Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th Read online

  He caught the eye of his chief and nodded; the chief had given him the traditional headband that he now sported like a samurai of old. He grinned and gave a thumbs-up signal that all was well.

  Assistants knelt under either wing, hands wrapped taut around the ropes that would pull the wheel chokes clear. In this mad, rolling sea, there’d be a disaster in the making if they were removed too early. A plane rolling back or forward into another, since they were spaced but a few feet apart, could set off a chain-reaction explosion that would sweep the deck and in an instant shatter the entire plan.

  Japanese naval aircraft prepare to take off from an aircraft carrier (reportedly Shokaku) to attack Pearl Harbor during the morning of 7 December 1941. Plane in the foreground is a “Zero” fighter. This is probably the launch of the second attack wave. The original photograph was captured on Attu in 1943.

  NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER

  He faced into the more than fifty-knot blow sweeping the deck. It was refreshing, bracing. Three days ago, as they steamed down from the northern waters, it had been bitter, freezing, ice forming on the deck. But in the last day and a half they had shifted into more tropical waters and now, in his heavy flight suit, padded with rabbit fur, the heavy boots, kapok life vest, revolver in shoulder holster, padded leather flight helmet, he was sweating profusely and knew that once at altitude that sweat could be dangerous.

  The wind was a cooling blessing.

  He checked his chronometer: it was just after 6:00 a.m. local time.

  He shifted his gaze to the bridge and made eye contact with his friend, the intellectual architect of this moment, Commander Genda.

  Years ago it was Genda who first postulated this type of plan. He was met with such violent reaction that his lectures had to be curtailed, and yet he had persevered, citing every source from the German Clausewitz and the concept of the Schwerpunkt, to the teachings of the American strategist Mahan. For any hope of victory, Japan must effectively end its naval war on the first day, with the first crippling strike that would shatter enemy morale and cripple his ability to respond. We did so at Port Arthur in 1904, he said, the decisive blow as the opening move, the true tradition of the samurai who in one blinding sweep ends the duel before it has really started. It was Genda who had finally risen to the inner circle of naval advisors, and his words had reached Yamamoto when the government finally made its choice to turn “south” rather than “north,” meaning a naval war to seize the rich colonies of the collapsing European powers rather than confront the beleaguered Soviet Union for control of Siberia, rich in resources yes, but a nightmare to organize and make productive for an industrial nation. Besides, the army had bungled its probing attacks in Mongolia the year before, crushed by the power of Soviet armor and artillery.

  Fuchida caught Genda’s eye, salutes were exchanged between two old friends, and he knew Genda was in agony, wishing to go with them and not be tied to the deck command bridge.

  The shuddering of the engines leveled out into a steady pulsing, drumming rumble. The bow of the great ship rose up on the waves, paused, and crashed down. Even in this, the most rigorous of services, if this was an exercise, the operation would be canceled. But not now, not today. A typhoon could be blowing, and yet still they would struggle to launch.

  It was a few minutes after six local time. The tropical twilight was brightening to the east, arcing under low, scudding clouds, the trailing wisps of the storm front that had covered their advance across four thousand miles of northern seas breaking apart in the morning light.

  A bosun’s pipe shrieked over the ship’s public address system. He went rigid, eyes focused on the string of signal flags just aft of the bridge, heart pounding. And there it was, the legendary Z flag, the flag that had been reverently brought out from its honored place aboard the old flagship Mikusa and with full honors brought aboard this ship, to be used for this moment.

  The very flag that Admiral Togo had raised in 1905 to signal the commencement of action against the Russians at the Battle of Tsushima.

  Another shriek of the bosun’s pipe and the flag that was at half-mast ever so sharply rose to the top of the signal mast. At the sight of it thus, a wild shout went up. The years of training now came to the fore. Within seconds he could see the first Zero begin to roll forward into the near sixty-knot wind, its rollout timed so that the deck would be level and dropping away.

  It lifted easily, fifty feet shy of the bow. Already behind it rolled a second Zero, then the third. To meet the plan a plane had to clear every fifteen seconds. If the pilot lost an engine now, he was ordered to press over, go into the towering seas, and thus meet his fate. There was no time now for delay.

  Ten of the Zeroes were clear. A last look over at his crew chief, who was twirling his raised right hand in a tight circle, signal to the pilot of his plane to rev up.

  The plane shuddered with its pent-up fury, massive radial engine thundering, exhaust whipping back. Fuchida was actually tempted to remain standing, but knew that was foolish bravado.

  He slipped down into the cockpit, quickly buckling his harness on, pulling the shoulder straps tight, slapping his pilot, directly in front of him, on the shoulder.

  Now seated, he could not see ahead and could only catch a glimpse of the wingtip of the Kate in front and to their port side.

  The crew chief continued to circle his fist, faster and tighter,

  A Japanese Navy Type 97 carrier attack plane (“Kate”) takes off from a carrier as the second-wave attack is launched. Ship’s crewmen are cheering “Banzai!” This ship is either Zuikaku or Shokaku. Note light tripod mast at the rear of the carrier’s island, with Japanese naval ensign.

  NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER

  the plane shuddering as the engine roared at full throttle, only the chocks and the pilot with both feet locked to the toe brakes keeping it from leaping forward. Unlike with a ground takeoff, there was no room to zigzag into place. The massive bulk of the engine forward blocked the view ahead.

  With a dramatic gesture the crew chief pointed down with his left hand, signaling the crews holding the lines to the chokes to pull them clear. At the same instant he looked back up at the pilot, saluted, and then pointed directly forward.

  The heavy Kate began to roll forward, the launch chief, up on the bridge, timing the moment so that the deck was pitching up; thus by the time they reached the end of the deck, it would be pitching back down.

  “Wind speed seventy,” the pilot shouted, “seventy-five.” They were past the bridge. Though indicated speed was seventy-five, in fact they were just barely moving at little more than twenty-five knots. The pilot already had his stick slightly forward to raise the tail up, the big rudder aft biting into the wind with plenty of right rudder by the pilot to counteract the tremendous torque generated by the engine. He could feel a lightness to the aircraft, a slight buffeting from the torque, the pilot feeding in more right rudder, stick easing back, the deck dropping away beneath them. The Kate felt sluggish, hovering on a stall, pilot nosing her down slightly, running parallel to the deck for a few seconds so that it looked like they were heading straight into the sea.

  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 on 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 and 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.

  “Glad you got here early as I requested,” 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.