Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Yoshi halted the American with a wave. “It makes no difference… your interception over—”

  “My interception? You know I hadn’t even been born.”

  “The Chinese Nationalist fighters were Russian El6s and American P40s, and most of them were piloted by foreigners, not Chinese.”

  “‘The Flying Tigers’ or ‘American Volunteer Group’-‘AVG.’”

  The Japanese shrugged. “It makes no difference. They were mercenaries and they flew for money, not honor. And, anyhow, their Iluyshins and Curtises were no match for our Mitsubishis.” He chuckled. “They even painted teeth on the P40s’ airscoops. But nothing helped them. No, indeed. We soon pulled their teeth.”

  Brent felt the hot steel spring uncoiling again. “Please – your record, Commander.”

  “Within ten months, I shot down two El6s and a P40. I was selected as the outstanding fighter pilot of my wing.” Grasping both armrests, the commander leaned forward. “Do you know the Zero’s record throughout the China… ah, incident?”

  “No!”

  The Japanese leaned back, lips twisted by a sneer. “Ninety-nine kills, Ensign – ninety-nine. And we lost two, only two of our fighters. And to anti-aircraft, not your fighters.”

  Brent cleared his throat which was suddenly a dry well lined with sandpaper. “Impressive, Commander,” he conceded huskily. And then, quickly, “Were you ever decorated?”

  Yoshi raised an eyebrow. “Of course not. Decorations are never awarded by the imperial forces to living men. All citations are made posthumously. Never in our history has there been a living hero.”

  Brent Ross nodded. But Matsuhara needed no encouragement.

  “At this time, I had never heard of the Army’s Unit Seven Three One or carrier Yonaga. Mind you, there were always rumors of super battleships and carriers. But the ministry was very effective at keeping secrets. Finally, in February of nineteen forty-one, I returned to Tokyo and spent my last leave with my family. Then, in March, I was sent to Hitokappu Bay.”

  “Sorry, Commander,” Evansen injected.

  “Hitokappu Bay is a remote anchorage in the Kuriles, about one thousand miles northeast of here. Kido Butai, the Pearl Harbor strike force, staged there. That is where I boarded Yonaga.”

  The American ensign nodded. “I see. Admiral Fujita has already given us a comprehensive history of Yonaga’s movements.”

  Matsuhara’s thin lips peeled back from his teeth, eyes bored into Brent’s. “Would you like to hear of my strafing runs on your father’s ship, Sparta?”

  “This isn’t necessary!”

  “Of your father’s attempts to influence Admiral Fujita – to persuade him to forsake our sacred orders and not attack Pearl Harbor?”

  Rising slowly, Brent’s eyes held the commander's unwaveringly. “You, Commander, are taking advantage of your position as a superior officer and member of ship’s company. I am here by the grace of your commanding officer. I will not be goaded into an intemperate act and be put ashore, not before I settle a personal matter concerning my father.”

  Coming to his feet, the Japanese moved to the door, face showing a glimmer of understanding. The voice was almost conciliatory. “You cannot find satisfaction here, Yankee.” The hard edge returned. “Remember – another place, another time.”

  The Commander was laughing as he closed the door.

  *

  “I won’t take it, Admiral Allen. Someday I’ll dismember Commander Yoshi Matsuhara,” Brent said, sagging on his bunk, staring at the older man who was seated at the desk. “He even gloated over my father – how they sank the Sparta and captured him.”

  The older man did not answer immediately; instead, the gray-green eyes fixed a rivet on the opposite bulkhead, while a finger explored his chin thoughtfully. Staring at the admired, Brent was struck by the similarities between Mark Allen and his father, Ted “Trigger” Ross. Both had been born immediately after World War One, served on carriers during World War Two, became experts on Japanese history and traditions, researching in Japan immediately after the War and served on Samuel B. Morison’s staff in the writing of the monumental United States Naval Operations in World War II. But “Trigger” Ross returned to the United States in the late fifties to marry Brent’s mother, Kathleen Egan, while Mark Allen remained in Japan, claiming the exquisite Keiko Morimoto as his bride.

  Rising in rank, despite an explosive temper that earned him the sobriquet “Trigger,” Theodore Ross reached the rank of Captain in 1968, the same year Kathleen showed the first symptoms of cancer. Then, Ted Ross, who loved the sea, requested shore duty, transferring from the carrier Nimitz to the Norfolk Naval Station. A house was bought in the nearby town, and Ted Ross devoted himself to his wife, watching her die slowly and horribly.

  And the bitterness that comes with a death vigil over a beloved crept in. Brent, a sophomore in high school, hid his tears as his father stormed at navy doctors. Within a year, Ted Ross resigned his commission and began taking his wife to civilian doctors. But despite the frantic round of physicians, the dying continued. By the time Brent became a senior, the house had been sold and his mother was bedridden – his angelic, beautiful mother, smiling through the pain as death stalked her body with claws of steel.

  And Ted “Trigger” Ross brought his wife home, learned how to administer drugs, and took on all of the taxing duties of caring for an invalid. But Kathleen slipped inexorably away. For the first time, Brent saw his father’s inability to accept the inevitable; reconcile himself to defeat. One way or another, throughout his life, Ted had always fought back, avoided defeat with his mind or fists. But the monster advanced relendessly and the drugs increased.

  Now, he raged against all doctors. They were charlatans and thieves who lied and schemed to pad their bills, secredy welcomed the dying, ringing their hands in anticipation of fat fees. Mercifully, Kathleen died in 1978, the year Brent was accepted by the Naval Academy.

  Ted rejected Kathleen’s death violently. The day after the funeral, a horrified Brent feared his father had lost his mind as he watched the older man smash furniture, drive his massive fists through doors and plaster, streaking the walls with blood.

  “No! No! No! You can’t do that to me,” he screamed at the ceiling, over and over again.

  Fearing serious injury, Brent, who now packed 220’ pounds of muscle on a six foot, two inch frame, wrestled his father to the floor. “She’s gone, Dad. Gone! It can’t be changed.”

  Finally the tears came, the only tears he had ever seen his father shed, not only of grief, but of frustration – the bitter frustration of an unacceptable defeat.

  Then – isolation; for months, Ted Ross remained behind locked doors and shuttered windows, refusing to see anyone except his son. Desperate with worry, Brent remained with his father, delaying enrollment at Annapolis. Months were spent listening to his father rail against doctors, nurses, and medical technicians – the criminals responsible for his wife’s death.

  As the months wore on, the monologues began to change. Tiring of the ceaseless attacks, Ted turned more and more to the tales of the sea, his youth, and the War. Brent welcomed the change eagerly, listening to accounts of great carrier battles, sinkings, victories and postwar duty in Japan, working as a research specialist on Samuel B. Morison’s staff. And there was a fascination with the Japanese. Brent, always an apt pupil, learned more and more of bushido, samurai, Shinto, kokutai; even of the doho and nisei. His father’s obsession slowly enveloped the younger man, leading eventually to his course work in Japanese history and language.

  The final catharsis for “Trigger” Ross, however, was the sea. Exhausted by his own emotions and oppressed by seclusion, he finally decided to return to the sea. Delighted, Brent watched his father sign on the steamer Enrose, finding therapy in the clean air and pristine sea which washed over him, healing the wounds, dissolving the bitterness. And, finally, in 1983, when given command of the Sparta, Brent's father seemed young again, vital and happy. But then Spart
a met Yonaga.

  Brent was jarred back to Yonaga and the present by Mark Allen's voice. “This duty must be very trying – demanding, Brent. Would you like a transfer?”

  The young ensign took a deep breath. “Commander Bell asked the same question.”

  “You know, we don’t need you for your fluency in Japanese. The crew – at least every officer I’ve met – speaks fine English. We could cut new orders for you, Brent.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. But I would like to remain.”

  “Can you control yourself?”

  “Yes. But I would like one understanding which Commander Bell found acceptable.” The older man nodded. Brent pressed on. “When our duties here are completed, when every responsibility has been discharged, I investigate my father's death and vindicate his honor.”

  “I can’t condone murder.”

  “I’m not asking for that. I promise to confer with you and Commander Bell – seek legal means.”

  “I could never argue with that.” Mark Allen came to his feet. “Do I have your word of honor as an officer in the United States Navy?”

  Brent Ross stood, only inches from the admiral. “Not only as an officer, but in the memory of my father, Captain Theodore Ross.”

  “Nothing could be stronger,” Mark Allen said, grasping the younger man’s hand. They clasped hands firmly for a long moment and then seated themselves.

  Brent Ross spoke casually, as if a burden had been removed. “Commander Matsuhara has an incredible history.”

  “He’s an American.”

  “How did you know?”

  “He speaks Japanese with an accent.”

  Brent Ross laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “And I can assure you, he was discriminated against in the imperial navy. All nisei were. I’m sure this contributed to his bitterness.”

  “Bitter! The man is a vat of acid.”

  “I heard he lost his family, Brent.”

  “He blames Curtis E. LeMay, personally.”

  “That’s consistent – a samurai’s mind.”

  “And revenge, of course, Admiral.”

  “Naturally, Brent, the samurai exalts vengeance.”

  “As the forty-seven ronin.”

  “You’ve been studying?”

  “No, listening. I’ve heard the forty-seven ronin mentioned by Fujita and Matsuhara.”

  “Do you know what a ronin is, Brent?”

  “A masterless samurai.”

  The older man nodded. “Very good, Brent. Then you’re familiar with the story.”

  “Only that it’s a classic example of Japanese vengeance.”

  “Not the details?”

  “No, Admiral.”

  “In a nutshell, the story takes place in the early eighteenth century. An honorable, respected samurai, Lord Asano, was a guest of the imperial court at Edo, now Tokyo.”

  “I know.”

  “Asano was insulted by a scoundrel named Kira – goaded by Kira into an attack with his sword. Kira sustained a slight shoulder wound before the two were separated by court attendants.” A hint of a smile played with the older man’s lips. “You know what the penalty was for drawing a sword in the palace?”

  “Death – of course, Admiral.”

  Allen nodded approval. “So, our hero, Lord Asano, committed seppuku immediately and his estates were confiscated. In addition, under these circumstances, a man’s samurai were set adrift, became ronin. Forty-seven of his men went to great lengths to give the appearance of debauched lives – drunkenness, long binges spent in brothels and wine houses until exactly one year passed.”

  “And then they struck, Admiral.”

  “Correct. On the first anniversary of their lord’s seppuku, they cut their way into Lord Kira’s residence and hacked him to pieces.”

  “And, of course, the forty-seven committed seppuku.”

  “Yes,” Allen agreed. “And now can you see why samurai revere the ‘forty-seven?”

  Abruptly, Brent leaned forward. “Yes – and Matsuhara is hungry for his vengeance – LeMay is his Kira but I’ll do as a surrogate.”

  “I think we’ll all do as surrogates or substitutes for these men.”

  The younger man sighed, then spoke thoughtfully. “You know, I knew some nisei served Japan, but Matsuhara said thousands enlisted.”

  The older man nodded. “True. When I was a young ensign – late thirties, early forties – NIS assigned me to investigate the Japanese settlements in Hawaii and California. Most of my duty was in Hawaii.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “The Japanese experience in World War Two was filled with contradictions, ambiguities and duplicity – also, bitterness – hard, rancorous bitterness that endures to this day.”

  “You’re thinking of relocation camps.”

  “Yes. Over one hundred thousand California Japanese – most of them American citizens – were uprooted and sent to camps.”

  “But not in Hawaii.”

  “No. We estimated about one hundred sixty thousand people of Japanese ancestry, the so-called doho Japanese immigrants, and their children, nisei, lived in the Hawaiian Islands. This was forty percent of the population, and Japan would not let go.”

  “I know of the doho and nisei, Admiral.”

  “Have you ever heard of the principle of jus sanguinis?”

  “Vaguely – it has to do with dual citizenship”

  The older man nodded. “According to jus sanguinis, Japan recognized, or claimed, all children born of Japanese fathers anywhere in the world as Japanese citizens.”

  “This can be renounced.”

  “True. But in Hawaii – if my memory still serves me after all these years – out of a population of about one hundred twenty thousand nisei, over seventy thousand did not renounce – carried dual citizenship – your history books ignore this.”

  The younger man nodded affirmatively. “They became enemy aliens.”

  “In a sense, yes. And don’t forget, the doho were Japanese citizens – loyal to Japan. Although they did nothing overtly against us, we found the sentiments of the vast majority were with the homeland. Your history books ignored this, too.”

  “And this loyalty rubbed off on their children – the nisei?

  “Of course. And it was deliberately planned. They had their own schools, taught their language, traditions and love for the emperor.”

  “A ‘fifth column.’”

  “Yes. Latent and patient, but, fortunately, never brought to action, Brent. Do you know that many doho viewed the attack on Pearl Harbor as a rescue attempt?”

  Brent chuckled. “Seems ludicrous.” And then seriously, “I never got any of this in my history courses, either, Admiral.”

  “No wonder, Brent. Everyone would like to forget these things, but it just won’t stay under the rug – not in my house.” Allen pursed his lips, drummed a short rhythm on the desk. “You’ve heard of Tokyo Rose?”

  “Of course. She broadcast propaganda for the Japanese during the War.”

  The older man chuckled dryly. “More than that, she broadcast vicious, demoralizing lies – gloated over our losses – my dead friends.” The voice thickened, “She was a nisei – her name was Iva Ikuka Toguri. She lives her entire life in the United States, graduating from UCLA with a major in geology. Her married name is D’ Aquino.”

  “D’Aquino?”

  “Yes. She lived in the United States”

  “But, Admiral, I heard of others – ‘Lord Haw’ and ‘Axis Sally.’”

  “You’re very knowledgeable, Brent. True, there were others.” Slowly, he fingered hair from his forehead. “‘Haw Haw’ was William Joyce and ‘Axis Sally’ was Mildred Gillars. They both broadcast for the Germans. Do you know what the three of them had in common?’ The younger man squinted, shook his head. Allen continued, “They were American citizens – all three.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  The older man snorted. “But the British knew how to deal with t
raitors – at least with ‘Haw Haw’”

  “He was executed.”

  “Right, Brent, in nineteen forty-six.” The fingers resumed the tattoo and then stopped. “But not Tokyo Rose.” The tone was harsh. “She lives in the United States.”

  “She was punished, Admiral.”

  “Ha! Six years in jail – a small fine and then President Ford pardoned her.”

  The ensign sighed. “You’re bitter, Admiral.”

  “My whole generation is, Brent.” The gray-green eyes moved to the bulkhead, focused on another place, another time. “Have you ever seen Arlington National Cemetery or the forest of crosses at the Punchbowl Crater?”

  “I’ve seen them both, Admiral.” The ensign’s voice was soft.

  The eyes moved to Brent. “Many of my friends are under those crosses, and many more are still in their ships on the bottom and she gloated over them. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course I’m bitter.”

  Straightening, the young man’s jaw took a hard set. “Admiral, do you have your own ‘forty-seven ronin’?”

  Eyes narrow, the older man mulled the question. “You’re amazing, Brent. I never thought of it that way. Perhaps we all think we’re above such base, primeval drives.” He tapped the desk. “You’ve touched a sensitive point – like the nerve ending in a rotten tooth. We Westerners are slow to admit lingering old hurts and hates. But, yes, you may be right. The ‘Forty-Seven’ could be there in all the old warriors.” He sighed. “In a way, we’re all alike – certainly, we can’t rise above being just ordinary men.”

  “The Japanese wallow in vengeance.”

  “Maybe they’re smarter than we are.”

  “What do you mean, Admiral?”

  “Why fight natural drives?”

  “Like the Ten Commandments.”

  “Good example, Brent. Roll with nature, don’t fight her. Man is an animal – part and parcel of nature. The Japanese are more aware of this.”

  There was a long silence in which both men avoided eye contact. Finally, Brent spoke. “Let’s come back to Matsuhara – the nisei?

  “Go ahead, Brent.”

  “I know thousands of Japanese-Americans served bravely in the infantry. They sustained gruesome casualties.”