6TH US Army Intelligence Section (G-2), Okinawa
“What do you make of this thing, gentlemen?” Colonel Tom Watkins, Assistant G-2, asks, pointing to the strange, beer-barrel shaped object clearly visible in the photograph on the dock adjacent to the burning Japanese warship. “Pretty big ration of beer, wouldn’t you say?”
No one in the room laughs. Nobody has any idea what it is.
Colonel Watkins has a question for John Worth. “Captain Worth, you took these pictures. Any other observations you’d like to share with us?”
“Well…yes, sir,” John Worth says. “There didn’t appear to be much activity around the docks, other than what’s in the picture, but it struck me as odd that the object in the photo was either just off-loaded or was about to be loaded on a destroyer. Why are they using a warship to transport whatever this thing is?”
Watkins is skeptical. “You’re suggesting it has some high military value?”
“Quite possible, sir,” John says, “and whatever it is, it looks to be intact… Undamaged.”
Colonel Watkins thinks it over for a minute, then offers his conclusion. “It’s probably industrial in nature. Just make note of it in the intelligence summary. Now get this package off to Manila. General Willoughby is waiting.”
Then the colonel adds: “You know, Willoughby told me that MacArthur is convinced he’s going to just walk onto Kyushu and be the next Emperor!”
Chapter Eleven
Professor Inaba sits in the anteroom of the Imperial Counsel Chamber, exhausted and scared out of his mind. He is sure he has been summoned here, flown in the night from Korea, to be forced to commit ritual suicide for his aborted plot to sabotage the nuclear device.
He wonders: How had they found out?
The entire trip had been a nightmare. Rousted from his sleep by soldiers and hustled off into the night, he felt sure they were going to execute him then and there. Instead, he was taken to an airfield and loaded onto a transport plane, its engines already running, and flown in darkness across the Sea of Japan.
Perhaps they plan to throw me from this airplane into the sea below!
But his military escort had done no such thing. After the long and bumpy flight, one that left Inaba weak from airsickness, he was bundled into an automobile and driven into a city he eventually recognized as Tokyo; so much had been destroyed by the fire bombing that it was difficult to identify. Now, at sunrise, he sat outside the Chamber, trembling with fear.
The Professor is a pathetic sight, disheveled and disoriented, as he is ushered into the chamber. There are eight other men already in the room, some from the Army and Navy; some, perhaps, statesmen. Inaba recognizes only General Umezu, who he had met several times during the course of his work on the device.
General Umezu speaks first. “Professor, we apologize for any inconvenience we have caused you, but we require your expertise. Would you care for some tea?”
This could be a trap! It’s poisoned! Inaba thinks, his mind reeling out of control. But he manages a shaky reply: “No, thank you, sir,”
Secretary of War Anami speaks next. “Professor, allow me to introduce myself. I am Anami. Let me get right to the point. Do you believe the Americans possess nuclear technology similar to ours?”
Inaba is taken aback by the question; the answer should be obvious. He replies, “Why yes, Minister, of course! Physicists throughout the world have a working knowledge of the technology. Only a few countries, though, have the resources to develop nuclear weapons. They would be ourselves, Great Britain, Germany, the Soviet Union and, of course, the United States.”
None of the Counsel takes comfort in what the Professor has just stated. Japan is at war with three of the countries he has just listed and the other is an already defeated ally.
“So then, Professor, you feel the Americans could and would use a nuclear device against the Japanese Home Islands?” Anami asks.
“I can only speak for the could, and have already done so, Minister. As to would, that is a question for soldiers and statesmen. I am only a scientist.”
“I see,” Anami says, then yields the floor to Admiral Toyoda.
“How would the Americans deliver such a device, Professor?” Toyoda asks.
“It would depend on its size and weight, sir. Our weapon, as you know, is much too heavy for Japanese aircraft to lift. If the Americans can master the metallurgy to make a lighter casing, it is quite possible for them to deliver it by a bomber aircraft. Our attempts at this failed: we had no choice but to make the casing of iron. Of course, it could still be delivered by a sea vessel, even a submarine, if they could make the device watertight.”
Inaba wished with all his heart he could reel back the words he had just spoken.
I have given myself away! Fallen right into their trap! They must already know I planned to sabotage the device by compromising the watertight seals. How could I be so stupid?
I am doomed.
Feeling he now has nothing left to lose, Inaba offers one further opinion. “Gentlemen, if I may… if the Americans used a nuclear weapon, how could you tell? I have seen what my device can do and I have seen the results of the American fire bombing. I can only assume an American nuclear device would have similar characteristics to my own. Quite frankly, the fire bombing is more catastrophic, only less economical to deliver. What would be the difference to a devastated Japanese city?”
The silence in the Chamber is crushing. Inaba feels sure he will faint at any moment.
Finally, General Umezu speaks: “Very interesting point, Professor. Now, if you would be so kind, our staff has some technical questions for you. Please follow the escort. He will take you to them.”
This is it. I am a dead man.
Much to the Professor’s bewilderment, he is actually led to another conference room, where junior staff officers from the Army and Navy pepper him with questions about his device and the methods to employ it for over an hour. They are especially interested in the map of southern Kyushu: where could the device best be employed against the invasion beaches? Inaba draws circles on the map designating the blast radius. He then corrects their misapprehension that the device could be effectively detonated in a cave on the bluffs; much of the energy would be absorbed by the surrounding earth. He continues to answer their questions despite the fact he is so physically and emotionally drained, he can hardly stand or speak. His throat is so dry that no amount of water provides relief.
When the staff officers are finished, the Professor is driven to his family home in the countryside west of Tokyo. An army officer escorts him to the door. The officer thanks the Professor for his efforts, bids cordial best wishes to him and his bewildered wife, who has joined them at the door, and then drives away.
The Professor’s wife cannot understand why her husband, who she has not seen in months, is curled on the floor, weeping, until finally, in that very spot, he falls into a long but fitful sleep.
Chapter Twelve
John Worth and Marge Braden had made the 0400 breakfasts together an everyday occurrence. John was flying almost daily photo missions to Japan and the Ryukyus or weather missions, sometimes to the China coast, unless grounded by the frequent storms or the maintenance requirements of his airplane. Many missions, however, were resulting in no pictures because of bad weather or cloud cover over the objective; such was the lot of the photo recon pilot.
The breakfasts were the perfect start to his day, before the pre-dawn briefings and takeoffs at first light, a few moments away from anxiety of what he might soon face alone in the sky. For Marge, they were the perfect end to her 12-hour night shift, a chance to clear her mind, just for a few minutes, of the injured, the dead and those who might soon be so.
Everyone knew they were falling in love.
Major Kathleen McNeilly, Marge’s head nurse, knew it and issued this warning: “Be careful with your heart out here, Marjorie. Pilots may die… recon pilots just vanish.”
One morning in their first w
eek together, Marge says to John, “You know, you could take a day off now and then.”
“And exactly how would I do that?”
“Be sick,” she replies. “We get loads of flyers at the hospital every day with migraines, earaches, upset stomachs, but everyone knows there’s nothing really wrong with them. You can tell right away… they just want to sit out a mission. We just give them some sugar pills and pull them off flight status for a day or two. You mean to tell me you’ve never done that?”
“Nope.” He seems annoyed she has even suggested it.
“Nobody thinks any less of them, John.”
“Doesn’t matter. I couldn’t do that.”
“Well, give it some thought, will you? And speaking of flying, couldn’t you have gone back to the States by now? You’ve been overseas a long time. Haven’t you done enough missions?”
“Well, yeah, I could have gone back to the States. But I’m in the middle of my third tour and I can’t leave before it’s done.”
John can tell from the expression on Marge’s face that his answer is far from satisfactory.
“Besides,” he says, “I can’t see myself behind a desk or as some instructor… not while all this is still going on. From what I hear, pilots in this theatre won’t be released until the replacements from Europe are available, and that won’t be for a few months, at least.”
Marge’s facial expression changes. Now, it can mean only one thing: there’s something wrong with you!
“For cryin’ out loud, John… your third tour? You could have gone home twice? And you didn’t?”
She places the palm of her hand against his forehead, like a mother taking a child’s temperature. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right? Maybe you shouldn’t be flying today.”
Smiling, John pulls her hand off his head but continues to hold it tenderly.
“This ain’t like the 8th Air Force was in England, Marge. Those guys only had to fly 25 combat missions. Of course, their chances of surviving 25 missions was about one in three. Our odds are a little better. Here, a tour is longer, maybe 50 missions… supposed to be something like two or three hundred hours of combat flying. Of course, they can always order you to go home, like they did with Dick Bong.”
“Who’s Dick Bong?” Marge asks.
“Leading American fighter ace of all time…40 kills against the Japs. I think the brass got afraid he was going to get himself killed. He flew a P-38.”
“Just like you!” Marge says.
“No, he had guns. I’ve got cameras, remember?”
“Hey! You get shot at just the same, don’t you?” His continual self-denigration was beginning to wear itself thin.
Not wanting to dwell on the hard truth she had just spoken, Marge quickly moves on. “That reminds me of a joke Nancy Bergstrom told me. She got it from some fighter pilot she knows.”
“Nancy? One of the nurses in your group?”
“Yep, that’s her. Good old Nancy…the icy Nordic nymphomaniac who has devoted her brief military career to the physical pleasure of Army doctors.”
“No pilots?” John asks.
“Nope, just doctors, as far as I know. McNeilly hates that, too. Doesn’t think you should copulate with co-workers.”
“And that would be Major McNeilly, your boss?”
“Right again. Anyway, she said the real reason the 8th Air Force guys went home after 25 missions was to lessen their chances of knocking up more English girls. Apparently, the Brits felt one Churchill was enough.”
“Wait a minute,” John says, his face without a hint of a laugh. “Churchill’s mother was American!”
Marge sighs in exasperation. “OK, Farm Boy, you get an A in current affairs, but let’s work on the humor a little!”
“Hmm… and how many fighter pilots do you know, Marjorie?” He was still very serious.
“Only you, honey.”
John knew that could not be true. Women in combat zones are not starved for male attention. In fact, it was necessary to post MPs around the clock at the nurses’ quarters to ensure men heeded the signs that read FEMALE OFFICERS ONLY--ALL OTHERS KEEP OUT. And fighter pilots are not shy.
He begins to correct her, but she silences him with a finger to his lips and says, “Don’t forget…you’re supposed to show me your plane when I wake up later, right?”
Chapter Thirteen
The sky had cleared of American bombers. Colonel Ozawa took stock of his situation. The nuclear device was intact and serviceable, having survived the bombing raid on the Fukuoka docks. That raid, however, had cost Ozawa five men killed and three severely wounded. The seven remaining soldiers were ready to carry on with the mission, despite the wounds three of this number had received. The Colonel and his second in command, Watanabe, had both received minor wounds.
At least now they are able to communicate verbally. Everyone’s hearing is slowly returning, although the ringing in their ears would persist, probably to their planned death. It is a shame, Ozawa thinks, that “special” suicide troops had died without extracting a price in blood and steel from the Americans.
After getting his badly wounded to an aid station and leaving his dead with a local commander, Ozawa returns to the mission at hand. It is too soon to position the device at the suspected Ariake invasion site; suitable concealment there had not yet been arranged. Major Watanabe would be sent ahead to find an acceptable location and determine the best of the three available rail routes to move it the 70 miles to the chosen site. For now, it is to be hidden, away from the prying eyes of American airpower, regular Japanese troops, and the public.
The original plan was to store the device until deployment at Ariake Bay at the Kokura Arsenal some 30 miles to the north of Fukuoka. The arsenal, however, had begun to receive a good deal of attention from the bombers of the 5th and 20th Air Forces in recent days, as it was an aircraft production facility. Ozawa was instructed to improvise. He commandeered a large warehouse on the southeastern outskirts of Fukuoka that was miles from the docks as an alternative. The railroad tracks ran right inside this warehouse. This area had not been bombed yet.
The movement from the docks to the warehouse began smoothly enough, in stark contrast to the carnage several hours before. The small locomotive sent to tow the flatcar carrying the weapon is balky at first; to get it moving, the engineer has to repeatedly strike several steam valves with a mallet. These valves had been giving him trouble for a while, but there were no spare parts available. This is a nuisance but it does not impede progress.
Slowly, the locomotive begins to pull the flatcar away from the docks. It is risky doing this in broad daylight; the chance of air attack is high. Leaving the device exposed on the docks, however, is a greater risk. Ozawa now has barely enough soldiers to provide security here and at the Ariake Bay location Watanabe would select. It only takes one man, however, to activate and detonate the weapon, and each member of the Colonel’s team has been trained in these tasks and is ready to carry out the orders.
After several minutes underway, the train is stopped by a track switch that will not move. The engineer’s assistant pulls on the lever with all his might, but it will not budge. On closer examination, one of Ozawa’s men finds debris, probably from the bombing raid, lodged in the moveable section of the track. After producing a crowbar from the locomotive cab, the debris is dislodged and the track switch repositioned.
The engineer begins his mallet blows to the steam valves once again, but as the locomotive starts to move, a flight of four US Navy fighters, gull-winged F4U Corsairs, streaks low out of the north, following the train tracks. Strafing trains is great sport for fighter pilots: the thick geyser of steam that shoots suddenly skyward when the boiler is punctured is dramatic and unimpeachable evidence the train has been rendered useless. Provided, of course, the boiler does not blow apart like a bomb and knock its attacker from the sky.
Closing on the train from behind, the Corsairs slew from their echelon into a line formation, one behin
d the other, opening up in turn with their .50 caliber machine guns as each plane reaches close range. In fact, they are too close: the machine guns, mounted three in each wing, are bore-sighted so their rounds converge 300 yards in front of the aircraft. They would be much closer than that to the train when they fire. With the target centered in their gunsights; the projectiles would straddle the target.
The flight leader, US Navy Lieutenant Bob Kelly, anticipates this and kicks his rudder from side to side during his brief gun run, yawing the aircraft to shift the impact of the rounds, but he sees no geyser of steam result from his shooting. As he pulls up and turns west for a better look, he sees that none of the aircraft in his flight has achieved a kill, either. His frustration boils over.
Son of a bitch! We can’t shoot for shit!
Kelly’s problems are suddenly amplified as six Japanese “Tony” fighters appear out of nowhere behind his flight, spread adjacent in a “finger” formation. He calls for his four aircraft to regroup into two sections, each with a leader and a wingman. The leader would attack; the wingman would protect the leader’s tail. Kelly and his wingman turn north in an attempt to gain altitude and get behind the Jap fighters. The other section continues their full-throttle climb to the southwest, acting as the bait.
The Tonys respond: two Japs peel off to pursue Kelly and his wingman, the other four continue in pursuit of the bait. Seeing this, Kelly and his wingman roll on their backs into a split-s maneuver, a half loop that rapidly heads them in the opposite direction. They pass below their pursuers and begin the chase of the four Tonys pursuing Kelly’s other section.
Kelly thinks to himself: Where the hell are all these fighters coming from? They keep telling us the Japs have no trained pilots, they have no fuel...It’s all bullshit! More times than not we end up having to tangle with somebody! Or am I just unlucky?
Fortunately for Kelly and his group, these Japs are not very experienced. A few maneuvers in their direction and they disperse in panic. With the Tonys fleeing, Kelly brings his group higher, to a tactically more advantageous altitude. Once there, no Jap fighters are to be seen. Checking the fuel and ammunition remaining, Kelly decides they have played long enough on the doorstep of the enemy. It is time to return to the carrier, which is some 100 miles east-southeast of Kyushu. The encounter had lasted three minutes but felt like three hours. Tomorrow is another day.
East Wind Returns Page 5