What really differentiated the 34-year-old sub captain was his command philosophy. Nambu took a different approach when it came to his crew, and the results showed. Thoughtful, deliberate, and always in control, he had his men’s welfare at heart, and they trusted him because of it. He didn’t have to command respect, he earned it.
Ariizumi, by contrast, couldn’t have been more different.
Raised in a well-to-do family with a history of naval service, Arizumi had had a comfortable upbringing. Loyalty to the emperor and filial piety were so ingrained in him that he probably had taken it for granted that he’d attend the naval academy.
The commander’s family traced their roots back to samurai, but the difference between Ariizumi and Nambu extended beyond upbringing. Ariizumi had at least ten more years of experience in the Imperial Japanese Navy. He’d not only captained submarines—he was the Naval General Staff’s senior submarine officer when the war began. He’d also planned the midget sub attack against Pearl Harbor and had participated in the development of Yamamoto’s I-400 subs. In other words, Ariizumi knew his way around the halls of the Navy Ministry, while Nambu was still a line officer. Ariizumi set policy; Nambu carried it out. Though this understates Nambu’s command ability, naval roles left little room for deviation. They may have had their share of disagreements, but Ariizumi was Nambu’s superior officer, period.
Ariizumi’s rank didn’t make him good-looking though. Best described as roly-poly, he had a round, pudgy face, shiny skin, and limp black hair that he parted neatly on the left. When standing side by side, Ariizumi and Nambu looked more like a bowling ball and a tenpin than a superior officer and a subordinate.
The differences weren’t just cosmetic though; they were stylistic as well. Ariizumi was a forbidding autocrat with a reputation for being meticulous and demanding. He also had a temper. Sometimes he even struck his men—not an uncommon practice in the Imperial Japanese Navy. Admirers described him as tough. Detractors called him ruthless. Unsurprisingly, the I-401’s crew were intimidated by Ariizumi. Some even feared him.
About the only thing Ariizumi and Nambu had in common, besides their loyalty to the emperor, was their mustaches. Ariizumi preferred his thin and clipped, while Nambu’s was almost luxuriant. The crew so admired Nambu’s mustache, they said it made him look like a movie star.20 But Nambu wasn’t vain; he was straightforward and predictable. Ariizumi, on the other hand, was volatility personified.
The surrender announcement had shaken both men to the core, especially since neither was the type to give up. And now that an American submarine menaced them, they were faced with an important decision. Nambu was responsible for a top secret, state-of-the-art sub, as well as the lives of its 204 crew. He also had a commanding officer with no intention of allowing a despised enemy to capture his flagship. But Nambu’s thinking had evolved since his first pained acknowledgment of Japan’s surrender. The more he thought about the emperor’s edicts, the more he realized they were being called home to help rebuild the nation. That meant returning his men safely to Japan.
Ariizumi disagreed.
Nambu knew their fate depended on how he managed the commander, but he could not go against his superior officer. Ariizumi was responsible for all the aircraft and submarines in SubRon 1 (Submarine Squadron 1), not just the I-401. Since the war’s end, however, SubRon 1 lay sunk or scattered. Additionally, Nambu had purposefully kept the I-401’s whereabouts secret, despite repeated calls from Sixth Fleet headquarters to disclose their location.21 Both men were determined to operate on their own terms, and both were desperate to complete their self-appointed missions.
Still, the change in circumstances had muddled the I-401’s command structure. The crew only took orders from Nambu, but Ariizumi commanded the squadron. It was possible he might cross the line and begin issuing orders himself, especially if Nambu wouldn’t. Ariizumi’s unpredictability didn’t help matters. If he began telling Nambu’s crew what to do, would they obey him?
Ironically, they’d been only ten hours from their final destination when they crossed paths with the enemy. And they wouldn’t have stopped if their port engine hadn’t broken down.22 But now that they faced an American submarine, all bets were off.
Ariizumi wasn’t ready to surrender, especially outside Japanese waters. Unfortunately, the American sub wasn’t giving him much alternative. As Nambu saw it, they only had three choices: to run, to attack, or to surrender. If they repaired their engine in time, they could try to run, but the American submarine was likely to sink them before they got very far. They could attack the U.S. sub, using the few resources they had left, but Nambu well knew they were at a disadvantage. Finally, they could surrender, but neither Nambu nor Ariizumi wanted the loss of face. It was the perfect doomsday scenario, each option leading to catastrophe.
There was one option, though, that Nambu hadn’t considered—one he’d completely overlooked. Unfortunately, it was the one option that Commander Ariizumi presented to him, and he did so as a fait accompli. They would scuttle the I-401 with all hands on board. Everyone would die for the emperor.
Ariizumi’s decision made sense on one level. The I-401 was his flagship, and he didn’t want it captured by the enemy. It was also an honorable way to die. But Ariizumi’s option made Nambu ache with regret. Here they were, the war finally over, practically in sight of their homeland, and the commander wanted to bury them at sea. Yes, it avoided the ignominy of capture while preserving the honor of the Imperial Japanese Navy, but it wasn’t the fate Nambu wanted for his men.
Nambu knew the lives of his crew depended on what he did next. Unfortunately, in all his years as a naval officer, he’d never faced such a dilemma. Would he violate the command structure he’d sworn to uphold? Would Ariizumi even stand down if confronted?
Nambu had to do something, and he had to do it quickly—otherwise Ariizumi would act in his place. Time was running out. He had to act now.
That is, if the Segundo didn’t sink them first.
* Nambu graduated with Etajima’s sixty-first class in November 1933.
PART II
PREPARATION
CHAPTER 3
BIRTH
ON CHRISTMAS EVE 1941, LESS THAN THREE WEEKS AFTER THE attack on Pearl Harbor, Adm. Isoroku Yamamoto, commander in chief of Japan’s Combined Fleet, gathered his senior officers to discuss their next move.
Yamamoto’s attack on Pearl Harbor had gone better than planned. Though he hadn’t destroyed any aircraft carriers, he’d succeeded in knocking the United States out of the Pacific for six months, buying Japan the time she needed to continue her southern advance and consolidate territorial gains. Yamamoto was wise enough to know Japan stood little chance of defeating the United States in a protracted war, so the challenge remained: what to do next?
Yamamoto understood his enemy well. He’d first visited America in 1919 as a naval representative. During this time he read Life magazine,1 attended Harvard University,2 and visited the U.S. Naval War College.3 When he returned again in 1923, he made it a point to tour Detroit’s auto factories and Texan oil wells.4 He’d even lived in Washington, D.C., the seat of American power, when he was later appointed naval attaché to the Japanese embassy. Yamamoto’s time in America meant he understood that the country’s natural resources and industrial capacity far outstripped Japan’s. He knew what he was up against.
Japan needed a large geographic empire if she was going to take her place among the first-rank colonial powers; an empire with sufficient resources to support and strengthen the Japanese military machine. Her expansion into China, Burma, Indochina, and the Dutch East Indies had been made with this goal in mind. But Yamamoto needed time; time to establish a defense perimeter that would allow the Japanese Army to complete its southern advance and gain more than just a foothold in recently conquered territories. He also needed a way to make the war so painful for the United States that the American people would protest its continuation and demand that their leaders sue for an
early peace. Japan’s best chance for expanding her empire lay in forcing the United States to the negotiating table.
Many Japanese leaders were convinced that Americans were decadent and weak. They not only lacked the Japanese fighting spirit, they didn’t have much tolerance for pain. Materialism had made them flabby.
Unfortunately, Japan didn’t have the resources to fight a prolonged war. That wasn’t the plan, however. The plan was to conquer those Pacific nations with the most vital commodities and to consolidate these gains behind a strong southern defense perimeter. Japan didn’t need to defeat the United States outright; she just had to hold America off long enough to secure her footing in Asia.
And Yamamoto was off to a good start. After her defeat at Pearl Harbor, the United States faced a two-ocean war, with much of her Pacific fleet damaged or destroyed. Now the admiral needed to find a way to take the war directly to the American mainland. The question was how?
No one knows the exact date when Yamamoto first came up with the idea of an offensive squadron of underwater aircraft carriers, but from Japanese accounts,* he was toying with the thought in December 1941.5 After his carrier task force returned from Oahu, Yamamoto held a gathering of his senior commanders aboard his flagship, Nagato. His officers must have been impressed as they filed into the teak-paneled cabin, which looked more like the first-class saloon on a luxury ocean liner than a wardroom where officers met.6 The battleship’s 16-inch guns, thick armor plating, and acclaimed speed made her one of the most powerful warships of the day. In spite of the opulent setting, the Combined Fleet’s commander in chief cared little for pomp and circumstance. He was famous within the IJN for being direct to the point of rudeness, an attribute appreciated by those Americans he’d met. As one colleague remarked, Yamamoto was a man who “succeeded in upsetting preconceived notions of the typical Japanese.”7 This trait was in contrast to the IJN, which preferred a more collaborative decision-making approach.
In spite of his diplomatic experience, Yamamoto disliked obfuscation, which was one reason Americans warmed to him. In addition to being a maverick, he also had a tough streak. (You didn’t get to be CINC of the Rengo Kantai without one.) He also had a surprisingly mischievous side.8 It wasn’t unusual for the commander in chief to do a headstand at a party, as an ice-breaking trick.9 Though he didn’t drink (he’d learned as an ensign that he couldn’t handle alcohol),10 he had a sweet tooth11 and a penchant for geisha houses. He also wrote mediocre poetry.12 None of this was unusual for an Imperial Japanese naval officer, except perhaps his inability to drink. Etajima, Japan’s naval academy, prided itself on turning out renaissance men, and Yamamoto was no exception.
Standing five feet three inches, Yamamoto was shorter than the average Japanese.13 He had a prominent nose, a strong chin peppered with scars, and a shaved head. Besides his surprisingly thick lips, his only distinguishing feature was two missing fingers on his left hand. He’d lost them during the 1905 Russo-Japanese War, when the barrel of an overheated deck gun exploded. Yamamoto had been serving aboard the Nisshin when the accident happened, and his body bore its scars for the rest of his life. One story has it that geishas teasingly nicknamed him “eighty sen”—two fingers, or 20 sen less than the 100 sen cost of a manicure.14 He accepted the name with characteristic good humor.
What Yamamoto enjoyed most of all was gambling. Whether it was shogi, go, mah-jongg, billiards, roulette, or bridge, Yamamoto lived for games of chance.15 As an accomplished gambler, he was willing to take a risk so long as the odds were calculable. Pearl Harbor had been a risk, and he’d won. Now he was looking to make his next big bet—which was why he’d gathered his senior officers.
Though Yamamoto could be bold, he was also realistic. When invited to discuss the chance of victory in a war against the United States, he’d told Prime Minister Fumimaro Konoe, “If we are ordered to do it, I can guarantee a tough fight for the first six months, but I have no confidence as to what [will] happen if it went on for two or three years.”16
The recent successes at Pearl Harbor, the Philippines, and Malaya had so exceeded expectations that the Japanese were feeling sensho-byo, or victory fever. Yamamoto remained calm despite the excitement over Japan’s initial victories and counseled his officers to do the same.
“This is an all-night game of mah-jongg where you play until someone collapses,” he warned. “Just because the wind was in our direction … doesn’t mean we can relax.”17
Clearly, Yamamoto’s gambling instinct had resulted in victory at Pearl Harbor. By taking the battle to the enemy’s doorstep, he’d achieved unprecedented success.† His strategy ran contrary to two of the IJN’s strongest tenets: that a decisive naval battle should be conducted at sea, and that the bigger the battleship the better. Pearl Harbor had involved aircraft carriers, not battleships, and the decisive battle had taken place in the sky over the enemy’s home anchorage, not at sea. Now it was time to take his logic one step further.
The United States had already boasted that if it came to war, it would reduce Japan’s wood and paper cities to ashes.18 American cities might have been made out of concrete, but Yamamoto thought the strategy had merit.19 As he told his commanders that day aboard the Nagato, “If we send a submarine aircraft carrier to the U.S. mainland and drop bombs like rain over their major cities, the American people will surely lose their will to fight.”20
Naturally, the right target selection was key to achieving the desired effect. The cities had to have enough political, economic, and symbolic importance to persuade Americans that continuing the war would be too painful. Certainly bombing Washington, D.C., and New York City fulfilled these criteria. Yamamoto had visited both places and knew the important role they played in America’s self image.
Yamamoto also knew that an air raid was unlikely to cause substantive damage—Japan couldn’t muster enough resources for that. But the psychological effect would be devastating, especially since there’d be no trace of the attacker. Yamamoto would not only hit a proud country in her two most important power centers, he would demonstrate yet again what the Japanese people were capable of. American leaders had badly underestimated Japan once before. Would Americans tolerate a second such mistake?
Obviously, long-range bombers were required for an attack, but Japan was too far away to launch a successful air strike. Since they’d never slip another carrier task force past the United States without being discovered, Yamamoto’s commanders discussed alternatives. The only IJN weapons platform that carried planes besides surface ships were submarines, but no submarine had ever been built with the capabilities Yamamoto required. Such a sub would need a long range to reach America’s east coast and return without refueling, a journey of nearly 38,000 nautical miles. The sub would also have to be large enough to carry at least two bombers and serve as a stable platform for launching the planes.
Though IJN subs had been carrying aircraft for more than two decades, and nearly 20 percent of all Japanese subs were equipped to carry seaplanes, none of the Sixth Fleet’s aircraft were suited for the task. The most common sub-borne plane, the Yokosuka E14Y1 floatplane, was used for reconnaissance. Its cruising speed was only 90 mph, making it easy pickings for enemy fighters. Besides, its bomb payload was tiny. Sending the Yokosuka to attack New York would be like sending a gnat to sting a bear. Importantly, IJN subs carried only a single plane, hardly enough to inflict psychological damage on a major U.S. city.
As they worked through the requirements, it soon became apparent that neither the right kind of plane, nor the right kind of submarine, existed in the Imperial Japanese Navy. That meant both weapons had to be designed from the ground up. This was asking a lot, given the competing demands the IJN faced for men and materials. Building these weapons would not be easy.
But Yamamoto was an innovative thinker. He appreciated novel ideas. He’d been one of the IJN’s first officers to see the potential for naval aviation, at a time when most of his colleagues put their faith in big guns and super
-size battleships.21 Yamamoto was not a submariner though. He’d had little direct experience with the submarine force and virtually no exposure to the design and construction of submersibles. He had a limited understanding of what could be achieved.
Sometimes, a lack of preconceived notions can lead to an unexpected breakthrough. As commander in chief of the Combined Fleet, Yamamoto had every right to ask whether an underwater aircraft carrier could be built with enough range and cargo space to carry and launch attack planes against the east coast cities of the United States. When it came to the answer, Yamamoto turned to his senior staff officer and chief confidant, Kamato Kurojima.
The relationship between Yamamoto and Kurojima was an unusual one. Taciturn by nature, Yamamoto did not confide in many people. Kurojima was one of them. Yamamoto trusted his personal staff officer more than his own chief of staff. When the Navy Ministry’s Personnel Affairs Bureau tried replacing Kurojima with a new officer, Yamamoto refused the change. This was highly unusual, given the rigid nature of IJN personnel decisions, yet Kurojima remained in place while Yamamoto’s chief of staff turned over many times.22
Kurojima’s special relationship with his boss caused jealousy among his peers. It didn’t help that Kurojima’s ideas could be as unconventional as Yamamoto’s. Because of his unorthodox thinking, Kurojima was nicknamed the “Weirdo Officer,”23 but there is little doubt he was a fierce advocate for Yamamoto. Together they presented a formidable front that IJN personnel both respected and resented.
One story avidly repeated in the Navy Ministry concerned how the Naval General Staff (NGS) had originally opposed Yamamoto’s Pearl Harbor attack.24 Yamamoto grew so frustrated with their conservative thinking, he sent Kurojima to tell the NGS officers he’d resign if they didn’t support his plan. That got their attention, and NGS approval followed shortly thereafter. It’s not surprising that when Yamamoto wondered whether an underwater aircraft carrier could be built, he sent Kurojima to find out.
Operation Storm: Japan's Top Secret Submarines and Its Plan to Change the Course of World War II Page 3