Wake Island

By Olin Thompson

The train is hijacked by the prisoners and they escape to form a renegade bunch which turn the Japanese occupiers into twists and turns trying to re-capture them. There are American Marines, Australians, and several Chinese captors who are very inventive. They are there for over two years and finally taken out to return to duty. Lively action, personal heroism, and life and death struggles.

This is not to reinvent World War II, but to tell a piece of history that might have actually happened. One can never tell, however, since many secrets hide in the deepest parts of the military archives.

------------------------

This book reveals how much the author has studied and researched his subject before writing the book. Someone once said, “Reading this book is better than sex.”
— Gene Thornton,
retired police officer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Warren
• Release date: Aug 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9780945949404

Book preview

WAKE ISLAND

The Beginning and the End Written by Dean Mac McDean, a.k.a. Olin Thompson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Copyright © 2007 by Olin Thompson

This eBook was produced in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN: 978-0-945949-40-4

Published by:

BOOKWARREN PUBLISHING SERVICES

3322 Eighth Ave., Studio 1

San Diego, CA 92103

mailto:[e-mail]

Website: http://www.bookwarren.com

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the Marines and contractors who stayed on Wake Island and defended it against the invasion. Those who paid the ultimate sacrifice are to be especially honored. Thank you all and thank those during the whole Pacific Campaigns who won the war for us.

I joined the Marine Corps in the early 50s because of their dedication to duty and honor.

Thank you all. Mac

Chapter 1

Just another lovely fuckin’ day in paradise, Jeff said and wished his wife were here to enjoy it.

***

The black lacquer table's reflection shimmered from the overhead light. The Japanese Colonel looked at his watch and adjusted the time on the wall clock.

Good afternoon, Colonel Endo, sir, the navy Commander said as he entered the room bowed slightly and moved to the end of the table where he lay out the whiter than white folded note book with perhaps 50 millimeters of contents inside.

He also placed the ink well and ceremonial brush at the head of that note book. A broad-stroke pen rested there as well.

Yamada, Colonel Endo responded off-handedly.

They are not on time, the Commander said as if it were unusual.

No, Colonel Endo responded simply.

The black lacquer chairs had been pulled back slightly and everything seemed in order.

A navy Captain entered and nodded to the others. Colonel Endo, the Captain said his greetings.

Captain Warabe, Endo replied with a slight bow: more a nod.

Yamada, the Captain included Endo's Aide and nodded as well, however. only ever so slightly, deeper.

Sir, Yamada answered with a bow from the waist; he continued to insure the room was spotless, touching here and there with a white handkerchief.

An Admiral, two Generals, and another navy Captain entered the room and began to jockey for seats. There was no pecking order, or so it seemed, but the rotation around the room indicated the navy Captain was more important to the meeting than just a participant and the others seemed to understand that.

The Captain nodded to the three who had been there already and they left with deep bows.

Whew, Endo said as the three stood in the hallway outside the large teak doors.

Yes, Warabe replied and meant more than just an affirmative. He passed out cigarettes from a silver case with a crook necked heron engraved on the cover.

The Commander merely took out his Zippo lighter, flipped it open, and snapped it for the others' cigarettes.

Without another word they stood almost at attention, alert, certainly alert, at the side of the door awaiting the decisions which would be made that would affect the world in the next few moments.

***

Zenda, the first General spoke softly and with a harmonic tone of a rich baritone voice.

General Hamada, Colonel Zenda acknowledged and bowed slightly. Our task is to approve or disapprove the direction of the Combined Fleet. You gentlemen understand the seriousness of the events we are about to undertake, so I do not need to restate them. We have a fleet at sea. We are about to ask them to do things which no other nation has ever done. And, The Admiral is well aware, the sleeping giant will awake and be very angry. Are we to risk that? Are we to send the message? This is our last chance to confirm the act. Or, he paused momentarily, stop the madness.

We have heard all these arguments before, General Hamada said. His chest virtually shook, clearly with the irritation of having been told once more of the sleeping giant.

And, you understand the consequences of these acts we are about to take, Zenda said. It was a question as well.

The mens’ cigarette smoke began fill the room. Zenda stepped on a spot in the floor and a door opened almost instantly.

He nodded to the air ducts. The Senior Chief of the Navy touched a button and the air began to circulate. The Chief bowed out of the room as Zenda sent the man a look of thanks.

There was some mumbling.

Zenda, the other General in the room spoke up. Yamanach'sama, Zenda said, with the formal title and re spect, to his mentor and first teacher in the Military College.

If we approve the action there is no withdrawal, Yamanachi said and asked.

That is correct. The ball has been struck, Zenda said, using a baseball analogy, and sucked on his own foul smelling cigarette.

If we disapprove, the fleet returns without striking the blow for which they have prepared since nineteen twenty seven, another voice asked and said as well.

Gentlemen, we have all day, but The Admiral is on the flag ship and awaits the final word. He will abide by our decision, Zenda said.

I need no time. My men are ready, the Chief of Staff, Army of the South, General Hamada, said and shrugged nonchalantly.

General Yamanachi? Zenda asked.

Mine as well, General Yamanachi, Chief of Staff of the Army of the West and North, said.

Without waiting for the next response Zenda looked to the dark skinned short man with six rows of ribbons as testimony to his career since the battle of Vladivostok.

Admiral Yo?

The fleet is ready, Admiral Yo, Chief of Staff of the Pacific Land Campaign, said; he too sounded as if he were a bit nonchalant about the coming of war.

Then you will agree that we send the message to The Admiral? Zenda actually asked for the first time.

There was some head turning and decision making as the men all looked to one another, clearly for assurance from their peers.

If we decide and the answer is in the affirmative, we will all hang together or celebrate together, Yamada said. There was a fatality in his voice. But, he nodded.

Zenda, we agree, the General Yamanachi told the Colonel.He added, Sepuku is preferable to slavery.

The polemics had no noticeable effect on the others. Someone mumbled something about rectal penetration. Then I send the message under all of our signatures?

Zenda asked, loudly, for direction, confirmation, and approval all with one stroke.

Under only yours, General Hamada said and a wide smile increased until there was no room left for more. You do not think we will stand for the punishment the Emperor will mete out if this fails. Sepuku be damned. I would rather it be you. You can tell him, however, that we agreed, the General said and sucked his second – or was it the third? – cigarette off the glowing coal of the first or second.

Zenda did not particularly like the style of the sonofabitch, but he did see the man's point.

Shit, he exclaimed to himself, if it comes to it, suicide will be a delight if nothing works out right. Perhaps it will be a relief, he concluded. At least I would get some sleep.

He pushed a button under the table and the three men outside came through the door in a mere part of a second.

Take this to code section, Zenda said. There was nothing else to add. And the men knew exactly what to do. They had been prepared.

The Colonel looked at Zenda and likely wondered if this were the beginning or the end.

The Captain merely took the message from Colonel Zenda. The Commander looked to his watch once more. He also turned and with what seemed reluctance he touched the calendar, probably to check the date.

Zenda too looked at the calendar November 29, 1941. He sighed and made a calculation that it was the last day for turn around.

Americans have issued a warning to their fleet commanders, Captain, a navy signalman said to the group and handed the Captain a message.

It says, in essence we have just finished decoding the message and it is in it's…, he didn't finish as Zenda waved him off and then rolled his hands to indicate he wanted the message read as it was:

WARNING TO COMMANDERS OF BASES COMMA BOTH NAVAL AND ARMY COMMA IN PACIFIC REGION STOP THE JAPANESE HAVE REFUSED TO AGREE TO TERMS STOP TAKE EVERY PRECAUTION TO PREVENT SURPRISE ATTACK STOP SIGNED CHIEFS OF STAFF ADMIRAL STARK AND GENERAL MARSHAL.

Well now, that is interesting, Zenda said and a sly smile crinkled his youthful face. They are, however, much too late.

No one smiled and Zenda took note of their reticence.

***

In 1939 a bit of corruption had developed within the San Diego Police Department. Some of the bad men in town had set up a slush fund to buy expensive gifts for members of the force.

No one knew the events coming would have any effect on the slush fund, but it was common knowledge of almost everyone in town that Harvey Davison was the big man to deal with.

***

After his high school classes, Gene Benson worked as an attendant in a gas station on San Pedro Street. The Standard Oil Company of California had stations all over town. This one was Harvey's, however.

You wanna make more money, boy? Harvey asked out the rear window of the Packard touring sedan one sunny afternoon in April.

Sure, Gene said and wondered who he'd have to kill to make more money. Harvey Davison was no generous tipper nor, as the word got around, did he pay his employees very much. He certainly didn't at the service station, Gene bemoaned as he wiped his greasy hands on the red rag which lived in the rear pocked of his grey herringbone twill blue coveralls.

Come see me, Harvey said and the big dark-green machine roared off. Harvey never paid nor did he give Gene an address where he could be found.

Sure, Gene repeated to the disappearing twelve cylinder vehicle as it zoomed up toward the main drag, El Cajon Boulevard.

He shrugged and went to the cash drawer and wrote out a ticket for $3.86, put Harvey's name on it, and put it under the stack of singles which crammed the drawer. There were two fives and one ten.

Carl, Gene called.

Yeah? Carl replied from under a car lifted by a floor jack. Where's ole Harve's place? Gene asked and continued to wipe his hands. They never seemed clean. Under the fingernails was the worst.

You don't wanna know, boy. Ain't no place for you to be, Carl said with conviction and a grunt as he tightened something.

Tol' me to come see him, Gene admitted after a moment. Prob'ly wants to get you to run his numbers. Lousy crook, Carl said knowingly.

How come you work for him, then? Gene asked. Same reason as you do. I gotta have a job, don't I?

I guess, Gene said and wandered off. Actually his only job was to fill cars with gas for three hours after school and help Carl when he was in need of someone to do the dirtiest work.

Gene knew he'd need to go to college to get a good job, but right now he needed any job to keep from losing his car back to the guy he bought it from for $10 a month for six more months; Gene got $30 a month from this job.

Gene decided he'd at least check out Harve's offer and see what he wanted Gene to do.

After quizzing Carl a little more Gene got the general location of Harvey Davison's outfit. Corner of Broadway and Pacific Coast Highway.

Nice location, Gene thought as he discovered a parking place for his '33 Cheve. He'd found the car advertised on a bulletin board at the Piggly Wiggly and when he saw the car black, rumble seat, shiny as a new penny, pretty good tires, and a heater he figured he'd fallen into heaven. The price was a bit much, lots more than he'd saved, but Gene had given the man $20 and promised to pay him $10 a month for six months. At that very moment Gene owed $60 more dollars and the guy would sign over the title. The car, Gene thought, was a honey.

Yeah? a burly guy asked Gene as he walked up the steps to the warehouse looking building.

Harvey asked me to come see him, Gene said with a bright smile.

What'sa name? Burly asked gruffly, and certainly snarly. Under the sleeves of the man's shirt Gene saw tattoos: a woman in a grass skirt doing a hoochie coochie, a heart with a name in the middle near the man's elbow, and a snake of some sort wiggled up from the man's wrist.

Gene Martin, he lied and was somewhat intimidated by the six and a half foot tall, three hundred or more pound mostly it looked like muscle lantern jawed ape guarding the door.

Somewhat intimidated? No, Gene reconsidered the thought, totally intimidated.

Wait here, Burly ordered.

Sure, Gene said and turned away to show his disdain for the man. Actually Gene was scared stiff about this moment and after ten, maybe twenty seconds, he started to leave.

A window opened on the second floor and a head leaned out and called happily, Come on up, boy.

Gene saw it was Harvey himself. Wow.

From that moment all Gene did was come to the warehouse after school, drive from spot to spot, and drop off sandwiches and lunch boxes to various men around town. In return he picked up brown paper sacks without any comments or discussion.

It was an easy job. Harvey paid the gas and gave Gene $2 a day for the time.

That was about twice what he made at the service station and, Gene smiled, he didn't get nearly as dirty.

Friday afternoon the third week, Gene paid off the last $10 and got the title to the Cheve.

Good luck, the man said and waved as Gene drove puttering down the street.

He went toward his girl friend Cecilia's house and thought he'd impress her that he'd paid the car off with his new job. Only take about 15 minutes and Harve won't miss me that much, or so he thought.

What! Gene shouted to himself as he looked down the street and saw the dark brown Nash parked in front of the house.

He parked a block away and watched. The sonofabitch was a guy from Hoover High, Gene recognized. No one from San Diego High would talk to, much less date, even worse invite a Cardinal over to the house. Jeez! he screamed at himself.

Cecilia walked toward the car with the guy Who the hell is that? Gene fumed, trying to recall the guy’s name and when he was about to leave she looked at the guy and touched his cheek with her hand.

Might as well kiss him, Gene growled aloud to no one. She did. It wasn't a kiss, really, more like a peck.

But that little act set Gene ablaze. He started the Cheve and gunned the engine. He zoomed past the house and retarded then advanced the spark so the engine backfired something horrible. He was sure he'd blown the muffler out, but he wanted to be sure Cecilia and the dumb bastard making time with Gene's girl knew he'd seen them.

Gene turned over the lunch sacks to Harvey's man an hour late and was asked why he was so late.

Just had a flat, Gene said and disregarded the others around him. He walked out and drove to his house in City Heights.

That night Gene fumed in his room and made plans. Discarded them and remade them. He discarded those and started on others. He had two weeks left in school and then, by God, he grumbled, I'm out and going away forever. He fussed and fumed for another hour and then cried small tears that she would do something like that to him. His mother would never do that to his father. Why would Cecilia do that to him? Damn her. Damn him.

He went to Harve's late the next day. He was, once more, almost an hour late.

When he drove up there was no one outside. Gene opened the door and walked in like he did every day. No one said anything. They just went about their business.

Hey, the lunch man said and closed the bag in front of him.

Gene wanted to snarl something, but held back.

You're late, the man said, but there was little condemna tion in the tone.

Yeah, Gene said and began to put the sacks in the car. Two lunch boxes were sitting to the side and he took those. Finals. Got no more classes. Graduate next week, Gene said as if to excuse being tardy to work. He knew Harvey hated to think one of his men might not show up.

Don't get back late like yesterday, the lunch making man said.

Won't, Gene said and meant it. He didn't have anyone to stop to see. And with school out, all he had to do was show up for work. Nothing to it.

The door crashed open and everyone turned to look. Five policemen, in uniform, with three men in civilian clothes came busting through the opening.

Gene had plans made for this event. Even though he was only the lunch delivery boy he knew where he was going if something happened.

The place erupted into gunfire with splattering bullets making nasty zinging sounds on the concrete walls and tings in the corrugated tin ceiling. Harvey jumped out the second story window and Gene watched the body pass the first floor right in front of him. Harvey crumpled, probably broken ankle, and rolled over; he held his leg and it looked as if he were screaming.

Gene hesitated no longer. He moved the plywood sheet from the hole in the brick wall and felt for the rope. He slithered down to the lower floor, slid behind the barrels in the corner, crawled into the duct, and made a crouching duck walk to the grate which opened to the street above him. He'd parked his car away from the building, there were few parking places and he often had to park on E Street, and with the two lunch boxes in his hand he walked, as calm and cool as he could, to the car.

Shaking, he sat for some time waiting to get control of the events around him. Nothing seemed to be right about that business.

Burly being gone from the door shoulda tipped me off, he thought, that something was wrong.

Gene drove straight home and began to pack. Someone would identify him and the police would come banging on his front door. He put the lunch boxes under his bed and didn't even dare peek. He noted one box depicted the Lone Ranger with the rearing horse, Silver, and a lasso twirled above the masked man's head; and, the other was Red Rider thundering across the face of the lunch box in full flight after the evil men in the distance. But, none of that tempted Gene to open the box.

***

Later that evening, Gene told his Dad, I'm going to join the Marines. They stood on the porch and his father puffed on the meerschaum pipe.

Well, I guess they are the best, his Dad said. You'll understand some day, Gene said.

I already do, I think.

Gene thought he ought to change the subject. How's work?

We're designing a new plane. It'll fly faster, it'll go higher, and farther than anything you've ever seen. It's a beaut, his father said. Confidential, though. Can't tell anyone details. But, let me tell you…, his father let the words tail off to nothing. You gonna tell your mother?

Guess, Gene said and felt the terror build in him. Tomorrow, he added.

Sooner the better, Mr. Benson urged.

Yeah, Gene replied with dread filling his voice.

The next morning he woke and gathered the things he needed to make the Marine Corps impressed with his qualifications. He left out the one job he most recently had: runner for Harvey Davison.

Morning, son, the dapper Marine said as Gene walked in. The smile on the Marine's face almost disarmed Gene, but he held back slightly.

The sign on his desk read: SGT. MARLIN MILTON Sergeant, Gene said and almost bolted out the door. He thought he'd steeled himself for the moment, but steel was not enough.

Like to talk about the Marine Corps as a job or would you like to discuss a career?

I donno, Gene said and stumbled over his own enthusiasm.

But, an hour later he signed the last paper and wondered. What the hell have I done?

Chapter 2

The message has come through, Admiral, the Signals Officer handed Yamamoto the communication.

Thank you, the Admiral said in his distinctive deep voice. Yamamoto read the paper in front of him twice. Then again. He set it aside and made an almost unheard comment to the Officer of the Deck, We will now awaken the sleeping giant, Mr. Takatsu.

Sir, the Signals Officer said, bowed, took the message back from the Admiral, and smartly turned to leave the deck.

***

Barber’s Point Honolulu, Hawaii Here's the mail, Jeff, the Lieutenant tossed four pieces on Jeff West's belly as he lay with his arms up, fingers locked behind his head.

He didn't look down at the litter, but felt a sudden feeling of destiny sweep over him.

What time is it? West asked.

One oh oh, sorry, thirteen hundred, the Texan replied. Jeff laughed slightly and turned over. He picked up the top letter. It was from his mother. He set it aside. He knew it would be chatty and happy, filled with little choice news about the prices of things about which Jeff had no control. She would also tell him how much progress his father made getting rid of the devil alcohol that possessed him. It was, Jeff reasoned, a lie, but then it was nice of her to tell him so he wouldn't worry.

The next was from some furniture company. He threw that aside. The third was from someplace in Los Angeles called: CARSON, CLEAVE, MENNIFEE, AND JIMSON attorneys at law, inc.

What the hell do these guys want? he wondered. He hadn't filed bankruptcy and he didn't kill anyone, so what did these guys want?

He set that aside and found his wife's letter on the bottom of the pile.

It was thin. It looked to be one page. He wasn't impressed, but he knew she was busy.

Dear Jeff, I'm sorry to tell you this, but I've had to rethink some things. One of them is our marriage. I'm sorry I got you into it and I'm even sorrier that I waited this long to tell you what's happened. Truthfully, I've found that I don't love you and, as you must soon find out, I've found someone else.

Jeff tossed the letter down and his eyes filled with the tears of sadness. He didn't know why. He ought to have seen it coming. He knew something was going on, but he couldn't be sure. Jeff thought of himself as a realist. He had made the choice of Deanne, and she had seemed to reciprocate. They made a good pair. But, was his leaving the cause of the rift?

He wiped his face, stood, and went out the tent to the flight line and grabbed his parachute.

Hey, Jeff. Wanna take the SNJ up for a refresher with me? the young Second Lieutenant called from across the tarmac.

Nah, Jeff replied and walked on. He knew it was not like him to refuse a hop with someone, but he wanted to be alone. He found the F4F-3 at the end of the run-up strip next to Squadron Headquarters.

Goin' up, Corporal, Lieutenant West told the flight line mechanic who was tightening down what looked like the last bolt on the cowl of the F4F-3.

How long? the crew chief asked as he appeared from under the engine cowl from the other side.

Donno. Until I run out of gas, I guess, Jeff told him. Ain't much in her, sir. Might get an hour or so, the Sergeant said.

Enough, First Lieutenant Jeff West told the Sergeant, climbed in the airplane, and after the run-up, turned to the end of the runway.

He wiped his eyes again and roared the RPMs until he saw all the needles in the proper zones.

Navy 1131 preparing for refresher take-off, West said into the hand held microphone.

Navy 1131, runway four right. Wind 8 knots from the west, altimeter 026, have a safe flight, sir, the control tower replied without other comment.

The F4F-3 was a clumsy thing. Jeff hated it. Fast enough, but would it stand up in a fight with the enemy? He knew who they would be. Who didn't?

When Jeff first arrived at Barber's Point, he'd been warned that there was no effort he could make that would shake a Zero if they got on his tail.

Does that mean you give up? the Marine flying Sergeant instructor had asked.

No sir, Jeff answered with a smile.

Well, what do you do? the instructor asked and the, Smart aleck! lingered unsaid.

Head for the deck and duck behind a white water wash at sea level, Jeff told the Sergeant.

Something like that, the Sergeant said with an obvious sly little smirk. Might not save your ass, but you'll be closer to the ground when he splashes your fresh yellow bar ass, he added. They had taken off and put every spin and twist on the little F4F that was known to man.

For Jeff, the training exercise had been an awakening. He'd been shot down four times in five fights and hidden from the instructor in clouds at 18,000 feet until the fuel ran to E. When he emerged he flew straight home.

The instructor waited on the tarmac for Jeff to slide down the wing and onto the ground.

What the hell happened to you? the Flying Sergeant asked.

Found a big pillow of cloud and hid there, Jeff said with a wide smile.

Well, you survived one of your sessions. I'll remember that when I write it up in the report, the Sergeant said and he too had a wide smile. Then, as if remembering that Jeff had the bars, the Sergeant added, less than totally respectfully, Sir.

But, for now the F4F drove hard down the runway to get off the ground and Jeff searched overhead for an area that he could fly in safely.

Safely, shit, he thought and considered the best way to prang the damn thing with the last possible pain or hurting or putting someone to great inconvenience in the report of his death. How he could go down in flames without taking a bullet in some spot where he'd hurt the whole time. How he could justify taking this F4F out of the hands of the other guys who'd need it if, no, when the Japs came.

The wheels came up with the usual jerking motion as he wound them up by hand. He would, he figured, be glad when the new F4F dash 4s came out with the hydraulic retractable landing gear.

Well, he re-thought the statement, came out for the Marines. The navy, as usual, had them already in some squadrons, he mumbled to himself.

Just like the fucking Marine Corps to be tail end of the goddamned dog when they pass out the equipment, Jeff groused, got stiff jawed, gritted his teeth, and yanked back on the stick hard. He very nearly stalled and only self-preservation, long a part of him, kept him from killing himself in the less-than-modern aircraft.

As a matter of fact, at that moment he turned from suicidal after the letter from his wife Bitch, he spat silently to a determined single-minded shit heel who set his next goal as the world's greatest cocksman. Jeff knew there were a hundred million women in the Philippines, at least that number by ten in China, more than half that in India, and about a hundred million in the US.

Without the burden of a wife he decided he could make a legend out of his cock and be known far and wide as the greatest swordsman since Beau Brummel, Lothario, or his high school buddy Charlie who was reputed to have taken every cheer leader in LA Central into the bushes and pronged them.

Jeff flew the F4F dash 3 straight back to Barber's Point, wiggled left and right as he wound down the landing gear with his right hand while hanging onto the stick for dear life with his left, and bounding only twice down the concrete runway.

Sergeant, Jeff said as he passed the crew chief who had hurried up the plane, clearly to inspect for battle damage.

Sir, the Sergeant muttered to Jeff's back.

***

Richard Egan sat in the hard chair on Butabutu Island and wondered just how long the damn Japs would wait. He'd been in contact with