When the messenger entered my room, he found me cleaning my pistol, an odd thing to be doing at four o’clock in the morning. It was 9 September 1942.
“Captain Tagami wishes you to report to him in the conning tower, Sir.”
“Very well,” I said and laid the pistol on my bunk. Lieutenant Commander Meiji Tagami, who commanded the submarine I-25, jerked his head at the periscope. “Take a look, Fujita, and tell me what you think.”
I grasped the periscope’s handles and peered through its eyepiece at the coast of Oregon, its inland mountains wreathed by haze. I could make out the white face of Cape Blanco and could see its lighthouse flashing in the twilight. The waves, so high for the past ten days, had flattened out. The sky was clear, too. “Captain,” I said, “It looks good. I think we can do it today.”
“Fine!” he replied. “In just a few more minutes you’ll make history. You will be the first person ever to bomb the United States of America! If all goes well, Fujita, you will not be the last!”
While I climbed into flight clothing, however, I kept thinking of what lay before me: Bombing America! With a slow, awkward float-equipped Zero plane launched from a submarine! All this had come about because I, although one of the Navy’s most junior officers, had started a simple letter of suggestion up the Imperial Navy’s chain of command.
It all started when we moved over from I-23 to I-25, just six weeks before war began. I-25 left Yokosuka on 21 November 1941, and a few hours later we were told our mission: an attack on Pearl Harbor. First Air Fleet aircraft would strike Oahu just 30 minutes after our envoys in Washington handed over a declaration of war. Submarines were to pick off any U. S. warships that survived the air attack as they sortied from the island base.
I-25’s assigned position was 100 miles north by east of Pearl Harbor. I hoped for a scouting mission after the attack, to see with my own eyes what our air arm could do in battle, but this was not to be. My plane had been damaged by rough seas, so my only part in the Pearl Harbor strike turned out to be standing control tower watches while we maintained station. On 10 December the High Command wirelessed us a position report on the U. S. aircraft carrier Enterprise, and ordered her sunk. We sped on the surface to intercept, but were sighted by American planes before getting very far. They dropped four bombs, which did no harm because Captain Tagami had gotten I-25 well under water by the time they fell. I-170, not so lucky, was sunk by Enterprise planes. Next, we received a position report on some more American ships, possibly transports, but were too far away to catch them.
It was then that my idea occurred to me. Submarine aircraft were armed with bombs; a plane could search far ahead of a submarine, and attack shipping, or it could combine in joint attacks with the mother ship.
Lieutenant Tsukudo, the Executive Officer, became very excited about the idea, and we discussed how Japanese submarines could attack, say, Panama Canal locks, and aircraft factories or naval bases around San Diego, San Francisco, and Seattle, all at the same time. More submarine-borne planes could help cut supply lines and bomb any ships that came to the rescue of the enemy. “You ought to put your ideas in writing, Fujita,” he said, “and forward them to the High Command.”
I laughed. Those admirals in Tokyo included the most superior of our naval academy’s graduates. Would men who had studied at Etajima listen to a mere farm boy? Certainly not. But when Lieutenant Tsukudo kept insisting, I finally did draw up a letter and gave it to him. “I’ll see that it is sent on,” he said. Lieutenant Tsukudo had a lot more faith in brush and ink than I did.
A little later, nine submarines were ordered to stations off the U. S. west coast. I-25 maneuvered between San Francisco and Seattle for the next few days, then we received orders to shell the mainland on 25 December. Most of us hoped Captain Tagami would choose San Francisco. It would make a fine Christmas present for the Yankees. We were still speculating on the target area next day, when we sunk a tanker. We watched men jumping into boats, but we didn’t stay around long for fear of counterattacks.
We never did find out which city Captain Tagami might have chosen for the Christmas Day shelling, for on 21 December we were ordered south to attack a force that had been reported passing through the Panama Canal. Again we were frustrated, however, for a destroyer sighted us. We barely escaped with our lives, and I thought again of my plan. A bomb-carrying plane might have sunk that destroyer, or at least distracted it so I-25 could get torpedoes away. I was thinking about this as we swung west to join other submarines of the Sixth Fleet in the Marshalls.
En route, we torpedoed what resembled USS Langley on 8 January 1942, near Johnston Island, southwest of Oahu. Three days later we slid into the lagoon at Kwajalein and started comparing notes with other submariners who had left the homeland nearly three months before. The tropical breeze was welcome; we feasted on fresh fruits and vegetables and took plenty of baths, which a man never did once his ship went to sea. All this comfort was appreciated, except, perhaps, by those who had to put a new coat of black paint on I-25.
Hawaii radio traffic kept building up during January, so we knew the Americans were planning some kind of thrust. We found out what it was early in the morning of 1 February, when carrier-type planes suddenly dove on us. All submarines quickly flooded tanks and dropped to the lagoon’s bottom, where we listened to the dull boom of enemy bombs. I was afraid of what would greet our eyes when we surfaced, for the Americans had achieved complete surprise—a small scale Pearl Harbor. But when we rose, we exchanged many scathing remarks about American training methods. All those planes had not sunk even one ship!
My first reconnaissance over enemy territory was a flight above Sydney, Australia. On this, and all similar flights, my crewman was petty officer Shoji Okuda, who did not survive the war. We arrived within sight of Sydney’s outer lighthouse on 13 February, but had to wait for the right combination of wind and sea conditions before attempting a launching. I was in flight clothes before dawn of the 18th, when the word “Prepare to launch aircraft!” sounded through the submarine.
The trip was uneventful, but filled with suspense. Scouting enemy territory in a slow plane requires one to look in every direction at once, it seems. Okuda had a difficult time, too. He plotted transports, cargo ships, destroyers and one cruiser on his chart, all the while keeping track of our position with only a compass and stopwatch.
I very nearly broke radio silence when I-25 could not be sighted at the rendezvous point, but stopped on sighting a puff of yellow smoke near the southern horizon. It was I-25. I learned later that we had been off course because of a faulty compass and resolved to check this more carefully in the future. I-252s radio watch was busy that day, wiring my shipping information to Tokyo.
Eight days after scouting Sydney, I flew over Melbourne and we radioed Tokyo more shipping information. Three days after that I checked Hobart, Tasmania. On 7 March, I scouted Wellington, New Zealand, and ten days later made a reconnaissance of Auckland. On these flights, we obtained much useful information, but we always flew in fear of discovery. Once sighted by an enemy aircraft, we were dead and we knew it, for our top speed was only 150 miles per hour. So Okuda and I agreed that if we were ever sighted we would draw pursuit away from I-25 until we ran out of gasoline. Then we would land, destroy what papers we had, punch holes in the Zero’s pontoons, and shoot ourselves. This won us the admiration of I-25's crew, who were always anxious during the moments of our take-offs and landings.
Shortly after the Battle of Midway, I-25 was operating off Vancouver when we were ordered to shell the U. S. naval base at Astoria, Oregon. Captain Tagami was a shrewd sailor. He took I-25 in through a large group of fishing vessels, knowing that where they were there would certainly be no mine fields. We got off 17 rapid rounds of 5.5-inch shells from our deck gun, then raced out of there as fast as we could, leaving a wake of frantic fishermen. We couldn’t find any shipping after that—perhaps the shelling of Astoria had frightened them into seeking port—and returned to Yokosuka, arriving 10 July.
Shortly after that, Captain Tagami handed me a message: “WARRANT OFFICER FUJITA IS INSTRUCTED TO REPORT TO IMPERIAL NAVAL HEADQUARTERS AT ONCE” The sight of so many senior officers at the Navy building awed me, but I found Commander Iura’s office, walked in, and said, “I am Warrant Officer Fujita, Sir. Chief flying officer of I-25."
“Thank you for coming,” he said politely and at that moment a man in commander’s uniform joined us. I recognized him from newspaper pictures as Prince Takamatsu, our Emperor’s younger brother. His presence flustered me so that all I could think of to do was to turn to Commander Iura again and repeat, “I am Warrant Officer Fujita, Sir.” “I know, I know,” he said, “Fujita, we are going to have you bomb the American mainland.” I was stunned for a moment. My mind raced over the cities I might strike. Seattle? San Francisco? Los Angeles? Perhaps I might hit a carrier while it was not yet completed. The whole thing seemed dreamlike, as I remember, and no wonder. A former member of Japan’s diplomatic corps who had been in Seattle, had suggested the American mainland might be bombed. Somewhere the letter crossed paths with the letter Lieutenant Tsukudo had forwarded for me, because Captain Tagami, I-25, and I were mentioned by name in the final plan.
A third officer entered and spread some charts on a table. “We captured these at Wake Island,” he said, “They ought to prove useful.” He ran his finger along the American coastline, stopping at a point just inland of the coast and about 75 miles north of the California border. “You will bomb forests for us,” he said, “right about here.”
I was dumbfounded! Even a cadet pilot could bomb a forest. What did they want me for? The aide read my disappointment, for he began to speak more rapidly.
“The northwestern United States is full of forests. Once a blaze gets started in the deep woods it is very difficult to stop. Sometimes whole towns are destroyed. If we were to bomb some of these forests, it would put the enemy to much trouble. It might even cause large scale panic, once residents knew Japan could reach out and bomb their factories and homes from 5,000 miles away.”
The next few days were hard ones for me. I could not tell my wife anything, and each glance at my young son filled me with fear I would never see him again. Earlier reconnaissance missions had made me more and more confident as each one was successfully completed. But this one was different. This time I would be attacking and some speedy fighter would certainly shoot my lumbering plane into the sea. This thought was uppermost in my mind as we glided out of Yokosuka on 15 August 1942. We made our crossing in calm seas and, except for a few scares when porpoises looked like torpedoes, there was no incident. Our navy had given the Americans a severe defeat several days before I left port, sinking a number of their cruisers off Savo Island, in the Solomons. On 9 September 1942, as I peered through I-25's periscope and made out Cape Blanco lighthouse, I determined to inflict still more damage on the enemy.
My flight clothes on and fastened, I made my final preparations. I placed some strands of hair, a few fingernail cuttings, and my will in a small box. The Imperial Army, whenever possible, returned the ashes of fallen warriors to their families but, since Navy men and pilots usually died in such ways that their bodies were not recoverable for cremation, we followed a special custom. If I died, my “remains” would go back to Japan in I-25, and be presented to my wife in a special. box made of light paulownia wood.
When all was ready, the catapult was fired. I flew straight ahead toward Cape Blanco lighthouse, crossed the coast, and swung northeast for the bombing area. The sun filled the eastern sky with a red-gold brightness. After flying an estimated 50 miles, I ordered Okuda to release the first bomb, which burst, and splashed a brilliant white light over the earthscape.
My mind leaped back four months to when I-25 had been sitting in Yokosuka next to the aircraft carrier Ryuho, and one of Doolittle’s planes put a bomb into Ryuho’s flight deck which killed a number of her crew. That pilot had bombed my homeland for its first time. Now I was bombing his. It gave me a great deal of satisfaction.
We flew east for another five or six miles and let the second bomb go. Another burst, another blinding white blossom, another success. It was now time to get out of there, if I intended to fly two more such strikes.
I leveled the Zero off at 100 feet and raced for the ocean. As soon as I passed over Cape Blanco, we turned southwest. Just then I saw two merchant ships, one a few miles south, the other somewhat north. I skimmed along the water, trying to pass midway between the ships before they could identify me as Japanese. In a few minutes I was below their horizon. Not until then did I turn to find I-25. We were soon aboard.
Japanese Navy men are expected to conduct their business calmly, but words tumbled over each other as I reported. “Mission is completed, Sir.” I told the captain, “Both bombs exploded perfectly. Two large fires are spreading. Our plane is in excellent condition, and I have sighted two merchant ships east of you, headed north at 12 knots.”
“Give me a course to intercept those ships!” he shouted to the navigator. Our captain was daring a lot to make two kills, for I feared an alarm must surely have been raised on shore about the fires. Or perhaps by those merchant ships. My float-equipped Zero would not be confused with American seaplanes, for they all had only one pontoon. None, of course, had a red ball on the fuselage and wings. I-25 was still maneuvering for attack position when lookouts sighted an enemy plane.
We dove quickly and must have been charged with good fortune, for the bombs missed. Several remarks were passed about the training of American flyers, and the subject of their poor showing at Kwajalein was brought up again.
Captain Tagami took I-25 to 250 feet and kept her there throughout the day, shutting off engines when he heard other ships. The Americans sent destroyers to hunt us, for we heard the sound of depth charges, all of them far away. More comments were made about American training and how a lot of innocent fish must be very unhappy. This was the usual reaction to enemy misses early in the war, for no sailors in the world had ever spent as much time in hard training as we of the Imperial Navy. We were good, and we knew it. An enemy had to be perfect, in order to impress us.
Several days later we received a wireless from Tokyo. According to a San Francisco radio broadcast, it said, an airplane presumably launched from a Japanese submarine had dropped incendiaries on Oregon forest areas, causing some casualties, plus much damage to the woodland. A lot of ships and planes would be after us now, we thought, so Captain Tagami kept I-25 submerged all day, surfacing after dark to charge batteries and search for targets. If we had the U. S. west coast alarmed, a few sinkings might help build that public clamor we hoped to cause.
We still had four more bombs to deliver, of course, even if the enemy had been alerted.
“We’ll make the next one a night attack, Fujita,” Captain Tagami told me, “for the Americans will be expecting another sunrise one ... in the usual Japanese manner.” I smiled at that, for we had heard American broadcasters say that the Japanese always did things the same way over and over again and that we were very predictable. A night attack would change that conception, though Captain Tagami decided to combine it with “the usual Japanese manner,” too. We would surprise the enemy with an after-dark attack, but in the same place as before.
I-25 surfaced on 29 September about 50 miles west of Cape Blanco, at midnight. Oregon’s coast was now completely blacked out, as it had not been 20 days before, but Cape Blanco’s light was bright, a white beacon that drew us like a moth to the flame. We flew inland for about half an hour, and dropped two bombs, leaving two brilliant fires burning. Four bombs gone, two more to drop. If the missions were going to be this easy, I thought, we should have brought more than just half a dozen such bombs.
I took no chances on the return flight, for someone had certainly sighted me before. It must not happen again, so I cut the Zero’s engine and glided down to 1,000 feet, passing north of Cape Blanco and well out to sea before starting it again. I flew westward for the amount of time Okuda specified and, on reaching the rendezvous point, looked around me. No I-25.
Had the submarine been sighted? Had Captain Tagami been forced to run away? This could have happened, for it was a chance every submarine-based pilot had to take. The mission came first, the mother ship second, and the airplane last. Another plane crew found that out three weeks later. They were supposed to scout Pearl Harbor in mid-October, but their mother submarine could not get past heavy patrols, so they launched from such a distance that their trip had to be a one-way affair. They flew in, radioed a full report on shipping present, and were never heard from again.
I did not want to sacrifice my life, however. I was as willing as the next to die for Japan, but I wanted my death to mean something. To die as one crashed into an enemy ship, or aircraft factory, or an arsenal, was a good thing. But to die alone, at sea, perhaps slowly, after escaping detection, was simply dying, and a terrible way to end one’s life.
Suddenly I remembered our compass trouble after the Sydney reconnaissance. I pulled the Zero into a quick turn, and headed directly for Cape Blanco lighthouse. It could mean interception, but I didn’t care. At least I could then die gloriously, crashing into an enemy plane. I might even dive into the lighthouse. Anything, to do the enemy damage through my death, and make it mean something, rather than just waiting for death to find me. And meanwhile that beacon provided a fixed reference point from which to start a new search for my mother ship.
We were still having trouble locating I-25 when I saw what appeared to be an oil slick. I swung in over it and there was the submarine. If she hadn’t been leaking some fuel, I might not have found her at all.
There was much speculation among I-25 crewmen about where the third attack would be made. All I cared about was getting rid of those other two bombs, so the mission would be ended. Twice now, Okuda and I had luck riding in the cockpit with us. Next time, we might find ourselves very much alone. The affair was finally settled by bad weather and rough seas. Captain Tagami cancelled out the third mission personally, having decided to spend the rest of his patrol time in attacks on shipping. Perhaps he, too, did not believe in pushing luck too far.
On 5 October we sank a tanker off Seattle and next day sent still another to the bottom. In between the two bombing attacks we had fired a number of torpedoes, all misses, at other targets, and now we were down to our last one, so Captain Tagami started homeward. We fired that last torpedo, at a pair of submarines on 11 October, about 600 miles off the Washington coast.
We arrived in Yokosuka weary and dirty and my legs were slightly swollen from the beri beri that hit so many submariners because they didn’t get enough vitamins. I got away from the ship as soon as I could and headed for Taura to let my family have a look at the man now regarded as a national hero. I was filled with relief, for I was home again, safe and sound. My mission had been accomplished. My theory about what bomb-carrying submarine planes could do had been proven. Now all that remained for Japan was to send more submarines, with more planes, against the American coast and make her defend it with warships. This would weaken her other forces so that our Combined Fleet could concentrate against them. I was sure that if this were done the enemy might be driven off Guadalcanal and out of the Japanese Empire forever.
★
Next Time, Don’t Miss
During the Aleutians campaign, we were strafed one afternoon by a group of Japanese planes. A bullet struck one of our 40-mm after guns and narrowly escaped hitting a boatswain’s mate who was not very well liked.
As soon as the word came over the phones, a seaman on the forward gun deck shook his fist at the departing planes and shouted, “Next time you birds draw a bead on ’im!”
Contributed by Russell A. Lott
★ ★ ★
What Seems to Be the Problem?
Recently during a joint Army-Navy-Air Force amphibious exercise off the coast of Washington State, the ship’s Captain was approached during the heat of battle by an umpire attached to present realistic situations.
“Sir, a bomb has just hit forward!” the umpire blurted out. Calmly the Captain turned and asked. “Well, did it explode?” But before the startled umpire could answer, the Captain added, “Never mind, we disarmed it and threw it over the side!”
Contributed by Ens. Jerry L. Bruemmer, U. S. Navy
(The Naval Institute will pay $5.00 for each anecdote accepted for publication in the Proceedings.)