Quest of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Yoshi eased the fighter in closer. One head was missing. The old navigator, Ensign Morisada Mochitsura. But thanks to the infinite Buddha, Brent Ross sat erect and waved back despite blood which covered the side of his face and helmet. Yoshi moved his eyes to the pilot. Hunched over his controls and obviously fighting to balance damaged controls and airfoils, Takii only glanced back at the Zero.

  Gently pulling back on the stick, Yoshi eased the fighter above the Nakajima. Staring down, he could see Ensign Mochitsura’s bloody form, slumped low in his seat, head lolling from side to side with the drift of the aircraft. The entire cockpit had been smashed to junk, the radio destroyed, blood pooled like liver.

  Yoshi jockeyed the A6M ahead and closer, revving his engine. Takii looked up. The fighter pilot turned a hand down and spread two fingers. Takii nodded, leaned forward and pulled a lever, lowering his wheels and extending his hook.

  Yoshi dropped below the bomber and looked up. Both wheels were down and the hook extended. The tires appeared to be inflated. Carefully, Matsuhara pulled back on the stick and returned to his position above the Nakajima. An approving nod, two fingers up and Takii retracted his wheels and hook. Maybe he can land this wreck, the air group commander said to himself. He will need help from Buddha and all of the deities.

  They sighted Yonaga sooner than Yoshi expected. Steaming west at latitude thirty-two, the carrier was southwest of Cheju Do Island and only a hundred kilometers northeast of the Great Yangtze Bank. Brent Ross raised a pistol and a single red flare arced high in the sky. Immediately, Yonaga turned into the wind and a Fletcher dropped astern of her on lifeguard station. Pennant one whipped from the carrier’s halyard.

  Flying close to the B5N’s wing tip, Yoshi watched as the landing gear descended and the arrester hook dangled, held in place by its return cable. Yoshi gave Takii a thumbs up and nod of approval. Then Brent waved and held two thumbs up. Yoshi pulled back his canopy and leaned over the coaming. “Bail out!” he shouted, forming the words with exaggerated movements of his lips. Brent shook his head and pointed at Takii. That was it. Takii would never abandon Mochitsura — even a dead Mochitsura — and Torn. And to Brent Ross, it would be unthinkable to leave the aircraft without both of the old men. Yoshi shrugged and looked skyward. “Please, Amaterasu, take care of my young friend

  The B5N began its approach on the stern on the carrier.

  Looking down over the right wing at Yonaga's flight deck, Brent could see the handlers and emergency crews standing by, red carts loaded with hoses and canisters of foam. A cluster of white-clad medical personnel stood by the island and, posted on a platform at the starboard end of the barrier, the yellow-clad flight operations officer stood with his two yellow flags extended like wings. As the Nakajima turned into the final leg of its approach, the yellow flags dropped, crossed at the officer’s knees and the Sakae’s rhythm slowed immediately. But the big plane dropped too fast and Takii corrected with more throttle. Frantically, the flags waved off the plane, but too many airfoils and control surfaces had been shot away and the B5N sank toward the deck crabbing as if caught in a crosswind. Brent looked skyward, made his own prayers to God, Jesus, Buddha and any other deity that came to mind.

  Brent was mesmerized by the great steel shelf of the stern of the flight deck. Would they clear it? He felt the plane lunge upward as Takii opened the throttle another notch. They cleared the stern and the Nakajima slewed around in a flat turn despite Takii’s frantic efforts and then dropped with the grace of a load of scrap metal as the ignition was cut.

  There were two explosions as both tires burst. The plane bounced, engine pointed upward at the bridge, arrester hook engaging the second wire and then ripped from the plane. The return cable, damper and one-inch anchoring spar ripped from the plane’s belly like intestines from a gaffed fish, the remainder of the tail spilling across the deck with it. Brent held onto his arm rests, tightened every muscle and tried to pull his head into his shoulders like a frightened turtle. He was completely helpless, at the mercy of physical forces he had helped unleash and which were now out of control. He could see Takii hunched forward with his arms crossed over his head. Mochitsura’s head bounced from side to side.

  Crashing down with its nose pointed at the island and its tail at the port quarter, Tory’s landing gear spread, flattened by the impact like a dancer’s legs and its propeller ripped up splinters of teakwood before thumping to a halt. Skidding, Brent felt himself whipped hard to the side by G forces as the plane spun in a complete circle, shedding both wings and what was left of the cowling, screeching as strips of aluminum peeled from the fuselage. Brent heard bangs, the popping of stringers, frames and spars and strangely, the tearing aluminum shrieking as if it, too, was suffering its own agony as the bomber disintegrated across Yonaga’s deck.

  With a crash that flung him against the left side of his cockpit and sent a sharp pain up his arm despite the restraints, the plane bounced off the island like a soccer ball and plowed into the steel mesh barrier which flung it back like a slingshot. Rolling to its side, the plane came to rest and a dark curtain, flashing with shooting stars, closed on Brent’s brain. There was a sudden silence; a pristine, incredibly peaceful Valhalla devoid of killing forces, helplessness, and terror. “I’m alive,” Brent said, incredulously, shaking his head, trying to clear the comets and black holes from his retinas. Then he smelled the gasoline. He tried to unlock his seat belt, but his fingers were numb, weak and refused to obey his brain. He stared down dumbly. He heard Takii groan. After all that, I’m going to burn to death, seeped through his mind, over and over.

  He heard the spray splattering before he felt it. Then white clad, hooded rescue men were on him, and he felt strong hands unbuckle his belt and firmly, yet carefully, pull him from the cockpit. He heard commands shouted, more hurrying feet, saw hoses uncoiled and within seconds, he was carried at a run from the plane and placed on a stretcher. And then, quickly, Takii and Mochitsura were stretched out at his side. He heard a familiar voice shout, “Take them to the sick bay,” and stretcher-bearers reached for the handles.

  But Brent shouted “No!”, shook his head and, holding his arm, stood tentatively while two seamen steadied him. He looked down at the navigator while Chief Surgeon Eiichi Horikoshi leaned over the bloody form. The amazing Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii, shrugging off help, stood and joined Brent.

  Takii spoke hesitantly. “Doctor, Morisada-san — how is he?”

  Eiichi Horikoshi stood slowly and the look in his eyes gave the answer before he spoke. “He has joined his ancestors,” he said softly.

  Dropping to his knees, Takii grasped his friend’s hand. “Dear friend, you fought a good battle. Your karma is unblemished. Soon, I will join you at the gates of the Yasakuni Shrine.” Brent saw the old man’s shoulders shake.

  There was a screech of aluminum as the remains of Tora were dragged to the side and a gang of seamen prepared to push the wreck into the sea. “Wait!” Takii shouted. “Morisada-san deserves to go with Tora.” He looked at the bridge. Fujita nodded back and turned to the talker. Two petty officers bent to the body.

  “No!” The pilot turned to Brent. “You and I, Brent-san. We owe him that.”

  Silently, Brent bent with Takii and despite lightheadedness and a sharp pain in his shoulder and arm, he helped the old man carry his friend through a silent throng of seamen and handlers, over the slippery foam to the bloody cockpit. Takii was breathing hard and his face showed lines of strain, but he never faltered, helping the big American slide Mochitsura’s body into the cockpit and belt him in. “There, old friend,” Yoshiro said. “You are home. Your quest is ended.”

  There was no time for ceremony and everyone knew it. Silently, the wreck was pushed over the side.

  Despite a bruised arm and a dozen puncture wounds on his cheek, Brent made his report, with the incredibly durable Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii, to Admiral Fujita and the entire staff at 1800 hours. Because Chief Surgeon Eiichi Horikoshi had had to probe his cheek an
d chin for fragments of the fifty-caliber bullet, the right side of Brent’s face felt as if it had been scraped by a meat grinder. Admiral Fujita was not surprised by the report of the enemy airstrip, only by its location, which was closer to the DMZ than he had anticipated. He moved to the chart. “Oberst Johannes Friessner and his squadron are here,” he said, thumping North Korea with the pointer.

  “And no doubt Captain Kenneth Rosencrance, too,” Taku Ishikawa added.

  “Two squadrons of MEs. Their best mercenaries,” Commander Tashiro Okuma said.

  Fujita nodded. Turned to Brent Ross. “You reported bombers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The big Focke-Wulf 200?”

  Brent drummed the desk instead of scratching the terrible itch under his bandages. “We didn't have time, sir. Twenty or thirty multi-engine aircraft and the same number of fighters.”

  Takii spoke. “That is correct, Admiral. Twelve large hangars, too.” He shrugged. “We had no time for close observation.”

  “So they have armor-plated their worm,” Fujita said, staring at the chart thoughtfully. He turned to Admiral Allen, “Any word from your submarines, Admiral Allen?”

  “No, sir,” Allen answered. “We have no intelligence on the Arab battle group or transports. There have been no new transmissions from Trepang.”

  Tugging on the single hair hanging from his chin, Fujita raised the pointer. “If we steam on course zero-eight-five at twenty-four knots, we will be here at 0400 tomorrow morning.” He stabbed a point at the south end of the Korean Straits midway between Cheju Do Island and Kyushu. “If the convoy maintains its course and speed, it will be here at zero-five-hundred.” He slid the pointer upward. “At a range of only four hundred kilometers.” He moved the pointer south to a large island in the middle of the straits. “We will sink them here, off the island of Tsushima.” He turned to the staff, smiling grimly. “In the precise location where we sank the Russian fleet in Nineteen-hundred-five.”

  Shouts of “Banzai!” filled the room and most of the staff came to their feet. “Sir! Sir!” Allen shouted. The officers quieted and returned to their chairs. “You have said this before. Would you seek poetic vengeance at the risk of losing Yonaga?”

  Fujita fixed the American admiral with a wide, unwavering stare. “That is precisely what I want our Arab friends to think — anticipate.” He turned to Yoshi Matsuhara. “At 0400, we will launch twenty-seven Zeros, eighteen dive bombers and eighteen torpedo bombers loaded with bombs and strike the Arab airfield at dawn.”

  “The convoy, sir?”

  “Twelve Zeros, nine Aichis and nine Nakajimas.”

  “That will leave Yonaga with twenty Zero-sens, thirty-six Aichi D-three-As, and thirty-six Nakajima B-five-Ns,” Matsuhara noted.

  “True.”

  Commander Matsuhara fingered his temple. “The force assigned to the convoy is too small. Four ships — heavy AA, sir.”

  “I know. But we can finish them off with gunfire. The critical attack is on the airfield and we must keep a strike force aboard Yonaga. We know there is a battle group somewhere south of us. And Commander, you are to personally lead the attack against the strip.”

  “Admiral,” Mark Allen said. “They know Yonaga's at sea and they know they’ve been reconnoitered. They’ll expect the attack.”

  “Of course, Admiral Allen. But they do not know Yonaga’s position and we will choose the time of our attacks and, with the convoy, we choose the place.”

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Taku Ishikawa said, coming to his feet. “We can expect Friessner and Rosencrance to be there. I request the fighter assignment.”

  Fujita nodded at Matsuhara. “He is in command of the air groups.”

  Yoshi said to Ishikawa, “You have the command. The fighters are yours.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” Ishikawa said with an uncharacteristic show of gratitude.

  “Admiral,” Yoshi Matsuhara said, gesturing to the chart. “The enemy strip is at a range of six hundred kilometers. Our shortest route would take us through Korean airspace.”

  “No,” Fujita said. “Avoid the peninsula. Long range radar would pick you up.” He turned back to the chart, ran the pointer in an arc to the west. “Make your run-in over the Yellow Sea at an altitude of no more than one hundred meters and a hundred kilometers from the coast. This will add a hundred twenty kilometers to your run-in but you may come in undetected.” Staring at the chart, he pondered, tapping the point of the airfield. “The airfield is only fifty-five kilometers from the coast.” He moved the pointer in short motion. “Come in over these hills. Slaughter them!”

  “Banzai!” and “Tenno heiko banzai!” filled the room.

  Fujita’s eyes moved over his staff and the men fell silent. “Department heads, brief your officers,” he said with sudden calmness. “And flight leaders, brief your crews. All air crews are to be in their briefing rooms by zero-three-hundred.” His eyes found Yoshi Matsuhara. “Yoshi-san, a final verse for us?”

  The aviator came to his feet, black eyes searching the faces before him. He spoke softly. “Centuries ago it was written in the Heike Monogatari, ‘The temple bell echoes the impermanence of all things. The colors of the flowers testify to the truth that those who flourish must decay. Pride lasts but a little while, like a dream on a spring night. Before long the mighty are cast down, and they are as dust before the wind.”

  Lieutenant Daizo Saiki came to his feet, waving his pince-nez. “Yes,” he cried. “We will make dust of Khadafy — let him fertilize the flowers. Banzai!”

  Commander Okuma shouted approval and several officers added their own “Banzais!”

  Matsuhara fixed Saiki with a cold stare and the bomber leader returned to his seat. It was obvious the air group commander was not yet finished. “As for myself — my haiku?” he said, bringing his eyes to Brent Ross:

  “When I die

  Above my grave

  The fair bird flies

  And with her I will soar to infinity.”

  Brent felt a great sadness and a hard lump made swallowing difficult. As Matsuhara seated himself, Fujita spoke, “Excellent, Yoshi-san.” He addressed the staff, “When you face the enemy, remember what our book teaches.” He fingered the Hagakure. “In refusing to retreat one gains the strength of two men.”

  Saiki and Okuma led choruses of “Banzai!”

  Fujita continued, “It is also written, ‘One will not break through to the enemy with caution. Boldness is most important when in front of the tiger’s den’.” More “Banzais”, “Tenno heiko banzai,” and shouts of “Attack!” and “Kill the terrorists!”

  Fujita silenced the bedlam by clapping his hands twice and facing the paulownia shrine. Everyone rose and the Japanese clapped. Fujita spoke, “Amaterasu, Buddha and the infinite deities, in this, the fifty-ninth year of Showa, we fight to preserve our gods and our country. Let us avenge the foes of the Son of Heaven and if we enter the Blessed Realm, let us do so with our swords dipped in our enemies’ blood.” The men stood silently, the thump of the engines and the whine of the blowers the only sounds intruding.

  The old man continued and the crack of authority was back in his voice, “You are dismissed but air group leaders will remain.”

  Turning for the door, Brent felt a hand on his arm and Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii gestured to the far end of the table where Admiral Fujita was huddling with Taku Ishikawa, Yoshi Matsuhara, Daizo Saiki and Tashiro Okuma. Takii came to attention and spoke, “Admiral Fujita, I request a new aircraft. Brent Ross and I found the enemy airfield. I have earned the right to fly this mission.”

  “You are wounded,” Fujita said, looking up.

  “Only bruised, sir.”

  Tashiro Okuma said, “We have no more B-five-Ns. All of the crews are trained and ready — know their aircraft and, anyway, we know the location of the airfield.” And then sarcastically, “Airfields are not hard to find.”

  Takii pushed on as if Okuma had not spoken. His eyes were feverish. “Give
me an Aichi D-three-A. We have three spares.”

  Saiki spoke disdainfully. “Can you fly a D-three-A? What do you know of dive bombers?”

  “I test flew the prototype in Nineteen-thirty-eight and designed the dive brakes. Respectfully, Lieutenant, I have forgotten more about the aircraft than you know.”

  There was an embarrassed silence and Saiki’s eyes bulged and his face reddened. But before he could speak, Fujita intervened. “Very well. We will need every bomber we can launch.” He pursed his lips and spoke hesitantly, “Do we have a gunner?” He stared at Brent Ross as if he already knew the answer to his question.

  Brent felt Takii’s hand on his injured arm, winced involuntarily. “He’s wounded,” Fujita said, harshly.

  “You cannot use him.”

  “Sir,” Brent said, mustering a strength in his voice he did not feel. “I only have a few scratches, a bruise or two.”

  Takii said, “He has the best eyes on the ship. He spotted the airfield and Friessner’s patrol. He misses nothing and he is a natural gunner — never wastes a round. He shot down the ME with one burst. He did the same thing to the DC-3 over the Mediterranean — uncanny shooting.”

  Brent knew the statement was an exaggeration but held his silence. This was not the moment for modesty. “Very well,” Fujita said, grudgingly. “Give them an aircraft, Lieutenant Saiki. They will make the run on the airfield.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Saiki said, glaring at Takii and then Brent Ross. “You can have number two-four-three. See Chief Teruhiko Yoshitomi.”

  Although Brent wondered and was puzzled by the samurai’s pride and resentment that could persist in the face of death at the hands of a common enemy, he smiled and even felt jubilation as he followed Yoshiro Takii out of the room.

  The hangar deck was organized bedlam, a cacophony of clattering tools, rumbling carts and shouted commands. Over a hundred warplanes were being fueled and armed by excited crewmen under brilliant overhead floodlights. Ancient iron-wheeled fuel bowsers were everywhere, hoses pumping gasoline into wing and fuselage tanks as bobbing crewmen worked hand-pumps much like the rods and levers on old railroad handcars. An auxiliary fuel tank was already suspended from the fuselage of every fighter. Because Fujita insisted on preserving the old-fashioned methods and equipment whenever possible, not only were the bowsers hand-pulled and hand-pumped, but the 1,761-pound torpedoes and 551-pound bombs were hand-cranked up to their crutches by sweating armorers. Brent Ross and Yoshiro Takii worked their way aft like strangers in a maze until they at last arrived at the last two rows of reserve aircraft. Dive bomber “two-four-three” was the last plane in the last row.