Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Ross was wary, had been stung by the encyclopedic mind before. He stared into the eyes, burning coals, saying, “Where, Admiral?” even though he had already guessed the answer.

  “You have heard of Mille, Wotje, and Jaluit?” “Yes. In the Marshalls,” Trigger answered in a grim monotone, shocked by the unbelievable memory. He squared his jaw. “You’ve forgotten Rota in the Marianas.”

  “No. I have not, Captain. According to your radio, Japanese garrisons were bypassed — ah, left to ‘wither on the vine’ — were used for target practice by ships and planes.” Then amused, “Why are you horrified, Captain?”

  “Those were armed troops, at war. Their situation was a product of strategic necessity.”

  “You have said as much before, Captain.” Then the old man’s lips curled slightly with amusement. “Your anger provokes eloquence. However, I am unconvinced. Strategy dictates a strike against the Ivans.”

  “Then, Admiral, my honor dictates no more intelligence. I have never been able to dissuade you from murder — the helicopter, the aircraft, and now a helpless whaler.”

  “Helplessness is relative, Captain. One should question the whale impaled on his harpoon.” There was a chuckle.

  Trigger’s voice was hard. “May I be dismissed?’’ His hands gripped his armrests.

  “No! Remain where you are.”

  Trigger fell silent, seething, no longer wondering about the old man’s motives — convinced he must try to stop this madness with his own hands. But when? How? Certainly, not here; not now. He was their audience. After forty-two years of each other, he was the outsider. Then a new thought struck him. Perhaps, he was more than an audience. Was he their witness? Was that it? A living diary? Slowly, he came erect. Despite his still-brewing rage, he found a challenge in these walking, breathing anachronisms. His eyes moved from one to another as the briefing continued.

  The admiral spoke to Shimizu. “Take only your nine Zeros. No Aichis or Nakajimas. We cannot run torpedoes shallow enough to hit a forty-meter boat and I do not want the Aichis climbing to make their bomb runs.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shimizu said softly, dampening his thin lips with the tip of his tongue.

  “Each fighter is to carry two 120 kilogram bombs.” The flyers nodded. “And, Commander, attack in single file.”

  “Single file?”

  “Yes. Not only in single file, but at one-thousand-meter intervals.” The flyers looked puzzled. Ross hunched forward, anger dissolved by wonder about the brain across the desk. Fujita continued, “It is their radar. If you come in as an arrow, you will give their radar the smallest target. As an arrow, you present only one Sakae for their instrument.” The flyers exchanged a glance. “And hit the radio shack first. Assume it is just aft of the bridge.”

  “Yes, sir,” the flyers said in unison.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Suguira said, eyes flashing like onyx reflecting sunlight. “I discovered the enemy. May I have the honor of being the tip of the arrow. I guarantee the radio shack will be destroyed on my first pass.”

  The admiral looked at Shimizu. Shimizu said, “Lieutenant Suguira has earned the. honor.” There was reluctance in the voice.

  The admiral spoke. “Very well, Commander. Your men have been briefed as to bearing and range of the target?”

  “Yes, sir. They are standing by on the flight deck. Our ships should be refueled by now.”

  “Good. Instruct them on the attack tactics and be airborne within ten minutes. I will bring the ship into the wind and order your aircraft bombed up.” He put the phone to his ear, gave orders crisply, almost youthfully.

  Shouting, “Banzai,” the pilots left.

  Trigger sagged in his chair, expelling his breath with a long sigh. The admiral tilted his chair back, stared at the overhead, his fingers intertwined on his chest. There was a look of contentment on his face.

  *

  When Cmdr. Masao Shimizu — with Lt. Takeo Suguira at his side — walked onto the flight deck, he could tell at a glance that the admiral’s orders were almost complete. Nine Zeros were lined up in threes from amidships aft, swarming crewmen were hand-pumping fuel from steel-wheeled bousers and attaching bombs under the fighters’ wings. On the horizon, Masao saw swarms of fighters and bombers circling counterclockwise, low on the water. Since Aoshima’s disappearance, all training flights were conducted within visual range of the carrier.

  With a wave of the arm, the flight commander called his pilots. Too hurried to consult in a briefing room, they formed a circle about their commanding officer, holding briefing pads, straining to hear as he shouted over the rush of wind and the engines of the circling aircraft.

  Shimizu spoke. “You know Lieutenant Suguira spotted a small Russian whaler bearing zero-one-zero relative, range one hundred.” Eight heads nodded as one. “We have the honor of engaging the enemy.”

  There were shouts of “Banzai.”

  The commander silenced his men with a raised hand. He continued, “We will advance as an arrow. Lieutenant Suguira will lead and then in one-thousand-meter intervals — no closer, we don’t want to run into our own bomb bursts — myself, then Hino, followed by Yamauchi and Hattori, their wingmen, right before left, in that order. You can expect the usual mist and fog in the target area. The Russian appears to have a kill. He may be laying to, but if he is moving, he is making very slow way.” The men wrote furiously. “Speed of advance, two hundred knots; course, one-seven-five true.” Nods. ‘‘Hit the radio shack first. You know it should be the after part of the superstructure. Strafe and bomb simultaneously, and — ” Shimizu’s gaze moved from one flat, stone face to another — ‘‘remember, an arrow always fits its wound and we will tolerate no survivors. Understand?”

  He was answered by a chorus of ‘‘Banzai.”

  An engine burst into life. And then another and another until in seconds all nine Zeros vibrated expectantly with a crew chief in each cockpit. The armorers had cleared the deck. Only the plane handlers remained by tie-downs and chocks. The flight was ready. The commander shouted. “Man your planes.” There was a cheer, and nine brown-clad figures raced across the deck.

  As Shimizu ran, he could see his old crew chief, Kantaro Takahashi, seated in the cockpit of his fighter, gunning the engine and making his final check of instruments and controls. The commander glanced at the bridge. There was the admiral with the American captain at his side, staring down. Masao felt anger swell. Why the admiral’s inexplicable fascination with this barbarian? How important were those long conversations? And the man talked back, like an equal. Why did the admiral protect him? Nothing but a filthy swing. If he had his way, he would test his steel on the man’s neck. He glanced up again directly into the American’s eyes. Involuntarily, Shimizu’s hand found his bouncing sword hilt. The American’s eyes never wavered.

  The captain has courage, Masao Shimizu told himself. He remembered the shock he felt when Hirata had been defeated. But the American had been lucky. Hirata, such a fool, had become emotional, careless, unsamurai; allowed himself to be lured and maneuvered on a slippery deck. But it had been a classic demise; beaten and smothered to death with Taki Mori’s head. How did the American ever think of that? Maybe, someday, he would have his chance. He would make short work of Capt. Ted Ross.

  By the time Shimizu rounded the wing, Takahashi was clambering out of the cockpit. As the commander reached for the hand grip below the canopy, the crew chief leaped to the deck, shouting, “She is ready, sir.” Grunting, the commander pulled himself up, stepped from the wing, and lowered himself into the cockpit — a tiny space so confining it seemed tailored to his body.

  After snapping his belt lock and checking his brakes, Shimizu opened his throttle slightly, eyes scanning his instruments: fuel tanks full, oil pressure in the green, engine temperature normal, manifold pressure below the red line. Throttling back to idle, he checked the tachometer, glanced from side to side, looking at his wingmen: Lt. Takeo Suguira on his right and Naval Air Pilot First Class Su
sumu Hino on his left. Both were hunched over their instruments. He was confident. They had been his wingmen in China. They were the best.

  The commander looked to his right and toward the bow where the plane director — an officer dressed in yellow and holding two red, fan-like flags — stood. But the man was staring aft, hands at his sides, Shimizu craned his neck. Then he saw it. A bomb on Yamauchi’s fighter sagged tail first, almost to the deck. Shimizu cursed. In an instant, armorers swarmed around the bomb, lifting it to its brackets.

  A delay. He jerked his head with irritation and hit it hard against his headrest. Then he clenched his fists and cursed the vagaries of the errant bomb. There was nothing he could do. He stared at his radio. Useless weight. Restlessly, his eyes found the circular rings of his range finder. A slight grin curled the thin lips, washing tension from his face.

  His last two kills. His seventh and eighth on the same day. Over Pongiang. For over forty years his mind had conjured up the glorious events of that day, especially at night, flat on his back, staring into the blackness of his cabin. Thousands of times, each detail of that flight deep into China had oozed from his memory to send him to sleep smiling. But now he had the memory of the Russians, too. His cannon shells ripping the great aircraft. And the thrill of the kill. Especially when he saw his fire tear into the pair in the boat. It was better than being with a woman — even after all these years. But the Russians were already doomed when attacked. Tadashi Kinoshita and the ship’s AA had seen to that. China, so long ago, still gave him his greatest moment. His greatest thrill. Yes. Over the Pongiang airdrome. He remembered that glorious moment almost as if it had happened yesterday.

  But it had been over forty-two years ago when he was a twenty-one-year-old ensign who had never heard of the army’s Unit Seven-Three-One or his Imperial Majesty’s carrier Yonaga. It was two February, 1941 and he commanded a flight of nine Zeros. With Hino on his left and Suguira on his right and six other Zeros trailing in threes, they were flying top cover for twenty-seven Mitsubishi G-Four-M, Type One, medium bombers on a raid on the huge Pongiang airstrip. It had been a long flight in — over eight hundred kilometers from their base at Hankow. Ordered to arrive with the morning sun, they had taken off at 0300. The night was pitch black and the only landmark was the whitish Yangtze Valley winding its way across the black country.

  Arriving at Pongiang at dawn, he took his Zeros to three thousand meters, cruising slowly over the airdrome — an elaborate facility with four large hangars and three runways. Strangely, only three fighters were visible, parked in revetments next to a road that bordered the north edge of the field. Something was wrong. He remembered feeling uneasy.

  He wanted more altitude, but thick cumulus clouds billowed in a thick layer at thirty-five hundred meters. The clouds worried him. They could hide enemy fighters. The solid layer extended almost to the eastern horizon where the sun crept over a low ridge of hills into the only clear patch of sky. He recalled how the first weak shafts of sunlight — like streaks of candlelight through shoji — gave an unearthly cast to the terrain.

  Then, as the sun climbed, its new brilliance glared from rooftops and brushed the treetops with silver haloes while sending shadows of midnight streaking behind everything it painted. Reflecting from the high cloud cover, the growing glare gave him the eerie feeling of looking down into a giant temple open to a hundred twig-and-bark torches of the o bon, the annual festival of the dead. It had been such a beautiful day for killing men.

  Then the anti-aircraft began: black puffs around the lumbering bombers. Terrible shooting. Ignoring the desultory puffs, the bombers began their runs at one thousand meters. Then black cylinders arched in perfect parabolas groundward. Suddenly, the strip began to erupt with flaming blossoms while hangars became volcanoes, hurling flaming debris in every direction.

  But the enemy must have been warned or had sent out a very early patrol. Suddenly, twelve deep-throated P-40s with gear wheel insignias and teeth painted on their air scoops hurtled out of the clouds, arrowing on the bombers. The AVG — American mercenaries. Shimizu hated mercenaries. They fought for money, not honor. Either the Americans never saw the Zeros, or they deliberately ignored them so intent were they on intercepting the bombers. But, perhaps, they had just been stupid.

  The A6M2 was a superb fighter. But it was light and dove poorly. It could never dive with the heavier enemy machines. Because their radios were back at their base with their parachutes — parachuting into China could mean capture and a hideous death — he waggled his wings and stabbed two fingers downward. Instantly, his pilots duplicated his signal, each pilot pointing two fingers down.

  Nodding, he pushed his stick forward and jammed the throttle into overboost. Five Zeros trailed while three remained as top cover. He remembered smiling as he bolted downward, Sakae roaring like thunder before a typhoon. The odds were even: six against twelve. But then he cursed. Far below, he could see the P-40s spread in pairs, sweeping toward the bombers like a giant scythe. Flame leaped from the leading edges of the Curtis’ wings. Brown smoke trailed. Then he saw it. A fearful streak of yellow flame, erupting from a bomber’s engine. And then another bomber was hit. Trailing smoke, the pair dropped from formation and curved earthward.

  He expected the enemy to dive through the formation and then climb for altitude, to make a second pass. He tried to think with the enemy commander. He pulled back on his stick and brought the nose of the Zero up, range finder resting on the blinding sun just to the right of the melee. And he had been right. The enemy followed a familiar pattern: dive out of cloud cover and escape into the sun.

  Craning his neck and looking downward, he saw the P-40s climbing into the sun and into his sights. At that moment, his air-speed indicator showed almost four hundred knots. Although the Curtises were slowed by their climb, the two flights closed quickly.

  Shimizu smiled as he remembered the Yankees’ next maneuver. They must have been new. They were definitely poorly led. In fact, he was sure they had never seen the Zeros until after their first pass. But once the Mitsubishis were spotted, they were experienced enough to turn from the sun and climb toward their enemy, engaging the Zeros head-on. After all, they did outnumber the Japanese two to one.

  He brought the lead plane to the center of his range finder. The P-40’s wings winked. He snorted. The range was too long, over four hundred meters. But they were closing at a combined speed of over six hundred knots. He remembered muttering, “Come on, tiger, I will pull your teeth.”

  In a split second, he thumbed the firing button. The Zero jerked and trembled deliciously, then flashed over the American, almost scraping the P-40’s canopy with its belly. Looking back, Shimizu saw the Curtis drop a wing, roll on its back, and curve toward the ground, belching flame and black smoke. Then another P-40 shed a wing, flipped over in a wild snap roll. A Zero exploded, countless burning fragments raining earthward.

  The flights had passed each other in a wink. His mind even brought back his oaths. “Now, dogs,” he said aloud, “try to fight the Zero.” Pulling his stick back, he felt his stomach sink, head lighten.

  He shook his head. The surviving Yankees were climbing for the clouds, desperately. They would not dogfight the Zero. At that moment he realized they knew more than he had given them credit for. But one trailed. Perhaps, damaged. Yes. The Curtis was streaking oil.

  Hunching forward, he punched the fire wall, exhorting the Mitsubishi on. The deadly fighter responded, closing the range like a hawk swooping on a pigeon. He looked from side to side. His faithful wingmen were in place, his tail covered. He could concentrate on the kill.

  He stared at the enemy through his range finder: four hundred meters; three hundred meters; one hundred meters. By then, he could see oil streaked the Curtis fuselage. The pilot’s head loomed. He remembered wondering about the man’s failure to look back. A good fighter pilot never rested his neck. Was it inexperience? Fear? Then, the Yankee finally turned his head. He was very white. Very young — like a s
choolboy. Shimizu recalled laughing aloud as he pressed the red button. There was a short burst. He only fired twelve rounds of twenty millimeter at fifty meters. The dozen rounds shattered the enemy’s canopy and exploded the pilot’s head. A streak of glass, brains, and blood trailed the Curtis, spraying the Zero’s windshield with red splotches reminding him of his favorite dish, ume-bo-shi, pickled plum seed.

  Yes, Shimizu thought, it had been a great moment. The moment of the kill. Then he remembered calling on Amaterasu for help, but one after another the Americans vanished into the clouds. Seething with frustration, he led his flight upward, rejoining the three Zeros maintaining top cover. Then he set a course for Hankow and their home field.

  Hard memories set his jaw, because it was on this long flight home that Ensign Kamatori Watanabe had vanished. What a fool. Breaking not only the dictates of bushido, but the fundamental law of the fighter pilot: Never break away from formation on an unauthorized pursuit.

  Flying as the right hand wingman of the right hand three, Watanabe had spotted a single Curtis, almost on the horizon and above them, climbing for the nearest cloud.

  Unthinking, Watanabe had charged after the Curtis. Without radio, Shimizu could only shout into the slipstream. In seconds, both aircraft disappeared into a cloud — a towering, dangerous cumulo-nimbus thunderhead. He never saw Watanabe again. The commander shuddered, thinking of the young ensign’s fate.

  Four days later, a battalion of the Kwangtung Army found Watanabe’s rotting corpse beside his wrecked fighter near the Chinese village of Shinton. The young officer had been bound to a tree, eye lids removed, his skin slit and carefully peeled. This exquisite torture kept a man alive for hours, a target for the jabs of sharpened bamboo and the attacks of swarms of flies, especially on the eyes. His genitals had been hacked off and stuffed into his mouth. This was always done just before the victim died.

  Every time Shimizu recalled the revenge, he smiled. The battalion rounded up every man, woman, and child in Shinton and — with the exception of the young women — tied the entire population to the tiny town’s straw and bamboo huts. After repeated rapes, the young women were also tied to the huts, their legs carefully spread. Then the children were beheaded, the men’s genitals chopped from their bodies and stuffed in their mouths, and bayonets driven slowly up the women’s vaginas. It was said the screaming lasted through an entire night. The next morning, the village was burned to the ground. Such a delicate vengeance, worthy of the forty-seven ronin. But it was a terrible trade: a village of lowly Chinese peasants for an irreplaceable samurai.