1942

Tailwinds or headwinds could either speed him up or delay him without his knowing it in the bleak night, while crosswinds would blow him north or south. He and his crews had to stay awake and alert. The lead plane, his, would have primary responsibility for navigation, while the others would follow his taillight and check on his math. Between the five of them, it was hoped that they would find Oahu instead of Australia.

“What else is going to happen tonight?” Doolittle wondered. His copilot glanced at him and turned away. He wondered the same thing.

When the Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor, they’d apparently homed in on the sounds of a Honolulu radio station. Doolittle wondered if he would be so lucky. Surely, they wouldn’t have kept the station on the air.

He also wondered just what impact his five planes, large though they were, could possibly have on the course of the war, even if they did find the Jap carriers in port.

“There has to be more than this,” he said. “There has to be.”

Corporal Matsumoto Fuji was as alert as he could be under the circumstances. Like most others in the Japanese garrison, he resented the fact that he was on guard duty at Wheeler Field while everybody else was celebrating and getting drunk, probably even laid. The fact that Wheeler was a virtual no-man’s-land was not lost on them either. If the high command didn’t think Wheeler was important, then why should they?

Thus, he and his comrades had felt little guilt when they’d had the opportunity to take a couple of drinks from revelers who’d passed by and offered them. After all, weren’t they fellow Japanese who’d just been brought back to the bosom of the homeland? Fuji hiccupped and thought, of other bosoms he’d rather be clasped to at the moment. The Hawaiian-Japanese had been good fellows and had done their best to make Fuji and the others on guard feel both wanted and good. As a result, Fuji and his companions were more than a little drunk.

Corporal Fuji was in charge of two four-man stations that guarded Wheeler Field’s closely parked planes. He and one soldier in the other sandbagged bunker were the only regulars on duty. The remaining six were mechanics and laborers who, while in the military, knew next to nothing about their duties. He blamed the higher-ups who had decreed one squad was all that was necessary to protect Wheeler. Let additional bodies come from other sources, and that meant he shared tonight’s duty watch with utter incompetents.

At least the long night would end in a few hours and he could get some rest. During the daylight hours, there were only four men protecting the planes, which Fuji definitely thought was inadequate.

“Someone’s coming,” one of the mechanics yelled.

The warning wasn’t very military, but at least the oaf was paying some attention. Fuji blinked and tried to focus in the night. There were no lights on in the field, and he squinted through the gloom. A column of men was marching down the runway toward Fuji.

Corporal Fuji identified the newcomers as Japanese soldiers. This was a relief, although he wondered what they were up to. He nudged his companions, and they shifted their rifles to more aggressive positions, although one of them was having a difficult time standing. Fuji hoped the officer in charge of the approaching column wasn’t a prick who’d write them up for celebrating on this day of special days.

Fuji signaled to the soldiers in the other bunker, who acknowledged that they too had seen the other soldiers. Who the hell were these guys and what was going on?

“Who goes there?” Fuji demanded. The column was scant yards away, and an officer was leading them.

“Your relief,” replied the officer, a lieutenant, which meant that someone should go and wake Fuji’s superior, the officer of the guard. That fool, an off-duty pilot, was drunker than anyone, and that was saying a lot. God help the empire if some of the pilots had to take off right away, Fuji thought.

Then it dawned on him. They were getting relieved. Wonderful. “What has happened, sir?”

The young lieutenant was almost up to Fuji, and the column was deploying around the other bunker as well as his. “Yamamoto’s orders,” he said stiffly, almost nervously, Fuji thought. “The revered admiral wants everyone to celebrate Japan’s great achievement. Our turn was earlier, yours is now.”

Fuji felt like hugging the lieutenant but thought better of the idea. He wondered why a full platoon was relieving his squad, but he knew better than to ask. Questions from inferiors often meant beatings from the superiors. He didn’t need that on a night he was going to spend in Honolulu. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and waved his men out of the bunker. The whole thing was very informal, but, hell, he didn’t care.