The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  “Okay. Who am I assigned to?”

  “Bill Evans.”

  “Squire,” Fisher said.

  “Yeah. I’ve got his roommate, Hal Ellison. The XO gave me this key to their stateroom.”

  Fisher glanced at the key KB held. “Wanta go now?”

  “Yeah. Let’s get it over with.”

  They walked aft until they reached an athwart ship passageway and turned right. Then forward. Evans and Ellison had a stateroom on the port side inboard.

  They found the room as the men had left it that morning. Robes hung from hooks. One rack was made and the other unmade. One of the pilots had hung his pressed wash khakis from an overhead pipe. On their desks were family pictures, stationery and envelopes. Fisher was moved by the silent evidence of life. One day they were young men just like him, resplendent in their choker whites, more radiant than Solomon. The next day, cut down and thrown into the furnace. Fisher had not been. Yet. When would that day come?

  “Hal’s girl…or wife,” KB said, looking at the photo on his desk. Fisher thought of Annie’s photo on his desk. Beautiful American girls, afraid for their men, and with no knowledge of what had just happened here. Or had they already experienced the terse horror of Western Union?

  Fisher sat at Evans’s desk. Letters to him with a return address of Indianapolis. From his folks.

  “I didn’t know Squire was from the Midwest,” Fisher said. “Pegged him for an Ivy League type from New England.”

  KB said nothing as both sifted through the artifacts of their lost shipmates.

  As KB rifled through Hal’s sock drawer, Fisher came across Evans’s journal and opened it.

  Inside were paragraphs in Bill’s longhand, passages of days at sea, a type of diary. Here and there were lines of poetry. Evans wrote of flying and of the sea and sky around the ship. In one passage he wrote of the Army bombers and Jimmy Doolittle. Fisher’s eyebrows went up. Classified information. A censor would cut it out. Should he, now that Bill was gone?

  He opened a folded typewritten page on onionskin paper wedged between the pages:

  Four destroyers, two heavy cruisers, and an aircraft carrier flew their ensigns at half-mast in tribute to one reserve apprentice seaman, symbolizing as effectively as anything I have yet seen, the tangible evidence that this nation holds the life of even its lowliest as worthy of tribute as the mighty. Where else in this world can such be so? Words speak poorly in trying to catch the mood of that last far journey across the horizon; even in our thoughts we cannot bridge the chasm which separates the mystery of life from the mystery to which we go. It is fitting that men and officers stand quietly in the sun, stand quietly while taps are sounded, stand quietly as the smallest of boxes returns the unexplainable to the unexplainable. How fitting that man and his creations take cognizance of these things in which they are so little. Tomorrow or the next day it will be done again and then again as from the beginning of time, as we return mystery to mystery, and the wisdom of the sea accepts them all.

  Fisher folded the paper closed and placed it back where he had found it. He remembered that March day – had forgotten it actually – but now that Bill had memorialized it in writing he’d never forget it. Fisher thought about Squire, how he was, not knowing then that he had such a way with words. It was common knowledge that Bill Evans was the youngest pilot aboard. Only twenty-three…a year younger than Fisher. Decades wiser. Like Fisher a lowly ensign. What a loss.

  Three bells sounded, followed by a 1MC announcement.

  “Divine services will be held on the hangar bay at ten hundred.”

  The men continued sifting, exploring their shipmates’ lives with their hearts, their minds not yet ready to record and catalog the last worldly possessions of two lost aviators. Fisher and KB would box them up for shipment – in Evans’s case, to Indianapolis. How would Bill’s family react? Fisher again thought of Annie and his own family. Imagining.

  “Clay, what say we go to services? We can come back for this later.”

  Fisher put the journal back. “Yeah. I’m goin.’ Expect the whole ship will go.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to put on a necktie. Just seems right for Sunday, ’specially this Sunday.”

  The two ensigns stood, leaving the stateroom as they had found it. After switching off the light, Fisher closed the door. They walked aft in silence.

  Alive.

  * * *

  1 ADM E.J. King

  Chapter 44

  HIJMS Nagara, 0850 June 10, 1942

  The sharp report of the shot-line gun signaled to Genda that the time had come. Stepping to the porthole, the sight of Yamato’s secondary armament and upper works filled him with awe as it always did – until the dread of what it meant returned.

  The other men in the confined cabin – Kusaka, Oishi, Ono, and the flag secretary, Nishibayashi – also waited with Nagumo for word to disembark. Nagumo and Ono would remain aboard – not invited – as four of the First Air Fleet staff transferred over to the flagship. There, they would explain their actions to the commander in chief.

  Nagumo was crushed by his guilt. I should be the one answering for my staff. Not facing Yamamoto now was a most stinging punishment, a public cruelty Nagumo would not have thought the admiral was capable of. Next to him, Kusaka laced up the logbook for which he took personal responsibility. In the silent cabin, they awaited word from the bridge, condemned men waiting for the executioner in their gut-churning humiliations. Kusaka broke the silence.

  “Nagumo-shi rei…I shall explain to the commander in chief in frank terms our understandings of the battle situations and rationale. I will ask that once we return to Kure we may be allowed to rejoin you in a reinvigorated First Air Fleet.” Each man in the room nodded.

  A tight-lipped Nagumo could only nod back. In a just world, he would be arrested when they arrived, never to go to sea again. With Yamaguchi gone, who would command? Ozawa, probably. It mattered little. I should have listened to him…

  Two knocks on the door, and Ono opened it for a lieutenant, who bowed. “Staff officers, the highline is rigged and ready!”

  In order of seniority, the staff shuffled out into the passageway. Kusaka, who needed a cane to walk, would be the last to leave. Genda heard Nagumo express his thanks to him.

  Warm sunlight greeted the officers on the main deck as each marveled at the massive bulk of Yamato towering above them. Only 25 meters separated Nagara from the behemoth, and even an air-minded officer like Genda could not help but stare at the giant symbol of Japan’s naval strength. Nagara rode the swells in gentle motion next to the flagship that remained rock steady as the two ships steamed west.

  Nishibayashi was first to the deck chair as boatswain’s mates strapped him in tight. The life jacket he wore over his winter uniform looked out of place. Genda decided he would forgo it for his trip. To him, drowning in the turbulent vortex between the ships was no worse than having to face Yamamoto.

  Flagship sailors in immaculate dress uniforms pulled on the line and Nishibayashi lurched across the steel chasm. Once he was aboard Yamato, the chair was quickly retrieved and readied for Genda. When an officer offered him a life jacket, a stoic Genda refused with a sharp shake of his head.

  He strapped in, and, with his cover clutched in his arms, remained expressionless as he was hauled up and then pulled across, swinging and bobbing on the tensioned highline from the muscled pulses of the line handlers. Below him the sea raged and swished against the hulls of capital ships, and spray flecked at his trouser legs. Genda’s eyes remained aft, to the east.

  Once his request to come aboard was granted, he stood aside and remained silent as Oishi and Kusaka were carried across in the same manner. On Nagara he heard the bells and loudspeaker sound: Admiral, departing. The flagship did not respond in kind at Kusaka’s arrival seconds later. All knew he was aboard. He knew the minute Kusaka, his ankles sprained and burned, stepped onto Yamato’s cypress deck.

  The agony prolonged by Kusaka’s slow pace,
an escort officer led them up and forward to the flag conference room, a room familiar to Genda from when he had delivered briefings from charts and diagrams that he knew better than anyone in His Majesty’s Navy. Today, he would listen in humiliation as Kusaka explained why Genda’s plan had failed his nation. A stroke of my pen…

  Struggling with his cane, Kusaka led the First Air Fleet staff as they followed the officer inside the ship and up a labyrinth of passageways. Arriving at the door, the officer peeked inside, then opened it for Kusaka to pass.

  Genda closed his eyes for a moment before he followed Kusaka and Oishi to the gallows. This cannot be happening.

  Yamamoto and the assembled Combined Fleet Staff lowered their gaze as Kusaka led his humiliated staff into the room. The flag lieutenant indicated where they should stand. Kusaka was offered a chair but refused it. Genda glanced up enough to see an unmoved Admiral Ugaki scowl at Kusaka. Big gun son of a concubine…

  No one spoke as the four guests in their disheveled uniforms, covers in hand, stood before Yamamoto and the others. The admiral refused to make eye contact and let the uncomfortable silence linger.

  Ugaki began, his face full of disdain.

  “First Air Fleet staff: On behalf of the commander, welcome aboard His Majesty’s Combined Fleet flagship.”

  His cane quaking from the exertion, Kusaka bowed as best he could. Returning to his full height, he spoke as a shaken Yamamoto studied his friend’s flash-burned face.

  “Commander in Chief, admittedly we are not in a position to come back alive after having made such a blunder, but we have come back only to pay off the scores some day. I and the First Air Fleet staff with me are prepared to discuss our findings from the battle and how events transpired. We are confident that these findings may benefit future Combined Fleet carrier operations. We humbly ask, Admiral, that we may be given a second chance to employ these combat lessons against our enemy.”

  Yamamoto considered his words. Kusaka and the others waited, and Genda held his breath.

  “You have my word that I will, Kusaka.”

  Genda exhaled, taking care that no one noticed.

  “Please proceed, and be seated. I insist,” Yamamoto requested.

  Kusaka, now relaxed, took the seat offered and began. From across the room Ugaki and Kuroshima held their icy gazes on Genda. They’ve already made up their minds.

  “Admiral, our first finding is that our search posture was inadequate. Due to the requirements of the Midway strike and holding our contingency force in reserve, we used seven aircraft, six of them float planes, and searched east and south. Had we pared our carrier strike and reserve forces by only six planes, we could have doubled our search coverage and at greater speed. And we should have launched them earlier, to be outbound at the first indications of twilight.”

  Yamamoto nodded as the others returned their focus to Genda, who felt their accusing eyes on him. He was the Air Officer who had devised the search plan, which they had approved with a casual nod. He’d done what he could with what he had amid conflicting requirements. Now, all were wise after the fact. Genda kept his eyes on the bulkhead. He recalled when Kusaka and Nagumo had shrugged and approved it. Combined Fleet big-gun admirals who judged him now would have done no different.

  “Another finding is that we should have attacked Midway with one carrier division and held the other in reserve. When all four decks were needed to recover the Midway strike, we could not launch our reserves and even had trouble maintaining our combat air patrols from near constant enemy attacks. We did not foresee the level of resistance.”

  Yamamoto stopped him. “Did you know the invasion force had been spotted the day before?”

  “Yes, Admiral, and their flying boats spotted us that morning. Routine patrols that we frankly discounted. What we did not anticipate was the fighting spirit the Americans showed, their courage flying obsolescent models into the teeth of our defenses. We mowed them down all morning – except at the end.”

  Yamamoto nodded and waited for more.

  “We did have an option to attack…hours before Hiryū finally did. CarDiv 2 kanbakus were loaded and ready all morning. When we discovered and verified a carrier on our flank, we could have sent them and the Type 97s of CarDiv 1 – regardless of their weapon loads. This would have been a desperate attack with little to no escort and probable heavy losses, but we would have delivered a blow.”

  “And removed planes from your hangar bays,” Yamamoto added, citing the American raid and the fires that spread from his loaded planes, ripping his ships open from the inside. Genda recalled the sickening image of Akagi’s upper hangar bay: two figures – men – moving inside a sea of flame.

  Genda remembered, too, the burning American torpedo planes falling to the sea, the pitiful glide bombing runs of their outdated bombers. It was clear on Akagi’s bridge that the Mobile Force could mount a crushing blow and had time to do it, and clear now that there was no time, and anything was better than nothing. While they strove for perfect, the Americans had made the decision for them.

  Kusaka finished, and Yamamoto spoke for the staff. His officers showed the stress from the past week. None of them could fathom all they had lost. That they had lost.

  “Kusaka, your observations and lessons will be studied, and I am confident be incorporated into our new carrier concept of operations. We must not lose a single teaching point. Have you a written report?”

  “It is still being written, Admiral. I have my staff here to assist.”

  Yamamoto nodded. “Please complete it and deliver it to Ugaki-san as soon as you can. My staff will show yours to working spaces and provide stenographers and typists.”

  From his chair Kusaka bowed slightly. “Hai!”

  The meeting over, Genda stood at erect attention with the rest of the First Air Fleet staff, their humiliation complete.

  Until they moored at Kure, and the brow went over. There, it would begin anew.

  The sun-bleached coral burned Iverson’s eyes as he walked down Eastern’s airplane parking ramp. Since the action of last week there had not been much to do: a few patrols to the west but mostly lounging around in the tent and waiting for the horn that never blew.

  Elmer Glidden walked next to him as they killed time. Iverson spoke.

  “So, how much longer, Elmer? Think the Army guys sank the Jap carriers and scared off the rest?”

  “Hell if I know. Besides, we did our part.”

  “Well, you’re the captain.”

  The Japanese were gone, the danger gone. After a deadly 27 hours, boredom had returned to the isolated and windswept outpost.

  Iverson looked out to sea. “Ya know, I wanted to fight, wanted to hit the Japs… Pay ’em back an’ all.”

  Glidden nodded and waited for Iverson to continue.

  “In a way, though, I wanted to prove myself. Maybe prove it to myself.”

  “Prove what?”

  Iverson squinted into the sun and wind. “That I belonged here. That I measured up to those who stormed the ‘Halls of Montezuma.’ ”

  “To the shores of Tripoli…” Glidden sang in response. In the silence that followed he reached down and picked up a coral rock. As he threw it into the dense brush, a childhood memory flooded back.

  “Yeah, Danny Boy, I know what you mean. Guess you never know until it happens – that first time you get shot at – if you’ll turn yellow, or go to pieces…freeze up.”

  Iverson kept his eyes on the horizon. “Were you scared Thursday?”

  “Hell, yes, but I was more scared that night. Hate flyin’ at night in the goo.”

  Iverson nodded. “Yeah, me too, but we faced it. Took and returned fire… We passed the test.”

  “Yep.”

  “An’ before long we’ll hafta pass it again.”

  “Yep. If not here, someplace else.”

  “Think there’s gonna be a lot more war b’fore this is over.”

  “Yep,” Glidden replied as he kicked at a rock.
<
br />   Each pilot stood with hands on hips and contemplated the infinite Pacific – and their futures.

  “You know, Danny, we have some experience now. Steeper is better, speed is life, keep the airplane moving off target, head on a swivel. All that motherhood we gotta pass down to the newbies comin’ out here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Each of us can save a life.”

  “As we take ’em from the Japs.”

  “You got that right,” Glidden said, kicking another rock. “An’ the faster we do that, the faster we go home.”

  Iverson glanced at a Vindicator parked on the coral. “Sure am gonna miss Dick Fleming.”

  “I know… He was the funniest, wasn’t he?”

  “He didn’t have to fly that old thing, but he did. I would’ve flown it, but he insisted.”

  “I know. You hear stories from the Great War of guys falling on grenades to save their fellows. Same thing, I guess. You just react.”

  Iverson nodded. “Yeah, but Dick had time to think about it. He insisted.”

  Glidden grimaced as the sun beat on them. The sound of surf crashing in the distance carried on the wind, and frigate birds cried as they darted about.

  “He took care of you, of us. If not me, and all that. We’ll never forget him. Hafta tell our kids about him one day.”

  “An’ the majors.”

  “Yeah, good men those… You measured up, Danny. You ‘kep’ yer honor clean’ an’ all that. You went back. We’re all gonna go back.”

  Squinting at the horizon, Iverson considered their uncertain future. Whatever it held, he hoped he could fly with Elmer again. He changed the subject.

  “What do you want to do when all this is over? Back home?” Iverson asked. “Door-to-door sales? Charm the housewives and sell Fuller brushes to ’em? I can see you doin’ that.”

  Glidden chuckled, then thought for a long time. “To tell you the truth, I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be than here right now. I love this.” His words hung as they again listened to the surf.