Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  “Gunner to pilot,” Brent said. “We have damage to our right wing and a dozen holes in our tailplanes. The dynamotor has been shot out and I can see tailplane control rods through at least six holes in the fuselage and there are two rips in the rudder fabric.” He avoided mentioning his wounds.

  “Very well,” Takii answered. “I have switched to battery and my controls are intact and my instruments show no casualties to the engine or fuel tanks. I can see the holes in the wing. The gun camera has been shot out but there is no damage to fuel tanks, control wires, flaps, or ailerons.” He paused. “Lieutenant Ross. That was very good shooting.”

  “Banzai, Brent-san,” Mochitsura interrupted. “You killed a hundred of the devils.”

  Brent laughed. “Thank you. It was a pleasure but I almost became a casualty to your sword, Mochitsura-san.”

  “Secure the sword,” Takii shouted angrily.

  “Aye, aye, Lieutenant. The sword is secured,” the navigator said contritely. “But I will reload my pistol for those Korean dogs.”

  “Very well.”

  Brent moved his eyes over the punctured aluminum, the jagged holes haloed by raw aluminum, the ripped canvas of the rudder, torn wing and spoke into his microphone with disbelief, “With all respect, Lieutenant Takii. We have sustained considerable damage. I would suggest calling for a replacement and returning to Yonaga by the shortest route.”

  Two heads swiveled to the rear and then back to the front and Brent felt a strange compulsion to turn the wounded side of his face away. Takii spoke. “Brent-san, are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a short pause. Takii’s voice returned, “You fly in Torn.”

  “I know.”

  “We Japanese exalt Torn, the tiger, because he can wander far, make his kill and then return to his home.”

  “I know. But this is an airplane.”

  “No, Brent-san,” Mochitsura interrupted. “This is the spirit of Torn. Banzai!”

  Takii’s voice replaced the navigator’s. “For fifty years, Torn has served us faithfully. Brought us back safely when other B5Ns would have died in the sea. In fact, she brought the body of the gunner you replaced in that cockpit you sit in after our run on New Jersey in Pearl Harbor.”

  “We’re still full of holes, Lieutenant,” Brent persisted. Mochitsura shouted into his headpiece, “Amaterasu was on our wing!”

  “There isn’t enough left of our wing for her to sit on,” Brent said. “We’re on our own.”

  “We will continue our patrol,” Takii said curtly. “Both of you stay alert. If the Arabs have a fighter base in North Korea, they will have patrols up. Probably ME one-oh-nines. We will make one run over the narrow waist of the peninsula — it is only two hundred kilometers wide — and fly over Pyongyang. I will fly no higher than a thousand meters. This will limit our horizon but, maybe, we can fly under their long-range radar.”

  “I am ready” Mochitsura shouted, waving his Otsu over his head.

  The sick empty feeling returned to Brent’s stomach. He felt an urge to describe his lacerated face. But he knew the cuts were not serious and, somehow, pleading wounds would seem unmanly or was it unsamurai? He held his silence, and said simply, “Gunner ready, sir.” Gently, he wiped his cheek with the back of his glove. The bleeding had stopped.

  “Very well. Navigator, give me a course.”

  Mochitsura was already standing and sighting through his sextant. While the B5N droned on toward the cloud-shrouded hills of Korea, he calculated. Finally, his voice came through the intercom. “I suggest course two-six-eight, Yoshiro-san.”

  “Very well, Morisada-san. Course two-six-eight,” Takii answered.

  Brent felt the plane’s heading change slightly and then the climb stop as they levelled off. Within minutes they crossed the white sand and breakers of the coast and as the pine and oak covered hills swept up, he realized they were very low, indeed. In fact, Takii was forced to bank to the north between two peaks in order to clear the coastal mountains. But visibility was poor, the warm, moisture-laden, offshore breeze forced upward by the hills cooled and turned to mist and rain squalls which splattered against Brent’s face in cool bursts, soothing his torn cheek. Entering a long valley, they burst into brilliant sunlight, approaching a small hamlet surrounded by a patchwork of cultivated fields. Dusty brown roads with occasional horse-drawn carts slashed through the hills and traced a harsh line through the bottom of the verdant valley. Dozens of people could be seen staring upward. As the thunder of the Sakae shook the village, more people turned white faces skyward. Many waved. Mochitsura leaned over the coaming, waving his pistol.

  More hills were ahead and Takii pulled back on the stick, bringing the big plane into a gentle climb. Visibility deteriorated, small clouds and rain squalls scudding past and splattering Torn. To the south, a great thunderhead was building, purple and sullen blues towering ominously 30,000 thousand feet into the sky, growling and sparking with lightning, solid sheets of rain slanting to the earth in opaque curtains. Within minutes, the hills swept up and the B5N passed so close to a ridge Brent could see individual rocks, trees and brush less than thirty feet beneath the fuselage. A long eared rabbit, frightened by the engine, leaped from his hole and bounded in terror across the ridge toward a small gully.

  “Shoot him!” Mochitsura shouted, pointing at the panicky rabbit. “Those filth-eating Koreans will have him for dinner.” Both old men laughed.

  “Next stop Pyongyang,” Takii said with the voice of a railroad conductor. He pointed down and ahead. Spread on the northwest horizon, Brent saw the sprawl of the city of three hundred thousand on the far horizon. Even from afar, a brown blanket was visible hanging over the capital. Smog, Brent thought. Even here.

  But something else caught Brent’s eyes. An airfield to the south and below their left wing tip appeared just west of some low lying hills. With three runways and a dozen hangars, it looked like a thousand other airfields found all over the world. But something was amiss. He raised his glasses. Revetments! That was it! It was surrounded with dozens of revetments. He turned his focusing knobs. ME 109s. And at least a dozen more of them parked on the tarmac and in front of the hangars. And a score of multi-engine aircraft were lined up in rows next to the runways. Fuel trucks were visible and small vehicles pulling carts loaded with bombs were scurrying around the big planes. Libyan markings were on every aircraft. “Military airfield, bearing two-eight-zero,” he said, controlling the excitement in his voice with an effort. “Libyan markings.”

  “Very well.” Immediately, Takii banked toward the sighting and Mochitsura stood and leaned over the side, binoculars pressed to his eyes. “Gunner,” the pilot said. “Be alert. There may be a patrol nearby. They may have us on their radar, but, if the gods are with us, they will mistake us for one of their own.”

  “What about IFF?” Brent said.

  “That is a problem for the gods.”

  “Do the gods understand electronics?”

  “Enough, Mister Ross. Cover our tail!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Despite rising anxiety, Brent grinned to himself. He heard Mochitsura snicker. A high pitched humming in his earphones froze the grin on Brent’s face. “Radar! They have us on their radar,” he said.

  “I hear it,” the pilot said. Deliberately, Takii made a big sweep to the north of the field and gradually turned the B5N to the south toward the thunderhead and the hum faded. Then Brent saw them. Two contrails tipped by black needle-nosed crosses high and to the west. He did not need his glasses. He was looking at a pair of ME 109s streaking out of the sun. “Enemy fighters at four o’clock — I mean bearing one-two-zero, high, upsun,” he said into his microphone. And then to himself, beware of the killer in the sun.

  Frantically, two old heads turned and Brent heard Takii’s voice, “I have them.” Abruptly, Brent heard the Sakae roar to full military power and was thrown to the side of the cockpit by a sharp bank to the south and the nose dropped down into a steep di
ve. They would hug the ground to protect their belly and head for the thunderhead which was dangerous but less lethal than the Messerschmitts’ guns. But the storm was, perhaps, forty miles to the south, at least ten minutes flying time. Too far. Too much flying time. The fighters would murder them.

  Takii: “Radio, transmit our sighting of the enemy airfield.”

  Morisada: “We are too low. There are hills and the storm. We must gain altitude.”

  Takii cursed. “I am on course one-six-zero, speed two-hundred-twenty knots. Where will this heading take us?”

  Mochitsura: “On this heading we’ll be over Panmunjom in two minutes, then the Line of Demarcation and South Korea.”

  Takii: “Gunner, the Messerschmitts?”

  “Astern. High and closing fast.” Hunching down behind the machine gun, Brent felt the bearings of his seat roll smoothly as he tracked the two approaching fighters. But they were very high, failing to fill the first ring of his range finder. He glanced at a chart glued to the punctured bulkhead which listed all enemy aircraft, their lengths and wingspans. Quickly, his eyes found the Bf 109 entry. The first column read wingspan 9.92 meters followed by three columns showing 800, 500 and 200. Brent muttered to himself, “First ring eight hundred meters, second five hundred, third two hundred.” Brent wondered why he did not taste fear. Maybe, he had suffered so much terror, he had become immune. Or, maybe, some of the elan of his old companions was rubbing off on him. He shrugged.

  Mochitsura: “According to my charts, there are numerous AA positions on both sides of what they call the DMZ. North and South Korean and American. We will be in range at any time.”

  Takii: “We will lead our enemies to them.”

  Brent: “They’ll fire on us, too.”

  Takii: “I know. We will be their first target. They may not be prepared for us. But they will be ready for two and three.”

  The B5N fled to the south, barely clearing brush and rocks, dodging small clumps of pine trees. In a minute they passed a drab village. A cacophony of hums filled Brent’s earphones as several radars began tracking the bomber. Mochitsura shouted, “Panmunjom!” and the first string of tracers rose like garlands of bright lights, looping and racing skyward in columns, missing far to the left.

  At that moment, the two fighters rolled into dives and Brent’s fears flared as he saw the red and white checkerboard paint on the lead ME. The second plane was solid black. “Johannes Friessner!” he shouted. “They’ve begun their run!”

  Despite sweaty, trembling palms and a heart beating so fast he could feel the blood pounding in his temples, the young American brought the lead ME, Friessner’s, into his sights. The fighter filled the first ring. Not yet, he told himself. He recited the Messerschmitt’s weaknesses, The wing roots. The oil cooler under the engine. But each ME was armed with two 20-millimeter and two 7.7-millimeter machine guns. “David against Goliath,” he muttered to himself as the first ME filled the second ring.

  Friessner was boring in for an easy zero deflection shot. Flying at twice the speed of the B5N, he closed quickly, his wing mounted 20-millimeter guns blossoming yellow and orange, flames spurting from his two cowling mounted machine guns. Instantly, Takii kicked left rudder and the ME’s tracers passed to the right. Friessner anticipated the turn, kicked rudder and the tracers snapped and cracked. More aluminum peeled from the damaged wing.

  Brent had the red spinner and the bottom of the cowling in his sights when he pressed the trigger. At less than two hundred yards, his tracers hammered into the fuselage of the fighter. Immediately, Friessner broke to his right and the black ME raced in for the kill.

  Desperately, Takii kicked right rudder and plunged into a shallow valley, flying not more than twenty feet above a mountain stream, lined with houses and hamlets. Groups of people on both sides of the stream looked up and pointed. Brent and the fighter opened fire simultaneously. Takii jinked from left to right and back, skimming ridges on both sides so close trees and brush bent and waved, dust swirling in his wake. Yet, tracers stormed past, kicking up belly-high geysers as shells exploded in the water. A cluster of women washing clothes at the stream bank were bowled over and shot to pieces by a long burst of twenty millimeters — blood, intestines and body parts fouling the clear blue water red. Throttling back, the pilot of the ME clung to the tail of the B5N not more than two hundred yards behind, trying for his killing angle while Takii whipped the big plane from side to side and up and down. The checkered ME circled far astern, gaining altitude for another run.

  The violent maneuvers threw off the enemy’s aim, but Brent’s fire was just as poor, his bursts spraying wildly. Suddenly, more tracers appeared, pouring down from positions on both ridges. New holes appeared in the tailplane, others smashed the canopy and blew chunks of aluminum from the fuselage amidships. Brent heard a scream in his earphones and then low moans. A storm of projectiles struck the ME. Staggered by a dozen hits, the fighter pulled up sharply not more than 100 feet away, giving Brent its belly.

  Shouting triumphantly, Brent led the black aircraft perfectly, sending a long burst into its fuselage, the striking bullets flashing yellow and sending bits of wreckage into the slipstream. Smoke, coolant, oil and greasy black smoke followed the stricken aircraft as it shot straight upward, slowing into a stall. Pulled into its final dive by the weight of its huge Daimler Benz V-12 engine, the black ME plunged flaming into the hills, a huge black cloud its grave marker. The checkerboard Messerschmitt banked away and headed to the north. Before Brent could think, he shouted “Banzai!” They were out of the valley and banking to the west away from a large city and the storm when Brent finally turned back to the front. The canopy had been shot away and Ensign Morisada Mochitsura was not visible. Takii was shouting, “Morisada! Morisada! Contact Yonaga. Report the enemy airstrip.”

  There was no answer. Unlocking his seat belt and standing, Brent was able to lean forward and see into Mochitsura’s cockpit. The old man was slumped forward over his smashed radio. His flying suit had been ripped in a dozen places and blood streamed from his neck and head, staining the back of his flying suit. The back of his helmet had been torn open and his white hair was matted with blood. Brent spoke into his microphone, “Gunner to pilot. Ensign Mochitsura has been hit — the radio is destroyed.”

  There was a long silence as the B5N gradually gained altitude and Brent could see the vast expanse of the Yellow Sea ahead of them. Takii’s voice was heavy. “Is he dead?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  The voice firmed, took on a professional timbre, “Very well. We will head out over the Yellow Sea, skirt the storm and Seoul,” he waved to the south, “and circle south and east back to Yonaga. According to my point option data, she is no more than four hundred kilometers to the southeast.”

  “An hour-and-a-half.”

  “That is correct. Keep your eyes open, Brent-san. They may try to finish us off.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Brent looked at the shattered canopy, new holes blasted in the fuselage and both wings. Wearily, he fastened his seat belt, checked his parachute harness and limbered the machine gun up and over the tail. New holes were in the rudder and the elevators had been perforated by the storm of metal. It would be a very long flight back to Yonaga.

  There was a moan in his earphones and a bloody brown helmet appeared, rocking with the movements of the aircraft. “Takii-san,” Brent cried into his microphone. “He’s alive — he’s moving.”

  The pilot turned his head, spoke thickly. “Morisada-san, old friend. Your wounds — how bad are they?” Only moans answered the pilot.

  Slowly, the bomber headed out over the Yellow Sea and into the weakening light as the sun descended toward its bloody death in the sunset.

  Chapter Twelve

  Commander Yoshi Matsuhara had been well briefed. Just after Radio Pyongyang had reported the destruction of the “Japanese bandit bomber”, Radio Seoul reported three intruders from the north had been destroyed just south of the DMZ. Fu
jita believed only part of it. “Koreans are the world’s biggest liars,” he had said. And then he added, voice betraying emotion, “They may be alive. If they are still in the air, Lieutenant Takii will head for the sea. When in trouble, a good carrier pilot instinctively heads for the sea. Search over the Yellow Sea off the west coast of Korea. Takii’s point option data should take him south of the island of Cheju Do.”

  Now on strict radio silence and flying on a north-westerly heading to skirt a massive storm covering central Korea, Matsuhara had found the Nakajima B5N 250 kilometers southwest of Inchon, flying at 1,000 meters. Yoshi cursed radio silence as he left the other five Zeros of his flight at three thousand meters to fly cover and spiraled down for a close look at Torn. He flew above it, below it, to the right of it, and to the left of it. He had seen many wrecked aircraft during his long career, but, never, had he seen a wrecked aircraft fly.

  When he was young, he had often played darts with the other boys. After a few days, the cork of the board would be chewed to splinters by hundreds of impacts. Someone had used the B5N for a dart board. The tailplanes had been shot through in a dozen places, large areas of the fabric-covered rudder and elevators in tatters, wooden ribs exposed. There were gaping holes in the fuselage and frames, stringers and the control rods were clearly visible; the midsection of the canopy had been shot out and a cannon shell had blown a jagged hole in the fuselage just below the navigator’s cockpit coaming; the top of the right wing looked as if a chain saw had run wild, ripping off chunks of aluminum, most of the aileron’s cover was ripped away, as were parts of the main spar, aileron and flap controls, and some of the one-thousand liter fuel tank was exposed. The entire right side of the cowling and the exhaust stub had been shot off, exposing a sprocket of cylinder heads. Smoke and oil stained the side of the bomber. Yet, it flew. The engine did not miss a beat and the incredible pilot was maintaining his trim.