Her name was Mei Zhen, which meant a beautiful pearl, and she was his China doll. She was standing in front of him, a white flower in her curled black hair. He could touch her velvety skin, the dark eyes, the cherry red lips. It excited him the way her Qiroa clung to her body, the slit on the side displaying perfectly shaped legs. She gave him an angel's smile full of expectation as they sat cross-legged in a windowless room lit only by candles, with large cushions spread around the floor and tapestries of long-ago warlords on the walls. The music from a solo erhu drifted in from another room. He lay back and waited as she heated the small round bead of opium paste until it bubbled. She carefully picked it up with a small knife, the rings on her hand shimmering in the candlelight, and put it into the bowl of a long-stemmed pipe. She held it for him above a flame as he drew the mixture into his lungs. He gazed at her as he began the slow journey into tranquility. After a while, Mei Zhen moved closer to him. He marveled at how easily the Qiroa slipped off of her shoulders, and then...
A sudden blast of turbulence, causing a violent shaking that sent the airplane rising over 30 feet and then dipping down quickly. Ensign James Robertson Hawkins awoke from his daydream, his knuckles turning white as he tightly gripped the yoke of the PBY and levels out the seaplane.
"Jesus, Lieutenant, that came out of nowhere," he called to the pilot, who was jolted out of his nap.
"It's called turbulence," the aviator sarcastically replied as he reached for his canteen to drink water. Then, lighting a cigarette, he looked over at Hawkins. "Well, I'm up now. The plane is mine." Placing his hands on the controls, he took command of the PBY.
James Robertson Hawkins, or the Hawk as family and friends knew him, looked out from three thousand feet into the ocean's vastness, blue as far as he could see. A big difference from Kansas, where he grew up. Where he thought he would spend the rest of his life. The only pools of water at home came from a dry lake bed, which filled up after a rainstorm, but the prairies no longer saw rain. Hawkins remembers the day that everything changed: March 15, 1935. Everyone called it Black Friday. The dust storm came, and the wind blew for what seemed forever. Dust sweeping in like snowdrifts, filling up holes, piling up to the barn's height, and finding its way through any crack and cranny it could find to invade homes and business. It was difficult to see and breathe.
Hawkins grew up on a small farm in Finney County, in southwest Kansas, located between Garden City and Plymell. His father worked the land, just like his grandfather and great grandfather. But now, the Great Plains had become a victim of the Great Depression. The drought brought short crops and low prices. A bushel of wheat fell to 30 cents. Farms were fail-ing, and people were leaving. Even the governor, Al Landon, had departed to run for President.
Baseball had come to Kansas; a new park had been built in Wichita beside the Arkansas River, and the Hawk thought he might try his hand at that. But a curveball was his nemesis, so like many other young men, he traveled west to find his for-tune. Unfortunately, work was just as hard to find in California as it was in Kansas. Finally, one day, he found himself in front of a Navy recruiter who promised him that he could become an aviator.
Hawkins made it through basic training and was accepted into flight school but soon realized that every man wanted to fly a fighter. His first posting was in the Middle East, flying a DC-2 and hauling cargo for the British. After a few months in Alexandria, Egypt, he became a co-pilot on a PBY seaplane, flying search and rescue missions out of Pearl Harbor. Then, just as he was getting used to Honolulu's comfortable living, the Navy transferred him to Guam in late 1936. His new assignment was to a crew that flew diplomatic correspondence to the American Consulates in Manila and Shanghai twice a week.
Other than the sun and the sea, there wasn't much in Guam. The Marines had a seaplane station there, and Pan Am a stopover on their way to China. The men would pass the time swimming and playing baseball. The only excitement was once a week when the China Clipper landed. The passengers were usually too high class to socialize with the sailors, but the aircrew wasn't. Many a Pan American Steward showed up for the next day's flight a little shaky, wearing dark glasses and sucking down coffee. Hawkins' job did have a perk, and that was Shanghai. Shanghai was everything a boy from Kansas could dream about and more. The nightlife, the liquor, gambling, opium, and of course, Mei Zhen. He had met her six months before, and now every time he had a layover, they were together. Under the hot Guam sun, he fantasized about the opium dens and making love to her. Although it bothered him that he had to pay for Mei Zhen's services, he hoped to free her from servitude and take her back to the United States.
Now to the Hawk's annoyance, while preparing to leave Manila, Navy Intelligence issued new orders. They were to take an alternate route to Shanghai and fly over the island of Ishigaki. The ensign was irritated that the detour would add hours to an already long trip, and he would miss his rendezvous with Mei Zhen. There wasn't much information about where they were going except that it was the westernmost Japanese island, part of the Okinawa group. The order was to do a flyover and report back on what they saw.
"What are we supposed to be looking for?" he asked his commander.
"They didn't say. The only intelligence was three weeks ago, the Japs chased off one of our destroyers that got too close to the island, and then last week, they nearly sunk a sub who tried to sneak in to investigate. So someone at Pearl thinks they are up to some mischief."
"And what do we tell the Japanese when they come looking for us?"
"We got lost."
In his short time with the Navy, Ensign Hawkins learned that it was best to salute when given an order and be on your way. However, intruding into Japanese airspace was not an option a man would willingly want to take. He had heard many stories in the Shanghai bars about the Japanese military. China had been at odds with them over Manchuria, and there was the January 28 incident when they bombed Shanghai. "The last thing you want to be, mate," the British Club bartender once told him, "is a prisoner of the Japs."
The PBY's two Pratt & Whitney engines were mounted on the wing, situated above and behind the cockpit. Their roar drowned out any conversation among the crew. The only way they could communicate was through the plane's intercom headsets.
The navigator came on, "If my calculations are correct, we should be getting close to the island skipper."
The pilot turned to Hawkins. "Get back there, and make sure the new boys take this seriously. I want them to be alert and not thinking of getting drunk in Shanghai."
"And what should I tell them they are searching for?"
"God, I don't know. Anything other than palm trees! Let's get this done and on to Shanghai. Being so close to the Japs makes me nervous."
Ensign Hawkins unstrapped himself from his seat and negotiated the tight quarters of the flight deck. He had to duck his head as he moved through the hatch to the next compart-ment. He was in another tight space holding the plane's communications and navigation equipment. On the starboard side was the radioman's area. Petty Officer Barnes sat on his swivel chair, feet on the console, smoking a cigar and reading the latest Amazing Man comic. Hawkins gave him a nod.
On the port side was the navigator, with his charts spread out on a table. He was holding a compass with one hand and writing down figures with the other.
Hawkins put his palm on the navigator's shoulder, lifted his headphone, and screamed over the engine sound. "Jamie, are we going to find this island?"
"Yes, yes, don't worry. I'm more concerned about getting us to Shanghai."
The Hawk yelled over his shoulder, "Just get us there before midnight. I got a hot date," as he went through another hatch and into the crew and engineering area. He was standing in the main compartment of the plane where they could rest during the long trips. In the middle was where the flight engineer sat, his seat elevated to see out the top of the fuselage. Through two small portholes, he could monitor the engines and control fuel consumption. The only problem was hitting your head when you passed under his chair.
Passing through to the rear compartment, he found the two seamen apprentices. On the port and starboard sides were large windows. During military missions, they placed machine guns in the openings. The two sailors only recently had been assigned to the aircraft. Hawkins was a little embarrassed that he couldn't remember their names. He looked out one of the windows and then addressed the men. "Lieutenant wants you two to stay alert. We are in unfriendly waters, and he wants to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. We have no idea what the big boys at Pearl want us to find other than the island. The only thing I can tell you is pipe up if you see anything."
Hawkins returned to the flight deck and strapped himself back into his seat. Then, picking up his binoculars, he gave the horizon a 180-degree scan.
The lieutenant stretched his neck to get a better view of the area. "See anything?"
"Not even a bird."
"This is a big island we're looking for; it's out there some-where. I'm going to climb and see if that helps with visibility. The navigator keeps telling me the damn island is somewhere close."
Hawkins rolled his eyes and continued to search as the plane leveled off just below a cloud bank.
"Skipper," the port side lookout's voice came over the intercom.
"You see the island?"
"No, but I see a lot of air activity, seven o'clock low."
The pilot banked the PBY to give him a better view. Below, he could see three large squadrons flying northeast.
"Hell, that must be the whole Japanese air force. You got a fix on them, Hawk?" the skipper asked.