Trial of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  The superb Hellcat fighter had claimed over 5000 kills during the war — more than any other Allied fighter. In fact, during the Battle of the Philippine Sea, 402 Japanese aircraft were destroyed while six Hellcats were brought down by the Japanese fleet. This massacre would forever be known as the “Marianas Turkey Shoot.” The Americans exulted on it while the Japanese tried to put it out of their minds. Watching the blue fighters land, the older Japanese eyed the Hellcat with an amalgam of resentment and pleasure — resentment over the terrible losses inflicted by the Grumman, pleasure at finally having this vicious nemesis fighting on their side.

  The last aircraft to land was that of Commander Yoshi Matsuhara. As usual, he caught the first cable and made a perfect three-point landing. He approached in fading light, the dying sun bisected by the line of the horizon. Everyone breathed easier. Forty-seven Aichi D3As, forty-five Nakajima B5Ns, and forty-two Zero-sens, two Seafires, and twelve Hellcats, had been taken aboard with only one minor casualty.

  Brent had never met the two Frenchmen, the German, and the Greek pilots who had spent most of their time at Tokyo International Airport and Tsuchuira. However, they were all fighter pilots, and because each Japanese pilot wore a hachimachi head band — a white band around the helmet with brushed ideograms which testified to the man’s determination to die for the Emperor — he was able to pick out the foreigners. It pleased him to see the four flyers land their Zeros with verve and confidence. But more important to Brent was the fact the battle group was taking on a more international flavor. Good men from all over the world had had enough of terrorists and terrorism. Now more and more of them were willing to put their lives on the line to stop it.

  “Good pilots. Good pilots. Terrific deck force,” Whitehead said, obviously impressed.

  Beaming, Fujita shouted commands and the task force came back to its base course of one-three-five. Captain Arai and Quartermaster Kunitomi went below to the navigation bridge. Here they would break out sextant and stop watch. They would be taking the evening sights in a few minutes.

  Fujita said to Brent, “Commander Iwata landed with his second cockpit empty, Mister Ross.”

  “I noticed, sir. I appreciate your permission allowing me to stand out at my old special sea detail post.” He tapped the windscreen with gloved knuckles. “I feel I belong here.”

  The old man cracked a small smile. “I am pleased you have that loyalty to Yonaga, Mister Ross. However, Commander Iwata is saving that cockpit for you. You have trained well with him, Mister Ross. He has been lavish in his praise of your gunnery skills.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Brent said, allowing his glasses to drop to his waist.

  “It is good that this bad thing between you has been put to rest,” the old man said, staring through his glasses.

  “Yes, sir,” Brent answered simply. He raised his binoculars and stared into the gathering darkness. However, it had not been “put to rest,” and Fujita should have known this. Perhaps the old man had been just fishing. True, he was Iwata’s gunner, but not suddenly the man’s friend. This could never be, not with Iwata. Brent had beaten him senseless before a large number of the crew. In Iwata’s samurai’s mentality, vengeance was still there to be claimed. Brent admired the man’s flying skills, but always regarded him with a wary eye.

  “Sir,” Rear Admiral Whitehead said suddenly. “Our nuclear sub Phoenix sighted tanker Jabal Nafus three days ago in the Celebes Sea.”

  “I know, Admiral Whitehead,” Fujita said. “They made much better time than we expected.”

  “Blackfin should have made contact by now,” Whitehead said.

  The old admiral dropped his glasses and looked up at the American rear admiral. “True. Blackfin should have made contact.”

  Brent wondered about Blackfin, Williams and the crew that had become so dear to him. Had they spotted the tanker? Sunk her? A specially encoded message had been constructed for just this eventuality and it had not been transmitted. Maybe they had been sunk themselves. Perhaps they were all dead, been spotted after their transmission, and depth-charged into their grave. He sighed and drummed the windscreen uneasily.

  *

  With her engines throttled down to a burbling rumble, submarine Blackfin cruised slowly through the calm sea. Overhead, the stars shown brilliantly in the blackness of a cloudless, moonless sky that showed not the faintest hint of the impending dawn. A fatigued Lieutenant Reginald Williams leaned against the windscreen and raised his binoculars. They were only eight miles off the southern entrance of Tomonuto Atoll, where ESM had picked up both S-and J-band emanations from a Gearing-class destroyer anchored in the middle of the entrance. Her active sonar was secured, but Williams knew she was sitting with her sonarmen listening with their earphones clamped to their heads. Even with the four big Fair-banks-Morse engines idling at a speed only great enough to maintain steerageway, there was always a chance Blackfin could be detected. He had learned on his first patrol off Tomonuto that the RAM (radar absorbent material) with which Blackfin had been sprayed made the boat hard to detect. In fact, with her two main ballast tanks partially flooded, the boat was low in the water, offering even a more difficult silhouette for a return.

  He was pleased with his crew. Fifteen highly experienced men, nine Japanese and six Americans, had replaced their dead and wounded. A new officer, a young lieutenant junior grade named Shohei Imamura, had reported aboard to fill the void left by the transfer of Brent Ross. Williams had elevated Lieutenant JG Charlie Ca-denbach to executive officer and assistant attack officer while Imamura took over navigation duties. Williams sighed. He missed Brent. True, they had had their differences, but the lieutenant was brilliant, a courageous officer who was almost worshipped by the men. He had been sickened when he watched Brent behead the Arab. But, strangely, afterward, it did seem just, and Brent had performed his duty with cold efficiency. And, indeed, he knew the Arab had been the ‘American Samurai’s’ third beheading.

  They had intercepted a message from the SSN Phoenix three days before. Tanker Jabal Nafusa and two escorts had been sighted in the Celebes Sea. He had expected to sight the convoy the previous afternoon, but they had seen nothing, and ESM had not detected the enemy. He had shut down all electronic equipment except for ESM — their WLR-8. However, only the destroyer’s radar and the occasional radar searches from distant inter-island steamers “waterfalled” across its scope.

  He quickly surveyed the bridge crew to assure himself everyone was alert. It was easy to become bored and inattentive on these long watches cloaked in the darkness of night. He glanced at the helmsman, Quartermaster Second Class Harold Sturgis, who gripped the wheel and stared into the only lighted instrument on the bridge: the dim red glow of the gyro repeater mounted between the helmsman and the wheel. To his right, Reginald watched as the man at the annunciators, Seaman First Class Tatsunori Hara, raised his binoculars and searched over the bow. A glance up and over his shoulder assured the captain that the two men standing on their platform on the periscope shears were alert and scanning their sectors. Two extra lookouts, one on each side of the bridge, leaned into their glasses. But all was quiet, only the throaty bark of the diesels firing through the spray and the sluicing sound of water washing over the low main deck and pouring through the drains, ports and scuppers could be heard.

  “Bridge!” came up from the speaker. It was the voice of Crog Romero.

  “Bridge aye.”

  “Captain, ESM’s got something,” Romero said. “Three powerhouse radars. My threat library only has one and it’s the Jabal Nafusa. No identification for the other two.”

  Williams felt his heart suddenly pound against his chest just as it had the two times just before he played in the Rose Bowl. His tongue as suddenly thick and his throat was a desert. “Very well,” he managed with a calmness he did not feel. “Range and bearing.”

  “Range ninety-miles, bearing two-two-five true, sir.”

  “Very well. Can you give me a reading on their SOA (speed of adv
ance)?”

  “Maybe, ten, eleven knots, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Reginald made a quick calculation. The convoy should arrive in the middle of the afternoon — maybe 1500 hours. He glanced at the eastern horizon, where a hint of a rosy glow reminded him dawn was only minutes away. He cursed. They had no choice but to submerge. But their battery was fully charged and they still had enough fuel for another week at sea before returning to Japan. He spoke into the speaker, “Plot.”

  Shohei Imamura’s voice came back, “Plot aye.”

  “Depth under keel?”

  “One-hundred-forty-fathoms, sir.”

  “Give me a course for the center of the channel.”

  “Zero-three-two, Captain.”

  “Depth four miles off the entrance?”

  “The hundred fathom line passes through that point, sir.”

  “Very well.” Williams was pleased. He should be able to submerge and bring the boat within four miles of the entrance without being detected by the Arab’s World War II sonar. However, if the enemy had cheated, equipped his DDs with newer equipment, they could all be dead men. He had no choice. Only in that position would he have the best possible chance for a shot at Jabal Nafusa. He spoke softly to Sturgis, “Right standard rudder, steady up on zero-three-two.”

  Sturgis repeated the command and brought the wheel over. “Seady on zero-three-two,” he said.

  “Very well.” Williams took a deep breath and then shouted, “Lookouts below, clear the bridge, stand by to pull the plug!” He could hear the commands repeated through the open hatch to the conning tower.

  Quickly, the two lookouts dropped from the shears and vanished down the hatch with the port and starboard lookouts, followed by Hara and Sturgis. One last look around and then Reginald Williams shouted, “Dive! Dive!” and dropped down through the hatch. Hitting the alarm button with one hand, he pulled the wooden handle and jerked the hatch cover shut with a clang. Then he whirled the wheel until the hatch was dogged watertight. The old auto horn sound of the diving alarm — “Oogah! Oogah!” — resounded throughout the boat. Immediately, operators in the diving station in the control room threw levers and popping sounds were heard as the vents of the main ballast tanks clanged open. With a thump that shook the conning tower, the cover of the main induction valve slammed closed, the throb of the diesels stopped and the soft hum of electric motors could be heard.

  He dropped into the conning tower and took a position behind the two periscopes, the wide-angled night periscope and the narrow attack periscope. Quartermaster Sturgis had taken his station at the forward end of the compartment, where he grasped the helm and glanced at the mass of instruments in front of him and above him: speed indicator, pitometer, compass repeater, depth gauge, water pressure gauge, engine room controls, rev counter, rudder angle indicator. To Sturis’s left, Yeoman Randolph “Randy” Davidson, the talker, already had his headset on and was staring at his telephone board.

  On the starboard side, Crog Romero settled onto a stool in front of the old Mark Four sonar, adjusted his earphones, and stared at his scope. The instrument was set on “passive” and would remain so until ordered to “active” by the captain. Next to him, Petty Officer Tadashi Takiguchi stared at his radar scope, which was blank. The TDC (Torpedo Data Computer) was unmanned.

  “Blow negative!” Williams heard diving officer Ensign Herbert Battle shout at his men. The boat inclined downward and then lurched and listed to port. Before

  Williams could say a word, Battle’s angry shout at the two men manning the big wheels that controlled the bow and stern planes came up through the hatch, “Mind your trim, God damn it!” Immediately the boat righted itself.

  “Green board,” a man in the control room shouted up the hatch.

  “Green air!” another man shouted. “Pressure in the boat.

  “Very well,” Williams said, pleased that the “Christmas Tree” showed all green lights indicating all hull openings were closed. The shout of pressure in the boat brought a slight pain to his ears as the air pressure was increased to test for leaks. He shouted down the hatch, “Secure the air and take her down to sixty-four feet.” Sixty-four feet would give him two-and-one-half feet of periscope length above the surface.

  “Take her down to sixty-four feet,” Battle repeated. Williams heard the venting of air as more water poured into the main ballast tanks and trim tanks. He felt the downward bow angle increase. There were slapping and bubbling sounds as the sea crept up the bridge, black water covering the tiny eye ports. Williams felt the familiar ache in his eardrums increase as pressure built up, the boat sinking into the depths. The usual thought that ran through every submariner’s mind on submerging plagued Williams: Will this be my last dive? Will I ever see the surface, the blue sky, breathe sweet air again? He shrugged off the gloom and tried to enjoy the awesome quietness that filled the boat. Despite the fans and ventilating system, the heat set in immediately. And the familiar odor endemic with old fleet boats was there: unwashed bodies and the faint aroma of diesel oil.

  “Passing forty-five feet, sir” Herbert Battle shouted up the hatch.

  “Very well.”

  “Fifty feet,” Battle reported. And then to the crew at the diving station, “Blow negative to the mark and level off.”

  The sound of incoming water ceased and Williams felt the incline lessen. “Leveling, Captain.”

  “Very well.”

  “Passing sixty feet, Captain.”

  “Very well.” Williams said to Sturgis. “Steady on zero-three-two.”

  “Aye aye, sir. She’s steady on zero-three-two.”

  “All ahead one-third.”

  Sturgis moved the knobbed handles of the annunciators and the whine of motors dropped. “All ahead one-third.”

  Williams pulled a microphone down from the overhead. “Now hear this,” he said. “We will post the maneuvering watch and remain at our stations until we are four miles off the entrance. Then the port watch will take over while we wait for that motherf...” He caught himself. “While we wait for Jabal Nafusa to come to us. Remember, that can’s on watch in the entrance. We’ll observe silent running and steam in within four miles of the entrance and lay-to at sixty-four feet until sonar picks up cavitations. Then we’ll clobber the sons-of-bitches!”

  A cheer resounded throughout the boat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By 0930 hours it started. Radar picket Ayase reported that she was under attack by a dozen Junkers 87, Stuka dive bombers, and five high-flying Douglas DC-6s. Then, suddenly, her radios fell silent. Everyone expected Fujita to send fighters to her aid. However, the old man did nothing for the beleaguered picket. Instead, he doubled the number of BSNs scouting the four quadrants surrounding the task force, assigning two to each sector. At 1000 hours, Scout Number Two sent a partial transmission reporting two carriers and escorts at latitude twenty-one-degrees-thirty minutes, longitude one-six-one...” and then the scout’s radio fell silent, too.

  Within minutes of the reception of the scout’s message, an enemy DC-6 flying at nearly 30,000 feet sighted the task force. The six Zeros of the CAP shot her down quickly, but everyone knew the damage had been done. The enemy knew where they were, too. They were within a few hours of a bloody showdown.

  Brent was in Flag Plot, seated between Commander Conrad Crellin and Commander Yoshi Matsuhara when the Admiral briefed his staff and air group commanders. First he pointed at the chart, indicating the enemy’s position. “We are here,” he said. “At latitude twenty-seven, longitude one-six-one. We will steam south until we are within three-hundred kilometers of the enemy and then launch our aircraft. Launch time in one hour.” A dozen wristwatches were checked as if choreographed. The small black eyes were fiery with a new excitement as the old man surveyed the eager faces in front of him. “Remember,” he said. “The fate of the Mikado and Japan is in your hands — of the entire free world. Kill the swine!” There was a cheer, and cries of “Banzai!” filled t
he room.

  The old man clapped twice and everyone stood. “Amaterasu-O-Mi-Kami,” he said, bowing toward the shrine. “Show us the way to destroy the enemies of the Mikado — the enemies of all free men.” He looked up and stared at his men. His hand found the Hagakure. “Remember, our sacred book tells us, ‘If one’s sword is broken, he will strike with his hands. If his hands are cut off he will press the enemy down with his shoulders. If his shoulders are cut away, he will bite through ten or fifteen enemy necks with his teeth.’”

  A great roar erupted, and every man waved a fist in the air. Fujita raised his hands. “Brief your groups and be prepared to take off within an hour.” He gestured at Captain Mitake Arai. “Just before take off, my air operations officer will provide you with your point-option data.” He surveyed the eager faces grimly. “Send the fingernail and hair clippings of your men to my cabin. I will see to it personally they are sent to next of kin. You are dismissed.”

  “Tenno heika banzai!” resounded in the room and then the men crowded into the doorway. Conrad Crellin pulled Brent aside and whispered in his ear, “Fingernails and hair clippings?”

  “If a samurai is lost in battle, his fingernail and hair clippings are sent to his family,” Brent explained. “That way, they will have something to cremate. It helps the man’s spirit enter the Yasakuni Shrine, where he can join all the dead heroes of the ages.” Crellin nodded, smiled and walked out of the room.

  Stepping into the passageway, Iwata stopped Brent Ross with a hand on his arm. “Are you ready, gunner?”

  Brent smiled. “I’m always ready.”