1942

by Robert Conroy

  Marshall smiled tightly. “He must. Everyone else is aware of it.”

  Roosevelt jammed his cigarette into an ashtray. “And what would he have us do with the nonwhite population of Hawaii? Just write them off and leave them under their oppressors? Doesn’t he realize that what he proposes would be a virtual signal of abandonment of the islands? It would tell the world that we have withdrawn from Hawaii forever.”

  “I don’t think Bilbo has thought that far.” King snorted. “Personally, I don’t think the dumb son of a bitch can think to the end of his nose.”

  “I’m being crucified by the press,” Roosevelt said. “Walter Winchell is saying the most terrible things about Hawaii to his radio audience,, and the Chicago Tribune is printing news of appalling atrocities, most of which is false. Even Father Coughlin has decided to reignite his career by blaming me for everything. Tell me, gentlemen, are there any real plans afoot to liberate Hawaii and relieve me of this god-awful burden?”

  The two senior military men stole quick glances at each other. Under FDR, security in the White House was not the best in the world. At one time they had even restricted the president’s access to Magic information because of his maddening tendency to leave papers lying around, or to share the information with advisers who had no clearance to receive it. In particular, this applied to his friend and military adviser Major General Edwin “Pa” Watson, who was garrulous and sloppy with the documents he received.

  “There are plans in the development state,” Marshall answered cautiously. “But there is nothing we can or should discuss at this time.”

  “So I should say nothing in response to these attacks?” Roosevelt asked, and both men nodded. “This is so much more difficult than I ever thought it would be,” the president said sadly. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen. If you don’t mind, I’m not feeling well and am going to take a nap.”

  Marshall and King watched as the president wheeled himself out of the office. He was gaunt and gray, and had difficulty maneuvering the chair.

  “If he feels as bad as he looks,” King said as they were leaving, “then he is in really bad shape.”

  Marshall did not comment. He was deeply disturbed by the state of the president’s health and what that portended. His worst nightmare was that Vice President Henry A. Wallace would accede to the presidency.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sergeant Hawkins chuckled in the darkness. Like all of them, he was camouflaged and his face smeared with dirt, which made him almost impossible to see. “Colonel, this is getting to be like Grand Central Station. How much longer do you think we can continue landings at this place?”

  “This may be the last,” Jake said as he stole a glance at the almost sheer cliffs to their rear. “Of course, the last one was supposed to be the end of it. This one is a surprise.”

  The overusage of the bay where they had originally landed by flying boat was a concern to them all. So far they had been both lucky and good in that there were few people in the vicinity and even fewer Japanese patrols. It was a situation that could not last forever, and the delivery they were waiting for was unplanned.

  In the preceding several weeks, the submarines had lined up almost like buses or, as Hawk preferred to think, trains. The military had not abandoned Hawaii; instead, it was apparent that the tiny force on the island was to be built up. Toward that end, subs had disgorged a platoon of well-trained and highly skilled Marine Raiders. They were commanded by First Lieutenant Sammy Brooks, a small, dark-complexioned young man with an Annapolis education and a ferocious desire to kill Japs. His brother was a prisoner in the Philippines.

  The original handful of soldiers and marines had grown thanks to the infusion of navy refugees and a few selected civilian volunteers, including a handful of women. As a result, Jake gave Hawkins an unauthorized battlefield promotion to second lieutenant. Brooks had no problem with that, and, to Jake’s surprise, his superiors in California agreed and confirmed it.

  Along with much-needed supplies and equipment, other subs had landed a score of army engineers under a burly, middle-aged Swede, Captain Karl Gustafson, and his job was to find a place where planes could be landed and hidden until they were needed. “Not for too many planes,” Gustafson had stressed. “Maybe a dozen or so.”

  Jake had thought it would be easier to hide a herd of elephants in a small church and not be noticed by the congregation, but he was pleasantly surprised at the skill shown by Gus and his men in identifying suitable locations. It was stressed that any landing strip should not look like one until it was time to use it. They were fortunate in that the ground was rock solid and flat enough in many areas, which meant it was necessary only to keep their basic efforts hidden. This could be done by moving foliage to key spots, and Gustafson was very good at hiding things.

  Additional equipment and personnel also meant an improvement in their communications with California and other places. They maintained infrequent but steady contact with other guerrilla forces, primarily those under Fertig in the Philippines.

  It was good to know they were not alone. Jake was secure enough to refuse additional help. A hundred or so men and women could be dispersed and hidden, while a larger group would be that much more difficult to both hide and feed.

  The marine platoon still used the 1903 Springfield, and not the M1 Garand as their rifle. However, they did use the same. 30 caliber bullet, which meant the supply situation was difficult but not impossible.

  So, Jake wondered as he jerked his attention back to the present, what are we doing on this beach tonight? Instead of California calling, this time the message had been from Oahu and said to expect a “package.”

  At only a few minutes past the target time, he heard the quiet rumblings of a well-tuned diesel engine. After a while they saw a small fishing boat coming close to the shore. With its shallow draft, the darkened craft eased up to within a few feet of the sandy beach.

  They watched as the three-man crew guided someone out of the cabin and awkwardly down into the shallow water. The fishing boat’s crew was calm even though they had to know that a score of weapons were aimed at them.

  “Your package can walk,” Hawkins muttered.

  “I don’t know why, but I’m surprised,” Jake said.

  The “package” stood in the waist-deep water while the boat backed away. It was then that they realized the person was blindfolded and wearing an awkward and too-large cap.

  Finally, hat and blindfold were removed. Jake gasped when he saw the hair and realized it was a woman, and, as she waded slowly and awkwardly toward land, he knew exactly who she was.

  “Alexa,” he said, and the sound of his voice startled her. “Over here.”

  “Jake? Oh, God. Is it you, Jake?”

  They met where the water was knee-deep. She almost fell into his arms, and he held her tightly. Some package, he thought. He squeezed her, and she returned the embrace with that fierce strength that once had astonished him.

  Finally, she broke free and looked at him. In the night he could see sadness on her face and tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “I survived, Jake,” she said, and her voice cracked with sobs. “I did what you said. I survived. I did whatever I had to, and now I’m here. I had no idea it would be so awful just to go on living.” With that, she sagged on his shoulder and allowed him to lead her inland as the rest of the column formed up around them.

  The American seamen on the craggy and inhospitable island of Lanai had been fools, Charley Finch concluded. The idiots could have remained in hiding for all eternity. Living would have been uncomfortable and harsh, but it would have been better than what had happened to them and how it was likely to conclude.

  The seven men had been marooned when their transport had been sunk off the coast in an attempt to flee to California. The fools had then started robbing the local people for food, and the civilians had reported them to the police. It had been only a matter of time before the kempetei picked up on the fact that Ame
ricans were running loose on Lanai and behaving like ordinary bandits.

  Charley Finch’s job had been to make contact with them and pretend that he was an escapee from the camps on Oahu. He located them after only a couple of days, and they welcomed him with open arms, even allowing themselves to think that he was some kind of savior. Other than knives, they had no weapons, and, had he been part of a Jap patrol instead of a lone, unarmed American, they would have fled safely into the interior. As it was, they stayed put because he told them the area was clear. It had been a fairly simple matter to leave a trail that the kempetei could follow. Charley’s only real concern was that the Japanese might kill him by mistake.

  That, it turned out, was not a problem. Colonel Omori had accompanied the combined kempetei and Japanese marine patrol, and the seven Americans had been taken into custody with barely a whimper. Now they stared at him in disbelief and horror. All had been beaten bloody in a brutal interrogation coordinated by Omori.

  “I am satisfied,” the colonel concluded. “These poor creatures know absolutely nothing.”

  No surprise, Charley thought. “What will you do with them, sir?”

  Omori shrugged. “As I’ve told you, according to international law, they became outlaws by not surrendering.” He nodded to a kempetei sergeant, who drew a pistol, held it against the skull of one of the sailors, and casually blew his brains out. The others began to moan and cry out, but the sergeant moved quickly down the line, and all were dead within a few seconds.

  “I believe that was fairly merciful, don’t you, Sergeant Finch?”

  “Yes indeed, sir.”

  “They are not worthy of our time and resources. I must admit, however, that you did an excellent job of finding them. We will return to Oahu and plan your next assignment.”

  “May I ask what it might be?”

  Omori smiled. “Lieutenant Goto has been on Hawaii for only a short while, but he has confirmed that there is a sizable American group operating in the interior. It will be a much more difficult assignment than this, but I am confident you can locate them and lead us to them.”

  Charley did not share Omori’s enthusiasm. However, he was not in a position to argue. On a previous occasion, the colonel had reinforced the fact that, if Charley either balked or failed, he would be returned to the prison compound and the prisoners informed that he had been a Judas to them. Charley shuddered. The POWs would tear him to little bloody pieces. So, he thought grimly, he would do what he had to. But there was nothing wrong with making his situation more pleasant while he waited.

  “May I ask a favor, Colonel?”

  Omori froze him with a glare. Dogs did not ask for favors, and it was apparent from his look that Omori thought more of dogs than he did of Charley Finch. “What?”

  Charley bowed. “Sir, it involves my living conditions. The food and the refreshments are excellent, sir, but I would like something other than the Korean woman you gave me.”

  Omori laughed. The sergeant had been assigned one of the homeliest of the comfort women he’d brought with him. She’d spied on Charley for Omori and reported him to be harmless and not even a good lay. “Do you want a Japanese woman?”

  Charley professed shock. “No, sir. I am not worthy.”

  “That is right, Sergeant Finch. You are not worthy and you never will be. Only a Japanese man is worthy to screw a Japanese woman. Yet you have performed faithfully. I will get you an American, a young white woman. Would that satisfy you?”

  Charley said that it would, and Omori walked away from him. It occurred to the colonel just who would be assigned to fuck Charley Finch. He had met her while questioning people regarding the disappearance of Alexa Sanderson. She was otherwise useless and would be perfect.

  The engineer from Boeing was short and skinny, and had thick glasses. His 4-F draft status, which precluded him from entering the military because of physical problems, was virtually painted on his forehead. If, however, he could turn the giant flying boats into bombers, neither Colonel Doolittle nor Admiral Spruance would care about his physical appearance.

  The engineer’s name was Bart Howell, and he was as pompous as he was frail. They were gathered outside an immense hangar, and Howell began to speak. “As I saw it, the problem was the hull of the flying boat. In a conventional bomber, the bombs are stored in racks in the belly of the plane and released more or less simultaneously through a large bomb bay. This is impossible since the watertight integrity of the flying boat must be maintained. A bomb bay would be an invitation to a sinking.”

  “We understand that,” Spruance said with mild impatience. “Have you come up with a solution?”

  Doolittle stifled a grin. If the little prick hadn’t, then they’d wasted a trip out to the desert and someone would get his butt ripped. Spruance was mild-mannered and polite to a fault, but he didn’t suffer fools.

  Howell took out a handkerchief and wiped his glasses. “Yes, sir, we have.”

  The blunt statement startled both men, even though it wasn’t totally unexpected. Howell led them into the cavernous hangar, where a series of wooden struts resembling the skeleton of a giant whale had been constructed. “Gentlemen,” Howell said, “this is a mock-up of the hull of a Boeing 314 flying boat.”

  Doolittle pointed to a series of short metal chutes in the interior of the plane that canted toward the back and ended in the hull.

  Howell smiled. “That, Colonel, is the solution. A large bomb-bay door would collapse from the pressure of the water both on landing and on takeoff. However, we concluded that a dozen or so small holes wouldn’t result in enough seepage to cause a problem. The metal chutes are bomb racks designed to hold one 250-pound bomb each, or a large number of four-pound incendiaries. With the holes in the hull angled toward the tail, the pressure on the hull is minimized and, prior to landing and takeoff, a series of dead bolts will be used to secure the hatches. There will no doubt be leakage, but nothing you can’t control with some pumping while on the water, and it will simply drain out when airborne.”

  Doolittle walked around the skeleton craft. The solution was so simple and so elegant.

  Howell continued, “Someone must remove all the dead bolts so that a trigger mechanism in the cockpit can actually open the hatches and release the bombs.”

  “How accurate will the bombing spread be?” Spruance asked.

  “Not very,” Howell admitted. “In a way it would be like firing buckshot from a shotgun. The higher up the plane is, the wider the spread. I strongly recommend low-level bombing to ensure any semblance of accuracy.”

  Doolittle couldn’t imagine the tiny engineer ever firing a shotgun, but he agreed with Howell’s estimate. High-level bombing was extremely inaccurate with conventional bombers, and this would be far worse. Nevertheless, it was now evident that the giant flying boat could be transformed into a weapon that could fly to Hawaii and back.

  “Mr. Howell, when can you have these racks made and ready for installation?” Spruance asked.

  Howell smiled proudly. “I presumed you’d like them, so I’ve had the machine shops working on them day and night. We now have enough for three planes and will have the rest in a week. Then we can begin installation and practice.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Howell,” Spruance said and then added somberly, “I know I don’t have to tell you how important it is that no one finds out about your work.”

  Howell wiped his glasses again and shook his head tolerantly. “I assure you of my discretion, Admiral. However, even a nearsighted idiot like me understands that you are not configuring a long-range plane like this as a bomber so you can attack Seattle. I hope you destroy all the Japs on Hawaii.”

  Doolittle smiled. He was beginning to like the little man. Perhaps the guy would like a drink? “So do we, Mr. Howell,” he said. “So do we.”

  Lieutenant Jamie Priest looked across to where Suzy Dunnigan sat taking notes. He tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t look up and he dared not move. He was by far the most junior
officer in the room, and his job was to make like wallpaper until and unless someone asked him to do something.

  Admiral King and General Marshall had arrived in San Diego the day before via a grueling ride in a bomber. Now, after a night’s rest, they and their small staffs were more than eager for the briefing Admiral Nimitz had prepared. As usual, Admiral Spruance was with Nimitz. Admiral Halsey was out with his carriers off Australia.

  This was the first time Jamie had seen either King or Marshall in person, and he was a little awed. He’d been introduced and gotten a perfunctory handshake from King, who seemed more interested in Suzy’s legs-her skirt was very short as a result of cloth shortages- and a kind comment from Marshall about the Pennsylvania. It made him wonder if everyone knew about his ordeal.

  Nimitz stood. “Gentlemen, what we have prepared for the Japs is what my staff has started calling Operation Cork. In the absence of something more stirring, I suggest we keep the name. It was selected because the idea is to cork up the Japanese fleet in a spot where we can get at them, and that spot is Pearl Harbor.”

  Nimitz stepped to a wall chart of the Hawaiian Islands. “Admittedly, Cork violates virtually every military principle, particularly since it is predicated on the enemy doing precisely what we wish them to do, rather than what they have the ability to do. However, I believe it is inevitable that the Japs will take their main fleet to Hawaii, and do so shortly after the base becomes viable to them as a result of the completion of repairs to the fuel storage depot. When that occurs, they can use Pearl as a base for striking at the West Coast or, more likely, Alaska.

  “We do not believe they will attempt a landing in California, Washington, or Oregon, but we do consider it strongly possible that they will send a bombardment force to California, or land troops at points in Alaska. If they do, the terrain and distance will make them very difficult to dislodge.”

  There was a shuffling as that statement was digested. Shelling of American cities had not yet occurred and would cause panic when it did. Even worse was the thought of the Japanese in Alaska, parts of which were closer to Japan than they were to the forty-eight American states.