East Wind Returns

by Grasso, William Peter

  When they touch down on Guam, it is late morning of a typically warm sunny day. They do not stay long. Most of the cargo boxes are removed, a few more added. The Marine Corps passengers say goodbye and march away, seemingly in formation by rank. A new, larger relief crew arrives, with an extra pilot, flight engineer, and navigator beyond the normal complement for the next leg to Midway, twice the distance they had just covered, almost 12 hours in the air. The original flight crew, after briefing the newcomers, immediately racks out, the officers in the bunks at the rear of the cockpit, the NCOs on hammocks and mattresses scattered throughout the cabin. There will be 17 souls on board. The last detail to be completed is refueling. The tanks are refilled to the brim with 100 octane gasoline after some brief confusion over paperwork is resolved. The engines are restarted. After a lengthy dash down the long runway, the R5D is airborne once again, heavy with fuel but unburdened by much cargo or passenger weight. So far, John thinks, these naval aviators have done OK.

  John is determined to get some sleep this leg. He finds that if he imagines Marge is next to him, it helps. He talks softly to his imaginary bunkmate. No one else can hear him over the steady drone of the engines and the even, wind-like noise of the plane slipping through the air as she levels off at cruise altitude. He can hear Marge’s voice in the steady, comforting background noises of the machine in flight.

  John senses the change in the noises immediately, at the same time as the flight crew. Looking forward to the cockpit, he can see the pilots leaning closer to the engine instruments on the forward panel, their hands working the forest of levers that sprout from the pedestal between them. Frantic words, unheard from John’s far aft position, are being exchanged. The sleeping crew members are suddenly all awake. They sense it, too: the engines are losing power. All four of them. John makes his way to the cockpit as the plane begins a steep turn back toward Guam. Maybe he can help.

  He stands at the entrance to the cockpit, his further progress forward prevented by the crowd of Navy airmen already choking its confined space. There are urgent shouts of “Get the nose down! Fuel Pressure! Try a richer mixture! Descend to warmer air!” Of one thing they are all certain: this big machine will fast turn into the world’s worst glider if they don’t get those engines making power again.

  The Navy pilots have not yet reconciled themselves that they are headed for a ditching. They are too preoccupied with troubleshooting the problem and devising corrective actions. Reconciliation begins rapidly, however, when the number 4 engine quits. Preparations for ditching are smoothly begun, as every man on board--save the couriers--is an airman. Life vests are donned, rafts readied for inflation once outside the aircraft, and survival kits secured to the rafts. Raft assignments are delegated like choosing sides for a sandlot pickup game. Nobody is particularly concerned. If they have to go in the drink, they will be picked up in no time. They are not that far from Guam. The flight engineers may still overcome the problem, and they could return to Guam under their own steam.

  In the cockpit, it is looking less and less likely this problem is going to be overcome anytime soon. Number 1 engine now sputters, coughs, and dies. The only engines still running, numbers 2 and 3, are doing so in a most sickly manner, producing little power, but lots of drag from the anemically windmilling props. Any attempt to advance their throttles much above idle causes them to start coughing and dying, as well. The plane is sinking steadily, trading altitude for airspeed. The way things are going, this tradeoff will end in the water about 100 miles northeast of Guam.

  Spirits lift momentarily when, after much coaxing, number 3 roars back to life, but this elation is quickly dampened as the engine starts an oscillating cycle of backfiring, running normally, then backfiring again. This cycling soon ends as number 3 backfires once more, coughs a few times, then quits, its feathered propeller motionless like that of numbers 1 and 4. Number 2, still barely running, never gives any inkling of returning to life. Final position reports are prepared and passed to the radio operator for his MAYDAY transmission. He begins tapping furiously on the key, his Morse code the only link to their would-be rescuers. The pilots comfort each other that the sea looks fairly calm; the ditching should not be too difficult. Hell, she might still be afloat when the Dumbo seaplanes arrive, making her really easy to find! They are less than 2000 feet from the ocean’s surface now. The Navy radio station on Guam acknowledges receipt of the MAYDAY. The crew makes a final attempt to restart the dead engines. It fails.

  After a few more minutes, they hit the water.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  On a squalid Manila back street, where the desperate, violent cycle of life has only been amplified by four years of Japanese occupation and the recent recapture by MacArthur’s forces, a solitary American officer lies in the gutter bleeding to death, his throat slit by a prostitute’s knife. It is just past midnight.

  The two patrolling MPs who stumble across him see no reason for a sense of urgency, as his condition is obviously hopeless. He has lost too much blood already. The dying officer has been trying to tell them something, but his wound prevents any sound other than a gurgling rasp to escape. The MPs begin to open the victim’s collar to check his dog tags. They also plan to rifle his pockets, in case his assailant has left any loose cash behind. The blood spilling down the front of his uniform shirt makes the dog tag check a most distasteful prospect, however, and they put that first task on hold as they proceed with the latter.

  This officer had made the mistake, in his drunken haze, of attempting to avail himself of the prostitute’s services without providing the appropriate fee in advance. When she continued to insist, in broken English You pay first! You pay first! he just laughed and continued to force himself on her, as if it was his right, his privilege. She did not give a damn about his privilege and his belief that in his world he was entitled to whatever he wanted. She only knew he was a cheat and a thief who was not playing by the inviolable rules. In her world, this smirking drunk deserved to die.

  It was an unfortunate coincidence death would come to this officer at this place and time. He had been scheduled to return to the United States later this same day, his overseas tour declared finished by the 5th Air Force brass. Although he had once been a pilot, he was recently assigned to a ground staff job at Air Force headquarters in Manila, just marking time until rotation home. He did not give a damn about being permanently grounded; he cared not a whit about flying. All he ever wanted to do was strut around wearing the wings. To actually fulfill the duties that the wearing of those wings entailed had always seemed beneath someone of his birthright.

  And here, on this night before rotation home, it was customary to have a big going away party thrown in your honor. No such party had occurred. Few at his post knew who he was or had ever seen him, as his attendance at his job was somewhat spotty. He could usually be found at the bar, though, a drunken, obnoxious presence who nobody cared to get to know. He decided Fuck ‘em…I’ll have my own party and went looking for some female companionship. He found it in the woman destined to be his killer.

  When the report of his murder arrives at headquarters, the adjutant has to rummage through the personnel records to confirm this officer is actually assigned there. He finally finds it, a thin file with little to distinguish his wartime service one way or the other. The name on the file is Mann, Harmon--Captain, US Army Air Force.

  The adjutant has one final encounter with the file of the deceased Captain Mann. He is instructed by Commanding General, 5th US Army Air Force, to process Captain Mann for a posthumous Silver Star for extraordinary heroism and valiant service to his country in time of war.

  The words Mann had been trying to say to the MPs, words he could no longer voice, were simply these: Do you know who my daddy is?

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The teletype printers at the War Department in Washington had not paused, even for an instant, all morning. It was the same at the State Department. They poured out endless inquires from allied
countries and military commands all over the world about conditions, timetables, and protocols for the cessation of hostilities the Emperor of Japan had announced the evening of this same day, Tokyo time.

  The Washington establishment had been busily reading between the lines of the Emperor’s announcement. At no time did he use the word surrender, let alone unconditional. A spirited debate raged around what cessation implied for the political future of Japan and the status of the Asian lands it occupied.

  What caused the most debate, however, was the Emperor’s statement that he was “accepting the terms of the Supreme Commander, United States Forces.” Who, exactly, was that? Did he mean the President, who had never offered anything less than unconditional surrender? Not likely. If not the President, what authority did this person have to make offers to foreign governments?

  The smart money was on MacArthur. So smart, in fact, that nobody would take the bet.

  As the day progressed, the story slowly came together. Through the offices of the Swedish ambassador to Japan, a secret, backchannel negotiation had been going on for some weeks with MacArthur, first in Manila, then Kyushu, whose aims were, for the most part, little different from Washington’s: Japanese forces at home and throughout Asia were to lay down their arms. Captured territories were to be relinquished. Allied forces were to occupy Japan.

  Then came the kicker, crossing a line in the sand the President and his Secretary of State had drawn which nobody had dared cross until now: the Emperor would be allowed to keep his throne. He would be a figurehead, subject to the will of the American military governor. He would be immune from prosecution for war crimes. But these were conditions, and they were forbidden.

  General Marshall and the chiefs of staff were used to President Truman’s fits of rage, but this one was on a whole new order: objects thrown, swear words fit only for the barracks, lunatic pacing while ranting. They were sure he would wear a path in the Oval Office carpeting before long.

  “Just who the fuck does that son of a bitch think he is that he can usurp the President of the United States? Well, General Marshall?”

  Marshall, composed and dignified as always, has an answer to that question but elects to remain silent and endure the president’s invective. Words like “messianic,” “mercurial,” and “seditious” would lace such an answer, but there is no point in speaking right now.

  “I’m firing that arrogant bastard. General Marshall, draw up the orders relieving him.”

  Calmly, Marshall asks, “Who would you suggest succeed him, Mister President?”

  “I suggest you, General Marshall.”

  That response catches George Marshall completely off guard. Though he had often been considered for and greatly desired a major field command, his insight and extraordinary managerial and diplomatic talents had always been recognized as unique to the Washington realm and best put to use there. This sudden suggestion that he run off to Japan must be indicative of the President’s short-term distress; things would surely return to normal in a moment. In the meantime, Marshall is speechless. The opportunity excites him, but how could he possibly leave all he is responsible for in Washington?

  Secretary of State Byrnes picks this moment to refocus the discussion. “Does this mean you’re not going to accept the Emperor’s offer to stop fighting, Mister President? The war is to continue?”

  “Who said anything about that?” Truman replies. “Of course not!”

  Byrnes is relieved. “Oh, OK. I just needed to clarify that. But as far as MacArthur…”

  Truman cuts him off. “I will not have that man strutting around like he won the goddamn war single-handedly.”

  “We can easily make sure that doesn’t happen, Mister President,” Byrnes says in a soothing tone.

  “And how do you propose we do that, Jimmy?”

  “Simple. He wants nothing more than to be military governor of Japan. Tell him he’s on thin ice. If he doesn’t keep his mouth shut you’ll give the job to Nimitz.”

  Admiral King really likes that idea. General Marshall breathes an irresolute sigh of relief. Admiral Leahy is happy, period; whatever the semantics, the war is finally at an end.

  “But the unmitigated gall!” Truman says. “And how could any ambassador, envoy, or what-have-you possibly think MacArthur speaks for this country’s elected government?”

  “Mister President,” Byrnes begins, “perhaps they’re not as current on American civics as we’d like them to be. I’m sure any foreign envoy is not going to question the credentials of an American theater commander to seek terms of peace. In MacArthur’s mind, he probably thinks he’s done you a favor, and just maybe he did, even though he’s just a self-serving bastard who’ll take any shortcut to dominate his nemesis, Japan. But firing him will send the wrong message to the country and the world. Doing anything other than accepting with a smile will make us look not benevolent. We can’t have those Russian monsters calling us savages, now, can we? And our beleaguered allies are certainly ready to end this thing. This is a golden opportunity. Let’s not throw it away.”

  “And what happened to all your talk about not backing down from unconditional surrender, Jimmy? And how could such a thing be going on without our… no, make that your knowledge?”

  “Apparently, Mister President, MacArthur employed diplomatic channels that proved very effective and very secret, channels to which we had turned a deaf ear. State had no idea what he was up to, neither did War,” Byrnes says, casting an intimidating glance at Secretary of War Patterson, a glance meant to silence. “Things change, Mister President. Make the most of it.”

  Truman mulls that for a few moments, then calmly says, “Fine…but I’ll get that insubordinate son of a bitch someday if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Of course you will, Mister President. Just don’t do it right now,” Byrnes replies, smiling like a salesman closing the deal.

  In a commandeered palace on southern Kyushu, the country home of a Japanese aristocrat, General Douglas MacArthur sits in his office alone, thoroughly pleased with himself. He has won the gamble. That little haberdasher from Missouri, the accidental president, would no longer be standing in his way with his bumbling, amateur statesmanship:

  Did he really think that he, a bumpkin, a mere National Guard captain of artillery at the same time I was already a highly decorated colonel in World War I, might understand military matters and diplomacy better than I? I, who had retired from the US Army to command the Philippine military only to have the Army beg me to come out of retirement when Japan rattled its saber? If we had done it his way, we’d be fighting our way through the home islands for another year or two, atomic bombs or not. Such a waste! I was born to lead…born to rule…and I’m not getting any younger. This was so much easier, so much better. He should be thanking me for saving his bacon. Sure, he might have tried to fire me, call me disloyal, but that would have seemed disingenuous. Surely that clerk Marshall or that devious scoundrel Byrnes would dissuade him.

  I deserve Japan.

  In Tokyo, Prime Minister Suzuki heard of the American acquiescence to the Emperor’s announcement with overwhelming relief. This long and costly war that had started with such heady promise for the Empire, then turned into a horrifying process of attrition that almost left it destroyed in its entirety, was finally over. The Americans were already here, and there would be many more of them very soon, but occupation on these terms had to be a better result than what the nihilism of the military would have achieved. He felt an exhaustion of mind and body from which there would be no recovery, just an accommodation to the inexorable descent to one’s own mortality.

  Not far away, General Umezu was breathing his own sigh of relief. He had offered his life in atonement to the Emperor should the plan to use Professor Inaba’s atomic device fail. After arriving at the Imperial Palace, baring his abdomen and kneeling in the anteroom of the Imperial Council Chamber to perform the act of hara-kiri, he was told by an emissary to rise and depart: the Empero
r had absolved him of his obligation. His death would not be required. No other explanation was given. Confused but obedient, Umezu took his leave.

  As for the Emperor, he had not been surprised when he received MacArthur’s overtures:

  This naïve and foolish American president had painted himself into an unyielding corner with his Potsdam Declaration and needed a way to save face and end this war by simply coming to terms. Surely, Mister Truman, you were not looking forward to a continued slog up the home islands and through mainland Asia, a campaign that might drag on for years, promising only an occupation of a hostile nation without end. The new miracle weapons, the atomic bombs you threaten us with, neither your words nor your bombs scare us. You had done far worse and we did not capitulate. Despite your military and industrial might, you cannot dominate a people who will not be dominated. What better way to affect an honorable end than to use a clandestine intermediary? MacArthur had been perfect: a man of sufficient stature on the world stage to be credible but still a military man who could be controlled by his government. How brilliant! You must have some very cunning advisors, Mister Truman. You need them.

  But even the Emperor knew that, eventually, death gets too close. It was one thing for his subjects to die for him; it was quite another matter to sacrifice himself and the living deity myth, the cornerstone of Japanese culture, the basis of his privilege. If the American bombs did not kill him, their noose would.

  Envoys of the Emperor would sign a document of surrender on the deck of a US Navy battleship, beneath the massive guns, but it was not the unconditional surrender Truman had demanded. And while the leaders of nations sought refuge in their illusions, delusions, and rationalizations, the conflict that was World War II came to a halt, leaving in its path the unresolved animosities, beaten down for a brief moment, that would sow the seeds of discord and conflict for the rest of the Twentieth Century and beyond.