The Goddess Of Fortune

by Andrew Blencowe

  “Done with engines,” Sato shouted down the voice pipe.

  “Abandon ship” was the next command.

  Sato had transferred the Tancho’s portrait of the Emperor to the Suzume a week before they departed; Sato abandoned his command—unheard of for an admiral—with a sense of serenity.

  All the ship’s skeleton company was put ashore. Four local trucks had been there and had taken them into the jungle. The jungle in Panama started 100 meters from the Canal and the U.S. troops saw it as the devil’s playground—full of man-eating pythons and worse. To continue the myth, the locals would get an American soldier paralytically drunk and feed him alive, but unconscious, to a hungry male python that would then proceed to fall into a deep digestive sleep. Two weeks later they would then shoot the sleeping reptile with a simple .22 round through the eye to the reptile’s brain. Then they would skin the snake and show the soldier’s half-digested remains. The effect among the American troops was always the same—panic.

  An hour later, safely ensconced in the jungle hamlet eating rice and udon noodles, the crew of the Tancho saw the night sky illuminated with a huge orange and yellow fireball—the Tancho had done her job.

  23: Admiral Abe’s Type 93

  San Diego

  Forenoon Watch, Sunday, 7 December 1941

  In every navy’s language, the Forenoon Watch is from 8 a.m. to noon. The modern Imperial Japanese Navy followed this convention, as it was crafted by the officers seconded from the Royal Navy; to this day the uniform of Japanese school children still have the square pigtail guards of the Royal Navy from Nelson’s time, embossed with three white lines, modern-day reminders of Admiral Nelson’s three victories.

  All this was of no importance, and of less interest, to the small trio of Japanese submarines patiently waiting outside the entrance to the San Diego naval base. For fifteen frustrating days, they had waited there submerged and quiet, surfacing only at midnight for two hours to recharge their batteries, and to quickly gasp a few breathes of fresh air. Once a week, in quiet, open seas, Admiral Abe would host the submarine captains, one at a time, on his “flagship”—a dirty, noisy little Mexican fishing tramp by the name of the Anna Maria.

  “The Mexicans are noted for their intellectualism, their athleticism and their deep sense of history,” Abe had said to Captain Higa on the previous Friday, in reply to Higa’s question about the exotic name of the fishing boat. Or as Abe said to Higa when the two stood alone on the stern of the fishing vessel ten minutes later, smoking cigars, “They’re fucking Mexicans, what did you expect, the Chrysanthemum Throne?” Higa laughed. Abe waved to his hosts who turned to look at the Japanese devil from under the sea.

  Abe expanded,

  “They’re fucking children, idiots—trained monkeys could do a better job of fishing than these Mexicans. I have never met such a lazy bunch of men in my life.”

  Abe paused,

  “But my view is generous compared to that held by their northern neighbors. That is what makes my small Mexican ‘flotilla’ so useful—the Americans ignore them; the Mexicans are the perfect camouflage. Actually ‘ignore’ is the wrong word; ‘detest’ is a better word. I had one of the boats in my White Stork ‘flotilla’ accidently—that is, deliberately—ram the port side of one of the American destroyers. I had coached the captain to say in English, ‘you my starboard, you give right way.’ Needless to say, the young American captain frowned and then threw this idiot off his boat. And remember, Higa, these Americans cannot see a ruse de guerre even when it is staring them in the face, as my ‘flotilla’ clearly is. I have been nosing around these waters off one of their most important naval bases with no inspections, no reviews, no surprises—nothing. Of course, any thought of inspections evaporated after the ramming incident.

  “As you heard on the short-wave frequency, our agents in Bremerton signaled three days ago that the American aircraft carrier Saratoga has departed, and so we can expect the enemy in these waters tomorrow or Sunday. I have designed the positions of our three submarines so she should sail almost directly above you. If this does not happen, then Imai or Noguchi will surely see her.”

  After the Great War, only the Germans and the Japanese took the submarine seriously; the English—still living in the phantasy of Nelson—dreamt of a second Trafalgar. The Americans took a more realistic view, but their torpedoes were the worst of any warring nation—“My God, even the Italians are ahead of us when it comes to torpedoes,” Admiral Stark had complained to the President in ‘38. Stark explained that the American “fish,” as he called them, ran too deep, were under-powered and—worst sin of all for any bomb—did not explode on impact.

  “They do not explode on impact?” the President asked.

  “They do not explode on impact—that is correct, sir.”

  “Well, something has to be done.”

  And as happens with all pronouncements from a political Olympus in any country—in this case the Oval Office of the President of the United States—nothing was done, but all vehemently agreed that something should have been done, or at the very least a complete and detailed study should be conducted, when the time was ripe, in the fullness of time, which taken at the flood.

  In contrast, the Japanese Navy had spent 20 years of intensive effect to create the world’s finest torpedoes. By ‘35, the Long Lance had been perfected. Powered by pure oxygen, it was five times more effective than conventional torpedoes that ran on air, air that contained 80% inert nitrogen. In addition to the very high-speed and tiny vapour trail on the Long Lance—technically, the “Type 93 Torpedo”—the detonator was superb: rugged, safe and, most important of all, reliable. And the “wander” was astonishing small—it was 14 times better than the American “fish.”

  Higa had taken the risky gamble of loading and flooding the four forward and his two aft torpedo tubes—Higa’s boat was now a submerged bomb with six fully loaded Long Lance torpedoes, all charged with pure oxygen. But the rewards were worth the risk—he could launch a wide spread in less than 60 seconds in either direction. Higa had gambled that he would be close to the target and had set all of the torpedoes to the maximum speed of 48 knots. While this limited the range to just under 20,000 yards, it also meant that the wander would be reduced to at most 200 yards. And like all submarine captains, Higa was a gambler.

  As it happened, the Saratoga literally sailed over Higa’s boat.

  Higa had put his boat at 30 meters, the shallowest dive depth possible but one that gave him the ability to surface within 45 seconds. Which is precisely what he did. He expected a typical task force of destroyers even though his periscope man, Yako, had vehemently said there were no support vessels in sight.

  Sure enough, after Higa quickly surfaced, the horizon was empty—not a destroyer in sight. But as Higa surfaced he was faced with a truly odd situation—he was too close to the American aircraft carrier, so he order “Emergency Reverse,” probably the only time in the days of hostilities that such a command was issued.

  After a minute of frantically going away from the enemy was Higa in a position to fire. Without hesitating, he fired the four forward torpedoes, with the widest spread. Sixteen seconds later, he and his crew were rewarded with the glorious sound that every submarine crew lives for—the sound of a torpedo exploding, and in the next five seconds the other three all registered.

  With the explosion of the four Japanese torpedoes, the Saratoga started to immediately list to port and list dangerously. Rear Admiral Fitch, standing in the conning tower, regretted his decision to override the captain’s request for General Quarters—“Bill, to run the men for over two days at the ready will not sharpen them, but it will dull them,” Fitch had said to the Captain as they left Puget Sound. While this may have been true, what was also true was that without General Quarters, none of the water-tight doors were dogged.

  The birth of the Saratoga had been a very difficult one—first as a battle cruiser, then in mothballs, then finally as an aircraft carrier. But s
he was superbly engineered with 18 separate water-tight compartments—“virtually unsinkable” was the verdict from Admiral King on down, but “virtually unsinkable” was concomitant with the water-tight doors being closed—that is, General Quarters having been sounded.

  When the fourth Type 93 torpedo exploded at the very end of the last compartment on the Saratoga, the aircraft carrier’s doom was sealed. As the designers could not agree on the correct approach to tapering the armor belt, they did what all engineers do in such a situation—they did nothing. So, just as a traveler sometimes sees a completed bridge that ends in space, or a suburban house with an extension that is never completed, the naval engineers poring over the blueprints of the Saratoga also left their work unfinished.

  Normally, this action or, more accurately, inaction, would not be important. But the fourth torpedo had essentially hit a thin skinned vessel—not a man-of-war with an eight-foot belt of Specially Treated Steel armor—but a skin of one inch of mild steel plate.

  The effect of this fourth torpedo was as to be expected. Although few in any navy will say it publicly, armor belts are designed to dull—not cancel—attacks. If an armor belt reduces an attack to one-tenth, then the armor belt has earned its keep. As one Captain, a former boxer said, “it’s like getting your glove up to a hook to the head. You still feel it, it still hurts like hell, but you are also still conscious.”

  The superb Long Lance delivered a devastating 500 kilograms of TNT to the only thin-skinned area on the ship. The effect was immediate and devastating. The other three torpedoes had done little damage to the ship, but this fourth one sunk her: the first three had created fissures from one to three feet in diameter in the armor belt. In contrast, the fourth torpedo created an opening of over 26 feet in diameter. The Pacific Ocean entered like a tidal wave.

  Two minutes after the staff in the conning tower had noticed the list to port, a far more ominous sight appeared—the sky was sinking, or so it appeared in the conning tower. Actually the sky was not moving, but the stern of the ship was rapidly sinking into to the ocean as the sea water filled all of the rear compartments. As the engine room was entirely under water, there was no longer power. Even the basic power—the “hotel power” in Navy parlance—had stopped.

  “Saratoga very rapidly sinking by stern. Request Immediate Assistance,” was tapped out by Morse, on the emergency batteries en clair.

  Eight minutes later, the Saratoga sank beneath the waves.

  24: The Polo Player

  Hawaiian Islands

  Sunday, 7 December 1941

  Miyuki Okino was billeted in a tiny room along with other Officers’ Club servants at the far end of the island. The billets consisted of three dreary, two-story buildings of painted cinderblock. The best of the three buildings—the one overlooking the beach—had been quickly claimed by the native Hawaiians. The other two were both far shabbier and were occupied by the Chinese, the Filipinos, the Indians, and the two Ceylonese girls. Miyuki was pleased that there were no other Japanese in the billet. She liked to do her job and in her spare time she liked to sew for the local Red Cross auxiliary.

  The auxiliary was staffed by bored wives of the officers who had little to do but charity, and to drink. A few of the more adventurous wives formed a coven that helped each other and would arrange all-too-rare trysts with the gardeners’ young native helpers. The arrangements were made by a simple hint being dropped to the senior lady; the senior lady who herself was known to enjoy the illicit touch of young and taut, virile, native skin. Then a few days later, a quiet young buck stud would politely knock on the servants’ entrance and would be shown to the study of the lady of the house. Waiting for him would be the maid, the lady, and the elderly gardener. The lady would explain how she wanted her heavy mahogany desk moved to the window, and all four would struggle to move it. After assisting with the move, the gardener’s helper would be thanked and sent to the kitchen for cake and a glass of lemonade. Before the cook had poured the lemonade, the lady would be on the telephone.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, yes. He will do very nicely.”

  The senior lady would confide that the boy, she called him Thomas, was clean, extremely docile, and had great stamina.

  “And, aah, how is his development?”

  “Development?” the frown could be heard over the telephone line for an instant.

  “Oh, of course. Silly me. Yes, his ‘development,’ as you call it. Well dear, it is no larger than usual. About the same as my husband’s, but there are many differences apart from purely physical size. For one thing, I’ve never felt one as hard. I mean it is really like a warm stone you find when wandering on the beach in summer. It is astonishingly hard. And this deliciously warm stone is inside you. Another thing is that is stays that way even after he completes. And what I like most is the cream.”

  Now it was the lady’s turn to frown, but the senior lady continued.

  “I always tell him to forgo a prophylactic, but I am of an age I can afford to do that. For you, with your regular monthlies, this would be ill-advised. But I suggest you have him complete outside, on your face or bosom, as Thomas’s greatest gift, next to his complete native docility, is the volume of his supply. Take a coffee cup filled to the brim with cow’s milk, then pour that slowly over you face and body when you bathe today. That is precisely the effect of enjoying Thomas completely.”

  “Is that possible? Surely that is not possible. A coffee cup filled. That’s not possible, is it?”

  Having gotten started, the senior lady continued, ever so slightly aroused,

  “Thomas is a nice boy, a little simple even as these natives go, and his face has a crude sort of handsomeness, but his arms and shoulders are exhilarating. I love him on top of me in the master bedroom, pumping away inside me while I run my hands over his huge shoulders and arms. In this position he is more like a machine than a human. Expect no conversation or cleverness. He is a native after all. But there’s nothing quite like the virility of his youth to wash away the years, if only for an hour or two. And remember, he does not complete until you tell him to. There was one occasion a few months back when he accidentally lost control early and he was so apologetic that he was almost in tears. I felt it coming and rather than stop him, I just let him pump it all into me. Do remember sometimes it takes him almost half a minute to complete.”

  “Half a minute?” the lady sounded incredulous.

  “Oh, yes. Remember, he has a coffee cup to fill.”

  Both giggled.

  “Well, Thomas sounds ideal. Can you send him over on Wednesday, that’s my maid’s and cook’s day off?”

  The senior lady said she could.

  Occasionally, Miyuki would be invited to tea at the Red Cross. A few of the ladies took sympathy on her; she seemed to them so lost—such an innocent, lost, little waif. And Miyuki was extremely dutiful, even more dutiful than when she was working at the Officers’ Club on the hill. Her eyes were always down cast, she always walked very close to the wall, her head was always bowed. When a gaggle of officers’ wives would meander down the hall at the Red Cross, she always stopped and stood to one side, eyes down, hands lightly clasped in front of her. Before long, her extreme modesty was noted with approval.

  Sharing a rare tea, the ladies admired Miyuki’s perfect English, which she explained she had learned when she was a student in the Philippines after she and her family had been expelled from Japan. The ladies consoled her about how politics were always so awful in all countries these days. After a moment or two of these niceties, the ladies would resume their private gossiping about their men and their hopes for reassignment back to the mainland and their fears of their husbands’ possible assignment to ghastly Manila and the horrors there of Douglas MacArthur and his wife, which tattle had it was a half-caste.

  Miyuki liked her job at the Officers’ Club. She had been working there for five years. Her papers listed her as coming from Manila with excellent references from the British planter. The letters were
printed on the most beautiful cream-white paper—25% cotton rag. Of course, all the Hawaiian staff hated her intensely—for her politeness; for her cleanliness and how she bathed every day; for how in the basement she never spoke ill of the officers or their odious wives. Worse, she never took part in the petty adulteration of the meals that the Hawaiians loved to do to their masters’ meals. She was short, shy, modest, and quiet. Only her hair was different from the other servants—curiously she wore a flapper’s bob of the Twenties, which was reminiscent of the page boys of medieval English knights—jousting and all that.

  She was liked by Commander Wheeler, the commandant of the club. And she liked Commander Wheeler.

  Six months earlier, she had knocked on the Commander’s door and hearing no answer, entered to tidy his suite. The Commandant’s suite was at the far end of the third floor, well apart from the other suites used for visiting admirals and senators. As she straightened the bed, the Commander unexpectedly entered from the bathroom, clad only in bright red silk pajama boxer shorts and wearing a gold watch. Startled, she apologized,

  “Commander Wheeler, I am so sorry, sir. I did not realize you were here, sir. I will come back later, sir.”

  “Nonsense, Miss Okino. I’ll be out of your way in just a sec,” Wheeler generously drawled in his South Texas accent.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Miyuki had averted her eyes to the floor and had instinctively placed her right hand in front of her mouth, palm extended, with her elbow by her side. But she could not avoid admiring his muscular chest and arms, and—most important—she let him see her admiration. Wheeler was old money Texas oil, or as old as Texas oil money could be—his grandfather was one of the original wildcatters who had arrived in Texas with the clothes on his back. Commander Wheeler was a polo player and was admired—with a touch of envy—by his brother officers. But his generous nature and genuine friendliness quickly won over most officers and all the wives with whom he was both polite to the point of chivalrous and entertaining to the point of flirtatious.