In the opening phase of the conflict, Japan had fixed its resource problem by launching a Blitzkrieg offensive against Allied colonial territories to the south. By April 1942, just four months after Pearl Harbor, the conqueror was digesting the resource-rich prizes of Malaya, the East Indies, and the Philippines, among others. Above all, Japan had seized control of Borneo and Sumatra, erstwhile Dutch and British colonies that were home to the region’s most productive oilfields and refineries.
But there was no way around the bothersome fact that the captured oilfields were a long way from home. The lifeblood of the Japanese economy flowed through a long and tenuous sea link, a 3,000-mile-long femoral artery. If this artery was severed, the Japanese war machine would quickly bleed out, and defeat would become inevitable. The threat was clearly foreseen in Tokyo, even before the nation’s reckless lurch into an unwinnable war, but the ruling junta had persuaded themselves that the sea lanes could be safeguarded long enough to attain victory. Even so, they knew the margins were narrow. Japan’s merchant marine was hard run, at nearly 100 percent utilization. At the end of 1938, just 0.3 percent of Japan’s merchant fleet was laid up in ordinary (idled), while comparable ratios for the British and American merchant fleets were 3 percent and 10 percent, respectively.2 Shipping was needed not only for the importation of raw materials, but to supply overseas armies, fleets, and bases. Moreover, only 3 percent of Japanese territory was arable land, and food imports were needed to stave off famine. Shipping was imperative even to Japan’s domestic transportation system. The nation’s rail system was generally too light to haul heavy freight, and most industrial trade was carried from port to port in coasting vessels.
After an intensive shipbuilding drive in the late 1930s, the merchant fleet (comprising steel ships of at least 500 gross tons) had grown to an approximate total of 6 million tons. Of this quantity, about 4.1 million tons was claimed by the army and navy for their own shipping pools, leaving just 1.9 million tons for civilian and industrial purposes.3 The Cabinet Planning Board insisted that at least 3 million tons of shipping was needed to keep the Japanese economy turning over, but the military services refused to allocate more ships to civilian uses. The regime expected shipping losses of between 800,000 and 1.1 million tons in the first year of war, declining to 700,000–800,000 tons in each of the two following years. Wartime construction was expected to offset these losses, at least partially. Japan’s wartime shipbuilding effort was heroic in scale, rising from 238,000 tons of new cargo shipping launched in 1941, to 1.6 million tons launched in 1944. But sinkings ran much higher than forecast, and net losses remained critical in every year of the war.4
The Japanese army and navy largely neglected to cooperate with one another, or with the civilian merchant marine. Military cargo vessels carried troops, weapons, and supplies to overseas bases, then returned to Japan in ballast (empty). Shipping efficiency might have been improved by diverting them to nearby ports, to embark cargoes for the return passage. But the Japanese regime possessed no single controlling authority to impose such an arrangement on the rival military services.
If Japan’s overseas shipping routes were vulnerable to air and submarine attack, its urban and industrial areas were virtually defenseless against strategic aerial bombing. Japan’s industrial base was new and emergent, having been conjured up from almost nothing in thirty or forty years. Bureaucrats and capitalists, working in partnership, had set out to bootstrap an industrial economy centered on munitions production, with priority given to the steel, shipbuilding, automotive, aircraft, tank, and machine tool industries. The results were astonishing, even unique in history. In 1940, a year before the attack on Pearl Harbor, heavy industrial production had increased by fivefold in a dozen years. Seventeen percent of the Japanese economy was devoted to war production, as compared to 2.6 percent of the U.S. economy.5 Munitions production rose sharply as a share of Japanese GDP after 1941, approaching 50 percent in 1944. At that stage, Japan’s civilian population was more or less immiserated, and most of the remaining (nonmunitions) share of the economy involved agriculture and food production. There was simply no room for further growth in the war industries; all slack had been wrung out of the system. Plant utilization ran just short of 100 percent during the war, except when production lines shut down for lack of requisite materials. Industries relied on an elite cadre of trained machinists and engineers who could not be easily replaced. Production was concentrated in a few large plants served by comparatively retrograde logistics. For example, most Japanese steel production, which undergirded the entire economy, was concentrated in six major steelworks whose location was known to the Allies. The supply might be disrupted by a few well-executed bombing raids, targeting either the steelworks themselves or the transport infrastructure that served them. Without spare plant capacity to fall back upon, the effects would quickly ripple through the economy.
It was plain, therefore, that Japan’s power to make war could be undermined, perhaps fatally, by sea and air attacks on merchant tonnage and war industries. But how to weigh opposing Allied priorities in a vast and intricate war? The struggle between (if you like) “sequentialists” and “cumulativists” colored every phase of Pacific strategy. Allied commanders in the field or at sea were instinctively inclined to think first about their immediate tactical problems, and cast doubt on the value of long-term “cumulative” operations against the enemy’s economy. “Marus”—Japanese merchant cargo vessels—were seen as secondary targets, or consolation prizes, by army and navy aviators. Theater commanders were inclined to direct air power to the latest hot spots, and questioned the value of open-ended strategic bombing missions against the enemy’s distant homeland. Submarines were used in sundry roles and missions, often with no overarching strategic rationale: not until late 1943 were they deployed in a single-minded drive to destroy Japanese merchant tonnage.
In August 1944, as Admiral Halsey took command of the Third Fleet, he and his Dirty Tricksters proposed a basic change in the deployment of Pacific Fleet submarines. They called it the “Zoo plan.” Mick Carney and Rollo Wilson worked out the details. About two dozen zones, in seas bordering the Philippines, Formosa, and the Ryukyu Islands, were designated by the names of different animals (thus “zoo”). Submarine wolfpacks would be positioned across the sea lanes in each zone, with orders to intercept and sink Japanese warships in the aftermath of a major fleet engagement. No matter what the outcome of the expected naval battle, Carney later explained, the Japanese fleet would afterward “retire to refuel and go back to their bases, and at that time they would be forced to go through a tight line of submarines deployed against the line of retreat.”6
In a private letter to Nimitz on September 28, 1944—less than a month before the Battle of Leyte Gulf—Halsey made the case for “Zoo.” Acknowledging the value of sinking merchant tonnage, he argued that “every weapon in the Pacific should be brought to bear if and when the enemy fleet sorties.”7 Halsey proposed that the submarines be placed under his direct tactical command, at least until the impending naval showdown, so that they could be properly coordinated with the Third Fleet.
After giving this proposal “thorough consideration,” Nimitz rejected it. He let his friend down tactfully, in a “Dear Bill” dated October 8. Submarines would attack enemy warships whenever the opportunity arose, he said, but their chief mandate would remain commerce-destroying operations. Nimitz and his submarine force commander, Vice Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, would retain direct tactical control of the boats. He urged Halsey to “accept my decisions as resulting from full consideration of all the factors involved, usually in light of more information than is available to you and always with the background of my wider responsibilities.”8
In an ironic twist, Nimitz found himself on the other side of an analogous dispute concerning the new B-29 “Superfortress” bomber, which was being deployed in large numbers to airfields in the Mariana Islands, and would commence bombing missions over Japan the following month. The
weight and range of this giant Boeing airplane was unprecedented—it could haul a 10,000-pound payload to a radius of 1,600 miles. The USAAF brass, led by General Arnold, was determined that the entire fleet of Superforts should be deployed in a strategic bombing campaign against Japan. But the theater commanders had designs on the new bombers, and were bursting with ideas about how they might be deployed in tactical roles. Nimitz’s headquarters was interested in their capabilities for long-range reconnaissance, search-and-rescue operations, and minelaying in Japan’s inland waters. MacArthur expected all of the B-29s to be sent to his SWPA domain, warning George Marshall that “the initial employment from the Marianas of this untried airplane would subject it to the most difficult operating conditions for its first combat employment.”9
But Hap Arnold outmaneuvered both Nimitz and MacArthur. He persuaded his fellow Joint Chiefs to create a new unified air command, the Twentieth Air Force, dedicated solely to a strategic bombing campaign against Japan’s home islands. Unlike any other air force, the Twentieth would be controlled directly by the JCS from Washington. Orders would be given by Arnold, acting as the “agent” for his fellow chiefs. It would include two bomber commands, the 20th and the 21st, based in India-China and the Marianas, respectively. Although the 21st Bomber Command would be based in Nimitz’s theater, the CINCPAC would hold no authority over it, except in an emergency. The atypical command setup was necessary, General Arnold maintained, to ensure that the Superfortresses stuck to their primary mission of hitting industrial targets in Japan.
When Nimitz learned of this development, he was not pleased. Brigadier General Haywood S. “Possum” Hansell Jr., the first B-29 air commander in the Marianas, visited Pacific Fleet headquarters on October 5, 1944. Nimitz told him bluntly: “I must say to you that I am in strong disagreement with these arrangements. . . . This is an abrogation of the chain of command.” But since the Joint Chiefs had already acted, his hands were tied, and he pledged to do his utmost to support Hansell: “I will give you all the help and cooperation in my capability. You have my very best wishes for success.”10
The record does not show whether Nimitz noted the parallel to his disagreement with Halsey over the “Zoo plan,” which the CINCPAC vetoed three days later. Nimitz kept the submarines out of Halsey’s hands in order to safeguard their “cumulativist” mission to cut Japan’s overseas shipping links. The Joint Chiefs kept the B-29s out of Nimitz’s hands in order to safeguard their “cumulativist” mission to bomb Japan.
WITH RARE EXCEPTIONS, the submarines were kept out of the public eye. Press reporting was minimal, especially during the early stages of the Pacific War. The nickname given to the submarine force, the “Silent Service,” was well earned: submarine warriors were instinctively tight-lipped, even in the presence of their colleagues in other branches of the navy. Their base at Pearl Harbor seemed enigmatic, even ominous. Low, sleek, coal-black boats, tucked behind finger piers on East Loch, were distinguishable only by stenciled numbers on their bridge towers. In the Navy Yard, just behind the piers, sat a plain three-story concrete office building. A discreet street-level sign identified it as “ComSubPac” headquarters.
One of those rare exceptions was the arrival in Pearl Harbor of the Gato-class submarine Wahoo on the morning of February 7, 1943. Someone in Pacific Fleet headquarters had decided that the submarine force was due for a dose of public acclaim. The Wahoo came up the channel under escort, wearing a broom fixed (bristles up) to her periscope shears and a long banner inscribed with the motto: “Shoot the Sunza Bitches.” A crowd of hundreds was waiting on the pier, including war correspondents, photographers, and newsreel film crews. As the Wahoo inched into her berth, a brass band struck up a tune. A delegation of senior officers in gold braid came up the gangplank, followed by a battery of newsmen who had been cleared to take photographs and interview members of the crew. The Wahoo’s sailors, habituated to secrecy, were collectively gobsmacked. One marveled in his diary: “I had my picture taken in the aft engine room. It will be in the Time magazine.”11
This burst of publicity was occasioned by the Wahoo’s sensational third war patrol, just ended, in which the submarine was credited with sinking five ships totaling 32,000 tons. (The broom, abovementioned, symbolized a “clean sweep.”) Under the aggressive and eccentric Captain Dudley W. “Mushmouth” Morton, the Wahoo had proven that a submarine could take risks previously deemed imprudent, that it could stay on the surface for long hours in daylight, and that it could hunt with impunity on the surface at night, even in the presence of Japanese escort ships. With his trusty understudy, executive officer Richard O’Kane, Morton had pioneered new procedures for approaching and attacking targets. O’Kane was designated “co-approach officer,” and made all periscope observations during torpedo attacks, thus freeing Morton to consider all other sources of incoming data while making decisions. The most spectacular feat of the Wahoo’s cruise had occurred in Wewak harbor, New Guinea, where she had fought off a charging Japanese destroyer with an unprecedented “down the throat” torpedo shot. Asked how he had felt during that tense encounter, Morton replied: “Why do you think I made O’Kane look at [the destroyer]? He’s the bravest man I know!”12
Morton was a big, irreverent, swaggering Kentuckian with the accent to prove it, who roamed around the ship in a disgraceful red bathrobe and provoked spontaneous wrestling matches with surprised shipmates. He colored his patrol reports with wry little commentaries that had little or nothing to do with the business of submarining. His attitude toward the enemy was ruthless. Morton seemed to regard it as his personal duty to sink every Japanese ship that floated, and felt no compunction about slaughtering their crews. He was the type of personality whose career might have languished in the peacetime navy—but under the peculiar pressures of war, his buccaneering attitude and risk-seeking tactics made him a star.
The Wahoo’s third patrol had been only twenty-four days long, among the shortest on record (only because she had turned home after expending all of her torpedoes). The customary interval between submarine patrols was two weeks, during which time the crews—officers and bluejackets alike—enjoyed a swanky R&R at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, queen of Waikiki Beach. But since the Wahoo had come home so quickly, Admiral Lockwood decided that a single week’s liberty was long enough.
The submarine was given a stem-to-stern overhaul. She was dry docked, and her bottom scraped and repainted; she was cleaned, reprovisioned, and armed with new torpedoes. Her 4-inch deck gun was transferred forward, and a third 20mm machine gun was mounted aft. All American submarines were being modified to augment their on-deck firepower, because experience had shown that “surface and destroy” tactics were delivering results.
On February 17, with the crew aboard, and a delegation waiting to see her off, the Wahoo made ready for sea. Her engines rumbled in idle. Sailors uncleated her mooring lines and heaved them back onto the pier. She crept into the fairway at half-knot speed, blue clouds of her own exhaust wafting along with her. With the help of a pilot, she edged out of the congested harbor and passed down Pearl Harbor’s long, narrow entrance channel shortly before noon.
The Wahoo’s fourth patrol would take her into waters not yet penetrated by American submarines—the East China Sea and the Yellow Sea, close inshore to China and Korea. Morton had asked for the mission, and Lockwood had granted it. Morton knew those waters well, having passed through the region as a young officer in the mid-1930s. Some of the busiest shipping routes in the world lay in those waters, including links between Tsingtao, Darien, the mouth of the Yellow River, and Shimonoseki Strait (the western entrance to Japan’s Inland Sea, between Kyushu and Honshu). Morton told O’Kane and the crew that the Wahoo was headed for “virgin territory” and should “make a killing” in the forthcoming cruise.13
The boat forged across the cold gray wastes, bucking through nasty head seas day after day. She ran on the surface, except for a standard daily training dive. Not a single patrol craft or plane was sighted. Waho
o made a quick refueling stop at Midway, where she took aboard a crate of improvised Molotov cocktails, a gift from the island’s marine garrison. (It was thought that they might come in handy during close encounters with sampans and other small craft.) With seas building in the first week of March, she throttled back to one-engine speed in order to conserve fuel.
On the morning of March 10, a high periscope observation revealed the rugged green mountains of Yakushima, an island south of Kyushu. Many other islands of the “Nansei Shoto” archipelago came into view, including some that could be readily identified by volcanoes or other landmarks. The Wahoo ran through the Colonet Strait, the main passage through the Nansei Shoto, on the night of the eleventh. The next morning before dawn, she battle-surfaced in the East China Sea, her assigned patrolling area.
For the next several days, the Wahoo remained submerged throughout the daylight hours, hunting fat targets along the shipping route between Formosa and Kyushu. The area was crowded with “small fry”—fishing sampans, junks, and trawlers of less than 500 tons, often lit up at night, indicating that they were not military vessels. The skipper and executive officer (XO) took turns at the periscope, and debated whether various targets merited a torpedo. On March 13, they fired the first of the boat’s twenty-four torpedoes at a large trawler. But the weapon ran under the target’s stern, and Morton would not risk wasting another torpedo; he preferred to keep his powder dry for the bigger game he expected to find farther north. In the following four days, the Wahoo passed near hundreds of sampans, and the crew nicknamed the area “Sampan Alley.” On March 17, the patrol report noted, the Wahoo “had some difficulty in dodging all of the junks and trawlers to prevent being sighted.”14
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