Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  First word of the enemy came from the Indonesians, not Yonaga’s scouts, when the refinery at Banda on Sumatra was bombed to ruins by fifty JU87Cs.

  Gleefully, Fujita jumped up and down, pounding his hands together. Then high-flying scouts spotted two cruisers followed by three carriers and at least a dozen destroyers entering the Straits of Malacca. Surprisingly, Fujita ordered a turn to the north, away from the enemy, before calling the staff together.

  “We must open the range,” he explained. “If we are to remain undetected.” He turned to Mark Allen, “Once you told me the enemy’s Messerschmitts and Junkers were designed for very short-range operations.”

  “Yes, sir. European distances, sir. Even with auxiliary fuel tanks, they have only half the range of our aircraft.”

  “Good.” The old man moved to the chart, raising the pointer. He stabbed the Straits of Malacca. “They are here, probably with one eye on the oil facilities at Balikpapan, which is one thousand miles west of them and still out of range, while the other is looking for Yonaga. They should not expect us to be this close.”

  Bernstein spoke. “Sir. The Indonesian Air Force…”

  “Air force?”

  “Two DC-sixes, four DC-threes, and a half-dozen F-four-Fs made a raid on the enemy. They claim damage to one destroyer. It just came over.”

  “Losses?”

  Bernstein grimaced. “They lost all of their aircraft. But they are repeating over and over in plain language that aircraft of any power fighting the Arabs are welcome at their airfields.”

  “A little late.” Fujita glanced at Yoshi Matsuhara and Commander Yamabushi. He moved the pointer. “There are fields at Banjermasin, Balikpapan, and Pontianak.” He stepped back. “But we still have Palawan.” He pushed the rubber tip just south of Singapore. “Only a madman would attempt to negotiate the straits at night with darkened ships and at high speeds. If they steam all night at sixteen knots, they would hope to enter the Java Sea here at about zero-eight hundred, putting them about twenty miles south of Singapore and forty miles north of Sumatra. And look at these islands — Kapulauan Riau, Kepulauan Linagga, Singkep, and more on their DR track. Maneuvering will be restricted.” He thumped the chart. “Just what we want.” Turning to Yamabushi he said, “We will send your torpedo bombers in low under their radar.”

  Pointing, he continued with new vigor. “Use these islands for cover.” He turned to Matsuhara. “Commander Matsuhara, as you know, will come in high with twenty-seven Zeros and twenty-seven Aichis. He should draw off their CAP, and he can vector you in on your fighter frequency; or we will do it from Yonaga’s CIC. In any event, this operation will require the ultimate in precise timing.” He tapped the pointer on the deck. “We will begin our run-in this evening at twenty hundred hours and begin launching our strikes at zero-six hundred hours tomorrow morning. We will keep eighteen A six M twos, nine D three As, and nine B five Ns in reserve. Take everything else that can fly.”

  “Banzai!”

  “Sir,” Mark Allen said, raising a hand. “Excellent plan — Midway in reverse. Turn their heads up and sneak in the torpedo bombers on the wave tops.” The reference to the ignominious defeat at Midway, where the carriers Kaga, Akagi, Soryu, and Hiryu were all lost to dive-bombers, brought hard looks to the Japanese faces. Mark Allen pressed on to another point. “But you plan one strike — over a hundred aircraft. I would suggest two —”

  “No!” Fujita interrupted, rankled by the reference to Midway. “Hit them hard with everything!”

  “But you can’t handle all those returning aircraft.”

  “We may lose some — death is the way of the samurai. But we will hit them hard. Overwhelm them at a time and place of our choosing. Tactically, there is no other choice.” Allen sat back in resignation.

  Finished with Mark Allen, Fujita turned toward the shrine and the Japanese clapped. “Tenno Jimmu,” he said, calling upon the spirit of Japan’s first emperor. “Watch as your sons challenge the enemies of Dai Nippon and smile with Amaterasu as we destroy them. Let us fight with the true spirit of Bushido, remembering the ancient pledge, ‘If my sword be broken, let me strike with my hands. If my hands be severed, let me attack with my shoulders. If my shoulders be slashed from my body, let me lay open my enemy’s throat with my teeth.’”

  “Banzai! Banzai!”

  “Hear! Hear!”

  Mark Allen remained silent.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Standing on a dais before a blackboard and a huge chart mounted on a stand, Commander Matsuhara let his eyes wander over the packed briefing room and the fifty-four fighter pilots crowding it. Sadly, there were many new, young faces amongst the old, but each new pilot was handpicked — the very best of hundreds of volunteers. Filled with Yamato damashii, every man wore a hachimachi headband, showing his determination to die for the emperor, and he knew most had wrapped a “belt of a thousand stitches” — a cloth made by one stitch and a prayer from a thousand strangers dedicated to helping the warrior find an honorable death — around his waist. All were dressed in brown flight suits, fur-lined helmets with earflaps up, rising sun patches on the left shoulder, and ranking patch on the right. Gloves, parachutes, and oxygen masks were piled at their feet. Each held a clipboard and stared at the commander expectantly.

  Yoshi leaned on his sword. “As you know, we expect the enemy to sortie from the straits this morning at zero-eight hundred hours.” Disdaining the pointer, he pulled his sword from its scabbard with the ringing sound of steel on steel. Pointing, he continued. “We will approach the target at six thousand meters covering twenty-seven D three As at five thousand.” He paused while the pilots scribbled on their clipboards. “We are decoys.” There was a groan. “They will have us on their radar early and should intercept with every fighter they can get in the air. Every carrier sailor remembers Midway where we lost four carriers and the war to dive-bombers.” There was a grim silence. Yoshi moved on. “Commander Kenzo Yamabushi will come in just off the wave tops, under their radar and, using islands for cover, will hit their carriers with twenty-seven B-five Ns.”

  “Banzai!”

  Yoshi raised his hands. “Then we will dive-bomb them with the Aichis.” He paused. “We have been over the rest many times, but it bears repeating, especially for the new pilots. As usual, Yonaga’s call is ‘Iceman’ and I am ‘Edo Leader.’ I am in command of top cover, and the sections are color coded as usual — Blue and Green with me.” He pointed at a short, gray-haired pilot. “Lieutenant Ariga’s Gold Section will cover Yamabushi’s torpedo run, Commander Okumiya will command Orange and Purple — eighteen aircraft — and will remain with the carrier as CAP.

  “As you know, we can expect to engage the Messerschmitt BF-one-oh-nine and perhaps a few other types of fighters. The ME is a fast aircraft with two twenty millimeter guns and two seven-point sevens — the same firepower as ours. But, no one can turn with the Zero. Dogfight them but maintain flight discipline and stay with your wingmen until released to individual combat.” He stabbed the desk with the tip of the sword. “I will personally shoot down any glory-hunting ronin who violates flight discipline.” His eyes moved over the intent faces. Turning, he gestured to a yeoman who moved to the blackboard. “For your point option data, we will be launched here.” He raised his sword to the chart. “At longitude one-zero-seven, latitude two degrees, thirty minutes north. We will be less than three hundred kilometers from the target.” Surprised faces looked up as the yeoman scribbled.

  “Too close, sir,” Ariga said. “We have greater range.”

  “True, lieutenant. Admiral Fujita will open the range on zero-four-five at a SOA of eighteen knots for one hour. Then Yonaga will steam the reciprocal two-two-five for thirty minutes. Then back to zero-four-five.” He paused while the men made notes.

  When the pilots looked up, he went on. “Radio silence until I break it.” He struck the chart with his sword. “Emergency landing fields are available to you here at Palawan, Pontianak, Palembang, Bana
ka, and any other Indonesian field, but not Singapore. Weather over the target is clear with a few scattered clouds, but thunderheads are reported to the south. Wind is from the west, gusting to eight knots. Your in course is two-two-zero, exit course zero-nine-zero; we do not want to vector the enemy back to Yonaga. Speed of advance one hundred forty knots on a lean mixture, of course. All good fighter pilots conserve fuel; you know we can double consumption when we go into overboost.” He pointed his blade at the pilots. “You new men, remember you have only sixteen seconds of firepower. A disciplined fighter pilot fires burst of one to two seconds at ranges less than two hundred meters.” He leaned forward. “Try for the fifty meter shot. It’s a sure kill, and all great pilots of the past always fired at very close range. Let the enemy waste his ammunition.”

  He returned the sword to its scabbard, placed it point down on the deck before him, wrapped both hands around the hilt and leaned toward his men. “And now for something I have not said before. Those madmen are trying to strangle our islands. They are nothing but terrorists who would subjugate the world with their new power. Only Yonaga challenges them, and you are the cutting edge.”

  “Banzai! Banzai!” Every man came to his feet. Then the single door at the rear of the compartment opened, and two ratings carrying aluminum battle ration containers worked their way down the crowded center aisle to the dais. Working hastily and aided by two yeomen, they distributed a cup of sake and a single chestnut to each flyer. Every man stood.

  Matsuhara raised his eyes, quoted the Haga Kure: “A samurai of courage may hope to do anything as if his body were already dead because in death he becomes one with the gods!” He drank and every man drained his cup. The ratings moved and the cups were refilled as the men ate their chestnuts.

  The commander held his cup high, shouting, “Tenno heiko banzai!”

  The salute to the emperor roared back, and again the cups were drained. “Pilots man your planes,” blared through the speaker.

  “Dismissed,” Matsuhara shouted. As the pilots crowded through the door, each handed a waiting yeoman an envelope containing fingernail and hair clippings.

  *

  When Commander Matsuhara exited the island, he found the flight deck crowded with Zeros. Running to his A6M2, the lead aircraft, he waved to his crew chief, Shoishi Ota, who sat in the cockpit making his final check of canopy lock, oxygen, radio, hydraulics, safety belt, and instruments. By the time Yoshi rounded the wing, Ota was already lowering his big bulk to the deck while armorers and fueling crews pulled their carts to the side.

  “She is ready, commander,” Ota said. “And you have two hundred more horses.” He gestured at the new Sakae.

  Grinning, Yoshi reached up, grasped a handgrip and pulled himself onto the wing. Then, after stepping up on the single step, he eased himself into the cockpit — a narrow, coffinlike compartment not much wider than his body.

  After locking his parachute straps and seat belts and checking to assure himself the canopy was locked in the open takeoff position, he released and then reset his brake. Quick movements of the stick and rudder bar told him ailerons, rudder, elevators, and flaps all responded.

  Nodding with satisfaction, he switched on his magnetos. Instantly his instruments sprang to life, and his hand moved instinctively to the throttle, setting it ahead slightly.

  He looked first to his left, to his port wingman Lt. Tetsu Takamura, who smiled back, raising a thumb, then to his right, to his starboard wingman NAP first class Kojima, who gave the same signal, and then finally, he glanced down and to his right, to Crew Chief Ota, who stared back expectantly. Matsuhara circled a single finger over his head. Circling his own finger, the crew chief stood well clear of the propeller.

  Punching his fuel booster and starter, the big new Sakae came to life with a volley of bangs, hard coughs, and sputters that trembled through the airframe and jerked the three-bladed propeller stiffly, belching blue smoke into the wind. The reluctant engine continued to bark stubbornly, and Yoshi pounded the instrument panel in frustration. Almost as if chastised by the blows, the big engine settled down into the familiar uneven roaring sound of the warming Sakae.

  Sinking down into the cockpit with the sudden release of anxiety, the commander checked his instruments: tachometer reading 2200 rpms, oil temperature 22°, manifold pressure 60 centimeters of mercury. He watched the tachometer reading drop to 800 as he throttled back to wait while the engine warmed. Anyway, the yellow-clad control officer standing on his platform on the starboard bow had his flags crossed and at his knees. The steam blown from the vent at the bow streaked straight back down the center line of the deck. The bow was in the wind, and he knew the life guard destroyer trailed. In his rear-view mirrors, he could see propellers turning on dozens of aircraft. But the engines were cold. They must all wait. He struck angrily at his oil temperature gauge with the heel of his hand. It showed only 25°.

  Throwing back his head, he impacted his headrest, and Kimio was there, smiling, looking up at him from the futon. “This business does not include you,” he said to himself. But she remained, her soft lips parted, body ready for him. “I will come back. I will! I will!” he shouted into the engine’s roar.

  He shook his head to clear away the hot memories and looked down at his instruments. Oil temperature 50. He stabbed both thumbs up.

  A flash of yellow caught his eye. The plane director was waving. Then the flags were held rigidly overhead. Yoshi felt the fighter tremble as tie-downs were released from wing tips and tail, and three handlers raced for their catwalk. Now, only two men manned the chocks while two others held the wing tips, steadying and checking the folding wing tip locks.

  The final check. Pushing the throttle forward, the pilot watched rpms climb to 4,000, manifold pressure to 80 centimeters of mercury. Satisfied, he throttled back and nodded to the men at the chocks, who crouched under the wings. With a jerk, the clocks were pulled, and the last four handlers raced for their catwalk.

  A flag dropped. Yoshi pushed the throttle to the panel and released the brakes. Joyously, the little fighter leaped, pressing Matsuhara back. In less than 100 meters the powerful Sakae accelerated the Mitsubishi to over 100 knots. Pulling back on the stick, Yoshi felt the plane leap into the sky eagerly like a long-grounded hawk. Reaching under the seat, he pulled up on a lever and felt two thumps as the landing gear retracted into its wells. Then a quick motion locked the canopy and Matsuhara banked into a counterclockwise orbit followed by both of his wingmen.

  Brent was amazed by the skill of the new pilots. Only one aircraft had been lost in the run south, and the accident occurred when an arresting cable snapped and an Aichi careened over the port side, killing a handler and the bomber’s pilot and gunner. Standing on the flag bridge with the admiral, Frank Dempster, Mark Allen, Irv Bernstein, and Captain Kawamoto, Brent watched as Matsuhara and his wingmen — all flying with the more powerful engines — rocketed into the sky.

  Brent disliked steaming in the tropics. Only 300 miles north of the equator, the sun was hot already and the humidity was over 80 percent, bringing perspiration to plague a man already burdened with binoculars, helmet, and life jacket. But at least the sky was almost vacant — just a few low stringy clouds stretched far across the western horizon — and the wind was surprisingly constant and from the east, the sea calm. But weather was unpredictable here; squalls and thunderstorms could strike with little warning.

  He was staring at the last Mitsubishi as it streaked down the deck when the electrifying news came over the radio. Seaman Naoyuki spoke. “Admiral, the radio reports air raids in progress on Palembang, Jakarta, and Jambi.”

  “Oil installations,” Mark Allen observed.

  “Good,” Fujita said. “Less aircraft for us to engage.”

  “Sir,” the talker continued. “The oil installations at Balikpapan are being shelled by two cruisers.”

  “Cruisers? Shelled?” Allen gasped incredulously.

  Fujita glanced at the chart tacked to the table
. “Eight hundred miles due west of us.” He scratched his chin. “They must have split their forces — sent their Fiji and Dido through the straits and the Java Sea at over thirty knots — good seamanship, but they are not an immediate threat.”

  “They must have re-engined them,” Allen mused. “That’s incredible speed for ships that old.”

  Fujita studied the chart. “They are on the other side of Borneo. If they want to engage Yonaga, they must steam north through the Celebes Sea into the Sulu Sea and west through the Balabac Strait, all the way around Borneo before they can enter the South China Sea.”

  “This could put them behind us.”

  “I know. But this is a thousand miles of hard steaming, and if we dispose of their carriers, they may turn tail.”

  “And may not.”

  “Let them come, Admiral Allen. We continue with our attack as planned.” He turned back to the flight deck.

  Gripping the windscreen with white knuckles, Adm. Mark Allen watched uneasily as the sky slowly filled with orbiting Zeros and the first Aichi took off. He turned to Admiral Fujita nervously. “We’re launching over a hundred aircraft, sir.”

  “One hundred eight in addition to our CAP.”

  “We should send two strikes, admiral. We will have trouble recovering them,” Allen insisted.

  “We discussed this, Admiral Allen. One strike, the decisive battle the Japanese way.” He waved at the fighters. “With their auxiliary tanks and on a lean mixture they can remain in the air for eleven or twelve hours. Combat may reduce that to six or seven hours. But we are only one hundred eighty miles from our target, with an abundance of friendly landing fields available within easy range.”