by Peter Albano
Lieutenant Joji Kai, the commanding officer of the torpedo bombers, spoke for the first time. “But there are over two-hundred million Arabs and only four million Israelis.”
“True, Lieutenant. But a man named Adolph Hitler taught us how to fight.” He pointed at the chart. “The Arabs have lost over a quarter of a million men and most of their armor in foolish frontal assaults on our positions.”
“Then you feel confident?” Kai asked.
The Israeli shook his head. “Confidence is a luxury no Israeli can afford. It is better to say we are determined — can make the price so high, the Arabs will think many times over before trying to make their jihad good against us.”
“This is the first time the Arabs have been united in anything since the eleventh century,” Kai said.
Fujita laughed. “Yes. True. They need a Mahdi...”
“Mahdi?”
Bernstein picked up the conversation, “Yes. A Mahdi is the expected messiah of Muslim tradition — a spiritual leader.”
“And Kadafi is trying to assume this leadership?”
“Of course, Lieutenant Kai. He is playing the messianic role to the hilt.”
Kai continued, “But Arab feuds run deep, Mahdi or not.”
Bernstein’s laugh was ironic and completely devoid of humor. “The Jordanians hate the Syrians, who hate the Iraqis, who hate the Egyptians, who hate the Lebanese, and they all hate the Iranians, who aren’t Arabs anyway... they’re Persians. And the hates are interchangeable and reciprocal and so ancient no one really remembers why they exist. It’s just an Arab way of life, they enjoy killing each other.”
“But they’ve put these feuds aside.”
The Israeli nodded grimly. “Now they can hate the Jews and the Japanese with the Americans a close third.” Whitehead, Fite, and Brent Ross chuckled. Williams remained silent, glaring at Iwata.
Fujita tapped the table impatiently and addressed himself to Rear Admiral Whitehead. “We have reports that there are six Super Constellations based on Tinian.
These LRAs have been converted to bombers and pose a mortal threat to Yonaga. Does NIS have any more information on these aircraft? Our PBYs, PBMs, and observers on Aguijan report no supply vessels putting into Saipan’s Tanapag Harbor since Blackfin sank Gefara.”
The American admiral nodded. “Of course they wouldn’t dare send in supply vessels without air cover. Their ME 109s have a range of only about six hundred miles. I think they fear squadrons of your Fletchers are patrolling in the southwest Pacific between Tomonuto and the Marianas — especially since Captain Fite engaged their Tubaru just west of the Marianas.”
“But still, they have their Super Constellations.”
“True, Admiral... but as you said, only six of them, and they can’t maintain them in complete readiness for bombing missions and maintain patrols in all sectors at the same time.” He moved his eyes to Williams. “And there is something else. They have suffered heavily to your Blackfin. Four more of Blackfin’s sisters have been put into commission, and we have planted the rumor three of these boats have been sold to the Parks Department and are now in the Pacific.” The men looked at each other and laughed in delight. “They wouldn’t dare send in unescorted transports.” He stabbed a finger at the chart of the Middle East. “Look at tanker Jabal Nafusa. They won’t send her without two Gearings.”
“But they are supplying their forces on Saipan and Tinian? They did this by submarine last year.”
“And They’re doing it now, Admiral.” The American admiral pulled a new document from his valise. “The Russians sold Kadafi ten old diesel-electric Zulus two years ago.”
“Do you have the specs of these submarines, Admiral Whitehead. We have new members on our staff.” Whitehead waved a sheet. “Yes, sir. First you must realize, Kadafi insisted on all-Arab crews for his submarine fleet... sort of an underwater jihad. This was a disaster. The crews were completely unmechanical and most of them couldn”t even read the manuals. Four submarines were lost by accident. In fact, one even submerged without closing its main induction valve. It’s in shallow water just off Tripoli still. The other three disappeared without a trace while on training missions. Now he has brought in some old German U-boat officers and the six remaining boats are still operational.”
“The Zulu is basically an old German World War II design,” Fujita said.
“Yes, sir. The Russians built twenty-six of them in the early fifties and then stopped the program when they decided to go nuclear.” Whitehead studied his documents. “Two hundred ninety five feet long, twenty four foot beam, three Type 37D diesels, 6000 horsepower, three electric motors, three shafts. Speed sixteen on the surface, twelve submerged, ten torpedoes or thirty-six mines. Range 20,000 miles at eight knots surfaced.” He looked up. “Our latest reports indicate these boats are all in use as supply boats for the garrisons on Saipan and Tinian. They have done an excellent job, bringing in fuel, ammunition, more troops, and even some 105- millimeter artillery.” An anxious rumble filled the room.
Fujita tugged at the single white hair hanging from his chin and Brent knew the old sailor was deep in thought. “But still, Admiral Whitehead,” he said. “Submarine supply is tenuous, and six Zulus cannot transport large units, big guns, and heavy armor.”
“True.”
“Then let them fortify their old blockhouses, dig their holes, and emplace their artillery.” He looked around the room. “We will sink their ships, let the garrisons wither on the vine, and then wipe them out at a time of our choosing.”
“Banzai!” boomed through the room.
Fujita flung a single palm in the air like a Nazi saluting Hitler, and the shouting stopped. “It is time to interrogate the prisoners.” He turned to the communications rating. “Yeoman Nakamura,” he said to the rating who had huddled over his equipment unnoticed like a piece of furniture. “Show the German in.”
The big German was pushed into the room by two seaman guards who prodded him to the end of the table where he stood, glaring the length of the long oak slab at Admiral Fujita. The hate in his eyes filled the room like a toxic wind. “You are Conrad Schachter,” Fujita stated.
The German drew himself up, “I am Hauptmann Conrad Schachter, Sechste Bombardement Geschwader,” he announced, mustering all of the dignity available to a prisoner who had just been manhandled into a room full of enemies.
“Speak English,” Fujita commanded. “The language of this ship is English.”
“Captain Conrad Schachter, Sixth Bombardment Squadron,” the German translated.
“Your base?”
The German spat back with unbelievable arrogance, “Valhalla!”
Fujita nodded and one of the guards punched the German in the stomach with so much force, his fist vanished into the fat and the German doubled over, gagging with pain and spraying mucus and spittle. Whitehead and Williams looked at Brent in shock. Brent, Bernstein, and Fite smiled. The Japanese chuckled with amusement.
Gasping like the victim of a strangler, Schachter straightened slowly, finally managing, “The Geneva Conventions?”
Uproarious laughter filled the room. Fujita said, “Japan never subscribed to the Geneva Conventions. Did Germany?”
Bernstein raised a hand and his sleeve dropped, flashing the blue numbers tattooed on his forearm. The German’s eyes caught the numbers and burned with new venom despite the pain. Fujita acknowledged Bernstein. The Israeli consulted some notes before speaking. “You are the former Leutnant (Second Lieutenant) Conrad Schachter of the Luftwaffe?”
Breathing in short gasps, the German drew himself back up. His face was flushed, and perspiration beaded his forehead. It was obvious the man was not a coward. “How can you know that, Juden?”
Every eye was riveted on the pair. Fujita seemed mesmerized by the face-to-face encounter of two participants in the greatest tragedy of the century-perhaps of all time. Brent knew this time Fujita would sit back and let the unending hatred of the two old enemies run its course lik
e lava coursing from Mount Miyake.
“We keep archives on all of our friends of the Holocaust. I ran you through our computers this morning,” Bernstein said, tapping a document. “You were born in Munich in 1929, the son of a party official, Fredrick Schachter, who was appointed Bürgermeister of Bad Waldeck by Hitler himself. You joined the Hitler Youth at age eleven, were cited for ‘Devotion to der Fuehrer and the Third Reich’ by the head of the movement, Baldur von Schirach, at age fourteen, and you were the youngest pilot to ever enter flight training at age fifteen.”
“Someday, we will finish it — Endlosüng (final solution) Juden scheisse.” Schachter gestured at the tattoo, “You were our guest.”
“’The Auschwitz Finishing School’ from ‘43 to ‘45. I graduated with honors. In fact, I was the class — you roasted the rest.” For the first time, bitterness crept into his voice. “All my neighbors from the Warsaw ghetto, my father, mother, brother, sister-they were all part of your Endlosung. Did their bit by breathing your Zyklon B.”
“How did we miss you, untermenschen nille (subhuman prick).”
The German’s gall was amazing. Perhaps he already knew he was a dead man and was goaded by the inevitability of death to speak out with his most fetid hatreds and prejudices. Everyone stared at the pair, jerking their eyes back and forth like spectators at a tennis match.
“I was a former dental student. Pulled dental gold for you in a small room just between Gas Chamber Number Two and the main crematorium.” The Jew’s brown eyes bored into the German. “Actually did a little work on my own father,” he said matter-of-factly. Brent was astonished by Bernstein’s control.
Still managing to muster arrogance, the German looked around at the hard, implacable faces, finally stopping on Reginald Williams. “Ein Neger,” he said, thick lips twisted with disdain. “Ein Neger und ein Ju-den scheisse.” He shook his head in disbelief and spoke with incredible gall, “A room full of untermenschen schwein.” He stared hard at Reginald Williams, “Tell me,” he asked casually, lips pouting in mock civility, “Have you lost your foreskin too, Neger?”
Iwata giggled at Williams’ obvious umbrage. Brent grabbed the big black instinctively before be could leave his chair. “I’ll cut your nille off — if you have any balls, Nazi prick,” Williams spat. “You aren’t dealing with helpless women and children here.”
Bernstein glanced at his document and interrupted. “You were only fifteen when you joined the Luftwaffe?”
Schachter drew himself up and spoke with haughty pride. “I was the youngest pilot ever to fly for the Third Reich.” He looked around. Every eye was focused on him. He was obviously enjoying holding center stage. He continued, waving a hand with a theatrical flair, “I flew with General Adolph Galland’s ME-262 unit, the Jagdverband 44 in nineteen forty-five.”
“The Messerschmitt 262,” Fite said thoughtfully. “It was a jet — the first operational jet.”
“I shot down two of your B-17s. I only wish I could have killed more of you Yankee schwein.” Brent, Reginald, and John Fite all growled angrily. The German laughed.
Fujita slapped the table as the last of his patience drained away. He had obviously tired of the sport, and the German had become unbearable even to him. “Captain, Schachter, we knew you flew from Tinian,” he said. “We also know there are less than thirty fighters left to you in the Marianas and less than a dozen JU-87s. You have six Lockheed Super Constellations.” The admiral rubbed his tiny knuckles together. “What I want to know is how many reinforcements are you expecting? When will they arrive? How many troops occupy Saipan and Tinian? How much artillery do you have and the calibers?”
The German stared at the admiral for a long, silent moment. The pudgy face was expressionless. Then a slow smile rolled through the fat cheeks and twisted the sensuous lips like ripe sausage. “Would you like to know how many latrines we have built, too?”
Fujita threw up his hands in a rare show of anger. Both guards struck the German simultaneously, one punched to the stomach, the other to a kidney. Schachter shrieked with pain and staggered against the table. Two more blows drove him to the deck. Fujita waved and the moaning captain was dragged from the room.
Bernstein said to the admiral. “You will behead him?”
“Why, of course,” Fujita answered as if the question was completely academic. And then wryly, “Do you object, Colonel Bernstein?”
The Israeli’s answer shocked everyone. “Yes.”
“Yes!”
“That’s too good for him.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Leave him to me, Admiral.”
Fujita smiled. “I will consider your request, Colonel.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But keep in mind, Colonel, obviously, what happened over forty years ago cannot be changed. I can understand your desire for vengeance — vengeance is sacred to a samurai. But you can only kill Captain Schachter once, not six million times.” He toyed with the single white hair dangling from his chin. “I can remember back in ‘84 on our mission to the Mediterranean, I honored your request to fight another German prisoner, ah, ah...”
“Captain Werner Schlieben,” Brent offered. “He was captain of the Libyan freighter Zilah we sank in Tokyo Bay when she tried to ram us. They fought with waki-zashis in the ‘Shrine of Infinite Salvation.””
“Yes. Yes,” Fujita acknowledged. “It was Captain Schlieben, and you killed him.”
“How can I forget?” the Israeli said.
“And you dispatched him with great ingenuity and skill, Colonel,” Fujita continued. “But after it was all over, you said you could never avenge the Holocaust, that all it could ever be was a lesson.”
“I remember.”
“Then you would repeat this exercise in futility? You could lose your life, you know.”
“Everything you say is true, Admiral. But, yes, I would like to fight him — kill him with these.” He held up his thin yet strong hands. “Please consider my request.”
“Of course, Colonel. But keep in mind, you may be too valuable to risk.” He turned to Yeoman Nakamura, “Bring in the Arab.”
Sergeant Haj Abu al Sahdi was pushed into the room by two more guards. The haughty arrogance that had fired from Schacter’s eyes was missing in the small Arab’s black eyes, but defiance was there, and revulsion glowed when he spotted the Israeli. Then the hate came. Bernstein bristled in the glare.
Fujita asked for his name, rank, duties. Quickly the Arab answered, readily admitting his squadron had flown from Saipan’s Isley Field. Then the same questions that had been put to Schachter about supply and reinforcements.
Palming his prayer beads and muttering some of the ninety-nine names for Allah, the short dark man stared at Fujita. “Submarines — sometimes submarines. The ships have not come for a long time.” The Arab moved his eyes back to Bernstein and hate danced there like mad fireflies. He shouted at the Israeli, “Itbakh al Yahud!”
The Japanese looked at each other in confusion. Bernstein explained, “He just yelled ‘Death to the Jews’!” He actually yawned. “It’s old hat. The Feda-yeen — Arab commandos — use it all the time.”
Every Japanese in the room had been aware of the Holocaust for decades, the timeless hatred and persecution of the Jews all over the world. Not withstanding, Jews were scarce in Japan, and most of the Japanese in the room had never met a Jew until Colonel Irving Bernstein had reported aboard as a liaison officer with Israeli Intelligence. However, none was prepared for the intensity of hatred directed by both Captain Conrad Schachter and Sergeant Haj Abu al Sahdi at the Israeli. Both the German and the Arab had good reason to detest the Japanese, yet the full intensity of their abhorrence focused on the Jew. Bernstein was unbelievably cool in his response, as if he were dealing with an everyday problem that had endured to the point of ennui.
“‘Haj’.” Bernstein remarked casually. “That’s an honorific. You’ve been to Mecca, Sergeant Abu al Sahdi? You’ve honored Muhammad’s Fifth Pillar of Wisdom
?”
The Arab drew himself up proudly, “I earned the title Haj ten years ago when I walked from my village of Bir Nakhella to Mecca. I prayed at the Al Aksa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock, Yahud.” He waved a fist, “Perish Judea!”
Fujita interrupted, “Captain Conrad Schachter was your squadron leader?”
The Arab tugged on a corner of his huge drooping mustache. “That pile of donkey’s dung led us to destruction.”
“He was the only German?”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“You dislike Germans?”
“Only Schachter.” He stabbed a finger at Bernstein. “I like most Germans. They help us kill Yahud.”
Bernstein spoke with completely unruffled aplomb. “I know your village of Bir Nakhella. It’s typical — a miserable place twenty kilometers southwest of Jerusalem.” Fujita sank back, eyes focused on the pair. By his relaxed demeanor, yet an intense concentration betrayed by his eyes, Brent knew the old man intended to allow the string of acrimony to play itself out.
“You grew up in Bir Nakhella?”
“Yes, Yahud.”
There was irony in Bernstein’s chuckle. “Then you never saw a green lawn, toys, flowers that were not wild, streets not covered with donkey and camel’s shit, a library, a museum, a cinema, a swimming pool, a toilet, medical clinic, a machine shop, milking machines for your cows, tractors, reapers, electric lights, a painting. You lived like the rest of your brethren like Bedouin dogs-just as you have for centuries and then blame the Jews for your own stupidity and sloth.”
“May a thousand scorpions feast on your mother’s cunt, Yahud.” Bernstein amazed everyone with his unflappability, his face as stoic as a temple icon. The Arab drew himself up with new bravado, his great mustache bristling as if it had been suddenly waxed. He raced on, “I am not a Bedouin dog, I am not a stupid fellah. I am a Hashemite of the same clan of Muhammad. My ancestors came from Arabia, from the Hejaz. We were the keepers of the holy places of Mecca. I never saw those things in my village because you drove my father — my family from our lands when you conquered Jerusalem in 1948. You drove us to Bir Nakhella when you stole Jerusalem, our national capital of the Palestinians.”
