Luzon

By Richard Whitten Barnes

America has broken Japan's "Purple" code, and a captured U.S. Navy officer knows it. Someone has to make sure the Japanese don't find out.

It's 1941, and Riza Manceda, a beautiful American intelligence officer, needs someone to impersonate a Japanese officer for a dangerous mission to her homeland of the Philippines. Her search uncovers the ideal man in Daniel Suhiro, a first generation Nisei with perfect credentials for the job…but maybe not so perfect.

The mission is to prevent the Japanese from discovering the Allies have broken their "unbreakable" Purple code.  This secret could shorten – or lengthen – the war by years, and is known by an officer captured in Luzon. Riza and Daniel train to either rescue the officer or, if necessary, assassinate him.

The compelling story of their harrowing venture meticulously comes to life as the pair becomes drawn closer to each other and then thrown headlong into incredible peril.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091005

Book preview

Dedication

To the forgotten Nisei who served so well and asked so little.

Author’s Note

While the background and even some situations for Luzon are real, the story is a work of fiction. The following characters are real persons for whom I have given dialogue or actions, which are entirely imaginary. RWB

PRINCIPAL NONFICTIONAL CHARACTERS

1941 - 1945

Franklin Delano Roosevelt - President of the United States

Col./Brig. General William J. (Wild Bill) Donovan - Head of Office of Strategic Services (OSS)

Admiral William D. Leahy - Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff

Rear Admiral Harold C. Train - Director, Office of Naval Intelligence

Lt. Col. Garland H. Williams - Executive Officer of the Special Operations Branch, OSS

Gen. Jonathan M. Skinny Wainwright - Commander of Allied forces in the Philippines

Major/Brig. General John Weckerling – Founder,Military Intelligence Service Language School (MISLS)

Captain/Colonel Kai E. Rasmussen, MISLS

Major Joseph K. Dickey - Assistant Commandant, MISLS

John Fujio Aiso – Director of Training, MISLS

Arthur Kaneko – Instructor, MISLS

Shigeya Kihara - Instructor, MISLS

Akira Oshida - Instructor, MISLS

Tetsuo Imagawa - Instructor, MISLS

Benjamin Cunanan – Philippine guerilla leader

Captain Juan Pajota – Philippine guerilla leader

Lt. Colonel Henry A. Mucci - Commanding Officer, US Army Sixth Ranger Battalion.

Captain Robert W. Prince – Commander, Company C, US Army Sixth Ranger Battalion

Lt. John Murphy – Platoon Leader, Company F, US Army Sixth Ranger Battalion

Frank Gleason – OSS Instructor

Lt. Commander Elton Joe Grenfell – Captain, USS Gudgeon submarine

Lt. Commander John Bertram Kershaw – Captain, HMS Porpoise submarine

Kishi kaisei

Wake from death and return to life.

Japanese Proverb

philippines

One

May 15, 1941

Tokyo, Japan

Darkness hadn’t set in, but Daniel Suhiro could see the full moon in the eastern sky. He made his way, lugging an overnight grip across the park from the train station. An unseasonably warm breeze blew in from the south, bringing with it the salty aroma of the harbor.

He’d visited the apartment in the Daikanchō district twice since arriving in Tokyo two years ago. It was an upscale neighborhood near the imperial palace. With some difficulty, he located the right street, then the building, then through its large white tiled foyer, making his footsteps echo.

The apartment was up carpeted steps, on the second floor. A carved oak door featured a brass knocker, which he used. Immediately, a starched white-clad servant appeared, wordlessly motioning for Daniel to enter, offering slippers in exchange for his shoes. He was expected.

Conversation was in full force in the parlor. It ceased as he entered. Heads turned. Men in dark suits, stiff white collars, women in their finest, some in western dress, others in kimonos. Daniel pulled off his cap. Sweat from his long walk made his dark hair stick to his forehead. He was painfully aware of his wrinkled trousers, sweater and cotton jacket.

Ah! Kanesuke! his uncle greeted him by his Japanese name. Please come and be introduced to our friends who have come to wish you a safe journey.

Keigo Sato, his aunt Kyoko’s husband, was holding a whiskey in his pudgy hand, using the other to usher Daniel into the throng of maybe a dozen people.

Ojisan. I had no idea—this is a surprise. Daniel bowed, holding the gesture a respectful moment.

Aunt Kyoko, his mother’s twin, came forward, a step behind her husband, elegant in her embroidered kimono. We will want letters from you, dear. We saw so little of you.

Now, none of that! her husband countered. Turning back to Daniel, he said, Come, there are people I want you to meet.

He was led around the room to be introduced to the various couples, most seeming to be less interested in this nephew of the Satos than their earlier animated gossip. There was one unaccompanied guest his uncle identified as an Imperial Army officer.

The evening progressed with polite talk about Daniel’s new master’s degree in Economics from the prestigious Hitosubashi University in Kunitachi, 30km. west of central Tokyo. They all complimented him on his excellent colloquial and accent-free Japanese. Polite conversation. It wasn’t until he found himself speaking with the unattached male guest that talk turned to world affairs. Daniel had noticed the man watching him as he spoke with the others. He was shorter than Daniel’s five feet nine by about a half head, and smartly dressed in a well-tailored black suit, a striped tie of silver and grey.

I wish to add my congratulations on achieving your new degree. I am Major Rokuru Saito.

Daniel... Kanesuke Suhiro.

You prefer Daniel. Just so, Saito said.

They conversed for a considerable time about Daniel’s impending trip home to the USA before Saito dove into a discussion of animosities between their two countries, escalating into Japan’s natural right to the Asian raw materials and trade the West had been plundering for generations.

Your uncle has grown wealthy, and is fortunate to be retiring at the right time, he said. For a Japanese citizen to enter his business now would be impossible. Japan cannot realize its rightful place in the world as things stand. Don’t you agree?

True, his uncle had done very well as an importer of rubber from the Malay peninsula, Borneo, and Ceylon. Daniel had heard Saito’s sentiments, or ones like them for two years, either from the economics professors at the university, or on the government radio news programs. I’m sure you are correct, Saitosan.

Saito stared at Daniel for several seconds before saying, I am glad you agree. You are an American citizen, but still a son of Nippon. I trust you will take this message home with you to Tacoma. Your parents will be happy to see you. I assume with your new degree, you won’t be working at their photography studio.

The reference to his hometown and his parents’ business was unsettling. He didn’t like this cocky man with the short-cropped hair and pencil mustache. I am...sure I will have many dialogues about my experiences when I return, Saitosan.

What are your plans then?

I received a bachelor’s degree from the University of California at Berkeley. I hope to return to the law school there, thanks to some help from my aunt and uncle.

Daniel was annoyed at himself for saying so much. He turned to leave, but Saito caught his sleeve.

We—I have friends in California. Perhaps they will contact you.

Daniel wasn’t sure if the last comment was a request or an edict. He smiled, but said nothing, proffered a curt bow, and joined his aunt in conversation with another couple.

THE WIND OF THE PREVIOUS day had turned from the southeast to the north, bringing with it a significant drop in temperature. The sign at the embarkation dock read:

N.Y.K. Line

The Orient – California

Fortnightly Service

Daniel had sent his luggage to the ship directly from his lodging at the university. His Uncle Keigo was trying hard to be heard over the noisy crowd and ship whistles, saying something about the heyday of Daniel’s ship, the Asama Maru. His Aunt Kyoko was holding on to her western-style hat, now flapping in the windborne grime of the harbor.

There’s the last boarding whistle, Daniel said, almost shouting. I need to be going. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.

His uncle put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder. Things are not good between Japan and America, but I am sure our leaders will work things out. To fail and fall into a conflict would be unthinkable.

With that, Aunt Kyoko began to cry. Daniel loved this woman who had lived with them in Tacoma for eighteen months while his mother recuperated from a debilitating surgery. He’d never seen her cry, even when the outlook was grim for her sister.

Auntie! He embraced her.

I am not so sure as my husband. I may never see you or your family again.

My uncle is wise. He’s probably right. I love you, Aunt Kyoko.

He kissed her, bowed to his uncle and made his way to the embarkation ramp.

Fifteen minutes later, he was at the rail looking down where his aunt and uncle stood by the same sign, waving. Then the dock, not the ship, seemed to move, carrying his closest relatives in Japan away.

Two

September 8, 1941

Georgetown University

Washington, DC, USA

They sat opposite each other in the crowded restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue. Riza had to repeat the bad news over the din. I’m moving on with my life, Paul.

She’d met him, a staffer for an Illinois congressman, nine months ago at a Christmas party. Six months into the relationship it was obvious—to her, at least—they were wasting their time. Life was too precious to waste it on the party politics that seemed to consume this man. It had taken her until now to break it off.

He started to speak, but the waiter returned with change from his ten dollar bill on a small tray. He picked up all but the coins, looked up at Riza. Just tell me why.

Riza stood, reached for her purse that hung on the chair. I can’t, Paul, not if you haven’t noticed by now. She reached down to kiss his forehead and left.

Outside, she felt strangely detached, floating. It felt good, sauntering down Wisconsin to O Street where she turned toward the university and the room she rented. The surroundings quickly changed from shops and cafes to a quiet, tree-lined street of single-family residences. She maintained her leisurely pace, and thought. The months with Paul hadn’t been a waste. He’d been a considerate, if uninspiring lover. He knew a ton of people in Washington. It had been fun.

Riza found the gate to the two-story house nestled between similar buildings on either side, took the six steps up and opened the door with her key.

That you, Riza? her landlady called from the kitchen.

Yes, Mrs. B.

I have something for you. Eleanor Bartlett, a woman in her sixties, appeared in housedress and apron, holding a letter.

Riza took it. Her name was hand-written on the envelope, which bore a printed inscription of the United States Department of State. Mrs. Bartlett wiped her hands on her apron, obviously waiting for Riza to open this fascinating development.

Thanks, Mrs. B.

Riza continued upstairs to her room. She tossed her purse on the bed and studied the envelope. She knew no one at the Department of State. She slit open one end, extracting the single sheet, also bearing the State Department letterhead. The note was in the same slanted script as the envelope.

Miss Manceda:

Perhaps you will recall my guest seminar at the university this past March. I was impressed with your grasp of current Asian economic and political issues. I have inquired further into your qualifications and have recommended you to a friend of mine who is assembling staff for a new US government agency.

If you will contact the office of Colonel William J. Donovan at the State Department, mentioning my name, it could result in a good outcome for you both.

Please keep the subject of this letter private until you have had an interview with Colonel Donovan.

With my best regards,

William S. Stephenson

RIZA REMEMBERED THE day and the Canadian businessman who had led the intriguing seminar at Georgetown about the buildup of industry by the Nazi and Japanese regimes. His command of the details, particularly of Adolf Hitler’s ambitions, was impressive and credible.

The discussion meshed with her own research on Asian economic and trade imbalances. A spirited dialogue ensued between Stephenson and her.

Riza took note of the phone number at the letterhead, returned downstairs and into the kitchen.

Mrs. B., I wonder if I might use your telephone.

SEPTEMBER 10, 1941

United States Navy Building, Washington, DC

She fiddled nervously with the security tag that hung from her blouse as she watched the receptionist’s fingers fly over the keys of the Underwood. Rapid-fire words being laid down on triple copies accented by short periods of utter silence or the ratchet of the platen. The older woman, with short-cropped gray hair, sat elegantly straight at her task, with a serene and confident composure. This, in contrast to the disarray of the offices. Colonel Donovan was either moving in, or out, judging from the boxes of files, piles of assorted furniture and office equipment littering the hallway here in the bowels of the War Department building.

After twenty minutes of waiting, the staccato of the typewriter was broken as a door burst open down the hall. A naval officer threaded his way around the obstacles and toward her. He gave her hardly a glance as he exited the office suite. She counted the stripes on the man’s sleeve. An admiral, for God’s sake! This was the big leagues.

Then it hit her. William Donovan. Wild Bill Donovan. Paul had talked about this man, a decorated veteran of the Great War, and close confidant of Franklin Roosevelt. This was the man she was seeing. The receptionist picked up her telephone, answering a short buzz. Yes sir, she said, and rose, cricking her finger for Riza to follow down the cluttered hallway.

Miss Manceda, she announced to the figure behind the battered, government-issue desk. She closed the door behind Riza.

Please sit down, Miss Manceda. The man made a half gesture of standing. He was maybe sixty, of average height, with mild features, but strikingly blue eyes. Nothing else about him looked particularly "wild."

He held a letter in his hand, the same ivory shade of stationery of her note from William Stephenson. You come most highly recommended. Tell me about yourself.

Riza cleared her throat, then recited her curriculum vitae by rote.

Donovan gave her a slow blink. I know all that. Tell me about yourself. Who the hell are you?

She felt herself redden, then took a breath. To hell with this job, anyway!

I’m just a Philippine farm girl, lucky enough to be working as a teaching assistant in the capitol of the United States of America.

Donovan smiled, motioning with his hand for her to continue. She told of her family sugar business, now in the fourth generation, stemming from the mid-nineteenth century. How growing up among the cane plantations and mills had taken her all over the Philippine archipelago, and trips with her father and brothers to cities like Shanghai and Tokyo.

She told of her family estate in the rolling hills north of Manila, and her love for Luzon.

Abruptly she stopped. Donovan was smiling. She must have gone on for ten minutes. The flush to her face reappeared.

Bill... Mr. Stephenson says you speak Japanese.

My mother is from Osaka. I read and speak Japanese, Spanish and English. I read Chinese characters but speak Cantonese with an accent, I suppose. Those don’t include Tagalog or Cebuano, which are my native languages.

Well, well. Donovan allowed his eyebrows to rise approvingly. Impressive.

Lots of travel with my father and my brothers. He was adamant about our learning the business.

You seem somewhat tall compared with other women from your country.

She shrugged, surprised at his almost rude appraisal, and sat a little straighter in her chair. My grandmother was English, daughter of an English engineer in Manila.

Donovan stared at her for several moments, tapping his pen on the desk blotter. How would you like a job with me? It would be an entry level Civil Service pay grade, to start.

What would I do? She shifted in her chair, knees together.

Honestly, I don’t really know at this point, and if I did, probably wouldn’t say precisely. But I need someone who knows Asia. Your master’s thesis and our conversation today give me a pretty good idea you can play your part. What do you say?

May I think about it? she asked.

No. An avuncular smile.

Then, yes, I suppose I will.

He ignored the smart-ass answer. It won’t be easy. It won’t be routine. It may be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

Somehow, his words sparked a jolt of excitement. She grinned. Now you tell me. What do you call this organization?

There is no organization yet. Officially, my job is simply ‘Coordinator of Information’ until the president can execute an order establishing a new intelligence service. I am authorized to assemble a staff. You’ll be working for the ‘COI’ under the War Department until the order is signed.

There was an awkward moment. Then Donovan asked, How soon can you move?

Move?

There’s a lot to do. I want my people together. We have a complex set up south of the city. I’ll want you there, for now.

SEPTEMBER 24, 1941

Tijuana, Mexico

The concise instructions were part of routine, coded communications between the Imperial Intelligence Bureau in Tokyo and the Japanese embassy in Madrid. Yakichiro Suma, the Japanese minister to Spain, coordinated almost all Japanese intelligence activities in the west. It was from his diplomatic pouch that the instruction began its tortured route through the embassies of Buenos Aires, Santiago, Mexico City and ultimately to a small bar and brothel in Tijuana, Mexico. Such were the exigencies of espionage communications in 1941.

The message was hand-delivered. Rogerio Villanueva never saw the messenger. It was often like that. He’d be retrieving his coat in a restaurant to find a note in his pocket, or it would be slipped inside a just-purchased newspaper. This time it was under his cerveza as he returned from the Caballeros at the Molino Rojo. Most general instructions, though, came through the Japanese espionage network for North America (code named TO) by coded telegram. Villanueva sipped at his beer and read the brief note directing him to a Hotel Baker in San Francisco, for a November 9 arrival. It was a relief. He’d been holed up in Tijuana for months since being ordered here from Panama City.

The Molino Rojo—Red Mill—was a popular hangout for the international espionage fraternity bent on being close as possible to the U.S in this border town. The atmosphere among the fraternity had recently changed from utter boredom to high tension, as diplomatic relations between the U.S and Japan increasingly deteriorated.

Finally, he thought, long anticipated events were taking shape, though what activity he might have in California, he couldn’t guess. He had little concern for the Japanese. His ardor was for the new German Reich and Adolph Hitler’s shining example to the world. But, the Japs creating a second front for the Americans now made Germany’s conquest certain. If California was where he was needed, so be it.

Villanueva reread and memorized the message written on a cocktail napkin, then poured some of his beer on it. The ink ran. The flimsy paper disintegrated. He rolled the remains into a wad and threw it on the filthy floor. He gave a reassuring pat to his jacket pocket and the Spanish passport that contained his newly issued U.S. visa.

Time to get moving.

Three

October 4, 1941

Prince William County, Virginia

Late morning sun poured through the window of the main building of a group of cabins Donovan had secured for a headquarters away from the prying eyes of DC. Riza absently stared out on the lawn where two squirrels gamboled. So far, her sole responsibility had been to put together reports on various aspects of the Japanese economy, its strengths, weaknesses and trade balances—like the one on agriculture she was just completing.

It had been two months since the August interview with Donovan. She and three others had been given a two day orientation, comprised mostly of the white paper Donovan had submitted to the president, recommending the formation of a security agency. Oddly enough, the United States had no unifying security service. The only State Department service had been shut down in 1929.

These four were to be the beginnings of a department called R&A, for Research and Analysis, part of Donovan’s new White House post as Coordinator of Information. Of the four, Riza was the only non-Yale graduate. One of them was Lloyd Jarvis, slightly overweight, prematurely balding, and looked to be in his mid-thirties.

After orientation, Riza and Jarvis rode together in a War Department staff car down to the Prince William County site in Virginia, giving them a chance to learn something of each other.

I must say, I’m surprised at your being chosen for the Asian team, Jarvis said, as he pulled off US Highway 1 north of the town of Quantico, and headed west. You’ve never lived anywhere but Luzon Island and here.

Riza noticed a sign reading:

CHOPAWAMSIC

RECREATIONAL DEMONSTRATION AREA

2 mi.

Almost there, was her only reply. She wasn’t going to attempt any further rationalization for Jarvis’ benefit, though her travels to China, Japan and the Malay Peninsula had been considerable.

Jarvis, on the other hand, had spent much of the ride down from Washington relating his growing up in China with his missionary parents, going from town to town to establish or bolster fledgling churches; how it exposed him to the culture and language. He