He wondered if yet another set of U.S. aircraft would hit Honolulu just before dawn. None did, but a nervous gunner not far from the barracks opened up on something apparently imaginary. The gunfire didn’t wake Shimizu. Shards of steel crashing down on the roof did. He went to sleep again after that, too, which proved he was made of stern-and very tired-stuff.
Getting up at dawn did nothing to improve his mood. The tea he gulped with his breakfast of rice and pickled plums didn’t do nearly enough to pry his eyelids apart. He couldn’t get more, either. It came from the home islands, which meant it was in short supply. That he could have any at all meant a freighter must have made it in not long before. Only officers got all they wanted.
Some officers shared the precious stuff with their men, using it as a reward for duty well performed. Unfortunately, neither Shimizu’s platoon leader nor company commander seemed to have thought of that. It was going to be a sleepy, stupid day.
His squad dragged, too. Even Shiro Wakuzawa, who ordinarily was perky as you please, dragged and slumped. He said, “If the Americans do that every night, they’ll drive us crazy.”
“They can’t do it every night.” As usual, Senior Private Furusawa sounded surer of himself than his rank gave him any right to be.
“Why not?” Shimizu said, and yawned. “They’ve been doing it more and more lately.”
Furusawa yawned, too, but politely turned his head away from his superior before he did. “But they need submarines to refuel their flying boats,” he said. “They don’t have planes that can make a round trip from their mainland to Hawaii. Even ours have trouble, and they’re better.”
“How did you hear all that?” Shimizu demanded.
“I listen a lot. I keep my head down. I keep my ears open. People who know things like to blab.”
“I suppose so.” Shimizu wasn’t sure he would understand things even if he heard them. He was just a farmer’s son. Furusawa, a city man, had the education to make sense of what came his way.
So why are you commanding him and not the other way around? Shimizu wondered. But that had an answer he understood. Experience and toughness mattered more in rank than education did.
Still, education-or maybe just raw brains-also came in handy. For three or four nights, American flying boats stayed away. But then they returned, little wave after little wave, disrupting the lives of the Japanese stationed in and around Honolulu. Shimizu really started to hate them then. He had a certain amount of trouble not hating Senior Private Furusawa, too.
COMMANDER MINORU GENDA STEPPED UP OVER THE STEEL doorsill and into the cabin that belonged to Akagi’s skipper. Saluting, he said, “Reporting as ordered, sir,” and then, “Congratulations on your promotion.”
Rear Admiral Tomeo Kaku bowed in his chair. “Thank you very much,” he said, even his hard features unable to hide his pleasure. “Why don’t you shut the door and then sit down? I have news you need to know.”
Asking Genda to close the cabin off from the corridor meant it was secret news. Excitement and curiosity building in him, he obeyed. He wanted to sit on the edge of the seat, but deliberately sat back, making himself seem relaxed even-especially-if he wasn’t. Keeping his voice as casual as he could, he asked, “What’s up, sir?”
“Zuikaku is finally on her way back to these waters,” Kaku answered, sounding pleased with himself and with the world. “The decoded message came to me not ten minutes ago. You’re the first to know.”
“Domo arigato.” Genda bowed more deeply than his superior had. “I’m very glad to hear it. About time, too, if you don’t mind my saying so. They took longer repairing her than they should have.”
“I agree,” Admiral Kaku said. “I’ve growled and fussed and fumed more times than I can tell you, and it’s done me no good at all. Shigata ga nai.” Genda nodded at that-some things couldn’t be helped. Kaku continued, “But she’s on her way at last, and she’ll be here in a couple of weeks. I’d hoped they would send us Taiho, too, but they say she’ll be shaking down for months yet.” With a shrug, he repeated, “Shigata ga nai.”
“Too bad, sir. We could use her.” Genda sighed. Everything he’d heard about Taiho said how much they could use her here. Among other improvements, she boasted an armored flight deck-a first for a Japanese carrier-that was supposed to protect her vitals from a 450kg bomb. Genda added, “We could use any more carriers they want to send us, big or small. The Americans are definitely getting friskier.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kaku said, deadpan. He was so perfectly deadpan, in fact, that Genda started to believe him. Then Akagi’s skipper yawned a yawn that threatened to split his face in two. The Americans’ nuisance raids were more than a nuisance for him. The carrier anchored at different places in Pearl Harbor every night, to give the U.S. flying boats a harder time finding and hitting her. So far, it had worked; she’d taken only incidental damage from near misses. But Admiral Kaku had to be up on the bridge whenever she was threatened. He wasn’t a young man; that lack of sleep must take a toll on him.
“It’s not just here, either,” Genda said. “They’re starting to attack our picket boats every chance they get.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, too.” Now Kaku sounded serious, and not at all happy. “They think they can clear them out and give themselves a better chance for surprise.”
“That’s how it looks to me, sir.” Genda also thought the Americans might be right. Japan sent out new sampans when old ones were lost, but there were always delays and foulups. The Americans might be able to build a lane through which they could get ships close to Hawaii undetected.
“I’ve talked with Commander Fuchida. He’s talked with the people who handle our H8Ks,” Admiral Kaku said. “We will have flying-boat patrols to cover the area no matter what. We won’t get caught napping.”
“That’s good, sir,” Genda agreed. “And the more radar sets we can get our hands on, the better. They can see farther than the naked eye can.”
“I suppose so. All these gadgets,” Kaku said fretfully. “It wasn’t like this when my career started out, let me tell you. In those days, you really had to be able to see the enemy to hit him. None of this business of sending airplanes over the horizon to drop bombs on his head.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve heard Admiral Yamamoto say the same thing.” Genda hoped that would keep his superior happy. The difference was that Kaku sounded nostalgic for days gone by, while Isoroku Yamamoto always lived in the present-when he wasn’t looking into the future. Of course, there was only one Yamamoto, which was why he commanded the Combined Fleet. Men like Kaku were absolutely necessary, but were also easier to come by.
“Admiral Yamamoto,” Akagi’s skipper echoed musingly. “If it weren’t for Admiral Yamamoto, we wouldn’t be where we are now.” That was true. Of course, it was also true that the Japanese wouldn’t have been where they were if not for Genda himself. He was the one who’d persuaded Yamamoto to follow the air strike against Oahu with an invasion. Rear Admiral Kaku seemed unlikely to be in a position to know that. He went on, “I wonder if we would be better off if we hadn’t landed. We wouldn’t be stuck at the end of such a long supply line, anyhow.”
“Hai,” Genda said, and let it go at that. As soon as he could, he excused himself and went out onto the flight deck. He found he needed fresh air. Even now, the waters of Pearl Harbor stank of fuel oil spilled in the attack a year and a half earlier. Its rainbow gleam fouled patches of what should have been blue tropical sea.