Omori, who was not in as much disfavor with Yamamoto as was Iwabachi, was puzzled. “Forgive my ignorance of naval matters, Watanabe, but why can’t you use the planes on the carriers?”
The naval commander flipped his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and ground it with his heel. His frustration was obvious. “Because carrier planes must be launched into the wind and from a moving vessel. The combined wind and ship speeds are needed so a plane can get enough lift to get airborne. With the carriers anchored in Pearl, no planes can take off. The floatplanes are launched by catapults from the battleships and cruisers, so they don’t need the wind as much.”
Now Omori understood the need to get a carrier out to sea, although he wondered why catapults couldn’t be developed for use on a carrier. Getting a carrier out of the harbor would not happen until dawn at the earliest. Yamamoto did not want to risk a ship going aground in the narrow channel and blocking it, and there was no arguing with his logic. With no enemy fleet, or even additional planes, there was urgency but no need to do something rash. It was getting lighter with each passing moment, and the designated force had steam up and was almost ready to proceed.
An additional problem was the way the ships were anchored. The sunken American warships in the harbor had compounded the crowding, and the carrier Akagi, not one of the escorting cruisers, as would normally be the case, would be the first ship out. The Akagi was anchored closest to the entrance, and it was impractical even to attempt to maneuver the cruisers past her bulk. Ships could not be shuttled around like cars in a parking lot. Yamamoto was not happy with the situation, but he accepted the reality.
The large carrier’s decks were full of planes ready to take off and protect the remainder of the fleet, and many of her officers who had been celebrating in Honolulu had been located and returned. Even so, the Akagi would depart significantly shorthanded, and with pilots whose heads must be bursting from hangovers.
Watanabe walked by the water, and Omori followed him. “At least this crisis will be over shortly,” Watanabe said. “It is incredible that not only are there no usable planes on Oahu but there are no usable fields. It will take only a day or two to repair the damaged airstrips at Wheeler, but, until then, we are naked. I am confident the fields at Hickam and Ford Island will also be put into service in a matter of hours.”
In the dark blue sky that preceded dawn, Omori saw motion. Planes were approaching. For a moment he puzzled over their odd shape, and then he identified them. “Ah, I see the flying boats from Hilo are arriving.”
Watanabe was puzzled. “Why? What are they doing here? They are supposed to be patrolling.” Then a look of horror crossed his face.
As the dark and mountainous islands grew closer and the dawn began to rise, Colonel Jimmy Doolittle saw fingers of smoke arising from several places in the harbor.
“Damn it,” he muttered, “they’ve already been attacked. So much for coordination.” He didn’t add that headwinds had slowed his flight, making them later than planned.
Captain Haskins, his copilot, chuckled grimly. “What’d you expect? Just a typical navy fuckup. At least we were able to find Hawaii. Too bad we seem to have lost Meagher’s plane.”
Doolittle wasn’t inclined to argue. As they approached, the two men searched the sky for fighters and found none. At least that part was going right.
But where was Meagher? With him gone and radio silence still unbroken, the five planes were now four. A 20 percent reduction in their small force and nothing had happened yet. He had no idea where Meagher was, but they couldn’t wait for him. Any second now and they’d be spotted and Zeros would be all over their butts. No, Meagher would have to take care of himself. Maybe he’d had an engine malfunction and had turned back? It didn’t matter. They were going to go straight in, drop their bombs, and fly out the back door.
The four planes went in side by side, low and as fast as they could, which caused the surface to race by. Finally, puffs of smoke in the air said that antiaircraft gunners had spotted them. Uncertain exactly which Japanese ships were where in the harbor; Doolittle’s planes broke in pairs, with two on each side of Ford Island. South of Ford Island, along Battleship Row, where so many American battleships had been sunk, six carriers were anchored. Doolittle noted that one of them seemed to be making for the entrance, while smoke came from another.
North of the island were the battleships and heavy cruisers, and a couple of the cruisers were moving as well. Other, smaller ships were parked like trucks in a motor pool in the East and Middle Loch around Pearl City. They didn’t concern him. He wanted the carriers and the fuel tanks.
Doolittle broke radio silence and ordered the two planes north of Ford to ignore the giant battlewagons and swing south to attack either the carriers or the fuel.
There was a tremendous flash to Doolittle’s right. “What the hell was that?”
“Miller’s plane,” answered Floyd, one of his side gunners. His voice was shaky and difficult to hear over the chatter of the machine gun. The side and tail gunners were using their guns on anything in sight, and the din had become almost deafening. It might not have been useful, but damn, it felt good.
“It’s blowing up like the Fourth of July,” Floyd added.
Doolittle swallowed. With so many incendiaries and so much fuel onboard, a direct hit could turn them into a flying Roman candle like Miller’s.
The plane rocked from near misses, and debris from exploded shells rattled against the hull. They were so low, only five hundred feet, that the Japanese gunners were having a hard time tracking them. Then they were over a carrier, and the plane shuddered as the bomb load was released. They had done their job.
“Let’s go home,” Doolittle yelled. Another of his planes was burning and heading for the deck. She would not make it to California or anywhere else. Doolittle watched in horror as antiaircraft guns concentrated on the cripple, blowing hundreds of little pieces off her. Her only chance was a landing in the waters just outside Pearl. He prayed that some of her crew would survive.
At least, Doolittle thought grimly, she was distracting Jap guns from him.
The plane lurched violently. “What the hell?” he blurted out. They’d been hit. Haskins ran back to check on it. Seconds later, he reported over the intercom that the side gunner, Floyd, was dead and two others were wounded.
“Can we fly?” Doolittle asked.
Haskins’s voice trembled. “God, Colonel, Floyd’s all over the place. It’s awful.”
“But can we fly?” Doolittle repeated.
Haskins paused. This time his voice was a little firmer. “Yes, if you don’t mind a large hole in the fuselage. I would recommend flying slowly and at low altitude.”
“Okay,” Doolittle said gently, “now you take care of the wounded as best you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Doolittle ordered his other surviving plane to head directly back to California. She too had been hit a number of times, and he wondered if she would make it. Then he gained altitude for a look at the damage they’d wrought and was dismayed. There were no large fires, and no explosions. There were several small ones, but they looked like they could be contained. He may have added a little to what damage had been done earlier, but it was hard to tell.
It was bravely done, he thought, but was it worth it? Assuming he made it home, he would get his brigadier’s star, but for what? He’d slapped the Japs across the face, but that was all.
“For Christ’s sake,” said Haskins through the intercom. “Will you look at that?”
Doolittle turned and looked out over the harbor. Meagher’s plane had arrived and was beginning its run. But he was high, much too high.
Without the others to guide him, Meagher had flown at a higher altitude than planned. This, he’d hoped, would make it easier to find the islands by widening his scope of vision. That and good navigation had worked. Oahu was dead ahead.
As he put the plane in a gentle dive toward optimum bombing height, he noted
the absence of serious smoke and fire, the total lack of Japanese aircraft and antiaircraft fire. For a fleeting second he wondered if his was the first plane, but then he saw a few small fires burning and knew that the others had preceded him. They didn’t appear to have accomplished a lot, he thought.
But he wasn’t late by much, he exulted. And all the Jap gunners were tracking the two flying boats he could now see off in the distance. Nobody was looking for Tail-end Charlie.
“Pick a target,” he yelled at Tomanelli.
His copilot swallowed and tried to control his terror. The entire Jap navy was on review before them. “That carrier on the move,” he said. “Its decks are full of planes.”
“Good thinking,” Meagher responded. Most of the others had only a few planes on their decks, while this one was loaded for bear.
Meagher lined up his plane. He would cross the carrier on a stern-to-bow run and then fly out over the ocean and to safety.
Then the Jap gunners saw them and opened fire. The plane shuddered from minor hits and near misses as the Japanese frantically tried to get them in their sights.
Meagher was just about to order bombs away when a four-inch shell from a destroyer ripped through the front of the pilot’s cabin and blew him to bloody pieces before it exited the top of the plane.
Tomanelli was knocked unconscious by the blast and the impact of Meagher’s body parts striking him. The copilot’s body slumped forward on the controls, and the plane dropped more sharply as it rapidly approached the carrier.
At first, it looked like the crippled flying boat would pass over the Akagi, but then it dropped more quickly and fell onto the flight deck, about a hundred feet from the stern. To the astonished Japanese, it looked like the flying boat had attempted a landing on the carrier.
Still moving forward, the massive Boeing plowed through the parked planes, knocking several of them overboard like they were toys. The flying boat was slowed by the wreckage and finally stopped as its massive wing collided with the carrier’s superstructure. For a second, it sat there, a dead plane on the flight deck of a Japanese carrier. Then the fuel exploded, and, an instant later, that set off the bombs still in its hull. The crash landing on the Akagi had ruptured fuel tanks on the Japanese planes, and they too exploded almost immediately. In seconds, the carrier’s entire flight deck and superstructure were engulfed in a cloud of flames that was punctuated by explosions as Japanese bombs and shells were lit off.
The Akagi was now a moving torch, with torrents of flame dripping down her sides and crewmen hurling themselves off her and into the safety of the harbor. Without apparent guidance, she continued inexorably on in the last direction that had been ordered. There was no one alive on her decks or on the bridge to order a change of course as she headed toward the side of the channel.
The officers and men in the Monkfish had spent a restless night. The explosions in the harbor resonated through the water and caused the sub to vibrate. Despite the obvious danger, Lieutenant Commander Fargo had recognized the necessity to keep the air changed and the electric engines charged. Thus, they had spent a good deal of the night with the conning tower barely visible.
The sub’s crew were gaunt, unshaven, and filthy, and those not actually on duty were condemned to spend their time in their bunks as a means of conserving energy and oxygen.
While on the surface, they caught the tail end of the fireworks display that had marked Magruder’s attack on the fleet. By the time Doolittle’s planes had arrived, the sub was snugly back under the water. Fargo was confident that Japanese radar was crummy and their sonar even worse, but there was nothing wrong with their eyeballs.
Now, as gunfire reverberated for the second time, the men were at their battle stations, where they tried to pretend they weren’t scared to death.
“This is it,” Fargo proclaimed unnecessarily. Even the village idiot knew that tonight was the reason they’d waited so long in the Pearl Harbor channel.
His chief of boats announced that he thought he could hear screws approaching through the clutter. Fargo accepted the assessment. It was said that the chief could hear a mouse pissing ten miles away. If Flannery said a ship was coming, it was coming.
Fargo peered through the binoculars at where the channel turned slightly. At first there was nothing, and then the bulk of a large ship came into view.
“Carrier,” he said, and then incredulously, “and she’s burning. Oh my God.”
The ship that filled his view was aflame from bow to stern, and he saw people jumping off the crippled vessel from wherever they could. For a moment Fargo wondered, if this ship was already badly damaged, should he wait for another one?
Then he realized that the carrier was out of control. With a lurch, the ship ground into the side of the channel and began to swing away as her screws continued to churn up the water. In a few seconds, she would be broadside to him, and Fargo fully understood what he had to do.
“Fire one,” he ordered, and the sub vibrated as the torpedo sped on its way. It was virtually point-blank range. The enemy ship was so close, there had been only the need to point the sub and shoot. Nor had there been any thought of firing under the ship and using her magnetic field to detonate the torpedoes. These would be impact hits. “Fire two. Fire three. Fire four.”
The men of the Monkfish held their breath and waited for Fargo’s report. Seconds passed, and there was nothing. The first torpedo had been a dud.
“Damn it,” snarled Fargo. As he said it, the second torpedo struck the side of the carrier and exploded, sending a column of water high above the burning flight deck, but not as high as the flames that billowed from it.
Torpedoes three and four exploded seconds later, and the crew exulted. While the forward tubes were being reloaded, Fargo carefully turned the ship around so that the stern tubes faced the stricken carrier. These were fired, and both exploded against the hull of the dying carrier.
It was time to go. If the carrier survived five hits and the fire, she deserved to live. He ordered the Monkfish out into the open sea. Still at periscope depth, he searched for Japanese destroyers and saw a pair of them several miles to his port side. Incredibly, they were cruising away from him! He had no idea what had distracted them from the channel, but he didn’t care.
Swiveling the periscope back to the channel, Fargo saw a sight that stunned him. The carrier, torn apart by the five hits and other explosions, had taken on a definite and fatal list to port. Burning debris had begun to fall off the flight deck and into the sea as the ship slowly capsized.
“We got us a carrier,” he announced to his cheering crew. “And, if we’re damned lucky and the creek don’t rise, we got us a chance of getting the hell out of here.”
And maybe, he thought, just maybe, they had blocked the fucking channel.
CHAPTER 24
Jake Novacek carefully and quietly aimed his Springfield. The Japanese scout was barely visible in the tree about two hundred yards away. Jake had a dilemma. To fire and shoot the scout would alert the other Japanese soldiers in the area, but it was highly likely that the soldier would see Hawkins and his companions as they moved to a new firing position. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, Jake thought.
The Japanese response to the American attack on Pearl Harbor had been so immediate and so savage that the Americans had been thrown off balance. The Japanese at Hilo had become a whirlwind of brutal activity.
Jake estimated that three of the four companies of marine infantry stationed at Hilo had exploded out toward where they thought the Americans were hiding. He cursed himself for not anticipating the savagery of their response; as a result of his failure, his small force was reeling and disintegrating.
The Japanese had extracted information regarding the Americans from a civilian population that surrendered the knowledge as an alternative to seeing their loved ones raped, burned, mutilated, and chopped to living pieces before their eyes by Lieutenant Goto. In very short order, trucks full of Japanese soldi
ers had closed in on Jake’s sanctuary. The Japanese weren’t very good soldiers, which made it fairly easy for Lieutenant Brooks and his marines to ambush them and inflict a disproportionate number of casualties.
But the marines were only a handful, and the Japanese learned quickly. Brooks was dead and the other marines either dead or scattered after their last known position had been overrun. Brooks had bought them a little time, however. It had enabled Jake to dismantle the facilities and move Gustafson and some of the others by fishing boat to Maui, where Ernie Magruder and two of his companions had managed to land. A fourth plane was rumored to have landed on Molokai.
Alexa had gone with Gustafson, which took a big load off of Jake’s mind. Their parting embrace had been tearful, with her not wanting to leave, but Jake had been adamant. On Maui, she might just survive, while he would not have been able to think had she remained on Hawaii. On Hawaii, she and the others would have been hunted down like dogs. Survival, he reminded her, was their primary goal. If everyone couldn’t make it, that was too bad. Once again, she should do everything she had to in order to live.
In the long term, Jake thought that time was on his and Alexa’s side. Only thing, the Japanese soldiers were just a few hundred yards away. If the radio reports were to be believed, the Japanese at Pearl Harbor had been clobbered and were continuing to be pounded. This meant that liberation was imminent, possibly in only a few weeks.
But, he thought grimly, first I have to live through this day.
The Hawaiians and others in his contingent had been dispersed, to return to their families and try to blend into the surroundings. Again, he felt they would make it long enough for help to come. So that left him and the Japanese scout in his sights. He didn’t think the Jap saw him, but Hawkins and the others were impossible for the Jap to miss. Either way, he thought, the Jap was going to send for his little yellow brothers to help him.
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