At his new, Seabee-built headquarters on Guam, Chester William Nimitz sat at a shiny new desk. He wore khaki shorts, and an open-necked shirt with the five stars of a fleet admiral on the points of his collar. He was waiting. Radio Tokyo went off the air, came on again, screaming about the approach of U.S. planes. Then the Navy signal was flashed. Mitscher's attack had begun.
Nimitz reached for his pen, gripped it in a hand gnarled by rheumatism (from submarine service a quarter of a century ago), and wrote in a neat,...
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