Record of Lorelei: Chapter 5

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Mikami felt utterly at a loss, a mix of exasperation and reluctant admiration swirling within him.

They weren’t kidding when they said this was Rui Asamura’s personal aircraft. He had thought it was just about that U-shaped part—a quirk born of either vanity, neurosis, or superstition—and that Asamura simply preferred to stick to one plane.

But here it was: a Zero that had effectively been turned into a shrine of eccentric modifications. With so many aircraft and pilots at the base, it was inefficient to assign specific planes to specific pilots. Typically, only the most seasoned veterans were granted exclusive use of a machine. The rest would simply grab whichever plane was flight-ready when a sortie was called, a practice that maximized efficiency.

In the high-pressure environment of a frontline base, first-come, first-served determined both flight readiness and survival rates. Yet nobody wanted to touch Asamura’s plane because of that cursed U-shaped part. This had allowed Asamura’s plane to remain perpetually available to him, and the internal state of the aircraft had turned into something else entirely. It was no wonder nobody else would choose this Zero.

Sitting with a wrench in the cramped cockpit, Mikami let out a heavy, audible sigh.

The U-shaped part might have been the most obvious issue, but running the engine and connecting the gauges revealed a host of other problems.

The flaps, for example, were over adjusted to the point of being hazardous. Moving the valve even slightly caused an abrupt, almost brake-like effect. Mishandling it could easily lead to a crash. Meanwhile, the manual supercharger was sluggish, offering a brief boost of power but risking engine burnout in the process.

This plane, with its current configuration, could never support such an impressive record, Mikami thought grimly. Asamura had likely achieved his victories through aggressive dives, rapid acceleration, and pushing the aircraft far beyond its limits. The fact that he had survived this long was nothing short of miraculous. If that luck had led him to believe he was untouchable, it was a dangerous delusion.

War offers death equally to everyone.

A bullet would kill anyone. A crash would be fatal to anyone. That was why mechanics worked so meticulously—to delay death for as long as possible.

A mechanic listens to the voice of the aircraft.

I want to bring down the enemy, the plane seemed to cry out.

I don’t care if I die.

What had driven Asamura to such extremes? Mikami didn’t know, but he found the idea intolerable.

How far should he go with adjustments? Returning the plane to a standard configuration in one swoop might be just as dangerous as leaving it as-is. An overhaul was one option, but time was limited. A more practical approach would be to balance the adjustments incrementally, leaning toward a universal setup while maintaining the plane’s operational readiness. He’d need to consider Asamura’s temperament as well.

The first priority was that absurdly sensitive flap. One press of the switch, and it snaps like a twig, Mikami thought bitterly.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

The mechanics who had enabled Asamura’s whims were at fault, and so was Asamura for believing he could return alive under such conditions.

“He’s really gonna get himself killed.”

Mikami spoke the thought aloud as he removed the floorboard. With the U-shaped part gone, the next target was the "killer flap." As he started tracing the wiring, the wail of a siren began to rise ominously, spilling into the sky like ink in water.

The alarm’s eerie sound filled the air, joined by the clanging of bells. Emergency scramble.

“Air raid! Air raid!”

“Move it! Get the planes ready for takeoff!”

The maintenance hangar transformed into chaos. Mikami hurriedly shoved his tools back into their box and scrambled out of the cockpit.

“Enemy attack! Scramble everything! Get every plane airborne! We’re about to get bombed!”

Under attack, there was no time for fully inspected, mission-ready aircraft. The priority was to get as many planes off the ground as possible. Planes left on the ground would be sitting ducks, doomed to be destroyed in the coming barrage.

As Mikami stepped down from the Zero’s cockpit, he spotted pilots rushing out of their quarters, flight goggles and caps in hand. Among them was Asamura, heading straight for him. Mikami hesitated but then made up his mind. He got down from the Zero and positioned himself at the root of the wing, standing squarely in Asamura’s path.

“This plane isn’t fit to fly today. Please take a different aircraft!”

It was Asamura’s turn to fly. If Mikami handed over the plane, Asamura would join the formation and head into the engagement. But Mikami couldn’t allow that. This machine is not flightworthy. He didn’t know how Asamura had managed to fight up until now, but from Mikami’s perspective, this aircraft was a deathtrap. It could not go into combat.

“Move,” Asamura ordered.

“I won’t. This plane is defective!”

Even as Mikami stood his ground, the assembly-line efficiency of the airfield continued around him. Mechanics loaded ammunition and began turning the inertia starter.

If it comes to the worst, I’ll have to take this plane myself to get it out of harm’s way during the raid, Mikami thought grimly.

“You’re the one who made it unfit to fly! Now get out of my way!” Asamura’s fiery eyes bore into him.

“I refuse!”

“Step aside, Mikami!”

The ones to intervene weren’t Asamura’s men—they were Mikami’s fellow mechanics. Three of them grabbed him, pinning his arms and dragging him back from the plane. Mikami stared at them in disbelief, but one of them, gripping his left arm tightly, leaned in to shout in his ear.

“You’re overstepping! Mikami, you’ve gotten too full of yourself!”

“But I’m responsible for the maintenance of this plane!” Mikami retorted.

“This is an emergency, you idiot!”

“Precisely! Which is why you have to let me go!”

Mikami couldn’t let a valuable pilot die because of a faulty aircraft. But leaving this plane grounded to be destroyed in a bombing run was also out of the question. Asamura’s claim that he was taking it for evacuation was an obvious lie. There was no way Mikami could hand this machine over to him.

Struggling against the restraint, Mikami shouted at Asamura, “Don’t join the formation! Evacuate north instead! If you fly with this setup, you’ll get shot down!”

Asamura, now receiving a boost up from the other mechanics, turned to glare down at Mikami. His eyes radiated contempt. Without a word, he climbed into the cockpit, barely adjusting the seat before starting to taxi slowly through the thickets.

“Please, First Class Petty Officer Asamura!” Mikami called out desperately, his voice rising to a shout. But the rattle and grind of the still-warming engine drowned him out as the Zero taxied off, louder than usual.

As the distance grew, Mikami felt the hands restraining him quietly release. He stood there, stunned, until someone clapped him hard on the back.

“Snap out of it, Mikami! Let’s go!”

Another mechanic, tools in hand, rushed past him toward the next plane.

Asamura was airborne now, and Mikami had no choice but to set his focus on helping launch the other Zeros. They had to get every single plane into the air before the bombs began to fall. Until then, there was no escape from the raid for anyone on the ground.

＊ ＊ ＊

The aircraft under Mikami’s care managed to retreat safely, but several planes parked at the airfield’s pocket were reportedly destroyed by the bombing.

After ensuring all their assigned aircraft had taken off, Mikami and the other mechanics took shelter in a bombproof bunker dug into the rock. The enemy air raid was brief, as usual. Once the enemy bombers, droning like carpenter bees, had dropped their payloads, they retreated.

When Mikami first arrived, he was shocked that Rabaul, supposedly overwhelmingly superior, could be subject to air raids. However, he soon learned that such attacks had been frequent for some time. The enemy's attacks had increased in frequency, and interception alone was no longer sufficient.

As the raid subsided, the aircraft that had fled north began to return. Mikami and the others raced back toward the airfield, running through the coconut groves thick with the acrid stench of napalm residue.

The airfield was in chaos. Ground crews scrambled to assess the damage, inspecting craters and unfurling signal banners to indicate whether the runway was usable. Mikami and his team loaded into a truck to head for the still-functional runway.

After enduring multiple raids in recent days, several runways were now out of commission. The operational strips were packed with activity, and aircraft had to be quickly moved into the trees after landing to clear the way for the next arrivals. Any delay could mean disaster for those still in the air.

While assisting one incoming plane after another, Mikami kept glancing up at the sky.

A ground crewman, binoculars pressed to his eyes, suddenly shouted, “A Zero is coming in! No fire! No smoke! Landing gear intact!”

If a plane had visible issues—like one landing gear not extending—the ground crew had to scatter immediately. A crash landing could send the aircraft skidding across the ground, destroying everything in its path. If the plane was on fire, there was a high risk of an explosion upon landing, and everyone would take cover behind sandbags or retreat to a safe distance, only approaching once it had stopped.

If Asamura was safe, he should be returning soon.

As if on cue, Asamura’s plane appeared in the distance. Without any major damage, it descended smoothly onto the most intact stretch of the runway. As expected of a former carrier pilot, his landing was a textbook three-point touchdown, with a commendably short rollout. The ground crew and mechanics, including Mikami, sprinted toward the plane, Mikami leading the charge.

Though exhausted from the scramble, Mikami was determined to confront Asamura. This time, he would make him promise never to reinstall the U-shaped fitting. He would convince him to revert the aircraft to a standard configuration, suitable for anyone to fly. It was the only way to ensure both the squadron’s efficiency and Asamura’s safety. With a universal setup, Asamura could switch to whichever plane was in the best condition at any given time.

As the canopy opened, Asamura began unfastening his safety harness. Mikami rushed forward to help him disembark, but before he could reach him, an unfamiliar pilot shoved him roughly aside, fury etched into his features.

“Asamura, you bastard!”

The large man hurled his flight cap to the ground, not even waiting for Asamura to climb down before attempting to mount the Zero himself.

“Why the hell did you cut in front of me, Asamura? That was my target! I was about to take it down! How many times do you have to pull this crap?!”

“Calm down, First Class Petty Officer Honjo! We need to move the plane to the hangar; step away!” shouted one of the ground crew, trying to restrain him.

“You damn vulture! Have you no shame, Asamura?!”

A flurry of ground crew members rushed to pull Honjo off the plane. Mikami hurried to assist. Tempers running high before or after sorties often resulted in brawls among the pilots, and this time was no exception.

“You’re nothing but a beast chasing glory! You only care about your record. Is your so-called honor worth trampling over your squadmates to claim another kill? Aren’t you ashamed to resort to such cowardly tactics? This goes against everything bushidō stands for!”

“Shouting about it here won’t solve anything! Talk it out later!”

Amidst the commotion by the wing root, Mikami caught sight of Asamura standing beside the cockpit, looking down at them with a detached expression. The harsh backlight of the sun made him appear almost spectral as he adjusted the white scarf at his neck. His lips curled into a faint, mocking smile as he spoke.

“Glory is all that matters.”

Mikami froze for a moment, then made a decision. He released Honjo and climbed onto the Zero, grabbing Asamura by the arm before he could react. Without giving him a chance to protest, Mikami hoisted him over his shoulder and jumped down to the ground.

“Mikami!”

“I’m borrowing the First Class Petty Officer!” Mikami shouted and bolted toward the thicket, carrying Asamura like a sack of rice.

Leaving the plane behind felt like a betrayal to Mikami’s professional pride, but planes could be replaced—Asamura could not.

“Bring him back here, Mikami! Running away is cowardly! Asamura, come back and grovel! Slice your belly open, you disgrace!”

Honjo’s enraged screams faded behind them as Mikami plunged into the dry, crackling branches of the underbrush.

“Let me go, Mikami! Put me down!”

Asamura’s raspy voice broke through the rustling foliage as he pounded against Mikami’s back. Ignoring the blows, Mikami pushed further until they reached a secluded spot. Without hesitation, he dropped Asamura to the ground, ensuring he landed on his feet, though the sudden motion sent him stumbling into a palm tree. Asamura leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Mikami, equally winded, glared at him and barked, “You need to stop this!”

He had thought Asamura was just a fool blinded by success, convinced he was invincible because of his good fortune. Or maybe he was so accustomed to having his way that he didn’t realize how dangerous his customizations were.

But no. Looking into Asamura’s eyes—those strikingly blue eyes, unnervingly clear and sharp—Mikami saw something far worse. Self-destruction. A man not fighting to win, but to die.

“You’re not fighting to win, are you? You’re fighting to die. Every reckless adjustment you demand, every risk you take, it’s all because you don’t care whether you live or die, isn’t it?”

Pilots might dismiss mechanics as mere grease monkeys, but Mikami knew better. The planes spoke to him. And this one screamed of its pilot’s recklessness.

Asamura stared back at Mikami with an inscrutable expression, a mixture of curiosity and cold detachment. Slowly, he pushed himself upright and tilted his head, his body language radiating a languid defiance. His eyes, a haunting shade of blue-gray, seemed to shimmer like the depths of an icy lake.

“Do you know why my voice is like this?”

“…No,” Mikami admitted. He had heard from Kido that Asamura’s voice was permanently damaged, but he had never learned the cause. It hadn’t seemed relevant; they could communicate well enough.

Fixing his gaze squarely on Mikami, Asamura forced his broken voice into words, each syllable grinding out like stones against his throat.

“The Asamura family was disgraced in the homeland. My father died with false charges hanging over him, and I… I lost my voice and was scarred when I was doused with hydrochloric acid.”

Unfastening his scarf and unbuttoning the top of his flight suit, Asamura revealed his neck and chest. The skin was marred by white keloid scars that glistened in the light, pulling taut against the surrounding tissue. The disfigurement stretched down toward his chest, stark and unyielding.

“The worst disgrace was my father’s. My body, my voice—these scars—they are the shame of the Asamura family. How do you think I can erase them?”

“I…” Mikami faltered, unable to respond. The abrupt confession left him reeling. Asamura’s fixation on earning glory and his willingness to die in battle—was it all for this? To redeem his family’s honor through a heroic death?

But could that truly justify his actions? His recklessness? His refusal to value his own life? The questions churned in Mikami’s mind, leaving him at a loss for words.

“I don’t know what happened to you, but if you work earnestly in the military, people will recognize you without you needing to do this!”

Whatever his circumstances back in the homeland, this was Rabaul—the critical hub of the air base, the southern fortress, and a shining beacon of glory for the Imperial Japanese Navy. The elite Zero Fighter squadrons gathered here, representing the pinnacle of honor. Anyone who proved their worth here would inevitably be acknowledged. Risking one’s life in the sky for fleeting admiration was unnecessary; a much greater honor awaited those who lived and contributed. Yet, Asamura’s eyes remained cold, their gray-blue depths like ice, sharp enough to burn in their freezing intensity.

“What color do my eyes look to you?” he asked.

Mikami hesitated, caught off guard.

“…They don’t look black,” he answered cautiously, gauging Asamura’s expression. His eyes were an enigmatic hue—neither clearly blue nor gray, shifting with the light and hinting at green. Around the deep irises, golden streaks radiated outward like needles. They were unlike anything Mikami had ever seen. Was Asamura even Japanese? If not, why was he here?

“My father and mother were both Japanese. I took after both of them… except for these eyes.”

The confession didn’t reveal much about his background, but Mikami could imagine the hardships he must have faced. He recalled a classmate at mechanics school who was teased relentlessly for his red, curly hair, accused of being American. The military was no place for individuality; conformity was law. Eyes like Asamura’s would make him a glaring outcast in a military that prided itself on the purity of the Yamato race. These were difficult times—Mikami had heard recently that dolls with blue eyes had been burned en masse back in Japan.

“No matter how prestigious the base, with these eyes, I’ll never be evaluated fairly. For my family’s sake, I must achieve such an overwhelming feat of valor that no one can question it. Quiet accomplishments won’t suffice. The only thing that speaks loud enough is my kill count.”

Asamura hadn’t lived an easy life. Perhaps this explained why Kido had always defended him.

“But that’s a separate matter,” Mikami said firmly.

Whatever his reasons, risking his life in a dangerous aircraft was wrong. Mikami’s conviction as a mechanic was unshakable: putting a pilot in harm’s way with an unsafe plane was unacceptable.

Asamura looked at him as if he were a curiosity, speaking with a tone almost like he was lecturing a child.

“I don’t care about this war. Winning just makes things better. I came here to achieve a glorious death—to down as many enemy planes as I can before I explode and die.”

He smiled faintly, his sharp, chiseled face unnervingly composed.

“One day, I’ll go out in a blaze.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

The words escaped Mikami before he could think, like a shout of pain. Asamura’s logic was horrifying. Yet, how could he counter it?

To regain his family’s honor, Asamura sought a death worthy of admiration. But how could dying prove anything? Mikami’s mind raced, but he realized he already knew the answer:

I don’t care about this war.

With those words, Asamura had invalidated every argument Mikami could offer. What was the point of fighting, then? To Mikami, the purpose was clear: to secure a future for Japan, its people, and their families. That was why they were here, battling disease, sweat, and mud in this alien southern land.

Asamura stepped away from the palm tree, his gaze still fixed on Mikami. Slowly, he approached, his boots crunching on the dry grass.

“No matter how noble your goals may be, outwardly, we’re the same. I’m part of the aviation corps, a demon tasked with bringing down enemy planes. If I’m shot down, no one will distinguish between me and the others who died today.”

It didn’t matter what drove him to fight. Once dead, all that remained was the tally of kills. Whether you laughed or cried as you brought down your enemies, the result was the same: one more kill to your name.

"I will shoot down enemy planes and become a hero. I’ll go to Yasukuni and become a god... Hey, Mikami."

Mikami froze at the sound of his name.

Asamura’s bored-looking eyes fixed on him, sharp and cold.

"If there’s a glory greater than that, tell me."

A glory greater than death. A hero’s tale beyond dying in battle.

Mikami felt himself trembling. The thought that a pilot he had prepared and sent into the skies today harbored such intentions terrified him to his core. The idea of maintaining a Zero fighter for a pilot bent on becoming a death god—a spectral Lorelei—was unbearable.

He fought to keep his voice steady, though it threatened to waver under the weight of his emotion. Gathering his strength, he met Asamura’s unsettling blue gaze, his own eyes brimming with defiance.

“Live… live, and return to the homeland.”

It was Mikami’s unshakable truth. He couldn’t fight in the air, but as a mechanic, he had his own conviction. They were fighting to win the war and return home to Japan, all of them, together. That belief was why Mikami worked tirelessly to maintain every aircraft—fighters, transport planes, reconnaissance planes—with equal care and determination.

A hoarse laugh escaped from Asamura’s lips. Adjusting the collar of his flight suit, he brushed past Mikami without a word. Mikami could only clench his teeth and watch him go.

I can’t stop him—not now. He felt it deep in his chest, the futility of trying. No matter what he said, some vast, shadowy force within Asamura would consume him effortlessly.

He’s wrong. I know he’s wrong. And yet, Mikami’s inability to convey that truth, to offer anything but his own feeble words, made him feel pathetic and powerless. Still, no matter how small or naive it seemed, this was Mikami’s truth, and he would never let it go.

Asamura’s figure disappeared into the brush.

Mikami wanted to call out to him, to shout at him to reconsider. But no words came. His well of persuasion was dry, as barren as a lifeless, parched well.

＊ ＊ ＊

After parting ways with Mikami, Asamura emerged from the thicket and walked toward the barracks. He glanced at a medic rushing by, his expression tense, and kept treading the red volcanic soil that kicked up ash with every step. Shouts echoed from all directions. Smoke pillars rose between the palm trees, and the jungle’s edge still flickered with fire.

The base, ravaged by the air raid, buzzed like a disturbed anthill.

“Hurry up! Move it!”

People poured out of bomb shelters in a frantic rush. Medics dashed back and forth, while the kitchen staff cautiously peeked at the sky before reigniting fires, carrying kettles and griddles to makeshift spots for cooking. After air raids, meals were often war rations—distributed cans of food. Somewhere along the way, Asamura had ended up with a can of corn and one of mackerel. He was told to get proper rice from the pilot tents, but his exhaustion dulled his hunger.

He checked the bulletin board, which reported that the barracks had burned down. Near the jungle’s edge, hastily assembled shacks of palm pillars and panel walls were popping up. Calling over a ground crew member, Asamura scrawled “I want to rest” in his notebook and showed it to him. The crew member, eyeing him with mild confusion, pointed toward a finished shack.

A squad member stationed at the front confirmed Asamura’s unit and told him he could pick any available spot. The structure was simple: a roof of banana and palm leaves over panel walls, with a wobbly panel floor that creaked underfoot. Inside, mosquito nets partitioned the space into individual sleeping quarters. Asamura took one by the back wall.

The interior held little more than a grass mat and a crude pillow made from bundled dried grass with the ends cut. He retrieved the knapsack he’d checked before his sortie, stripped off his flight suit, and changed into lighter clothing. Until the next air raid alarm sounded, he had the rest of the day off. He lay down and closed his eyes.

"..."

The extreme pressure difference between sky and ground still lingered in his body, making his head spin even as he lay still. His brain felt like it was swirling, as if being pulled into a black vortex.

One enemy plane shot down today. If he’d had the U-shaped part, he could have taken down two more. Despite thinking he had mastered predictive angles, the difference with and without that part was glaring. He had pushed himself far harder today because of its absence.

Though the hypersensitive flaps allowed for sharper climbs and dives, his body struggled to keep up. Once again, his vision blacked out during a steep climb. The blood drained from his head and pooled in his lower body, leaving his brain as hollow as a sponge. He knew if it worsened, he would pass out, but he couldn’t allow that. Recklessly pursuing kills was one thing, but crashing without a single victory was meaningless.

This is all that guy’s fault. Asamura thought of the new mechanic, Mikami.

"Live... live, and return to the homeland."

The memory of Mikami’s earnest words almost made him laugh. The audacity of such a naive statement directed at someone like him was laughable.

A sharp, piercing ringing filled Asamura's ears. His head ached. The symptoms of flight sickness were returning. His body couldn’t endure the sudden changes in pressure and gravity, leading to dizziness, headaches, nausea, chest tightness, and sometimes even asthma. Rest was essential. While on the ground, he needed nourishment and peace to recover. If the condition didn’t properly subside, it could worsen. Flying again before the symptoms abated would only make them flare up more easily and severely. Once this ringing started, it would linger for a while.

On days like this, the only solution is to sleep, he thought. Throwing himself into slumber, even briefly, should calm the ringing and dizziness.

But as he surrendered to the drowsiness pulling him down like a whirlpool, the smell of smoke from outside caught his nose. Acrid. The unmistakable stench of burning green wood mixed with oil.

No. The thought surged up in his mind.

I can’t sleep now. If he let himself drift off, that dream would come.

He tried to jolt himself awake but was too late. His limbs felt numb, as though bound, and his head swirled with an iron-sand storm, heavy and uncontrollable. He wanted to scream for someone to wake him, but his throat trembled soundlessly, and even his lips refused to move.

I don’t want to see that dream.

Father. Father, I swear I’ll clear your name.

One plane today. Three before that. And before that…

As his consciousness sank deeper, Asamura clung desperately to the memory of his late parents, offering up the tally of his kills like desperate prayers.

But no matter how many victories he racked up, the cords of memory that bound him only dug deeper into his flesh. At the bottom of the swirling abyss of sleep, what awaited him was the powerless, defenseless seventeen-year-old he had once been.

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