Shaking his head slowly, he muttered, “Jeremiah T. Landa, for what you are about to do, you are one stupid son of a bitch.”
Then he opened the door and stepped in the hall. It was crowded; he couldn’t see into the parlor. Her music followed him as he headed into the foyer, where he picked up his hat and walked out.
CHAPTER THIRTY
3 April, 1943
IJN Musashi
Truk Atoll, Caroline Islands
For the time being, the Imperial Japanese Navy didn’t have a South Pacific force large enough to dislodge the Americans from Guadalcanal. A temporary, yet devastating maneuver was needed until ships could be repaired, a new Naval force assembled. Accordingly, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, Commander in Chief of the Combined Fleet, had been planning something new for the past month. Yamamoto had found another way to punish the U.S. Navy. As he did at Pearl Harbor, he would send massive airstrikes to Guadalcanal and the surrounding bases; not just one air-raid, but several, extending over a period of ten days or so. It had taken many days to scavenge aircraft off carriers and from land bases as far as 1,500 kilometers away. But now, they were assembled at Rabaul. Now they were ready. They dubbed it Operation I.
Today, the Gensui and his staff were fly to 600 miles south to Rabaul where, beginning tomorrow, the Admiral would personally direct the attacks. Also, he planned to boost morale by participating in pilot briefings and touring local Army bases and hospitals.
Captain Yasuji Watanabe was a methodical man, one given to far more detail than even his spit-shined shoes and gleaming brass buttons on his crisp white uniform would indicate. As chief of staff, he was responsible to the Gensui to make sure his departure went off without a hitch. Operation I or this morning’s itinerary; both had equal weight as far as Watanabe was concerned. He had just spoken to the Air Officer and was assured the eight plane fighter escort was taking off. There was one last detail he wanted to check before he went up to the Gensui and told him all was ready. Thus he quickly stepped down the ladder to the giant ship’s second deck and walked to a hatch on the port side. A heavy-set second class petty officer stood at the door and offered to help him open it. Watanabe waved him off, then pushed. The door gave a little, but then slammed back in his face.
“What is this?”
“The Wind’s up, Sir. Here, let me.” The petty officer bent and put his shoulder to it. With some effort it opened, with the wind roaring and curling around the hatch, tugging at Watanabe’s uniform.
He checked his watch: 0825. “It’s blowing so soon?” Unusual, thought Watanabe, as he clamped his hand to his head. “I’ll be right back.”
“Yes, Sir! Just knock.”
Watanabe stepped outside onto the Musashi’s second deck, a promenade where official ceremonies were often held. Walking to the deck’s edge he looked out. Yes, there they were. Fifty meters off the ship’s port side sat the Gensui’s dark green Kawanishi H8K2 Type-Two Flying Boat. Her four Mitsubishi-Kaesi fourteen cylinder engines were ticking over, with the pilot revving them occasionally to keep the amphibian in place. Fifty meters beyond that was another Kawanishi, her engines likewise throttling up and down to maintain her position.
Side buoys were lined up on the quarterdeck; the Musashi’s Captain and many of her officers were gathered in ranks. Waiting inboard were the Gensui’s staff, including the fleet medical officer, fleet paymaster, fleet codes officer and the fleet meteorological officer, who were to travel with him today. Two admiral’s barges stood off about ten meters, bouncing in chop, their engines rumbling, as they waited to transfer the entourage to the Kawanishis.
Wind shrieked in the rigging and Watanabe held his cap tight. He’d been up at first light watching a deep red sun ignite a herringbone sky to a fiery red. Now, dark clouds roiled to the northwest, where a bolt or two of lightning jabbed at the sea. Wind whipped the lagoon, as whitecaps slapped the Musashi’s hull, sending spray over the maindeck. The two launches and the patiently-waiting Kawanishis were taking their share of wind-chop and spray, as well. Satisfied, Watanabe bent to the wind and walked back to the bulkhead and banged on the hatch.
It opened more swiftly this time. There were two sailors, the petty officer and a gorilla-like leading seaman who helped push as Watanabe stepped over the coaming. Once inside the comfort of the massive battleship, he said, “Thank you. Now, I want you to send up two men to carry the Gensui’s personal gear. “All right?”
“Hai!” They bowed.
Watanabe moved quickly to the central passage-way, then up three companionways to the Gensui’s deck. He strode past two sentries forward to an oak paneled door and knocked.
“Come.”
Watanabe stepped in, finding the Gensui, resplendent in dress whites, pen in hand, sitting at his desk. Heijiro, the Gensui’s orderly bowed quickly and backed out of the compartment to disappear into a vestibule where a door clicked softly. Yamamoto scratched a signature then carefully blotted it. That done, he stuffed the letter in an envelope, sealed it, and handed it over. “It’s for Chiyoko. Could you...”
Watanabe took the envelope. “Of course Gensui. It will be on its way to Tokyo with this afternoon’s guard mail. She’ll have it no later than tomorrow evening.”
Yamamoto looked as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you, Watanabe.”
“You’re welcome, Sir.” Automatically, Watanabe checked his watch: 0828. Today’s schedule called for an eight-thirty departure, and he began to feel a tightness in his stomach. A tiny band of perspiration broke out on his upper lip. Watanabe wanted to dab at it with his handkerchief, but quickly decided against it. Besides, it looked like they would get off on time. But one never knew. The Gensui was punctual to a fault, and if something went wrong, Watanabe would hear of it.
Yamamoto cleared his throat. “Well, how does it look out there?” This was a polite way of saying he was ready to go.
Watanabe stood erect. “Trade winds are up early, Sir. I must tell you I don’t think it’s good for you to fly in this. It’s blowing at least thirty knots out there.”
The Admiral walked over to a porthole and opened it. Wind blasted in ruffling papers. “No, I don’t mean that. Is everything ready for me to go?”
“Yes, Sir.” He waited for a moment then said, “Is your gear ready?”
Yamamoto grunted and nodded to four bags standing in a corner. “That squarish one is a case of Johnnie Walker Black Label for Kusaka and his boys. So tell the lads to go easy. “Admiral Ryunosuke Kusaka was in charge of air operations at Rabaul.
Watanabe picked up a phone and dialed a number. “...yes, send in your men. The Gensui’s ready.” Then he hung up. “I didn’t tell you, there’s a storm building off to the northwest. Are you sure---?”
Yamamoto gave a quick chuckle. “I keep forgetting, Watanabe. You’re not a pilot.” Like some of the American carrier admirals, Yamamoto earned his wings in 1923, when he was a full Captain: an old man among eager young aviation cadets. Besides poker and other games of chance, one of his passions was lively talk of flying.
“Sir?”
“Pilots love this kind of weather.” Yamamoto slammed the porthole closed and twisted the dog tight. “First of all, thirty knots of wind helps you get airborne far more quickly.”
“Oh.”
“Second of all, with the water choppy like that, there’s far less suction to hold the airplane.” He held a hand out and raised it quickly. “Whoosh, off it goes. It’s really quite an experience.”
“Yes, Sir.” Watanabe nodded. He’d been in flying boats many times and abhorred rough water take-offs. But he realized Yamamoto liked needling him about it.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come,” barked Watanabe. Two petty officers walked in, bowed and headed for the luggage. He pointed to the square bag. “Be very careful with that one.”
After they were gone, Watanabe said, “The Group PL-15 revisions to Operation I and last-minute dispatches are in your briefcase.”
Watanabe let him pass. “Yes, Sir. Eleven in Batavia, in good mechanical order.”
“Excellent. Order them to Rabaul. How many does that make altogether?” Yamamoto, the ex-gymnast, was light on his feet and skipped down the steps quickly. Watanabe, as always, was hard pressed to keep up. He panted as he said, “You should have 486 fighters, 114 carrier-based bombers, and now, 80 land-based attack bombers.” They hit the main deck, where compartment hatchways opened as if by magic, with officers and men bowing, as the Gensui made his way to the battleship’s port side. Finally, a double hatchway opened and bright daylight flooded the passageway. A lone bugle blew, as the Gensui stepped onto the main deck.
The Musashi’s captain and over fifty officers and men snapped to rigid attention on the quarterdeck, the wind whipping at their clothes. Watanabe hung back as the Gensui walked down the line, shaking hands with senior officers. Finally, the entourage began its departure with people bottlenecked at the accommodation ladder, waiting to descend. Among them, Watanabe noticed Captain Kanji Takano, wearing whites like Yamamoto, while the others were in either greens or blues. Where is his damned sword, wondered Watanabe?
Takano spotted them, walked over, drew to attention, and saluted Yamamoto.
“Looking forward to our trip Takano?” said Yamamoto, returning the salute.
“Yes, Sir.”
“We’ll all learn a lot in the next few days. So will the Americans.” Yamamoto gave a short laugh. “Say, Watanabe tells me you have a fuse off the American ship?” He looked to Watanabe who nodded in confirmation.
Inwardly, Watanabe seethed at how Takano brought had it off so easily. Signing Yamamoto’s name to everything, Takano had dispatched the destroyer Matukaze to the American destroyer. Issuing stringent orders, he’d made Commander Ryozo Enomoto, the ship’s commanding officer, personally responsible. Just today, Enomoto had radioed Fleet headquarters at Truk that he’d personally boarded the Howell, crawled into her forward magazine and brought up not one, but five samples of the secret American fuse. Now, Takano was flying to Rabaul in glory with the Gensui to meet the Matukaze and personally claim his prize.
“That’s true, Sir,” replied Takano.
“Excellent, Takano. Just Excellent.”
Someone beckoned. Takano excused himself and walked back to the companionway to join his party and disembark
Yamamoto rolled his eyes at Watanabe, then started to speak, but his voice was drowned out by eight Mitsubishi A6M5 carrier fighters roaring overhead in tight formation. Carrying long-range belly tanks, they split into two four-plane groups and began to circle on each side of the ship.
Watanabe looked up, fighting a lump in his throat. Those lucky bastards, he thought. Those very lucky bastards. Were he to do it again, Watanabe would have become a fighter pilot. If only his eyesight was...
“We yearn to be young again,” said Yamamoto.
“You have me there, Sir.”
“No, I don’t. You’re two games up on me in mahjongg. When can you get down to Rabaul, so I have a chance to beat you?”
“There’s a lot of work here, yet. Perhaps two more days.”
Yamamoto lowered his voice. “Don’t worry about Takano. We’ll let him have his glory and I’ll keep giving him useless tasks to keep him busy. Has he been in your way?”
“Not at all, Sir.” Watanabe raised a hand to his mouth to cover a smile. “Does that mean this American fuse project is a hoax? There is no secret fuse?”
“I don’t know. Who cares? As long as it keeps the little bastard busy and away from us.” Yamamoto’s eyes glinted.
“Of course, Sir.” Watanabe smiled inwardly. The little bastard Takano was almost a head taller than Yamamoto.
The first boatload embarked and shoved off. It was time. The Gensui headed for the accommodation ladder, dragging Watanabe with him. “Very well, Watanabe. See you in two days.”
Yamamoto saluted the officer of the deck, then the colors, and was gonged off the Musashi. Nimbly, he stepped in his barge and was soon aboard the Kawanishi with his staff. The boat pulled away and bounced clear of the amphibian. Almost immediately, the pilot gunned the engines. Propwash blasted mist past the tail, as the plane surged ahead, momentarily hobby-horsing. Then it skipped over a wave, ricocheted off another with an enormous splash, and was airborne by the time it was abreast of the Musashi’s bow. Her right wing dipped, and she curved around and joined up with four of the fighters, the group circling the ship. With a roar, the other Kawanishi firewalled her engines and was soon off the water, the other four fighters protectively surrounding her.
The two groups joined side-by side, and passed directly over the Musashi at a hundred meters. The rumble of their engines was deafening. Spontaneously, the officers and men whipped off their caps and cheered, Watanabe waving as jubilantly as the rest, while the planes took up a southerly course for Rabaul.
Watanabe watched the planes recede in the distance, a cold tingling in his chest. The drone of their engines had long ago dwindled; finally they were lost to sight. When he looked around, he found he was alone. Everyone else had gone inside. Once again, he bent to the wind and headed for the hatch.
Then it hit him. How stupid. Tomorrow was April fourth, the Gensui’s sixtieth birthday. Watanabe had forgotten to wish him happy birthday. And for that matter, so had the others.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
4 April, 1943
U.S.S. Whitney (AD 4)
Tulagi Harbor, Solomon Islands
It was time to go. Landa wolfed a few more bites of his breakfast, then stood and said to Myszynski, “Excuse me please, Captain?” He was a bit surprised when Myszynski shoved his chair back from the wardroom table and said, “Hold on. I’m going with you.”
In the passageway, Myszynski waited patiently while Landa buckled on a cartridge belt, holstered .45, bayonet and extra clips. Clouds roiled overhead as they walked to the Whitney’s quarterdeck. Both wore pith helmets, and their khaki pants and short sleeved shirts were sweat-soaked by the time they ducked under the quarterdeck’s canvas awning.
Myszynski planted his hands on his hips, jabbed an unlit cigar in his mouth, and looked Landa up and down.
“What?” said Landa.
Myszynski said, “If you don’t look like Hoot Gibson or some such crap. I should have a picture of this. Scare the Japs to death.”
“Better perfect my quick-draw, first.”
“Blow off your damned toe.”
“Million dollar wound.”
“By the way, what should I do with that flag?” The flag Seltzer had rescued from the Howell was still in Myszynski’s office. Landa had simply forgotten it.
“Save it for the ship when we re-commission her.”
“Okay.”
A lightning bolt zapped overhead, and thunder rumbled a second later. Landa stepped to the rail and held out a hand, as large droplets began spattering. “Damnit. Three days no-stop. When’s it going to end?”
Myszynski said, “Might be just as well.”
Landa’s eyebrows went up.
“Word is, the Japs are up to something. Air attacks, we think. Intelligence is putting some stuff together, and it sounds like they’re massing airplanes from Rabaul, as far down as Munda.” Like Landa, he stuck out a hand, drew it back and wiped it on his trousers. “So maybe this weather has them grounded, which is why I’m sending you up today, instead of tonight.”
“You sure they’re coming?”
“Time will tell.”
Just then PT-94 rumbled up to the accommodation ladder and hovered close at an idle. Landa stood erect and saluted the Officer Of The Deck, a stout red-headed ensign. “Permission to leave the ship, Sir?”
The OOD returned the salute. “Granted.”
Myszynski shook Landa’s hand and then said, “I have other news for you.”
“Sir?”
“Looks like your boy shaped up.”
“Todd?”
“He’s carrying out his orders. Just got a copy of his travel chit. He’s on a PB2Y bound for Pearl. We should see him here in the next few days.”
Landa nodded and looked at the deck.
“It worked,” said Myszynski.
“I hit him pretty hard. I’ll betcha Frank Ashton is pissed. Sorry about that.”
Myszynski pointed a finger. “You stay away from him.”
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you, damnit!”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Let this old Pollock handle Frank Ashton. I’ll level with you. Anybody who messes with my skippers better watch out.”
Landa had a hard time not laughing at Myszynski’s blasphemous statement of one of the Navy’s fastest rising scions. Instead, he braced and saluted, “Permission to leave the ship, Sir?”
Myszynski returned the salute. “Granted. Carry out your orders. And remember what I said. Take all the pictures you want, but make no attempt to board the Howell. Don’t get within five hundred yards of her. We’re pretty sure there is a Jap garrison aboard her. If the weather shuts you down, too bad. Turn around and come right home.”
“Commander Landa?” a yeoman stepped up, out of breath. Slung over his shoulder was a large leather bag, stuffed with envelopes.
“That’s me,” said Landa.
“Must have forgotten to check your mail, Sir. These have been in my office since yesterday.” The yeoman reached in his pouch and handed over two envelopes.
“Thanks.” Landa folded and stuffed them in his camera case. Then he turned to Myszynski. “See you later, Commodore.”
“Remember. Pictures only.”
Landa hoisted his camera case over his shoulder, took two steps down the accommodation ladder, then stopped. “The thought of those bastards running around on my ship---“
“---Jerry, don’t. That’s an order.” Myszynski checked his watch. “Now let’s see, four hours up, four hours back, you should be home in time for some late chow.”
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 26