Wounded Tiger Page 24

  Fuchida looked out through an observation window of a twin engine Mitsubishi G4M bomber, what the Americans called a “Betty,” as it descended toward a grass and dirt runway at the air base. Mountain ridges and a smoldering volcano hemmed in the base against the large, oval bay scattered with cruisers, destroyers, and cargo vessels. Fuchida was fascinated by the sight of black volcanic soil contrasting with the lush green foliage and the cerulean blue water. Only six years earlier, the city of Rabaul had been buried in ash from the eruption of two volcanoes, from volcanic vents on both sides of the bay, itself the caldera of an ancient volcano.

  Flying past rows of fighters and bombers, most camouflaged with palm fronds, the plane touched down in a streak of gray dust and came to a rolling stop beside a virtual tent city. The base was home to over 100,000 Japanese troops and served as the continuous launching point for both air and sea operations in the region.

  Limited to desk jobs by his broken ankles still in casts, Fuchida had been devoting himself to reviewing past battles and presenting his analyses to the Naval General Headquarters in Tokyo. He’d been out of the field since the battle of Midway nine months earlier and was anxious to see and hear firsthand the state of operations – and perhaps, to meet with Admiral Yamamoto as well.

  The round, red Hinomaru on the fuselage side swung in as a door and the soldiers and officers began disembarking. Doing his best with his casts, Fuchida had two men help him to the ground and hand him his crutches.

  “Welcome, old man,” Genda said standing behind a wheel chair grinning widely.

  “Old man? These are battle wounds.”

  “... of an old man. Have a seat.”

  Genda wheeled the chair behind Fuchida who reluctantly sat back and laid his crutches across his lap. As they began across the taxiway, Fuchida looked over at the nearby volcano Tavurvur spewing smoke. “Are things as bad down here as they’re saying in Tokyo?”

  Genda didn’t answer for a while as he kept pushing. “No.” A breeze of dust blew over from a fighter noisily taxiing by. “They’re worse.”

  Fuchida looked back up at Genda.

  Inside Genda’s one-room officer’s quarters, Fuchida emptied a glass of beer as Genda bent the cap off another bottle of Asahi lager and sat down. The sound of aircraft taking off and landing droned in the background.

  “Yamamoto was bitterly disappointed with Guadalcanal,” Genda said. “We thought that twenty-five hundred men could hold the island and control the airfield.” Genda refilled both their glasses and set the bottle next to a row of empties. “He truly believed we could win that battle. We all did. We threw everything into it.” Genda took a sip and stared at the wall. “After thirty thousand men and five months of fighting we still couldn’t retake the airfield, much less the island. We were annihilated.”

  “But what about the future? What about plans for a decisive battle?” Fuchida said. “When and where will it be?” The past was done, Fuchida thought. Best to get on with the business at hand.

  Genda shook his head. “Even though we still have more aircraft carriers than the Americans, for now anyway, we had to send two carriers back home – for lack of skilled pilots.”

  Upset, but also a bit light-headed, Fuchida pounded his fist. “I warned them to stop using our best pilots in battle and to hold some back for training, but no one would listen. Now it’s almost too late.”

  “Fuchi,” Genda said as he shook his head despondently, “do you realize that over half of the pilots who flew to Pearl Harbor are gone? More than half?”

  “Well, we’re producing enough aircraft. I know. I see the reports. I just wish they’d send more planes to the navy and fewer to the army in China. We’ll have more pilots, but it’ll take some time.”

  Genda took a long drink and smacked his lips. “Yamamoto wants to see things as well. He’ll be here in two days and will make an assessment. He’ll know what to do.”

  Genda raised his half empty beer glass to Fuchida who did likewise. “To victory under Yamamoto.”

  Fuchida put on his best face, but could read the doubt in Genda’s eyes. “To victory.”

  They downed their beer.

  The following day Fuchida and Genda made the rounds touring the hangars, conversing with the pilots and listening to their adventures as they pointed to bullet holes in their wings and complained about low octane fuel and faulty radio equipment. Fuchida knew what the reports were, but now he wanted to know the truth, and the truth was bad. Still, he believed they could regroup, resupply, and make a strong showing to at least stop the American advance – somewhere.

  A few days later, after Yamamoto had met with the base commanders and was briefed on operations, Fuchida was called to Yamamoto’s quarters on Residency Hill, as it was called, a white stucco house overlooking the bay.

  The two of them met in his front room of large, red terracotta floor tile, Fuchida on a wicker sofa in his summer khakis and Yamamoto in a wicker chair in his dress whites. Fuchida knew that the admiral’s presence boosted morale, but he also knew it was a risk for him to be so close to the action.

  “Before we began to fight the Americans,” Yamamoto said, “I remember when the navy would say that one Zero fighter could take on ten American aircraft. Even now they still say that one Zero can take on two enemy planes. What do you think?”

  Fuchida could see he was being tested by the master strategist. “Sir, our men have shown tremendous fighting spirit and skill, but we might have been wiser overestimating our enemy and underestimating our own strength.”

  Yamamoto nodded once, looked out across the bay, snapped shut his cigarette case, and tapped a cigarette against it a couple of times before putting it to his mouth. “The Third Fleet now has fewer than one hundred fighters, sixty dive bombers, and a handful of torpedo planes.” He lit the cigarette, blew out the match, and turned back to Fuchida. “The fleet’s been gutted.”

  It was a bit of a surprise for Fuchida to hear Yamamoto speak so freely and to cast doubts about the future, a future that was clouding for Fuchida as well. Yet he knew Yamamoto understood that nothing other than brutal honesty would do and was hunting for ideas. Fuchida grabbed his crutches, struggled to his feet, and shuffled to a wall map. Yamamoto twisted to watch. Fuchida swept his finger along a vertical string of islands in the open ocean 700 miles south of Japan and 700 west of the Philippines.

  “Here.” Fuchida looked back at Yamamoto. “I suggest we establish a firm line of air and surface defense along the Mariana Islands, one which the Americans can never cross.”

  “The Americans have two dozen heavy carriers nearly completed,” Yamamoto said. “Battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and submarines as well.” He took a slow drag from his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling. “Eventually, they will come.”

  “What we lack in carriers we can strengthen with island air bases.” Fuchida wanted to recapture the confidence he once had, but the wind simply wasn’t in his sails. “I strongly believe that we must not allow the Americans to occupy Saipan and the islands, which would put them within striking distance of our homeland, a situation that is simply unacceptable.”

  “I’ve come to the same conclusion. We must make a stand there and control the skies over the Marianas. If we can concentrate our forces and draw out the Americans, we have a chance for a significant victory.” Yamamoto stood up. “I’ll see that you have what you need to establish more bases.” As he shook his hand, Yamamoto’s face looked somber. “The enemy has been quicker to learn from their failures than we’ve been to learn from our successes. We mustn’t make the same mistake again.”

  He escorted Fuchida to the open double doors at the entryway and looked out at the bay. “At Guadalcanal we were mistaken about the Americans and found ourselves completely unprepared for their fighting spirit. Now that we know who they are, we must let them know who we are.”

  Chapter 74

  April 19, 1943. Yokosuka Naval Base, Tokyo Bay.

  Staring
at several stacks of paper on his desk, Fuchida sighed heavily, slid one stack to the side and pulled another toward him, and began leafing through the top sheets. Hearing fast, heavy footsteps, he looked up, waiting to see who would appear. Genda arrived breathing heavily, his face rather pale. Fuchida knew it was bad news. Very bad news.

  “They got him,” Genda said plainly. “Yamamoto. He’s dead.”

  Fuchida’s ears tingled as a wave shot through him head to toe. “How? What happened?” The Imperial Navy had lost its greatest living commander, a giant to all who knew him. The respect he commanded had gone with him to his grave, forever.

  “Yesterday, near Bougainville.” Genda motioned for Fuchida to follow him to a map room. Fuchida jumped up from his desk, grabbed his crutches, and moving as quickly as possible rushed out behind him through a hallway into another room.

  Genda put his finger on Rabaul on the northeastern tip of New Britain and dragged it southeast below the island of Bougainville. “He and commander Ugaki left in two medium attack bombers escorted by six fighters to tour bases to encourage the men before he returned to Tokyo, but about ninety minutes after take-off they were attacked by a group of American P-38 twin engine fighters ...”

  “High speed long range aircraft.” Fuchida was puzzled. “That doesn’t look like a place for a routine American patrol. How many P-38s?”

  “The information is still coming in, but the fighter escorts reported twelve P-38s.”

  “Twelve?!”

  Genda looked at Fuchida. They both thought the same thing.

  “An ambush,” Fuchida breathed out.

  “We can’t be sure at this point, but it looks like the Americans may have been waiting.”

  Fuchida shook his head. “The Americans will know our every move if our codes have been broken.”

  “Something the Naval General Staff refuses to believe possible. They believe the code is unbreakable.”

  Fuchida stared expressionless. He’d seen what the overconfidence of the naval command had led them into at Midway. Even he’d been infected by the same “victory disease” from their string of sweeping conquests throughout Southeast Asia and the Pacific. But heavy doses of reality had brought him around and he feared those who still clung to wishful dreams of invincibility. “Didn’t anyone try to dissuade the admiral?”

  “Vice Admiral Ozawa begged him not to go, but Yamamoto was determined to visit his men.”

  “Perhaps,” Fuchida said, “it’s fitting for the admiral to end his days beside those he led.”

  “Perhaps,” Genda acknowledged, “but who can take his place now?”

  Chapter 75

  April 23, 1943. Madras, Oregon.

  Standing at the kitchen table next to his younger sister Helen, Glenn rubbed his whiskers and stared down soberly at The Oregon Journal with the screaming headline: AMERICAN RAIDERS OF TOKYO EXECUTED BY ENEMY CAPTORS. The news had shot across the Pacific Ocean like lightning to every home in America and to the White House itself, provoking outrage in the newspapers and radio, denunciation of savagery, and vows of revenge. But to Jake’s family, it was a stab to the heart. Helen fell onto Glenn’s shoulder in sobs.

  Outside, Mr. and Mrs. Andrus stood before a sea of anxious reporters crowding for position pinning them to a fence. Mr. Andrus stood protectively close to his wife as she fielded another question from an eager reporter.

  “I heard it on the radio yesterday,” she said, “when President Roosevelt made the announcement.”

  The day before, the Japanese officially disclosed that the Doolittle raiders had been “severely punished,” that all had been put on trial, found guilty of killing innocent civilians, had been justly sentenced to death, and that some had been executed. But without specifying exactly who, though mixed reports had trickled out, it left an air of confusion. To the frustration of the American government, Japan also refused to allow neutral Swiss representatives to visit the men, insisting that they weren’t prisoners at all, but rather war criminals. The Japanese gave a warning over the airwaves to all Americans to “Make sure every flier that comes here has a special pass to hell, and rest assured it’s strictly a one-way ticket!”

  President Roosevelt immediately pledged that the “warlords” of “these diabolical crimes” would be brought to justice, further stating that the United States government would hold personally and officially responsible, all officers of the Japanese government who have participated in this “act of barbarity.” An American official tersely stated that “revenge will come in due course.”

  Waving his pencil for attention, another reporter blurted out, “Ma’am, Ma’am, what do you think of the reports listing your son as one of those who’ve been executed?”

  Mrs. Andrus glanced at her husband who put his arm around her. “Well, until last night we didn’t worry much about Jacob. He’s always been able to take care of himself. But since we heard the latest news ...” She was doing her best to keep her emotions in check, but began to succumb. “Well, I’m afraid ... I’m afraid he may be dead now.”

  As the reporters unleashed a new flurry of questions, Mr. Andrus saw the toll it was taking, raised his hand and leaned forward with the authority of a trainer pulling his fighter from a match, “That’s it, fellas. I’m sorry, but’s that’s all for now. No more questions. Thanks. Thanks very much.”

  The sweltering, dusty day melted into a deep orange sunset, then faded into a dark night. Late in the evening, the starry sky and near-full moon washed the silhouettes of the house, barns and fences in a deep, cold blue. A soft yellow glowed through the curtains of a single window of the Andrus farmhouse. All was still. All was quiet, but for the empty sound of crickets and the muffled, distant sound of the uncontrolled sobbing of a bereaved mother.

  Early the next morning, the sun broke through the sky over the eastern mountain ridge and glazed the front porch in gold. Mr. Andrus carried two blue-speckled enameled cups of steaming coffee out through the screen door. Mrs. Andrus sat rocking in her high back chair staring at the distant mountains, creaking the wooden deck with each rock. As he held the cup to his wife, she looked up with a smile and an unusual appearance of contentment.

  “Thank you, dear.” She blew across her cup, took the slightest sip, and sat back and slowly rocked some more, still with a peaceful grin.

  Mr. Andrus gently set his cup on the table between them and sat down, keeping his eye on his wife, mystified by her demeanor, even wondering about her sanity.

  “Jake’s not dead,” she stated flatly, then slowly sipped again.

  Sunlight flooded the master bedroom as well, illuminating their oak dresser and faded yellow and green flowered wallpaper, marred and stained by time. On the lace runner draped over the dresser stood a framed black and white photo of Jake as a boy holding two puppies in front of a picket fence. Beside it was a picture of Jake and Glenn in a field with their arms behind their backs, squinting into the sun. It was the last photo Mrs. Andrus had of Jake, taken the last time he was home in April, 1941. Next was a smaller framed shot of Jake’s high school portrait – a serious picture of Jake in a herringbone patterned coat and a dark tie. Then there was the black and gold framed certificate of the Distinguished Flying Cross with its hexagonal gold medal hanging by a red, white, and blue-striped ribbon from the top right corner of the frame.

  Pinned with thumbtacks, a collection of newspaper clippings adorned the wall with titles of “Jake’s a Hero in His Home Town” and “Local Boy Helps Bomb Tokyo” with his same military portrait repeated in article after article. Another clipping read, “Corporal DeShazer Identified in Picture” showing him in China cowering on the steps among his fellow captured comrades.

  But at the bottom far right of the compilation pinned to the wall with silver thumbtacks was a newly added scrap of torn paper with handwritten words in blue ink: This is what the Lord says: ‘Refrain your voice from weeping and your eyes from tears. They will return from the land of the enemy. So there is hope for your future,’
declares the Lord. ‘Your children will return to their own land.’ Jeremiah 31:16. Below that in larger letters were the bold words, Praise the dear Lord! April 23, 1943.

  On the front porch, Mrs. Andrus stopped rocking and stared at the horizon. “Isn’t the sky just lovely this morning?”

  Chapter 76

  Early July, 1943. Tama Reien Cemetery, Tokyo.

  Fuchida cupped his hands around a smoldering stick of incense and gently blew on the glowing ember. For a moment the breeze calmed, letting the curls of smoke rise before the eight foot tall speckled-gray granite column engraved with the name “Isoroku Yamamoto.” He slowly stood and eyed the stately column from top to bottom as if he were venerating the admiral himself, his gaze finally resting on the bouquet of white chrysanthemums he had placed in the stone vase. He stood before the monument with two other officers, the three deciding to pay their respects to their fallen leader.

  The fact that Yamamoto’s plane had been downed on April 18th, exactly one year to the day of the Doolittle Raid on Japan, seemed like a very bad omen to him. Perhaps it was fate. So long as Yamamoto commanded the Combined Fleet, Fuchida had always believed that victory was within reach. Though he couldn’t speak his thoughts to others, he was now convinced that all was lost. Yet he gathered his strength, clasped his hands before him, closed his eyes, and bowed his head to Yamamoto’s spirit. He vowed to fully devote himself to the destruction of the American forces and to the protection of the homeland of Japan, the nation he loved and lived for – and was equally willing to die for.

  The preceding day Fuchida had stood beside Vice Admiral Kakuji Kakuta before the Emperor Hirohito as Kakuta was installed as the new Commander in Chief of the First Air Fleet. Fuchida had been appointed as Kakuta’s Senior Staff Officer. With his greater authority, Fuchida felt an even greater responsibility. A sense of finality had swept over him. If the new First Air Fleet failed, then all of Yamamoto’s achievements, all of Fuchida’s efforts, all of the work and suffering and death of the forces of Japan would have been in vain, a thought that was crushing for him to even contemplate.