Dive Beneath the Sun

by R. Cameron Cooke

  Nagata made his way down the street, filing through the throng of soldiers and sailors. Those not on duty idled about the local shops and movie theater. Some stood in long lines snaking outside plain, unmarked doors which Nagata knew to be brothels. A half dozen fighters droned high overhead, a precautionary measure in the event of another attack. A convoy of tarp-shrouded trucks strained their engines as they drove to and from the wharf, seemingly in haste. Aside from these ever present reminders of the war in progress, the seaside town was quiet and peaceful.

  As Nagata mentally prepared himself for the meeting with the Baron, he considered that he fully understood the reason the naval commandant had greeted him with a measure of enmity. It was, after all, an awkward situation, for one of his subordinate officers to be invited to a meeting with the senior army commander. Undoubtedly, the naval commandant had interpreted his own exclusion from the meeting as a personal insult. But Nagata was quite certain that Colonel Baron Rikishi Matsumoto, the commander of the occupation forces in Eastern Mindanao, and the man whom he was now on his way to see, had not intended it as an insult – just as Nagata was sure that the reason for this meeting was more of a personal nature than a professional one. For what the affronted naval commandant did not know, and could not have known, was that Nagata and the Colonel Baron were related. Colonel Baron Matsumoto was, in fact, Nagata’s uncle.

  Colonel Baron Rikishi Matsumoto was Japanese nobility, a member of the peerage, and had once been a very influential voice in Japan’s political circles. The brother of Nagata’s mother, and a respected army officer, Matsumoto had often taken an interest in his young nephew. Nagata could remember countless occasions in his youth when he would stay up late at night listening to his uncle recount fantastic stories of his samurai grandfather. While his own father had scoffed at the tall tales, Nagata’s boyhood mind had often been quite swept away by them. Matsumoto himself was childless, and had coined Nagata as the son he never had, often saying that it would be up to Nagata to carry on the family tradition. Matsumoto had pledged to help him in any way that he could. Even when Nagata had decided to pursue a career in the navy instead of the army, his uncle’s support had never wavered. Matsumoto had followed his accomplishments as a naval cadet and as a junior officer, keeping abreast of his various assignments throughout the fleet. But as Japan’s political parties became increasingly violent in their opposition to one another, Nagata’s interactions with his uncle began to wither. Nagata’s father, a factory manager for Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, and a respected businessman, threw his support behind the ultra-nationalists who controlled the government and whose war-like philosophies clashed with Matsumoto’s liberal leanings. Matsumoto caused an uproar in the high command when he publicly expressed his opposition to the invasion of Manchuria, and the subsequent war with China. His noble title had perhaps been the only thing that saved him from imprisonment or execution. He was shipped off to China to command a frontline infantry brigade, and to get him out of the way. The scandal was deeply embarrassing to the family, to the point that Nagata’s father instructed him never to correspond with his uncle again. In past years, that had not been hard to do. Nagata had last seen his uncle a year before the attack on Pearl Harbor. Since that time, Nagata had been nearly always at sea and far removed from the land war. He had neither heard nor inquired about his uncle, and had assumed him dead.

  Now, Colonel Baron Matsumoto had returned from his frontline exile. After years spent fighting in China and Southeast Asia, he had been given command of the occupation forces in eastern Mindanao. Who knew the reason for the high command’s change of heart? Perhaps there was a shortage of officers of command rank, or perhaps Tojo’s recent resignation and the subsequent reshuffling of the general staff had produced some sympathy for the exiled baron. Whatever the true reason, Matsumoto had come back to the world of the living.

  Although the Baron had only been in Davao for a few weeks, Nagata had yet to see him. A courtesy call was expected, of course, and Nagata had fully intended to arrange it – just as soon as his duties aboard the Yokaze afforded an opportunity. That was the excuse he had used most of the time. In moments of honest reflection, he knew that, like his father, he carried an underlying sense of shame over his uncle’s past behavior. It did not matter whether or not Japan’s desperation to survive or her quest to stop the further encroachment of western ideals into Asia were legitimate reasons for waging war. An officer simply did not second guess the decisions of the high command. The reason for this was clear enough. Anything less than total commitment from all would result in defeat and disaster for all.

  “You wished to see me, Colonel,” Nagata said stiffly as he stood at attention. An army captain had ushered him through the immaculate headquarters building – kept spotless by a battalion of Korean laborers – and had left him in the colonel’s second-floor office.

  Colonel Baron Matsumoto stood outside on a balcony that overlooked the harbor. His back was to Nagata, and he did not appear to notice that he had a visitor. He gazed down at the distant waterfront as if deep in thought, while a neglected cigarette smoldered in one hand, its twirling smoke carried away by the ocean breeze.

  Nagata could see that his uncle was bare-headed, his hat having been left on a desk in the center of the room. His green army trousers and shirt were perfectly pressed, but there was an uncharacteristic air of nonchalance about him. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, something quite out of the ordinary for Matsumoto who had always been meticulous about his dress. The colonel had even left his army tunic, with its glimmering collar insignia, haphazardly draped across the back of a chair inside the room.

  When the colonel finally turned around, Nagata saw the familiar well-groomed gray hair and moustache. But there was something distinctly different about this aged man. Colonel Matsumoto had a tired, worn-out countenance, that no amount of sleep could remedy, like that of a man who knew his only respite would come in death.

  “It is good to see you, Timeshi,” Matsumoto said with a warm smile. “It has been a long time.”

  Nagata bowed respectfully. “Yes, Colonel. My sincerest apologies for not arranging an interview earlier. It is unpardonable.”

  Matsumoto raised one hand. “Never mind that. That imbecile of a commandant probably would have refused it anyway, had you made such a request. Much better coming from me.”

  “It is possible he took offense, sir. He does not know we are related. He believes you have summoned me to discuss military matters.”

  “And he would be right,” Matsumoto said. “I did call you here to discuss military matters – and personal ones.”

  The colonel then gestured for Nagata to come out to the balcony. Nagata complied, and as he stood there stiffly, his uncle studied him for a long moment.

  “I no longer see the fragile boy I knew before,” Matsumoto said. “I see a man now. A hardened officer. A samurai!”

  Nagata felt uncomfortable. Not from the compliment, but from the fact that his opinions of his uncle prevented him from reciprocating the affection.

  “You are most generous, sir,” Nagata replied formally.

  “You have done well, young man. You have made your family proud, and your nation.” His voice trailed off as he said this last, and his smile faded. But the moment passed quickly and he led Nagata to a small table where a bottle of sake and several cups waited.

  “How is your wife, Timeshi?”

  “She is well, sir. I received a letter from her only last week.”

  “And your mother?”

  Matsumoto had asked it casually as he poured the wine, but Nagata could sense the reluctance in his tone. Matsumoto had not spoken to his sister in many years, again at the request of Nagata’s ultra-nationalist father.

  “She is fine, sir,” Nagata said. “I saw her a few months ago, when my ship was refitting at Kobe.”

  Matsumoto nodded blankly as he took a drink, and Nagata sensed the pause was deliberate, as if his uncle was waiting to see if there
was any more, perhaps hoping that his sister had asked about him. But she had not, and, after a few moments of silence, Matsumoto seemed to accept that reality.

  “I hear you have a daughter, Timeshi. How old is she now – five?”

  “She just turned four, Colonel.”

  “So young?” Matsumoto said. “Thank Heaven for that. Perhaps she will have few memories of this war, and the terrible days that lay ahead. Perhaps she will outlive this calamity and see a day when our nation rises from the humiliation and ruin that awaits it.”

  “Humiliation and ruin, Colonel?”

  “Yes, Timeshi. There is only one end for Japan now. Those idiots in the high command have seen to that most thoroughly.”

  Nagata stiffened at this, for such talk was forbidden. He was surprised how quickly his uncle had laid bare his political views, almost as if he had been waiting to do so. Had his uncle lured him here for this, to spout the same poisonous talk that had gotten him into trouble years ago? Had Matsumoto flexed the authority of his new position to call the Yokaze back to port, simply to push his own subversive ideas onto his nephew? And what did he hope to accomplish by this, if not to sew discord within the fleet? It was utterly disgraceful. It bordered on treason, and it made Nagata suddenly angry. He did not wish to be associated with his uncle’s seditious talk. He wished to end the interview immediately.

  “It was pleasant to see you again, sir,” Nagata said abruptly, placing his own cup back on the table. “If you will excuse me, I must attend to my ship.”

  He bowed curtly and made to leave, but was stopped short by a stentorian shout from his uncle.

  “You have not been dismissed, Commander! You will remain until you are dismissed!”

  The warmth was suddenly absent from the colonel’s face, replaced by an icy glare Nagata had never seen before, and one that instantly chilled him to the bone. Matsumoto’s eyes stared at him indifferently, as one who looked at an object, not a man, and somehow Nagata knew in that moment that this emotionless mask was a byproduct of his uncle’s years in China and Southeast Asia – an outward sign of the scars left on his soul after witnessing one unspeakable atrocity after another.

  When it was clear that Nagata would not leave, the fatigued colonel took a long drag on his cigarette, threw back the remnants of his cup, and resumed an amiable expression. He refilled both cups and gestured for Nagata to take his up again.

  “You and I need not pretend as they do in Tokyo, Timeshi,” Matsumoto said. “There is no one else here. We are alone. You and I are intelligent men. We have been on the frontlines. We both know what is coming. No matter how fervently we tell ourselves otherwise, no matter how bravely our soldiers and sailors stand against the enemy, we must eventually face the certain fact that we will lose this war.”

  “Such talk is treasonous, Colonel,” Nagata said bitterly.

  “It is not treason, nephew. It is a simple matter of mathematics. The enemy has more soldiers, more tanks, more ships, more planes, and their production rate is only increasing. They have a numerical and technological advantage that we cannot overcome. Is this truth not apparent to you as well?”

  After some hesitation, Nagata found himself nodding, and he immediately felt ashamed for doing so. He had kept his own feelings about the war close to his chest for so long.

  "I will fight to the end, Colonel,” Nagata finally replied. “As we all must, to preserve our honor.”

  Matsumoto looked slightly amused. “To go down in flames, with the rest of the fleet?”

  Nagata bridled at what he perceived as a slur. “Are you saying, Colonel, the navy is not competent enough to stop the Americans?”

  Matsumoto sighed. “Calm yourself, young man. Do not be so quick to make an enemy. Heaven knows, we have enough of them. I meant no insult. The navy does what it can with what it has, and very valiantly. But it is my opinion that trying to hold onto the Philippines when we are so out-matched is as futile as trying to catch a cloud in your hand. It cannot be done.”

  “Admiral Toyoda will stop them here, Colonel,” Nagata said with forced confidence.

  “With what, nephew?”

  “As a mere captain of a destroyer, I am not included in such strategic planning,” Nagata recited formally, but then added, “I have heard Toyoda is massing a tremendous fleet at Brunei.”

  “Yes, Timeshi, that is correct. A fleet of battleships, cruisers, and destroyers, with magazines full and fuel tanks nearly empty. They plan to ambush the American invasion fleet. They plan to engage the enemy transports at close range, with gunnery and torpedoes, as the enemy troops are unloading. Surely, one need not be a naval expert to see the utter madness of such a plan.” He paused, before adding, “No doubt, your Yokaze will soon be summoned to join this desperate armada.”

  “My crew and I can only wish for such an honor, Colonel.”

  Matsumoto looked at him sourly. “This is not a time for patriotic drivel, Commander. It is a time for sensibleness. Do not allow yourself to be swept up in the baseless optimism that seems to have infected your admirals. Such a force would have been impressive twenty years ago, but not today. Thanks to the countless blunders of our high command, our fleet no longer has any aircraft to protect it. The enemy planes will see it coming days before it ever reaches its objective. So it is doomed, Timeshi – doomed! Before it ever sails, it is doomed!”

  Nagata tried to remain composed. What did that matter? Of course, it was a perilous plan, but it was far preferable to surrender and defeat. He refused to accept his uncle’s assessment. “I have heard, Colonel, that the air cover problem has been solved. The land-based air reserves from the western front are being relocated to these islands to protect the fleet.”

  “It takes more than just aircraft, Timeshi. It takes good aircraft. It takes skilled pilots to fly them.” Matsumoto paused and then gestured back inside the office to a stack of paper on his desk. “You do not see the same messages that I do. These air reserves you speak of are piecemeal squadrons composed of refurbished planes. They are to be placed at airfields throughout the Philippines, not to protect our ships, not to drop bombs on the enemy, but to become bombs themselves. Their novice pilots are being trained to crash into enemy ships. It is the Divine Wind, Timeshi, the long-rumored solution to the enemy’s air superiority. It is finally being enacted. And for what? To throw away the lives of more young men, young men that Japan will desperately need if she is ever to emerge from her defeat.”

  Nagata said nothing, unable to deny that he had heard similar stories, including rumors of the development of manned torpedoes that would be employed in suicide missions against enemy ship’s near Japan’s home islands.

  “These are the weapons of despair, Timeshi,” Matsumoto continued. “What purpose do they serve, if not to further incense our enemy? We cannot destroy the American ships and planes fast enough. Five will replace every one that is lost. If intelligence reports are accurate, the American fleet that is now supporting the invasion of Peleliu has more ships and aircraft than the entire Imperial Navy, and that little island is not even ten kilometers wide. Heaven only knows how many ships they will send to invade the Philippines. Japan cannot overcome such odds, Timeshi. At what point do we begin to face the future honestly? The high command in Tokyo pretends they control divisions and fleets that exist only as toy markers on colored maps. They refuse to admit to the people, even to themselves, that the outcome of the war has already been decided. They should sue for peace, now, Timeshi – now! The terms will not be pleasant, but Japan has no choice. We must admit the truth. We must admit we are beaten!”

  As reluctant as he was to admit it, even inwardly, Nagata did not entirely disagree with his uncle. The colonel was right. The war was decidedly moving in the Allies favor. Any officer with a brain realized that. It was certainly time to seek terms of peace, but Nagata vehemently rejected the idea that further resistance was hopeless. “We will fight them everywhere, Colonel. We must be diligent, if an honorable peace is to be ga
rnered. We must show the enemy that they will pay for every advance with thousands of their own dead.”

  “An honorable peace?” Matsumoto smiled. “Have you not read, nephew, what is happening in Germany? The German armies have stiffly resisted the Allied advance for some time now. Does the enemy sue for peace? Do they even blink at their losses? And how do they answer this German bravado? They bomb German cities with massive air armadas that no one could have scarcely conceived of three years ago. Entire cities laid waste, Timeshi. Firestorms as strong as a typhoon. Tens of thousands of dead – most of them civilian – and all before a single enemy boot churns the earth within a hundred miles of the German border.”

  “Japan is not Germany,” Nagata said dismissively.

  “The same will happen to Japan, Timeshi. The more Americans we kill, the more bombs they will drop, and the more Japanese will die – not by the tens of thousands, Timeshi, but by the hundreds of thousands. Even now, the enemy flies long range sorties from their new airfields on Saipan. American B-29s have been seen over the Philippines. Soon, they will fly over Japan. How then will our leaders convince the people we are winning this war? We are on the brink of the greatest tragedy in our nation’s history and they still talk of victory!”

  Nagata stared back at his uncle for a long moment. The niggling thought was ever present in the back of his mind, though he tried not to dwell on it – the thought that soon his wife and daughter might be in greater danger than he was.

  “I perform my duties to the best of my abilities, Colonel,” he said finally. “I go where my superiors tell me, as do you. I see no point in pining away our time despairing of all that is - “

  “Damn the high command!” Matsumoto interrupted. “Where have they brought us? They are no longer relevant. A samurai is above serving such fools. Their destiny has been written, and their incense will soon run out. They will die in battle or commit seppuku before the end. They will not reap the harvest they have sown. Your generation, Timeshi, will bear that burden. When it is all over – when the coming tribulation has passed – men like you will lift Japan from the ashes. Your talents, your skills, will be far more essential then, back home, than they are here and now.”