From what he’d heard since, he’d been damn lucky not to get shot while he was parachuting down to the ground, too. Plenty of pilots had been. The Japanese didn’t respect the chivalry of the air. As far as he could see, they didn’t respect anything but strength. If they had it and you didn’t, they walked all over you. If you had it and they didn’t… maybe they’d kowtow. Maybe. How could anybody know for sure? Nobody’d managed to make ’em say uncle yet.
Walter London laid down his pick in the middle of the road. “I’ve got to take a whizz,” he announced, as if the bulletin were as important as one from the Russian front.
To Peterson and the other men in the shooting squad, it was a lot more important than that. He looked at his comrades in mistrust. Was it his turn? He thought it was. He let his shovel fall. “Me, too,” he said.
London scowled at him. “I can’t even piss without somebody looking over my shoulder.”
“It’s not while you piss that really scares me,” Peterson answered. “But if you take off afterwards, I get shot.”
“I won’t do that,” London whined.
“Not while I’m watching you, you won’t,” Peterson said.
London went off behind a bush. Peterson stood behind another one no more than ten feet away. He didn’t need to piss. He was sweating so hard, most of his water leaked out that way. London did a fine job of watering the grass. “See?” he said to Peterson as he set his clothes to rights.
“Hot damn,” Peterson said. He almost added, Only goes to show what a pissant you are. Almost, but not quite. If he came down on London too hard, he’d give the SOB reason to run and hope everybody else in the shooting squad, or at least one Jim Peterson, got an Arisaka round right between the eyes.
Peterson sighed as they both headed back to the roadway. Maybe having to make calculations like that was the worst part of being a POW. He went back to work while another northbound dive bomber roared by overhead. As soon as he got another hole halfway filled, he was forcibly reminded that exhaustion and starvation came in a long way ahead of calculation after all.
WHEN MITSUO FUCHIDA went down to the Akagi ’s sick bay to see how his friend Genda was doing, a pharmacist’s mate wearing a gauze mask over mouth and nose-a masuku, they called it in Japanese-chased him away. “Gomen nasai, Commander-san,” the petty officer said, not sounding sorry at all, “but Commander Genda is contagious. We don’t want anyone else coming down with his sickness.”
“I just wanted to say hello and ask how he’s doing,” Fuchida protested.
“I will pass on your greetings, sir.” The pharmacist’s mate stood in the doorway like a dragon. “Commander Genda is doing as well as can be expected.”
That could mean anything or nothing. “About how long do you think he’ll be laid up?” Fuchida asked.
“Until he is well enough and strong enough to resume his duties,” the pharmacist’s mate said. Fuchida wanted to hit him. Petty officers slapped seamen around all the time, the same way Army noncoms did with common soldiers. Officers needed good reasons for belting noncoms, though, and a refusal-or maybe just an inability-to communicate wasn’t enough, not when the pharmacist’s mate was odds-on to be obeying the doctor’s orders by keeping Genda isolated.
Thwarted, Fuchida turned away and went up to the officers’ wardroom. The food there was better than what he’d been eating in Honolulu. Captain Kaku was also there, eating a bowl of pickled plums and sipping tea. “Any sign of the Americans, sir?” Fuchida asked.
The skipper shook his head. “Not yet, Commander. Believe me, you’ll be the first to know.” His voice was dry. Fuchida looked down at his own snack so Kaku wouldn’t see him flush. When the Yankees were spotted, he would lead the strike against them, as he’d led the first strike against Pearl Harbor and then the attack on the Lexington. Of course he would know as soon as anyone else did.
He found another question: “How are our engineers doing on electronic ranging gear like the Americans have?”
“I’d hoped Zuikaku and Shokaku would have it,” Captain Kaku answered. “No such luck, though. I think we understand the principles. Now the problem is getting it into production, installing it aboard ship, and training men to use it.” He shrugged. “We have our picket sampans out there, and we have H8Ks patrolling beyond them, and we have the cruisers’ float planes for close-in reconnaissance. Wherever the enemy comes from, he won’t take us by surprise.”
“That’s what counts, sir,” Fuchida agreed. “As long as we meet the Americans on anything like equal terms, we’ll beat them.”
“I see it the same way,” Kaku said. “Admiral Yamamoto is less hopeful. He fears the United States will outproduce us no matter what we do.”
“Let the Americans try,” Fuchida said. “If we keep sinking their ships, it doesn’t matter how many they build. And we’ll be building, too.”
“Hai.” The captain of the Akagi nodded. “This is also how it seems to me, Fuchidasan. You’re a sound man, very sound.” What Kaku no doubt meant was that he and Fuchida held the same opinion. He went on, “The admiral has a different view. He says we have no idea of how much materiel the United States can produce once all its factories start going full tilt.”
“And the Americans, who have so much, begrudge us the chance of getting our fair share,” Fuchida said angrily. “They think they should be the only big power in the Pacific. We’ve taught them a thing or two, and if they want another lesson here, I’d say we’re ready to give them one.”
As if his words were the cue in a play, a yeoman from the radio shack stuck his head into the wardroom. “Ah, here you are, Captain-san!” Excitement crackled in his voice. He waved a sheet of flimsy paper. “We have a report from one of the flying boats. They’ve spotted the American ships, sir! The pilot reports three enemy carriers, sir, with the usual supporting ships. Range about eight hundred kilometers, bearing 017.”
Three against three, Fuchida thought. Equal terms-just what I asked for. Now to make the most of it.
“Domo arigato,” Kaku breathed. After thanking the yeoman, he went on, “Any sign of transports-of an invasion fleet?”
“Sir, I have no report of them,” the radioman answered.
“If they are there, sir, they may be hanging back, waiting for their carriers to dispose of ours,” Fuchida said. “I wouldn’t want to expose troopships to air strikes.”
“Hai. Honto. Neither would I.” Captain Kaku turned back to the yeoman. “You’ve informed Admiral Yamamoto?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the man said. “He nodded to me and he said, ‘Now it begins.’ He spoke to me, sir!” He seemed immensely proud of himself. A Christian to whom Jesus had spoken might have sounded the same way.
Kaku got to his feet. “I’m going to sound general quarters,” he said to Fuchida. “They’re still out of range, but now we know where they are.” To the yeoman again: “Do the Americans know that flying boat has spotted them?”
“Sir, if they do, the message didn’t say,” the yeoman told him. Fuchida nodded to himself, liking the response. The man wasn’t trying to read anything into what he’d got from the H8K. Many radiomen might have.
“Let’s tend to business, Commander,” Kaku said. “You’ll want to get your men ready for what’s ahead of them, I’m sure. And we’re all going to be busy before very long.”