Farris was undeterred. “And instead of painting the damn rocks, we should be training. Our men are out of shape and, like you saw on the range, can’t shoot worth squat. Sir, I would like to start patrolling and training instead of just sitting here and admiring the scenery.”
“Lieutenant, instead of wasting our time patrolling, I would like to either relieve you of your command or have your worthless ass court-martialed. Like I said, though, I can’t do much about you. Instead, I am going to do you a big favor. You can take your platoon and your grumpy fucking Sergeant Stecher the hell out of here and build your own little castle a couple of miles up the coast where you can hide behind hills to your little heart’s content. I’ll replace your platoon with Sawyer’s.”
Farris had mixed emotions. Sawyer was the youngest and least experienced officer in the company and was totally intimidated by Lytle. They would do a marvelous job of painting rocks and anything else the company commander wanted, except prepare for war.
There was, however, a good side to Lytle’s orders. Away from Lytle, Farris would indeed be able to get his men as close to fighting trim as circumstances would permit.
Outside, Stecher asked how it went. “Well, we get a little independence,” Farris said and explained that they’d be moving.
“Half a loaf is better than nothing,” Stecher said. He was impressed that his lieutenant had a pair of balls and had stood up to their sot of a CO. He also had a sense of duty.
Farris smiled. “Lytle may be right, and the only Japs we’ll ever see will be running a laundry or something, but if the worst should happen, we’ll be as ready as we possibly can be.”
Stecher laughed. “Chinese run laundries, not the Japs. No Pearl Harbor on our watch then?”
“Not if I can help it. If anybody dies on my watch, it won’t be because I didn’t do the best I could.”
“Uh, Lieutenant, I know you don’t approve of our captain’s drinking, but I hope you agree there’s a time and place for everything.”
“Of course.”
“Then you might like to know that a case of beer has appeared as if by magic in my tent, perhaps sent by the beer fairy, and I’d enjoy sharing one or three with you.”
Farris grinned. “I’d be honored. Tomorrow we move this hot dog stand to a new location.”
* * *
“Any of you ladies own a gun?” Mack asked.
Amanda, Sandy, and Grace shook their heads in surprise at the question. Sandy said she hated guns.
“Well, thank God I own a few,” Mack said. “I’ll be bringing a twelve-gauge shotgun, a thirty-two-caliber revolver, and an 1873 model Winchester carbine that I was told was used by the Sioux against Custer. That’s probably a lie, but it shoots straight. Oh yeah, there’ll be a box of ammo for each.”
“But why,” Sandy asked. She was tired. They all were. They’d managed time off from the hospital and had spent the last several days learning how to improve their handling of the catamaran. Sandy had started as the plump one, but was now slimming down. Mack thought she looked good, but not as good as Grace, who had just unbuttoned the top three buttons of her blouse, which gave him a good view of her ample cleavage. Regardless, all three were becoming skilled sailors.
When the nurses weren’t there, Mack had worked hard to improve the sailboat. The decking connecting the twin hulls had been reinforced and compartments made to store food, water, and other supplies, including a spare set of sails and an extra mast. The cabin just behind the single mast in the middle of the boat had been enlarged so they could fit inside in case of bad weather, although sleeping would be difficult for more than two people at a time.
“We need guns because of sharks,” he answered, “and I don’t necessarily mean the ones that swim in the sea. I’m thinking of the two-legged ones who might try to take the Bitch from us before we can leave, or jump us at sea. Tell me, does anyone in your real world know what we’re up to?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Amanda said. “You told us to keep it under our hats and that’s what we’ve done. If anybody’s followed us here or figured things out, I don’t know. What about here? Any of the locals suspect anything?”
Mack nodded. He’d already decided that Amanda, the quiet-looking one, was the smartest of the three and the leader. He wondered if she knew it yet.
“I don’t think any of my neighbors have noticed anything,” Mack said. “Fixing up the cat isn’t unusual, and I’ve been storing stuff at night so nobody should suspect that we’re preparing for the end of the world. As to the guns, I’ll be teaching you how to handle them just in case.”
“I hate guns,” Sandy said again with a shudder.
“You don’t have to like them,” Mack said, “just respect them and learn how to use them. It might just save your life.”
Amanda looked at him stonily. “Are you also suggesting that we save a bullet each for ourselves?”
Well, Mack thought, you figured it out. You are indeed the smart one. “If we’re about to be captured by a Jap warship, or if we’re dying of thirst or starvation, the choice’ll be yours, now won’t it.”
“When are we leaving?” Grace asked.
“Next Saturday’d be good. No sense waiting here any longer than we have to. Wait too long and the Japs’ll be crawling all over the beaches.”
* * *
The Japanese Zero was simply the finest plane in the world and it was flown by the finest pilots in the world. This was not only the opinion of twenty-four-year-old Ensign Masao Ikeda, but of everyone else who had half a brain, and that included the deluded Americans who’d been dying in large numbers because they’d underestimated Japan.
The official designation of the Zero was the A6M. The letter A indicated it was a carrier plane, the number 6 said it was the sixth model, and the M said it had been made by the Mitsubishi corporation. The Zero was a one-man fighter that could fly more than three hundred miles an hour, soar to more than thirty thousand feet in the sky, and maneuver on the proverbial dime. Ikeda’s plane had two 20mm Type 99 cannon and often carried a pair of 132-pound bombs slung under her wings.
The Zero simply outclassed anything the Americans had sent against them so far, but there were rumors that the Yanks had newer and better planes coming into play. Let them, Ikeda thought. None would be better than the Zero. Let the arrogant Americans learn to die. They’d tried so hard to humiliate Japan and her revered emperor, they deserved nothing less.
Ikeda was proud beyond words to be a fighter pilot in the service of the emperor. Training had been more than grueling. Ninety percent of the pilot candidates had flunked out. The ones who made it through were the best of the best, the elite of the elite.
He’d heard some officers complain that too many good pilots were being dismissed because they weren’t quite excellent enough. Ikeda scoffed at that idea. The successful pilot candidates, like him, would be more than enough to slaughter the larger number of poorly trained Americans who thought that Japanese were ignorant, buck-toothed, and too nearsighted to fly a plane effectively. The Americans and British also thought that Japan could only produce junk, and both were paying terrible prices for their hubris.
Rigorous training had continued after his commissioning as a officer three years earlier so that now he and his plane were almost as one. The same was true of his comrades. No one could stand against them. They were modern samurai. They could not be beaten. They would bring honor and glory to Japan and the emperor.
Masao was not afraid to die, although he would not recklessly seek it out. Should it come to him in the course of battle then he would be at peace with his honor. He would have fulfilled his obligations to the code of bushido. Before leaving Japan, he’d left fingernail clippings and a lock of hair with his parents. Should he be killed and his body not returned, they and his little sister could honor him and themselves by enshrining his scant remains at the Yasukuni Shrine in Tokyo. He planned to live a long and prosperous life. However, death in war was a real possibility. H
e would not, of course, allow himself to be taken prisoner. The shame would be unendurable and his family would disown him. Should that remote possibility arise, he would endeavor to take as many Americans with him as he possibly could.
If the Zero did have a fault, it was a minor one in Ikeda’s opinion. There was no armor. It had been sacrificed for speed and agility. If hit, the plane was prone to burst into flames. Therefore, his fellow pilots all joked, don’t get hit. Avoiding enemy guns was not all that difficult as both the American planes and pilots were slow and awkward.
Nor did the pilots have parachutes. They’d been issued and their commanders had ordered the young Japanese eagles to wear them, but no true warrior would even think of it. If the plane was too badly damaged to make it back to base or be rescued, they would simply seek a target of opportunity and crash into it. Again, skeptics said that was a waste of highly trained pilots, but those who said that didn’t understand the code of bushido.
Ikeda longed for the chance to shoot an American out of the sky. He’d strafed a couple of planes on the ground at Pearl Harbor’s Hickam Field, along with trucks and fleeing personnel, but those did not count as true kills in his mind. His thinking was that he might as well have shot up as many parked cars.
This day he and a dozen others flying from the aircraft carrier Kaga were searching for ships that a scout plane reported had departed Honolulu at night. These were transports and freighters escorted by a cruiser and a pair of destroyers. Killing the three warships was a goal, but attacking the other ships was something that would usually be beneath him. However, he’d been informed that they were full of soldiers trying to flee Hawaii, which made them marginally worthwhile targets. He’d also been given specific orders and, while he could get away with not wearing a parachute, he could not refuse an assignment, however lowly. He and his fellow pilots would sink the lowly transports.
His radio crackled. Directions and orders were given. There were no American planes flying cover for the transports, which further frustrated Ikeda. At least a few Americans had attempted to stop them when they’d attacked Honolulu a couple of weeks earlier, but other Japanese pilots had destroyed them before Ikeda’s chance had come. Back on the Kaga, they’d boasted about how easy it had been, laughing that there weren’t enough Americans to go around, unintentionally humiliating the young ensign.
But now they were over the convoy. The American ships were in no formation to speak of. They were simply running away, now scattering in all directions as they spotted their attackers. Nor did the escorts have much in the way of antiaircraft guns. Only a few streams of tracers searched for them. Ikeda aimed at a transport and dropped his bombs. He cursed when splashes that hit near the ship’s hull told him he’d missed. One bomb might have been close enough to cause internal damage from the pressure of the explosion, but he doubted it. He would have to work on his bombing technique. It wasn’t easy for one moving object to hit another moving object unless they were very close to each other, which he now intended to do.
He swung his nimble plane around and lined up his cannon at a destroyer. He flew lower. He opened fire and walked the 20mm shells up to it and they ripped along the hull. He laughed and returned to attack the transport.
Ikeda exulted. This one is mine. He swung about and launched another deadly attack. The transport began burning and he could see scores of men jumping overboard. It was a sight being repeated throughout the fleeing enemy ships as the Americans were again being slaughtered.
He made another pass and now the American ship was disgorging hundreds of people, some of whom looked like civilians. If they were, so be it. They should not have been traveling with soldiers. Besides, they were Americans and it was the Americans who’d started the war by depriving Japan of her rightful place in the world by trying to contain her with insulting restrictions.
Ikeda decided that his target transport was a burning ruin and sought out another. He fired and heard only a click. He cursed again. He was out of ammunition. The Zero carried only enough 20mm shells for seven seconds’ sustained firing and he had used up too much on the helpless transport. He turned and flew back to the carrier. Next time he would show more patience.
A thought intruded. Why the hell don’t the Americans surrender? They were cowards who did not live by bushido and had surrendered elsewhere, so why not surrender Hawaii? He had another thought and it made him laugh. Perhaps, instead of painting an American warplane insignia on his Zero, he’d have the silhouette of a ship painted instead.
* * *
The mighty new battleship Yamato was Admiral Yamamoto’s flagship and she, along with a couple of other older and smaller battleships and three carriers, was anchored in the waters off what had been the American base at Midway Island. The mighty Yamato was a floating citadel, a fortress that could cruise at nearly thirty knots. She was eight hundred feet long and displaced more than seventy thousand tons, which made her twice the size of most navies’ battleships. Anchored alongside her, destroyers and cruisers were absolutely dwarfed. While her top speed was over thirty land miles an hour, she could cruise more than seven thousand miles at a more conservative twenty miles an hour.
Her main weapons were nine massive 18.1-inch cannon and a dozen six-inch guns, and it was thought that she represented a technological leap forward that had not been seen since the British had launched their revolutionary battleship, the Dreadnaught, in 1906. In particular, 18.1-inch guns were thought to be so large as to be impossible to make and fire efficiently. The Yamato, it was hoped, would prove them all wrong. Once again the Americans would pay for underestimating Japanese technological skills.
It was firmly believed that the Yamato and her still-building sister-ship, the Musashi, could simply stand off at a distance and pound every American and British warship to pieces. Just as important, her very name, Yamato, was synonymous with Japan.
At least that had been the theory, but that was then and this was now, and wars, even victorious ones, never go as planned.
Admiral Yamamoto flew his flag in the great ship because it was such a symbol of power and authority, but he now believed that he’d set up his headquarters in a giant dinosaur. The recent carrier battles, fortunately all won by the superb planes and pilots of Japan, had changed the face of warfare and shaken the proponents of traditional big gun battles. American and British battleships had been destroyed by small airplanes, little more than flying gnats, and the great decisive battle Japan wanted to fight and win was unlikely to include the great ships as major players.
The admiral’s left hand throbbed, as it sometimes did. He had lost two fingers during the epic battle of Tsushima against the Russians in May of 1905. That battle had propelled Japan into the first rank of world powers, even though some of the Europeans and Americans had a difficult time dealing with yellow-skinned men as equals.
In this latest war, the victories at Pearl Harbor, Midway, and a host of other places reinforced the fact that the Imperial Japanese Navy was second to none. It was strange, he thought, how the missing fingers seemed to still be attached. Were they trying to tell him something?
Yamamoto turned to greet Prime Minister Hideki Tojo with all due pomp as he crossed the deck of the Yamato. He could see the minister’s look of awe as he took in the immensity of the world’s most powerful ship. Tojo had seen the ship before, but it never failed to impress, which was why Yamamoto was holding the meeting on board her and not on nearby Midway Island. The admiral smiled to himself as he recalled that Tojo was a general and knew little of the sea. The prime minister was devoted to the emperor and a strong supporter of the war against the United States.
After the obligatory review of the crew, there was a tour of the ship which included an examination of the great guns and the interior of a huge turret. This was followed by a formal dinner, after which the two men retreated to Yamamoto’s elegant wood-paneled office. The prime minister would sleep on the island and fly back the next morning in the same Kawanishi flying boat th
at had brought him to Midway. That the fifty-eight-year-old would deign to make such a trip showed the seriousness of concerns back in Tokyo.
“You have done wonders,” Tojo said with genuine admiration. “You have defeated the Americans at every turn and with minimal loss to Japan. Everything you’ve done has displayed an almost magical touch. The emperor is more than pleased.”
Yamamoto’s nod was almost a bow. “I have been fortunate, prime minister, that the Americans so totally underestimate our abilities. That happy situation cannot last forever. Sooner or later they will develop the leaders and the resources to fight us more evenly. We are aware that they have a monstrous fleet building and that we cannot match their productivity. And kindly recall that we have not escaped totally unscathed. One of our carriers, the Soryu, was badly damaged and will be out of action for at least a year. The Shoho, of course, was sunk at the Coral Sea. Even what you correctly refer to as minimal losses cannot be sustained for very much longer. We cannot construct ships and planes at anything resembling the rate at which the Americans can. I am afraid that they will soon overwhelm us.”
“Hence, you will smash them with this marvelous instrument,” the prime minister said, beaming.
“Indeed. As with our pilots, we must substitute excellence for quantity. Yet I am concerned that the results of our battles for Midway and in the Coral Sea, as well as our attack on Pearl Harbor, show that the age of the battleship has passed and that we must have carriers, not more Yamatos,” he said sadly.
Tojo sucked in his breath. “The battleship in general and the Yamato in particular are symbols of the Japanese Navy and our nation’s pride. Are you telling me they are obsolete after all the fervor, money, and resources we’ve showered on them?”
“Yes,” Yamamoto said, and grimaced. “I will not lie to you, prime minister. War has a nasty tradition of making its own rules as the action develops, and war leaders have a habit of planning to fight a new war with an old war’s weapons and tactics. There were no carriers in 1918, in part because planes were so crude, but there are now, and, in every confrontation carriers and planes have prevailed over battleships. Oh, there will be a role for the Yamato and her sisters, but it will be as support for the carriers.”
Rising Sun Page 7
