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Standing erect, Fuchida opened his eyes, surprised they were blurred by the tears clinging to his eyelashes. At the state funeral the motto had been, “Follow Yamamoto!” He wanted nothing more than to follow Yamamoto into a new era of Japan. But now, this stone monument over a silent grave made clear the destination of those who will follow him.
Chapter 77
July, 1943. Hopevale.
Among a small garden of waist high corn stalks, Jimmy yanked out a few more weeds, put his hands on his back, and winced as he stood upright in the muddy row under a blazing sun, then heard someone coming his way. Jack strode up with a loads of goods slung over both shoulders. Jimmy headed for the shade of a mahogany tree and sat his aching body down.
“Good afternoon!”
“And a good day to you, my friend,” Jimmy replied, fanning his face with his hat.
Jack came into the shadow of the great tree and swung two drab green canvas bags off one shoulder and three brand new M1 Garand rifles and a well-worn machine gun off the other. Most men would have a hard time lifting the eighty pounds of goods that Jack seemed to carry with ease.
He squatted down and dug into his bag. “Think quick,” he said as he started throwing things into the air for Jimmy to catch: a roll of cotton gauze, a paper package of disinfectant, and a packet of razor blades. He held up a pack of cigarettes and shook them. “Don’t think you want these.” He dropped them into his pocket, then reached back in and tossed out a package of tetanus antitoxin, and paused. “Ahh, here we go.” Pulling out a handful of five small bars he reached out to Jimmy and dropped them into his hand. Jack smiled. “Chocolate. All this stuff came in by submarine on the north shore at night.” Jack pulled out another chocolate bar and held it up to Jimmy’s face. “Look at this.”
Jimmy leaned forward, adjusted his glasses, and read the imprinted label out loud, “I shall return. General Douglas MacArthur.” Below the general’s hand written signature in smaller letters it read “General Douglas MacArthur, Commander in Chief Southwest Pacific Theater” and beside it two, tiny colored flags crossed over, of the U.S. and the Philippines. He looked into Jack’s sweat-drenched face. “I like that. I like that a lot. Thanks.” His fainting hope seemed to resuscitate.
Jack held up a box of matches with the same emblem. “Matches, too. I’ll take this medical stuff to Fred and Jennie. Just thought you’d like to see it first.” Jack picked up a rifle, sat beside Jimmy and carefully dusted it with his hand. “You want some weapons?”
Jimmy smiled as he gently shook his head and tucked one of the bars into his pocket.
“I really think you could use ‘em up here. All by yourself, y’know. Just might buy you some time when you need it most.”
“The book says that those who take up the sword will die by the sword.”
Pausing for a second, Jack said, “Or maybe those without swords just get killed.” Jack waited for some response, but there was only silence. “So, you don’t fight?”
Years before in Japan, Jimmy had explored the many aspects of war and peace. He’d heard every argument for and against, and had come to his own conviction that it just wasn’t the highest path, but he sometimes had a hard time clearly communicating his reckoning. He also felt conflicted at times because, of all people, he certainly wanted someone to come and drive the Japanese off the island.
Jimmy took the rifle from Jack and ran his hand over it. Still examining the weapon he said, “We fight ... but our weapons don’t kill people.” He handed the rifle back and looked Jack in the eyes. “They bring dead people back to life.”
Jack nodded and grinned. They both understood each other, liked each other and respected each other, but they both knew neither would change the mind of the other. Jack stood back up, collected the rifles and bags and heaved them back onto his sturdy shoulders. “I’ll keep using mine until I learn how to use yours.”
Jimmy looked up. “Jack, you’re a very strong man, a powerful man, but one day you may find yourself in a position where all your strength just isn’t enough and you’ll see how weak you really are. How weak we all are, really.”
“Me and the boys’ll be staying the night here, then we’ll head out tomorrow morning.”
Jimmy gave a casual salute with a smile. “Thanks for taking care of us up here.”
“My pleasure.”
“Listen, Jack, can you get some letters out if I get them to you? You know, by submarine?”
“Sure. No problem.”
Chapter 78
July, 1943. Japanese Headquarters. Iloilo City, Panay.
Lieutenant General Kawano, a new leader on the island, meticulously adjusted the fingers of his white gloves as he stood beside a glistening black 1941 Chrysler Saratoga, a rare luxury car on the island, a car formerly owned by a prominent physician whose home they had taken over and converted into a headquarters. A soldier opened the passenger door for the general and waited.
The commander’s party stood next to a small detachment of soldiers on a circular gravel driveway of the estate just outside the city under the scattered shade of mature palm trees. Japanese colors flew on flagstaffs on either side of the brick-stepped entryway into the manor house.
“Commander,” the base officer said to the general, “you may want to consider an armored personnel carrier for your initial tour.” He bowed and held out a hand toward an ugly, behemoth of a machine – a 6 ½ ton Type 1 Ho-Ha half-track: 18 feet of camouflage-painted heavy metal with room for three in the cab featuring small, hinged plates for windows. Armed with three machine guns, the vehicle had room in the back for another twelve soldiers. “Some areas of the city can be dangerous. Especially the outlying areas.”
Lt. General Kawano had been sent specifically to this island to mop up the end of the guerrilla resistance. The Japanese army had effectively subdued the fighters on the other Philippine islands, more or less, but the preceding commander on Panay had failed to complete the job. Kawano viewed the guerrillas as little more than pests who were interfering with the establishment of Japanese rule and he was fiercely committed to carrying out his orders, but first he simply wanted to get a feel for the island. As a master with the sword and bayonet, he also had a matching reputation for impatient ruthlessness and cold efficiency.
Kawano gave a quick glance at the rusty half-track and brushed a speck of lint off his breast pocket. “That won’t be necessary.”
The base officer glanced cautiously at the squad of soldiers. No one would dare venture to contradict the general, especially in the presence of the assistants he’d brought with him, who sat waiting in the back seat of the idling sedan, looking forward to an afternoon of touring.
Holding his scabbard, Kawano ducked his head and sat down as a soldier closed the door behind him with a crisp clunk. The driver shifted into gear and pulled out over the crackling gravel driveway under the gaze of the officer and his detachment of soldiers.
After an hour or so of exploring in the city proper, Kawano directed his driver to the west side of the city. Observing street vendors holding out mangoes and coconuts to his vehicle as they navigated down the streets, the city was getting along – business as usual.
The windshield shattered with a blast as gunshots rang out and the vehicle careened into a newspaper stand sending papers flying and halting into a wall. As the streets of screaming civilians cleared and more shots pocked and pinged the car, the passengers dropped down to the floor of the car and Kawano’s driver fell forward onto the steering wheel, dead. Kawano threw open his door and tumbled to the safety of the ground behind a wheel well. More shots echoed and ricocheted past him.
Patting the right side of his face, Kawano pulled away his hand. His white glove was painted with his own, brilliant red blood.
“I’ve had enough of this!”
At the estate headquarters, the base officer casually blew cigarette smoke into the air as he watched a forest rat shoot across the lawn. The sound of a heavy vehicle slowly faded in, calling the
rest of the soldiers to cautiously grab their weapons and look toward the end of the long driveway. The officer dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it and curiously followed the armored personnel carrier lumbering toward them in a chorus of whining clanks and squeaks, finally coming to a grinding halt near the front steps in a cloud of diesel smoke.
The passenger door flung open, banging against the steel side. Lieutenant General Kawano emerged from the beast pressing a blood-soaked handkerchief to his face.
The officer and soldiers immediately snapped to a salute but were ignored as a scowling Kawano, disheveled and splattered with mud, quickly stormed past the soldiers with his head down, clumped up the steps, jerked open the front door and furiously slammed it behind him, shattering the glass panes into a wall of shards that fell onto the brick entryway.
The base commander stared at the door a moment as his saluting hand drifted down, looked over at a soldier, cocked his head, and shrugged.
Captain Watanabe, a stout man in his thirties with glaring eyes, stood at attention before the desk of Lieutenant General Kawano. An able and experienced veteran of the Sino-Japanese War, Watanabe had also led battles against the Americans in Bataan, on the northern island.
Wearing a white headband of gauze, the general paced behind his desk. He paused and looked at Watanabe with his one, open eye. “Wipe them out! Wipe them all out! Especially the Americans!” He began pacing again. “We control all of the islands except for this one. It’s a disgrace! Begin from the coastal cities and work your way in toward the mountains. We know the guerrillas have hideouts and command posts, and we’ve picked up radio communications as well. They’re giving our troop movements and shipping information to MacArthur and now he’s starting to supply them. This must be stopped. Immediately! I want this island to be completely subdued! Do you understand?!
“Yes, sir!” Watanabe replied with a respectful bow of his head.
“I don’t care how you do it. Just get it done!”
Watanabe nodded. Among all of the Imperial Japanese Army commanders in the Philippines, perhaps in the entire Empire, there was none better for this job than Captain Watanabe – and no one worse for the Filipinos.
Ten miles northwest of Iloilo City, Japanese soldiers corralled over 700 townspeople into the barrio center as unwilling spectators. Watanabe’s reputation had preceded his arrival. They’d heard of “The butcher of Panay,” but they’d never seen him before. When he’d found suspects, he and his men beat them with bats, pumped their stomachs with water and had them stomped to death. Others were burned alive. Women were raped in public. Children were beheaded.
He eyed the terrified people. His katana dripped red as more blood oozed under the walls of a nearby hut and soaked into the dirt street. Twenty-two severed Filipino heads rested in a heap near the front door, some of them of women and children. A limp arm dangled out through the doorway. A Japanese soldier shadowed Watanabe shouting the translation for the crowd.
“You think you can harbor guerrillas?!” Watanabe shouted out. He pointed to the pile of bodies. Tiny droplets of red speckled Watanabe’s face and shirt. He swung his sword in unpredictable gesticulations. “You think you can be a safe haven for people murdering our soldiers?!”
“Tell your friends!” he yelled as he slowly strode from inside the circle—“Tell your neighbors: You help any guerrilla in any way, we will kill you, we will kill your family, and we will kill all of your friends! Maybe by sword this time, maybe by fire next.”
He stepped closer to the paralyzed people and eyed them one by one as he slowly walked around the circle. “Do you hear me?!”
Chapter 79
August, 1943. Nanking, China.
“Special treatment” was what Jake was told they were to receive. Now he understood as he sat motionless – staring at the corner of his new cell in near-total darkness. Without explanation, earlier that spring, Jake and the four others were handcuffed, blindfolded, and flown to a new location. By peeking out of his blindfold and asking a few questions, he deduced that they’d been taken to Nanking, about 150 miles west of Shanghai.
Hoping for perhaps a little more freedom, he was disappointed that the only really new thing was that he was given a name “Go” – Japanese for “five.” He was the shortest prisoner and went in the last cell. Now he had a name: number five. But he and his fellow prisoners found names for their captors as well, like “Einstein,” “Four Eyes,” or “Ape Ass.”
Twenty-three and a half hours a day he sat in his nine-foot by five-foot wooden cell, unable to talk or communicate with the others, except for the few minutes each day when they came out to brush their teeth and mop their cells. Even then, talking wasn’t allowed, although sometimes a few words were tolerated.
His treatment meant no books, no radio, no work, no play, no Red Cross packages, no letters in and no letters out. Nothing. Anything would have been better than nothing, he thought. Then again ... some things could be worse. At least he wasn’t being tortured. He did his best to keep his sanity by playing mental number games or recalling books in fine detail.
His relief at escaping death, or at least postponing it, was slowly replaced by a numbing boredom: hour after hour, day after day, week after week, month after month. All was becoming a monotonous blur.
For months he and the others sought to eke out what bits of information they could from the guards on what had happened to their buddies. They were told a number of conflicting things. Then one day a smiling guard told them matter of factly, “They were all shot.” Upon seeing the look of fear on their faces, he quickly changed his story saying they were transferred. As far as Jake was concerned, his best hopes were trampled, his worst fears realized.
The main source of light in Jake’s cell came in through an air vent, a wide slot at the top, twelve feet up. One day it crossed his mind that if he reached out his hands and feet, he might be able to place them on opposite sides of his cell across the narrow width and shimmy up the wall. He did just that and found he could slowly inch up the wall, so up he went, inch by inch. He knew if got caught, he could face a beating. He also knew if he fell in his weakened condition from twelve feet up, he could be badly injured or even killed.
But the idea of seeing something, anything other than his four walls urged him on, so up he went, inching up to the very top where he finally peered out. To his left he could see the yard, but to the right, well, to the right were hills and trees and sky. He tried to get a smell of fresh air, almost closing his eyes, when his left foot slipped just a fraction and jolted him back to reality. It was enough. He carefully shimmied the twelve feet back to the bottom and sat down, a little sore and a little tired. He smiled. Just to catch a glimpse of freedom – it was worth it. It was just outside his walls.
Jake stood at his door with his face pressed against the small peep-hole looking at his guard.
“No hope for America,” the guard said in English with a smile. “Everything go Japan’s way. Only one Japanese plane sink many American ships. America start war, we finish. The power of Japan is unshakable. Our Emperor, he is a god. We do not lose.”
“Is that so?” Jake replied. Even the guards were sometimes lonely for conversation and looked for opportunities to practice their English. Any conversation was welcomed, but Jake wasn’t buying into the propaganda. “And ah, what if Japan loses and America wins? Then what?”
The guard’s face turned more serious. “If Japan lose and America win, then prisoners not set free.” He stared at Jake’s eyes. “We cut off heads!” The guard chuckled as he gleefully threw back his head and laughed again as he strode off.
Jake wasn’t amused. Of all the things the guard had told him, it was probably the only thing he said that was actually true.
Under the watchful eye of roughly ten guards at a time, the prisoners were sometimes allowed to walk laps around their square courtyard. Jake paired up with George Barr, the red haired navigator from Brooklyn.
“So, Jake,”
George whispered, “How’s that diet plan coming along?”
Barely moving his mouth, Jake soberly whispered back, “The pounds are just melting away.”
On the opposite side of the yard Chase Neilson walked beside his crew member, Bob Meder, who wasn’t looking good.
“Hey, pal, you OK?” Chase asked.
Jake looked over with concern at Bob, who was nearly dragging his feet. The men felt a keen responsibility to take care of each other. The slightest infection in a degraded condition could easily mean death under these circumstances, and they all knew it.
Bob squinted. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t slow down for me. You go on.”
A guard zeroed in on Chase and leaned out from the other guards against the wall and shouted in Japanese, “Shut up! No talking!”
Chase glanced over his shoulder as if to say he got the message, then leaned toward Bob again as they shuffled around the yard, whispering more quietly. “I’ll set aside a little of my bread for you. We’ll all pitch in a little to ...”
“I said shut up! No talking!”
Jake and the others stopped and watched with fear as the guard briskly strode toward Chase and came to a halt in the center of the yard. Jake knew that the only rule among the Japanese guards was that there weren’t any rules. Anything could happen.
Chase picked up his bucket and mop and started back for his cell, walking near the guard who unexpectedly slapped him across the face. Shocked, Chase stopped.
Jake’s pulse began to pound. Everyone stared.
Showing no anger, Chase cleared his throat, slowly set down his mop and bucket, then violently slapped the guard across the face.
The other guards sucked air through their teeth and took a few steps closer, but didn’t intervene.