“This report is from a German in their Condor Legion in the Spanish Civil War, he was one of the leaders of the devastating air attacks in July ’37 in the Battle of Brunete; it was the German air support that won that battle, and much of that war. Anyway, please turn to page five, starting at the second paragraph.” Hopkins read aloud,
From the hotel to the factory by car I was driven. At the main gate the manager and five of his senior staff greeted me. The main gate and the factory itself were both modest and spotlessly clean. Two small green shrubs in earthenware tubs were the only decoration and two ladies had just finished the daily trimming, these ladies proudly stood beside their wards. The manager and the five staff all wore the same dark blue uniforms which I take as the color of the factory. The translator explained how the factory was honored to meet an ace who had flown the famous Messerschmitt 109 so successfully in battle. I was surprised to learn how much they knew; during the tour, the armorer specialist offhandedly remarked on my change of the ratio of my cartridges from 30/70 to 50/50, armor to incendiary. This really shocked me as I had forgotten this change myself.
The factory itself was extremely well lit. But what first struck me was the complete absence of wood—back in Germany all our factories, including aircraft factories make extensive use of wood for shelving, and even for support and construction jigs for wing assemblies, and so on. In this Yokohama factory there was no wood to be seen. One of the senior managers—a Mr. Horikoshi—explained that wood was not used so all workers would come to see light alloy as their natural wood. I walked over to one of the shelves holding cylinder heads and was shocked to see that even the light alloy shelves had been carefully painted with a clear shellac lacquer.
The factory was divided into four sub-factories: two lines for ‘plane assembly; one—the largest—for engine building and testing; and one for radio and navigation.
“Galland-san, we have studied Fordism and have, we like to think, in our own little ways, improved it. Mr. Ford is a great man and he is our inspiration,” the manager told me. I was shocked how the workers were so efficient. As we passed each of the 22 stations on the line, the workers would pause, and all bow together to me. I must say, I felt like a feted virgin.
As a pilot, the construction of these ‘planes—called the ‘Zero’—was of greatest interest to me. The wing construction was of particular interest. When I examined the wings assemblies being fabricated, I was shocked to see the extremely lightweight nature of the wings and I frowned. Mr. Horikoshi seemed to read my mind and he explained that his company had initially withdrawn from the competition for the Imperial Navy’s new fighter, but by working with Sumitomo, Mitsubishi was able to use a special new alloy called Extra Super Duralumin. Even as a lay person and not as metallurgist, it is clear to me that the Japanese are clearly well ahead of us in metallurgy. And there were even more startling revelations to come.
Eventually, we came to the final of the four sub-factories where the radio and navigation equipment was assembled and tested. In the navigation assembly area we passed through three separate air-tight doors and I had to remove my shoes and put on cotton slippers, and a cotton cap like a lady’s shower bath cap. If the rest of the factory was clean, this assembly area was like nothing I had ever seen—the air was specially manufactured with the humidity and temperature both strictly controlled.
At one of the light-alloy benches, Mr. Horikoshi passed me a pivot pin used in the compass of the ‘plane. It was an ordinary looking pin, one millimeter in diameter and about 40 millimeters in length. I examined it and passed it back to Mr. Horikoshi who smiled enigmatically. He took the pin and clamped it to a small clamp under a huge lense. Beneath the clamp was a small electric light. After a moment or two of adjusting the clamp’s vernier screws, Mr. Horikoshi invited me to look. “Shit,” is all I said. All the Japanese laughed.
Under the magnification of the huge lense, I was able to see that there was a tiny hole that had been drilled the entire length of the pivot pin. The shock on my face was genuine, and I started to splutter, not making any sense. A few seconds later, I regained my composure.
“This is the most astonishing engineering feat I have even seen; how is this done?”
Proud of the praise, Mr. Horikoshi was happy to explain,
“These critical pins are made at three special factories in northern Kanto. The locations of these factories were selected based on the quietness of the ground there. As you know, Japan is on edge of the Pacific Rim and is thus prone to earthquakes, but most of the time the ground in northern Kanto is very stable. Our engineers conducted micro-seismic studies and surveys for six years before building the three factories. The hole you see is able to take a strand of a young girl’s hair, but it is a very tight fit.”
I simply shook my head.
“Galland-san, we have a demonstration I think you will find entertaining.”
After this, I doubted I would be surprised, but I was wrong.
We walked to the engine test area.
In the middle of the floor were two blocks of ice, each about twice the size of the ice block used in domestic iceboxes in homes in Germany. Each block, waist high, sat on a cotton mat about five centimeters thick, and these mats in turn sat on light-alloy stands with four splayed legs. On a large table lay two swords, one was a sword from the Middle Ages. I recognized it immediately from my school boy outings to museums in Germany as a Great Sword, a massive two-handed affair about one and half meters long and weighing at least eight kilograms. In contrast, the other was modest: about half the length, slightly curved, and beautifully decorated with intricate engravings running the entire length. One could easily be forgiven for thinking it a work of art, rather than a weapon. Mr. Horikoshi explained this was a traditional Samurai sword.
Standing beside the table was one of the workers from the factory, a slight chap who was almost a head shorter than me. Beside him stood the largest Japanese man I have ever seen, not fat, but all muscle. It was explained to me he was the current All Japan National Amateur Wrestling Champion and I had no reason to doubt it. Apparently, he worked in the factory and he towered over his companion.
Mr. Horikoshi asked me to take the huge sword and to cut a block of ice in two. Obviously I was extremely hesitant to do this, but, of course, I could not decline after all the wonderful hospitality afforded me. So, somewhat hesitantly, I lifted the monster with both hands, and it was even heavier than it looked. I staggered a little and the two Japanese men had wisely moved well away. Mr. Horikoshi advised me to swing it in increasingly vertical circles, making the motion himself of what to do. With difficulty I was able to swing the sword, and after six rather unstable swings was finally able to bring the sword crashing down on the block of ice. I felt a terrible pain as the shock ran up my arms. A few chips of ice flew from the ice block. Then Mr. Horikoshi instructed the wrestler to take the sword from my hands. Free from this burden I examined the block of ice—it was essentially undamaged. The wrestler’s swinging of the Great Sword made mine look puerile. After seven or eight swings the sword came down on the ice block. The entire table shook. I was pleased to see that his efforts were just as ineffectual as my own. The wrestler bowed and replaced the monster sword on the table. The pain in his arms must have been extra-ordinary but he did not grimace at all.