East Wind Returns

by Grasso, William Peter

  With blank faces, the scientist and the military man silently shook hands. Neither felt the joy nor the relief they had hoped would come from what they had just witnessed: the culmination of the Manhattan Project.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Harmon Mann’s testicles are still rather tender from Bob Kelly’s kick. Walking slowly, Mann enters his squadron’s ready room tent and orders the duty NCO to get his plane ready. Then he proceeds to don his flying gear, but getting the parachute harness straps between his legs and against his crotch makes him see stars once again.

  As he heads to his aircraft--Number 43--his crew chief intercepts him and asks, “Where’s the fire, Captain? There’s no mission scheduled. We’re still doing post-flight on the aircraft from your last run.”

  “Who asked you to do that? This plane should be ready to fly at all times,” Mann replies, with dismissive arrogance.

  “Excuse me, sir, but post-flight maintenance is required,” the perplexed sergeant says.

  “Get your ass in gear and get this aircraft ready… Now! Is that understood, Sergeant?”

  With a reluctant sigh, the crew chief says, “Yes, sir. How much gas do you want?”

  “How much is on board?” Mann asks.

  “About 70 gallons, sir.”

  “Good…that’s enough,” Mann says.

  “Ah, come on, Captain, let us give you a little more than that! That’s hardly enough to go around the block a couple of times!”

  “Sergeant, don’t you understand English?”

  With another heavy sigh, the crew chief says, “Yes, sir. Will do.” There is no point arguing with this fool. Another crew chief and pilot standing nearby overhear the entire exchange and roll their eyes; they figure they will be good witnesses at the board of inquiry for this brewing disaster.

  The crew chief hurries his mechanics to complete what they are doing and stand by for departure. He then gives the P-47 a final once-over, signs the maintenance forms and presents them to Captain Mann, who is gingerly strapping himself into the cockpit, the sore groin still making its presence felt.

  Stuffing the maintenance forms next to his seat without even looking at them, Mann says, “There…that wasn’t so hard, was it, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir. Have a good flight, wherever you’re going. Stand by for clearance to start and…”

  Mann interrupts him. “I don’t need anybody’s goddamn permission to start this aircraft, Sergeant! Now get yourself and your people the fuck out of my way! I’m going flying.”

  The crew chief does not bother to acknowledge as he scrambles off the wing. He directs his mechanics not to pull the chocks at the main wheels until he signals to do so--ignore the asshole in the cockpit. He doesn’t want any of his crew, the battery cart used to turn the engine over, or the wheeled fire extinguisher to get run over by this impatient idiot. And, of course, he doesn’t want the airplane damaged, either, but that will be out of his hands shortly.

  Mann engages the starter and the big radial engine roars to life. After it warms up a moment, Mann signals for the chocks to be pulled. The mechanics stand still, looking to their crew chief. Mann, with great irritation, gives the signal to pull the chocks again.

  But the mechanics on the chocks still do not move; their crew chief, standing to the left front of the aircraft, has given no signal; he is waiting until the ground equipment and those tending it are well clear. Mann, growing even more impatient, decides he will simply drive the big fighter out of the chocks and shoves the throttle forward. Hearing the engine accelerating and blasted by propwash, the men on the chocks flee to safety, leaving those chocks still in place. The crew chief frantically signals Mann to cut the throttle. Mann responds by making a gesture with his left hand, the middle finger extended.

  As powerful as a P-47’s engine is, it still cannot overcome properly installed wheel chocks. To try to do so is foolish and dangerous to the pilot, his aircraft, and those in the vicinity. As Mann continues to advance the throttle, the plane’s tail starts to lift off the ground. Sensing the restrained plane is about to tip forward and her prop strike the ground, he chops the throttle and the tailwheel settles back down to the ground. As it does so, the front chocks, suddenly relieved of the pressure the main wheels had exerted against them, shoot forward a few inches.

  By this time, Captain Mann’s antics have drawn a crowd. Bets are being placed as to whether he will kill himself right there in the chocks or while actually attempting flight.

  Mann advances the throttle a second time. The plane jumps forward slightly until it contacts the chocks again; then the tail again rises off the ground until Mann chops the throttle. As the tailwheel settles to the ground, the chocks slide forward a little more.

  This cycle is repeated twice more, with Mann’s plane still restrained by the chocks. On the fifth attempt, the chocks have been displaced sufficiently forward and to the side so when the throttle is advanced, the plane’s forward motion strikes the chocks, then pushes them out of the way. Mann is free to do his worst. Those who bet he would die in the chocks fork over their stakes.

  As Mann taxies to the runway, the control tower calls him on the radio to ask what his intentions are; they have no scheduled takeoff of a single P-47 listed at this time. The call is in vain, as Mann has never bothered to turn on his radio.

  He holds short of the runway behind two B-24’s preparing to take off. Once they are airborne, Mann takes the runway and begins his takeoff roll without bothering to get clearance. This comes as a tremendous shock to the pilot of a B-25 cleared for immediate landing on that same runway, with one of her two engines shut down, a victim of flak over Kagoshima. Only a quarter mile from touchdown, the B-25 pilot has little chance of executing the go-around the frantic controller in the tower is demanding. His aircraft has enough trouble maintaining altitude, let alone climbing, on one engine. The flight back to Kadena has been a long, gradual descent--a “drift-down”--and once on final approach he has no choice but to land. This intruder on the runway before him poses a good chance of causing a fiery ground collision or, at a minimum, the B-25 having to swerve off the runway, causing more damage than she already possesses.

  Mann is oblivious to the twin-engined bomber bearing down on his tail. As he pushes his throttle forward for takeoff, his aircraft, much lighter than usual due to the minimal amount of fuel on board, begins to sprint eagerly down the runway and actually leaves a little room in its wake for the B-25 to land; when the bomber’s main wheels touch down, its nose is perhaps 200 feet behind Mann’s plane but traveling faster by about 50 mph. As Mann accelerates and the B-25 brakes firmly, the distance between the two aircraft shrinks to less than 10 feet. The bettors begin to quibble on how a ground collision would pay out under the terms of their wagers.

  But there is to be no ground collision. The intersection of the acceleration and deceleration curves of the two planes is never achieved. Mann’s aircraft breaks ground and the B-25 comes to a full stop. Her pilot takes a moment to regain his composure before taxiing to the ramp.

  Now Mann can reveal the real purpose for this unauthorized flight. He is going to show everyone who denied him his due--all those sons of bitches who didn’t recognize his superior status and entitlement by birthright, every woman who had refused his advances--why he is better than them. He will prove it with an aerobatic display.

  After retracting the landing gear and flaps, he begins with a low-level high-speed pass down the flight line about 20 feet off the ground. Then, he pulls up sharply into an Immelmann turn, a half loop that reverses his direction of travel and leaves him upside down, setting up an inverted pass over the flight line in the opposite direction. This gets a little tricky and quickly overwhelms Mann’s meager piloting skills. Not used to flying upside down, he panics as his plane sinks, bottom side up, toward a row of parked aircraft. He rams the stick forward to push the nose away from the approaching ground. The aircraft snaps straight up, shoots to 2000 feet and, as her airspeed bleeds off to
nothing, comes to a standstill in a brief vertical hover. Hanging on the straining propeller, she swaps ends suddenly and plummets, nose down, straight back to earth.

  Mann practically pulls the control stick out of its floor gimbal as he wrenches it back into his abdomen, asking--praying--for all the up elevator in his floundering ship’s capability.

  As the aircraft--going almost straight down–begins to accelerate, the elevator input begins to take effect and the nose begins to rise, slowly at first, then rapidly as the speed builds. She has achieved roughly level flight as her propeller, then her belly, strike the ground directly in front of the line of parked aircraft. The plane then slides along the ground, her engine seized and propeller tips bent over double, for several hundred feet, shedding parts all the way, finally coming to rest against a 2-1/2 ton truck that she impales broadside. The two occupants of the truck’s cab, seeing the massive fighter sliding toward them, are able to escape out the far side door just before the impact. There is a brief fire, but Mann’s plane has little fuel left to sustain it.

  The crash crew is on site quickly. They douse the flames, jettison the canopy, and pull Mann from the cockpit by his parachute harness straps. He lets out a howl as the sudden pressure on the straps makes itself felt in his still-tender groin. Fearing internal injuries, the crash crew places him on a stretcher and prepares to load him into an ambulance.

  Mann’s commanding officer puts a stop to it. He stands over Mann and asks, “Are you injured, Captain?”

  “No, Colonel, I do not believe I am,” Mann replies, trying to summon some respect in his quivering voice.

  “Just what the hell was that stunt all about, Captain?”

  “I was just giving my plane a post-maintenance check flight, sir.”

  Growing furious, the colonel asks, “Was it damaged in combat or an accident?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what the fuck did it need a check flight for, Captain?”

  “Well, I deemed it necessary, sir.”

  The Colonel silences him with a wave of his hand. “Bullshit,” he says. “You were hot-dogging during unauthorized flight and you managed to destroy an aircraft and a deuce and a half truck. You are grounded pending investigation of charges for court martial. Report to my office immediately.”

  “Yes, sir!” Mann replies, trying to sound like he gives a shit.

  As the Colonel turns and walks away, a smirking Mann mutters to himself, “Court martial, my ass! We’ll just see what Daddy has to say about that.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Darkness fell as Colonel Ozawa and his small team prepared to move the nuclear device again, this time to Ariake Bay. The small locomotive had arrived and was being connected to a boxcar for personnel and support equipment. The flatcar carrying the device was attached behind. The journey had to be completed in darkness; the risk of air attack was too great in daylight. Ozawa’s luck had held this time; the warehouse at Fukuoka, where the device had been hidden all these weeks, had never been bombed.

  Major Watanabe, Ozawa’s second-in-command, had selected and prepared the new hiding place at Ariake, a cave on the backside of the hills overlooking the bay, just large enough to accommodate the device on its flatcar. A spur several hundred yards long had been constructed from a main rail line right into the cave, allowing the flatcar to be backed in, then the track and cave mouth camouflaged with netting and vegetation. When the time came to deploy and detonate the device, the flatcar simply needed to be rolled out of the cave to the main line, then down the tracks to the coastal plain on the seaward side of the hills. No locomotive would be required; it was all downhill. Watanabe had also stockpiled spare track sections, ties, spikes, and tooling in case of bomb or shell damage.

  General Takarabe, the 57th Army commander responsible for defending southeastern Kyushu, was advised to expect the “special” unit to arrive in the early morning darkness. He was still troubled that he knew nothing of this unit’s mission or capabilities, but his mind was full of more urgent problems. His army had been trying to build defensive positions on the beaches and the plains immediately beyond but were making little progress. They could only work at night; any troops caught out in daylight were easy targets for the countless American fighters and bombers patrolling the skies above. He had few heavy anti-aircraft weapons; the light machine guns and rifles his units possessed were largely ineffective against aircraft. The Japanese planes that rose to counter the Americans might shoot a few down but never drove them off; there were just too many. When each night’s work was completed, it had to be concealed with camouflage by day from the eyes of the Americans in the sky.

  The defensive positions being constructed amounted to little more than trenches and fighting holes. Most lacked any sort of overhead cover as the lumber, concrete, and stone required had not been provided in any large amount. Furthermore, the work in the darkness had proven impossible to effectively supervise. Despite their best efforts, many of the positions dug would prove to be misplaced, with ineffective fields of fire, and have to be redone on subsequent nights. This cycle of planning, digging, correcting, and digging again went on for many weeks, wasting precious manpower.

  During daylight hours, his troops hid amongst the civilians in the cities and villages and conducted pointless “civil defense” drills, arming the populace with bamboo sticks and farming tools to bolster the people’s morale--and perhaps their own. But Takarabe had no intention of allowing civilian combatants on his battlefield; they would be nothing but a nuisance and a burden. Most Japanese generals felt the same way.

  Both generals grappled with the concept of beach defense, a doctrine the Japanese forces had not utilized in all their previous island campaigns, preferring to offer only token opposition on the beaches and then fight a fierce battle of attrition from the hills, caves, and mountains beyond. Of course, the Americans had ultimately defeated them in all those campaigns; maybe it was not such a bad idea giving this new concept a try.

  The small locomotive is making slow progress. Colonel Ozawa estimates the journey will take almost five hours, as much of the trip is uphill. Even at this slow pace, they should arrive at the new hiding place by 0300, with plenty of time before the sun rises again.

  The slow pace becomes even slower, however, as the locomotive’s boiler pressure drops and clouds of steam begin to envelop the small train; the drive piston for the right wheels is leaking badly. This locomotive, like everything else in Japan, is breaking down. The engineer shuts off the steam valve to the failed piston and attempts to move forward with just the left drive, but trying to pull all the weight with just one set of drive wheels on an uphill grade makes those wheels spin and slip on the track. The train progresses no farther.

  After a discussion with Colonel Ozawa, the engineer backs the train several miles to a level section of the track, then tries to proceed forward again, hopefully building up some speed to negotiate the incline. The train is able to move forward this time and even develop some speed, but it bleeds away immediately at the incline. The train once again comes to a stop, the left drive wheels still slipping.

  Their attempts to coax the faulty engine have consumed precious darkness. Ozawa is faced with two choices: return to the Fukuoka warehouse, running in reverse the entire way, or remain in his present position, 20 miles short of his destination, and wait for another locomotive. Either option will take hours and leave them exposed to the American planes at daylight. Ozawa chooses to remain at his current location and gamble on another engine arriving. The stricken locomotive, now without its load, slowly limps off, hoping to reach Ariake or Kagoshima, where the engineer might find a replacement. Ozawa and his few men remain with their device, immobile on the tracks.

  Sunrise brings another locomotive and new hope. As soon as they are coupled and underway once again, however, US Navy planes appear overhead. They swoop down for a closer look and then, to Ozawa’s astonishment, fly away.

  Lieutenant Bob Kelly, in the lead p
lane, calls his boys off. “Forget it, guys, we’re still not touching trains. Let’s not kill our own POWs.”

  What providence is smiling on me this day? Ozawa wonders, as Kelly’s flight disappears in the distance.

  Soon, another American plane, this time one of those fork-tailed P-38 types, streaks by but does not circle back.

  John Worth, the pilot of this aircraft, looks down from f-stop’s cockpit as she flies north on this low-level photo run. “Holy Shit!” he says, “That looks like that damn beer barrel!” He rolls hard right for a view unobstructed by wing, engine, or tail boom. f-stop’s right oblique camera captures the beer barrel clearly.

  At the post-mission debrief, Colonel Watson and his staff note the beer barrel with intense interest. The markings on the railroad flatcar are identical to the first photo. When translated, they reveal nothing of the beer barrel’s true nature.

  The following morning, John is ordered to report to his C.O., Colonel Harris. When told of this order, Marge becomes thrilled. She asks: “You think you’re going to get a medal?”

  “Doubt it. Wait! Maybe I’m getting promoted!”

  Marge likes the sound of that. “You’re certainly due…And I wouldn’t mind sleeping with a Major!”

  With a big smile, he says, “Don’t say that too loud. People might think you’re easy.”

  “Oh, shut up, Farm Boy,” she replies, moving in for her goodbye kiss. “Now hurry up. Don’t keep the colonel waiting.”