by Peter Albano
“Maybe his radios are out.”
Fujita shook his head. “No. The transmissions from the Arab destroyers indicated a submarine definitely sunk with all hands. They claim they have picked up wreckage and two bodies.”
“Oh, no. No! Not all those guys.”
“Many good men have joined their ancestors this day, Mister Ross.”
Brent stared down at the table as the meeting was dismissed. However, the admiral held the flyers. After the last officer left, the little admiral said to the aviators in a rare generous mood, “You did a splendid job. With a carrier sunk, another badly damaged, air groups destroyed, and his fuel supply destroyed, the enemy has been dealt a crippling blow.”
“Admiral,” Matsuhara said. “We met too many fighters over the enemy task force. I believe some of his fighters must have come from the Marianas.”
The old man nodded agreement.
Iwata spoke up. “But we engaged the enemy at least five hundred kilometers from the Marianas — too far for Messerschmitts.”
“True, Commander,” the admiral said. “But with his new Daimler Benz Valkyrie engine, he should be able to increase his tankage and even use drop tanks.” He gestured at the air group commander. “I believe Commander Matsuhara is right.”
“We must clean out that nest of vermin, Admiral,” Matsuhara said. “Yonaga — Japan will never be safe until we take those islands.”
“True, Commander. And do not forget the poison gas plant at Rabta. There is much work to do.”
The phone rang, and the admiral put the receiver to his ear. He smiled and replaced the instrument. He looked at Captain Colin Willard-Smith. “Air-sea rescue has been busy over the scene of your engagement. Thus far twenty-nine airmen have been recovered.” He held Willard-Smith with his eyes. “One of our PBYs picked up a very angry Cockney.”
The Englishman came half out of his chair, mouth agape, eyes wide. “Why, that tough little bugger! I knew they couldn’t kill him.” His voice shook and he sat heavily, his cold British aplomb finally pierced. Brent grabbed one of his arms and Yoshi Matsuhara the other. They shook him and laughed with delight. Willard-Smith stared down at the table not daring to look up. Someone might see the moisture that had pooled in his eyes.
Fujita spoke gently, almost tenderly, “I congratulate you on a job well done. You need rest.” He stood slowly and clapped twice. Everyone rose and faced the paulownia shrine. “Oh Amaterasu,” the old man said. “We thank you for your aid, your guidance, and ask you to lead the spirits of our heroic dead through the gates of the Yasakuni Shrine or into the heaven they seek.” He placed his hand on the Hagakure and quoted it, “It is a cleansing act to give one’s life for the Mikado. For a man who will cut off his life for the sake of righteousness, there is no need to exhort, to implore divine intervention. All the gods of heaven will protect him.”
He looked at his men for a long silent moment. “You are dismissed.”
The men filed through the doorway. Iwata stopped Brent in the passageway just outside the door. Yoshi stood close by. “You did a good job, Mister Ross,” the bomber commander said.
“Thank you, Commander.”
“We’ve had our differences.”
“True,” Brent answered. Brent was fatigued, and his senses had been deadened by the loss of so many close friends, yet he felt his back stiffen. He expected the usual samurai enduring spirit of vengeance and remembrance of past humiliations to surface even in this atmosphere of terrible loss and costly victory. Williams’ death, the loss of the entire crew of Blackfin and the slaughter of over a hundred pilots and air crewmen weighed heavily, as if a great burden had been placed on his shoulders and was crushing him down with its weight. He was ready to lash out violently at anyone or anything. He was taken by surprise. Iwata silently extended his hand.
For a long moment, Brent stood motionless with his arms at his sides like deadwood and stared at the hand. Then, slowly, he raised his and grasped the big palm. Iwata stared unblinking into his eyes, dropped his hand, whirled, and walked down the passageway. Brent felt Yoshi’s hand on his back.
“Come on, American Samurai. I’ve got a bottle of Chivas Regal in my cabin.”
Silently, Brent followed the pilot through the door of the cabin. Yoshi pulled the bottle and two glass tumblers from a cabinet and collapsed in a chair opposite the American. He filled the tumblers. The men touched glasses and Yoshi said, “To our dead.”
The glasses were drained and quickly recharged. It took another drink before Brent felt the slow relaxation of muscles begin. Sipping his third drink, he stared across the table at his friend. “We lost too many good men today, Yoshi-san,” he said.
The Japanese took a big swallow, poured more scotch into both glasses. He spoke softly but with conviction. “Evil triumphs when good men do nothing. When madmen run loose, Brent-san, good men must fight.”
“And give up their lives?”
“You saw, Brent-san.”
“Our losses will be replaced?”
“Why, of course. You know that, Brent-san. They always are.”
“They died horribly — especially those on Blackfin. And Kai finally kept his date with Bon Homme Richard”
“They died with glory — every one of them.”
“With glory? Blackfin?” The American stabbed finer downward. “Like rats! Rats! You call that glorious?”
“Yes.” Yoshi studied his friend intently, searching for some words that could console — might restore the lieutenant’s spirits. A sudden thought widened his eyes and brought the trace of a grin to his face. “You have read Lord Tennyson?”
“A little.”
Yoshi swirled the amber liquid with tiny circular motions. “Tennyson said, ‘The path of duty is the way to glory.’”
Brent looked hard into the black eyes staring back at him across the table. He emptied his glass and slammed it down on the table. “You know something, Yoshi-san?
“What?”
“Alfred Lord Tennyson was full of shit.”
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