Trial of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  He paused, the room filled with the ship sounds of blowers and auxiliary engines. Inevitably he lapsed into the Buddhist chant which was de rigueur for services for the dead. “Oh Blessed One, if our honored one seeks nirvana, aid his search to find the beatitude that transcends suffering, karma, and samsara, and relieve his spirit of all consciousness — the illusions of desire, imagination, memory, and the past, and help him find that cosmic state which is beyond our knowledge, the measure of our words, our rhetoric, our polemics. If this is the existence he seeks, point the way with the Four Noble Truths, shorn of the ignorance and anxiety of science, paradigms, religions.” He paused, his eyes finding Brent Ross. “If you would like to say a few words in the Christian tradition, Mister Ross, I feel the admiral’s soul would respond best to that religion — would be most at home.” The tone was reverent and the expression sincere, despite the absurdity of the entire ceremony.

  “Of course, sir,” Brent said, softly. He could understand Fujita’s thinking. To his Asian mind, the greater the number of religions exhorting the transmigration of Allen’s soul, the greater his chances of spending infinity in some state of nirvana, paradise or whatever reward might await him. Fujita’s Asian mind saw no conflicts, no paradoxes whatsoever.

  But not Williams, York, and Willard-Smith. The trio stared in wide-eyed wonder as Fujita reached under the table and drew a Bible from a small drawer. None could believe the proceedings, but they remained silent, faces as impassive and inscrutable as those of the Asians surrounding them. The Bible was passed down the table to Brent.

  Brent thumbed through the book until he reached Admiral Allen’s favorite verses. He looked up. “Admiral Allen favored John, Chapter Fourteen, verses two through six. I heard him use them over our Christian dead twice. Once in the Mediterranean and again in the southern Pacific, after we sank the three carriers and two cruisers off Indonesia and — and took heavy casualties.”

  Everyone stared at the young lieutenant as he choked back a swelling that suddenly filled his throat. It came back hard; his oldest friend, the man who had helped raise him, the man who had promoted his career with NIS (Naval Intelligence Service) and brought him to Yonaga as a green ensign … now these words were for him as he knew Mark Allen would have wanted. Brent read as everyone dropped his eyes reverentially: “In my father’s house are many mansions...” his voice was unusually deep but as true as a plumb-line. “... I go to prepare a place for you.” Slowly he read through the tender verses, ending with, “Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father but by me.” He closed the Bible and stood silently, eyes cast down in an arena of silence.

  After a long moment, Fujita’s voice broke it: “Gentlemen, please seat yourselves.” Every chair was occupied with officers rigidly seated in descending order of rank from Admiral Fujita at the head to the last officer, Pilot Officer Elwyn York at the far end. Now the curious stares began as heads turned toward Lieutenant Reginald Williams. Brent knew Admiral Fujita had seen Negroes in America. However, most of the Japanese in the room had never seen a Negro before. Some of the narrowed eyes and curled lips gave him a feeling of unease. He knew Williams’ pyrotechnic temper would tolerate no slight, no masked affront. The big black was always on guard, sniffing out the scent of prejudice. Brent sensed trouble brewing. He knew Japanese history and prejudices well.

  An island people who had lived in virtual isolation for thousands of years, the Japanese had very little exposure to cultural differences for most of their history, developing a sense of uniqueness that encouraged feelings from indifference to outright hostility toward foreigners. Over the millennia, in-breeding produced virtually a single, pure race in Japan — the type of racial purity to which Adolph Hitler aspired, but which in fact had been made a macabre joke by the European melting pot. And compared to the mixed races of the West, Japanese did look alike with their black hair, yellow skin, and similar facial features. In this homogenous society, strangers stood out, and Brent had discovered immediately that the Japanese were not immune to xenophobia and stereotyping.

  At first he had heard “round-eyed barbarian,” “fiith-eater,” and many more epithets hurled his way. In 1984 he had nearly killed Lieutenant Nobutake Konoye on the hangar deck after being called a “white-faced, water eyed Yankee pig.” After the fight, the insults were whispered behind his back and out of earshot. Only over the years, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with the Yonaga’s samurai and demonstrating his great physical strength, bravery, and uncanny eye, had he broken free from the harsh racial feelings and earned the sobriquet “American samurai.” Despite his acceptance, his exalted station with his Japanese comrades-in-arms, he knew intolerance was still virulently alive all over Japan.

  Looking at Reginald Williams’ black skin, he cast back in his mind to an experience he had in a restaurant he had visited only once in Tokyo’s Ebisu district. The restaurant called itself Chibi Kuro Sambo — Japanese for “Little Black Sambo.” He had been looking for American cuisine, but was not prepared for what he found. On entering, he was shocked by a decor loaded with dozens of comical black dolls, waitresses with their hair set in the style of African dreadlocks and wearing red gingham smocks. The menu boasted “little black fried chicken” and “little black potatoes.” One look at the place had filled him with revulsion, and he’d left. Brent visualized Reginald Williams entering Chibi Kiuro Sambo. Mayhem! The big man would run amuck, and there would be many smashed dolls.

  He had witnessed one violent racial incident on a suburban train. A dark-skinned Pakistani had been deliberately pushed by a group of rowdies into a corner with shouts of “Songokul” (Monkey!”) Only Brent’s and Yoshi Matsuhara’s intervention prevented possible serious injury to the man. “Just like America forty years ago,” he had said to Yoshi as they’d left the train.

  Racial bigotry could be found even in the highest political offices. No one could forget former Prime Minister Yasuhiro Nakasone’s remark, “America has a low intelligence level because of its black and Hispanic minorities.”

  Even members of Japan’s ethnic Korean minority often felt the barbs of prejudice. Descendants of forced laborers brought to Japan during the colonial period, they still faced discrimination in employment and marriage. But the dark-skinned — some were actually black — Pakistanis suffered the most. Immigrating by the tens of thousands, they flocked to the unskilled jobs that were so plentiful before the orbiting of the Chinese laser system. Immediately there were rumors that the newcomers were dirty, did not remove their underwear when entering baths, had skin diseases, and stole prolifically. They become societal pariahs almost overnight.

  A gesture from Admiral Fujita cut through Brent’s thoughts. He was about to address Reginald Williams. There was no tension, no prejudice apparent on the admiral’s face, which was usually unreadable anyway. But he spoke matter-of-factly, exactly the way he spoke to any of his officers. “You are Lieutenant Reginald Williams, the captain of Blackfin.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

  “Correct, sir.”

  “You sank Gefara and the Arab destroyer Tubaru”

  “I didn’t know the name of the DD, sir.” He turned to Brent. “In all honesty, sir, Lieutenant Brent Ross was our attack officer during both attacks. Also, his superb seamanship brought us through a storm when we were heavily damaged and could not submerge.”

  “You are wounded, Lieutenant.”

  “A scratch, sir.”

  Brent found new respect crowding out the dislike he felt for the man. Williams had taken none of the glory for himself. He had been candid to the point of self-deprecation. Brent spoke up. “Lieutenant Williams is not entirely honest, Admiral.” There were murmurs and the turning of heads. “He suffered a severe wound to the head and a concussion when we were hit by a five-inch shell. He resumed command when he regained consciousness despite terrible pain and the fact he has sixty-seven stitches holding his head together.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Capt
ain Colin Willard-Smith said in a loud voice.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Fujita said, raising his hands, his voice filled with rare good humor. “Well done. Well done. Your actions saved Yonaga from a major engagement with two carriers. We would have been outnumbered. You saved many lives and, perhaps Japan. Well done.”

  The room resounded with shouts of “Banzai!” Brent breathed easier. Every man in the room seemed to respect the big black. But then, at that moment, a challenge of Williams would be a challenge of the admiral. No one was that foolish.

  “It was expensive, sir,” Williams said. “We had thirteen dead and two badly wounded, and the boat is severely damaged.”

  Fujita nodded. “And you, Lieutenant, you need medical attention. I’ll send for an orderly.”

  Williams shook his head. “I would like to remain for the meeting.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. At the end of the meeting I will send for medical personnel. We have the finest facility in Japan — perhaps the world.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.”

  “When can Blackfin be returned to service? We need her, you know. All of the Self-Defense Force’s submarines were destroyed in the Arab air raid a year ago or,” his face soured as if he had bitten into something distasteful, “or their traitorous, mutinous crews scuttled them like frightened women.”

  Williams rubbed his bandage gingerly. “It’s hard to say, Admiral. I know we have damage to our pressure hull, and one of our main ballast tanks is leaking. Most of our electronics gear was damaged.” The rubbing continued. “1 can give you a better estimate after we go into dry dock, but at this moment, given efficient yard workmen, at least four weeks — maybe more.”

  “We have the best technicians in the world. She will be ready for sea in three weeks.”

  “I hope so, sir.”

  “We shall see.” Fujita introduced his staff, giving a brief history of each. Most were quite old. To Brent, most of the faces were familiar, but two were strangers to him. On the Admiral’s right sat his ancient scribe, Commander Hakuseki Katsube. The old man appeared as withered and vital as a mummy, and his back hooked forward in a permanent arthritic bend. He could turn his head only slightly to either side, looking down the table with the corner of one eye like a Cyclops staring through a shiny black marble. He had the disconcerting habit of giggling to himself and sometimes drooling into his work. Because both he and the admiral rejected modern recorders, the old scribe hunched over a pad and gripped a brush in a gnarled hand. He had already filled two sheets with ideograms.

  The admiral introduced his executive officer, Captain Mitake Arai, who had been promoted from commander during Brent’s absence. A distinguished destroyer skipper of World War II, he had sunk cruiser Northhampton off Guadalcanal with a brace of Type 93 Long Lance torpedoes. Still tall and ramrod straight, despite his age, which Brent guessed at near seventy, he was a sober, highly respected officer.

  The next officer was a stranger. He was Takuya Iwata, the new commander of the dive-bombing squadrons. A full commander whose youth contrasted sharply with Fu-jita’s, Arai’s, and Katsube’s great age, he replaced Commander Kazuoshi Muira, who had been killed by Rosencrance and Vatz while on a reconnaissance mission off the Marianas Islands. Muira and his gunner had been shot to pieces while floating helplessly on their raft.

  Iwata stood while the admiral described his background. He was huge for a Japanese, over six feet tall and easily 200 pounds. His skin was clear and unlined, and his eyes intense and very black. He stared first at Brent and then at Williams. Brent detected a baleful glimmer, especially when he stared at Williams. He had an interesting background. He had spent fourteen years in the Self-Defense Force flying fighters. When the Chinese laser system was orbited, he switched to anything that would fly, including old North American AT-6s, DC-3s, Cessnas, and even an old Zero that had been exhumed from a museum at Osaka. He resigned his commission in 1984 and applied for duty with Admiral Fujita. He had had a long wait.

  In his youth, he had been a fanatical disciple of the late Yukio Mishima, a poet and novelist whom the admiral admired and whom Brent held in contempt. An ultra right-wing nationalist who lamented the loss of glory that vanished with Japan’s defeat in World War II, Mishima had been appalled by the irreverence the younger generations showed toward the Mikado. He exhorted a return to the strength and glories of the past. Born too late to fight in the war, he waged his warfare in his writings, where he fought on behalf of romantic passion, the sea, the Emperor, the old values. Finally frustrated beyond reason, Mishima had committed a spectacular seppuku in the offices of the Self-Defense Force. Hundreds of his followers and spectators had looked on in awe as the great man slit his stomach in traditional style.

  Brent had found again and again in Mishima’s writings the desire to reclaim a regal, glorious aura lost amid the smug, complacent materialism of postwar Japan. Even the exquisite style could not hide the fact Mishima was a political writer on a mission to reconsecrate a homeland on which might once again shine a sun “speckled with golden dust.” But this dust was blood to Brent, and he always felt the corpse that had been put to rest in 1945 should be allowed to lie undisturbed. But not commander Takuya Iwata. Brent could see the ominous glint, a latent malevolence in his eyes. Like his idol Mishima, Iwata had been born twenty years too late. In Nazi Germany he would have worn a brown shirt.

  “Your report?” Fujita said to Iwata.

  Glancing at a small notebook, Iwata spoke in a deep, powerful voice strident enough to fill the hangar deck. “When enemy fighters ambushed Commander Muira, you all know we lost five more Aichi D-Three-As.” He shifted his stare to Commander Yoshi Matsuhara. “They have not been replaced. Five more are badly damaged, and we are suffering from a lack of spare parts. Consequently, I can put only forty dive bombers in the air.” Air Group Commander Yoshi Matsuhara said, “I have constant liaison with Aichi and Nakajima. New airframes and engines are on the way. It takes time to tool up. The old machine tools had to be rebuilt...”

  “I can’t attack the enemy with promises, Commander Matsuhara,” Iwata said, a slight mocking smile turning his lips.

  Yoshi came out of his chair, back knotted steel, eyes flaring. Everyone stared, including Admiral Fujita, who, true to his nature, refrained from interfering. The old man’s reluctance to intercede in clashes of his subordinates confused Brent. Sometimes Brent felt Fujita allowed the disputes to flower and burn because of the long entrapment in Sano Wan. There, they were imprisoned together, and it was inevitable that many disputes broke out. Perhaps, then, it was better to allow the belligerence to run its course and die of its own weight in the exposure, like airing out a festering wound. But the crew of Yonaga was samurai: proud, intransigent, vindictive, followers of the vengeful tradition of the Forty-Seven Ronin. More times than not, they did not allow arguments to fade in the fresh air of exposure. Indeed, Yoshi had told Brent that at least twenty men had been killed in duels with swords and wakizashis (nine-inch knives) in the Shrine of Infinite Salvation, a combination shrine, temple, and mausoleum in a corner of the hangar deck. Brent’s own father, Ted “Trigger” Ross, had killed two men there in hand-to-hand combat while Fujita and a hundred officers looked on.

  Brent studied Fujita’s face as the old man stared at Matsuhara and Iwata. The flat visage, usually as placid as a stone temple Buddha, showed a glimmer of pleasure. Brent was convinced the old man derived an arcane sense of gratification from the inevitable clashes that occurred between his subordinates. Perhaps the maddening sexual frustration they had suffered for forty-two years exploded in these murderous encounters, providing a strange, twisted release. In any event, Fujita made no attempt to halt the exchange.

  Yoshi leaned forward on his fists, which were balled and braced on the table top. He was surprisingly controlled. “I ask no one to take any risks that I would not take myself.” Iwata stared at Yoshi with eyes as cold and glazed as burnished stone. �
��My fighter strength has been reduced by seven, and my squadrons must await new aircraft and spare parts, too. I cannot fly promises either.”

  Commander Takuya Iwata leaned forward. The two officers were of equal rank, but Yoshi Matsuhara was vastly superior in seniority. Iwata’s attitude was actually that of superiority. He mocked Yoshi with a voice that singed: “Perhaps the great ace from China can no longer cope with his responsibilities. Perhaps his age...”

  “I will not listen to this. Watch your mouth, Commander,” Yoshi interrupted with a voice that slashed.

  The dive bomber commander seemed not to hear. “I requested the replacements the day I reported aboard, over six weeks ago. I have received nothing.” He stabbed a finger at Matsuhara, “I repeat, if you cannot execute...”

  Yoshi slammed a big, flat palm down on the table with a sharp report. “Enough!” he shouted, coming to his feet. “If you wish to settle this privately — in the Shrine of Infinite Salvation...”

  Fujita interrupted, surprising Brent and every Japanese officer in the room. “Gentlemen,” he said. “I cannot argue with your resolution of his problem. However, we are short not only of aircraft, but of pilots, too. I forbid any solution to be found in the Shrine of Infinite Salvation until I feel we have the strength in personnel to accept the loss of one or perhaps both of you.” He patted a leatherbound copy of the Hagakure (Under the Leaves, the handbook of bushido, and the Bible of the samurai). It was always on the table, and he quoted it: “To die without reaching one’s aim is to die a dog’s death.” He stabbed a bent finger like a crooked dagger first at Iwata and then at Matsuhara. “Your aim is to defeat Japan’s enemies.”

  Yoshi stared at the volume and said, “Respectfully, sir, the Hagakure also teaches, ‘Meditation on inevitable death should be performed daily. The samurai should welcome being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and swords, being carried away by surging waves, being thrown into the midst of a great fire...’”