Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “You’re thinking of the One Hundredth Infantry Battalion and the Four Hundred Forty-Second Regimental Combat Team. Yes. Brave men, indeed.” The older man tapped his knee. “But, keep in mind, thousands of nisei returned to Japan, fought against us.”

  “How many thousands?”

  “Precisely how many will never be known.”

  “No records were kept?”

  “Yes. And there are no memorials at the Yasakuni Shrine or anywhere else in Japan for their dead. And their families kept their silence. None of their dead are in American military cemeteries, either.”

  “But, Admiral, there was a ‘German-American Bund.’”

  “True. A bunch of noisy German-American Nazis. But they didn’t make an organized effort to send their sons to fight against us and, don’t forget, Germany didn’t recognize the principle of jus sanguinis.”

  “There are probably more Americans on this ship.”

  “I would expect it. And don’t be surprised if many of the native-born Japanese were educated in England and the United States – especially the older officers.”

  “Yes. I know, Admiral. I heard you mention this to Admiral Fujita.”

  The admiral sank back, hands spread on his knees. “You know, Brent, I wouldn’t be surprised if he attended an American university.”

  Brent Ross matched the older man’s smile. “Naw, Admiral – he’s too Japanese.”

  Chapter VII

  “Radioman Toyoyama, Radioman Kojaku, move your watch to the radio room,” Fujita said to his communications men. “Hironaka-san, you may remain.”

  Toyoyama and Kojaku bowed and exited while the old scribe half rose from his usual chair muttering, “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Admiral Allen, Ensign Ross, seat yourselves.” The old admiral nodded to two chairs facing his desk. “You brought a scribe,” he continued, gesturing to a tall, young yeoman with golden hair like a shock of summer wheat, standing behind the officers.

  “This is Yeoman Second Class Kurt Martin,” Allen said. “Do you object to a tape recorder?”

  “A device like a record machine – a record machine that records everything said on tape?”

  “Correct!”

  “Of course not. And your man may sit there.” He pointed to the table vacated by the communications men – a table cluttered with telephones, earphones, receivers and microphones. The Americans seated themselves; the tape recorder began to whir. The Japanese admiral continued. “Proceed, Admiral Allen.”

  Brent, who remained silent, detected a new vitality hinting of enthusiasm in the brittle old voice. The old man appeared eager to speak; to welcome new faces, fresh minds. After forty-three years of isolation, seeing the same men, hearing the same stories, anyone would be anxious to speak to strangers; tell his story. Certainly, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara, despite his hatred, spoke freely and articulately, betraying decades of loneliness, the yearning to speak to new ears and fatigue with the old. Brent was convinced Admiral Fujita was no different.

  “Name?”

  “Hiroshi Fujita.”

  “Birth date?”

  “Fifteen September, eighteen eighty-four – Christian calendar, of course.”

  “Parents?”

  “Seiko Fujita was my father. He was a distinguished professor of mathematics at Nagoya University. My mother was Akemi.”

  “Siblings?”

  “I had an older brother, Hachiro. He was killed leading an attack against the Russians at Mukden on five March, nineteen hundred five. This was his sword.” He held a curved killing blade above his desk, then returned it to the deck.

  “Education?”

  “I graduated from the Nagoya Technical High School in eighteen ninety-nine, admitted to Eta Jima in nineteen hundred.” The old Japanese glanced at Ross and Martin. “It was our Annapolis.”

  “It was very British, Admiral,” Allen said.

  “You commented upon this before, Admired Allen.” Again, the Japanese admiral turned to the American ensign. “It was built from bricks made in England. I helped unwrap them.”

  “And your traditions, uniforms were copied from the British,” Allen said.

  The old Japanese held up his hands, signaling irritation. “How many times must you say these things?” The hands slapped the desk top. “Our training procedures were Japanese – completely Japanese. No Englishman or American could have survived.”

  Smiling, Brent glanced at Mark Allen. Both had endured Annapolis’s brutal harassment and what the ensign was convinced were the most rigorous physical and mental standards on earth. He was to learn differently.

  Admiral Allen spoke. “I know the curriculum was rigorous.”

  “Rigorous – ha! You Westerners can never appreciate the harshness of the discipline. If a cadet committed a breach of discipline, a petty officer would drag him from his bunk and beat him mercilessly.”

  “You were beaten?” Brent blurted, suddenly.

  The old man smiled. “Many times with fists and paddles. In fact, several times I was knocked unconscious.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do not forget, Ensign Ross, we were officer candidates in the hands of professionals destined to be enlisted men throughout their careers. Of course the treatment was harsh, perhaps sadistic in your view.”

  Every man including Yeoman Second Class Kurt Martin nodded understanding. The old mariner continued. “Do not forget, the object was to teach instant, unthinking obedience to orders – a common virtue in all military organizations. Also, shared responsibility was taught. This was done by beating all sixty candidates in a company in the event one was punished. And no one could even groan – groans led to more blows.”

  “Sounds effective,” Allen said.

  “Ha! Effective! Within weeks, we were cattle ready to be driven anywhere. Orders were sacrosanct, never challenged, followed blindly; as they should be.”

  “Your initiative was crushed.”

  A sly look came into the old eyes. “No more than yours or Lord Nelson’s or John Paul Jones’. We became naval officers – typical naval officers. You can find them in any navy.”

  “But there are differences.”

  “Of course. We came as samurai. This gave us an advantage over all of you.”

  Admiral Allen snorted. “History may not support your conclusion, Admiral.”

  “Your history may not, but mine will.”

  The American officers eyed each other. Mark Allen spoke. “Please, Admiral, let’s not lose ourselves in polemics. Please continue with your story.”

  “You know our curriculum was heavy with science, mathematics, English, history, engineering and tactics.” The Americans nodded. “But the physical training was the most difficult on earth.”

  “Examples please.”

  Knowing the discussion was straying far off course, Brent threw a sharp glance at the senior American officer. But Mark Allen was unresponsive, staring at Fujita in wide-eyed fascination. Brent held his silence.

  The old man balled his gnarled fingers, pressed them to the desk. “They had a pole with a yardarm.”

  “A pole with a yardarm?”

  “Yes, a pole at least twenty meters… ah, sixty feet tall. We were required to climb the pole and hang from the yardarm by one hand for at least ten minutes.”

  Now Brent felt himself caught up in the story, carried along like flotsam in a storm. He spoke, voice filled with disbelief, “One hand – ten minutes! Impossible!”

  The old admiral smiled at Brent – a benign smile he now seemed to reserve for the young American. “I graduated – I am here. No! Obviously not impossible.” The smile vanished. “And we had swimming lessons. They taught us by tying ropes around our waists and throwing us into the ocean. And every cadet had to remain underwater for at least ninety seconds.” The rheumy eyes moved from Allen to Ross and then back. “The average man can, with a great deal of effort, endure about forty seconds of breathlessness.” Pride crept into the voice. “My record was two minutes and forty-three seconds underwat
er.” The old man sighed, slumped in his chair.

  “Tired, Admiral?” Mark Allen said, quickly.

  “No! Of course not,” Fujita retorted, coming erect, eyes flashing with new energy.

  “Please continue.”

  “I was assigned to battleship Mikasa, Admiral Togo’s flagship.”

  “You told us.”

  “I did not tell you of Tsushima.”

  “You told us you were there.”

  “Oh? I did?”

  Brent Ross exchanged a look with Mark Allen. This was the old Admiral’s first concession to time – the first hint that the years had exacted a toll. Brent thought he detected a sudden blush, a reddening of the creased and furrowed cheeks.

  But continuing, the old man appeared composed, words flowing smoothly. “It was on twenty-seven May, nineteen hundred five. We met the Russian Far East Fleet in the Korean Straits – destroyed it.”

  The old man’s eyes moved to Brent Ross. Brent felt a growing strength, an aura of power that permeated the cabin and dominated everyone it touched. He felt transported back to a distant place and great moment for a little Japanese centenarian, who gloried in a slaughter that happened more than half a century before the American’s birth.

  Mark Allen interrupted. “You met the Russian Baltic Fleet. They’d been under way for seven months, had barnacles up to their waterlines and coal stacked to the funnels.”

  The black eyes flashed back to the American admiral. “It makes no difference. The Russians outgunned us – eight battleships, three armored cruisers against four battleships and eight armored cruisers. They gave battle and we accepted.”

  Allen nodded. “True. They showed courage – gave battle in old battleships designed by the French – poorly armored and at least five knots slower than your battle line.”

  Awed, Brent stared at the admiral. Fujita, obviously impressed, spoke. “You have an amazing knowledge.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. Tsushima was studied by flag officers of all navies in war colleges all over the world.” He glanced at the younger men. “It was the first time in the history of modern warships that massed fleets of battleships, cruisers and torpedo boats engaged each other.” Allen leaned forward. “Let’s come back to your battleships, Admiral. They were all British built.”

  “Yes. Fast, well armored, mounting main batteries of four thirty-point-five centimeter guns in two turrets.”

  “The Russians mounted twelve inch guns, too.”

  “True.” The old Japanese sagged back. “How can one forget such a day.” Allen glanced at Ross. Both men knew it was time for silence. “It was misty that day in the Korean Straits with a heavy sea. It was just before fourteen hundred hours when we sighted them at ten thousand meters on a northerly heading making for Vladivostok. We were bows to bows. Then Admiral Togo hoisted the Z flag signaling his immortal ‘The Empire’s fate depends on the result of this battle. Let every man do his utmost duty.’ The fleet was drowned in cheers. We opened fire at seven thousand yards – an unheard-of range in those days, came about and steamed parallel to the enemy. Immediately, we began to get our hits.”

  Allen’s voice was soft like a man awakening a dreamer. “Your battle station, Admiral?”

  “I was the control officer in the after turret.”

  “You fired locally?”

  “Yes, Admiral. You know there was no central director with following pointer and plot in those days.”

  Brent Ross came to life. “You fired two twelve inch guns just using your eyesight?”

  Fujita smiled. “I had a telescope mounted under a steel hood on top of the turret.”

  Brent was fascinated. “How could you hit at seven thousand yards?”

  “It was difficult. Our lookouts read our splashes which were a hundred feet high.”

  “But four battleships were firing.”

  The old man nodded. “We closed to four thousand yards and blew them out of the water.”

  Brent Ross leaned forward and spoke intensely, “Your accuracy… amazing.”

  Again, the benign smile. “Why? Our guns were breech loaders with wire-wound barrels and hydraulic recoil cylinders. Elevation and training gears and ammunition hoists were all hydraulically operated. My guns had all-angle loading and flexible chain rammers gave us a rate of fire of one round every forty seconds. I could hold my targets in continuous aim not waiting for a particular angle of roll. And we had cordite and armor-piercing shells. And, do not forget, even in nineteen hundred five, our turrets were driven by electricity.”

  Mark Allen turned to Brent Ross. “Actually, the turret design of Mikasa was the basic design of the battleship turret that was kept by all navies even up to World War Two.”

  Brent turned back to Fujita. “But the Russians had twelve inch guns, too. You must have taken casualties.”

  “Of course. But we destroyed them – sank thirty-four ships including all of their capital ships, killed five thousand Russians.”

  “Your losses?”

  “Three torpedo boats sunk and perhaps a hundred dead.”

  Admiral Allen spoke up. “One sided, indeed.” He raked white hair from his forehead with spread fingers. “Admiral Nagumo flew the Z flag, also, on seven December before attacking Pearl Harbor.”

  “So did Yonaga.”

  A heavy silence seeped in, coated the room. Sighing, Fujita sagged in his chair, wiped his face with an open hand as if weariness was a mask he could pull off and discard.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Admiral?” Mark Allen said, genuine concern in his voice.

  Again, the old Japanese straightened. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Please continue.”

  Pushing on his armrests with both elbows, the ancient sailor came erect, squared his frail shoulders. “After the Russian War, more battleship duty and the Naval War College. And then in nineteen nine, your pilot, Eugene Ely, changed my life.”

  “Eugene Ely?”

  “Why yes, Admiral Allen. He took off and landed a plane using one of your cruisers fitted with a flight deck and crude rope arrester gear attached to sandbags”

  “Oh, yes… yes. The first, the very first, and it was the Birmingham.”

  Brent Ross watched the old eyes move to the overhead, lids slitted, face a book of memories. The man was a time machine, a bridge to a past so distant it seemed mythical like verses from Le Morte D’Arthur. But the little man had been there, had known events found only in dusty books.

  Uneasily, the young ensign shifted his weight, moved his eyes over the cold steel walls. There was an aura there – the pregnant aura of a seance. Was that it? Was the withered little man a medium to ghosts of the past, summoning up the phantoms that commanded men’s minds – that persuaded, convinced, melted your will? Admiral Allen and Yeoman Martin felt it, staring with glazed eyes like lotus eaters.

  Shaking his head, Admiral Allen stirred and broke the mood. “You worked in early aviation?”

  “Yamamoto and I.”

  Looking up from his pad, Martin came to life. “Yamamoto, sir?”

  “Yes. Isoroku Yamamoto. We were classmates at Eta Jima. He became Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Fleet in nineteen thirty-nine. He, Kameto Kuroshima, and I developed Plan Z.”

  Allen turned to Martin. “The Pearl Harbor attack of seven December, Yeoman.” He turned back to Fujita. “You began your planning very early.”

  The old man’s smile had the dust of years on it. “And so did you – remember your Rainbow One, Admiral Allen? You began working on it in the early part of this century.”

  Allen came erect, eyes wide. “How did you know? It was a top secret plan and you’ve been isolated.”

  The smile dissolved into a sneer. “You Americans keep secrets like drunken geisha girls.”

  Allen winced, obviously choking back irritation with difficulty. His voice was husky. “There was nothing unusual about Rainbow One. It was one of five Rainbow Plans – all were contingency plans in the event of war with a number of
powers or combination of powers.”

  “Yes. But Japan was always an adversary.”

  “The empire was ambitious – expansionistic. You wanted the Hawaiian Islands and as much of Asia as you could digest.”

  “We wanted Asia for the Asiatics. What was wrong with that?” The old eyes bored into Allen. “You preferred Asia for the Dutch, English and Americans.”

  Allen clenched his jaw, accepted the challenge of Fujita’s eyes. “Sir, we’re losing ourselves in polemics again. Please continue with your biography.”

  The narrow black eyes left the American admiral, returned to the overhead. Again, Brent Ross felt the phantoms. “The Admiralty insisted on foreign exposure… ah, education for its key officers.”

  “You were a key officer.”

  “Yes. Many of us studied abroad, especially in England and the United States. In fact, Isoroku Yamamoto attended Harvard from nineteen seventeen to nineteen twenty. Admiral Tamon Yamaguchi attended Yale.”

  “And you?”

  “USC.”

  “USC?”

  “Yes. I received a master’s in English at the University of Southern California in nineteen twenty-one.”

  Hearing a gasp, Brent turned to Kurt Martin who stared back incredulously. Even Mark Allen fell silent. Brent spoke. “That’s hard to believe, sir.”

  “Why, Ensign? It was a common practice.”

  Mark Allen spoke. “You inferred a specialization in aviation.”

  “True.”

  “Then you saw early carrier service. Perhaps Kaga and Akagi.”

  “Akagi, Admiral Allen.”

  “A converted battle cruiser – along with Kaga your first modern carriers.”

  The Japanese nodded. “Very good, Admiral. I learned to fly in nineteen twenty-four at the Kasumigaura Air Training School just after my wedding.”

  “Oh, yes. You mentioned your family at our first meeting.”

  The brown of the old man’s eyes was suddenly heightened enough to be back-lighted. “They are dead.”

  Allen’s voice was soft. “I know. Captain Aogi told us.”

  Fujita seemed not to hear. “Akiko, dead. My sons, Kazuo and Makoto, dead.” He was talking to himself.