The Teahouse of the August Moon [antikvár]

One D day on okinawa, history states, was April 1, 1945. H hour was at 0830. But to the headquarters section of Military Government Camp Team C-147, Colonel Wain-right Purdy III commanding, D day was every day, H hour at 0830 each morning. At a little after eight on an Okinawa morning in early June, Major Thompson, public safety officer of Camp Team C-147, reached for the pistol holster strapped round his ample waist, just to make certain thaí it was in place, then glanced nervously at his watch. Seeing there were still twenty minutes or so to kill—twenty delicious, relaxing minutes before the problems of the day came pressing in on his not too robust shoulders—he sipped his coffee and smiled. "Yes, sir, Colonel Purdy," he said, looking out of the window of the officers' plywood mess, "you sure hit it right this morning. Hit it right on the head. It's clear as a bell outside. Not a sign of rain." There was a ripple of approval among the nine officers gathered along the homemade mess table. And Colonel Wainright Purdy III, with the sornewhaí weary air of one who was used to being infallible, smiled condescendingly. Of course it had been clear as a bell every morning for the past month, since the rainy season had ended on Okinawa. It was a safe bet that anyone predicting sunshine every day for the next three months or so would be nearly one hundred per cent right. Yet there was no denying the honest admiration in the eyes of Major Thompson, or in the eyes of the other officers. "Yes, sir, you certainly hit it," Major Thompson re-peated, shaking his head in wonder. Captain Blair, the sanitation officer, nodded. First Lieutenant McEvoy, the engineering officer, nodded. Even Priváté Gregovich—as-signed to permanent K.P. and now surveying the twisted cigarette butts doused in the egg yolk on the plates that he would soon wash—nodded in surprise. It would have taken a simple soul, indeed, to predict a