Chapter 50
Late April, 1942. The Imperial Palace.
Emperor Hirohito reclined in a stuffed sable-brown leather chair, alone in a darkened room, the smoke of his cigarette illuminated by a movie projector clattering behind his right shoulder. He gazed without expression at Donald Duck hopelessly trying to free himself from a folding beach chair in the Disney film Donald’s Vacation. A servant arrived with tea on an inlaid wooden tray. Without turning his eyes, the Emperor inquired, “Where did you say they found this again?”
“Guam, Your Majesty. When we took the island in December.”
The Emperor picked up the teacup from the tray and looked back at the screen. “It’s very funny,” he said plainly.
“Yes, Your Majesty. May I get you anything else?”
He gave no answer as he sipped his tea and studied an angry, frustrated Donald Duck, trapped in his misfolded chair, quacking curses at a string of chipmunks stealing his food. A smile crept across the Emperor’s lips. “You see?” He glanced at the servant, then pointed at the screen. “Even the big duck is trapped by his love of luxury and easily defeated by a group of smaller creatures with fighting spirit.”
Chapter 51
Late April, 1942. The Battleship Yamato.
Grasping his bamboo sword with both hands beside his head, Fuchida lunged at Genda who parried off the glance. “This is nonsense!” Fuchida exclaimed. “Of course Tokyo will be bombed again.”
Below decks in a cleared out storage area of scuffed walls, Fuchida and Genda, both barefoot, traded blows with shinai15 in the martial art of kendo on the matted floor. They were dressed in traditional broad, black pants, and full protective gear – black canvas helmets with wide flaps and a ribbed metal masks, padded gauntlets, and black leather breastplates.
“Move the Emperor to Kyoto or Nara,” Fuchida said angrily, “but we shouldn’t be taking a defensive posture!” He lunged again with a strike toward Genda’s head.
Genda quickly deflected it with a crack and countered with a strike at Fuchida.
“A samurai carries no shield!” Fuchida said.
With the outlawing of the samurai class in the 19th century, they faded from their prior position of status, but the age-old martial art of kendo, “the way of the sword,” found its place in the early 20th century. The sport grew in popularity, eventually being performed before the Emperor himself. Along with restoring the values of Bushido – the “way of the warrior,” the samurai code of conduct,16 kendo honed the mind and body as a classical warrior.
“If we can draw out their carriers, we’ll defeat them,” Genda said between breaths. “The Americans have little left to fight with. It would be nearly impossible for them to put up much fight at all.”
Fuchida lowered his shinai and stepped up to Genda. “What a nonsensical operation! Our battleships will be three hundred miles behind us. What the hell can they do with those guns back there? At least if they were ahead of us they could help defend the carriers! That’s where we need them.” Fuchida angrily jerked his shinai up into a defensive posture and stepped back. Genda leapt forward with a series of violent swings that Fuchida fended off.
“I don’t think we’ll need them,” Genda said.
Fuchida stood erect and gestured with his free hand. “And why would the Americans risk their remaining carriers to defend a tiny island? What if they don’t come out at all? When we take the island, how will we defend it from four thousand miles away?” Fuchida crouched again and circled to his right raising his shinai. “If we cut off Australia from American support by attacking Fiji and Samoa ...” he lunged forward and struck Genda on the shoulder, “... then launch another full-scale attack against Pearl Harbor, that will bring out their fleet.”
Panting, Genda pushed up his helmet to reveal his sweaty head wrapped in cotton cloth. “The plan is decided.” He pulled off his helmet and unwrapped his head, as did Fuchida, who wiped the sweat from his face with the cloth. Genda continued, panting, “But then, you knew that ... from the beginning. Once Yamamoto made up his mind ... he had set his course.” The two retired to a storage closet.
Fuchida said, “We’re rushing into a plan without the ability to prepare.”
Genda untied the straps of his gauntlets and tossed them on a shelf one at a time. “By the way, we’ve recovered some of the American B-25s in China. They ran out of fuel and crashed.”
Fuchida looked at Genda with keen interest, the sweat dripping down his cheeks.
“They were medium bombers fitted with extra fuel tanks for a one-way long-range attack, we now think from a carrier. They were to land in China from the start. That’s how they did it.”
Unfastening his breastplate, Fuchida paused, then nodded. “Yankee ingenuity.” He picked up a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and raised it to his lips. “Very clever.”
Chapter 52
Late April, 1942. Madras, Oregon.
Mrs. Andrus dumped a scoop of grain into a pail as hungry horses in their stalls anxiously leaned out and pawed the sawdust. As she dug the scoop into the barrel of grain, her red merle Australian Shepherd let out a howl and a string of barks. She turned to see two black sedans pull up to the barn and skid to a stop. Four men in suits stumbled out with notepads. She knew it was good news or bad news about Jake, and feared the worse.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the first one shouted as he trotted up and tipped his fedora. “Are you Mrs. Andrus, the mother of Jacob DeShazer?”
“That I am,” she said politely.
“We’re from the Oregon Journal.”
“And The Oregonian,” another declared.
“And would just like to get some details, and maybe a picture of your son, Jake.”
“He’s a hero,” a third reporter chimed in.
Goose bumps skimmed over her back and arms. She’d read about Jake’s adventure like everyone else, but with the joy only a mother could understand. Now the press wanted to know more.
The Doolittle Raid brought a boost to U.S. morale across the country, but in the tiny town of Madras where wheat prices and weather were big news, word that one of their own was part of the bold attack on Japan was sensational.
“That’s Jake all over,” Mrs. Andrus said proudly. “He’s daring – would never do anything that looked like a sissy.”
The reporters scrawled furiously.
“From the first he wanted to get into the fight. Said he’d like to go over and help lick the Japs.”
“Are you concerned about him?” the first reported asked.
Mrs. Andrus dumped another scoop of grain into the pail. She looked at the reporters with a smile. “The last note he sent me said, ‘Don’t worry about me, Mom, I’m in no danger.’” She carried the pail and leaned over the stall fence and dumped the grain into a bucket hanging beside a black horse.
The fourth reporter in a tan suit spoke up. “You know he hasn’t been located yet. If he falls into Jap hands, can he take the torture they dish out?”
Mrs. Andrus stopped and turned to the reporter and looked him in the eye, her gentle smile turning into a hard glare. “I said he’s no sissy.”
Chapter 53
Late April, 1942. Nanking,17 China.
Blindfolded, unshaven, and filthy, Jake sat in a darkened room at a small table with his wrists cuffed together on his lap. He had little to eat the past few days and even less sleep. Neither did he have any idea where he really was and had completely lost track of time. His wrists ached.
A Japanese officer sat across from him at the table lit by a single hanging lamp. Three soldiers stood or leaned against the wall to the side, curiously observing. The officer snarled in English, “Who sent you on this mission?”
Jake gave no reply.
“Where did you fly from?”
Jake remained steadfast.
“Where - did - you - fly – from?!”
Jake knew what he was supposed to do. “My name is Jacob DeShazer, corporal, US Army Air Corps, serial number z
ero-six-five-eight ...”
“Idiot! Don’t you know what we can do to you?! We’ll torture you and then we’ll shoot you!” The interrogator stood up abruptly, knocking his own chair back onto the floor with a crack. He walked up beside Jake, leaned down, and spoke softly. “Did you know we have bombed San Francisco?” He moved right up to Jake’s face. “We now occupy the city. Right now, our Emperor is riding his white horse down the streets of your city.” He paused a moment, then burst into cackling laugh.
He turned to one of the soldiers and blurted out in Japanese. “Take him to Kuroyama!” Two soldiers clenched his arms, hoisted him to his feet, and dragged him out the door.
In his darkness, Jake could tell they led him up a couple of flights of stairs, then he was shoved into another room where a soldier finally untied his black blindfold. Jake squinted and blinked as he stood in the harsh light staring at a short, stocky officer puffing on a cigar on the other side of a table scattered with papers. Several other soldiers surrounded him. Now what?
The officer rubbed his hands together, then plucked the cigar from his mouth. “I wish you to know that I want to treat you good,” the officer said with a British accent. He pointed at Jake. “Very good. I have the reputation of being the kindest judge in all of China. You know this? You’re lucky to have me question you. You answer my questions and I’ll get you a glass of milk.” He once again sucked the smoke from his stogie.
Jake looked around the room at his captors when a soldier from behind yelled something in Japanese and forced him down into a chair. The officer carefully slid some papers in front of Jake, all the while staring into his eyes. The water-stained sheets of paper were burned along one edge. The hair stood up on Jake’s neck. It was a roster of the entire list of men on the Doolittle Raid retrieved from one of the wrecked B-25s. Jake pretended not to care. The records should have been destroyed by the crews before ditching the aircraft. Fools.
The officer confidently blew a cloud of smoke. “You and your friends, eh?” He waited for an answer. “Do you know this Doolittle?”
Jake stared at the wall. “I’ve heard of him. I think he’s a stunt pilot.” He swallowed hard with a dry throat. Man, was he thirsty.
The officer pounded his fist on the table, “Look at me when you answer!”
Jarred, but retaining his composure, Jake stared again into the officer’s eyes, who quickly diverted his own away.
The officer paced and came back to the table. “Where are the Chinese hiding their gasoline?”
Jake knew that, as a prisoner of war, he was only required to give his name, rank, and serial number, but he also knew that, although the Japanese signed the Geneva Convention, they never ratified it and didn’t have such a good reputation when it came to Chinese prisoners of war. But all that didn’t even matter now since he really didn’t know.
“Where is it?!” the officer said.
Again Jake looked up into the officer’s face. “I don’t know, and if I did, I wouldn’t say.”
Perturbed, the officer glanced over to the other soldiers, then back to Jake. “What does H-O-R-N-E-T spell?”
“Hornet.”
“And what is that?”
Jake thought for a second. “It’s a bug.” He raised his cuffed hands and gestured with his fingers. “A kind of wasp that –”
The officer slapped his hand on the papers. “That is the name of the aircraft carrier you flew from to bomb Japan! Isn’t it?!”
Jake stared at his flat hand on the papers, then looked him back in the eyes. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not in the navy. I’m in the Army Air Corps.”
“And Doolittle was your commanding officer. Right?!”
“You know I can’t answer that question.”
Slowly walking to Jake’s side of the table the officer drew his sword from its scabbard and, with both hands, suspended it above Jake’s head. “It’s considered a great honor for a judge to cut off the head of a prisoner! Tomorrow at sunrise I will have this honor!” He lowered his sword while staring at Jake, then slowly sheathed it. “What do you think about that?” He crossed his arms firmly.
Jake sat stoically gazing at the wall in front of him. “I think it would be a great honor for me to have the kindest judge in all of China cut off my head.”
The room burst into chuckles and the officer smiled and nodded. Jake showed no emotion. “Takeshita,” the officer said staring at Jake with admiration, “go get him a glass of milk.”
Early the next morning, Jake stood before an aging concrete wall – handcuffed and blindfolded. He’d barely slept the previous night while still handcuffed on a bare wooden floor with no blankets, and he hadn’t eaten in a day, other than the cup of milk he accidentally won. Nothing seemed to matter to him now, and it showed in his hunched posture. He could hear the men speaking among themselves and discerned clicking of sticks of some kind. From what he’d been told, you didn’t really feel a thing when they cut off your head. They used pretty sharp swords. They even made a game of it sometimes. Would his mom would ever know what happened, or why? He wasn’t sure why himself. He tried to swallow.
“Are you ready?” one soldier said to another in Japanese.
“I’m ready.”
A soldier exclaimed in English “Prisoner, stand up straight.”
Jake straightened up a bit. He was as ready as he’d ever be.
“OK, go ahead.”
Someone slid off Jake’s blindfold and he strained his eyes in daylight sun. Another soldier unlocked his handcuffs.
Jake looked for the officer with the sword, but only saw a group of soldiers around a camera on a tripod. He was confused and, in a strange way, almost disappointed. “You want me to smile or something?” Jake said.
“Be still!” A shutter clicked. The photographer wound the film forward, then clicked again.
“Take him to the airport with the others,” the photographer said motioning to a soldier. “Put the blindfold and handcuffs back on.”
Chapter 54
May 1, 1942. The Battleship Yamato. Hashirajima Bay, 25 miles south of Hiroshima.
The late afternoon sun shimmered on the peaceful waves as the fleet sat at rest. Inside the Yamato, it was war. Admiral Yamamoto and a crowd of officers anxiously stared down on a map table big enough to park a car on, watching an aid push markers across the chart for their war games. His guts were taut. The turning of the entire Pacific War would hinge on this single battle – a plan of his own making.
A “runner” strode up to Vice Admiral Nagumo, saluted, then held out a note with his other hand. This was day one of the war games and Nagumo’s forces were engaging Midway by aerial assault, just like he’d done at Pearl Harbor.
“Sir, Red Team sends attack aircraft against the Carrier Strike Force,”
Yamamoto watched Genda shake his head and unconsciously roll his lit cigarette between his fingers as a scorekeeper placed a set of tiny red aircraft to the flank of Nagumo’s fleet. The operation depended on surprise. Everyone knew that anything less could be disastrous. This was a bad start for the games.
Ugaki, the judge, frowned. “Such tactics are impossible on such short notice. An air attack from Midway would need to have been fully anticipated and an attack from a carrier could only be from forces positioned and also fully prepared for such a strike.”
The map displayed Japan, part of Russia, the Aleutian Islands, and the Hawaiian Islands – an area comprising over 15,000,000 square miles. Just southeast of the center of the map was a red pin marking the nearly invisible and previously unimportant Midway atoll, a tiny barrier reef with a few sand islets at the far northwestern tip of the Hawaiian island chain.
Every high ranking officer of the Imperial Japanese Navy surrounded the table and intently peered down on the clusters of blue miniature wooden warships representing the various Japanese strike and occupation forces. Red miniatures represented the American surface forces.
With the advent of the Doolittle Raid, Yamamoto had finally
won the battle with headquarters to gain approval of his plan to attack the Americans at Midway, but they mandated that the plan be tested by the sharpest minds on his staff. They insisted Yamamoto put all doubts to rest before engaging in battle.
War games were serious business. Yamamoto, a keen poker player, knew that even the slightest error could result in disaster. It was in this gambling den that the commanders had to predict the unpredictable and expect the unexpected to ensure the success of their mission. The capture of Midway and the destruction of the American carriers were only a part of an ambitious and complex second phase of the war. Faltering here could be catastrophic, and Yamamoto knew it more than any of them.
For these war game exercises, Combined Chief of Staff Rear Admiral Ugaki acted both as commander in chief of the Blue Japanese Forces and as judge. The commanders of the Red American Forces directed their navies from two other rooms.
Yamamoto’s plan was for Vice Admiral Nagumo, leader of the Pearl Harbor attack, to once again lead the critical Carrier Strike Force, this time against Midway. Genda stood beside him, both literally and figuratively. Admiral Yamamoto, the highest ranking officer in the room, would lead the main force of the Combined Fleet, 300 miles southwest to the rear of Nagumo’s forces to keep himself hidden from the Americans. By the time the U.S. forces came to defend their island, they would be ambushed by the overwhelming combined force Nagumo’s attack carriers and of Yamamoto’s battleships. At least, that’s what he’d planned and hoped.
After capturing Midway and destroying the American fleet, he would send his forces down to the northeast of Australia to take New Caledonia and Fiji to establish further bases and cut off the Americans from Australia. Finally, within two months of the Midway invasion, Yamamoto would send the full force of the Combined Fleet to attack and occupy Hawaii. The war would be over. America would have to accept Japanese terms.
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