Operation Storm: Japan's Top Secret Submarines and Its Plan to Change the Course of World War II

by John Geoghegan

  Matsu knew her husband was likely to die. She probably suspected this was the last time she’d see him. This was one reason why so much emotion ran beneath the surface of their reunion. But Matsu didn’t even get 24 hours with her husband. Early the next morning Ariizumi left for Tokyo. It was the last time they would ever see each other.

  ARIIZUMI HEADED TO Hiyoshidai, where the Imperial Defense Command was headquartered. Hiyoshidai, or Hiyoshi for short, was a warren of deep underground bunkers named for the town on the outskirts of Tokyo where it was located. Lying nearly 100 feet beneath the newly built Keio University, Hiyoshi boasted 16,000 feet of tunnels designed to survive the impact of a one-ton bomb.

  The command bunker was lined in concrete with rounded ceilings and miles of wires strung along its walls. It was so damp, the tunnels dripped water even in summer, and a small groove was carved into the floor for runoff. Junior personnel lived in the tunnels. Although it was a good place to avoid the summer heat, the accommodations were hardly luxurious. Most command personnel chose to sleep in aboveground dormitories where a hot bath was available.

  The Japanese military subscribed to a certain amount of delusional thinking right up until the end of the war, but not even the most optimistic naval officer could ignore the evidence staring them in the face. The dark, cavelike atmosphere of Hiyoshi perfectly fit the siege mentality that dominated the Combined Fleet. Suicidal naval offensives were ordered one after the other. Despite little chance of success, their practical result was to reduce the Imperial Japanese Navy to nothing.

  Unifying Japan’s military command at Hiyoshi in April 1945 was an obvious step in defense of the homeland. Still, it only demonstrated how far the Imperial Japanese Navy had fallen. Moving to Hiyoshi meant that the Combined Fleet’s flagship headquarters had to be abandoned. In other words, Japan’s naval command was no longer safe in its own waters. Working out of a rabbit’s burrow only underlined how far the navy had fallen.

  When Ariizumi arrived at Hiyoshi, he presented himself to the Naval General Staff.27 He explained that the Sen-toku subs were ready, and he passionately defended attacking the canal. Nothing could inflict more damage on the enemy than destroying their entrance to the Pacific, he proclaimed.28 He wanted the higher-ups to change their mind.

  Ariizumi was not one to buck the system; he knew his place in the command structure, which is why it’s so surprising he traveled to Tokyo to lobby his superiors. A Japanese officer did not argue with orders unless he was sure he was right.29 All of his hard work, combined with his rigid personality, must have warped his judgment. His position was understandable though, courageous even. From the late delivery of the subs, to their thwarted training in the Inland Sea; from fuel shortages to air raid attacks; from earthquakes to incendiary attacks, exploding mines, and the loss of five aircraft and nine Seiran crewmen, Ariizumi had overcome overwhelming odds to achieve the impossible. It was bad enough that he faced the full force and fury of the U.S. Navy; having his own command turn against him was more than he could bear.

  Ariizumi viewed bombing the Panama Canal as the pinnacle of his career. It represented everything he and his men had worked for, trained for, fought for, and died for. To cancel the attack when they were so close to being ready would be shortsighted, and worse, it would endanger the future of Japan.‡

  After presenting his case, Ariizumi sat stone-faced awaiting a reply.

  “I agree with (your) opinion,” an NGS officer told him. “However, we must break the deadlock of war.… U.S. task forces are menacing the Japanese mainland. It is of utmost importance that we annihilate them first. Rather than attack the canal, we should attack enemy carriers at Ulithi. This will achieve better results.”30

  Ariizumi’s petition was denied.

  It’s unlikely that Ariizumi let the matter drop. It was certainly within his character to press a point. At least one report suggests he was scolded for continuing to insist the Panama mission should proceed.

  “A man does not worry about a fire he sees on the horizon when other flames are licking at his sleeve!” he was told.31

  Ariizumi might have been hard-headed,32 but he was also realistic. He’d made his appeal and lost. His only choice was to return to Nanao and inform the squadron of their new target.

  It was time to rally his men.

  * Nambu in his memoir says it took 20 minutes to launch all three aircraft.

  † Uranium oxide is not radioactive, therefore does not require lead-lined packaging. Nevertheless, the material is believed to have been radioactive and may have been something other than uranium oxide. The exact nature of the material continues to be classified.

  ‡ The content of Ariizumi’s plea is speculative. Nevertheless, one can reasonably deduce from the information available that Ariizumi briefed the NGS on the state of his squadron’s readiness as well as his contention that the Panama Canal attack should go forward.

  Considered the father of the Sen-toku submarine squadron, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto wanted the I-400s to launch a surprise attack against New York City and Washington, DC, forcing America to sue for an early peace.

  Yamamoto’s air raid against two of America’s most important cities was intended as a follow-up to his surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. By driving the United States to the negotiating table early, he hoped Japan would be able to keep her South Pacific conquests. An attack similar to what Yamamoto planned was later depicted in Makoto Aida’s six-panel sliding screen A Picture of an Air Raid on New York City, 1966.

  Photograph by Hideto Nagatsuka. Courtesy of Mizuma Art Gallery, Tokyo.

  SEN-TOKU SUBS’ KEY PERSONNEL

  The Sen-toku subs’ squadron commander, Tatsunosuke Ariizumi, not only had a taste for drink, but was also called “gangster” by his crew for his ruthlessness in prosecuting the war.

  The I-401’s officers and crew knew their commanding officer, Nobukiyo Nambu, had their best interests at heart, though they couldn’t always say the same for Commander Ariizumi.

  Kazuo Takahashi, one of the I-400’s Seiran pilots (far right) with Cdr. Toshio Kusaka, commanding officer of the I-400 (in foreground). Takahashi was highly critical of his colleagues, but he was one of the few Seiran pilots with extensive combat experience.

  Lt. Atsushi Asamura, the I-401’s Seiran squadron leader, was prepared to die if that’s what it took to complete their mission. Courtesy of Lt. Atsushi Asamura

  The I-401’s officers assemble in front of the aircraft hangar door on the sub’s foredeck with Lt. Cdr. Nobukiyo Nambu (in dark uniform).

  THE SEN-TOKU SUBS

  At 400 feet 3 inches long, the I-400s were the largest submarines ever built until the nuclear-powered Ethan Allen class in 1961. Each sub carried a two-hundred-man crew and three special attack planes, and could travel one and a half times around the world without refueling.

  The I-401’s biggest challenge was launching all three of its Seiran in under half an hour; the longer she remained on the surface, the greater risk she ran of being sunk. Seiran, painting by Jack Fellows, jack​fellows.​com

  The I-400’s wardroom was far larger than that of a typical U.S. combat sub. Trimmed in wood, it served not only as a gathering place for the sub’s officers, but also as their dining room, briefing room, and sleeping quarters. U.S. Navy

  According to official accounts, all blueprints for the Sen-toku subs were destroyed at the end of the war. However, the author discovered the last complete set in a closet at a Japanese naval facility. Courtesy of the author

  The I-400’s enlisted men are shown gathered on the sub’s deck with the Asahi naval ensign flying above them. While the I-401 carried a crew of 204, including officers, enlisted men, and pilots, the I-400’s crew was smaller in number.

  AICHI’S M6A1 SEIRAN

  Aichi’s M6A1 attack plane was the world’s first, purpose-built, sub-borne aircraft designed solely for offensive purposes.

  Seiran were not only handsome-looking aircract, but were also the most advanced plane
s built by the Imperial Japanese Navy during World War II.

  Lt. Cdr. Tadashi Funada gave Aichi’s M6A1 attack plane its poetic name, Seiran, named after Hiroshige’s woodcut print showing the village of Awazu enshrouded in mist after a storm. It was an appropriate moniker because Aichi’s M6A1 were designed to appear over New York City without warning, like “a storm from a clear sky.”

  USS SEGUNDO’S (SS 398) KEY PERSONNEL

  The USS Segundo’s commanding officer, Lt. Cdr. James D. Fulp Jr., demonstrated the kind of confidence and command authority that inspired his crew. Bachrach Photography; courtesy of Lynne Fulp

  Lt. Cdr. Stephen Johnson replaced Fulp as commanding officer of the USS Segundo. His habit of playing dice with his men combined with his brash talk worried some of his officers. It also didn’t help that his nickname “Slick” wasn’t always meant as a compliment. Courtesy of Suze Comerford

  The Segundo’s executive officer, Lt. John E. Balson, was nicknamed “Silent Joe.” Nevertheless, his sense of humor was so dry it could run a submarine aground in the middle of the Pacific. Courtesy of the Balson family

  USS SEGUNDO (SS 398)

  The Segundo was launched at the Portsmouth Navy Yard in February 1944. It would be four months before she was commissioned, and another four months before she embarked on her first war patrol. U.S. Navy

  Between January and March 1945, nearly 70 percent of all ComSubPac subs returned from patrol without having fired a shot. Nevertheless, the Segundo (above) saw more than her fair share of action. U.S. Navy

  On his fourth war patrol, the Segundo’s skipper, Commander Fulp, encountered a fleet of sampans. When several turned out to be the enemy, he had no choice but to sink them. Photograph by Lt. Rodney L. Johnson, formerly of the USS Segundo

  After the rigors of the Segundo’s second war patrol, Commander Fulp was put in for the Navy Cross. He is shown here receiving a battle ribbon at Midway in June 1944 after the Segundo’s fourth war patrol. U.S. Navy

  Shown here at Midway, the officers of the USS Segundo proudly display their sub’s battle flag in June 1944. Commander Fulp is standing, third from right; his executive officer, Lt. John Balson, is standing, second from right.

  CAPTURE, SURRENDER, INSPECTION

  In this previously unpublished sequence of images, the Segundo faces off against the I-401. This photograph was taken from the Segundo’s foredeck. Photographs by Lt. Rodney L. Johnson, formerly of the USS Segundo

  Accurate communication was a problem during the I-401’s surrender talks, making an already tense situation even more fraught with danger. Shown here is a page from the notes Lt. Muneo Bando used to negotiate the surrender to the USS Segundo.

  The I-401’s chief navigator, Lt. Muneo Bando, approaches the Segundo in a rubber raft to discuss surrender terms.

  The I-401’s Lieutenant Bando, negotiates surrender terms with Lt. Cdr. Stephen L. Johnson aboard the Segundo.

  Captain Johnson and Lieutenant Bando confer over a map aboard the Segundo. Johnson insisted on escorting the I-401 to Yokosuka while Bando wanted to divert to Ominato in hope of escape.

  The bridge of the I-400 with the black, triangular flag of surrender flying next to the Rising Sun naval ensign.

  The USS Blue (DD-744) circles the I-400 to cut off any possible escape. U.S. Navy

  Cdr. Hiram Cassedy, who insisted on capturing the I-400 “twice,” stands with hand on holster while eyeing Japanese war booty with obvious interest. U.S. Navy

  The I-401 (or possibly the I-14) arrives in Tokyo Bay under the watchful eyes of the I-400’s crew in the waning days of August 1945. U.S. Navy

  The U.S. Navy sailed the I-400 to Pearl Harbor, where she was put into dry dock so her unusual design could be studied in more detail. Photograph by John M. Johnson GM3, I-400 prize crew member; courtesy of David Johnson

  DISCOVERY

  In March 2005, the Hawaii Undersea Research Laboratory found the I-401 near where the U.S. Navy torpedoed her. Ariizumi’s flagship is easily recognizable, including her bridge with a still-open hatch.

  Hawaii Undersea Research Laboratory

  Today, the I-401’s triple mount antiaircraft gun are clearly visible on the ocean bottom. Lt. Tsugio Yata used these guns to repel American fighters during their March 1945 air attack on Kure Naval Base.

  Hawaii Undersea Research Laboratory

  After the war ended, the U.S. Navy brought a captured Seiran to the United States for inspection. It spent nearly twenty years at California’s Alameda Naval Air Station, falling prey to souvenir hunters and sun exposure before being shipped to a storage facility at the National Air and Space Museum in 1962.

  The Smithsonian Institution spent nearly $1 million and several years lovingly restoring the only surviving Aichi M6A1 Seiran, which can be seen today at the National Air and Space Museum’s Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center in Chantilly, Virginia. National Air and Space Museum, Smithsonian Institution

  CHAPTER 27

  JOHNSON TAKES COMMAND

  THE SEGUNDO’S NEW CAPTAIN, LT. CDR. STEPHEN L. JOHNSON, had his work cut out for him. Captain Fulp was beloved by his crew. He’d sunk 17 ships during four war patrols and had brought them back safely each time. Meanwhile he’d shaped his men into a high-functioning combat unit. It was a tough act to follow.

  It didn’t help that Johnson made a poor first impression. A sub captain’s job was to prosecute the war, not win a popularity contest. Still, Johnson’s behavior put his men on edge. For example, Fulp never dove the sub before confirming that all the hatches were sealed. Johnson just dropped them in the hole without ever checking.1 The Segundo’s crew didn’t take such differences lightly. Johnson’s claim that they’d soon be tossing medals down the bridge hatch didn’t help matters. The last thing a crew wanted was to take unnecessary chances, especially with the war winding down. Was Johnson the guy who’d get them all killed? Nobody knew for sure.

  If a sports team can’t succeed without a winning coach, the same can be said for a combat sub. Johnson’s lack of command presence made his crew uneasy. Some skippers were born with it; others instilled command presence through fear. Age had something to do with it. At 34, Fulp was confident and mature, while Johnson, four years younger, was still unformed. Fulp didn’t speak much, but what he did say counted for a lot. On the other hand, Johnson’s brash talk made him seem impetuous—not a good sign in a sub captain.

  Johnson’s biggest battle though was being an unknown. More than one of the Segundo’s officers guessed it was his first command. It was his third.* These shortcomings meant the crew’s respect wouldn’t be given freely; Johnson would have to earn it. He might have been as tall as Captain Fulp, but no one thought he could fill Fulp’s shoes—at least, not yet.

  IT’S UNCLEAR WHETHER Steve Johnson understood that his crew had doubts about him. If he did, he probably didn’t care. He had always done things his way regardless of what people thought. Whether by design or accident, one thing was clear: Steve Johnson had been raising hell almost from birth.

  Stephen Lobdell Johnson was born in Chicago on August 10, 1915. The second son of John and Corrine Johnson, he’d lost both his father and his older brother to the 1918 influenza epidemic, when he was only three.2 His mother eventually remarried. David Callahan was a dry goods wholesaler in his forties when he asked Corrine for her hand. Not much later he moved the family to Lafayette, Indiana, to be near his business.

  Johnson was an adventurous kid with a daredevil streak a mile wide. One family story recalls him spitting into an open manhole, losing his balance, and falling in. That was Steve Johnson all over, doing something he shouldn’t and getting into trouble for it.

  Having an active stepson was a big change for Callahan, who had been a bachelor most of his life. This probably explains why Johnson was shipped off to a military academy in Peekskill, New York. Johnson was only an average student though and required a postgraduate year at an Annapolis feeder school. It must have worked, because he passed the entrance exam and enro
lled at the academy just one month shy of his nineteenth birthday.

  For all their differences, Johnson and Fulp had some things in common. Like Fulp, Johnson was found to be academically deficient in his first term and bilged out of Annapolis. He was readmitted a year later, but unlike Fulp, his academic record continued to decline. Importantly, Johnson’s fondness for breaking the rules put him in constant hot water. He received 39 demerits his first year. The next year this number increased to 44, including 20 for “hiding in closet … to skip drill.”3 His third year was no better. He earned 53 demerits for various infringements and spent seven days “confined to ship.”4 The trend was clearly heading in the wrong direction. By January of his senior year, Johnson had 56 demerits when he was caught returning from leave under the influence of alcohol.

  The medical officer examining Johnson found the midshipman so inebriated, he couldn’t walk a straight line. The doctor also noted, somewhat damningly, that Johnson was in a jocular mood—further evidence he didn’t take things seriously.5 Johnson received 100 demerits for his transgression,6 which, combined with the 56 he’d already earned, put him over the permissible limit. He was immediately placed on probation for the remainder of the academic year. Johnson had bigger problems than unsatisfactory conduct, however. The academy’s new superintendent, Rear Adm. Wilson Brown, had it in for him.