Wounded Tiger

by T Martin Bennett

  Fuchida’s experience and skill had brought him to the position of squadron commander on the biggest carrier in the Imperial Japanese Navy, the Akagi. Her 855-foot runway looked precariously small from the air as his pilot lined up for his landing approach, making note of the steam vent on the middle of the runway indicating wind direction.

  In the tower, Vice Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, clean shaven head and face, watched the approach of Fuchida’s plane through binoculars. He was already familiar with Fuchida, although they hadn’t met, as, two years earlier, Yamamoto had had the unpleasant task as Deputy Navy Minister of being responsible to apologize to the U.S. ambassador for the bombing of USS Panay in China. He dropped the glasses to his chest keeping his eyes on the aircraft, and leaned toward Captain Kusaka beside him. “Is that Fuchida, the squadron commander?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have him sent to my quarters.”

  “Yes sir. Right away.”

  After Kusaka gave brief instructions through a phone to the flight deck, they both watched intently as Fuchida’s aircraft approached, adjusted its wings like a goose, hit the wooden deck with a hard thump into the arresting cables, and jerked to a violent halt.

  The pilot killed the engine as Fuchida pushed his canopy back to see an engineer in white waving both hands over his head to get his attention. Fuchida unbuckled his straps and looked down as the engineer pointed up to Yamamoto in the tower. Fuchida pulled his goggles up and nodded as he caught the gaze of Yamamoto. Fuchida smiled, then looked down and shook his head. Not him! Still, he was curious about the meeting.

  After changing into his navy blue uniform, Fuchida arrived and was seated at a glossy wooden table opposite Yamamoto in his quarters, richly detailed with inlaid wood paneling. Every piece of metal in sight was polished brass. Yamamoto’s look was as straightforward as his mindset – no facial hair or glasses. His hair was close-cropped nearly to the skin. After the obligatory small talk, Yamamoto began to get to the point.

  “I expected your squadron to do well in the night bombing practice exercises last month which I observed directly ...” While staring at Fuchida, Yamamoto took a slow puff from his cigarette. “But I didn’t expect all twenty-seven torpedoes to score hits, especially under tracer fire and with spotlights in your eyes.”

  Perhaps, Fuchida thought, he’d been too quick to judge Yamamoto. Superior officers were usually all too eager to criticize fliers. He looked downward, “Sir, we were only doing our job. A failure of one flier is a failure of all.”

  “But you proved your point, that a night attack on capital ships can be very successful.”

  Fuchida looked up.

  “Tell me, what do you think of Hitler’s blitzkrieg?”

  He tried to restrain his delight as he was mesmerized by the news streaming from Germany and their unstoppable forces. “Admiral, I think this was a brilliant move.” Though usually relaxed, even Fuchida felt tense in the presence of Yamamoto and made a conscious effort not to glance at the Admiral’s left hand, missing two fingers from his participation in the Battle of Tsushima, Japan’s greatest naval victory to date. “Conquering a nation in six weeks? This required careful planning and perfect execution. They carried it out flawlessly. The Germans can’t be stopped. The way to attack is swiftly and decisively.”

  “How’s your work coming along here on the Akagi? Please speak freely. I want the truth.” Yamamoto’s eyes would accept nothing less. He tapped his cigarette in the ash tray.

  Fuchida wasn’t sure what would happen if he said what he really believed, but knew he’d never have a better chance than this one. “Admiral,” Fuchida repositioned himself, “the one question I’m repeatedly asked that tests my patience is, ‘How many planes do we need to protect our battleships?’ This is upside down!” Fuchida leaned forward. “Carriers shouldn’t be looked at as defensive forces, but as attack forces. What I believe we should do is to gather all of our carriers with our aircraft into one great air squadron with massive striking power and have the battleships, cruisers, and destroyers protect the carriers. Instead of separate commanders over each ship, all the ship’s squadrons should be put under a single command. I believe this would be far more effective.” Fuchida leaned back. “But if I ever spoke my mind freely around the old commanders, well, they’d hang me, so I just shut up.”

  Yamamoto nodded. “No, I agree. I’ve been thinking along the same lines for some time now. I’m convinced that we’ve underestimated the tactical strength of air power.”

  Fuchida was relieved, but even more, he was surprised. He was beginning to like this new commander.

  “Soon, we’ll move in this direction.” Yamamoto rose as did Fuchida, and extended his hand. “We’ll speak again.”

  Chapter 16

  1940, Spring. Tacoma, Washington.

  Jake stood in greasy coveralls on a small platform below the wing of a B-17 Flying Fortress holding a wrench for a mechanic under the open cowling of one of its four engines. The hangar smelled of oil-soaked rags and rang with the click and ping of engineers working on the three other, brand new, Boeing B-17s recently delivered to the McChord Field base.

  It wasn’t what Jake had planned on, but with Europe at war he was an attractive candidate to the U.S. Army Air Corps who were looking for men, and a steady paying job made the Army Air Corps equally attractive to him. To Jake, grease under his fingernails was better than turkey down in his hair. At least he had money, now.

  Chewing a wad of gum, the 30-ish mechanic with the bill of his cap flipped up, rattled on. “So I wondered to myself, ‘Why the heck am I fixing broken down cars for nothin’, when I can work for Uncle Sam with better pay, all the benefits, and none of the bellyaching customers.’ Get me?”

  “Me and business don’t seem to get along too well, either,” Jake said. “I joined up to be a pilot, but they said I was too old.” Jake didn’t mind the mechanical work or even working for someone else, but was pretty disappointed about not being able to fly.

  “Hand me a half inch wrench, will ya?” The gum chewer twisted away without looking back.

  Jake pulled out a jangling drawer of wrenches and found what he was looking for. “What do you think the Japs are up to? The papers say things are getting hot.” He handed off the wrench.

  The mechanic ducked out from under the open cowling, shook his head, then pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped the black grease from his hands. “Don’t you know? The Japs are a big joke. They can’t fly ‘cause they can’t see. Here, take your fingers and do this.” He put two fingers at each temple and stretched his face pulling his eyes into slits. Jake did the same, making the pair look like a couple of school kids playing games. “How’s it look? All blurry huh?” He let go of his face leaving finger grease prints on his temples.

  “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Jake stood with his eyes pulled and gazed around the hangar. It really was all blurry.

  “See, that’s why they all wear glasses.” He grabbed a black hose and pushed it onto a fitting. “And they don’t have no balance, either. All them Jap moms put their babies on their backs and they rock all around. They can’t fly worth beans. If they ever get the idea to mess with the U.S.A. ...” He looked down at Jake. “They’ll be D.O.A. Get me?” He turned back, gave a weird chuckle to himself and kept chewing his gum.

  Jake nodded with a smile as if he’d been handed a pearl of wisdom.

  Chapter 17

  June, 1940, Central Philippine University on the island of Panay, Iloilo, The Philippines.

  Peggy hauled her tan leather suitcase down the stairs to the front door of their concrete, tin-roofed staff quarters. It was a rather utilitarian place, but she felt it sufficed after they had driven out the rats and bats when they arrived two years earlier. It was a mess after having no occupants for a year, but they made it into a home. The greater campus consisted of white buildings with red tile roofs surrounded by coconut palms reaching up to the sky.

  “Here, Peg.” Charma held out a ma
gazine featuring a photo of Peggy at age eleven with her sister Alice, eight at the time, both in kimonos holding Japanese dolls. The article headline read Foreign Girls Love Japan. “Why don’t you take this with you?”

  “Oh, Mom, thanks.” Peggy had forgotten about the magazine photo and it made her miss the only home she’d ever known – Japan.

  Peggy was happy that her dad had accepted the offer to teach English and Bible at the Central Philippine University so they relocated to the island of Panay, a triangle-shaped tropical island in the middle of the over 7,000 islands of the Philippines. The island, covered with lush vegetation, palm trees, and wild orchids, measured about 100 miles wide by 120 miles long. Her mom found a job teaching at a nearby high school, so she thought that was pretty great, too.

  “I don’t have much for the cold weather of New York,” Peggy said to Charma, “so I’ll have to get some winter clothes when I’m at college.”

  “Less to take with you on the ship and the trains. A ten thousand mile trip for a young lady like you? It’ll be quite a journey.” She ran her fingers through Peggy’s hair.

  Peggy smiled. Even though she was not quite seventeen she felt more like a woman, but to her mom she knew she’d always be just a girl.

  “Let me see your ticket,” Jimmy said as he picked up her suitcase and impatiently motioned with his fingers.

  “Dad, I’ve got it.” Peggy reached in her shoulder bag, pulled it out, and waved it in front of him sarcastically. She hated being talked to like a kid, but crossing the Pacific Ocean and the continental United States by herself would be a challenge, a trip halfway around the world, but she was up for it. She liked challenges.

  Her application had been accepted at Keuka College for Women in upstate New York and she looked forward to school, but now surrounded by her mom, dad, sister and brother, she felt a physical sadness knowing she would miss them soon.

  Jimmy ushered her toward the open doorway. “Kiss your brother and sister. We can’t be late. Got to get to Manila early enough to make sure everything’s set.” He wiped the perspiration off his forehead onto his sleeve. “Don’t want the steamer leaving without you. Then we’d be stuck with you!”

  Peggy hugged her brother, David. “Well, it’ll be a while before we’re all back together again.”

  She gave her younger sister, Alice, a hug like a best friend. “I guess I’ll see both of you some time when you come to school in the States in not too long, OK?”

  Onboard the ship, standing at the rail, Charma, Jimmy, and Peggy watched a crane hauling a cargo net of mailbags as it swung into the hold of their small steam ship President Taft in Manila Bay. Jimmy turned to Peggy, placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked her up and down as if to regret her coming of age. “Look to serve others. That’s how you serve God.” He reached his arms around her and held her more closely than he ever had in the past. Passengers with bags pressed past them.

  Charma wiped her eyes. “Your brother and sister will be going to California soon for school out there. Please, please be careful, dear.”

  “Don’t you worry about me. I’m more worried about you and dad, with all this talk of war.” Peggy couldn’t wait for her journey to begin and felt safe leaving the Philippines, but couldn’t help wondering what could happen in the islands. “I just don’t understand it.”

  As seagulls called overhead in the fading afternoon light, the loudspeaker system rudely blared out, “All aboard for San Francisco! Last call. All aboard for San Francisco!”

  Jimmy squeezed Peggy’s shoulder and reassured her with his eyes. “Listen, General MacArthur’s here with over one hundred thousand Filipino and American soldiers. We’re safe until things settle down, and then we can all go back to Japan. Besides,” he said with a gentle stroke of her face, “I don’t believe the Japanese really want war, anyway.”

  Chapter 18

  October 8, 1940. Tokyo Bay.

  Battleships, aircraft carriers, heavy cruisers, destroyers, and a host of other warships – 600,000 tons of them – blanketed the bay under a rumbling sky darkened with over 500 aircraft in the most muscular display of naval military power the world had ever seen.

  Tens of thousands of cheering spectators lined the shores in the parks of Yokohama and waved arms and flags from windows and trees, on rooftops, from buses, and on the beaches as far as the eye could see, erupting into deafening cheers and shouts of “Banzai! Banzai!”

  Sailors in white perfectly lined the entire length of the deck of the aircraft carrier Akagi. In the tower, Fuchida and Capt. Kusaka shielded their eyes from the sun as they gazed upward in pride at the display of air power droning above.

  On the deck of the battleship Hiei were Admiral Yamamoto and the top military brass of the Imperial Japanese Navy – all in their impeccable navy blues replete with gold braids, colorful ribbons, and bright medals – facing Emperor Hirohito, seated on a raised platform, also in his military uniform.

  The imperial Japanese government had declared 1940 as the 2,600th anniversary of the founding of the nation by their first Emperor, Jimmu, in 660 B.C., and this was only one of many national celebrations held throughout the country during the year. In April, the Hakko-Ichiu5 Monument towering 120 feet was dedicated in a solemn ceremony on the southern island of Kyushu in Miyazaki. Less than a month before the naval display, the Japanese ambassador Kurusu had signed the Tripartite Pact with Adolph Hitler of Germany and the Italian foreign minister Ciano, securing Japan’s position as one of the three Axis powers. Japan held Formosa, Korea, and Manchukuo – along with other portions of China. Virtually all of Europe had fallen under German or Soviet control and the marauding German wolf pack submarines terrorized ships in the Atlantic, targeting military and civilian vessels alike.

  On the battleship Hiei, as an officer shouted, “Salute!” all snapped their right hands up and a nearby battleship let loose her guns with an ear splitting concussion that reverberated through the harbor with an echoing shockwave.

  The New World Order had begun.

  Chapter 19

  July, 1941. Tacoma, Washington.

  Benny Goodman’s wild, upbeat “Sing! Sing! Sing!” blasted through tinny speakers in the smoky air of the off base club, packed shoulder to shoulder with lusty servicemen and lovelorn gals. Jake slumped at the bar with a cheap date draped over his shoulder, his mind trying to think clearly through the fog of beer. “‘You don’t want my turkeys?’ I said. ‘You, you don’t wanna buy my turkeys?’” He flicked the ash off his cigarette and took a long puff. Tired of work and tired of his life, it was his time to blow off a little steam.

  “Aw go on, Jake,” his girl whined. “You said he bought your turkeys!”

  “Yeah, yeah, he bought them all, but I lost, but I lost all my money.” Jake raised his tall glass and polished off the last of it.

  “Well, for crying out loud, Jake, how could you lose all your money if he bought them all!”

  Jake slammed his glass on the counter and closed his eyes to concentrate. Had to nearly shout over the raucous music and laughter. “I had to, had to borrow some money to buy extra feed and I had to, the price dropped, fourteen cents a pound and, but, but when ...”

  “Bartender!” Jake’s girl waved a hand in the air. “One more beer for this one. Then he goes to bed! This fella’s a funny one.”

  The bald bartender winked back.

  Jake turned to the girl and blinked slowly. “Lillian, I ...”

  “Josephine. Josephine!”

  “Josephine ... don’t let me ever buy baby turkeys again. No, not ever.”

  Chapter 20

  August, 1941. Kagoshima Air Base on the island of Kyushu, the southernmost main island of Japan.

  An Aichi D3A dive bomber touched down on the runway in the morning sun and taxied past rows and rows of parked aircraft.

  Inside a brick building, Fuchida, in his regular khaki-green uniform before a classroom of young pilots, held out his hands palms down, fingers together and moved them like t
wo planes. “... and by keeping a tight formation of only three, instead of five or seven aircraft, if the release is timed properly, at least one aircraft is sure to hit its mark, every time.” He dropped his arms. The blackboard behind him displayed various bombing trajectories on an x-y axis. “For larger targets or from higher altitudes we can assemble a formation of nine aircraft grouped in threes and, following the leader’s signal, all release at the same time, and again, be assured of destroying our target. Tomorrow we’ll do more target testing. That is all.”

  The students picked up their papers and made their way toward the door where an officer stood smiling back at Fuchida. Clapping his hands deliberately, he slowly walked to the front. “Well done, teacher. Well done.”

  Fuchida looked up as he closed his manuals. “Egusa! What gives me such an honor? Would the man Genda calls the number one dive bomber in all Japan like to be a student in my class?”

  Egusa cocked his head. “Would you accept me?”

  “No. You’d make me look bad.”

  Egusa took a seat on top of Fuchida’s desk, took a long drag on his cigarette, and quickly eyed the door to make sure the students were clear.

  Fuchida sensed this was no ordinary call.

  “What’s really going on down here?” Egusa said. “No officer of your rank was ever kept a squadron commander. They keep moving you around to all these bases. Why?”

  Fuchida reopened his folder to a rear pocket and plucked out a document on official letterhead and handed it to Egusa, who immediately began reading. “Not just a squadron commander,” Fuchida said, “but Flight Commander of the First and Second carrier divisions – the entire air fleet.”