1942

by Robert Conroy

  “Then the Japs could be right over the horizon, and, once again, we’d know nothing about it.”

  “Unless we got lucky, Joe, and we haven’t been lucky in a while.”

  Collins was about to say something when an air-raid siren went off in the distance. “Another false alarm?” he asked. “Somebody spot a seagull?”

  False alarms were common, and both men waited for the usual all-clear or for the grim sounds of additional sirens. There was a pause; then the chorus of sirens increased to full volume. Behind the wailing could be heard the pap-pop-pap of antiaircraft fire. The Japs had returned.

  They were about to run to a shelter when Collins’s phone rang. The colonel answered, listened, and slammed the receiver down. “The Japs are landing on Molokai. Damnit, they fucked us again.”

  Now they could hear bombs exploding. “We needed more time,” Collins said angrily.

  But we’re not going to get it, Jake thought sadly.

  Alexa hadn’t planned to return to teaching so soon, but she had a compelling need to do something. She couldn’t dwell on Tim’s terrible death, and no amount of moping would bring him back to her. She hoped that working with the lively children would bring a degree of normalcy to her life.

  Even though she now had the use of Tim’s car, she walked to the school and found that the gentle exercise made her feel good. If she didn’t walk the two miles, she rode her bike, which meant that the gas rationing had not yet affected her.

  Father Monroe and the students had welcomed her. She cried just a little when the children presented her with small gifts and welcomed her with hugs.

  After a couple of days back at work, she knew that her decision had been the right one. It felt good to be active, particularly with the children, who were so innocent and so very much alive.

  The one-room school had only forty students, all of whom were at least partially native Hawaiian, in grades one through eight. After eighth grade, the children, most of whom came from very poor families, either dropped out or continued at McKinley High School. McKinley was so racially mixed that it was often disparagingly referred to as Tokyo High. Although most of the students at Father Monroe’s school were poor, there were a few whose families did have some money and whose children might go on to the University of Hawaii.

  Alexa’s favorite student, Kami Ogawa, was one of those who did not seem to have money problems. She was helping Kami with an English essay when the sirens went off, shocking them. For an instant, Alexa froze as the memories of December 7 came flooding back. Then she shook herself free from the past and stood up. “Everybody outside,” she commanded, and her young charges obeyed. Father Monroe followed hastily, a stunned look on his face. In single file, everyone trooped out to the freshly dug trenches behind the bare dirt playground. They weren’t much in the way of an air-raid shelter, but they would have to do.

  Alexa and the children squatted in the dirt and kept their heads down while guns barked in the distance. After a while, she peeked over the lip of the trench. As on December 7, the sky above Pearl Harbor was filled with planes and the dirty black dots of antiaircraft shells exploding. Although farther from the naval base, the school was higher in the hills, which gave her a better view than she’d had at her home.

  From behind, she heard the sound of planes and started to cower back in the dirt. “Ours,” said Father Monroe. “Go get ‘em,” he yelled in a most unpriestly manner.

  Above them flew several dozen fighters headed out to meet the Japs. “P-40s and P-36s,” one of the male students happily informed her. These were followed by six large bombers, which they all knew were B-17s, the superbombers, the Flying Fortresses that were supposed to knock the Japs silly.

  “That’s the way,” Father Monroe exulted. “This’ll teach the Japs to take on the U.S. of A.”

  Alexa felt good about the counterassault. For once America was striking back instead of allowing itself to be punched out. She quickly realized the incongruity of her current emotions and her deep feelings of pacifism. What had Jake Novacek said about being a pacifist himself when the war was over? She was certain Novacek had been joking, but there was more than an element of truth in his statement. Just as her life with Tim had been permanently disrupted, so too were her cherished beliefs about the evils of war. War might be evil, all right, but January 1942 was not the time to be against all wars. In particular not when someone was making a concerted effort to destroy the country she held dear. Pacifism was a luxury she could not afford at this time.

  Alexa considered that her school was not likely to be the focal point of the Japanese attack, so she climbed out of the trench to get a better look at the planes. The rest of her flock and Father Monroe followed with varying degrees of difficulty as they ruefully discovered that it was much easier to get into a five-foot-deep trench than it was to get out. Alexa had worn a dress and moved carefully; she was determined not to give the male students a free show.

  By now the line of American planes from Oahu’s interior had flown past and were rapidly disappearing in the distance. In growing dismay, she recalled the swarms of Japanese who’d attacked the fleet and compared it with the smaller number of American planes that had just flown overhead. The American numbers were so few. Even with the supposedly invincible B-17s, the U.S. force was pitifully small. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, those planes would be joined by others from Hickam and Ewa, and the other fields.

  It also occurred to her that she would not be leaving the Hawaiian Islands anytime soon. Perhaps she would never leave, she realized with a shock.

  Toyoza Kaga put down the phone and walked to the window of his office. The attack on the harbor and military installations was over. It had begun quickly and ended just as quickly. It was as if the Japanese navy wasn’t all that interested in damaging Pearl Harbor again, and he felt that he knew why. They were taunting the Americans and waiting for a reaction.

  Only a moment earlier, he’d received a phone call from an associate on Molokai, who’d informed him that the Japanese soldiers were landing at the midpoint of that narrow island. Thanks to his business sources, Kaga knew as much about the situation as anyone in the American military. He also knew that Molokai was undefended. The Japanese would own it in a matter of hours. He hoped that no one in the local police or national guard was foolish enough to resist and precipitate a massacre.

  “A tragedy,” he muttered. But it was an event he was prepared for. Now it was time to convene a series of meetings with trusted associates who agreed with him that this could be the beginning of a period of agonies for Hawaii’s Japanese population.

  Unless Kaga’s efforts bore fruit, his people could easily find themselves between two fires and with no friends, only enemies. It could easily mean the destruction of everything he had worked for over the past decades. His family, his businesses, everything was now at great risk.

  However, he thought as he smiled grimly, it could just as easily mean a time of tremendous opportunity. But first, he had to survive long enough to find out who would ultimately win this conflict.

  Within an hour of the attacks on Molokai, Japanese planes began landing on private airstrips near the coast while the marines pushed inland so quickly that astonished and terrified civilians had no chance to flee and were left in bypassed groups.

  Mechanics, fuel, ammunition, and other supplies would be ferried out later, and engineers would quickly enlarge the primitive fields, but the effort freed the overcrowded decks of the carriers for normal operations against the American forces.

  It had been assumed that the Americans would react quickly to the Japanese presence, and they had. The landing and the swift raid on Pearl Harbor had provoked an immediate reaction. Like angry bees from a threatened hive, the Americans had flown to Molokai with everything that Japanese intelligence said they had.

  Commander Mitsuo Fuchida thought it incredible that the American patrols had not found them until Admiral Nagumo’s forces were almost under their nose. How could
the Americans have been so inept a second time? Had the loss of their fuel hampered them so badly? The Japanese good fortune was incredible.

  Fuchida quickly concluded that his presence was not required to assist in the ferrying operations. Instead, he took the opportunity to fly a Zero from the carrier and take part in the battle with the Americans. Actual combat had been denied him for much of the Pearl Harbor battle because of the need for him to observe. Now there was nothing to observe, only the need to destroy the Americans.

  The Japanese Zero was simply the best fighter in the Pacific. Fuchida thought it might have an equal in the British Spitfire, but it didn’t matter. There were no Spitfires over Hawaii, only American P-36s, which paled in comparison with the darting swiftness and maneuverability of the Zero.

  The plane was a Mitsubishi A6M2, Zero-sen, navy Type-O carrier fighter Model 21. It could fly at speeds in excess of 330 miles per hour and could stay airborne for eight hours when supplied with external fuel tanks. It had two 20 mm cannons, one on each wing, and could be configured to carry bombs.

  Made of an aluminum alloy, the plane was lightweight, remarkably agile, and it could outclimb anything anyone else had. Worse for the Americans, the Zero had come as yet another Japanese surprise, and the Japanese high command was confident that no American had ever seen it before, much less examined it or fought against it.

  It did cause Fuchida and his comrades some concern that, in order to cut weight and emphasize speed, there was no armor plating to protect the pilot, and the fuel tanks were not self-sealing. When that potential problem was discussed, some pilots replied with morbid humor that their best protection was not to get shot.

  And all the Americans who saw a Zero now, he exulted, were dying. An American P-36 was in his sights, and he squeezed the trigger, sending a stream of 20 mm shells into the plane’s body. A plume of smoke appeared by its tail, then a bright flame, and the P-36 rolled into a death spiral. There was no parachute.

  It was his second victory that day. Not only were the Americans inferior pilots flying inferior planes but they were vastly outnumbered.

  Over his radio, Fuchida heard one of his pilots jokingly complain about the necessity of Japanese planes’ queuing up to take a turn at one of the few remaining American targets. This had brought laughter from the other pilots, and Fuchida did not order them to stop chattering. Let them laugh now, he decided; the hard fighting would come later, when the Americans gathered their forces for a real battle.

  A B-17 appeared in front of him. Astonishingly large, the bomber was also badly hurt and flying alone. One of its four engines was smoking, and its propellers were stilled. Even so, the three remaining engines kept it on course toward Oahu. The pilot and crew had seen the futility of their efforts and were attempting to flee back to Pearl Harbor.

  Fuchida was paired with another Zero, who attacked the tail gun with a quick strafing pass. When this distracted the American gunner, Fuchida swept in and destroyed the gun along with much of the bomber’s tail.

  The American plowed on through the air, and Fuchida felt a grudging degree of respect. The bomber was a true warrior, and so were the men who flew it.

  Warrior or not, the bomber must die. With the bomber’s rear vulnerable, Fuchida banked and again attacked from behind. Another stream of shells ripped into the remaining right engine and sent pieces of it into the sky as the machinery disintegrated.

  That was enough. The bomber banked to its left and began to glide toward the ocean. Fuchida would get a portion of a kill for this one.

  As he watched, the surviving crew members bailed out. Fuchida was sadly confident that the overmatched tail gunner was not among them. The plane was his coffin, and he would ride it to his grave.

  A couple of his planes signaled that they were going to strafe the men in the parachutes. “No,” Fuchida commanded. “Let them live if they can. They can tell their brothers how good we are.”

  The commander checked the skies. There were absolutely no American planes in sight. Had the massacre been that complete? Had none of the Americans escaped? He checked with his commanders and was told that ten of his planes had been shot down and another dozen damaged in the brawl. Since Japanese pilots despised parachutes as cowardly, he’d lost at least ten pilots in the overwhelming victory. He wondered where the replacements would come from.

  Now the buildup on Molokai could commence without interruption. He was fairly confident the Americans had little left to throw at them. With absolute control of the skies, the Japanese planes could commence taking the American military facilities on Oahu apart piece by piece.

  Fuchida radioed that he was returning to the Akagi, where there would be a conference with Commander Genda and Admiral Nagumo. Tomorrow he would ferry himself to Molokai and launch and command operations against Oahu. They would continue until the Americans were destroyed and Oahu occupied. He felt a moment of pity for the enemy. They were unquestionably brave, but they were so poorly equipped, and, if the last few weeks were any indication, they were terribly led. He hoped it would stay that way. For Japan’s sake, it had to.

  “You’ve got to be kidding” was Lieutenant Jamie Priest’s first comment on hearing the orders.

  Another of his fellow lieutenants had just informed him that the damaged battleship Pennsylvania would slip out that night and, under the cover of darkness, try to make it to the United States.

  Jamie had also been informed that he would accompany her on her escape.

  Grudgingly, Jamie acknowledged that it made sense. The Pennsylvania was useless where she was and, as the day’s air raid had proven, would be a prime target for the Japanese planes. She hadn’t been hit in this last attack, but further damage was inevitable if she remained. The battlewagon had to get to a California shipyard, where her two forward turrets could be replaced and her ruptured hull plates repaired.

  It also made sense to sneak out at night while the Japanese navy was preoccupied with protecting the landing site on Molokai. When Molokai was secured, the Japanese fleet was certain to take up station outside Pearl Harbor’s narrow entrance and dare any ships to try to escape.

  Yes, there was some danger from submarines and other, smaller, warships, but it was a chance that had to be taken. If they stayed where they were, the Jap planes would surely sink the Pennsylvania. If she fled now, there was at least a chance she would make it. It was a lousy choice, but, Jamie thought ruefully, it was the only one they had.

  Jamie’s position on the Pennsylvania was undefined. Normally, he would have been directing fire control for one of the destroyed turrets. Instead, he was given a damage control party even though he had little experience at that grim task. The Pennsylvania would depart with only a little more than half of her normal crew and supplies, and her fuel tanks would not be full.

  “Perhaps she’ll go faster because she’s lighter,” he heard one of the crew joke.

  Not funny, Jamie thought. He also didn’t think much of the idea of heading west when they left Pearl and taking the long northern way around the island before turning toward the United States. The idea was to confuse any Japs who might be lurking east of Pearl’s entrance and get behind them before making the homeward dash. He hoped the Pennsylvania’s commander, Captain C. M. Cooke, knew what the hell he was doing. Jamie didn’t know Cooke at all well. Naval captains rarely discussed matters with lieutenants.

  “A dash,” they were calling it, and he laughed. Now there was a joke. Because of the hull damage, it was unlikely that the Pennsylvania would get anywhere near her top speed of twenty-one knots. No, he would have preferred to get as far away from Oahu as fast as they could and the hell with any Japs in the way. If they were caught, they weren’t going to get away anyhow.

  While they made frantic, last-minute attempts to make the battleship more survivable, the sun slowly went down and darkness covered the harbor. Jamie could see the shapes of the four destroyers that would be their escort to America. They looked terribly small and vulnerable.


  The Pennsylvania raised her anchor and moved slowly toward the ocean. Their departure wouldn’t be at all heroic. They were sneaking out. Jamie looked around at others in the night and saw the same expressions on their faces. They all thought this might be their last night on earth.

  CHAPTER 7

  Oahu is approximately forty miles long and twenty-six miles wide. Honolulu and Pearl Harbor are about a third of the way up the length of the island, which meant that they were about an hour’s drive up the one road that led from both sites to Haleiwa, the probable landing place for the Japanese army.

  “Take a look at it,” Colonel Collins had ordered. “Give me an idea whether we can hold at that point and how long it’ll take to reinforce the place if the Japs come.”

  “When they come,” Jake had corrected, and Collins had agreed. How could there be any doubt? he wondered, The Japs had reworked the small airfields on Molokai in record time and now had planes over Oahu almost every minute of the day. Along with attacking fixed positions, the Japanese fighters and bombers struck at targets of opportunity, and that included anything that moved on the road to Haleiwa. The navy was now almost totally gone, and that included the Pennsylvania. This meant that the only targets were army ones. A handful of planes remained, but few were fighters. The survivors were scout planes, and PBY flying boats, and were dispersed and hidden.

  Jake declined a staff car, choosing a motorcycle instead. He believed that the motorcycle would be less likely to attract attention from the Japanese than a staff car, and it could go cross-country where the road had been bombed.