Kaiten

A Novel-in-Progress

Prologue

Soaked in filth, alone in humid darkness that reeked of fear, frightened by his surroundings, he dreaded what lay ahead. The hull of the kaiten leaked, enough so that he sat in sea water polluted with oily lubricant and his own urine.

Petty Officer Hideo Nakaguchi. Tokkotai. Those words on the identification card in his tunic pocket identified him as a member of the Imperial Navy Special Attack Forces. His divine duty, as the sole crewman of the small submarine, was to ram his explosives-laden craft into an American ship and blow a hole in the target’s side. The kaiten had been built for just one mission. He was the only pilot it would ever have.

The pre-launch ritual had been simple, almost perfunctory. He stood at rigid attention, tried to suppress his trembling when the commanding officer handed him a hachimaki bearing words about honor and duty and sacrifice. He willed his fumbling fingers to tie the white headband in place, then bowed as he accepted a small cup of saki from the captain. The rice wine tasted weak, watery, an insult. Men facing a solitary death deserved better. Nevertheless, he tossed it down, shouted banzai the prescribed three times, and climbed up through the hatch into the kaiten.

Launch from the deck of the mother submarine came almost immediately. There was scarcely enough room for him to manipulate the rudimentary controls, one to determine the direction of his craft and another to keep it on an even keel. He stayed at periscope depth because he had no means other than visual to know where he was going.

The morning fog lingered on the surface but he could make out the shapes of several ships. He’d been briefed that all surface ships in the area were American. He corrected his course, headed directly toward ships manned by sailors who would soon spot his periscope cutting through the water. He spent none of his remaining time contemplating the glory of dying for an emperor he’d never seen but was expected to revere as a god. Instead, he focused away, called up images of Hokkaido—the forests, the mountains, the snow. He pictured his father, his mother, his brother and his brother’s bride. He thought about duty, not to the emperor but to his family. He didn’t want to die, not for any duty.

He spoke aloud, told himself he’d had no choice except to obey his father. Embarrassed by the choked waver of his voice, he returned to silence. He thought to rebel against the inevitable, considered turning away from the gray ships now looming in his periscope. Maybe he could make it to some island, Okinawa or another of the Ryukus, beach his submarine, throw himself at the mercy of the Americans. He might even be able to hide out amongst the native population—many said the Okinawans had no sense of duty in this war.

But, on the mother submarine, they’d made it clear. If he tried to divert his suicide craft they would treat him as a traitor, sink him with no hope of an honorable death, inform his father of his despicable end.

He steered toward the nearest American ship, a large merchant vessel. There were a few men on deck, moving about. They, too, were performing their duties. He wished he could increase the speed of his kaiten, hurry to get it over. But, the distance was not great. He’d soon strike the target, blow himself and the Americans to eternity.

He thought of the pleasant face of his sister-in-law, how her usual placid composure slipped away the day he left. She stood close to him, her damp eyes locked on his, and whispered that it should not be this way. His father pulled her away, told her to go into the house. She dared to hesitate for a moment, then did as she was told.

Close now, he saw alarm on the face of one of the Americans, a large man, ruddy as any seaman. The American pointed toward the kaiten, appeared to be shouting a warning.

He closed his eyes. He tasted blood. He’d bitten his tongue.

jimmy carl harris