by Peter Albano
“John Wayne did this a hundred times, Admiral.”
The admiral was confused. “John Wayne? I never heard of him.”
“Sorry, Admiral. He was nothing. Just a late, counterfeit folk hero.”
“Anyway, Captain, the forty-seven were not counterfeit. Exactly one year passed and on the same day of the month on which Lord Asano died, the forty-seven ronin struck. They cut their way into Kira’s residence, searched, and finally found him hiding in a woodshed … ”
“Yes,” Ross interrupted. “I remember the tale, Admiral. And if I didn’t, I could still give you the inevitable Japanese denouement — Kira is hacked to pieces and the forty-seven ronin commit seppuku.”
The old eyes squinted. “Would you supply an American ending?”
“Yes. I would hope understanding and forgiveness.”
“The way you forgave Pearl Harbor?”
Ross realized he had been neatly maneuvered into a trap. But he had fought his way out of traps before. “Wrong. Your comparison is invalid. The attack on Pearl Harbor was an unprovoked … ”
“Please, Captain, let us not get lost in a thicket of polemics — waste time on histories neither of us believe. Let me make my point.” Ross nodded his assent, stomach churning as Fujita continued, “You have hammered at me about Yonaga's mission.”
“Of course.”
“You cannot understand Japanese drives; you insist on the unthinkable, a Japanese surrender. Do you not realize you have strengthened our resolve?”
“No. Not at all. How could I?”
“If your history is correct and Yonaga is the only functioning Imperial unit, then, as the forty-seven ronin, we must seek revenge.”
“Nonsense, Admiral. Madness.”
“No! No! No!” A small fist struck the desk. “You know we have our orders and you now know there may be a measure of revenge to be exacted.”
“Oh, Lord,” Ross said, sinking back, clasping his head. “This isn’t necessary, Admiral. Why the justifications? Why, when I already know your obedience to orders is inflexible?”
“Because you — you Americans have never understood us.”
“But I am only one.”
“Of course. It makes no difference. If you can understand, I have succeeded.”
Now Ross understood that the old mariner not only was starved for conversation, but was anxious for dialectic games as well. Ross felt like a pawn in the grip of a master chess player. He decided on a new tack, conceding, “All right, Admiral. I understand. May I return to my sick seaman?”
The admiral tilted his head back, resting his head on the chair, eyes on the overhead. It soon became obvious he was not to be deprived of his game. He moved to a subject challenging to Ross. “Have you not wondered about our rations? Training? Maintenance? Health — after all these years?”
Ross leaned forward, irritated by the old man’s motives, but nevertheless anxious to have the questions answered. “Yes. It seems impossible.”
“Thank you, Captain.” The old man dropped his head, eyes smiling at the American. “Inadvertent or not, thank you for the compliment.” And then he leaned back again, eyes on the overhead, voice soft and distant. “It has been so long. So terribly long.” He sighed. “When we were first trapped on that terrible day in 1941, I must admit, I feared for survival. But when I saw my crew around me, good samurai stock every one, I knew, somehow, we would survive and, perhaps with the help of the gods, complete our mission.” He returned his gaze to the American. “You know we were trapped by a massive glacier slide?”
“Yes. You told me.”
“It was dangerous and cost lives, but we dug two small tunnels through the ice. We sent out fishing parties in small craft disguised as kayaks. Of course, there was a remote chance our crews would be spotted.”
“But your men — their appearance?”
“It was easy, we fitted our fishing crews with parkas and you know the Chukchi natives are Oriental and … ” he concluded, with a chuckle, “all Orientals look alike.”
“Were your crews spotted?”
“Rarely. But, obviously, no problems occurred. We actually kept quite a fleet in operation. We learned early to study our new environment and adapt to it.”
“Like a commercial fishery.”
“More than that, Captain. We actually developed and maintained a very fine marine biology laboratory. Keep in mind, we had over forty years.”
“Admiral, any man who has ever sailed the Bering Sea knows the fishing is good: halibut, salmon … ”
“Not just good, Captain. Superb. We identified over three hundred species of fish. And in addition to your halibut and salmon, we have taken herring, cod, flounder and pollack.” He leaned back, breathing hard. After several deep breaths, he continued. “We also took seals, sea otters, an occasional walrus and, sometimes, a small whale. All the sea food we needed. And there was an abundance of seaweed both outside and inside the cove. We actually cultivated seaweed inside Sano-wan. No, food was never a problem, Captain.”
Ross leaned forward, fascinated. “But your maintenance, not only of hardware, but combat skills. And your crew, they must be very old, especially for combat flying.”
The old man folded his hands across his chest, stared at the American. “The crew first.” Ross gave an approving nod. “You have heard of Tsuchiura?”
“Wasn’t that a flight school?”
The old man grinned. “Far more than that — it was the finest training facility in the world. It only graduated one hundred pilots a year, but they were superb pilots.”
“But even superb pilots age.”
“True. But Tsuchiura accepted fifteen-year-old recruits.”
“Fifteen year olds?”
“Yes. Thirty-eight of my NAPs … ”
“NAPs?”
“Sorry — enlisted pilots; it is a rating, Naval Air Pilot.” Ross nodded; the admiral continued. “Thirty-eight are not yet sixty years old.”
“Then they’re pushing sixty and that’s old for a fighter pilot. And your flight commanders, many of them are elderly.”
“True on one count, some of my flight commanders appear elderly and, perhaps, in years, are; but not in skill.” Ross snorted, the admiral raised a palm. “Consider this, Captain — forty-two years without women, drinking, tobacco, or any other of the debilitations of society. Weight training, running, calisthenics daily. Surely, you have noticed how youthful some of my pilots appear — almost unmarked by time.”
Ross knew that Japanese holdouts seemed to defy time and he had been amazed by the youthful appearance of many of the pilots. Grudgingly, “True — this type of existence appears not to age men as fast. But some have died. I saw the boxes.”
“True. Of my original crew of 2,604, 223 have died.”
“Is that all?” Ross said, incredulously.
“Remember, we have existed in a germ-free environment. Death has usually come by aging. In fact, the captain of this vessel, Goro Ogawa, lived to be 109 years old. I have assumed his duties.”
Trigger rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You said ‘usually.’”
“Yes. More than forty have died by accident, twelve by seppuku, and two were killed fighting the Russians.” The old man’s jaw hardened. “Yesterday, one died in hand-to-hand combat.” Ross stirred uneasily. “I would kill him again, Admiral.”
The bony tendrils drummed. “You expect retribution?”
“I don’t know what to expect, Admiral. This is your first reference to Commander Hirata. You haven’t said a word about him.”
“What is there to say? He spoke enough for himself.”
“He was on your staff — an aide.”
“More than that, he was my cousin.”
Ross came erect, stunned, almost blurting condolences, but held his tongue, finally managing, “It makes no difference, Admiral.” And then huskily, “He had it coming.”
“You enjoyed it.”
Ross contemplated a clenched fist, turned it slowly
, wondering about this man who seemed to be inside his mind. “I had no option. But, yes, I enjoyed killing him.”
“Captain, you were not the one with no options. Commander Hirata had no options.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He allowed you to goad him — became emotional. He lost face, weakened his karma.”
“Then, he could restore his karma by killing me.”
“Exactly. He chose his time, his place — had the advantages.” The voice became soft. “He lost his life but strengthened his karma by dying as a samurai. And Captain, you, an American, still had the right to claim your vengeance as the forty-seven ronin.” The old man leaned back, sadness fleeting across the wrinkles. And then with new strength, “You must wonder about our training. How we have maintained our combat skills.”
Ross welcomed the change in subject with a vigorous nod. “Of course. The greatest pilots on earth, young or old, need continuous training.”
“Understand this, Captain, Yonaga was sent to Sano-wan with the expectation that training flights would not be flown for months. Consequently, thirty flight simulators, similar to your Link Trainers, were installed. We have over three hundred filmed problems.”
“Maintenance?”
“Again, we expected a period of isolation without depot ships or repair facilities. You should see our shops, Captain.” There was pride in his voice. “If necessary, we could build any aircraft we carry. It would be slow, done by hand, but it could be done. In other words, we can duplicate our small hardware and even essential parts of Yonaga from cylinders to drive shafts. Have I told you we have run our aircraft and main engines annually?”
“Yes.”
“Obviously — ” the Japanese waved — “everything functions and functions well.” For a moment, only the sounds of blowers and the thump of the ship’s engines could be heard. Then, there was a roar as a half dozen aircraft engines came to life. “Training flights, Captain.”
“I know. You’ve been flying them incessantly,” Ross said. And then he cleared his throat, shifted his weight. “You once said you fought at Tsushima — that was in 1905.”
“You are curious about me. I can understand.” The old man suddenly seemed expansive, almost eager to describe his career. “I was born in 1884, Captain. My father was a very distinguished professor of mathematics in a small university near Nagoya. I entered Eta Juma in 1900.”
“You were only sixteen.”
“True. That was the minimum age.” There was obvious pride in the voice. “Only one in fifty applicants were accepted. One of my classmates was Isoroku Yamamoto.”
“Oh, yes. I told you he was killed. A captain named Lamphier shot him down in the Solomons in 1943.”
The admiral waved a hand in irritation. “Please, Captain — your history again.”
Trigger pushed reality from his mind. “Sorry. Please continue.”
“I graduated in 1904 and was assigned to the battleship Fuji. I steamed to battle against the Russians on her under the great Admiral Togo.” His eyes had a distant look. “We annihilated them.”
“Yamamoto was there.”
“Yes, on cruiser Nishina. He lost three fingers. Then more battleship duties, war college, and then,” he sighed, “I was presented to Emperor Meiji in 1906.”
“He died in 1912. General Nogi and his wife committed seppuku.”
“Captain, you are astonishing. You have a great knowledge of Japan.” Ross accepted the compliment with a nod. The admiral continued with obvious relish. “Nogi’s seppuku was superb, marvelous.”
“Oh, yes — marvelous,” Ross said flatly.
“You know about it.”
“He and his wife dressed themselves in white, Nogi wrote his poem, they waited for the funeral entourage to pass, and cut their guts out.”
“You put it crudely.” There was a sharpness in the voice.
“Sorry. But it seems wasteful — useless.”
“To you, Captain; but the supreme, ultimate gesture to us. Do you know his death poem?”
“No.”
“All Japanese children are taught it in school.” He leaned back, transported to a faraway place. “He wrote it in ancient Japanese.” He spoke in soft reverence, “‘My sovereign, abandoning this fleeting life, has ascended among the Gods, with my heart full of gratitude, I desire to follow him.’” Silence. Then the old man’s gaze found Trigger. “Magnificent.”
Ross subordinated skepticism to discretion. Urged Fujita on. “Then your career — you have been successful, but you’ve had almost a century to advance it.” And then a nagging question surfaced. “And your English. Perfect. Like a Yale graduate.”
“Not Yale. USC.”
Trigger was numbed back to reality, his train of thought derailed. “I don’t understand — what USC?”
“Simple enough, your own University of Southern California.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?” the old man snorted. “Isoroku Yamamoto enrolled in Harvard the same year — 1921.”
Ross knew Japanese officers had studied abroad, especially in England and the United States. And he remembered something of Yamamoto’s enrolment in Harvard, but he still stared in disbelief. The old sailor chuckled. “I was there for two years — got my master’s in English in 1923. I was at the head of my class.”
“Did you go out for football?”
For the first time, Ross saw the admiral laugh. “No. But I hitchhiked to Mexico in 1923. I met Isoroku there.”
Ross sighed. Shook his head. Tried to remember where he was, who he faced, and the man’s intent. But everything was pushed aside by this incredible tale. “What then, Admiral?”
“I returned to Japan in 1924. I was assigned to the Kasumigaura Air Training School. I learned to fly when I was forty years old. Then duty on Kaga and Akagi. We developed dive bombing and torpedo bomber tactics.”
“You’re married?”
“Yes. In 1924. My wife, Akiko, presented me with two fine sons, Kazuo and Makoto.”
“Where do they live?”
“Hiroshima.”
Ross caught his breath. But the wide, withered face across the deck seemed content, almost tranquil, enjoying memories. Involuntarily, the American said, “I hope they’re well.”
The old man nodded. Suddenly, there were new sounds from the flight desk: of incoming engines, squealing tires, the twang of straining arresting gear. The old man came erect, glanced at the clock. “Returning reconnaissance,” he said, sharply, suddenly back from the past.
“May I return to Seaman Edmundson?” Ross asked, beginning to rise.
The voice was harsh, filled with command. “No. You must remain. We may need your knowledge of local shipping.”
“Ships of many nations are found in these waters, Admiral. But, as before, I refuse to provide you with intelligence that will assist in further destruction.”
“Captain. I expect you to honor your convictions. But you may help save lives.”
“Admiral, I know that is highly unlikely. However, in that remote eventuality, I would be happy to assist.”
There was a knock at the door. The admiral pointed. Ross rose, walked to door, and opened it. Cmdr. Masao Shimizu entered, followed by a strange officer. Both were in full flight kit, helmets and goggles in hand.
Standing at attention, they saluted and then bowed to the admiral. Expectantly, the flyers turned to Ted Ross. He bowed. Then, to the American’s amazement, they returned the salute, not with a nod, but with bows from the waist.
The admiral gestured to three chairs. The men seated themselves. The admiral spoke, “This is Lieutenant Takeo Suguira.” He crooked a finger at the stranger, a short, husky, dark eyed man with a flat, wide face and skin like leather. “The lieutenant is one of the Commander Shimizu’s wingmen.”
Suguira bowed again, this time a shallow nod. Ross answered from the waist. The admiral continued impatiently. “The patrol? Your report.”
Suguira spoke. “A whale
r, Admiral, bearing one-nine-zero relative, range one hundred kilometers. Moving slowly. May have a kill. He flies the hammer and sickle.”
The admiral’s gaze moved to Shimizu. “Did you sight the Russian?”
“No, Admiral. Out of my sector. Lieutenant Suguira was the only member of the patrol who saw it.”
The admiral returned to the lieutenant. “Did they see you?”
“It was misty and there were fog banks.”
“You were low?”
“Seventy meters, Admiral.”
“Range?”
“About ten thousand meters.”
“Then how can you be sure the Russian was a whaler?”
“She was small, perhaps forty meters, with a single gun mounted on a platform over her bow.” “No other weapons?”
“No, Admiral.”
“A meat deck?”
“No.”
The admiral moved his eyes to the American. “Would a catcher boat have radar, Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Do not try to frighten me, Captain.”
“I’m not trying to frighten you, Admiral. Even private yachts have radar.”
The old man tapped his desk, his face a book of thoughts. “All right, Captain. Thank you.” And then to Commander Shimizu, “We will make a strike — fly against the whaler.” Ross felt his stomach sink, watched Shimizu grin, eyes burning from the dark hollows. Ross expected to see the man salivate. Fujita turned back to the American. “A catcher boat would not be alone, Captain.” Trigger felt hope glimmer. “That is correct, Admiral. I’m not trying to discourage or mislead you, but there must be a factory ship nearby, an entire whale-killing and processing flotilla.”
“As you know, we are willing to take our chances, Captain.”
“But why, Admiral? If they saw your scout,” Ross nodded at Suguira, “and radioed, you’re too late. If your scout was unsighted, you can avoid contact. Your man said the whaler had a kill. He’d be making very little way, pumping air into his whale and marking it.”
Fujita spoke casually, like a man ordering lunch. “We need practice.”
“Practice! Killing men for practice!”
The old sailor’s gaze was mocking. “Why not? Americans do it — at least your radio used to gloat about killing for practice.”