Record of Lorelei: Chapter 2

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Having made a wide detour around the combat zone, their fuel was nearly depleted. But the Type 1 land-based attack aircraft Mikami was aboard managed to reach Harushima Airfield on Truk Islands without the need for an emergency landing elsewhere.

After crossing by boat to Natsushima Island, Mikami and the major were greeted with a formal welcome lineup. That evening, a banquet to celebrate their arrival had been arranged at a Japanese-style restaurant in the island’s Japanese district. It was the Truk Islands branch of Komatsu, a restaurant famed in Yokosuka as a favorite for naval officers. Mikami had been invited as part of the entourage but declined. There was something he needed to do first.

Hungry, he stopped by a street-side vendor and bought several skewers of fruits—pineapple, mango, and the like—before rushing to the communications facility.

He’d thought it was just a precaution. The sound issue had only come to light because their planes had flown together in formation; once in a combat zone, fighters scattered. Given the conditions, the noise likely wouldn’t occur during takeoff or when forming up. If the sound only manifested when the aircraft banked, it was such a specific defect that neither the pilot nor the crew around him would have noticed.

Persuading the reluctant radio operator, who claimed they didn’t want to send personal messages, Mikami managed to have a telegram sent to Rabaul. Since the plane had a landing hook, it was almost certainly a carrier-based aircraft, and given the area of operations, it likely belonged to Rabaul’s base. Even if it didn’t, providing the tail number should allow the communication team in Rabaul to relay the information correctly.

While a private message, it fell squarely within the duties of a maintenance officer. It was an act born from professionalism and good conscience. More than anything, Mikami wanted to save the life of the pilot who had saved his own. The man seemed highly skilled, but with such a flaw, it was only a matter of time before he was shot down.

After some cajoling—and handing over a full box of Hōyoku cigarettes—the radio operator reluctantly agreed. Mikami hesitated over the wording of the message before finalizing it:

"From: Tetsuo Mikami

To: Zero Fighter Type 21, Unit 312-017, Lorelei

Your aircraft emits a sound. Please exercise caution."

Mikami didn’t currently belong to any unit, having just transferred. It seemed excessive to sign off as “Ensign Tetsuo Mikami, formerly of the 302nd Air Squadron Maintenance Team, Atsugi Base.” All that mattered was that the pilot understood their aircraft had an issue. While Mikami didn’t know the pilot’s name, he knew the plane—a Zero Type 21. In that chaotic battlefield, he’d barely managed to catch its tail number. Referring to it as “Lorelei” might have been impolite, but saving a life was worth a small breach of etiquette.

Still, the thought made him sigh. Reflecting on the day’s battle, Mikami shuddered. Fighter pilots were known for their courage, but Lorelei was something else entirely—fierce to the point of savagery. Imagining the kind of brute occupying that cockpit sent a chill down his spine.

If they were active in the South Seas, perhaps their paths would cross again someday, though Mikami fervently hoped otherwise.

After the message was sent, Mikami stepped out alone into the streets. Before him spread a bustling scene, lively as if prewar times had never ended.

Under roofs of palm fronds hung bright red lanterns, and hostesses darted in and out of the alleyways, clearly busy. A man carrying a hairdresser’s kit strolled by, smoking a cigarette.

It all felt like a dream.

Back in the mainland, civilians endured a life of hardship, sacrificing comforts to send weapons and supplies to the front. People gathered metal from pots, pans, and even Buddhist altar fittings. Women sold their kimono, donning simple monpe work trousers instead. Yet here, on Truk Islands, right on the doorstep of the war, life seemed peaceful—untouched.

They always said Japan was winning the war decisively since the outset, but seeing this, Mikami thought the rumors of an imminent victory might just be true.

Amid the crowd, Mikami’s gaze landed on a dark-skinned man, and he froze.

His skin was so black it looked painted, his hair tightly curled. His wide eyes rolled in their sockets, the whites stark against his face. Around his waist was wrapped an orange cloth, and he carried a basket as he walked barefoot through the street.

Mikami recalled hearing that the South Seas were home to black-skinned natives. Sometimes employed as laborers, they were said to be gentle-natured and diligent workers, despite their unfamiliar appearance. Judging by how no one else paid the man any attention, he was evidently just another part of the scenery here.

Looking up, Mikami suddenly found himself rooted to the spot.

The sky was an uncanny shade. If asked to describe the color, one would call it pink, but it was far from the soft, gentle hue the word typically evokes. It was an unsettling pink, as if red and purple paint had been mixed with a glowing radium pigment—vivid, threatening to swell outward and engulf the entire world in its eerie brilliance.

Should I be running away?

As Mikami stood, overwhelmed by the shimmering pink sky and watching the reactions of those around him, a strange transformation began to take place overhead. The sky slowly shifted into a purple he had never seen before. It split into two layers at its center, a sharp demarcation dividing the spectacle. The vibrancy of the colors was almost too much for his eyes, but this time, Mikami recognized the shift for what it was—the onset of evening.

Rooted to the spot, Mikami hesitantly allowed himself to admire nature’s grand artistry, painted across the heavens with an audacity that felt almost otherworldly.

Though the lower part of the sky still burned a blood-red hue, remnants of the setting sun, the upper reaches darkened steadily to deep navy. In the middle, the stars began to emerge, their sharp edges like tiny thorns punctuating the twilight.

This island, just a seven-hour flight away, felt like an entirely different world.

The thought crossed his mind: Maybe that Type 1 attack plane really did go down, and now I’m dreaming in the afterlife. It was a ridiculous notion, yet it persisted. As he gazed down the street, he even imagined it might lead him to the underworld.

But the people around him were at ease, their faces calm and unhurried as they moved about.

Hesitantly, Mikami began to walk, his steps cautious, his eyes darting about to take in this strange, peaceful street. Ahead, another dark-skinned man appeared.

It seemed this was simply everyday life in the South Seas.

＊ ＊ ＊

Early on the morning of the second day, Mikami set out for Rabaul aboard a destroyer. Upon disembarking at the harbor, he walked along the pier and caught a ride on a regular truck heading inland. The vehicle kicked up plumes of soil mixed with volcanic ash as it sped along. The maintenance yard, he had been told, was located in the middle of a thicket of scrub trees.

Dropped off at the edge of the grove, Mikami started walking in what seemed to be the right direction. Before long, he spotted a corrugated metal roof near the jungle’s edge. Between clusters of banana trees stood aircraft camouflaged with nets and sunshields. The metallic clang of hammers rang out alongside shouts of “Push it!” and “On three!” The maintenance division was clearly stationed here. Now, where’s my team?

As he scanned the area, a man under one of the tin roofs placed his tools on the ground and came barreling toward him. Before Mikami could make out his face, the man threw himself at him in a crushing hug.

“Mikami! You’re alive!”

It was Yamaoka, a fellow soldier of the same rank.

“Alive? We parted ways only two days ago,” Mikami replied, staggering from the impact and dropping his bag onto the ground.

“Four thousand five hundred kilometers south, my friend. For all we know, four years could’ve passed while we weren’t looking!”

Mikami couldn’t help but understand Yamaoka’s sentiment. The landscape here was utterly foreign. Volcanic ash lay in a fine layer underfoot, with only scraggly weeds growing close to the ground. Yet further uphill, the jungle was a dense tangle of green. Banana leaves drooped like heavy fabric, and enormous palm fronds shimmered and danced in the glaring sunlight. The air carried the rich aroma of tropical fruits, and unfamiliar cries of birds or beasts echoed in the distance. On the destroyer’s deck, they had weathered a torrential squall, a deluge so fierce it had felt as though every faucet in the world had been turned on at once and aimed at them. Am I dreaming? Mikami wondered. Four years hence felt unimaginable—but the bizarre environment made Yamaoka’s jest seem plausible. The tropics had a way of unsettling one’s sense of time and place.

The brilliance of coral reefs, the fiery sunsets, and the deep sapphire seas—all of it was so vivid that it felt almost unreal.

“Have you been to the barracks yet?” Yamaoka asked.

“Not yet. I just arrived.”

“You’re in for a treat. It’s not quite a palace like the pilots have, but it’s built on stilts, like a nice vacation home.”

“Good to know.”

Following Yamaoka’s lead, Mikami passed a Type 21 Zero fighter undergoing maintenance. A mechanic was working atop the aircraft. Known affectionately as the "Zero," the Mitsubishi A6M was Japan’s mainstay fighter. Its exceptional agility and a remarkable range of 3,000 kilometers made it stand out. Though small—just 12 meters wide and roughly 9 meters long—its sharp, elegant design gave it a distinctive presence. The teardrop-shaped canopy provided excellent rear visibility.

Beyond a rise in the scrub, more Zeroes came into view, nestled in the undergrowth. Another here, another there—the jungle seemed to harbor them everywhere. Mikami’s team specialized in Zero maintenance. While they occasionally worked on other aircraft, the overwhelming number of Zeros had effectively turned them into specialists.

As he walked past, Mikami ran his hand along the wingtip of a Zero, studying the unfamiliar paint scheme.

“So, this is the South Pacific paint job.”

Zeros stationed on carriers were painted a light gray. Here in the South Pacific, with its intense blues and greens, they had been repainted a deep green to blend with the surroundings. The dark color made the already sleek Zero look even slimmer, almost arrow-like in the case of the Type 52 model.

“Yeah, but this paint’s a pain,” Yamaoka said. “It’s rough and grainy, so we have to polish it with oil cloths to make sure it doesn’t mess with the aerodynamics.”

“Every single one?”

“Yep. It’s probably just a placebo, but we do it anyway.”

Mikami sighed inwardly. What a place I’ve ended up in.

Stepping under the corrugated roof, he saw the mechanics lift their heads. Recognizing Mikami, they broke into wide, cheerful smiles.

“Mikami, you’ve arrived?”

“You took your time. Did you swim here from the truck?”

“Or were you busy doing maintenance on the destroyer?”

The jokes flew fast, and laughter followed. It was the same cheerful group as ever.

“Thank you for waiting. I look forward to working with you all again,” Mikami said, removing his cap and bowing deeply. These men were the kind who would tie on a loincloth to help a drunken comrade who had stripped down at a banquet, but manners were still important.

The maintenance chief, who had been inspecting an aircraft’s landing gear, straightened up and slapped his hands on his hips as he approached.

“All right. Everyone’s here. Let’s go greet the squadron we’re assigned to and take it easy today.”

“Is this the first time the maintenance chief is greeting the pilots?” Mikami asked.

It was already the second day since their arrival, and they’d been working. Failing to introduce themselves sooner seemed a breach of etiquette.

“Yeah. I went to the headquarters, but I haven’t greeted the squadron yet. The unit we’re assigned to was out on a mission. Until yesterday, the previous crew was still here, so we only took over the work this morning.”

He didn’t have to wait for me before making the introductions, Mikami thought. He’s a conscientious man.

In an air group, pilots were treated like royalty. The disparity was vast: their housing, meals, and supplies were leagues ahead of what the maintenance crews received. In emergencies, their evacuation was the first priority. They were spared from heavy labor, even on non-flying days, while the maintenance crew worked like madmen. Pilots lounged in the shade, napped, and drank. Though part of the same air group, they felt like residents of another world. Mikami understood the importance of proper introductions: it was necessary to present themselves to the pilots, acknowledging their role in keeping the aircraft safe. We’ll bow and say, “We’re responsible for maintaining your planes,” all while swallowing the resentment of being treated unfairly.

Maintenance soldiers might be looked down upon, but they were an assembly of brilliant minds. The maintenance chief had graduated from the aeronautics department of Tokyo Imperial University. Some had experience in the development division of the Naval Aviation Arsenal. Mikami himself had served in the experimental division of the Arsenal before joining the maintenance crew at Atsugi Air Base, where he had been placed in the flight team—a position of considerable responsibility. He took pride in his skills and knowledge.

The maintenance crew was divided into specialized teams for engines, instruments, fuel, and armaments. Each team poured their expertise into assembling parts for a single aircraft, and the flight team’s job was to integrate and finalize everything. They were the ones who made the last checks—engine, instruments, hydraulics, fuel—before the pilot boarded. It was a critical job, carrying the ultimate responsibility for maintenance.

The maintenance chief clapped Mikami on the back, hard enough to make him flinch.

“Don’t worry about it. Fighter pilots are lone wolves, rough and wild. It’s normal for them to have quirks—or even two or three. If they weren’t a little eccentric, they wouldn’t last on the Rabaul frontlines. You need to be flexible; otherwise, you’ll never survive as a mechanic.”

“Yes, sir,” Mikami replied.

Squadrons had their own personalities. Some were close-knit and cheerful, while others, like fresh recruits, were all shouts and frantic energy. Some groups were full of egos, with pilots constantly jostling for dominance. Others were so disjointed they hardly spoke to each other.

As the saying went, Mikami also believed that a pilot’s temperament often corresponded to their aircraft’s seating capacity. Crews of two-seater planes, like dive bombers, were more accustomed to collaboration and tended to listen to mechanics. This was even more pronounced in three-seater reconnaissance planes, where the pilots were approachable and easy to talk to. In larger aircraft, like the seven-man Mitsubishi G4M bombers, the atmosphere felt almost familial.

But single-seat fighter pilots were a different breed. While they worked together in formation, they were fiercely individualistic, each with their own quirks and preferences. Their flying styles were highly personal, and their habits, or “riding quirks,” varied widely. Each pilot had unique demands for their aircraft, and as long as the mechanics accommodated these, there was no definitive “correct” approach to maintenance.

There’s no choice. This is war. They were a collective of men sent out with the pride of their nation to face an unprecedented crisis threatening its very survival. Whatever unreasonable demands were thrown their way, they were determined to present the best aircraft possible—that’s the spirit of maintenance.

Renewing his resolve, Mikami walked on until he suddenly became aware of raised voices. He glanced up, and everyone else also slowed their steps. About ten meters ahead, a group of pilots was yelling at each other. One man violently slapped away an outstretched hand. Even a conciliatory hand on his shoulder was shrugged off with equal force. The tension was palpable—someone looked moments away from lunging.

Yamaoka lowered his voice and grimaced. “Here we go already...”

The aircraft parked in this area would likely fall under Mikami’s team’s responsibility. It felt as though they’d drawn the short straw right from the start. This squadron seemed to have gathered some hot-headed individuals. If they were assigned here, Mikami knew they’d need to be prepared to endure shouting from morning till night.

As Mikami’s group passed by, their somber faces must have caught the attention of one of the pilots, who raised his voice even louder.

“You maintenance crew? Stand right there and wait!”

The man had a commanding presence. After barking his order at them, he turned back to berate the man in front of him, his voice booming.

“Your arrogance is sickening! Who do you think you are? Speak up!”

Mikami and the other mechanics exchanged uneasy glances as they followed the maintenance chief toward the scene. This is a terrible first impression, their eyes seemed to say.

They stopped about a meter away, maintaining a cautious distance. The reprimand continued unabated, teetering on outright verbal abuse.

What an awkward situation. It was an everyday occurrence, but watching someone get chewed out never felt comfortable.

“What’s the meaning of cutting into formation? You got lucky there wasn’t an accident, but what if there had been contact? Forget enemy planes—that would’ve been a disaster! And now you’re claiming it as your solo kill? Don’t you dare joke about this!”

The man on the receiving end of the tirade moved his lips in response. So it’s not entirely one-sided, Mikami realized, noting the movement of his mouth and the shadow of his thin nose under the flight cap’s ear flaps. But something was off.

His voice wasn’t carrying. Was it that quiet? Mikami strained his ears, wondering if something was wrong with his hearing, and caught an odd noise. It was like static interference—a fractured, strangled sound that seemed to be the man’s voice. The words came out in a harsh, rasping tone, barely audible. The pronunciation was indistinct, the meaning unclear. It sounded less like a human voice and more like the broken wailing of a weathered wind harp.

The other man seemed similarly baffled. Rather than a back-and-forth, it was all one-sided shouting. Mikami guessed the shouter simply couldn’t understand what the raspy-voiced man was saying. He ignored his responses entirely, continuing his tirade without pause. Still, as Mikami listened closely, he caught snippets of what the hoarse man was trying to say: something about safe distances and formation protocols.

The superior officer seemed oblivious, fixated on lecturing about military decorum, the spirit of the navy, and moral tales. This could drag on forever. Mikami found himself feeling sorry for the raspy-voiced pilot, who clearly wasn’t getting through. Almost instinctively, Mikami spoke up.

“Um... he’s saying, ‘I don’t need a wingman’s escort.’”

The situation was so futile that Mikami decided to relay what the man had been repeating. He barely finished speaking before the fiery glare of the commanding officer turned on him. The intensity of the anger was almost tangible, like being struck by a blow.

This isn’t about giving my own opinion, Mikami reminded himself, I’m just conveying his words.

“...‘I maintained a safe distance. Taking down enemy planes was my priority—I had no time to worry about someone else’s record,’” Mikami repeated. No sooner had he spoken than someone shoved him forward. Stumbling a step, he turned to see that it was one of the pilots who had pushed him. Speak up properly if you’re going to speak at all, the gesture seemed to say.

The raspy-voiced man grabbed Mikami by the sleeve and pulled him closer. From this angle, Mikami could see the man’s lashes and sharp nose from beneath his flight cap. The pilot glanced at him briefly and rasped something incomprehensible. Nervously glancing between the man and his furious counterpart, Mikami translated the hoarse words into something intelligible.

“‘Of course, I fulfilled my duties. Since the second plane was covering the lead, I deemed my involvement unnecessary.’”

“Unnecessary?” the furious pilot roared. “What do you think the role of the third plane is, you arrogant fool?”

His spit flew with every syllable, and Mikami instinctively wanted to hunch his shoulders. But I’ve already stepped into this mess, he thought. There’s no escaping now. Listening carefully to the raspy pilot’s wheezing voice, Mikami immediately repeated his words.

“‘The first plane leads. The second defends. The third eliminates threats.’”

“Is that what they taught you in flight school? Huh?”

“‘Which do you think takes precedence: the reality of the battlefield or flight school protocol?’”

It felt as though Mikami were stepping between two swords in a duel. His heart raced, and the sweat running down his temple and back was no longer just from the heat. It was a clammy, fearful sweat—the kind that seeps out when sensing mortal danger. I shouldn’t have gotten involved. But watching someone endure such a one-sided berating had felt unfair.

The raspy pilot’s strained verbal duel continued, and Mikami focused entirely on faithfully repeating the words. He couldn’t afford to misrepresent the man’s meaning.

“‘As a result, three enemy planes were downed. One of them was targeting Hashimoto’s unit. In other words, I widened the gap between our forces and theirs by four.’”

Mikami couldn’t help but be impressed. This guy’s an incredible pilot. If what he claimed was true, it was a victory deserving of celebratory toasts and more.

“‘The lead plane downed one, and the second had none because it was escorting. I fulfilled my mission entirely. What objection could you possibly have?’”

So this is the mindset of a pilot, Mikami mused. Even though I have nothing to do with it, just repeating his words makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something incredible. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: Every man in uniform probably dreams of saying something like this at least once in their life. But the sight of the enraged pilot in front of him, his face nearly trembling with fury, snapped Mikami back to reality.

“Your numbers might look good, but what you did was a violation of orders! It was reckless and endangered your comrades! Who gave you the right to cut in front of the second plane for your own glory?”

The opposing pilot’s eyes bulged, bloodshot with fury. At first, he had directed his retorts to the raspy-voiced man, but now his rage was focused entirely on Mikami. The gaze bore into him like a physical weight.

“‘Do you mean to say we should politely step aside and let opportunities for kills slip away?’” Mikami conveyed.

“No squadron cuts in front of a friendly plane’s nose to claim a kill!” the angry pilot roared.

The sweat poured more heavily now, and Mikami watched with dread as the man’s face turned beet red, twitching with suppressed rage. It looked as if he might grab Mikami by the collar at any moment. His fear began to fray his concentration.

Please, let this end soon. Caught in the suffocating tension, Mikami focused desperately on his task—taking in words through his ears and letting them out through his mouth. He was nothing but a speaker. That’s all. He reminded himself he wasn’t involved, even if his body felt otherwise.

“‘You should act when the opportunity arises. The enemy won’t wait for us.’”

“Do you even understand bushidō, you bastard?! Just because the numbers look good doesn’t mean you can do whatever you damn well please! Have you no sense of shame, no restraint?!”

“‘Winning is what matters,’” Mikami repeated.

“That’s the mentality of the savage Americans and British! If we abandon our honor, we’re nothing but savages! Have you forgotten your pride as a Japanese soldier?! You disgraceful—”

“‘Shut up, baldy.’”

The moment Mikami repeated the insult, a profound silence fell over the scene. Even the yelling seemed to vanish, replaced by the roar of an aircraft overhead as it streaked across the sky.

“Ah, that wasn’t me! It was him—him!” Mikami cried, his voice almost a wail. But it was too late. The furious pilot had already seized him by the collar, his face contorted into a mask of rage. I shouldn’t have said that aloud! The realization came a second too late.

“Stop, Captain! He’s just a mechanic!”

Other pilots and mechanics rushed to pull the raging officer off Mikami, but not fast enough. Mikami was shoved to the ground, and his cheek caught three hard punches before anyone could intervene.

Don’t fight back, Mikami told himself, gritting his teeth. The man wasn’t just any pilot—he was the captain. Resisting could lead to who knew what punishment. He raised his arms defensively, but even so, he was struck at least four more times.

Dust clouded the air around them as Mikami was finally dragged away, his arms supported by others who hurried him to safety. Somewhere near his feet, a voice spoke up.

“It was Asamura who said it! That guy’s just a passing mechanic!”

Through a disoriented haze—his vision still unsteady from a blow to the temple—Mikami saw the desperate gestures of other pilots trying to explain. Beyond them stood the raspy-voiced man, watching with a calm indifference. He made no move to leave or apologize. He didn’t even look ashamed, merely observing the chaos like a spectator.

What kind of nerves does this guy have?

Fighter pilots are lone wolves, rough and wild. The maintenance chief’s earlier words echoed in Mikami’s ears, each syllable hammering home its truth. It’s natural for them to have quirks. Only an eccentric could survive on Rabaul’s front lines.

“Mikami! Hey, Mikami, are you okay?”

A fellow mechanic knelt beside him, pouring water from a canteen onto a towel and pressing it to Mikami’s swollen cheek. Normally, a few punches wouldn’t bother him, but one hit must have landed badly—his vision wouldn’t focus, and though he could hear the concern in their voices, he couldn’t muster a response.

“Mikami! Stay with us! Damn it, those bastards—they’re not even coming to apologize!”

I wasn’t trying to score points, Mikami thought bitterly. I just wanted to help someone out, and this is what I get. And yet, the guy I tried to help—he just stands there, watching me like I’m some sideshow. What kind of person does that?

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