Chapter 125
December, 1948. Tokyo.
Three months later.
Chapter 126
Spring, 1949. Tokyo.
Chapter 127
Spring, 1949. Nagoya.
Chapter 128
September, 1949. Kashiwara.
Chapter 129
October, 1949. Tokyo.
Early Spring, 1950. Nagoya.
Chapter 130
April 14, 1950. Osaka, Japan.
Chapter 131
A few weeks later. Southeast of Tokyo.
Chapter 132
Early May, 1950. Tokyo.
Chapter 133
May, 1950. Kashiwara.
Chapter 134
Mid-June, 1950. Tokyo.
Chapter 135
Fall, 1950. Marshfield, Massachusetts.
Epilogue
Notes
Wounded Tiger Sponsors
Wounded Tiger: The Motion Picture
MAPS
Japan and Etajima Island
Oregon
China with Hankow
Philippines and Panay
Kagoshima Base
Japan to Hawaii
Keuka College, New York
Clark Air Base, Philippines
Island of Panay
Rabaul and Australia
Java, New Guinea, Australia
Doolittle Raid Cities
Doolittle Launch Position
China with Nanchang
Midway Island
The Marianas
Bougainville
Granada, Colorado
China Rescue Map
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It isn’t possible to acknowledge every person who made a contribution to this book in one form or another, as the number would be in the hundreds, but I remain extremely grateful to all for the time and effort they spent to give me input, advice, corrections, and suggestions. This book is better because of you.
SPECIAL THANKS
To Aiko DeShazer Dixon for access to the DeShazer letters and papers held at the University of Pittsburgh, and to the University at Pittsburgh for access to their archives on Mitsuo Fuchida.
To Hajime Watanabe for his extensive notes on the Covell family and WWII history in the Philippines and for his family graciously hosting me while I did research in Japan.
HISTORICAL CONSULTANTS
Donald M. Goldstein, PhD, Professor Emeritus at the University of Pittsburgh, author of over 60 articles and 22 books including At Dawn We Slept: The Untold Story of Pearl Harbor, Miracle at Midway, God’s Samurai: Lead Pilot at Pearl Harbor, Dec. 7, 1941: The Day the Japanese Attacked Pearl Harbor, Return of the Raider: A Doolittle Raider’s Story of War & Forgiveness, and many others.
Dan King, Pacific War historian, Japanese linguist, author of The Last Zero Fighter, lover of squid sushi.
David H Lippman, WWII historian, journalist, editor of website World War II Plus 55.
Jonathan Parshall, co-author of Shattered Sword: The Untold Story of the Battle of Midway, founder of website Combined Fleet.
Haruo Tohmatsu, PhD, Professor, History of Japanese Politics and History, National Defense Academy of Japan, author of A Gathering Darkness: The Coming of War to the Far East and the Pacific, 1921-1942.
EDITORS / MANUSCRIPT REVIEWERS
First and foremost – thanks to Miyako Fuchida Overturf, daughter of Mitsuo Fuchida, and David Covell, brother of Margaret “Peggy” Covell for taking the time and consideration to read the complete work and give me their thoughts and comments.
PAID EDITORS
John David Kudrick – Many thanks to your useful suggestions, good advice, and encouragement.
David Lambert, editorial director of The Somersault Group – You were certainly the most constructive editor on this manuscript and I’m deeply grateful for the amount of time you gave to this project. I only wish I could have spent more time with you.
VOLUNTEER EDITORS
Space limits me to those whose work was more significant than that of others. The following people were especially helpful in their editing suggestions. Thank you very, very much.
Ellen V. Fuller
Donald Gilleland
Ken Haron
Shingo Katayama
Hai-In Nelson
Sue Schley
INTRODUCTION
Every event and every scene in this nonfiction novel are based on facts and history. The authenticity of these stories stands on its own.
That said, to weave the stories together more seamlessly and to recreate conversations, artistic license had to be used. When possible, the dialogue is word-for-word accurate. I have read and reread thousands of pages of research and primary source documents, traveled across the U.S. and to Japan interviewing experts, authors, and professors; I have submitted my work to people as close to the stories as I could find, and I have made every effort to ensure accuracy and honesty to history, to culture, and to the individuals.
Simply stated, the essence of every scene in this story is true.
T MARTIN BENNETT
Are we not all children of the same Father?
Are we not all created by the same God?
Malachi 2:10
Prelude
The Sacred Nod
Japan is a land of earthquakes. Unpredictable and devastating, sometimes the ground gently shudders, a last slipping of unseen forces deep below the surface. Rarely noticed by everyday people, such quivers can be passed off as the wind simply rustling the branches of a tree. This was such a day. Only those closest to the epicenter felt the tremor that would lead to a cataclysm unlike anything the world had ever seen.
December 1, 1941. The Imperial Palace. Tokyo, Japan.
The weight of seventy-three million souls pressed onto the shoulders of the forty-two year old Emperor Hirohito. The boyish leader with his sparse mustache and glasses sat motionless on a raised platform backed by a gilded screen before the highest leaders of Japan. He exuded unquestioned authority in his navy blue uniform, replete with medals, a braid, and adorned with a sash across his chest. Without emotion he contemplated the petitions and reasonings of nineteen of his most trusted military and civil officials, separated before him at two long tables facing each other – each table perfectly draped with floor-length burgundy fabric patterned with gold.
From Hirohito’s earliest memories he had been saturated with the understanding that he was born not only the military and political leader of Japan, but their spiritual leader as well – a living god to whom his subjects owed absolute obedience. He watched intently as Prime Minister Major General Hideki Tojo rose from his seat, the silence pierced by the jangle of his medals and the squeak of his chair as it slid back on the parquet floor.
Tojo bowed deeply – then stood upright. Only a month earlier, his iconic visage appeared worldwide on the cover of Time magazine – bald head, broad mustache, and black, round-rimmed glasses. Officers and soldiers alike knew him as “The Razor” as much for his quick wit and decision making as for his brutal military prowess. He patted his forehead with a handkerchief, and pushed back his glasses. “Your Majesty,” he began, “you have heard the words of each of your advisors and commanders in this room. At the moment our empire stands at the threshold of glory or oblivion. We tremble with fear in the presence of His Majesty.”
The Emperor knew full well why Tojo perspired, for he, too was haunted by the recent report from an elite group of researchers who had delivered their unanimous conclusion that Japan could not sustain its war with China for more than five years and could never win a war with the United States, whose manufacturing capacity was twelve times that of Japan. Although he had dismissed the report and was supremely confident in Japan’s military preeminence, he was left unsettled by the communiqué. Beginning a chess match with merely two pieces would yield better odds than starting a war with the United States of America.
Tojo’s eyes turned downward. “We subjects are keenly aware of the great responsibility we m
ust assume from this point forward.”
The break of eye contact released the Emperor to look upwards at the dark coffered ceiling that permeated his council chamber with the scent of ancient wood. A final decision had to be made, and he knew it was his alone to make. Once the diver left the cliff, there could be no return.
The outcome of a war with the United States could be disastrous, yet the apple on the tree was enticing. Germany had swept across Europe in a blitzkrieg, virtually unopposed, and was now battering the doors of Moscow. Japan had allied itself with Germany and Italy and had no misgivings that the Germans would be the ultimate victors of a European war that was all but over. This wasn’t the time to hesitate and get left behind.
Hirohito unconsciously tapped his fingers in succession against the end of his armrest. He and his leaders had been furiously constructing a colossal military machine while the U.S. sat on the sidelines, bogged down by internal dissent as its outdated military deteriorated under a poor economy and the indecision of Washington. His nation was in the best position it had ever been in, or perhaps would ever be in to establish its dominance over the Pacific and East Asia. Japan was at its strongest, and America at its weakest. The Empire of Japan was finally poised for conquest and to secure its place in history.
“Once His Majesty reaches a decision to commence hostilities,” Tojo said, “we will all strive to repay our obligations to him, to bring the government and the military ever closer together, to resolve that the nation united will go to victory, to make an all-out effort to achieve our war aims, and to set His Majesty’s mind at ease.”
Tojo remained standing as all eyes in the chamber, turned slowly toward the Emperor – waiting – waiting.
At times Hirohito entered into the conversation, but at other times he restrained himself from uttering a single word during the entire meeting. Such was the case on this occasion. Ever so slightly, he nodded with a crooked smile – and his feet left the cliff as he fell weightlessly toward the water far below. The precarious question of victory remained, but the pursuit of the answer was undeniable: millions would perish.
December 8, 1941 (Japan time). Early a.m. before the dawn. The Pacific Ocean several hundred miles north of Hawaii.
In the black of night the Kido Butai smashed through the heavy seas at full speed due south. The Kido Butai, the carrier battle group, was the world’s newest and most powerful naval fleet – 6 carriers tightly packed with 414 attack aircraft, 2 battleships, 20 escort ships, and 23 submarines. The massive Akagi, equipped with two levels of hangars housing ninety-one planes, was the largest aircraft carrier the Imperial Japanese Navy had ever built at the time and was the flagship of the First Air Fleet under the command of Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo – a meticulous planner, cautious to a fault.
Salt mist and the smell of aviation fuel hung in the air of the hangars as engineers in white jumpsuits feverishly unlashed aircraft from their moorings on the floor, unchocked the wheels of fighters and bombers, and began transferring aircraft to elevators to be raised to the dark flight deck. The steel hull gave a haunting screech as it twisted from the pounding waves. Engineers hitched eighteen-foot torpedoes to the bellies of Nakajima B5N’s and 1,760-pound armor-piercing bombs to others. Aichi D3A dive bombers were fitted with 550-pound bombs, while the Mitsubishi Zero fighters were fed thousands of rounds of ammunition. In an organized frenzy, engineers coaxed the aircraft into position onto waiting elevators. Planes began to fill the breezy deck, each engine coughing clouds of smoke and snorting blue flames from their exhaust pipes, rumbling to join the deafening thunder of a storm about to break.
At the front of the low-ceilinged briefing room crammed with men anxious for a fight, stood the senior flight commander of the First Air Fleet, First Carrier Division, the pilot who would lead the historic attack – Commander Mitsuo Fuchida. With his hands behind his back facing his airmen seated and leaning against gray walls, Fuchida stood proudly in his dark brown jumpsuit trimmed with a fur collar and overlaid with a brown kapok filled float vest. He had a narrow, dense mustache. Having anticipated this day for months, today his joy mixed with the sparkle in his eyes and the adrenaline in his veins.
“In the event we fail to destroy the aircraft on the ground,” Fuchida announced, “or we lose the element of surprise, I will give the signal for the dive bombers to begin the attack. Otherwise, the torpedo bombers will initiate, as planned.” He scanned the faces of the torpedo pilots who nodded. He had longed and dreamed for this day of vindication before the eyes of the world.
Off to his side stood his fleet commander, the rather stocky Vice Admiral Nagumo, and beside him, Fuchida’s long-time best friend and chief planner of the impending attack, Lieutenant Minoru Genda in his officer’s uniform, strikingly handsome. A blackboard behind him displayed flight paths to islands, his last minute details, and exhortations of: “As the gods have given us victory in the past, so will they give us victory in the future!” and “Win or lose, you will fight and die for your country!”
As the idling planes rumbled outside the door and their ship rose and fell in the turbulent sea, Fuchida sensed a powerful mixture of fatherly pride and deep compassion for the 146 young airmen before him, men he knew by name, men he had personally trained, all of them eager, restless, serious – some whose mothers would weep when the day was over. Under any other circumstances he would have forbidden his fliers from taking off in such stormy seas, but such was their destiny.
“Years of training and careful planning have brought us to this moment in time.” He paused to let his eyes penetrate into the hearts of his fliers, then snatched his soft leather flight helmet from the table, pulled it over his head, and adjusted the goggles above his forehead.
“Our duty is not only to protect the untarnished past of our ancestors, but to annihilate the enemies of Japan and to establish a new order for the future, the imperial way!” Passion and zeal energized his body as he paced like a tiger eyeing an open cage door. “This is our day, today, our opportunity to mark our place in history. The world will soon know that we are the new samurai. The Empire’s fate depends on the result of this battle. Let every man do his utmost!” He snapped to attention and threw both arms to the sky as the men leapt to their feet, then led his warriors into a resounding cheer, “Tenno Heika, Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”1
To the east, the dark blue sky glowed orange along the ocean horizon with the morning light. Engineers sprinted between aircraft on the windblown deck as pilots and flight crews clambered into their idling planes.
Shuffling through a crowded passageway, Fuchida stared distantly at the floor as he fastened his chinstrap and scoured his mind for any details he may have overlooked. Glancing up, he was wakened from his thoughts by Genda’s face, his best friend. Airmen eased past them toward the angry chorus of attack planes. Fuchida lowered his hands and gazed far into Genda’s eyes. This was it. There was no turning back.
Part I
The Clouds of War
Chapter 1
Eighteen years earlier - Spring, 1923. The Imperial Japanese Naval Academy, Etajima Island, Hiroshima, Japan.
Light burst through the morning clouds in a stunning array of columns. It shone above a steep, densely green mountain ridge behind the long, two-story red-brick building of the Imperial Japanese Naval Academy. A rising sun flag flapped loosely out front in a morning ocean breeze. Shirtless, barefoot cadets in white pants jogged past the young, clean-shaven Fuchida and Genda in their blue uniforms on their way to class.
Fuchida breathed in the morning hope. A new day. He studied the brick structure and reflected on the strange fact that each brick had been individually wrapped in paper and shipped 30,000 miles from their naval mentor, Great Britain. Then he stopped when he noticed the startling sunburst in the sky that morning, strikingly similar to Japan’s own naval flag.
“The sun rises on you, Fuchi,” Genda said.
Fuchida contemplated the sunlight piercing the clouds, then looked back at Genda
with a smirk. “It’s only morning. Just wait until the afternoon.”
The two quickly converged with other cadets past meticulously manicured pine trees up the stone steps into the brick building.
The Imperial Japanese Naval Academy was for the elite – those being groomed for leadership in the growing naval force of Japan. Fuchida was exceptionally bright, if not a bit impulsive and cocky, a “hands on” type of man and, above all, passionate for his country. Genda possessed an equally sharp intellect but leaned more to the strategic side of things. He strove to do things better, better than anyone else.
Fuchida, now twenty-two, walked through the hallway among his classmates with a slight swagger that he’d earned. Mocked as a child by his classmates for his small size and shy demeanor, he had determined to prove them wrong. He didn’t feel lucky – he’d worked hard for his place, a place even his own friends and family never thought he’d arrive at. Despite failing both the physical and academic examinations on his first attempt, he spent hours swimming, studying late into the night and running – mercilessly disciplining himself in order to pass them both, which he did, gaining acceptance into the premier academy of the nation, an exclusive club. He’d paid his dues with sweat and sheer force of will and remained near the top of his class.
Inside the schoolroom, young cadets took notes and cocked their heads to the words of their professor, Lieutenant Nakahama. Maps, charts, and ship illustrations adorned the walls; writing and diagrams filled the front blackboard.
“Submarines, destroyers, and now aircraft from our new carriers all lend their support to the heart of our fleet – our battleships.” He smacked his pointer onto a large profile of Japan’s newest battleship, the Mutsu. Fuchida had studied her well. She was less than a year old, armed with 8 massive guns which hurled one-ton shells over 23 miles – 43,000 tons of modern military power, the pride of the Imperial Navy.
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