Record of Lorelei: Chapter 3

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The mechanics’ quarters, Mikami observed, were a mix of refinement and austerity. From the outside, it was as described: a high-floored structure surrounded by a deck, with impressive hinged windows. Inside, however, it was little more than a narrow space with double bunks lining both sides of a central corridor. It wasn’t as cramped as the quarters aboard a ship, but calling it spacious would’ve been a stretch.

In contrast, the pilots’ quarters Mikami had glimpsed earlier were nothing short of a palace—a two-story building painted white, gleaming like a castle in the tropical sun. He’d heard they were just as spacious inside. It makes sense, he thought. There are far fewer pilots than mechanics. Though it was hard not to feel a twinge of envy, Mikami reminded himself that this was a war zone. Compared to the conditions elsewhere, this was more than adequate.

Seated on a lower bunk, Mikami looked at the can of red bean paste he held, then placed it atop a small stack of four other cans beside him. His thoughts drifted back to the day’s earlier chaos.

It had been a rough start. After the incident with the shouting pilot, Mikami’s group had gone to introduce themselves to the squadron they would be servicing. Thankfully, the combative group they’d encountered earlier belonged to another maintenance team’s squadron, purely by chance.

The squadron assigned to Mikami’s team turned out to be cheerful and welcoming. Their captain shook hands with every mechanic, clapped them on the shoulder, and said, “We can fight with peace of mind because you all do your jobs well.” The gesture moved everyone, and as they walked back to their quarters, some even teared up. They vowed to work tirelessly to ensure the squadron’s planes were in perfect condition.

Later, as they settled into the barracks, a man came to see Mikami. He wasn’t one of the two arguing pilots from earlier, but someone from the same squadron. He apologized on their behalf, saying, “Our squadmate was terribly out of line,” and left five cans of food as a token of goodwill.

Though Mikami wasn’t pleased that the offender hadn’t come to apologize personally, it was rare for a pilot to extend an apology to a mechanic at all. Considering that it had been Mikami’s unsolicited intervention that started the trouble, he graciously accepted the cans and told the man not to worry about it.

The raspy-voiced pilot crossed his mind briefly. Was he sick? Mikami wondered. His voice was in such terrible shape, he could barely speak.

From the back of the room, Yamaoka peered out from his bunk. “Lineup’s at four. After that, tool inspections and inventory checks. The big tools are still ours to manage. We might even get a truck.”

“That’d be helpful,” Mikami replied.

“It just means there’s going to be more work,” Yamaoka said with a wry grin.

He’s probably right, Mikami thought, returning the smile. He glanced around the barracks. There were too many mechanics to count, all stationed here at Rabaul—the fortress island nicknamed the “Eagle’s Nest.” Aircraft were scattered like a school of fish with dorsal fins poking out from the scrub. On the drive from the harbor, Mikami had seen rows of Zero fighters reflecting the tropical sunlight, gleaming silver in the heat.

By the end of today, they needed to get settled. Tomorrow morning would mark the start of grueling days filled with nothing but maintenance.

That was when it struck him—something had been nagging at the back of his mind. The telegram he had sent from Natsushima Island. It should have reached him by now, he thought. But did he understand it? Did he even realize what I was referring to? Mikami itched to follow up but had no idea where to start. Asking around for a Zero pilot nicknamed “Lorelei” would be an exercise in futility. With so many Zeros in Rabaul, and if he were part of a carrier fleet, it’d be like chasing smoke.

“Mikami. Hey, Mikami!”

Someone called out from the corridor.

“Is there a Mikami from the mechanics’ aviation team?”

Mikami exchanged a glance with Yamaoka before standing. He stepped out between the bunks and into the corridor.

“I’m Mikami. Maintenance crew, flight division. Were you looking for me?”

The man, who was a stranger to Mikami, looked him up and down with curiosity. He was tall—nearly as tall as Mikami himself—with large, expressive eyes. He seemed slightly older, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven, with neatly parted hair and a spotless tropical uniform.

“So you’re the Mikami who arrived in Rabaul today,” the man said, walking straight up to him. “I’m Kido, the communications chief.”

No wonder he’s not tanned, Mikami thought. Kido was clearly an elite, likely a graduate of the communications school. Communications work was considered part of the ground crew like maintenance, but their status was higher, though not quite on par with pilots.

Since they were indoors, Mikami didn’t salute but instead offered a respectful bow.

"I'm Tetsuo Mikami, with the flight maintenance team. I arrived today. I look forward to working with you."

“Hmm. Right off the bat, eh?”

“…What do you mean?” Mikami asked, after pausing for a few seconds to consider. He wasn’t sure what Kido was referring to. Kido was looking at Mikami with a curious, amused expression.

“I heard you acted as a translator for Asamura.”

The mention of “translator” immediately brought the earlier incident to mind. The dull ache in his cheek flared up again as if on cue. So his name was Asamura, Mikami realized. If Kido knew, it must mean news of the altercation had spread. Am I about to be scolded for disrespecting a pilot? He eyed Kido cautiously, wondering how the story had been relayed to others.

“It wasn’t really translating…” Mikami replied carefully. “He was having trouble speaking, so I acted as a makeshift loudspeaker, that’s all.”

“Most people wouldn’t manage that. Did you receive special training? Intelligence work, perhaps?”

“No, just maintenance.”

“Do you have good hearing?”

“Well… now that you mention it…”

Mikami didn’t have exceptional scores in hearing tests, but he vaguely remembered people telling him he had good ears when he was young.

“I was the only one in my family who could understand my grandfather,” Mikami explained. “He’d lost most of his teeth.”

When Mikami was a child, his bedridden grandfather’s speech had been so garbled that even his mother and aunts couldn’t understand him. Mikami, however, often managed to decipher what the old man was saying. He had been the family’s only interpreter for his grandfather’s mumbling.

At this, Kido let out an unexpected snort of laughter, a sharp “Pffft!” He covered his mouth, still chuckling, and clapped Mikami on the arm.

“Hey, whatever you do, don’t tell that story in front of Rui. He’ll kill you in the dark!”

“Uh… what?” Mikami stammered, utterly confused.

“Rui has a bit of a temper.”

“Rui…?”

“Rui Asamura, First Class Petty Officer.”

So that’s his rank and name, Mikami thought. Despite being young, it made sense he’d advanced quickly given his fiery personality. Mikami sighed, aware that his bruised cheek and split lip were plainly visible.

“I see… It’s been a rough day.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Kido said, surprising Mikami with a sympathetic tone. “But you’ve helped a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rui’s voice is always like that. It’s hard for him and everyone around him. Help him out when you can.”

Kido shifted the conversation abruptly. “By the way… are you Tetsuo Mikami?”

“…Yes?” Mikami answered, now thoroughly perplexed. Why was Kido asking something so basic? But before he could inquire further, Kido burst out laughing again. His laughter carried through the barracks, and heads began to poke out from behind bunk beds as others tried to see what was happening.

“What’s so funny?” Mikami asked warily. Kido, eyes glistening with tears of laughter, composed himself enough to reply.

“Just a bit of advice—be careful when introducing yourself in public from now on.”

“Why…?” Mikami asked, genuinely baffled.

“It’s your love letter. It’s the talk of the base.”

“Love letter?” Mikami’s expression darkened. “I’ve never written anything like that.”

Not once in my life, he thought, though admitting it outright might only invite more mockery. Kido, however, ignored Mikami’s denial entirely.

“The letter to Lorelei. That was you.”

It finally clicked. Lorelei. Tetsuo Mikami. Communications. He understood what Kido was talking about: the telegram.

“That wasn’t what I meant at all!” Mikami exclaimed. “I didn’t know who to address it to, so I used Lorelei as a placeholder. It was just a message!”

But he knew it was futile to explain. Addressing it to “Lorelei” had clearly been the source of the teasing. Still, at the time, he hadn’t had another option. And anyway, did the communications officer I bribed even send the message properly? Or did he embellish it for his own amusement? Mikami gritted his teeth. I gave him a whole box of cigarettes, too!

Kido, still laughing, seemed utterly unconcerned with Mikami’s indignation.

"They posted the telegram on the outer wall of the communications building, and it was so popular that a crowd gathered to read it. Some even copied it down. It’s bound to become a storytelling classic soon—a comedy about a fool mistaking a man for a princess and writing him a love letter!”

“What!?”

Mikami was stunned. How had things escalated to this? Kido, like a seasoned storyteller, delivered the lines with dramatic flair.

“When I heard about this incredible character arriving, I imagined someone extraordinary. Turns out, you’re pretty ordinary. But you might be the first person to openly insult Lorelei so brazenly.”

Mikami froze at the comment, suddenly recalling the words of the reconnaissance officer aboard the bomber. A nickname like “Lorelei” is meant to praise the pilot’s valor. However…

“Lorelei? Sounds effeminate and creepy.”

“Wait... was that a forbidden nickname?” Mikami asked hesitantly.

Kido snorted, then burst into even louder laughter. He laughed so hard he gasped for air, tears streaming down his face. Finally, after catching his breath, he looked at Mikami with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“Lorelei is a nickname people use behind his back. And you... you sent it—through an official telegram—straight to him as an insult!” Kido’s voice cracked as he laughed again, barely able to speak.

Mikami felt the full weight of his mistake. He’d meant to send an urgent warning to help someone in danger, but instead, he’d broadcasted an unflattering nickname across the base.

“I... I apologize,” Mikami murmured. Maybe he should’ve asked for advice beforehand, but it was too late now. Still, he didn’t regret his decision to send the message. I was trying to warn him about a real danger. That wasn’t wrong.

“No, no, this sort of thing is good once in a while,” Kido said, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen Rui that furious. Keep an eye on him from now on, will you?”

“...Rui?” Mikami repeated, the name striking a chord in his memory.

“Yes. Rui Asamura. Lorelei himself.”

“Lorelei himself…” Mikami’s words trailed off, realization dawning on him.

“Yep. He said if he’d known you were Tetsuo Mikami, he would’ve punched you himself and saved the trouble.”

“I had no idea!” Mikami exclaimed.

Is this what they call Rabaul’s grand initiation? If he’d known “Lorelei” was an insult, he would’ve left the name off entirely. And now, to discover that the man he’d begrudged for his fiery temper and scolding was the very same person he’d tried to save—it was too much. A surge of anger welled up in Mikami’s chest. Rabaul’s glorious base? Hah. Everyone here seems to enjoy toying with others. It’s cruel!

Fighting the urge to cry, Mikami looked at Kido. “Who posted the telegram on the wall?”

“Who else? Obviously, it was me.”

Of course it was.

＊ ＊ ＊

Mikami collapsed onto the narrow bed, replaying the earlier conversation in his mind.

“The Lorelei who can’t sing”—what a story that turned out to be.

His head still spun slightly, though he was relieved that the day’s tasks—introductions and tool inspections—had wrapped up early. The rest of the day until evening was free, giving him some much-needed respite. He closed his eyes and sighed, only to be startled by the hurried, clattering sound of footsteps.

"Mikami! Mikami, this is bad…!"

It was Yamaoka, bursting in with a panicked expression. He informed Mikami that the maintenance division’s lieutenant colonel was calling for him. Mikami and a mechanic from another team were summoned to headquarters. The reason for the summons was clear even before they arrived.

“Mikami and Suzuki, effective today, your assignments are being changed. Serve diligently in your new units. That is all.”

The lieutenant colonel’s words made the ache in Mikami’s cheek throb all the more. Reassignments among mechanics were routine, dictated by the needs of the squadrons. But when Mikami heard where he was being sent, the intent behind the transfer became painfully obvious.

The squadron Mikami was being assigned to was the very same one involved in that morning’s altercation. Rui Asamura—Lorelei—was there too.

Is this retaliation? Or are they trying to patch things up by bringing me to their side? Maybe this is someone’s idea of an awkward olive branch. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Kido had a hand in this as well.

Bidding farewell to the maintenance team he’d met just that morning, Mikami walked toward his new assignment under the pitying gazes of his former colleagues. It stung, but he wasn’t about to let it drag him down. Whatever the reason for this reassignment, work is work. I’ll focus on my duties, no matter where I’m sent.

His new assignment turned out to be another sea of Zero fighters. Under the shade of trees, mechanics were busy at work—some attaching cowlings, others shirtless, vigorously polishing aircraft. When Mikami introduced himself, they paused their tasks to greet him. After bowing and giving a brief self-introduction, he noticed something unusual in their reactions.

“Ensign Tetsuo Mikami.”

The new team's lead mechanic, Toyoda, stepped forward, regarding Mikami with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?” Mikami said.

“You’ve been assigned as the personal maintenance chief for First Class Petty Officer Rui Asamura’s aircraft.”

“…What?” Mikami stammered.

“Whenever Asamura is scheduled to fly, you prioritize his plane. When he’s not, you’ll work on the aircraft assigned to this team. Understood?”

“Uh… personal maintenance chief? For one pilot?”

“Your response?”

“Yes, sir.”

Before he could process the implications of being promoted to a maintenance chief, Mikami’s mind spun with questions. A personal mechanic for a single pilot? That’s unheard of. And of all people—Lorelei? Are they dumping Asamura and his plane entirely on me?

Toyoda continued matter-of-factly. “Because of your new role, a replacement mechanic will join us in three days. Until then, everyone will need to work a bit harder. Stay sharp.”

“Yes, sir!” the team replied in unison.

Even as the others dispersed, Mikami’s confusion lingered. He hurried after Toyoda, determined to get answers. Though they technically shared the same title, Mikami was effectively subordinate to him.

“Excuse me, sir. What does this ‘personal maintenance chief’ role entail?”

Toyoda turned to him with a look of mild amusement, as if the answer were obvious. “It’s a special request from Ensign Towada, Lieutenant Colonel Sawaguchi from headquarters, and Communications Chief Kido. We have high hopes for you.”

“Thank you, sir. But…” Mikami trailed off. They’re pushing Asamura on me with incredible force. But why?

Toyoda seemed to sense Mikami’s unease and added, “I hear you can understand First Class Petty Officer Asamura’s speech.”

“Uh… well, yes.”

If everyone meant Asamura, then yes, Mikami could handle his raspy voice. But is that really a good reason for all this?

“Everyone struggles with him. And on top of that, First Class Petty Officer Asamura is... exceptionally particular—well, let’s call it that. Your job is to focus entirely on what he asks of you and devote yourself to maintaining his aircraft. Any questions?”

“…No, sir.”

Should I feel enlightened? Or relieved it’s no more complicated than this? Mikami couldn’t decide.

He could understand the challenge. Everyone seemed to find Asamura’s raspy voice difficult to interpret. That alone must cause plenty of headaches. Pilots’ requests often bordered on obsessive. It wasn’t enough to rely on paperwork alone to meet their needs, and there was no time for scribbled notes or written explanations in the frantic moments before a sortie—a deployment of a military aircraft on a mission, especially one that is part of a larger operation or attack.

“His plane is entirely your responsibility,” Toyoda continued. “If you need additional hands, just ask.”

“Yes, sir.”

This is too much delegation. Mikami felt confident in his maintenance skills, but to have an entire aircraft handed over to him exclusively—it was an audacious level of trust.

Trailing behind Toyoda, Mikami eventually stopped, watching the senior mechanic’s back recede into the distance. No matter who I’m assigned to, maintenance work is the same level of effort. He tried to see the positives. I’ve been named a maintenance chief, after all. If I ask for help, the team will back me up. My rations will increase. My pay will go up a bit. I even get an upgrade from a double-bunk room to a single-bed one. Perhaps it was best to count his blessings.

As he sighed, he noticed the sky again. That terrifying pink. The color had returned, staining the clouds and the sea. Today it seemed to intensify, bleeding across the horizon until the mountains and palm leaves were silhouetted in jet black, and the world took on the hue of blood.

Without much actual work done, Mikami realized his third day in the South had slipped by. What kind of day will tomorrow bring? He looked toward the sinking sun, but its violent colors—the crimson sky like molten iron rolling across the heavens—seemed to offer no clues, only a sense of foreboding.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

If only he could do something about the way he laughs, Rui Asamura often thought when looking at Kido. He’d actually look like the impressive officer he’s supposed to be.

“Ahahahaha!”

There Kido was again, obsessively re-reading the infamous telegram, laughing uproariously. Leaning on both elbows against a table on the wooden deck outside the barracks, he stomped his feet and howled as he studied the paper.

“‘To: Lorelei,’ it says! Using military communications to send an insult. It’s plaintext, so the Americans probably intercepted it too. This is gold! And a mechanic wrote it! That takes guts.”

What guts? Rui thought, sighing as he rested a hand over the flight watch on the table. It was laughable, Rui had to admit. He knew people called him names behind his back, but to hear the nickname “Lorelei” sent directly through base communications? From a mechanic he’d never even met? The sheer audacity left him with nothing but a weary resignation. Even laughing felt like too much effort.

And now that mechanic had been reassigned to Rui’s squadron. Rui could understand why the squadron commander and headquarters were involved in the decision—he’d caused enough disputes among his squadmates due to the constant misunderstandings caused by his voice. He knew they’d grown tired of shuffling personnel to accommodate the chaos.

So they’re dumping this trouble onto the one guy who can actually understand me.

Rui recalled the man’s slightly droopy eyes, his unusual height for a mechanic, and his air of overbearing helpfulness. He picked up a pencil from the table and wrote:

“Why, K?”

He couldn’t be bothered to write Kido’s full name, so he shortened it when communicating in writing.

“Me? Oh, you’re asking if I suggested Mikami?” Kido replied aloud, still grinning.

Apparently, Kido had gone so far as to request Mikami’s reassignment to their squadron, involving both headquarters and Mikami’s previous team.

“He seemed like the helpful type,” Kido said, waving the telegram paper in the air. “I thought he was a total idiot, but when I saw him, he actually seemed sharp.”

You’re a busybody, Rui thought bitterly. Kido had a knack for meddling, much like Arata Etou, the naval officer who had introduced Rui to Kido back in Japan. Etou had been equally meddlesome, taking an interest in Rui after learning about his voice. He’d gone out of his way to connect Rui with Kido before Rui’s deployment to the South Pacific, saying, “If you’re ever in trouble, rely on him.”

Are all communications officers like this? Or do they see me as some kind of rare curiosity? Rui let out a weary sigh, releasing his grip on the watch and burying his head in his hands.

It’s already decided. It didn’t matter who his mechanic was. Rui wasn’t about to forgive the embarrassment Mikami had caused by spreading his nickname across the base, but if it meant someone who could understand him and respond to his complaints, maybe it wasn’t the worst outcome.

The faint sound of scratching made Rui glance up. Kido was shading in the center of the kanji for “Lorelei” with his pencil. Staring at the pencil tip, Kido muttered, “There’s still a way to kill the American rumors, you know, Rui.”

Rui rolled his eyes. There was no way to retract leaked information. It had to be another one of Kido’s ridiculous jokes. Then Kido said something he’d repeated hundreds of times before:

“Stop making it sing.”

He was talking about the noise from Rui’s plane. No matter how many times Kido asked, no matter how many ways he phrased it, Rui’s answer was always the same: rejected. Even Kido couldn’t sway him on this.

“You don’t need to make it sing. Your skill is more than enough.”

By now, Rui’s kill count surpassed even the squadron commander’s. The reason he hadn’t been promoted above Third Wingman wasn’t because of his performance. It was because of how he looked, how he sounded, and the reputation of the family he came from—one that was despised enough to be a stain on his record. Rui picked up the pencil again and wrote:

“With making it sing, it’s better than perfect.”

And he knew he was selfish. But that, too, was something he had no intention of changing.

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