by Peter Albano
Abruptly, Ted Ross felt the hostility of years fade, replaced by anxiety. Now the men in the Tupolev were allies, fighting the same archenemy. “Oh, no! No,” he muttered. “Russkies go back. Go back.”
As the Tupolev banked gracefully toward Yonaga’s bow, every detail became clear: four radomes, one under the nose and three in fairings under the fuselage; electronic intelligence pods under each wing; glazed nose; pilot’s greenhouse; observation blisters under tailplane; tail guns; dorsal barbette with two machine guns; red stars on wings and fuselage; cavernous air intake ducts for the two huge engines, recessed into the sides of the fuselage; and a huge sixty-eight painted in black numbers on the vertical stabilizer. Leisurely, like a lazy dragonfly on a hot day, the Russian dropped low toward Yonaga’s bow as if making a landing approach. Then, with dazzling abruptness, the carrier broke into sunlight. Immediately, with the distance from ship to aircraft less than five hundred yards, the Tupolev began to veer to the ship’s port side, engines roaring.
“He’s seen your guns,” Ross shouted. And then to the plane, “Pour the coal to her, Russkie.”
Fujita shouted at the talker. Instantly, the entire ship’s armament opened fire. The bridge shook with concussions. Acrid brown and white smoke trailed Yonaga in clouds and blew over the bridge, searing Trigger’s nose with the smell of cordite. Almost over the port bow, the Tupolev was engulfed by a blizzard of tracers. And it was low — so low the foretop mounts were actually firing down, hits blowing holes in the top of the aircraft, misses sending scores of white geysers leaping from the sea. Banking sharply, the plane screeched like a wounded eagle, desperately clawing for altitude. Aluminum exploded from her port wing. Instantly, the port engine trailed smoke.
Ross heard a new whine. Overboosted Sakaes. Two Zeros. Closing. Making a head-on pass. Firing. He saw the nose guns of the Russian flame. A Zero staggered. Fell off, veering away. Then the Japanese plane exploded, thousands of bits of debris flaming in every direction. Grotesquely, the pilot was blown free of the wreckage, twisting and turning, plunging into the sea stiffly like a mannequin.
The Russian turned. Gained altitude. Began to pull away, hounded by a storm of tracers and bursts of five-inch shells. Heedless of Yonaga’s fire, the surviving Zero bored in, shattering the nose and cockpit of its enemy with a long burst, never wavering from a collision course. The fighter impacted the Tupolev just behind the cockpit, bouncing high in a rain of torn aluminum, shedding its port wing. Instantly, at full throttle, the little fighter twisted to the right and plunged into the sea, engine screaming, trailing smoke. Miraculously, the Russian survived the collision, still banking and climbing, port engine belching black smoke.
Ross never saw the third Zero until it raked the Tupolev’s port side with a long burst, clearing the Russian’s tail by inches. But the giant aircraft continued to climb, Yonaga’s hungry tracers storming around her. The Zero changed direction like a startled hawk, closing on its enemy from the rear and below. Flame leaped from the Russian’s tail guns. But the Zero’s fire smashed into the Tupolev’s tail, silencing the guns. The Russian’s port engine spouted flame and the great aircraft staggered like a wounded gladiator injured but not defeated.
Fujita screamed at the talker. Yonaga’s fire ceased. The Zero closed in. From only a few yards, the Mitsubishi fired a long burst, raking the Russian’s underbelly from tail to nose, cannon shells sending debris flopping in the slipstream.
Suddenly, the Tupolev’s port wing tanks showed fire. Dropping to its left and leaving clouds of black smoke in its wake, the aircraft plunged toward the sea, curving toward Yonaga.
Admiral Fujita shrieked, pounding the rail. Again Yonaga’s guns erupted. Desperately, the gunners raked the approaching, burning monster. The glazed nose exploded, the greenhouse disintegrated, and the horizontal stabilizer flew off. Heedless of the fire, the Zero trailed the dying giant closely as if tied by a string of its own tracers.
Ross gripped the rail, knuckles white, teeth clenched, staring at nearly one hundred tons of plunging, burning doom. “Hit us! Hit us! Please!”
But at the last instant, the great aircraft veered, crashing into the sea in a tower of water and shattered aluminum only a few yards from the ship. Tons of water rained down on the port battery. Ross pounded the rail until his fists ached, staring at the plume of smoke that marked the grave. Then, like the lives of the young men who died with her, the smoke melted in the wind and was gone. Cries of “Banzai” echoed throughout Yonaga. Triumphantly, the Zero circled the grave.
Excited shouts from the foretop brought binoculars to the eyes of every man on the bridge. Quickly, Ross focused on the Tupolev’s grave. Then he saw it. A small, inflatable boat bobbed in the chop. Two Russians sat in it, staring at Yonaga.
The admiral shouted commands. The carrier came about, closed on the boat. Ross could see the aviators clearly. Young, wearing tan flight suits, the two sat silently, shoulders slumped, staring at the approaching carrier. They were so close, Trigger could see naval pilot’s wings on the right breast of one. Suddenly, the two survivors turned their heads skyward as the Zero began a shallow dive. Trigger’s binoculars were on the Russians when a storm of steel and explosives hit them. The pilot’s stomach exploded. Flung upward, he fell into the sea, trailing an umbilical of intestines. His companion jerked like an epileptic and then his head burst like a dropped melon. In seconds, he disintegrated with his boat. Then, except for a lingering red splotch, the sea washed the carnage from its face.
More “banzais” and back slapping. Hirata turned, grinning gleefully. “That is how samurai fight, Yankee.”
Ross was beyond speech. Wide eyed, flushed, with neck cords taut like steel, he turned to his tormentor. But there were no words. He could only keen and snarl. Hirata snickered. Finally, Trigger growled, voice quavering with hate, “Kill. Kill — you, you.”
Hirata laughed.
*
Seated before the admiral’s desk, Trigger was too numb with horror to question his presence in Fujita’s cabin for Cmdr. Masao Shimizu’s report. Admiral Fujita sat erect, eyes polished onyx, as the flight leader described the events of the flight. Using the usual perfect English that seemed to be reserved for Trigger, he said, “Commander Aoshima vanished somewhere south of the Aleutians. He flew into a fog bank and we never saw him again.”
“Where?”
“Longitude 179 degrees, 10 minutes east, latitude 49 degrees, 32 minutes north. About two hundred kilometers south of Tagatu Island.”
“Engine failure — that must be it. The god’s were unkind. He deserved a chance to die flying against the enemy. He had true Yamato damashii.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Shimizu glanced at the mute American. “True Japanese spirit.”
Trigger knew the meaning of Yamato damashii but did not even move his eyes in acknowledgment. With his mind filled with visions of the slaughtered Russians, he felt his stomach swell, mouth go sour like a novice drinker feeling his first nausea, dazed, in shock, listening, but not hearing or caring.
“Your Zero-sen performed well.”
“Splendidly, Admiral. The Sakae never faltered even in overboost. And no jams. Our armorers have done an excellent job.”
The admiral looked at Ross who shook his head, clearing ghosts. “Each shell has been dismantled and repacked.” And then to Shimizu, “Fine shooting.”
The cadaverous cheeks sucked into a grin. “Only fourteen twenty-millimeter and forty seven-point-seven against the boat.”
“Oh, yes,” Ross said, suddenly coming to life. “Splendid shoot, old man. Great Yamato damashii. Those helpless men posed a mortal threat. Congratulations.”
The admiral’s voice was sharp. “Captain. You are here because of your knowledge of these waters — commerce.” And then softening, “You will not be asked to compromise your sense of honor. If you prefer, I will have you returned to your cabin.”
Trigger wrenched his mind free of horror and outrage, searching for a rational reaction. If he
chose his cabin, he would remove himself from the very fountainhead of Yonaga’s command. No! The admiral seemed fascinated by his prisoner. Even attached. He must take advantage of the opportunity to learn more; perhaps, to still find a way to stop the madness. He composed himself, and answered carefully, “I prefer to remain, Admiral.”
“Very well. But we will do without your sarcasm.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral.”
Fujita turned to Shimizu. “Ensign Mayeda and Lieutenant Kinoshita died gloriously.”
“Yes, sir. They both honored their hachimaki headbands — died for the emperor as samurai.”
“I am sure the spirits of both reside in the Yasakuni Shrine.”
“Without a doubt, sir.”
Ross looked from one to the other, but remained silent. The admiral continued. “We will steer directly for Pearl Harbor and conduct training exercises whenever the weather permits, Commander. I have ordered speed reduced. I suspect enemy radar is far more efficient than we anticipated. If we move slowly, enemy operators will assume they have a merchant ship on their instruments. And keep your pilots low. We know high frequency signals cannot follow the curvature of the earth.”
“All pilots have observed our hundred meter ceiling, Admiral. Will we meet our seven December ETA?”
“We should. We will begin our run-in on the evening of six December at thirty knots.” The commander nodded.
Ross was appalled at the old man’s perceptiveness and logic. Now he realized he faced the canny mind of a master tactician.
“Commander,” Fujita said. “I know you are anxious to debrief your men. You are dismissed.”
Shimizu saluted, bowed and was gone, leaving the admiral and the American alone. Trigger stared at the old sailor mutely, knowing he must attempt to sway the man, realizing he might never again have such an opportunity. Despite misgivings he began, “Is your determination to move against Pearl Harbor absolutely inflexible, Admiral?”
“My orders, Captain. Cut by the commander-in-chief of the Combined Fleet, Admiral Isoruku Yamamoto, himself.”
“Admiral Yamamoto has been dead for forty years, Admiral. He was killed on an inspection tour when his Mitsubishi G4M was shot down over the Solomons. And must I remind you, your attack will be delivered forty-two years late.”
“Unimportant. The orders exist — that is all that counts.”
“All that counts?” Ross felt his composure weakening. “You killed my crew, the Coast Guardsmen, the Russians. When will the killing stop?”
“The killing never stops,” the admiral said, firmly. And then chiding, “Come now. Do not become maudlin, Captain. You are a military man. It would be unthinkable to leave live witnesses in our wake.”
“But you’ve been discovered. The Russians have you targeted.”
The old sailor shrugged. “I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast, for I intend to go in harm’s way.”
“My God! You’re quoting John Paul Jones.”
“Why not, Captain? He understood command. Have you forgotten?”
“No,” Ross said icily. “But I’ve never killed helpless men. You wallow in it.”
“Ha! Do you know how often your radio mentions atomic bombs? According to your history, two were dropped. How many corpses do you claim at Hiroshima? Nagasaki? Fifty thousand? One hundred thousand? Were the women and children you murdered armed to the teeth? Threatening? Tell me about murder, Yankee.”
“Those were acts of war executed to conclude a war. The men you’ve killed were not your enemies — were not at war with you. Yes! What you have done is murder.”
“Neatly categorized, Captain. When Americans kill, it is humane and is done as a wartime necessity. When Japanese kill, it is wanton murder. What is your common denominator?”
“Humanity!”
“Humanity,” the admiral said, amused. “How humane was it when you excluded Japanese immigration in the Twenties, gave us an ultimatum to get out of China and embargoed oil in the Thirties? You slap our faces with one hand and destroy our ability to sustain ourselves with the other.” The old man’s eyes sparked. “Then, when we react, fight for our freedom — an Asia for Asiatics — you slaughter monstrously.”
“Then you believe the atomic bombs were dropped.”
The old man raised his palms. “It makes no difference. Will you ever understand?” “Understand? How? What?”
“Yonaga has a mission, Captain. We have our orders. We will carry them out.”
“Destroy Pearl Harbor.”
“Yes. The orders exist. That is all that matters.”
“In harm’s way — orders, Admiral. This is your rationale?”
“You have commanded, Captain. I am surprised you ask.”
“There is a point beyond which a commander can no longer be expected to adhere to orders. Command must weigh chances of success against expected losses. Are your anticipated losses acceptable? Can you punish your target sufficiently? Ever reach it? Or are you throwing Yonaga away like a piece of old driftwood in a futile paean to a forgotten, lost cause.”
The old mem’s face cracked with the semblance of a grin. “Captain, you can become eloquent and your rhetoric can be very persuasive.” Ross felt a start of hope. “You would have Yonaga come about, return to Japan, and quietly anchor in Tokyo Bay.”
“Of course.”
Fujita gazed at Ross for a long moment. “Yonaga was not built for that, equipped for that, her samurai trained for that.”
“It makes no difference, Admiral. The war is over.”
“Let’s assume you are correct.” Ross brightened. Was he making progress? “Captain, when in history has man ever built a machine of war and not used it?”
Trigger started like a man subjected to electric shock. “You mean Yonaga must deliver an attack because Yonaga exists.”
“Is that not the way of mankind?”
“No!”
“Wrong, Captain. Man has never armed and cocked a pistol without pulling the trigger.
“Even if it’s pointed at his own head?”
“Especially. Must I remind you of your atomic bombs?”
Ross threw up his hands. “Then the mission must be completed because Yonaga is here and she has orders. Can you find reason, there, Admiral?”
The old sailor tapped his desk with two gnarled fingers. “Precedent, Captain. Precedent.”
“What precedent?”
“You believe in the Nuremberg trials?”
“Of course. They’re history.”
“We copied an enormous amount of information about them. Let us assume they occurred.” Ross nodded. “How many helpless people did the Germans gas?”
“Eight to ten million.”
“What was the basic defense used by the accused — Goering, von Ribbentrop, Keitel, Jodl, and the rest?”
Ross flushed. “Orders,” he spat.
“Right, Captain. The Germans were following orders.”
“And a dozen of them were executed, Admiral;”
“If all of this is true, Captain, and they were executed, it was unprecedented — illegal.”
“Illegal?”
“Yes. The laws condemning them were written after the crime — ex post facto.”
“But what — what is the point of this? Nuremberg? The Nazis?”
“It is simply this, Captain. Given the equipment and the orders, we military men do what we are commanded to do. We must. There are no options. There would be no meaning to your life or mine. Orders are sacred. They are to be obeyed. In a sense, we who wear the mantle of command are all samurai.” His tiny fist met the polished oak. Then, measuring each word carefully, “We follow our orders. Understand, Captain? We always have, always will — regardless of the consequences.”
“Then hundreds, perhaps thousands more will die.”
“I go in harm’s way, Captain.” The ancient sailor’s smile had the dust of years on it.
There was a knock. Hirata entered. “Admira
l,” he said, standing rigidly. “Lieutenant Taki Mori is ready.”
“Very well.”
And then glancing at the American. “He requests the presence of the two hairy barbarians. In fact, Admiral, he promises to conduct the entire ceremony in English.”
Trigger Ross gripped his arm rests. “Ceremony? The special ceremony?”
The admiral beamed. “You wonder about us; our drives, motivation — where we find our strength, rationale. Earlier you referred to Yonaga as a piece of driftwood. Have you ever examined a piece of driftwood closely?”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Japanese know that nature has much to teach us. Pick up a piece of driftwood sometime and examine it, carefully. You will find the sea strips away all that is soft, leaving only the hard lines of the grain. You are to witness a hardening of the grain of Japanese character inconceivable to the Western mind. In a few minutes, you will witness an event that will convince you of our strength, determination, and dedication to bushido. You will see what a samurai’s respect for orders can mean, and what the consequences of disobeying orders can bring.”
“Consequences?”
“Yes. Lieutenant Mori disobeyed orders. He will redeem his honor, restore face, by committing seppuku.”
“Disembowelment.”
“Of course. He opened fire on the Coast Guard autogiro before my command.”
Ross had a vague memory of the trivial incident. Yes! He remembered through the horror of that afternoon. The admiral had gone into a rage. “He’ll spill his guts over that?”
“We have a saying, Captain. ‘True courage is to live when it is right to live, and to die when it is right to die,’” the admiral said. And then clipping each word as if his lips were scissors, “Orders must be obeyed. It is the only honorable way.”
