An unexpected hitch arose when a piece of cable snarled in the Akagi’s propeller, but a diver got it free in half an hour, and by 8:00 A.M. the whole task force was clear of the harbor. As the Akagi glided by, a patrol boat’s blinkers flashed through the gloom, “Good luck on your mission.”
Commander Gishiro Miura, the Akagi’s navigation officer, certainly needed it. He had no easy job in weather like this —pounding seas, steady gales, the thickest kind of fog. Miura was famous throughout the fleet for his sloppy, easygoing amiability; but it was all gone now. He stood stern and tense on the bridge. He wore a pair of shoes instead of his usual carpet slippers.
Most of the time the ships managed to keep in formation: the carriers in two parallel columns of three … the eight tankers trailing behind … the battleships and cruisers guarding the flanks … the destroyers screening the whole force … the subs scouting far ahead. But at night the tankers, not used to this sort of work, would stray far and wide. Every morning the destroyers herded them back to the fleet.
The second day out, Admirals Nagumo and Kusaka clung to the plunging bridge of the Akagi, trying as usual to round up the tankers. Suddenly Nagumo blurted, “Mr. Chief of Staff, what do you think? I feel that I’ve undertaken a heavy responsibility. If I had only been more firm and refused. Now we’ve left home waters and I’m beginning to wonder if the operation will work.”
Admiral Kusaka came up with the right answer: “Sir, there’s no need to worry. We’ll make out all right.”
Nagumo smiled. “I envy you, Mr. Kusaka. You’re such an optimist.”
Admiral Nagumo must have felt even more discouraged when they first tried refueling on the 28th. This turned out to be dangerous, backbreaking work. As the ships bucked and plunged, the big hoses running from the tankers would snap loose and whiplash across the deck. Several crewmen were swept overboard, but nothing could be done about it.
By the 30th they were getting better at refueling, but now they had another problem. As the weather grew worse, oil drums stored on the deck of the light carrier Hiryu spilled, turning her into a skating rink. Commander Takahisa Amagai, the flight deck officer, wrapped straw rope around his boots to keep from falling, but barked his shins anyhow.
On they plowed, through nerve-wracked days and sleepless nights. Admiral Kusaka catnapped in a canvas chair on the Akagi’s bridge. Her chief engineer, Commander Yoshibumi Tanbo, did the same far below. He and his 350 men rarely left the engine room, lived in a life of oil and sweat beside their beloved machines. Mess attendants carried down all their meals —usually rice balls with pickled plums and radishes, wrapped in bamboo bark.
Everyone grew more and more restless. From the bridge of the Akagi Admiral Kusaka watched the pilots endlessly check their planes, warm up the engines, run through daily calisthenics. On the Shokaku, Commander Hoichiro Tsukamoto never knew that time could pass so slowly — his mind was always wandering to his watch or clock. Captain Tadataka Endo, the ship’s doctor, whiled away the hours playing shogi and go. On the Hiryu, everyone speculated about the gauze mask that Group Leader Lieutenant Haita Matsumura wore over his mouth. He mumbled something about the unhealthy climate, and they marked him off as a hopeless hypochondriac.
But they speculated most of all on where they were going. Fighter pilot Yoshio Shiga on the Kaga was sure it would be in the north — all the planes had been changed to winter oil. Lieutenant (j.g.) Sukao Ebina, the Shokaku’s junior medical officer, guessed Dutch Harbor. Commander Tanbo down in the Akagi’s engine room enjoyed a special advantage: he knew how far she could go on the fuel she carried. It all added up to the Philippines.
Hardly anybody yet knew the truth. Last-ditch negotiations were being conducted by Japanese envoys in Washington, trying to win for Japan a free hand in Asia. If these talks unexpectedly succeeded, orders would be sent to Nagumo to turn around and come home. And if this were done, the world must never know what almost happened. So at this point Nagumo couldn’t risk telling anybody.
But it was far more likely that the attack would come off; so the main job was to keep the fleet from being discovered. No waste could be thrown overboard — it might leave a telltale track. The ships used the highest grade fuel to keep smoke at a minimum. The empty oil drums were carefully stowed away. Complete blackout and strict radio silence. On the Hiei, Commander Kazuyoshi Kochi, chief communications officer for the whole task force, disconnected an essential part of his transmitter, put it in a wooden box, and used it as a pillow whenever he managed to get in some sleep.
They had several bad scares. Once Tokyo radioed that an unknown submarine had been detected. The fleet hastily changed course, only to discover that it was all a mistake. Another night Admiral Kusaka suddenly spotted a light in the sky, thought it might be an unknown aircraft. It turned out to be a spark from the Kaga’s runnel. She got a stiff warning to be more careful.
One morning the report spread that a Soviet ship was cruising nearby, en route from San Francisco to Russia. Every ship went on alert, but nothing came of it. Nor was there any way of checking such reports — Nagumo would not allow any planes in the air for fear of disclosing the fleet’s presence.
Arguments rambled over what to do if they were spotted by a neutral ship. At least one member of Nagumo’s staff cheerfully advised, “Sink it and forget it.”
On December 2 this sort of bull session ended abruptly. The day before, the imperial council had decided on war, and now Admiral Yamamoto radioed the task force: “Climb Mount Niitaka.” It was code for “Proceed with the attack.”
Another message later that day confirmed the date: “X-Day will be 8 December” — which was, of course, Sunday, December 7, in Hawaii.
At last the men were mustered and told. On the Kaga, Seaman Shigeki Yokota, a 23-year-old farm boy, was frightened but philosophical. Down in the heat and noise of the Akagi’s engine room Commander Tanbo’s men drank a quiet toast of sake … somehow no one felt like more than one cup. But most of the crew howled banzais and shared Seaman Iki Kuramoti’s ecstasy: “An air attack on Hawaii! A dream come true!”
Next morning everyone seemed to take a new lease on life. The pilots were briefed on their specific assignments — the Army airfields at Hickam and Wheeler … Schofield Barracks … the naval air stations at Kaneohe and Ford Island … the Marine base at Ewa … the U.S. fleet. On the Akagi, Admiral Kusaka produced a beautiful plaster-of-Paris relief map of Pearl Harbor. Previously, he had kept it under lock and key in his stateroom, accessible only to a few top officers; now he had it installed on the hangar deck, where everybody could use it. On the Kaga the pilots played identification games. An air officer would hide silhouettes of the American ships behind his back. Then he would flash them one at a time for the fliers to name. Lieutenant Yoshio Shiga just never could get the Utah.
The fliers were now pampered by everybody — daily baths, special rations of fresh milk and eggs. Despite all the Shinto cult could do, these were promptly converted into American milkshakes.
On the flagship, Admiral Nagumo worried more than ever about being discovered. He was indeed in a ticklish spot. If sighted by the enemy at any time before December 6, he was to turn around and go home. If sighted on the 6th, he was to use his own judgment. Only on the 7th was he committed, no matter what happened.
In the radio room of the Hiei, Commander Kochi listened intently to detect any sign that the Americans were on to the game. The intercepts were very reassuring.
Soon a flow of messages began to arrive from home, so important that Kochi let his staff do the monitoring, and devoted his own attention entirely to Tokyo. Yamamoto was relaying the latest Honolulu intelligence on the U.S. fleet. On December 3 he radioed:
“November 28-0800 (Local Time) Pearl Harbor: 2 Battleships (Oklahoma, Nevada); 1 Aircraft carrier (Enterprise); 2 Class-A Cruisers; 12 Destroyers Depart. 5 Battleships; 3 Class-A Cruisers; 3 Class-B Cruisers; 12 Destroyers; 1 Seaplane Carrier Enter …”
The following day Nagumo refue
led and crossed the international date line. This made no difference to the Japanese, who always kept their watches on Tokyo time, but to an American it explains why it is December 3 again.
By evening the fleet was 900 miles north of Midway… 1300 miles northwest of Oahu. Admiral Nagumo began veering southeast. On the Hiei, Commander Kochi caught another useful message relayed by Tokyo from Honolulu: “November 29 P.M. (Local Time) Vessels Anchored in Pearl Harbor: A-Zone (Between Navy Arsenal and Ford Island) KT (NW dock Navy Arsenal) Battleships, Pennsylvania, Arizona; FV (Mooring buoy) Battleships, California, Tennessee, Maryland, West Virginia. KS (Navy Arsenal Repair Dock) Class-A Cruiser Portland …”
More refueling on the 4th, and another morsel from Honolulu: “Unable to ascertain whether air alert has been issued. There are no indications of sea alert …”
On the 5th, part of the fleet refueled most of the day and night. Admiral Kusaka then ordered three of the tankers to withdraw and wait for him to return. It was one of those sentimental moments the Japanese love so well, and the crew kept waving their caps as the tankers slowly disappeared. Down below Commander Shimizu — the supply officer who was just along for the ride — wistfully listened to a Japanese program, Mrs. Hanako Muraoka’s “Children’s Hours.” It was now so faint that he finally gave up and twirled the dial until he caught some American music. It came in bright and lively.
At dawn on the 6th Kusaka refueled the rest of the task force, then once again the ships that had been refueled the day before. His idea was to have the tanks as full as possible for the day of the attack. By late morning the job was done, and the five remaining tankers also withdrew. More fond farewells.
Meanwhile Yamamoto had radioed a final, stirring call to arms: “The moment has arrived. The rise or fall of our empire is at stake …”
Everyone who could be spared assembled on deck, and on each ship the message was read to all hands. Speeches followed, and cheers split the air. Then up the Akagi’s mast ran the same “Z” flag flown by Admiral Heihachiro Togo at his great victory over the Russians in 1905. Down in the Akagi’s engine room Chief Engineer Tanbo couldn’t see it happen, but as he listened over the voice tube, his heart pounded and tears came to his eyes. He still regards it as his most dramatic single moment during the entire war.
It was hardly the moment for an earache. But as Group Leader Lieutenant Rokuro Kijuchi resumed briefing a group of pilots on the flight deck of the Hiryu, he felt a throbbing pain. He went to the ship’s doctor and got the bad news — he couldn’t go; he had mastoids.
The fleet was now some 640 miles due north of Oahu. With the slow tankers gone, it could make its final thrust southward. Shortly before noon Admiral Kusaka turned his ships and gave the order: “Twenty-four knots, full speed ahead!”
By 3:00 P.M. they had closed the gap to 500 miles. And in the radio room of the Hiei, Commander Kochi had a new message from Honolulu: as of 6:00 P.M., December 5, Pearl Harbor contained “8 battleships; 3 Class-B Cruisers; 16 Destroyers. Entering Harbor, 4 Class-B Cruisers (Honolulu Type); 5 Destroyers.”
At 4:55 P.M. the submarine I-72, already on the scene, sent some up-to-the-minute information: “American fleet is not in Lahaina waters.”
So they were either still at Pearl or had just left for sea. Nagumo’s staff hashed it over. Lieutenant Commander Ono, the admiral’s intelligence officer, pointed out that five of the battleships had been in port eight days; he was afraid they would be gone now. But Chief of Staff Kusaka, who was a bug on statistics, didn’t think they would leave on a weekend.
Commander Genda, the enterprising torpedo specialist, bemoaned the absence of carriers, but Ono comforted him that a couple of them might return at the last minute. Genda cheered up: “If that happened, I don’t care if all eight battleships are away.”
Late that evening another reassuring message from Honolulu: “No barrage balloons sighted. Battleships are without crinolines. No indications of an air or sea alert wired to nearby islands …”
The deceptive measures obviously were working. And Tokyo must have felt quite self-satisfied, for everything possible had been done. The authorities had even brought busloads of sailors from the Yokosuka Naval Barracks and paraded them conspicuously all over town on sight-seeing tours.
At 1:20 A.M. a last message was relayed by Tokyo from Honolulu:
“December 6 (Local Time) Vessels moored in Harbor: 9 Battleships; 3 Class-B Cruisers; 3 Seaplane Tenders; 17 Destroyers. Entering Harbor are 4 Class-B Cruisers; 3 Destroyers. All Aircraft Carriers and Heavy Cruisers have departed Harbor … No indication of any changes in U.S. Fleet or anything else unusual.”
More regrets that the carriers were gone. Some even wondered whether the raid should be called off. But Admiral Nagumo felt there was no turning back now. Eight battleships were bound to be in port, and it was time to stop worrying “about carriers that are not there.”
A last restless night of peace settled over the darkened ships as they pounded on toward Oahu, now less than 400 miles away. On the Kaga, Fighter Pilot Shiga took a tub bath, prepared a complete new change in clothing before retiring. Pilot Ippei Goto, who had just been promoted, laid out his new ensign’s uniform for the first time. On the Hiryu, Bomber Pilot Hashimoto put his things in order and tried to get some sleep. But he kept tossing in his bunk. Finally he got up, went to the ship’s doctor, and talked him out of some sleeping pills.
They must have worked, for when Commander Amagai, the Hiryu’s flight deck officer, dropped by a little later to see how his boys were getting on, they were all sound asleep.
He then went up to the hangar deck and carefully checked the wireless in each plane. To make doubly sure that nobody accidentally touched a set and gave away the show, he slipped small pieces of paper between each transmitter key and its point of contact.
On the Akagi, Lieutenant Commander Ono hunched over his radio and continued his all-night vigil, monitoring the Honolulu radio stations. Two … 2:30 … 3:00 A.M. passed; still there was just KGMB playing Hawaiian songs.
Some 360 miles to the south, Lieutenant Commander Mochitsura Hashimoto, special torpedo officer of the Japanese submarine I-24, sat listening to the same radio program. The I-24 was one of 28 large cruising subs that had been stationed off Oahu. They were to catch any U.S. warships lucky enough to escape to sea.
Also listening to the program in the I-24 was Ensign Kazuo Sakamaki, who had just turned 23 the day they left Japan. Sakamaki lived dreams of naval glory, but so far he was just a passenger. He was skipper of a two-man midget sub, which the I-24 carried papoose-style on her afterdeck.
There were five of these midgets altogether, each carried by a mother sub. The plan was to launch them shortly before the air attack. With luck they might sneak inside the harbor and bag a ship or two themselves.
The whole idea had an implausible touch that didn’t appeal to the superpractical Admiral Yamamoto. But it also had that touch of military suicide dear to the Japanese heart, and finally Commander Naoji Iwasa persuaded the high command to incorporate the midgets — by now called the “Special Naval Attack Unit” — into the overall plan. Then, since Iwasa had thought it up, he was put in charge.
At first Yamamoto set an important condition — the midgets couldn’t enter Pearl Harbor itself … they might give away the show before it began. But Commander Iwasa insisted that they could sneak in undetected, and finally Yamamoto relented on this point too.
Commander Iwasa quickly whipped his project into shape. Five long-range cruising subs were stripped of their aircraft and catapults and fitted instead with the new secret midgets. Four big clamps and one auxiliary clamp held them in place. Each of the midgets was about 45 feet long, carried two torpedoes, ran on storage batteries, and required a two-man crew.
The crews — handpicked and trained for more than a year — gathered in the Naval Command’s private room at Kure Naval Base on the morning of November 16. There they learned that the great day was at hand, that they would sail on t
he 18th for Hawaii.
The following night Ensign Sakamaki took a last stroll through Kure with his classmate and fellow skipper, Ensign Akira Hirowo. At a novelty shop they each bought a small bottle of perfume. In the best tradition of the old Japanese warriors, they planned to put it on before going to battle. Then they could die gloriously — as Sakamaki explained, “like cherry blossoms falling to the ground.”
Next morning they were off. Straight across the Pacific they sailed, cruising about 20 miles apart. Usually they ran submerged by day, on the surface at night. During these evening runs Sakamaki and his crewman, Seaman Kyoji Inagaki, would climb all over the midget, making sure that everything was all right. In his enthusiasm, Sakamaki was twice washed overboard. Fortunately he had remembered to tie himself to the big sub with a rope; so each time he was hauled in, dripping but full of pep, ready to go back to work.
On December 6 they sighted Oahu. After nightfall they surfaced and eased closer to shore. Finally they lay to in the moonlight, about ten miles off Pearl Harbor. From the conning tower Commander Hashimoto studied with interest the red and green lights off the port … the glow of Honolulu itself … the illuminated twin towers of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel … and all the way to his right the Elks Club that glittered and twinkled at the foot of Diamond Head.
So at last they were there. Sakamaki and Inagaki ran through the million details that needed last minute checking. Suddenly they discovered the gyrocompass wasn’t working. This was important — without it they couldn’t navigate under water. Sakamaki corralled the I-24’s gyrocompass man, ordered Inagaki to help him on the repair job, and went below for a last nap.
About 12:30 A.M. he left his bunk and wandered up to the conning tower for a little fresh air. Oahu was darker now and seemed wrapped in haze. The stars were out, and the moon beat on a choppy, restless sea.
The World War II Collection Page 39