Commodore Perry and the Opening of Japan: Narrative of the Expedition of an American Squadron to the China Seas and Japan, 1852- 1854
Francis L. Hawks. Stroud, England: Nonsuch Publishing, 2005. 512 pp. Illus. Notes. Index. $30.00.
Reviewed by Craig L. Symonds
Matthew C. Perry’s mission to Japan in 1852-54 may have been America’s greatest diplomatic triumph of the 19th century. Perry succeeded not only in his primary mission of obtaining a treaty with the previously isolationist Empire of Japan (the Treaty of Kanegawa), which included Japanese agreement to care for shipwrecked sailors and establish coaling stations for American ships, but he also opened the door for a future U.S.-Japan trade relationship.
The chronicler of that voyage was Francis L. Hawks, who wrote a detailed but quite readable narrative of the voyage based on Perry’s journal as well as “the journals of his secretary and other officers, the diaries of the fleet captain and flag- lieutenants, the official reports . . . and the public documents.” Published in 1856 by the U.S. government in three lengthy volumes, along with a portfolio of charts, it was a best seller in its time.
The first volume chronicled the mission from the departure of the steam frigate Mississippi from Norfolk in November 1852 to its return to Brooklyn in April 1855. The second included reports on the agriculture, geography, topography, mineral deposits, and natural history of not just Japan but also the regions visited en route. The third presented hundreds of star charts for the benefit of future Pacific navigators. There is little modem interest in either of the last two volumes, but Hawks’ narrative in Volume I is as engaging today as it was to 19th-century readers.
The work has been reprinted in various forms three times since that original edition. In 1952, a New York publisher produced an abridged edition (about two-thirds the original length) of Volume 1, and 15 years later Arno Press produced a facsimile edition of all three original volumes, plus charts, which is the version most research libraries have on their shelves. The new edition under review here is welcome for several reasons. First is the simple fact that it makes this excellent work available again not only to research libraries but also to the general public. Hawks modestly declared that his role was “that of a compiler merely,” but he is too modest, for his detailed account is part travelogue, part adventure story, and part diplomatic history. Second, rather than an abridged version, this new volume includes the full text of the narrative in Volume 1. Third, rather than merely photocopy the original, the text has been reset in a crisp font and printed on glossy paper (which also makes the book quite heavy for a one-inch-thick paperback). The new publishers have deleted the laundry-list style of chapter headings used in the 19th century and created new chapter titles. The rather zany font used in these new chapter titles is similar to that used in the Harry Potter books, which gives the page an adventurous look.
Welcome as this new edition is, it has some drawbacks, and at least two of them are serious. One is that it includes a revised index, which is inferior to the original, indeed so inferior that one wonders why the publishers bothered. It is only 3½ pages long and omits many vital topics and most proper names. As an example, the last entry in the index (and the only entry under “U”) is for “United States” which is followed by roughly 100 page numbers but no subheadings. Second, the original edition included 46 footnotes, which appeared at the bottom of pages, while in this edition the footnotes are bunched together at the end of the book. This would not be a problem except that while the notes are numbered at the back, their locations in the text are marked only by an asterisk, and as a result, there is no way to tell which footnote goes with which asterisk! Finally, the publishers might have included modern names for some of the places Perry visited. It is unlikely that many 21st-century readers will know, for example, that “Loo Chew” is Okinawa, or that “Peel Island” is Chichi Jima.
Despite these weaknesses, this new edition of Hawks’ engaging narrative is most welcome, and its paperback format makes it readily available and less daunting than the original. It is still a good read and provides a window into the character of the United States, the U.S. Navy, and the Far East in the middle of the 19th century.
Shattered Sword: The Untold Story of the Battle of Midway
Jonathan B. Parshall and Anthony P. Tully. Dulles, VA: Potomac Books, 2005. 639 pp. Illus. Bib. Appen. Index. $35.00.
Reviewed by CW03 Ronald W. Russell, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
It would be easy for the casual bookstore browser to dismiss this book on first glance—another massive tome about the Battle of Midway, one of the most documented and analyzed engagements in the U.S. Navy’s history. The book’s title even echoes the oft-repeated claim of delivering the “untold” story of the battle. Why would anyone who has read Walter Lord, Gordon Prange, and Mitsuo Fuchida on this subject think that anything more is to be said, especially by a couple of relatively unknown writers?
The short answer is, simply, get this book. Parshall and Tully have pulled off what every author/historian aspires to do: take the body of literature on a chosen topic to a level of insight and understanding not formerly attained or perhaps even imagined. Oddly enough, that lofty appraisal is not reflected in the book’s title, which is quite misleading. The cover suggests that it is another telling of the entire Battle of Midway story, but that is not the case. Shattered Sword is a new, definitive accounting of the Imperial Japanese Navy (IJN) at Midway, based on a depth of research and cogent analysis that rises far above anything previously seen by this reviewer. In fact, one of the authors confided that the original working subtitle was The Imperial Japanese Navy at the Battle of Midway, but the publisher wanted it changed to broaden its appeal.
Understanding that, then the question immediately arises: How could anyone at this late date, especially in the West, imagine that the existing preeminent source on the IJN at Midway, Mitsuo Fuchida and Masatake Okumiya’s Midway: The Battle That Doomed Japan (Naval Institute Press, 1992), could possibly be supplanted or even contested? Parshall and Tully have the answers in more than 600 pages of meticulously researched text, augmented by an array of computergenerated drawings, charts, and maps. Indeed, the 94-item graphic set is a major attraction of the book, showing double page, multi-angle views of each of the four Japanese carriers at Midway, detailed drawings of their principal aircraft, and exhaustive data tables describing the individual sorties of literally every Japanese aircrew that launched during the battle, including those engaged in the so- called Aleutians diversion.
But a book does not become the icon of its subject matter simply through impressive pictures. Shattered Sword will doubtless achieve that stature because its authors largely eschewed the much- used traditional references on the battle, focusing instead on original material obtained from authoritative Japanese sources. The result is an entirely new understanding of how the enemy’s navy formed and operated its carrier forces, how and why the design of their carriers very significantly affected the course of the battle, and especially how Japanese culture and history (particularly the Battle of the Tsushima Strait in 1905) substantially influenced what proved to be a critically flawed strategy.
Shattered Sword begs a thorough comparison to Fuchida and Okumiya’s Midway, a challenge the authors take on with gusto. Indeed, a key theme of the work is that Fuchida, the highly respected IJN aviator who led the Pearl Harbor attack and ultimately became a convert to Christianity, was guilty of numerous deliberate prevarications that have muddled the facts of Midway for decades. Chief among them is the popular belief that the Japanese flight decks were crammed with armed attack aircraft ready to launch when the American dive bombers struck. Through a minute-by-minute accounting of Japanese combat air patrol operations during the battle, Parshall and Tully convincingly demonstrate that to have been impossible—the attack planes had to have been below, on the hangar decks, and quite unprepared for action. The authors similarly discount a number of Fuchida’s other claims, showing them to have been tainted for the sake of the Japanese audience for whom the book was originally written.
As stunning an accomplishment as Shattered Sword is, the perfect reference on the Battle of Midway still remains to be written. The new book exhibits a few traits that will give some readers pause, although they are inconsequential. The authors make extensive use of Japanese terminology, not always with a handy English explanation. For example, terms unfamiliar to most readers such as hikocho—the air officer on a Japanese carrier—and kanbaku—an Aichi Type 99 (“Val”) dive bomber—are liberally woven into the text. (A permanent bookmark in the glossary will help.) Other quibbles arise over some of the authors’ conclusions regarding whether the IJN was bringing “overwhelming force” to the battle, that Midway was the “decisive” engagement in the Pacific, and whether the stunning American victory profoundly affected the rest of World War II on all fronts. The authors pursue each point quite convincingly, but readers may still find their arguments subjective and vulnerable to interpretation over semantics.
In sum, though, such minor criticisms do not measurably detract from the book’s value. Shattered Sword can justifiably be labeled a groundbreaker, a landmark work that belongs at eye-level center in any naval historian’s bookcase.
Steering to Glory: A Day in the Life of a Ship of the Line
Nicholas Blake. London: Chatham Publishing, 2006. 320 pp. 111. $39.95.
Reviewed by Ron Benigo
This often-perplexing effort to recreate a day in the life of a mythical but historically accurate 74-gun ship of the line, circa 1810, was a very difficult read for one whose locus of knowledge of sailing ships was circumscribed by several brief encounters with the Naval Academy’s fleet of knockabouts during Plebe summer. Blake’s literal use of the prevailing nomenclature of his fictional HMS Splendid's vast array of decks, sails, and other equipment presented no end of verbal challenge. Blake also quotes liberally from ships’ logs, court-martial records, and letters written in the formal and colloquial English of the time, which further complicated my efforts to follow the story line.
Despite my difficulties, I suspect that naval history buffs will find this to be an important addition to their libraries, primarily because Blake’s attention to detail and careful research painstakingly give life to a routine day on blockade duty in the Mediterranean Sea. There are no cannon fired or boarding parties sent with cutlasses bared to engage the hated French in this book. Instead, we are given a behind-the-scenes look at the complexity of managing the day’s largest and most awesome of war machines. We learn of typical crew composition of a thousand men (and women) from 30 or more countries representing more than 50 trades or occupations, giving a new perspective on cultural diversity. We also gain an understanding at the tradeoffs evaluated by the British Admiralty when deciding on ship size and the difficulties of construction evolving from the limitations of lumber strength. For the more technically inclined, Blake provides detailed descriptions of some of the more clever engineering of the day such as the windsail devices, large funnels used to catch fresh air above decks and direct it to the foul, sometimes lethal holds below.
The Splendid is on a victualling mission on the day in question, so we also experience the difficulties of supplying a fleet on extended sea duty in unfriendly waters. From the daunting task of conveying water casks to and from the ship’s holds to the accounting for freshly butchered livestock from the herds carried on board, Blake gives us a keen sense of the importance and attention paid to these critical activities. We also get an appreciation for the logistics of managing a two-shift deployment of crew over four daily watches including the ingenuities and vagaries of sleeping and messing arrangements and their associated social dimensions.
With respect to the social dimension, Blake also gives us a portrait of the harsh life of the officers and men of the crew of the Splendid. Considering the cultural diversity previously cited, the apparently copious supply of beer, wine, and other spirits available to the crew and the crowded living conditions, it is no wonder that Blake’s account of shipboard life is frequently drawn from court-martial records. These accounts paint a picture of harsh discipline meted out by brutish boatswains and swift and, by today’s standards, cruel justice for offenses of ship’s law (for example, death by hanging was automatic for those caught engaging in homosexual activities on board). Noticeably absent in these accounts is the role of the ship’s captain. In fact, the first lieutenant seems to be responsible for disciplinary action.
Not much was mentioned of the additional challenges posed by having women on board. These were primarily the spouses of senior crewmembers, so one could conclude that respect for the marital situation and/or the fear of terrible reprisal helped temper the crew’s behavior.
Blake also offers interesting social commentary on the importance of selecting or being selected for the appropriate mess, as this was clearly the most significant setting for social intercourse. Where and with whom one dined apparently had enormous impact on the sailor’s view of shipboard life.
In summary, this is not a book for those looking for a light summer read. Those without a good working vocabulary of sailing terminology and the patience to attempt to translate the 19th-century English from its contextual use will not get the full benefit of Blake’s scholarly prowess. For those who can find their way through the text, however, this book provides an educational and sometimes fascinating view of the naval experience during a time when sea power was at the heart of the British Empire’s destiny.
The Oxford Companion to Ships and the Sea
Ian C. B. Dear and Peter Kemp, eds. Second Edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. 678 pp. $65.00.
Reviewed by Commander Tyrone G. Martin, U. S. Navy (Retired)
When the first edition of this compendium appeared nearly 30 years ago, it was seen as a handy reference to many things maritime, containing, as it did, nearly 1,000 pages of entries spanning much of interest to students of the sea and seamen. While there was no mistaking a British bias, on the whole a considerable effort had been made to represent the ships, seamen, and nautical events from most corners of the globe.
This second edition is a much smaller work—fewer than 700 pages— and in that reduction much has been lost. Under a relentless ax went such categories as biography, ships, battles, and places, in particular. There are no entries for Chinese, German, or Japanese personalities. British figures account for almost half of those that remain. There are no entries for “amphibious warfare,” “landing craft,” or “landing ships.” More than half of the individual ship entries are British. The world’s first nuclear-powered submarine, the USS Nautilus (SSN-571), rates no more than third place in the entry primarily about the animal. The USS Monitor and CSS Virginia appear only as included mentions in the entries for “USS Merrimac” [sic: in this instance, the name was Merrimack] and “monitor.” Even the Battle of Trafalgar is absent but for a Nicholas Pocock painting illustrating the entry “warfare at sea.”
Two subject areas seem to have benefited from particularly active contributors. An oceanographer at Southampton Oceanography Center prepared more than 100 entries, some of considerable length, for this edition, thus expanding coverage in this field. Even so, there are gaps. For example, the “gyre,” a major ocean feature, is absent (as is “gurnet,” a minor one). Coverage of the burgeoning field of manned and unmanned underwater research vehicles is limited to a single entry with only a few of the best-known craft—Trieste, Alvin— mentioned in passing. At least two yachtsmen have bolstered that subject area in this truncated edition, including a nearly full-page listing of America’s Cup participants (except of the most recent races) and a two-page spread identifying existing sail training vessels around the world.
In sum, this latest edition still contains much good information, but its value has been diminished by its lack of truly international scope, a narrow group of new contributors, and, apparently, the lack of a clear editorial plan to allocate available space proportionally among the various facets of the subject. If one must have this work on hand, wait for the less expensive paperback edition—and keep the first edition.
Battleground Atlantic: How the Sinking of a Single Japanese Submarine Assured the Outcome of World War II
Richard N. Billings. New York: Penguin Group (USA), 2006. 320 pp. $23.95
Reviewed by Rear Admiral T. A. Brooks, U.S. Navy (Retired)
The title leads one to expect a book about the World War II Battle of the Atlantic. Yes, there are some pages dedicated to that, but an equal number of pages are dedicated to the war in the Pacific, Allied code-breaking in both theaters, the development of war technologies, the use of U.S. escort carriers in an ASW role, and even to such miscellany as Allen Dulles’ role in negotiating the end of the war. The book contains many good stories, but it is rambling, relatively unfocused, and takes forever to develop its plot line. The subtitle reveals the real plot, and it could have been told in 100 pages instead of almost 300.
The Japanese boat in question was the I-52, a large cargo sub and one of several Japanese (and a couple German) submarines that were assigned to carry high-value cargoes and passengers between Japan and Germany. Most did not make it, and the I-52 was among them. She was sunk in the Atlantic by aircraft from the escort carrier USS Bogue (CVE-9) in June 1944.
Decrypted Japanese naval messages concerning her voyage were released after the war and revealed that the I-52 carried two tons of gold. This set off a search by treasure hunters, which is one of the more interesting parts of the book. It tells of a U.S.-Russian expedition—American salvagers and financing with a Russian research ship and Mir submersibles—to recover the gold. The wreck was found and photographed, and a few artifacts were recovered, but apparently no gold was found—at least the book never reveals that any was recovered.
In the end, gold is only a side story. The real cargo of interest to the author is a ton of uranium oxide that the I-52 was supposed to pick up in Germany for return to Japan. Since the I-52 never arrived, the uranium was placed on board a German submarine to be taken to Japan in the last days of the war. The war ended, the U-boat surrendered to Allied forces and was taken to a U.S. port where the uranium was removed and assumedly became part of our atomic energy program.
The book’s plot is only developed in its concluding 60 pages. What was the purpose of sending uranium oxide to Japan? Japan had no concrete nuclear weapons program and uranium oxide, in its natural state, is neither fissionable nor particularly radioactive. Why was it considered so important a cargo that Germany would dedicate one of its few remaining submarines to transport it to Japan?
At this point, the author departs into the realm of speculation—and it is very imaginative speculation indeed. Mr. Billings posits that Adolf Hitler did not have a viable atomic bomb program because it would have required the diversion of immense quantities of materials and electric power from his already hard-pressed war production programs. Hitler intended to use enriched uranium to produce radioactive dirty bombs to be dropped on American cities in an attempt to persuade the United States to agree to peace terms. Germany had no delivery capability for such a weapon, but the Japanese did. They had the large /-400-class seaplane-carrying submarines, which could launch their aircraft on one-way missions to drop dirty bombs on major West Coast cities. In the author’s words, Hitler wanted to get the Japanese to “do his dirty work for him.”
To make this hypothesis viable, the uranium oxide would have to be enriched. While the Germans probably had the capability to enrich it, there is no official evidence that they did so. The author cites as substantiating evidence traces of radioactivity allegedly found on documents taken from the captured German submarine that had been carrying the uranium. It is a very thin reed, and the entire hypothesis rests on it.
Left unanswered, then, are two questions: For what purpose was the uranium intended and what became of the gold? The first question will probably never be answered to the satisfaction of all. The second question, I suppose, will be the subject of another book.
Miracles on the Water: The Heroic Survivors of a World War II U-Boat Attack
Tom Nagorski. New York: Hyperion Press, 2006. 368 pp. $24.95.
Reviewed by Robert Enrione
This is a dramatic and compelling story about a minor incident on the world stage, the torpedoing of one ship in the North Atlantic during World War II. What emerges is a tale of heroism and courage set in a complex skein of history that, as a flawed epic, is inspiring yet frustrating to read.
The story’s background is Great Britain during the Blitz, the horror of the Nazi bombing of British cities. Underlying this trauma is the ever-present class friction that permeates the body politic of the British Isles. Children of all classes were being victimized, yet the upper class was able to send their offspring to safety. It was decided to evacuate lower-class children to safer places through the Children’s Overseas Relocation Board (CORB). Many parents had to face the difficult decision of placing their children in the CORB program or risking them to German bombs. Nagorski captures their distress through a collection of individual stories—which is the strength of this book—of people caught up in an overwhelming chain of events. The result, for this book, is the delivery of 90 children to the ship City of Benares.
At this point, a more encompassing survey of the naval aspects of the voyage would have made for a better book. While the author’s description of the ship is rich and detailed, many interesting and vital facts are omitted. The bigger picture, the Battle of the Atlantic and the state of the submarine war at the time, so integral to the tragedy, is not well presented.
To the stories of the children and their guardians are added those of the other passengers and crew of the ship. They are an interesting lot, not the least of whom is the author’s uncle. The captain and crew of the U-48 are not one-dimensional villains, and the account of the attack is splendidly told. It is, however, the individual, personal stories of the children and adults rising to the occasion—from abandoning ship in Force 5 weather conditions until their rescue—that captures the reader’s mind and heart. The failures, the individual losses, are heart rending. The miracle is that anyone survived. Of the 406 passengers and crew on board, 245 were lost including 77 of the 90 children.
At the time, 17 September 1940, this horror story received attention but quickly sank into oblivion because of other war news. Most histories do not even mention it. The book closes with a look at those who survived and again, it fails. It does not tell us what happened to the CORB program—it was eventually abandoned—-and how many lives it saved. These points, along with a dose of naval history, would have made for a better book. Still, it is a well-written volume about a little-covered topic in naval and World War II history, thus is worth reading.