TEN MONTHS HAD NOW passed since Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, Commander of the Japanese Combined Fleet, remarked almost casually to Rear Admiral Takajiro Onishi, Chief of Staff of the Eleventh Air Fleet, “If we are to have war with America, we will have no hope of winning unless the U.S. fleet in Hawaiian waters can be destroyed.”
Then he ordered Admiral Onishi to start studying the possibility of launching a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. Onishi called in Commander Minoru Genda, a crack young airman, and ten days later Genda came up with his appraisal: risky but not impossible.
Yamamoto needed no further encouragement. A few trusted subordinates went quietly to work, and by May Rear Admiral Shigeru Fukudome of the Naval General Staff was able to toss a fat notebook at Rear Admiral Ryunosuke Kusaka.
“Go ahead, read it,” invited Fukudome. Kusaka plunged into a mass of statistics on Pearl Harbor, but missed any operational plans. “That,” said Fukudome, “is what I want you to do.”
The job seemed overwhelming. The U.S. strength looked enormous. Hawaii was thousands of miles from Japan. There were airfields scattered all around Oahu — Hickam, Wheeler, Ewa, Kaneohe, probably others. Pearl Harbor itself was narrow and shallow, making it extremely difficult to get at the ships. On top of everything else, Vice Admiral Nagumo, commander of the First Air Fleet, and slated to lead any attack, was dragging his feet. As his chief of staff, no wonder Kusaka was discouraged.
“Don’t keep saying, ‘It’s too much of a gamble,’ just because I happen to be fond of playing bridge and shogi,” Admiral Yamamoto cheerfully admonished. “Mr. Kusaka, I am fully aware of your arguments. But Pearl Harbor is my idea and I need your support.” He added that it would certainly help if Kusaka could win over Admiral Nagumo.
Kusaka worked on, and somehow the project began to make sense. Commander Genda did wonders with the torpedo problem. All summer he experimented on the Inland Sea, setting up short shallow torpedo runs. By August he was trying out shallow-draft torpedoes at Saeki. As for the short length of run — well, there was Southeast Loch, a narrow arm of water that led like a bowling alley straight to the battleship moorings in the center of Pearl Harbor.
Everything was done in the darkest secrecy. One afternoon late in August, Lieutenant (j.g.) Toshio Hashimoto, a young naval pilot, took some papers to his wing commander’s office and found a group of high-ranking officers poring over charts and maps of Pearl Harbor. They were stamped “Top Secret,” and Lieutenant Hashimoto was appalled at his intrusion. Nobody rebuked him, but he went away petrified by the mere knowledge of such an enormous secret.
By the end of August, Admiral Yamamoto was ready to unveil the scheme to a select few. Admiral Osami Nagano, Chief of the Naval General Staff, and 13 other key officers were called to Tokyo and given the word. Then, from September 2 to 13, they all tested the idea on the game board at the Naval War College.
The attacking team “lost” two carriers; Admiral Nagano began complaining that December was too stormy; Admiral Nagumo, commander of the all-important First Air Fleet, still had cold feet. Other officers argued that Japan could take southeast Asia without U.S. interference; that if America came in, the place to catch the fleet was nearer Japanese waters.
But Yamamoto stuck to his guns — if war came, America was bound to be in it … her fleet was Japan’s biggest obstacle … the best time to crush it was right away. By the time it recovered, Japan would have everything she needed and could sit back and hold out forever.
This logic won the day, and on September 13 the Naval Command issued the rough draft of a plan that combined Pearl Harbor, Malaya, the Philippines, and the Dutch East Indies in one huge assault.
Next, the training stage. One by one, men were tapped for the key jobs. Brilliant young Commander Mitsuo Fuchida was mildly surprised to be transferred suddenly to the carrier Akagi, having just left her the year before. He was far more amazed to be named commander of all air groups of the First Air Fleet. Commander Genda sidled up with the explanation: “Now don’t be alarmed, Fuchida, but we want you to lead our air force in the event that we attack Pearl Harbor.”
Lieutenant Yoshio Shiga and about a hundred other pilots got the word on October 5 from Admiral Yamamoto himself. He swore them to secrecy, told them the plan, urged them to their greatest effort.
The men practiced harder than ever —mostly the low, short torpedo runs that had to be mastered. The torpedoes themselves continued to misbehave in shallow water, diving to the bottom and sticking in the mud. Commander Fuchida wondered whether they would ever work. But Genda only grew more excited — once perfected, they would be the supreme weapon. And by early November he had succeeded. Simple wooden stabilizers were fitted on the fins, which would keep the torpedoes from hitting even the shallow 45-foot bottom of Pearl Harbor.
Meanwhile, other pilots practiced bombing techniques, for nobody except Genda was completely sold on torpedoes. Besides, the meticulous intelligence now pouring in from Consul General Nagao Kita in Honolulu showed that the battleships were often moored in pairs; torpedoes couldn’t possibly reach the inboard ship. To penetrate tough armor-plated decks, ordnance men fitted fins on 15-inch and 16-inch armor-piercing shells. These converted missiles would go through anything.
While the pilots practiced and the inventors worked their miracles, Admiral Kusaka battled the red tape that snarls anybody’s navy. Some time during October he flew to Tokyo to argue headquarters into giving him eight tankers for the task force that was now taking shape. It meant the difference between using four or six carriers, and at a time like this it seemed incredible that there should be any question about it. But headquarters hemmed and hawed, and it took several weeks to wangle the extra ships.
Thirty-three-year-old Suguru Suzuki, youngest lieutenant commander in the service, had a more stimulating job. Around the end of October he boarded the Japanese liner Taiyo Maru for an interesting journey to Honolulu. Instead of following her usual course, the ship sailed far to the north, crossed over between Midway and the Aleutians, and then cut south to Hawaii —exactly the course the task force planned to follow to avoid detection.
Lieutenant Commander Suzuki whiled away the trip taking reams of notes. He checked the winds, the atmospheric pressure, the roll of the vessel. Could a scouting seaplane be launched in these seas? It could. Would any special refueling problems arise? They would. He observed that during the entire voyage the Taiyo Maru didn’t sight a single ship.
In Honolulu, Lieutenant Commander Suzuki spent a busy week. From occasional visitors to his ship he learned that the fleet wasn’t now assembling at Lahaina Anchorage as it used to. He confirmed that the weekend was a universally observed American institution. He picked up some choice titbits — structural data on the Hickam Field hangars, interesting aerial shots of Pearl Harbor taken October 21. These were made from a private plane that took up sightseers at nearby John Rogers Airport. Anybody could do it.
Then back to Tokyo again, guardedly comparing notes with Lieutenant Commander Toshihide Maejima, who was also on board. Commander Maejima seems to have had much the same interests, but directed rather more toward submarines.
By now things were moving fast in Tokyo. November 3, Admiral Nagano’s final blessing … November 5, Combined Fleet Top Secret Order Number 1, spelling out the plan … November 7, Admiral Nagumo officially named commander of the Pearl Harbor Striking Force. The same day Yamamoto tentatively set the date — December 8, or Sunday, December 7, Hawaii time. Good for a number of reasons: favorable moonlight … perfect coordination with the Malay strike … the best chance to catch the ships in port and the men off duty.
A few more people were let in on the secret. Admiral Kusaka confided in Commander Shin-Ichi Shimizu, a middle-aged supply officer. The problem: how to draw winter gear without attracting attention, when everybody else was getting ready for the tropics. Commander Shimizu’s solution: requisition both summer and winter gear. He glibly told the startled depot that if war came, you never knew where you might go. Then he piled everything on the freighter Hoko Maru and chugged off to sea about November 15. Once out of sight, he swung north and made for Hitokappu Bay in the bleak, cold Kuriles — the secret rendezvous point for the Pearl Harbor Striking Force.
Admiral Nagumo himself was not far behind. His flagship, the carrier Akagi, left Saeki in the late evening of the 17th. His chief of staff, Admiral Kusaka, tingled with optimism. Only the day before, he had received a letter from his old housekeeper, telling of a pleasant dream — the Japanese submarine fleet had achieved a splendid surprise victory at Pearl Harbor. A strange dream for a housekeeper, but Admiral Kusaka thought it was a good omen.
On November 19 Lieutenant Commander Suzuki arrived back from his junket to Honolulu and took a fast launch to the battleship Hiei, anchored off Yokohama. Suzuki climbed aboard with his bulging briefcase, and the Hiei, too, steamed off for Hitokappu.
One by one they slipped away. Always separately, never any apparent connection. Once out of sight, the sea simply swallowed them up. At the great Kure naval base a lively radio traffic crackled from the rest of the ships, designed to give the impression that the fleet was still at home. The regular carrier operators stayed behind to give these signals their usual “swing.” (A wireless operator’s touch is as distinctive as his handwriting.) The camouflage was so good it even fooled Admiral Kusaka, who bawled out his communications man for breaking radio silence, only to find the “message” was a fake concocted back home.
One by one they glided into Hitokappu Bay — the lumbering carriers Akagi and Kaga; the huge new flattop Zuikaku; the light carriers Hiryu and Soryu; the old battleships Hiei and Kirishima; the crack new cruisers Tone and Chikuma; nine destroyers led by the light cruiser Abukuma; three screening submarines; the eight tankers finally wangled from headquarters. Last to arrive in the twilight of November 21 was the great carrier Shokaku, which had put on such an effective masquerade of turbine trouble that she was almost late.
Now they were all there — 32 ships incongruously packed in a desolate harbor. Snow crowned the mountains that ringed the cold, gray bay. Three lonely radio masts stood against the sky. Three small fishermen’s huts and one bare concrete pier were the only other traces of civilization. Even so, Nagumo took no chances — no shore leaves, no rubbish overboard. When Seaman Shigeki Yokota got the Kagas garbage detail, he had to burn it right beside the pier.
Commander Shimizu and the other supply ship skippers gradually transferred food, clothes, and thousands of drums of fuel oil to the task force. Five-gallon tins of oil were crammed into every empty space. When all was loaded, Shimizu told his crew to stay put until December 10: “Go fishing. Do anything you want, but you can’t leave the area.” Then he transferred to the Akagi — he couldn’t resist going along for the ride.
Admiral Nagumo held a last conference on the Akagi on the night of the 23rd. Lieutenant Commander Suzuki told about his interesting trip to Honolulu. Commander Fuchida, who would lead the air strike, scribbled away at his notes. The meeting ended with a toast of sake and three banzais for the emperor.
On the 25th Yamamoto ordered the fleet to get going the following day, and inevitably Admiral Nagumo spent a restless last night. At 2:00 A.M. he finally called in Lieutenant Commander Suzuki, apologized for waking him, and said he just had to check one point again: “You’re absolutely certain about not spotting the U.S. Pacific Fleet in Lahaina?”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Nor is there any possibility that it might assemble at Lahaina?”
Suzuki reassured him and went back to bed, deeply moved by the sight of the old admiral, all alone with his worries, pacing away the night in his kimono.
At dawn Suzuki left the Akagi and stood on the shore waving goodbye as the anchor chains rattled upward and the ships got under way. On the bridge of the Akagi Admiral Kusaka tugged at his coat collar to escape the bitter wind that swept the cheerless morning.
An unexpected hitch arose when a piece of cable snarled in the Akagi’s propeller, but a diver got it free in half an hour, and by 8:00 A.M. the whole task force was clear of the harbor. As the Akagi glided by, a patrol boat’s blinkers flashed through the gloom, “Good luck on your mission.”
Commander Gishiro Miura, the Akagi’s navigation officer, certainly needed it. He had no easy job in weather like this —pounding seas, steady gales, the thickest kind of fog. Miura was famous throughout the fleet for his sloppy, easygoing amiability; but it was all gone now. He stood stern and tense on the bridge. He wore a pair of shoes instead of his usual carpet slippers.
Most of the time the ships managed to keep in formation: the carriers in two parallel columns of three … the eight tankers trailing behind … the battleships and cruisers guarding the flanks … the destroyers screening the whole force … the subs scouting far ahead. But at night the tankers, not used to this sort of work, would stray far and wide. Every morning the destroyers herded them back to the fleet.
The second day out, Admirals Nagumo and Kusaka clung to the plunging bridge of the Akagi, trying as usual to round up the tankers. Suddenly Nagumo blurted, “Mr. Chief of Staff, what do you think? I feel that I’ve undertaken a heavy responsibility. If I had only been more firm and refused. Now we’ve left home waters and I’m beginning to wonder if the operation will work.”
Admiral Kusaka came up with the right answer: “Sir, there’s no need to worry. We’ll make out all right.”
Nagumo smiled. “I envy you, Mr. Kusaka. You’re such an optimist.”
Admiral Nagumo must have felt even more discouraged when they first tried refueling on the 28th. This turned out to be dangerous, backbreaking work. As the ships bucked and plunged, the big hoses running from the tankers would snap loose and whiplash across the deck. Several crewmen were swept overboard, but nothing could be done about it.
By the 30th they were getting better at refueling, but now they had another problem. As the weather grew worse, oil drums stored on the deck of the light carrier Hiryu spilled, turning her into a skating rink. Commander Takahisa Amagai, the flight deck officer, wrapped straw rope around his boots to keep from falling, but barked his shins anyhow.
On they plowed, through nerve-wracked days and sleepless nights. Admiral Kusaka catnapped in a canvas chair on the Akagi’s bridge. Her chief engineer, Commander Yoshibumi Tanbo, did the same far below. He and his 350 men rarely left the engine room, lived in a life of oil and sweat beside their beloved machines. Mess attendants carried down all their meals —usually rice balls with pickled plums and radishes, wrapped in bamboo bark.
Everyone grew more and more restless. From the bridge of the Akagi Admiral Kusaka watched the pilots endlessly check their planes, warm up the engines, run through daily calisthenics. On the Shokaku, Commander Hoichiro Tsukamoto never knew that time could pass so slowly — his mind was always wandering to his watch or clock. Captain Tadataka Endo, the ship’s doctor, whiled away the hours playing shogi and go. On the Hiryu, everyone speculated about the gauze mask that Group Leader Lieutenant Haita Matsumura wore over his mouth. He mumbled something about the unhealthy climate, and they marked him off as a hopeless hypochondriac.
But they speculated most of all on where they were going. Fighter pilot Yoshio Shiga on the Kaga was sure it would be in the north — all the planes had been changed to winter oil. Lieutenant (j.g.) Sukao Ebina, the Shokaku’s junior medical officer, guessed Dutch Harbor. Commander Tanbo down in the Akagi’s engine room enjoyed a special advantage: he knew how far she could go on the fuel she carried. It all added up to the Philippines.
Hardly anybody yet knew the truth. Last-ditch negotiations were being conducted by Japanese envoys in Washington, trying to win for Japan a free hand in Asia. If these talks unexpectedly succeeded, orders would be sent to Nagumo to turn around and come home. And if this were done, the world must never know what almost happened. So at this point Nagumo couldn’t risk telling anybody.
But it was far more likely that the attack would come off; so the main job was to keep the fleet from being discovered. No waste could be thrown overboard — it might leave a telltale track. The ships used the highest grade fuel to keep smoke at a minimum. The empty oil drums were carefully stowed away. Complete blackout and strict radio silence. On the Hiei, Commander Kazuyoshi Kochi, chief communications officer for the whole task force, disconnected an essential part of his transmitter, put it in a wooden box, and used it as a pillow whenever he managed to get in some sleep.
They had several bad scares. Once Tokyo radioed that an unknown submarine had been detected. The fleet hastily changed course, only to discover that it was all a mistake. Another night Admiral Kusaka suddenly spotted a light in the sky, thought it might be an unknown aircraft. It turned out to be a spark from the Kaga’s runnel. She got a stiff warning to be more careful.
One morning the report spread that a Soviet ship was cruising nearby, en route from San Francisco to Russia. Every ship went on alert, but nothing came of it. Nor was there any way of checking such reports — Nagumo would not allow any planes in the air for fear of disclosing the fleet’s presence.
Arguments rambled over what to do if they were spotted by a neutral ship. At least one member of Nagumo’s staff cheerfully advised, “Sink it and forget it.”
On December 2 this sort of bull session ended abruptly. The day before, the imperial council had decided on war, and now Admiral Yamamoto radioed the task force: “Climb Mount Niitaka.” It was code for “Proceed with the attack.”
Another message later that day confirmed the date: “X-Day will be 8 December” — which was, of course, Sunday, December 7, in Hawaii.
At last the men were mustered and told. On the Kaga, Seaman Shigeki Yokota, a 23-year-old farm boy, was frightened but philosophical. Down in the heat and noise of the Akagi’s engine room Commander Tanbo’s men drank a quiet toast of sake … somehow no one felt like more than one cup. But most of the crew howled banzais and shared Seaman Iki Kuramoti’s ecstasy: “An air attack on Hawaii! A dream come true!”
Next morning everyone seemed to take a new lease on life. The pilots were briefed on their specific assignments — the Army airfields at Hickam and Wheeler … Schofield Barracks … the naval air stations at Kaneohe and Ford Island … the Marine base at Ewa … the U.S. fleet. On the Akagi, Admiral Kusaka produced a beautiful plaster-of-Paris relief map of Pearl Harbor. Previously, he had kept it under lock and key in his stateroom, accessible only to a few top officers; now he had it installed on the hangar deck, where everybody could use it. On the Kaga the pilots played identification games. An air officer would hide silhouettes of the American ships behind his back. Then he would flash them one at a time for the fliers to name. Lieutenant Yoshio Shiga just never could get the Utah.
The fliers were now pampered by everybody — daily baths, special rations of fresh milk and eggs. Despite all the Shinto cult could do, these were promptly converted into American milkshakes.
On the flagship, Admiral Nagumo worried more than ever about being discovered. He was indeed in a ticklish spot. If sighted by the enemy at any time before December 6, he was to turn around and go home. If sighted on the 6th, he was to use his own judgment. Only on the 7th was he committed, no matter what happened.
In the radio room of the Hiei, Commander Kochi listened intently to detect any sign that the Americans were on to the game. The intercepts were very reassuring.
Soon a flow of messages began to arrive from home, so important that Kochi let his staff do the monitoring, and devoted his own attention entirely to Tokyo. Yamamoto was relaying the latest Honolulu intelligence on the U.S. fleet. On December 3 he radioed:
“November 28-0800 (Local Time) Pearl Harbor: 2 Battleships (Oklahoma, Nevada); 1 Aircraft carrier (Enterprise); 2 Class-A Cruisers; 12 Destroyers Depart. 5 Battleships; 3 Class-A Cruisers; 3 Class-B Cruisers; 12 Destroyers; 1 Seaplane Carrier Enter …”
The following day Nagumo refueled and crossed the international date line. This made no difference to the Japanese, who always kept their watches on Tokyo time, but to an American it explains why it is December 3 again.
By evening the fleet was 900 miles north of Midway… 1300 miles northwest of Oahu. Admiral Nagumo began veering southeast. On the Hiei, Commander Kochi caught another useful message relayed by Tokyo from Honolulu: “November 29 P.M. (Local Time) Vessels Anchored in Pearl Harbor: A-Zone (Between Navy Arsenal and Ford Island) KT (NW dock Navy Arsenal) Battleships, Pennsylvania, Arizona; FV (Mooring buoy) Battleships, California, Tennessee, Maryland, West Virginia. KS (Navy Arsenal Repair Dock) Class-A Cruiser Portland …”
More refueling on the 4th, and another morsel from Honolulu: “Unable to ascertain whether air alert has been issued. There are no indications of sea alert …”
On the 5th, part of the fleet refueled most of the day and night. Admiral Kusaka then ordered three of the tankers to withdraw and wait for him to return. It was one of those sentimental moments the Japanese love so well, and the crew kept waving their caps as the tankers slowly disappeared. Down below Commander Shimizu — the supply officer who was just along for the ride — wistfully listened to a Japanese program, Mrs. Hanako Muraoka’s “Children’s Hours.” It was now so faint that he finally gave up and twirled the dial until he caught some American music. It came in bright and lively.
At dawn on the 6th Kusaka refueled the rest of the task force, then once again the ships that had been refueled the day before. His idea was to have the tanks as full as possible for the day of the attack. By late morning the job was done, and the five remaining tankers also withdrew. More fond farewells.
Meanwhile Yamamoto had radioed a final, stirring call to arms: “The moment has arrived. The rise or fall of our empire is at stake …”
Everyone who could be spared assembled on deck, and on each ship the message was read to all hands. Speeches followed, and cheers split the air. Then up the Akagi’s mast ran the same “Z” flag flown by Admiral Heihachiro Togo at his great victory over the Russians in 1905. Down in the Akagi’s engine room Chief Engineer Tanbo couldn’t see it happen, but as he listened over the voice tube, his heart pounded and tears came to his eyes. He still regards it as his most dramatic single moment during the entire war.
It was hardly the moment for an earache. But as Group Leader Lieutenant Rokuro Kijuchi resumed briefing a group of pilots on the flight deck of the Hiryu, he felt a throbbing pain. He went to the ship’s doctor and got the bad news — he couldn’t go; he had mastoids.
The fleet was now some 640 miles due north of Oahu. With the slow tankers gone, it could make its final thrust southward. Shortly before noon Admiral Kusaka turned his ships and gave the order: “Twenty-four knots, full speed ahead!”
By 3:00 P.M. they had closed the gap to 500 miles. And in the radio room of the Hiei, Commander Kochi had a new message from Honolulu: as of 6:00 P.M., December 5, Pearl Harbor contained “8 battleships; 3 Class-B Cruisers; 16 Destroyers. Entering Harbor, 4 Class-B Cruisers (Honolulu Type); 5 Destroyers.”
At 4:55 P.M. the submarine I-72, already on the scene, sent some up-to-the-minute information: “American fleet is not in Lahaina waters.”
So they were either still at Pearl or had just left for sea. Nagumo’s staff hashed it over. Lieutenant Commander Ono, the admiral’s intelligence officer, pointed out that five of the battleships had been in port eight days; he was afraid they would be gone now. But Chief of Staff Kusaka, who was a bug on statistics, didn’t think they would leave on a weekend.
Commander Genda, the enterprising torpedo specialist, bemoaned the absence of carriers, but Ono comforted him that a couple of them might return at the last minute. Genda cheered up: “If that happened, I don’t care if all eight battleships are away.”
Late that evening another reassuring message from Honolulu: “No barrage balloons sighted. Battleships are without crinolines. No indications of an air or sea alert wired to nearby islands …”
The deceptive measures obviously were working. And Tokyo must have felt quite self-satisfied, for everything possible had been done. The authorities had even brought busloads of sailors from the Yokosuka Naval Barracks and paraded them conspicuously all over town on sight-seeing tours.
At 1:20 A.M. a last message was relayed by Tokyo from Honolulu:
“December 6 (Local Time) Vessels moored in Harbor: 9 Battleships; 3 Class-B Cruisers; 3 Seaplane Tenders; 17 Destroyers. Entering Harbor are 4 Class-B Cruisers; 3 Destroyers. All Aircraft Carriers and Heavy Cruisers have departed Harbor … No indication of any changes in U.S. Fleet or anything else unusual.”
More regrets that the carriers were gone. Some even wondered whether the raid should be called off. But Admiral Nagumo felt there was no turning back now. Eight battleships were bound to be in port, and it was time to stop worrying “about carriers that are not there.”
A last restless night of peace settled over the darkened ships as they pounded on toward Oahu, now less than 400 miles away. On the Kaga, Fighter Pilot Shiga took a tub bath, prepared a complete new change in clothing before retiring. Pilot Ippei Goto, who had just been promoted, laid out his new ensign’s uniform for the first time. On the Hiryu, Bomber Pilot Hashimoto put his things in order and tried to get some sleep. But he kept tossing in his bunk. Finally he got up, went to the ship’s doctor, and talked him out of some sleeping pills.
They must have worked, for when Commander Amagai, the Hiryu’s flight deck officer, dropped by a little later to see how his boys were getting on, they were all sound asleep.
He then went up to the hangar deck and carefully checked the wireless in each plane. To make doubly sure that nobody accidentally touched a set and gave away the show, he slipped small pieces of paper between each transmitter key and its point of contact.
On the Akagi, Lieutenant Commander Ono hunched over his radio and continued his all-night vigil, monitoring the Honolulu radio stations. Two … 2:30 … 3:00 A.M. passed; still there was just KGMB playing Hawaiian songs.
Some 360 miles to the south, Lieutenant Commander Mochitsura Hashimoto, special torpedo officer of the Japanese submarine I-24, sat listening to the same radio program. The I-24 was one of 28 large cruising subs that had been stationed off Oahu. They were to catch any U.S. warships lucky enough to escape to sea.
Also listening to the program in the I-24 was Ensign Kazuo Sakamaki, who had just turned 23 the day they left Japan. Sakamaki lived dreams of naval glory, but so far he was just a passenger. He was skipper of a two-man midget sub, which the I-24 carried papoose-style on her afterdeck.
There were five of these midgets altogether, each carried by a mother sub. The plan was to launch them shortly before the air attack. With luck they might sneak inside the harbor and bag a ship or two themselves.
The whole idea had an implausible touch that didn’t appeal to the superpractical Admiral Yamamoto. But it also had that touch of military suicide dear to the Japanese heart, and finally Commander Naoji Iwasa persuaded the high command to incorporate the midgets — by now called the “Special Naval Attack Unit” — into the overall plan. Then, since Iwasa had thought it up, he was put in charge.
At first Yamamoto set an important condition — the midgets couldn’t enter Pearl Harbor itself … they might give away the show before it began. But Commander Iwasa insisted that they could sneak in undetected, and finally Yamamoto relented on this point too.
Commander Iwasa quickly whipped his project into shape. Five long-range cruising subs were stripped of their aircraft and catapults and fitted instead with the new secret midgets. Four big clamps and one auxiliary clamp held them in place. Each of the midgets was about 45 feet long, carried two torpedoes, ran on storage batteries, and required a two-man crew.
The crews — handpicked and trained for more than a year — gathered in the Naval Command’s private room at Kure Naval Base on the morning of November 16. There they learned that the great day was at hand, that they would sail on the 18th for Hawaii.
The following night Ensign Sakamaki took a last stroll through Kure with his classmate and fellow skipper, Ensign Akira Hirowo. At a novelty shop they each bought a small bottle of perfume. In the best tradition of the old Japanese warriors, they planned to put it on before going to battle. Then they could die gloriously — as Sakamaki explained, “like cherry blossoms falling to the ground.”
Next morning they were off. Straight across the Pacific they sailed, cruising about 20 miles apart. Usually they ran submerged by day, on the surface at night. During these evening runs Sakamaki and his crewman, Seaman Kyoji Inagaki, would climb all over the midget, making sure that everything was all right. In his enthusiasm, Sakamaki was twice washed overboard. Fortunately he had remembered to tie himself to the big sub with a rope; so each time he was hauled in, dripping but full of pep, ready to go back to work.
On December 6 they sighted Oahu. After nightfall they surfaced and eased closer to shore. Finally they lay to in the moonlight, about ten miles off Pearl Harbor. From the conning tower Commander Hashimoto studied with interest the red and green lights off the port … the glow of Honolulu itself … the illuminated twin towers of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel … and all the way to his right the Elks Club that glittered and twinkled at the foot of Diamond Head.
So at last they were there. Sakamaki and Inagaki ran through the million details that needed last minute checking. Suddenly they discovered the gyrocompass wasn’t working. This was important — without it they couldn’t navigate under water. Sakamaki corralled the I-24’s gyrocompass man, ordered Inagaki to help him on the repair job, and went below for a last nap.
About 12:30 A.M. he left his bunk and wandered up to the conning tower for a little fresh air. Oahu was darker now and seemed wrapped in haze. The stars were out, and the moon beat on a choppy, restless sea.
He went below and checked on the gyrocompass. Inagaki and the specialist were getting nowhere. Sakamaki’s heart sank and he wondered whether this was just bad luck or if he had somehow failed. In any case, he was determined to go on.
He packed his personal belongings and wrote a farewell note to his family. In it he thoughtfully included a lock of hair and one of his fingernail parings. He cleaned up and changed to his midget submarine uniform —a leather jacket and fundoshi, which was a sort of Japanese G-string. He sprinkled himself with the perfume he bought at Kure and put on a white hashamaki, the Japanese warrior’s traditional headband. Then he made the rounds of the sub, embracing the crew. By now it was well after 3:30 A.M., the time the midgets were meant to start for Pearl Harbor.