Deck behind, Fuchida looked back. He felt a sinking in his gut, the pilot easing the stick back, the control stick between his legs moving, but he kept his hands clear. Today it was not his job to fly. He was sitting in the bombardier’s seat, now his command perch, and his job was to lead. True air speed was now rapidly climbing. A mistake novices sometimes made when taking off from a carrier was to forget they were taking off into headwinds, sometimes as high as sixty knots per hour. A sharp turnout before true speed was up would trigger a fatal stall.
He looked back as they started into a shallow banking turn to port. The next Kate was clearing the deck, another just starting its takeoff roll. Overhead, assembling several thousand feet up with their faster rate of climb, the Zeroes were circling into formation.
Canopy was still back, wind blowing at a thousand feet up, already a bit cooler. Coming out of the turn they flew westward, racing down the port side of the Akagi. In the distance, like mayflies rising, planes were lifting from the decks of the other five carriers, circling to form.
He caught sight of the Z flag, and he felt a tightening of his throat. Memories of the academy, where one day of the year the flag would be removed from its sacred shrine aboard Togo’s old flagship, Mikusa, and brought down to Etajima, the Naval Academy, for the parading ceremony, a lesson to the future of the glories of the past.
He saluted, heart swelling with pride and flashes of memory. Memory of Etajima and those whom he’d met there, some few who in less than two hours would be his enemies.
Mitsuo Fuchida, strike leader for the entire attack, two waves, 363 planes, the largest such carrier-based attack in the history of warfare, circled over Akagi twice, waiting for formations to tighten up.
He checked his transmitter. The slip of paper tucked over the transmit switch was still in place, a precaution against accidentally sending a signal; for those planes using telegraphs, pieces of paper were placed between the contact points. Not until the target was in sight would he give the signal.
The groups were now all but formed, circling, waiting, and he knew all eyes were on his distinctively marked plane, sporting a broad yellow stripe around the tail. The six carriers were below, pounding forward through heavy seas, deck crews already bringing up the planes of the second wave and spotting them into position. Farther out, the protective screen of destroyers and cruisers kept watch, far aft, barely visible on the horizon, the resupply ships the admiral had ordered forward to everyone’s surprise, the precious oilers laden with the black gold that in so many ways had become the reason for what was about to begin.
He reached forward, slapped his pilot on the shoulder, and gave him a thumbs-up. A second later the plane rocked back and forth three times and, leveling out, turned on to a heading of south-southeast. Crossing over Akagi, now several thousand feet below, he could just see the flutter of the Z flag, ship turning south to move closer to the target while deck crews were already racing to bring up the second strike wave from below.
He looked down at his Swiss chronometer. It was 6:20 a.m. local; in Japan, it was 8 December 1941. The island of Oahu was one hour and twenty minutes away.
PART ONE: Thunder on the Horizon
ONE
Etajima--Japanese Naval Academy; 10 April 1934
“Mr. Watson, come quick!”
Lieutenant Commander James Watson grinned at the rather foolish joke of his old friend, Cecil Stanford, Lieutenant Commander, Royal Navy, as the two old friends raced toward each other and, in rather uncharacteristic manner, at least for a British officer, embraced heartily, slapping each other on the back, exchanging greetings, “Damn good to see you, old chap,” “My God, man, is that gray in your hair?”
James Watson stepped back slightly, hands still on the shoulders of his friend, looking into his eyes, delighted to be reunited with a comrade of old. The last time they had seen each other was right after the Armistice when their office was shutting down and James was returning back to the States. They had worked together in London during the war, a joint British/ American code-breaking team, working on German U-boat signals and having precious little luck at their tasks.
And now sixteen years had passed.
Cecil had not changed all that much. Gray around the temples, with blue eyes that still sparkled with delight. Nose a bit swollen and reddened, evidence of his predilection for good single malt scotch (if he could find it here), but still stiff- backed, trim, double-breasted civilian suit looking a bit out of place, made incongruous by the open-faced black robes and hood dangling from his back that denoted an Oxford education.
James was feeling slightly uncomfortable this warm spring day with the high-button collar and dress whites of a lieutenant commander in the United States Navy, but formalities had to be observed, especially on this visit to what was the Japanese Naval Academy at Etajima, in Hiroshima Bay.
His entry onto the academy grounds had been greeted with all the proper formalities, honor guard to greet him. He had to climb the bridge of Chiyoda--a dispatch ship from the great Russo-Japanese war, incongruously set on firm soil at the edge of the parade ground--receive formal salutes, then was led to the office of the admiral-president of the academy who, in halting English, welcomed him “aboard” and thanked him for his willingness to address the cadets on American naval doctrine post-Washington Treaty.
The speech was a “cook up,” the usual platitudes about bonds of friendship, but he had been cautioned by his superiors to keep it brief. Japan was still deeply rankled about the 5- 5-3 provision that limited the number of her capital ships to 60 percent of those of either England or America. The speech, at least, was a task for which he felt ill suited. His ship, Oklahoma, was docked in Yokohama for a courtesy call, and at the reception that evening his captain had revealed that James spoke fairly good Japanese, mentioned the academy at Etajima a few minutes later, and the “hint” to their Japanese hosts could not be politely refused. Though it was a bit more than a “setup” for James. His captain had been under orders to pull off the arrangement; it might be worth the effort to have an American naval officer visit the academy and have a look around, perhaps hook up with an old English friend teaching there.
The speech was for later today. At the moment James was focused on Cecil, and like old friends reunited they compared notes, exchanged names of old friends, some greeted with a sad shaking of heads about the mortality of all, and generally delighted in seeing a beloved friend once more after so many years. James did not pull out a photo of his wife. Another bond was that both had endured tragedy, Cecil losing his family in an automobile accident right after the war, James, his only son to leukemia but a year back.
“So you’re teaching here now?” James asked, and with a touch of humor tapped the traditional mortarboard hat of an English don. How incongruous, he thought, even as he spoke. Regalia of an English professor, offset against the background of flowering cherry trees and the white-caped waters of Hiroshima Bay beyond.
“Retired from His Majesty’s Service, you know,” Cecil said, “but this posting came up just as I was caught in the naval cutbacks, and friends at the Admiralty arranged it. Curious assignment, I can assure you. Lot to learn about these people. A lot to learn, indeed, even as I teach these lads proper King’s English and jump down on their predilection for Yankee slang. Blast all, but I wish films had remained silent. Your movies are quite the rage here in Japan, and they are all trying to imitate your gangster talk.”
James smiled and didn’t ask any more. Just as his own visit was so “casually” arranged to this place, he could sense that there was more behind Cecil’s posting than met the eye.
“Glad, though, you got here early as I requested, once I learned you were coming,” Cecil continued enthusiastically, “give us a chance to talk before your speech, and also for you to have a look around before scooting off.”
“My ship departs day after tomorrow. I’ll have to catch the train back in the morning.”
Cecil looked past James a
nd smiled.
“Ah, here’s one of the things I was hoping you’d get to see,” and Cecil gestured across the parade ground to an approaching column of cadets of the academy.
A chanting in the distance interrupted their reunion, growing louder. Two columns of Japanese naval cadets, dressed in fatigue blues, came marching onto the parade ground at the double, running in that curious short step that seemed unique to the Japanese. White headbands adorned with the red circle of the rising sun were tied around the foreheads of some, while others wore the standard low-peaked cap.
Cecil announced. “Damn all, James, watch this; it’s an eye-opener.”
“What is going on, Cecil? They sound like a pep squad for a football game.”
“Football?”
“You know, our rugby.”
“Silly game you play. All that whistle blowing and stopping and regrouping. Have at it, by God, until one side or the other caves.”
“So that’s what we’re going to see?”
“Just watch. I really wanted you to see this. It reveals a lot about these chaps. They call it ‘botashi.’ “
He thought about the word for a moment, then shook his head.
“They claim I know Japanese, but I’m not that good yet.”
“Just watch for a moment.”
The two columns approached the parade ground, each several hundred strong, and at mid-field separated. There was a momentary pause, the two sides lining up in block formations, bowing formally to each other. They about-faced, then went to the opposite sides of the field.
At each end of the field a pole was going up, atop each pole a red pennant.
“Now watch carefully,” Cecil said, his voice edged with excitement.
The two sides gathered around the opposite poles. There seemed to be little debate; each side had one or two in charge, barking orders that James could not hear clearly.
On each side the teams seemed to divide into two groups, a couple hundred stepping forward a few paces and lining up, a hundred or so staying back, gathering tightly around the pole with the pennant atop.
“Get ready,” Cecil whispered, “this is all going to happen dreadfully fast.”
A whistle blew. James could not see from where, and it was on.
A thunderous shout went up from both sides and the forward teams charged with mad abandon, wild shouts, those with the headbands in the lead, waving their arms wildly, pointing to the other side. The field was perhaps two hundred yards across. Their speed was building with the charge, and James inwardly winced. These kids were about to run smack into each other.
He could feel the tension with Cecil, whose hand was now resting on his shoulder.
The two lines hit, and went right through each other. There were a couple of tackles, blows exchanged, but nearly all of them ran right past each other as if they didn’t even exist.
What the hell kind of offensive rush was this? James wondered, but he was now so focused on the game he didn’t have time to analyze.
Passing through each other, the offensive squads, with wild screams, charged at the poles of their opponents. The boys who were now obviously the defenders braced for the onslaught. Some even climbed on the shoulders of others, ringing the pole adorned with the pennant.
At nearly the same instant, the offensive charges of both sides collided with the defenders.
There was no strategy here. No feints, no flanking maneuvers, no organized squads moving to left or right, no diversions, just a head-on assault. The charges on both sides swarmed up onto the defenders.
And James could see there were no rules. Kicks, punches, judo throws, karate blows were the order of the day. Cadets with bloody faces staggered out of the attack even as their comrades, wild with excitement, pressed in. Cadets standing on the shoulders of others leapt into the air, crashing down into the wild melee.
The assault on the east side of the field surged up around the pole, shoving aside the defenders, kicking and punching. The flagpole started to waver back and forth as the attackers bodily- tried to tear the pole out of the ground and bring it down.
But then, on the west side of the field, the charge pressed in with wild screams, some of the cadets wearing headbands at the back of the seething mass, shouldering those who showed the slightest reluctance into the fight.
Seconds later the flag atop the pole on the west was snatched down, the cadet who grabbed it waving it wildly while balanced atop the shoulders of a comrade.
Whistles echoed and, amazingly for James, within seconds the fight was over. Cadets first coming to attention, bowing to their opponents, then as one extending helping hands to those who were collapsed on the ground, too injured to move, or who had been trampled under in the battle. There was even some backslapping between the opposing sides, leaders of the two teams shaking hands.
“My God,” James whispered, “if that had been how we played Army-Navy games back in my day, every cadet in the stadium would have swarmed down on the field for one helluva donnybrook.”
Cecil chuckled loudly. “Definitely not a proper game of cricket.”
James looked over at his friend and back to the playing field, where victors and losers, all of them filthy, more than a few limping or having to be carried, began to form up, stretcher bearers loading up four boys who were not moving.
Cricket versus this, he wondered. A glimpse of national character, of how we fight wars?
“I’ve had boys show up in my English class a couple of hours after one of these, broken arm in a sling, eyes swollen half shut, and not a murmur of complaint, though I could tell the lads were in agony. My first week here, I tried to excuse one of them from class, told him to go to his barracks and rest, and he filled up with tears.
“It wasn’t tears of pain. I had humiliated him in front of his comrades, implied he didn’t have the guts to take it. A lesson about them I never forgot, and a mistake I never repeated.
“You know about their swim test?”
James shook his head.
“Every summer the entire academy camps out on an island for several weeks,” and he motioned across the bay, “wearing nothing but loincloths. The poor beggars get burned as black as an Indian and live just as primitively. On the last day they swim back here, and James, it’s a ten-mile swim. Good lord man, that’s half the distance of the Channel in water just as cold.”
“They go off in teams of a hundred. It’s considered a disgrace to leave a comrade behind. Many of these lads have just come from villages inland, and until they go to the island for the summer camp have never swum a stroke in their life; but they go like all the others.”
“Ten miles, I tell you. They have sampans out there with officers on board to pull in someone who is obviously drowning, but if he is pulled in, that’s it. Pardon the pun, but he is washed out. Every year a couple of them die. They just quietly go under without a word, not wishing to shame themselves by calling for help, or they just collapse and die shortly after reaching shore from severe exposure. Believe me, when you witness that, the way they finally come staggering out of the ocean, sunburned from the island, damn near blue from the ocean, but still working as a team and not a word of complaint, you wonder just who these lads will turn into.”
Cecil looked down at his wristwatch. “Nearly tea time, or would you prefer something a bit stronger?”
James grinned. “Stronger, but I do have that speech after dinner, and it would not be proper for a serving officer to trigger a diplomatic incident, so let’s stick with the tea.”
The shimmer of moonlight across Hiroshima Bay held a haunting quality, actually reminding James of the old Japanese prints of such scenes as he settled back in his chair, Cecil bringing out the bottle of single malt they had both denied themselves hours earlier.
With a nod of thanks, James let him pour several ounces. They smiled and held their glasses up.
“For the King and President, God bless them,” James said, and without any more fanfare he drained nearly the en
tire glass in two gulps, Cecil following suit.
“Well, is it fair to say your speech was a bloody disaster?” Cecil said, offering a weak smile.
James said nothing, looking off. His audience of cadets, to be certain, had been the model of politeness, attentive, eyes fixed upon him, chuckling good-naturedly a few times when he stumbled a bit on his syntax and pronunciation of Japanese, but he knew the talk had been a lead balloon.
The implication of the Washington Treaty, now over ten years old, the so-called 5-5-3 agreement, had been bald-faced in its intent. For every five capital ships allowed to the Royal Navy and the United States Navy, Japan was limited to three. The rational argument had been that both America and Britain had multiocean responsibilities, even in this period of alleged peace, while Japan’s natural interests were limited to the Pacific.
It was an asinine agreement, James always thought. Though like many he had real reservations about Japan’s ever-increasing Imperialistic goals, nevertheless, she had indeed been a loyal ally, especially to England in the Great War. Bound by treaty, Japan had declared war on Germany when the show started in 1914, swept the small German enclaves out of the Pacific, and then dispatched a squadron of ships to help Britain in the Mediterranean. At war’s end she had aligned herself with her allies in the expedition to occupy part of Siberia during the Soviet revolution, until all had withdrawn in 1921. Those with a sharp eye toward the geopolitics of East Asia argued that a closer alliance with Japan should be sought as a counterforce to Soviet expansion into China.
There had been several serious bumps in the situation between America and Japan, dating back to of all things the racism of the city of San Francisco, which had banned Japanese students from its public schools back in 1905; from immigration laws that essentially banned Japanese from settling in America, to the current diplomatic flurry about the takeover of Manchuria. But in general, a broad-thinking Occidental could see the potential of actual cooperation, if handled adroitly.
Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th Page 3
