East Wind Returns

by Grasso, William Peter

  Bud’s breezy air of confidence comes as a great comfort to John Worth. Thankfully, they have not sent him some rookie second lieutenant fresh out of the box.

  As John’s mind wrestles with exactly how much he can tell Davies about their mission, General Krueger pulls up in his jeep and yells, “Did he tell you about his bomb yet, son?”

  Holy shit! And here I am worried about contradicting orders, John thinks.

  Mark just rolls his eyes in disbelief at the General’s careless manner, afraid to open his mouth lest he upchuck again. Bud’s platoon, standing at ease some distance away, has not heard what the General said.

  John gives Bud the straight story. He takes it well, but the sight of the queasy Mark Colton does not inspire much confidence in their mission’s expert.

  Bud mulls over his role in the mission. “OK, when we get to this thing, my platoon will neutralize any Japs and secure a perimeter while the Commander here deactivates it. And after he’s done?”

  “I plan on backing the hell out, straight back to here.”

  “And I plan on being with you, sir” Davies says. Gazing down the tracks toward the Japanese lines, he adds, “Look, Major, all my guys are green except me and my platoon sergeant. I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell them everything you just told me. It’ll scare them shitless, worse than you just scared me. I should probably just tell them it’s a recon in force and leave it at that.”

  “Whatever you think is best, Bud. I guess it doesn’t matter one way or the other now. Just keep the Japs off us long enough to get this done.”

  “Roger, sir!”

  John backs up the locomotive until, with a thud, its coupler engages two freight cars parked behind it. Lieutenant Davies briefs his platoon and divides them so two squads ride in the first car with one of the machine guns pointed out the open door to the right. His remaining two squads occupy the second car with the other machine gun pointed left. Bud Davies joins John and Mark in the locomotive’s cab. Several of Bud’s men have already spread and fastened an American flag on the first car’s roof.

  John opens the throttle and the train begins to chug forward, toward the Japanese device’s hiding place.

  Colonel Ozawa is not doing well. Slowed by his wounds, he is the last surviving member of his special suicide unit, one that has yet to fulfill its mission. Preparations for detonation, which should only have taken 10 minutes, have consumed over an hour so far, and completion is nowhere in sight.

  He has managed to remove the access panel to the detonator and hook up the wires. Now, he has to connect the wires to the hand generator and push the plunger, just like the villains in American western movies used to do when blowing up something with dynamite. He remembers those silent movies as a teenager growing up in Hawaii before his father moved the family back to Tokyo. He isn’t the villain of this story, he tells himself; he is the hero. Once he pushes that plunger, his mission and his life will be finished, and the Americans he hates so much will be dead, too. Japan will be victorious.

  Although Japanese troops are all around, Ozawa has seen none. The terrified, inexperienced soldiers will not leave the defensive holes in which they cower, waiting for the invaders to advance. This strange railcar, with its huge barrel that is pockmarked but not penetrated by American bullets, holds no interest for them.

  There is plenty of wire on a reel to connect the generator in case he must detonate the device from a remote, sheltered position while under fire. Ozawa has not bothered to play out the wire, though. He can just as easily detonate from right here on the flatcar. He has lost a lot of blood and is growing weaker.

  When he grabs the generator to connect the wires, the plunger comes off in his hands and the generator topples off the flatcar, clattering to the ground. Ozawa lets out a curse as he begins the arduous task of climbing down off the flatcar, dragging the wire reel with him. It is too much to ask of his battered body and he tumbles to the ground, too, blacking out from the searing pain for a few moments. When he comes to, he pulls himself to his knees and slides the plunger back into the generator. He pushes down with all the might he can muster, but the handle just falls out again, sending the colonel sprawling. The generator is useless. He must find something--anything--to create an electric current.

  As he lies on the ground, his mind searches for a solution through alternating waves of intense pain and enticing lapses of consciousness. He is jarred to awareness as a small aged truck cautiously approaches, carrying a jittery Japanese Army captain and his driver. They are couriers, looking for a specific commander to impart a message. They had seen the Corsairs attack and were curious about the flatcar and its strange cargo that seemed impervious to damage.

  Seeing the colonel lying on the ground, they stop the truck next to the tracks, get out, and approach him. He is obviously in bad shape; they offer him a ride to an aid station, although they aren’t sure where one can be found. The colonel declines the offer.

  Ozawa had first wondered, in a brief moment of lucidity, if the truck’s electrical system would set off the detonator until he realized the ancient truck had a hand crank starter and lacked a battery, whose terminals would have provided simple points of connection. He is no mechanical wizard, and in his present state he could probably never figure out how to make this idea work, and his shaky visitors were unlikely to be of much help.

  Ozawa asks if they have a field radio. When the captain responds that they do, but it doesn’t work, the colonel announces through his labored breathing that he is commandeering the radio’s hand crank generator. The captain is reluctant, but orders are orders.

  As the driver removes the generator from the back of the truck, they all stop and turn as a strange sound fills the air. It is a train, rounding a gentle curve from the direction of the American lines, heading straight for them. As it comes into view through the trees, the captain and his driver see there are soldiers on board. As it gets still closer, these soldiers begin firing at them from the doors of the freight cars. They cannot hear shots over the noise of the train, but bullets are splashing up dirt and splintering trees all around them. The generator is dropped at Ozawa’s feet; the captain and his driver jump back into the truck and speed away.

  Ozawa, growing groggier by the moment, is having trouble grasping the situation. When the locomotive slams into the flatcar, finally comes to a stop, and soldiers begin to jump out in all directions, it becomes crystal clear. They are shouting in English! With all the strength he has left, Ozawa tries to run, crawling when he falls, seeking shelter in the thick stand of trees, dragging the generator and wire reel with him. The Americans have not seen him do this, perhaps thinking he, too, has escaped in the truck. Left behind on the flatcar are the two wrenches that made up the Ozawa’s tool kit as well as his sidearm.

  John, Mark, and Bud are amazed how easy this brief journey has been--until now.

  The locomotive’s brakes, which had seemed to work when John first tested them, have proved useless at higher speeds. He had only been able to decelerate by the last-minute action of throwing the drive wheels into reverse, their backward spinning against the rails diminishing the forward momentum some, but not enough, while throwing showers of sparks and unleashing a horrific squeal. The collision with the flatcar had been the ultimate brake, pushing it 50 yards down the track before the machinery slid to a halt. All the train’s occupants were thrown forward on impact, but aside from assorted bumps and bruises, the collision caused no injuries.

  “Brakes need a little work, sir,” Bud Davies said as he leapt from the locomotive’s cab.

  They had traveled 5 miles total, the last three through enemy territory, and the first Japs they had seen had just fled in a truck. If anybody had fired at the train, its passengers were unaware. Now they are at their objective, and it is time to make history quickly. Japs had to be all around. The Americans’ presence is no longer a secret. John wished Bud’s platoon had not opened fire like that; it would have been easier and preferable to tak
e the Japanese out at close range rather than firing wildly from a few hundred yards away and giving them a chance to escape. Bud had tried to stop the spontaneous, panicky fusillade, waving his arms in vain in a cease fire signal, but the fire discipline of his novice soldiers was poor.

  Bud’s platoon quickly tries to form a perimeter of 40 yards diameter around the train, but that proves no easy task in the limited visibility of the dense woods, where men 10 feet away are often not visible. The resulting protective circle is ragged. Bud and his platoon sergeant immediately set about tightening it up and filling the gaps. Mark Colton, much too busy to be nauseous now, races to the beer barrel and clambers onto its flatcar. John is right behind him.

  Mark scans the beer barrel’s structure, letting out a surprised whistle as he lays his hands on it. “What a piece of crap! Looks like they made this crude bastard in a junkyard out of scrap metal!” Then he sees the wire Ozawa has connected.

  “John! This thing is wired to go!”

  They cannot see how the wires are connected inside. They run beneath a hatch secured with many bolts that cannot be removed by hand. John tries to saw through the thick wires, first with his survival knife, then a bayonet, but it proves very difficult and will take much too long. He considers trying to shoot them apart with his pistol, but figures he would probably just blow his hand off and never damage the wires. If only they had some heavy wire cutters!

  Jumping from the flatcar, John and Mark begin to follow the wires on a dead run into the thick woods flanking the track. But their dash ends quickly. John and Mark stand stock still, pistols drawn, pointed at an unarmed Japanese Army officer who looks to be at death’s door. He is about 30 feet away, his back to a tree, kneeling before a small box with opposing crank handles protruding from either side. He is yelling in perfect English at the two Americans.

  “You will not stop me, you bastards. this is my destiny, Japan’s destiny, and I will have my revenge!”

  One hand on each handle, he slowly begins to turn the cranks. It is a difficult task as he is obviously weak and in great pain from his wounds.

  Mark’s eyes go wide with terror as he screams, “NO! STOP! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING!”

  Ozawa knows full well what he is doing. He turns the cranks faster.

  John breaks into a dead run again. He is going to tackle the Japanese officer, knocking him away from the generator. He does not hear the single shot that rings out just as he is about to make contact.

  It is a vicious upper body tackle, shoulder to shoulder. Their combined bodies bounce against the tree, then tumble to the ground, away from the generator. Roughly, John manhandles the much smaller Ozawa into a choke hold, but something feels very strange to John: This guy ain’t fighting back! It’s like he’s…

  Dead. John pulls his arm off Ozawa’s neck. The sleeve of his flight suit is covered in blood--fresh blood.

  The generator’s crank handles coast to a stop.

  Shit…I’m not hit, am I?

  John rolls his adversary over to his back. The front of the man’s shirt is covered in blood. There is still more flowing from a bullet wound dead center on his chest.

  No, it ain’t me bleeding, that’s for sure.

  John turns to see Mark Colton, his face ashen, his .45 caliber pistol still smoking in his outstretched hand.

  “Gee! Nice shot, deadeye. Most people can’t hit shit with a .45 from that distance,” John says with a calmness that masks his astonishment--and his relief. He never felt the bullet that passed a fraction of an inch from him.

  “I had to…couldn’t wait anymore…didn't know how much juice that thing needed to blow,” Mark says in a slow monotone, eyes glued to the body of the man whose life he has just taken.

  But there is still much to be done. John pulls the wires from the generator and says, “I’m taking this thing with us.” He starts to trot back to the flatcar, generator in one arm, pulling the shaken Mark with the other.

  “You do much shooting?” John asks as he runs, still amazed at the marksmanship.

  Mark mumbles his answer. “Never shot a gun in my life.”

  “I guess I should count my blessings, then.”

  When they climb back on the flatcar, Mark Colton is still transfixed. John grabs him roughly by the collar. “C’mon, pal! We’ve gotta wrap this up fast! What do we do next?”

  Mark begins to speak, slowly at first, snapping from his trance as the words begin to flow. “All we have to do is kill the detonator…it’s probably just some high explosive. Pull it all out and break it up so it’s useless. It’s got to be under this hatch.”

  “Maybe it’s nitro?” John asks.

  “No, it can’t be, John. Nitro’s much too unstable for something like this.”

  Using the wrenches Ozawa left behind, they quickly remove the large nuts and bolts securing the hatch to the detonation chamber. It is very heavy; it takes both of them to lift the hatch off and lay it on the flatcar’s deck. After peering inside for a few seconds, John says, “We don’t need to pull this dynamite or whatever it is. It’ll take too long, anyway! Let’s just take this hatch with us. It’s meant to keep the high-explosive blast inside, right? Like you said, a small explosion starts a big explosion. C’mon, let’s grab it and go! We’ve gotta get the hell outta here!”

  “Sounds like a plan, John.”

  They wrestle the hatch off the flatcar and run back to the locomotive. John signals Bud Davies to get his men on board on the double. On the run, Mark asks, “Hey, John…any chance of towing this piece of junk back with us? I’d love to keep it for a souvenir!”

  “No, dammit, we can’t. There’s no coupler on the front of this locomotive. No chain to pull her with, either.”

  As soon as John says that, the first bullets from a Japanese machine gun rake through Bud’s collapsing perimeter. The couriers that had escaped the train’s arrival had found the company commander they were looking for, who notified higher headquarters of the American “breakthrough.” The commander was ordered to immediately counterattack; his troops are now converging on Task Force Worth from the north, south, and west. Only the east, the way back to the American lines, is still clear of ambushing Japanese for the moment.

  “Holy shit! They’re everywhere!” are the words on the lips of every American as they try to catch sight of their attackers through the dense woods. Only a few of them begin shooting back.

  The woods afford very poor fields of fire for everyone, and only a few of the combatants are hit despite the torrent of shots. Two of Bud’s men are down and immobile, screaming their heads off. The sergeant and corporal who run to retrieve them are also hit and go down as they blunder into one of the few places the Japanese have a good lane of fire. Now there are four wounded Americans screaming their heads off. Bud repositions one of his machine guns and it answers the Japanese gun, silencing it for a few seconds while it, too, invisibly repositions. There is still plenty of lead flying the Americans’ way, however, striking trees, freight cars, and the locomotive. There is as much splintered wood flying as steel, and they still must retrieve their wounded men before making good their escape.

  In the locomotive’s cab, John throws levers and valves to make the train go backwards; with loud clanks, the train slowly starts to move.

  Bud Davies is still trying to retrieve his four wounded men. The rest of the platoon huddles in the bullet-scarred freight cars, some firing their weapons wildly while the rest simply cower and scream to whoever is driving this damn thing: “Get us out of here! Fuck the wounded!”

  Bud drags two of the wounded men to the door of the first car and hands them up. The train continues its slow acceleration, now at the speed of a casual walk. At this rate, he will never get the last two, much less himself, back on the train before it is out of reach. He needs help--now!

  Bud grabs the arm of a young buck sergeant--a squad leader--hunkered down at the first freight car’s door. “Sergeant, follow me.”

  The sergeant, wh
ose expression and mannerisms are trying to convey that he is somehow not a part of all this, does not move.

  “That’s an order, sergeant!”

  “I don’t care if you court martial me, I ain’t doin’ it,” the buck sergeant replies.

  Bud now needs to walk briskly to keep up with the train. No one else in the car appears to be paying attention to him, each locked in his own terror. Giving up on the insubordinate sergeant, he starts running to retrieve the third man while turning to John Worth in the locomotive’s cab, gesturing with outstretched arms: I need help!

  John grabs Mark Colton, who is shoveling coal frantically, and says, “YOU DRIVE!”

  Then he jumps from the cab and runs toward Bud, with Mark screaming after him, “WHAT? ARE YOU CRAZY? I DON’T KNOW HOW!”

  As the train moves steadily backward, the cab comes squarely into the Jap’s best field of fire. Bullets ping off the iron structure of the locomotive, sending hot metal fragments whizzing in all directions. Some bullets streak directly through the cab, in one window and out the other. Mark drops to the floor and lies prone, out of the line of fire, but is burned by several hot fragments that land on his back and legs once their velocity is spent bouncing around the cab.

  The locomotive is driverless as its train continues to gradually accelerate rearward.

  John and Bud are dragging the last two wounded to the train, which is now moving at a brisk jogging pace. The freight cars are beyond their reach; their only hope is to intersect the path of the locomotive’s cab. Running as fast as possible, they aim for a point down the track to meet the cab’s ladder. Despite their considerable athletic abilities and the adrenaline coursing through their veins, they really need Mark to back off the steam and stop the train’s acceleration for a moment, but they cannot see him. He is still rolling around the floor of the cab, trying to shake off the searing metal fragments that are burning through his fatigues. But they can see Japs--plenty of them--some distance down the track chasing the locomotive, firing wildly on the run.