Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “You’re sure?”

  “Why of course. Admiral Fujita gave me his word.”

  “And you were satisfied with that?”

  “Naturally.” Brent was incredulous. “His word of honor.”

  “You’re one of them. Yes, you are. Another samurai.” The words washed over him like acid.

  “I can’t find that reprehensible,” he said, curtly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Brent,” she said, grasping his arm and looking up at him, suddenly, the contrite, wide-eyed young girl. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  Looking into the soft, moist eyes, Brent felt her look would melt the Antarctic ice pack. Again, he had the impulse to touch her. She seemed to read his mind and whispered, “Someday we’ll be alone Brent.” A roll of the ship swayed her toward him. With an effort, he tore his eyes away and returned to the story. “They practiced —”

  “Who practiced?”

  “The crew. For over forty years not only the fliers but all members of the crew practiced in flight simulators. Gasoline and oil tanks were sealed, and they all entered rigorous physical training regimens. Hundreds of senior officers died, but the rest of the crew aged very slowly, and when the glacier broke away, after forty two years, over twenty-four hundred men in splendid physical condition, manning a superbly maintained ship, broke loose.”

  “And then the story began.”

  “Madam,” deep voice said behind them. “It is time.”

  Sighing, Kathryn turned and faced her guard. “I’m ready, warden. Back to the Tower.”

  Eyeing Brent and smiling her most dazzling smile, the girl left the bridge.

  *

  The entire crew was relieved when Yonaga finally doubled Cape Horn and altered course to the northwest where warmer, friendlier latitudes were to be found.

  “Where were you born, Brent?” Kathryn asked one clear, calm morning, staring down at the flight deck where a six plane CAP was being readied for the first patrol in over a week.

  “New York City,” Brent said. “And you?”

  “San Bernardino, California.” She looked up at the strong face. “Why the navy, Brent?”

  “There was never a thought of anything else.”

  “Your family?”

  “Yes. My father was a pro — came up from the ranks — a mustang. In World War Two he served on the Enterprise, was sunk on the Hornet, captured, escaped, was commissioned, served in Japan after the war with Mark Allen on Samuel Eliot Morison’s staff. They helped write the United States Naval Operations in World War Two.”

  “But he was commanding a civilian ship, the Sparta, when Yonaga captured him.”

  Brent twisted uncomfortably. “True. He rose in the ranks quickly after the war, was sent as an attaché to embassies all over the world.”

  “Is this how you became a language expert?”

  “Yes. I don’t know if I’m an expert, but my father insisted I attend public schools and I picked up Japanese, German, French, Italian, and even a little Arabic in Saudi Arabia.”

  “You attended Annapolis?”

  “Of course — what else?”

  “Sorry, ensign.” They both laughed.

  “The Sparta — you didn’t answer. Why was your father commanding it?”

  Brent’s mind went back to the painful memories of his high school years when his beloved, angelic mother died slowly, smiling through the pain as cancer ravaged her body. And his father’s resignation of his commission, the years of bedside care and finally his mother’s death, which she welcomed as the ultimate relief. But Trigger Ross did not. He stormed, railed and withdrew to the bottle. Only after a year of bitter withdrawal concluded by violence with his own son did Ted Ross pull himself from the depths and return to the cool catharsis of the sea. But, then, Sparta met Yonaga.

  “My mother died when I was in high school,” he said simply. “Father resigned his commission to care for her and then joined the merchant marine after her death.”

  She nodded. “My parents were doho.”

  “Doho — literally ‘compatriot.’ It applied to all Japanese immigrants; all Japanese living abroad,” he said. “Japan never let go.”

  “Very good. ‘Four-oh,’ ensign.” And then bitterly, she said, “Your — I mean the US never let go, either. My parents were interned at Manzanar from ’42 to ’45. They lost everything.”

  “Tragic. But they had dual citizenship. Consider the time — the panic, fear…”

  “It was a Jewish plot!”

  “Jewish?”

  “Yes. Roosevelt plotted with the Jews to steal their property for pennies on the dollar.”

  “You sound like an Arab, Kathryn,” he spat, anger flaring like a struck match.

  A fleeting look of consternation crossed the girl’s face, and she tapped her temple with a closed fist as if punishing herself. “I didn’t mean that. I hate Kadafi as much as you do.” There was contriteness in her voice.

  Quickly, Brent curbed his anger and changed the subject. “You’re a geologist?”

  “Yes. I graduated from Southern Cal.”

  “Oh,” Brent said slyly. “There’s another member of your alumni association on board.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “Who?”

  “Admiral Fujita.”

  For a long moment silence gripped the platform, and only the thump of engines, the hiss of the sea sluicing past and the sigh of wind through the halyards could be heard. She finally managed an incredulous, “USC!”

  Brent laughed so raucously a pair of lookouts turned their heads. “Yes, Kathryn. Many officers of his generation attended universities in Britain and the US. After all, the Imperial Navy was patterned after the Royal Navy. In fact, they even built their academy, Eta Jima, with bricks brought from England, and at the turn of the century, English was the official language of the fleet.”

  “I noticed they all seem to understand English,” she agreed. Looking up, she narrowed her eyes. “Brent, how old is that man?”

  “One hundred.”

  “One hundred,” she repeated with disbelief.

  “Yes. Admiral Allen and I debriefed him. He fought at Tsushima.” Obviously confused, the girl raised an eyebrow. “Tsushima — in the Korean Straits, the Japanese annihilated the Russian fleet there in 1905,” he explained. “Then the usual staff schools and war college where he helped develop the first carrier-borne aircraft.”

  “But USC?”

  “After World War One, he got his Master’s in English. Nineteen twenty-one, I believe.”

  “That’s mind boggling.”

  “But not really unusual, Kathryn. Remember, Japan was dragged out of feudalism kicking and screaming in the nineteenth century. They had to catch up — pick the brains and technology of the western world. It was remarkable. They defeated Russia fifty years after Admiral Perry forced western contact on them.”

  A Sakae coughed to life, stuttered, almost stopped, and then after some faltering picked up as all fourteen cylinders began firing raggedly, gushing clouds of blue-gray smoke. Another engine burst to life. Then another and another until all six engines vibrated the tie-downs of the beautiful white fighters on the flight deck.

  “I heard that a lot of these men haven’t been off the ship in over forty years,” she said, gesturing at the CAP.

  “It’s hard to believe, but true. Some went ashore at Tokyo and were disgusted by what they found.”

  “Their families?”

  “Don’t forget, this crew was MIA for over four decades. Wives remarried or died, and many were killed in American air raids. Admiral Fujita’s entire family vanished at Hiroshima.”

  “Good Lord. Isn’t he bitter?”

  “At first, of course.” He tapped the windscreen. “It’s hard to understand the samurai mind.” He pondered for a moment. “Kathryn, have you ever heard of kokutai?”

  It was the girl’s turn to ponder. “Ah, my father used that word. The emperor — we had his picture. He was Japan. Is that it, Brent?”
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  “In a sense, yes, Kathryn. The emperor is the embodiment of the national essence.”

  “That’s passé.”

  “Not to these men. Kokutai is their basic drive.”

  “Still? You mean they’re still warriors for their emperor. Now my father was an old Japanese at heart, but —”

  “Of course. I told you they were medieval with feudal loyalties. To them, Hirohito is still a deity, and his words are sacrosanct. Fujita answers only to him.”

  “Admiral on the bridge,” Kathryn’s guard shouted hastily.

  Turning and coming to attention, Brent faced Admiral Fujita, followed by Captain Kawamoto and Lieutenant Hironaka. Fujita took his usual position next to the talker who stared from his oversized helmet expectantly while the two staff officers braced themselves against the windscreen.

  “As you were,” the admiral said, waving. “Maintain your watch.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Brent said, glassing the horizon. Kathryn moved toward the door.

  “You may remain, Miss Suzuki,” the old Japanese said with unexpected cordiality. Smiling, Kathryn returned to Brent’s side. The admiral continued with Brent. “Anything to report, ensign?” he asked, gripping the rail and staring down at the warming Zeros.

  “Commander Atsumi is the OD of the watch, admiral. We are steaming as before on course three-one-zero, speed eighteen knots, all boilers on line, condition two of readiness as per your night orders, sir.”

  “Very well.” The admiral seemed pleased. “We resume our CAP and training flights this morning.” He turned to the talker. “Seaman Naoyuki, all stations, pilots man your planes.”

  The command cracked through the PA system and a half-dozen brown-clad pilots ran across the flight deck and scrambled into their cockpits while crew chiefs stood on wings, leaning over their pilots like old birds over their young, fussing over belts, parachute straps, canopy locks, and oxygen bottles. Fujita looked at the battle ensign whipping at the gaff, glanced at a gyro-repeater and then turned to the talker. “Signal bridge, bend on the hoist, ‘course one-three-zero.’”

  Within seconds, flags and pennants snapped in the wind overhead like tiny whips. Raising his glasses, Brent moved to the front of the platform followed by the girl who clung to him like a security blanket. He saw answering signals at every yardarm. “All escorts answer our hoist, admiral.”

  “Very well. Execute!” With the snap of a powerful arm, a signalman jerked Yonaga’s hoist back down to the flag bag. Instantly, the Fletchers followed.

  “Acknowledged, sir.”

  “Very well.” The admiral turned to the voice tube. “Right standard rudder, steady up on one-three-zero.” Heeling and leaving a curving white scar on the blue surface, the great ship swung in a wide arc, escorts maintaining their stations like wheeling dancers on the Bolshoi stage.

  “He’s turning around. Going back,” Kathryn said softly in Brent’s ear.

  Brent chuckled. “Coming into the wind — the southeasterlies. A carrier can’t ever launch with the wind astern. He’ll probably increase speed, too.”

  “Steady on one-three-zero, sir,” the talker said.

  “Very well. Signal bridge, speed twenty-four.”

  Within minutes, more flags and pennants were raised and lowered, and Brent felt the rhythm of the four great engines pick up as throttles were opened.

  “Why didn’t he just call them on his radio, Brent?” Kathryn asked. “It would be simple.”

  “Yes. And it’d be simple for Arab radiomen to pick up our signals, too.”

  “Out here?”

  “Out anywhere, Kathryn. Even off the Cape Verde —”

  “You must use radios.”

  “Only when the enemy’s in sight or in extreme emergencies.”

  Brent was interrupted by Fujita’s command. “Two-block Pennant One.” A triangular pennant with a red circle on a white background leaped to the truck.

  Kathryn stabbed a finger upward at the bunting. “It’s a signal to our escorts,” Brent explained. “‘I am launching aircraft.’” Slowly, a Fletcher reduced speed and dropped astern. “Our lifeguard,” Brent said, waving at the trailing destroyer. He brought his glasses to the cockpit of the lead Zero. Matsuhara stared back and waved. Brent raised a hand.

  “Your killer’s very friendly today,” he heard Kathryn hiss.

  “Belay that,” he said harshly, without turning.

  “The stripes back of the cockpit. What do they mean?” she asked quickly, trying to distract and ameliorate Brent’s anger.

  Brent accepted the ploy. “The green stripe means Koku Sentai — First Air Fleet. The blue stripe represents carrier Yonaga, and the three digit number on the tail identifies the mission of the aircraft and the individual aircraft itself.”

  Brent returned his attention to the flight deck where crew chiefs now stood clear of the aircraft, and he could see Matsuhara hunching over his instruments, gunning his engine, working his rudder, elevators, and flaps. Satisfied, the commander stabbed a thumb upward. Instantly, four handlers released wing and tail tie-downs, only two men at the chocks remaining.

  All eyes moved to the yellow-clad director, standing on a platform mounted on the starboard side of the flight deck and holding a yellow flag high over his head. “Launch! Launch!” Fujita shouted at the talker. “What are they waiting for?”

  Before Naoyuki could speak into his headpiece, the yellow flag dropped, chocks were pulled, and Matsuhara’s engine roared. Then, with a snap, he released his brakes and the graceful fighter leaped forward, thundered down the deck, and clawed its way into the sky eagerly. One after the other the Mitsubishis raced down the runway and lifted into the sky to follow their flight leader into a counterclockwise orbit. Then, quickly, they formed the traditional Japanese Vs of three and climbed into the clear sky.

  Fujita turned to Captain Kawamoto. “Now we have the sharp claws of eagles again.” He stabbed a finger at the deck. “Where are our eyes of the hawk?”

  “I have assigned two B-five Ns and a pair of Aichis to our air search, admiral,” Kawamoto answered, pointing to the aft elevator, which ascended and locked level with the flight deck. With shouts, handlers wheeled a mottled green monoplane with an unusually long greenhouse forward to the ship’s port quarter and quickly tied it down, locking its folding wingtips in place. Lost in the activity on the flight deck, Fujita, Kawamoto, and Hironaka moved aft on the platform, trailed by the talker who plugged his headset into a new receptacle.

  “It’s a very, very old airplane,” Kathryn said with fascination, mouth close to Brent’s ear. “I can believe anything now, Brent; especially after the Junkers.”

  “Well, believe this Kathryn; that’s the Nakajima B-five N-two torpedo bomber, the first carrier-borne monoplane. It sank the Arizona, Oklahoma, California, West Virginia, Tennessee, and Nevada at Pearl Harbor.

  “Even I know there were bombers there, too, Brent.”

  “That one,” he said, indicating another mottled green monoplane with fixed landing gear being manhandled aft from the forward elevator. “The Aichi D-three A-one. It was used as a dive bomber and horizontal bomber throughout the war and sank more American ships than any other Axis aircraft. But at Pearl…” He gesticulated downward. “That little beauty did most of the damage with its torpedoes.”

  “Aren’t you angry?”

  “Why? I hadn’t been born. In fact, my father didn’t even know my mother, then.”

  “But you’re an American, Brent.”

  “Let the old men carry those hatreds,” he said impatiently. “I don’t have time for it.”

  “Now it’s Kadafi.”

  “Yes. He’s certifiably mad.”

  “And you tried to kill him.”

  “We did our best. But he was hiding in his bunker in the desert.” He tapped the rail. “Some century, Kathryn.” She looked at him expectantly. He continued. “A century of madmen — Hitler, Stalin, Idi Amin, Kadafi, Khomeini. Attila the Hun was a humanitarian compared to them.�
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  “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “one’s viewpoint…”

  An engine burst to life followed by another, and soon four radial engines roared as the patrol prepared to take off. “Madam,” Fujita said, raising his voice over the roar and walking toward the pair. “It is time to return to your quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.” She pursed her lips and suddenly became the poignant little girl. “Admiral, may I be shown your ship? Please, I won’t destroy it. I’m going crazy in that two-by-four room.”

  Obviously in an expansive mood, the lined parchment of the old man’s face creaked with a rare smile. “Madam, I am not in the business of offering tours of my command. But…” He moved his eyes to Brent, “if Mr. Ross will consent, he may escort you.”

  “I’ll be relieved in a few minutes, admiral,” Brent said, a flat expression concealing his excitement.

  “Oh, thank you, admiral,” Kathryn bubbled.

  “Upper works and no lower than the hangar deck, ensign.”

  *

  “An elevator Brent,” Kathryn said as the door closed on the small car. “They must’ve installed it for the old men.”

  The pair had just completed a quick tour of the bridge where Brent had pointed out a magnetic compass, gyro-repeater, and a battery of monitors giving readings on engine speed and propeller revolutions while ratings standing by the equipment stared at the woman with hard, piercing eyes. The officer of the deck, Commander Atsumi, had given the couple a cursory nod and then raised his glasses as the first Nakajima lunged from the deck and slowly climbed to port.

  Walking with the girl close behind, Brent had pointed to VHF radiophones, a TBS (talk between ships) radio mounted above a chart table, and safe where lead-weighted code books were kept. Aft, between the wheelhouse and radio room, Brent showed the curious girl the ship’s Combat Information Center: a compact space dominated by a large table reminiscent of a billiard table with a huge compass rose covering the center.

  “Yonaga is the center of the rose,” Brent explained as more curious heads turned. “Friendly and unfriendly aircraft and ships are designated by markers and moved by hand.”

  “There’s the air patrol,” Kathryn said, pointing at six red crosses on the periphery of the table. And then nodding at two luminescent tubes where glittering fingers swept through glowing green dots, dying and then reviving as the beams maintained their remorseless sweeps, she said, “The admiral believes in radar.”