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since he’d been alerted to the smoke the sentries had spotted from his little outpost at Aku, east of the former Catholic mission station at Buin. They reported a crashed plane south of the Buin road down towards Moila Point. Whether Japanese or American it was vital that it be checked for survivors and possible intelligence.
    An hour later he was almost ready to give up when his nostrils detected a different combination of scents: aviation fuel and the distant, but still acrid smell of burning.
    ‘ Chūi, sā! Kono hōhōdesu .’
    The warning cry came from his left side and made Hamasuna’s heart hammer in his chest. He stumbled blindly through the bushes towards its source, shouting to the men on his right flank to follow and form a perimeter.
    It wasn’t a clearing as such, more a scar in the jungle canopy and it took time to work out what he was seeing. He’d half expected an American plane from one of the formations that pounded Rabaul every day, but the little he could see was clearly Japanese. Some kind of bomber? One part of the jungle revealed the camouflage green and silver bar of a wing propped against the bole of a large tree, as if carefully laid aside by a giant hand, the blood-red roundel of the Hinomaru almost obscured by leaves. A few metres further and the bitter smell of petroleum filled his nostrils to the exclusion of all else. Amongst blackened grass and torn branches, the dark eye of a Type 99 cannon glared out from the wreckage of the plane’s tail assembly. He noted that the inside of the perspex turret almost identically matched the hue of the Hinomaru , evidence of the certain fate of its occupant. Beyond the tail, scattered across a scorched patch of earth and surrounded by splintered branches, lay three more bodies, crushed and broken. One of them was headless and their limp, boneless poses were indicative of a condition only permitted the recently dead.
    Lieutenant Hamasuna approached them. Something wasn’t right here. His mind registered the main fuselage and one engine on a truncated, still attached, second wing, but his unease grew as he studied the uniforms of the dead men. Not air force uniforms, but navy. Tailored uniforms, with the insignia of high-ranking officers. This wasn’t a bomber, but a transport: a transport carrying important people. His breath caught in his chest. It must be reported. Hamasuna fought off panic as he tried to come to a decision. He knew he should secure the crash site, but logic told him not to split his patrol. He had few enough as it was to fight off an ambush and if he left two or three behind the likelihood was he’d return to find them with their throats slit. No. He must leave everything exactly as it was and return to Aku to call for help. But first he had to search the entire area for possible survivors.
    He was drawn to the fuselage. What other secrets did it contain? Not the pilots who would have fought to bring the plane down safely even in this impossible terrain. They would still be in the crushed and shattered nose on the far side of the clearing. Despite the smoke he judged it safe to move closer. Whatever fires had been caused by the crash had long since burned out. He walked down the side of the plane, taking in the shattered windows, the bright silver splashes where cannon shells had torn through the metal. Then, from the very corner of his eye, he saw him.
    Tomoyuki Hamasuna had served in Manchuria. He had seen death in every form and on countless occasions, but no individual death had affected him as this one did. His whole body started to shake. The man still strapped upright in his aircraft seat was instantly recognizable. Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto sat with his head slumped forward as if deep in thought. His gloved left hand rested on the hilt of his ceremonial sword, the index and middle fingers empty of the digits he had lost at the battle of Tsushima. Hamasuna took a few hesitant steps until he stood over the still figure. The