“I really am going to kill him,” said Collins.
“We will be flying extremely low in order to avoid detection, so keep your windows closed and you won’t get wet. And, for those of you who were expecting a nonstop flight, sorry, but we will be landing on the Big Island to let off some passengers.”
“That’s us,” Jake muttered from his seat beside Collins. Behind him, Sergeant Will Hawkins and eleven other men acknowledged the obvious in silence.
Jake had just met Hawkins, a rangy young man in his mid-twenties who exuded quiet confidence and competence. Hawkins assured Jake that all the men on the plane were volunteers, and not deadbeats people were trying to dump.
There was grumbling from some of the others. Collins checked his shoulder to see if the shiny star that designated his early promotion to brigadier general was still there. One of the reasons he’d been promoted ahead of schedule was to be the ranking officer on the plane in case anyone had problems with the change in schedule. One blimpish-looking colonel muttered a few comments about correcting things, but a steely glance from Collins settled the matter.
“I can’t believe this thing is going to get off the ground,” Jake muttered.
The plane had been taxiing on the waters off Ford Island along Battleship Row. The cadavers of the sunken ships were dimly visible through the windows as reminders of the disaster.
With a roar, the giant flying boat surged forward, and, after a gut-tightening eternity, it lifted off the water and banked southward.
There were no more flippant comments from the pilot as the plane flew over the shattered fuel storage depot and out across the enemy-controlled Pacific. As explained to Jake and Collins, the flight plan was a replay of the attempt to free the Pennsylvania. It was presumed that the Japs could not be everywhere and would have most of their ships and planes watching anything trying to escape east. The flying boat would head south, drop off Jake, and then head well south again before finally turning east toward California.
As promised, the plane flew almost shockingly low over the water, and it seemed to Jake that the whitecaps were lapping its belly. The pilot made one more terse comment about absolutely no smoking. It was a reminder that the plane was built for civilian purposes and not armored; therefore, any hit from a Jap gun could ignite the full load of fuel.
Once Jake saw the silhouette of a destroyer a few miles away and thought they’d had it, but luck was with them and the plane droned on undetected toward Hawaii. The trip from Oahu was not a long one, but it seemed to take forever for the dark shape of the Big Island to come into view.
There were no lakes or rivers on Hawaii where the big plane could land, so the pilot set her down in the gently rolling swells off Manuka Bay, near the southwest tip of the island.
Rafts were launched, and Jake and his little army paddled off toward the beach. Even before they were ashore, the plane taxied away and lifted off into the darkness. The people Jake was to rescue were miles away, and it would be too dangerous for the flying boat to wait. Jake’s orders said some other form of pickup would be arranged once he found the lost naval personnel, who were waiting patiently but well inland. He hoped they were well hidden. In case there was more than one group of navy people wandering around, Jake had been given a sign and a countersign, which he’d shared with Hawkins in case something happened to him.
After they waded the last few feet to the dry ground, they hid the rafts and Jake reviewed his resources. Counting himself, he had twelve men, along with food, ammunition, medical supplies, and radio equipment. He was effectively stranded in what was very likely going to become enemy-occupied territory, and considered himself a well-armed and modern Robinson Crusoe.
As they picked up their gear and headed inland, Jake could only wonder what on earth made this mission so important.
It amused Colonel Omori that the Americans would take such care to blindfold him. Under other circumstances, it would have been insulting and demeaning, but not now. Instead he thought it was a pathetic gesture. General Tadoyashi had sent a messenger under flag of truce to ask for a conference with General Short. Short had accepted, and Omori was the messenger.
To make the effort more meaningful and show the importance of his mission, Omori wore the insignia of a major general, one rank above his real rank of colonel, as the Japanese army did not have brigadier generals.
The blindfold was but a formality. With planes flying overhead with impunity, there was little the Japanese military didn’t know about the American situation. It was, however, interesting to hear the comments from the American military as he was passed through their lines. They foolishly and arrogantly presumed that he didn’t speak English. The insults he understood and expected. He would have been surprised if they hadn’t been said, and there was nothing he hadn’t heard before.
The overheard comments about food and ammunition intrigued him, as they confirmed that the Americans were having an awful time getting either commodity to the front lines. It appeared that, while there was enough ammo, there wasn’t much food. This was disturbing to him, because the Japanese army hadn’t brought all that much either. It was, however, a matter that could only be dealt with later.
Finally, he was shown to an underground bunker and his blindfold removed. He did not blink at the change in light as that would have shown weakness.
General Short and Colonel Phillips entered the room with a third man they identified as an interpreter. “We will not need one,” Omori said in English. “There will be no misunderstandings between us. What I have to say will be perfectly clear.”
The interpreter left. He would doubtless spread the word that the fucking little Jap spoke English and people should watch what they said. Omori knew he had thrown away a small advantage but felt it would help in speaking with Short, who looked nervous and had a tic in one eye, and Phillips, who simply looked exhausted. Both men appeared gaunt, and their uniforms fit them poorly.
“General Short,” Omori said firmly, “the purpose of this cease-fire is to permit you to save lives by surrendering. Your forces at Schofield have been destroyed, and we now hold the high ground overlooking Ewa and Barbers Point. Without sounding overly dramatic, your cause is doomed and further struggle will only result in needless deaths.”
Just the day before, Japanese infantry had streaked down the western side of Oahu on bicycles and achieved a foothold on the Waianae Range overlooking American positions. Under the protection of naval guns, the Japanese army had dragged howitzers up the heights and begun shelling down into Pearl Harbor’s defenses with devastating effect. Preoccupied as they were with the bulk of the Japanese army before them in the valley between the two ranges, the American army had been powerless to dislodge the Japanese.
Short lowered his eyes. “I am not authorized to surrender.”
“I understand,” Omori said gently. “You must notify your superiors in Washington. Do that. We will grant you a forty-eight-hour ceasefire. However, that cease-fire is conditional.”
“And what are the conditions?” Phillips asked.
Omori kept his eyes fixed on Short. Phillips was inferior in rank and powerless; he would be ignored. “You will make no effort to move forces or strengthen your defenses. Of course your men will make repairs, but that is all. Further, you will cease work on any demolitions to take place before Oahu falls. In your position, I would be planning to dynamite anything that we might find usable. To do so would be regrettable, and we would treat such actions as banditry. Do I have to remind you that, in my nation, bandits are executed?”
Short nodded. “I will relay your message.”
“And add this to it, please. I know you are concerned that we are Asian barbarians, and there is some truth to that. Our way of waging war is far different from yours. The longer the fighting goes on, the less it is likely that I will be able to hold a conquering army in check. Bloodlust, once aroused, is a terrible thing to see and is almost impossible to stop. If you surrender immediately, I will g
uarantee the safety of the civilian population and assure you that military prisoners will also be unharmed.”
“Will you abide by the Geneva Convention?” Short asked, almost plaintively.
“General,” Omori said, “neither your nation nor mine ever signed that convention. We will treat your prisoners in accordance with Japanese law and custom.”
Omori watched as both men paled. “Gentlemen, you are presuming that life for your prisoners will be harsh, and that is correct. It will, however, be life, which is more than they will have if the fighting continues.” He rose. It was time to end it. “You are not in a position to either quibble or negotiate terms. You will inform us of your intent to surrender, or your soldiers will be massacred and your civilians left to the mercies of our troops. You have forty-eight hours. In twenty-four hours we will give you an example of the totality of our determination to destroy you.”
“The silence is deafening,” Alexa said as she pulled some weeds from among her growing vegetables. “And frightening. I never thought I’d find the sounds of war reassuring.”
Melissa wiped the sweat from her forehead. “It’s strange, but I don’t trust it either. Silence means the fighting’s stopped, and that’s good, but it’s a sure bet that Jap general didn’t show up to surrender to us.”
News of the meeting between Short and the Japanese general had sped across the island with incredible swiftness. Exactly what had been said remained secret, but it could have been only one topic: surrender.
Alexa stood and wiped the dirt off her knees. “I like your hair. Is that the original color?”
Melissa grinned and stuck out her tongue. She had taken Jake’s relayed instructions to heart, and her once-radiant blond hair was now a very mousy light brown and cut short. Alexa had hacked at her hair as well but felt that her natural color was bland enough. That and baggy, dirty clothing made them appear sexless. She hoped.
“Honey,” Melissa said with an affected drawl, “it’s been so long I don’t recall. Even my roots have been known to lie.”
Alexa looked down the road and saw people moving along it. They had packs on their backs. Groups of refugees were taking advantage of the cease-fire to move to places of greater safety. “I think it’s time to go, don’t you?”
Melissa nodded. They’d packed suitcases and were ready to leave on short notice. “Think our gardens’ll be here when we get back?”
“I hope so.” The cease-fire had lasted for almost an entire day. Rumor was that it’d last for another, but who knew what the Japs might do instead of honoring their word?
“I think,” Alexa said, “we have enough time to clean up and double-check what we’ve packed. Jake said we should dress ugly. He didn’t say we had to be filthy.” At least not yet, she thought. Why did she have the nagging feeling that this shower might be her last for a long time?
A portion of the front lines was about two miles north of the small city of Waipahu, population six thousand, which lay directly between Schofield and the base at Pearl Harbor. The city itself had been destroyed by Japanese artillery on the heights above the plain and by batteries now south of both Schofield and Wheeler Field.
The American defenders took the unexpected cease-fire as an opportunity to dig out collapsed trenches and strengthen bunkers. They took turns at eating and resting, all the while keeping an eye on the Japanese positions only a mile away.
“White flag,” a sentry yelled. Sure enough, a white flag was visible above a known Japanese position. Word was passed down, and the battalion commander, a harassed-looking major, joined them. After a few minutes, a couple of figures appeared pulling a cart. The white flag was on a pole attached to the cart.
The major looked through a high-powered field telescope as the small party advanced. It was apparent that it was difficult for them to pull the cart over the rough terrain, and they fell a couple of times. For some reason, the sight reminded the major of a Passion play he’d seen once where Christ stumbled under the weight of his cross. The thought chilled him.
Something was wrong with the two men. They were naked, and then he realized they weren’t men. The two naked people pulling on the cart were women, white women.
“I want two unarmed men to go out there with blankets to cover them and then help them with the cart,” he said. A dozen volunteers raised their hands. There was anger, not prurience, on their faces. They knew what the Japs had done to the women.
Under a white towel attached to a branch, two soldiers advanced through no-man’s-land and up to the slowly advancing cart. They covered the women with blankets, which were totally inadequate for the job, and assumed their burden.
After agonizing moments, they made it to the American trenches, where the major had a good look at the women. They appeared beaten and tormented. Their bodies were bloody and covered with cuts and bruises, some of which still oozed blood, and there was the hint of madness in their eyes. The sight was so disturbing that most of the soldiers averted their eyes.
“Who are you?” the major asked gently. The women were white, and he thought he knew the answer.
“Nurses,” one managed to answer through swollen lips while the other one began to tremble uncontrollably. “From Schofield,” she added.
The major examined the cart. It had high sides and a canvas top, and looked like it had come from a farm. “What’s in the cart?” he asked and wondered if he really wanted to know.
“Heads,” the first nurse answered and began to cry. “Our boys’ heads. The Japs are killing their prisoners.”
Franklin Delano Roosevelt looked dejectedly out the window. Winter in Washington is a damp and usually unlovely time of year, and this day was no exception. It was raining fitfully over the nation’s capital and in the president’s heart.
“Do we have a choice?” he asked.
General Marshall, Admiral King, Secretary Knox, and Stimson all either shook their heads or looked away. General Short had earlier relayed the Japanese ultimatum and the forty-eight-hour deadline. Now they had knowledge of Japan’s barbarity.
The two nurses were survivors of a group of at least a dozen captured when Schofield had been overrun. All had been gang-raped, but the two had been chosen to survive while the others had their throats cut.
The two survivors had then watched while fifty American POWs were selected at random from a holding pen and decapitated. The message the two brutalized nurses delivered was very simple. If General Short did not surrender, ten Americans would be executed every hour that went past the deadline. Also, there would be no protection for the civilian population. General Tadoyashi was explicit on this point. If there was no surrender, he would turn the 38th Division loose on Honolulu as he had on Hong Kong in an orgy of raping and looting.
“I’m still waiting for my answer,” Roosevelt said. “Do we have a choice? For God’s sake, if there is, tell me!”
“There is none,” King answered. “I recommend surrender.”
“As do I,” Marshall said, and the two secretaries nodded agreement.
“General Short is required to surrender the entire Hawaiian archipelago,” Marshall added, “and that includes Midway.”
Roosevelt shrugged. Midway was an island base over a thousand miles north and west of Hawaii proper. Its presence on the archipelago was a geographic quirk.
“What do we have there?” the president asked.
“Nothing anymore,” King said. “We’d hoped to use it as a forward and unsinkable aircraft carrier, but the invasion of Oahu outflanked it and made it irrelevant. We evacuated the last of the personnel a day or two ago. The Japs’ll get a couple of empty islands and a fairly usable airfield if they want it, but Midway is no longer of any importance.”
“Then let them have it too,” Roosevelt snapped. “At least tell me that Magic is safe.”
“We’ve taken steps to ensure that it is,” Marshall said.
“That’s not quite a yes,” Roosevelt muttered. “But I guess it’ll do for the time bei
ng.”
King was anxious to get back to his office. “Will that be all, sir?”
The president smiled, but it was an expression devoid of all happiness. “No. I have one more task for both you and General Marshall. I told you I want the islands back. When can you do it?”
King hid his surprise. “As I said before, by the end of 1943 we’ll be strong enough to take on the Jap navy.”
“As will the army,” Marshall said. “But it may mean deferring some actions in Europe.”
“This year,” Roosevelt said. “By the end of summer.”
“Impossible,” King said, and Marshall concurred.
“That is your assignment, gentlemen,” the president said. “If you can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can. I will not abide having nearly four hundred thousand Americans under the Japanese heel. I want you to be creative and clever. I want you to do whatever terrible things you must to mount a successful operation, but you must succeed. I want those islands back.”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused.
King stole a glance at Marshall, who looked away. There was only the faintest chance that they could muster enough strength to take back Hawaii. However, they might be able to hurt the Japs, or at least let them know that America wasn’t dead and buried. Yes, thought King. They could do at least that much.
“One other thing,” said Roosevelt. “Just don’t give away the secret to Magic.”
This time the terrible silence was broken by the sounds of marching feet and the music of an approaching military band. Incredibly it sounded like something by Sousa.
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