Chapter 3
January, 1925. San Francisco Bay.
The biting wind ruffled the navy blue pants of Fuchida and Genda as they stood motionless in a crisp “at ease” posture, hands behind their backs along the rail with the entire crew spaced evenly down the length of the cruiser Yakumo. Three American warships escorted their ship and two other cruisers into the San Francisco Bay as seagulls called from above.
Fuchida studied the stark white, brand new U.S. battleships, guns proudly cocked into the sky at their maximum angle, then wistfully glanced at their own aging Japanese cruisers breathing smoke from triple stacks.
Maintaining his posture, Fuchida whispered to Genda, “Look at us in our old smoky rust buckets! And look at the West Virginia, the pride of the American fleet. It’s humiliating!”
Having successfully graduated from the naval academy in the top of their class, Fuchida and Genda proceeded on a final training mission that took them to one of Japan’s allies, the United States. Despite slowly building tensions, the two nations retained their relationship forged during the First World War.
“Relax,” Genda whispered back, likewise unmoving. “You have to ride an ox before you can ride a horse.” Genda grinned.
Fuchida smoldered.
After their cruiser was moored alongside their host battleship, USS West Virginia, the Japanese captain briefed his cadets in the main mess area. “I’m sure you’re looking forward to seeing the city and touring the American battleships. Just remember that America is still our ally. You represent the Emperor and all of Japan ...”
Under a sunny sky with a chilly bay breeze, Captain Belknap personally gave the tour, speaking with great gestures on the forward deck of the battleship beneath one of the mammoth gun turrets. “... and can fire a twenty-two hundred pound shell up to forty thousand yards. That’s twenty-two miles – considerably beyond the horizon.”
A Japanese cadet nodded and turned to his classmates to translate into Japanese. “It will fire a shell that is, ah, one thousand kilos, a distance of twenty-two miles.”
Fuchida whispered, “I know, I know! We have the same guns on our battleships, you idiot! Ask him about the float planes in the back. That’s what I’m interested in.”
Later they stood beneath the three floatplanes mounted on raised launch rails on the rear deck of the battleship: Vought UO-1 floatplanes – biplanes that were designed with a single large pontoon beneath the plane in the center with two smaller pontoons below the wingtips for stability. The aircraft were catapult launched for reconnaissance missions and then, when returning, would land in the water to be recovered by winch and hauled back onto the ship.
As the captain continued his talk, Fuchida elbowed Genda and whispered in Japanese, “They think of planes in terms of reconnaissance only. Why can’t aircraft be used as attack vehicles? Why not?”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Genda whispered back. “No plane’s really been developed that’s capable of attacking a capital ship effectively. It’s never been tried. It seems foolish that even our aircraft carriers only launch scouts and fighters to protect the battleships and cruisers and to communicate shellfire adjustment on targets.”
“One day the carriers will rule the seas,” Fuchida added, “attacking battleships that can never reach them. These big guns will be useless.”
Genda looked up at the floatplane and back at Fuchida with a glint in his eye.
The tour ended below decks in a cramped interior that exposed the inside hull of the ship. Captain Belknap crouched down and rapped the steel wall with his knuckles. “Using the latest advances we constructed a triple layer hull with sixteen inches of steel at the waterline.” He stood upright, adjusted his hat and put his hands on his hips. “Combined with watertight compartments, the West Virginia is just about unsinkable.”
As the translator spoke in Japanese, Genda leaned to Fuchida and whispered, “The clever hawk hides his talons.”
“And who knows what the future holds?” Fuchida replied.
Captain Belknap glanced over at the whispering two, who quickly smiled and nodded.
Fuchida attempted his best English. “Very impressive!”
The next morning, the captain assigned Fuchida to escort a group of Japanese civilians, mostly farmers, who came to tour the Yakumo. San Francisco had one of the highest concentrations of Japanese anywhere in North America and this was a rare opportunity for the immigrants to meet with some of their own countrymen. After following them up the gangplank of the aging gunboat, Fuchida in his navy blues led the group of simply dressed commoners beside one of their gun turrets layered with multiple coats of peeled paint.
As they stood listening to Fuchida’s little speech about the ship, the farmers kept looking off at the stately, new West Virginia.
One of the farmers pointed across the water. “Midshipman, are there any battleships like that in Japan?”
“Yes, of course, we have a very modern fleet with brand new battleships, just like the American battleships.” Fuchida smiled, carefully concealing his own feelings.
“Then why didn’t you bring one of those instead of this? It’s so old it’s embarrassing! It’ll only create more prejudice against us.”
“Well, you see, this is simply a training ship for young graduates.” He paused. “What do you mean – more prejudice?”
Another man with a round, rice-field hat pushed forward, “They’ve passed laws against the Japanese, preventing us from immigrating here or owning land. Now we’ve lost our farms.”
Another blurted out, “And we can’t even defend ourselves in court. We’re not allowed to testify. It’s not fair!”
Fuchida uncharacteristically spoke his thoughts, “Why would they do that?”
Still another pulled out several newspapers and waved them in the air. “Look at this. See what they write about us!”
Fuchida took the papers and with a shake flattened them out. Having made a point of studying English, he could easily read the headlines that shouted: “Japanese a Menace to American Women” and “The Yellow Peril – How Japanese Crowd Out the White Race.” A wave of shock, disgust, and even fear came over him as he scanned the papers. From behind, one of the men tapped Fuchida on the arm and held out a matchbox. Fuchida turned to look at the matchbox, then quizzically at the man’s face. The man then pointed at the wording on the box: “White Men & Women – Patronize Your Own Race!” Fuchida looked out across the bay. Having come to the shores of the great United States for the first time in his life, he felt like he had been slapped in the face.
The man with the rice-field hat continued. “We just want to farm and live our lives with our families, but I can’t even bring my wife and children here to join me. It’s as if they’re saying that we’re not welcome here, that we’re not good enough, but why? We work hard. We don’t bother anyone!”
“No one speaks up for you?” Fuchida asked.
“A few American businessmen and some churches, but can’t you do something?”
The group all turned to look at Fuchida, ambushed by an ugly truth for which he had no response. His years of focused training at the naval academy had kept him from lifting his eyes to see the dark clouds gathering in the distance.
After the tour, Fuchida stood upright on the dock at the base of the gangplank as the small group left, shaking the hand of each visitor and giving a slight bow; each likewise bowing in return.
As the farmers continued down the dock, three young American sailors in their white uniforms, blue neckerchiefs, and hats cocked to just the right angle approached from the opposite direction, towering over the Japanese farmers. The sailors came to an abrupt halt, looked over the aging cruiser, then at the men.
“Hey, Chinaman! Ching chow yung pang!”
The farmers peered up at the sailor in confusion.
“You call that a ship? We use stuff like that for target practice!”
Another sailor made hand gestures of guns shooting, then tilted
his arm like a sinking ship complete with sound effects. His buddies snickered and shook their heads.
Fuchida didn’t hear every word, but he completely understood their message. The farmers looked back helplessly at Fuchida, his nostrils flaring like a caged animal being pelted with pebbles by ignorant, fearless children.
Chapter 4
1931, Spring. The Deschutes River, Central Oregon.
Jacob “Jake” DeShazer, a lanky blue-eyed boy of nineteen stood fishing for steelhead trout along the boulder strewn riverbank with his mother – he in his suspenders, a long-sleeved white shirt and a worn fedora, she in her typical long-sleeved dress covering her heavy frame. Green brush and craggy trees clung to the rocky banks that gave way to steep, arid hills of dead grass and high desert scrub.
Though Jake loved the peaceful sound of the river and the distant birds, inside he wrestled with what on earth he’d do after he graduated high school and rehearsed how to fend off his stepfather’s probing questions and lame suggestions he expected that evening.
A trout tugged his line darting through the clear water as Jake instinctively pulled back. The line went slack. Jake jerked up his pole in frustration. “That last one was a good eighteen inches! Stupid fish!”
“But smart enough to get away from you.” His mom smiled, then paused. “Have you thought about that offer from Mr. Jennings at the hardware store?”
There it was again. Jake knew she was fishing for more than just fish. Jake’s dad died when he was two and his mother had remarried soon after, taking her second husband’s name of “Andrus.” She was a tough woman, but not hard. Her words were kind, her love and affection true to the bone, and when she prayed at the table, Jake knew she meant it. To him she was the epitome of what came to mind when someone talked of baseball, apple pie, and “Mom.” But there came a time when she needed to let him be a man on his own, and Jake felt that time was now.
“He doesn’t pay anything. Not enough, anyway,” he said. Jake liked his stepdad, a wheat farmer, but just wasn’t of the mind to be a farmer himself.
“Well, something’s better than nothing, and we could use the help.” Mrs. Andrus pushed aside a wiry bush and carefully stepped over the rocks to reposition her line. Suddenly her pole yanked down, then up, as a trout churned the waters and splashed into the air. “But not smart enough to get away from me! This one’s coming to dinner tonight!”
The western sky glowed orange to purple above a low ridge of mountains silhouetting the Andrus’ 640 acre wheat ranch against the sky, a collection of wooden farm buildings and a spinning wind pump. Fenced pens and barns housed ten horses as well as a dozen dairy cows. The snort of a mare at the fence blended in with the warm sounds of family echoing from the glowing windows of their farmhouse.
Seasoned fish sizzled in an iron skillet tended by Helen, Jake’s thirteen-year-old half-sister, as the family took their seats at the table – Ruth, Jake’s big sister; Glenn, just two years younger than he; and Hiram Andrus, his stepfather, who tucked a faded red and white checkered napkin into his collar and continued the press on Jake.
“What about Mr. McGregor’s cattle ranch? You’re good with horses, Jake”
“I suppose so. I can stop by there next week.” Jake yanked the napkin from under his silverware, flapped it open, and laid it on his lap.
Jake’s mom lifted a tray with potholders over their heads to the table. “Make way for the cornbread!”
“Right here!” Glenn reached for a knife as the tray thumped the table and filled the air with the scent of sweet corn.
Mrs. Andrus pulled off her mitts. “Well, we’ve got to celebrate Jakie’s graduation tomorrow.”
Glenn started cutting the cornbread. “You sure he’s graduating?”
Mr. Andrus replied, “If he doesn’t, we’ll give him another try next year,” and gave a wink at Jake, who punched Glenn in the shoulder.
Mr. Andrus turned to Glenn. “Don’t you dare take a bite until your mother sits down and we give thanks.”
Glenn shouted, “Helen?! C’mon and sit down!” Helen proudly carried in the platter of fried fish on blue and white stoneware as Jake turned to his mom, who was finally taking a seat at the end of the table opposite her husband.
“I want to save up and one day buy my own house, Ma. Maybe even build it. I want to build something that’ll last. I just have to have the right job.”
Ruth poured herself a glass of milk. “You couldn’t build a chicken coop, so you can forget about a house.”
“Oh, stop,” Mrs. Andrus said. “You can do it, son. Now, let’s hold hands.” The commotion at the table turned still as they reached for one another’s hands and bowed their heads.
The next afternoon, Jake and his fellow classmates of thirteen students stood in their Sunday best on the steps of Madras High School for their class photo. The girls looked like they’d been waiting for this all year; the boys stood awkwardly as if they couldn’t wait to get home to change.
The photographer fumbled under his black drape. “Hold it ... smile. OK. Got it.” He ducked out from the cloth and stood up. “Now go out and change the world!”
Jake rolled his eyes as the proud parents broke out into a smattering of applause.
Chapter 5
1931, Fall. The Kanto Gakuin School, Yokohama, Japan.
The college campus stood empty, but the muted sound of singing flowed from the school gymnasium that featured a tall, square spire wrapped in ivy. Eight years after the devastating earthquake, the small school had been rebuilt and combined with another school. Inside, nearly 500 students sang a hymn in Japanese – “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”
Although athletic, Jimmy was a pianist and a good singer too, a member of the glee club throughout his college years, but today he stood shoulder to shoulder with the students. Finishing the song accompanied by a small organ, Jimmy sang out in Japanese with his whole heart. He didn’t just sing the words, he meant them.
Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also;
The body they may kill: God’s truth abideth still,
His kingdom is forever.
At his podium, Dr. Sakata bent the squeaky gooseneck microphone. “Thank you so much. You are excused to classes.”
That evening, Jimmy hunched at a small desk below a wall of books pecking away on a typewriter on his newsletter. Although his family of five lived in a small Japanese-style home with tatami mat flooring and sliding paper doors, they managed to squeeze in some Western-style furniture as well.
Jimmy barely heard his seven-year-old son, David, screeching on his violin or see Alice, five, finishing a glass of milk at the kitchen table beside Charma. Peggy, now nine, sat curled in a blue loveseat lost in a book. Jimmy continued at the typewriter, pausing now and then to adjust his glasses and roll up the sheet to read what he’d just typed.
Charma called from the kitchen, “How’re your freshmen boys doing in English this year?”
Jimmy kept clacking away. “Better than I’m doing in Japanese.”
Charma studied a magazine and slowly rose from the table, still reading. “Hey, you didn’t tell me they published your article in the college paper.”
“You didn’t ask,” Jimmy teased without looking up.
Charma squeezed into the loveseat beside Peggy who glanced up from her book. “Peggy, listen to what your father wrote: Why do children work so hard in the fields at such a young age? Why do they work so hard in factories?”
Jimmy stopped typing to listen.
“Why are women and children allowed to be taken advantage of in factories to earn big profits for corporations? And why do we stand by and ignore these things?”
Jimmy spun around in his chair pointing up an index finger with each hand. “That reminds me. I’m taking some students down to the settlement tomorrow morning.”
Peggy jumped up. “I want to come! Can I come this time?”
Jimmy reached out his hands and pulled her to his side. “Of course. Everyone can
help.”
The next day, Jimmy led a group of nine student volunteers and a couple of teachers armed with backpacks, boxes, and food pots into the slums of Yokohama. Known as “the city of tunnels” because of its maze of buildings, shacks and alleys, it was overshadowed by the towering smokestacks of the Japan Carbon Company that layered the land in a film of soot, draining the color from everything in sight the same way it seemed to drain the life of its inhabitants. Known as a den of drinking and brawling for the unemployed or under-employed, it smelled of industry and rotting garbage.
Jimmy held Peggy’s hand as he and the group of Japanese and Americans carefully plotted their steps on discarded planks that served as sidewalks through the muddy paths, trying to avoid the worst of the muck between the leaning wooden buildings.
He bent down to Peggy. “These are our brothers and sisters.” They trudged on as Peggy gazed up at stoic onlookers with folded arms in filthy rags. What might have repulsed others, excited Jimmy. These were his people.
Jimmy had co-founded this little “settlement,” as he called it, two years earlier with school faculty and student volunteers through fund drives and donations. For him, faith meant nothing without works and he diligently came to their little house in Yokohama every week, sometimes several times a week, with whatever people he could pull together. Rain or shine, summer or winter, he came. People from the slums sometimes came to his home in town where he and Charma invited them in. When people realized that the Covells gave away food coupons, they’d often line up at their door before sunrise.
The alleyway led to an opening where two Japanese students were already setting up tables in front of a new clapboard house displaying a sign in Japanese and English: Kanto Gakuin Settlement House. All are Welcome Here.
“Good morning!” Jimmy said, as he set his backpack on the doorstep. “What are we doing first?” The others filed in behind him as the two students bowed.
“Good morning, Covell-San. First, cleaning lice from hair, then math lessons, then Bible study. Night classes for the adults start again next week.”
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