Rising Sun

by Robert Conroy

  A scream tore him away from his thoughts. A sailor was looking upward and pointing, and not toward the east. No, Toki thought, it can’t be. He heard others saying the same thing out loud, uselessly protesting against the obvious. High above, little dots were becoming larger ones. Enemy aircraft had found the carriers and were falling on them like hawks attacking a rabbit.

  Antiaircraft guns were turned upward and began firing maniacally. Many of them couldn’t shoot, however. They’d been poorly positioned and couldn’t aim at a plane diving from above. The lead American dive bomber was hit and fell apart, but the second made it through, dropping its bomb in the ocean a few dozen yards off the Kaga’s bow, raising a spray of water that washed over the deck, sending several crewmen overboard to their deaths. Toki wrenched his eyes away and looked up again. Another bomb was falling and he threw himself onto the deck and curled up. A second later, the bomb struck the flight deck and exploded, causing fuel and ammunition to flame and detonate in a cloud of fire, but fortunately not coming too near him. He got up and could see dozens of men lying prone as flames consumed them.

  A second bomb struck the stern, penetrated, and started another conflagration. Japanese planes were prepped belowdecks, which meant that large quantities of fuel and ammunition were stored below. Toki stood up, but an explosion from the guts of the ship threw him against a bulkhead. Finally, he got to his feet and looked to see if the other carriers had been hit. Perhaps Japan and Nagumo would be lucky and only the Kaga had been damaged. No, he sobbed, it would not be. The Shokaku and Junyo were also burning furiously.

  An American dive bomber, its bomb gone, flew low and strafed the flight deck, starting more fires. Another explosion, this against the hull, and an enemy torpedo bomber flew insolently over the stricken carrier. The great ship convulsed and began to list.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Harry Hogg’s orders were to fly in the general direction where someone thought the Jap carriers might be. What a great idea, he thought sarcastically. He and his buddies were headed out in the middle of the world’s largest ocean in the general direction of China with the whole Jap air force chasing their asses, and they were supposed to somehow find enemy ships. Worse, he wasn’t carrying a bomb or torpedo. He and the others were supposed to kill the Jap planes protecting their carriers.

  I’m going to die, he thought. Either I’ll be shot down or I’ll run out of gas, ditch, and float away. He figured he had more than enough fuel to make it back, but his orders were to find the Jap fleet. There was, he thought, one chance in a million of that happening.

  Son of a bitch, he thought, and there they were. At least he could see smoke arising in the west from something that had to be ships. He laughed. Maybe he couldn’t bomb a carrier, but he could sure make life miserable for them.

  As he drew closer, he could see several carriers on fire. No sense going after them, he exulted. They were already hurting. Harry spotted a smaller carrier that seemed to be untouched, signaled the others with a wave of his arm, and began a strafing run.

  For the first time in his brief career, he fired his guns on an enemy ship. Almost oblivious to antiaircraft fire, he took his Lightning low and quick over the length of the flight deck. Something thudded against his plane and he realized he’d been hit. He checked the controls and everything was working. Well then, he exulted, it was time to do it again. He’d just finished a second run and was relishing the sight of many fires burning on the deck, when he felt a sudden and brutal jolt. None of his controls were working. For that matter, his chest was covered with something wet and sticky. His fading mind was still trying to process this when his shattered plane cartwheeled into the ocean.

  Masao grimaced as the twin-tailed American plane died under his guns. The tiny Soryu, the smallest carrier in the attack force at only twenty thousand tons, was in flames, along with her larger sisters. He watched in dismay as other American planes found her and attacked. He gained altitude and looked for a carrier that hadn’t been damaged, but didn’t see one. In a short while he would have to put down and refuel, but where?

  His radio crackled. He was ordered to fly in a new direction where the cowardly American carriers were supposed to be hiding. He looked at his fuel gauge. He fervently hoped that the Americans weren’t too far away, and, with equal fervor, hoped that he’d have a place to land his plane. All he saw now were burning Japanese carriers and the wide ocean.

  * * *

  Dane wondered if everyone else on the Saratoga felt as naked and exposed as he did. Almost all the carrier’s planes had gone to attack the enemy carriers, with only a couple in the air to warn of oncoming Japanese.

  Radio traffic told of several enemy carriers burning and dead in the water. He recalled one pilot from the Battle of the Coral Sea exulting, “scratch one flattop,” a phrase that had become immortalized. How many flattops had been scratched this time and how many remained unscratched? How was the battle over the Baja going? The two battleships and the destroyer screen sailed in front of the two carriers as a buffer, but how many Jap planes might find them? All the Japs had to do was figure out which direction the American planes had come from and fly back up that way. Jesus, talk about your fog of battle.

  Once again Dane was agonizing over Amanda’s safety. The bombardment of San Diego and Los Angeles, obviously designed to draw off American planes, was over. Was she okay? At least she was in a hospital, but did the damned Japs care about that? Hell, maybe they couldn’t even see a red cross at long range.

  A terse announcement said that enemy aircraft were approaching. So much for being invisible, he thought.

  * * *

  Masao saw the two American carriers at the same time the other Japanese pilots did. There was no time to organize a proper attack. The pilots were on their own. Once again, he checked his fuel. He sucked in his breath. If the gauge was even remotely accurate, there was little possibility of him making it back to the fleet, if any of it even still existed. The battle had become a horror. Instead of another magnificent Japanese victory, it was clear from what he’d seen and heard that the empire’s carriers were being destroyed and with them any real chance of Japanese victory in this war. Toki was right. It was all turning into ashes. He had said he was willing to die for the empire, but not uselessly and most certainly not without taking Americans with him. Now Masao knew what he had to do.

  Masao flew over the first carrier, quickly identified her as the Saratoga, and dropped his bomb. It missed the ship by a hundred yards, confirming that it was very difficult to hit a moving target, however large.

  He cursed and moaned. He would never see his family again. He hoped there was an afterlife so they could all be reunited. He didn’t even care if silly Toki married his equally silly little sister. It would serve them both right. Maybe they would have a boy child and name him Masao. He prayed that would happen.

  Masao only had a few moments left. American planes chasing him and his companions were gaining rapidly. He climbed for altitude, turned, and began his dive. His ashes would never be sent to the Yasukoni shrine, but his parents had hair and nail clippings. They would have to do.

  “Banzai!” he howled as the Saratoga’s bulk grew larger in his eyes.

  * * *

  Dane and Merchant watched in helpless horror as the Japanese plane plummeted down and toward them. Tracers from a score of antiaircraft guns sought it out, but most missed. Those that did hit tore pieces from its wings and fuselage, damaging it, shaking it and maybe even killing it and its pilot, but not stopping its deadly plunge.

  “He’s killing himself,” Merchant yelled. “You’re right about them, Dane. They’re all crazy!”

  The dying Zero smashed into the flight deck near the bow of the carrier. Even though the suicide plane was almost out of fuel, there was enough to cause a large explosion.

  Dane had thrown himself prone and felt heat and debris fly over him. Something heavy landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him. All around him, men were ye
lling and screaming. Was this going to be the sinking of the Enterprise all over again? If so, where was Spruance? Wasn’t he supposed to rescue the admiral? He couldn’t think straight. Something was terribly wrong.

  Tim pushed himself to his hands and knees and vomited. His body wasn’t responding and he collapsed. What was happening? He looked for Merchant and saw him lying near. A large piece of metal protruded from his chest and the expression on his face was blank and lifeless.

  Tim felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Spruance. “I’ll help you again, sir,” Tim managed to say. His voice was mushy and it sounded as if it came from another room rather than from his own body.

  Spruance smiled kindly. “This time it’s my turn to take care of you, Dane.”

  Tim was dimly aware that he was being put on a stretcher. He knew he was hurt, but why didn’t he feel any pain? “Are we sinking?”

  The admiral had gone to check on others, so the medic responded. “Sinking? Not a chance, Commander. Damage control is doing its job. There wasn’t any problem with our hull and the fires are coming under control. Like you, we’ll need some good repairs, but we’ll be all right.”

  Tim wanted to ask some more questions, but the medic had jabbed him with morphine. He fought it for a moment, but decided it was far better and nicer to let it do its job.

  * * *

  “Abandon ship.” The command was repeated until it stopped abruptly. The electricity on the Kaga had just gone out. Toki fully understood that the flames had won. The mighty carrier was in its death throes. Explosions rocked her and flames billowed skyward. The rumblings of more explosions from below deck made the Kaga seem like she was alive, not dying.

  Abandon ship or be burned alive were Toki’s choices. He had already donned his life vest, so, looking down at the ocean and hoping that he wouldn’t be sucked into the carrier’s still-spinning propellers, and praying that he’d be picked up, he jumped.

  Hitting the sea felt like hitting a wall. He blacked out and came to with a number of others from the carrier, some swimming and others flailing desperately. An empty life raft floated by. He grabbed onto it and climbed in. He offered his hand to several others still in the water, but only a couple joined him. The rest shook their heads solemnly and a couple managed to say they’d rather die than live with the shame of defeat.

  One of the men with him said he too would join the others in dying if it appeared they would be rescued by Americans. Toki didn’t know what he would do. Overhead, the once-invincible Zeros circled and then, one by one, crashed in the ocean. The planes soon disappeared under the water and no pilots emerged. Toki visualized this happening all over the battle area. He knew he would never see his friend Masao again and he mourned for him, but only for an instant. Now he just wanted to live and go home to his family and Masao’s little sister.

  After a few hours, he and the two others were alone. But then they weren’t. A destroyer maneuvered slowly through the waters, its crew searching and looking. They were spotted and the ship came close enough for them to see that it was an American. Toki’s companions moaned and slid off the raft and into the sea. They gasped and bobbed a few times and then disappeared.

  Toki made up his mind. Only fools chose death when life was at hand. They had killed themselves for no good reason. He stood and waved a handkerchief that he hoped was white enough. With the skill of a dancer, the destroyer was maneuvered beside him. A row of armed Americans stared down at him.

  “I speak English,” he yelled. “I surrender.”

  There was silence from the angry-looking Americans. “Why the fuck should we save you?” one of them finally asked.

  “I am Admiral Nagumo’s chief aide,” he said, lying only slightly. Like most Japanese sailors, he had received no instructions regarding how to behave if he actually was taken prisoner since it was assumed he would choose death instead. Thus, there was no reason to discuss or plan for the unthinkable.

  There was a quick conference and an officer leaned over. “First, you will remove all your clothes, and I mean everything. After you’ve stripped down, you will then climb up the ladder which we will lower to you. When you make it to the deck, you will lie on your belly with your legs spread apart. We will examine you and tie you up. Understand?”

  Toki understood fully. He too had heard tales of Japanese soldiers trying to take Americans with them as they killed themselves. “I understand. But may I take my wallet? It has my identification and pictures of my family.”

  He thought the American might have smiled for a flickering instant. “Bring your damned wallet,” was the response.

  * * *

  Once again Torelli felt the freight train pass over him, shaking his sub like it was a toy. Jesus, that Jap battleship was big. And fast. Worse, it was going to be moving away, which meant a stern shot and a quick one.

  He ordered periscope depth and all bow tubes open. They would simply fire off all four torpedoes the first clear chance he got. He looked through the lens. The battleship was a mountain and moving rapidly. He didn’t bother to look for escorts; he just assumed they were there.

  The shot was as good as it was going to get. “Fire one,” he ordered, then two and three and four. As soon as he heard the sound of the torpedoes leaving, he ordered an emergency dive.

  “What now?” Crowley asked. His eyes were wide with tension and fear. They heard splashes and then depth charges exploded. They were close, but not close enough to do damage. It looked like the Japs were more interested in clearing out than in attacking him.

  “We wait,” Torelli said.

  They listened through the rumble of the depth charges. Finally, they heard a different sound. An explosion, but what? They all looked at each other. Had they actually managed to hit the monster? If so, what damage, if any. Maybe it was like shooting a rhinoceros with a peashooter? Probably the damn thing wouldn’t even notice.

  * * *

  Yamamoto felt the battleship quiver. He barely heard the explosion and saw nothing. The battleship’s massive superstructure blocked his view and insulated him from any sound.

  “Torpedo,” announced a grim-faced aide a moment later. “No apparent damage, sir.”

  Yamamoto nodded. It was what he expected. What else could go wrong this terrible day? He had been totally outwitted and outfought by an American Navy he had thought was, if not dead, then moribund and too frightened to take risks. Now all he could do was try and salvage something out of the burning wreckage that had once been the pride of the Imperial Japanese Navy. Four of his prized carriers were in sinking condition and were being abandoned. If they didn’t sink on their own, they would be torpedoed by their own ships, a totally inglorious and shameful end to their careers. Two other carriers were seriously damaged, burning furiously, and might also be lost. Worse, if there could possibly be a worse, the carriers lost were the largest and most powerful the Imperial Japanese Navy possessed. The only carriers remaining were the smaller ones now being categorized as escort carriers.

  Nor did it matter that the American carrier they’d sought for so long, the Saratoga, had at least been very badly damaged. The few Japanese pilots who had survived the attack on her reported her burning and, in their opinion, likely to sink. Yamamoto was not so confident. The Americans were magicians at saving and repairing ships and, besides, what did it matter if the Saratoga was sunk? The Americans had many others under construction. They would join up with what was thought to be the Essex-class carrier that had accompanied the Saratoga and do so well before Japan could recover from today’s disaster.

  His thoughts returned to the doomed pilots. At least four hundred of them had been lost and that toll was likely to go higher. Four hundred highly trained carrier pilots could not be replaced. At the current rate of pilot graduation, any damaged carriers were likely to be repaired and ready long before the pilots were trained according to traditional standards. Thus, those standards would have to be relaxed, which meant that new Japanese carrier pilots would be lambs
to the slaughter. Nor could the even larger number of planes lost be replaced in the foreseeable future.

  Yamamoto accepted that the defeat was his responsibility. All decisions had been his. He would go to Tokyo and personally apologize to the emperor for his failure to bring victory to Japan. It wouldn’t matter that this was just as he had forecast that summer before the attack on Pearl Harbor. He had accepted command of the fleet and the blame was his. He would offer his resignation to the emperor and the prime minister. He didn’t think they would take it, although he now wished they would. He would let them change his mind about resigning, of course, and do his utmost to save the empire, but he would also try to convince Tojo and Hirohito of the need to negotiate a peace with the Americans. The British could be ignored, but not the Americans. The war in the Pacific would largely be a naval war and the Imperial Japanese Navy would be overwhelmed by the U.S. Navy if it went on much longer.

  In order to do this, he thought, the Americans would first send forces to reestablish a forward base at Pearl Harbor, which would also rescue the Hawaiians from their near starvation. The blockade of Australia would be lifted and Japanese garrisons in the Solomons would have to be abandoned. Japan would have to pull back or be destroyed. It was his duty to convince the government of this inevitable fate.

  Captain Miyazato Shotoku commanded the Yamato. He now approached the admiral with eyes down. He was clearly shaken and seemed almost afraid to speak.

  “What is the news?” Yamamoto asked softly. From the man’s expression, it could not be good.

  Shotoku took a deep breath and swallowed. What he had to say was painful in the extreme. “We were struck by one American torpedo. It has jammed our rudder. We are stopping so we can send down a diver to determine whether it can be repaired. Otherwise, we can only steam in very large circles. We are not optimistic about the outcome. It is very likely that we will not have the tools and equipment to effect the repairs. I believe it can only be done in drydock.”