Dive Beneath the Sun

by R. Cameron Cooke

  Giles sighed, and caught a bleak glance from Packard. The cost of this mission was climbing, and even Giles now had to ask himself if it was really worth it.

  CHAPTER XV

  Nagata sat at the desk in his cabin, penning a letter. He hoped he might finish it in time to send it ashore with the last barge. Something told him it would be a long time before he got the chance to write again. With any luck, this letter would make it aboard a cargo plane bound for Japan and arrive there long before he did.

  The freshening breeze blew through the two open portals behind him. Earlier, he had heard what sounded like a distant firefight emanating from the inland hills, but now the harbor was tranquil. The ships rode peacefully at their moorings as the gray clouds rolled in from the land. A cry of elation rang out on the deck outside as several of the Yokaze’s sailors fishing off the fantail made a catch.

  After several demanding hours preparing the ship to get underway, Nagata finally had a few minutes to take care of some personal matters. He seldom spent any time in his cabin when the ship was at sea. Only a few brief, heavy-eyed moments to change his uniform or shower before heading back up to the bridge. Aside from the desk, the cabin was furnished with a small sofa, an end table, and a chair, all the accoutrements of a passenger cabin on an ocean liner, but they were all too new, and their newness reminded him of things which he would rather not dwell on.

  He could never fully relax here.

  Again, his eyes were drawn to the ripple of paint on the bulkhead, where an odd welding line travelled from the deck to the overhead. The shipyard engineers had done excellent work. The seam had been well-concealed and would have gone unnoticed by most, but it caught Nagata’s attention every time, like a red nobori fluttering in a breeze. It brought back the horrors of the past, and again he saw the steel torn apart like it was paper, the corpses mangled, the deck splashed with blood. He heard the cries of the burnt and the dying and felt the heat against his face as the fire burned out of control.

  That night was more than a year in the past, but the terrors of it still haunted him as vividly as if it was yesterday. That night when the sea was alive with geysers and the air thick with screaming metal. That night when the Yokaze and her squadron ran headlong into a task group of American cruisers and destroyers.

  The Yokaze had suffered heavily, taking two direct hits from an enemy cruiser salvo. One shell demolished the number one torpedo mount, while the other entered the forward engine room and exploded, causing massive damage and casualties. The ensuing fire had very nearly claimed the ship, had it not been for the extraordinary efforts of his stalwart crew. Eighteen of Yokaze’s crew were killed that night and many more injured. It was the toughest ordeal of Nagata’s entire naval career, but it had merely been the culmination of a long series of horrific moments that had become all too commonplace among the destroyer workhorses of the fleet. Of the eight destroyers that had been in the Yokaze’s division when she first arrived in the South Pacific early in 1942, she was the only one still afloat. Seven destroyers had been sunk and over a thousand men lost. The Yokaze herself had barely escaped destruction, her extensive damage putting her out of action and consigning her to a shipyard in Japan for months.

  Many of the other captains were now dead, but Nagata could still see their faces. Many had been his classmates at the naval academy, and he had considered many of them his closest friends. On New Year’s Eve of 1942, just before deploying to the combat zone, they had all held a raucous celebration during which the sake had flowed like water and a group of mesmerizing geishas had danced and entertained them all night. They had applauded the navy’s recent victories, drank to its continued success, and reveled in their brief moment of invulnerability. Perhaps, that night, they had all refused to see the coming storm. But then, they could not have foreseen what they were about to endure – horrific night actions, the unrelenting skip-bomb attacks, vast improvements in enemy torpedo and gunfire tactics, and the complete loss of air superiority.

  Now, less than three years later, so much had changed.

  Nagata downed another cup of sake, and only then realized that he had put the pen down and was now firmly gripping the coils of the senninbari that he normally kept tucked away in his desk drawer. The belt of one thousand stitches had been given to him by his sister years ago, each crimson stitch hand sewn by a different woman of their village. The belt was often given to men going off to war to bring them courage and to protect them from enemy bullets. Nagata did not really believe in such superstitions, and he often forgot to wear the belt in battle. But that one night – that one dreadful night – he had put it on just before heading up to the bridge. He could not explain why. Only a few minutes after he had left his cabin, it and all of the surrounding compartments had been demolished by the explosion of the second enemy shell.

  Sliding the belt back into the drawer, Nagata checked the clock on the bulkhead. He had to hurry. The last mail boat would go ashore at 1800 hours, and he intended for this letter to be on it. It was not a letter to the family members of a dead sailor – though he had certainly written a good number of those before – nor was it a letter to his own family. It was addressed to an eight-year-old girl who lived in Nagasaki, a child whom he had never met nor ever expected to meet.

  On the desk before him lay the contents of a comfort kit sent by the little girl. She and the other children of her school had assembled the kits to show their support for the soldiers and sailors of the empire fighting on the frontlines. She had not known whether it would end up in some soldier’s trench or on the desk of a destroyer captain, but she had packed it with great care, including several crafts that she had made, several childlike but perfect drawings, and a few office supplies that he certainly did not need, but which he would never part with. They were the trappings of an innocent time, the echoes of a Japan that no longer existed, whose lingering cries would soon be carried away by the wind, if his uncle’s forebodings of doom proved to be correct. This child could not foresee what was coming. Perhaps her parents could not either. Nagata well knew the lies of propaganda broadcasted by the government. The defeats at Guadalcanal, New Guinea, and the Aleutians were merely setbacks, all part of the grand plan.

  The last time Nagata was home on leave, his wife had seemed to accept the government’s assessment of the war. They had spent three perfect days together, taking their daughter on long walks through the parks and gardens. Everyone they had encountered had greeted them with gratitude and encouragement, and Maruko had smiled and bowed with pride. But there had been a brief moment, as they waited together for the train that would take him back to the war, she had looked into his eyes with a pained expression, and he realized she knew the truth.

  “Pardon me, Captain,” a voice said from the stateroom’s open door, snapping him out of his daydream.

  Nagata looked up and instantly thought he saw a ghost. The seaman who now bowed in his doorway bore an uncanny resemblance to one of the men killed in the battle that night off Bougainville. Nagata was too perplexed to utter anything more than the man’s name. “Petty Officer Ito?”

  The sailor appeared confused at first. A moment of awkward silence passed before he bowed again. “I am Seaman First Class Tadashi Ito, Captain. I reported aboard the Yokaze this morning while you were ashore.” He paused before adding, “My brother was Kanshi Ito.”

  “Of course!” Nagata nearly shouted, relieved at the confirmation that he was not going mad. He had been told that half a dozen new hands had come aboard earlier in the day – much-needed replacements. Still, it was not customary for a seaman, even a newly reporting seaman, to enter the captain’s cabin without first arranging a meeting through his division officer. Nagata half-considered dismissing the sailor so that he could finish the letter, but he had been fond of Kanshi Ito, and he was not in any mood to bother with ceremony. He smiled and rose to greet the man.

  “Welcome aboard, Seaman Ito,” Nagata said fervently. “If you are half the man your brother
was, I will be very fortunate to have you in my crew.”

  “A thousand apologies for this imposition, sir,” Ito said nervously. “It will not happen again. But I felt compelled to tell you how much your letter meant to my parents – and to me. Your words about Kanshi’s burial were most moving. You described such a beautiful ceremony, how each of the fallen were cleansed with distilled water and carefully wrapped in canvas before being committed to the deep.” The sailor paused as if it was hard for him to think about it. “On behalf of my parents, Captain, I wish to thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

  Nagata stared at him for a moment, hoping that his own expression did not reveal the entire truth of that ceremony, that only a few charred pieces of Kanshi’s body had been recovered, and it was these that had been wrapped and tossed into the sea.

  “So, you have become a sailor like your brother,” Nagata said, changing the subject.

  “Yes, sir. I enlisted when news of my brother’s death reached us. This is my first ship. I am not ashamed to say that I requested to be assigned to the Yokaze, sir.”

  “I see. And how do your parents feel about it?”

  A doubtful expression crossed Ito’s face before he replied. “They are happy that I have a chance to avenge my brother, sir. I am most eager to kill as many Yankee dogs as possible.”

  Nagata decided not to tell the passionate young man that his quest for vengeance would have to wait, since the ship was heading back to Japan. “Which division have you been assigned to?”

  “Signals Division, sir,” Ito replied, then added enthusiastically, “I must emphasize, sir, that I am ready to give my life in the service of the emperor.”

  Nagata ignored the comment. “Your division officer, Lieutenant Ikeda, and your chief, Takagi, are both experienced officers. Listen to them. They will teach you well.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Now, seaman,” Nagata said, somewhat abruptly. “There is some business I must attend to before we get underway.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ito saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

  After the sailor left, Nagata returned to the desk and sat down to finish the letter, but his mind now wandered to other things – the state of the ship, the approaching storm, the two thousand miles of ocean his little convoy must traverse. The lines he ended up scrawling were not at all the verses of wisdom and gratitude he had envisioned. When he reread them, they seemed hurried and disingenuous, definitely nothing the little girl would cherish. But, they would have to do.

  Later that night, dark shapes passed in single file through an opening in the submarine nets while a puttering tug waited to close the nets behind them. As the Yokaze quietly led the convoy out of the harbor, Nagata stood on the open bridge staring back at the dim lights of Davao. A few sailors down on the main deck quietly sang a song of farewell. It was a melancholy tune, and it had an air of permanency about it. Nagata chose not to reprimand them. He, too, somehow felt that he would never see this port again, nor his uncle.

  Since leaving the army headquarters that morning, Nagata had had no further direct communication with Colonel Matsumoto. Nagata had, late in the morning, sent a special request regarding the make-up of the convoy, something he had devised after some consideration, something to counter the enemy submarine threat. The response from the army headquarters had been a simple one-line acknowledgment. His plan was accepted and he was authorized to call on the local naval commandant for full support in putting the plan into effect.

  Now, as Nagata watched Davao slip away astern, he regretted not showing his uncle at least some appreciation for the many times he had been there for him. He would not see Colonel Baron Matsumoto again in this life. The Americans would come, and the Philippines would fall, and perhaps his uncle would end his days in the caves of Mindanao, committing seppuku as several of the senior officers on Saipan were said to have done.

  The shutter of a signal lamp clanged open and shut on the other side of the bridge, and a response twinkled from the dark shape directly astern. Strict radio silence was being observed. Nagata saw the new signalman Ito listening to the instruction from a senior petty officer manning the lamp. The younger Ito was wide-eyed and eager, much different from his late brother. There was a fatalistic recklessness about him that seemed prevalent in the new breed of hasty recruits being thrust upon the fleet. They wanted to kill the enemy, and saw no honor beyond that.

  From his days at the naval academy at Eta Jima, to his first postings in the Inland Sea, to his rise in the ranks, Nagata had always cherished his samurai heritage. The spirit of Bushido was in his heart. He was ready at all times to make the ultimate sacrifice for the emperor, and those back home who entrusted him with their security, their country, their way of life. But was the Japanese way of life irretrievably lost now? Did the way of the warrior demand that one pay the ultimate price for a lost cause? Perhaps his uncle was right, after all. All that mattered now was Japan’s survival, no matter what concessions that involved. Japan could change. She had changed before. In less than seventy years, she had transformed from a feudal culture to that of a modern government. She had gone from simple swords and bows to complex, ocean-ranging battleships and aircraft carriers. Now, she must change again.

  They all must change – or be lost and forgotten.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Pale blue streaks of bioluminescence marked the passage of the American task group through the black sea. The Antietam and her consorts were heading east, away from the Philippine Islands and the enemy airfields that had launched the devastating air attack.

  It had taken the rest of the afternoon to extinguish the flames on the Antietam, but not before flare ups claimed several more lives. Her flight deck was unable to support landing operations, so her fighters had been recovered by the overcrowded Reprisal.

  “I’m taking the task group back to New Guinea,” Admiral Packard bluntly informed Admiral Giles later that evening as both dined on a supper of cold sandwiches. “This group’s done all they can here.”

  Giles eyed him challengingly. “Didn’t I overhear the captain tell you flight operations could resume again as early as tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think you understand the extent of our damage, Teddy. But, of course, you never were a real sailor.” Packard said bitterly. “That Jap bomb damned near made it through to the hangar deck. If it had, with all that ordnance still attached to our bombers, we’d have had a devil of a time trying to save the ship. We’re lucky as a leprechaun that second bomb missed us. We’ve got one elevator out of commission and thirty-eight men lying on the deck down there, waiting to be buried at sea tomorrow. This ship has taken one hell of a beating.”

  “Yes, Dave, you’ve told me all that. But can she still launch planes?”

  Packard shot Giles a baleful glance. “It’s not as simple as that. We’re nowhere near full capacity. We’ll be lucky to keep enough fighters aloft to cover our withdrawal from the area. With the weather changing like it is, a bombing mission is simply out of the question.”

  Giles felt the deck roll gently as the Antietam took the rising seas on her beam. He knew Packard was right. The weather was changing, and with it the risks that inherently went with flight operations. For a moment, he considered sharing with Packard the contents of the encrypted message he had received that morning, the message that had informed him that the Nazi cargo had been moved from the warehouse to a freighter, and that all preparations were being made to get her underway. He even considered telling Packard what the cargo was – for, in Giles’s mind, the destruction of that cargo was worth risking a squadron or two of navy dive bombers and their crews. The plans, prototypes, and weapons of the Third Reich were about to fall into the hands of the Japanese. The same weapons that were costing the Russians millions of casualties in their advance across Eastern Europe would soon help the Japanese defend every last square-foot of their homeland. He thought of telling Packard of the lives at stake, of how many millions of American boys might die should thos
e weapons arrive in Japan and make it into mass production.

  And then there was the other cargo – the one he dared not tell Packard about. The one that was worth more than a handful of lives. Indeed, it was worth the life of every man in the task group to stop the Japanese from getting it.

  As Giles mulled this over silently, the flag lieutenant appeared again bearing another stack of messages for Packard’s review.

  As Packard flipped through the papers, Giles stewed, wracking his brain for the answer. Forget the large-scale raid. Perhaps Packard would be amenable to sending out two or three bombers flown by his best pilots. They could skim the waves all the way to the target. Perhaps a small number would succeed where many had failed. He was about to mention the idea when he noticed a rare smile cross Packard’s face.

  “Some good news for a change, Teddy!” Packard said, placing one finger on the message at the top of the stack. “It says here one of the aviators we lost on your mission yesterday was recovered, safe and sound. One Lieutenant Frank Trott from Bombing 22. It seems our lifeguard sub fished him out of the water. That’s one less letter I’ll have to write.”