“Well, would I be? The answer is definitely a yes.”
Cecil smiled. “Their efforts are primarily focused on Germany of course, but I think both you and I know that will change dramatically before the year is out, very dramatically. And when it does certain people are going to be head-hunting for chaps like us who don’t just know the language, but know the people, the way they think, who they are, and that, old friend, defines you and me to a tee.”
James looked around again, still a bit uncomfortable. “Okay, as you Yanks say, I’ll talk first. You can answer or not as you see fit.”
James simply nodded.
“We both know that the Northern School, as they call it, is dead, though there are still a few in our services who think the Soviets are on the edge of collapse and no matter what Tojo is now planning, the army would rather jump northward and cut off a part of the dying corpse than fight a war where they will be highly dependent on the navy.”
James again nodded.
“So south it is. I give it four weeks, six at most, perhaps two on the inside bet.”
“Two is out,” James said softly. “What little I can ...”
He hesitated; even to say “decrypt” made him uncomfortable.
“What little I can see. The playing pieces are not in position yet. Too much open signal traffic. It’s when they turn it all off, that to me is the countdown.”
“I agree. I’m guessing around the twenty-fifth of next month. Christmas and all that; everyone will be on holiday.” “Dangerous though. We might just second-guess that as well and go to a higher alert. Besides, they know the sacredness of that day to us. They do want a war, but they do not want a vengeance match; and to attack on Christmas Day, that’s asking for vengeance in the name of the Prince of Peace.”
“Nice turn of phrase there,” Cecil replied.
“So it’s somewhere in between, you’d guess.”
Again he hesitated. “Strictly my own vision, of course,” James said, and he could not resist the deliberate gesture of taking off his glasses and pulling out a dirty handkerchief to clean them.
“Of course, just your vision.”
“Four to five weeks. They have taken to increasing the frequency of code changes. I tell you it is driving us to the point of insanity.”
“I can see that,” Cecil replied smiling, pointing to James’s stained blouse and trousers, then with a friendly gesture ran the back of his hand across his stubbly face.
“Certainly a picture for a recruiting poster either for your navy or, as you say, an insane asylum.”
“You’ve done the work. You know what I mean.”
Cecil nodded. “At least last time it was a Western-based language, and we got some lucky breaks with their lax attitude about coding books in embassies. Not this time I take it.”
James shook his head.
“Almost makes one wish we had some magic,” Cecil said, this time looking closely at James.
James, glasses still off, was glad they were off. Not even to the closest of friends on the same team would he ever say that one word . . . Magic. It was the encrypting machine for Japanese diplomatic messages, one of the closest of all secrets. There was speculation that the Japanese Consulate Office had one, and there had been endless late-night discussions over coffee about bringing in some professional safecracker, maybe somebody even from the Mob on the mainland to pull a job off.
One of the team was from New Jersey, and he said he knew half a dozen who could pull it off for the right “consideration.” The trick was to get it out, take it apart, photograph and measure everything, put it back together, and then do a second burglary job the same night to get it back in. Impossible, but fun to speculate about. If they were ever caught, the isolationist hotheads in Congress would skin all of them alive, CinCPac would deny he ever knew about it, the State Department would scream for a hanging ... and the Japanese would junk the machine and go with something entirely different. As it was, they did have a handle on some of the messages thanks to the IBM calculating machines down in the dungeon, but having a real one would be better than anything a cryptologist could ever dream of holding.
He looked straight at Cecil and said nothing. The silence, though, was, he realized, answer enough, and his friend chuckled.
They sat in silence for several minutes, Cecil finishing his sandwich, poking around a bit at the potato salad, James just drinking his coffee, the idea of roast beef just not sitting right at this time of day.
“And your destination?” James finally asked.
“Flight leaves this afternoon at one. From here to Wake to refuel. Then across the long haul to Guam, then Manila, then Hong Kong. From Hong Kong I then head down to Singapore. A week or so if the weather cooperates.”
“Amazing. Jump the entire ocean in a week. When we were kids it took a month or more, and that by fastest steamer.” “And for our old friends in Japan, they can see it the other way,” Cecil replied. “Ever hear of a chap named Genda?” James processed that. The name Genda was familiar. Something about their War College.
“He was naval attaché in London during the Blitz. Has us worried a bit. We know he’s a smart one. At the height of the battle, he wasn’t down in the basement cowering with the rest of their embassy staff. We had a report he used to go to one of the bridges and just stand out there, watch, and take notes. He might have drawn some conclusions from both sides. If he did, and he has someone like Fuchida testing them out, it could spell trouble for us someday.”
“So you and your old friend had a falling out.”
“War does that,” Cecil said, a touch of anger now in his voice. “You only saw the photographs and newsreels of Nanking. Remember, I was there, and I will never forget it.
“Nor forgive it.”
“Why bring him up?” James asked.
“Just the thought that he returned back to Japan the same way I’m now traveling, by the Pan Am clipper planes. He had days to observe, to think. Writing up a little speculation on it for the PM along with my other notes. Imagine a Japan with five hundred such planes, based forward, say some of the islands up off Alaska for example.”
“Absurd, Cecil,” James replied, “The logistics of supporting that many aircraft up there; anyone who tried it would be insane.”
“All right then, I’ll grant that, but elsewhere, and the thought they could range the entire Pacific in a day.”
“They have no such planes, nor the fuel to feed them. Even the Germans must be feeling that pinch. Thank God it is we who hold nearly all the world’s oil. The one who controls oil... until some other energy comes along, like those atoms that Wells fellow writes about, well, we have the trump card.”
“I agree,” Cecil replied. “I guess I’m not making it clear enough. It is the thinking of the application of mass across a vast distance that was undreamed of in the last war. Move two, three, four thousand miles and then strike with five hundred, a thousand planes. The Germans had that number of planes, far more, actually, but they never quite grasped how to use them in mass, in one direct killing blow against the most important target. It was not our factories, at least in the short term, though in a long, protracted war that might be different. It was to kill the RAF itself by shooting them down and bombing them and bombing them until they smashed apart. That is where Herr Goering made his mistake, and I think this Genda must have seen that and reported it.
“How many carriers do you have out here now?” Cecil asked, completely shifting topics and pointing over to where the Enterprise and Lexington were docked.
James chuckled. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“I’m guessing three,” Cecil replied. “Those two there, maybe Saratoga nearby. They have seven, will soon have nine if our scanty intelligence from inside Japan is accurate.” Again James did not reply, but the number was right. One of his listeners claimed he knew the “fist,” the subtle nuances of different telegraphers, and could pick out the Kaga and Akagi in less than a minute,
as distinct, he would say in his Texan drawl, as the way a Yankee from Boston sounded to him.
“They don’t have the clipper planes and hell, for that matter nor do we. Your longest-range planes, your 17s and the new 24s, can range, at best, a thousand miles, maybe fifteen hundred if stripped down. But the carriers now. At flank speed they can leap six hundred miles in a day, across the Pacific in a week if they pushed it. Seven carriers, five hundred planes or more for a killing strike.”
Could it be here? All along from CinCPac on down the speculation from day one had been that it would be to take out MacArthur and the ragtag army he was ever so slowly, far too slowly, trying to organize in the Philippines, while constantly complaining about the need for yet more men, planes, and supplies and often blaming the navy for any delay. It was said that Kimmel had finally announced the only reason MacArthur had taken that post was because it was the only military position he could have where he could call himself a field marshal and get away with it, with enough gold lace on his hat to deck out a Paris streetwalker.
“What about Singapore?” James finally asked.
“What the PM thinks, and that, dear friend, is a confidence between friends and no further. Call it a sign of trust.”
“Fine then.”
“Why use carriers on Singapore when land-based planes out of Indochina can do the job? Once you have Singapore, the oilfields of Sarawak and the Celebes in the Dutch East Indies fall by default.”
“I’d place my bet elsewhere.”
“My God, you are talking about here,” James whispered. Cecil did not reply. He carefully began to fold up the linen from his sandwich, motioned to where Cecil’s sat on the park bench between them. James shook his head and several seconds later, a couple of gulls were happily tearing it apart, others swooping in to argue over the spoils.
He emptied out the rest of the coffee into their cups and James took a gulp, his stomach rebelling slightly, all the caffeine and nothing down there to soak it up. He suddenly did feel hungry and looked a bit regretfully at the gulls, who were now flying off, squabbling even as they flew away with the remnants of the meal.
His gaze went back to the harbor toward which the gulls were flying. Yet more Liberty Boats were coming in, boisterous sailors shouting and laughing. Over where the submarines were lined up, some of the crew, stuck with duty aboard, had spread out blankets and lay on the deck, soaking up the morning sun, a radio rigged up on the conning bridge of one of the subs playing the new Andrews Sisters hit “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”
Over on the north side of Ford Island, a PBY had just landed and was taxiing across the water and then up the ramp, the morning recon flight around the island completed for the day. A couple of Army P-40s cruised by at low altitude, skirting the edge of the naval base as their pilots put in an hour or two of flight time before knocking off for a secluded getaway up in the hills or on an isolated beach with a young wife or girlfriend.
Cecil looked at his watch.
“Think you can whistle up a ride for me?” he asked. “I think it’s time to go.”
“Certainly.”
The two stood up and stretched.
“I hope to see you again,” James said.
Cecil smiled.
“Oh, we will. What we talked about earlier. Who knows, I did bend the PM’s ear a bit. Our names are in the hat.”
James nodded. It was an interesting speculation, but at the moment all he could do was look across the harbor, which now seemed to be bathed in a different light.
Hitokappu Bay, Japan: 26 November 1941 6:00 a.m. Tokyo Time, 25 November 1941 10:30 a.m. Hawaii Time
The two friends, Fuchida and Genda, stood side by side on the bridge of the carrier Akagi. The colors had just been raised, the national anthem played by the ship’s band, and all had then turned to bow first to the east and the sun, which had yet to rise, and then south to the homeland and the Emperor.
They looked with excitement at Admiral Yamamoto standing near them. He had finally concluded that Genda was right and that he had to lead the fleet.
Furthermore, once Yamamoto had thought through the implications of the strategic gamble to which he was committing the navy he made a number of significant changes in the operational plan.
They were no longer on a smash-and-run raid. They were now committed to the destruction of the American Fleet and were planning for a cruise of decisive engagement. It was both exhilarating and awe inspiring. Once Yamamoto had thought through the logic of their position he had relentlessly and ruthlessly imposed changes to the plan to give Japan the greatest possible range of options in the opening weeks of the campaign.
Yamamoto’s preparatory work was done, and he wasted no energy in anxiety or anticipation. He was now relaxed and beginning to build reserves of energy for the moment of engagement when his will, his creativity, and his nerve would matter. Until then he had competent subordinates to run the fleet and train the crews.
Fuchida found himself much more filled with adrenaline than Yamamoto. He was so intensely committed to success that he almost quivered with energy.
The deck was cleared of all but half a dozen planes, to be used for antisubmarine patrol as the fleet set out and Akagi built up to launch speed. But the harbor was already ringed by planes, skimming low and slow, back and forth beyond the opening to the bay. If but one American submarine should be present to see what was about to sortie out, the entire operation might be aborted, though orders were to attack any strange submarine without warning and hopefully to sink it before it could dispatch a message.
The flight deck was lined with all the ship’s personnel, except for those absolutely needed in the engine room, the men most likely freezing in their formal uniforms in the near arctic cold.
The Akagi’s captain turned to his quartermaster and gave the slightest of nods. “Dismiss the crew to their regular stations,” was all he said, “and take us out.”
Yamamoto turned away, his back to those on the bridge, gaze fixed forward.
Seconds later Fuchida could feel the vibration run through Akagi. It was the engines beginning to rev up. In seconds water would start foaming under her stem, but it was more than that, an electriclike vibration coursing through the entire crew.
Down on the flight deck, boatswains’ pipes shrilled, ordering the men below, but they did not break ranks at once; many just stood in place, sensing the moment. Though even now, only the pilots and a handful of officers knew their destination and mission, that secret would not be revealed to the crew until later in the day. Still even the lowest of enlisted personnel knew that this was no ordinary training mission. The pride of the Japanese Fleet, a force of nearly a hundred ships, was gathered in the harbor. Two fast battleships, six of her carriers, escort ships, cruisers, destroyers, minesweepers, the crucial oilers, the destroyers already racing for the mouth of the harbor to form the forward screen.
One would have to be dead, very stupid, Fuchida thought, not to realize they were sallying forth to war.
Morale had soared even higher when the evening before, Yamamoto had quietly arrived without fanfare. Fuchida suspected that Genda knew of this beforehand, but security had obviously been maintained. Once Yamamoto was aboard Akagi, within minutes Nagumo had departed just as quietly, face drawn, tense, obviously enraged and humiliated. He had been beached at the very last minute, but few had complained, for now everyone on board was drawing comparisons with Admiral Togo in 1905 sailing forth for Tsushima. Everyone saw it as a good omen.
Genda caught Fuchida’s eyes, motioned for him to follow, and together they went back down the steps and back out onto the flight deck. The Akagi was rapidly gaining speed, an icy wind sweeping the ship, but hundreds now stood about the bridge, looking up, wondering. Some started to approach Genda, but his gaze warned them off.
And then it happened. An overly enthusiastic young ensign leaned over the railing, cupping his hands to be heard above the gale of wind and the roar of the engine exhaust stakes.
The response was electric.
One of the young lieutenants out on the open bridge did it first, throwing hands up high... Banzai... Banzai... Banzai.
The cry was picked up, reverberated, a thousand or more voices joining in as the wind begin to whip down the length of the ship as it turned majestically, gathering speed, heading toward the vast sea beyond.
“Did you do this?” Fuchida asked, looking at his friend.
”No, I think you did,” Genda said softly.
“But you talked to him about what I said.”
Genda nodded.
“But I thought he refused; he never said a word. This is the first I knew,” and as he spoke his voice began to break.
That old man had kept his cards close, close indeed. He must have gone all the way to the Emperor, though, to discuss the change. Genda felt a twinge of pain for Nagumo now.
“Three cheers, for Admiral Yamamoto sails with us!”
And again cheers swept the deck.
Fuchida could not contain himself, and he embraced his old friend.
“You just might have changed history,” he said, voice choked.
“No, my friend. You are the strike leader. It will be you who will ultimately decide that.”
Fuchida. broke, unable to hold back his tears. If ever there was a moment to be alive, to be a pilot for Japan, it was here, now, this moment.
Pearl Harbor 28 November 1941 0700
The Big E moved slowly but steadily toward the harbor mouth. Task Force 2 was on the way to Wake Island to deliver aircraft. Admiral Halsey was carefully disguising their destination. In fact, security was so tight the marine pilots had been told they were only going out to sea for two days of experimental flying off the carrier. They only had one change of clothes with them.
Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th Page 29