Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “Yes, sir.”

  The ancient Japanese hurried on with new enthusiasm. “Your armament?”

  “All guns are new, Admiral. We have armor-piercing and antiaircraft shells for five inch thirty-eights and forty millimeter. Our five inch antiaircraft shells have contact and proximity fusing.”

  “Good. Three of your ships have torpedo tubes.”

  “Ogren, Warner and Jackson.”

  “Paint numbers one through seven on your bows. You are number one in command of the screen and Destroyer Division One which will consist of numbers one through four. The torpedo-equipped destroyers will be numbered five, six and seven and will be called Destroyer Division Two, commanded by an officer designated by you. All signals will be visual.” He gestured to Lieutenant J. G. Nobu Yonai. “My communications officer will provide you with the signals. But I will tell you, flashing light will use international Morse; and flag hoist will also use international signals. And I will expect you to hoist a position report at dawn along with a fuel report.”

  The captains nodded. “But, sir, once we engage the enemy, we will break radio silence.”

  “Of course.” Fujita nodded to Yonai.

  “M ‘Bridge to Bridge’ and FM Ten,” Yonai said quickly, eyeing Bernstein who nodded.

  “Screens, sir,” Fite asked.

  “You will be my ‘point’ – one thousand yards ahead of my bow. Two vessels off the port and starboard bows at five hundred meters, two more off my beams, two off my quarters. If unidentified aircraft are in the vicinity – I understand you call them ‘bogies’ – close to three hundred meters, but no closer. You know I may be forced into sudden changes of course at flank speed.”

  “Speed of advance?”

  “Yonaga has a range of seventy two hundred miles at a design cruising speed of sixteen knots.”

  “Ours is six thousand at fourteen.”

  “But Kadafi is killing hostages and there have been air raids on Israel.” The old eyes moved up and down the table. “We will go to an SOA of twenty-four knots.”

  Fite whistled. “We’ll use a lot of fuel, sir.”

  “I know. But we have our rendezvous established and will top off twice.” He indicated Kawamoto. “My executive officer, Captain Kawamoto, has prepared a packet for you explaining screens, fueling and provisioning.” The captains nodded. The old Japanese hunched forward. “Your torpedo!”

  “Yes, sir. Twenty-one inch.”

  “Not the Mark 14 that refused to explode.”

  Amazed, the American captains stared at each other. Brent Ross and Mark Allen exchanged a knowing look. Brent had expected the old man’s depth of knowledge would eventually stun the Americans. And now he had done it.

  “Oh, no sir,” Fite finally managed. “That ordnance is long gone. We have new, oxygen-powered ‘fish’ equipped with contact and proximity detonators.”

  “Proximity?”

  “Acoustics, sir. They’ll track ships’ screws.”

  “Screws can be shielded.”

  “Of course, Admiral.”

  There was a knock and Brent admitted two orderlies carrying crockery and sake. Each officer was handed a full cup. Slowly, Fujita pushed himself to his feet, staring as every officer snapped to attention. Then, the old man held his sake high. Every man in the room mirrored the gesture.

  “In the American tradition,” Fujita said, moving his eyes over his captains. “Good hunting, gentlemen.”

  “Here! Here!” chorused back. Then every officer drained his cup with a quick toss of his head.

  In seconds, the cups were refilled and each officer was handed a chestnut. “And in the Japanese tradition,” he said reverently. “Let us find resolve in Emperor Meiji’s rescript to the Sendai Division, ‘Duty weighs with the weight of the mountain, death is as light as a swan’s down’.” Chewing the chestnut, he raised his cup slowly. Every man followed the example. “And remember,” the voice shed reverence, rancor crept in, “while Dai Nippon suffers ignominy, the samurai cannot sleep on logs, eat stones, drink gall. No, indeed, we shall bloom as the flowers of death.”

  “Banzai, banzai,” thundered. Then, the cups were drained, salutes exchanged and the destroyer captains filed silently from the room.

  *

  Steaming to the east and south, Yonaga plowed through the great, empty desert of the Pacific regally like a queen tended by seven fawning courtiers. And the sea was as impetuous as a flirtatious maiden. Cloudy dawns splashed the surface with gold, silver and purple hues while cloudless days sent sunbeams bouncing from the chop like a million glittering mirrors.

  On the third day, the northeasterlies stiffened, sending humped-back rollers to assault Yonaga in endless rows, quartering the great carrier and making her heave and groan in protest. On the bridge, Brent Ross could feel the perennial struggle in his legs, which bent with each impact and his stomach, which signaled its displeasure by sending bile to sour his lips. Gripping the windscreen, the young ensign turned to Mark Allen. “Getting rough, Admiral,” he said with forced casualness.

  The American admiral laughed. “This is mild, Brent. You should see how ‘pacific’ the Pacific is in a typhoon.”

  “No thanks, Admiral.”

  The admiral waved to the north. “We should be leaving Wake Island to the north and the Marshall Islands to the south.”

  “I know, Admiral. I saw the navigator’s plotting sheets. And we’ll cross the International Date Line this afternoon.”

  “That’s right, Brent. Set your watch back twenty-four hours.”

  Both men laughed.

  *

  As the days passed, Brent became accustomed to the carrier’s motions and the mysterious creaks and groans that accompany all ships at sea. The Hawaiian Islands were left to the north and Palmyra Atoll to the south, while anxious eyes were glued to the glowing, green radar scopes. Twice intruders glowed on the screens, but both times, a quick change in course took the task force clear of the strange ships.

  Air groups practiced daily. From the flag bridge, Brent, Mark Allen, Bernstein and Admiral Fujita watched as dozens of fighters, dive bombers and torpedo bombers took off for make-believe combat. Sleds towed by destroyers were bombed and strafed by Mitsubishis and Aichis while Nakajimas made practice torpedo runs on the carrier and escorts.

  Brent was fascinated by the Aichi dive bombers. Time after time he watched the old planes with their ludicrous fixed landing gear climb and then roll into shrieking dives. Then, slowed by their diving brakes, the big planes dropped their bombs on target sleds with amazing accuracy.

  One day after a particularly accurate demonstration, Mark Allen turned to Brent with a hard look in his eye. “The Aichi D3A sank more American ships than any other aircraft of World War Two.”

  Brent nodded. “This time they’re on our side.”

  Mark Allen nodded silently.

  And the ships practiced gunnery. Daily, sleeves were towed over the task force at close range to be shredded by machine guns. Every hit brought cheers from the gunners.

  On the fifth day, while a hundred miles north of the equator, Brent watched from the bridge as Yonaga suffered her first casualty. Steaming into the wind at high speed, the carrier began to recover a flight of a dozen Nakajimas. From the bridge, the young American could see the deck cleared and ready to receive aircraft: handlers crouched in their catwalks; landing signed officer holding two flags, far aft on the port side; four raised arresting wires; the fearsome wire and steel barrier cranked out of its slot in the deck amidships.

  The first torpedo bomber approached. Flags extended, the landing signal officer was a yellow cross. Now the plane was very low, on the carrier’s center line, close to the stern and trailing its hook. Suddenly, the flags were dropped and crossed at the officer’s knees.

  Throttle cut, the bomber sagged to the deck, smartly catching the first wire and stretching it like elastic. The pilot locked his brakes, revved his engine and, then, backed the plane a few feet. His hook disengaged and
the wire clattered to the deck.

  Leaping from their catwalks, handlers rushed to the bomber. Then the torpedo bomber was wrestled forward over the retracted barrier to the forward elevator. Quickly, the barrier was raised again; and the wire run out by the plane was retracted to its original position.

  Brent heard Fujita grunt. “Fifty seconds,” the old man said, staring at his watch.

  Mark Allen glanced at Brent. The Americans exchanged a smile.

  All went well until the fourth plane approached. Too high. Brent saw the officer wave off the bomber frantically. The engine roared, backfired ugly black smoke and stopped. Brent watched in horror as the big plane dropped like a stone, caught the third wire, bounced, snapped the arresting gear which hummed to port and starboard, crashed through the barrier, and then, shedding its starboard wing, hurtled over the port side into the sea.

  “Two block ‘Baker’!” Fujita shouted to the talker.

  But Brent knew the trailing destroyer had seen the accident. Staring aft in the white scar of Yonaga’s wake, he could see the tail of the bomber circling and sinking, while the destroyer closed quickly.

  Brent heard Fujita clap three times. Staring aft, the old Japanese said, “They are in the hands of the gods.”

  But the gods turned their backs. There were no survivors.

  *

  Early in the morning of the sixth day, midway between the Marquesas and Galapagos Islands, the task group was refueled. Steaming slowly, Yonaga crept up on the stern of a huge, gray tanker which wallowed in the swell like a whale disporting itself in the sun. Soon, a line was over and then two great hoses were hauled over Yonaga’s bows. And then, bow to stern in Japanese style, Yonaga drank in thousands of gallons of fuel greedily. Even on the bridge, Brent could smell the harsh, rancorous odor of diesel oil. It seemed sacrilegious.

  After Yonaga had “topped off,” the tanker moved to the screen and then, beam to beam, each escort was fueled. By mid-afternoon, all ships had drunk their fill, and the tanker vanished over the northern horizon.

  Leaning on the windscreen, Mark Allen turned to Admiral Fujita. “At this speed and with all this maneuvering, well need another fueling rendezvous, Admiral.”

  “I know, Admiral,” Fujita said. He turned to Bernstein. “We’ll need ‘Green One’.”

  The Israeli grimaced. “So soon, Sir? We agreed not to use it until we reached the ‘Med’.”

  “True, Colonel, but Admiral Allen is right. We are burning far more fuel than planned. You will send the tanker assigned to our second rendezvous to a point sixteen hundred kilometers due east of the Falklands. The navigator, Lieutenant Commander Atsumi, will supply you with the precise longitude and latitude. Send another tanker to the rendezvous south of the Azores. We will enter the Mediterranean with full tanks.”

  The Israeli pounded the rail. “The tankers are no problem, but we must go on the air over a period of perhaps two days; and we may be two weeks from the ‘Med’.”

  “I know. But there are no options.”

  “Then, Admiral, I would suggest we send for the encryption box immediately after entering the ‘Med’. Green One will not be secure.”

  The old Japanese nodded. “We shall see. Perhaps, we will not need it.”

  “I disagree, sir.”

  “Your privilege, Colonel.”

  The Israeli tugged on the point of his beard. “Admiral, what do you intend to do with Captain Schlieben?”

  “I’ve been questioning him.”

  “He doesn’t know much.”

  “True, Colonel.”

  “Ah… could I be given custody, Admiral?”

  “You have something to settle?”

  “Yes, Admiral. I would like to try him in Israel as a war criminal.”

  “Try him?” Fujita said in surprise. “If he is a criminal, why not just execute him. There are many inventive ways to dispatch a criminal.”

  “True, sir. But the Israeli way is a fair trial. We captured a monster named Adolph Eichman in Argentina years ago. He was not assassinated. Instead, he was brought back to Israel and put on trial. Then he was hanged.”

  Fujita shrugged. “Perhaps. But throwing him over the side would be far quicker and cheaper. The sharks would see to that.”

  “But you will consider my request?”

  “Yes, Colonel. I will keep it in mind.”

  *

  As the task force steamed south toward the southern tip of South America and the Drake Passage, the news reports became ominous. Although the Japanese negotiating team had arrived in Tripoli and was conferring with representatives of the Libyan government, there were reports of more garrotings of hostages. And Arab aircraft, including DC3s, AT6s, DC4s and Cessnas in addition to Heinkel Ills, Messerschmitts, and a scattering of B25s and Hurricanes, stepped up their raids on Israel despite enormous losses to Israeli fighters. Apparently, the Israelis had assembled hundreds of Mustangs, P47 Thunderbolts, F6F Hellcats and F4U Corsairs.

  And the Jihad began with human wave attacks from the Sinai, Jordan, Syria and Lebanon. Despite fanatic resistance, the Israelis yielded ground slowly, inflicting enormous casualties.

  “Israel will be overwhelmed,” Bernstein said after rushing to Fujita’s cabin with the latest news reports.

  “I know,” the old admiral replied from behind his desk. “And hostages are dying.” He turned to the only other occupant of the room, seated in front of the communications equipment. “Radioman Kojaku – get me Chief Engineer Tsugi.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The admiral turned to the Israeli. “I will come to thirty knots – that would put us in the Mediterranean in eleven days. But that speed demands much from a ship – boilers at six hundred pounds, steam heated and reheated to nine hundred degrees, three million gallons of pure water a day.” He sighed. “Our evaporators will be strained, and there is grave danger we may foul steam lines and boiler tubes.”

  “Dreck! Dreck!” the Israeli spat. “But there is no option – your hostages are being murdered, too.”

  “I know. I know.” Kojaku handed the admiral a phone. The admiral spoke briefly, turned to the Israeli colonel. “Of course, the chief engineer advises against it, but we will try the high speed run. I will give the orders now.” He turned back to the radioman.

  “Thank God,” the Israeli sighed. “Thank God!”

  *

  High on the bridge, the new pace of the engines was felt immediately. Especially, in the cold rough waters south of Cape Horn, Yonaga crashed through the swells hurling spray angrily. And the escorts rolled and pitched, sometimes obscured completely by white capped swells. Lowering skies were “mackereled” gray, streaked with fog and mist, ripped by the Antarctic wind that sent sleet to sting a man’s face like thrown gravel and tear his breath from his mouth in white ribbons.

  Everyone felt relief when at last the task force turned north and headed for the rendezvous with the second tanker. Again, Brent Ross was shocked when after three more days of steaming and exactly on schedule, the tanker appeared at a precise longitude and latitude, sixteen hundred kilometers due east of the Falklands.

  But the fueling was slow, and Brent stomped up and down the flag bridge while Allen, Bernstein and Fujita raised and lowered their binoculars and fidgeted.

  At mid-morning, while the tanker moved from escort to escort, an American cryptographer stepped on the platform, saluted and handed Admiral Mark Allen a message.

  “With your permission, Admiral,” Mark Allen said.

  Fujita nodded. After glancing at the document, the American said, “Naval Intelligence reports a Brooklyn class cruiser escorted by Fletchers and Sumners ‘cans’ in the ‘Med’.”

  “Where? Where?” Bernstein said.

  “Tripoli.”

  “Good. Good,” the Israeli said. “We have some B25s, B17s and a few dive bombers. I wouldn’t expect them to move against the Israeli coast until the Israeli Air Force is destroyed.”

  Fujita nodded. “Perhaps Yonaga will
entertain your Brooklyn.”

  “One other item, Admiral,” Mark Allen said. “Mikasa is under way escorted by four destroyers.”

  “Destination?”

  “She’s in our wake, Sir.”

  “Good! Good!” The old Japanese turned to the talker. “Tell the executive officer to hoist our biggest American ensign. Call the signal bridge, contact each escort by flashing light. Send the signal, ‘All escorts fly American colors.’ Bend on the hoist. ‘Execute to follow, SOA thirty knots, course zero-two-five’.”

  In a moment, the clatter of signaling searchlights could be heard, and flags and pennant were pulled to the yardarm to both port and starboard.

  Fujita continued. “Strike all aircraft below and bring up the mock-ups.”

  “Mock-ups!” Bernstein and Allen chorused.

  “Yes,” Fujita smiled. “My clever carpenters have constructed four F-Four-F Wildcats – your flying sake bottles.”

  “How? When?” Mark Allen sputtered.

  “You shall see.”

  In a few minutes, the last Zero disappeared and the first stubby Grumman appeared. “Behold,” Fujita said with mock triumph, “an American fighter on the deck of an American carrier.”

  “It’s wood?” Mark Allen managed.

  “Correct.”

  “Where did you get the plans?”

  “That was easy, Admiral Allen. The Admiralty subscribed to all of your aviation magazines during the Thirties. I have schematics and specifications including speed, armaments, service ceilngs for your P-Forties, P-Thirty-Nines, B-Seventeens—”

  “Please, Sir,” Mark Allen interrupted. “I believe you.”

  In a few moments, four little blue fighters complete with carrier stripes and squadron numbers were tied down on the stern.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Mark Allen muttered.

  “Inscrutable Orientals,” Fujita said, grinning. And then seriously, “We will steam at thirty knots north, northeast to our rendezvous with the third tanker.”

  “Well cross some of the most heavily traveled steamship routes on earth,” Allen noted.

  “I know,” Fujita answered. “All aircraft are struck below and will remain on the hangar deck until we enter the Mediterranean. Our training is complete.”