She stepped still closer to Fuchida, her voice beginning softly, “I never wanted this filthy war. Everything is lost. Gone! Destroyed!” With her sooty hands she seized Fuchida’s lapels, to the amazement of the other officers. “Now where will you lead us?! Where do we go now?” Her words exhausted, her composure broke, and she began to weep and tremble, slowly sliding down to Fuchida’s feet, her hands streaking his uniform with soot, and wept at his feet.
As the speechless officers stared, the woman moaned at the feet of Fuchida, his eyes fixed on the smoke-shrouded horizon. He had no words.
Chapter 107
11:01 a.m., August 9, 1945. Nagasaki, Japan.
A spectacular brilliant blue-white flash of light illuminated the city followed by a thunderous shockwave; wicked, twisting flames; and another fireball within a rumbling column of smoke rising into another massive mushroom cloud high above Nagasaki.
Among the over 60,000 people who were instantly killed, the sprawling Mitsubishi-Urakami Ordnance Works lay in smoldering ruins. Constructed on the east bank of the Uratami River, it was the end of the factory that manufactured the type 91 torpedoes – the torpedoes that were used against the United States in Pearl Harbor – the torpedoes that began the war.
1:30 a.m., August 10, 1945. Tokyo, Japan.
Alone, dressed in his khaki military uniform, Emperor Hirohito sat in a stuffed burgundy leather chair in his living room in the Imperial Palace, his head resting on his hand, his eyes closed, his other hand clutching two sheets of paper. A single lampstand beside him lit the deathly silent room.
Opening his eyes, he sat upright and looked down at the pages which he had read through a dozen times – a translation of a White House press release from President Harry S. Truman. His eyes stopped at three penetrating sections:
“We are now prepared to obliterate more rapidly and completely every productive enterprise the Japanese have above ground in any city. We shall destroy their docks, their factories, and their communications. Let there be no mistake; we shall completely destroy Japan’s power to make war.”
“It was to spare the Japanese people from utter destruction that the ultimatum of July 26 was issued at Potsdam. Their leaders promptly rejected that ultimatum. If they do not now accept our terms they may expect a rain of ruin from the air, the like of which has never been seen on this earth.”
“It is an atomic bomb. It is a harnessing of the basic power of the universe. The force from which the sun draws its power has been loosed against those who brought war to the Far East.”
The words hovered over him like scavenging birds awaiting death. The power of the sun had been turned against the land of the sun. Sighing deeply, he looked through the exquisitely draped window into the hollow night of the future.
Chapter 108
August 12, 1945. OSS Headquarters, Kunming, China.
“We’ve gotten word from Washington that the Japs are going to surrender soon,” said Colonel Bill Peers, the tall OSS33 officer to his group of seven volunteers, standing and sitting on tables and chairs.
Dick Hamada, a twenty-three year old bilingual sergeant, eyed the map behind Colonel Peers. The open windows of the clapboard building gave him little relief to the oppressive heat.
“Your team is going to be dropped into the area of Peking to get as many American POW’s out of the hands of the Japanese before they can do anything to them in retaliation. You know, one last act of revenge for the Emperor.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Nichols said. “You told us fifty times. General Wedemeyer’s given us carte blanche to do whatever’s necessary to get our boys out.” Heading the team was Major Ray Nichols, a fearless bear of a man from Alabama. Also attached was a doctor, two Chinese interpreters, a radio operator, and another officer.
Located in far south-central China only 150 miles north of the border with French Indochina, the city of Kunming was a major hub of Allied activity and cooperation between the Chinese and American military for operations of all kinds in China and Burma. During 1941 and 1942 the airfield had been home to two squadrons of the famed American Volunteer Group, The Flying Tigers.
Dick examined the smattering of large, black pins on the map dotting China, Korea, and parts of Southeast Asia – all identified prison camps. He was born in Hawaii, the third of four children of Japanese immigrants from Hiroshima. As an interpreter for the OSS, like other members of the team, he’d written off his life when he began working behind enemy lines. He felt this next job would be his last one, live or die. He chose to risk his life for the chance to see any of the starved, tortured men make it back home again – alive.
“Some months back,” Colonel Peers continued, “we inserted a three-man team of Chinese into Peking.” He turned and pointed to the city on the map behind him. “For a long time we didn’t hear a word. A few weeks ago they sent a message. They’d located a large POW camp in Fengtai, about four miles southwest of the city of Peking. And they’ve got details of another military jail inside the city they believe has some of our men – prison number 1407.”
He pointed down to their city of Kunming and followed a red tape marker across the map. “A C-4734 will fly you from where we are here in Kunming, to Chongqing, to Xi’An, and then to Peking: 1,300 miles in all.” The Colonel looked back at them soberly. “It’ll take a couple of days to get there. Your job is to check out the rumors about our boys in Peking and see how many you can spring from the camps before they get shot or have their heads chopped off, and bring ‘em home – alive.”
Colonel Peers lifted two, drab green duffle bags, dropped them on a table beside them, and zipped one of them open. “You’ll have three pistols each,” he said as he held up a couple of M1911 .45s in one hand. “Enough to get you out of a pinch, but that’s about it.” In the other hand, he displayed a carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes. “We’ll give you whatever you need to negotiate and get the job done.” Then he dumped onto the table two handfuls of banded packs of twenty dollar bills.
Dick had seen had seen a lot of unusual things before, but even this made his eyes pop.
“Work real carefully and diplomatically. But be strong and forceful.”
“Well, what do you want,” Nichols said, “strong and forceful or careful and diplomatic?”
“Never mind. Just play it by ear. And be strong. And diplomatic.”
“You’ll each get $10,00035 cash, except for Major Nichols here, who’s heading the team. He’ll have $50,00036. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
Dick smiled with the small break of levity in the otherwise serious room.
“It’ll be a daytime parachute drop onto an airfield outside the city. The Japs are well armed and may very well ignore any orders they may get from Tokyo to quit fighting.” Colonel Peers put both hands on his hips as the men huddled close and inspected their bags. “Listen fellas, the big thing is, those are guys who fought at Wake, Bataan, and Malaya. Even some Doolittle Raiders. They’re starving, they’ve been tortured, and the Japs have been threatening to kill ‘em rather than let ‘em go. So do your best to get ‘em home.”
Major Nichols rubbed his cheek. “When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Peers replied. “Early.”
Dick wasn’t prepared for that, but decided he was ready.
Chapter 109
12:00 p.m. noon, August 15, 1945. Yokosuka, Japan.
Fuchida stood crisply at attention among the perfectly ordered rank and file of officers at the Combined Fleet Headquarters on the courtyard behind the main building. Their commanding officer faced the men between two loudspeakers on stands at opposite corners.
Only three days earlier, Fuchida had thrown in his lot to join a coup d’état to overthrow the Emperor and force a military rule to avoid surrender to the Americans, something worse than death to him and to most of the military. Yet, when confronted by Prince Takamatsu, a younger brother of Emperor Hirohito and, coincidentally, a fellow classmate of his from Etajima, and taken aside in person,
Fuchida relented upon hearing that the Emperor earnestly desired surrender in order to secure peace for the nation. That morning, the leader of the coup committed suicide, as did a number of other leaders when they learned that the Emperor would accept defeat by the Allies.
Fuchida resigned himself to the idea that in the same way he had fought in loyalty to the Emperor, he would accept surrender in the same spirit of loyalty, however painful and humiliating and it would be.
The speakers crackled as they broadcast the announcement being heard by the entire nation, the first time the people had ever heard the voice of their Emperor.
“To my good and loyal subjects: ...”
Every officer immediately snapped into a salute and held throughout the speech.
“After deeply pondering the general trends of the world and the current conditions of our Empire, I intend to effect a conclusion to the present situation by resorting to an extraordinary measure. My subjects, I have ordered the Imperial Government to inform the four governments of the United States, Great Britain, China and the Soviet Union that our empire is willing to accept the provisions of their Joint Declaration.”
Kneeling beside a radio with her and Fuchida’s two children, Haruko’s ashen face was to the floor as she wept quietly.
“Despite the gallantry of our naval and land military forces the diligence and the public devotion and service of our one hundred million people ...”
In a public square, hundreds of people stood with heads hung low, some stared blankly, others knelt and wept openly as the broadcast echoed over the crowds.
“... the situation of the war has developed not necessarily to Japan’s advantage while the general trends of the world have all turned against her interest.”
Inside a meeting room, Genda and officers stood at attention around a long table staring at each other as a radio sounded out the somber message.
“Moreover, the enemy has begun to employ a new and most cruel bomb, the power of which to do damage is, indeed, incalculable ...”
A chef stood still behind the counter as shocked patrons sat listening, their faces in fallen grief. Many unable to control their emotions.
“Should we continue fighting in the war, it would cause not only the complete annihilation of our nation, but also the destruction of human civilization.”
Without emotion, Amayo sat kneeling in her bedroom listening to a small radio, while staring out the window.
“The thought of our Imperial subjects dying on battlefields, sacrificing themselves in the line of duty, of those who died in vain, pains my heart and body night and day. The hardships and sufferings to which our nation is to be subjected hereafter will be certainly great.”
As the Emperor completed his words, Fuchida and the officers struggled to maintain their composure.
“I am keenly aware of the feelings of my subjects, but in accordance to the dictates of fate, I am willing to endure the unendurable and tolerate the intolerable to establish peace to last a thousand generations.”
The commanding officer signaled the men to end their salute. A thousand generations? Fuchida wondered. He shook his head. No. There will always be war.
Chapter 110
August 15, 1945. Madras, Oregon.
The early morning sunlight illuminated the clouds of dust that billowed behind a black Chevy coupe as the bouncing car barreled up the dirt road to the farmhouse. At the wheel, Glenn waved a newspaper outside the window and skidded to a turning stop in front of the house.
He leapt out of the car, slammed the door, and held up the newspaper to his stepfather, sitting on the front porch. “You heard?! The Japs surrendered! It’s over! The war’s over! We beat the Japs!”
Mr. Andrus stood up just as the screen door swung open and Glenn’s mom stepped out. “We heard on the radio this morning,” he said, calmly smiling.
Glenn bounded up the steps and reached his arms around his mom. “Isn’t it great?!”
“Why, it’s wonderful, son!” she replied.
He looked at his mom’s face and realized she couldn’t completely celebrate. He glanced over at his stepdad who raised his eyebrows, then to his mom whose eyes drifted to the ground as she tried to hide her tears. For her, the war wasn’t over.
Chapter 111
August 17, 1945. Kure Naval Hospital, 15 miles from Hiroshima.
Fuchida tried to keep up with a doctor carrying an armful of files as they dodged nurses and patients down a hallway filled with gurneys of countless sick and bandaged people. Fuchida curiously rubbed his chin and wondered what all the fuss was about and why he was nearly commanded to fly down to the hospital.
“And you were walking around in the blast site for three days?” the doctor queried while glancing at his watch.
“Yes, but what was the urgency of me coming down here right away?”
The doctor stopped at the doorway of a room and looked at Fuchida, almost in disbelief. “Not just those who survived the blast, but many who were in Hiroshima directly after the blast are dying from some strange disease. We don’t really understand it, but we’re calling it radiation sickness.” The doctor led Fuchida into a room with some of the men he was with in Hiroshima on the day after the blast. The doctor looked at Fuchida’s face for his reaction as he spoke. “All these men were with you. They’re all dying. Others who were with you are already dead.”
Fuchida was speechless.
“Have you noticed any of your hair coming out? Have you felt sick in any way? Nausea? Anything?”
Fuchida slowly shook his head as he painfully studied each of his stricken teammates who stared back in hopelessness. Splotches of red marked many of their faces, hands and arms. What looked like tumors protruded from some of their faces. Some were completely bald or had only a few, odd clumps of hair left. Others wore bandages soaked with blood.
“We’ll have to keep you here for observation,” the doctor said quickly, again glancing at his watch and making a note in his book.
In the last few years Fuchida knew he could have or should have died on many occasions. At times he even felt guilty for still being alive. He should have been in Hiroshima on the day of the blast. Even though everyone else in his search party was affected, he suffered none of the ill effects any of his fellow officers experienced. Nothing. For the first time he sensed that somehow his life was being preserved, preserved by something beyond himself.
Chapter 112
August 17, 1945. Peking, China.
Dick Hamada sat in the rumbling plane watching airmen pitch handfuls of printed flyers down through a large, round hole in the floor of their B-24 Liberator as it circled and made passes over an airfield outside the city. The belly turret had been removed from the four-engine heavy bomber for the literature drop and for the men to jump from as well. He was surprised that their plane hadn’t been intercepted by fighters or even shot at from the ground by antiaircraft fire, but the idea of blanketing their drop zone with leaflets telling the Japanese soldiers that the war was over, that they shouldn’t kill the Americans, and that they should surrender was little comfort. He could see hundreds of armed soldiers on the ground scurrying and appearing to take positions. He was well aware that their little team would be easy prey once they opened their parachutes.
With the last heave of leaflets fluttering to the ground, an airman gave the thumbs up to the rescue team. They’d jump during the next pass over the field.
Getting to his feet and holding onto the frame, Dick tightened his harness and checked his gear. As he stood waiting for the timing for their jump, he thought about the letter that each man carried – personally signed on official letterhead from General Wedemeyer, the commanding general of all U.S. forces in China. It firmly commanded that this team represented him and that no harm should come to the men. But one thing concerned Dick – it was written only in English.
“Fifteen seconds!” an airman yelled over the drone of the four engines.
On cue, one at a time, each man dr
opped through the opening and pulled his ripcord and cascaded into a line of seven blossoming parachutes swinging slowly in the clear sunny sky. Looking down from his harness, Dick realized that the fields that were only moments ago swarming with armed men were now vacant, yet he felt a thousand eyes staring at him.
After tumbling to the ground, he unhooked his harness and began rolling up the yards and yards of his silk parachute when the plane made a final pass and dropped several more packages by parachute containing their gear. As he jogged to catch up to Major Nichols who was walking toward what looked like some sort of administration building toward the end of the airfield, gunshots rang out from the distant bushes, sending bullets whizzing past his head. He pretended to ignore them. What else could he do? There wasn’t anywhere to run or hide. If they wanted to kill him, they could easily do it, so Dick figured it was just a warning. Just as suddenly, the rifle fire stopped.
He sped up his pace even with his heavy pack, knowing that he needed to get up to the major as quickly as possible where he’d be needed.
From the opposite direction, he heard the whining of a truck’s shifting gears accelerating quickly. Keeping his quick pace, he looked over his shoulder to see an old troop truck with soldiers standing in the back holding a huge white flag.
When the truck arrived, it circled in front of the men and a dozen Japanese soldiers with bayonetted rifles poured out along with a lieutenant in his traditional black boots who quickly blurted out in English, “The war is not over! You must give up your weapons at once!” The soldiers pointed their weapons at the group.
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