Visualizing a Jutland type slugfest, Yuzuru and Kejii gave a lot of thought to the ship's armor. Her belt armor at the water line was manufactured in sections: each section was sixteen inches thick and measured nineteen by twelve feet, weighing sixty-eight and a half tons. Her decks had 7.8 inch amour plate, which were built to withstand a 2,200 pound amour-piercing bomb dropped from 10,000 feet. Unlike the Titanic, the Yamato class battleships had 1065 watertight compartments below the armor deck and another eighty-two watertight compartments above. Twelve Kanpon boilers delivered steam to four turbines which turned four propellers shafts, driving the Musashi and her crew of 2,500 through the water at a top speed of twenty-seven knots.
Newcomers had to be escorted when they boarded one of the massive battleships, least they become lost in her labyrinthine interior. But once inside the behemoth's superstructure, visitors were pleasantly surprised. They were greeted with air conditioning, linoleum decks polished to a deep luster and spotless white bulkheads. Brass fittings gleamed like bright diamonds in the officer's quarters. The wardroom, and lounge areas were appointed with dark paneled wood, deep leather sofas and other Western style furniture. Sparkling crystal, dinnerware and cutlery, was set in the wardroom which converted to a movie theater for nightly showings. The wardroom even had that rich aroma one finds in Western restaurants, a mixture of spices, fine cigars, leather and lingering cologne.
Her fighting and sea keeping capabilities were considered the best. The accommodations were the best and the food was the best. For this, her crew called her the Musashi hotel.
The Musashi eclipsed anything afloat in firepower. Each of her nine, 18.1 inch guns could hurl a 2,000 pound projectile over twenty-five miles. In fact, the gun turrets were so large that a special ship was built, just to carry them from the Kure shipyards to either the Nagasaki or Yokosuka shipyards.
But in a way, their massive guns created an Achilles heel. For example, the largest cannons used by the U.S. Navy were sixteen inch. When fired, the blast pressure to the atmosphere was 19.58 pounds per square inch. This meant a sailor could stand safely within one hundred feet of the gun's muzzle without any affect. On the other hand, the Musashi's eighteen inch guns delivered a whopping blast pressure of 58 pounds per square inch. Thus a man standing anywhere on the weather decks would have his clothes torn off, and, most likely, be knocked unconscious. Also, wooden shore boats cradled on the Yamato's deck would shatter. Accordingly, all humans, boats, airplanes, and other fragile equipment had to be stowed in special hangers when the ship's main batteries erupted. The blast pressure characteristics dictated that the Yamato's secondary battery consist of just four triple turreted 6.1 guns. As designed, the ships had no open anti-aircraft gun mounts.
Accordingly, the air-minded and more forward-thinking knew the Yamato class battleships' days were numbered; indeed that they were obsolete when they slid off the ways. For proof, one only had to look at the Kido Butai's devastation of the U.S. Navy's battleships at Pearl Harbor to realize that Yamato and Musashi were dinosaurs. There was a saying in the Imperial Japanese Navy's new upstart Air Arm. The three most useless items in the world were: The Great Wall Of China, the Pyramids of Egypt, and Yamato Class battleships. Thus, the great ships were destined to swing at anchor in some backwater, lest they blunder within range of American aircraft.
But still, she was a monster...
There was a knock at the door and Yamamoto looked up. Omi Heijiro, his round-faced chief orderly, poked his head around the door, his brows raised, “It's Captain Watanabe.”
“Ah.” Yamamoto stood. “Five minutes.”
“Yes, Gensui.” Heijiro bowed and closed the door with a soft click.
Yamamoto ran water over his face, then dressed. Soon, there was another knock.
“Enter.”
Captain Yasuji Watanabe, his chief administrative officer and friend, opened the door, stepped in, and bowed. It was time for their evening game of mahjongg.
“Come.” Yamamoto waved a palm at the conference table. “I saw Tsuji Masanobu today.” He passed the mahjongg box.
“How’d he get past me?” Watanabe sat and began arranging the tiles.
“I know his boss. And he was sitting outside your office. You were busy, so I invited him up.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
Yamamoto reached for a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and two glasses. “He’s a staff Major from the Seventeenth Army.” Now on rest and recreation around Rabaul, the Seventeenth Army was the last evacuated from Guadalcanal a month ago. Navy destroyers and troopships successfully snatched the last thirteen thousand men from under Halsey’s nose over a period of three nights.
“He was on Ga-to?” Ga-to was a play on Japanese ideographs for Guadalcanal: meaning starvation island.
Yamamoto grunted and spilled two fingers of Johnnie Walker in each glass. Tipping his glass at Watanabe, he sat back and drank. “I knew it was bad. But not that bad.”
Watanabe shuffled the tiles around, while the Gensui stared into space.
“They’re in horrible shape,” said Yamamoto. “They’ve suffered every imaginable disease. They’re terribly undernourished; their beards, nails, and hair have stopped growing. Their joints are horribly large and swollen and their buttocks are so atrophied that the anus is completely exposed and unprotected. He gave me this,” Yamamoto passed over a dog-eared piece of paper. “It’s from a soldier’s journal that lay within reach of his body.”
Wannabe picked it up, finding a page dated January 2, 1943:
Mortality Chart
He who can rise to his feet: 30 days to live
He who can sit up 20 days to live
He who must urinate while laying down 3 days to live
He who cannot speak 2 days to live
He who cannot blink his eyes Dead at dawn
Watanabe slowly lowered his glass to the table.
“Drink, drink. This is not your fault.”
“...all that and we lost...” It just slipped out. Watanabe couldn’t help it.
“Yes. We lost Guadalcanal. Fifty thousand men. That’s a price, all right. And now the Americans control the Eastern Solomons. I tell you, I was humbled by Masanobu’s report. I sent him off to be showered, clothed, and treated to dinner in the wardroom.”
Watanabe had barely noticed the thin frail looking Army major sitting with the junior officers near the aft bulkhead.
There was a soft knock at the door, Heijiro stuck his head in and said. “It’s Captain Takano.”
“Ah, good. Send him in.”
“What?” said Watanabe.
“Do you know him?” asked Yamamoto.
“Yes, Sir.” Watanabe had trouble checking his disgust. Captain Kanji Takano was a flamboyant rising star who had just been appointed as Fleet Ordnance Officer under Vice Admiral Tomoshiga Sajejima. Rumor had it that he was to be appointed directly to Yamamoto, but Watanabe had been reluctant to ask. Also, Watanabe feared Takano was a spy. Some in Tokyo’s high command were outspoken about Yamamoto’s blunders at Coral Sea, Midway and now, Guadalcanal.
Captain Kanji Takano walked in, wearing immaculately cut dress blues with knife edge creases. He bowed to Yamamoto. “Good evening, Sir.”
“Ah, Takano. Welcome. Thank you for coming. You’ve met Watanabe?”
The two naval captains faced one another and bowed stiffly.
“I hear you play poker, Takano?” Yamamoto’s eyebrows were up, a gesture Watanabe recognized as an invitation. It was a gesture that disappointed Watanabe for he didn’t know how to play poker, only mahjongg.
“I do, Sir.” Takano smiled with a sidelong glance to Watanabe.
Pouring two fingers of scotch, Yamamoto handed Takano the glass and asked in a cowboy-accented English, his voice deep and throaty, “Well then, you like five card stud, partner?”
Delicately sniffing the scotch, Takano responded in the same language. “Ain’t none better, uh, partner.”
“I had heard you sp
oke English, Takano. But I didn’t realize you spoke it so well. It’s better than mine. Where did you learn it?” asked Yamamoto.
“University of Washington, Excellency.” he paused. “And you, Sir?”
“Harvard.” In Japanese, Yamamoto asked, “Ah, forgive me Watanabe. Do you play poker?”
“No, Sir,” said Watanabe.
“I see...perhaps we could...”
“Pardon me, Gensui,” but I can’t play poker this evening.”
“Oh?” said Yamamoto.
“I must stand the fleet communications watch,” Takano check his wristwatch, “in ten minutes.”
“I see,” said Yamamoto. “Perhaps some other time.”
“I look forward to that, Gensui.”
What are we doing here? wondered Watanabe.
There was an awkward silence then Yamamoto said, “Very well. I’d like to ask you, Takano, if I am imagining that American anti-aircraft gunnery is becoming more accurate, that, perhaps they’re shooting our airplanes down more quickly?”
“They have radar-controlled weapons, Sir,” Takano said.
“Yes, yes,” said Yamamoto. And their shooting has been decent, according to the reports I see. But in the last month I’ve had the feeling it’s getting better. Why is that, do you suppose?”
“It hasn’t occurred to me, Gensui,” said Takano
“Did you see the fleet intelligence report that came to us via our Moscow Embassy? That the Americans are developing a new anti-aircraft fuse? One that is very accurate?”
Watanabe watched Takano fidget. Although the man was a brilliant ordnance officer, he was famous for in-baskets that overflowed with unopened documents.
“I haven’t seen that one,” Takano said.
“You know,” said Yamamoto. “Maybe we can gather a little of our own intelligence. Of all the ammunition we confiscated from the Americans, there must a sample of the fuse somewhere.”
Takano looked lost for a moment. “I’ve gone over those reports time and time again. I don’t recall anything unusual.” He knocked back his scotch in one gulp.
“I see,” said Yamamoto. “Well then. Have we looked in --”
“--There might be something,” Watanabe interjected. “The report just came in. Today, we severely damaged an American destroyer in the Kula Gulf.”
“Excellent,” said Yamamoto.
“Blew her stern off. She is the...the U.S.S. “ Watanabe made a show of reaching for the answer although he knew it cold, “U.S.S. Howell, Fletcher class. They had to beach her.”
“Beach her? Where?” asked Yamamoto, his eyes lighting up with possibilities.
A glance at Takano assured Watanabe the ordnance captain knew nothing about the Howell. “Mondo Mondo Island, Gensui, just off New Georgia Island. The report said the Americans are still aboard, but it looks as if they’re trying to evacuate. “We’re sending the destroyer Matukaze to back up a company of Imperial Marines.”
“Um,” said Yamamoto. “We should try to get the Americans off without them blowing up the ship.” He turned to Takano. “Do you think you could head that up? Get someone down there to go aboard that destroyer and see if the Americans do have a new miracle fuse as our Soviet friends claim?”
“Of course, Gensui.” Takano looked at his watch. He was scheduled to relieve in just five minutes.
“Go Takano,” Yamamoto waved a hand. “Keep me informed through Watanabe here.”
“Yes, Gensui.” Takano bowed first to Yamamoto, then to Watanabe and walked for the door.
Yamamoto called after him, “And get a message to the Matukaze. Tell her to get the Americans off and to disarm all demolition charges.”
“Yes, Sir.” Takano walked out.
Watanabe sat at the card table, his palms pressed flat.
“Give him some slack, Watanabe,” said Yamamoto, sitting beside him.
“Sir?” asked Wannabe innocently.
“He’s a favorite son. And he’s up for admiral. And don’t forget, the man is a genius in ordnance. He has an MS in mechanical engineering.”
“I see.”
“No you don’t. In reality I agree, the man is a fop. But I have no control over him. He’s a cousin of Prince Konoye.”
“Ah.” Watanabe figured the evening was over so he started to box the mahjongg tiles.
“No, let’s play.” Yamamoto downed his scotch, then poured another three fingers, watching Watanabe spill the tiles and arrange them. “I have to play this game, Watanabe. Politics.”
“I thought so.”
“They’re after me for...for...” Yamamoto waved a hand at the port hole. After a moment, he exhaled and said, “…so, I must do something.”
“Sir?”
“The Americans.” He toyed with a tile. “They keep replacing ships faster than we can put them down.”
Watanabe extended the thought he knew ran through Yamamoto’s head. Worse, we can’t replace our ships as fast as they are replacing theirs
“Ahhh!” Yamamoto’s eyebrows went up. After a moment, he said softly, “Operation Z.”
“Sir?” Operation Z was the code word for the Japanese Navy’s victorious attack on the Czarist fleet at the Battle of Tsushima Straits in 1905. With honor, the codeword, Operation Z, was again employed for the attack on the American Fleet at Pearl Harbor.
“...a heavy, decisive blow, like at Pearl Harbor. Like at Tsushima. We can hit Guadalcanal, New Guinea, a whole range of targets from...from...” He snapped the fingers of his right hand. “Rabaul, of course.” He looked up. “My dear Watanabe. You’ve hardly touched your scotch.”
Watanabe took another swallow. Operation Z. It had a magical lilt. He looked up to see Yamamoto’s eyes gleaming.
“Massive air attacks,” Yamamoto mused. “A hundred airplanes, two, maybe three hundred airplanes.” He rubbed his hands together, then bent over to study the tiles. “We’ll have to call this one Operation I. Call a staff conference tomorrow. Nine O’clock.”
“Should I invite Captain Takano?”
“Yes, yes. He should be there.”
“Yes, Sir.” The alcohol ran softly into Watanabe’s system, softening the horror of Ga-to. He held out an empty glass. Operation I. Yes. Maybe it did have a chance.
Yamamoto smiled and poured for his mahjongg partner. “The scotch agrees with you.” It was a statement.
“Yes, Gensui.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
7 March, 1943
U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)
Mondo Mondo Island, Solomon Islands
“A PT Boat,” said Ingram.
“Speak English,” demanded Landa
“Send a PT up the inland passage. Hit ‘em from behind. Keep that mortar off our backs.”
“Makes sense to me.” In weak moonlight, Landa’s dark stubble and helmet made him look like a German soldier peering into No Man’s Land at Verdun. They walked in the pilot house where Landa grabbed the TBS handset. “Carl, what’s their call sign?”
“Boat Seven-Two."
Landa pressed the handset button, making the red button glow on the bulkhead mounted transmitter. “Boat Seven-Two, this is Ricochet, over.”
Static crackled on the speaker.
Landa muttered, then tried again, “Boat Seven-Two, over.”
Suddenly, a loud, grinding noise filled the compartment. A voice said, “Seven-Two, over.”
Landa clamped a hand over his ear and said, “Boat Seven-Two. We have a problem. Japs have just landed a second barge-load of troops across the island. Can one of you divert, head into the inland waterway and shoot them from behind before they attack us in force? Over.”
“We can try, Ricochet. Interrogative your position, over?”
Landa stared at the bulkhead, muttering, and drumming his fingers.
“What’s wrong?” said Ingram.
“I’ve heard that voice, before.” Then he keyed the TBS. “About a hundred yards north of Hohopo Point, over.”
The grinding noise filled the p
ilot house again. “Ah, Ricochet, can you shoot a flare? Over.”
“Affirmative. Red flare on the way.” Landa eyed Ingram.
Ingram ducked out the hatch. “Louie. Shoot a red flare.”
“Got it!” said Delmonico. Fifteen seconds later, a flare whooshed to the sky, popped its parachute and began its descent, trailing its red-phosphorescent brilliance.
The speaker crackled. “Ricochet, we have you in sight. PleaseBA
“Shit!” Landa roared. He stood there, his fists bunched, the transmitter button still red.
“Skipper! What the hell?”
“It’s...it’s,” he sputtered.
“Damnit.” Ingram wrested the TBS handset from Landa, keyed the mike and said, “Boat Seven-Two, this is Ricochet. Say your last. Over.”
“Hi, Todd.”
“Tubby?”
“That’s right.”
“What are you doing there?”
“My first night. I’m exec. Can you beat that?”
Ingram cleared his throat. “Roger Boat Seven-Two. Did you see our flare, over?”
“You bet. We have you in sight. Say, is the Skipper pissed at me?”
Landa tapped Ingram on the shoulder, the look on his face saying, ‘Gimme.’
Grabbing the handset, Landa said, “Boat Seven-Two, this is Ricochet. Be advised, whoever takes the Inland waterway, that the Japs may have mortars and flamethrowers.”
White’s voice came back, overly solicitous. “Aye, aye, Ricochet, Sir. In fact, we are the ones assigned. We’re now peeling off to head for the Lingutu Entrance. Three Peter Tares should be with you in four to five minutes, Captain, er Sir. Over.”
“Ricochet, out,” said Landa. Then he hung up the hand set and muttered, “Fat little bastard.”
Ingram looked away and ran his hand over his eyes.
Landa pulled his talker over. “Early, pass the word: abandon ship. All hands, except gun crews, lay portside aft for transfer to PT Boats.” Then he turned to Offenbach. “How’s the burn going?”
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 15
