“Why do you see that as good? It could be called a lack of forward defense. Their airfields near the coast have all been nearly pounded out of existence.
“Every British pilot shot down still had a chance of bringing a crippled plane in, or to bail out to fight another day.”
“I understand you Japanese do not like to bail out,” Shaath said softly, looking at his drink.”
“To fall into the hands of the Chinese? Some of our pilots have been found crucified.”
“And the Nationalist pilots that fall into your hands?”
“The navy has captured very few, and they have been treated with respect while in our control,” Genda replied defensively. “I cannot speak for the army.”
“I guess you’ve heard of Chennault.”
“Of course,” Genda said coldly. He was the loudmouthed, arrogant American advisor to the Nationalists. Of course he was strictly “a volunteer,” no official connection to their military or president, and yet through private venture firms, a lot of American supplies were now flowing over a road through Burma and rumors were, more and yet more American “volunteer” pilots were showing up to fight, having supposedly resigned their commissions with their own service to do so.
“Chennault supposedly tells his people to save the last bullet in their side arm for themselves if they get shot down.”
“Exactly what our pilots are told,” Genda replied, his voice pitched even.
Shaath nodded.
“Perhaps we should turn back to here and now,” and leaning over from his chair he caught the eye of the steward in the main lounge and held his glass up and then two fingers.
Genda wanted to refuse, but the scotch did taste good and he would nurse the next one. The neatly attired steward promptly arrived with two more drinks and took away the empties.
“So the British apparently are conceding the Channel just for the moment,” Shaath said.
“And on the invasion day, if it should come, I would pity the German glider troops and paratroopers, an essential first wave for securing the coastal airfields and perhaps even the harbor at Dover. The Germans have never developed the airlift capacity for a large-scale invasion, whereas a hundred planes such as this giant we are now in, properly covered by fighters, could place an entire division across the channel in thirty minutes.”
“An interesting concept,” Shaath replied, and neither spoke of the giant gliders that both knew about, the huge Me-321s under construction in Germany and capable of bringing in upward of 150 men–but also a death trap if a single fighter got on to it or the twin-tow planes needed to haul the giant.
“The Germans have not actually seized control of the air. Achieve that on the first day of battle, and the conclusion is ultimately foregone.
“You and I are both airmen,” Genda continued. “Perhaps the new doctrine is to totally seize control of the air on the first day, and victory is inevitable. The Germans pretty well did achieve that over France and definitely over Poland; they have failed in England.”
“But you saw the raid on September 7,” Shaath said, and there was an edge of excitement to his voice. “My God, I have never seen so many planes in the air at the same time in my entire life.”
“And they were bombing the wrong targets,” Genda said quietly.
Shaath looked at him.
Genda shook his head; perhaps he was indeed saying too much.
“What target would you have chosen instead?” Shaath pressed.
Genda smiled and held up his drink in a salute.
“Perhaps it is only fair that I ask that question of you.”
Shaath chuckled. “I think we are on the same wavelength. I’d have put that power out there the first day. The Germans have proven the genius of the tactical application of airpower directly onto the battlefield. There is no denying that. But this is more a strategic objective. And they have missed the point. It is not about the factories that make planes or engines, or even process the fuel. It is about the young men inside those planes.”
Genda nodded. He thought of his own comrades, those who had first sailed aboard Akagi and Kaga, testing out the new theories of air war at sea. There wasn’t a man of them still alive who did not have eight hundred, even a thousand hours of flying time. Reports indicated the British were indeed at the bottom of the barrel, having shaved off dozens of hours of training time to rush air crews into action, some going up with as little as fifteen hours’ experience in their planes.
Carl added, “I’d have kept pounding the airfields, their command centers, naval targets along the coast. Their bombers have been taking such heavy losses, though, that it seems the German fighters are increasingly tied to protecting the slow, lumbering aircraft bombers, not even designed for the mission of a heavy bombardment of a city. No, I’d have had pure fighter sweeps going in, looking for fights, and if the Brits didn’t come up, catch them on the ground. Once superiority there is won, then let the bombers be used judiciously to prepare the way for the attack. They’ve done it ass backward.”
Genda smiled at the “Americanism” of ass backward and chuckled.
His analysis exactly, and this little conversation would go into his report as well. The Americans were perhaps thinking along the same lines. They must see now the deciding factor of airpower. The German air force was not designed for strategic operations; that was something that most likely only the Americans could ever afford to purchase, fleets of heavy four-or even six-engine bombers.
Japan could never afford it, and he felt a wave of envy. And yet that envy had to be transcended. If a potential opponent had a distinct advantage, which the Americans so obviously did–just by the sheer massive size of their country–then one had to think around that advantage, to a path that would defeat them nevertheless. No, Japan’s planes would have to be light, at least for the start if war was to come, and light meant fast, swift, and slashing in hard.
The Germans had missed their chance. Granted they had to play against the tricky weather of the region, the need to build or occupy French fields, move up logistical supports before launching their attacks, but those attacks should have come on day one, with overwhelming force and aimed at but one target, the Royal Air Force and the young men inside the planes. Kill them and the battle is won.
In a carrier strike it should be the same. Take out your opponent’s airpower first, then whatever is on the surface of the sea can be destroyed by the bombers and torpedo planes that follow.
That would be his report back to the staff college and his admiral. Airpower would be the key, but it must not be squandered. They could never hope to have the massive air fleets he had witnessed over London, witnessed being so miserably used. No, it would have to be a lightning strike on the first day, designed to first and foremost cripple the enemy airpower; that would mean catching their army air forces on the ground, or just barely getting up; and as for their navy… the carriers, break through the fighter screen, then sink their carriers on the first day and their entire fleet would be naked from above, to be picked off at leisure.
He looked over at Shaath and nodded. He found he actually liked this man–another pilot, and pilots, no matter what divided them, could always find one common love to talk about, a favorite plane, a near escape to be chuckled about–and both shared that inner realization, the joy of floating in the heavens at dawn, or in evening twilight, or dancing between mountains of billowing white on sunlight afternoons.
And so they talked awhile longer as the Boeing 314 Clipper raced westward, chasing the retreating sun, leaving the war zone behind, and the tension between the two dropped when they talked of these things rather than calculated all that might yet come or maneuvered to wrangle just a little more information from the other. Yet another drink eased the mood more. He could sense that Shaath had been ordered up here to “pump him,” as the Americans would say, but that part of the conversation was past, unless one or the other, with a bit too much drink, made a mistake, and now they just relaxe
d and talked flying.
“I’ve traveled a bit in America,” Genda finally asked. “Where are you from?”
“Beautiful little village outside of Philadelphia, Boyertown. A great place for a kid to grow up. Been stationed a lot of places, but still kind of call that home. You should come visit the area some time, glad to take you up, say, in a nice open cockpit. I got a friend there who’d loan us his Stearman. I’m stopping over there for several days to visit family and friends before reporting back to Washington for my next assignment.”
“And where might that be?” Genda asked good-naturedly.
Shaath smiled but did not reply, merely holding his heavy glass up in silent salute.
“I wish I could take you up on the visit,” Genda replied, “but my duties require me to press on to Washington to the embassy and then to home.”
“And where is home, I mean in Japan?” Shaath asked.
“I was born in Hiroshima,” Genda said, a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “It is a coastal city, peaceful, on a bay, not far from our naval academy. You should visit Hiroshima some day, sir.”
“Perhaps I will some day,” Shaath said quietly.
SEVEN
Kailua, Oahu
6 January 1941
Incredulous, James Watson looked at the telegram that Margaret had handed him. She had been waiting for his return from work, standing at the doorstep of their beautiful home set on the east shore of Oahu, in the town of Kailua, just north of Fort Bellows.
It was a home typical of the community, up against the mountainside, garden a cascade of flowers, fantastic view of the ocean, a fairly contemporary design with open lanai where they spent most of their evenings, listening to the radio and reading, the interior an open design, cooled day and night by the trade winds coming in off the ocean. Margaret, at forty, still looked in his eyes to be twenty, having inherited that beautiful mix of a marriage between a European and a Japanese, dark nearly black hair, the slight Oriental cast to her eyes, nearly five eight and still slender.
She knew his schedule almost to the minute on his daily commute back from the campus on the other side of the mountains in Honolulu, weaving his way down the side of Pali Highway, and he often joked that she must have a telescope hidden away to watch for his approach and to make sure he wasn’t dropping off any girlfriends. Damn how he loved this place. Late afternoons, almost like clockwork, clouds would build up along the crest behind the house, a warm tropical rain washing down, usually breaking apart by sunset, shafts of golden light illuminating the jagged peaks.
It was such a moment now, at least as far as the rain as he stepped into the lanai and looked at the letter before opening it. He scanned the contents.
He looked at Margaret and forced a smile.
“Guess I’m back in.”
Office of the Fourteenth Naval District,
Combat Intelligence
Pearl Harbor
7 January 1941
The telegram had been sufficient to get James through the outer gate of the base and nearly within hailing distance of the squat concrete building he had been directed to, where a well-armed marine,.45 at his hip and a Springfield ’03 over his shoulder, had stopped him and asked for his identification.
The marine had handed off the telegram to an assistant, a seaman second class, who went into the building. James was told to wait outside and the marine just stepped back, obviously not interested in any small talk.
He had not been on the base since his retirement and thus this afforded the first closeup look in over three years.
Nearly any vantage point from the central part of the island gave a magnificent view of the harbor. Since the fleet had been moved out here, the previous year, forward positioned from San Diego, the harbor was packed with ships, especially on weekends, and Honolulu had been overrun with eager young sailors. The vast majority of them were fairly clean-cut types. The army boys from up at Schofield Barracks had always been a bit more hardscrabble, most of them on long-term enlistments, and had always carried a tougher edge than these fresh-faced sailors, many of them kids barely out of high school. Though the Depression was all but over, thanks to the war in Europe, jobs had still been scarce up until a year ago and many a boy had been lured into the navy with the promise of seeing the world. And for someone from Des Moines or Jersey City, Honolulu was indeed seeing the world, a true paradise.
The once sleepy town of Honolulu of but a couple of years back, which might perk up a little bit when a couple of ships came in from the States loaded with vacation seekers, had taken to “their sailors,” with generally a positive attitude, though many was the father of a teenage girl who made sure his daughter stayed close to home on a Saturday night.
The boys had money in their pockets to burn. Fresh in from the West Coast, they wanted the obligatory photos with hula girls. Sentimental silk pillows for moms and girlfriends and ridiculous printed shirts sold like crazy.
There was a bit of a seedier side now to certain quarters, booze joints that didn’t look too closely at IDs; so-called private clubs that were fronts for gambling, liquor, and girls; and no weekend was complete without a couple of fights between the tougher sailors and brawlers of the army’s Lightning Division, usually the only disruptions to this paradise. In general most of the boys on weekend leaves, which were distributed liberally, went for the beach, looked for girls, and tried to master the unique Hawaiian sport of riding a wooden board on the surf off Waikiki, or just lounged in the sun before returning shipboard for Sunday evening roll call.
For the officers there were several golf clubs to choose from; private parties at beach-front homes; a regular social whirl of dances, receptions, and parties; for the bachelors a paradise as well, especially with the local girls attending the university. And on Monday the ships would weigh anchor and head out for training maneuvers, usually to return by Friday afternoon for another weekend of pleasure.
Given his job of long ago during the last war, in a sense he was appalled by it all. Anyone, sitting on a nearby slope, could on a daily basis count which ships were in, and which were out; at times battleship row, as it was called, was packed with all the heavy battlewagons of the main Pacific Fleet. Walk into any bar in a few hours, have your eyes and ears open, and you knew exactly which ships were in, where they had been, what they had been doing, and where they were heading come Monday.
Enterprise, deck loaded with planes, was out in midharbor, guided by tugs, heading back out to sea. A few sailors nearby were watching the show, chuckling.
“Old Bull got a hair up his butt again,” one of them said. “Those poor bastards, another weekend out there steaming in circles just to make his point. Launch and recover, launch and recover. You’d think there was a war on.” The other laughed and they walked on.
Across the bay, at Ford Island, a PBY was coming in, low and slow, descending from the north, dropping down, flaring, water spraying up, recovery crew waiting by the ramp to guide it up onto land. Another minute and a second came into the pattern, this one from the west. Morning patrols were returning, work done for the day, pilots and crews eager to fill out their reports and get into town.
“Mr. Watson?”
He looked up. The marine who had gone inside was approaching.
“Sir, sorry to keep you waiting out here, but the admiral will see you now.”
James followed, the doors into the main administrative building opened by the marine, and to his surprise the corridor was cool, the luxury of air-conditioning.
There was another security check at the doorway, this one a formality, the marine escorting him leading the way, straight to the end of the corridor, an end office, name stenciled on the door CIC 14 NAVAL DISTRICT, ADM. BLOCH.
James took a deep breath, nodding his thanks as the marine opened the door and stepped back. A petty officer at the outer desk stood up and motioned to the inner office where Bloch waited, on his feet, smiling. He motioned for James to close the door.
“Sir,
good to see you,” James said, wholeheartedly. He had served under Bloch before and had the utmost admiration for the man. He looked every bit the admiral, in his mid- to late-fifties, features still trim, eyes deep set, shoulders square, and James wondered just how he looked in return. The last couple of years as a professor had not necessarily been conducive to good fitness. A month’s warning about this interview, and he’d have gone to work on trying to drop those extra few pounds, so the double-breasted suit he wore this morning was deliberately chosen with broad shoulders and a bit of cover for a slight paunch that had been developing.
“How’s Margaret?” Bloch asked, coming around from behind his desk to shake James’s hand.
“Lovely as ever. I’m blessed.”
He could see Bloch pause for a second, wanting to ask but deciding not to. No, there were no other children now. There had been no others, and the void was still a daily ache. Bloch most likely knew–word like that traveled through the old network–but sensed it was better not to ask. James tried to smile.
“Margaret and I are okay,” he finally said.
Bloch offered him a seat and James sat down, resting his left arm with the rubber artificial hand on his lap.
Bloch nodded.
“I heard about your getting wounded on the Panay. Damn bastards! I’m sorry it cut your career short.”
“Thank you, sir. But after our boy died, I should have retired anyhow. It was tough on Margaret. Maybe it was for the best.”
“That’s the spirit, James. Now I’ll cut straight to the point,” Bloch said. “You know we are mobilizing backup. Orders for new ships pouring in, manpower just exploding, and I need every fit young officer I can find out there, training the new men, getting ships ready for sea duty, and all the time trying to keep what is out there afloat and battle ready.
“CinCPac, Admiral Kimmel, is up my backside nearly every day on manpower, expansion of facilities here, you name it, it somehow falls on my desk.”
Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th Page 17