time and almost no seasickness. It occurred to Erickson that since his previous departure for the Pacific, heaving his guts out, he'd changed. Technically he was still a Tail End Charlie, but he was no longer one of the new guys. They had a fresh batch of new guys, replacements for the pilots lost during Intrepid Intrepid's previous combat cruise. Now he understood why the veterans had been cool to him and the other Tail End Charlies.

Erickson had been tested. He'd been fired on by enemy planes, ships, and sh.o.r.e-based heavy guns. And he'd fired back. He'd been credited with shooting down one and a half enemy fighters, bombing and strafing bases in j.a.pan, and helping to destroy the Yamato Yamato task force, and he had two Distinguished Flying Crosses to show for it. He'd seen half a dozen friends plummet to their deaths. task force, and he had two Distinguished Flying Crosses to show for it. He'd seen half a dozen friends plummet to their deaths.

None of this had the new guys yet experienced. Until they had, they would be segregated from the veterans by a subtle wall of formality.

Erickson now enjoyed another privilege: he no longer had to live in Boys' Town. The new guys would take up residence there. Though he missed the rowdy camaraderie of the bunkroom, Erickson liked the privacy of his new two-man stateroom. He had good light and a quiet place to work on his paintings and sketches.

On July 30, 1945, Intrepid Intrepid steamed out of Pearl Harbor, headed for Eniwetok, where she would prepare to join Halsey's armada off j.a.pan. En route the carrier and her air group would pause long enough to bombard j.a.panese-occupied Wake Island. steamed out of Pearl Harbor, headed for Eniwetok, where she would prepare to join Halsey's armada off j.a.pan. En route the carrier and her air group would pause long enough to bombard j.a.panese-occupied Wake Island.

The island itself no longer had any strategic importance. Since its capture by the j.a.panese in the weeks after the Pearl Harbor attack, Wake had been bypa.s.sed by American forces. Cut off by U.S. submarines from all resupply lines, the j.a.panese garrison had slowly starved, surviving mainly on the island's abundant rat population.

But shooting up Wake Island had become a rite of pa.s.sage. No self-respecting task force or carrier group commander pa.s.sed Wake without giving the place a token bombing, mainly for the h.e.l.l of it, but also for the purpose of warming up the air group on a real enemy. Like trapped animals, the j.a.panese could be expected to fight back, but not with great lethality.

Not everyone thought it was a good idea. Johnny Hyland complained that "if there is anything that sounds unreasonable to a pilot, it is the idea that he should practice encountering fire from an anti-aircraft gun."

They did it anyway. Both Corsair squadrons were equipped with new airplanes, the latest model of the Corsair, the F4U-4. This one had a ma.s.sive four-bladed propeller, a full bubble canopy, and a more powerful Pratt & Whitney R-2800-18W, and it was nearly 30 knots faster than the F4U-1D the squadrons had taken to Okinawa.

On the morning of August 6, thirty-eight of the new Corsairs, each loaded with 5-inch rockets, swept over the Wake atoll. They were followed by twenty-eight bomb-loaded Avengers and h.e.l.ldivers. For most of the day, the Intrepid Intrepid warplanes bombed and strafed Wake while enemy gunners obligingly fired back with their few remaining guns. There was no air opposition; the last j.a.panese fighter at Wake had been destroyed long ago, and the airfield once used by the U.S. Marines was now a bomb-holed moonscape. warplanes bombed and strafed Wake while enemy gunners obligingly fired back with their few remaining guns. There was no air opposition; the last j.a.panese fighter at Wake had been destroyed long ago, and the airfield once used by the U.S. Marines was now a bomb-holed moonscape.

No Intrepid Intrepid planes were shot down, and the worst threat of the day came from a towering afternoon c.u.mulonimbus. By nightfall, all planes were shot down, and the worst threat of the day came from a towering afternoon c.u.mulonimbus. By nightfall, all Intrepid Intrepid's airmen were safely back aboard, and the carrier was steaming at 15 knots for Eniwetok.

What no one aboard Intrepid Intrepid knew was that while their bombers were hitting the j.a.panese on Wake, another bomber-a solitary B-29 named knew was that while their bombers were hitting the j.a.panese on Wake, another bomber-a solitary B-29 named Enola Gay Enola Gay-was releasing a single weapon over the j.a.panese city of Hiroshima.

And then three days later, while Intrepid Intrepid lay at anchor in the coral-reef-enclosed lagoon at Eniwetok, it happened again, this time over a place called Nagasaki. lay at anchor in the coral-reef-enclosed lagoon at Eniwetok, it happened again, this time over a place called Nagasaki.

It was a confusing, frustrating time for the men aboard Intrepid Intrepid. Atomic bomb? Few aboard the carrier had ever heard of such a thing. Most had never seen a B-29 up close. The notion that one bomb could devastate an entire city stretched the limits of their imaginations. Rumors spread like wildfire. Where were they headed? Would j.a.pan surrender? Would there be an invasion?

On the morning of August 15, while Intrepid Intrepid was taking on fresh ammunition and provisions, the answer was crackling over the radio in j.a.pan. was taking on fresh ammunition and provisions, the answer was crackling over the radio in j.a.pan.

Matome Ugaki leaned forward, straining to understand the thin, reedy voice. The static made the emperor's words hard to understand. Hirohito was carefully avoiding the word surrender surrender, but his meaning was clear. The war situation, he told his countrymen, "has developed not necessarily to j.a.pan's advantage." The j.a.panese people would have to "bear the unbearable" and "endure the unendurable." The j.a.panese would have to lay down their arms.

Listening to the broadcast, Ugaki was filled with an excruciating torment. While sending hundreds of tokko tokko warriors to their deaths in the floating chrysanthemum attacks, he had always consoled himself with the promise that someday he would join them. Now, as a dutiful subject of the emperor, he was bound to obey a direct order to surrender. But he was also a warrior steeped in the warriors to their deaths in the floating chrysanthemum attacks, he had always consoled himself with the promise that someday he would join them. Now, as a dutiful subject of the emperor, he was bound to obey a direct order to surrender. But he was also a warrior steeped in the bushido bushido ethos. Death in battle was the only acceptable way for him to end the war. ethos. Death in battle was the only acceptable way for him to end the war.

Ugaki would take the path of the warrior. He rationalized that because he had not yet received an official cease-fire order from navy general headquarters, he was not constrained from carrying out a final tokko tokko mission. In his last diary entry he wrote, "I'm going to follow in the footsteps of those many loyal officers and men who devoted themselves to the country, and I want to live in the n.o.ble spirit of the special attack." mission. In his last diary entry he wrote, "I'm going to follow in the footsteps of those many loyal officers and men who devoted themselves to the country, and I want to live in the n.o.ble spirit of the special attack."

At 1600 that afternoon, he drank a farewell sake toast with his staff at the Fifth Air Fleet headquarters. Then he removed all badges and emblems of rank from his dark green uniform. By auto he rode to Oita airfield, carrying with him the short ceremonial sword given him by Admiral Yamamoto.

Waiting on the ramp at Oita were eleven Asahi D4Y Judy dive-bombers-the same type he had dispatched by the hundreds on tokko tokko missions against the Americans. Their two-man crews were waiting, all wearing the ceremonial missions against the Americans. Their two-man crews were waiting, all wearing the ceremonial hachimaki hachimaki headband with the emblem of the rising sun. headband with the emblem of the rising sun.

Ugaki protested. He had asked for only five airplanes for his mission. The commander of the detachment, Lt. Tatsuo Nakatsuru, insisted that the admiral not conduct such a mission with only five airplanes. "My unit is going to accompany him with full strength!"

Ugaki was touched. He climbed onto a stand and addressed the pilots. "Will all of you go with me?"

"Yes, sir!" they replied, raising their right hands. Ugaki was at first taken aback, then his face brightened. The prospect of adding more lives to the thousands already sacrificed didn't seem to trouble him. Nor did the pointlessness of the mission.

The admiral shook hands with each of his staff, then he boarded Lt. Nakatsuru's plane, taking the rearmost seat in the dive-bomber. In the gathering dusk, the flight of bombers roared off the runway at Kanoya and turned south.

By the time the news of Ugaki's mission reached navy general headquarters, it was too late to stop them. The commander in chief, Adm. Jisaburo Ozawa, was furious. "It was wrong of him to take his men with him as companions to the other world, knowing the Imperial mandate through the emperor's broadcast. If he wanted to commit suicide, he should have done it alone."

By the time Ugaki's flight neared Okinawa, three of the eleven dive-bombers had already turned back with "engine trouble." At 1924, Ugaki radioed a message. He intended to "ram into the arrogant American ships, displaying the real spirit of a j.a.panese warrior."

No one saw Matome Ugaki again. None of his planes made it through the U.S. air defense screen, and no U.S. ships were struck by kamikazes. The mission of the last kamikaze had ended in failure.

The war is over. The news spread at the speed of sound through the pa.s.sageways, compartments, and decks of USS Intrepid Intrepid. The chorus of yelling and cheering swelled over the ship, spilling across the surface of the Eniwetok anchorage, becoming a collective din of sirens and horns and cheering men. The sound was an echo of the same jubilation going on in every city and town of America.

It was 1100 on August 15 in Eniwetok. The new president, Harry Truman, had announced the surrender of j.a.pan. Minutes later the order from Admiral Nimitz's headquarters flashed to all units of the U.S. Navy in the Pacific: "Cease offensive operations against j.a.panese forces."

For the young men on the ships, it was too soon to comprehend the full meaning of what had happened. Fifty million human beings had perished in the costliest war in history. The political geography of the planet had been changed forever. Weapons of unthinkable destructive power had been unleashed. Their own lives had been transformed in ways that would not be apparent until years from now.

None of this was clear to them on this August day in the sweltering heat of the South Pacific. But the Tail End Charlies knew that they had the best reason in the world to celebrate. The war they'd almost missed had ended. The enemy they had hated with a cold, unreasoning fury was defeated, and they had helped win the victory. Now it was time to go home. At least for some of them.

Erickson sprawled in the leather-padded ready room chair, waiting for his name to be called. The squadron skipper, Will Rawie, was reading the list of the pilots who were eligible to leave the Navy immediately.

Erickson fidgeted in the chair, agonizing over his decision. Stay in or get out? He had come to love the Navy. He especially loved flying fighters like the Corsair. He knew in his gut that he would never again be bonded as strongly to any group as he was to his squadronmates here in this ready room.

Rawie was going down the list, stopping at each name to see if the pilot raised his hand. He came to Erickson's name. After a moment's hesitation, the young pilot's hand, as if disconnected from his body, shot straight into the air.

And that was it. Decision made. Erickson would return to civilian life to pursue his dream of becoming an artist.

That evening he packed his seabag, then stopped off to have a farewell martini with Windy Hill, who had restocked his private booze stash after his absence on the submarine Sea Dog Sea Dog. The next morning Erickson and eight of his squadronmates rode a boat to Okinawa, where they would await transportation to the United States.

For most of them, it was the first time they had ever actually set foot on the island. They gazed around the rocky landscape with almost reverential awe. Looking at the rutted, pockmarked terrain, it was impossible not to reflect on the battle that had changed their lives.

The human cost for capturing Okinawa had been staggeringly high-12,520 Americans killed or missing, another 36,631 wounded. Among the dead were 4,907 Navy men, with nearly as many wounded, 4,824. Thirty-four Allied ships and other craft had been sunk and 368 damaged, with 763 aircraft lost, making Okinawa the costliest naval engagement in U.S. history.

For the j.a.panese who defended Okinawa, the price had been exponentially higher, with 110,000 sons of Nippon killed and 7,400 taken prisoner. In the air and sea fighting for Okinawa, j.a.pan lost 16 ships and more than 4,000 airplanes. But the greatest suffering had been among Okinawa's civilian population. Most studies estimated that more than 100,000 noncombatants died in the fighting.