NISHI

“It’s 11 already!” Susanne, the hurried nurse in the white uniform complete with the folded red-crossed nurse’s cap, blurts out to me as she rushes up to Mr. Barrymore’s room. 

“Yep, and he’s not in the best mood today.” I call back, doubting that the Master of the house can hear me through the thick plaster walls of his Mediterranean-style Beverly Hills villa. 

“Take me outside now!” I hear in a yell muffled through the walls.   

I better hurry on his lemonade, or I won’t hear the end of it until his nap at 2. 

Quickly, I begin picking out the ripest lemons from the box delivered this morning. 

Mr. Barrymore’s mood seems to shift rapidly from confused and docile old man enjoying the last wisps of life to frustrated curmudgeon energetically angry at a world he no longer understands.   

My fingers burn from the acidic lemon juice pouring over them into the measuring cup as I slowly turn the juicer with my left hand and the lemon with my right. 

“Mary, can you help with the stairs?” Susanne calls to me from atop the staircase. 

“I’ll be right there.” 

Choosing between finishing his lemonade and allowing him his daily time outside is never easy.  Why don’t I ever start making the lemonade earlier? 

Shuffling to the bottom of the staircase, I wipe my lemon-scented hands on a dishtowel that I then stuff into the beige apron wrapped around my waist. 

The Master’s wheelchair is descending slowly down the side of the staircase with machine precision so that his frail body is not jostled as he moves from one level of the house to the next.   

This German-built contraption may be the last piece of German machinery imported to the United States before the Germans declared war on us. 

Having just been installed, the wheelchair elevator is a machine that Mr. Barrymore accepts, but he does not appreciate having to use. 

“This damn NAZI machine is not needed in my home.  I can take these stairs myself!” he barks out. 

“Yes Sir,” Susanne replies. “We’ll walk back up on our return.” 

Missing the irony in this response, Mr. Barrymore grunts an affirmation, before looking up at me. 

“Where is my lemonade?” he demands. 

“I’ll have it ready as we step outside” I reply as I take his right hand to help him dismount from the wheelchair connected to the wall. 

Susanne comes down the staircase quickly and takes his left arm in her own to guide him out the door. 

 Rushing back to the kitchen to put the final touches on the lemonade, I can hear the front door open as the two of them burst into the garden. 

I pour in three soup-spoonfuls of white Hawaiian sugar, mix in a cup of ice-cold water with the lemon juice, and stir the mixture into a tall pitcher before pouring the sugary concoction into a carafe that I place on a tray next to a spotless drinking glass. 

The Master cannot accept spots on his drinking glasses; a lesson I learned only too well again yesterday when I had to clean up the shattered remnants of one off of the walkway outside the front door. 

Carrying the tray out the front door, I overhear Mr. Barrymore ask, “What are those soldiers doing with Nishi and his family?” 

I had completely forgotten that today is the day that Nishi, the gardener, and his family are being taken away. 

“They’re going away,” Susanne replies. 

“Why?” Mr. Barrymore asks, a look of concern on his face.  

Mr. Barrymore looks across the well-trimmed hedges toward the driveway, where a large ugly green truck sits surrounded by soldiers.  Nishi, his wife, and two sons fervently gather their meager belongings at the behest of multiple gun-toting boys in uniforms that match the wretched truck. 

Susanne looks up at me, hoping I can save her from having to explain to Mr. Barrymore why he is losing his gardener. 

“Sir, Nishi is Japanese. We are at war with Japan.” I softly offer as I set the tray of lemonade on a side table. At the same time Susanne lowers Mr. Barrymore into a chair on the freshly mown lawn. 

“But is there a war on with Nishi and his family?”  Mr. Barrymore asks. 

Susanne and I look at each other. 

How do I answer that? 

One day in the early spring of 1942, at the door of John Barrymore’s California mansion, Barrymore saw his Japanese-American gardener Nishi with his family and their belongings waiting to be carried away by soldiers. Barrymore was dying, his mind fading in and out of reality, and he did not understand what was happening.  When someone explained that America was at war with Japan, Barrymore could only murmur: “But is there a war on with Nishi and his family?”   

         On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, authorizing the Secretary of War to prescribe certain “military areas” and to exile “any or all” persons from them. Though couched in broad language, the order was aimed at Japanese-Americans.  Under this order, in the spring and summer of 1942, 112,000 Japanese-Americans were removed to internment camps throughout the country, eventually ending up in 10 permanent camps away from the coasts. Germans, Italians, Romanians, Bulgarians, and Hungarians were all exempt from this roundup. Not a single Japanese-American was ever brought to trial on charges of espionage or sabotage in the United States. Thousands of Japanese Americans fought and died for the United States in World War II while their family members were held in camps for the duration of the war.  One of whom, Daniel Inouye was awarded the Medal of Honor, and became the highest ranking Asian American in United States politics. 

Source: The Home Front U.S.A., Time Life Books, 1978, pp. 27.

Orders

Smoke fumes forth from across the airfield while the distant roar of German fighters dissipates as they return to their bases to refuel and rearm for another strafing attack. Our fighter fleet was destroyed on the ground, not having been allowed to take off.

Why can’t we get up there and fight them!

So far the Germans have not destroyed all of our bombers, probably figuring that they’ll get those next. Since our fighters cannot intercept their planes they can now destroy our air and ground forces at their leisure.

Running toward me from the radio shed, Listova shouts “Orders from Moscow, we’ve got a mission!” as he hands me a slip of paper.

Bomb German positions in Osovets, Visna, Belsk and Kleshchelye. 

YES! Finally we can get off our butts and take this fight to the Germans!

“Let’s get going!” I yell out as I see crews starting to gather.

We’ve still got eleven working bombers. We can do some damage, even without fighter escorts.

“We’re fighting back now!” I shout above the pitched discussions among the bomber and fighter crews.  

“Sir, what about fighter crews, we’ve got no planes.” One of the fighter pilots asks.

Our bombers are lumbering beasts, practically undefended without fighter escorts. 

“If you want to fight, find a bomber gun to man.  Otherwise, sit here and wait to die.” I retort.

Four targets, we’ll either have to split up, or carry out multiple missions. 

“We are soldiers of The Red Air Force. We will not shy away from the Germans, letting them take our country. Attack them. Destroy them. We’re attacking Osovets. I don’t want that town to exist when we’re done with it!” 

Ura, Ura, Ura! The crowd of men shouts in unison.

This will be their chance to feel like they can do something, as useless as that something is.

I wait for the cheers to die down before shouting, “We leave in 20 minutes. I expect every crew to be ready.  Let’s go!”

Men scurry across the base, preparing themselves for the mission.  Ground crews begin prepping the four Ilyushin DB-3Fs and seven Tupolev SB-2s.

I gather my gear before heading to my DB-3F.  My crew is fervently preparing the bomber, loading ammunition, topping off the fuel, and checking the engines. 

What a great crew I have. 

“We’ll be ready to go in seven minutes, Sir.” Patriolov shouts in my direction while leading a team of ground crew to load the ten FAB-100 bombs into the bomb bay.

 Acknowledging him with a nod, I look across the field to see the other bombers prepping as fast as they can as well.

We might just make it into the air before the next German attack wave arrives.

Walking around my plane, I look over its fine lines, precise welds, and x-ray inspected rivets.  

This is a beautiful aircraft.

My crews are beginning to man their planes. I turn to look back at mine one more time, not realizing that someone has approached me from behind.

“Sir, I’d like to join you on this mission.” A  youthful, almost childlike, member of the ground crew asks.

I don’t even know his name.

“Of course, you can man the machine gun in the ventral hatch.”

“Thank you, Sir!” he smiles from a mouth missing several teeth.

We head toward the plane together. 

I look over at his smiling face. My arm wraps around his shoulders. 

I cannot say goodbye to my son. Thank you for offering me this one.

Early in the morning of June 22, 1941 the German Air Force (Luftwaffe) began Operation Barbarossa, a massive invasion of the Soviet Union. The initial phase of the attack included the almost complete destruction of the Soviet Air Force (VVS) on the ground. Stalin would not approve Soviet planes to fly against the German attack for four hours, by which time most of the Soviet fighters, and many of its bombers, had been destroyed. Ordered that afternoon to bomb the enemy, Air Force Lieutenant General I.I. Kopets followed these orders, knowing full-well that he no longer had any fighters to escort his bombers. The crews of the slow Russian Ilyushin and Tupolev bombers stoically and honorably flew from their bases without the expectation of returning alive. Luftwaffe Field marshal Albert Kesselring was quoted later as saying that shooting down the Soviet planes was as easy as “infanticide.” Within twenty-four hours, the Soviets had lost all of their front-line bombers. Kopets, at this point without an air  force to command, committed suicide rather than face Stalin.

Me V Me

Purring like a well-loved kitten, the Daimler Benz in-line engine calms me to an almost meditative state as I soar above snow-capped Alpine peaks.  Near the ceiling for my 109, I scan past slopes I’ve hiked into what was until a few years ago Austria, hoping to see nothing approaching from the distant horizon.

Another day without an incursion would make two in a row.

“It’s the whole damn Luftwaffe at 3 o’clock!” Gehrig calls out.

Snapping my neck to the right, my vision crosses Verstanclahorn toward Dreiländerspitze where it settles on a flight of at least fifty planes coming out of Germany following 27 West.

Fifty don’t get lost, particularly when following a road.  We’re gonna have to fight this one.

“Form up on me!” I order, although my guys know what they’re doing without me telling them.

Even with fourteen flying in from across the patrol frontier, we’re going to have a hard time today.

We usually have approximately ten percent of our fighter force in the air at this border at any one time.  The Germans have been more daring this week, intentionally testing our neutrality by trying to use our airspace to bomb France.

“Get behind them, then we’ll turn around and attack from high in the East.” I order my guys.

They’ve got at least thirty fighters escorting those bombers. That’s a first.  Usually the bombers come alone, or lightly escorted.

“This is East Patrol Leader Nufer, authorization 44783.  Send up the standby fighters toward Piz Mundin at 30. At least fifty German aircraft, of which thirty-five fighters, heading West along 27.” I radio to base.

At an accelerated rate of ascent, varying distances, and who knows what status of readiness, it will be at least fifteen minutes before any reinforcements get here.

I look down toward the German planes, quickly taking a mental picture.

They’re flying Messerschmidts too, at least we’ll fight with the same tools today.

As I’m looking down toward the German flight I notice some of its fighters beginning to peal off.

They’ve seen us!

“Dive boys, game on!” I order moments after my peripheral vision catches some of my wing headed down toward the German fighters.

My guys are always a moment ahead of me. 

Gaining speed, my 109 races toward the German 109’s.  Lining up my sights, I target the lead fighter, noting the yellow paint on his nose.

I really do appreciate them telling me who’s in charge over there!

1000 meters between us.

900. . . 

800. . . 

700. . . 

My trigger finger rests gently against the firing button, waiting for the right moment to bring my guns to life.

600. . . 

550. . . 

I pull the firing button back, releasing a hailstorm of bullets and tracers toward the lead German 109.

Early, I know, but I got the jump on him.

A split second passes before I see gun bursts from the nose and wings of his plane.  

Here they come!

I hold steady, firing directly into the German plane.  He holds steady firing directly at me.

No maneuvering today friend.

Tracers streak past the cockpit canopy.  Sounds of metal ripping through metal accompany the furious roar of an engine strained to pick up speed.  

Who’s getting out of this alive?

200 meters from the German fighter I pull right.

At the same moment he pulls left, heading in the same direction as me.

The undersides of our planes face each other as we scramble for new firing positions.  I take this moment to look around.

Where are my boys?

I see Messerschmidts chasing Messerschmidts across the sky, Swiss white crosses darting in between German black crosses.  

Circling around, I can make out the yellow nose of a smoke streaming 109 turning to hide in a bank of clouds.

You’re not getting away from me!

Pushing the throttle forward to max, I beeline toward the other fighter.

You can’t just come in here, shoot at me, and leave you son-of-a-bitch!

My 109 bursts into the cloud, aiming to catch up with that yellow-nosed plane.

Just as I break out of the clouds a grey-nosed German 109 streaks across my 11, spewing forth fiery lead.  My left wing buckles, tears, and simply disappears.

Shit!

Over, and over, and over, and over my plane spins as the weight of one wing twirls me through the air.

Out, I’ve gotta get Out!

Reaching for the canopy latch, my hands have a hard time centering as the centrifugal force pushes them away from my target.

Gotta get the latch!

My right hand meets the latch, yanks it, releasing the canopy.  

YES!

I push off with my legs, leaping out of the plane, hoping to miss the right wing as it whips around again.

I’m lucky I didn’t get cut in half!

My body tumbles through the air, maintaining the spin of the plane, minus the projective power of my legs in a perpendicular direction. With my eyes open, I look around to get my bearing, but the ground and air take each other’s place every half-a-second as I hurtle toward the earth.

If I pull my ripcord now my parachute may be ripped off or tangled.  If I don’t, I may be able to level myself out.

Stretching out my arms and legs creates a larger surface area for greater air resistance.  The air-land exchange begins to slow.

I have to pull soon.  I can’t be that high anymore.

As I continue spinning, I can start to make out the ground when it’s in sight.  

Yep, time to pull.

My right hand tears at the ripcord, releasing my parachute.

Luckily my spin is slowing.

Unraveling as it’s supposed to, my parachute begins wrapping around me because of my spin. With both hands I attempt to push it over my head at each revolution.  

If it’s not tangled on me maybe it won’t get tangled in the air above me.

I look up to see the parachute beginning to open. The cord is twisted, but doesn’t look tangled.  

I will have to unravel once it opens completely. How am I supposed to do that if I’m still spinning in the wrong direction?

As I look up toward the parachute I notice another chute about 2000 meters to my left.  

It’s a German chute, and it’s opened perfectly. Bastard!

My chute keeps catching, fighting the tendency to tangle, as I keep spinning against it.

I may not make it, but at least he’s out of the war too.  Not a fair trade!

My spin is slowing, so I keep my hands out, palms against the force of the turn, legs out wide, hoping to continue slowing myself down. Above me, my parachute continues to fight me, slowly opening more as my spin slows.

I may make it after all.

The German in the chute at a distance seems to be going a lot slower than me, as his chute is fully open.  He is gently descending to the earth as I seem to be in far more of a hurry.

My chute finally opens completely, slowing my body’s descent.  I still have a few hundred meters to go.

I’ve made it.  Now, to not hit a tree or anything.  

I look back at the German.

We’ll both be landing in Switzerland.  I may be back in a fighter this afternoon.  His war is over.  

Switzerland was neutral during World War II.  Instead of peace and tranquility, this meant that the Swiss had to maintain their neutrality through military force.  This often meant fighting both sides if either committed an incursion into Swiss territory, particularly airspace.  Patrolling that airspace was a motley collection of French, German, Dutch, and Swiss made aircraft numbering only 300 pilots and 210 planes early in 1940 when the Germans invaded France. The bulk of the Swiss fighters were 90 German Messerschmidt 109’s, the same planes the Germans flew in great number at that time. On one occasion, fourteen of these Swiss fighters pounced upon thirty-eight German 109’s that were escorting German bombers on their way to bomb France.  The fight was relatively short-lived, as World War II air battles go, but in the end the Germans lost four planes and the Swiss lost one.