Frank Rose, the school president, a man with distinct, blue eyes and topped with a head of thick, white hair, stood just inside the doorway and tapping a folded newspaper onto his open palm, waiting for the tide of students to flow past. Walking up to Jimmy, he plopped the open newspaper onto his desk. “Is it any wonder enrollment is down? Way down?”
Jimmy read the headlines: “PHILIPPINES RUSH DEFENSE EFFORT, General MacArthur and Staff of American Officers Train Filipino Manpower.” Jimmy studied the paper a moment and looked up, pushing back the wave of fear with his own strength of hope. Tapping the newspaper with his same pointing finger, he said, “The greatest concentration of American bombers anywhere in the world is right here in the Philippines.” Jimmy was certain Frank knew it, too, but he didn’t seem to have any confidence. “MacArthur says we’ve got hundreds of aircraft here, thousands of American and Filipino troops, and we can easily repel any attack from the Japanese.”
Frank ignored Jimmy’s bravado. “All the ROTC students and staff are on alert and all able-bodied men are on notice. We need to start putting together some contingency plans.”
For Jimmy, it was only the same saber rattling and jockeying he’d been putting up with for years. At least, he kept telling himself that. “I have a hard time, a very hard time, believing the Japanese would ever try to invade the islands.” He angrily snapped a rubber band around a bundle of papers.
“And if they do?”
Jimmy looked away, then back at Frank – and blinked a couple of times.
By candlelight, Charma rested in her stuffed chair reading while Jimmy sat in his rocker beside their boxy shortwave radio broadcasting the “Information Please” news program from San Francisco. Blackouts had become mandatory two months earlier to shroud the cities in darkness to make them more difficult bombing targets. Straining to hear through the crackle and sonic hum, Jimmy cocked his head toward the radio.
“Considering the recent movements reported by the War Department of the Japanese Army and Navy, particularly in the areas of China and Southeast Asia, the possibility of obtaining satisfactory results from negotiating with Japan is a fading hope. But U.S. Ambassador Joseph Grew continues his unrelenting pursuit of a diplomatic solution to ...”
Jimmy snapped off the radio and sat back and rocked, the creak of his chair the only sound in the room. He unconsciously stared into the distance and spoke as if to himself. “In 1901, the future president of the Y.M.C.A., John Mott, said that America can send ten thousand missionaries to Japan now ... or in forty years they’ll have to send a hundred thousand soldiers.” Jimmy kept rocking.
Charma let her book down to her lap.
“That was exactly forty years ago.” He stopped rocking and turned to Charma. “We need to think about getting off the island.” The fear he’d held under the surface for so long was breaking through.
“We need to make some plans.” Relieved that Peggy was in college in upstate New York, and David and Alice were in boarding school with friends in San Francisco, his concern was shifting to the welfare of his and Charma’s lives. He glanced down at the cover of a worn LIFE magazine on the coffee table displaying Emperor Hirohito proudly atop a white horse, saluting. “Soon.”
Chapter 25
October, 1941. The aircraft carrier Akagi. Yokosuka Naval Base, Tokyo Bay.
Workers traversed the docks of Yokosuka, strewn with stacks of pipes and rings of cables and lined with rusty warehouses. A truss-style crane towered above the deck of the majestic carrier Akagi as she sat silently at the docks, her peaceful exterior giving no hint of the frenzy of activity within.
In a planning room aboard the carrier, hazy with cigarette smoke, Fuchida stood with his arms folded near Genda and a group of officers staring down at two, large tables displaying perfect models: One of Oahu and the other of Pearl Harbor itself. He was amazed at the fine detail and accuracy of the replicas. Much had taken place in preparation already, yet he was also overwhelmed by the immense amount of planning and logistics facing him and the team. It still seemed like an impossible task. How could the entire Combined Fleet enter American waters and then launch hundreds of planes over hundreds of miles undetected all the way to Pearl Harbor? Surely, even in the fleet wasn’t discovered, regular American patrol aircraft would discover them and every American aircraft on the island would be sent into the air to attack them. Were they all out of their minds?
Standing between Fuchida and Genda was Rear Admiral Kusaka, formerly Fuchida’s chief aboard the Akagi. “Genda has advised that to achieve a crushing blow to the American fleet, all possible resources should be combined for a massive aerial attack, like none ever attempted from the sea.”
Genda spoke up. “If I may, Admiral? All six carriers will be employed and kept in a tight formation to allow the aircraft to group quickly. We should be able to put no fewer than three hundred fifty aircraft into action in two waves, and I recommend the attack be during daylight for maximum accuracy. We’ll rely primarily on torpedoes to destroy the carriers and battle ships.”
Fuchida’s mind was working. He knew they were waiting to hear his experienced opinions.
Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, Commander in Chief of the First Air Fleet and the one with the primary responsibility for the entire operation, stood beside Fuchida. As a lifelong practitioner of kendo, the martial art of sword fighting with bamboo swords, he valued the careful assessment of an opponent before making a strike. He ran his hand over his balding head. “Lieutenant Fuchida, please be frank.”
Fuchida shook his head. “The models are excellent, but where are the placements of the American ships?” Genda nodded to an assistant who unrolled a map with the last known locations of all the ships in the harbor sketched in.
“A torpedo attack is essential,” Genda said. “It’ll do far greater damage than aerial bombs.”
“What’s the average depth of the harbor?”
Another assistant spoke up reading from papers. “Sir, the harbor’s maximum depth is approximately fourteen meters.” He looked at Fuchida fearfully awaiting his response.
“Fourteen?” he said in disbelief. “We don’t have any aerial torpedoes that’ll run that shallow. They’ll stick straight in the mud!” The commanders turned to Genda.
“Do it anyway! We’ll find a way to make it work.” Genda said.
Fuchida knew Genda well enough that sometimes his theories exceeded his practical knowledge, but set the concern aside for the present. He also knew they had brilliant engineers. “What about torpedo nets. I can’t imagine the Americans won’t have their nets up.”
Genda casually lit a cigarette. “You think the harbor’s too shallow for torpedoes.” He looked Fuchida in the eyes. “The Americans think it’s too shallow for torpedoes. Our reports show that they’re not using nets. If they do, our first torpedoes will blow holes in them and we’ll drop more torpedoes right down the same lines.”
Fuchida waved his hand over the map. “Many of the ships are double-berthed. Torpedoes can’t reach the inside positions. Aerial bombs are the only option.”
“Dive bombers, then,” Nagumo said.
Again, Fuchida shook his head. “Dive bombers can penetrate their carrier decks, but their battleship armor is too heavy. Level bombers can do it, but we don’t have aerial bombs powerful enough for the job.”
Genda leaned in. “I’ve given a lot of thought to this. What about the sixteen-inch armor piercing shells used for the guns of our battleships? What if we added fins and fastened them to your planes? Couldn’t you use them successfully?”
Fuchida pondered. “That’s never been done, either, but I’ll talk to the engineers.” Things were adding up in Fuchida’s mind – so many untested systems, so many untried plans. He’d seen in the past how his commanders made finely tuned plans based on every variable being in their favor. But one problem, and the plan unraveled like an old tatami mat.
Ever cautious, Nagumo looked Fuchida in the face. “Is everything going to be OK?”<
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Fuchida felt the eyes of all pressing into him. If there was ever a chance to call things off, or least call for a delay, now would be the time. His few seconds of hesitation felt like minutes. “I can’t tell you at this time, sir. Everything depends on our training from now on.”
Nagumo nodded and glanced at Genda. “Very good. Very good. Get on with the training of the pilots, Fuchida, but not a word is to be mentioned about the objective. Complete secrecy must be maintained. None of the flyers are to know. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m still concerned about detection.” Nagumo sighed deeply.
Fuchida rubbed his face. “If we can achieve surprise, total surprise ... the Pacific fleet will be a memory.” Still, it was a very unlikely scenario to him.
November 17, 1941.
Fuchida, the leading officers, and all of the officer aviators of the First Air Fleet stood at ease in formation clothed in their warmest coats on the windy deck of the Akagi under freezing skies. White patches of snow blotted the ground and the carrier deck.
“Our opponent this time is not an easy one.” Yamamoto said. The Commander in Chief of the Combined Fleet gave his final remarks to the men before the fleet departed to a staging point in Hitokappu Bay.
Fuchida could see the concern in his eyes that came from experience in war.
“Japan has faced many worthy opponents in her long history – but the United States is the most worthy of all. You must be prepared for great American resistance. Admiral Kimmel, Commander in Chief of the Pacific Fleet, is known to be farsighted and aggressive, so we can’t count on surprise. You may have to fight your way to the target.” A gust of wind whistled through the wires of the control tower. “The success or failure of the operation of this unit taking the first step in this battle will influence the success or failure of the entire Pacific operation. I’m praying for the best effort from all of us, and for our success.” Yamamoto took a long look across the faces of men. “We await the Emperor’s decision.”
Fuchida was confident, but the chilling wind brought a chill of fear as he contemplated what they were getting into. Everything was in place and it would be a do or die mission. There would be no middle ground for the outcome of the attack.
Admiral Yamamoto turned to Vice Admiral Nagumo, shook his hand and nodded, then did the same with Rear Admiral Kusaka and Genda. Coming to Fuchida he grasped his hand and looked him soberly in the face, the whipping of the wind through the ranks the only sound.
If called upon, Fuchida knew he would be the lead warrior in an event that could change the course of Japan’s future, and perhaps the world itself. He was ready.
Chapter 26
November 26, 1941. Just off the Kuril Islands, Japan.
Under cover of night from a remote bay on one of the northernmost islands of Japan, the most powerful naval battle group that had ever been assembled set off eastward. Fuchida stood on the open flight deck of the Akagi in the dim starlight, his pant legs flapping in the wind, and took in the sight of the First Air Fleet of six aircraft carriers, two battleships and two dozen other support ships – cruisers, oilers, and destroyers. The ships were given colorful names such as “Flying Dragon” (Hiryu) “Auspicious Crane” (Zuikaku) and “Red Castle” (Akagi) – the name of a dormant volcano and home to the legends of gods.
He felt a personal closeness to the Akagi, the flagship of the fleet, like she was a long trusted friend. Over the previous months he had shouted himself hoarse working with groups of fliers, giving instructions and encouraging the men at every opportunity to strive for excellence.
Now, with the frenzied training behind him, he enjoyed the cold sea breeze and the slow pitch and yaw of the ship. He inhaled with relief and excitement and raised a sextant to make a sighting to determine the position of their vessel. As the atmosphere was quite clear, he immediately found the North Star, Polaris – that steady star he’d come to trust and love through the years.
The multitude of stars in the night sky pulled his mind to the thousands of soldiers and hundreds of warships in motion all over Southeast Asia and the Pacific, and how it would be such a disappointment if they were called back to Japan after so much preparation.
December 1, 1941. The Imperial Palace, Tokyo, Japan.
Nineteen leaders sat stiffly in the imperial counsel chamber with only Tojo standing, having just completed his last words to the Emperor. They all had spent countless hours over weeks and months discussing every conceivable plan and every possible outcome, and it had finally come down to this one, electrically charged moment. All eyes were fixed on the Emperor waiting nervously. Emperor Hirohito gently nodded his head. It would be war.
Part II
Thunder and Lightning
Chapter 27
December 8, 1941 (Japan), December 7 (USA) before the dawn. The Pacific Ocean, 300 miles north of Oahu, Hawaii.
The carrier Akagi rose and fell on the high seas in the dark dawn, throwing great sheets of white water into the wind. Below decks, having just poured out his heart and soul to his fellow fliers, Fuchida in his full flight gear came face to face with Genda in the passageway. Eighteen years of friendship and life flashed before him as he looked at Genda. Danger or not, this was the course he had chosen and, having received their orders, there would be no turning back. As planes rumbled outside and pilots shoved past them in the passageway, Fuchida’s sober gaze at Genda grew into a smile. Genda smiled back. This would be the greatest day of their lives.
On the flight deck, Fuchida approached his own green-gray Nakajima bomber with its distinctive red tail painted with three horizontal yellow bars across the rudder so his pilots could recognize him in the air. He affectionately ran his hand across the leading edge of the wing, like a samurai examining his katana6. Smiling, he turned to his engineer, Kanegasaki, a man taller than the rest, and shouted over the deafening engines, asking a clearly rhetorical question. “Is my aircraft in order?”
He bowed he head with a quick nod, “Sharpened to a keen edge, sir!” Despite the urgency of the moment, Kanegasaki, surrounded by several other engineers in white, withdrew a long, white bandana from his pocket and held it in outstretched hands to Fuchida. “All of the maintenance crew would like to go with you to Pearl Harbor. Since we can’t, we want you to take this hachimaki as a symbol that we are with you in spirit.” The crew gave a brief bow, as Fuchida did likewise. He respectfully accepted the hachimaki with both hands and quickly tied it around his leather helmet, samurai style.
He gave Kanegasaki a quick smile, then clambered up the wing and into the center position of his aircraft. The plane seated three men: in the front was Fuchida’s pilot; in the middle sat Fuchida as bombardier; and in the rear seat was his radio operator/gunner. As leader of the entire flight operation, Fuchida had far more to focus on than flying as he was responsible for directing the pilots as well as documenting the progress of the entire raid for later review. He also had the responsibility of aiming and delivering their precious 1,760 pound armor-piercing bomb – the ultimate purpose of his aircraft. After strapping in, he reached back with both hands and slid the canopy shut as his pilot wound up the engine and taxied into takeoff position.
Fuchida had accumulated over 3,000 hours in the air without a major incident, but he was well-aware that even the slightest problem with his aircraft over the open ocean could mean death. Flying into hostile air and coming under fire greatly increased the risk, and their estimates had put the “acceptable loss” at nearly half their 414 aircraft. He and his companions would be in the air for nearly eight hours where anything could happen. But Fuchida quashed the thoughts as there was no sense being concerned about what couldn’t be changed. The successful execution of the attack was all he cared about now. Nothing else.
With the flagman’s OK, the plane throttled up, pressed him back into his seat, and roared down the wooden runway. As they cleared the end and lifted into the dark dawn sky, Fuchida was one again filled with a child
-like elation and thrilled to see other aircraft circling and forming into their respective flight groups. Once the six carriers had sent aloft the first wave of 183 planes and they were properly grouped, they headed south – to Oahu.
As Fuchida reviewed his plans, something caught his eye. Under the orange morning sky, the rising sun on the horizon beamed rays of sunlight through the clouds. Excitedly he pushed back his canopy and waved both hands in the air to his comrades, his hachimaki trailing in the wind, and pointed to the sun. Nearby fliers likewise pushed back their canopies and waved with enthusiasm. He was certain the gods were with them.
Twenty-five minutes before the attack on Pearl Harbor. Kota Bharu, Malaya, 350 miles northwest from the British stronghold of Singapore.
Japanese destroyers pummeled the shore positions with barrages of artillery shells, their guns firing with ferocity, piercing the dark morning horizon with brilliant flashes of light. Four columns of troop transports loaded with 5,300 infantry soldiers flooded the northern beaches at Kota Bharu and came under heavy small arms fire from the British Indian and Australian forces. They were the first Japanese infantry of tens of thousands to follow in the invasion of Malaya on their way to seize Singapore, the center of British strength in Southeast Asia.
Five minutes before the attack. Oahu, Hawaii.
Flying through the tropical volcanic mountains of Oahu, Fuchida was stunned that they had apparently remained undetected all the way to their destination. He looked above and around his group of aircraft in disbelief. “Not a single patrol plane on watch!” Fuchida scanned his map then looked through his binoculars to the landscape below. There were the ships in the harbor, just like the model they had built. Quickly shoving back the canopy he fired a single Black Dragon signal flare into the morning sky signaling for the entire squadron to plunge into attack. His B5N, a high-level bomber climbed as the torpedo bombers dropped lower. As the various planes took their well-rehearsed positions beginning their approach to assault the American fleet, Fuchida realized that they had done it. They had beaten all the odds and caught their prey completely unaware! With exhilaration pulled his speaker tube to his face and called out to his radioman, “Tiger! Tiger! tiger!” His radioman quickly tapped out the code back to the main fleet signifying their achievement of complete surprise on the enemy.
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