The sunrise coincides once again with the arrival of the American planes. f-stop is among them, and her pilot has never been a man more possessed. John’s quest to find the elusive device will now be conducted at low altitude. He feels he has no other option, whatever the added hazards. No other recon technique has succeeded so far, and he desperately needs success. Even though his superiors have repeatedly expressed the hope that the beer barrel has already been destroyed by bombing or shelling, John has his doubts: Who can count on that?
The decision to fly at low level made it necessary to describe the object of their search to the other two pilots in the section. But John still could not tell them its suspected nature. Their orders state that if they spot it, they are to call for Tac Air immediately to destroy it, whether they have photographed it or not. At the briefing, Frenchy Laroix seemed unimpressed, silently puffing his pipe as he shuffled through John’s old photos of the beer barrel. Rowdy Chambers took it all in with his usual humor, plus a healthy dose of skepticism. “Must be some real special kind of beer,” he said. “Can’t wait to taste it.”
John covers the Ariake beachhead area. At 300 feet, f-stop is drawing some belated ground fire but none of it has hit the F-5 due to her high speed: the Japs on the ground just don’t hear her coming.
John is banking left and right to get a better view of the ground immediately below for himself and the oblique cameras. On his second pass he sees it, unmistakable, rolling on its own on an open stretch of track leading to the beachhead. He pulls up sharply and turns hard left for another look while he calls for Tac Air. A Navy fighter section, Corsairs led by Lieutenant Bob Kelly, respond and are over the target in moments, attacking with bombs, rockets, and .50 caliber machine guns.
When the Corsairs are finished, the beer barrel is still there, seemingly undamaged. On his next pass, John can see a few people scurrying about the barrel and its flatcar, which is now stationary and still in the open. It does not appear to be neutralized.
John’s mind is crystal clear. He embraces the cataclysmic importance of this moment.
I’m going to take this thing out…or die trying.
He calls for another air attack against his target, trying not to sound frantic as he begins his transmission with his call sign, “Focus 4-7.”
He is horrified at the next response: a Navy fighter unit, different from the one John had just directed, is reporting the target destroyed!
“Focus 4-7, this is Blue Papa 6-1…we took it out already…we’re done.”
John sees what Blue Papa 6-1 is describing a short distance to the south. They had, in fact, attacked and destroyed a few rail cars--the wrong rail cars.
“Papa 6-1, this is Focus 4-7…that’s the wrong target! Wrong coordinates! I need another strike now to the north of your position.”
“Sorry, Focus…we’re taking some fire here…we did our bit, we’re heading home. Your target’s destroyed.”
Bob Kelly tries to intercede. “Papa 6-1, this is King 6-6…that’s the wrong train. We’ve got another one about a mile or two north of your position.”
“King 6-6…this is Papa 6-1. No can do, sir. It’s just a damn train…we’re done…OUT.”
Despite John Worth’s entreaties, no other Tac Air unit--Army or Navy--will respond for another strike at the beer barrel. They had all heard the radio conversations; they had just written it off as another case of the “fog of war.”
No point getting yourself killed for somebody else’s confusion…and they’re only talking about a damn train, not some crucial target!
In desperation, John considers broadcasting what the device is and why it needs to be destroyed immediately, but who would believe him? They would have no idea what he was talking about and he simply could not disobey the order to keep it secret, no matter how little he thought of the wisdom and motivations of the high command at this moment.
But he cannot give up and run away.
Colonel Ozawa has only two men left, both wounded but not incapacitated. Watanabe and the others have been killed in Kelly’s air attack. The nuclear device appears indestructible, if dented, from bullets and bomb fragments. They have trouble, however, finding the detonator equipment amidst the debris of the attack. When they finally locate all of it, the generator’s plunger is damaged, but Ozawa is sure he can get it to work anyway. The wheels of the flatcar are miraculously still on the tracks, which have received some damage but look able to fulfill their purpose at least one more time. The Colonel turns the hand wheel that releases the brakes and the flatcar slowly resumes its downhill journey to the wooded hide.
John continues to orbit above, following Ozawa’s progress. With their last few rounds, Bob Kelly and his section try one more strafing run to no apparent effect when viewed from John’s perspective.
Ozawa has a decidedly different view of this last strafing. While it is true the Corsair’s bullets did not harm the device, only denting the thick iron casing still more, they manage to kill his last two men, and fragments wound him in the left arm and leg. He is in great pain but not incapacitated. So close to his destiny, these wounds will not stop him.
All this action draws the aircraft closer to the American front line. To the frightened, green US troops manning an anti-aircraft section, it appears a twin-engined plane, possibly a Japanese Nakajima “Irving,” having been pursued by some gull-winged US Navy Corsairs, is now heading their way at low altitude. John Worth’s F-5, presenting only a thin forward silhouette as she approaches them, proves not as recognizable as the Corsairs. Even when she turns and flies north across their field of vision, showing a side view, the morning sun reflects brightly off the unpainted aluminum, obscuring the twin boom configuration and US markings. The terror of first combat overrides any doubt they may have of the aircraft’s identity. They open up on her with their .50 caliber guns.
John feels the thump of a round’s impact, then many more thumps a split second later, like the sound of dumping a basket of apples on a table. f-stop’s right engine immediately gives signs of being mortally wounded; it vibrates badly as it trails oily smoke and glycol vapor. He tries to check the engine instruments but the cockpit has become a shambles. It is filling with electrical smoke. Instruments and switches on the right side of the forward panel are a tangle of severed wires and torn, jagged metal. His right arm hurts and bleeds. His face is cut, too. He suspects the rounds that hit him have come from the American lines. More little red balls--tracer rounds--come streaming past f-stop's nose, right to left--friendly fire. A few more thumps: the left engine starts to lose power, too. John knows he cannot keep her in the air much longer. He is too low to bail out.
The American gunners realize their collective mistake as the target turns left again, away from them, and completes a half-circle, trailing smoke. They still can’t make out the national markings, but the P-38 shape is now unmistakable. The gunners look at each other, dumbfounded. A new, sickening despair replaces their whoops of triumph. They have killed one of their own. After a few moments, though, the denial mechanism of self-defense kicks in: they had fired at an enemy airplane; the Japs brought down the P-38.
John might have been dealt a bad hand, but he is far from dead. He knows an airstrip just to the south of Ariake Bay is in American hands; he had seen a few spotter planes already there, slow and vulnerable Stinson L-5’s that had island-hopped up the Ryukyu’s from Okinawa. It is a little over 5 miles away; he points f-stop toward it. He hopes he can keep her in the air long enough to make an emergency landing at the airstrip--or at least crash-land within the American beachhead.
He keeps the dying right engine running, hoping it might deliver just enough thrust to get to the airstrip. But it seizes about halfway there. The left engine is still struggling on, though laboring and smoking badly. The engine gauges are among those shot away; he adjusts the engine power by the seat of his pants.
About a half mile out, he extends the landing gear and is relieved to get all three down and locked i
ndications. John feels certain that f-stop is in the final moments of her flying life. She is too badly damaged to repair, uneconomical in logistics terminology. He would try to make this last, crippled landing as kind to her as possible.
She touches down gently on the airstrip’s crude dirt runway, but John can feel immediately the right main gear tire is gone, destroyed by the friendly fire. Riding on just the steel wheel rim, the rollout is violently rough, the deceleration rapid as she slews to the right. In a great cloud of dust, f-stop comes to rest clear of the runway; her first landing on Japanese home island soil, her last landing ever.
Rapidly gathering his maps and charts, John propels himself from her cockpit as American soldiers approach to help. She is still smoking; he needs to get some distance in case she bursts into flame. But after he slides off the wing to the ground, he stops for a brief moment and hugs f-stop’s tall nose gear. Softly, he says, “Thanks, old girl.”
Gingerly, he peels off his bloody flight jacket to get a better look at his wounds. Great…a third Purple Heart…Marge will be so thrilled. He pats his breast pocket, which now holds her miraculously undamaged photo, salvaged from the instrument panel.
An American captain appears before him and asks, “Are you Major John Worth, sir?”
“Yes, I am.”
“General Krueger needs to see you immediately, sir.”
While hurrying to Krueger’s command post across the open ground pockmarked by pre-invasion bombing and shelling, John notices several steam locomotives and numerous freight cars on nearby tracks. There’re trains all over this damn island, he thinks.
At the command post tent, a medic inspects John’s wounds and finds them superficial. He applies antibiotics and bandages, then quickly departs. His services are in greater demand elsewhere.
Mark Colton enters the tent with General Krueger’s Intelligence and Operations Officers. John is surprised to see the Navy physicist again, so far from the comforts of MacArthur’s Manila headquarters.
“Didn’t recognize you in working man’s clothes, Mark.”
“Swell to see you, too, John. Sounds like you found the damned thing. We heard the radio chatter, figured it was you. Don’t worry, they know all about the beer barrel,” Colton says, nodding to the other officers present.
“Yeah, I found it again…about 5 miles from here, just a little beyond our lines,” John says, unfurling his map.
“We need to get Tac Air back on it and…” the Operations Officer begins, but John cuts him off.
“We probably don’t have any time, sir. It’s pretty well hidden from the air now, in a thick grove near here,” John says, pointing to a spot on the map. “Navy Tac Air hit it twice, but it still looks alive. I saw some personnel with it, too.”
“And what makes you so sure it’s not already neutralized?” This question comes from General Krueger as he strides into the tent.
“At ease, gentlemen,” the General commands as all present brace to attention.
John figures the General’s question has been put to him, so he replies, “It was all water off a duck’s back, sir. Doesn’t look like we hurt it a bit. Probably needs a direct hit with a 500 pounder or better.”
The General seems unimpressed. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again in person, Major Worth. Are you hurt badly?”
“No, sir, I’m OK, but with all due respect, there’s no time to organize another air strike. There are no eyes on the target now. Some Navy pilots tried to help, but they’re gone, too. It’ll be hit and miss just trying to find it again…there are rail cars scattered all over this goddamn place. Even artillery or shipboard guns would have only a small chance without someone in the air directing the fire.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Major. Do you have a better plan?”
Pointing to the spot on his map, John asks, “Can’t our ground troops just push up to there quickly, sir? It’s not far from our lines. Isn’t that what they’re supposed to be doing, anyway?”
“No,” Krueger says. “I don’t need the Air Force’s advice on tactics. The units on that part of the line are already worn out…finished…ineffective. I’m moving in replacements in the morning.”
“By morning, we’ll probably all be just hot dust, sir,” Mark Colton says, his voice shaky, trying but failing to keep his fear down.
“Of course, Commander! I forgot your reason for being here for a moment. You still expect me to believe the Japs have such an unbelievable weapon?” the General asks.
“Yes, sir, I do. They’re deploying it right now, right under our noses. We’ve got to do something!”
Krueger looks prepared to cut Mark Colton off at the knees. John Worth intercedes. “General, if I may?”
“Go ahead, Major.”
“At first, I thought you might loan me one of the observation planes you have sitting here so I could adjust some artillery fire on it, but slow as they are, I’d probably just get knocked down again.”
“True,” Krueger says. “We’ve lost two to ground fire not far from here already. Why didn’t you call for artillery fire yourself after the Navy flew away?”
“I would have loved to, sir, except I got shot down…by your guys, I believe. So how about this? The track the bomb is on runs right to our location. It’s about a 5-mile distance. We have trains right here. Let’s use one to mount a raid. Instead of fighting our way in on foot, we’ll just drive in an iron locomotive. I don’t think they’ll be expecting that. Better than a tank!”
“And who the hell can drive a train?” the General asks.
“I can, sir,” John replies. “Let’s put a platoon into a couple of freight cars, stick an American flag on the roof so maybe our own pilots won’t attack, and I’ll drive them straight to the damn thing. Real quick, the platoon secures it, Commander Colton deactivates it, then we get the hell out of there. We need to get the word to our forward troops not to shoot us, though. I think it’s our best shot.”
John’s words startle and horrify Mark Colton who, until this moment, had not seen himself as a hands-on participant in this war.
Krueger considers John’s plan for a few moments, then asks, “When did you learn to drive a locomotive, Major?”
“I’ve known ever since I was a kid, sir…used to ride with my uncle. He was an engineer. He taught me.”
After another moment deep in thought, Krueger says, “Tell you what, Major, I suppose I can spare a platoon. How long until you’re ready to roll?”
“One of the locomotives looks like it was abandoned with its boiler still hot and its tender has plenty of coal. We should have steam up in about 20 minutes.”
Krueger points to a colonel and says, “Get a fresh platoon from the 81st on the double…one that hasn’t been on the line yet. Give them a couple of extra machine guns as well.” Then turning to Worth and Colton, the General says, “I think this is a fool’s game, gentlemen, but what the hell. I’ll designate this operation ‘Task Force Worth.’ Good luck to you.”
General Krueger had one further thought he did not dare to speak aloud: and MacArthur has no intention of setting foot on Kyushu until this is put to bed.
John Worth and Mark Colton climb into the locomotive’s cab. Mark assumes the job of fireman, shoveling coal into the smoldering firebox as John studies the valves and gauges. Mark is decidedly grim-faced.
“Good job, Mark. Keep that coal coming. Get a good blaze going in there.”
After a few moments of evaluation, John says, “This looks pretty simple. Ignore the markings in Japanese. Just follow the pipes.”
Mark cannot answer. His nerves are getting the better of him. He has just vomited into the coal tender. I hope to hell I don’t piss my pants, too. John manages a slight laugh, then helps Mark to his feet and says, “Buck up there, sailor…a lot of guys are counting on you right now.” There are no words from Mark in response, just a sickly groan and a terrified stare into the distance.
John watches the boiler pressure build for about 1
5 minutes. Gingerly, he opens what he figures is the directional control valve fully in one direction, then opens what is obviously the throttle just a bit. With a chug, the locomotive moves slowly forward. John grabs and pulls another lever and the wheels stop with a screech. “OK,” John says. “Now we know how to go forward, backward, and stop. All we have to do now is figure out how to keep the boiler from exploding. One of these must be the manual pressure relief valve.” Slowly, he operates some valve handles until a big cloud of steam escapes a vent atop the boiler with a loud hiss. “That’s the one!” John says, confident he now has the foreign machine mastered. Mark tries to force a smile of acknowledgement, but it will not come. He goes back to shoveling coal as John gives him a supportive pat on the back. “Stay with it, sailor. You’re doing just fine.”
Nearly an hour later, about 40 men--an infantry platoon--approach the train at a double-time march. Trailing a bit behind are two four-man teams, each team lugging a .30 caliber machine gun each plus many belts of ammunition.
A strapping lieutenant steps up to John, salutes. He introduces himself as First Lieutenant Malcolm “Bud” Davies, leader of Third Platoon, A Company, 127th Infantry, 81st Division.
“Bud Davies, the Michigan State fullback?”
“Yes, sir!”
“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” John says, extending his hand. “You were about the toughest ball carrier I ever tried to tackle. I’m John Worth. I played a little at Iowa State.”
Bud’s grin is wide and sincere. “Small world, sir! Glad to see you again… too bad the circumstances couldn’t be better. What do you need me and my boys to do?”
East Wind Returns Page 22