“Does Colonel Omori speak English?” Yamamoto asked.
“Fluently. Even more important, he understands the need to pacify the three races that exist in Hawaii. The white Americans will be tightly controlled, while the native Hawaiians will be given every opportunity to support us. The Japanese in Hawaii will be expected to be loyal to us from the first moment.”
When Yamamoto raised an eyebrow in a silent query, Tojo continued. “We acknowledge and respect that many Japanese in Hawaii have been away from pure Japanese culture for years, even generations, and that some of them might have to be reeducated. We are confident that, with Colonel Omori’s wise assistance, the overwhelming majority of the Japanese in Hawaii will see the wisdom of rediscovering the worth of being Japanese.”
The meeting ended. When Yamamoto had departed, Tojo yawned. He was tired and under a great deal of strain. Yamamoto was a brave and wise man, and one he greatly respected. Tojo, of course, had his own spies in the navy’s camp and was well aware of the continuing plans for a landing on Molokai. If it succeeded, then more glory would come to Japan and the government headed by Hideki Tojo.
If it failed, then it was on Yamamoto’s head, and it would be Yamamoto, along with the rest of the naval coterie, who would lose face.
Tojo chuckled. There were those who thought the lack of cooperation between the army and navy a deplorable state of affairs. But that was not true. Divide and conquer was a fundamental rule of war, whether the enemies were foreign or domestic.
Tojo was confident the attacks on Hawaii would succeed. Along with Yamamoto and others, he shared concern over what the future might bring to Japan. In a brief while, the Philippines would fall, and they would be followed by the myriad of islands of the southern Pacific. Australia might be intimidated and coerced into a surrender, or at least a peace treaty that would be most favorable to Japan. The future of Japan was bright.
The stink of the Philippine jungle was almost as bad as the stench of defeat. The crew of the submarine Monkfish thought they could smell both jungle rot and defeat as she cruised slowly eastward from the doomed Philippines. They were incorrect, of course; the fetid land smell was overwhelmed by the combined odors of diesel, sweat, and urine as the cramped sub progressed underwater. The odor of defeat, however, was pervasive.
Only a few weeks earlier, the naval base near Manila had been home to more than a score of American submarines. It had been the largest concentration of submarines anywhere, and it had been presumed that the subs, along with General MacArthur’s American-Philippine army, would be able to take on anything the Japs had thrown at them.
It hadn’t worked out that way.
First, the American army’s air arm in the Philippines had been wiped out a few hours after the attack on Pearl Harbor, despite having had warning of the attacks on Pearl several hours earlier. For reasons that might forever be unknown, the news had paralyzed the American command, and they did nothing. Thus, when the Japanese planes finally did attack, they found a situation much like that at Pearl. The vast majority of American planes had been destroyed on the ground, where the Jap fighters had found them parked in neat rows.
This total aerial superiority enabled the Japanese to attack other American army and naval facilities with impunity. It also meant that the numerous subsequent Japanese landings on the Philippines were largely unopposed.
Admiral Thomas C. Hart, the senior naval officer and commander of the United States Asiatic Fleet, had been appalled. The Japanese army quickly pushed the small American army and the larger, but poorly trained, Philippine army backward.
MacArthur’s defenses had proven to be without substance. Manila would fall shortly and the American presence on Luzon now mainly consisted of the peninsula of Bataan and the fortified island of Corregidor.
Earlier, Admiral Hart had evacuated all major surface ships from Philippine waters, and only the subs and their support craft had remained. Now, even they had departed, and it was conceded that the Philippines were doomed unless a relief force came from the United States. While some believed that an American fleet was always just over the horizon, the clearer thinkers realized that the islands were going to be conquered by the Japanese.
Commander Frank Griddle despised himself for being in the position of retreating and for being so relieved that he would not be in the Philippines when the Japs did march through. He thought of himself as a reasonably brave man, but he wanted no part of a Jap occupation and prison camp.
The Monkfish was an unfamiliar sub to Griddle. He commanded because her regular captain had been felled by some wretched Asian fever. The second in command, Lieutenant Willis Fargo, was inexperienced, and it was decided that Griddle would take the Monk, as she was known, out to sea and retreat to Pearl. Griddle had been on Hart’s staff and had previously commanded a sub. It was a logical choice.
This had not made him popular with his crew, who both had liked Jacobs and didn’t wish to leave the Philippines without striking back at the Japanese. To date, the Monk had accomplished absolutely nothing to that effect, and their failure was grating on the crew.
The Monkfish was a reasonably new boat. She had been completed in the latter half of 1939 and was one of the Sargo class of submarines. She displaced 1,425 tons and had a crew of sixty-two. For weapons, she had eight torpedo tubes, four each in the bow and in the stern, and a four-inch deck gun. A pair of 20 mm Oerlikon antiaircraft guns completed her armament.
Griddle squinted through the periscope and didn’t care for what he saw. Steaming insolently in front of him was a Kagero-class Japanese destroyer, one of the newest in their navy. She was traveling quickly through the water and in apparent ignorance of the existence of the Monk, which was gaining on her.
At first Griddle had been torn with indecision. His orders were to get to Pearl Harbor as quickly as possible, but how did one not attack an enemy warship? Besides, both he and his crew felt a compelling need to do something, anything, to strike back at the Japs. If he were to do nothing, he might also lose what little respect his crew had for him. Other forays had resulted in no attacks by the Monk, because no Japs had been sighted or because they’d been in shoal water, where a sub couldn’t go, or because the Jap ships had been too well protected. The Monk had not yet fired a shot in anger. Thus, they could not pass up an attack on a lone destroyer in deep water, and one where a converging course would put the destroyer in range within moments.
Yet another nagging possibility haunted Griddle and the crew. Was there something wrong with their torpedoes, or was it something else? No one knew, but one thing was certain-far too many torpedo attacks by other subs had been fruitless. Good, solid targets had been inexplicably missed, and often at great danger to the attacking subs.
While a few sinkings had been achieved, it was common knowledge that elite, well-trained crews with first-class subs were accomplishing far less than they should, and that left the torpedo as the reason for failure.
The torpedo in question was the brand-new Mark 14. That it could go more than two miles at forty-six knots was not an issue. What happened when it got to the target was. The Mark 14 was designed to focus on a target ship’s magnetic field, streak under the ship, and then explode, which, according to theory, would break the back of the target ship and sink it more efficiently than a normal, old-fashioned impact torpedo.