Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

  He yawned and attempted to focus on the 550-mile round trip despite his weariness. For the last few nights, he and the others had tried to sleep in the jungle—literally using the waxy, elephant-ear-sized leaves of the Gobi plants as blankets. Thankfully, during the night most of the birds—noisy parrots and hornbills—stopped their jabbering.

  Since showers hadn’t been reinstalled, he’d attempted to bathe in a muddy river. It had done little good. The cockpit reeked of his own body odor, and he was thankful his plane wasn’t a two-seater. Not that he wouldn’t have appreciated support.

  News of recent assaults around the island had reached them even as they tried to rest. Some reported that Jap strikes had demolished Nicholas Field near Manila. Others said that the enemy had invaded three separate points of the island. Dan believed these reports, since things hadn’t let up at Clark. The runways, fuel dumps, even storage buildings continued to be bombed every day at noon.

  When he wasn’t out on a mission, Dan and the other men hid in the jungles as Japanese planes arrived on schedule, circling like giant hawks in search of prey. The Japs wanted to wipe out the U.S. air support. And they’d come close. While ground forces of both Filipinos and Americans seemed to be fairly well equipped in their stations around the island, by last report only twenty-three P-40s and eight P-35s remained on all the airfields. Then Dan remembered the fiery blast of Oliver’s plane. His hands gripped even tighter on the control stick, and he blinked back tears. Make that twenty-two P-40s.

  Yesterday he had bumped into a B-17 crew who, along with another, had decimated four Japanese tanker ships off-loading at Gonzaga. Dan and a few other P-40s had been busy themselves, providing fighter escort for bombers attacking the Japanese landings at Vigan. As gratifying as it was to watch two Japanese transports go up in flames and a minesweeper disappear into the sea, he knew these air attacks couldn’t significantly delay the Japanese assault. Sometimes as many as 150 Zeros accompanied the Japanese bombers on their daily visits to Clark Field.

  “As futile as trying to knock out a swarm of yellow jackets with a BB gun,” Gabe had said last night.

  All they could do was hide their remaining planes and take them out only for vital missions.

  Dan scanned the clouds that now hid the island of Luzon below him. He was to provide reconnaissance for landings at Aparri—225 miles to the north of Clark Field. The overcast sky forced him to rely on his compass to make it there.

  Finally, as his plane neared the location, he descended through the clouds.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said aloud, wishing Oliver were around to back him up.

  As he broke through, Dan sucked in a breath. Below him were two enemy destroyers escorting the invasion fleet.

  “Golly gee. Look what we got here!” He let out a shout as antiaircraft guns opened fire on him. Dan quickly made a sharp turn out of their range. “You think you can shoot me?” His heartbeat pounded in his temples. “Just try, you crazy Japs!”

  As if moving on their own, Dan’s hands pushed the plane into a deep dive, and he headed back toward the destroyers. Closing in, he laid hold of the triggers and strafed one of the ships. Then he pulled skyward, satisfied he’d done at least minor damage.

  Dan broke up through the clouds again only to discover five Zeros on his tail. How’d they get up here so fast?

  He didn’t have time to wonder. Rolling the plane over, he dove back toward the sea, hoping to lose them in the clouds. The quick maneuver worked, and when Dan punched back through, he noted only two remaining. Yet these two were gaining on him, one on each wing.

  Dan chopped his power and pulled back on his stick, nearly stalling his plane. The Zeros roared past, and with a single move he shoved his throttle, pushed the nose back down, and kicked his rudder hard right and then left, as he fired the machine guns. Within seconds both Zeros burst into flames, and he took a second to catch his breath.

  Moving to finish his recon mission, he flew toward the island and dove back through the cloud cover. Below him, he discovered that the Japanese had infiltrated the island. They’d even set up a new dirt runway where twelve Zeros sat parked in a straight line. And although Dan’s presence was already known, the targets seemed too good to resist.

  “I’ll take this as a parting gift.” Dan bulleted his plane toward the ground, raking the enemy planes with gunfire. Before flying completely out of view, he noted that three Zeros had already burst into flames. A smile curved on his sweat-drenched face, and he turned south toward Clark Field. This was what he was here for.

  Noontime sun beat through Libby’s bedroom window as she rummaged through her bureau drawer, pulling out the letters from Dan, the seashells they’d collected on their trips to Ewa Beach, and a photo of the two of them lounging on the lawn in front of her apartment. She laid each of those things aside on the threadbare brown carpet, then dug back into the drawer, finally finding the folded slip of paper she’d stashed there. Folded within the paper were the news articles Dan had given her.

  She plopped onto her unmade bed and looked at them again. Although mere months had passed, it seemed like another lifetime since her dinner with Dan, Jack, and Rose. A light smile touched her face. That band. She rested her chin on her hand. Those silly paper lanterns. Jack’s guava-mango drink with the paper umbrella … poor Jack. He and Rose were just getting to know each other then. As for Dan … his strong arm had encircled her shoulder, and Libby had known she was falling in love.

  Months ago, when Dan gave her the news clippings, the idea of women pilots working in conjunction with the military seemed far-fetched. But overnight things had changed.

  Libby unfolded the slip of paper and read the name Jackie Cochran. Under the name, Jackie’s address had been written in Dan’s neat script.

  Except for Amelia Earhart, the missing aviatrix, Jackie Cochran was the most famous woman pilot in the world. In 1937, she earned the award for the best female flier of the year. Then three years ago, in 1938, Jackie was the first woman to win the Bendix Trophy Race. And earlier this year, she’d been the first woman to fly a bomber “across the pond” as a delivery for the British military.

  Jackie was giving her all for the cause she believed in. Surely there was something Libby could do too.

  Earlier that morning, Libby had gone with Rose to the ceremonies commemorating the dead from the battleship Oklahoma. As clouds rolled into the cool, clear morning sky, hundreds had gathered at the military cemetery. Rows of plain wooden boxes, draped in flags, had been lined up in a shallow mass grave.

  Libby’s heart had ached as she watched the grieving families around her. A young girl, not more than four years old, had worn a crisp, white dress and clung to her mother’s hand. No tears had fallen down her soft cheeks, but her eyes were the saddest Libby had ever seen. “Bye-bye, Daddy,” she had said. “Bye-bye.”

  And one of the boxes held the remains of Jack—Rose’s Jack. His body had been found among the wreckage of the ship. Now he’d never leave the island, forever buried in the Hawaiian soil he loved. Sobs had racked Rose’s body as the bugler played taps, followed by a twenty-one-gun salute. Libby had held her close.

  Seeing and feeling her friend’s pain, and knowing the desperate frustration she felt herself, Libby decided she must do something—anything—to help with the war effort.

  She wondered how long a letter would take to reach Mrs. Cochran. Rumor had it she’d ventured back over the Atlantic with a group of American women ready to join a British women’s pilot group. Still, it was worth a try.

  Libby moved to her small desk and pulled out a piece of paper and pen.

  Dear Mrs. Cochran, I am a female pilot….

  Dan had received a hero’s welcome upon his return, but now, days later, it seemed that shooting up five Zeros had done little more than give him a minor sense of satisfaction. During today’s run, more pilots had managed to make it up into the air, but only a few returned. Most had been shot out of the sky. They’d all managed to bail out
, and Dan hoped that, with the help of locals, they’d find their way back to the base.

  Weary from their futile efforts, Dan and the remaining pilots returned to the jungle to hide out for yet another night. He bunked down with the others in a small clearing. Exhaustion caused his body to sink to the ground.

  The flame of a cigarette lighter trembled in the hand of the man next to him, and from his vantage point Dan could see much larger fires continuing to burn at Clark. “Hafta admit, those fires are kinda purdy,” the soldier said, as if reading Dan’s thoughts.

  “Yeah.” Dan rubbed his tired eyes. “Too bad, though.”

  In the moonlight, Dan glanced at the wording of a telegram his CO had promised to send out the next day.

  DEAR FOLKS DON’T DESPAIR STOP ALIVE AND UNINJURED STOP NOTIFY LIBBY STOP LET HER KNOW I WILL COME BACK STOP WITH LOVE DAN STOP

  He slid it back into his shirt pocket. I wonder if these words will still be true by the time the message makes it there. How long can one remain “alive and uninjured” under these circumstances? He quickly banished the idea from his mind. He had to make it back. Had to get home to Libby.

  Tomorrow they’d be packing up and heading to the coast of Luzon in a final effort to keep the Japs from completely taking over the island. In preparation, earlier that day, he’d returned to the nearly leveled tent city to scrounge for whatever remained of his personal items. Finding his small trunk, Dan had taken out his most cherished possessions and spread them across his disheveled bunk. Photos of Libby, family pictures, a few seashells, his binoculars, camera, civilian clothing—not all of it would be able to go. He selected one photo of a smiling Libby and tucked it into a canvas bag with an extra set of clothes.

  Now Dan used the bag as a pillow. He snuggled closer to the ground and pushed his hair off his damp forehead, wishing it was as easy to push away the urge to run back and find the rest of the photos of him and Libby together. To look at them one last time before descending deep into the jungle.

  Other pilots also sprawled on the ground, attempting to catch a few winks—all except one young soldier who’d been hanging around with their unit after he was unable to find his own group. At first the kid had tried to play tough, but Dan soon learned he was only sixteen. He had lied to get into the army with hopes of seeing the world. Now the only thing he whimpered for in his dreams was to make it home to his mother.

  The boy sat erect in the center of the clearing. His heavy helmet, shaped like a metal bowl, rested on his head. It flopped loosely as the boy turned his head from side to side, scanning the trees that surrounded their group.

  “Hey, kid, why don’t ya settle down and get some shut-eye?” one pilot said.

  The pimply teen shook his head. “I’ll just wait up. Watch for a while.”

  “Kid, just because the Japs have invaded the island doesn’t mean they’re anywhere near us,” Dan offered.

  His stomach rumbled. It had been days since he’d eaten anything besides a chunk of half-rotten beef and a cup of coffee. “You haven’t eaten, haven’t slept,” he said to the boy. “You’re going to wear yourself out.”

  The kid didn’t budge.

  “Whatever, kid. You keep watch, and let us know if you see anything.” Dan curled onto his side, too tired to worry. Too tired to care.

  Thirteen

  HONG KONG STILL HOLDING OUT:

  STAND IS PRAISED BY JAPANESE

  London, Dec. 20—British Imperial Forces in hard-pressed Hong Kong were still holding out today against the Japanese invaders, according to reports received in London up to a late hour tonight. These reports, although meager, were greeted with some surprise because they came on the heels of undenied Japanese claims yesterday that the main island had been captured.

  Domei said British troops had retreated to points around Victoria Peak and Victoria Park and to the Stanley Peninsula in the south. This agency admitted that the “expected imminent fall of the colony has been staved off by the stubborn defense,” adding that British Imperial Troops had “fought desperately in a manner even to win the respect of the tough Japanese.”

  James MacDonald

  Excerpt from the New York Times, December 21, 1941

  The crowds outside the train windows continued their heated chants. Old men, women, and even small children lifted their hands in unison. “Banzai! Banzai! Congratulations!”

  Through the train windows Natsuo waved, then eyed the banners they lifted high.

  Congratulations on Being Called to Fight! one read.

  Prayers for Your Eternal Success at Arms, said another.

  The frenzy outside the window was a ritual Natsuo had experienced many times growing up during the Manchuria and China affairs. As soldiers left for war, it was a tradition for citizens from nearby villages to gather with triumphant cheers. Natsuo knew more celebrations would be taking place back home. This very evening, Mother would serve sea bream and prepared red rice, demonstrating—on the surface at least—what an auspicious occasion it was to have a son in service of the emperor. Natsuo gazed down at the “thousand-stitch belt” she’d sent him. Like all traditional Japanese, Mother thought that if he wore the sen’ninbari, bullets would not hit him.

  Father had also displayed his pride. In the tallest cedar near their home, Natsuo knew a sun disk had been hung for him. As it swung with the evening breeze, it showed proof of a son’s dedicated service.

  Please do not worry after you leave, Natsuo’s father had written. If you fall in action, we will enshrine you in Yasukuni.

  Natsuo had visited the greatest shrine in Tokyo only once, and within its gates, morning and night, citizens worshiped the spirits of those who’d fallen in defense of the emperor. Yet that offered little consolation for Natsuo.

  Although he’d received adequate training—learned Yamato damashii, the spirit of Japan—he felt more like an actor on a stage, merely playing the part of the Japanese fighting man, full of courage and dedication. And perhaps his performance hadn’t been as convincing as he’d believed.

  The last soldier took his seat, and Natsuo felt the train lurch. There was no turning back. The voices of the crowd faded, and the sounds of the engine grew. They’d travel by train and then by ship to a new land that would soon be theirs.

  Around him, the voices of the soldiers rose, singing “What It Means to Be an Infantryman.”

  Ten thousand clusters of cherry flowers

  Blossom on your collars—

  Storm winds blow the blossoms in Yoshino,

  And you, who have been born sons of Yamato,

  Will scatter like blossoms in skirmish formation.

  Natsuo sang along, remembering that only one week ago, on December 8, the Japanese Air Force had attacked Kai Tak airfield—the Royal Air Force Base on the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong. As with Pearl Harbor, the Philippines, and Midway, their attack had been a success.

  Yet even as his countrymen rejoiced over their numerous victories, Natsuo’s thoughts were on Hong Kong alone. As of yesterday, bombings of the island had begun in preparation for an amphibious assault.

  Their trainer had gathered them around before they loaded the ship. “You have chosen to fight for the emperor with loyalty and sincerity. You left your homes as boys, but now arrive at this place as soldiers in the army of Jimmu, our first emperor. And today, even the humblest soldier among you is prepared to smite and destroy the enemy in this time of great need. It is a holy war. Look around at the faces of the brave soldiers who fight with you, and together make a solemn pledge that you will not return if not victorious.”

  “We will not return”—their voices had shaken the air—“if not victorious!”

  Natsuo’s voice rang out with the rest, but what the other soldiers didn’t know was that he wouldn’t be joining in fighting for this great and eternal cause. As of last night, he’d been given a new assignment—as an interpreter for the English-speaking prisoners of war. His path to sacrifice had been stripped from him. Unlike the others, t
he will of the gods did not include his cheerfully venturing into the jaws of death.

  This journey to Hong Kong marked his last days with the men who had trained with him. As Natsuo looked around, a thought pushed to the forefront of his mind. What will these men think when I do not fight with them? What will my parents think?

  After all, everyone knew it was a good thing to fight, die, and be enshrined in Yasukuni—forever worshiped as a god.

  Dan circled the P-40 over Lingayen Gulf, scrutinizing the landing party below. For weeks his CO had believed the other, smaller invasions had been mere distractions. Now Dan knew it was true. From the looks of it, tens of thousands of troops poured into the gulf only a hundred miles north of Manila. Twenty thousand. Thirty thousand. Perhaps even more than forty thousand Japanese soldiers bent on taking over the island.

  Yesterday, Dan strafed enemy soldiers who had landed on San Miguel Bay, but it had done little good. They were doing their best to hold back invaders, but he knew they’d get nowhere without the supplies and troops sure to arrive any day. Our boys from the States should have been here by now.

  His eyes scanned the distant sea beyond the nearly one hundred Japanese ships, searching for any sign of American defenders. He’d heard rumors that American battleships bore down on the islands, prepared to fight for those stranded. Dan just hoped they would hurry. Morale was falling faster than a monsoon rain. Hunger and weariness had put them all on edge. And, he quickly discovered, untrained comrades were to be feared as much as the enemy. Friendly fire had taken more than one of his buddies.