The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(76)
“Thank you.” Stark waved a hand. “You may go now.”
Kramer shifted his weight. “Sir, as hostilities seem imminent, shouldn’t we telephone Admiral Kimmel in Hawaii?”
Stark’s eyes widened. The Admiral was not used to being told what to do. “No. I’m going to call the President first.” He looked Kramer up and down, taking his measure. “I need to speak to the President in private.”
Kramer saluted and left. When Stark called the number, it was busy.
Chapter Nineteen
At the large desk in his office, General George C. Marshall, Chief of Staff U.S. Army, looked over Bratton’s documents, as Colonel Bratton chewed the inside of his lip.
“The Japanese government,” Marshall read, “regrets to have to notify the American government hereby, that in view of the attitude of the American government, it cannot but consider that it is impossible to reach an agreement with further negotiations …”
He skimmed the rest of the papers, then looked up. “Colonel Bratton, I do believe you’re right. This document convinces me that the Japanese will attack at or shortly after one P.M. today.”
Bratton, who’d been dressed down by Marshall after the previous week’s false alarm, swelled with pride and relief. Marshall scrawled a message down on a piece of his personal stationery for distribution to the commanding generals in the Philippines, the Canal Zone, and the Presidio. It read: The Japanese are presenting at thirteen hundred EST today what amounts to an ultimatum. Also, they are under orders to destroy their code machines immediately. Just what importance the hour set may signify, we don’t know, but be on alert accordingly.
“Don’t you think we should let Admiral Kimmel in Hawaii know, too, sir?”
“Let me call Stark first,” Marshall said. He spoke a few minutes with Stark, and listened, and then hung up. “Admiral Stark doesn’t think any additional warning is necessary.”
The telephone rang, and it was Stark again; the Admiral had changed his mind. “Yes, sir—we’ll take care of it.” To the list of people getting the memo Marshall added in a scribble: Inform the Navy.
“Colonel Bratton, please take this to the communications center. They’ll get it out to Admiral Kimmel and the rest of them in the Pacific.”
“Yes, sir!” Bratton said, saluting.
“And if there’s any question of priority,” Marshall called after him, “get it to the Philippines first!”
Bratton ran down the hall to the Communications Center. “This is urgent!” he panted, thrusting the thick, engraved sheet out to Colonel Edward F. French, chief of Traffic Operations. “General Marshall wants it sent to all Pacific commanders by the fastest possible method!”
At his desk chair, French stared at the page for a long moment. He looked back to Bratton. “The General’s handwriting …” he said, shaking his head. “What a mess. I can’t read it. You’re going to have to help put it into some kind of legible copy.”
Bratton, at the limits of both patience and sanity, opened his mouth to spew profanities at the man—then closed it. He sat down to transcribe the note using the typewriter at the empty secretary’s desk, hunting and pecking one key at a time.
When he handed the typed message back to French, it was precisely two minutes before noon.
At the Japanese Embassy, Nomura’s typist was also still hunting and pecking. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He went back to the document, hit a wrong key. “Chikusho!” he swore, sweat breaking out on his upper lip. Then he crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it in the trash. He took out a fresh sheet and rolled it into the typewriter to try again.
In the office adjoining, Nomura paced while Kurusu sat absolutely still. “The typist still isn’t finished!”
Kurusu nodded, unruffled. “We will have to postpone our one o’clock meeting with Secretary Hull.”
Nomura ground his teeth in frustration.
Bratton hovered as Colonel French sent the message from General Marshall. Finally, French sent him away, saying everything was in the works, and it would take thirty to forty minutes to get through.
But French struggled with the messages, especially the one to Admiral Kimmel in Hawaii. He took the message himself to the signal center, but the channel to Fort Shafter had been out since ten thirty because of bad weather.
“Direct channel to Hawaii’s out, sir.” The aide was young and untried, and annoyed to be at the office on a Sunday morning.
“Shit!” French began pacing. “The weather’s that bad? No sign of it clearing?”