Another few seconds... a Nationalist soldier out in the middle of the road, running in blind panic ... bad luck for you, fellow . . . he brushed the trigger, ready to walk the tracers into the truck park, ready to flip sharply and bank if secondary explosions should light off.
A glimpse of the terrified Nationalist, staggering backward, rifle raised . . .
And then the blow ... forward windscreen shattering, shards of glass blowing back, wind howling at over three hundred kilometers per hour blasting his face. Thank heaven my goggles are down was the flash thought; a split second later black oil was flinging into his face, blinding him.
He yanked back on the stick, one hand up to try and wipe his goggles clear, not even sure if he was hit. Disoriented now, he looked to one side, saw he was in a high banking turn. Impossible to see his instruments, sensing the controls going sluggish, losing lift in the high banking turn, starting to head into an accelerated stall, at this altitude no time to break the stall, especially if it snapped into a spin.
His heart was pounding. He pushed the stick forward and to the left, feeding in left rudder as well, wondering for a second if the controls would even respond. They did. Rudder was working, ailerons, elevator, no damage there. The plane leveled out. Oil was still streaming back, smashing into his face, filling his mouth and nose; it was almost impossible to breathe. He fumbled for his oxygen mask. Somehow it was not clipped to the side of his helmet, knocked off, maybe shot away. Again he looked to his port side to try and orient himself. Horizon was nearly level now, sense of control returning, but smoke was now making it hard to see. The big radial engine forward was rougher by the second, a cylinder or two beginning to misfire. It was impossible to see his instruments, to check oil pressure, engine temperature, temperature. Smoke was pouring into the cockpit, smelling of burning oil.
Damn, damn all! A bullet, one damn bullet fired blindly, most likely had pierced the cowling, severed an oil line, then smashed into his windscreen. One damn bullet, and he had a flash memory of his English instructor at Etajima, the Kipling poem about the Sandhurst graduate, the thousands of pounds spent on his education, to be snuffed out by an Afghan taking a potshot with a bullet costing one rupee.
A shadow. He looked again to starboard: it was his wing- man! Up so close the planes were almost touching. He could barely make him out through the oil-covered goggles, but he could see that Masatake was wagging his wings--follow me.
Fuchida let go of the iron grip he had been keeping on his stick with both hands, waved, pointed to his goggles, shook his head to try and signal he was blinded.
Masatake ever so slowly went into a banking turn with a gentle climb.
He finally leveled out but continued to climb.
Good old Masatake was leading him home and going for altitude. Every meter gained was six meters of glide if and when the engine cut out.
The engine was getting rough. When would a piston finally seize up? He slowly worked the throttle back, dropping rpms, leaning the fuel mixture out, working cowling flaps wide to force as much cooling air as possible into the engine, a tradeoff since if there was fire the extra rush of air would fan it. If a fire was igniting, all hell would break loose, and his sense of smell was alert. It still smelled like hot boiling oil, hopefully from the ruptured line spraying onto the engine and manifold, but if it caught into an open blaze, it was time to get the hell out; and, unlike some, he had no qualms about using his parachute that others disdained as cowardice. Fools! A pilot was worth his weight in gold, in fact, actually most likely far more than his weight in gold when the cost of training him across the years was actually calculated.
But he had no idea where in hell he was, if over Nationalist lines; the prospect of being a prisoner was unacceptable. There were rumors circulating that the Nationalists were torturing then executing prisoners. It’s what we do, he thought, a grim irony, trying to argue with them that he was a naval pilot and thus different than the army. A poor excuse, he knew. No, the engine had to be nursed along.
Rougher engine and still rougher. Shut it down now and avoid fire. No, wait... the minutes dragged out, engine sputtering, sounding like it was going to seize, then kicking back in. Mitsubishi made an engine that could take punishment, oil starved it’d still keep running. He was still flying.
Again good old Masatake by his side, wing tip tucked up close, and then a wave, barely visible, pointing down, and then he slowly began to drop. Fuchida nodded. They must be close. More smoke. He cut the throttle completely, working the hydraulic pump to feather the prop, then turned off the magneto switches. The engine stuttered, there was a shudder and it stopped, but the smoke continued to cascade into the cockpit; it was all but impossible to breathe now. He fumbled around, trying to find the oxygen mask again, and at last grasped it, pressing it to his face ... damn, it had indeed been shot away, a hole through the hose, and that gave him a cold chill; it meant the bullet had missed him by no more than a fraction as the mask hung to his side.
He couldn’t judge altitude, had no idea where he was, he just stayed focused on Masatake, who was bleeding off speed. A wave from Masatake, a gesture as if pointing down. He thought he could see the flaps on Masatake’s plane cranking down, and he followed his lead. The plane had fixed landing gear, so no worry there. Air speed dropping off, slowing, stick heavier, the edge of a stall approaching, nose pitching up, imitating Masatake.
Then an instant of panic as Masatake suddenly accelerated and started to pull up.
And at nearly that same instant there was a hard slap, the ground! His plane bounced, hung for a second. Smoke was dying off. He stuck his head over to the side, caught a recognizable glimpse of the control tower; another slap, all three wheels down, no need to work rudder against torque from the engine; he rolled past the tower, looked up, saw Masatake now flying above him thirty feet or so higher, acting as a guide for directional control, but he no longer needed that. He pulled his goggles back, able to see, eyes stinging from the smoke, but he could see as he rolled out to a stop.
Silence. Absolute silence.
He was shaking, fear now really digging into him and a few seconds later, still strapped in, he tried to lean forward as he vomited and then gasped for air.
Hands around his shoulders, shouts, sound of a truck pulling up, men leaping out, someone, his crew chief, pulling him out of the cockpit and down the wing. Gasping for air he vomited again and felt complete and utter shame at doing so, worried that those gathered around would think it was fear. It was the damn oil.
“Water,” was all he could croak out. And a canteen was pressed to his lips. He rinsed, spat it out, someone was wiping his face even as they led him away from the side of the plane and over to the truck.
“Sir, let me rinse your eyes,” someone said. He nodded, cool water splashing on his face, a towel gently wiping the oil away, more water, more wiping.
“Try and open them now, sir.”
He opened his eyes. They stung like hell, but he could see. Breathing was still difficult. Someone pushed an oxygen mask to his face and he took the air in, breathing deeply, coughing, half vomiting again, black oil clearing from his throat.
An engine. He looked up; it was Masatake, taxiing in, swinging to one side of the runway. A fire crew was hosing down Fuchida’s plane, engine hissing under the cascade of water.
Masatake climbed up out of his cockpit, jumped down from the wing, and came running over. Fuchida suddenly realized that dozens, maybe a hundred or more, were watching. He had to play the role again, hoping that the trembling would just be seen as illness from breathing and swallowing oil.
Masatake slowed and Fuchida did not salute, instead he bowed formally.
“I owe you my life, my friend.”
He felt Masatake’s hands on his shoulders pulling him back up, and he looked into the grinning face of his comrade, who let all formality break and hugged him, then stepped back.
“Hey, you got oil all over my new flight suit,” Masatake joked,
and there was a thickness to his voice as the two gazed at each other.
Fuchida could not speak for a moment, embarrassed by the emotional display, and then turned away, walking over to his plane where a crowd was gathered around. The crew chief, up on a wing, soaking wet, leaned up over the forward cowling and exclaimed: “You can see it, one damn lucky shot, cut open an oil line, up through here,” and he pointed to the hole in the cowling, “and through here.” He pointed to the oil-caked remnants of the windscreen and then looked back with amazement at Fuchida.
It was unspoken but both knew what the other was thinking. A few more centimeters to one side, and that bullet would have shattered his skull, and he would be tangled into a burning wreck eighty kilometers to the north on the other side of the Yangtze. Funny, he could not even remember crossing the river now.
“Sir, I think we should get you back to the infirmary,” one of the medical staff announced, still holding the oxygen bottle.
Fuchida shook his head. “I’ll be all right,” he replied, his voice raspy. “Actually something to drink would be better medicine.”
Within seconds half a dozen eager hands were offering small flasks of sake. He took one, the owner grinning and bowing slightly. He forced himself to gulp it down, even though it burned. Again, part of the show of command, something the men would talk about later.
The drink hit his head, and he swayed slightly, everyone now laughing good-naturedly.
Air crewmen gathered around as he forced himself to walk to the control tower and his barracks just beyond. A shower, change of clothes, then quietly over to the infirmary afterward.
Eyes still burning, he looked around at his comrades and then stopped short, surprised beyond ability to speak. It was a Westerner, tall, and immediately recognizable--his old friend Stanford.
What the hell was he doing here? Fuchida wondered in confusion, and then remembered. The base commander had informed him that a Western reporter would be allowed onto the base to interview him. Another gesture after the Panay situation to try and smooth the waters.
He had no idea that it would be Stanford.
His old friend approached a bit hesitantly, the pilots and ground crew gathered around Fuchida falling into silence, some nervous, more than a few features going cold as if this man were an intruder.
Fuchida broke the tension, stepping forward, hand extended. “Sir, my old friend.” Fuchida said.
Stanford smiled and extended his hand, and Fuchida started to pull his back, realizing he was covered with oil; but Stanford took it anyhow, shaking it warmly, so un-Britishlike, and then actually patted him on the shoulder.
“So does this happen often?” Stanford said in Japanese.
Fuchida chuckled. “Fortunately, no.”
“I’m glad you are safe, my old friend,” Stanford replied, and the tension of the group eased slightly.
Fuchida nodded, suddenly unable to reply.
“Perhaps we should arrange our interview for another time,” Stanford said, but Fuchida shook his head. “Unthinkable,” he replied in English. “Let me shower, have a drink, and give the doctor a moment to poke around. My friend here, Lieutenant Masatake, will take you over to my quarters.”
Masatake came stiffly to attention and saluted, Stanford nodding.
Fuchida suddenly realized his diplomatic mistake and prayed that Masatake would not reveal it. Masatake was one of the pilots who had machine-gunned and bombed the Panay.
Cecil Stanford sat uncomfortably in the straight-back chair in Fuchida’s office. Flight Lieutenant Masatake sat across from him, saying little other than to answer with short yes and no answers so that after ten minutes or so there was silence. An enlisted man came in, bowing low to Cecil, offering tea and some hardtack-like linseed cakes with jam on them. They were actually quite good, and standing he took his teacup and slowly walked around the room, looking casually at the photographs lining one wall. Fuchida from earlier days in a biplane, his infectious grin lighting the picture, of course a picture of the Emperor directly in the center of the room, the far wall lined with charts. He could sense Masatake’s gaze boring into him, and he steered clear of the charts, walking over to the window to look out at the airfield.
A small truck was towing Fuchida’s plane over to one of the hangars, the sides of the plane streaked black with oil.
“I saw the way you guided him in,” Cecil said, looking back to his temporary “host.” “Absolutely masterful flying, just superb.”
“Thank you, sir,” was the laconic reply.
“You took a risk there it seemed, coming down like that off the edge of the landing strip while guiding him in.”
“I knew what I was doing.”
“Of course. Lieutenant Masatake, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cecil looked away, acting casual, sipping his tea.
Masatake said nothing.
And both knew the game. Naval pilots had participated in the Panay attack, and he had heard the rumor that Fuchida had been sent over to tighten discipline. Was this man one of the attackers?
He looked back but Masatake sat, impassive, that studied pose that Cecil was all so familiar with from his days teaching at Etajima. Calmness in the face of threat, absolute and utter control of all features and gestures.
The door into the office flung open and Masatake leapt to his feet, obviously relieved. Fuchida came over to the lieutenant and slapped him affectionately on the shoulder.
“Thank you, my friend, and thank you for taking care of our guest.”
Masatake nodded, turned, offered a slight bow to Cecil, and left the room.
Fuchida was dressed in loose-fitting flight overalls, hair still wet, streaks of oil still under his neck and caked under his closely trimmed fingernails. It was obvious he had rushed to clean up.
“Been to the infirmary yet?” Stanford asked.
Fuchida chuckled and shook his head and for this moment the bond was there, that wonderful infectious grin, the open smile, the searching eyes.
“I’m dying for a cigarette,” Fuchida said, motioning for Cecil to sit down. Fuchida pulled his chair out from behind his desk to create a more comfortable setting and to be closer to his friend.
Cecil shook his head. “That medic was right. You breathed in a lot of gunk. You should be in the hospital now on oxygen for the next day or so.”
“Just one,” Fuchida said, forcing a smile. “Since this war started, Dunhills are impossible to get here.”
Cecil hesitated, reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his silver cigarette case, and opened it, helping Fuchida to light the smoke.
He inhaled slightly and then was hit with a terrible coughing jag, Cecil pulling out a handkerchief which Fuchida grasped at and then, embarrassed, balled up in his hand; it was stained black.
“Told you,” Cecil said quietly, as Fuchida stubbed out the cigarette and sighed. “If it had killed you, your comrades would claim I was an enemy provocateur and most likely shoot me.”
The humor fell flat but then again, Cecil knew it was not all humor now. The barely concealed hostility between the Japanese armed forces and the few Europeans left was palpable, and rumors were coming in of disappearances, of mission churches and hospitals flying American or British flags being shot up.
Fuchida fell silent, poured a cup of tea for himself, and then offered to refill Cecil’s cup, which he gladly accepted.
“I’m slightly confused,” Fuchida said. “I thought you were still in the navy. I was told a reporter from a British newspaper was being allowed onto the base to meet with me and my pilots and now you are here.”
“You’re correct on the latter point,” Cecil replied. “Retired from the navy, was going to write a book about my days at Etajima and other things about Japan, but the pension for a retired lieutenant commander is short rations at best. A newspaper offered me a correspondent’s job, so here I am.”
Fuchida nodded, still smiling. He had been told that the corre
spondent was, as well, most likely a spy and to be cautious.
There was an awkward pause and Cecil finally broke it. “Tell me about what happened out there?” and he pointed to the plane now being backed into a hangar.
Fuchida chuckled and gave a short account. “Just a damn lucky shot, or unlucky one could say, depending upon which side you are on,” as he finished up.
“Your target was Nationalist supplies.”
“I’m sorry, my friend, you know I can’t discuss that.”
“There have been numerous reports of the bombing of unarmed villages, strafing of innocent civilians working in the fields, terror tactics.”
Fuchida stiffened slightly. “Whose reports?”
“Other Westerners here, missionaries; when I was still inside Nationalist lines I witnessed some of the air attacks.”
“Can you differentiate between Japanese army and naval aircraft?”
“Yes, of course. And yes, from what I’ve seen it was Japanese army aircraft doing the attacking.”
Fuchida nodded. “There are strict orders with naval units to engage only against legitimate targets as defined by the rules of war.”
“The attack on the Panay was by naval aircraft; they were clearly identified.”
Fuchida did not reply.
“Do you remember Lieutenant Commander Watson?” Cecil asked, voice calm.
“Of course I do.” Fushida grinned. “We corresponded for a while. Said when he retired he wanted to take up flying as a hobby, and I was his inspiration.”
“That might be a bit hard to do now with one hand.”
“What?”
“He was on the Panay,” Cecil replied bitterly, and Fuchida visibly paled and lowered his head. ”Damn near died. Had to amputate his left hand, had pneumonia from nearly drowning. He’s been beached, retired out of the service as disabled.”
“I’m sorry, so terribly sorry. Perhaps I should write to him.”
“I doubt if he’d even open the letter now,” Cecil replied. “How would you feel if it had been you as a target?”
“I wish I had been out here before it happened,” Fuchida said softly.
Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy Page 13
