Admiral Yamamoto often joined them. In the last analysis it was his plan, and he wasn’t the kind of leader who used his staff for advice; they were there to carry out his decisions. For large meetings they pulled together the desks in the operations room to form a sort of conference table; for smaller sessions they sat around in a square of brown leather sofas. On a table in the center there was always a box of Sakura cigarettes, some cheese, and that great symbol of their victories—a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label whisky “liberated” from Singapore.
Yamamoto himself didn’t drink or smoke, but he was no prig. He could joke with his staff and was always considerate of the enlisted men. Rather formal on the job (no one ever saw him take off his coat), he was disarmingly human off duty. His sweet tooth, his zest for shogi, his weakness for Hechima cologne, all made him so much more a creature of flesh and blood than the national monument he had now become.
Toward the end of April he received his two top commanders, Admirals Nagumo and Kondo, in his red-carpeted office just aft of the operations room. They were back from the Indian Ocean, knew nothing of Midway; now they had come to get the word. Nagumo was indifferent—his carriers could do anything—but Kondo began rattling off some of the old objections. Yamamoto cut him short—all that was settled long ago.
May 1, and the days of planning were over. That morning the various task force commanders swarmed aboard the Yamato for four days of briefing and table-top maneuvers. As they tried out the plan on the game board, Red Team (the U.S. fleet) unexpectedly caught Blue Team (Nagumo’s carriers) while their planes were off bombing Midway. Under the rules nine hits were scored, the Akagi and Kaga sunk. Rear Admiral Matome Ugaki, Yamamoto’s shrewd chief of staff, hastily reversed the umpire; six hits were erased and the Akagi refloated.
Success thus assured, the mimeograph machines began rolling. May 5, Imperial General Headquarters Navy Order No. 18 directed the Combined Fleet to “carry out the occupation of Midway Islands and key points in the western Aleutians in cooperation with the Army.” Other orders followed, and finally that ultimate badge that changed any military plan from dream to reality, an official code name. From now on the project would be the “MI Operation,” with the Aleutians to be referred to as “AO” and” Midway itself as “AF.”
One final touch. Thinking back on those table-top maneuvers, Captain Kuroshima did feel it might be useful to know just a little bit more about what the U.S. fleet was doing. So around May 8 he added an extra precaution: seaplanes refueled from submarines would reconnoiter Pearl Harbor the week before the attack, to give up-to-the-minute information on enemy movements.
Ships began creeping out. Early May several submarines quietly headed south, each carrying a midget sub piggyback. Hopefully they could stage diversionary attacks on Sydney and Madagascar, throwing the enemy even more off guard. Other submarines glided east—they would refuel the seaplanes to reconnoiter Pearl Harbor. Others went to set up the cordons that would alert the fleet when the Americans came out. Still another moved east alone—the clever Lieutenant Commander Yahachi Tanabe was taking the I-168 to the enemy’s very doorstep. It would reconnoiter Midway itself and report what was going on.
Commander Yasumi Toyama could use a little good intelligence. He was responsible for working out the actual landings, yet he knew depressingly little about Midway. As he later confessed, “It was just a spot on the ocean.” He had no photos; the plane meant to take them had been shot down as it approached. His maps were sketchy and ancient. Idly, he decided to land on the south side where the reef was close to the shore. He never realized that there was a large gap in the reef to the north.
He had no better idea what they’d find when they got there. A Navy estimate suggested 750 U.S. Marines; the Army thought 1,700. Most sources agreed Midway might have 50-60 planes, maybe ten antiaircraft guns, about the same number of shore-defense guns. Not much else.
In any case, the Japanese were bringing enough. It would be a joint Army-Navy affair, amounting to some 4,600 men altogether. Colonel Ichiki’s 28th Infantry could take care of themselves anywhere; so could his engineers and rapid-fire gun company. Captain Ota’s 2nd Combined Special Naval Landing Force was equally tough, as were the Navy construction men and even the weather team. They all had plenty of fire power too—the Navy alone was bringing 94 guns.
The only real problem was landing craft, and that was more an embarrassment. Commander Shiro Yonai, chief of staff for the Navy contingent, knew they’d need flat-bottomed boats to get over the reefs, yet there wasn’t a single one in the whole Japanese Navy. Finally he buried his pride and borrowed some from the Army Infantry School.
May 15, and the Navy occupation force began moving out, bound for the staging area at Saipan. May 18, Colonel Ichiki visited the Yamato for a personal briefing from Admiral Yamamoto. Then he and his troops were on their way too.
That same day Chief Warrant Officer Takayoshi Morinaga, torpedo pilot on the carrier Kaga, swooped down in a mock attack on some cruisers maneuvering in the Inland Sea. The fliers were getting in some final practice, and Morinaga was a good example why they were the best at their trade in the world. Starting with the China incident in 1937, he had now been flying combat for five years.
On the Akagi, flagship of the carrier fleet, Admiral Nagumo’s staff bustled about pulling together supplies, planes and pilots. The attack was now firmly set for June 4, and Nagumo’s roly-poly chief of staff, Rear Admiral Ryunosuke Kusaka, thought this was much too soon. The pilots should have 40-50 days ashore to rest and help train the new men coming up. But like everyone else who counseled delay, he got a quick brush-off from Combined Fleet Headquarters.
Nor was even Kusaka overly concerned. They might have too little time to prepare, but he spent much of it trying to put through posthumous promotions for the naval aviators killed at Pearl Harbor. Truth was, he felt it really didn’t matter anyhow: “We can beat the Yankees hands down with a single blow.”
They would soon have their chance. May 20, Admiral Yamamoto fixed the final tactical grouping of his forces, and now the heart of the fleet—70 great warships—gathered at Hashirajima anchorage for the last time. Dwarfing them all was the 64,000-ton Yamato, back from a quick trip to Kure for supplies. Biggest battleship in the world, her 18.1-inch guns could hurl a broadside more than 25 miles. But big as she was, the center of attention was Admiral Nagumo’s Striking Force of massive carriers—the Akagi, 30,000-ton ugly dowager of the carrier fleet … the Kaga, most powerful of them all … the more modern Hiryu and Soryu, listed as 10,000-tons for purposes of the old London Naval Treaty, but actually a good 18,000 tons each.
At that, there should have been two more of them. The superb new carriers Shokaku and Zuikaku were meant to be on hand, but detached for the Coral Sea affair, they had run into a little trouble. On May 17 Shokaku limped back into Kure, her flight deck shattered and her bow burnt out by American bombs. Zuikaku followed two days later, undamaged but her air group badly mauled. Between them, the two ships had only six torpedo planes and nine dive bombers left.
So there was no question of bringing them along. Four carriers should be enough anyhow. The Americans had little left. That “Saratoga-type” carrier was certainly sunk at the Coral Sea, and the Yorktown probably so. Even if she survived, it would make no difference. If Shokaku couldn’t make Midway, how could Yorktown?
Far from giving pause, Coral Sea actually strengthened everyone’s confidence. After all, that fight had been carried on by the 5th Air Squadron, generally scorned as the worst in the fleet. If this group of nobodies could hold their own against the best the Americans could offer, it should be child’s play for the 1st and 2nd Air Squadrons now heading out—they were the cream of Japanese naval aviation. “Son of concubine gained a victory,” ran the mildly coarse joke that swept the wardrooms, “so sons of legal wives should find no rival in the world.”
Convinced of this, one headquarters told the post office at Yokosuka Naval Base simply to forward its m
ail to Midway. Combined Fleet sent down a new name for the islands: “Glorious Month of June.” Officers who had brought ashore their personal belongings at the time of Pearl Harbor now lugged them all on board again—cameras, trinkets, framed pictures of the family, sets of go and shogi. Chief Warrant Officer Morinaga thought how different it was from the start of the war. Then he lay awake all night. Now he slept perfectly. Midway would be simple … “as easy as twisting a baby’s arm.”
No wonder spirits were high at the gala send-off party on May 25. No wonder they clinked the Emperor’s cups and shouted their toasts. In contrast, the 26th was a day of quiet briefing, a last chance to button down the million details that went into winning a great victory. Far to the south, the transports were now assembled at Saipan. The troops busily practiced landings, splashing ashore through the surf. The mine sweepers, subchasers and patrol boats began streaming out of the harbor that afternoon, getting a head start so they could refuel at Wake. From the northern port of Ominato, the first units of the Aleutian force were pulling out too. Led by the light carriers Ryujo and Junyo, they soon disappeared east, lost in a swirling fog.
Six A.M. Wednesday, May 27, at the Hashirajima anchorage. A signal flag suddenly fluttered from the mast of Nagumo’s flagship Akagi: “Sortie as scheduled.” Anchor chains clattered, and the Striking Force began moving: first the light cruiser Nagara, leading the 11 destroyers of the protective screen … then the cruisers Tone and Chikuma … then the battleships Haruna and Kirishima with their odd pagoda masts … and finally the Akagi, the Kaga, the Hiryu, the Soryu.
As they crept single file past the ships still at anchor—Yamamoto’s and Kondo’s great collection of battleships and cruisers—sailors lined the rails, cheering and waving their caps. The sun blazed down, and it seemed a good omen after the cloudy, muggy days they’d been having. But the best omen of all, as everyone knew, was the day itself. For this 27th of May, 1942, was Navy Day—the 37th anniversary of Admiral Togo’s great victory over the Russians at Tsushima.
Slowly they moved down the Inland Sea, through the Bungo Strait, and into the great blue swells of the open Pacific. Gradually the homeland faded into the haze; shipboard routine picked up; some men began doing calisthenics on the Akagi’s flight deck. The engines pounded faster … they were on their way.
Back at Hashirajima anchorage that evening Admiral Yamamoto retired as usual to his cabin on the Yamato. This was when he liked to write letters, and it was always quite a ritual. The orderly would lay out brush and ink on a table; then, neatly spreading his paper on the carpet, Yamamoto would kneel down and start to write in a beautiful Chinese script. His letters were of all kinds—many to children—but some were on a special stationery used for no other purpose. These were the ones for Chiyoko Kawai, the geisha girl he kept in Tokyo.
Tonight his letter to her was serious; he was clearly still aware of his all-or-nothing risk. He told her he would like to give up everything, escape the world and be alone with her. But now he was off again, commanding all the fleet in the Pacific. The days ahead would be critical— “I imagine that very delightful moments may be few.”
May 28, the Attu and Kiska invasion forces slipped out of Ominato harbor. Down at Saipan the Midway Invasion Force was starting too. Promptly at 5 P.M. the light cruiser Jintsu led 12 grimy transports and the tanker Akebono Maru out of the harbor. Several patrol boats joined up, and the seaplane tenders Chitose and Kamikawa Maru brought up the rear. They were to peel off later, hoping to take the tiny island of Kure just west of Midway and set up a seaplane base to support the invasion.
That same afternoon Admiral Kurita’s supporting group of heavy cruisers steamed out of Guam and took a parallel course. They were superb ships—the Kumano, Suzuya, Mikuma and Mogami—and should play a big part in covering the landings.
At Hashirajima the Main Force still rode quietly at anchor. On the Yamato the band gathered as usual outside the staff dining room at 11:50 A.M. Five minutes later the officers entered, stiff in their starched whites, and took their places. Then promptly at noon Chief Steward Omi knocked on Admiral Yamamoto’s door as the band broke into a march. The Admiral emerged—he was always ready—and strode down the corridor into the dining room while the staff bowed their heads in respect. It was a daily ceremony when the flagship was in port, and today was no exception—but it would be the last time for a long, long while.
May 29, at the first light of day, the remaining ships began moving out too. First came Admiral Kondo’s powerful force, designed to add still more beef to the invasion: a couple of battleships, five tough cruisers, the light carrier Zuiho, a swarm of destroyers.
And finally, the Main Force itself. Promptly at 6:00 A.M. the engines began turning over, and Admiral Yamamoto’s 34 ships—heart of the Combined Fleet—got under way. Led by the mighty Yamato, seven great battleships glided through the Bungo Strait and headed into the Pacific. Around them bustled the usual screen of destroyers, cruisers and planes from the escort carrier Hosho. They were the last to leave, but that was just the point—these were the ships that would lurk in the wings while Nagumo and Kondo drew the enemy out; then they’d move in and deliver the knockout.
“The chief gunnery officer delivered a stirring appeal,” wrote Takeo Ikemoto, a young seaman in the Main Force. “We will keep it in our minds forever.”
“A beautiful day, a most appropriate day for such a cheerful departure,” an engineer on the Fuso scribbled in his diary. The whole crew, he went on to say, were in high spirits.
And why not? How could this huge armada lose? It all added up to 11 battleships, 8 carriers, 23 cruisers, 65 destroyers, scores of auxiliaries—some 190 ships altogether. Advancing eastward across the Pacific, they stretched over 1,800 miles in a great arc from the Kuriles to Guam. On this one operation their engines were using more oil than the peacetime Japanese Navy used in a year. Supporting them in this new age of aerial warfare were 700 planes, sea- and land-based—261 on Nagumo’s crack carriers alone. Manning them were 100,000 men, including a dazzling army of 20 admirals. Commanding them was Isoroku Yamamoto himself.
And what was against them? The Combined Fleet estimate put the U.S. strength at 2 or 3 carriers (also possibly 2 or 3 escort types), perhaps 2 battleships, 11-13 cruisers, maybe 30 destroyers. Not much; and latest reports indicated there would be even less than that. On May 15 a patrol plane spotted two U.S. carriers down by the Solomons.
That meant there might well be no carriers at all in the Midway area. Then the operation would be even easier than expected, although, of course, they would also lose the chance of including carriers in the bag.
All that remained was for the U.S. fleet to do as planned. It must be in Pearl Harbor, then come out and fall into the trap. But of course this would happen. Even the orders said so. As Imperial General Order No. 94 explained, “We will destroy the enemy fleet which will appear when our operation is under way.”
But what if the Americans knew what was up? Not a chance. Admiral Nagumo laid it on the line as his carriers raced toward the launching point. In his own intelligence estimate of the situation, paragraph (d) flatly declared, “The enemy is not aware of our plans.”
JUST about this time, 7,000 miles to the east, in a chart room at the Navy Department in Washington a small group of officers were putting the finishing touches on a large chart of the Pacific Ocean. It was labeled in firm block letters, “STUDY OF AF AND AOB CAMPAIGNS, MAY 29, 1942.”
The route of the Aleutian force was clear now, and it was carefully traced in magenta pencil, with the added note, “Assumed departure 0800, May 26.” The movements of the Invasion Force were clear too—a red line headed out from Saipan, neatly marked, “Depart 28 May.” Admiral Nagumo’s Striking Force was causing a little more trouble. The May 27 departure date was clear enough, but the green line that slanted down from the northwest toward Hawaii was marked, “This course can be rejected.” A new line ran more directly east, heading straight for Midway.
At the
headquarters of the Commander in Chief, United States Pacific Fleet, in Pearl Harbor (CINCPAC), other officers worked on a similar chart. Experts at both places were in close touch with each other, exchanging data, comparing notes, sometimes differing in their interpretations. At Pearl, for instance, Admiral Nagumo’s route ran farther to the north, then slanted southeast toward Midway, compass bearing perhaps 135°.
But here too there were uncertainties. Nobody seemed sure, for instance, just what was scheduled to happen at 6:00 P.M. on June 2 at a particular point some 650 miles west of Midway. It was obviously some sort of rendezvous, but the exact nature was hard to tell.
It seemed there were a few details that even a brilliant intelligence team couldn’t work out.
CHAPTER 2
The Code and the Target
VISITORS WERE NEVER WELCOME. To see anyone in the Navy’s Combat Intelligence Unit at Pearl Harbor, it was first necessary to buzz a locked door at the top of some cellar steps. Eventually a man would appear and, if credentials were in order, the door would open. At the bottom of the steps was another locked door, and the same procedure would be repeated. When this second door opened, the visitor was finally in.
At first glance, the place seemed a shambles—about two dozen people working on top of each other, wading through a sea of paper. Any trace of a filing system had long since vanished. Stacks of folders simply piled up on the desks and chairs, then flooded out over the floor. Presiding over it all was a tall, thin, humorously caustic man in a red smoking jacket and carpet slippers—Commander Joseph J. Rochefort, Jr.
Joe Rochefort had been breaking codes for a long time now. In the early 1920s he helped another gifted young officer, Laurence F. Safford, set up the Navy’s first center. In the doldrums of the ‘30s he amused himself by breaking the State Department’s “gray” code. (“They were mad as hell.”) In the fall of 1940 he helped crack the top Japanese naval code JN-25—by now he knew the language well.