21 August 1945
En route to Ie Shima Island, Okinawa Prefecture, Ryukyu Islands, Japan
After a quick lunch, the convoy raced Ingram and the others back to Nichols Field for a 1330 takeoff. This time there were no angry Filipino crowds, just a desolate, smoldering city and MPs waving them through traffic. Time was of the essence because the Japanese had to transfer to their G4M2s at Ie Shima for a flight back to Japan, and deteriorating weather was predicted.
Ingram was in the cockpit jump seat watching Peoples do the takeoff while the others laughed and taunted. They were comfortable with Ingram, so their language was crass, especially at ten thousand feet and on autopilot. Every few minutes the C-54 hit an air pocket and dropped a few hundred feet. The passengers in the main cabin cursed as the aircraft jiggled and bounced.
“I’m here.” Major Neidemeier stood over Ingram. He’d agreed to switch to the cockpit jump seat while Ingram spent time with Fujimoto back in the main cabin. The plane shook. Neidemeier reached up and braced himself against the overhead.
Berne said, “Better not touch that, Major. It’s high voltage.”
“Jeeeez!” Neidemeier jerked his hand away.
Ingram stood. “It’s okay, Clive. Here, sit.” He checked the Bakelite tag on the spot where Neidemeier had braced. It was labeled AUX RAD 2. He looked at Berne, who shrugged.
Neidemeier sat and swiveled his head, his eyes becoming large.
“Seat belt,” barked Radcliff.
“Okay, okay,” said Neidemeier. He strapped in, getting more bug-eyed as he looked about the cockpit. “Look at all these dials and levers.”
Radcliff turned around. “You buckled up?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so.”
“Good. Don’t move, and don’t touch anything.”
“Yes, yes, okay.”
Radcliff went back to monitoring his gauges.
“All set back there?” asked Ingram. He took a step aft.
“They’re waiting for you,” said Neidemeier.
The plane bounced for a moment. Neidemeier groaned. He asked, “So now can you tell me about the Torvatron?”
“The what?” said Ingram.
“At Ie Shima you said this aircraft was equipped with the latest safety device, a Torvatron.”
Ingram slapped his forehead.
Neidemeier asked, “Please, Commander, can it help us through this?”
“Well, I’m not sure about all the settings. I’m not a pilot, you see.” What the hell do I do now? Ingram caught Hammer’s eye.
Hammer picked it up. “Ohhhh, the, ah, Torv . . .”
“Torvatron,” snapped Ingram.
“Yeah, the Torvatron.”
Neidemeier turned to Hammer. “So we do have one?”
Hammer looked back to Ingram, his face deadpan. “I think so.”
“What do you mean you think so? Do we have one or not?”
“Well, yes,” said Hammer, dropping his gaze back to Neidemeier.
“What’s it do?”
Hammer fiddled with switches. “Kind of hard to say, Major. It’s complex, and I’m not sure if we carry the latest mod.”
“Wait a minute, Commander Ingram told me this aircraft was fitted with one of the newest safety devices: a Torvatron. And now you, the flight engineer, aren’t sure if we carry the latest modification?”
“Well, I’m not sure if I can say any more,” said Hammer.
Ingram tried to exit, but the plane lurched in a downdraft and he stumbled against Berne. “Sorry.”
Berne looked up with a grin.
“Well, do we have one or not?” demanded Neidemeier.
“Well, I . . .”
Radcliff spun in his seat. “Indeed we do, Major Neidemeier.”
“Fine. Can you tell me what it does?”
Radcliff eyed Ingram. “Well, basically, the Torvatron is still classified top secret. That’s why Sergeant Hammer can’t respond. But I can tell you a little.”
“Go on. I’m cleared for top secret.”
Radcliff lowered his voice. “Okay, here’s the dope. A Torvatron is a spheroid hydrofrezassbitz that’s connected to the quavertine radiometer that governs all sigmoidographic information.”
Peoples clapped a hand over his face. Berne fiddled with a sextant. Hammer suddenly became involved in a fuel transfer.
“Sigmoidographic? Like in a doctor’s office?”
Radcliff looked from side to side, “Shhhh. Yeah, doctors’ offices, same idea; used for people with a shitty outlook.”
“Huh?”
“Right, the idea is the same, except a Torvatron is used for shitty weather. Like now, it’s bumpy. So what happens is we crank in a 17-degree offset to the tircumdittleflatter and then we—”
The plane hit another air pocket and dropped. Ingram grabbed the edge of Hammer’s chair and held on.
“What was that?” wailed Neidemeier.
“Power supply interruption to the Torvatron,” said Radcliff. “We’ll be okay now.” To Hammer: “Sergeant!”
“Sir!”
“Better go aft and make sure everyone’s buckled in. Weather looks snotty up ahead.”
“Yes, sir.” Hammer unbuckled and walked out.
Neidemeier asked, “What do we do if we don’t get the power back?”
Radcliff faced forward and tightened his seat belt straps. “Later, Major. I have work to do.”
Ingram exited quickly.
Aside from the jiggling the main cabin was quiet. Except one could feel the tension as the plane bounced and bucked. Nevertheless, people tried to doze or read magazines. In the rear, two Japanese naval officers and a Japanese general were gathered around General Kawabe’s seat. Four Marines stood in the aisles, watching closely. The conversation, although animated, seemed normal. Hammer walked up to them and soon had them in their seats and belted.
Fujimoto again sat in the front-row window seat. The aisle seat was empty, and the Marine gunnery sergeant across the aisle was fast asleep. An American interpreter, a balding Navy lieutenant with dark bags under his eyes, sat in the bulkhead-mounted jump seat just in front of Fujimoto.
Ingram nodded to the aisle seat. “May I?”
Fujimoto gestured to the seat and Ingram sat.
They turned to examine one another. Ingram marveled that he faced someone who just a week ago had been dedicated to killing him. Then it occurred to him that Fujimoto was probably thinking the same thing.
Fujimoto rattled off something in Japanese.
“He says you look tired, Commander,” said the interpreter.
Ingram forced a smile, “So do you, Lieutenant.”
The interpreter asked, “Does it show?”
“Ingram. Todd Ingram. Call me Todd.”
“Larry O’Toole.”
They shook hands. “You do look beat,” said Ingram.
“No doubt about it. We went ’til 2:30 in the morning. Not much shut-eye, I’ll tell you.”
O’Toole had a legal device on his collar. Ingram asked, “You an attorney?”
“Who wants to know?” He faked a Brooklyn accent.
Ingram grinned.
“University of Notre Dame.” He held up his left hand displaying a class ring. “Class of 1937—liberal arts. Law school, class of 1940.” He pointed to Ingram’s class ring. “Annapolis?”
“Class of 1937. Where’d you learn Japanese?”
“Grew up there. Tokyo. My dad worked for RCA. Lead engineer.” With a look to Fujimoto he said, “I hope he’s still there.”
“You mean—”
“I went home to go to Notre Dame. Dad stayed. I have no idea what happened.”
“Your mom?”
“Died in 1933 in a car wreck.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Gets worse. Dad took up with a Japanese girl later. I don’t know what happened with the two.” He bit a thumbnail.
“Everything go all right last night?” Ingram asked.
“As far as I can tell. There was a little trouble at the start with the wording of the surrender agreement—something to do with how the royal family is to be addressed; miniscule point but very tricky. I have to tell you, Colonel Mashbir is the greatest. The Japs were ready to give up at first. But Mashbir caught the error and changed it right there on the spot without permission from anybody. He just did it. And that was gutsy because the wording came directly from the State Department. Talk about playing with fire. He didn’t even ask General Sutherland. The guy is amazing. The Japs agreed, and we moved on.” O’Toole loudly exhaled. “I have to tell you, I thought I knew everything, but I learned a lot.”
“So, the emperor retains control?” Ingram looked again at Fujimoto. He seemed intent on their conversation.
“Absolutely. But he’s subject to the authority of the supreme commander.”
“Ahhh.”
O’Toole continued, “After that, it went okay until . . .”
“Until what?”
“Some real trouble came when we asked about the location of the POW camps. Like squeezing blood out of a rock. But it sounds like we have them now.”
The C-54 slammed into an air pocket and dropped, shaking when it hit bottom. Beverages spilled; a Marine cursed.
O’Toole turned white and mumbled, “I hate airplanes.”
Ingram felt a bit shaky himself. Neidemeier snored, and he’d not slept well last night. Air pockets didn’t help. He mumbled back, “We’re punching through a front. Don’t worry about it.”
“I do worry about it. A buddy of mine was a Hellcat pilot who . . .”
Fujimoto slowly held up his left hand. Both Americans gaped at the ring on his third finger. “I’m a Domer, too,” he said, “although not quite Irish.”
O’Toole gasped, “I’ll be damned. University of Notre Dame.” He squinted, “Class of . . .”
“Nineteen thirty-five,” said Fujimoto. “Electrical engineering.”
“Holy cow,” said O’Toole.
“And after that?” asked Ingram.
Fujimoto shrugged. “The navy, of course. My father wanted me to go to Etajima, but I got lucky and scholarshipped to Notre Dame.” Etajima was the naval academy for the Imperial Japanese Navy. “Afterward, I returned to Japan, got into the swing of things, and grew up in destroyers, so to speak. Just like you.” He fixed Ingram with a dark stare.
“You know who I am?”
“I do. I’ve known almost since it all happened in Nasipit. I had no idea we would meet face to face.”
Ingram felt the blood draining from his face. Cursing the circumstances as well as the weather he muttered, “Me neither.”
O’Toole asked, “You guys know each other?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Fujimoto.
“Well, if that’s the case, maybe I can get some shut-eye. You clearly don’t need an interpreter here.” O’Toole started unbuckling.
“Please remain with us, Lieutenant,” said Ingram. Then he looked to Fujimoto, “Look, I wish I could say I was sorry about all this. But your brother and your father were—”
Fujimoto held up a hand. “An explanation is not necessary. It was war. My father and my older brother are gone now. I have a younger brother, but I’m afraid he is lost too. I fear my country is lost as well: the fire bomb raids; your A-bombs, whatever you call them; the emperor’s capitulation; mass suicides—our top officers are killing themselves as we speak. Tokyo, Kobe, Yokohama, Sasebo—so many cities devastated, to say nothing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Tens of thousands of women and children incinerated. The trouble is, I can view this like a Westerner and am therefore cursed with an understanding of both sides of the issue: my years in the States have done this to me—all that Catholic training. I hope my countrymen will forgive me, Mr. Ingram, because I love Japan deeply. And she is reeling.” Fujimoto took a deep breath, “I understand you need the mines cleared from Sagami Wan.”
“Yes. They’re planning the surrender ceremony in Tokyo Bay for the last week in August. We need to get our ships in there.”
Fujimoto sat up. “Indeed. I missed that part of the meeting. The ceremony is going to be on a ship, not ashore?”
“I can think of no more appropriate place.”
Fujimoto’s face grew dark. “Commodore Perry returns.”
Ingram said, “They tell me it was at Admiral Halsey’s request. They’ve already sent for Perry’s flag, the one he flew when he entered Tokyo Bay.”
Fujimoto stared for a moment. “We begin again.”
“I hope so. Maybe in the right direction this time.”
O’Toole’s mouth hung open and he snored loudly.
“Poor guy has had it,” said Ingram. He shook O’Toole awake. “Larry!”
“Huh?” O’Toole sat up and smacked his lips. “Oh, sorry.”
Ingram said, “Look, go aft, grab an empty seat, and get some sleep. You’ll be coming to Karafuto with us, so you need rest.”
“Garden spot of the globe.” O’Toole lowered his voice. “Let me ask you, Commander, is that trip necessary?”
“Ask General Sutherland. Now, go on aft and get some rest.”
“As you say, sir.” With a nod to Fujimoto, O’Toole stood and walked aft.
Ingram turned to Fujimoto, “We need your help in clearing those mines. Can you do this?”
“Of course. I have the charts. It should be fairly easy.”
“Can you give them to me right away?”
“Can it wait? Things are in such turmoil.”
“No, it can’t. Admiral Halsey wants to send in the Third Fleet as soon as possible. We need those charts.”
Fujimoto rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you can send someone back with us to Tokyo. We’ll gather the charts and send them back with him.”
“On those planes? They’re wrecks.”
“That’s all I can offer.”
Ingram drummed his fingers. It hadn’t been Neidemeier’s snoring that kept him awake last night. It was the orders Sutherland and DeWitt had given him—orders authorized by the office of the supreme commander: Gen. Douglas MacArthur. That’s why he’d tossed and turned. All he wanted was to rejoin his ship and rediscover the promise of going home, of seeing Helen and Jerry and holding them close. He was tired of the threat of war, of war itself, of the dust and aftermath of war. Instead, they were sending him out among a vanquished and still-hostile enemy. He couldn’t even write a letter to Helen; no mail service was available where he was going. “We’ll have to think of something else.”