“A sham,” one of the admirals exclaimed.
“I fully agree,” Genda replied with a smile, and his comment caught many by surprise because they figured he was leading into the already known argument that aircraft would be the deciders of the next battle.
He nodded to Fuchsia.
“Perhaps my friend, Lieutenant Commander Fuchsia, can expand on this point.”
Fuchsia cleared his throat nervously.
“For several years I have been involved in experiments in a wide variety of aircraft, from seaplanes to land-based twin-engine bombers. It is our firm conclusion that land-based bombers, attacking horizontally at the standard accepted altitude of two thousand meters or more, which is required for the dropped bomb to accelerate to penetration speed, will be all but useless against ships capable of maneuver. An adroit ship’s captain can easily outmaneuver individual planes and even small groups from the time the bomb is released until its impact. Even if, by remote chance, a target is struck, structural damage will be minimal and the cost in aircraft lost prohibitive.”
“So aircraft are indeed ineffective against battleships,” one of the admirals exclaimed with a smile, slapping the table.
“Respectfully, sir, I did not quite say that. I described land-based army aircraft attacking horizontally, which is currently how they are trained.
“However, we have seen tremendous strides in the last several years with the practice of dropping torpedoes from low level. As you know, a torpedo strike below the waterline is infinitely more deadly than a blow from above, even from that of a sixteen-inch shell, for the explosion is contained by the water and bursts inward. In turn, the attack would be supported by a new type of bomber, a dive bomber, which we know the Germans are learning to use with great effect in Spain.
“Commander Genda and his team have war-gamed the following scenario: a combined strike of one hundred aircraft striking a main battle fleet simultaneously from several directions. The result would be devastating, with the potential of sinking capital ships.” Fuchsia looked over at Genda and nodded, relinquishing his role.
“Lieutenant Fuchsia is, without doubt, one of the finest pilots of our fleet, experienced in all types of aircraft, and has personally developed some of the tactics we are now studying. Projecting forward several years, with heavier aircraft, faster aircraft, capable of carrying more deadly weapons, the results could be profound.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“Then consider submitting a report to that effect, Commander Genda, and we shall study it,” one of the admirals replied. “We are always open to the applications of new technologies.”
“If we really accepted the power of airplanes, we would not be building more battleships,” came a voice from the back of the room.
All turned in the speaker’s direction, some with looks of respect, others not so respectful, as the navy’s new vice minister, Admiral Yamamoto, stepped forward.
All well knew the game within the game here this day. Genda and Fuchsia were protégés of Yamamoto, and, in fact, were speaking for him, an ancient game of a younger samurai voicing the opinion of an elder and thus deflecting direct counterattack.
“They are a huge waste of resources,” Yamamoto said forcefully, his open statement catching many by surprise. “If we really trusted in this analysis, we would immediately convert the seventy-thousand-ton battleships we are currently planning into giant aircraft carriers, capable of carrying two hundred or more planes each. Then we would have a real chance of winning naval dominance in the Pacific.”
Several of the more traditional admirals exploded in anger at Yamamoto’s heretical views. They had been engaged in this fight for several years; and even though they were getting the money to build the battleships they cherished, they simply could not stifle the voice of the former head of the technical division of the Aeronautics Department. Yamamoto was rising because of his sheer ability, despite the hostility of much of the more conservative wing of the navy.
No one spoke back directly to the vice minister, but the looks of hostility were barely concealed. He stood ready to accept a challenge, and then finally smiled and simply nodded.
“My apologies for interfering in the presentation. Mr. Genda, please continue.” Yamamoto nodded toward the younger man.
Genda nodded politely, took a deep breath, and then pushed into the opening his “master” had already created.
“Sirs, I think I must express the deeper concern here. Even more than our shipbuilding program, our strategies and planning need rethinking. The Essen Plan projects a certain wearing down of the Americans as they move through the Mars halls and on to the Marianas. The potential of an overwhelming air strike might inflict such losses that they would halt, even withdraw, concede the Philippines, but then apply their massive industrial strength to build up, even if it took six months or a year.”
There were looks of confusion.
“You present a contradiction, Genda,” came a reply. “On the one side, Fuchsia states that bombers are ineffective, but in the next breath declares them deadly.”
Genda nodded.
“Carrier-based aircraft would be deadly: naval aircraft trained to fight against other ships, to strike them and sink them even as they maneuver. The army does not concern itself with such training. They might make some polite gestures, but their concerns are elsewhere. I maintain that carriers, properly employed, will profoundly change the entire focus of any future campaign at sea.”
No one spoke in defense of the army, as he fully expected, but at the mention of carriers several shook their heads.
“Carriers though?” came a reply from one of the admirals. “Our numerous war games have always shown that the carrier, unarmored, loaded with highly flammable aviation gas, if struck by but one bomb can be placed out of operation for hours, days, perhaps even lost.”
Genda nodded.
“And therefore, to commit them, unsupported or lightly supported, into a campaign against the Americans advancing through the Mars halls is too risky a venture, especially if scattered and ill protected as the main strike force is held back.”
“No, I propose something far different,” Genda replied, now speaking fast, for he sensed he was about to lose his audience.
“Again, I must maintain that a delaying campaign through the Mars halls, having the Americans come to us, ultimately will play to the American strength of recovery and industrialization.
“No, instead the opening move should be that we strike first, strike hard, and strike with total surprise.”
He looked around the room.
“How?” someone asked.
He picked up the pointer and again swept it to the eastern end of the table.
“If war against the Americans, which personally I would find to be regrettable, becomes inevitable, our move should not be to wait but rather to strike first. And not with battleships, but with carriers, and not one or two carriers but six or eight carriers, capable of putting three hundred or more planes in the air. And in that first strike, destroy the American Fleet, in its entirety, in the opening blow.”
His pointer came to rest in the waters around Hawaii.
“This should be our new plan, and Essen should be laid to rest.”
“Absurd,” came a heated reply. “They will advance toward us; we know they will do that. Why venture far out, thousands of miles forward, in such a risk-laden venture, without nearby bases for support and repair. Let them come to us and walk into our trap.”
“If one sets a trap for a fox, no matter how elaborate, and the fox declines to enter, the trap is a waste, even if built of solid gold,” Genda replied forcefully. “What then? We all agree that if hostilities break out, time will be on the Americans’ side. Suppose they decide to sit back and first build up.”
“They must defend the Philippines; to lose them without a fight is a loss of face the U.S. Navy will never accept.”
“Perhaps, ultimately, their navy will be focused
more on victory than what we define as saving face. I therefore still maintain that it is we who should strike first.”
He fell silent, looking about the room hoping that now debate would open up; that perhaps someone would ask for greater elaboration, but there was only silence and, after a moment, muttered comments about other meetings, a clearing of throats, nods of thanks, and the gathering broke apart, heading toward the door.
The room quickly emptied out.
Genda looked over at Fuchsia and forced a smile.
“It’s a start,” he said, and Fuchsia could only shake his head.
Finally only one other officer remained, and he stood across from them, looking down at the map table, and sighed.
“A good start and most courageous,” Yamamoto said.
“Thank you, sir, I’m sorry it was not more successful.”
“Personally I hope it never comes to it,” Yamamoto continued. “I served in Washington, D.C., as an attaché, traveled extensively around the country, count many in their navy as my friends. For me, war with them would be unthinkable; there are far greater concerns, the Soviets for one.
“Genda, you are on the right track. You know I opposed the building of these new superbattleships. They are a waste of money. The key to the future is airpower, and the key to naval airpower is the carrier. I really came to understand that when I commanded the Akagi back in 1928. Here was Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic nonstop, and our hidebound admirals refusing to believe airplanes would matter.
“Something else for you to ponder. I have always been a gambler. I actually developed a system for roulette that made me a lot of money in Monaco when I was touring Europe. I like the gamble inherent in your plan. It fits life as I understand it. If possible, we should never fight. But if we have to fight, let’s do it boldly and with courage and audacity.
“I’d like to see your written report on this,” the admiral added, “and believe me I will not file it as many will do. Good day.”
There was a polite exchange of bows, and the admiral left.
Fuchsia watched Yamamoto depart with open admiration and turned to Genda, “Now there is a leader I would follow into battle against anyone.”
“Perhaps someday we will,” Genda said quietly.
The Yangtze River above Shanghai
12 December 1937
3:45 p.m. Local Time
He didn’t need binoculars to see them, and he felt a tightening in his gut. They were coming straight for him.
Though he was technically superior in rank to the captain of the river patrol boat Panay, it was not his place to give orders. The navy had placed him in Shanghai to head up the Small Signals Division there that was monitoring Japanese naval transmissions and, with his knowledge of the language, to act, if need be, as interpreter for the American Consulate Office to which he was officially attached. He had briefly stayed on with the Consulate Office when it was in Nanking, but the navy had ordered him to report back to Shanghai… he was supposed to be going home, back to Pearl, back to retire, his last physical finally catching up with the arthritis he had tried to conceal. With the utter chaos of the Japanese invasion of coastal China now in full swing he felt it best to get aboard a ship of the United States for the trip back, and the gunboat Panay had now been his home for several days as it shepherded several small oil tankers and stayed just outside of Nanking to pick up the last Americans who wanted to get out.
It had been a good posting, but when the war between Japan and China started up in Peking in July and rapidly swept this way, he felt it best to send Margaret back to their home in Hawaii. Anti-Japanese sentiment was high, and though she was but half-Japanese, he didn’t want to take any chances either with the Chinese, or, for that matter, the Japanese themselves.
He regretted not staying on in the city longer. His old friend Cecil was there, now working as a correspondent, and
USS Panay on standardization trial of 17.73 knots, on 30 August 1928, off Wosung, China.
NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER
they had managed to share a couple of meals and drinks together, both not believing, as of yet, the horror stories that moved along the front lines as the Japanese overran the Nationalist army.
Though he was loath to admit it publicly, he was so fed up with the corruption of Chiang and the Nationalists and their inability to effectively cope with the Communist threat, that secretly there was part of him that kind of hoped the Japanese would just pull it off and be done with it. If they fought it the way they had the war with Russia in 1904, honorably and with boldness, and then brought stability and peace to the region, in the long run it might be for the best after all.
Word, however, of their brutalities had run before them, and it was shattering to hear, in fact he did not want to believe it, for in so many ways he felt they were his people too. His lost son, part-Japanese, the woman he loved, part-Japanese, the language now as familiar to him as his own native tongue.
HE DID NOT WANT TO BELIEVE it, but as he studied the approaching planes, several fighters, his gut instinct was a grave warning.
The “captain” of the gunboat, actually a fairly young lieutenant, had his binoculars raised, saying nothing, and when finally James cleared his throat, the lieutenant lowered the glasses to look at him.
“I don’t mean to interfere, sir, but it might be trouble,” James said softly.
He was breaking naval protocol. An officer in transit, even if he was an admiral, still deferred to the commander of the ship he was aboard, though once off that ship, he could tear him up one side and down the other. It was a delicate situation.
“They wouldn’t dare,” the lieutenant responded loudly and brashly, then raised his glasses back up.
But they did dare.…
The first of the fighters rolled over into a shallow Split S, while still a mile out over the river, then pulled out, dropping in low over the water. No sound yet: It looked to James like one of their new Type 96 fighters, sleek, a match for anything in the air, a glint of sunlight off the propeller; it was coming in fast, nearly four miles a minute, and then he saw it… like Christmas tree lights winking on either wing.
A split second later, water foamed on the river surface, geysers from the 7.7-millimeter rounds fountaining a dozen feet into the air.
“Jesus Christ, they’re shooting at us!” someone screamed.
James caught a glimpse of some of the civilian refugees on the deck, who had been casually strolling about watching the approach of the fighter plane with interest, begin to scatter.
The fountains of water “walked” right into the Panay and suddenly there was the sound, the machine-gun firing, the roar of the plane’s engine, the sound of bullets smacking into steel, ricocheting off, huge flecks of paint flying up, pock marking the hull, and then the main deck cabin, window panes shattering.
The plane bore in, then roared overhead, the red rising sun painted beneath each wing.
The lieutenant stood, gape mouthed, unable to respond for a moment. “They’re shooting at us…,” he gasped finally, unbelievingly.
James felt, for a brief instant, a strange, almost surreal detachment from it all. Part of his mind refused to believe that this was happening at all, that the Japanese would dare actually attack an American ship. He spared a glance aft. The American flag was standing out in the noonday breeze… there was another flag painted atop the main deck cabin to clearly identify the ship from the air. No, it couldn’t be… and yet even as his mind rebelled, he saw the second plane leveling off just above the water, boring in, again the fountainlike geysers kicking up, this time coming straight at him.
And the strangest of thoughts then struck him. I’ve been in the Navy for over twenty-three years and this is the first time, the first time I’m actually being shot at. They are trying to kill me!
There was no melodramatic instant of life flashing before his eyes, thoughts of Margaret, or even of his lost son, just that each geyser erupting was stepping closer, marking the
converging fire of 7.7-millimeter machine guns coming right at him.
Someone knocked him hard, sending him sprawling, knocking the wind out of him. It was the lieutenant, finally reacting. The bullets stitched up the hull, tearing up deck planking on the diminutive bridge, shattering more glass, sparks flying. The plane roared over, followed by another right behind it, strafing the bow. He caught a glimpse of a sailor doubling over, collapsing. Screaming now, civilians scattering in panic around the deck, sailors, some moving to their general quarters position, though it had not yet been sounded, others just standing like statues, as unbelieving as James had been.
The three planes soared upward, gaining altitude, and for a moment he thought that somehow, just somehow it was a mistake, that they would climb out, realize their error, and leave. But no, the lead plane did a wing over, now coming down steeply from several thousand feet, guns again firing.
“General quarters!” He heard the order picked up, shouted, men running.
How many drills had he been through aboard ships such as the Maryland, the Lexington, the Oklahoma, where it was all done so smoothly in such orderly, almost stately fashion… but they had never been under fire, so caught by surprise… by terror.
The lieutenant was back up on his feet, someone tossing him a helmet, as if it would actually do any good.
“Sir, could you get those civilians under control… get them below decks!”
James came to his feet, not sure where to start; it was not as if he could pass a simple order and they would all just follow along.
The lead plane was firing again, shot plunging down, several more dropping, including one of the civilians, which set off hysterical screaming, the plane roaring out low over the water and then immediately beginning to climb back up.
“Below, damn it, below!” James shouted. Grabbing the nearest civilian, he vaguely recognized him as a secretary from the embassy; he shoved the man toward the open doorway of the main deck cabin.
Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th Page 9