(1909–October 25, 2000)

Japanese Submarine Captain

Hashimoto is credited with sinking only one American warship during World War II, the cruiser USS Indianapolis. This was the last U.S. Navy warship lost during the war and one of the biggest disasters to ever befall American sailors. Later, Hashimoto was called to testify against the captain of that ill-fated vessel!

Mochitsura Hashimoto was born in Kyoto, Japan, in 1909, the son of a Shinto priest. He entered the Imperial Japanese Naval Academy in 1927 and graduated as an ensign four years later. Hashimoto volunteered for submarine service in 1934 and spent considerable time on destroyers and subchasers before attending the Navy Torpedo School in 1939. The following year he was selected to pass through the Submarine School, and in 1941 he was billeted aboard the submarine I-24. At this time, Japan was preparing for war with the United States to obtain badly needed raw materials being denied by an economic embargo. The first step of Japanese strategy entailed an attack against Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, by carrier forces as well as submarines. For several months up to December 1941, Hashimoto and the I-24 were rigorously trained in the transport and deployment of miniature submarines. His was commanded by Sub-Lt. Kazuo Sakamaki, a bright and enthusiastic young officer. At midnight on December 6, 1941, I-24, in concert with 27 other such vessels, launched miniature submarines against the American fleet anchored in the harbor. However, none scored any hits, and all were destroyed. Worse, when Sakamaki’s vessel floundered, he managed to escape and swim to the beach—becoming the first Japanese prisoner of war! Nonetheless, Hashimoto returned to Japan, and the following spring he gained assignment to advanced courses at the Submarine School. This meant that a vessel—and a command—of his own was in the offing.

In July 1942, Hashimoto assumed control of the RO-44, a small submarine designed specifically for coastal patrol work. Over the next two years he tirelessly honed and perfected his skills as a commander, waiting for the day when a large, fleet-class vessel would be his. Hashimoto’s patience and persistence paid off in May 1944, when he transferred to the I-58 with the rank of lieutenant commander. The newly launched I-58 was a most impressive warship. At 355 feet in length, 30 feet across the beam, and displacing 2,140 tons, it was nearly twice the size of Germany’s vaunted U-boats. Furthermore, it possessed a cruising range of 15,000 miles and carried no less than 19 of the deadly oxygen-powered Long Lance torpedoes. These were the most effective ship-killing weapons anywhere, far more potent than their American equivalents. However, as the months passed by, the I-58 was also rigged to carry a new, more sinister device—the kaiten. These were one-way suicide subs manned by a crew of two. The men chosen, usually fanatically trained college students, could enter the kaiten only from within the submarines carrying them, then were sealed off. Their mission at that point was to strike an enemy vessel or die. In January 1945, Hashimoto led the I-58 out on its maiden combat patrol and headed for Guam. There he launched several kaitens without results—and the experience of sending young men to their doom affected him profoundly. Thereafter, he swore not to launch any more of these ludicrous weapons unless success was absolutely assured.

By the summer of 1945, Japan was on its last leg, having lost the war badly. Its surface navy had been crushed, and American advances in sonar and other detection devices had sunk the majority of I-boats. This represented a great personal loss to Hashimoto, for of the 15 highly trained individuals in his submarine class, only five survived. Hashimoto’s I-58 was one of only a handful of submarines still operational. In July 1945, he was dispatched to perform one of the last Japanese underwater missions of World War II. He was ordered to cruise the well-traveled route between Guam and Leyte, in the Philippines, looking for targets. Bad luck seemed to plague I-58. It cruised the region for several days without making any contacts with the enemy. Hashimoto had all but given up and was about to return home when, at midnight on July 26, 1945, he espied a large warship on the horizon. Peering through his periscope, he watched in disbelief as it appeared to be sailing directly toward him and—inexplicably—was not taking evasive action. He ordered the I-58 to battle stations and loaded six torpedoes—much to the disappointment of his kaiten crew! When the target had sailed to within 1,500 meters, Hashimoto loosed a salvo at the darkened object, beautifully silhouetted against the moon, which he guessed was an Idaho-class battleship. Several explosions were heard, and within 15 minutes the target disappeared beneath the waves. Amid much rejoicing, the persistent submarine captain ordered I-58 battened down, and he headed home for Japan. The unidentified visitor was Hashimoto’s only sinking of the war, but he was relieved to have accomplished something. His was the last Japanese naval victory of World War II.

Unknown to Hashimoto at that time, his victim was the heavy cruiser USS Indianapolis, a big warship with a distinguished past. Launched in 1935, it had battled across the Pacific and even once served as the flagship of Adm. Raymond Spruance. In 1945, command had fallen upon Capt. Charles B. McVay III, a highly decorated combat veteran. Indianapolis had been in San Francisco undergoing repairs when, by dint of its excellent reputation, it was specially selected for a very secret mission. Sailing in July 1945, McVay was tasked with transporting parts of the atomic bomb to the island of Tinian, from where the new weapon would ultimately be dropped on Hiroshima. He arrived and delivered his cargo on July 27 as scheduled, then weighed anchor and steamed for Leyte to join the American fleet gathered there. McVay had not been warned of any Japanese submarine activity in the region of Guam (some had been reported); at this stage of the war, none was expected. On the fatal evening of July 28, 1945—heavily overcast with poor visibility—McVay ordered Indianapolis to stop zigzagging to shorten its arrival time at Leyte. The night crew was specifically instructed to resume the maneuver should the weather improve; then he retired. This decision was reasonable and completely within the captain’s discretion. Within an hour the Indianapolis was struck amidships and sank in 12 confusing minutes—before an SOS could be dispatched. The big vessel went down quickly, taking an estimated 300 crewmen with it, and few lifeboats or rafts could be secured. This left 900 sailors swimming in the open ocean. They remained there four days because nobody at Leyte noticed that the Indianapolis was overdue or missing, and rescue missions were not dispatched. Meanwhile, McVay’s survivors suffered from exposure, exhaustion, and lack of freshwater. Worse, their splashing and bleeding attracted great numbers of sharks, who gorged themselves on human flesh. It was not until August 2, 1945, four days later, that a PBY seaplane touched down to rescue the survivors. By this time only 316 men were still alive.

As the I-58 slowly wended its way home, a message was received by radio on August 15, 1945, suggesting that Japan had surrendered. Hashimoto dismissed it as some kind of American ploy, and he remained combat-ready. When the truth finally emerged, both the captain and his crew were shocked. Hashimoto then dutifully turned in his sword and surrendered to American authorities as ordered. In December 1945, the captain was further dismayed to learn that he was being flown to Washington, D.C., as a witness for the prosecution in a court-martial. Captain McVay, who previously enjoyed a sterling reputation, was being court-martialed for the loss of his ship. The introduction of an enemy officer at American court-martial proceedings was unprecedented, and it caused a public outcry. Nevertheless, Navy Chief of Staff Ernest King insisted that be held accountable for the loss of his ship. Speaking through an interpreter, Hashimoto acknowledged that the Indianapolis was not performing evasive actions when he attacked. But he also stated that it mattered little, for at such close range he would have sunk the cruiser anyway. Regardless, the court found McVay guilty of not zigzagging—even though as captain he possessed discretionary power to cease such movements as deemed necessary. This more or less closed McVay’s naval career, and Hashimoto returned to Japan without ceremony.

Little is known of Hashimoto’s civilian pursuits, only that he died in Kyoto on October 25, 2000, a capable and determined enemy. Sadly, Captain McVay preceded him to the grave by many years. He was the first American naval officer ever court-martialed for losing his ship in combat, and he keenly felt a sense of shame. Tormented by the loss of his ship and crewmen, this fine officer shot himself in 1968. The Indianapolis had claimed its final victim.

Bibliography

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