In the ward room of his flagship Nagato, Japanese Marshal Admiral and commander-in-chief of the Combined Fleet, Isoroku Yamamoto, looked up at the startled junior intelligence officer.
“What is it, lieutenant?”
“Sir, 181 has signaled 79. Sir, this is the real 181, on the frequency reserved exclusively for him.” (Only Yamamoto knew the truth about 181).
“Admiral, sir, this is a real 79.”
“Thank you, lieutenant. Please ask Commander Genda to join me. That will be all.”
Two minutes later, Commander Minoru Genda entered the ward room, smiling from ear to ear,
“Well, it’s the Ginza for me when we’re back next week.”
Genda was referring to the 1,000 year old shopping and “entertainment” center of Tokyo. Originally a silver mine, the town had evolved to become the location of the most beautiful and also the most pliable women in Japan.
Yamamoto looked up. A small, short man, and extremely popular with his sailors, he was not quite so popular with his peers—General Tojo detested him and Tojo was not alone. Yamamoto’s face was that of a 16th century Flemish portrait—stern, severe, and unsmiling.
“79.”
“Really?”
“Yes, fucking really. Yes, for the sake of fuck, really. Now get the planes reloaded with bombs and let’s get the job completed.”
While saying this Yamamoto had been essentially polite, albeit forceful in his language. All this changed when Genda was so foolish to say without thinking, “But, Admiral, all the pilots are tired.”
‘I was so thoughtless’, Genda later admitted in the victory party, ironically at Chuo-Ku 3-6-1, Matsuya Ginza.
Yamamoto sprang to his feet with such savagery that Genda expected the Admiral to hit him.
“Tired? Are you out of your fucking mind, tired? Oh, poor fucking babies, let’s get them some warm miso soup. I am so sorry, I did not realize the babies were so tired, I am so fucking sorry.”
Yamamoto did not shout this—shout would be far too weak, scream starts to approach the tone, but that’s still a little weak. Think of a man using his voice with a greater volume than it is actually capable of.
All this was delivered to Genda with such proximity that Yamamoto’s nose touched Genda’s twice.
“I will be on deck in ten minutes and I expect to see the first flight launched.”
“But what about enemy submarines?”
“Christ all-fucking-mighty.” (Yamamoto had learned at his days at Harvard that Americans were some of the most creative swearers.)
“Are you a complete, total—complete—fucking retard?”
“We’re in a fucking war and you’re interested in the safe fucking play? Genda, you are a total fucking moron. Got it? A total moron. I want 32 ‘planes in the air in twenty minutes, even if I have to lead them my fucking self. Is that clear, you fucking moron?”
Genda nodded and left.
Alone, Yamamoto knew that he had just rolled his last dice with Genda. By treating Genda in this brutal manner, Genda would never trust the Admiral again, and Yamamoto had just destroyed their friendship. But, Yamamoto reflected, desperate times require desperate actions, and Genda’s greatest weakness was his addiction to consensus. But, consensus in most cases was weakness.
Miyuki was lingering over tea when the first explosions were heard. Her heart leapt. All this work, all this time, putting up with the Hawaiians, and the American wives. She went outside. The sky was black with burning oil. Oil that was the life blood of any navy. And now the islands were being drained of all their precious oil and all because of her “181-79.”
25: Winston’s Delight
AFTER THE EVENTS of the past week, Hopkins and Tugwell were pleased to have a quiet early lunch together in the main dining room of the Willard. Although very different men, they enjoyed each other’s company and shared the bond of serving the President. Often, they had noted that he was a true bastard at times—Judge Holmes’s quip about “a second-rate mind, but a first-rate disposition” was quoted.
After the young waiter had brought their coffee, Hopkins said,
“Christ alive, is it possible to repeat this past week?”
Tugwell smiled and shook his head,
“Perhaps a repeat of the San Francisco earthquake of ’06, that’s about the only thing.”
Both men laughed.
But their laughter was ended by the appearance at the entrance to the dining room by a frantic Smithers.
“Fuck, no,” Hopkins muttered.
Without hesitating, Smithers raced to their table.
“The President needs you, now. Now. Right now.”
Hopkins was about to say something but thought the better of it. Smithers threw a ten-dollar bill on the table.
“The car’s outside.”
“But it’s one block,” Hopkins said without thinking.
“Get in the car!” Smithers commanded.
The two men exchanged glances—for a milksop like Smithers to speak like this, well, it was clearly urgent.
Normally, they met the President alone in the Oval Office, but not today. Every minute, someone entered the Oval Office. As usual, Roosevelt was in his hated wheel chair.
It was Stimson who spoke,
“Our Isthmus Canal has been blockaded at both ends by warships of the Imperial Japanese Navy. So, all our ships in the Atlantic will need to go the long way to the Pacific.”
It took Hopkins and Tugwell a second to realize he was talking about the Panama Canal.
Tugwell, with his professor’s quick mind, asked Admiral King,
“Admiral, and this is the worst time of the year for the southern oceans around the Horn, isn’t it?”
King answered unemotionally,
“Well, we’re past the very worst time, which is the October and November period, but this is the Horn, and the weather in the southern oceans in the Forties and Fifties and Sixties is nasty year round—really, there is no ‘worst time’ down there. And ice is always a problem, year round. But the seas are not the only problem. The other problem is the distance—to West Coast through the Canal is 5,000 miles, but around the Horn is 13,000 miles, and this means we need oilers and the thought of fragile oilers in the Southern Ocean at any time of the year is a frightening prospect. And we have no coaling stations, I mean oil tank farms, in South America.”
The phone rang.
“Henry, get that, will you please,” Roosevelt said.
Stimson picked up the instrument. Listening, he frowned.
Roosevelt looked at him.
“Are you sure?” Stimson said, emphasizing the last word.
Stimson put the phone down. His face had not changed composure.
Stimson announced to the room with neither shock nor surprise in his voice,
“The Imperial Japanese Navy is currently attacking our naval base at Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands possessions.”
Roosevelt nodded from his wheelchair, and theatrically said,
“What? What did you say?”
At this moment, King’s assistant burst through the door. Forgetting all protocol, he said,
“Admiral, sir, the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor, the Arizona has capsized, and other of our battleships are burning out of control. All of the oil farm has been destroyed.”
No one spoke for the simple reason that no one knew what to say.