by Jeff Shaara
He wanted to check his watch, knew it didn’t matter. They will come when they come. Another great wave washed over the bow, a shallow lake spreading down along the deck, spilling over the side with the motion of the ship. They are well trained, he thought. They will know how to handle this.
“Commander!”
He saw one of Nagumo’s staff, the man’s hand clamped down on his hat to keep it from becoming airborne. “Yes?”
“Commander, the admiral has invited you once again to his wardroom. You may wait in comfort. With the wind gaining strength, it is likely the weather could be turning against us. Would you be more comfortable inside?”
Genda kept his eyes on the sky. “I am quite certain I would be more comfortable inside. I prefer to remain here.”
“As you wish, Commander.”
Genda didn’t watch to see if the man had gone, but his eye caught several of the flight crew, some moving closer to him, staring as he was, eyes on the broken blue skies to the south. No one spoke, the wind buffeting them all, and now he saw them, like a swarm of insects, disappearing into the clouds, then appearing again, closer. There were more behind those, and the men near him began to call out, arms waving, cheering with relief and joy. Genda watched the planes grow larger, like black birds now, the formations nearly intact, the squadrons splitting up, moving toward their designated carriers.
The first group came over the Akagi, dive bombers and torpedo bombers, lining up for their landing. Genda held tightly to the railing, steadied himself against the vicious roll of the sea, watched as the first plane touched down. The flight crews went to work immediately, the plane pulled aside, the second coming in close behind, quick efficiency by the crews again. The third came in, bounced hard, the roll of the ship working against it. The plane spun halfway around, the landing gear collapsing, the plane’s belly ripped open. Genda knew to keep away, knew his crews were trained for this. He watched as the pilot was pulled free, the man offering Genda a hearty wave, as the crew shoved and twisted at the plane, tumbling it over the side.
* * *
—
He watched them all, Fuchida’s groups coming in first, then the second wave, led by Commander Shimazaki, coming in close to twelve o’clock. As expected, Fuchida’s was the final plane to appear. His mission had been to observe the entire attack, both waves, from high above. As the last to land, he was offering yet another signal to Genda and everyone else. The attack had ended.
As Genda counted the incoming aircraft, the numbers had seemed staggering, far more aircraft returning than he had ever expected. But he knew to be cautious, that his eyes could have deceived him, that he would wait for a final count from all six carriers.
His one show of unbridled enthusiasm was for Fuchida, a laughing embrace as Fuchida climbed out of his plane. It was a rare display for Genda, tempered only by the awareness that Fuchida had one more responsibility: to present his report on the damage he had inflicted on the Americans.
* * *
—
Fuchida met first with his flight leaders, overseeing several radio conversations between the carriers, the flight leaders comparing their tallies, all of them knowing the importance of accuracy. With the accounting complete, Fuchida arrived in Admiral Nagumo’s operations room, the joy and pride on Fuchida’s face obvious to Genda. Genda sat on one side of the long table alongside a handful of the admiral’s staff officers, the walls around them draped in huge maps. He could feel the skepticism from Nagumo’s officers, as though it was necessary not to allow Fuchida too much self-satisfaction. At the head of the table, Genda could see, Admiral Nagumo was the biggest skeptic of all.
Fuchida stood at the far end of the table, hands behind his back. He seemed to pulse with the information he was so pleased to share. Opposite him, Nagumo offered no pleasantries, no congratulations at all. His words were short and quick. “The results. What are they?”
Fuchida didn’t hesitate. “We sank four battleships. I observed that myself. Four more were damaged. To our regret, there were no aircraft carriers to be found. We sank a number of smaller craft, including one cruiser, and at least four destroyers and other service ships.”
Fuchida seemed to expect applause, but Nagumo pushed him again. “What of aircraft and airfields?”
“Sir, we destroyed a significant number of fighter planes, bombers, and their flying boat craft. We also destroyed hangars and other maintenance facilities, barracks, and a large number of other buildings.”
“I am not interested in buildings, Commander. Do you believe that the American fleet can come out from Pearl Harbor in less than six months?”
Fuchida seemed nervous now, made a quick glance at Genda. “Sir, I do not believe the Americans can launch their fleet within six months.”
Genda nodded toward him, Yes, very good. Fuchida seemed to relax, and even Nagumo smiled. Beside Genda, one of Nagumo’s staff officers, Admiral Kusaka, said, “What do you believe the next targets should be?”
Fuchida looked again at Genda. “Dockyards, fuel tank areas, any undamaged ships. I would strike immediately, while they are unable to resist us.”
Kusaka did not share Fuchida’s enthusiasm, said, “Shouldn’t we expect the Americans to attack us here? Would they not be aggressive in seeking out our fleet, and taking their revenge?”
Fuchida seemed nervous again. “We destroyed many planes, sir. But I cannot say we destroyed them all.”
Nagumo said, “Where are the American aircraft carriers?”
Fuchida seemed to swallow hard. “I do not know, Admiral. I can only assume they are training at sea, which explains why they were not in Pearl Harbor.”
“Is it not likely that they have received word of our attack?”
Fuchida’s enthusiasm was gone completely, and Genda said, “It is reasonable to assume that the carriers will be seeking our location. If the enemy comes, all the better. Our fighters are virtually undamaged, and our pilots are eager to confront the enemy. We will shoot the Americans from the sky. Their planes are no match for ours.”
Nagumo turned to Genda. “Your confidence in your aircraft is admirable, and it would be hard to dispute what you say. Do you propose that we attack the Americans again?”
Fuchida seemed to come alive, and Genda knew him well enough to understand why. Yes, he would take off again, right now.
Genda calmed Fuchida with a brief stare, then said, “We cannot attack again this afternoon. Refueling and refitting the weapons will require time, and our pilots would have to fly after dark, which they are not trained to do. I propose that we keep the fleet in this area for several days, sending out patrols to locate the carriers. I do not believe it is wise to attack Pearl Harbor again without knowing where those carriers may be. In any event, the element of surprise is now gone.”
Nagumo rubbed his hands on his face, seemed exhausted. “Commander Genda, will you confirm the reports I have here as to the number of aircraft we lost?”
Genda had already seen the numbers from Fuchida and the other crews. “Yes. I was concerned there might have been inaccuracies, but the numbers are confirmed to my satisfaction. From three hundred fifty-three aircraft engaged, we lost a total of twenty-nine. Less than ten percent.”
Fuchida said, “Those numbers are accurate, sir. It only suggests that we should renew the attack, strike them again, destroying targets we did not hit this time. I know it can be done, sir. Not tonight, certainly, but by tomorrow morning we will be prepared again.”
Nagumo ignored Fuchida, looked at Genda again. “You would have us remain in this area until we engage the American aircraft carriers, yes?”
“Yes. If we have the tankers come to us here, we can maintain the amount of fuel we would require.”
Nagumo looked at his staff officers. More than one of them wore the kind of smirk that made Genda want to throw them overboard. After a lo
ng minute, Nagumo said to no one in particular, “Commander Fuchida cannot confirm that the Americans have not launched a massive number of dive bombers that are, even now, closing in on our position.”
He looked at Genda with a patronizing smile. “Commander, you have done a magnificent thing here. Despite my gravest doubts, you have carried out Admiral Yamamoto’s plan with admirable success. Why not be satisfied with that?”
Genda knew Nagumo too well by now, knew that the admiral had resisted every part of this operation. No argument he could make would be good enough to change Nagumo’s mind.
“I believe, Admiral, that there is still more we can accomplish here. We can inflict even greater destruction on the enemy.”
Nagumo looked at his staff again. “Commander, you remind me of the fisherman who catches a huge fish. Instead of carrying his trophy home, to enjoy the glory of his accomplishment, he continues to fish, hoping to repeat his success, or to catch an even greater fish. With respects to you, Commander Genda, it is not wise to be greedy.”
* * *
—
Fuchida was pacing, and two of his flight leaders were staring at Genda with hot anger. Fuchida said, “Why would he take this from us? My pilots do not understand why, after such a triumph, they are not allowed to do it again. The enemy is where he was before, and he remains vulnerable.”
Genda spoke in a low voice, as though concerned about unfriendly ears. “Mitsuo, we do not choose who commands us. The admiral believes that we have accomplished the mission we came for and that the enemy is now better prepared against another assault. We do not know where the enemy’s aircraft carriers are. It is Admiral Nagumo’s decision.”
Fuchida still paced, said, “What would Admiral Yamamoto say to all this? What would he say of Nagumo’s meek decision?”
Genda thought a moment. “Admiral Yamamoto would say that Admiral Nagumo does not enjoy gambling. I suppose that is why they are not friends.” He paused. “Go now. Tell your pilots what I am telling you. It is time for us to return home. We have achieved a great victory. But now, we must prepare for what lies ahead.”
THIRTY-NINE
Yamamoto
BATTLESHIP NAGATO, ARIAKE BAY, JAPAN—MONDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1941
He was astonished that Nagato’s radio receiver had picked up Commander Fuchida’s signal, his order to begin the attack, the To To To. It was as though a hypnotic spell had been broken, the staff around him reacting with utter jubilation.
Within minutes came the next signal, not as clear, cut by static. It was Fuchida’s magnificent message, Tora Tora Tora. Again the men cheered, everyone but Yamamoto. His chest ached, and he kept to his seat in the operations center, would not let them see the weakness he felt, the sudden swell of emotion. His thoughts stayed on Genda, the young lunatic, the eyes that tore holes wherever they stared. As the boisterous calls echoed out past the radio room, spreading through the ship, Yamamoto could think only of the young man’s worst fear, the fear that Yamamoto had shared, that the Americans would be waiting for them, fully armed, hundreds of planes waiting above. He could never have admitted any of that to those old men in the Ministry, who would have grabbed any excuse to deny this mission from ever taking place. But the fear would not leave, even when he heard Fuchida’s signal. Some part of him still held back in disbelief. How can it be so easy?
For a brief minute, Yamamoto had wished he was out there, feeling what Genda felt, and Fuchida, and all the rest. The young are in command now, he thought. All they lack is wisdom, and that will come. This week, they will have gained a great deal.
Yamamoto knew little of weather predictions and wind charts, was told only that Fuchida’s signals had been received by a stroke of incredible good fortune, atmospheric conditions that Yamamoto could only guess at. He kept his odd gloominess to himself, would not interfere as the good cheer spread quickly through the officers and crew on the ship, the same enthusiasm that he knew would be spreading through Nagumo’s fleet as their planes did their work.
The silence returned, the hypnosis once more settling down on his staff. They huddled again, close to the radio room, but Yamamoto knew there would be nothing more to hear, not unless it was a complete disaster. He would not sit quietly to wait for that. He went first to his quarters, a chaos of bed linens and paperwork. He knew that Chiyoko would come soon, would scold him and plow through his mess, and that in minutes his quarters would be respectable again. He kicked lightly through a pile of undergarments on the deck. If this mess will bring her here forevermore, I will make a mess forevermore.
He thought of a nap, but the aching in his chest continued, binding him together. I must breathe, he thought. He left his quarters, afraid to hear any reactions from his staff. They will cheer or they will cry. In time, I will know which. I’m just not ready for that right now. I will wait for Admiral Nagumo to make his report. That is how it must be, not wild impatience for a scrap of information, a scrap of rumor.
He moved toward the open deck, a hard chill in the air, the skies gray, the land beyond the harbor a dismal brown. He pulled his jacket tightly around him, but it wasn’t enough. He checked his watch. It had been nearly five hours since Fuchida’s first signal. It must be over, he thought. They should have completed the mission.
He turned to escape the cold, moved toward the hatchway, nearly collided with his chief of staff. The anger on Ugaki’s face drove an icy stake into Yamamoto.
“What has happened?”
Ugaki made way for Yamamoto to move inside, leaned closer to him, said, “We received a transmission from Admiral Nagumo. He sent it on open frequency. He has broken radio silence. It is an outrageous breach of protocol.”
“What is the message? Has the attack been successful?”
“Sir, Admiral Nagumo has informed the entire planet that the fleet has turned away from its targets, and is now returning to Japan.”
“Was the attack successful? Did he report the figures, our losses, the damage to the American ships?”
“We are told that the enemy fleet, particularly their battleships, sustained heavy damage. Our losses in aircraft and pilots were surprisingly low. Now Admiral Nagumo fears reprisal by the Americans. He is moving the fleet out of danger, will rendezvous with the tankers and set a course for home.”
Yamamoto wrestled with what Nagumo must be thinking, said, “Are the American aircraft carriers in pursuit of the fleet?”
Ugaki seemed to struggle to hold his anger. “We have not located the carriers, but the American planes are no match for our own. No, sir, from all we can gather, there is no immediate threat to the fleet. There is no reason for Admiral Nagumo to scamper away from the fight, like a terrified rabbit.”
“Into my wardroom, Admiral. There is no need to display your concerns to the crew.”
Ugaki followed him, Yamamoto wearing a cheerful expression for whoever happened to see them—no need to embarrass his chief of staff. They stepped into the wardroom, Yamamoto’s orderly setting out a pot of tea. Yamamoto was surprised, said, “Omi, what are you preparing for?”
Omi bowed, said, “Admiral, this is for you. I thought you would have your officers in here, after what has been reported by Admiral Nagumo.”
Yamamoto looked at Ugaki. “So, Admiral, I cannot say if you were correct that the entire planet has learned of our plans. But I feel confident that this entire ship knows, and by tomorrow, the entire navy. Thank you, Omi. You may leave.”
Now that Nagumo had ordered the fleet westward, the cheers had turned to gloom, as though Nagumo had twisted his victory into failure. Yamamoto understood the emotions of his staff, as much as he understood their pride. But protest was dangerous, even as dangerous as Nagumo’s amazing lack of discretion in announcing his withdrawal order to his fleet.
But Nagumo had one priority: the safety and preservation of his ships. Despite the anger of the younger officers a
round him, Nagumo was taking his fleet out of harm’s way.
* * *
—
Ugaki sat at one end of the table in his usual position, and across from Yamamoto sat the foul-smelling Kuroshima, empty seats on either side of him. Omi had thoughtfully provided an ashtray, which Kuroshima ignored. Yamamoto said, “It is apparent that our operations against the Americans were successful. As you are all aware, Admiral Nagumo has exercised his authority to withdraw the fleet. I will hear you, your views. Admiral Ugaki?”
“He has made a catastrophic mistake. He has run from the fight just when he had secured victory. That is the mark of a timid man, a man with no heart, a man who does not have faith in his own sword.” Ugaki lay both hands out on the table, red-faced.
Yamamoto said, “Continue. Say what you must.”
Ugaki forced himself to be cautious, as though he knew he had crossed a line. “Sir, I am aware that Admiral Nagumo is my superior. He has great support from high places. They will no doubt drape him with flowers, medals, perhaps arrange a parade in his honor. But I believe, and I will always believe, that his judgment is in error. I must add, Admiral, that if I had commanded the fleet, I would not now be sailing home. There would still be a fight to be had, even if the Americans attempted to oppose us. I am certain that Commander Genda would agree. Is that not true, sir?”
Yamamoto waited for more, but Ugaki would wait for him to speak.
“Admiral Ugaki, you are most certainly the most able chief of staff ever in my command. Your words echo much of what I would have said at one time. I understand youth. You are a good deal younger than I, as is Commander Genda. Admiral Nagumo is my age. Something happens to a man when he goes to war at a late age. He is not so eager to jump both feet and both fists into the fight, to strike out until his enemy is dead—or he is dead himself.
