"Mr. Bevin, there are very few Arabs in America, and those who are here aren't particularly political, but there are many, many Jews. American Jews normally vote for my party, the Democrats. Giving in to the legitimate aspirations of European Jews for a homeland and keeping your earlier promises about it being in Palestine will help me get elected in '48. It's just that simple. You want Hong Kong and I want Palestine. If you agree, we will assist you in three months, not sooner. That might just give us time to invade Honshu and swing a sufficient number of transports south with your warships. Do we have an agreement?"

Bevin calculated his losses. The hell with both the Jews and the Arabs, he thought. More than either, Britain needed Hong Kong, and three months should be more than sufficient time. Even though most Englishmen knew that the days of empire were over, they wanted England to be the country making the decisions and setting the terms that would free her colonies. Fortunately, it was a myth that Great Britain was economically dependent on places such as Hong Kong and India. She wasn't.

Bevin conceded. "All right, but there are many Jews who do not wish to go to Palestine and instead wish to come to America. These you will take. Also, the opening of Palestine to Jewish immigration must be done in such a way that the Arabs will see your country as pushing and bullying us into doing it and thereby hate the United States and not us. We are dependent on their oil and need their goodwill to make it back economically. You may never be able to get petroleum from the Arabs in the future, however."

"That's acceptable," Truman said. In the world of politics, forever never occurred. Regardless of the rhetoric and the passion, today's enemies could easily become tomorrow's allies and vice versa. "The Arabs can keep their damned oil. We have more than enough for our needs."

Chapter 55

The commander of 528th's 1st Battalion, Maj. Jimmy Lee Redwald, was a little too flamboyant in his dress and mannerisms for Brig. Gen. John Monck's personal taste. Redwald casually ignored the unwritten prohibition on looking too much like an officer while in a combat area. His fatigues were always clean and pressed, and his boots shined. Since Redwald didn't have the rank to have anyone available as a valet, Monck presumed that the major did the laundry and spit-shining himself. Monck could think of several better ways to spend an evening.

Redwald also kept his major's insignia on the front of his helmet, although he did not use the shiny brass that would have drawn sniper fire from all across Japan. The major was infatuated with what he'd heard and read about the hard-driving George Patton in Europe. On occasion, Monck had reminded Redwald that Patton operated farther behind the front lines than a mere major did and was less likely to draw enemy fire. That little fact did not appear to impress the lanky Oklahoman.

On the positive side, Major Redwald's battalion was well run and the men seemed to respect their commander while tolerating his attempt at being colorful with quiet amusement. On balance, there were a lot worse officers and not that many better.

What the hell, Monck thought as he, Parker, Redwald, and Monck's driver drove toward Redwald's command post with their guard vehicles ahead and behind them. If being a show-off works for Redwald, who cares. "Jimmy Lee, who's this boy you're putting up for the Medal?"

"Didn't you get my report, General?"

"Of course I did and it reads quite well. But they all do, don't they? I know what it says, but what does it mean? Did he really dive on that grenade to save others, or was it some kind of fluke? As much as I'd like to have a Medal of Honor awarded to one of my men, the Medal's a precious thing and I want to know what's right before I endorse the report and send it on to division."

Monck's endorsement was but one of many steps before a Medal of Honor could be awarded to the dead medic, while a lack of an approval would kill it.

"I've been wondering that same thing since Ruger forwarded Lieutenant Morrell's report to me with his endorsement," Redwald said. "All I can say is no one really knows what went on in that poor boy's mind when he saw that grenade lying in front of him. Was he really trying to save his men or did he think he could smother it and save himself? Maybe he just plain stumbled while trying to get out of the way and fell on it despite himself. I really don't know and no one else does either. The only thing I do know is that the Wills boy is dead and two wounded men aren't, and all as a result of his actions. Ask the two wounded boys and they'll say Wills was Jesus Christ himself."

Monck agreed silently with Redwald's assessment. Neither officer would speak of another fact, that having a Medal of Honor winner under their command would mean an honor to the unit and some would rub off on Wills's superiors all the way up the chain of command.

"You gonna approve it, General?" Redwald asked hopefully.

"I don't know." Monck wasn't going to recommend something he didn't believe in. "Wills's going to get something, but I don't know just what. You know as well as I do that it might get knocked down to a Distinguished Service Cross or a Silver Star before the whole process is over. Both of them are high honors, but neither one is the Medal. Parker, what do you think?"

Parker ignored the talk and looked instead at the surrounding desolation. The area they were driving through had been heavily fought over, and a multitude of shell craters made the terrain look like a moonscape. At least the dead had been picked up. American graves registration had interred U.S. dead in temporary cemeteries, while Japanese dead had been buried in mass graves or plowed over where they'd fallen.

As on most of occupied Kyushu, no Japanese civilians were around, which was prudent on their part. Even civilians stood a good chance of being shot on sight. There had been enough suicide attacks on the part of old men, women, and even children to justify the quick response by the GIs. The few Japanese who did remain on southern Kyushu were housed in camps.

"Personally," Parker finally answered, "I'm glad I don't have to make that decision."

Monck grinned. "Thanks for your help."

"What's really important," Parker continued, "is why the shiny major in the front seat hasn't been shot at by the Japs. I mean, he is so clean he glistens."

Redwald laughed. The teasing was old hat. "Just trying to set an example for my men."

The jeep lurched through a large shell hole in the dirt road, then made a wide turn to avoid another one. They were less than a mile behind the slowly advancing front lines and traveling conditions were primitive at best. What few roads there were had been chewed up by the war. In many areas, supplies had to be hand-hauled up to the front, which further slowed the regiment's advance.

The situation was the same for the rest of the invasion force. Requests for mules had gone out and would be filled. Mules had been used with considerable success in Italy and in other rugged areas, but the need for them had not been anticipated in Kyushu, which was becoming more and more reminiscent of a World War I battlefield instead of a modern World War II killing ground.

In Monck's opinion, the lack of mules was just another after-the-fact screwup. A great big book would someday be written about what could have been done better in Kyushu. By that time, of course, it would be too late for the participants.

The jeep came to a virtual stop as they inched their way past a large pile of loose rubble. Suddenly the pile exploded and a demonic screech filled the air. Monck was paralyzed by the apparition that emerged through the dirt and dust. It was a Japanese soldier, his mouth wide with his scream, and a samurai sword gripped with both hands. With incredible quickness, he brought it up from his waist to over his head and swung it expertly.