How the hell did they do that?
They’d even shot it out with a Jap destroyer and lived to tell about it. But then came the last part.
REGRET TO REPORT AUGUSTINE RIVERA, MAJOR USMC, KIA.
“Sonofabitch!” Myszynski jumped off the stool. How the hell did Rivera get aboard PT-88? He’d specifically told Rivera to stay away.
First things first. He leaned over to Baily and said, “Radio PT-72 to head straight for CACTUS to MEDVAC their wounded out. I’ll confirm the orders to Henderson Field in a few minutes.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Baily.
Myszynski drummed his fingers. Now, it’s time to find out what the hell’s going on with this Rivera crap. He sat down to compose a message to Admiral Halsey.
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
18 April, 1943
IJN C in C Headquarters,
Rabaul, New Britain Island
Bismarck Archipelago
Standing before the full-length mirror, Yamamoto waited, as his orderly knelt at his side, adjusting his sword belt. He lifted a cuff on his wrist and looked at his watch: 0529. Today, he would mingle with fighting men: ground troops, artillery personnel, tankers and worse, the wounded. Thus he chose not to wear dress whites, as he’d done while cheering on his pilots. Instead, he was outfitted in greens, a uniform compatible with his ground forces. Another quick look: 0530: Yes.
He nodded to Heijiro who handed him his cap, bowed and stepped back. Yamamoto carefully fixed the cap on his head and, after a final look in the mirror, headed for the door. Yamamoto’s footsteps echoed as he walked out of his suite, down the stairs to the foyer and out the mansion’s front door into a new dawn. Breathing deeply, he stood for a moment, taking in the golden-red splendor of the sunrise, giving life to the jungle abounding on New Britain. With his eyes closed, he let the early morning soak in; and listening intently, heard his own heartbeat mingling with the cacophony of life about him. An image of Chiyoko materialized before him; she was so close, he could almost reach out and touch her. And then she...
There is work to do. Opening his eyes and raising his chin, he walked briskly down the steps, finding his midnight-blue Packard limousine waiting, its rear door held open by his aide, Commander Noboru Fukusaki. Proudly, it stood before a caravan of five staff cars and three trucks. Four motorcycles were in front of the Packard, their engines ticking over, ready to lead the way. To Yamamoto’s consternation, the entourage had grown to the point where they needed not one, but two land attack bombers for transportation to Bougainville. Traveling in his plane would be Rear Admiral Rokuro Takata, the Combined Fleet’s Chief Surgeon, Fukusaki, and another staff officer. His Chief of Staff, Vice Admiral Matome Ugaki, would be in the second plane, along with the Combined Fleet’s Meteorology officer, two staff officers, and of all people to travel to a combat zone, Captain Motoharu Kitamura, the Chief Paymaster.
Yamamoto stepped in the limousine, finding Ugaki perched in the back seat.
“Good Morning,” said Yamamoto settling beside Ugaki.
His Chief of Staff grunted a reply, but Rear Admiral Takata nodded with a wan smile and said, “Good Morning, Sir.” Raising a fist to his mouth, he stifled a low belch.
Yamamoto, Watanabe, and Takata had drunk saki until ten last night. Then they switched to scotch, going to one in the morning. Now, Yamamoto could tell, the doctor was feeling the effects. Ugaki would have been with them too, but he was still under the weather with dengue fever and hadn’t joined them last night.
Folding his body, Fukusaki got in and pulling the door behind him, reached over his shoulder and rapped the divider window separating the driver’s compartment from the back. The driver waved a hand out his window, then put the Packard in gear and started out behind the motorcycles, their sirens screaming.
“Are the hospitals visits lined up?” asked Yamamoto, grabbing an overhead strap as they swayed around a curve.
“Yes, Sir. We start at Shortland,” said Fleet Surgeon Takata.
“We’re going to Balle, first,” Ugaki corrected.
“Well, yes Sir,” said Takata. “But that’s too small and there’s no hospital. Our first hospital will be at our second stop, which is Shortland Island.”
“Any Guadalcanal veterans there?” asked Yamamoto.
“Yes, Sir. Quite a few,” said Takata. “Most of the Guadalcanal casualties have healed and returned to duty. The ones you will see today are the more difficult ones, burn victims, amputees and so forth.”
They rode in silence as Yamamoto mulled over what he wanted to accomplish today: mainly, buck his boys up, wherever they were; in a foxhole; behind a machine gun; or sprawled in a hospital bed. Give them confidence and convince them to take the fight to the Americans. If we don’t, he planned to say, they will surely bring it to us.
Presently, they descended onto level ground and skirted Rabaul, driving right to Lakunai Airfield, headquarters for the Eighth Air Fleet. The main gate barrier was raised and they drove through, four sentries at attention. The caravan snaked along a road paralleling the main runway and soon drove up to the operations hut, pulling to a stop in a swirl of dust and pebbles.
Parked before the operations hut were two Mitsubishi G4M2, twin-engine land attack bombers. Painted dark-green on the top and duck-egg-white on the bottom, the only difference between the two planes were their tail numbers: closest to the operations hut was aircraft number 323, the other, 326. Standing at attention before each G4M2 were seven men wearing flying suits: Pilot, co-pilot, radio operator/top turret gunner, observer/side gunner, mechanic/side gunner, and tail gunner.
Yamamoto stepped from his Packard and said to his companions, “We have a moment. Some tea, perhaps?”
“No thank you, Gensui. Excuse me, please; I think I’ll board, now.” Ugaki bowed and walked toward G4M2 number 326.
At a glance form Yamamoto, Takata stifled another belch. “Sir, I think I’ll wait until we’re airborne.”
Tiny lines crinkled around Yamamoto’s eyes. “You can’t be ill, Takata. That was the best scotch last night. How could you---“
---His gaze shifted to one side, where he recognized Flight Warrant Officer Takeo Kotani, his pilot. Looking back to Takata, he said, “Some bi-carb, maybe?”
“I’ve already had two portions, Gensui.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Takata.” He clapped the man on the shoulder then walked over and shook hands with a bowing Kotani. “Good to see you, Kotani. How’s the leg?” Kotani had suffered a terrible wound to his left leg while on a night mission over Guadalcanal five months ago. Yamamoto felt guilty about keeping him on as his pilot. Kotani was one of the best. Nearly healed, he belonged back in combat.
“The leg is doing very well, thank you, Admiral. And for today,” Kotani waved a hand across the sky, “we have beautiful weather forecast all the way down to Balle. It will be a nice, smooth trip.”
Yamamoto stepped close and said in a conspiratorial voice, “Would you mind if I did the take-off?”
“Of course, Sir. And you shall do it from the left seat.”
“Well that’s nice of you Kotani. But the left seat, that’s---“
“---Excuse me Gensui.” It was Watanabe. After waiting a respectable moment, he said, “Captain Takano is here, just arrived from Vila.”
“He’s back already?”
“As much as I hate to say this, Sir, I believe you should speak with him.”
“You’re joking.”
“Just for a moment, Sir. See what he has.”
“Very well.”
“He’s back here, Sir,” said Watnabe, leading the way.
Checking his watch, Yamamoto looked at Kotani and twirled his index finger over his head. Start Engines.
With a sharp command to his crew, Kotani dashed for his G4M2. Other members of the Admiral’s entourage took the cue and walked for their respective aircraft.
Watanabe lead Yamamoto around the side of the operations hut, where Takano sat on a bench in deep shade. His e
yes were closed; a mug of tea was clutched in his hands, and he seemed on the brink of toppling over into the dust.
Watanabe barked.
Takano’s eyes snapped open and he jumped up. Recognizing Yamamoto, he braced to attention and saluted.
Yamamoto stepped before him and, returning the salute, looked him up and down. “Takano, you look as if you’ve been dragged through a Kanpon boiler fired up to 650 degrees superheat.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“So what do you have?”
“The new American fuse, Gensui. It’s amazing.”
“What’s amazing?”
“I’ve been up all night, taking this fuse apart. It’s...it’s...astonishing.”
The four-bladed Mitsubishi-Hamilton propeller on Kotani’s left engine rolled. After three revolutions, the engine caught, the nacelle shaking and spewing dark-blue smoke, the prop wash stirring dust and papers.
“How did you get here so quickly?”
“The Matukaze took me to Vila Air Base then I commandeered a plane and flew here. I took apart the fuse on the way up. You should see---“
“---You disassembled a fuse while airborne?” demanded Yamamoto.
“All of my career, Sir, ordnance has been my trade. It wasn’t difficult, and the fuse is harmless now. And I was curious, I had to know.” Takano nodded to a valise on the ground. “It’s all here. So neat, so...elegant.”
Mitsubishi G4M2 number 326 started up, with the last of Ugaki’s group scrambling aboard. Yamamoto spun to look at the two planes, their engines ticking over, waiting patiently. Turning back to Takano he looked at his watch and said, “We’re out of time.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.” Takano bowed deeply.
Grabbing Takano’s elbow, Yamamoto waved to his G4M2 and said. “All right. You have my curiosity up. You will ride with me and explain this fuse. We have the Fleet Surgeon to fix you up and you’ll have food fit for the Emperor himself.”
Takano looked down at his tattered uniform. “But Sir. I don’t have---“
“Nonsense, let’s go. I want to see how the damn thing works.” Yamamoto picked up the valise and handed it to Takano. Then he looked back and said. “You sure you can’t come, Watanabe?”
“Thank you Sir. But I’m swamped.” Watanabe gave a helpless shrug.
“Very well. I’ll see you this evening. Perhaps we can have dinner again?”
To others, it might have been a command. To Watanabe, it was pure pleasure to be in the Gensui’s company. “Yes, Sir. I look forward to it. Have a good trip.”
Yamamoto lead Takano to the G4M2 and, following Naval custom, was the last to board as senior officer. Handing up Takano’s valise, he stepped inside and the hatch was closed.
Watanabe watched the two G4M2s waddle onto the taxi-way and draw to a halt to run up their engines. Then, bomber 323 taxied onto the active runway, lined up and braked to a stop, its engines rumbling. Shading his eyes against a brilliant rising sun, he spotted Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Fleet, sitting in the pilot’s seat. Standing on the brakes, Yamamoto fire-walled the two Kasai fourteen-cylinder radial engines. They quickly gained full rpm, thundering in their mounts. Then Yamamoto released the brakes and 323 rolled. In moments, her tail was up, and seconds later, she was airborne, arcing to the right. Almost immediately, 326 lumbered onto the runway and lunged into her take-off. Watanabe glanced at his watch: exactly 0600. It never ceased to amaze him how the Gensui managed to handle things so punctually.
“...and there are ten fuel tanks, five starboard, five to port.” Kotani proudly explained the G4M2's fuel management system from the copilot’s seat. He pointed out the window, “The oil reservoirs are there, in the leading edges inboard of the nacelles...”
Yamamoto smiled indulgently, not wanting to dampen Kotani’s enthusiasm, as they flew in clear skies at 700 meters. Bougainville’s coast loomed off their left wingtip, with the Emperor Mountain Range forming a verdant spine down the island’s axis. Mount Bali, an active volcano, trailed ashen-grey smoke from its 3,000 meter peak, while rivers and mangrove swamps splotched an ill-defined shoreline. Ugaki’s plane was tucked abreast of the right wingtip at no more then ten meters. Three hundred meters above and slightly behind were six A6M Zero fighters flying cover. As Kotani predicted, the day was beautiful with Bougainville so clear, Yamamoto felt as if he could step out and walk on the Island’s thriving carpet of primordial jungle.
Yamamoto had been fascinated for the past hour and fifteen minutes, as Kotani explained the features of this newer version of the G4M2, It was a model 22, he said, with more speed and longer range than the earlier version. But, Yamamoto and Kotani averted their eyes to avoid the fact that the G4M2's increased range was achieved by sacrificing armor-plate protection. Kotani was explaining the plane’s four twenty-millimeter canons when Yamamoto checked his watch: 0735. Damnit! I’ve forgotten about Takano. Looking up, he said, “Kotani, can you wait a moment?”
“Of course, Sir.”
Taking care not to brush against the throttles, Yamamoto slid out of the pilot’s seat.
“Balle in twenty-five minutes, Sir,” Kotani said. “Would you like to do the landing, too?”
“You really think so?”
“Well, I’ll be right here.” He leaned back and winked to the co-pilot seated right behind in a jump-seat.
“I’d like that. I wont be long.” Yamamoto made his way through the crawlway to the G4M2's commodious midsection.
The two gunners tried to rise from their positions at the twenty millimeter canons, but Yamamoto waved them down. The others, except for Admiral Takata gazing out a porthole, were asleep. Also asleep with his head back and mouth open was Captain Takano sprawled in the right side of a set of double seats.
Yamamoto’s sword lay cross the left seat cushion. Carefully, he laid it on the deck and sat, swearing softly as he unsuccessfully fumbled with the seat belt buckle.
Takano must have sensed the movement for his eyes popped open. He sat up and began to rise. “Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t---“
Yamamoto pushed against his knee, “---Stay, Takano, stay.”
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“Nonsense. Now tell me what you have there.” He pointed to the valise between Takano’s feet.
Takano reached down and picked it up. Carefully draping a rag across his lap, he began pulling parts from the Valise. “This appears to be a production fuse for the U.S. Navy’s five inch cannon.”
“Yes?” Yamamoto stared, fascinated at the components accumulating in Takano’s lap. Tiny wires dangled from one or two of them. “It looks like a radio set.”
“Yes, Sir. Actually more than a radio set.”
“More?”
“I believe it’s a radar set. It can sense the distance to a target then, at an optimum moment, trigger a detonator which fires the main charge.”
“What can that do to a ship?”
“A ship is not the problem, Sir. This fuse is an anti-aircraft weapon.”
“What? No!” Yamamoto shook his head. “Impossible.” He dashed an angry glance at Takano.
Takano bit his upper lip and plunged ahead. “With respect, Sir. This is how they do it. Here is the transmitter; this is the receiving antennae. And see this?” He lifted a glass tube. “This is what’s called a thyratron. It fires the detonator.”
“So?”
“The glass is extremely hard, Sir.” He handed it to Yamamoto.
Yamamoto tapped it with a fingernail, his days in a gun turret coming back to mind. “You’re aware of the ballistic forces on a projectile?”
“With respect, Sir. It’s my career.”
“An influence-fuse that is set off when it reaches an optimum distance to the target?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Suddenly the light went on, for Yamamoto exclaimed, “It is amazing. But how do they overcome set-back?”
“Super-hardened glass, Sir.” Katano tapped the thyratron with a s
mall screw-driver.
Yamamoto picked up the little transmitter. “I wonder how long it would take us to--”
Both looked up to a sound like rocks bouncing off the aircraft. Then the plane swerved to the left and nosed down, quickly. “What the hell?” shouted Yamamoto.
“We’re under attack!” the left gunner yelled.
Fukusaki ran over and, muttering “Gensui,” fished out Yamamoto’s seat-belt. He clicked it home and yanked it tight as it would go. Yamamoto nodded as the G4M2 dove more steeply, it’s engines screaming. The only thing he could think of doing was to grab his sword off the floor.
A hot missile whizzed by his head and punched out through the plane’s thin skin. With his heart pounding wildly, Yamamoto clutched his sword to his chest and looked frantically from side to side, feeling helpless, wishing there was something he could do.
The sound of rocks clanged again. Except now, a bullet penetrated the roof and blasted a one centimeter hole in the forward bulkhead.
“No target,” screeched the right gunner.
The left gunner shouted, “My side. P-38,” and yanked the cocking lever of his twenty millimeter cannon. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened. “What?”
“The safety’s on, you idiot!” Takano bellowed at the man.
“Ah.” The gunner flicked the switch, just as a shell ripped through his chest. A fountain of red blossomed over a smoking hole in his flight suit as he tumbled back.
A shadow flashed overhead. Yamamoto looked out the porthole. They were low, perhaps twenty meters off the ground; trees whipped past in a blur.
“Fire!” someone screamed.
Through the porthole, Yamamoto watched in horror as orange-red flames erupted from the right wingroot and licked at the fuselage. More shells ripped into the plane’s hull, one blowing off Fukusaki’s left arm at the elbow.
The plane jinked to the left. But the whole right side was immolated in flames. Fukusaki screamed. Takano shrieked also as smoke poured into the cabin. The G4M2 shuddered as cannon fire methodically punched into the plane. Suddenly, the right wing folded up into the fuselage as if on hinges. His eyes wide open, Yamamoto clutched his sword as the G4M2 plunged into the jungle.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 40