Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  A sly look narrowed the German’s eyes. “You are clever, Admiral. There is also one at Al Aziziyah – just south of Tripoli.”

  “Thank you, Kapitan,” Fujita said. “You may live another day.”

  The German winced. “I can be useful,” he said, lips trembling.

  “Take him away,” Fujita said.

  In a moment, the German was gone. “He fell for your ploy and lied, too,” Bernstein said. “We have no word of bases at Zuwarah, Suit or Al Aziziyah.”

  “Obviously” Fujita said, smiling. “Either he was trying to mislead us or he would try to buy time by impressing us.” He gestured to the chart. “We attack Al Kararim and Misratah!”

  He was interrupted by the shriek of an engine at full power and then another and another as the CAP roared into the sky.

  The phone rang. Obeying Fujita’s gesture, Brent brought the instrument to his ear. He recognized the voice of Radioman Toyoyama. “Intruder aircraft… ah, ‘Bogie’ bearing one-zero-zero true, range three hundred fifty kilometers, course two-seven-zero, altitude two thousand meters, speed one hundred forty. ECM reports strong incoming radar signals.”

  “Very well!” Brent informed the Admiral.

  “Call Combat Intelligence. Matsuhara’s section to track ‘Bogie’ at four thousand meters. Destroy it if it closes within one hundred fifty kilometers.” Then, spitting his words like a man who had eaten sour fruit, “Break radio silence but on our fighter frequency only and only if the intruder advances on Yonaga. Notify our escorts by flag hoist.” Slowly, with both hands on the desk, the old man pushed himself to his feet. “Gentlemen, please accompany me to the bridge.”

  *

  Commander Yoshi Matsuhara had led the two sections in a slow climbing turn to the left and had just passed five hundred meters when his earphones crackled with word of the bogie. In a moment, he had jammed his throttle to the firewall, pulled the stick back, and felt himself pushed back in his seat as the little fighter clawed for altitude. Disliking the restraint of his parachute, he unsnapped the straps and then rotated his head freely, glimpsing the vast, gleaming turquoise of the Mediterranean beneath and the empty blue dome of the sky above. Takamura and Kojima were there on his wingtips like twins tied to their mother by umbilicals. He smiled confidently as he glanced at his clipboard. They should make the interception midway between the Balearic Islands and the coast of Algeria, unless the stranger turned away.

  And the other section was gone, circling to the north and climbing. Now, it was up to him, Takamura and Kojima.

  Were the Arabs suspicious? Certainly, the intruder was on a collision course with the task force. An airliner? A lone bomber seeking the hit Admiral Allen had mentioned? It made no difference. Yonagds air space was not to be violated; not even by a kite. Whatever it was, he would destroy it.

  As he leveled off at four thousand meters, he glanced at his compass heading; zero-nine-zero, the reciprocal of the enemy’s course. Knowing he was approaching the target with a combined closing speed of, perhaps, five hundred knots, he hunched forward, staring down over the leading edge of his wings, expecting interception in minutes. He was not disappointed.

  Suddenly, it was there. A huge four-engined transport, low on the water clearly marked with Libyan insignias. He saw no guns. Hastily, he scanned the cloudless sky. No escort. A lone patrol.

  He glanced to his left and to his right at his wingmen. Waggled his wings and punched a balled fist upward three times. Takamura and Kojima answered the signal, breaking formation and then trailing in a column, Takamura before Kojima.

  Watching the Libyan with narrow eyes, Yoshi pulled back on the stick, climbing into the sun. In seconds, the four-engined aircraft had passed beneath him, apparently unaware of the stalking Zeros. Then Matsuhara shouted, “Banzai”; pushed the stick to the left and kicked left rudder.

  The little fighter flipped over on its back and then with the stick forward, the nose dropped in a screeching dive. Gently, Matsuhara worked his controls until, finally, the huge aircraft worked its way into the range finder.

  Just as he had calculated, he was diving on his enemy’s tail – a blind fool, who plowed along oblivious to the mortal danger streaking from the sun.

  Suddenly, he was shocked as glowing firebrands whipped past the canopy to starboard. The enemy was not blind and helpless. Indeed, now he could see a dorsal turret mounting two guns of at least twelve millimeter, spitting flame into his face.

  He choked back a sick, empty feeling. Fingered the red button, but hesitated, disliking long range, wasteful exchanges. Four hundred meters. Three hundred meters. The fighter vibrated as something struck his starboard wing. He saw torn aluminum glint. Rip. Flash in the slipstream. The turret was centered on his cross-hairs. Two hundred meters. He held his breath. Pushed the red button. Saw flame leap from his cannons, felt the Zero buck and slow as recoil shook the airframe.

  The turret dissolved sending shattered Perspex and bits of aluminum streaming like confetti in the slipstream. With a touch as gentle as a breath of air, he brought back the stick raking the transport’s fuselage; then with a little right rudder, the starboard wing came into his sights.

  In a wink, he had hurtled past his enemy and pulled back hard on the stick, feeling the force of gravity multiply and drain blood from his brain until the sky darkened and the horizon rotated crazily. Breathing deeply, he shook his head, brought the cowl up to where the enemy should be. But the sky was empty. He caught black smoke and found him high above; trailing off and slanting to the north, smoke belching from both starboard engines. His wingman must have scored, too, and had clung to his tail exactly where he knew they would be.

  He exhorted the Zero. “Climb! Climb!” Pounded the instrument panel. The little fighter responded like a carnivore closing for the kill. The belly of the dying transport filled his sight. He would make sure. One hundred meters. He punched the red button. Again, the recoil and the transport staggered as twenty millimeter shells tore great chunks of aluminum from her fuselage. But the Zero was standing on her tail. Could stall.

  Quickly, Matsuhara rolled to his left and into a dive, clearing himself from Takamura’s line of fire. In a second, he bottomed out of his dive and brought his nose up for his third run.

  But a glance told him there would be no third run. Flaming, the huge plane was locked in a flat spin from which it could never recover. Smiling, Matsuhara watched as the transport crashed into the sea in a huge column of water. Then, in seconds, it was gone, leaving the usual grave marker of the sea; burning fuel and black smoke.

  “Banzai! Banzai!” the flight leader shouted, waving a fist. And closing on his left and right, his wingmen answered joyfully.

  In a moment, the gleaming white fighters banked to the west and streaked toward the sun like the tip of a javelin hurled by the gods.

  Chapter XVII

  “We are here, steaming on the thirty-fifth parallel, longitude fifteen. Our targets bear two-seven-zero which will be your in-course. Range now is two hundred seventy kilometers. We launch at zero-six-hundred – one hour from now.”

  Standing on the dais before a blackboard and huge chart of the Mediterranean, Matsuhara moved his eyes over the packed briefing room and the forty-eight pilots cramming it. Four days of constant meetings and hard planning had preceded this briefing. And Admiral Fujita had worked out a clever plan which had been studied by all hands.

  Turning to a yeoman, the flight leader said, “Al Kararim and Misratah.”

  There were shouts of “Banzai” as the yeoman scrawled ideograms on the blackboard.

  “You have been over the plan many times. But you will hear it again.” Matsuhara reached for a pointer; changed his mind, and drew his sword. He stabbed at the chart. “The two strips are only forty kilometers apart. Our fighter cover can patrol both.” He moved his eyes to a small dark pilot with black hair and intense black eyes. “Lieutenant Ariga, you have the fighter cover at Al Kararim.”

  “Yes, sir.”


  “You will lead twenty-four Zeros in at one hundred meters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have briefed your section leaders?”

  A half-dozen pilots leaped to their feet shouting, “Banzai.”

  Matsuhara smiled. “My section leaders have been briefed and will follow me to Misratah.” More men leaped to their feet shouting. Bedlam.

  Smiling, Yoshi raised his sword, sent the men back to their chairs. “You are fighter pilots, the most important element in any strike. We must protect the Aichis and Nakajimas – guarantee they deliver their bombs.” He struck the deck with his sword point. “We approach the coast at a hundred meters – stay under their radar – maintain radio silence, SOA one hundred forty knots and on a lean mixture.” He indicated a point off the coast. “Here we will begin our climb – the Aichis to two thousand meters for their dives, the Nakajimas to one thousand meters for the horizontal runs.” Matsuhara paused, watching his men scribble on clipboards furiously. He nodded confidently, knowing he commanded the best fighter pilots on earth.

  “When we start our climb, Arab radar should pick us up, but we will be less than five minutes from our targets. Fifteen Aichis and fifteen Nakajimas will attack A1 Kararim. The same number will strike Misratah. Don’t forget,” the sword point struck steel, “our function is protection. We will climb to four thousand meters. There should be enemy fighters patrolling. You know their favorite fighter is the German Mes-serschmitt, and they have a few Spitfires, Hurricanes and even civilian planes may be thrown at us. But none of these aircraft can turn with you. They are heavier, can out-dive us, but cannot dogfight the Zero-sen.”

  Cheers. “Banzais!”

  “Dogfight them. That is what we want. But maintain your discipline. Stay with your wingmen. A lone fighter is cold meat.” He struck the deck again. “And the objective is to destroy every enemy plane. We will strafe but only after we have cleared the skies of the enemy and only on my command. And remember, radio silence until I break it – break it with the same signal for surprise I used at Pearl Harbor!”

  The men rose, screaming, “Tora, tora, tora.”

  Smiling, the flight leader’s eyes roved over his gesticulating, shouting pilots. But waving a message, a yeoman distracted him. After glancing at the paper, Matsuhara pounded a table with the flat side of his sword until silence returned. “Here is some point option data. Yonaga will steam zero-nine-zero, speed sixteen on the thirty-fifth parallel after launch. After two hours, she will turn north here and steam three-five-zero.” He stabbed at the chart. “Latitude thirty-five, longitude twenty-one.” He pointed again. “She expects to recover us here!”

  A phone buzzed. A yeoman put it to his ear and scribbled furiously. Then the rating handed the flight leader the message. Yoshi looked up at a sea of expectant faces. “The latest weather from Radio Tripoli. Skies clear, but there is a cloud buildup to the south. Wind from the east, southeast gusting to eight knots. Visibility excellent.”

  He leaned toward his men. “You are all that remains of the Imperial Navy. Do not be too eager to enter the Yasakuni Shrine. I can see your Hachimachi headbands and I know you wear your ‘belts of a thousand stitches’ as I do. True, these talismans will help us die well for the emperor. But let me remind you, the emperor has better use for a live fighter than for a dead one.” A grim silence filled the room.

  “If you are to live, use your heads but not your fuel. You know you have exacdy eight hundred ten liters. If the wind holds during the run-in, we can maintain cover on a fine pitch and lean mixture with rpms at two thousand or less. This means our fuel consumption will be under a hundred liters an hour. Your belly tanks should be empty by the time we reach the coast. Use every drop of fuel before jettisoning. You know, once we engage and go to full military power, we will double consumption.” The men nodded.

  “Your out-course is zero-four-five, altitude two thousand meters – unless engaged, of course – SOA one hundred forty knots. If possible, radio silence. We do not want to invite tracking by enemy RDFs.” The men nodded silendy. The flight leader continued. “As usual, I am Edo-Leader and Lieutenant Ariga’s call is Fuji Leader. The sections are color coded and numbered as in the past. Questions?” Matsuhara leaned on his sword.

  “The Brooklyn?” a pilot shouted from the back of the room.

  “The Israelis believe she is still in the eastern Mediterranean.”

  “The Mikasa?”

  Yoshi nodded. “At last reports, in the Adantic, steaming toward the Straits of Gibraltar.” He tapped the sword, gestured to a group of yeomen. “These men have scissors and envelopes for any of you wishing to send nail clippings and hair for cremation to next of kin – if you have any.” There was bitterness in the voice.

  In a moment, the envelopes and scissors were distributed to, perhaps, a score of pilots who snipped quickly. Then, Matsuhara nodded to more yeomen standing beside aluminum battle ration containers. The ratings hurried through the room distributing a chestnut and a cup of sake to the pilots. As each officer accepted his nut and liquor, he came to his feet without command.

  After sheathing his sword, the commander took his sake and chestnut and stood silendy. Then, in a soft voice, “For those of us who enter the Yasakuni Shrine this day, a poem written by the great hero Yoshida Sherakawa who was martyred over a century ago:

  This is the journey

  From which for me

  There shall be no return

  Wholly drenched

  Is the pine tree of tears.”

  For a long moment, the pilots stood like Buddhas listening to the whine of blowers and thump of engines. Matsuhara broke the silence with a booming voice, “They are murdering our countrymen. They call us ‘yellow monkeys.’ Try to extort us – have degraded the mikado. Insults are unacceptable to the samurai.” There was a roar of anger. “Vengeance!”

  “Vengeance!” roared back.

  Quickly, Matsuhara ate his chestnut. Every man followed his example. Then, the cups were raised overhead. “You are the cutting edge,” Matsuhara shouted. “Today we will slash the throats of our oppressors.”

  “Banzai!” pealed from fifty throats as one.

  “Tenno heiko banzai!” Matsuhara roared in return.

  The salute to the emperor brought new fire to every eye. Then, “Tenno heiko banzai,” rang again and again.

  Matsuhara silenced the men and then, with a quick movement, emptied his cup. Every man mirrored the ancient salute.

  Again, silence filled the room. Moving his eyes slowly over his men, Matsuhara could not find one face free of tears. Then the speaker hissed, and a flat voice filled the compartment. “Pilots, man your planes.”

  Rigidly, the aviators snapped to attention. Head high, eyes agleam, Commander Yoshi Matsuhara strode up the aisle. In a moment, the room was nearly empty. Only two yeomen remained, sealing envelopes.

  *

  Standing next to Admiral Fujita and Mark Allen on the flag bridge, Brent Ross was staring down at a flight deck crowded with fighters and bombers when, “Pilots, man your planes,” echoed through the ship. With a cheer, brown-clad pilots and aircrews burdened with parachutes, clipboards and oxygen bottles ran across the deck. Within minutes, pilots struggled into their cockpits and the first Sakaes spluttered to life, belching clouds of blue-gray smoke.

  “A massive raid,” Mark Allen observed.

  “One hundred eight aircraft, Admiral,” Fujita said. Allen whistled. “And your CAP.”

  “Yes. Nine Zeros and we are keeping eighteen more ready.” He tapped the rail. “Also, in an emergency, we can put up eighteen Aichis and fifteen Nakajimas.” “That’s too many,” Mark Allen said. “Not even Yonaga can operate that many aircraft.”

  “We could lose some.” Fujita turned to the talker. “Wind?”

  The talker spoke into his mouthpiece, nodded. Then he said, “Zero-four-zero, gusting to twelve knots.” Fujita turned to Brent Ross. “We need over thirty knots of wind across our deck.” He smiled. “What
course and speed would you suggest, Ensign?”

  Surprised by the Admiral’s levity, Brent straightened. Was it the scent of battle? The prospect for revenge? The samurai thrived on blood-letting. Certainly, the admiral appeared cheerful. “Ah… sir,” Brent said, slowly. “I would come to zero-four-zero, speed twenty-four.”

  “Excellent! Ensign. You are an apt pupil.” He turned to the talker. “To the signal bridge, make the hoist, ‘I am launching aircraft’. To the navigation bridge, come left to zero-four-zero, speed twenty-four.”

  In a moment, Brent felt the carrier heel, and the vibrations of the main engines increase in tempo.

  Now, looking down, Brent saw propellers turning on every aircraft. And in the first ranks, fighters straining eagerly at their restraints. There was Matsuhara, staring up, sneering. Now, the flight leader raised a fist high overhead, rotating it. Then, all the fighter pilots repeated the signal.

  Fujita looked at his watch. “Another minute. Sometimes fighter pilots are too anxious.” He leaned against the windscreen. Brent moved his eyes over the catwalks, which were crowded with crewmen waving small, paper Japanese battle ensigns. And the foretop, too, was crowded with men, cheering and waving. But the admiral waited.

  Finally, after glancing at his watch, he turned to the talker. “Launch.”

  In a moment, Brent saw the tie-downs dropped and the chocks pulled from Matsuhara’s fighter. Joyously, the engine roared and the small plane raced down the deck and was airborne after a short run. Then, a steady parade of aircraft raced down the deck and clawed for altitude. Soon, dozens of planes circled counter-clockwise as air groups assembled.

  Within forty minutes, all aircraft were launched and then streamed to the south, skimming the sea. As the last plane vanished over the horizon, Mark Allen turned to Admiral Fujita.

  “You know, Sir, Admiral Nagumo lost carriers Kaga, Akagi, Soryu and Him at Midway because he attacked a land target, recovered, was rearming and refueling when he was caught by dive bombers.”