Wounded Tiger Page 12

  Hirohito took the paper and examined the cartoon which displayed a huge, powerful fist labeled “Japan” punching down three distraught figures grasping an oversized rifle: Uncle Sam of America, John Bull of Great Britain, and Chiang Kai-shek of China, all falling backwards. Hirohito looked up at the attendant with a smile and handed the paper back, pleased to see cartoons mocking the Americans instead of the other way around, turned to look at his gardens of rocks, bushes and trees, and breathed in the fresh air. “Such a beautiful day.”

  December 23, 1941. Kanoya Air Base.

  Fuchida breathed with relief as he flew his plane back to his air base from the Akagi. It had been a long and treacherous journey for the fleet back into their home waters. First they were on constant watch for a reprisal strike from the American carriers, none of which were in Pearl Harbor during the attack. They had to refuel again on the seas and feared submarines throughout the journey. They also encountered a severe storm that swept some men to their deaths. But now he was at ease with the mission behind him – more successful than anyone had ever imagined.

  There was no announcement to the public of the return of the pilots from the carrier to the base, but as planes began appearing and word trickled out, more and more of the townspeople rushed to catch a glimpse of their triumphant warriors. Normally off limits to the public, the base made an exception for the jubilant crowds to catch a glimpse of their national heroes.

  By the time Fuchida arrived, the last one from his group, he could see a large mass of waving citizens near the hangars and parked aircraft.

  In the months leading up, some of the townspeople had been annoyed by the constant flight training over their city. Now that they understood why, they were overjoyed.

  After taxiing beside the crowd, cutting his engine, and throwing back his canopy, he was greeted with a surge of wild cheering.

  Pushing his goggles up and jumping down to the tarmac as the mayor of Kagoshima City, in his black suit and top hat, stepped forward, bowed, and shook Fuchida’s hand vigorously. He watched with delight as parents brought their children who pressed around Fuchida. A young lady with a breathtaking smile presented a bouquet of flowers to him, who admired her just a bit too long. He let himself drink in the victor’s wine.

  With the bouquet in one hand, he raised the other and signaled for quiet. He shouted so all could all hear. “Thank you for your wonderful welcome. I’m sorry, but for security reasons, I cannot give you an account of our operation.” The crowd burst into cheering that slowly dissolved into a chant of “Fuchida! Fuchida! Fuchida!” He smiled with a nod, then gave another admiring look at the young lady.

  That evening over a sumptuous dinner of tai, a fish usually reserved for New Year’s or a wedding celebration, Fuchida and other officers laughed, recounted stories, and indulged in the beer and sake of champion warriors.

  The next afternoon he and Shigeharu Murata, Japan’s undisputed torpedo ace, were called up to Tokyo for a luncheon with the Chief of the Naval General Staff Vice Admiral Osami Nagano along with many of his top officers, Admiral Yamamoto with his own Chief of Staff, and Rear Admiral Matome Ugaki as well his cadre of officers. Fuchida was amazed by the praise poured out on him. He and Murata were given the seats of honor at the head of the table where each admiral, in order of rank from the highest, passed his sake cup to the two heroes in congratulations and the applause of the usually subdued group of distinguished officers.

  Standing and raising his white-gloved hand, Admiral Yamamoto motioned for quiet and opened a vertical scroll painted with shodo calligraphy known as a kakejiku. “On the very day of the strike, I felt inspired to write this for you,” he said to Fuchida.

  The honor nearly petrified Fuchida.

  Yamamoto delivered his poem with feeling:

  “Message of ‘Attack!’ reaches my ears from more than three thousand miles away

  – a message from Hawaii.

  Thinking of flight leader Fuchida’s brilliant action on the early morning

  of 8 December.

  So writes Isoroku Yamamoto.”

  The group broke into applause and cheers as Yamamoto rolled up the kakejiku and handed it to Fuchida in outstretched arms and a bow.

  Fuchida had never been so honored in his entire life, nor had he ever imagined he would be. He bowed and received the prized gift from the leader he most admired in the entire Imperial Navy. As the men continued their strong applause, just when Fuchida thought things couldn’t possibly get any better, Yamamoto leaned close to him and whispered, “The Emperor requests an audience with you as well.” The sun had risen on Fuchida.

  December 26, 1941. The Imperial Palace.

  In a small, square, imperial briefing room Fuchida sat uncomfortably stiff in a meticulously carved chair before the Emperor. Unmoving, he glanced around the room at Vice Admiral Nagano, Chief of the Imperial Japanese Naval General Staff; Commander Shimazaki, the leader of the second wave of aircraft in the Pearl Harbor attack, and Vice Admiral Nagumo, Commander in Chief of the First Air Fleet who was standing finishing his remarks. All were in their full dress uniforms with braids and medals, including the Emperor, seated in his chair on a raised platform. A large, low table sat in the center, neatly arranged with charts, maps, and glossy aerial photographs of the Pearl Harbor mission. Such power in this small room, he thought.

  The sweet aroma of incense continued to drift through the air from a blue celadon censer that had been paraded through the room earlier by an imperial aide. Fuchida had always thought himself a strong person and his recent exploits only boosted that sentiment, but now he found his heart trembling and his fingers twitching as he sat before the Emperor of Japan, the leader whom the entire nation served as one man.

  Nagumo continued his explanation, “The auspicious weather, the enemy’s failure to detect the task force, the clouds that first hid the attack then miraculously parted at the perfect moment – such a combination of circumstances was proof of divine power, through the instrument of the Emperor.”

  Nagumo bowed deeply and took his seat. The Emperor turned his head to Fuchida. An aide nodded to Fuchida who rose, bowed deeply, took a breath to compose himself, and began his explanation of the attack using the photos and drawings of the placement of American ships in the harbor. The air was one of complete seriousness, not jubilation as the night before.

  As he neared the end of his presentation, the Emperor said, “We note that fifteen enemy planes were shot down. Were any of these civilian planes?”

  “Your majesty, three or four aircraft hit were unarmed training planes. One green aircraft was shot down, which might have been civilian.”

  “I hope it wasn’t.” The Emperor looked down for a moment. “What was the initial reaction of the Americans?”

  “Two minutes after our first bombs were dropped, we received heavy antiaircraft fire. In truth, we were surprised the Americans could respond so quickly.”

  The Emperor shuffled the large photographs in his hands, carefully examining each one. “Was any damage inflicted other than on ships, planes and airfields?”

  “The airmen were careful to strike only military targets.”

  The Emperor nodded to him in such a way that Fuchida knew his presentation time was concluded. Fuchida bowed deeply and returned to his seat.

  The Emperor’s attendant bowed to indicate the end of the audience, but Hirohito turned to Nagumo one last time. “We would like to have the pictures remain in the palace, as we wish to show them to Her Imperial Majesty the Empress.”

  Fuchida rose with the others and bowed as the Emperor rose from his seat and slowly stepped from the platform and exited. Things could not have gone better.

  Chapter 31

  Late December, 1941. Central Philippines University.

  Jimmy and Charma Covell stood against a wall along Lopez Jaena Street, choked with people and bicycles under furious clouds of black smoke that filled the air with the sooty smell of war. It was worse than he had imagined.
Much worse. Jimmy had one arm across his chest and with his other hand he kept stroking his unshaven cheeks and chin.

  About a mile and a half away, explosions continued to rock the harbor. Intermittent car horns, crying children, and barking dogs were the only sounds rising from the street. No one talked. Two Japanese warplanes roared overhead, frighteningly low. Jimmy watched blankly as cars and people flowed past – strapped and packed with as many goods as they could possibly carry, fleeing north from Iloilo City. Two American jeeps and three troop trucks honked and navigated their way through the crowds.

  Jimmy turned to Charma. “I guess the Christmas break’ll be extra-long this year.” He could see she wasn’t amused. She was scared. He put his arm around her, then squeezed her shoulder. “Frank said we’ll be traveling north about fifty miles, somewhere up near the mountains where we can stay with some families in Katipunan.” He didn’t have much to comfort Charma with, but it was all he had to give. Anyway, he was sure it wouldn’t be like this for long. “The Americans will get things back to normal again. You’ll see.”

  Outside the Covell home, Frank pulled up in his black ’34 Ford Tudor with a wooden chest precariously rope-tied to the back. He honked as Jimmy dragged a steamer trunk and Charma lugged two suitcases from their front door.

  “You, OK? You got that?” Jimmy glanced back as he walked out.

  “I’m all right. Just keep moving,” Charma said.

  Cars puttered past, equally crammed full of personal goods from phonographs to mattresses. Two students rode by on bicycles. Boxes and crates littered every yard.

  Frank leaned over his wife, Gertrude, in the passenger seat, and shouted out the window, “See you in the village. It’s about a ninety minute drive. You know where you’re goin’?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Charma said as she dragged her luggage to their own car. “Thanks, Frank.”

  Bouncing a basketball, Jimmy strolled up to Frank’s side of the Ford. “You got room for this?”

  “No problem. I’ll send my chauffeur to pick it up along with a box of toothpicks I left behind.” Frank put the car in gear and let it lurch forward.

  “I take that as a ‘no.’ You’re no fun.”

  “See you there.”

  As Frank pulled away, Jimmy spun the basketball on one finger and quietly sang out the end of an old Negro spiritual, but without conviction: “He’s got the whole world in his hands.”

  Chapter 32

  January 22, 1942. Rabaul, New Guinea.

  Leading a force of 109 navy bombers, Fuchida alternately looked out both sides of his cockpit observing each element of the attack force taking positions and gently descending toward the circular harbor. The ground was blackish-gray from the 1937 eruption of a nearby volcano.

  Royal Australian Air Force Headquarters (RAAF), Telecommunication Unit, Melbourne, Australia.

  The steady clacking of electric teletype machines rattled the offices of the RAAF as uniformed secretaries added to the orchestra of noise with their typewriters, each desk stacked with baskets of papers. Three men in headphones sat at a bank of teletype machines, reading and furiously taking notes as an officer stood carefully observing. He leaned over an operator, focusing intently on the message appearing on one of the machines.

  The operator shook his head, tore off the sheet, and spun around in his swivel chair to hand it to the waiting officer. “From Rabaul, sir.”

  The officer put on his glasses and read it out loud, stumbling through the words: “‘Nos morituri te salutamus.’” Yanking off his glasses, he said, “What the bloody hell do they mean by that?”

  The operator pushed his headset down to his neck, looked at the officer, and spoke the Latin fluidly, “‘Nos morituri te salutamus ... We who are about to die salute you.’ A saying from the gladiators.” He paused for a moment. “Sir, they’ve only got eight operable aircraft.”

  The officer’s face fell as he crumpled the sheet in his fist. “Lord, help them.”

  Rabaul.

  Machine-guns from fighter planes ripped through the few parked airplanes as terrified airmen fled for cover and dove into ditches. In the harbor, ships were pounded into the sea in a blanket of geysers and fiery explosions.

  Fuchida chuckled to himself as his carrier-launched attack force came virtually unopposed upon the Australian air base on the northeastern tip of the Australian territory of New Britain Island. The natural harbor that usually gave safe haven to its flying boats, critical for surveillance, was an open shooting gallery and was shown no mercy. Offshore, 7,500 troops were on their way to land and develop the strategically important Rabaul harbor as a major naval and air base for Japan.

  Fuchida reached forward and patted his pilot’s shoulder. “We’re wasting our resources. Too easy. Like fishing in a koi pond.”

  February 19, 1942. Darwin, Australia.

  Two young boys in straw hats sat fishing at the end of a pier in the harbor in the morning sunlight. No luck so far. One sighed as the other nudged him and motioned with his head to the cloudless sky. Near the horizon they could see what looked like a large group of birds. As they stared they began to hear the drone of airplanes. They chucked their poles into the water and took off running down the pier.

  Leading an even larger wave of 188 attack aircraft, Fuchida looked carefully around him in the sunny skies, disgusted. “No air cover. No air cover at all.” The Japanese Combined Fleet had received reports that the harbor city of Darwin was amassing ships and reinforcements and felt they had to respond. Fuchida picked up his speaker tube from his neck and said to his pilot, “Take positions. Commence attack!” The pilot wagged his wings signaling the rest of the formation to prepare to attack.

  In the undefended harbor below, bombers took their pick of the wide assortment of ships, from freighters and troop transports to USS Peary, an American destroyer, and began tearing into the helpless prey, filling the bay with echoing explosions and the sky with clouds of jet black smoke. Fuchida aimed his bombsight while ordering his pilot to drift right or left until he was on target, then released his payload onto a freighter, blowing it into a million fragments in the bay.

  Looking below, despite the overwhelming success of his raid, he shook his head, feeling that Japan was wasting valuable time on objectives of little consequence while ignoring their real enemy, the United States. He feared that while they were busy snatching a fan from a geisha, the U.S. was forging swords.

  Chapter 33

  February, 1942. Katipunan, Panay, the Philippines.

  A barefoot Filipino, head to toe in white, led a carabao9 pulling his cart packed with sacks of rice and crates of live chickens that threw off feathers. The dirt road led past a small church and then by a white-plastered house, sitting in a small clearing among thick vegetation and tall palm trees. The mud and dust of the road stained the walls reddish brown. Several trunks and boxes leaned beside the door.

  “President Roosevelt’s pledged to send reinforcements,” Frank said, sitting on an empty wooden crate in a living room jammed with furniture and suitcases. “He wouldn’t say that if he didn’t mean it.” Frank tugged his shirt in and out to dry the sweat.

  Eating a banana, Jimmy spoke with his mouth full. “But when? The Japanese have overrun Manila and they’re moving south. Fast.” He peeled his banana down a bit. “People are getting angry and tired of waiting. They say this isn’t their fight, it’s America’s fight, so America needs to send help.”

  Gertrude, Frank’s wife, fanning herself with a magazine, added “If the Japanese come to Panay, some people are saying that they’ll just turn themselves in, go to internment camps, and wait it out.”

  Charma jumped in, “Oh, I hope it doesn’t come to that!”

  “I’d rather hide out in the jungle,” Jimmy said, “and take my chances than go to a camp.” He popped the last of the banana into his mouth. “No telling what’ll happen in a camp. The Japanese don’t look too highly on people who surrender.”

  Frank nodded. “Yeah,
I think that’s the best bet.” He looked down, shook his head, and stood up. “I can’t even believe we’re saying these things. A few months ago I was president of a college, now I’m practically a hobo.”

  “True enough, but you have good friends – and bananas.” Jimmy held out a banana. “Have one.”

  Chapter 34

  February, 1942. Columbia Army Air Base. Columbia, South Carolina.

  Jake leaned against the edge of the entrance of a gray hangar beside a group of fliers, proudly wearing their cordovan leather flying jackets. They stood drinking coffee, puffing cigarettes and observing a flagman waving a twin-engine Mitchell B-25 bomber into its parking spot on the apron off the taxiway. The aircraft was easily recognizable by its double fin tail. The engines revved up as the plane finished the turn, then shut down. Lieutenant Bill Farrow, a tall, lanky blue-eyed pilot stood beside Jake whistling Green Eyes by Tommy Dorsey.

  The base was constructed just two years earlier as a civilian airport. The day after the Pearl Harbor raid it was turned over for military use. Most of the buildings were little more than plywood covered with tar paper, but it had what the Army Air Corps needed for training – runways and hangars – which was what brought Jake and other fliers there.