The torpedoes, shaped like miniature submarines and weighing eight tons each, had explosive warheads. They had a range of thirty miles and a top speed of twenty knots. They were not recoverable. Once a kaiten pilot squirmed through a narrow tunnel from the parent submarine into his torpedo and was cast off, there was no returning. Either he exploded against his target or he was blown up by the enemy before reaching it.
It took several hours to winch the kaitens onto the submarine’s deck, where they were shackled securely.
Late in the morning, the pilots for these craft came aboard and were greeted by Hashimoto. He was struck by the youthfulness of the kaiten crewmen; there was also an air of fanaticism about them that chilled him. He, too, believed in the emperor and the traditional concept of dying. But these youths were intoxicated with their patriotism; they told him proudly how they had literally fought for the privilege of making this kaiten mission, and how they longed for death. Kaiten means “the turn toward Heaven.”
As the moment of departure approached, the pilots sat astride their craft, white towels wrapped around their heads and brandishing their ceremonial swords. To Hashimoto, it seemed they were “trying hard to be strong men.”
Fenders and berthing wires were detached from the submarine’s long, narrow casing. Water on the starboard quarter began to boil. Foam surged around the boat as the ballast tanks were blown to full buoyancy. The freeboard began to increase.
Farewell shouts came from the groups of dockyard workers on the wharf. The pilots raised their swords higher.
Hashimoto watched approvingly as the last ropes were released by the shore crew and hauled in by the seamen on the deck. Weeks of hard practice had paid off; the men moved today with dexterity and skill.
The electric motors silently drew the submarine from the shore, her bow now pointing away from Hiroshima toward the sea. A flotilla of motorboats accompanied the submarine, their occupants chanting in unison the names of the pilots. The submarine increased speed, the escorts fell away, the chanting faded. The boat trembled as the diesel motors started their rhythmic pounding.
In his log, Hashimoto noted on December 29: “Passed through Bungo Channel and turned south, proceeding on surface. Through evening haze took farewell look at the homeland.”
Two and a half weeks later, the cry rang out: “Smoke on the port beam!”
The lookout’s shout brought the men on the conning-tower bridge scrambling down the ladder into the control room.
“Dive! Dive! Dive!”
Moments after Commander Hashimoto’s order, the submarine was sealed, the main vents opened, and the needle of the depth gauge turned steadily as the boat’s bow tilted toward the seabed.
Regularly, ever since reaching the area of the Marianas two weeks earlier, Hashimoto had been dodging antisubmarine aircraft patrols flying from Guam. Now, two hundred feet below the waves, undisturbed by the Pacific swell, he and his crew listened for the throb of ships’ propellers.
Somewhere above them, approaching, were two enemy ships, probably destroyers.
Hashimoto wondered whether their presence was connected with the daring attack he had launched three days ago. Then, under cover of darkness, he had surfaced eleven miles off Guam and fired four of his human torpedoes against the mass of shipping in Apra Harbor.
It was I.58’s first strike and Hashimoto’s first use of kaitens. Just before entering his suicide craft, one of the kaiten pilots had pressed into the captain’s hands a farewell note Hashimoto would treasure all his life.
Great Japan is the Land of the Gods. The Land of the Gods is eternal and cannot be destroyed. Hereafter, no matter, there will be thousands and tens of thousands of boys, and we now offer ourselves as a sacrifice for our country. Let us get away from the petty affairs of this earthly and mundane life to the land where righteousness reigns supreme and eternal.
With the four human torpedoes launched, Hashimoto had submerged to periscope depth. As daylight came, he saw great clouds of smoke rising from the harbor. He stole away to safer waters. Later, he had led the crew in prayer for the souls of the four warriors.
Now, the presence of the subchasers above them reminded the crew that they, too, could be swiftly dispatched to join their dead companions.
Hashimoto ordered the submarine rigged for silent running so that nothing could give away their presence. Orders were relayed in sign language or in whispers; nobody moved unnecessarily. All equipment not essential to survival underwater was switched off.
The crew strained their ears for the sound of propellers. It came closer: constant, on course, the high-pitched note of steel blades turning steadily through water. The ships were moving slowly, and it sounded as if each blade was striking the water separately. The screws passed overhead and began to fade.
A look of relief crossed the faces of the men around Hashimoto.
He shook his head, warning.
The sound increased again. Hashimoto drew a circle with his finger in the air: the ships were circling. He guessed that the hunters were hoping their echo sounders could get a fix and give cross bearings. It would be easy then to calculate the settings for their depth charges.
The propeller noise grew fainter, almost disappeared, then returned as a new circle began.
Somebody scuffed the deck plates with his boots. Hashimoto glared fiercely.
The propellers passed overhead, faded—and this time did not return. The ships had either given up the search or extended it elsewhere.
For two more hours, the submarine remained silent in its position. Then Hashimoto ordered it to resume course for Kure.
There it would arrive safely on January 20, having passed on the way other kaiten-carrying submarines heading for the waters around Guam.
20
Tibbets knew he was facing a clear choice. He could either have Lewis court-martialed—or hope the pilot had learned a lasting lesson. Even now, days later, the details of Lewis’s adventure made Tibbets shudder.
On December 17, the day Tibbets had solved Ferebee’s problem with the bombsight, Lewis had “illegally borrowed” a C-45 twin-engine transport plane. With no copilot or proper maps, and a faulty radio, he had set off on a twenty-five-hundred-mile flight to New York because he “wanted to be home for Christmas.” His traveling companion was the 509th’s senior flight engineer, hitching a ride to his wedding. Over Columbus, Ohio, the plane’s radio, altimeter, and compass had all failed within minutes of each other. Lewis had nosed the transport groundward, “trying to navigate by street lights.” A blizzard had blocked out that hope. For two hours in zero visibility, Lewis had searched for Newark Airport, New Jersey. He had eventually landed there with practically no fuel left in his tank.
Christmas over, Lewis had met the new bride and groom at Newark. He had lent the girl his flying jacket and cap as a disguise and ignored the regulations forbidding civilians to fly in military aircraft. Over Buffalo, another snowstorm had forced Lewis to land. Finally, on December 29, he and the newly married couple had landed at Wendover.
Tibbets was staggered that Lewis did not realize he “had broken every rule in the book.” The nearest Lewis came to contrition was a sheepish “Gee, I wouldn’t want to do that flight again!”
Eight days later, the time had come for Tibbets to make a decision about Lewis. He had taken soundings from a number of sources. The consensus was that Lewis was “a goddam fool, but also a goddam fine pilot.”