He went below and checked on the gyrocompass. Inagaki and the specialist were getting nowhere. Sakamaki’s heart sank and he wondered whether this was just bad luck or if he had somehow failed. In any case, he was determined to go on.
He packed his personal belongings and wrote a farewell note to his family. In it he thoughtfully included a lock of hair and one of his fingernail parings. He cleaned up and changed to his midget submarine uniform —a leather jacket and fundoshi, which was a sort of Japanese G-string. He sprinkled himself with the perfume he bought at Kure and put on a white hashamaki, the Japanese warrior’s traditional headband. Then he made the rounds of the sub, embracing the crew. By now it was well after 3:30 A.M., the time the midgets were meant to start for Pearl Harbor.
CHAPTER III
“Gate Open — White Lights”
AT 3:42 A.M. THE small mine sweeper Condor was plying her trade just outside Pearl Harbor, when watch officer Ensign R. C. McCloy suddenly sighted a strange white wave to port. It was less than 100 yards away, gradually converging on the Condor and moving toward the harbor entrance. He pointed it out to Quartermaster B. C. Uttrick, and they took turns looking at it with McCloy’s binoculars. They decided it was the periscope of a submerged submarine, trailing a wake as it moved through the water.
Soon it was only 50 yards away —about 1000 yards from the entrance buoys. Then it apparently saw the Condor, for it quickly veered off in the opposite direction. At 3:58 the Condor’s signal light blinked the news to the destroyer Ward, on patrol duty nearby: “Sighted submerged submarine on westerly course, speed nine knots.”
The message came to Lieutenant (j.g.) Oscar Goepner, a young reserve officer from Northwestern University, who had just taken over the watch. He had been on the Ward doing this sort of inshore patrol work for more than a year, but tonight was the first time anything like this had ever happened. He woke up the skipper, Lieutenant William W. Outerbridge.
For Outerbridge it was more than his first sub alert — it was his first night on his first patrol on his first command. Until now his naval career had been very uneventful, considering a rather colorful background. He had been born in Hong Kong — the son of a British merchant captain and an Ohio girl. After his father’s death, the widow moved back home, and Outerbridge entered Annapolis, Class of 1927. He managed to scrape through, and spent the next 14 years inching up from one stripe to two — it was always a slow climb in the prewar Navy.
Until a few days before, he had been executive officer on the destroyer Cummings, where all the officers were Academy men except one reservist. Now he was the only Academy man on a ship full of reservists. He recalled how sorry he had felt for the Cummings’ lonely reserve officer. Now the tables were turned — Goepner still recalls how sorry everybody on the Ward felt for Outerbridge, alone among the heathens.
On reading the Condors message, Outerbridge sounded general quarters, and the men tumbled to their battle stations. For the next half hour the Ward prowled about — her lookout and sonar men straining for any sign of the sub. No luck. At 4:43 A.M. the crew were released, and most of them went back to bed. The regular watch continued to search the night.
Four minutes later the gate in the antitorpedo net across the harbor entrance began to swing open. This always took eight to ten minutes; and it wasn’t until 4:58 A.M. that a crewman noted in the gate vessel log, “Gate open — white lights.”
At 5:08 the mine sweeper Crossbill, which had been working with the Condor, passed in. Normally the gate would now be closed again — this was always supposed to be done at night — but the Condor was due in so soon, it just didn’t seem worth the trouble.
By 5:32 the Condor was safely in, but still the gate stayed open. The tug Keosanqua was due to pass out around 6:15 A.M. Once more it didn’t seem worth the trouble to close the gate, only to open it again in a little while.
As the Condor closed up shop, the Ward radioed for a few final words of advice that might help her carry on the search: “What was the approximate distance and course of the sub you sighted?”
“The course was about what we were steering at the time, 020 magnetic, and about 1000 yards from the entrance.”
This was far to the east of the area first indicated, and Outerbridge felt he must have been looking in the wrong place. Actually, the Condor was talking about two different things. Her first message gave the sub’s course when last seen; this new message gave it when first seen. She never explained that in between times the sub had completely changed course.
So the Ward moved east, combing an area where the sub could never be. And as she scurried about, she remembered at 5:34 to acknowledge the Condor’s help: “Thank you for your information … We will continue search.”
The radio station at nearby Bishops Point listened in on this exchange, but didn’t report it to anybody — after all, a ship-to-ship conversation between the Ward and the Condor was none of their business. The Ward didn’t report anything either — after all, the Condor didn’t, and she was the one who said she saw something. She must have decided it wasn’t a sub after all.
In any event, it wasn’t the sub piloted by Ensign Kazuo Sakamaki. He wasn’t even ready to leave until 5:30, a good two hours behind schedule. Meanwhile there had been more futile last-minute efforts to fix the broken gyroscope. Then another round of ceremonial good-byes.
When the I-24’s skipper, Lieutenant Commander Hiroshi Hanabusa, asked if the broken gyrocompass had altered his plans, Sakamaki proudly replied, “Captain, I am going ahead.” And then, carried away by it all, they both shouted, “On to Pearl Harbor!”
Dawn was just breaking when Sakamaki and Inagaki left the bridge of the I-24 and scrambled aft along the catwalk to their midget. Each man held a bottle of wine and some lunch in his left hand, and shook a few more hands with his right. As Sakamaki’s friend, Ensign Hirowo, observed when climbing into his midget on the I-20, “We must look like high school boys happily going on a picnic.”
Sakamaki was far beyond such mundane thoughts. He and Inagaki said nothing as they climbed up the side of the small sub, squirmed through the hatch in the conning tower, and slammed it shut behind them.
The I-24 slowly submerged, and the crew took their stations to release the four big clamps that held the midget. Quietly they waited for the signal.
Sakamaki and Inagaki were waiting too. Their electric motor was now purring, and they could feel the mother sub picking up speed to give them a better start.
Suddenly there was the terrific bang of the releasing gear, and they were off on their own. Immediately everything went wrong. Instead of thrusting ahead on an even keel, the midget tilted down, nearly standing on end. Sakamaki switched off the engines and began trying to correct the boat’s trim.
CHAPTER IV
“You’d Be Surprised What Goes on Around Here”
LIEUTENANT HARAUO TAKEDA, 30-year-old flight officer on the cruiser Tone, was a disappointed, worried man as the Japanese striking force hurtled southward, now less than 250 miles from Oahu.
He was disappointed because last-minute orders kept him from piloting the Tone’s seaplane, which was to take off at 5:30 A.M., joining the Chikuma’s plane in a final reconnaissance of the U.S. fleet. And he was worried because — as the man in charge of launching these planes — he feared that they would somehow collide while taking off. True, the two ships were some eight miles apart, but it was still pitch black. Besides, when the stakes are so high, a man almost looks for things to worry about.
Nothing went wrong. The planes shot safely from their catapults and winged off into the dark — two small harbingers of the great armada that would follow. Admiral Nagumo planned to hit Pearl Harbor with 353 planes in two mighty waves. The first was to go at 6:00 A.M. — 40 torpedo planes … 51 dive-bombers … 49 horizontal bombers … 43 fighters to provide cover. The second at 7:15 A.M. — 80 dive-bombers … 54 high-level bombers … 36 more fighters. This would still leave 39 planes to guard the task force in case the Am
ericans struck back.
By now the men on the carriers were making their final preparations. The deck crews — up an hour before the pilots —checked the planes in their hangars, then brought them up to the flight decks. Motors sputtered and roared as the mechanics tuned up the engines. On the Hiryu, Commander Amagai carefully removed the pieces of paper he had slipped into each plane’s wireless transmitter to keep it from being set off by accident.
Down below, the pilots were pulling on their clean underwear and freshly pressed uniforms. Several wore the traditional hashamaki headbands. Little groups gathered around the portable Shinto shrines that were standard equipment on every Japanese warship. There they drank jiggers of sake and prayed for their success.
Assembling for breakfast, they found a special treat. Instead of the usual salted pike-mackerel and rice mixed with barley, today they ate sekihan. This Japanese dish of rice boiled with tiny red beans was reserved for only the most ceremonial occasions. Next, they picked up some simple rations for the trip — a sort of box lunch that included the usual rice balls and pickled plums, emergency rations of chocolate, hardtack, and special pills to keep them alert.
Now to the flight operations rooms for final briefing. On the Akagi Commander Mitsuo Fuchida, leader of the attacking planes, sought out Admiral Nagumo: “I am ready for the mission.”
“I have every confidence in you,” the admiral answered, grasping Fuchida’s hand.
On every carrier the scene was the same: the dimly lit briefing room; the pilots crowding in and spilling out into the corridor; the blackboard revised to show ship positions at Pearl Harbor as of 10:30 A.M., December 6. Time for one last look at the enemy lineup; one last rundown on the charts and maps. Then the latest data on wind direction and velocity, some up-to-the-minute calculations on distance and flying time to Hawaii and back. Next a stern edict: no one except Commander Fuchida was to touch his radio until the attack began. Finally, brief pep talks by the flight officers, the skippers, and, on the Akagi, by Admiral Nagumo himself.
A bright dawn swept the sky as the men emerged, some wearing small briefing boards slung around their necks. One by one they climbed to the cockpits, waving good-bye — 27-year-old Ippei Goto of the Kaga, in his brand-new ensign’s uniform … quiet Fusata Iida of the Soryu, who was so crazy about baseball … artistic Mimori Suzuki of the Akagi, whose Caucasian looks invited rough teasing about his “mixed blood.” When it was Lieutenant Haita Matsumura’s turn, he suddenly whipped off the gauze mask which had marked him as such a hypochondriac. All along, he had been secretly growing a beautiful mustache.
Commander Fuchida headed for the flight leader’s plane, designated by a red and yellow stripe around the tail. As he swung aboard, the crew chief handed him a special hashamaki headband: “This is a present from the maintenance crews. May I ask that you take it along to Pearl Harbor?”
In the Agaki’s engine room, Commander Tanbo got permission and rushed topside for the great moment — the only time he left his post during the entire voyage. Along the flight decks the men gathered, shouting good luck and waving good-bye. Lieutenant Ebina, the Shokaku’s junior surgeon, trembled with excitement as he watched the motors race faster and the blue exhaust smoke pour out.
All eyes turned to the Akagi, which would give the signal. She flew a set of flags at half-mast, which meant to get ready. When they were hoisted to the top and swiftly lowered, the planes would go.
Slowly the six carriers swung into the wind. It was from the east, and perfect for take-off. But the southern seas were running high, and the carriers dipped 15 degrees, sending high waves crashing against the bow. Too rough for really safe launching, Admiral Kusaka thought, but there was no other choice now. The Pearl Harbor Striking Force was poised 230 miles north and slightly east of Oahu. The time was 6:00 A.M.
Up fluttered the signal flags, then down again. One by one the fighters roared down the flight decks, drowning the cheers and yells that erupted everywhere. Commander Hoichiro Tsukamoto forgot his worries as navigation officer of the Shokaku, decided this was the greatest moment of his life. The ship’s doctors, Captain Endo and Lieutenant Ebina, abandoned their professional dignity and wildly waved the fliers on. Engineer Tanbo shouted like a schoolboy, then rushed back to the Akagi’s engine room to tell everybody else.
Now the torpedo planes and dive-bombers thundered off, while the fighters circled above, giving protection. Plane after plane rose, flashing in the early-morning sun that peeked over the horizon. Soon all 183 were in the air, circling and wheeling into formation. Seaman Iki Kuramoti watched, on the verge of tears. Quietly he put his hands together and prayed.
For Admiral Kusaka it had been a terrible strain, getting the planes off in these high seas. Now they were on their way, and the sudden relief was simply too much. He trembled like a leaf — just couldn’t control himself. And he was embarrassed, too, because he prided himself on his grasp of Buddhism, bushido, and kendo (a form of Japanese fencing) — all of which were meant to fortify a man against exactly this sort of thing. Finally he sat on the deck — or he thinks possibly in a chair — and meditated Buddha-fashion. Slowly he pulled himself together again as the planes winged off to the south.
At the main target of this onslaught, the only sign of life was a middle-aged housewife driving her husband to work. Mrs. William Blackmore headed through the main Pearl Harbor gate … past the Marine sentry, who checked her windshield sticker … and headed down to the harbor craft pier. Mr. Blackmore — 16 years in the Navy and presently chief engineer of the tug Keosanqua — was to get under way at 6:00 A.M. to meet the supply ship Antares and take over a steel barge she was towing up from Palmyra.
As Mrs. Blackmore dropped her husband, the first gray light of morning gave the rows of silent warships an eerie, ghostly look. “This,” she observed, “is the quietest place I’ve ever seen.”
“You’d be surprised what goes on around here,” Blackmore replied cheerfully, and he jumped aboard the tug for another day’s work.
The Keosanqua moved down the harbor, through the long narrow entrance channel, and past the open torpedo net, which was kept open still longer for whenever the rug should return. It was now 6:30 A.M. and the Antares was already in sight, towing the barge about a hundred yards behind her. The Ward hovered about a mile away, and a Navy PBY circled above, apparently looking at something.
Seaman H. E. Raenbig, the Ward’s helmsman, was looking at something too. As the Antares came up from the southwest and crossed the Ward’s bow to port, he suddenly noticed a curious black object that seemed to be fastened to the towline between the Antares and her barge. They were about a mile away, and so he asked Quartermaster H. F. Gearin to use his glasses for a closer look.
Gearin immediately saw that the black object was not hanging on the hawser but was merely in line with it. Actually, the object was in the water on the far side of the Antares. He showed it to Lieutenant Goepner, who said it looked like a buoy to him, but to keep an eye on it.
Gearin did, and about a minute later said he thought it was a small conning tower. It seemed to be converging on the Antares’ course, as though planning to fall in behind the barge. At this point the Navy patrol bomber began circling overhead. Goepner needed no further convincing.
“Captain, come on the bridge!” he shouted. Outerbridge jumped from his cot in the chartroom, pulled on a Japanese kimono, and joined the others. He took one look and sounded general quarters. It was just 6:40 A.M.
Seaman Sidney Noble stumbled out of his bunk in the forecastle for the second time in three hours — so sleepy he could hardly wipe the sand from his eyes. He pulled on dungarees, shoes but no socks, and a blue shirt, which he didn’t bother to button. Then he joined the other men racing up the ladder to their battle stations.
Gunner’s Mate Louis Gerner stayed below long enough to slam and dog the hatch leading to the anchor engine room, then dashed after the rest. As he ran aft toward his station in the after well deck, Outerbridge leaned ove
r the bridge railing and frantically waved him away from Number 1 gun, which was now swinging out, trained on the conning tower ahead.
Along the afterdeck Ensign D. B. Haynie ran past Number 2, 3, and 4 guns, shouting to the men to break out the ammunition. He might have spared himself the trouble at Number 3. Seaman Ambrose Domagall, the first loader, had been on duty as bridge messenger. As soon as general quarters sounded, he went directly to the gun, yanked open the ready rack, and was waiting with a three-inch shell in his arms when the rest of the crew rushed up.
Outerbridge had signaled “All engines ahead full,” and the old Ward was now surging forward — bounding from five to ten to 25 knots in five minutes.
“Come left,” he called to Helmsman Raenbig, and the 1918 hull wheezed with the strain as she heeled hard to port. Outerbridge headed her straight for the gap between the barge and the conning tower, now some 400 yards off the Ward’s starboard bow.
At this point the Antares caught on —her blinker flashed the news that she thought she was being followed. Up above, the PBY dropped two smoke pots to mark the sub’s position.
To Ensign William Tanner, pilot of the PBY, this was simply the act of a good Samaritan. He had been on the regular morning patrol when he first spotted the submarine. It was well out of the designated area for friendly subs. His immediate reaction — “My God, a sub in distress!”
Then he saw the Ward steaming in that direction. Quickly he swooped down and dropped his two smoke bombs. They would help the Ward come to the rescue. From his position this was the best he could do for the sub.
The Ward didn’t need any markers —the submarine was just to starboard, pointing straight at the ship. It was running awash, with the conning tower about two feet out of water. In the choppy sea the men caught brief glimpses of a small cigar-shaped hull. They were utterly fascinated. Chief Commissary Steward H. A. Minter noticed that it was painted a dingy green. Quartermaster Gearin saw a layer of small barnacles … Helmsman Raenbig noticed moss on the conning tower … most of the men thought it looked rather rusty. Everyone agreed there were no markings on the squat, oval conning tower.