Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  And yet, he knew that as of this day, war was inevitable, that the time to fulfill the destiny of Japan had come.

  Flagship of the Imperial Fleet

  Battleship Nagato

  19 October 1941

  Commander Genda stood stiffly at attention in the doorway, heart racing. Admiral Yamamoto returned his salute and motioned for him to come in. But Genda could not bring himself to sit. In their long months of planning for the campaign, especially after the man seated before him said it was no longer just a theory now, or a possibility, but that the Emperor had approved, they had worked together closely and in some ways there was almost a father-to-son relationship between the two. He would, without even a flicker of hesitation, die defending this man.

  The fact that he did not sit down was signal enough that something important was to be discussed.

  The admiral, who had been studying a report on deployment of auxiliary and fleet oilers for the fleet through the first sixty days of the campaign, looked up. The report was bad enough: the consumption in relationship to reserves would be prodigious, draining off well over a quarter of all their reserves.

  “What is it?” the admiral asked, looking up, and feeling under his gaze, Genda felt his stomach tighten, a bit of nausea hitting him. He wondered in that instant if he was still, in fact, a bit drunk from his binge of the night before.

  “Sir…,” his voice trailed off, unable to speak.

  Yamamoto glared at him for a moment and then his features softened ever so slightly. “You look like hell. Have you been drinking?”

  “Yes sir.” There was of course, no sense in lying. He knew the man before him was a hard drinker himself at times and could easily detect it in others. In his infamous poker games, when the stakes were high and he was the host, he was more than liberal with the saki for his guests, and all knew the ploy.

  “I can smell it from here,” Yamamoto announced, leaning forward as if to sniff the air, then sitting back, now a trace of a smile.

  The smile cut into Genda and gave him courage.

  But still the words could not form. “Well, have you come over here, just to report yourself half drunk? If so, I have more important things to attend to,” and he gestured back to the report.

  “No sir.”

  “Well then, out with it.”

  Genda took a deep breath, and then felt it best not to exhale swiftly.

  He had indeed gotten sick during the night, and was fighting a terrible hangover now. But it was those facts which, in the raw light of dawn, had actually given him courage. The fact that he had tried to bury his fears with liquor, rather than face them head-on, had forced the realization of where his duty did indeed rest. For what he had done was the act of a coward trying to hide, not that of a man who had sworn an oath to the Emperor. He had given his all to the planning of the attack; to do anything less was a dereliction of duty. If I am willing to die for the Emperor, then I must now be willing to destroy my career as well. If by some remote chance, it changed the odds, if it saved but one more pilot, or perhaps even meant the death of more pilots, but in so doing ensured a final victory…

  I watched the Germans make their mistake and shook my head, he realized. I cannot shake my head now, I must act, for I do now believe that the fate of our nation might rest on this.

  “Sir, may I speak freely?” he finally said, nervously clearing his throat first.

  “Of course, damn it,” the admiral replied, and Genda could see that his hesitation was now starting to annoy him.

  “Sir,” he took in another deep breath, “I do not want to be impertinent or to be out of place, but I feel I have to insist that you personally lead the attack on Pearl Harbor.”

  Yamamoto was actually starting to look back down at the report, as if Genda would make some minor statement, and he’d nod agreement and then go back to work. Startled, he looked back up. “Did I just hear you correctly?”

  Genda nodded. “Sir, I believe you should personally lead the attack on Pearl Harbor,” Genda said, repeating his words.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Yamamoto then put down the pen he was using to make notations on the report, and now it was his poker gaze, unflinching, almost serpentlike in its coldness.

  “Do you realize what you are saying? Are you questioning my judgment?”

  “Yes sir. I do. No sir, but—”

  “I would advise you to leave here now, report yourself to the infirmary as drunk, and that will be the extent of the action I would be forced to take against you.” He ever so slightly shook his head.

  “I am sorry, sir. Please do not construe my refusal as being impolite. I am perfectly sober.”

  “In essence, you have just told me that you do not have confidence in your commander, Admiral Nagumo, nor confidence in my choice of him to command the mission.”

  “No sir, I did not say that,” Genda replied, glad now that he had spent some time dwelling on this moment, and the responses he had to give in order not to be ejected and relieved of command, to stay in the fight as long as possible.

  “Sir. I have said nothing regarding Admiral Nagumo; he is your choice for the strike force, and it is not my place nor position to question his ability.”

  A lie to be certain. He questioned everything about Nagumo the more he thought on the subject.

  The admiral stood up, chair sliding back noisily, and he came around from behind his desk. His approach seemed overwhelming, his presence powerful. “Explain then, and no foolery with words. Your intent is clear enough.”

  “Sir,” and at that moment he knew that this was as much a battle as any he had ever trained to engage in, but ultimately far more important. With that thought he actually felt a calmness take hold, and he was able to hold Yamamoto’s gaze unflinchingly.

  “I will cite but two historical examples to you. At Trafalgar, Lord Nelson was at the front of the fray and paid for it with his life; but his presence at that moment, the courage of his decision when the wind all but failed, and he ordered his line to go straight in, ensured a victory for England that day, and with that victory more than a hundred years of domination of the seas.”

  Yamamoto nodded slightly, but did not reply.

  “Our own greatest hero was at Tsushima. And dare I ask, sir, was the presence of Admiral Togo not an inspiration to you? You fought in that battle and bear the honorable wounds of that fight. What did he mean to you?”

  “He was an inspiration to all of us,” Yamamoto snapped, but Genda could sense in that reply an agreement.

  “I therefore rest my case, sir. You are our Togo, sir. Of the main missions to be carried out on the first day of the war, I believe that Pearl Harbor will clearly be the most crucial. I therefore implore you to lead us from the front, sir. It will be an inspiration to every man of the fleet to know that you are on the front line of battle with them and will in turn inspire all of Japan.”

  He fell silent. There was a moment’s hesitation; the poker gaze seemed to flicker ever so slightly. “You are, by implication, saying that Admiral Nagumo is not competent to command.”

  “Sir, I must forcefully reply, I have not said that. It is just, sir, that given modern communications, your flagship need not remain here in Japan. Once the campaign is launched on all fronts, your direct intervention is finished; you leave to your commanders at sea the decisions we have planned upon for months on other fronts. That therefore frees you to directly lead the attack on Pearl Harbor.

  “You have been the key visionary regarding the use of aircraft carriers for our fleet, sir. You were the first admiral to agree to reconsider our war plans, not to be on the defensive against the Americans and instead taking the aggressive route of neutralizing their fleet, especially their carriers, in the opening strike.

  “Sir, in the battle soon to take place at Pearl Harbor, a new age of warfare will be introduced, the same as it was at Tsushima, where wireless telegraphy and modern fire control were used for the first time by Admiral Togo and gra
nted us a victory as great as Nelson’s. Your presence at Pearl Harbor will ensure that all is done as you have planned for, and if contingencies change, you will be on the spot to address them directly.”

  “Ah, see, you are saying Nagumo is not capable of making those decisions.”

  He had not expected that sharp a reply but he was ready. “Sir, Admiral Togo laid down the plan to meet the Russians; when he had the Z flag hoisted each ship’s captain knew his duty. It was then merely his presence that instilled greater discipline, the spirit of bushido, complete and total confidence in victory. Every pilot, of all my groups, looks to you as their direct leader. Your mere presence on the bridge of Akagi will fill them with even greater desire to strike for victory.

  “Sir, this will be your battle. I implore you. You are the one to lead it; no other man alive can lead it as you can. This will be the one and only chance we shall have to deal such a crippling blow that the Americans will be forced to sue for peace. If we do not completely destroy them on the first day of the campaign, then, sir, we shall be in for a long and bloody war. Your presence can change that.”

  He fell silent, and then as a gesture of submission, lowered his head. “If I have spoken out of turn, sir; if I have insulted you, or the honor of Admiral Nagumo, I shall accept without complaint your punishment, whatever it might be.”

  There was a long moment of silence. “Look at me.”

  He lifted his gaze. Again, it was impossible to read the man before him. “You have a touch of the ronin in you,” Yamamoto said, and there was an ever so slight easing of the tension. “You actually came in here, expecting me to dismiss you from command for what you just said.”

  “Yes sir, if need be, but I felt the fate of our nation might rest on what I have just said to you. I can stand here and implore you yet more, but I have spoken what I came to say. You may call it gekokujo, but I did it for you, and for the Emperor, sir, and for Japan.”

  Again the long silence and then the slightest of nods.

  “You are dismissed. Return to your duties. For the moment I will say nothing of this nor will you. Now leave.”

  Genda came to attention and saluted, but the admiral had turned his back and walked back to his desk. Yet still he remained until Yamamoto looked up, half raised his hand in salute, and then sat down, picking up the report he had been studying.

  Genda turned, left the room, sought the nearest head, slammed the door shut behind himself, thankful that no one else was within, and vomited.

  Alone in his cabin, Admiral Yamamoto picked up the report, but no longer was reading it. His thoughts were back at Tsushima, the opening moment of the battle, as he absently rubbed the stumps of the two missing fingers of his left hand.

  That had indeed been the moment, knowing that it was Togo himself in the middle of the fight, personally ordering the deployment of the fleet, so confident were his men in his genius that none doubted the victory that was to come; and in war, such confidence, when played correctly, can indeed be the deciding factor.

  Though he hated to admit it to himself, young Genda had touched upon his vanity. The greatest mass carrier battle in history, in fact, the first true carrier battle, and his name would be forever attached to it. Yes, his name would still be attached if he was here, back in the Inland Sea. But out there? Of all his various subcommanders he had no concerns about Nagumo’s courage or competence… but did he truly understand? His elaborate plan for the use of midget submarines struck him as incautious, only a bid by another branch of service to claim its role. They were vulnerable, could be discovered beforehand, perhaps provide warning. But Nagumo insisted upon it, saying they would block the harbor of any ships attempting to escape.

  Exactly what would be his role now on the first day? He remembered the story of the American Civil War. He had visited some of their fields of battle. In the last year Grant had achieved overall command, though he had stayed with the main army, that of the one before Washington and Richmond, even as he directed actions by commanders a thousand miles away.

  What is my role, he wondered, once the day comes and battle is joined? To sit in this room and just listen as the reports come in? Or do I lead from the front, as the true warlords of old always did.

  He opened his desk drawer. The letter from Nagumo’s chief of staff, and therefore by clear implication from Nagumo himself, was still there, voicing grave concerns about the risks of the attack, but no grasp of the potentials to be gained. Defensive rather than offensive thinking. Back at Etajima, Nagumo as a cadet most likely guarded the pole rather than led the headlong attack.

  He read, and reread the letter, folded it up, and placed it back in his desk, took out a sheet of paper and with his famed style of calligraphy, began to write out a formal note.

  ELEVEN

  London

  30 October 1941

  The distant thump, that one he could feel in the soles of his feet, caused him to look up. Winston did not even notice, settled back in his thick leather lounge chair, a scotch in one hand, cigar in the other.

  The chair was the one luxury of the room, which was painted a dull institutional green. Studies had shown that was the best color for those doomed to live perhaps for days, even weeks underground. It was a tiny alcove, with room for the chair, a cot to sleep on, a small side cabinet filled with the required scotch and cigars, a desk, and the straight-back chair that Cecil now sat on.

  Another thump, this one closer, and Winston chuckled at Cecil’s obvious discomfort.

  “A mile or more off, just a nuisance raid, keeps us on our toes; you should have been here this time last year.”

  Winston chuckled and pointed up to the ceiling, a crisscross of pipes and wires lacing back and forth.

  “My engineers didn’t tell me until later that a good drop down some ventilation shafts would have blown us all to hell. This bunker is nowhere near as safe as most believe. I wonder if Hitler has the same design problems. Would love to know that,” and he grinned.

  He looked at his drink and swirled it in its glass before taking another sip.

  “Now Stalin, rumor is he has one a hundred feet deep under the Kremlin. Heaven knows he might need it or just simply get out if the weather turns back to Hitler’s favor and the ground freezes.”

  Winston looked off.

  “He could still collapse, you know. Oh, he talks a great game of reserves, and of course his demands for supplies and yet more supplies from us and the Americans, but all that is saving him now is mud. Freeze tomorrow, and I dare say they’ll be in Moscow in a fortnight.”

  Another thump rattled the room.

  “Six months after that, and the Luftwaffe will be back with a thousand planes a night.”

  Cecil was still in shock from his ride down from Biggin Hill. It had been his first time back to England since leaving at Winston’s behest nearly five years ago. Entire blocks of once familiar landscapes had been turned to rubble. Though exhausted after a week of flying across the Pacific, the United States, and then on back to here, he had sat erect throughout the last hour of drive to this concealed command bunker. A day and a half ago he had been in New York City, its port crammed with shipping, streets bustling with renewed traffic after the long Depression, but here, it truly was back into a war zone. Not as bad as Nanking, but shocking none the less, a different kind of destruction because this was once home… and his own flat had been one of the victims just off from Paddington Station, a direct hit he had been told, the tenant an old friend from school days, engaged in some hush-hush job like himself, never found in the blown-out wreckage.

  Well, if one had to go, better that than all the horrors he had seen in China and had just finished telling Winston about.

  “If Stalin should indeed fall,” Winston mused, “it could still change the complexion of what we must assume Japan is preparing for.”

  “Going north, even in winter?”

  “The temptation for their army would be too much, even now. Most certainly the Soviets
gave them a good and proper drubbing two years back and showed Japan its weakness in armor and aircraft. They have rectified the latter. I could see them delivering the stab in the back, the way Italy did to France last year, come in to scoop up what spoils they can once the real fighting is finished. That still might be possible.”

  Cecil did not reply. If Germany did topple Stalin and the Japanese then moved in from the east, what would that bode for England, for the world, a year hence? The full fury of the Nazis would be turned again upon this island and then all Japan need do is sit back awhile longer. England, in the end, would have to strip itself bare out of the Pacific. Perhaps even India would then be in jeopardy.

  Churchill smiled as he looked down into his drink.

  “I’ve read your report, though, my friend, and I dare say it is already too late. The die has been cast, and now we must wait to see what it produces.” He had traveled nearly fifteen thousand miles to deliver but several dozen typewritten pages, feeling the information too sensitive to transmit, or even to hand off to the Americans to deliver. No, this was something he felt Winston had to see directly. It was his assessment that the Japanese would strike toward Singapore and the Dutch East Indies within the month, two months at the latest.

  “Devilish bastards,” Winston grumbled. “They think we are on the ropes. Now is when they will move.”

  “And Stalin and the Soviets?”

  “Take Moscow now, the edge of winter?” Churchill laughed softly. “You were the one who excelled even above me in history back at Harrow.”

  “Napoleon,” Cecil replied. “Stalin will order the entire city burned if need be, then retire back to Gorky or Kuibyshev to continue the fight. The Nazis will occupy a burned-out shell at the end of a thousand-mile supply line.”