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  “How long,” Jake queried Bill, “how long can this last? What do you think’ll happen to us?”

  After a long pause, Bill replied with his refined drawl, “Well, these Japs been fighting the Chinese for five years already, and they’ve been gearing up for a war with us for a while. Word is, they’ve got five million men on the ground. We don’t even have a million soldiers in the entire U.S.A.”

  “We gonna win it?”

  Bill nodded. “Oh, yeah. We’ll rain fire on ‘em, but we’ll all be dead by then.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence. “Yeah, but dead from what?” George added. With his six-foot two-inch frame and his straggly hair and beard of red, he was a one-man freak show the guards frequently came to gawk at. They’d never seen red hair before.

  “Take your pick,” Bill answered. “Starvation, disease, torture, firing squad, decapitation ...”

  The men looked down at two rats darting between their bare feet.

  “... rat bites.”

  “Don’t they need to keep us to trade or something?” Bob, the co-pilot asked. “They’ve got to.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Bill replied. “If they’re losing, they’ll most likely just shoot us all. They’ve broke every rule there is. We talk, and they’ll be court-martialed and hung high. Dead men don’t talk.”

  “Quiet!” Jake whispered. “Here they come.”

  Two guards approached with a bucket and some pans and soon, one began ladling yellowed, watery rice mixed with dirt and debris into pans as the other passed them in. As a woman squeezed forward, she lost her footing, slipped, and thumped her head against the wall and shrieked as she fell to the floor. Both guards burst out in laughter. One of them reached for a baton attached to his keys. “Too sick? You’re too sick to stand up? I’ll make you sick if you want to be sick.” He reached between the bars and beat the woman on the head with his baton, who howled and crumbled under the blows.

  Jake winced in disbelief. He was an enemy soldier and had attacked Japan. He was sure he had killed people as well. But even if this Chinese woman had done something wrong, he couldn’t fathom treating a frail woman like an animal and wondered why these Japanese seemed so different from Americans. There was bad in America, sure, but not like this. You don’t beat a woman like that, especially if she’s sick. He recoiled at the brash wickedness.

  The eight prisoners stood at attention as best they could on the dirt courtyard of the Kiangwan Prison in the morning sun. Beyond the walls Jake could hear the voices and shuffling of many others, but could see no one. He knew they were “special” prisoners because of their raid, but he was getting used to “special” treatment. He didn’t know what was up this time. A squad of armed soldiers stood at attention to the side as a short, black booted Army officer with his sword proudly strode across the yard toward a small step stool in front of the men. He turned abruptly to face the prisoners, then stepped up to address his captive audience. Much to his consternation, despite his step stool, he found himself still having to look up into the eyes of Bill Farrow who stood directly before him – Jake’s pilot who towered over all the rest at six feet, four inches. Jake did his best to hide his glee at the officer’s disappointment.

  “The domination of the White race in Asia is over!” the officer shouted in surprisingly good English. “You are an inferior, worthless race, who owe your lives to the benevolence of our Emperor.” He slowly scanned the gaunt, bedraggled row of airmen. “Although we have cut off fifty heads this morning – I regret that I cannot do the same to you, for the spirit of Bushido prevents me. However, violation of a single command will result in instant execution!” He inhaled deeply, slowly breathed out, and narrowed his eyes. “You will be forever subjects of Imperial Japan!”

  Jake was getting tired of all the speeches of superiority and was beginning to not care if he lived or died. The officer was a little man to Jake, in every way. A nothing.

  Chapter 63

  July, 1942. Madras, Oregon.

  Mr. Andrus looked up from his tractor as his wife waved her hands running from their house toward him. He killed the engine as a cloud of dust rolled over him and dismounted in the late afternoon sun. Chickens squealed and flapped as Mrs. Andrus ran out through the flock, panting with a letter in one hand and a ripped open envelope in the other.

  “They still don’t know where Jake is,” she let out, breathing hard. She handed the sheet of official letterhead to her husband. “It’s from Congressman Pierce.”

  Mr. Andrus pushed his straw hat back a bit and studied the note.

  “They don’t know if he’s being held prisoner, or if ... if he’s ...”

  As she put her hand to her mouth he reached his arm around her shoulders and grasped her with his weathered hand.

  “They’ll find him,” he said firmly. He watched the tears roll down her cheeks leaving streaks in the dust on her face and felt her muffled sobs as her back heaved. He looked out to the setting sun over the mountains. Giving her a gentle squeeze, he whispered again, “Don’t you worry. They’ll find him.”

  Chapter 64

  July, 1942. Yokosuka Base Hospital, Tokyo Bay.

  A military hospital truck rumbled past armed guards in front of the broad, concrete steps of the brick hospital building.

  Fuchida sat up in his hospital bed with a couple of pillows propped behind him. His feet, both in casts, protruded from under the sheets. Refolding his newspaper and laying it flat, he turned to his roommate, Egusa, his old flying friend and fellow casualty from Midway.

  “Who else?” Fuchida said. “What about Kanegasaki, my flight mechanic? Did they ever find him? Was he picked up by another ship?”

  Both of Egusa’s arms and hands were wrapped in gauze and the side of his face was distorted from burns. He shook his head. “They told me they rescued over a thousand from the Akagi, but not him. We lost three thousand of our best men along with all four carriers. And they said that the Americans had three carriers in the area, not two. It seems like they knew we were coming.”

  Fuchida picked up the newspaper again and stared at the wall, absorbed in thought. Friends he felt he had just spoken with yesterday, laughed with, ate with, now gone, and for what? He didn’t see any way they could ever recover from their losses, and the U.S. was now building like crazy. The Japanese navy would eventually be overrun. Anyone could see that. By several strokes of luck, somehow, he’d managed to survive. He shook the newspaper to flatten it, tried to read, and then pulled it down. “I still can’t believe they’re doing this to us! No phone calls, no letters, no visitors? This is ridiculous!”

  “You’ve seen the newspapers: ‘Our Imperial Navy Smashes the Americans.’” Egusa grinned. “They can’t have you go around talking and spoiling all their good news, can they?”

  Fuchida angrily tossed the paper onto a metal tray table. “What’s the point? Do they think the Americans are going to hide the truth from their people as well? Sooner or later it will all come out, and then the people will know they’ve been lied to.” He looked away. “They should just tell the truth and own up to it.” After a long pause, Fuchida uncomfortably shifted about. “I think it’s time we just do what we’ve been planning.”

  “Now?” Egusa said. “AWOL?22 We could be court-martialed.”

  “I’m tired of lying here.” Fuchida sighed and looked at Egusa. “I’m calling a taxi and sneaking out. Are you coming or not?”

  Egusa raised his eyebrows ambiguously.

  “You have to come,” Fuchida said. “I can’t leave without you. You’re carrying me out.” He knew he could depend on his old friend.

  Breaking into a grin, Egusa nodded with resignation.

  Fuchida smeared his artist’s brush on the pallet blending the green with a touch of white, then brought it to the canvas of a roughly painted bonsai tree, paused, and daubed the green onto a branch.

  Miyako, now five, gazed in amazement. “Daddy, make it greener. The other branch.”

  He t
urned to his daughter beside his wheelchair. “I am. Be patient little one.”

  Haruko set a cup of tea on a small stand beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. Balsawood and paper airplanes dangled from the ceiling, slowly turning from the breeze of an open window. Some were painted shades of olive green, others were simply raw paper and wood.

  “Well,” Fuchida said as he wrapped a rag around his brush, “that’s all for today.” Even though his family lived only five miles from the base, they hadn’t seen him since he left for Midway, though they knew he made it back to the hospital. Fuchida knew Haruko would be relieved to know his injuries weren’t crippling and elated just to see him alive and well. He was glad to enjoy his family and breathe the fresh air of ordinary life, even if he knew it wouldn’t last for long.

  “Daddy,” Yoshiya, now nine, tugged his father’s sleeve. “Can you help me build a two engine bomber? That’s what I want to make next.”

  He spun his chair around to face his son, who held up a magazine photo of a Type 1 land-based attack aircraft in front of his face, his eyes just peering over the top. Fuchida took a sip of his tea. “We’ll get plans tomorrow, OK?”

  “OK. Can we paint this one?”

  “Sure. That’ll set off the Hinomaru23 nicely.”

  As Yoshiya and Miyako happily trotted off, Haruko wheeled Fuchida near his favorite window overlooking the ocean.

  “Are you relieved?” Haruko asked.

  “More like surprised. No reprimand from the base. They’re going to give me a desk job until I recover.” He knew he was too valuable to be severely reprimanded for his escape shenanigans. He’d get a slap on the wrist, that’s all. He reached for her hand. “You’ll be able to visit me in the new hospital I’ll be staying at in Ito City, too. They want to keep me away from the Yokosuka base. They’re afraid I’ll talk too much and confuse people with the facts.”

  Fuchida unconsciously let go of her hand as his eyes followed a distant plane. “I feel for Yamamoto. He took full responsibility for our defeat at Midway. A lesser man wouldn’t have done so. I did my best to explain to him that we still have a strong fleet, that if we can only focus on bringing air power to the forefront, we could have a fighting chance.” He felt a bit of guilt, demanding honesty from headquarters about the battle while, perhaps, being a little disingenuous to Yamamoto. Their chances of even a draw were very slim.

  Haruko rubbed his shoulders and shyly ventured a question, “What do you think is going to happen?”

  He thought for a moment. “We have to learn from our mistakes and bring our strengths together. If we can clinch a key battle ...” He hesitated. “I really don’t know.”

  Chapter 65

  August, 1942. Hopevale, the Philippines.

  “I haven’t done this in a while, but I’ll do my best,” Fred said holding up a scalpel that glistened in the sun. The group sat together on a large grass mat beneath the trees in the mid-afternoon sun.

  Jimmy looked on with unease. This was unpleasant.

  “You’ll only have one chance,” Ruth said, “so you’ll have to do it right.”

  The surrounding locals had been good to the beleaguered strangers in their hideaway, but life was still hard in the wilderness.

  The people looked at Fred, then down at the center of the mat.

  “It’s our last chicken,” Ruth said.

  The paltry meal for twelve was an overcooked, lean bird and a handful of wild bananas.

  Frank began slicing the meat and queried, “Who wants the wishbone?”

  Soberly, everyone raised their hand.

  Chapter 66

  August, 1942. Keuka College, New York.

  Peggy released her books with a thud onto her dorm table, fell back onto her bed, and kicked off her two-tone saddle shoes. “That’s it, Jean, I can’t study another word. My mind’s all blurry. I’ve gotta give my brain a rest.”

  Jean sat on the edge of her bed brushing her black, wavy hair. “Me, too. I’m beat.”

  “You’d think the professors would give us a break or something to start off the year, but instead, they’re piling it on.”

  “You can say that again.” Jean looked out through the curtains at the cold, orange sky, then back at Peggy. “Hey! ‘Mrs. Miniver’ with Greer Carson is showing down at the Belvedere. What do you say we get the girls and walk down to the theater?”

  Leaning up on her elbow, Peggy pulled open the desk drawer, took out her coin purse and gave it a shake, jingling a few coins. Movies weren’t in her tight budget and she’d always respected her parents’ warnings against letting herself be influenced by bad entertainment, but she’d heard good things about Mrs. Miniver and wanted a break.

  She smiled, “Sure, I’m game.”

  A gaggle of girls in long, plaid skirts pressed around the box office under the incandescent glow of dozens of clear bulbs lining the theater marquis and the entranceway. Inside, a cartoon had already begun as the ladies made their way through a row, bumping knees and spilling popcorn.

  Peggy plopped beside Jean and began watching the color flick of Bugs Bunny taking on a Japanese soldier on a desert island. The scattered chuckles in the audience didn’t surprise Peggy. It was rare to see any Asians in upstate New York and anti-Japanese sentiment ran high in America.

  The cartoon “Jap” jumped into a Japanese fighter plane in hot pursuit of Bugs, only to discover that his plane was tied to a tree. Thrown out with his canopy, the pilot yelled pseudo-Japanese gibberish. As he parachuted down, Bugs flew up beside him in another plane and handed him a pile of junk saying, “Here’s some scrap iron for Japan, Moto, hee, hee, hee! Happy landings!” as the pilot fell to the earth.

  A hefty man behind Peggy grunted to a friend, “Damn Japs. Like Halsey says, ‘The only good Jap is a dead Jap.’”

  A chill ran over her skin, just like when she was in Japan with her father and felt the contempt of the Japanese man putting up the propaganda posters. She closed her eyes trying to block out her surroundings.

  Jean crunched a mouthful of popcorn and leaned the box to Peggy. “Hey, Peg, you want ... are you OK? You feeling sick or something?”

  Peggy opened her eyes and did her best to smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that. Listen, I think I’m going to walk back. Don’t worry about me. You have fun, OK?”

  “I can come with you,” Jean said.

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll be OK. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  Peggy walked down the sidewalk in the lonely air with her arms folded across her chest, pulling her sweater tightly, trying to keep out a coldness she still felt from inside the theater, a penetrating chill she couldn’t keep out. She shuddered at the thought of the cruelty of mankind. Why did people want to kill each other so badly? What’s wrong with this world. She remembered her childhood friends in Japan and wondered how they were.

  Glancing up at the bright, crescent moon she wiped a tear onto the back of her hand.

  Chapter 67

  August 28, 1942. Shanghai, China.

  As the spectacled Japanese judge rustled a sheet of paper between his hands, Jake cocked his head and sighed impatiently. He and the seven other prisoners had been summoned that morning, handcuffed, and trucked to a new location – some type of military prison camp – and shoved into a small courtroom packed with armed guards and officers. In over four months he’d taken only one bath and his hair and beard had been shaved only once. Like the others, he still was draped in the worn, smelly clothes he put on the morning they took to the air on April 18th. He was braced for the worst. The fact that no Japanese would look him in the eye added to the foreboding atmosphere.

  Five judges in black robes sat behind a set of tables on a raised platform. The judge in the center held the sheet of paper. To Jake, the judges looked ridiculous in their black wigs, yet they retained an air of dignity, making them appear even sillier.

  On a stretcher on the floor was Dean Hallmark, pilot of The Green Hornet. Too weak to stand, h
e drifted in and out of consciousness. He was a big man, referred to by the rest of the guys as “Jungle Jim,” but the starvation diet, beatings, heat, and disease had gotten the best of him. Flies buzzed over his still body, but he didn’t have the strength to wave them off. George Barr, the redhead, nearly collapsed and was given a seat. The six others stood at a wobbly attention.

  To Jake, it was obvious that this was a perfunctory exercise and that whatever decision would be handed down from this “trial” had been made long ago and probably somewhere far away. Each of the captives had already been asked to tell his life story in miniature as the judges yawned and looked away.

  It had now come to the moment of truth, but, like all other official business, it, too, was given in Japanese. The judge adjusted the reading glasses on the end of his nose. “On April 18, 1942, the defendants, motivated by their sporting instincts and sense of glory freely volunteered to attack Japan. Over their assigned targets, the defendants showed cowardice when confronted with opposition in the air and on the ground, and with the intent of killing and wounding innocent civilians and wreaking havoc on residences and other living quarters of no military significance whatsoever, together with other planes, did carry on indiscriminate bombing and strafing, thereby causing the death and injury of approximately ten civilians and the destruction of numerous residences. The foregoing facts are based on the depositions made by the eight defendants and the copy of the acknowledgment made by the Shanghai Military Police unit in response to the request of Military Police Headquarters. Having signed confessions stating the same, the defendants have been found guilty as charged and are hereby sentenced to death by firing squad.” The judge hammered his gavel, waking Jake from his fog.