Wounded Tiger

by T Martin Bennett

  A curious group of grimy children began to surround the small party and jostled each other while holding out their hands for food. One had open sores on his arms.

  Jimmy spoke in Japanese as he looked at the children. “Get your hair cleaned first, then you can have rice balls and pickles.”

  The children sprinted for the tables with the washing bowls shouting, “Me first!”

  Some of the local adults stood at a distance, but Jimmy and the volunteers had earned the trust of others, who were quite friendly. He knew it would take time to earn their trust, and it was paying off. A student picked up a giggling child and carried him over to the table.

  Off to the side, Jimmy noticed a young girl about Peggy’s age standing with her head held low. Jimmy squatted down to her as Peggy came close and spoke in her best Japanese, “Would you like a pickle?” The little girl’s eyes sparkled as she nodded.

  Peggy reached out her hand and said, “Don’t be afraid. Come on. Let’s get your hair clean.” The little girl looked up at Jimmy with concern, then to Peggy. Her face softened as she took Peggy’s hand with a smile.

  Chapter 6

  January 7, 1932. The Kashiwara Shrine complex, fifteen miles southeast of Osaka.

  Filled with joy and anticipation, Mitsuo Fuchida stood proudly in his ceremonial blue dress uniform complete with sword beside Haruko Kitaoka, meticulously adorned in a red, embroidered kimono – her jet-black hair coifed with combs. With her head humbly bowed, the two stood before a crowd of sixty guests in the Shinto shrine for their wedding ceremony.

  Having only been introduced to Haruko a month earlier, Fuchida had been in a whirlwind adventure. He was moved that his mother and father were rightly concerned with him having no wife and family, an oversight of the busy pilot of twenty-nine, so they arranged a meeting with a qualified young lady he liked from the beginning. Although engagement was usually six months, knowing that his next tour at sea could last a year, this tiger was in no mood to wait. As was his manner, he set his goals and quickly moved forward. Haruko was just who he wanted.

  The gentle, traditional gagaku music drifted through the room as the priest carefully poured sake into the third of three flat cups, held it up, then presented it to Fuchida, who took three small sips and bowed returning the cup to the priest, who then held out the cup to Haruko.

  Fuchida put his days and nights of flying and sailing aside for the evening and could see nothing and no one but his bride to be, who likewise took three sips and bowed to the priest. As she raised her head, he caught her eyes and both did their best not to smile.

  The evening was filled with more music and much food. Lots of it. With months of hard work laying ahead, he tried to make the most of every moment with Haruko, who now appeared beside Fuchida in a blue kimono. Wanting the time to last, he knew it would be over in the blink of an eye. To the delight of their guests, Fuchida picked up a large piece of broiled fish with his chopsticks and brought it up to Haruko’s mouth as she smiled and shook her head. Not satisfied, the guests shouted and cheered as Fuchida persisted. Finally, Haruko took a small bite of the meat to the applause of the guests and tried her best to chew while laughing.

  Yes, he thought, she is indeed the one.

  Spring, 1932. Yokosuka Naval Base, Tokyo Bay.

  Fuchida’s light gray two-seat Mitsubishi B1M biplane roared over the glistening water unleashing its torpedo with a splash toward a barge marked with red flags. Fuchida directed his pilot to veer to the right, then tilt back left so he could look down just as a geyser exploded dead center on the barge. He smiled with satisfaction.

  On a shore platform among other observers, Genda, now also a lieutenant, peered through binoculars. As he took down his field glasses, he, likewise, nodded with approval.

  The Yokosuka Naval Base near Tokyo specialized in training pilots in bombing techniques of all methods, including horizontal, high-level bombing and dive bombing, but Fuchida focused on their specialty – torpedo bombing.

  He was glad to see Japan strengthen its military power as it long had interests in expanding its empire, especially into the recently acquired Manchuria area of China, renamed Manchukuo. He knew they badly needed to secure raw materials and other resources for what he saw as their right as the leading nation of Asia and had no problem with their aggressive expansion.

  In 1910 the Japanese annexed Korea, a trophy from their victory over Russia in 1905, completing their piecemeal takeover of the nation through a series of shrewd “reforms” and disarming of the Korean military. This victory only whet the Japanese appetite for the prize of Manchuria, and in September of 1931, the Japanese Army overran and seized that area as well.

  Fuchida’s plane taxied down the airstrip beside a long row of biplanes boldly emblazoned with the blood red Hinomaru or “sun circle”. He wearily pushed up his goggles in his second seat as the pilot killed the engine and the prop sputtered to a stop. Mechanics in white quickly ran to grab the wings. Genda stood waiting with his hands on his hips, the binoculars still dangling from his neck, as Fuchida dropped to the ground from the wing and unbuckled his flight cap.

  Genda stepped forward. “Well done, Fuchi! You’re gaining a reputation.”

  “Genda! I heard you’d just begun teaching here! Congratulations.”

  Genda put his arm around him and squeezed his shoulder. “No, no, the congratulations go to the man who has taken a bride to preserve the Fuchida name.”

  Fuchida blushed a bit and quickly changed the subject. “So tell me, what’s new?”

  Genda cocked his head for Fuchida to follow. They approached a hangar where Genda nodded to a pair of soldiers who heaved open huge sliding doors.

  Stepping inside Fuchida’s jaw dropped. He’d heard about this plane but had never seen one. Before him sat a Mitsubishi 1MF10, the newest, fastest plane of a new generation of all-metal low-wing monoplanes. Mechanics attended to the aircraft like trainers of a thoroughbred racehorse.

  “I’ve already taken this test model out and she’s much faster and more maneuverable than any biplane. We’re still working out imperfections, but this is the future of naval aircraft.”

  “OK, so when do I get a chance?”

  “As soon as possible, since you’ll be training the pilots.”

  “Me?” Fuchida did his best to act humble in the Japanese tradition, but he knew he fooled no one.

  “This is only the first of many superior aircraft that will be a part of the finest air division in the world. You’re the best and everyone knows it, especially you.”

  The following day, Fuchida and Genda found themselves in the same room once again in a class for the last session of the day. Seated in rows with their hats sitting on their desks facing forward, the two friends were among a narrowing company of elite officers receiving the latest training from the best military minds in Japan.

  The instructor’s voice seemed to grow more intense as he swung his arm across a huge map of Asia. “The British colonized the subcontinent of India, the nation of Burma, Hong Kong, Singapore, and the Malay Peninsula; the Dutch have taken Indonesia with their rich supplies of oil and tin; the Australians occupy lands in New Guinea; and the Philippines are essentially a territory of the United States who have built major naval and air bases there.”

  Fuchida was engrossed. He’d never quite put it all together before in this way, but it rang true in his heart – conquer or be conquered. The teacher tilted his head down a bit as his eyes scanned the room of officers.

  “The rich, white Westerners are little more than proud colonists who subjugate native peoples. The money squeezed from Asian blood maintains these minorities in their wasteful lifestyles. Not only are they enslaving other nations and stealing their wealth, but they’re doing it right in our own backyard to our own fellow Asians. I’ve been to Shanghai, a home to many westerners, where signs say, ‘Dogs and Yellow People – No Entry!’”

  Fuchida squirmed uncomfortably. It was just the same in San Francisco, something h
e could never forget.

  “Yet these very same Western nations have the arrogance to insist that only the white races have the right to colonize, that we, under the leadership of our august and divine Emperor, have no right to improve the conditions of Asians in Manchukuo ...” He slapped his hand flat on upper China. “... now a part of our growing empire, our rightful destiny!”

  Fuchida’s ears tingled and his heart beat with excitement as the veneer of the West was stripped away to expose them as the culprits they were.

  “Our goal is to stabilize East Asia through cooperation between Japan, Manchukuo, and China for our common prosperity. Since China, however, has ignored our true motives and has mobilized her armies against us, we can only counter her step by force of arms. Soon, the nations will see the establishment of a new world order.” He paused and looked over the room. “East Asia will come to know economic prosperity free from the grip of Western colonialism. We will cleanse Asia from Anglo-Saxon expansion. Under our leadership, the eight corners of the world will be brought together under one roof.”

  The eyes of Fuchida were riveted on the professor, unaware of anything except the words pouring from his heart. The professor stepped away from the map and walked close to the officers in the classroom – the future leaders of Japan and her empire.

  “We never forget that our lives belong to the Emperor. We yield it to no one else under any circumstances. A true Japanese cannot surrender as it is not in our nature to do so. There is no lower shame or contempt. If our enemies don’t know this now, one day they will, and fear will grip their hearts. We bow to no one but to the Emperor!”

  The instructor stood tall and pulled his head back a bit. “The United States is our enemy, so we will patiently let them mock us and lecture us and insult us with cartoons in their newspapers ... and as they become weaker in their misplaced self-confidence, we will continue to become stronger. Soon, we will have the most powerful navy on earth. We will continue our military preparations and wait for the right opportunity to take our proper place in the world as the leading nation of Asia.”

  Fuchida could see his anger beneath the surface.

  “And finally, the West will be forced to give to the Yamato people what we have long deserved ...”

  Fuchida leaned to Genda and whispered, “Respect.”

  The instructor quickly turned to Fuchida, stared, then looked across the class and nodded his head.

  “Yes, indeed. Respect.”

  Chapter 7

  Spring, 1932. Central Oregon.

  A layer of straw dust clung to Jake’s sweaty face as the hay press chugged and clanked away against a weathered shed with a rusted corrugated roof. He adjusted his cowboy hat with his gloved hands and rushed to twist the second strand of wire onto a finished hay bale as others forked hay into the feeder. Another young ranch hand worked the levers and belts on the single engine machine – sputtering unevenly, spitting puffs of smoke into the cloudless sky.

  The potbellied foreman pulled on the brim of his hat, looked down at his pocket watch, then up to the fading sun. “We’re not lacing shoes, son – get a move on!”

  “Yes, sir. Fingers gettin’ a bit sore.” Jake grabbed the wires just as the bale was pushed out and swung it onto a trailer half full of bales where another hand grabbed it and bucked it up into place. Easy for a fat boss standing around to tell us to move faster, he thought. Jake made up his mind not to farm wheat, but helping ranch cattle wasn’t much different. The dry climate and poor soil didn’t lend itself to much other than growing grass or raising creatures that ate grass. That was about it for the area.

  That night, Jake threw his hat on a chair, wiped his face with a towel, then crouched beside his bed to slide out an old coffee can from underneath – his “hope chest” for building his own house. He took it up and spilled it abruptly onto his dresser top. Pushing the coins and paper dollars around and counting under his breath, he glanced up to a calendar advertising McFinney’s Hardware Store for May. Most of the days were crossed out. His eyes hopelessly roamed the room, “Oh, that’s just great! In about a hundred years I’ll be able to buy one shoe!” He fell back onto his worn patchwork bedspread and stared at the ceiling. “I might as well just be working for free!” He sighed heavily and whispered to himself, “I’ve gotta find another job.”

  Chapter 8

  Summer, 1932. The Kanto Gakuin School, Yokohama.

  On a balmy summer evening, Jimmy joined a group of seventy-seven students in a cramped second floor classroom adorned with sweeping handmade banners in Japanese reading Christian Student Movement – International Goodwill Meeting. Other posters declared Peace, Our Greatest Gift for the Future, and Support Eternal Peace. There were a few staff in attendance and hand-held fans fluttered throughout the audience like butterfly wings.

  The student leader spoke passionately. “We can create goodwill to mankind. Many of us want disarmament, but those who profit from selling the death machines of war oppose it.” A small applause rose as the young man cleared his throat. “We can resist the great enemy of war itself by first disarming our minds and hearts of the hatred that leads to fighting in the first place.”

  Jimmy was a regular at these meetings and his heart filled with pride at the courage of these young men to openly oppose the military ambitions of the nation. The Japanese way was to conform, but these young men, the leaders of tomorrow, were declaring themselves their own persons. He loved it.

  A student beside Jimmy leaned to him and whispered, “Who are they?” tilting his head toward the back of the room.

  Jimmy nonchalantly turned and briefly glanced to the back. Fear gripped him at the sight of four officers in blue uniforms whispering among themselves. He discreetly leaned to the student, “The Thought Police,” he whispered. “The Tokkō. Just keep looking forward.” He’d never seen the Tokkō here before. This was not a good development.

  The speaker saw the officers but continued anyway, his eyes darting across the audience.

  Jimmy knew that the Japanese had military police officers, called the Kempeitai, but they also had men who were the “Special Higher Police” or “Thought Police,” the Tokubetsu Kōtō Keisatsu or just the Tokkō. Formed in 1911 in response to an anarchist group’s plot in 1910 to kill Emperor Meiji (Hirohito’s grandfather), they investigated political groups or anyone who were deemed a threat to the “essence of Japan,” but in recent years their power expanded rapidly: questioning, detaining, and arresting thousands for “subversive ideologies” – anything that opposed the officially approved philosophy of the government.

  The leader of the Tokkō had finally had enough. He strode to the front of the room leading the other three officers, waving his hands over his head, and interrupting the speaker mid-sentence. “This meeting is adjourned!” The speaker stopped as gasps trickled through the crowd. “This is an illegal meeting! All of you know that anyone who organizes a group for the purpose of challenging the national essence of Japan will be sentenced to imprisonment. Everyone go back home! Go!”

  The other officers took hold of the speaker and his two friends beside him at the podium, yanked their arms behind their backs, and clasped them in handcuffs. By then, everyone was standing and muttering in hushed fear and shock.

  Jimmy called out in Japanese, “What have they done wrong?! They only want to help make the world a safer place! You should arrest me instead of them!”

  As the Tokkō escorted the student leaders to the back of the room, the Tokkō leader looked Jimmy up and down. “You’re just a stupid gaijin!”3 Another Tokkō pushed Jimmy aside as they made their way for the exit.

  “They only want peace! What’s wrong with that?”

  The cuffed student leader stumbled forward with his head bowed. He glanced over at Jimmy who felt the fear of this young man facing an uncertain future.

  Some weeks later, briefcase in hand, Jimmy walked across the campus and glanced at his watch, then turned to the sound of plain-clothes students marching
in step to the commands of an army officer. Jimmy’s face darkened. He made an about-face and stormed off. This was the last straw.

  Inside Dr. Sakata’s office, Jimmy stood before his desk with his hands stretched wide. “What in the world is going on? I thought we’d all agreed not to accept military training here?”

  Dr. Sakata looked up, restraining his emotions. “You know I don’t like this any more than you do, but you need to understand that if we didn’t accept training for the students now, their compulsory service in the army would be even longer. It’s only because of my own military service that they allowed us to be the last Christian school in all Japan to accept this training. It doesn’t mean we accept the idea of war.”

  “No? Then what does it mean? What?”

  “If the government sees us as a threat they’ll shut us down, and how will that serve our students?”

  Jimmy walked away from the desk and turned around.

  Dr. Sakata pulled open a desk drawer and dropped an envelope on the front of his desk facing Jimmy. “This is your stamp?” Sakata asked with a touch of annoyance. “You’re stamping your letters with this?” he said tapping the envelope with his finger.

  Jimmy stepped closer and peered down through his round-rimmed glasses at a cancelled envelope, rubber stamped with bright red letters reading, Friendships not Battleships. Jimmy’s face lightened as he had this stamp custom made for himself. He peered up and cocked his head. “Friendships are better than battleships,” he said with a grin. “Don’t you agree?”

  Sakata looked away and back with frustration. “Have you used this before?”

  “Many times.”

  Dr. Sakata exhaled angrily. “We have to be careful not to arouse suspicion. You need to stop stamping your mail like this!” Their eyes locked.