by Peter Albano
As the Zero began to flatten its dive, it bounced even more severely than before, its wings bending to the stress and turbulence of the storm. There was a familiar dull pain in his stomach again and his skin was chain mail, sagging with its new weight, forcing him deep into his seat, blood draining from his brain, vision darkening and clouding into patches of blackness. He shook his head to clear the darkness and only with the samurai’s tremendous strength of will resumed control of himself and his aircraft. New jolts and pounding and his wings were actually flapping as they fought the tremendous inertia of the oversized engine.
But he had reached the bottom of his dive and the Mitsubishi had held together. Aguijan was below his cowling and the horizon dropped, crowned by the great storm, all black gargantuan fingers, battlements, and flying buttresses. Suddenly there was blue above him and a red machine streaked into his vision. Yoshi laughed. The Messerschmitt was slightly beneath him and had not completed its turn. No doubt Rosencrance was waiting for the Mitsubishi’s wings to rip off. A moment’s preoccupation. Foolish. Matsuhara laughed out loud. “Never try to turn with a Zero-sen, you fool,” he muttered under his breath.
A great flash of light high and to the north caught his eye. Kizamatsu had collided with the black ME and had exited this earth with the glory of a newly formed nova. Fascinated, the commander watched as smoking chunks of debris rained like white and brown tentacles and the wind began to rip the great cloud of smoke to pieces. “Banzai! Great Yamato damashii (Japanese spirit),” he screamed.
Now it was just Rosencrance and himself. Just what he wanted. Zero against Messerschmitt. But he was low on ammunition. Perhaps only six seconds left in his ammunition tanks. It made no difference. He would kill the fatuous renegade if he had to ram him. Find his niche in the Yasakuni Shrine the same way Kizamatsu found his. And, perhaps, if he had lived an exemplary enough life, had honed his karma well enough on the whetstone of bushido, he might even find Kimio in nirvana. Yes. Eternity with his one true love. What could paradise be beyond Kimio?
Pushing the stick to the left and trimming gently with the rudder, he half rolled the Zero and swept into a shallow dive, bringing the red ME which was just completing its turn into his reticle. He poised his thumb. Not yet. Still a thousand yards. Under his breath he thanked the supreme sun goddess, Amaterasu-O — Mi-Kami (Heaven Shines Great August Deity) for smiling on him and giving him this superb fighter plane. He ran a finger over the hilt of the great Matsuhara sword which was locked into its brackets at the side of the cockpit. It had served the family well, had belonged to his father and his father before him. “You are my sword now, oh, Zero-sen.” He rubbed the hachi-machi headband which showed his determination to die for the emperor. “Perhaps, we will die together for the emperor.”
Realizing he could not turn with the Zero and that Matsuhara would be on him before he could bring his armament to bear, Rosencrance resorted to his one advantage — the Messerschmitt’s great diving power. Brutally, he flipped over on his back and streaked into a dive, nose pointed for the storm. Cursing and pounding his instrument panel, Matsuhara charged after his diving enemy, guns blazing. But the heavier 109 pulled away, vanishing into a low layer of clouds.
Yoshi pulled back on his stick and kicked rudder, avoiding the clouds and pulling up into a maximum climb, hungrily buying back altitude — the fighter pilot’s most valuable commodity. He knew the renegade American was doing the same thing, somewhere in the clouds. Because all dogfights degenerate into speed-killing turns and near stalls, smart pilots always sought altitude-height which could be traded for speed. Yoshi had learned the lesson over and over again. But so had Rosencrance.
Leveling off at four thousand meters and turning north toward Saipan, the commander found he owned the sky. A glance at his fuel gauges told him it was time to turn for home. He was reaching for his throttle and propeller pitch control to reduce power, thin his mixture, and reduce fuel consumption when the red ME burst from the clouds above him. “Impossible!” the Japanese screamed. But the American was there, closing in behind him.
Instinctively, the commander pulled the stick back and kicked rudder, looping and rolling off the top to meet his enemy in another head-on pass. But by the time he brought his four guns to bear, Rosencrance was already firing. There were thuds and ripping sounds as slugs struck home in his fuselage and tail assembly. But he had the red machine in his reticle. Careful, ammunition is low, he said to himself. He squeezed the button and the guns’ vicious recoil kicked the airframe.
He shouted with joy as his stream caught the ME at the wing root. Trying for a petrol tank, Yoshi touched rudder without banking, sliding the stream along the leading edge of the left wing. First the wing went glossy white as his bullets and shells burned silver chunks out of the red paintwork, then the entire top of the wing began to bulge up as the wounds scooped up air like a great vacuum cleaner and tremendous pressures built up inside the structure, threatening to peel off the entire top all the way back to the flap. The American had no choice. As Yoshi flashed past, he reduced power and veered away, desperately turning back toward the storm. But the killer would not escape this time. Matsuhara had him. Turning toward his enemy, he licked his lips, savoring the coming moment.
No one could ever challenge Rosencrance’s courage. He fought his controls, regaining balance instead of bailing out. Perhaps he knew Matsuhara would shoot him in his chute, anyway. Maybe he chose death in his cockpit instead of slaughter in his harness. Yoshi shrugged as he curved in behind the crippled aircraft and set up a perfect killing angle. It made no difference. He would kill the butcher with his bare hands if given the opportunity. The old familiar deep heat returned as he squinted through the reflector of his gun-sight, bringing the bead to Rosencrance’s head and shoulders. He caressed the button lovingly. In fact, he squeezed the trigger so gently, he allowed the gun-camera pressure to slow his thumb before pushing through to the firing position, distinctly feeling the click as the switch closed the firing circuit. There was a hiss of compressed air.
“No! No!” Matsuhara anguished into the slipstream. He was out of ammunition. Helplessly, he watched as the Messerschmitt vanished into a cloud. At the last instant, he saw the pilot turn in his seat and laugh at him — big, white pearly teeth like the mouth of a shark mocking him. Pounding his instrument panel, the commander felt tears stream down his cheeks. Two wingmen dead; Brent, Takii and Hayusa probably dead and Rosencrance had escaped. All for nothing — it had all been a waste, tortured his mind.
Outriders of the storm flitted past all around the aircraft like demented spirits, coating his windscreen and threatening to blind him. Checking his artificial horizon, he pushed the stick hard right, kicked rudder, and turned back north toward Tinian. Breaking from the clouds, he looked at his fuel gauges. The needles were flickering dangerously low. An overboosted Sakae devoured petrol like bathwater down an open drain. A glance at his clipboard told Yoshi he was still over two hundred kilometers southwest of Yonaga’s point option. Quick instinctive fingers flattened the prop to a fine pitch, leaned out the mixture, and then throttled back until his tachometer read twelve hundred, the manifold-pressure gauge indicating the maximum eighty centimeters of mercury. The aircraft mushed along just hanging on the edge of a stall, a few misses and an occasional backfire telling the pilot the Zero would take no more.
With battle-lust fading, a deep sense of loss and sadness seeped through him like cold oil. Many had died this day and the empty sky seemed to mock him — a tiny lonely speck in the vast rotunda of the afternoon sky. Matsumara and Kizamatsu gone. Yoshiro Takii, Takashiro Hayusa, Brent Ross and their bullet-shredded Nakajima vanished into the jaws of Susano (the storm god and “Impetuous Male”) and the killer drafts of the squall line. He had lost Kimio and now Brent Ross — the two most important people in his life. Side by side he and Brent Ross had fought with guns and fists, saved each other’s lives time and again and had grown close together with a bond of camaraderie known only to men wh
o go to war and place their lives on the table while other men roll the dice. They had survived torpedoes, aerial bombs, truck bombs, shells, fists, knives, and even AK 47s in the hands of ambushers. The young American had shown he measured up to the most rigid standards of Bushido; personifying the finest traits of giri — devotion to duty, boundless bravery, and a deep sense of honor.
Some of his happiest hours had been spent drinking sake and reading his haiku aloud while Brent Ross listened thoughtfully and sipped his own drink. They had talked endlessly of the drives that set men on the paths of war and made them become cogs in the machine, obeying orders without hesitation, without supplying rationale, killing, destroying, and finding honor and glory in slaughter. They agreed there was no counterpart in civil life, nothing to lure a man away from the road to destruction, his fascination with terror and horror. War tested a man as nothing else ever could, honed the edge of a samurai’s blade and determined if a man could take his place amongst men. Only with Brent Ross had he been able to voice the thoughts, indeed the doubts that assail all men who follow the god of war, Hachiman-san.
Two movements widely separated caught and divided his attention almost at the same time. First, a red machine burst from a cloud directly beneath him, approaching the strip on Tinian cautiously. It was Rosencrance, and he was making an approach for a landing. Should he ram him? End it all here and now? Kimio and Brent were both dead. Why not? As he reached for the throttle a second image caught his attention; a flash of wings in his rearview mirror. Joyously, he realized a miracle had happened. It was Tora II emerging from the front. Old Yoshiro Takii had grappled with Susano and bested him. True, the ungainly old bomber was out of trim and dragging one wing, but still the ancient magician was keeping her in the air. And he could see Brent’s huge figure in the rear cockpit, waving.
Banking into a wide, sweeping turn, Yoshi looked down. The red ME had landed and he could see frantic antlike figures pushing it off of the strip and into what appeared to be a camouflaged revetment. Was Tinian an Arab base? Saipan, too? He had assumed the enemy fighters had been carrier-launched. After all, an Arab battle group was known to be operating in the western Pacific. But he had seen trained crews many times, and the group of men who had trundled the Messerschmitt off of the apron had appeared to be too efficient to be ordinary airport personnel. Then, perhaps, the Constellation, too, had taken off from Tinian or Saipan and had been on a routine sweep to the east and, in that case, most certainly looking for Yonaga.
He stared below. Where was the rest of the Rosencrance’s Jagerstaffel? They always operated in twelves. Uneasily he scanned the sky, the storm. Nothing. And, with the exception of the red 109, no wheel marks below in the dirt surrounding the airfield. He breathed easier. If the enemy fighters had been transported to the Marianas by a carrier, perhaps the captain of the ship had been loath to strip himself of his CAP (combat air patrol); especially with Yonaga searching for him. That was probably it. He could spare less than half a fighter squadron — the five they had fought. Otherwise, the sky would be swarming with enemy fighters. Nevertheless, an Arab presence was in the Marianas and doubtless more were coming. He banked over Thnapag Harbor, a small cover on the west side of Saipan protected by coral reefs. A medium cargo ship, a dozen fishing boats, and a mysterious lack of activity. He must report to Yonaga.
Leveling off behind and above the laboring Nakajima, he pulled the microphone from its bracket: “Iceman, Iceman, this is Edo Leader.” Yoshi knew that with possible enemy RDFs (radio direction finders) in the vicinity, Yonaga not only might remain silent, but could change course and speed without informing her aircraft, leaving their crews to die slowly in the cold Pacific. But the response was immediate.
Yoshi recognized the voice of the new, young American radio and radar technician, Martin Reed: “Edo Leader, this is Iceman. I read you loud and clear. Over.”
The commander opened his throttle slightly and began to creep up on Tora II. As the two aircraft passed over Saipan, he mulled over his brief message and then spoke: “Possible enemy air bases on Tinian. One medium-size cargo vessel in Tanapag Harbor.” He glanced down, saw suspicious piles of brush but no wheel marks. “Camouflaged revetments on both islands at the existing airfields but only one damaged fighter. No antiaircraft fire. Engaged five enemy Bf one-oh-nines. Destroyed four, damaged one. NAP Matsumara and Ensign Kizamatsu both casualties. Tora II severely damaged. Am escorting her to point option. Any change?” The commander did not mention his lack of ammunition. If attacked, he would ram.
“Your point-option data still operable. Out.”
As the two aircraft left Saipan behind and headed northeast into the vast wasteland of the Pacific, Yoshi moved in close to the bomber. His eyes widened. Her right wing had been badly hit and she had taken a shell amidships which had blown a huge hole in the fuselage opposite the navigator’s cockpit. He could see Ensign Hayusa’s head lolling to and fro on the padded combing with the motions of the aircraft. Part of his jaw and his right ear had been blown away and the combing and parts of the fuselage were streaked with blood. The upper part of his torso was visible through the hole, a mangled mix of churned flesh, torn cloth, and broken bones. The young ensign was most certainly dead.
Brent Ross was seated upright, goggles back and their outline smeared red on his face. He could see the big American’s shoulders and the brown foul-weather jacket was mottled red, too. But Brent waved and turned a thumb up. Yoshi clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, returning the gesture. Brent pointed aft to the damaged tail and the aerial whipping in the slipstream. The Nakajima’s radio was out. Yoshi nodded understanding.
The commander banked in closer and examined the pilot’s cockpit. Apparently unhurt, the marvelous old pilot stared back, managing a grin despite laboring at the controls. The old man nodded at his right wing and then stabbed a finger at the Zero. Pulling the stick back and dropping his wing Matsuhara moved in just above the bomber’s right side and stared at the huge hole in the wing. Not only could he see the main wing-spar, stringers, and ribs, but control wires and the fuel tank were visible. Yoshi leaned over his combing. No leaks. The new self-sealing tanks were priceless. Just a few years earlier, the Nakajima would have been doomed. He stabbed a fist upward. Takii answered with his own fist and nodded.
Yoshi held up a hand and spread the first two fingers downward like legs. Takii nodded understanding. The commander dropped beneath the bomber and stared up. In a moment the B5N’s landing gear rigged out from the wells and locked down. There was a huge hole in the right tire. Carefully, Yoshi ran his eyes over the bottom of the aircraft; the cowling, torpedo crutches, slotted flaps, ailerons, tapering fuselage, non-retractable tail wheel and tail assembly. All appeared undamaged except for the shell hits on the navigator’s cockpit and right wing and a score of bullet holes in the tail assembly and a few back of the gunner’s cockpit. Slowly, Matsuhara banked away and then curved up above the bomber.
Takii and Brent Ross stared at him expectantly. Yoshi held up a hand, dropped two fingers, pointed to the right one, and crossed his throat with the universal symbol of damage. Takii appeared confused. Yoshi knew Takii’s green locked-down light must have glowed when his gear came down. Besides, any pilot could feel the vibrations of the gear descending and the locking mechanism thudding into place. Yoshi held up a hand, made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, and then flattened the circle. Takii smiled, nodded, repeated the gesture, and stabbed a finger at his right wheel. Yoshi held up a fist and signaled agreement.
Slowly the commander gained altitude and dropped back of the Nakajima, protecting its tail. From this position he could see Brent Ross staring back up at him. He could also see Brent’s chest. His flying clothes were ripped and covered with bloody stains. Yoshi shuddered. The young man was obviously wounded and needed medical attention. But they were still over an hour from Yonaga and Takii had to land on a damaged wheel. Then Brent waved, a warm confident gesture. Yoshi laughed bitterly to himself. Would he feel s
ecure if he knew I was out of ammunition? taunted the fighter pilot’s mind. But Brent steadied his Nambu with one big hand and held the other up again, fist clenched. Yoshi answered with his own salute and grinned his most confident smile.
*
Despite the pain and weakness, Brent stared up at Yoshi’s Zero and waved. After the horror of the fighter attacks the hit on Hayusa, and the unbelievable violence of the storm, the lithe white fighter appeared as a savior, a divine shepherd to guard, protect, and deliver them from mortal dangers. He was sure Hayusa was dead. Even from the rear Brent could see the savaged shoulder, ripped jaw, and missing ear, blood splattered everywhere. And the young ensign moved only with the aircraft like a sack of rice.
Brent examined his flight clothes. The front of his jacket was torn and a tracer had burned a track with its white-hot magnesium, leaving a black sear in the gore and tough sailcloth. Hesitantly, he ran a hand under his flight clothes, found tears, and startled himself with slashing pain when he touched a long rip across his chest. A slug had cut him like a knife. Perhaps a tracer. He remembered the terrible burning sensation when first hit and the smell. But it appeared the bleeding had stopped. He had lost blood — a lot of blood. He could feel its slippery presence around his buttocks, crotch, and down his legs. Then he noticed the white cloth on the floorboards. His parachute had been hit and tatters of white nylon torn from his seat pack. He grinned laconically. Perhaps the dead Arab would kill him yet. A new fear. Could he fight?
He clutched the pistol grips, tried to swing the gun, and was stopped by a thousand hot needles stabbing at his chest and stomach. The cold was exacerbating the wounds, stiffening, cramping. More than one slug, he said to himself in frustration. Grimacing, he forced himself to swing through the pain, but he knew he was almost useless and the thought enraged him. Defeat was impossible, unthinkable, and totally unacceptable. If the Arabs came again, he would force himself to fight, not be killed slumped down in his cockpit like dead meat. Watching the magnificent Zero-sen hovering protectively, he sighed. Yoshi was there. Commander Yoshi Matsuhara the greatest fighter pilot in the world. Reassurance flowed back into his veins and he managed to straighten his back.