by Ward Wagher
Yamamoto uncapped a grease pen and marked an X on the map. He took the message slip from the other admiral’s hands and studied it. He then wrote the time and date next to the X.
“They are almost in position, Admiral. Have you passed the attack order?”
“Prime Minister, I gave Kondō the attack order before he left Tokyo. When he feels the time is right, he will launch the attack.”
“Very wise, Admiral. But, what of the British and American naval forces?”
“We do not have clear intelligence. However, if it were me, I would put to sea with everything I had.”
Yamamoto studied the map. He tapped his teeth with the stem of the grease pen. “If I were the British admiral, I would not place forces to the north where we could pin them against the mainland. So, he is likely either to the west or the south of Kondō, maybe both.”
“Should I message Kondō concerning your comments?”
“No, Admiral, we should not second-guess the officer on the scene. Kondō is a solid officer and we believe he has the preponderance of force. As you know, our intelligence indicates they have four carriers to our six. And the two American carriers are small. Kondō must beware of air attack out of Ceylon, though.”
“It seems quiet in the Pacific this morning,” Shimada commented.
“I worry about the Hawaiian Islands, though. We stripped them nearly bare of naval forces. If Admiral Nimitz decides to attack, we may not be able to contain the assault. And if the Americans retake the islands, I do not believe we would be able to dislodge them again.”
Shimada pondered the situation as he studied the map. “We have the tail of a dragon, I believe.”
Yamamoto snorted. “You will have no argument about that from me. You and I both argued strenuously against starting this war. And now we are the ones charged with prosecuting it.”
“What does the emperor think?”
Yamamoto raised an eyebrow. He quietly walked over behind his desk and sat down. He waved Shimada to a chair across from him.
“It is not widely known; however, the emperor was a willing partner with Tojo and the war party. I am hopeful that perhaps he no longer expects to win. Thus far he has not attempted to assume management of the war.”
“He has left that to you, Prime Minister. In that, I believe he was very wise.”
“One does not question the wisdom of the emperor.”
Shimada immediately stood and bowed. “Forgive me, Prime Minister. I should not speak ill of the emperor.”
The prime minister shook his head and waved the admiral back to his seat. “Please do not consider that a rebuke. I merely wanted to remind you that the government is infested with people who want to die for the glory of the emperor. As for me, I would prefer to stay alive and end this war in an honorable fashion.”
“By putting you into this position, was he showing support for your recommendations?”
“Perhaps.” Yamamoto rubbed his chin in thought. “If we had a reasonable offer from the Americans to negotiate an end to the war, I would be very much in favor of finding a solution. I think the emperor would, too. However, he is walking a tightrope, my friend. I do not believe that anyone would arrange for the assassination of the emperor, but I cannot rule it out either.”
“How can I help?”
“You have done well so far in unifying our armed forces. You must continue to impress upon them the importance of developing effective and low-cost measures to carry out the war. We are now starting to receive significant shipments of coal and steel from Australia. Our defensive strategy is to maintain control of the areas that are rich in the resources Japan needs. You just need to be prepared to launch offensive operations at a moment’s notice. If we allow our forces to get locked into a defensive posture, we will lose.”
“I fear we will eventually lose even the offensive operations.”
Yamamoto smiled sadly at the man across the desk from him. “Ultimately, that will be true, my friend. But by staying aggressive, we may continue to have things break our way. We have done very well so far.”
“I understand what you mean,” Shimada replied. “Fortunately, we have no shortage of aggressive officers in our military.”
“And you are responsible for managing that aggressiveness. We must be very careful to choose the battles we can win. Since the British have ended their war against Germany, they are now able to augment the American forces. That is very dangerous.”
“Do you feel the situation in the Bay of Bengal is serious.”
“I do,” Yamamoto replied. “They are planning to invade Australia. However, the British are in a hurry. They put together a suboptimal force structure. If we can thoroughly plow the ocean and the island with our forces, I am hopeful we can force them to pull back. As long as we hold Australia, I believe we can survive.”
Shimada leaned back in his chair and pondered what the prime minister had told him. “I thank you for your time.”
“And I should thank you for coming to see me. Watch the dispatches from the war zone. Anything that you think requires my attention, please bring it to me.”
Shimada stood up and bowed. “I will do so. It is an honor to serve with you, Prime Minister.”
Yamamoto stood up and shook the Admiral’s hand. “I only hope to keep you and I and our people alive.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
April 17, 1943, 6 AM
Eastern German-Polish district
Rather than attempting to open a broad front against Germany, the Red Army designated a sally port to the west of Brest. General Zhukov had determined the best option for success was to punch through the German lines in a single spot and then quickly swing around behind the German troops and cut them off from their supplies as well as command and control. He was wary of the Wehrmacht. During the 1930s, the Germans and Russians had trained together, and he was familiar with their tactics. The key to winning a war against them was to get the Germans off balance, and then keep pushing so that they could not regain it.
The Russians had quickly established a bridgehead over the Bug River and rolled tanks across as rapidly as possible. Zhukov’s staff had carefully managed the logistics so that the tank regiments were interspersed with truck convoys carrying fuel, ammunition, and foodstuffs for the army. This army was not going to get ahead of its supply train. Although they had received sporadic resistance from the Germans, Zhukov remained wary.
The Russians moved across a small, open plain bounded by forests. At this stage, they would split forces and move around both sides of the forest. Although this would risk defeat in detail, it also made life more difficult for the Germans. Zhukov was all for making life difficult for them. However, he was beginning to worry about where the Germans might be.
Feodor Mikulin and his crew made heroic efforts to fix the track on their tank, as did other units in his squadron. As a result, they were back in the advance, although, instead of leading it, they were seven or eight rows back. As such he was in a position where he had a perfect view of the lead tank when its turret suddenly blew straight into the air followed by several perfect smoke rings.
“Driver, stop,” he commanded.
“We have stopped, Comrade sergeant,” the driver replied. “What is happening.”
“The lead tank just ate a mine. We’ll have to wait a bit for the sweepers to move to the front.”
Mikulin scanned the field with his binoculars. Several miles away a cloud of smoke reflected the morning sun. Apparently, the Germans sowed mines along both of their planned routes. Mikulin began to get nervous. If the Germans had prepared this thoroughly, there was probably another nasty trick waiting for them. He glanced quickly behind his tank to see rows of armor bunching up. He now felt exposed. The infantry marching along with the armor was more exposed.
As soon as he had thought about it, he heard the silk-ripping sound of shells coming overhead. A gout of flame and dust erupted between the two tank units directly behind him. He had thought that t
he explosion had deafened him, but he clearly heard shrapnel hitting the open hatch behind him. He quickly dropped down into the turret and pulled the hatch closed.
“Driver, be ready to move. If we sit here, we’re dead.”
“Very well, Comrade Sergeant,” the driver’s voice sounded strained. “I cannot see any openings from my position.”
Mikulin grabbed the periscope arms and began a circular scan of their position.
“You’re right, Driver. We’re not going anywhere.”
Multiple impacts transmitted through the chassis of the tank. This wasn’t just a routine shelling, which was bad enough; the Germans were pouring as much fire as they could into the sack that trapped the Soviets.
“Everyone buckle up,” he called over the intercom. “Things are going to get rough.”
The barrage continued with some of the shells falling closer than others. There was a regular pattern of shrapnel pinging against the tank. This is not good, he thought to himself. We just walked right into this, and the pig-farmers were waiting.
A particularly close shell rattled his teeth, and then the tank lurched. He looked into the periscope again. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see much, but he thought maybe the tank to his right had been tipped on its side and was now leaning against his unit. He looked at his watch in the dim red light of the cupola. They had been trapped in this spot for ten minutes. It had seemed like an hour. And still, the shells rained down.
The loader tapped his arm. “Do we need to abandon the tank, Comrade Sergeant?”
“Out in that?” Mikulin was incredulous. “Of all the bad choices, this is probably the least.”
“Driver keep watching. If there is an opening don’t wait for me to see it. Go ahead and move.”
“I understand Comrade Sergeant. I do not think anything will be moving anytime soon.”
Mikulin switched channels on the radio and tried to reach his command authority, but so many of the tankers were trying the same thing that he could not get through. He decided to wait until the net quieted down enough for him to make the call.
Three thousand meters above the battle a flight of twenty-five B-17s swung in a wide arc and lined up on the target. It was a clear morning, and the smoke of burning Russian tanks was unmistakable. Colonel Hans Sprechter once again marveled at how smoothly the big American plane flew. He had discovered the bomber could be something of a handful if the air was turbulent. But it was a still morning and he was leading the formation. The pilots at the rear of the formation would have a somewhat harder time flying through the air roiled by the twenty-five fortresses.
This mission was accompanied by fully seventy-five fighters – a mix of Bf109s and Focke-Wulf 190s. Far above them, several squadrons of jets orbited. Their task was to intercept any Russian fighters that tried to dive on the bombers from above. The jets did not have much loitering time, and the Luftwaffe was adroitly shifting new groups of Me262s into place as the previous groups left to refuel.
The Germans had learned from their air combat experiences over England. They were taking no chances with the Fortresses. No more were coming from America and it would be another six months before production lines in Germany started building the planes under license.
The big planes lined up on the target and dozens of 250-pound bombs rained down on the cauldron below. As the string of bombs walked across the battlefield, most plunged into the ground before exploding. Perhaps fifteen percent of the bombs found targets. Of those, perhaps a third hit targets that had already been killed. For the remainder, the fires of hell notched up to the next level.
§ § §
April 17, 1943; 6 AM
Bay of Bengal
The fifteen TBF Avengers slowly descended from the assigned 12,000-foot cruising altitude. The Commander, Air Group or CAG, was orbiting the Japanese fleet at 30,000 feet and guided the attacking flight. The ten Dauntless dive bombers maintained their altitude as they prepared to attack the Japanese. Lieutenant George Bush glanced at the picture of Babs, his fiancé with a smile. He had attached the picture in the corner of the instrument panel of his aircraft for good luck. He was nervous about going into combat, but he saw no way to avoid it. It was a job that had to be done.
As the Japanese fleet came into sight, the Avengers tipped over into a shallow dive to gain speed for the torpedo run. Bush decided that although the Avenger was a docile bird, it flew like a truck. He pushed the throttle to the combat setting as he muscled the controls to line the plane up with his target, which was one of the aircraft carriers. As the group of torpedo bombers lined up on the fleet, he could see the winking flashes as the antiaircraft guns opened fire. Tracers arced out of the ships like fireflies and dirty grey puffs of smoke appeared where the heavier shells exploded.
He followed the bombardier’s instructions in aiming the plane and then felt the lurch as the torpedo dropped free. He was getting ready to horse the plane into a climbing turn away from the ships when a blast shook the entire plane. The canopy flew off and the cockpit was splattered with red. He saw flames begin licking around the engine cowling and the Wright Cyclone was now vibrating alarmingly.
He could not seem to maneuver the plane and the day grew dim. He wondered if an overcast was coming through. The battle would get very challenging if the weather was bad. He looked down and saw all the blood and began to fade out. He whispered the words, “I’m coming, Babs,” and lost consciousness.
The Avenger plunged into the hangar deck of the Shokaku and disintegrated into a ball of flame. Twenty seconds later the torpedo slammed into the side of the stricken carrier like the hammers of hell. The hangar deck was completely engulfed in flame and the ship began listing to the port side. The captain of the Shokaku had trained the crew to respond quickly to fire, and they went at it with a will. Damage Control predicted they could have the fires out in a half hour or so. The torpedo damage was serious, but not fatal by itself.
At that moment, the dive bombers arrived above the fleet and tipped over into their dives. One of the five-hundred-pound bombs penetrated the flight deck and exploded in the aviation gasoline storage. The fireball from the ignited gasoline blew through the hangar deck, killing most of the sailors who were fighting the fire. In the confusion, another torpedo slammed into the side of the stricken carrier. The explosion put out the fires in the boilers and the gravely wounded ship began to lose power. The captain then regretfully gave the order to abandon ship. As he gazed out of the windows of the bridge, he could see other ships on fire, but it was hard to tell the extent of the damage. He was ashamed to have lost such a fine ship for the IJN. He initialed the final status report and handed it to the yeoman, who placed it in a waterproof bag.
“Off with you then,” he told the yeoman and gave him a sad smile.
He then returned to his sea cabin and prepared to die with his ship.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
April 17, 1943, 8 AM
United States Embassy
Blucher Palace
Berlin, Germany
“When did you get in? You weren’t supposed to be back for another week.”
Misty Simpson looked up from her desk at United States Ambassador to Germany, Gordon Smoke.
“I got in last night, Gordie. I was no longer required at the sessions. Mr. Harriman turned me loose, and here I am.”
Smoke looked askance at her. “I wonder if there wasn’t more to it than that, Misty.”
“You’ll have to talk to Mr. Harriman or perhaps Mr. Donovan and let them decide if you have need to know.”
“The trip did nothing for your disposition, I see,” he grunted.
“Frankly, Smoke, I never want to see Moscow again. It is the dreariest town you ever did see. The government leaders are boors, every last one of them. And they all think they are civilized. My God.”
Smoke’s eyebrows climbed. “Worse than Berlin?”
“What? You don’t like Berlin?”
“I like this place,” he replied
. “I was just trying to gauge the differences.”
“I think the Commies have tried to wrap the mantle of Peter the Great around themselves. That rag is getting threadbare. I think maybe they are worse than the Nazis used to be – before Schloss took over. The trip on the train to Moscow was a nightmare, and things went downhill from there.”
Smoke leaned back against the doorjamb and folded his arms. “Perhaps it is a good thing you got back early. I need your help with the reception coming up next week.”
“In other words, you have things messed up as usual.”
“I really resent that.” Smoke turned red.
“If you were really getting along well, Gordie, then why did you dump all this work on my desk while I was gone?”
He started to retort and then stopped as the military attaché walked up.
“Good morning, Ambassador. Welcome back, Miss Simpson.”
He slapped a newspaper into Smoke’s hands. “Thought you’d better see this, Ambassador.”
Smoke snapped the paper open and looked at the headline. The color drained out of his face. The attaché slipped past him and laid another newspaper on Misty’s desk. She looked down and straightened up quickly in shock.
“The Russians attacked?” she asked. “I didn’t think they would actually do this.”
“Our jobs just got immeasurably more complicated,” the ambassador commented. “Misty, can you get a message off to Washington over my signature? Soonest?”
“Of course, Smoke.” She was suddenly all business. “I think I’ll send a quick heads-up, and then transcribe the newspaper article.” She looked at the military attaché. “I suppose you will need to send your assessment as well.”
“Of course, Miss Simpson. I will probably spend the day collecting what information I can find and send a report out tonight. Would you be able to visit your contacts in Berlin and shake the trees as it were?”
“Of course. I expect my contacts will be very busy at the moment but let me see what I can do.”
