CHAPTER ONE
December 7, 1941 Cayucos, Central California
I was only four years old. I didn’t understand.
Today I played on the beach, unaware that my life would change direction today, like the tide before me. The sun brightened a cloudless sky, turning it that silvered winter blue, perfect for Sunday, Daddy’s day off. As he and Mom raced to the sea, the foam slapped against the shore, and one strap of her bathing suit slipped. In the water, she wrapped her arms around him, her neck pliant and back limber, as, despite the water’s chill, they rode the waves together.
Later, his black hair shone with a blue iridescence, when, dripping and sleek, he waded out of the water, dropped a few steps behind Mom, and watched her hips sway as she walked. Slowly they crossed across the sand, their white stucco house perched on a succulent-covered bluff ahead of them.
Relaxing on a picnic blanket, Mom examined her red fingernails for chips in the polish, and then turned over, the seawater glistening on her shoulders. She had wild auburn hair that she tried in vain to tame with combs and hairpins, but something excited Daddy about that hair; it reminded him of women dancing in Old West cafes while patrons drank their whiskey. Her eyes were gray, pure gray - no little leopard spots of brown or hazel.
I sat next to the blanket and began digging, while, deliberate as a fern unfurling, Daddy smoothed oil on Mom’s slim back and khaki-freckled shoulders.
“More on the right,” she said in her indolent voice. “That’s it . . . Up a little. Yes. Now over to the left . . . right there . . . good . . . I’ve got you pretty well trained.”
“That’s because you reward me.” The tones of a warm youth flowed through his voice, and, moving his hand to the small of her back, he began to sing, “Mary—Helen, Mary—Helen, my own Mary—Helen,” to the tune of their college fight song.
Daddy kneaded Mom’s shoulders, and then rolled over on his back. He winked at me. I knew what that wink meant: he loved me best.
“Nap time,” Mom said, so I ran away from her, heading toward the sea.
“Ann, come here this minute.” She caught up with me and grabbed my wrist. I had almost made it to the water. As we turned, an army officer appeared on the bluff. To me that bluff rose immensely high, and the uniformed man seemed to tower up to the sky, looking down like a god in the corner of an old map, one who determined destinies at his pleasure. Actually, the bluff was quite small, but I had the perspective of the very young.
“Captain Ribbel, the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor. Report for duty immediately.”
Daddy quickly got to his feet, stood at attention in his bathing suit, and saluted the officer.
“Darling _” Mom touched her cheek with her fingers.
“I have to get going, Sweetheart.”
Her eyes welled up, but she said nothing more.
He gave her a quick hug, patted me, and, in five or six strides, dashed up the bluff and disappeared into the house. She gathered up the picnic things and followed, shock slowing her walk. I trailed along after her, as the Pacific boomed and hissed.
Oh, Daddy, Mom. I can still see their faces before he went overseas: innocent, brave, unknowing, see the way they leaned toward each other as they walked along in step, naïve and graceful.
* * *
Hours earlier, Imperial Air Captain Mitsuo Fuchida had boasted that he’d pull the eagle’s tail feathers. He and 350 other pilots donned white hachimaki headbands to signify preparation for death and launched from the carrier Akagi in a long, vivid stream.
At Pearl Harbor, he called out the “Tiger” radio signal, “Tora-Tora-Tora,” and his men dropped their payloads. For two hours, they pelted our ships and aircraft, destroying most of our Pacific Fleet.
Later, aboard the flagship Nagato, Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, commander of the mission’s carriers, slashed the air with his father’s samurai sword. Sake arrived, and the celebration began. "Dai Nippon, Great Japan."
Tokyo shook with victory celebrations, throbbed with music, as gold banners fluttered, firecrackers popped. Women prepared white rice and red lobster symbolizing health and good fortune, and they flew victory kites with the rising sun emblem.
But on his flagship, Japan’s hero, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, said, “I fear we have awakened a sleeping tiger that will consume us.”
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
How a Disaster Led to a Miracle
My book, a true story of ww2 in the Pacific, includes a chronology and source list of the best books I read. After the 1995 Freedom of Information Act, classified material became available to the public, quite a different picture of the Pacific War emerged. For example, my book touches on Dr. Ishii’s human experiments on POWs, the details of which were laid out in a book called “Hidden Horrors” by Yuri Tanaka. Tokyo born and bred, she stated in interviews and articles that she believed Japan should face its past.
While working on my book, I did my day job as a free lance writer. Interviewed many people, including Jerry Rice, Nobel Laureate particle physicist Arthur Schawlow, who used his prize money to found a school for autistic children (he had an autistic son), NASA’s Barney Oliver and Jill Tartar. Later, the movie “Contact” with Jodie Foster told Jill’s story. One of my favorite interviews was John Madden. Sweet man.
Back to the book: the final tightening and proofing required a type of concentration I hate, so I found myself postponing it. Exactly one year ago yesterday, I intended to harvest nonnative plants with the Sausalito Woman’s Club. First thing in the morning, my husband smiled at me, said he’d put on the coffee, and collapsed. A stroke. The mid cerebral artery of the dominant hemisphere, which he and his fellow neurosurgeons call the “bull’s eye.”
I called 9-1-1, and the paramedics arrived in six minutes. Not many communities have that kind of service. The people at the sometimes underrated Marin general did a marvelous job of stabilizing him, but initially they thought he would die. Next: he would need artificial feeding for the rest of his life, as he would never swallow on his own. Furthermore, he would never move his right side or speak. I knew better. A month later, he came home, and a series of nurses and therapists worked with him every day.
Now he walks talks, eats, DRIVES! (He had to take all DMV tests, of course).
During the months of therapy, I had to remain at home supervising (firing anyone I didn’t think was 5-star). You can tone down a state of high anxiety by focusing on concrete fact/accuracy writing, so I finished my story. My purpose: create a family tribute to a hero. You know the rest: Kinko printed it, my grandson posted chapter one, on Facebook, and I landed a book deal with a marvelous publisher. The head of Firefall media, Elihu Blotnick, lives in McLean, VA, and as you know, many military people live there. He had a general and an admiral read the book, and they expressed great enthusiasm. So it’s accurate.
Do I think this exciting book deal would have come along if my husband hadn’t had that stroke? Probably not. My sense of pending mortality triggered by the event forced me to tell Daddy’s story now, while I could. Otherwise, I’d still be postponing, chatting with our local sea lions, and what have you.
While working on my book, I did my day job as a free lance writer. Interviewed many people, including Jerry Rice, Nobel Laureate particle physicist Arthur Schawlow, who used his prize money to found a school for autistic children (he had an autistic son), NASA’s Barney Oliver and Jill Tartar. Later, the movie “Contact” with Jodie Foster told Jill’s story. One of my favorite interviews was John Madden. Sweet man.
Back to the book: the final tightening and proofing required a type of concentration I hate, so I found myself postponing it. Exactly one year ago yesterday, I intended to harvest nonnative plants with the Sausalito Woman’s Club. First thing in the morning, my husband smiled at me, said he’d put on the coffee, and collapsed. A stroke. The mid cerebral artery of the dominant hemisphere, which he and his fellow neurosurgeons call the “bull’s eye.”
I called 9-1-1, and the paramedics arrived in six minutes. Not many communities have that kind of service. The people at the sometimes underrated Marin general did a marvelous job of stabilizing him, but initially they thought he would die. Next: he would need artificial feeding for the rest of his life, as he would never swallow on his own. Furthermore, he would never move his right side or speak. I knew better. A month later, he came home, and a series of nurses and therapists worked with him every day.
Now he walks talks, eats, DRIVES! (He had to take all DMV tests, of course).
During the months of therapy, I had to remain at home supervising (firing anyone I didn’t think was 5-star). You can tone down a state of high anxiety by focusing on concrete fact/accuracy writing, so I finished my story. My purpose: create a family tribute to a hero. You know the rest: Kinko printed it, my grandson posted chapter one, on Facebook, and I landed a book deal with a marvelous publisher. The head of Firefall media, Elihu Blotnick, lives in McLean, VA, and as you know, many military people live there. He had a general and an admiral read the book, and they expressed great enthusiasm. So it’s accurate.
Do I think this exciting book deal would have come along if my husband hadn’t had that stroke? Probably not. My sense of pending mortality triggered by the event forced me to tell Daddy’s story now, while I could. Otherwise, I’d still be postponing, chatting with our local sea lions, and what have you.
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