by Jeff Shaara
He sat down at a small desk, covered with stacks of papers—the flight plans for each of the groups, along with target lists and schedules. He sifted through, tried to focus on a detailed map, a smaller version of the scale model now in the operations room. He thought of Yamamoto, the older man eyeing him with the grim confidence of Genda’s grandfather. I wish the admiral were here, he thought, to see all of this, to feel the pilots’ raw passion for this fight, embracing the honor they will earn. Even now, they are in their quarters, but they’re not begging for mercy, for protection. They pray to serve the emperor the best way they can. I wish Admiral Yamamoto could know that.
Or, perhaps he does.
He thought of the flight leader, Commander Fuchida, who would command the first wave from a bomber high above the targets. He has no fear, Genda thought, smiling. He has, perhaps, too much courage. He is arrogant, a joker. He treats this mission as though it will be fun. Even through so much of the training, his enthusiasm and his skills were one of our great strengths. He believes with absolute certainty that his men will fly gloriously over the American navy, that they will rely on their training, and they will destroy their targets. And so, I believe that as well.
He studied the map again, and the thought suddenly rose up inside of him, the great fear he had tried to ignore.
What if the Americans know we are coming? What if all the secrecy, the careful planning, choosing my route away from normal shipping lanes has been a waste of all our energy? Now, less than a day before the attack, we must confront some unknown ship? Is that by chance, or by design? Perhaps they have already sent their signal to Hawaii, warning them. Will there be antiaircraft batteries waiting for us, to shoot us out of the sky like so many birds?
Stop this!
He tried to grip the wild emotions inside of him, closed his eyes, thought of what he had said to his aides: Let the admiral and his men do their jobs. That is, after all, why they are here. Is this why they call you Genda the Lunatic, because you embrace such crazy thoughts? He slid the papers around on the table, searching yet again for details he had missed. He studied the numbers and the descriptions he had memorized and preached so many times before. He knew he was being ridiculous, but it never stopped him from reviewing the details, searching for the single deadly mistake.
The knock came, and Genda said, “What is it?”
The door opened slowly, and he saw his aide, Ensign Noti.
“Sir, identification was made of the merchant ship. It flies the Russian flag, and made no effort to contact the fleet. It seemed to keep a wide berth of us, sir. Admiral Nagumo did not feel it necessary to destroy them.”
Genda waved the man away without a word, and the door closed. He stared at the papers, felt suddenly like laughing. There were a dozen reasons why you were terrified of the unknown ship, and none of them were real. Now, it is one less detail for you to ponder.
He looked again to the papers, had a sudden thought, called out, “Ensign Noti!”
The door opened immediately, and Genda said, “Go, find Commander Itaya. I wish to speak with him. Be quick.”
The wait was barely a minute, a knock again.
“Yes. Enter.”
The door opened, and Genda saw the serious stare of Shigeru Itaya, the commander of the squadrons of the fighter planes most now knew as the Zero. Genda didn’t wait for pleasantries.
“Are you completely confident that our fighters are superior to what the Americans can send against us?”
Itaya smiled now, seemed to understand why Genda had called him. It was not the first time he’d been asked this question. “Commander, I am completely confident. In fact, after studying the specifications of the American fighters, I am confident that one of ours can successfully combat three of theirs.”
“Thank you, Shigeru. Your confidence is welcome. Your fighters will be the first to go airborne, and you will protect the bombers and torpedo planes throughout the assault. If the Americans greet us with significant antiaircraft fire, the torpedo bombers will go to their targets last. They are too slow, too vulnerable to lead the assault.”
He saw a wide smile on Itaya’s face.
“I believe, sir, we have gone over these details a great many times. There will be no mistakes.”
The smile remained, and Genda said, “I know. Forgive me for being anxious. I agree with Admiral Nagumo that this is a puzzle with many pieces. Admiral Yamamoto has placed his career, his future, his life onto our shoulders. I cannot stop examining the details.”
Itaya was serious now, said, “It will be a good mission, Commander. We are prepared, and no matter what awaits us, we will triumph. My squadron chiefs are in the operations room right now, where the scale models have been located. I must say, sir, it has been extremely helpful having such large maps and models of the target area available to us at all times. There is no mystery when we discuss the choice of targets. There will be no confusion.”
Genda tried to smile, but it would not come. “Your confidence inspires us all. Now go, tend to your pilots. Perhaps once more, you can go over the details?”
Itaya made a short bow. “We shall discuss details as often as you would like, sir. Will you join us out on the flight deck?”
“Of course.”
“Then I shall salute you from the cockpit of my plane.”
Genda felt a wave of butterflies in his stomach, could not escape them. “We must have surprise, Shigeru. We must.”
Itaya seemed puzzled by the energy behind Genda’s words. “Is there any reason to think we will not?”
Genda looked past him, with the odd stare all of his officers knew well. “I must know if the enemy awaits us, if they are prepared to meet the assault. I must know.”
Itaya laughed. “Oh, you will, sir. Tomorrow morning.”
AIRCRAFT CARRIER AKAGI, AT SEA—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941, PREDAWN
Genda had barely slept, but was delighted to learn that most of his pilots had slept very well.
The ship was rocking even more than yesterday, and it was one more reason for concern. For most of the way across the Pacific, the seas and winds had been surprisingly peaceful. For Admiral Nagumo, calm seas had eliminated one serious challenge. Refueling any craft in rough seas could be extremely hazardous. Broken fuel hoses and collisions were nearly unavoidable. But to everyone’s relief, the refueling had been accomplished almost without incident. Now, with each of the warships fueled, the tankers had been sent away, led by a destroyer that had escorted them back to a predetermined rendezvous position.
Genda thought of asking for tea, but there was too much anxiety swirling in his stomach, and breakfast was out of the question. He moved into the passageway, his aides responding, snapping to attention.
“I shall go to the operations room.”
They followed, struggling to keep up with Genda’s energetic gait. Behind him, a voice, one of Nagumo’s officers. “Commander Genda, a moment. Please. Here is information you requested.”
Genda forced himself to stop. “What is it?”
“Commander, we have received a wireless transmission from submarine I-72. They report that there are no American warships at Lahaina Roads. It is most regrettable, is it not?”
Genda stared at the man. “It matters not where the Americans have docked their ships. I have always expected they would be in Pearl Harbor, and submarine I-72 has confirmed that.”
“It’s just that…Admiral Nagumo had said if their ships were in deeper water outside of Pearl Harbor, sinking them would be a simpler matter.”
“None of this is a simple matter. But we can destroy the enemy no matter where he sits.”
The officer clearly didn’t know what to say, and Genda turned, headed again down the passageway.
He passed the radio room, stopped, heard a low hum, saw a half dozen men with earphones. The radio silence had b
een complete, no transmissions at all going back to Japan. But close by, the battleship Hiei had the most powerful receiver among the ships of the fleet. It was that receiver that had picked up the final Go message from Tokyo, the confirmation that nothing had changed with negotiations in Washington, and so this mission would continue as planned. Genda had embraced the message with nervous glee, the pilots and their crews cheering the news.
Genda had been concerned that even the one-way wireless communication the fleet received, no matter how coded, could risk interception and provide the location, or even the intention, of the fleet. To address that vulnerability, the radio receivers were tuned to pick up commercial radio broadcasts from specific radio stations in Japan. Otherwise innocuous news and weather reports had been laced with code words and phrases that had been designed to pass a stream of messages to the fleet.
Genda kept going, paused at the operations room and eyed the scale model of Pearl Harbor. But there was no need now for another look. He felt the ship rolling again, said a low curse under his breath, moved up the largest ladder. He stepped out onto the flight deck, followed by his aides. There was nothing of the dawn yet, the stars mostly obscured by a wet haze. Toward the bow, a wave broke high, washing the deck, the spray blowing past him, driving a hard chill into his jacket. Flight mechanics were moving past, some struggling to stand upright. He had the urge to help, saw one man slipping down, another assisting him.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, one of Nagumo’s officers, an older man.
“Commander Genda, the admiral has been looking for you. You are certainly welcome to relax in the admiral’s wardroom. We have breakfast there, of course. A good place to enjoy the adventure of it all. And there is certainly no need to be uncomfortable. It’s a little messy out here, after all.”
Genda did not look at him, said, “This is no ‘adventure’ for the flight crews. My men will not be comfortable in their planes. Do we know what will happen with this weather?”
“Well, Commander, we had amazing weather up until two days ago. What we see now is much more common in this part of the ocean, so I’m told. It shouldn’t affect the aircraft. Very soon, we will reach our attack point, and we shall turn all the carriers directly into the wind, while we also increase the forward speed of each ship. This will provide more lift for the aircraft as they move along the flight deck.”
Genda stared at the man now, saw him brush wetness from his face with a handkerchief.
“I am aware how airplanes fly. Are the pilots in the briefing rooms? Perhaps you can instruct me what I should say to them.”
The officer seemed to miss Genda’s sarcasm, said, “Yes, I believe they have gathered. They are in the large operations room, just inside, to the right.”
Genda had no more use for this man, talking to him as though he were some kind of sightseer. “Excuse me. I shall go inside then. Please enjoy the admiral’s breakfast.”
Genda ducked out of the wind, moved down the passageway. He could hear men talking, a joviality that pleased him to hear. He saw Fuchida now, coming toward him in his flight suit.
“Ah, Commander Genda. Look here, allow me to show you.” Fuchida tugged beneath his suit, a flash of red cloth. “Red underwear. Lieutenant Murata and I bought the same color, the color of blood. If we are badly wounded, it will be difficult for our crews to notice. We do not wish to upset the others in our aircraft. If one of three is wounded, the other two could panic. We will avoid such a thing, wouldn’t you agree?”
Fuchida’s energy was overwhelming, and Genda stood silently for a few seconds, then said, “I suggest the best tactic is not to be wounded.” He put a hand on Fuchida’s shoulder. “We have worked very hard, Mitsuo. I have been honored to stand with you, to train your men. We may never have an experience like this again. It is all in your hands now.”
Fuchida lowered his head. “You honor me, Commander.”
Genda stepped back, saw more of the pilots gathering, and he stepped away, knew that his role was ending. Fuchida said, “Commander. I know you are concerned, but Honolulu sleeps. It is a peaceful Sunday morning.”
Genda asked, “How do you know that?”
Fuchida was all smiles. “I went by the radio room. They were listening to the radio station in Honolulu. Some very peaceful music, the kind you play to keep the people asleep.”
* * *
—
Genda headed for his quarters, only for a moment, to retrieve his heavier coat against the blowing wetness on the flight deck. He stepped inside, thought of Fuchida’s smile, all the boisterous enthusiasm of the others. It is all good, he thought. It is all so necessary. He started to move back out, stopped, his hand gripping the handle of the door. The butterflies were relentless, and for one long moment he envied the pilots their good fortune, that after so many months and so much training, they would justify everyone’s faith in the plan, and in Admiral Yamamoto. He smiled to himself, thought, My job now is to sit and wonder what is happening, and what will happen. Every minute there will be wondering, and then, more wondering. He moved out into the passageway, saw one of the pilots.
“Sir, Admiral Nagumo is searching for you.”
Genda looked past the man, saw Nagumo coming toward him, said, “He has found me. Thank you.”
The pilot withdrew discreetly, and Genda saw a smile from Nagumo. Genda could see a change in the admiral, a surprising calmness that he hadn’t observed through the entire voyage.
They stood together in the passageway outside the larger briefing room, the pilots easing past, the admiral’s presence stifling most of the chatter. Throughout the journey, the meetings and conversations between Genda and Nagumo had mostly been terse affairs, admiral to commander, fleet commander to flight trainer. But Genda could feel a difference now.
“Ah, Commander.” Nagumo stopped, seemed out of breath. “I wanted to tell you personally that the fleet navigator has brought us to the point of attack. We are two hundred miles north of the island of Oahu. Thus far, Commander, we have been successful in every part of this mission. I now turn that responsibility over to you, and the flying group.”
He saw emotion on the admiral’s face, another surprise. Genda took a step back, stood straight, said, “Admiral, I am certain of our plan. And I am certain of our pilots.”
* * *
—
At 0530, the two scout seaplanes were catapulted off their bases on the cruisers Tone and Chikuma, each with a simple yet dangerous mission. One would pass over Lahaina Roads, the stretch of open water between the islands of Maui and Molokai, confirming once and for all that the American navy had anchored no ships in that deepwater passage. The other would fly over and around Pearl Harbor, verifying that the American fleet had not suddenly put to sea, emptying the harbor of precious targets.
Both planes made their reports by radio, but there was one additional detail reported that helped ease Genda’s twisting nervousness. Flying over the American bases on Oahu, the reconnaissance plane had encountered nothing to interfere with its mission: no intercepting aircraft and no antiaircraft fire. As Fuchida had said, the Americans were asleep.
* * *
—
The carrier had turned directly into the wind, the other five flattops doing the same. With the engines of the big ships pushed nearly to maximum, the violence of the ocean around them seemed magnified, great sprays of white pouring over the wide flat bow and down the flanks of the ship, soaking the flight crews as they scrambled around the planes. Genda felt helpless, ached to be a part of what was about to happen, to climb into one of the heavy bombers, launch a torpedo perhaps, anxious to know how the odd modifications would work in the shallow water of the harbor. He moved from one foot to the other, rocking himself in the buffeting wind, immune to the chill and the wet, every thought on the airplanes in front of him.
The pilots came out now, spreading across the flig
ht deck, each man knowing just where he was supposed to be. Genda watched them, remembering so many details, the bomber pilots who trained so differently than the men who would fly the fighter planes, the magnificent Zero. Genda watched them climb up and into their planes, could see the white cloth wrapped around their helmets, carrying the words Certain Victory.
Genda now did as the pilots did: stared straight upward, his eyes finding the carrier’s mainmast in the hazy darkness. The ship rolled and dipped over a violent wave, and Genda grabbed a steel railing, steadying himself. He looked back toward the planes, saw the faces of every pilot looking up, and he did the same now, his eyes again on the mast. The salt spray washed across the deck around him, and he ignored that, kept his eyes on the mast, a voice inside of him: Raise it! As if on command, he saw the first flutter moving up the mast, the three-sided flag, bright red with a white ball in the center. It was the signal the pilots had been training for, had wanted now.
He turned again to the planes, felt the sharp blast of salt spray, thought, There are no more lessons now, no more details. Nothing matters now but the mission.
The engines roared to life, the sounds rolling over him, deafening. The flight deck was bathed with a new cloud of sea spray, the propellers driving the pools of wetness back toward the stern. The crews worked their planes, pulling chocks from the wheels, pushing tails to straighten the line. Genda stepped forward, just to be closer, to feel what they were all feeling, the power of those engines, the power of their weapons, the power in each man who flew his plane.
Genda ignored the roll of the ship, blinked through the heavy mist of the breaking waves, his eyes on the first plane in line. He saw the man’s face now, Itaya, looking at him, the smile and the confidence that Genda always hoped to see. Itaya raised a hand toward him, his own salute, and now the flight crew in front of the Zero stepped away with a salute of their own. Itaya revved the engine, the air around Genda shivering with a hard blast of sound, the plane quivering in place, Itaya holding the brakes.
