Genda nodded. “But?”
“I was overjoyed when I learned, at last, that our carriers were not to be broken into smaller groups, merely to support the battleships, but instead to become a great independent strike force, a dream you and I have shared for years. But,” and he hesitated, drawing in his breath. This was worse than anything he had ever ventured before. The incident in China, the fear of that moment, in a way trivial in comparison. If his friend followed what should be proper procedure after he spoke, he would be removed from this mission. “It is Admiral Nagumo.”
Genda said nothing for a long moment. “Go on.”
As he had once heard his English friend Stanford say, it was now “in for a penny, in for a pound.”
“I do not think he is the right man to lead this strike.”
“Why so?” Genda asked with a strange look on his face.
“We have both served with him in one capacity or another,” Fuchida said, now at last finding strength in his voice. “At the War College we both found ourselves in opposition to him at times. He has never embraced carriers and air strike as the means of achieving ultimate victory; instead he has always viewed us merely as the auxiliary, the secondary attack, the harassment or raid until his beloved surface ships close for the killing blow. His specialty is torpedo attacks, cruisers, and to a lesser extent submarines. I was therefore stunned when I learned he would be the operational commander of the strike force destined for this target.”
As he spoke he pointed to the model of Pearl Harbor. “I fear, sir, that ultimately, in his heart, Admiral Nagumo will view our attack not as the killing blow on the first day of the war, but instead will see it as a spoiling raid, to set our opponent off balance for four to six months, before the battle he dreams of, the great encounter with surface ships that will finally decide this war with America.
“No sir,” and he felt emboldened. “Pearl Harbor must end the war, not start it. Admiral Nagumo will hesitate if things should turn against us, or if when we arrive the fleet is not there, but out to sea. He will turn back rather than press in, or do but a half measure.”
He felt as if he had said far too much, and fell silent.
“If you wish to relieve me, sir, I will accept that fate without complaint, but I realize now, my duty to my country and my Emperor compelled me to voice my concerns.”
Fuchida fell silent, looking straight at his friend, his superior, awaiting his fate now that he had spoken.
There was a long moment of silence. “You are dismissed,” Genda said quietly, his voice barely a whisper.
Fuchida, feeling sick inside, knowing that he had crossed a line that he never should have attempted, came to attention and saluted, something he had not done with his friend in private for years.
Genda returned the salute, went over, unlocked the door, and motioned for him to leave.
And then, alone, Commander Genda returned to the table, lighting an American cigarette, and stared at the model, lost in thought.
Tokyo, Embassy of the United States: 17 October 1941
The knock on the door stirred Ambassador Grew from his thoughts, and he called for Eugene Doorman, his young assistant and interpreter, to enter. Grew looked up from the newspaper that had been absorbing his attention, the English-language Japan Times & Advertiser.
Lyrics of a song that had swept the airways in the last week had been translated and printed:
We will win, we must win
What of air-raid?
We know no defeat
Come to this land to be shot down.
Madness, the evidence clear enough of all that it portended. He looked up from the paper, knowing as well what Doorman was there for.
Gene stood in the open doorway, clutching an ornate silk- embroidered envelope, the kind that Prince Konoye was so fond of using in his correspondence. The letter was secured with a red wax seal, and as Gene placed it on the table he could see the elegant “To Ambassador Grew,” written across the front, in English, in Konoye’s spidery and well-practiced calligraphy. Fascinating, Grew thought, how the Japanese took such pride in their penmanship, be it their traditional calligraphy or in Western Latin lettering. The typewriter was changing that now for so many Americans, an art form of a more refined time being lost.
Not wishing to damage the envelope he took a pen knife out of his desk and worked the seal open, drawing out the letter.
“It was just delivered by one of Prince Konoye’s staff,” Doorman said.
The letter, in English, was brief, having both the formal style of diplomacy but also something of a personal aspect to it, for he and Grew had known each other for years, the one man Grew felt who could have successfully stayed the course of the military . . . and it was a letter regretting his acquisition to acceptance of the Emperor’s call to form a new cabinet.
He read and reread the letter. Konoye’s hope was that negotiations would still move forward as they had both so vigorously worked to achieve. But it was evident what the portent was.
“I’ll need to send a secured cable to Washington,” Grew said wearily, putting the letter down. “It is only a matter of time now.”
Akagi: 18 October 1941
He was drunk, and the knowledge of that disgusted him. He usually could handle his liquor, something few of his countrymen could do when a bottle of Western liquor, in this case scotch, was placed before them. Over half the bottle was empty. Sitting on his bunk, he uncorked the deadly stuff and filled his teacup back up.
A bit sloppily he raised the cup in a toast to the two portraits on the wall of his tiny private cabin, the portraits of the Emperor and his commander in chief of the navy, Admiral Yamamoto.
“What do I do?” he said, not really aware that he was speaking out loud.
Fuchida had not said a word to anyone about his concerns since their conversation of the day before. And it had haunted him, for the deep-seated fear he carried was the same one, though he never would have dared to express it to a subordinate, even one as close to him as Fuchida. He knew his friend was right. For the strike force destined for Malaya or the Philippines, if that was the case, then Admiral Nagumo would be well suited to the task.
He feared, in fact he knew, that at heart. Nagumo did not have the stomach for this mission. He still thought of carriers as fragile auxiliaries, nor was he a battleship man who, bullheaded, would forge straight in. His specialty was cruisers, destroyers, what some still considered to be the surface scouts of the fleet, a task that anyone with sense knew the airplane had long overtaken. To raid, thrust in sharp, but then to run away.
“Like a small dog,” Genda muttered, “bite then run away.”
But how do I tell the boss, my admiral, he wondered, looking at Yamamoto’s portrait again.
“How do I tell you?”
To go before the Commander in Chief of the Navy, to tell him to his face that his choice of Nagumo was the wrong one. There would be only one recourse left open for the admiral, to remove him from the operation for insubordination. No one would dare, in this navy, to go not just over the head of their superior, but to go all the way to the top and say such a thing.
No one. It would mean the end of a career, beached just as the greatest naval war in history was about to unfold, one that he had personally helped to plan.
“No, I can’t,” he sighed, draining the teacup, then refilling it yet again, this time so that it overflowed and spilled on the deck. He didn’t care, he was so drunk now that all he needed to remember was that a trash bucket was beside his bunk as he drained the cup and then fell back to try and get some sleep.
Tokyo: 18 October 1941
The newly selected prime minister of Japan, General Hideki Tojo, with head lowered approached the steps of the Ise Shrine. The crowds that waited for him outside the gate had broken into thunderous applause at his arrival, the guard detail struggling to keep them back, to provide for him the quiet needed for the ceremony of this moment, where alone, he would enter the temple to
kneel and pray, as custom demanded, to the Sun Goddess, guardian of Japan.
And yet even as he knelt he could not conceal his inner sense of pride, of fulfillment, how by the most remarkable of ironies he had risen through the ranks to that of war minister and then in the most ironic twist of all, had been called for by the Emperor, not as a prime minister of a nation now fully bent on war, but instead, as a military man who still just might be able to broker peace.
Even Konoye had reluctantly gone along with the choice. The logic of it was convoluted, as were nearly all decisions of this government. As a known war leader, who had advocated an aggressive stance, he could as prime minister still seek a negotiated peace, and if it was achieved, if negotiations actually yielded fruit that was not a humiliation to national pride, he could accept it without any real fear from the military extremists.
The Emperor had exacted from him a promise that he would continue to seek to try diplomacy even as they prepared for war. A paradoxical decision, for surely as they prepared for war and the evidence of that became clear, the Americans and British would surely see the signs and prepare as well, further accelerating his own officers’ demands to end the farce and move to the killing blow.
How strange it all was, as he bowed low, alone in the ornate temple, even the monks and priests having withdrawn to give him privacy. He had sworn eternal obedience to the Emperor, the Emperor still desired peace, asking for a rescinding of the decision of the previous month that the middle of October would end any attempt of real negotiation.
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: 18 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 Gen
da 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 modem 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 modem fire control were used for the first time by Admiral Togo and granted 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.
Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th Page 26