“Be at ease,” Yamamoto said, with a warm voice, and motioned for Genda to come and sit by his side, and without even inquiring poured a steaming cup of tea, sliding it over to where Genda took his seat.
“Thank you, sir,” Genda replied, gladly taking the ornate fragile cup in both hands, letting the warmth seep in for a moment before taking a sip.
A rattling of sleet echoed against the porthole windows, bolted down tight, and the admiral stood up and went over to one, wiping the moisture off from the inside with the sleeve of his kimono and gazing out for a moment.
“Straight in from Russia,” he said quietly, almost meditatively, Genda nodding, saying nothing, keeping eyes focused on the admiral as he himself sipped down his tea.
The admiral turned and smiled.
“Terrible place to fight a war. Manchukuo is bad enough, but Russia? Our troops who occupied the trans-Siberian railroad during the revolution there suffered the agonies of hell: more died from lung disease than Communist bullets. It is not a good climate for us.”
Genda still said nothing, sensing that the admiral was speaking metaphorically about the current crisis, the debate between “north or south.” The army, in spite of its disastrous setback in Mongolia the previous summer, a campaign that had cost them over fifty thousand casualties against the combined Soviet and Mongol forces, still clamored for a northern expansion to take on the might of the Soviet Union for control of eastern Siberia and Mongolia.
The logic of it completely eluded Genda. What was there in Siberia worth the risk to Japan? Lumber, some ores to be certain, and a vast trackless waste of thousands of miles that could devour entire armies to no effect. And even the army was finally forced to admit that Soviet armor and artillery were vastly superior. There were nearly a million men already in China and Manchukuo; a Soviet campaign would eventually require a million more. And for what gain other than the army’s self-aggrandizing dreams?
Maybe if the pact between Germany and Russia collapsed, then it might be a temptation to attack, but only if the Soviets lost, and even then the army would be bogged down occupying a frozen nightmare of little immediate value. It was oil, rubber, tungsten, food surplus, rare metals, high-grade coal,
Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, Imperial Japanese Navy portrait photograph, taken during the early 1940s, when he was Commander in Chief, Combined Fleet. Original photograph was in the files of Rear Admiral Samuel Eliot Morison, USNR.
NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER
and yet again oil, these were the things the nation needed, and it was not in Siberia but elsewhere that such could be found. And besides, what role for a navy there, other than perhaps in an opening stage against Vladivostok?
Yamamoto shook his head and returned to his seat, graciously offering to refill Genda’s cup, an offer which he gladly accepted.
“I’ve studied some of your reports, Commander,” Yamamoto said, and he motioned to bound copies marked top secret. Even though their titles were inverted, he could read them: his report on the idea of concentrating all of Japan’s carriers into a single strike force, rather than dispersing them across several groups, which was still the current thinking; his analysis of what was now called the Battle of Britain; and even his observations about his trip across America on his way back from England.
“I am honored and humbled, sir, that you would spend your time thus.”
“You know, of course, I spent years in America, studying at Harvard,” Yamamoto said, switching to English as he spoke, and Genda’s own knowledge of the language was sufficient enough that he could actually pick up the broad vowels of a Boston accent.
He could not help but smile.
“A fascinating country. Vast, wealthy, a force we should never underestimate,” Genda replied in English as well.
“What fascinated you?” Yamamoto asked, now falling back into Japanese, having obviously tested Genda’s ability with the language.
“The size of course. The train journey took nearly a week from Washington to San Francisco. We can traverse Japan in but a matter of hours. Their openness—I could photograph anything I chose to do so. Their lack of any sense of danger. I suspected several times that one of their agents from their Federal Bureau was following me but half felt it was more to just simply keep an eye on me rather than to actually spy. I could not resist the joke of buying him a drink aboard the train from Chicago to San Francisco, and chatted amiably for several hours, though he never dropped his guise that he was simply a college professor specializing in the Far East. His Japanese was actually fairly good; he claimed he was the son of missionary parents in Korea. But we both knew the truth and maintained the game.”
“Maybe he really was just a professor after all,” Yamamoto chuckled. “The Americans have such a sense of invulnerability that their naivet–in issues of security, which we take for granted, is amazing at times.”
Genda nodded, wondering if that was indeed true. A couple of times aboard the train he had endured racial comments that were insulting, spoken behind his back by passengers who did not know he knew English, and he noticed that the “professor” just shrugged when hearing them and shook his head, as if signaling him not to even bother. In Japan, such an insult to a traveling dignitary would have been jumped on by the police to avoid any incident or embarrassments. If allowed to pass, it was a signal of official policy, and he knew the Americans would not do anything about it. This insight from the admiral was fascinating. Were the Americans really so unskilled and foolish? Surely they would have placed agents on him, hoping to get him drunk, perhaps entrap him with a woman, to blackmail him and thus gain secrets. Did they really feel so comfortable and arrogant as to let a known agent bearing secret documents traverse their entire country without the slightest concern? The thought was fascinating.
“I want to put two things together here,” Yamamoto said, “and then lead you to a third. You and I are talking informally now, how shall I say… ‘off the record.’”
He spoke the last three words in English.
“You’ll have a formal meeting tomorrow through the proper chain of command, but I wanted to sit and talk with you first before having those orders delivered.”
Genda waited, suddenly filled with anticipation. Something was developing, and the admiral was coming straight to the point.
“Your report on what you observed during your two years in Britain is priceless information. You are, perhaps, the only trained observer from our country to directly witness the event. As for the diplomats,” he chuckled derisively and from the pile of documents on his desk pushed one aside, most likely a report from the embassy in London.
“I’ve read your report, but I want you to state clearly the most important lessons you felt you learned from observing the fighting.”
Genda smiled and bowed slightly at the compliment and for the opportunity. He had feared that what he wrote would simply be filed away and forgotten, like so many hundreds of other reports from trained observers, who because of their lower rank, politics, or interservice rivalries were just simply filed and forgotten.
He paused for a moment, organizing his thoughts. He did not want to ramble into a long discourse. He knew enough of Yamamoto that this man insisted on brevity and coming straight to the point without all the foolishness of protocol. He disdained most of the rituals of rank. A trait that was endemic in the service was a near terror of delivering bad news, or news that might be feared as being not what the listener wanted, instead couching the information in oblique terms or vague metaphors. Yamamoto hated that; he wanted the truth given sharply and directly… a very American way of thinking.
Genda cleared his throat.
“Perhaps I should go from the tactical to the strategic,” Genda opened, and Yamamoto nodded.
“The Spitfire is a superior plane at nearly all altitudes and aptly designed for its mission, short-range defense and the gaining of aerial supremacy against similar and numerically superior enemy fighters. Against a formation of bombe
rs its light-caliber weapons do not rapidly inflict killing damage, while in turn it is hit by the bomber’s defensive fire. Other than that weakness, it is a formidable opponent. The disadvantage the British had was their lack of a number of trained pilots; in desperation they were throwing boys up with but twenty hours in their planes. A wasteful school of training in terms of loss of both planes and pilots; but within days, the survivors were as hard-edged as the Germans. But it is a profligate approach. Better to have spent the time and money beforehand to train; I’d say half their combat losses were due to this factor alone.
“In contrast the German 109 is a superb fighter as well and does carry heavier armaments. If a pilot could turn inside his target and get off a good deflection shot, it usually was a kill, especially against the slightly slower Hurricanes.”
“Your conclusion.”
“Speed and heavier weaponry are crucial for our fighters.”
“And defense?” Yamamoto asked. “Some complain that our new Zeroes are superb as long as it is we who are doing the hitting, but collapse or burn if but a few hits are taken.” Genda nodded in agreement. The Zero had come on-line during his tour in England. He had finally gotten his hands on one only a month back. It was stunning when compared to the old Model 96, over 50 percent faster, but that speed came at the sacrifice of any type of defensive armor. Ironically, in simulated combat, the slower 96 could actually evade the Zero then turn inside it. More than a few of the naval pilots, though proud of this ultimate achievement of Japanese aviation design, expressed concern about the Zeroes’ ability to stand up to a head-on attack or to being jumped in a hit-and-dive attack. Training now was emphasizing luring the enemy into a turning fight, the old traditional “dogfight” as the Westerners called it, where it was believed it could outfly anything the West had, even the Spitfire.
“We could sacrifice speed for more crucial armament, but that I fear would be a false path,” Genda continued. “Speed is everything, both for choosing when to attack and, if need be, when to run. I think a neglected lesson of the fight between the English and the Germans is the engines. Their Rolls-Merlin engine is beautiful in design, elegant, inline rather than radial so there is a significantly smaller profile when approached both head-on and from astern and less torque as well. From what I was able to learn, it is a tremendous power plant. If we could match the design or exceed it, that would give us the additional power to improve defensive armor without sacrificing speed. On the other side, both the Spitfire and the German 109s lack range. Our Zeroes have them truly beat in that. Their designs are for short-range tactical support, ours is for longer-range strike, and that is crucial. If we ever met a British carrier with Spitfires we could easily stay well out of their range and strike at our leisure.”
“So you maintain that speed and range, for now, are the crucial factors, along with superior pilots in numbers.”
Genda nodded.
“The bombers?”
“I did not get any opportunity to observe the British bombers, but all reports are they are abysmal, wedded to their doctrine of strategic bombing rather than tactical support.
“However, the German bombers, especially their Heinkel 111s, which are good tactically, appeared to me to be very vulnerable to air attack and lack the ability to absorb punishment.”
He remembered the lone Hurricane downing the Heinkel above the Thames. More defensive firepower astern, twin 12.7s, or even a 20-millimeter gun and armored engine protection on the Heinkel might have saved it.
“I saw some limited use of their new JU-88s, and that plane is a superb model. It can function as a medium-altitude bomber, as a dive bomber, or a low-level strike bomber. It is fast, maneuverable, and though not heavily armed, survives better due to speed and a less bulky profile. If I was to pick one plane from the German air force for our army or navy it would be their 88… it’d be a superb torpedo-attack plane and, without any conversion, on its very next mission dive-bomb carrying an armor-piercing weapon. It is a plane too large, though, for carriers, but would be superb as a ground-based weapon.”
Yamamoto nodded and jotted down a few notes on a pad of paper.
“Your report was damning of the German strategy. Explain why.”
“Their faults were twofold, sir,” Genda said, now warming to the heart of what he had hoped would be asked.
“And they were?”
“The first attack. I understand the logistical problems the Germans had, of first occupying France, repairing damage to airfields, then establishing lines of supply from Germany for fuel, weaponry, ammunition, spare parts. But still it did give the British a crucial breathing time of well over a month and a half from the end of the fighting in northern France until the first blows were delivered.”
“And you would have done what instead?”
“Placed the highest priority on massing every single plane available along the coast, from Dunkirk down to Rouen, even if it meant removing air cover from what was left of their campaign against the French in the south, for that fight was already a foregone conclusion. Mass all of it, as quickly as possible. And then strike with everything, every single plane on the first day. Not just one strike, but as quickly as planes returned, if still flyable, to reload, and put them back up so that it was continual waves unrelenting from dawn till dusk.”
“A tall order regarding logistics?”
“An advantage our carriers have and land-based planes do not,” Genda said, with a smile.
“Elaborate.”
“Our ships sail fully loaded for numerous strikes; our deck crews trained for rapid recovery, turnaround, and relaunch; all weapons and fuel stored but a few decks away. The Germans should have planned better for this air offensive and had the stockpiles already in waiting, prepared to rush forward the moment resistance in northern France and Belgium collapsed, ready within four weeks of the beginning of their offensive to bring the coastal airfields in France back into operation and then start pounding the British airfields on their home island. Such a strike, with such speed, might very well have shattered morale even before Churchill could have, with his defiant words, rallied England to the fight.
“I know it is disrespectful, but their Goering is a strutting popinjay,” and Genda used the English word, for there was no real equivalent in Japanese.
“Once he allowed the English to escape Dunkirk, he should have devoted the next month to the buildup of a truly massive strike, the single killing blow. Instead he wasted away the best weather of the summer in trying to lure the British air force into fighting out over the Channel.
“No,” Genda said forcefully. “I would have put fifteen hundred planes over the coast of England on the first day, and delivered five thousand sorties by the end of that first day.”
“The target?”
“Sir, why their airfields, of course. The Spitfires and, for that matter, the Hurricanes have limited time in the air. If Goering had come on in waves, after but an hour or two the British pilots would have been forced to land while under attack and then surely have been destroyed on the ground, or forced to flee farther inland to refuel and rearm while what was left of their forward airfields was totally destroyed.
“The following day repeat the process, pushing farther inland if need be until finally a zone a hundred miles deep from the coast was swept clean of any ability by the British to launch aircraft. At that moment, the invasion could go forward, the few surviving British pilots and aircraft now forced to fly a hundred miles into the fight where swarms of German fighters would meet them. Once the first lodgments were made on the coast, even the most tenuous of holds by paratroopers, glider troops, and sea-borne attack, forces could start landing German planes on English soil and continue the push farther inland. He could have done that in a campaign of less than two weeks. Instead he wasted away the best weather of summer with probes, and feints, and coastal attacks on shipping, rather than concentrating on one target and one target only… the Royal Air Force.”
Y
amamoto nodded.
“Also, as the British gained proficiency, due to the slow start of the German campaign, the British learned to send their Hurricanes in against the bombers while the Spitfires fended off the fighters. I could see where the Germans were putting more and more of their fighters into a defensive role, covering only the bombers that were taking heavy losses.”
“And you would have done what instead?”
“It never would have happened that way if the Germans had used the strategy I just outlined. Let us say on day one the Ger man bombers took heavy losses pounding the British airfields and this wonderful defensive device of theirs, the ability to use radio waves to track incoming planes. I would have held the bombers back in the morning and early afternoon, simply sending in wave after wave of fighters to exhaust the British fighter command in all-out fighter-to-fighter battles without the need for the bulk of planes designed for offensive strike delegated instead to defend the bombers. Then the final punch of the day with all bombers massed and protected, the British fighter pilots, those left, going into the battle exhausted after having flown three or four sorties earlier in the day.”
“I agree fully. I do not understand how a man of Goering’s experience did not see that,” Yamamoto replied, warming yet again to this young, intelligent, aggressive pilot before him. He had admired his courage when Genda presented his unorthodox views at the conference at the War College more than three years back and had marked him in his mind for greater things yet to come.
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