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  These sweeping, complicated, and untested strategies were to be proven over four days of intense war games. Yamamoto expected that only one bloody-fisted fighter would be left standing in this high stakes “winner takes all” death match, but he was impatient and anxious to be done with the games and to get underway into battle. The games were perfunctory to him, simply to please headquarters.

  An umpire with a black cup in his hand containing two dice stood motionless waiting for Yamamoto, hunched over the edge of the map leaning on his outstretched arms. He was torn between wanting success and fearing compromising the very purpose of the games. After a few, very long seconds, Yamamoto looked up from the top of his eyes at the umpire and nodded.

  The murmuring in the room dissolved into the hollow rattling of dice in the cup held against the officer’s hand. He slapped the cup to the table and slowly raised it revealing a five and a four. The officers sucked air through their teeth.

  Nagumo folded his arms and glared at Genda.

  “Nine enemy hits on Blue Team carriers Akagi and Kaga,” the umpire announced stiffly. “Both aircraft carriers destroyed.” A scorekeeper leaned out placing black markers on the two carriers in the deadly quiet room.

  Yamamoto rubbed his cheek hard. An enemy arrow had found the chink in his armor. His eyes moved to read Nagumo’s face. He saw fear.

  Ugaki broke the silence. “Reduce enemy hits to three!”

  The scorekeeper froze.

  Ugaki continued. “Kaga sunk. Akagi slightly damaged but operable. Such an attack is highly unlikely.”

  Yamamoto stood upright as the scorekeeper briefly glanced at him before removing the black marker from the Akagi. Yamamoto turned toward Nagumo. “If your aircraft were occupied with the attack on Midway, what would you do if an enemy force appeared on your flank?”

  Nagumo swallowed and sighed, biding for time. Although he was the commander of the attack force, he was an old school battleship commander who lacked the expertise of air tactics that Genda developed, who promptly responded on his behalf, “No matter where or when we meet the Americans we will prevail. We have more aircraft, we have better aircraft, and we have far more experience. We’re simply better than they are. We’ll wipe them out!”

  Yamamoto nodded, but without the confidence he had shown in the past. The games were fanning the fears and doubts he had hoped would be doused by now.

  Captain Miwa spoke up, “Admiral, this matter is of small concern. Our Navy has accumulated an unrivaled string of victories against all adversaries in the Pacific and we’re bringing superior forces to this battle. As Commander Genda has stated, our experience is unparalleled. The Americans are mere beginners. Our defensive powers are unbreakable.”

  Yamamoto spoke quietly. “Are you forgetting the Battle of the Coral Sea?”

  “Admiral,” Miwa continued, “the Americans suffered twice the losses we did in raw tonnage of warships. They lost a fleet carrier; we, only a light carrier.”

  “But the Americans prevented us from achieving our objective of securing Port Moresby, didn’t they?” The room remained silent to Yamamoto. He looked at Nagumo. “I want constant air protection by Zero fighters and I want half of all attack aircraft held in reserve and equipped with torpedoes for a quick counterstrike against surface units. We must be prepared for enemy carriers if they’re discovered earlier than we’ve anticipated.”

  Nagumo nodded.

  “I’m counting on Fuchida to lead this attack.” Yamamoto’s piercing eyes spoke louder than his words as he then looked from face to face around the room seeking traces of fear. He felt the gnats of doubt pestering his own mind as he peered back down, focusing on the tiny red aircraft on the table. He had gambled big at Hawaii and won against all odds. One last bet to win it all – or lose it all. He sighed heavily, slowly lifting his eyes to a porthole, and gazed out to the ocean horizon in the fading light beyond.

  “Sir,” Nagumo said confidently, “there is no better pilot in the Imperial Navy. We will succeed!”

  Chapter 55

  May 27, 1942. One week before the battle.

  Fuchida stared up dejectedly at Genda from his hospital bed. Clenching his teeth and shutting his eyes between spasms, he turned his head.

  “You picked a fine time for appendicitis,” Genda said, turning his head quickly to cough to the side. Next to him at Fuchida’s bedside in the all-white infirmary room stood Vice Admiral Nagumo and Rear Admiral Kusaka – respectively Commander in Chief and Chief of Staff of the First Air Fleet.

  The doctor yanked Fuchida’s shirt back over his abdomen. “He needs to be transferred to a destroyer and taken to Beppo, the nearest military hospital for surgery,” he said. “Immediately.”

  “No!” Fuchida opened his eyes widely and peered up at the doctor. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. Not him. Not here. Not now. The pain was blinding, but he struggled to speak. “The Akagi serves as the task force surgical center and is ... perfectly capable of performing an appendectomy.”

  “Fuchida,” Genda pleaded, “you need to go.” Genda coughed and hacked some more.

  Fuchida shook his head.

  The doctor looked to Nagumo for some sort of response, then at Fuchida. “We’ll have to put you under general anesthesia. You’ll need to ...”

  “No! Just use local anesthesia.” Fuchida squinted again through the pain. “Even if I can’t fly, I can at least be on hand for ... consultation. I need to be in my right mind. And I’m not ... leaving the Akagi.”

  The doctor shook his head and spoke to Nagumo. “He must stay in bed for at least a week. He won’t be able to fly for some time. Two weeks after surgery, at least.”

  Nagumo nodded to the doctor, then let out an angry sigh. “Two of our six carriers have failed to join the fleet because of damage from the battle in the Coral Sea.” He rubbed the back of his neck and scanned Fuchida head to toe, then threw his arm out. “Now this!” He turned and stormed out of the room followed by Kusaka.

  “You look lousy, pal,” Genda said.

  “You don’t look so good yourself.” Fuchida looked up helplessly at Genda. “Lieutenant Tomonaga on ... on the Hiryu will lead. He’s a very capable pilot.”

  Genda gazed back soberly.

  Fuchida’s eyes said it all: their chances for victory were slipping away.

  Part IV

  Blood in the Water

  Chapter 56

  June 4, 1942, 3:00 a.m. The aircraft carrier Akagi. 250 miles northwest of Midway Island.

  Nineteen oil-fired Kampon boilers generating a combined one hundred thirty-two thousand horsepower propelled the Akagi through the calm morning darkness at battle speed three – full speed. In the control bridge wrapped in 4-foot high glass windows, Vice Admiral Nagumo looked down on the idling aircraft on the deck outlined by dim running lights while the captain slowly brought the enormous 850-foot floating runway into the wind. Pilots impatiently idled the thunderous engines of their fighters, white and blue flames flaring from their exhaust pipes in the morning darkness.

  In his hospital bed far below decks, Fuchida awoke with a start, the distant rumble of aircraft engines calling him like the voice of an old friend. Doctor’s orders or not, nothing could or should stop him – the chief flight commanding officer – from making his way to the deck to see his men off. He wasn’t going to lie there like a dying animal on the greatest day of the Imperial Navy! Two other patients in beds beside him seemed asleep, so Fuchida slowly sat up, but instantly fell back from the pain of his healing wound.

  He pulled up his gown to examine his incision for a second, then yanked it back down. It looked OK to him. Who cared what the surgeon said? With childlike enthusiasm he tossed off his blanket and rolled onto his side, carefully slid from his bed, and threw on a robe.

  “Commander,” one of the patients said quietly. “Should you be getting out of bed?”

  Fuchida stopped for a moment and responded boyishly, “I can’t bear to hear the sound of the engines and stay in s
ick bay.” He paused. “You understand.”

  The patient smiled and nodded. No need for any explanation.

  The doors had been sealed for battle conditions, so Fuchida twisted the large crank of the manhole cover in the center of the door to let himself through, wincing with needles of pain. He felt light-headed and faint as he stepped through and retightened the hatch. Grasping the handrail, he squatted in the passageway to catch his breath. He repeated the ordeal over ten times through a maze of hatches and ladders to finally make it to his bunk where his sweaty body collapsed with quivering pain. But the shuddering roar of each revving engine relentlessly drew him to the deck above. Collecting himself, he quickly wiped off with a wash cloth, shaved, dressed in his uniform, and emerged in the lower aircraft hangar.

  Under incandescent lights, dozens of engineers in their white jumpsuits fueled and armed the next group of aircraft with bombs for use against land targets. Fuchida made his way through the maze of olive-green aircraft, the paint randomly flaked off the aluminum skin by the salt air and constant service, each tied down over its own white outline for position. The familiar smell of grease, fuel and paint; the clatter of ratchets; and shouts of team members below and the rumble of aircraft above deck were invigorating to him. He’d walked this deck a hundred times before, but this time each detail was vivid. The blood surged through his veins. He loved his ship. He loved his crew. He couldn’t wait to get to the flight deck.

  “Commander! Are you all right?” Kanegasaki, Fuchida’s engineer from the Pearl Harbor attack, was overseeing four men jack up an 1,800 pound bomb under a Nakajima B5N bomber when he noticed the commander.

  “Kanegasaki! I’m fine. Anyway,” he said with a shrug, “I can’t be in bed under circumstances like these.” With a broad smile and a nod, Fuchida kept his posture and stride, never giving a hint of his pain.

  The eastern horizon was just beginning to lighten from the dawn when he finally arrived on the flight deck of thirty-one idling aircraft, humming in a deafening chorus. Physically drained by his obstacle course, Fuchida leaned against the sandbagged-encased tower or “island” on the port side of the carrier.

  “Are you all right?” a busy air officer shouted out as he trotted past.

  Fuchida nodded and waved, put his hands on his knees and slowly lowering himself to lie down on the deck beside the tower.

  The Akagi had flashed a message to the other three carriers from her signal lamp that all was ready and they flashed back that they were prepared as well. From the bridge crowded with officers, Vice Admiral Nagumo gave the command, “Launch the air attack force!”

  The air officer below blew his whistle and swung his green lantern in a huge circle, signaling the first pilot to take to the air. A flagman waved a white flag toward the front of the ship. Crewmen cheered, waving their white caps as the first fighter let loose his full throttle and roared down the runway out over the ocean.

  A nearby engineer kindly slid a parachute under Fuchida’s head as he strained to watch. He was a proud father, even though sidelined.

  The first few fighters from each carrier remained circling the fleet as part of the combat air patrol to guard against possible attack. One by one, the rest of the fighters and bombers from the four carriers – the Akagi, the Soryu, the Hiryu and the Kaga – quickly joined into their respective formations and headed off to Midway Island. Radio silence had been mandated, so no one on board would know anything until the attack was nearly complete and the results had been sent back via radiotelegraph. All was now in the hands of Fuchida’s pilots.

  5:31 a.m.

  Vice Admiral Nagumo stood on the bridge peering through a pair of long range pedestal-mounted binoculars steadily scanning the ocean, now clearly outlined by the glowing orange sky as the sun began to break the horizon. Messages crackled over the ship’s intercom in the background. Seeing nothing, he stepped back and looked head to toe at Genda standing beside him – in his pajamas: a white, kimono style robe, looking terrible. “I thought you’d gone to sick bay with pneumonia.”

  Genda forced a smile. “Sir, they don’t know I’m up here.”

  Nagumo turned to a newly arrived aide. “What’s the report on the first launch?”

  The aide saluted. “Admiral, seventy-four attack aircraft with thirty-six escort fighters en route to Midway Island. Eleven combat air patrol fighters over the fleet.”

  Nagumo returned to his binoculars. “Any sighting of the American fleet from our reconnaissance aircraft?”

  “None, sir. We’re still waiting for communication from our scouts.”

  Giving a perturbed glance at Genda, then back to the dawn sky, he exclaimed, “Get in uniform, will you?!”

  “Yes, sir,” Genda replied sheepishly. He saluted and exited in haste.

  Nagumo’s air fleet possessed cruisers fitted with floatplanes with the sole task of searching for enemy warships by radiating out from the fleet to about 300 miles then returning in a pattern like the petals of a daisy. Seven of these scout planes had been launched at the same time as the attack aircraft, around 4:30 a.m.

  “Sir?!” Rear Admiral Kusaka dialed in the focus of his binoculars. “It appears that the cruiser Nagara is beginning to lay down a smoke screen up ahead.”

  “Their lookouts may have spotted enemy aircraft,” Genda added.

  “Now the Kirishima is also laying down smoke,” Kusaka continued.

  Nagumo was unperturbed. “Double combat air patrol.”

  5:56 a.m., Midway Island.

  In a sky pocked with hundreds of burst antiaircraft fire, Japanese dive bombers dropped into their bombing runs at steep angles, engines screaming, and released their explosives, engulfing the tiny island in flames and smoke. Zero fighters strafed buildings and aircraft hangars as a fuel storage tank erupted into a billowing fireball. Sixteen aging American fighters engaged the attacking band and managed to down six or seven Japanese aircraft before they were systematically blown from the air by their more experienced opponents.

  6:41 a.m.

  A messenger approached Nagumo, bowed and held out a note from the telegraph office. The Akagi was sailing southeast of a brilliant sunrise reflecting over the ocean.

  Nagumo plucked the note and quickly scanned it, shook his head and looked back out at the horizon as he spoke to Genda. “Air Commander Tomonaga requests a second attack wave to finish the job at Midway. We’re going to need planes readied with land bombs,” Nagumo said.

  All were hoping the first wave from the four carriers would do the job, but Nagumo was also prepared to hear that the defenses of Midway had not been fully disabled as he was denied the attack aircraft of two carriers that were supposed to have joined his fleet. To successfully land the invasion required overcoming the American defenses, especially their ability to launch aircraft.

  “Sir,” Genda said hesitantly, “Excuse me, but ... we recognize that Admiral Yamamoto specifically ordered the reserves to be equipped with torpedoes in the event we discover the American fleet. It could take as long as two hours to dismount and rearm our aircraft with land bombs, and then we wouldn’t be prepared to attack the American fleet if they appear.”

  Nagumo looked away with a scowl.

  7:10 a.m.

  Lying on the deck just below the tower in the ocean breeze, Fuchida jotted notes on a piece of scrap paper. A team of twelve men pushed a light-gray Zero off the elevator onto the grease stained deck, spotting it with the group for the next launch. As the new fighters warmed their roaring engines, Fuchida began to feel somewhat better and slowly got to his feet. Not so bad. Ignoring the ache in his belly, he walked to the front of the tower and looked far to his left, then to his right at the other carriers also sending fighters into the air for protection. He wondered if there’d been any word back on the attack at Midway. Just as he was about to make his way up to the bridge, he heard shouting from a lookout above him.

  “Two groups of enemy aircraft approaching from the southeast!”

  Fuchida shie
lded the sun from his eyes and strained to see the aircraft that appeared like small dots just above the horizon, dead ahead. Lacking radar, the fleet relied on keen eyed lookouts for early detection of the enemy.

  From the bridge, Captain Aoki shouted into the speaking tube, “Flank speed! Hard to port!” which threw the ship into a huge, left-handed turn, making the Akagi a more difficult target while also giving her battery of antiaircraft guns full aim at the approaching assailants.

  In the air above, Fuchida could see the Zeroes falling swiftly toward the advancing bandits – TBF Avengers armed with torpedoes, which comprised the first group. These slow moving, low flying aircraft needed to get within close range to have any chance of success and had somehow been separated from their fighter escorts. They were easy prey to the lethal Zeroes who riddled them with machine gun and cannon fire, downing them one by one in eruptions of streaking fireballs that fell twisting into the sea ending in plumes of white ocean mist. But TBF Avengers were equipped with powerful rear facing .50 caliber guns, whose fire managed to send a Zero tumbling in flames into the sea as well.

  Despite the lashing, Fuchida watched intently as several American bombers managed to drop their deadly fish toward their targets before breaking off under heavy fire from both fighters and antiaircraft guns, peppering the sky with exploding shells and tracers as the bombers turned away.

  As the huge Akagi circled again in the opposite direction, Fuchida scrambled to the port side of the deck in time to see several torpedoes bubble past in the distance. He looked across the water to their sister carrier Hiryu, as she also managed to steer clear of approaching torpedoes. No hits.