by Peter Albano
Crewmen swarmed over her. “Chief Yoshitomi!” Yoshiro Takii shouted.
A short, round, white-haired chief in greasy green overalls pushed himself from the pilot’s cockpit, stepped to the wing and dropped to the deck. Not more than five feet tall, the beefy little man had a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a jolly demeanor that brought the word leprechaun to Brent’s mind.
However, the chiefs opening was solemn. “I am sorry about Ensign Mochitsura, Lieutenant. He was one of our finest.”
“He dwells with the gods,” Takii said simply. He gestured at the D3A. “Is she ready?”
“Completely rebuilt, sir,” the chief said with obvious pride. He stared at Brent Ross. “It is an honor to serve with you, Lieutenant Ross, and I hope not to presume,” he gestured at Brent’s bandaged face. “But you are wounded.”
The young American ran a finger gingerly over his bandage. “Just a scratch.”
“He can see and he can shoot,” Takii said with finality.
Chief Yoshitomi’s face broke into a broad, elfish grin. “The entire crew enjoyed the lesson you taught that swine Rosencrance, Lieutenant Ross.”
“Thank you, Chief,” Brent said. “But it looks like we’ve got to teach the same lesson again.”
“She can do it sir,” Yoshitomi said, patting the bomber’s cowling.
“That is up to Matsuhara and Ishikawa,” Takii growled, moving around the plane and carefully scrutinizing every detail. “Have you ever flown in one of these, Brent-san?”
“No, Lieutenant.”
Takii stopped in front of the starboard wing. “Actually, the Imperial Navy designation for this aircraft is the Type 99 Model eleven Carrier Bomber — the old Allied code name was Val. This aircraft is the most accurate dive bomber ever built. She sank more Allied ships than any other aircraft.” Brent shifted his weight uneasily. Takii moved on quickly. Reaching up, he patted the leading edge of the wing. “Dive brakes on the leading edge of the wings — my idea. Gives us a controlled diving speed of two hundred forty knots.”
Brent whistled. “One hundred fifty miles an hour straight down.”
The pilot chuckled. “Never a ninety-degree dive angle, Brent-san. A true vertical dive requires that the plane be pitched over beyond ninety degrees in order to achieve a zero lift attack angle on the wing. Our dives will be somewhere between fifty and seventy degrees.” Brent nodded his understanding.
Hunching over and followed by Brent and Chief Yoshitomi, Takii crouched under the bomb which was locked into its crutches. “Two-hundred-fifty-kilo-gram bomb and to avoid knocking off our propeller, the bomb has its own trapeze — it flies off like an acrobat in a circus.” He fingered a framework much like a swing attached to the oil cooler intake and hood on two revolving bearings. “And two sixty-kilogram bombs,” he said, gesturing to a wing tip. “One on each wing.”
“Sir,” the chief said. “She has the new Kinsei 54 engine.”
“Not a Sakae?”
“No, sir. The Mitsubishi Kinsei. It will give you thirteen hundred horsepower at twenty-six hundred rpms, maximum speed four hundred twenty-eight kilometers an hour.”
Beaming, Takii turned to Brent, “Two hundred sixty-six miles an hour.”
Brent ran a hand over a massive main wheel spat. “Fixed landing gear. Like a JU-87.”
The old chief bristled. “This is not a copy, sir.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Takii said, “Tokuhishiro Goake designed the D three A. It is an original. In fact, if anything was copied, the JU-87 and your own Douglas SBD showed striking similarities to our aircraft.” The two old men nodded to each other pridefully.
“I see,” Brent said, regretting his gaffe. He had hit on one of the most sensitive issues. All Japanese deeply resented the “copycat” image. Like drilling an infected tooth, he said to himself.
Takii stepped up on the wing and lowered himself into the cockpit. Brent followed, grasping the wing root fillet, placing his foot in the stirrup and then pulling himself up on the wing. A chief was in the gunner — radio operator’s cockpit, loading a drum into a Type-92 Nambu. Brent recognized Chief Gunner’s Mate Huch Hiranuma who looked up and smiled. “Good to see you, Lieutenant Ross. I have not seen you since that day you beat some sense into that filthy terrorist outside the gate.” Brent smiled. Both Hiranuma and Yoshitomi remembered him for his acts of violence as did most of the crew. Nothing else seemed to matter — was rarely mentioned. Brent was happy to see the old chief. However, he wondered what a chief gunner’s mate was doing loading a Nambu. He should be supervising a crew of armorers. The old chief seemed to sense his question. “I heard you were to fly in this aircraft. So,” he patted the breech of the Nambu, “I personally saw to your weapon.”
Brent’s pleasure was manifested in a broad grin. “Thank you, chief.” He gestured at the machine gun. “Drum-fed.”
“Yes, Mister Ross. Ninety-seven rounds in each drum. One on the gun and four spares.”
Brent shook his head. “I’ve never used the Type-92.”
Hiranuma was distressed, spoke defensively, “It’s a fine weapon, sir.”
“I’ve never changed drums in combat. I’ve always used the belt-fed Type-96.”
Huch Hiranuma pounded the coaming. “I will change it, sir. Immediately.”
“You can do that? It needs an ammunition tank — slotted floorboards.”
The old chief nodded then turned to Lieutenant Takii. “Sir, Mister Ross prefers the Type-96 Nambu. With your permission, I will make the change.”
“Very well,” the pilot said, turning his head. “Give him a slingshot if he wants it.”
Everyone laughed.
Takii pushed himself up out of his cockpit with a pleased smile on his face. “You have done an excellent job, Chief Yoshitomi,” he said, stepping to the wing. And then looking across the canopy at the American, “Come, Brent Ross. We must report to the briefing room at 0300. As you Americans would say, it is time to hit the sack.”
Both men slid to the deck and walked side by side to the elevator.
*
The briefing room was located on the gallery deck. Seated at the back of the crowded room next to Lieutenant Yoshiro Takii, Brent sipped coffee and stared at his clipboard as Lieutenant Daizo Saiki droned on from a dais in front of the pilots and gunners. Every man was dressed in a brown flying suit, fur-lined helmet wrapped with a hachimachi headband — a narrow band much like a white scarf covered with ideograms announcing the man’s determination to die for the Emperor — goggles, and the officers carried swords. Brent had no hachimachi head-band, but, at Takii’s insistence, he carried the Konoye sword. “I will dive low enough for you to behead some of the Sabbah pigs,” the old man had snickered. Admiral Mark Allen had stared incredulously at the jeweled scabbard as Brent had walked past him in the passageway outside their cabins, but the admiral had said only, “Good luck, Brent, and good hunting.” Saiki moved a pointer over a large chart, indicating the Yellow Sea. With his pince-nez balanced on the bridge of his nose, he spoke in a high, tense voice. “We will be launched here at latitude thirty-three degrees, ten minutes, longitude one hundred twenty-eight at zero-four-thirty. We will fly course two-seven-five, SOA two hundred ninety-six kilometers, altitude one hundred twenty meters until we reach this point.” He stabbed the chart off the southwest tip of Korea. “Then course zero-zero-zero to this point off Haeju — it is a large city on the North Korean coast just north of Inchon. Our target is fifty-five kilometers inland on a heading of zero-four-five from Haeju. We will begin our climb off Haeju and should reach three thousand meters in six minutes.” Along with every other man in the room, Brent scribbled the information onto his clipboard.
“Enemy radar, sir?” a young pilot asked.
“Commander Okuma will take his eighteen B five Ns in first on horizontal runs and commander Mat-suhara has detailed twelve of his Zero-sens for strafing. By the time we arrive over target, the enemy will be fully alerted and engaged.” He tapp
ed the chart. “Hit the hangars, fuel dumps and strafe.”
“Kill them all!” an old pilot shouted.
“Banzai! Banzai!”
Perspiring and appearing to be out of breath, the bomber commander stopped. The pince-nez slipped from his sweaty flat nose and shattered on the deck. Saiki stared down dumbly as if he had witnessed a bad omen. An aide picked up the broken lenses.
“Sir,” a young pilot said, breaking the silence. “Code names, please.”
Saiki glanced at some notes. “I am Shishi (Lion) Leader and your sections are color-coded as usual. Our escort commander is Edo Leader; Commander Okuma is Kedamono (Beast) Leader and Yonaga is Saihy-osen (Icebreaker).” Pausing, his eyes dropped again to the shattered pince-nez which his aide had placed on the dais.
Takii shouted. “Exit course and our point option data, Lieutenant Saiki?”
“Ah, yes. After the attack, fly low and exit to the Sea of Japan on course zero-nine-zero until you reach the one hundred thirtieth meridian.” Saiki stabbed the chart. “When you are one hundred kilometers off the coast of Korea you should see Ullung Do Island to the southeast. You will be close enough to the meridian, turn south.” He slid the pointer down. “Then fly one-eight-zero to the Korean Straits and then fly over Tsushima Island on course two-two-zero to the carrier.” He glanced at his notes.
“According to our point option data, after launch the carrier will steam two-two-zero, speed twenty-four. However, if you are damaged, land here or here.” He indicated points on Honshu and Kyushu. “Matsue, Nagato, Fukuoka. These airfields are only a short flight from our target. And remember, radio silence until the enemy is in sight or until Commander Matsuhara breaks it.” He looked around the room, again, while every man stared back. “And one more thing, you should see the second strike delivering its attack on the convoy.” He sighed nervously. “Admiral Fujita has ordered any unexpended ordnance be delivered to any enemy ship that may be afloat.”
Shouting “Banzai”, a half-dozen young pilots and gunners came to their feet.
The demonstration ended quickly and the young men sat. Saiki stared down at his broken pince-nez while the men began to fidget restlessly. Finally, Takii stood with a disconcerted expression on his face. “Sir,” he said in a tense timbre. “I am the oldest pilot in the room. May I say something — especially to the younger pilots?”
Saiki nodded his assent like a man who had been relieved of a distasteful burden. Looking around the room at the young faces surrounding him, Takii said, “This is a sixteen hundred-kilometer mission. Your three tanks hold one thousand liters of fuel. We may use every drop and I know you are aware of this.” He stared at Saiki who averted his eyes. “Keep your manifold pressure up and your mixture down — lean, as lean as she will take. With our bombs and full tanks, we will demand much of our engines on the run-in. But try to keep your rpms under eleven hundred.” He ran a hand uneasily over the hilt of his sword. “I know each aircraft is different, but thin your mixtures until your engines backfire. You can always adjust then.”
He turned to Saiki. “I am finished, Lieutenant Saiki.”
The flight leader turned when he heard his name. “Thank you, Lieutenant Takii,” he said and fell silent again.
A young gunner shouted, “Envelopes, sir?”
“Of course. Of course.” Saiki said, shaking his head as if he were awakening from a dream. Brent and Takii looked at each other with puzzlement. Something was wrong with their flight leader. Was it fear? Was he ill?
Quickly, envelopes and scissors were passed and most of the young men snipped fingernails and locks of their hair to be sent to relatives for cremation in the event the flyer was killed and his body lost.
Takii refused the envelope, saying simply, “I have no one. I will rot in one piece.”
Quickly, cups filled with sake were handed to each man along with a single chestnut. Everyone stood. Saiki raised his cup. “Tenno heiko banzai!” he shouted, unable to mask a quiver in his voice.
After returning the salute thunderously, every man ate his chestnut and drank his sake. The speaker came to life, “First strike aircrews, man your planes.”
With shouts of “Banzai”, the men crowded through the door.
The run-in was uneventful. The previous day’s storm had vanished and, with the exception of a few high flying cirrus, the sky overhead was a clear, eggshell blue. But to the east, the morning sun reflected from mists and rolling banks of clouds, virulent shades of red and orange on one side, dull and gray like bruised dead flesh on the other. The Aichis flew in the usual Japanese V in sections of three, two-four-three, the outside plane in the last section to the right. This way, eighteen rear-facing machine guns provided interlocking fields of fire to any attacker diving from the rear. The trailing sections, the most vulnerable, were manned by the best crews — the most accurate gunners. Occasionally, an engine backfired and Brent smiled.
Far ahead, he could see Okuma’s B5Ns while all around sections of fighters wove and swerved restlessly like greyhounds forced to walk at a slow pace by their old, fat masters. Reaching to the side, Brent switched the radio from bomber to fighter frequency and back. He heard only static and occasionally a faint hum of distant Korean radar. Sighing, he swung the Nambu back and forth, scanning the sky overhead restlessly. Occasional wings had startled him, but the sightings always proved to be sea gulls. He smiled at his own nervousness.
Finally, after nearly ninety minutes, the B5Ns turned toward the coast and Brent felt the Aichi begin to climb and turn inland. The Zeros gunned their engines and swooped upward, eighteen flying cover for the Nakajima, nine remaining with the dive bombers. He heard Takii’s voice on the intercom, “Haeju,” he said, waving to a city sprawled on the coast. “Be alert. They must have patrols.”
“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” Brent answered. And then to himself, It's begun.
A familiar feeling of resignation — helplessness in the face of forces and circumstances all men feel when committed to battle — crept through the young American. Soon, other men would be unleashing storms of steel and explosives in attempts to kill him. Nevertheless, his course was irrevocable, plotted and schemed by others in rigid patterns that removed him from any control of his own fate. Strange, every time he was faced by battle, the same thoughts filled his mind — the same frustrations galled him. With surprise, he realized right and wrong, good and bad — not even hate — were factors. No, Everest, or was it Fujiyama, was there and he must scale it.
They were over North Korea and still climbing when radio silence was broken. Commander Oku-ma’s calm voice came over the bomber frequency. “This is Kedamono Leader; hit those fighters first — the tarmac, revetments!”
Then Yoshi Matsuhara’s voice with an ominous command, “Fighters! Four high at zero-zero-zero. Green and yellow sections engage. Individual combat. Ishikawa, maintain top cover.”
Takaii pointed down. Far below the right wing, smoke was rising and Brent could see the lumbering B5Ns making their runs while twelve strafing Zeros raced over the airstrip, firing and dropping light fragmentation bombs. Already, two hangars and a half-dozen planes were burning. AA filled the sky with brown puffs and arcing tracers. Pushing his goggles up, Brent stared high above where a swirling dogfight tumbled across the sky. There were Messerschmitts up there — six or seven — and Matsuhara had led two sections on a savage head-on interception. Three fighters were already burning and disintegrating as they spun and tumbled to the earth. One white parachute descended slowly.
Saiki’s high-pitched voice startled him. “This is Shishi Leader. Stand by to attack. Follow my lead.” Before Saiki could push over into his dive, four MEs led by a checkerboard and a blood-red machine arrowed downward out of a thin cover of cirrus.
Brent keyed his microphone. He could barely conceal the excitement in his voice, “This is Kedamono Red Three. Enemy fighters two-two-zero high.”
Saiki remained silent but Brent saw every gunner in his flight train high and over his left
tailplane. Brent brought the checkerboard into his first ring. Brent felt an amalgam of fear and anger charge his veins. “Come on, you son-of-a-bitch.” But Freissner veered to his right and was replaced by the blood-red ME. “Rosencrance, ol’ buddy,” Brent said to himself. “You’ll do. Come and get it.”
Two black enemy fighters in trailing positions split and formed a line with Friessner and Rosencrance, a great fearsome blade edged with eight twenty-millimeter cannons and eight 7.7-machine guns. Diving at at least 400 knots, the fighters opened fire simultaneously. Instantly, one of the trailing D3As was hit by the red ME, struck just aft of the gunner’s cockpit, a torrent of cannon shells collapsing the fuselage so that the entire tail section bent up as the nose veered skyward and then the tail broke off to flutter to the ground like a tiny aircraft. The bomber half rolled into a screaming dive. Another D3A, with most of its engine shot out and spraying oil and fuel, burst into orange flame and curled toward the ground leaving an ugly black ribbon behind it.
The red Messerschmitt filled the third ring. Brent pressed the trigger, trying for a zero deflection propeller shot. But Rosencrance was too experienced to fly a straight line for more than a few seconds. The ME jerked to Brent’s right, twisted into a near vertical dive and in passing sent a burst into a bomber that shattered the canopy and killed the gunner. But the Aichi continued in formation. In a wink, the fighters were gone and a half-dozen Zeros led by Taku Ishikawa plunged through the formation in pursuit. But the Mitsubishi could not dive with the Messerschmitt and everyone knew it.