by Jeff Shaara
To his right, Tomioka raised a wineglass. “To our diplomats, and the hope for a peaceful solution.”
Yamamoto had no glass, could only watch the other two complete the toast. He made his bow, then stepped into the cool air of the corridor, inhaled deeply, tried to wash away the stagnant air. So, he thought, Nagano believes we are to perish no matter what we do. Unless, of course, our diplomats talk our way clear, negotiate away all our differences. Yes, diplomacy is a wonderful thing. And if there is a significant agreement, even if our ships are already on the sea, then we shall turn them around, and celebrate the peace.
He stepped outside into a gentle coolness, a fluttering of leaves from the trees. He stopped, still rolling Nagano’s words through his mind. He laughed to himself, thought of the new prime minister, Hideki Tojo. I do not believe Tojo or anyone from his command in the army will happily bow to the diplomats. Even my own commanders, those young fliers, the men who train for Genda, even they are filled with the fire. What would a sudden declaration of peace do to them, to those who have trained so hard? To extinguish their spirit at this hour would crush their morale. Diplomacy is a wonderful thing, certainly. But it is too late.
OMURA AIR BASE, NEAR NAGASAKI, JAPAN—FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1941
The plane was in a steep dive, its speed increasing. Yamamoto stepped back slightly, butterflies in his gut. He watched without breathing, the plane only a few hundred feet above the ground, and Yamamoto began to flinch, thought, No, too low. He saw the dummy bomb released, the target a heavy crate in the field beside him. But he ignored that, his eyes still on the plane as it leveled out, the pilot bringing it closer to the ground than Yamamoto had ever seen a plane fly. Then it rose in a shallow climb, banked in a sharp turn, and flew straight overhead, with a slight waggle of the wings. He felt his hands shaking, laughed to himself. There is a good reason you remain on the ground.
Beside him, he could feel Genda’s pride, but even that was overshadowed by the ebullient enthusiasm of Commander Fuchida.
“There, as I promised, Admiral. Lieutenant Hoda has hit the target perfectly. He shall lead one of the dive bomber groups. I have absolute confidence in his abilities.”
Yamamoto put his hands behind his back, a show of bored disinterest. There would be no fuel for Fuchida’s zeal, not yet.
Yamamoto glanced skyward again. “We are on a hard surface, with little wind. How can anyone say these men will be perfect when the enemy fills the air with fire?”
He could see Fuchida preparing an objection, red-faced. Genda interrupted.
“Commander Fuchida has done exemplary work training these pilots, sir. They are ordered to make as many as six takeoffs each day, navigating to a distant target. This demonstration was for you, to show their improvement in accuracy. No one expects perfection.”
Fuchida still seemed anxious for a compliment, and Yamamoto turned to Genda. “I am aware of your numbers and your percentages, Commander. It is not necessary to treat me as some tourist.”
Genda dropped his head. “Certainly not, sir. Please forgive me. It is just that I am extremely pleased with our progress, as is Commander Fuchida. Every man in my group shares respect for him. We all believe that you chose the right man to lead the assault.”
Yamamoto turned away again, hands still locked behind his back. “I have known Commander Fuchida for several years. He will perform as I anticipate. There is no alternative to that.” He looked toward Fuchida now. “Am I correct, Commander?”
Fuchida said, “I am humbled by your confidence in me, sir. I shall not disappoint.”
Behind Yamamoto, his chief of staff, Ugaki, said, “Sir, Commander Genda’s staff, and the others, are waiting in the map room.”
“They can wait. Commander Fuchida, are the training operations improving to your satisfaction in all areas, or just the dive bombers?”
Fuchida seemed to explode at the opportunity to brag about his pilots. “Quite, sir. The fighter squadrons have been practicing formations, and have become extremely proficient with their carrier landings. The same is true for the high-level bombers. As you know, sir, that is where I shall be, observing from above as the dive bombers and torpedo bombers make their attacks. I am most proud of the men, sir, most proud. Their proficiency has improved each week.”
Yamamoto didn’t need Fuchida to tell him the obvious. “They are pilots, yes? They were chosen to fly airplanes because they could be taught to fly airplanes. When they learned their lessons, they performed as they were taught. That is the way it should work, yes?”
Genda held a hand out, quieting Fuchida, said to Yamamoto, “Yes, sir. Certainly. I would only like to add, sir, that ever since you chose Commander Fuchida to command the actual air assault, the training schedules of these men have produced the results I had hoped for as well.”
Yamamoto smiled to himself. Yes, you are learning, Mr. Genda. One does not need to heap praise on a warrior. He must earn that in his own mind. If he does not have such confidence, he will not succeed. And that is fatal.
He could feel Ugaki moving behind him, the nervous energy of a man who embraces a schedule. Beside him was the naval air base commander, Captain Aki, a stern-faced man who seemed annoyed that the commander in chief was taking up his time. But like most of the officers in the fleet, he kept his grumbling to himself. Yamamoto turned to him. “Captain, we shall retire to your map room. Commander Genda and I have much to discuss, and the others are no doubt tired of drinking too many cups of your tea.”
Aki snapped to attention, an unnecessary gesture. “Right away, Admiral. My aide shall escort you.”
Yamamoto saw the aide, a young petty officer, wide-eyed, in a stiff pose, nervousness in his face. “Right now would be acceptable.”
They stepped inside a block building, a stairway leading down, then another. Yamamoto trod carefully, could feel Genda behind him, heard a whispered voice, Genda speaking quietly to himself, as though rehearsing what he had to say. Yamamoto smiled and thought, I am fortunate to have such passion and such efficiency, talent, and energy all in one man. Perhaps a touch of insanity as well. Perhaps they all should have that.
The aide stood aside beside the open door to a long rectangular room, a dozen men seated around a large table.
The aide said, “Sir, I am at your disposal if there is anything you require. I will remain very close outside the door.”
Yamamoto moved past him, trailed by Genda, and Yamamoto turned back toward the young man, said, “Not too close, Petty Officer. One should not exercise his ears where there is nothing to be heard.”
The young man seemed to understand, backed away as Yamamoto closed the door. The others rose in unison, offered short bows. The chairs at each end of the table were vacant, and Genda moved to the far end.
Yamamoto took his seat, and said, “Sit down, all of you. I have grown tired of meetings, and I would like this to be a short one.”
They resumed their places around the table, and he saw their faces, saw young, ambitious men who were very good at what they did, men who could impress Genda with their skills. He spoke slowly, letting his guard down for a moment. “You know, I miss my own quarters on my flagship, the familiar bed. I admit to missing my own chef. Perhaps many of you shall reach command one day. You will know of these things, you will know that I do not speak to embarrass you, or shame you. When we began to design this operation, a year ago, I knew there would be decisions to be made. But I did not know just how many. You have made many of them for me, and I am grateful.”
He ran out of words, admonished himself for offering compliments to men he barely knew. On the far side of the table, Genda was kneeling before a small safe, twirling the dial.
“Commander, you brought a safe with you?”
Genda stood, a sheaf of paper in his hand. “Oh, no, sir. Captain Aki was gracious in his offer. He understands how sensitive my work is, how careful we must be. I
t is as you ordered it, sir.”
“I know my own orders, Commander. Let’s get on with it.”
He regretted the words, had no reason to fault Genda. And the decision today was vital to the entire mission.
Genda laid the papers on the map table, unfolded three different sheets of paper. One of his men smoothed out the creases.
“Sir, I believe it is the appropriate time to select the route that our fleet shall navigate on its course toward Hawaii.” Genda seemed energized now. He pointed to the first paper, a map of the South Pacific. “Sir, my men and I have narrowed our options down to three potential routes. The two more southerly routes would assume a substantial risk of discovery by American ships of all kinds, from surface to submarines, as well as by merchant ships from every country. The one advantage of those routes is that they offer calmer seas. Another route was considered that would shorten the distance of the journey by aiming the fleet in much more of a straight line from Japan to Hawaii. But that passage too would prove vulnerable to American contact along the way.”
He paused, his black eyes burning, and glanced quickly at Yamamoto. “My personal choice, sir, and the one that is now the consensus of my officers, is the northern route. We would depart from the more northern anchorages in the less-inhabited Kirile Islands, thus affording us secrecy from the prying eyes of the general population.” He leaned closer to the map, moved his finger along the paper. “This route is least likely to encounter merchant traffic, which avoids this area of the sea during the colder months. The water is simply too rough for most merchant ships.”
“But not for warships?”
Genda looked up at him, a demonic smile. “Our warships can take rough seas, especially if they know how this increases our chances of success.” He returned to the map. “When the fleet reaches a point approximately here…one thousand miles north of Honolulu, the ships would turn due south, and approach Oahu from the north, halting at a point two hundred miles from their target. It is our estimation that even if the Americans are searching the skies with their reconnaissance missions, they would be unlikely to place any priority on the northerly direction.”
Yamamoto scanned the map, rubbed his chin with one hand, looked at the others. “Were there significant objections to this particular route?”
Close by, Lieutenant Koba said to Genda, “Sir, with your permission?”
Genda nodded, and Koba said, “Sir, I have been working with Admiral Kusaka, and he also selected the northern route. I discussed the specifics with Admiral Nagumo’s navigation officer, Commander Sasabe. He agrees as well.”
Yamamoto said, “And Admiral Nagumo? How much hand-wringing has he done?”
Genda let out a breath. “Sir, it is not my place to inquire, but I must address this. Why was Admiral Nagumo chosen to command the fleet?”
“You’re right, Commander. It is not your place. I will only say that he has seniority, and he is a favorite of several of those above me who graciously approved this plan. I have not spoken with him this week. What are his concerns?”
“Sir, he does not believe this mission can be kept secret from the enemy. Thus, he offers no approval of any of these proposed routes, no matter the soundness of the arguments. He seems uncomfortable with me every time we confer.”
Yamamoto thought, You mean he thinks you’re a lunatic? He is not alone.
Genda was showing a hint of frustration, and Yamamoto knew what was coming.
“Sir, I believe Admiral Nagumo must be instructed which route the fleet shall take.”
Yamamoto let out a low laugh. “You mean, I must order him.”
“If you insist, sir.”
Yamamoto sat back, scanned the map again, caught smiles on several of the young faces around him. “You are all pilots, yes?”
Genda stood tall, straight, stared at the wall above Yamamoto’s head. “They are the finest pilots in the world. They each will lead a significant portion of the attack, as they serve Commander Fuchida.”
There was a light rap on the door, and Yamamoto waited for Genda to roll up his papers, then said, “You may enter.”
He saw Captain Aki’s aide, and another man, the uniform of a lieutenant.
“Sir, please forgive the interruption. This man has a message for Commander Genda.”
Yamamoto turned toward Genda, who seemed puzzled.
“Sir, I wasn’t expecting anyone…Only a very few people know I am here.”
The man bowed, handed him a fat envelope, and quickly stepped out.
Yamamoto said, “Might we all know, Commander, why someone knew to find you in a classified location?”
Genda stared hard at the envelope, tore it open, read for a brief moment, and then offered a rare smile.
“Sir, it is from Ensign Kito, of my staff.” He sat down, another rarity. “Sir, we had engaged the Mitsubishi company to work on the challenge of constructing a torpedo that would function effectively in shallow water. Please forgive me, sir. I need to examine these numbers.”
Yamamoto waited patiently, knew how important this could be. “So, have they succeeded? Or are we doomed to plant our best weapon into the mud of Pearl Harbor?”
“Sir, at your instruction, I approached Mr. Fukuda, the chairman of Mitsubishi, about this problem some months ago. As you know, we are highly indebted to the company for its design and production of our A6M Zero aircraft.”
“I’m waiting, Commander.”
The smile returned, and Genda said, “Sir, they have tested a mechanism that attaches to the torpedo’s fins. When the torpedo impacts the water, the device falls away. But in doing so, it effectively slows the dive, so that the torpedo levels out far more quickly. There are test results here that demonstrate the torpedo to be effective in less than forty feet of water, perhaps a good deal less. They are to begin manufacture of the new devices immediately, and will deliver them as quickly as possible, possibly by mid-November.”
“That’s a little late, isn’t it?”
“Well, sir, they’ve begun delivering the first few now, so that we may begin our own tests. Sir, this is the best we could have hoped for. They have created a new technology.”
Yamamoto thumbed through the documents, saw graphs, angles of descent, arcs of approach to a target. “So, what kind of device did they come up with? Is it electrical, fuel-driven?”
Genda looked away, seemed hesitant, and Yamamoto put down the papers.
“What kind of device, Commander?”
“Um, sir, for lack of any better description…it’s a wooden box.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Biggs
PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1941
The ordeal of the dry dock repairs was supposed to last only a few days. It had surprised Biggs that the crew stayed aboard the Arizona as the ship maneuvered slowly into the great trough. The massive gate closed her inside, then the water was pumped away, leaving the ship fully exposed. But life on the ship went on: the same duties, and often, the same monotony. Biggs had been called to duty with many others to add one more coat of paint to the steel. But this paint was different, a darker gray, while the superstructure was painted a much lighter color.
As the first grueling day ended, Biggs was one of many who had asked the petty officers about the difference in color. The explanation had to do with camouflage, that at sea, the color scheme would make the ship more difficult to see at long distance. Biggs and many others had asked: Why? There was no good answer, the crewmen around him assuming it was one more dose of nonsense. Even with the Arizona perched high and dry, orders had come down from command that when the ship again put to sea, the drills would be more serious, the casual maneuverings tightening up. For the first time, the newer recruits would run through their drills as though war was very close. At sea, the lookouts would pay special attention to the signs of enemy submarines, and t
his was not a drill. What no one seemed able to answer was just who the enemy might be.
For Biggs, the urgency of the new duties had spread even to sick bay, both doctors double-checking supplies and instruments, as if preparing for the worst. The worst what, he had no idea. His job was to do what he was told. And the doctors knew as little as he did. Their orders were as simple as those given to every crewman on the ship: Make ready.
With the ship scheduled to remain under repair for at least several more days, Biggs had secured a liberty pass, and not even Kincaid seemed to care. Rumors had begun to fly that when the Arizona finally floated out of dry dock, she would be at sea for perhaps a very long time. Rumors spread that they were going to the Philippines, to Australia. The most optimistic believed the ship would make the journey to Bremerton after all, or to the port of Long Beach, California.
Biggs tried to remember what Dr. Johnson had taught him, that the more appealing the rumor, the less likely it was to be true. He kept his thoughts on his work: painting, holystoning, and more important to him, his duty in sick bay. But functioning out of water had an odd effect on Biggs, as it did on many others. It was as though the Arizona was no longer a ship at all, just an enormous steel barracks. Nothing onboard had changed except the view around them, but to Biggs, that was enough. When the opportunity for liberty was offered, he seized it, the treasured pass taking priority over anything else in his mind. He knew that Wakeman was going to town, several of the others as well, but this time, Biggs had his own agenda. He was going to try to meet up with his best friend, Ray.
He saluted the officer of the deck, moving down with a flow of the workmen whose shift had just concluded, men who smelled of smoke and sweat and welded steel. As Biggs stepped onto solid ground, he moved away from the parade of workmen, then looked back to see what he could of the wound in the ship. The next shift of workers had already taken their places, and he could see cranes raising sheets of steel into place. I hope nobody gets hurt, he thought. Seems like it would happen pretty often. How do you treat a man who’s crushed? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Does anyone survive that kind of damage?
