“Blessings, Fujioka-san!” declared young Ayoke, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “May your tokko flight end in a blaze of glory for the empire!” The mechanic stood at rigid attention in his grease-stained coveralls, staring at someplace over the pilot’s head.
“Thank you, Ayoke,” Fujioka replied, taking the cup. He knew that it was the last sake, probably the last anything, he would drink in his life. It was a little sour, and that saddened him. He bowed his head slightly so the young mechanic could cut off a lock of his hair. “Here. If you get a chance…” Fujioka handed the young mechanic several letters. Both knew how unlikely it was that the letters would reach their destination.
His eyes went to the aircraft that filled the space in the small cave, gleaming and dust free in the light of two gas lanterns. The Mitsubishi A4M Zero had been parked in here, out of sight of the sky—or American observers—for the past six months. Ayoke had lovingly tended it for the moment when it would be used, and now, in the terse order delivered by a messenger less than twenty-four hours ago, it would fly one last time. A hundred-kilogram bomb was strapped to the belly of the Zero. There was no release for those straps; the bomb would simply hit whatever target was struck by the plane itself.
“Three privates from the 24th Division are standing by to clear the brush from in front of the cave. They begged to have the honor of offering you their good wishes when they have completed their task.”
The pilot was touched. “I will be happy to meet them.” He glanced at his watch. “It is time to move.” After a moment, he unstrapped the timepiece from his wrist and extended it to the mechanic. “Here,” he said. “Keep it as a token of our time waiting together.”
Ayoke wept then, unashamed as dawn’s first light crept through the thinning screen of brush as the soldiers quickly pulled the camouflage away. Fresh air swirled into the suddenly opened cave. The three soldiers entered and bowed, watching somberly as Fujioka climbed into his seat. He strapped himself in but left the canopy open, the better to breathe the air and to see the sunrise.
The soldiers helped the mechanic wheel the plane down the slightly inclined cave entrance as the pilot ran through his control, checking the rudder and flaps for response. A minute later, he had the engine running, and the four men saluted as he rolled down the narrow dirt lane that would serve as his airstrip for this single takeoff. On his knee was a piece of paper, a map that had been issued to him with the attack orders. The map displayed the southern portion of the island of Okinawa and marked his target—which was only twelve miles away. Circled in red was the city of Hagushi, on the western shore of the island.
Home to the enemy headquarters.
BATAAN HOUSE, SWPA FORWARD HEADQUARTERS,
HAGUCHI, OKINAWA, 0712 HOURS (X-DAY + 42)
This was the fourth day in a row that General MacArthur had avoided talking with his chief of staff, and General Richard K. Sutherland was alternately angry and depressed. After all I’ve done for the ungrateful bastard…I lifted him to greatness…sustained and protected him…a whole war of loyal service…
It was General Richard Kerens Sutherland who had put himself on the line when General MacArthur didn’t want to believe the intelligence reports of the Japanese buildup on Kyushu. It was Sutherland who went to Washington and New Mexico when the General had learned about the Manhattan Project and put pressure on them to speed it up—at all costs. If those physicists had been more capable, this whole invasion might not have been necessary!
It was always Sutherland to whom Douglas MacArthur turned whenever there was something the General didn’t want to take personal responsibility for. Sutherland was by turns confidant, palace guard, hatchetman, press agent. It was Sutherland who ensured that all stories coming out of SWPA featured the General’s name.
And when things went bad, it was Richard Kerens Sutherland who got hung out to dry. Somehow, the General seemed to be blaming him for the whole Kyushu disaster. It was Sutherland’s fault that the intelligence MacArthur had ignored turned out to be correct. It was Sutherland’s fault that the damned scientists got in too much of a hurry and burned up a big section of the New Mexico desert.
MacArthur was avoiding him, talking directly to others, leaving him out of the loop, making his displeasure all too clear. In other words, it was Sutherland’s turn in the barrel.
Being the “staff SOB” was an important job, one that required special skills, and Richard Sutherland possessed those skills in full measure. No one understood how much he suffered, how lonely he was, or what sacrifices he made to be so close to the seat of power.
He could feel the rest of the Bataan Gang gloating whenever he left his office. They could see his power slipping away. His misery was their joy. What was that word Willoughby used? Oh, yes: schadenfreude. Trust the Krauts to have a word for taking pleasure in someone else’s frustration.
He could sense the lines of power shifting. There were meetings to which he was not invited. There were lunches and dinners and even bridge games where issues were settled, only to be ratified in a pro forma meeting later on.
Even the spectacular view from Bataan House couldn’t dispel the grayness in his soul. How could this happen to me? ME? he thought. Sutherland knew he was the master of the inside game. He’d successfully put the skids under Colonel Eisenhower when Ike was Mac’s chief of staff, way back before the war, taking the growing wedge between the two men and strengthening it.
That, too, MacArthur sometimes blamed on Sutherland. Eisenhower’s subsequent rise to command of SHAEF and his worldwide fame rankled MacArthur no end. MacArthur’s standard line about Eisenhower—“He was the best company clerk I ever had”—didn’t begin to cover the resentment the General felt. And when he heard Eisenhower’s comment about MacArthur—“Do I know General MacArthur? Why, I studied dramatics under him for five years!”—the General sulked for over a week.
Only Sutherland knew his weaknesses and how to protect him. But protecting MacArthur was, in essence, a thankless job. Sutherland had covered up the General’s temporary breakdown in the Philippines. He’d even gotten rid of the eyewitness, leaving him behind on the Corregidor dock. But did MacArthur recognize his services? No. Instead, the great man remained as capricious and temperamental as ever, prone to threats of suicide or periods of deep self-pity. At least the suicide threats seemed to have abated since the liberation of the Philippines.
It’s because of December 8. It’s because I know the secret that really would destroy him. Now he’s got to get rid of me.
If MacArthur thought he could do without Sutherland, or just toss him away, he was sadly mistaken. Sutherland knew where all the bodies were buried and in most cases had the documentation. If anything happened to Sutherland, MacArthur would go down with him.
Sutherland was jarred by the ringing of the telephone this early in the day. It was the HQ switchboard calling, and after a second the chief of staff picked it up. “Sutherland here.”
The operator, a normally unflappable sergeant, spoke with a hint of agitation. “General, we have reports coming from the Aussies down on the line—lots of activity on the southern part of the island. The Japs have been launching planes, and it looks like lots of those planes are heading north.”
“North?” Sutherland’s eyes went out the window, to the view of Haguchi Bay. At least a dozen freighters, as well as a couple of destroyers, were anchored there. “Sound the air raid alarm!” he barked, before slamming down the phone.
He got up from his desk, slid back the door, and stepped out onto the lower balcony. Almost immediately he heard the drone of engines, the sound coming from the south—away from the major American bases on Okinawa. A loud snarl sounded overhead, and he saw a couple of P-51s—fighters assigned to permanent combat air patrol over SWPA HQ—dive out of their listless circling, angling toward an as yet unseen enemy.
The angry buzzing sound persisted, soft at first, then steadily louder. Sutherland scanned the horizon. Planes, small ones. Fighters. And
lots of them, all coming from the south. Despite the numbers, the planes were not in a great, cohesive formation. Instead, they flew in pairs and triplets, little groups scattered all across the sky.
He was on the verge of crying out an alarm when someone beat him to it. The air raid siren began to wail. Quickly, he stepped back into his office, grabbed the important papers off his desk, and stuffed them into a metal safe. He spun the combination lock, then went back out on the balcony. Most of the other officers were there, including MacArthur, deep in conversation with Willoughby. The General held his pipe and glared at the incoming aircraft, his chin jutting.
“General! Take shelter, sir!” It was a sergeant of the HQ company, emerging onto the balcony to bravely address the Supreme Commander. “We have the bomb shelter ready across the street!” Several staff officers, responding to the NCO’s urgent waves, started through the conference room.
MacArthur didn’t move, only smiled thoughtfully. “Yes, good, good. Get everyone down there, at once—this could get dicey.”
“But, sir—you have to come too!” demanded the sergeant in exasperation.
“Oh, no, of course not. Can’t see anything from down there. I’ll keep an eye on things from up here.”
Sutherland’s heart sank. It was a totally predictable response but so damned unnecessary. He turned to watch the first group of planes, three of them, come in low over the city, toward the waterfront. One of them wavered, perhaps hit by small arms fire, or maybe just flown by an inexperienced pilot. With a sudden dip it vanished behind a hotel; a second later a billow of fire surged into the sky, spewing black smoke and followed, almost instantly, by the sound of the tremendous explosion.
Sutherland watched the other two planes and MacArthur at the same time, saw the Japs skim low over a warehouse and then plunge into one of the two freighters tied up at the Haguchi wharf. In an instant the Liberty ship became an inferno from stem to stern. Huge explosions wracked the hull—it was still loaded with ammunition and other supplies.
“Kamikaze!” someone shouted. “Coming this way!”
They were coming from every which way, more accurately. A dozen fires blossomed along the waterfront and in the bay. Sirens wailed across the whole city, while antiaircraft guns—all too few of them—banged away. A few more American fighters entered the fray, shooting at the kamikazes, which didn’t bother to shoot back. Instead, the suicide planes dived in all over Haguchi. The din of explosions became a constant roar, mixed with the angry snarling of wildly revving aircraft engines.
Another ship in the harbor was struck, a destroyer exploding in a massive fireball. Other planes hit the shore, blowing up warehouses and cranes and other facilities. Several crashed into a large school building that the army had been using as a replacement barracks; Sutherland knew the place was crowded with hundreds of men, barely out of their bunks for the day. In the back of his mind he thought, These bastards are attacking on the basis of some good intelligence.
And still others were veering past those facilities, past the port and the motor pools and barracks. Bataan House was wracked by a fierce explosion, and a far wing of the building erupted into flames. MacArthur—damn him!—still stood on the balcony, taking it all in, as if he was immune to burning gasoline and flying slivers of steel.
Immune, or perhaps he was as suicidal as the damned kamikazes.
One small fighter crashed into the street right in front of the headquarters building, exploding so close that Sutherland felt the blistering heat on his face, threw up his hands to block the debris from the blast.
The next one came in a little higher, and though Sutherland kept his hands in front of his face, those hands did little to divert the ton of engine, propeller, and explosive that smashed right through the chief of staff and into the conference room behind him.
JUNE 1945-SEPTEMBER 1945
Content and Circumstance
Across the sea,
Corpses in the water;
Across the mountain,
Corpses heaped upon the field;
I shall die only for the Emperor,
I shall never look back.
—“Umi Yukuba,” Japanese war song
Civilians, including vast numbers of women and children, are being ruthlessly murdered with bombs from the air….A bishop wrote me the other day: “It seems to me that something greatly needs to be said in behalf of ordinary humanity against the present practice of carrying the horrors of war to helpless civilians, especially women and children.”… War is a contagion, whether it be declared or undeclared. It can engulf states and peoples remote from the original scene of hostilities.
—President Franklin D. Roosevelt,
“Quarantine” speech, October 5, 1937
NINETEEN
Philippines; Hiroshima, Japan
• FRIDAY, 8 JUNE 1945 •
CLARK FIELD, LUZON, PHILIPPINES, 2102 HOURS
“So General Kenney wants you to see how we operate,” growled General Curtis LeMay to Colonel Ellis Halverson. They were in LeMay’s office, meeting a few minutes before the mission briefing that would be held in the nearby auditorium. “Well, fly along on tomorrow morning’s raid, and you’ll see it in full color.”
“Thank you, General. I believe I will,” replied Ellis. “I appreciate—as does General Kenney—the chance to see your operations up close and personal.”
LeMay waved his hand in a think-nothing-of-it gesture, then nodded pensively. He was at ease here, in the center of his great headquarters building, a structure that looked like it might have been a secondary school before the war. Now, there were hundreds—probably more than a thousand, Ellis guessed—people working here, controlling the extensive operations of XXI Bomber Command. It was the nerve center for the strategic bombing of Japan.
LeMay rose from his chair and strode to a large map of the Japanese Home Islands displayed prominently on one wall.
“This target has seven rivers running across it, but if we plant our bombs right, the whole place oughta go up like a Roman candle,” the general expounded. “One more city where the Japs won’t be feeling any too enthusiastic about their emperor’s war.”
“Yes, sir,” Ellis agreed. “I understand the firebombing has been quite effective. To tell you the truth, I’ve never been on a strategic bombing raid before, only tactical runs.”
“It isn’t as exciting as skip bombing, but it’s powerful and it’ll end the war faster and cheaper than any other method,” said LeMay with assurance. “You’ll be flying right-hand seat with Captain Wagner—good man, goes about his business like a pro. I assured him you could hold the controls for a while if he needs to use the piss bottle.”
Ellis chuckled and nodded. “I’m checked out in four engines, General. Never flew a 29, of course. But it can’t be that much different from a 17, can it?”
LeMay took a long pull at his cigar. “You’d be surprised. But not to worry—Wagner’s copilot will be riding in the flight engineer’s seat. He’ll be available to take the controls, if it comes up.”
“I’m sure it won’t, sir. Your men seem to have this bombing campaign down to a science.”
The general nodded, pleased. “We’re going to take out almost every major metropolitan area in the Empire of Nippon,” he boasted. “In another two months, we’ll have burned them all and be going back to torch the fringes—like we’ve done with Tokyo twice, since we changed tactics back in March.”
“And you’ve left the Imperial Palace intact, I understand?” Ellis noted.
“Yup. The whole district around there, the palace and that Ginza area, we’ve spared—more or less intentionally. Kyoto too, on orders from Washington—lotta temples there, and other cultural shit.” Warming to his topic, LeMay turned from the map and paced behind his desk.
“Air power is the secret to American success, Colonel, both here and in Europe. Take the war to them, and pretty soon they’ll cry uncle. Frankly, my only real worry is running out of napalm, and that’s only
a temporary problem. We can make more.”
“I understand, sir. Even so, seven rivers seems like they would make it pretty hard to burn a place.”
LeMay shrugged and turned to the map behind him. “It’s all a matter of wind direction and a bomb pattern that’s going to start lots of little fires. We already have the meteorology report—low humidity and a good strong breeze coming down the valley off the mainland.” He stabbed his blunt finger at a city on the southeast coast of Japan.
“We’ll come at them from over the mainland—we’ll have fighter escort from the Ryukus and from a couple of newly operational bases on Kyushu. So we won’t have to worry about the Jap interceptors, even though we’ll be flying at less than ten thousand feet.” He traced the route on the map with his finger. “Coming down this valley with the wind at our backs, we’ll drop here, on the inland suburbs. We’ll have drop zones all across this wide arc here, to allow for fluctuations in wind directions. With any luck at all, that wind will push the fires all the way to the waterfront.
“That’s the target, sir?” Ellis asked.
“Yes. It’s got the headquarters for the whole goddamn Jap Second Army, you know. Plus a port, Ujina Harbor, from which they’ve embarked probably better than half of the troops and materiel they’ve shipped over to China. It’s been a major center of their war effort, but—as of tomorrow morning—that’s all done. It’s a delta, that’s why there’re these rivers running through it. But that means it’s flat and spread out all over the place. Should burn damned well.”
Ellis looked closer at the map, at the city name beside the port and the delta and the rivers. He had never heard of it.
“Hiroshima,” he said, almost to himself.
“Clark Field” was an anachronistic term for the vast complex of air bases sprawling around the central Luzon plain. The great installations of General LeMay’s XXI Bomber Command covered a huge area, better then twenty times the size of the prewar air base that had been the center of the American air power in the Philippines—until the planes were caught on the ground at lunchtime on December 8, 1941. Now there were airstrips, hangars, barracks, and supply depots sprawling across hundreds of square miles, making this area the largest aviation establishment in the world.
MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan Page 42
