The Rising Sun: The Decline and Fall of the Japanese Empire, 1936-1945 (Modern Library War)

by Toland, John

  At two o’clock that afternoon Sugiyama sent a cable of two words to General Terauchi, commander of Southern Army: HINODE YAMAGATA. This was code for “The date for commencing operations [HINODE] will be December 8 [YAMAGATA].”

  Three and a half hours later Yamamoto sent a slightly longer cable in a new code to the Pearl Harbor Striking Force: NIITAKA-YAMA NOBORE [Climb Mount Niitaka]b 1208. This meant: “Attack as planned on December 8.”

  Kido Butai was cruising eastward at a modest 14 knots to conserve fuel, advancing in ring formation with three submarines ahead scouting for neutral merchant ships which, if found, were to be boarded and seized. A chance encounter with the U. S. Pacific Fleet, however, could not be handled so easily. This awkward possibility was discussed time and again, and once the irrepressible Yamaguchi half jokingly suggested, “Fire a salute, shout ‘Sayonara!’ and go back home.” The remark brought laughter, but Kusaka thought, What else could we do? We’re not yet at war.

  The “Climb Mount Niitaka” message gave Kusaka a welcome sense of commitment. He felt as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from his back. They would launch one overwhelming attack and disappear. It was like mamono (devil), a tactic in kendo: one surprise thrust, then fall back like the wind. Still, there was always the chance that as they neared Pearl Harbor some American patrol plane would spot Kido Butai before the launching. In that case Kusaka was prepared to change tactics—to attack in full strength even though surprise had been lost.

  The weather was the calmest it had been in the past ten years and refueling was no problem. Nagumo ordered all ship captains to travel without lights—and to inform their entire crews of Operation Z. That night a spirit of intense, subdued excitement swept from ship to ship.c

  Back home that evening, the headline of the Japan Times & Advertiser read:

  JAPAN WILL RENEW EFFORTS TO REACH U. S. UNDERSTANDING.

  2.

  Hours after Kido Butai had left the icy waters of Hitokappu Bay, Lieutenant Commander Wilfred J. Holmes, whose job it was to plot Japanese ship movements, reported to his superior in the Navy’s Communications Intelligence Unit in Pearl Harbor that the six enemy carriers were “in home waters.” After that, however, Holmes admitted he had lost track of them. Day after day there was “no information” about the carriers.

  Lieutenant Commander Edward T. Layton, Admiral Kimmel’s fleet intelligence officer, relayed this information to his chief on December 2. If it disturbed Kimmel he didn’t show it; in fact, he jokingly asked, “Do you mean to say that they could be rounding Diamond Head this minute and you wouldn’t know?”

  “I hope they would be sighted by now, sir.”

  A few miles away, in Honolulu, Consul General Kita had just received a message from Tokyo:

  IN VIEW OF THE PRESENT SITUATION, THE PRESENCE IN PORT OF WARSHIPS, AIRPLANE CARRIERS, AND CRUISERS IS OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE. HEREAFTER, TO THE UTMOST OF YOUR ABILITY, LET ME KNOW DAY BY DAY. WIRE ME IN EACH CASE WHETHER OR NOT THERE ARE ANY BARRAGE BALLOONS ABOVE PEARL HARBOR OR IF THERE ARE ANY INDICATIONS THAT THEY WILL BE SENT UP. ALSO ADVISE ME WHETHER OR NOT THE WARSHIPS ARE PROVIDED WITH ANTITORPEDO NETS.

  This message, which would have meant a warning of attack on Pearl Harbor to anybody reading it, was intercepted in Hawaii and passed on to the cryptographers in Washington for decoding, but since it concerned Hawaii and had nothing to do with diplomacy, its low priority sent it to the bottom of somebody’s basket. Another important intercept consigned to a similar fate back in September—the one dividing Pearl Harbor into five subareas—had finally been translated, but Brigadier General Sherman Miles, chief of Military Intelligence, regarded it as a naval message of no concern to the Army while Lieutenant Commander Alvin D. Kramer, chief of the Naval Intelligence Translation Branch, marked it with a single asterisk, for “Interesting,” rather than two, for “Urgent.” As far as Kramer was concerned, it was merely “an attempt on the part of the Japanese diplomatic service to simplify communications.”

  Bernard Baruch, Roosevelt’s unofficial adviser and Churchill’s close friend, was in his Washington hotel room talking with Raoul Desvernine, an attorney representing the Mitsui combine. The lawyer said that Special Envoy Saburo Kurusu wanted to get a message directly to the President without going through Hull. Would Baruch help? Baruch passed on the request to Major General Edwin (“Pa”) Watson, one of Roosevelt’s secretaries. Watson phoned back to say the President refused to meet Kurusu without Hull but saw no objection to Baruch’s finding out what the message was.

  The next day, December 3, Baruch met Desvernine and Kurusu at the Mayflower Hotel. The Japanese ambassador vowed that he, the people of Japan and the Emperor all wanted peace but that the military leaders “were sitting with a loaded gun in each hand … determined to shoot.” War could be averted if he could talk to the President, without the “hostile and untrusting” Hull, and tell him he could thwart the Japanese military by appealing directly and personally to the Emperor, who would then ask Roosevelt to mediate a settlement between Japan and China. The important thing, said Kurusu, was to keep the conversations going and this could best be done if Roosevelt sent a personal representative such as Harry Hopkins to Japan.

  Although Baruch didn’t think the proposals were “anything into which anybody could put their teeth,” he promised to relay the information to the White House.

  Another emissary of peace—Dr. E. Stanley Jones, a prominent Methodist missionary—was trying to present a similar suggestion to the President. He phoned his secretary, Marvin McIntyre, with a request to see the President on a matter he could not put on paper: a plan (inspired by Hidenari Terasaki, an official at the Japanese embassy) to avert war by a personal cable from Roosevelt to the Emperor. McIntyre told him to be at the East Gate of the White House in twenty minutes. A guide would take him through a secret entrance to the President’s office so he wouldn’t have “to run a barrage of reporters.”

  Roosevelt told Jones he’d already been considering a letter to the Emperor. “But I’ve hesitated to do it, for I don’t want to hurt the Japanese envoys here at Washington by going over their heads to the Emperor.”

  “That is the point on which I have come,” said Jones. The idea had originated with Kurusu and Nomura themselves. “They asked me to ask you to send the cable. But they also said there could be no record, for if it were known that they had gone over the heads of the Japanese government to the Emperor, their own heads wouldn’t be worth much.”

  “Well, that cleans my slate,” said the President. “I can do it.”

  Jones cautioned him not to send it through the Foreign Ministry but directly to the Emperor, otherwise it would never reach him. “I don’t know the mechanics of it, but this is what they told me.”

  “I’m thinking out loud,” Roosevelt mused. “I can’t go down to the cable office and say I want to send a cable from the President of the United States to the Emperor of Japan. But I could send it to Grew.” He could take it directly to His Majesty. “And if I don’t hear within twenty-four hours—I have learned how to do some things—I’ll give it to the newspapers and force a reply.”

  As Jones was leaving he asked the President never to mention Mr. Terasaki, who had come up with the idea.

  “His secret is safe,” Roosevelt promised.

  The message would probably have been sent that day if it hadn’t been for Hull. Still suspicious, he argued that an appeal to the Emperor should be a last-minute resort; besides, His Majesty was a mere figurehead under the thumb of Tojo’s Cabinet, and a message by-passing its members would not only be resented but would be regarded as a sign of weakness.

  Hull’s suspicions were borne out by an intercepted dispatch from Tokyo. It ordered the embassy on Massachusetts Avenue to burn all but three codes and to destroy one of the two “B” code machines. An Army intelligence officer, sent to reconnoiter the embassy, found employees burning papers in the backyard. Chief of Military Intelligence Sherman Miles and his Far Eastern Section chief, Colon
el Rufus S. Bratton, concluded that “at the least a break in diplomatic relations and probably war” was imminent.

  On the other side of the world General Tomoyuki Yamashita was reading the attack order to division and detachment commanders and staff officers. They listened attentively, aware that Japan’s destiny was at stake. There were tears on almost every face.

  Three landings would be made at dawn of December 8 on the east coast of the Malay Peninsula near the border. Two were in Thai territory, Pattani and Singora, and one in Malaya, Kota Bharu. Inspired by a dream, Colonel Tsuji intended to take over neutral Thailand with a modern version of the Trojan Horse. A thousand Japanese in Thai uniforms would come ashore near Singora and round up café and dance-hall girls as a cover. They would then commandeer twenty or thirty buses, get aboard with the girls, and drive merrily down to the Malay border. Waving Thai flags with one hand and Union Jacks with the other, they would shout in English, “Japanese soldier is frightful!” and “Hurrah for the English!” In the boisterous confusion, Tsuji was sure the border guards would let his soldiers cross into Malaya.

  At dawn the next morning, December 4, a convoy of twenty-six transport ships left the island of Hainan, off the southernmost coast of China, and bore south toward the Malay Peninsula. Colonel Tsuji stood on the bridge of the Army transport Ryujo-maru and watched a deep-red sun rise in the east as the moon, looking like a tray, vanished in the west. Tsuji visualized the faces of his mother, wife and children. Except for the reassuring throb of engines, there wasn’t a sound on the ship. All was peaceful.

  Early that afternoon a liaison conference was convened to discuss the delivery date of the final note to Hull. Vice Admiral Seiichi Ito had no objections if it was handed over at 12:30 P.M., December 7, Washington time. Both Tojo and Togo were concerned that the note be presented before the attack. Ito assured them on that score, and the time was approved.

  There was to be no simple declaration of war, as Togo wanted, merely a notice terminating the negotiations; the draft he presented reflected the common bitterness and righteous indignation felt after receipt of the Hull note and declared that Japan had been patient in its attempt to conciliate. “On the other hand, the American Government, always holding fast to theories in disregard of realities, and refusing to yield an inch on its impractical principles, caused undue delay in the negotiations.” It concluded that Japan regretfully was forced to announce “that in view of the attitude of the American Government it must be concluded that it is impossible to reach an agreement through further negotiations.”

  Someone expressed the unrealistic hope that room be left for further negotiations. But the others realized this was, in truth, a declaration of war and that time had run out.

  That day the Japanese fleet code was changed as a last-minute precaution. It blinded American naval intelligence, which no longer had any idea where the six carriers were and would need some time to break the new code. Kido Butai was already more than a third of the way to Hawaii, leaving behind it no telltale path of refuse. All garbage was stored away, and empty oil cans were crushed and piled on the decks. By late morning the final major reservicing point was reached—42 degrees north and 170 degrees east—and all ships were refueled. Earlier this could be accomplished at a maximum speed of 9 knots, but by now everyone was so adept it was done at 12. With the Striking Force loaded to capacity, all supply ships turned back except for three, which would make the final refueling in forty-eight hours.

  That afternoon came the first alarm, a cable in the new code from Yamamoto: a radio message had been intercepted which had probably originated from an enemy submarine in their vicinity. Kusaka queried all his ship captains but no one had intercepted any unexplained message. Undeterred, the Striking Force turned southeast, maintaining speed despite heavy fog. For the fliers belowdecks the waiting seemed interminable. They busied themselves with painting, drawing and kendo, and at least one began writing a book. Fighter pilot Yoshio Shiga had produced eight watercolors of a temple and invited the officers on Kaga to a private showing. He felt sheepish displaying “such unserious work at such a serious time,” but was certain that he would not be alive to exhibit them later. It had been weeks since the last maneuvers and many fliers feared they would lose their touch. Pilots sat in their planes to keep the feel of the controls; bombardiers gazed intently through bombsights. Only gunners had actual practice; they shot at kites.

  The next day, December 5, Vice Admiral Ito called on Togo at the Foreign Ministry and said the notification should be presented to Hull at 1 P.M., Washington time, a half-hour later than previously requested. Why the delay? Togo asked. I miscalculated, was the reply. Togo asked how much time there would be between notification and attack. Ito refused to give the exact moment of attack on the grounds of “operational secrecy,” but assured the Foreign Minister that there would be sufficient time. As he was leaving, Ito reiterated his warning not to cable the notification too early.

  It was raining in Oahu. A small Piper Cub dawdled over Pearl Harbor with Yoshikawa on his last “sightseeing” flight. He had received an urgent cable that morning from Tokyo requesting “a comprehensive report on the American fleet.” After landing, he made a final tour of Pearl City, confirming what he had seen from the air, and then cabled Tokyo:

  … THE FOLLOWING SHIPS WERE IN PORT ON THE AFTERNOON OF THE 5TH: 8 BATTLESHIPS, 3 LIGHT CRUISERS, 16 DESTROYERS.

  The message was intercepted by MAGIC but the Yamamoto luck held. Once again, it was placed in a “Hold” basket.

  3.

  Tokyo newspapers such as the Asahi Shimbun continued to accuse the West of preparing for war. On December 6 the headlines read:

  U. S. USELESSLY EXTENDING TALKS, HAS NO INTENTION OF COMPROMISE WITH JAPAN

  U. S. LEADERS DISCUSS POLICY FOR JAPAN BUT NO CHANGE SEEN IN THEIR DOGMATIC VIEWS

  THAILAND IN AGONY FOR NEUTRALITY

  SCANDALOUS ENCIRCLEMENT OF JAPAN, TRAMPLING on JAPAN’S PEACEFUL INTENTIONS.

  FOUR NATIONS SIMULTANEOUSLY START MILITARY PREPARATIONS

  Otto Tolischus cabled the New York Times his impressions of the approaching crisis. Most Japanese, he wrote, refused to believe they were facing war with four nations simultaneously,

  … but their instinctive hopes are daily contradicted by the evidence of their senses. They listen to alarming statements by the highest Government officials about the greatest crisis Japan has ever faced in her 2,600-year history. They are called to mass meetings to hear denunciations of the enemy, and they read a steady war clamor in the press. They see air shelters and water reservoirs being built everywhere in preparation for aid raids. They are being drilled in air raid defense, especially in fighting fires, the greatest dread of Japanese cities. Finally, they see taxes and prices rising. They know that all these things are not done for fun, and that war, real war, which only a short time ago seemed so far away, is rapidly stretching out its fiery arms toward Nippon, land of the gods.

  The people do not want war, but neither do they want to give up the fruits of the war they have been fighting, which has cost them such a lot of blood and treasure. They have been told that this war is a war of self-defense, to obtain elbow-room for the Japanese people, crowded into a few small islands with few national resources, and to liberate one thousand million of Oriental peoples from exploitation by the white races.…

  It would be a great mistake to assume that the Japanese are so war-weary that they would be reluctant to fight if war really came to their land, or that their war potential is as small or as straitened as the outward picture might suggest. As members of a divine family state, in which patriotism and religion merge, they not merely say, “My country, right or wrong!” but they are convinced with all the fervor of religious faith that their country is right, whatever mistakes in tactics individual statesmen may take.

  In Manila, Admiral Thomas Hart, commander of the Asiatic Fleet, predicted hostilities might begin at any moment. His inadequate fleet—one heavy cruiser, one light
cruiser, thirteen World War I four-stack destroyers and twenty-nine submarines—was as ready for battle as it ever could be; ammunition was in the racks and warheads were on the torpedoes.

  Unidentified aircraft had been reported the past three nights over nearby Clark Field, the main bomber base, but General MacArthur refused to be panicked. That afternoon he and Hart conferred with a visitor from Singapore, Vice-Admiral Sir Tom Phillips, commander of the British Far Eastern Fleet. A Japanese convoy sighted off Indochina near the Gulf of Siam was subsequently lost in a fog. Was it heading for a direct attack on Malaya and Singapore or merely landing in Thailand?

  MacArthur reassuringly remarked that by April he would have a trained army of 200,000 men, and a powerful air force of 256 bombers and 195 fighter planes.

  “Doug, that is just dandy,” Hart interposed. “But how defensible are we right now?” The answer was painfully obvious. While MacArthur had about 130,000 men in uniform, almost 100,000 of these were poorly equipped Philippine Army divisions with a few months’ training in close-order drill. About the only thing they could do well was salute. His air force was also inadequate. There were 35 Flying Fortresses and 107 P-40’s.

  After the conference Phillips—nicknamed “Tom Thumb” because of his stature; he was an inch shorter than Napoleon—made one specific request of Hart. He wanted four destroyers to accompany his fleet, which included the battle cruiser Repulse and the battleship Prince of Wales, on a sortie from Singapore up the east coast of Malaya as a countermove to the advancing convoy. No sooner had Hart agreed to send four of his own overage destroyers than a messenger arrived with a dispatch for Phillips: Singapore-based planes had again spotted the Japanese armada off the Thai coast.

  “Admiral,” Hart said to Phillips, “when did you say you were flying back to Singapore?”