“We’ve given them lumps twice now. We can do it again-if they don’t cut us off from supplies,” Fuchida said.
“You sound like you’ve been listening to General Yamashita,” Genda said sourly. “I got an earful of that at Iolani Palace not long ago.”
“I have no more use for the Army than you do. Those people are crazy,” Fuchida said with a distinct shudder. “But even crazy people can be right some of the time.”
“What worries me is, we can beat the Americans two or three more times, beat them as badly as we did in the last big fight, and what will it do for us? Buy us more time till the next battle, that’s all,” Genda said.
“They’ll just go back to building, and we can’t do much to stop them. But if they beat us even once… If that happens, we’re in trouble.” He drained his little sake cup and poured it full again.
“They have a margin for error, and we don’t-that’s what you’re saying,” Fuchida said.
Genda nodded vigorously. “Hai! That’s exactly what I’m saying, except you said it better than I did.”
“We’d better not make any errors, then,” Fuchida said. “We haven’t yet.”
“Not big ones, anyhow,” Genda agreed. “And the Americans have made plenty. But we’re already doing about as well as we can. The Americans aren’t, not yet. They’re still learning, and they’re getting better.”
Fuchida went bottoms-up with his sake cup. “We’re in Hawaii, and they aren’t. That’s how it’s supposed to work, and that’s how it’s going to keep on working.” He hoped he sounded determined and not just drunk; he’d poured down quite a bit. He wondered if he would have a headache in the morning. He wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Well, there were still plenty of aspirins.
Genda said, “There’s a legend from the West, where every time the hero cuts off a dragon’s head, two more heads grow back. That’s what worries me in this fight.”
The image fit the war against America much too well-so well, in fact, that Mitsuo Fuchida got drunk enough to have no doubts whatsoever he’d regret it in the morning.
AFTER PENSACOLA NAVAL AIR STATION, the Naval Training Station outside Buffalo jolted Joe Crosetti in lots of ways. First and foremost was the weather. The chilly wind of Lake Erie was like nothing he’d ever known. It was only autumn, too; winter would be worse.
Orson Sharp, who’d switched stations and squadrons along with him, took it in stride. “Can’t be too much nastier than what I’m used to,” he said.
It was already a lot nastier than San Francisco ever got. Joe had hardly ever worn a topcoat; a windbreaker was usually all you needed where he grew up. He was glad of his topcoat here. He had long johns, too, and expected to wear them.
Flying out over the lake felt strange. He was used to large expanses of water. The Pacific and then the Gulf of Mexico were both magnificent, each in its own way. But the idea of being up over water as far as the eye could see and knowing it was fresh water… for a Californian, that seemed as alien as Mars.
Then there was the USS Wolverine. She’d started life as a coal-burning sidewheeling excursion steamer, but she’d been decked over to give aspiring carrier pilots somewhere to do endless takeoffs and landings without impeding the war effort by tying up a ship that could actually go into combat. She wasn’t pretty, but she got the job done.
The same held true for the Grumman F3Fs the cadets were flying. Zeros would have slaughtered them, but they were a lot hotter than Texans. And, to Joe’s amazement, Lake Erie could grow some perfectly respectable waves. That meant the Wolverine pitched and rolled, just the way a real carrier would out in the Pacific. It also meant the apprentice pilots had to obey the landing officer as if he were God.
One of the instructors had said, “Following the landing officer’s directions is the most important thing you can do-the most important. Have you got that? You’d better have it, gentlemen. If you don’t, you’ll kill yourselves and you’ll cost the country thirty-one grand for a Wildcat-twice that and then some for one of the new Hellcats, if you happen to draw them-and that’s not even adding in the five cents you’re worth. When you fly up to the stern of your carrier, you are a machine. He is the man in charge of the machine. You are under his control. He can see your approach much better than you can. He can correct it much better than you can. If you trust your own judgment instead of his, you’ll be sorry-but not for long.”
Some guys knew better. Some guys always knew better. You didn’t get to be a pilot training for carrier operations if you didn’t think pretty well of your own judgment. So far, this squadron had had one guy crash on the Wolverine’s wooden flight deck, one guy slam head-on into the training carrier’s stern, and one guy fly his F3F into Lake Erie because they did what they wanted to do and not what the landing officer told them to do. Two of them were dead. The fellow they’d fished out of the drink was still training with the rest of the cadets. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Whether he’d make some different mistake… Well, at least he had the chance to find out.
Joe lined his biplane fighter up on the carrier’s stern. They’d even built a little island on the port side, to give her smoke-belching stacks somewhere to go and to make her seem more like the warships she was impersonating. And-also portside-they’d built the little platform at the stern from which the landing officer directed traffic.
Another F3F was in front of Joe. The obsolescent fighter touched down on the flight deck, tires smoking for a moment, then taxied along to the far end and roared up into the sky again. Getting everybody as many repetitions as possible was the point of the exercise.
Seeing that spurt of smoke made Joe check his own landing gear again. Yes, he’d lowered it. The landing officer would have waved him off if he’d tried anything dumb like landing with it up. He knew that. Even so… “It’s my neck,” he muttered.
There were the wigwag flags-for him this time. The landing officer dipped the flags to the left. Joe straightened out the F3F. The landing officer straightened, too, and held out both flags level with his shoulders. Joe was going the way the other man wanted him to.
I am a machine, the naval air cadet told himself. The landing officer runs me. I do what he says. It wasn’t easy. He wanted to fly the way he wanted to fly. He’d spent all this time learning to do that. Now he had to suppress a lot of the trained reflexes he’d acquired in the past months.
The wigwag flags moved in tiny circles in the landing officer’s hands: speed up. Joe obediently gave the Grumman biplane a little more throttle. Those circles stopped. The landing officer urged him up a little. The F3F’s stick went back; its nose rose.
Then, suddenly, the flags dropped. Joe dove for the Wolverine’s deck. Any carrier landing was a controlled crash. The trick was making controlled the key word, not crash. The F3F’s tires hit the timbers of the flight deck. On a real carrier, a working carrier, the plane’s tailhook would have snagged a wire and brought it to a halt.
Here, Joe bounced down the deck and then off again. He gunned the engine and rose into the sky yet once more. Officers on the training carrier would be grading his performance. He thought he’d done pretty well that time. They didn’t always agree with him.
After three more landings and takeoffs, he got orders to return to the land base. Regretfully, he obeyed. He thought-he hoped-he improved every time. He wanted as much practice as he could get-this was as close as he could come to the real McCoy.
Finding his way across the gray waters of Lake Erie also proved… interesting. TheWolverine steamed well out of sight of land. He needed to use some of what he’d learned in navigation before he found New York again. He hoped it was New York, anyway. If he’d fouled up, it might be Pennsylvania or Ontario. Ending up not just in the wrong state but the wrong country would have damaged his career. It probably would have meant he didn’t have one.