Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

  It took about fifteen days for a letter to travel to her. Fifteen days seemed like a wide chasm separating Dan’s thoughts and hers. But at least the letters came often enough to keep her from worrying too much. She looked outside to the predawn morning at Pearl Harbor and reread the latest one.

  Dear Libby,

  I’m missing you and lovin’ you, of course.

  Another bunch of letters arrived yesterday. I love reading your words. It’s almost as if you’re right here talking to me, sharing your latest antics. Did you follow up on the possible new units for women pilots? You’d be one sharp tack, Libby gal, blowing them all away. Of course, you’d most likely have to head back to the States and away from the beauty of the islands if an opportunity like that ever arose.

  I’ve spent more time in the air lately, bending the throttle on some of the new planes to see what they’re made of. The sky over Manila is nearly as pretty as the one over Hawaii. But it would be even prettier if you were my co-pilot.

  I suppose tearing through the skies beats being a blisterfoot. Those infantrymen are arriving in record numbers too, except the army doesn’t seem to know what to do with them all just yet. I guess the brass realizes more defenses here are in order. But translating that into a workable plan is a different matter. The foot soldiers have even more free time than us dopes who have our machines to fly.

  This note will be a short one tonight as the guys are urging me to turn out the lights in preparation for the blanket drill. That’s “sleeping” in nonmilitary terms, or in my case, dreaming of my doll face back home. Think of me in the sky, as I think of you the same.

  All my love,

  Dan

  A flock of seagulls flew by Libby’s window, unsettled by something in the harbor. She slid the letter into the envelope and thought about his words. Dan believed in her, believed she could be part of something greater. Maybe she should check in and see what these women air pilots were all about … sometime in the future. For now the peace of the island soothed her. Her friendships with Rose, George, and the others at the airfield made it feel like home. Besides, Hawaii was the closest to Dan she could get right now. Here, it only took fifteen days for their thoughts to cross, and Libby wasn’t willing to give that up just yet.

  She stood and slipped on her flight suit, then headed out the door for John Rodgers. It was Sunday, and she had a full schedule.

  It’s going to be one busy day.

  “Okay, once that plane passes, let’s take her in for a landing,” Libby said to her Sunday morning student. Pride swelled inside her as she observed her apprentice in action. She’d done her job well.

  The morning sky was slightly overcast—not cloudy enough to hinder vision—yet a military aircraft continued toward them. Didn’t he see her yellow Cub?

  At first Libby thought it might be one of the B-17s due in from California, but the plane was too small, too quick.

  “Hold on!” Libby wrenched the controls from her student’s grip and jammed the throttle wide open. The plane lurched upward just in time.

  “What the heck?”

  The plane passed close beneath, causing the Cub’s celluloid windows to quiver. Libby watched as it sliced through the sky, toward the sea, toward the harbor. The morning sun reflected two red circles against a white flag on the wings—the Rising Sun.

  Leveling off, Libby made a sharp turn to the west and sighted, beyond the solo plane, formations of silver bombers bearing down on Pearl Harbor. Her hands felt clammy as she watched the rogue plane join the formation. Then, as though caught in a bad dream, she watched something detach from the plane’s underbelly and plunge toward the harbor. She’d seen bombs attached to aircraft, seen them loaded onto ships, but she had never seen them dropped. And never against her own people. She tensed her jaw in horror and anger.

  Antiaircraft guns from the ships spit shells in return, and puffs of black smoke rose from the decks. But it wasn’t enough. Their efforts didn’t even make a dent in the waves of planes. Why aren’t they doing more?

  Libby swept her plane by John Rodgers, preparing to land. Then she spotted sleeker, faster Japanese pursuits that amazingly resembled the P-40. They swooped like angry hornets, spitting bullets at the surprised sailors on the docked naval vessels, causing fingers of smoke to billow up from the entire fleet of ships docked at the harbor.

  Libby’s Cub bounded down the runway in a hard landing and stalled. She glanced at the sky and motioned toward her student, who sat frozen in the seat, his face white. “Get out! Take cover!”

  The man did as he was told, and together they sprinted off the runway. Libby pushed her body harder, not daring to glance at the sky. She focused her eyes on the cement office building ahead. Her legs pumped as hard as they could, but she couldn’t keep up with the long-legged student.

  She felt the presence of the fighter plane bearing down, like a demon breathing down her neck. Then the ripping of metal, as bullets tore into her tiny plane left behind.

  As the fighter’s shadow swept over her, a bullet smacked the tarmac behind Libby. It ricocheted, buzzing past and pelting her with chunks of gravel.

  “Dear God, no!” she screamed.

  George opened the office door and yelled something at her as the fighter roared over. His wide eyes scanned the sky; then his bulky frame lumbered toward her. “Libby, hurry!”

  She pushed her legs faster. “Get back inside!”

  George’s disbelieving gaze was transfixed on the sky.

  Libby motioned to him as she scrambled past. “George, get inside!” Whether it was the same fighter returning for the kill or a different one, Libby couldn’t tell. But machine-gun fire picked up again. Bullets whizzed past her, embedding in the cement blocks as she dashed through the side door.

  Her feet crunched broken glass from the window. “Do you think we’re okay here?” Libby leaned down, hands on knees, panting. She turned, expecting to see George behind her. The doorway was empty, and now a louder roar of planes drowned out the blaring radio on the counter. “George?”

  Libby hurried back to the door. George lay on the ground exactly where she had passed him. “George!” Libby screamed, running back to him. His eyes were open as if still staring up in disbelief.

  She fell onto her knees and shook him; then she spotted the two bullet holes in his chest. “No!”

  Strong hands grabbed Libby’s shoulders. “Come back inside, Libby. He’s gone. There are more Japs coming!” It was Billy Jackson.

  “But it’s my fault.” Libby succumbed to Billy’s strong arms. “I led the bullets straight toward him.”

  “No time to think of that,” he shouted in her ear. “Get inside! Here they come again!”

  Ground-shaking explosions punctuated Billy’s words. She looked around for her student and assumed he’d taken cover in one of the hangars.

  Inside, Libby stared out the window, her eyes fixed on George’s lifeless body. Tears streamed down her face. “Do you see that?” She turned to Billy. “They just keep coming. I can’t believe the Japs are attacking us. It’s really happening.”

  Another group of fighters swarmed the airfield, machine-gunning anything that moved. Their fixed landing gear looked like the talons of giant birds of prey screaming down.

  “Get away from the window! I told you, there’s nothing we can do for George now.” Billy tugged on her arm.

  Libby couldn’t pull her gaze away from the fighters. They moved through the air as if part of some ancient ritual dance among the backlit clouds, circling around the airfield.

  The radio on the counter behind her still emanated soothing Hawaiian music, adding to the surreal quality of the scene. The music had played during the night as Libby had lain in bed thinking of Dan. It had played while she rose, bathed, and dressed. It had played during her early morning drive to the airport. And she knew the reason … the B-17s. The radio was a homing beacon for the large American bombers on their way to the islands from California. Unwittingly, it had also be
en the perfect beacon for enemy attackers.

  Then, as if finally catching up with the attack, the music cut short and the radio buzzed with news bulletins—torpedoes had been launched against the ships anchored in Pearl Harbor. Planes had been spotted in the north, south, and west.

  The ground shook again. Libby covered her ears against the explosion. A hangar to the right of the office exploded into flames. The hangars … they’re bombing all the hangars.

  Suddenly a deeper droning filled Libby’s ears, different from the high-pitched whine of the Japanese planes. She glanced out the window in time to see Japanese Zeros opening fire on one of the B-17s, finally arriving after its long journey. The silver mammoth circled the field, preparing to land. Flames leaped from one of the bomber’s right engines; bullets riddled its side. The bomber swept low, but Libby’s abandoned and bullet-riddled Piper Cub blocked its path.

  Please, God. Please help them land.

  With an earth-shattering explosion, the B-17 crash-landed on the runway, its fuselage split open like an overripe watermelon. One of its wings skidded across the runway toward the office. Libby and Billy vaulted behind the desk just as the ripped wing crashed into the wall and pierced through the already-destroyed window. The wing’s impact sent the desk, along with Libby and Billy, sliding across the floor. They hit the counter, knocking over the still-screeching radio.

  Libby squirmed out from under the desk and made her way to the door. Hit squarely by the bomber, her Cub had been tossed aside like a child’s broken toy.

  But there was no time to think of that. Flames leapt from the B-17. The crew!

  Covering her head with her hands, Libby raced toward the B-17. Men’s cries filled the air. As she neared, half a dozen men staggered from the gaping hole.

  “The pilot is trapped!” one man yelled above the drone of planes and the pop of bullets on the asphalt. “I’m too big. I can’t get to him.”

  “Get in the office. Take cover!” Libby jumped through an opening of twisted metal. Flames engulfed the back portion of the wreckage. The fuel tank was back there—she’d have to hurry. The front half shifted and shuddered with a deep metallic groan.

  The left side of the plane had caved inward. Libby squeezed through a narrow opening toward the cockpit. The pilot, soaked in his own blood from a gash in his forehead, slumped in the seat. As Libby leaned close, the man moaned.

  “Hold on, buddy; I’ll get you out.” She tilted the man toward her and reached around his back, under his arms, interlocking her fingers around his chest. Thick smoke assaulted her eyes. She pulled, but the pilot didn’t budge. Libby held her breath and tugged even harder.

  The man cried out but remained stuck. His legs were pinned. Heat radiated from behind her, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they would be engulfed in smoke and fire.

  Libby secured her feet and prepared to give another tug when she felt someone else squeeze into the tight space.

  “You work his legs, I’ll pull!” It was Billy Jackson’s voice.

  “ ’Bout time you showed up!” Libby shouted as another explosion rocked the airfield. She crawled under the controls. “On the count of three!” She rocked the man’s legs. “One, two …”

  “Now!” came out as a grunt, and Libby pushed the legs free. Billy wasn’t about to stop. He pulled the man toward the gaping hole, and Libby scrambled out behind him and gulped fresh air.

  Everywhere she looked, hangars and fuel trucks were ablaze, belching smoke. The airport office was still standing.

  With his neck craned toward the office, Billy pulled the man across the airfield. The pilot was limp, and his legs snagged against the gravel like draglines.

  Catching her breath, Libby caught up and tucked the pilot’s legs under her arms. Soot streaked Billy’s face, and blood dripped from a deep cut on his chin. Was this the same man who always showed up hung-over, if at all?

  “We’re gonna make it!” Billy yelled. “We’re gonna make it.” Then his words were lost in another explosion.

  CLARK FIELD, PHILIPPINES MONDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1941

  The American flag whipped and snapped on the flagpole as Dan hurried past in the first light of morning. The cool humidity nudged him awake along with the strong scent of jasmine. They’d been summoned to the briefing room, and Dan knew the news wasn’t going to be good.

  Dan and his squad’s footsteps beat on the wooden floor of the command tent as they passed through the reception room into the briefing room. Dan took his place at the metal table inside and looked around. The pilot on his left was wiping the sleep from his eyes. Dan noticed he’d missed a button on his uniform shirt. Gabe sat across the table, combing his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame the bed-head.

  The colonel stood at the end of the table with a wide-legged stance, his arms crossed over his chest. He nodded to a soldier to turn down the excited voice of Don Bell—the local American radio broadcaster who gave the day’s news. Dan thought he’d heard Bell say something about Hawaii. His throat constricted, and his heart pounded a double beat.

  “Men, I have hard news to share. I’ve just heard over commercial radio that Pearl Harbor has been attacked by the Japanese.”

  An audible gasp passed through the room, and the pilots exchanged glances.

  The officer’s report seemed to buzz in Dan’s ears as he remembered his last glimpse of Libby—standing at the dock, fading away as the carrier nudged toward the open sea. He clenched his fist and inhaled, trying to focus on the colonel’s words.

  “Minutes ago we received word from Iba Field that a formation of planes is about seventy-five miles offshore, heading for Corregidor. I’m sending out the P-40s to intercept. Dan, Gabe, boys, you’ll be heading out as soon as you’re ready.”

  Dan glanced down at his hands, attempting to hide their shaking. He spread his fingers over the metal table and glanced at the worried, angry faces around him. Each of the men had been transferred from Hawaii in the previous months.

  “What about the bombers?” One of the B-17 crew members rose from the metal chair and paced the room. “Shouldn’t we be doing something too? I’m sure this means we’re in a state of war. We have to hit the Japs before they hit us.”

  “How come we’ve gotta hear the news from commercial radio?” another pilot demanded. “Are they gonna let the Japs sneak up on us too?”

  “Well, what do you expect?” Gabe asked. “In the middle of being bombed, do you think they’re going to stop, pick up the line, and spread the word?”

  “Is that too much to ask when we’re most likely next in line?”

  Gabe raised his hands in a gesture of truce. “Hey, man, I am not the enemy here.”

  “Settle down, men.” The colonel raised his voice. “Good news is that we haven’t been attacked, and we’ll most likely be able to intercept any attempts. This will also give us time to figure out what’s next.”

  “We can’t just stay here like sitting ducks,” the bomber pilot said. “Please, sir, may we have permission to load the bombers? I’m certain we can take out the enemy on Formosa. If we can get there now, we could direct a severe blow. It’s what, six hundred miles? Maybe even stop them before they hit us.”

  “Sorry, Lyle. You know I’m in no position to order something like that. We hafta wait for orders. Besides, just what are we going to attack? We can’t just go drop bombs for the sake of dropping them.”

  “Well, forget Formosa. Maybe we should just head out and see if there happen to be any aircraft carriers nearby. If the Japs have already struck Hawaii, we’re sure to be next.”

  “Can’t do that. Orders say—”

  “Orders.” Lyle swung a fist in the air. “I’d like to ask our buddies at Pearl Harbor what they thought about their orders not to strike until they’ve been hit upon—” He slammed his fist on the doorjamb and stalked out of the room.

  Gabe leaned close, clearing his throat. “Lyle has a brother at Pearl.”

  Dan swallowed hard. He
didn’t want to think about the extent of the damage to Oahu.

  The group quickly dismissed, and he grabbed his gear on his way out to his P-40. Anger surged through him, vibrating his very core. Anger that the Japs would attack without an official declaration of war. Anger that he had no idea if Libby was okay. Anger that he had no way of finding out any time soon.

  Ten

  BIG FORCES ARE MASSED

  FOR SHOWDOWN IN THE PACIFIC

  Men stood to arms along the shores and upon the islands of the Western Pacific yesterday as the storm of war, roaring eastward out of Europe, clouded the skies of the Orient.

  The Philippines have been heavily strengthened, both with land and air forces, and Lieut. General Douglas MacArthur has now assumed direct command of United States armed forces in the Far East, with regular army troops and 150,000 Filipinos under his orders.

  In a full-blown war, Japan’s task is immediately spread all over the map. She may have to attack Siberia or defend herself from Russian attacks; hold the Chinese in check; smash Singapore by air, if not by land; reduce Hong Kong; perhaps attack or neutralize the Philippines; hold off the harassing air and sea attacks by Britain and the United States; and eventually—if she is to reap anything from her hostilities—she must move either into Malaysia and Burma, or into the Netherlands Indies, any one of them a major, risky, and unpredictable operation.

  Hanson W. Baldwin

  Excerpt from the New York Times, December 7, 1941

  It was 11:30 a.m. Six hours had passed since they’d received news that the Japanese had attacked Oahu, but so far they’d seen no action in the blue skies over the Philippines. Six hours was a long time to be alone in an aircraft with one’s thoughts.