Children of the Battlefield
Chikashi Yoshida
“What is possible will not do. The safe and obvious approach will not be satisfactory. We must employ difficult methods, improbable methods, even methods deemed entirely impossible. The eyes of the world are upon us.”
—Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill
English Prime Minister
during the War with Germany
1
Summer, 1940—
The British Empire faced the greatest threat in its history.
Nazi Germany had swept through France. Now, with England as their next target, they stretched out the evil hand of invasion, with the Luftwaffe standing at the forefront of these efforts. Nightly airstrikes dropped bombs on military airports and radar stations alike.
The RAF fought desperately, but theirs was a losing battle. If the Germans gained control of the skies, their panzer divisions would land on British soil.
And England had no means to stop them.
First, England’s weapons were vastly depleted. Operation Dynamo had successfully retrieved most of the BEF from Dunkirk, but they’d been forced to leave the bulk of their heavy weaponry behind. Scarcely any firepower remained.
Morale was equally low. The surviving soldiers were battered and shaken, and the hastily assembled Home Guard existed primarily on paper, of little to no use in actual combat.
Diplomacy might prevail where military strength could not, but, despite their weakened position, London continued resisting. The fate of England wavered on the edge of oblivion, a candle in the wind.
Yet an unorthodox defensive strategy came into play. People borrowed the power of inhuman things, attempting to curse their treacherous foes. This tactic was hardly unprecedented, as there had been similar attempts made throughout the nation’s history. When Napoleon, Emperor of France, had planned to make landfall on England’s coast, Pitt the Younger’s government had employed the services of mages, witches, and alchemists to cast spells on their enemies, chanting, “Corsican Fiend, thou shalt never see Dover.”
History repeats itself. England, desperate once more, risked committing taboo in the name of magical defense…
“Air Raid Warning! Large German Squadron approaching quickly from SSW. Launch all interceptors. Repeat: Air Raid Warning! Launch fighter squadrons ASAP!”
Torn from my slumber by the roof’s loudspeaker, I reflexively flew out the window.
As the ear-splitting sirens sounded, pilots in flight suits ran this way and that. A day ago, this had been a quiet country airfield. Now, tumult and unease swirled about.
RAF fighters stood in rows on the green grass, guards swarming around them. They yelled to one another: “We finished refueling this evening, but ammo is only half done! How are the engines?”
“We won’t need to warm them in this heat, but the winds are less than ideal!”
“Better than getting bombed on the ground! Get these birds flying! Someone translate for the pilots!”
As there was nothing for an outsider to do, I was better off not getting in their way. I spied an easy chair made of pinewood, a large parasol perched behind it. I hastened toward it, knowing that was where he’d be.
“Pah! Even a glorious Pegasus like the Spitfire is a lame horse without proper crew and guards to attend her. If the mechanics at Supermarine heard this, they’d burst into tears.”
I didn’t need to hear the ranting in Japanese to know it was him. My master had been this unpleasant long before I’d ever begun serving him, but that didn’t mean I was prepared to let this pass.
I perched on the back of his chair and said, “Then no point importing them. You said the Japanese Navy would buy some if they proved themselves in battle, but at this rate, you’ll never convince the Ministry.”
“Sergeant Kirishima, you fail to understand me. The Spitfires are magnificent machines. I merely point out that their current handling leaves much to be desired. Bringing them back with us will greatly inspire the Navy Aviation Bureau. Naturally, we’d need a mountain of parts for the liquid-cooled engines, making them difficult to use domestically. Well…perhaps not. If we use them entirely on aircraft carriers, maybe there is a way…”
As I’m sure you can tell, my master was intelligent and sharp-tongued. Ordinarily I would tell you his name, but circumstances force me to withhold it.
They say the devil looks after his own, and he had in this case—my master is alive and well. To this day, he wields powerful influence in politics and business. Revealing his scandalous visit to England would create no end of trouble at home and abroad. The man himself seems to revel in the potential chaos of such a revelation, but I have no intention of getting swept up in his wake. Thus, in this piece, I shall merely describe him as Commander G. For the rest, I must rely on my reader’s discretion.
While I’m at it, let me introduce myself. My name is Kirishima. I’ve called myself by that name for a few decades now. I’m borrowing the name from the volcano where I honed my body and mind, but I’ve grown fond of it. Commander G called me Sergeant, but that was merely a nickname. I’m not in the military, and the Japanese Navy doesn’t have a rank called Sergeant anyway. When I was still in training, Commander G saw me lecturing some ill-mannered colleagues and told me I was like a drill sergeant. I’d begged him to stop calling me that, but Commander G isn’t the sort of man to change his mind.
“We’ll have to discuss a joint purchase with the army. They’re still dreaming about mainland planes, so it can’t hurt to take the lead on this. Of course, if England falls, all chances of a deal evaporate,” the commander said.
I had to argue that point. “The British Empire won’t end that easily. Look at these pilots. They’re all riled up to defend their homes.”
“Take another look, Sergeant. They aren’t even English. They’re Poles. The Germans occupy their homeland. They have nowhere else to go. This war is already over for them. They are but resting their wings here until they reach a place worth laying down their lives.” Commander G paused, silently mocking me. “Humans can live without a country, but a country cannot survive without people. By simply surviving, these men contribute to Poland’s restoration. There is no point in wasting their young lives here.”
“They’re patriotic. A quality you seem to lack.”
“You forget, Sergeant. I was a mage long before I was a soldier. I have no more patriotism than the stars that light the night. If I got hung up on that nationalistic nonsense I’d never be able to appreciate the true beauty of the world.”
“Then why stay in the military? Why not become a hermit somewhere?”
“Several reasons. First, I am at peace here. The military’s closed society is the ideal hiding place for a non-human. Secondly—”
“Don’t bother. It keeps you from getting bored, right? Like you always say.”
“Quite. Life is but a constant battle with boredom. I grow tired of being an observing officer. While God maintains his indifferent silence, allow me to assist evolution and creation,” he said.
Commander G rose to his feet and headed toward the line of sputtering Spitfires. When he rolled up his left sleeve, I knew what he was about to do.
He wore a bracelet disguised as a watch, which was giving off an unearthly glow. The Sanskrit carved into it was briefly exposed. An instant later, there was a flash of purple lightning as he began chanting at speeds that would astonish even NHK’s radio announcers.
“Eyelids, be as lead. Sleep like a maiden, fall like a hero, lie on the earth like the dead. Thy duty to oppose the rising sun…”
To kindle this spell, Commander G had sacrificed a Polish pilot; a mere boy. As Commander G’s spell finished, the lad lost consciousness and crumpled to the ground like a marionette whose strings had snapped. The RAF mechanics tried waking him, but he remained asleep.
“Looks like the pilot is out of commission! Very well! I shall fly,” said the commander.
A Cockney-accented mechanic with a beard like a daruma doll tried stopping him.
“Wait right there, guvner. You’re the observer from Tokyo, yeah? Ya join the battle, there’ll be trouble on both sides.”
“We can sort out the details once the battle is won. This base will be carpet-bombed in a matter of minutes. One less plane in the air increases the risk of such a scenario. Your countrymen’s blood, sweat, and tears made this plane. It’d be a shame to see it destroyed on the ground.”
“Don’t see how a bloody Jap’s gonna fly a Spitfire,” the man snarled.
“I can fly anything. Even a broom!”
I was the only one present who knew this wasn’t a joke. While I waffled between anxiety and resignation, Commander G quickly changed into a flight suit and climbed into the narrow cockpit.
“Ready for takeoff. Sergeant, you come, too. One must savor living on the edge of death or lose sight of true country beauty.”
“I’m more of a city boy. And the Spitfire’s a single-seater! How am I to join you?” I asked.
“My knees await!”
“Something tells me it might be a bit too snug…”
“Then fly alongside me! I won’t mind.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know my top speed’s only around seventy kilometers per hour.”
Depending on the type, a Spitfire could reach speeds of 586 kilometers per hour. I had no possible way of keeping up with one. I gave up arguing, fluttered my brown and white wings, and hopped into the space below the open canopy. The daruma-beard mechanic looked surprised.
“Guvna, ya gonna bring ya pet owl to the battlefield?”
Unruffled, Commander G replied, “This is no ordinary owl! And he’s not my pet. He’s my familiar.”
The Rolls-Royce Merlin II engine roared like a wild thing, and the plane started down the runaway. The machine had a dry weight of two tons, yet as it accelerated, the wheels easily left the ground. My body grew strangely weightless. It felt very different from flying on my own wings.
Handling the stick like an expert, Commander G cried, “What a responsive machine! No complaints on lift or speed. Wings are thin but sturdy. Should be quite easy to maneuver close to the ground. A skilled pilot could really show his strength in a dogfight.”