Wounded Tiger

by T Martin Bennett

  Dick looked at Major Nichols. Apparently, the Japanese hadn’t heard the speech of their Emperor, or hadn’t received commands to surrender from headquarters, or they had simply chosen to ignore it all and chosen to continue to fight on.

  The major gave a confident nod and replied in his deep drawl, “I’m Major Nichols of the United States Army. We are not giving up our weapons and we demand to be taken to your commanding officer, immediately.” The major knew that any sign of weakness could mean the end of the mission, and their lives. The two locked eyes.

  Both the American major and the Japanese lieutenant held strong and weak cards in their hands. For the Japanese lieutenant, he could have all the men killed and that would be the end of it. He had the upper hand in strength, and there would be no favorable witnesses to the event. For the American major, he knew that they both knew the war was over and, sooner or later, the place would be overrun with Chinese and American soldiers who would demand an account of where the team was. The Japanese lieutenant would most likely be found out.

  The Japanese lieutenant stared up at the hulking major. He wasn’t sure who held the better cards, but couldn’t afford to call his bluff, if that’s what it was. He turned to his men and said in Japanese, “Load their equipment into the truck.” Then he looked into Major Nichols’ face again and said in English, “I will take you to General Takahashi.”

  August 20, 1945.

  A strange, brilliant light seemed to shine on Jake’s face that morning as he lay on this mat, so bright, he couldn’t open his eyes. Just as clearly, deep in his spirit, he heard the Lord speaking to him, that his anguish was over, that he’d soon be free and rejoined with his family, and that he was going to be sent back to Japan to help teach people, to teach them a better way to live.

  He knew it was true. Everything in his being confirmed it. He sat up and opened his eyes to his dark cell, surprised at how much his health had been restored. He felt like a little boy on Christmas morning.

  Later, the guards led him to a bath area to wash up. As he splashed his face with water under the eyes of a guard, he couldn’t help hearing a commotion a ways away, and saw men carrying boxes of documents off behind a concrete wall where a bonfire was sending up plumes of smoke and flakes of ash. He also noticed that the guards had broken out clean, new uniforms. Jake’s heart beat with anticipation, a heart that not only beat with new life, but with hope.

  He had no feelings of hatred toward his captors any longer. None. Waves of love seemed to have swept over him in the preceding days. He couldn’t be angry if he wanted to be. Patting his face dry, his joy of being released was tempered by a sadness he felt for the Japanese people. He feared that a spirit of despair could easily come over the nation.

  Major Nichols’ OSS team was packed into a room packed with fifteen Japanese officers. He sat at a small table opposite General Takahashi. The record-breaking sweltering heat wasn’t the only thing creating a profusion of sweat sopping the shirts of all.

  “Don’t tell me that!” Major Nichols bellowed at the petrified Japanese officer standing near the table. He continued in his Alabama drawl with all the authority of a mother grabbing a child by the scruff of the neck. “I know that in fact, you’re not an officer in the Army, you’re an interrogator for the police!” The major waited for the officer being scolded to give the translation to his commander, even though words seemed almost unnecessary.

  Dick knew this was a very high stakes game where no one could predict the breaking point. He only knew someone and something was going to snap, soon.

  As the Japanese general nodded, the translator began to sit when Major Nichols glared and shouted so loudly, everyone in the room jumped. “You will not sit down! You will interpret only, and you may not volunteer any information either. Is that understood?” The Japanese officer’s hands trembled in fear as he nodded and haltingly gave the translation to his general.

  Major Nichols leaned back and fanned himself with a soiled folding paper fan, the only air conditioning system in what felt like a sauna as the sweat trickled down his face, soaking his collar.

  The general leaned forward seeking to gain some high ground. “You shouldn’t even be here as the war is not officially over. Nothing has been signed yet.”

  As the major listened to Dick translate, he nodded and leaned forward himself, still fluttering his fan. His six-foot two inch mass was intimidation enough without his speaking a word to the five-foot one inch general. “Tell the general that we’re not asking him to surrender – yet. And let him know that we know where the prisoners are in the city, how many he has, and that we demand their immediate release!”

  When the officer gave the translation to Takahashi, Dick watched the eyebrows of the general go up and the eyes of the Japanese officers dart back and forth. It was clear that they had all believed that the whereabouts of the Doolittle Raiders was still a complete secret.

  Lifting his head, General Takahashi said in Japanese, “Tell the major that he has put himself in extreme danger by coming here like this!”

  As soon as Dick completed his English translation, Major Nichols instantly responded, “And tell the general, that if he doesn’t turn over our prisoners now, he’ll be putting himself in extreme danger! He’ll be court-martialed and executed!” Even as the Japanese translator was finishing, Major Nichols continued. “And tell him we’ve been waiting for three days, now, and if I don’t get some action real soon I’m gonna belt him in the mouth so hard his teeth are gonna come out the back of his neck!”

  But Dick noticed that the Japanese mistranslated the last bit to the general, saying, “He says he is beginning to tire of waiting and is concerned about the health of the prisoners.” Dick spoke directly in Japanese to the translator for the first time. “Tell him exactly what he said or I’ll do it for you!”

  The translator swallowed hard, looked at both Dick and the major, then gave the correct translation to the general, who then leaned back, unbuttoned his collar, and wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

  Major Nichols’ eyes drilled into the general as he fanned himself. Then, while keeping his eyes fixed on General Takahashi, Nichols snapped the paper fan shut and slid it to the general, who picked it up, snapped it open, and began fanning himself.

  Jake heard swift footsteps in the hallway, then, with a clanking of keys, the metal latch clicked crisply. Sitting on his mat, Jake looked up at the dim light coming from the tiny grate in his door as it creaked open. General Takahashi and Major Nichols stood behind a guard who bowed to Jake. The guard said in English, “War over. Go home now.”

  Chapter 113

  August 21, 1945. Madras, Oregon.

  Mrs. Andrus finished up the last morning dish and stacked it in the dish drain while her husband fiddled with a horse halter on the breakfast table as the news sounded over their radio. She’d heard the night before that four of the eight Doolittle Raiders had been found in China, but there was no information on their names. As she wiped out a frying pan with a red and white checkered towel, she and her husband stopped as the radio announced:

  “... and from China, we have just received news of the four surviving Doolittle Raiders who were found and rescued, having endured forty months of brutal captivity under the Japanese. We now have their names.”

  She felt as though her heart stopped beating and her hands began to tremble.

  Mr. Andrus sat motionless staring at the radio.

  “Their names are: Lieutenant Robert Hite ... Lieutenant George Barr ... Lieutenant Chase Nielson ... and Sergeant Jacob DeShazer. The men are doing fine and are enjoying ...”

  The pan dropped from her hands onto the counter with a clang. She hugged her husband in tears of joy and began dancing in euphoria. “I knew it! Jakie’s coming home!”

  Mr. Andrus stood with a relieved smile as his wife raised her hands and head toward the heavens.

  “Oh, thank the good Lord in heaven above! My boy is coming home! I knew it!”

  Chapter
114

  August 31, 1945. Tateyama Naval Base, Tokyo Bay.

  Fuchida stood with his hands behind his back on the concrete docks of the Tateyama Naval base watching two American destroyers unload men into rubber rafts offshore. Fuchida was informed that the base was to be turned over to the Americans that day. As all Japanese military were instructed, the two men wore white arm bands on their upper left arms to signify they were submitting to Allied rule. Any man without an armband would be suspect for still being in a state of war against the Americans.

  “Has the base been fully evacuated?” Fuchida said to the officer beside him.

  “Yes, sir. All but for a few clerks.”

  It had been an exhausting and harrowing two weeks for him since the Emperor’s speech. He’d hastily written a short pamphlet entitled “We Believe This,” explaining to those tempted to continue the fight that they’d done their best and had nothing to be ashamed of, but that now surrender was the will of the Emperor. It was printed and distributed by the thousands. To help smooth the transition, even members of the Imperial Family were sent out to encourage compliance.

  Yet pockets of die-hard soldiers and airmen refused to lay down their arms. Rumors persisted that the Americans would behead all Japanese officers. Aircraft were stolen. Some bases were taken over by militarists or buildings set on fire. Members of the military committed suicide rather than live in defeat. There was still talk of overthrowing the Emperor, installing a new government, and rejecting surrender. On one occasion, Fuchida, armed with pistol and sword, had to personally confront a close friend leading a small insurrection, knowing full well that if the friend resisted, he would have to kill him. Fortunately, the man was drunk and delirious at the time. With the help of a few other officers, he was bound and sent to a psychiatric hospital.

  The formal surrender ceremonies on USS Missouri in the bay were only two days away and Fuchida’s primary responsibilities now were to see that all air bases in the greater Tokyo area were cleared of military personnel, that all aircraft were disarmed and disabled, and that the air would be free of threats. Others were seeing to the disarming of all soldiers.

  The officer beside Fuchida leaned toward him with a quizzical look. “What, exactly, are they doing out there?”

  Likewise, perplexed, Fuchida slowly shook his head, “I don’t quite understand.” He’d expected the ships to pull up the pier and disembark their men, but instead, he was looking at two dozen rafts being rowed to shore by heavily armed marines.

  Coming into shallower water, the men jumped in the chest-deep water, held their rifles over their heads and waded in. Finally, the commanding officer climbed up the ladder onto the pier and trudged toward Fuchida, who exercised all of his self-control to keep from laughing. The sopping wet officer, somewhat embarrassed wrapped in hand grenades and ammo clips, walked up to Fuchida as his boots squeaked from the sloshing water.

  “Is this a practice maneuver, sir?” Fuchida asked with a straight face.

  “No, this is a genuine operation!” the officer said in frustration.

  Fuchida couldn’t entirely blame him. The Americans didn’t know quite what to expect from a nation of kamikaze soldiers willing to die rather than surrender, and Japan was still in a state of disarray. Fuchida watched the other drenched marines clamber onto shore. “We have hot baths for your men while their clothes dry off.” Like a hotel concierge, he swung his arm toward the barracks. “Let me take you.”

  The marine commander sighed. “Yeah. I think that’d be great.”

  Chapter 115

  9:00 a.m., September 2, 1945. Tokyo.

  The battleship USS Missouri sat proudly in Tokyo Bay surrounded by five other battleships and nearly two hundred American warships of every kind – powerful imagery to the world of total victory. While patrol planes flew overhead, a resourceful photographer positioned his launch to snap a picture of the bow of the Missouri arching high over the iconic Mount Fuji in the distance, exactly what every American delighted to see on the front page of their newspapers.

  On board, hundreds of sailors in khaki or white, marines, journalists, and photographers from around the world cascaded over gun turrets, railings, and filled every conceivable place to sit, stand, climb, or perch for this once in a lifetime historic event. Packed beside Japanese and American reporters on an upper deck, Fuchida looked down on the admirals, generals, colonels, and marshals representing the Allied Powers who stood in a tightly packed group on the deck below referred to as the “surrender deck.”

  Earlier that day, Fuchida was preparing transportation for the official Japanese delegation for the ceremony, but the Americans provided a destroyer instead. He and a party of a liaison officers came separately shortly after 7:30 a.m. at the same time the many international correspondents and cameramen boarded.

  Just before 9:00 a.m., the Japanese delegation – comprising eleven men and representing the Imperial General Staff, the civil government of Japan, the Imperial Army, and the Imperial Navy – walked in a line and formed into three rows before a table bearing two huge, open books: the formal Japanese instrument of surrender.

  The sun just began to break through the overcast skies when General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers, approached the microphone stand. The eyes of all were riveted on his well-known image.

  In the previous four years, Fuchida had experienced excitement, frustration, anger, pride, joy, disgust, fear, despair, sadness, and a thousand other emotions, yet now he felt strangely detached as he observed this almost mystical event.

  MacArthur began in slow, deliberate words that echoed from the ship across the water. “As I look back on the long tortuous trail from those grim days of Bataan and Corregidor, when an entire world lived in fear, when democracy was on the defensive everywhere, when modern civilization trembled in the balance, I thank a merciful God that He has given us the faith, the courage, and the power from which to mold victory.”

  Fuchida was surprised as he was expecting triumphant arrogance from the general. He could have bragged of America’s power and victory, but he didn’t.

  “We have known the bitterness of defeat and the exultation of triumph,” MacArthur said, “and from both we have learned there can be no turning back. We must go forward to preserve in peace what we have won in war.” He looked up momentarily from his written speech at the concerned eyes of the military leaders of the war.

  “Men since the beginning of time have sought peace. Various methods through the ages have attempted to devise an international process to prevent or settle disputes between nations, but military alliances, balances of power, and leagues of nations have all failed, leaving the only path to be by way of the crucible of war. We have had our last chance. If we do not now devise some greater and more equitable system, Armageddon will be at our door.”

  Unconsciously, Fuchida nodded in agreement.

  “The problem, basically, is spiritual and therefore requires a spiritual renewal and improvement of human character that will harmonize with our almost matchless advance in science, art, literature, and with all the material and cultural developments of the past two thousand years. It must be of the spirit if we are to save the flesh. Let us pray that peace be now restored to the world and that God will preserve it always.”

  Fuchida looked down at his feet, stunned. He was entirely unprepared to hear such humble words from the victorious Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces. He knew if the Japanese had won, they would never have spoken to the Americans with such magnanimity. He moved to get a better, full-faced view of MacArthur.

  “It is my earnest hope,” the general slowly said into the microphone, “and indeed the hope of all mankind, that from this solemn occasion a better world shall emerge out of the blood and carnage of the past – a world dedicated to the dignity of man and the fulfillment of his most cherished wish for freedom, tolerance, and justice.”

  Justice? Fuchida wondered as the formal signing began. Whose justice? To him it
wasn’t justice that had prevailed, it was simply superior power that had prevailed. The Emperor spoke of “everlasting peace” and now General MacArthur spoke of “peace” for God to preserve. He didn’t buy it. Peace wasn’t coming. More trouble was coming. It’s the nature of the world. It’s the nature of man himself. He was convinced – there would never be peace.

  Chapter 116

  September, 1945. Madras, Oregon.

  Jake sat in his army khakis and tie at the dinner table biting into a thick drumstick, but not chewing or moving. His mom, beaming with joy, stood pouring coffee for him over a table piled high with potato salad, fried chicken, coleslaw, cornbread, and blueberry pie.

  “That’s good,” the photographer said. “Hold it just like that. That’s perfect.” A barrage of flashbulbs popped and the crowd of cameramen hurried to wind to the next frame to get off another shot.

  Jake mumbled with the chicken in his teeth, “Is it OK if I eat this now? I’m sure hungry.” Upon hearing chuckles, he took a huge bite and looked up at his proud mom and the rest of his family applauding with cheers. It was still hard for him to believe that only a month earlier he was in solitary confinement facing death by starvation. He was back from the dead. Life had gone from a nightmare to a dream.

  As he drove his 1940 Pontiac Torpedo Coupe down the road, the events of the last few weeks seemed a frenetic blur to him: military interviews, hospital examinations, days of air travel from China to India to Europe to New York and Chicago, press conferences, and finally arriving home. Home. It felt good to say that word and to actually be where he’d longed to be for so many, many days. He was really, finally home.