LIEUTENANT HARAUO TAKEDA, 30-year-old flight officer on the cruiser Tone, was a disappointed, worried man as the Japanese striking force hurtled southward, now less than 250 miles from Oahu.
He was disappointed because last-minute orders kept him from piloting the Tone’s seaplane, which was to take off at 5:30 A.M., joining the Chikuma’s plane in a final reconnaissance of the U.S. fleet. And he was worried because — as the man in charge of launching these planes — he feared that they would somehow collide while taking off. True, the two ships were some eight miles apart, but it was still pitch black. Besides, when the stakes are so high, a man almost looks for things to worry about.
Nothing went wrong. The planes shot safely from their catapults and winged off into the dark — two small harbingers of the great armada that would follow. Admiral Nagumo planned to hit Pearl Harbor with 353 planes in two mighty waves. The first was to go at 6:00 A.M. — 40 torpedo planes … 51 dive-bombers … 49 horizontal bombers … 43 fighters to provide cover. The second at 7:15 A.M. — 80 dive-bombers … 54 high-level bombers … 36 more fighters. This would still leave 39 planes to guard the task force in case the Americans struck back.
By now the men on the carriers were making their final preparations. The deck crews — up an hour before the pilots —checked the planes in their hangars, then brought them up to the flight decks. Motors sputtered and roared as the mechanics tuned up the engines. On the Hiryu, Commander Amagai carefully removed the pieces of paper he had slipped into each plane’s wireless transmitter to keep it from being set off by accident.
Down below, the pilots were pulling on their clean underwear and freshly pressed uniforms. Several wore the traditional hashamaki headbands. Little groups gathered around the portable Shinto shrines that were standard equipment on every Japanese warship. There they drank jiggers of sake and prayed for their success.
Assembling for breakfast, they found a special treat. Instead of the usual salted pike-mackerel and rice mixed with barley, today they ate sekihan. This Japanese dish of rice boiled with tiny red beans was reserved for only the most ceremonial occasions. Next, they picked up some simple rations for the trip — a sort of box lunch that included the usual rice balls and pickled plums, emergency rations of chocolate, hardtack, and special pills to keep them alert.
Now to the flight operations rooms for final briefing. On the Akagi Commander Mitsuo Fuchida, leader of the attacking planes, sought out Admiral Nagumo: “I am ready for the mission.”
“I have every confidence in you,” the admiral answered, grasping Fuchida’s hand.
On every carrier the scene was the same: the dimly lit briefing room; the pilots crowding in and spilling out into the corridor; the blackboard revised to show ship positions at Pearl Harbor as of 10:30 A.M., December 6. Time for one last look at the enemy lineup; one last rundown on the charts and maps. Then the latest data on wind direction and velocity, some up-to-the-minute calculations on distance and flying time to Hawaii and back. Next a stern edict: no one except Commander Fuchida was to touch his radio until the attack began. Finally, brief pep talks by the flight officers, the skippers, and, on the Akagi, by Admiral Nagumo himself.
A bright dawn swept the sky as the men emerged, some wearing small briefing boards slung around their necks. One by one they climbed to the cockpits, waving good-bye — 27-year-old Ippei Goto of the Kaga, in his brand-new ensign’s uniform … quiet Fusata Iida of the Soryu, who was so crazy about baseball … artistic Mimori Suzuki of the Akagi, whose Caucasian looks invited rough teasing about his “mixed blood.” When it was Lieutenant Haita Matsumura’s turn, he suddenly whipped off the gauze mask which had marked him as such a hypochondriac. All along, he had been secretly growing a beautiful mustache.
Commander Fuchida headed for the flight leader’s plane, designated by a red and yellow stripe around the tail. As he swung aboard, the crew chief handed him a special hashamaki headband: “This is a present from the maintenance crews. May I ask that you take it along to Pearl Harbor?”
In the Agaki’s engine room, Commander Tanbo got permission and rushed topside for the great moment — the only time he left his post during the entire voyage. Along the flight decks the men gathered, shouting good luck and waving good-bye. Lieutenant Ebina, the Shokaku’s junior surgeon, trembled with excitement as he watched the motors race faster and the blue exhaust smoke pour out.
All eyes turned to the Akagi, which would give the signal. She flew a set of flags at half-mast, which meant to get ready. When they were hoisted to the top and swiftly lowered, the planes would go.
Slowly the six carriers swung into the wind. It was from the east, and perfect for take-off. But the southern seas were running high, and the carriers dipped 15 degrees, sending high waves crashing against the bow. Too rough for really safe launching, Admiral Kusaka thought, but there was no other choice now. The Pearl Harbor Striking Force was poised 230 miles north and slightly east of Oahu. The time was 6:00 A.M.
Up fluttered the signal flags, then down again. One by one the fighters roared down the flight decks, drowning the cheers and yells that erupted everywhere. Commander Hoichiro Tsukamoto forgot his worries as navigation officer of the Shokaku, decided this was the greatest moment of his life. The ship’s doctors, Captain Endo and Lieutenant Ebina, abandoned their professional dignity and wildly waved the fliers on. Engineer Tanbo shouted like a schoolboy, then rushed back to the Akagi’s engine room to tell everybody else.
Now the torpedo planes and dive-bombers thundered off, while the fighters circled above, giving protection. Plane after plane rose, flashing in the early-morning sun that peeked over the horizon. Soon all 183 were in the air, circling and wheeling into formation. Seaman Iki Kuramoti watched, on the verge of tears. Quietly he put his hands together and prayed.
For Admiral Kusaka it had been a terrible strain, getting the planes off in these high seas. Now they were on their way, and the sudden relief was simply too much. He trembled like a leaf — just couldn’t control himself. And he was embarrassed, too, because he prided himself on his grasp of Buddhism, bushido, and kendo (a form of Japanese fencing) — all of which were meant to fortify a man against exactly this sort of thing. Finally he sat on the deck — or he thinks possibly in a chair — and meditated Buddha-fashion. Slowly he pulled himself together again as the planes winged off to the south.
At the main target of this onslaught, the only sign of life was a middle-aged housewife driving her husband to work. Mrs. William Blackmore headed through the main Pearl Harbor gate … past the Marine sentry, who checked her windshield sticker … and headed down to the harbor craft pier. Mr. Blackmore — 16 years in the Navy and presently chief engineer of the tug Keosanqua — was to get under way at 6:00 A.M. to meet the supply ship Antares and take over a steel barge she was towing up from Palmyra.
As Mrs. Blackmore dropped her husband, the first gray light of morning gave the rows of silent warships an eerie, ghostly look. “This,” she observed, “is the quietest place I’ve ever seen.”
“You’d be surprised what goes on around here,” Blackmore replied cheerfully, and he jumped aboard the tug for another day’s work.
The Keosanqua moved down the harbor, through the long narrow entrance channel, and past the open torpedo net, which was kept open still longer for whenever the rug should return. It was now 6:30 A.M. and the Antares was already in sight, towing the barge about a hundred yards behind her. The Ward hovered about a mile away, and a Navy PBY circled above, apparently looking at something.
Seaman H. E. Raenbig, the Ward’s helmsman, was looking at something too. As the Antares came up from the southwest and crossed the Ward’s bow to port, he suddenly noticed a curious black object that seemed to be fastened to the towline between the Antares and her barge. They were about a mile away, and so he asked Quartermaster H. F. Gearin to use his glasses for a closer look.
Gearin immediately saw that the black object was not hanging on the hawser but was merely in line with it. Actually, the object was in the water on the far side of the Antares. He showed it to Lieutenant Goepner, who said it looked like a buoy to him, but to keep an eye on it.
Gearin did, and about a minute later said he thought it was a small conning tower. It seemed to be converging on the Antares’ course, as though planning to fall in behind the barge. At this point the Navy patrol bomber began circling overhead. Goepner needed no further convincing.
“Captain, come on the bridge!” he shouted. Outerbridge jumped from his cot in the chartroom, pulled on a Japanese kimono, and joined the others. He took one look and sounded general quarters. It was just 6:40 A.M.
Seaman Sidney Noble stumbled out of his bunk in the forecastle for the second time in three hours — so sleepy he could hardly wipe the sand from his eyes. He pulled on dungarees, shoes but no socks, and a blue shirt, which he didn’t bother to button. Then he joined the other men racing up the ladder to their battle stations.
Gunner’s Mate Louis Gerner stayed below long enough to slam and dog the hatch leading to the anchor engine room, then dashed after the rest. As he ran aft toward his station in the after well deck, Outerbridge leaned over the bridge railing and frantically waved him away from Number 1 gun, which was now swinging out, trained on the conning tower ahead.
Along the afterdeck Ensign D. B. Haynie ran past Number 2, 3, and 4 guns, shouting to the men to break out the ammunition. He might have spared himself the trouble at Number 3. Seaman Ambrose Domagall, the first loader, had been on duty as bridge messenger. As soon as general quarters sounded, he went directly to the gun, yanked open the ready rack, and was waiting with a three-inch shell in his arms when the rest of the crew rushed up.
Outerbridge had signaled “All engines ahead full,” and the old Ward was now surging forward — bounding from five to ten to 25 knots in five minutes.
“Come left,” he called to Helmsman Raenbig, and the 1918 hull wheezed with the strain as she heeled hard to port. Outerbridge headed her straight for the gap between the barge and the conning tower, now some 400 yards off the Ward’s starboard bow.
At this point the Antares caught on —her blinker flashed the news that she thought she was being followed. Up above, the PBY dropped two smoke pots to mark the sub’s position.
To Ensign William Tanner, pilot of the PBY, this was simply the act of a good Samaritan. He had been on the regular morning patrol when he first spotted the submarine. It was well out of the designated area for friendly subs. His immediate reaction — “My God, a sub in distress!”
Then he saw the Ward steaming in that direction. Quickly he swooped down and dropped his two smoke bombs. They would help the Ward come to the rescue. From his position this was the best he could do for the sub.
The Ward didn’t need any markers —the submarine was just to starboard, pointing straight at the ship. It was running awash, with the conning tower about two feet out of water. In the choppy sea the men caught brief glimpses of a small cigar-shaped hull. They were utterly fascinated. Chief Commissary Steward H. A. Minter noticed that it was painted a dingy green. Quartermaster Gearin saw a layer of small barnacles … Helmsman Raenbig noticed moss on the conning tower … most of the men thought it looked rather rusty. Everyone agreed there were no markings on the squat, oval conning tower.
Curiously enough, the sub didn’t seem to see the Ward at all. It just kept moving ahead, trailing the Antares at about eight or nine knots.
“Commence firing,” Outerbridge ordered. They were now only 100 yards away and Boatswain’s Mate A. Art, captain of Number 1 gun, knew they were much too close to use his sights. So he aimed the gun like a squirrel rifle and let her go. It was exactly 6:45 A.M. when this first shot whistled over the conning tower and plunged into the sea beyond.
They were better squirrel hunters at Number 3 gun on the galley house roof. Gun Captain Russell Knapp gave his order to fire about 30 seconds later, with the target less than 50 yards away. The shell hit the base of the conning tower, just where it touched the water. The sub staggered but came on.
Now it was right alongside, sucked almost against the ship. For an instant it seemed to hang there — long enough to give Gunner’s Mate Louis Gerner an indelible picture of the glass in its stubby periscope — and then it was behind them, writhing and spinning in the Ward’s wake.
Four quick whistle blasts told Chief Torpedoman W. C. Maskzawilz to release his depth charges. One … two … three … four rolled off the stern. Huge geysers erupted and the sub was instantly swallowed in a mountain of foam. Maskzawilz, who set the pistols at 100 feet, noted with satisfaction that the sub “seemed to wade right into the first one.”
Up in the PBY Ensign Tanner was doing some soul-searching. Helping the sub might be the decent thing to do, but his orders were very strict —“Depth bomb and sink any submarines found in the defensive sea area without authority.” Now he looked down, the Ward was doing just that. A pang of hesitation, and Tanner made another run. This time he dropped some depth bombs of his own.
All these fireworks were watched with mild interest by the men on the tug Keosanqua. She loafed about two miles away, just off the harbor mouth, still waiting to pick up the Antares’ barge. Like everybody else on board, Engineer Blackmore thought it was merely some early-morning practice.
On the Ward, Lieutenant Goepner had a far more harrowing thought. He had the awful feeling that it might be an American sub. Of course, it shouldn’t have been there and, of course, it didn’t look like anything he had ever seen before; but could there have been a mistake?
In the PBY, Ensign Tanner had the same feeling. He and his copilot, Ensign Clark Greevey, assured each other that orders were orders. But if Tanner’s judgment was wrong, a lot of good that would do. He could see the court-martial now. And he could see himself labeled for the rest of his life as the man who sank the American sub. In a wave of youthful self-pity he began picturing himself trying to get any job anywhere. As the plane resumed its patrol, he grimly reported the sinking to the Kaneohe Naval Air Station and settled back to await the inevitable end of his career.
Only Outerbridge seemed absolutely confident. In fact, he decided that the report radioed at 6:51 A.M. wasn’t strong enough. It ran: “Depth-bombed sub operating in defensive sea area.” This might imply just a periscope sighting or a sonar contact. Throughout the years there had been too many spars and whales bombed for headquarters to get overly excited about a message like that. But the Ward had seen the sub itself, and that was the all-important point to put over. It was the one hope of stirring up some action, instead of the standard “verify and repeat.”
So Outerbridge quickly drafted another message. At 6:53 he again radioed the Fourteenth Naval District Headquarters. This time the report ran: “Attacked, fired on, depth-bombed, and sunk, submarine operating in defensive sea area.” He felt that “fired on” was the key phrase. Now they would know he used his guns. Now they would know that he at least saw something.
Even Outerbridge didn’t go all the way. He might have reported this extraordinary encounter in the clear instead of in code, and thus saved a few minutes. He might have used his blinker to signal the harbor control tower. He might have sent the more jolting message that was drafted but ended up crumpled in his file — it began with the words: “Sighted conning tower of strange sub, fired two rounds at point-blank range …” But at least he did something. At least he was willing, when other men were hypnotized by peace, to announce that he had blasted the daylights out of someone.
Whoever it was, it wasn’t Ensign Sakamaki. At 6:30 he and Inagaki were still trying to correct their boat’s trim. It was no easy job. Only one man at a time could wriggle on his stomach along the cramped tunnel that led fore and aft from the control room. They took turns slithering back and forth … shifting lead ballast, twisting the dials that released the air and filled the tanks with water. It took an hour to get the sub back on an even keel.
At last they started off again and even found time for a spot of lunch. They sat facing each other in the tiny control room, munching rice balls and exchanging cups of grape wine. As they finished, they grasped each other’s hands and again pledged success.
Ten minutes later Sakamaki, peeking through the periscope, was appalled to see that they were approximately 90 degrees off course. With the gyrocompass out of order, he was depending on an auxiliary compass, which he thought would at least show the right directions. Apparently it was out of order too.
He tried to reset his course with his periscope, but it wasn’t much help. Blindly the sub moved this way and that, always seeming to end up in the wrong direction. His hands grew wet with sweat. It was now about 7:00 A.M., and Ensign Kazuo Sakamaki was still a long way from the mouth of Pearl Harbor.