Days of Infamy (30 page)

As if to mock him, the rattle of gunfire from the left got louder. It also moved farther south, down toward the sea—
makai
, they said here, without seeming to know that wasn't really an English word. The Japanese were pushing forward, the Americans falling back. That was how it had gone since the beginning. But the Americans couldn't fall back any more, not if they were going to have any real chance of holding on.

They were falling back anyhow. No doubt that said they had no real chance. Fletch scowled. He didn't want to think about that. He said, “We'd
better move back toward Honolulu. Things are still holding together there, or they were the last I heard.”

“We'd better move back somewhere, that's for damn sure,” Clancy said.

The other two enlisted men nodded. Arnie said, “If we don't, the Japs are liable to cut us off.”

He stopped right there. He didn't need to say another word. If advancing Japanese soldiers cut them off, they were liable to capture them. Nobody in his right mind cared to chance that.

“Come on,” Fletch said harshly. “Let's get going.”

Off they went, retreating to the south and east. They weren't the only ones—far from it. Singly and in small groups like theirs, other soldiers tramped along the side of the road or out in the middle of it. Clouds drifted overhead. A spatter of rain fell, though the sun never disappeared. The landscape was one of almost unearthly beauty: jungle-clad hills to the north, palm trees and blossoming hibiscus close at hand, mynahs and bluish-faced zebra doves pecking for whatever they could find, the sapphire sea visible to the south.

Where beauty failed, it failed because of man rather than nature. Ahead, Honolulu lay mired in smoke after the latest Japanese bombing attack. If Fletch turned his head to look west, he could see more ruin in Pearl Harbor. He didn't. He was too stubborn.

But when he looked around, he saw the ugliness in his comrades and himself. They were scrawny and filthy and unshaven. They smelled bad. At least half of them had minor wounds. They all had the hangdog air of beaten men.

That was one more thing Fletch had no idea how to cure. He was sure he had that same hangdog air himself. Oahu
was
going to fall. It would fall sooner, not later, too. And what would the Japs do with all the soldiers they captured then? What would they do
to
them?
Whatever they want to
, Fletch thought, and shuddered.

Somewhere not far away, an officer was shouting frantically, trying to get men to form a defensive line. “Come on, you sorry bastards!” he howled. “We've still got a chance as long as we don't quit!”

Fletch gathered up his erstwhile gun team by eye. “Let's go,” he said.

They didn't argue with him. They showed no great enthusiasm, but they went along. Maybe they were also wondering what would happen if and when they had to lay down their arms. That one gnawed at Fletch.

Because it gnawed at him, he shoved it to the back of his mind. He found the loud officer—a captain—behind a bougainvillea hedge. “What do you need, sir?” he asked.

“Fucking everything!” the captain exclaimed. Then he amplified that. Pointing north toward the hills overlooking Honolulu, he said, “We've got to stop the advancing enemy.”

“But, sir—” Fletch pointed west, the direction from which he'd come. “The Japs are over there.”

“I know
that
, goddammit,” the captain said impatiently. “But they're sneaking down through the hills, too, to get on our flank and rear.”

Fletch didn't know why he was surprised. If the Japs could get men over the Waianae Range, these lower, less rugged hills would prove no great challenge to them. But he couldn't help asking, “Why didn't we have men up there to stop them?”

“In that jungle? Who would have figured they could get through it?” the captain said, proving some people had trouble learning even from experience. It wasn't the captain's fault alone, of course. His superiors had to have the same attitude. Ostriches eventually pulled their heads out of the sand and ran, didn't they? That only proved they were one up on the top brass in the Hawaiian Department.

“Uh, sir?” Fletch gestured for the captain to step aside with him for a moment. The other officer did. In a low voice, Fletch said, “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but if they're coming at us from the north and from the west, we are really and truly screwed.”

The captain nodded. “Yes, I realize that. And so, Lieutenant? Have you heard an order to surrender?”

“No, sir,” Fletch said.

“Neither have I. That being so, we had better keep fighting, don't you think?” As if to underscore the captain's words, mortar bombs started whistling down not nearly far enough away. The captain and Fletch both threw themselves flat on the ground before the first one burst. Jagged fragments of steel hissed and whistled through the air. A soldier cried out, sounding startled and hurt at the same time. The captain started shouting again without raising his head more than a couple of inches: “Stay ready, men! They may try to follow this up with foot soldiers!”

“Christ!” Fletch said. “Are they down this far already?”

Before the captain could answer, Japanese rifle fire did it for him. The Arisaka rifle the Japs used sounded less robust than the Springfield. It was only .256 caliber, and didn't have quite the stopping power of the bigger, heavier American round. The Arisaka had proved plenty good enough, though.

Men began slipping away from the captain's makeshift line. He cursed them with weary hopelessness. Fletch understood that. It was exactly the way he felt himself.

C
ORPORAL
T
AKEO
S
HIMIZU
hadn't known what to expect from Honolulu. It sprawled ahead of him now, hard by the Pacific. The buildings were large and solid, in the Western style. All the same, it couldn't have held much more than half as many people as Hiroshima, the Japanese city closest to his farm.

Here and there, in little stubborn knots, the Americans still fought hard. But now that resistance began to feel like the last spasms of some dying thing. The Japanese could bypass the men who did keep battling, because in a lot of places there weren't any. That let them surround the pockets of diehards and dispose of them at their leisure.

When Shimizu sent young Shiro Wakuzawa out to scrounge supplies for the squad as the sun sank in the west, the first-year soldier went off with a sigh. His squadmates murmured, “Hard work!” in sympathy. Shimizu didn't care. Somebody had to do it. He'd done it himself often enough in China, before he got promoted.

Wakuzawa came back with a big burlap sack slung over his shoulder and an enormous smile on his face. “You look like the monkey who found the apple tree,” Shimizu said. “What have you got in there?”

“Wait till you see, Corporal-
san
.” Wakuzawa let the sack down on the grass by the fire the Japanese had started. The fire was purely force of habit; Hawaiian nights didn't come close to requiring one. As the youngster reached into the sack, he went on, “I came across a grocery store that hadn't been looted empty.”

“Ahhh!” the whole squad said as one man. They said it again when Wakuzawa took out three cartons of mild, flavorful American cigarettes. Boxes
of crackers followed, and then Wakuzawa's triumph: can after can of meat, its pink glory displayed against a dark blue painted background. Big yellow letters told what it was, but Shimizu couldn't read the Roman alphabet.

“Does anyone know what it says?” he asked.

“It's called ‘Spam,' Corporal,” Senior Private Yasuo Furusawa answered.

He'd always struck Shimizu as a bookish type. “How do you know?” the corporal asked.

“My father is a druggist in Hiroshima,” Furusawa said. “I was learning the trade till I got drafted. Some of the medicines he got came from the West, so I had to learn the characters the
gaijin
use.”

The Spam cans opened with keys conveniently soldered to them. The meat inside them looked just like the tempting illustration. The soldiers hacked it into rough slices with their bayonets and ate it on crackers. Some of them toasted the Spam over the fire first; others didn't bother. Shimizu didn't—he was too hungry to care. He wolfed down the meat.

“That's one of the most delicious things I ever ate,” Senior Private Furusawa said with a sigh of pleasure.

“
Hai. Honto
,” Shimizu agreed; he'd been thinking the same thing. “Even better than sashimi, if you ask me. Why don't we have things like this in Japan?” He took a pack from one of the cartons, opened it, and began to smoke. “This is better tobacco than we get at home, too. We've already found that out.”

“It's ours now, by right of conquest,” somebody said.

“
Banzai!
for Wakuzawa, who conquered it for us,” somebody else added. A soft chorus of “
Banzai!
”s rang out. Shiro Wakuzawa blushed like a schoolgirl. Corporal Shimizu hid a smile. Wakuzawa might be only a lowly first-year soldier, but he was the hero of the moment.

“I don't remember the last time I felt so full,” Furusawa said. “I want to go to sleep right where I'm sitting.”

Several soldiers incautiously nodded. “You'd better not,” Shimizu said. “We'll have sentries out through the night. Never can tell what the Americans might do if they catch us all snoring here. Furusawa, you'll take the first watch.”

“Yes, Corporal,” the senior private said. That was work, but not too bad. At least he wouldn't have his sleep interrupted, the way the men who came later would.

“And then tomorrow,” Shimizu went on, “tomorrow, I think, we push on
into Honolulu at last.” He wondered how hard the Americans would fight for the city. Clearing them out one house at a time, one block at a time, would be expensive and leave the place in worse ruins than it was already. He shrugged. It would be as it was; he couldn't do anything about it any which way. He rolled himself in his blanket and fell asleep.

He slept through the night—one of the privileges of his rank was that he didn't have to stand sentry. He woke just before sunrise. Hawaii's unfamiliar birds were calling. He got up and stretched, then went behind a tree to ease himself. Spatters of gunfire came from the east, but only spatters. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad. He tried to make himself believe it.

Smoking one of those smooth American cigarettes helped. And then, with the air of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Shiro Wakuzawa produced three more cans of Spam. They made as fine a breakfast as they had a supper. The other privates in the squad pounded Wakuzawa on the back and told him what a fine fellow he was.

Such displays were beneath a corporal's dignity. But Shimizu was glad to have something good in his stomach, too. He told himself he'd go a little easier—only a little, mind—on Wakuzawa for a while. The kid had earned some respect.

Cautiously, the squad moved forward. Shimizu preferred the fields where they had been fighting to the houses that surrounded him now. Who could say how many big, fierce American soldiers they were hiding?

Things stayed fairly quiet. A machine gun in a brick building made its presence known too soon. If the gunner had held off a little longer, he could have slaughtered the Japanese as they came forward across the grass in front of the building. As things were, they got the chance to take cover.

The gunner seemed to have all the ammunition in the world, and to enjoy hosing it around. Shimizu crouched behind some rubble. He wasn't going to stick his nose out unless ordered. Sooner or later, soldiers to the north or south would outflank that machine gun. Till they did, going straight at it was a recipe for suicide.

About halfway through the morning, the machine gun fell silent. Shimizu sat tight. Maybe the American had run out of ammo after all. Or maybe—and more likely—he was just waiting for his foes to think he had.

But then Senior Private Furusawa called, “Corporal! There's an American soldier coming forward with a white flag!”

That
made Shimizu stick his head up. Sure enough, a tall Yankee with a flag of truce strode toward him. A nervous-looking local Japanese man stuck close to the soldier's side. “What do you want?” Shimizu called.

The American spoke in English. Without a word of the language, Shimizu could hear how bitter he sounded. The translator said, “Captain Trexler wishes to seek surrender terms for U.S. forces on Oahu.” He spoke old-fashioned Hiroshima dialect. Had he been one of the men fooling Japanese soldiers? If he had, he would pay.

Next to the other, though, that was a small thing. If the Americans were surrendering . . .
If they're surrendering, I won't get shot
, Shimizu thought happily. “I will take the captain back through our lines,” he said aloud. The local Japanese spoke in English. With a curt nod, the American came on.

C
OMMANDER
M
ITSUO
F
UCHIDA
adjusted the cap of his white dress uniform as he walked up to Iolani Palace to take part in the surrender ceremony. The cap, with its anchor-and-chrysanthemum badge, felt odd on his head. He was more used to a flying man's leather helmet that covered his ears.

He turned to Commander Minoru Genda, who walked along beside him, also in dress uniform. Honolulu's bright sun flashed from the two silver chrysanthemums on each of Genda's gold shoulder boards. Like Fuchida's, those shoulder boards were striped with an aviator's blue. “Congratulations,” Fuchida said. “You are the architect of this day.”

Modest as usual, Genda shook his head. “Admiral Yamamoto planned the attack,” he said. “And you so ably led the fliers. Both of you deserve far more credit than I do.”

Although burly General Tomoyuki Yamashita and his aides stumped along ahead of the Navy officers, Genda said not a word about what the Army had contributed to the conquest of Oahu. Fuchida understood that. He was sure Yamashita had not a single good word for the Navy, either, though without it the soldiers the general led could not have come within five thousand kilometers of Hawaii.

Iolani Palace, luckily, had not suffered much during the Japanese bombardment of Honolulu. Ornamental plaster and cement work covered the brick walls. Cast-iron columns with fancy floral capitals upheld the deep
veranda on the second floor. Shorter but otherwise similar columns there—these with a fancy iron balustrade between them—helped support the roof.

Atop the palace, the flags of the United States and the Territory of Hawaii still fluttered. The territorial flag—also the flag of the former Kingdom of Hawaii—amused Fuchida. The Hawaiians had been doing their best to please and appease Britain and the USA at the same time. Red, white, and blue stripes covered most of the field; the Union Jack occupied the canton. Much good such pandering had done the Hawaiians. The United States annexed their islands anyway.

And now Hawaii had a new master. The territorial flag might go on flying. The Stars and Stripes would be coming down. The Rising Sun would wave in their place.

A low, broad stairway led up into the palace. General Yamashita tramped up the stairs as if he intended to capture the place single-handed. Captain Kiichi Hasegawa, skipper of the
Akagi
, led the naval delegation. The
Akagi
and the
Soryu
would stay in Hawaiian waters to defend the new conquest against attack from the American mainland. The damaged
Kaga
was already under repair in Japan. Admiral Nagumo had taken the other three carriers west to aid the Japanese advance through the Dutch East Indies.

At the top of the stairway, an American honor guard came to attention and presented arms as the Japanese dignitaries approached. General Yamashita brushed past the American soldiers as if they did not exist. The Navy officers, Fuchida among them, did the same. How could any men who were surrendering imagine they still kept their honor?

Just inside the entrance stood three weary-looking Americans and a nervous local Japanese man in a business suit. The latter bowed and said, “I am Izumi Shirakawa. I am the interpreter for the Americans. I present to you Admiral Kimmel, General Short, and Governor Poindexter.” He turned and spoke in English, explaining what he'd just said.

Admiral Kimmel spoke. Shirakawa turned his words to Japanese: “He says he hopes you will use the Americans in the spirit of bravery with which they fought.”

General Yamashita grunted. “Let's get on with it,” was all he said. Kimmel's face fell when the interpreter translated that.

Governor Poindexter, who was older than the two military men with him, said, “This way to the Throne Room, gentlemen. That is where the Territorial
Legislature meets, and so we thought it fitting that. . . .” He ran down, like a watch in need of winding.

“Where you surrender does not matter,” Yamashita said. “That you surrender matters.”

Air seemed to leak out of the governor. He turned and walked into the palace. Admiral Kimmel followed. General Short, who wore cavalry breeches tucked into shiny boots, paused for a moment. He had to call back the interpreter, who'd started to go with Poindexter. Short said, “I know that Japan has not signed the Geneva Convention, but I trust you will treat the prisoners of war you are taking in accordance with its usages.”

He waited. Fuchida did not think General Yamashita would answer, but one of Yamashita's aides murmured something to him. The Army commander nodded brusquely. “We will do what is necessary to secure these islands,” he said. General Short had to be content—or discontented—with that.

Into the palace the Japanese delegation went. Commander Fuchida admired the Grand Hall. “Handsome,” he murmured to Genda.

“If you like the old-fashioned European style, yes,” answered Genda, whose tastes were modern, even radical.

Fuchida was more conservative. He admired the tall arched doorways with their wooden frames, the portraits of Hawaiian monarchs hung between them, and most of all the splendid staircase ascending to the second floor. The rich brown wood of which it was made seemed to glow under the electric lights. Statues carved from the same wood sprang from the pillars at the bottom of the bannisters.

The Throne Room was all white plaster, red velvet hangings, and red carpet underfoot. The Territorial legislators' desks looked small and silly and out of place in the midst of such magnificence. So did the table that had been brought in for the surrender ceremony.

Flashbulbs popped as the American dignitaries sat down on one side of the table. General Yamashita and Captain Hasegawa took the other. Army and Navy aides on both sides grouped themselves behind their principals.

Yamashita set the instrument of surrender—written in both Japanese and English—on the table. “This surrender is unconditional on your part,” he told Short and Kimmel. “All military men in the Hawaiian Islands will yield to the Empire of Japan. They are prisoners. All destruction of military stores and weapons is to cease at once. All civil authority is suspended. All civil
functionaries will obey orders from the Japanese military. Any violation of these terms will be punished most severely. Is that clear?”

“May we read the terms?” Admiral Kimmel asked.

“You may read,” Yamashita said. “And then you may sign.” He hardly bothered hiding his scorn for men who would surrender.

Kimmel—erect, gray-haired, handsome—and Short—pinch-faced, looking stunned at the disaster that had overtaken his side—studied the English half of the document. Fuchida would not have been surprised if the English was imperfect. That did not matter, as long as it was understandable.

When the military men were done, they passed the instrument to Governor Poindexter. His presence here was plainly an afterthought. Their own declaration of martial law had already superseded his authority. Kimmel said, “These terms are very harsh.”

“The best way not to get harsh terms is not to lose the fight,” General Yamashita said. When Izumi Shirakawa translated that, Kimmel bit his lip and stared down at the table.

“May I say a few words?” Governor Poindexter asked through the interpreter. For a moment, Mitsuo Fuchida thought General Yamashita would refuse. Then the Army commandant gave another curt nod. “Thank you,” Poindexter said. “I speak on behalf of the civilians in Hawaii who now come under your control. Food is already in short supply, and will only grow more scarce as time goes by. If we are to avoid starvation, we will need help from the Empire of Japan in feeding our people.”

“We will do what we can,” Yamashita said. The American official looked relieved. Commander Fuchida had a hard time holding his face straight. Was Poindexter really so naive? Did he think he'd got a promise from Yamashita? Surely anyone could tell that was nothing but a polite phrase intended to keep him quiet. It had worked better than Yamashita probably intended.

“This is the hardest duty of my life,” Admiral Kimmel said. “In spite of the handicaps of surprise, isolation, lack of food, and lack of ammunition, we have given the world a shining example of patriotic fortitude and self-sacrifice. We yield now more to save civilian lives than our own. The American people can ask for no finer example of tenacity and steadfast courage than our men have shown.”

He looked to Yamashita, perhaps hoping for some sympathetic response. Yamashita said only, “It is over now. You must sign the surrender. The Imperial
Japanese Army and Navy will continue to prosecute the war until it formally ends.”

Kimmel sighed. “The morning the fighting started, a spent bullet hit me in the chest”—he tapped his left breast pocket with a forefinger—“and fell to the ground at my feet. That round should have killed me.”

There was the first thing he'd said that made sense to Fuchida. Of course an officer who'd seen his command caught flat-footed would not wish to go on living afterwards. A Japanese officer in that position would have taken matters into his own hands, but the Americans were soft.

Kimmel looked across the table. General Yamashita stared back stonily. Captain Hasegawa was a livelier man than the Army commandant, but was also junior to him. He did not give the American admiral whatever he was looking for—atonement, perhaps?—either. Kimmel lowered his head and scratched his name below the English text of the surrender. General Short and Governor Poindexter also signed. The civilian hid his face in his hands. His shoulders shook.

Yamashita and Hasegawa signed for Japan. To Fuchida's surprise, the taciturn Army commandant proved a formidable calligrapher. You never could tell what sort of accomplishments a man hid within himself.

Bombs burst, not too far away. General Short said, “It's over now.” He seemed to be fighting tears. “It's over, dammit. Call off your attacks, sir. They aren't needed any more.”

“They will stop,” Yamashita said. “Those who have surrendered, though, are in no position to make demands.
No
position—do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Short replied. “I'd hoped to hear something worthy of a soldier.”

Yamashita growled, down deep in his chest. Something ugly could have happened then. Captain Hasegawa forestalled it by pointing to the two American officers and saying, “Your sidearms.”

With a face that might have been carved from stone, Admiral Kimmel took his ceremonial sword from his belt and laid it on the table. Short wore no sword. He pulled a pistol from the holster on his belt and set it beside the sword. More photographs recorded the moment. With ill-disguised greed, Yamashita grabbed the gold-hilted blade. That left the pistol, an ordinary .45, for Captain Hasegawa. He took it with no outward show of anger. Since he'd suggested that the American commanders turn over their weapons, Commander Fuchida thought he should have had first choice.

“Now it is over,” Yamashita said, satisfaction in his voice. Shirakawa translated that into English. Yamashita turned to one of his aides: “Order the cease-fire, effective immediately.” The interpreter translated that, too. The Army commandant sent him a hard look, but it was done.

Kimmel might have been a dead man talking as he said, “We are your captives, sir. What are your orders for us?”

Maybe he was trying to rouse sympathy in the Japanese. If so, he'd made a mistake. To a Japanese soldier, captives roused nothing but contempt. Yamashita did not bother to hide it as he answered, “Just stay here. You will be taken care of.” He gathered up his officers by eye. “Let's go.”

Once out in the bright sunshine again, Fuchida looked up at the central flagpole, the tallest of the five atop Iolani Palace. The American flag had come down during the ceremony. The Japanese flag flew there in its place.

Tears stung Fuchida's eyes. Such a gamble—but they'd brought it off. He turned to Minoru Genda. No matter how modest Genda was, he more than any other man had been the man who made this victory possible. Impulsively, Fuchida bowed low. “Congratulations!” he said once more.

Genda returned the bow. “It was for the Empire,” he said, but not even his quiet words could hide all the pride in his voice.

R
UMORS OF SURRENDER
had swept through the Americans still fighting for a couple of days before they turned out to be true. Even then, Fletcher Armitage didn't want to believe them. Neither did the men he'd hauled into serving his now-abandoned 105. “What do you think, sir?” Clancy asked. “Should we steal us some civvies and make like we were never in the Army? I'll be damned if I want to put myself in the hands o' them heathen bastards. I seen what they do to prisoners.”

“I'm not going to give you any orders about that,” Fletch answered. “If you want to try and disappear, go ahead. I won't say boo. I don't know who you are. But if you try and disappear and the Japs find out who you are, your neck isn't worth a plugged nickel.”

Arnie said, “If everybody's surrendering, they'll have to play fair by us, won't they?”

“Get your head out of your ass, man,” Dave said. “They're the Japs. They
just won. They fucking licked us. They don't
have
to do shit. They can do whatever they goddamn well want.”