Wounded Tiger Page 28

  Nagumo’s eyes surveyed the map, but Fuchida could see that his mind was a thousand miles away. The days of triumph and glory at Pearl Harbor had been swallowed up by days of fear and doubt; the retreating empire of Japan was now under the growing shadow of a specter that loomed larger every day; and the last flame of hope had finally flickered out of Nagumo’s eyes. The Americans were coming with fury.

  He looked over at Fuchida’s face as if he’d been given a death sentence, slowly stepped to the window again, clasped his hands behind his back, and gazed out at the exquisite aquamarine surf breaking onto the white-sand beach.

  Chapter 88

  February 22, 1944. Yokosuka Naval Base. Tokyo Bay.

  Clutching a clipboard, Fuchida strode briskly down the taxiway beside Genda past rows of Nakajima B6N bombers straight from the factory, many being prepped by maintenance crews in white coveralls.

  Fuchida nearly shouted to Genda, “I have to leave tomorrow.” Planes droned overhead as a cargo truck rolled past in a breeze of exhaust fumes and dust. “I’m off to Tinian Island, even though they’re just beginning to prepare the ten airfields in the Marianas. But ... those are the orders.” Fuchida shook his head and held out his hand toward a new plane. “Brand new aircraft, but with brand new pilots?” He came to a halt. “Eighteen years old? I feel like I’m training school boys. We need more time.” Rushed and overwhelmed, Fuchida knew that his best friend would understand.

  “We expected the Americans to attack Truk lagoon,” Genda said. “That was no surprise. We just didn’t expect it so soon, just two weeks ago. It was a catastrophe that’s shaken the high command and forced their hand. The Americans have simply moved faster and more aggressively than we expected.”

  It was a painful truth Fuchida hated to hear. The Americans! He warned his commanders and begged them to confront them before time ran out. “Preparations have to be made for a decisive battle,” Fuchida said. “If we don’t confront the Americans now, while we still have the strength to do so and before they can consolidate their power, we’ll never be able to.”

  They began walking again.

  “First they want me to train pilots without aircraft,” Fuchida said, “then, when I finally have aircraft, they want me to send the pilots into battle without training. And with the bases in the Marianas incomplete, I have nowhere to send the aircraft.” Fuchida stopped again next to a pair of aircraft wings being unpacked from a crate. “We need at least two more months for vital training!” He pounding his clipboard. “In a few months we can send out a devastating ...”

  “Fuchi!” Genda waited until he had his attention and spoke softly but directly, “There’s no more sand in the hourglass.”

  A chill spread over his arms and back. Fuchida knew Genda was right, but couldn’t bring himself to admit it. It was sickening to think about. He looked off, far away, and spoke as if to himself, “And why do the Americans insult us with their demand for unconditional surrender? How stupid.” He looked back at Genda. “Surrender? They should know that this is a word we don’t recognize.”

  Genda nodded. “After Pearl Harbor, it seems ‘negotiate’ is a word the Americans don’t recognize.”

  The next day. Tinian Island. The Mariana Islands.

  Two bulldozers and two graders stretched out a ribbon of dirt through the low scrub as 150 soldiers dumped wheelbarrows of gravel and raked the edges down. Fuchida pulled up to the side of the airstrip in a Kurogane with the top down, the Japanese 4WD equivalent of an American jeep, with Vice Admiral Kakuta in the passenger seat. Coming to a stop, a cloud of dust rolled over them.

  Kakuta took hold of the metal frame of the windshield and pulled himself up to survey the project. Workers glanced up at the Admiral, then seemed to rake even faster. “This should have been completed a week ago!” He glared impatiently. “And the third strip hasn’t even been started!”

  Fuchida stretched his neck as if he were searching. “Where are the fuel tanks? The sheet metal arrived here last week, but I don’t see the welders.” Fuchida opened his door and stepped out. This wasn’t what he’d hoped to see, but instead what he feared most.

  Another Kurogane approached from a distance at a high rate of speed, bouncing and jerking right and left over the dirt shoulder until the vehicle came to a squealing halt beside them. Earlier that day, just before Fuchida and his group of aircraft arrived at Tinian, Kakuta had sent out reconnaissance aircraft 300 miles to the east and south. Lacking radar, it was their only hope for accurate intelligence on the whereabouts of the American fleet.

  A messenger leapt out and ran to Kakuta with a paper in his outstretched hand. “Admiral, sir! Enemy sighted! Force includes carriers!”

  Kakuta nodded, took the sheet and began reading as Fuchida got back in, slammed his door, and started the engine.

  The Admiral dropped back down into his seat. “The enemy will attack soon,” he said as Fuchida turned his Kurogane around and started back for headquarters.

  “Most likely tomorrow,” Fuchida replied. He knew what Kakuta’s impulse would be – immediate attack. But Fuchida knew that his immediate battle wasn’t with the Americans, it was with his direct commander – Kakuta. “Admiral, excuse me, but I don’t believe we should risk our forces unnecessarily. We have no fighters for cover. Just fly all the bombers back to Japan while they can still escape.” They bounced erratically over the dirt road racing back to headquarters.

  “Your caution sounds like cowardice! We have the advantage of surprise and can attack under cover of night. That’s the job you were sent here to do!”

  Fuchida restrained himself. “Sir, the pilots aren’t sufficiently rested for an all-out battle with the Americans. We must have fighter escorts. Sending them out now ...”

  “Sending them home now will leave the enemy unscathed! I won’t pass up the opportunity to attack the enemy and let them slip by. We will send out our aircraft tonight!”

  The following afternoon.

  On the roof of the two-story headquarters, a utilitarian concrete structure streaked with rust, three soldiers silently peered through long range binoculars on tripods as seagulls squawked above. Kakuta, Fuchida, and communication officers stood beside in the salty breeze, searching the empty, silent horizon. The muscles on the side of Fuchida’s face flexed as he contemplated the mission of the previous night, when Kakuta sent out twenty-seven of his bombers armed with torpedoes against the American fleet of unknown strength. Nine unarmed reconnaissance aircraft escorted them to help locate the target. Only three of these scout planes returned with unclear reports. None of Fuchida’s men returned. He buried his fury.

  An aide stepped up the stairs and approached Kakuta. “Admiral, no radio communications received.” The admiral nodded without emotion.

  Fuchida fumed. He had vigorously argued with Kakuta that morning, but the admiral insisted on sending off another group of fifty-four dive-bombers, again, with no fighter protection. It had been hours since they’d left, and if nothing else, they should have received radio communication from at least one plane. The sky remained empty. Nothing.

  Kakuta abruptly headed down the concrete stairs directly followed by Fuchida as he looked for an opportunity to speak with some measure of privacy. Kakuta knew Fuchida was on his heels and headed for his office where Fuchida followed and slammed the door behind them.

  “I’m going to contact Iwo Jima,” Kakuta said, reaching for the phone, “and have them send to us as many First Air Fleet fighters as they have, immediately!”

  “Are you crazy?!” Fuchida yelled, pushing aside all military decorum. “It’s absolutely stupid to bring down planes from Iwo! They only have twenty-seven fighters right now, anyway. They’ll arrive here exhausted, be thrown into the ring, and then be pounded to the mat by the Americans – all for nothing!” Fuchida could see the pain and humiliation on Kakuta’s face, and respected his willingness to engage the enemy, but this total lack of restraint in the face of appalling odds had to be confronted before any more
lives were wasted. Fuchida did his best to regain his composure. “Admiral, I believe we’ll have our chance. Soon, but not now.”

  Kakuta stood motionless with his hand on the phone.

  Part V

  No Damn Hypocrite

  Chapter 89

  May, 1944. Nanking, China.

  Jake wrung the mop strings with his bare hands into a tin bucket. It was a relief to have some work, anything other than just sit on his cell floor, so he took as much time as possible simply to have something to do as he mopped his cell.

  The guard looked in through the peep hole. “Hurry up number five!” he shouted in Japanese.

  “Keep your shirt on, jackass!” Jake yelled back in Japanese as well.

  The keys jangled, the bolt unclicked, and the door swung open. His posture told Jake everything he needed to know: get ready for a beating. Before Jake could dodge it, the guard smacked him on the side of the head, and Jake reflexively kicked the guard in the gut with his bare foot, shoving him into the corner. Snorting, the guard scampered to his feet, unlatched his steel scabbard, and landed alternating blows against Jake’s back as he cowered in the corner. Jake stared down on his mop and bucket, then grabbed it and pitched the whole thing at the guard, hitting him right in the face with the mop. Stunned, the guard let out a string of what Jake presumed to be Japanese curses, then snatched Jake’s mop and bucket, stormed out, and slammed and locked the door.

  Jake’s head throbbed. The angry footsteps faded down the hallway. Jake stood silently panting, staring at the streaks of water dribbling down the wooden wall. He grinned. “Well,” he said, “at least it wasn’t another boring day.”

  As the empty days dissolved one into the other, the only source of mental stimulation was whatever books were being passed around.

  Late that May, one day a guard knocked on his door. “Book!”

  Jake grabbed his copy of David Copperfield and slid it under the door to the guard. A few seconds later, another worn, dog-eared book was shoved back to him. It was a Bible.

  “Keep book three weeks,” the guard said in English, then walked to the next cell.

  It was a book he never had much interest in. The only thing he really remembered from Sunday school was when the guy teaching talked about how he punched a hole in his muffler to make it louder. Jake always wanted to try that. Never did.

  Now, though, under entirely different circumstances, he was intrigued. He had always admired his mother’s sense of inner strength and gentle courage and knew this water was drawn from a very deep well. When he heard a Bible was being passed around, he was more than curious and asked for a chance to read it. As long as there was enough light in his cell, he read, and read, and read. The hardest thing was finding a new position that didn’t make his bones hurt. He lay on his back, on his side, and on his stomach as he went through every page.

  He kept asking questions, sometimes even repeating them out loud, “C’mon! How could this be true? What’s the proof?”

  After a couple of weeks, having read through every page, cover to cover a couple of times, he was drawn to the prophets, amazed by what they seemed to know. But he wondered how they could possibly know the future. “How could that be?” he said. “How could that be if God didn’t tell them?” Lying on his stomach, he let the book fall flat. “So, you still talk to people?” Jake looked around but heard nothing. “I said, ‘So, you still talk to people?’” Nothing. “I didn’t think so.”

  But the prophets seemed to know a lot about the future and it seemed to happen, at least, according to the book. Things about the Messiah. A lot of little things about the Messiah. Jake started flipping back and forth between the prophets of old and the stories from Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. It seemed like the same things they said thousands of years earlier would happen, did happen. Born in Bethlehem, betrayed by his friends, pierced in his hands and feet, given vinegar to drink – a lot of things. How could this have been predicted if there wasn’t a God to tell them ahead of time? How could it all be true? Or how could it all just be a big lie? He didn’t know.

  When he looked at the part where Jesus was killed, he thought he would have said the same kind of things the people said: “If he’s really God, why doesn’t he just save himself and get off the cross?” It didn’t make any sense.

  Time passed and it neared the end of the three weeks for him to have the book. He came across the words of Isaiah the prophet who spoke about a man of sorrows, suffering, rejected, and despised. “Yeah, I know all about that,” Jake said. But this time, he noticed the words, “... our griefs he himself bore, and our sorrows he carried ... he was wounded for our rebellion ...”

  Jake felt a twinge of guilt. There were parts of his life he wasn’t proud of. He still lied all the time to the guards. What impressed Jake most was the idea that love was the most powerful thing in the world. That’s what it was all about. It would make the world a wonderful place if he could love people. If this God was real, he felt he had to listen to him and he finally made up his mind he had to at least try. He decided he would do what God wanted if God made the way clear for him.

  Jake had one, final request. He closed the book for the last time, stood up and stretched. “All right, all right ... just don’t let me be one of those damn hypocrites! I hate those guys!”

  Chapter 90

  May, 1944. Keuka College. New York.

  Peggy excitedly walked down the linoleum hallway of her dorm, clutching her books in front of her with a letter propped in one hand. The year was almost over. Her whole education was almost over. There was a feeling of relief in the air. She wasn’t going to miss the musty smell of that building. The future for her was wide open.

  She unloaded her books onto the desk with a thud and wiped her perspiring forehead with the back of her hand. She was definitely looking forward to not having to carry those around again. College had been more work than she thought and she was finally going to get her B.S. in sociology – but it was bittersweet. She wished and really hoped her parents could have come to her graduation, but knew it wasn’t possible. She was vice president of the YWCA and the college had even given her the Esther Lyman award. Her mom and dad didn’t even know about it.

  She sat on the edge of her bed and ripped open the letter from her brother, David, hoping he had some news about their parents. He did.

  As she began reading the letter, her eyebrows came down, she clinched the paper harder. Flipping it over, her eyes darted across the page faster and faster as tears began rolling down her cheeks. Her hands trembling, the paper fell to the floor and she collapsed onto her bed and wept uncontrollably. “Why? Why? Why?!”

  Jean appeared in the doorway carrying her own stack of books. “Peggy?”

  Chapter 91

  Morning, June 19, 1944. The aircraft carrier Taiho. The Pacific Ocean between the Philippines and the Mariana Islands.

  On the flight deck of the carrier as the wind swirled around him, Fuchida stood and watched another torpedo bomber flagged off to thunder into the brilliant sky. He’d recently been promoted to Air Operations Officer of the entire Combined Fleet. Looking to his left, another idling torpedo bomber inched into position in front of a group of five more rumbling planes. Another zero fighter mystically rose to the deck on the rear elevator.

  The day had come. The Imperial Japanese Navy finally were having their “decisive battle.” The Japanese and the Americans were locking horns in the biggest naval air battle the world had ever seen. The sea was scattered with 9 Japanese aircraft carriers in 3 battle groups carrying 450 aircraft. Five battleships and more than forty other support vessels filled out the attack force. The Americans were thought to have 13 or 14 carriers and were limited to what aircraft they could launch from the sea, but Kakuta had arranged for 500 more planes to launch from Guam to join the battle, giving the Japanese nearly 1,000 aircraft to throw into the fight. But this wasn’t the battle they had chosen; it was a battle that had chosen them.

  Fuchida had
always been exhilarated to see and feel the power of these aircraft, especially on the deck of the newest carrier and flagship of Vice Admiral Ozawa – the Taiho, completed just three months earlier. Unlike the Akagi, which was converted from a battleship under construction, the Taiho was a new generation of Japanese carriers, built from the ground up to withstand torpedo and bomb attacks while still carrying on battle.

  But the exhilaration of the day was dampened with a far graver feeling than he had ever had before. Fuchida took a last look at the planes lining up and caught eyes with the bombardier in the middle seat who enthusiastically smiled and nodded to him. Fuchida knew the feeling, but this was a young, inexperienced flier, completely ignorant of the prowess of the American forces they faced. Fuchida smiled back, giving no hint of his uncertainty of ever seeing this flier again.

  As he opened the door and headed to the command center, his smile immediately faded into a scowl as he walked down the freshly painted gray passageway. He was dogged by the thought that what had led to the beginning of the war was now leading to the end of the war – oil. They waged war to get it, but without it they couldn’t continue the war, either.

  Now they had less than ever. Three thousand five hundred miles was a long way to haul oil from Indonesia to Japan, and there was no way to provide protection to their tankers from American submarines, which were biting off more and more of their supplies. New pilots couldn’t be trained for aircraft and ships couldn’t be moved – all for lack of fuel.

  It was now clear to Fuchida and the Japanese military that the American strategy was to attack along two prongs: to the southwest, General MacArthur was leading his troops through New Guinea up toward the Philippines: to the northeast, Admiral Nimitz was leading the American armada toward the Mariana Islands, most likely to establish air bases for the new B-29 long-range bombers to rain hell on the homeland of Japan. But they’d been uncertain where he was going to strike next.