The Pearl Harbor Murders d-3

by Max Allan Collins

  "I had to press them into service," Sterling said, as they allowed Kita to lead the way into the vestibule. "I've been cut off from my office."

  "Glad to have your help," Jardine said, nodding at both Burroughs and Hully. "But why do I have the feeling we're still working the Pearl Harada murder case?"

  "Help us find Vice Consul 'Morimura,' " Burroughs said, "and you'll find out."

  A guard fence separated Pearl Harbor from the two thousand acres of Hickam Field, biggest Army base on Oahu, home of the Army's bomber squadrons. Here, a quarter mile of neatly arranged A-20s, B-17s and B-18s served themselves up to the hungry waves of silver planes. The incessant bombing and strafing-not only of the sitting-duck aircraft but barracks, support facilities and hangars-did not dissuade the men of Hickam from working fiercely to disperse their aircraft, or from fighting back.

  Two Japanese-American civilians-laborers employed at the field-helped set up a machine gun and fed it with ammo belts while a boy from Michigan fired away at the diving planes.

  Standing near a hangar, Corporal Jack Stanton-one eye slightly swollen, even blackened, from his Hotel Street brawl of the night before-saw the friend standing next to him strafed into explosive splashes of blood, bone and flesh. Horrified, then energized into action, Stanton ran across the tarmac-not even pausing when another bomb blew a khaki-clad soldier in two-and managed to climb up into a bomber.

  Stanton began firing the machine gun in the nose of the bomber, its deadly chatter knocking one of the silver planes out of the sky.

  But when a Zero swooped down, delivering its own machine-gun fire, the fuel tank ignited and Stanton was trapped in the cockpit, flames all around him, caged in a crackling hell.

  Stanton didn't bother trying to get out. As the flames slowly consumed him, he kept firing up at the sons of bitches, and witnesses said his red tracer bullets could be seen zinging skyward, long after flames had encompassed the nose of the plane.

  Winging eastward in groups of three, past the Pearl Harbor entry, cutting inland at an altitude of a mere sixty feet, twenty-four torpedo planes threw their supple blue shadows across the Navy Yard and the Southeast Loch, closing in on Battleship Row-where those gray behemoths, the Arizona, California, Maryland, Nevada, Oklahoma, Tennessee, and West Virginia, pride of the Navy, slumbered in the sunlight. In groups of two, coming from the west, sixteen more torpedo planes took a direct route across the island, their targets the ships docked on the far side of Ford Island, as well as those at the Navy Yard piers over the east channel.

  Aboard the battleships, barely awake sailors perceived the approaching attack planes as nothing more than specks-but those specks grew ever larger as they zeroed in on the harbor, crisscrossing. Swabbies-like civilians-at first dismissed the planes… crazy Army pilots, damn Navy fliers showboating, ain't that a hell of a drill….

  "That's no star on the wing!" a sailor or two, on every ship, would finally say, more or less. "That's a red ball!"

  And sailors, scattering like naughty kids caught in some act, yelled, "It's the Japs! It's for real! It's war!"

  PA systems barked orders, bugles blared, ships' alarms trilled, and on every vessel in the harbor-130 of them-all hell broke loose, from the startled sailors on deck who had seen the planes "dropping fish" (torpedoes) to the poor bastards sleeping in on Sunday who had to tumble out of their racks, and scurry to then-battle stations, pulling on their clothes as they went.

  Five torpedoes, in rapid succession, blasted the Oklahoma, sending the battleship rolling slowly, inevitably to port. Breakfast dishes went flying, shattering, mess tables upended, lockers spilled open, and in the belowdeck barbettes, massive gun turrets tore free from their housings and tumbled grindingly down the slanting platforms, crushing crewmen.

  When eleven-year-old Don Morton-frightened by the low-flying, strafing planes-came scooting back home without his brother Jerry, his mom wasn't mad. She just hustled him into their car and they drove down to the landing, where Don and Jerry had been fishing.

  No other cars were around, but she honked her horn all the way, and Don thought maybe she was scared, too-they were driving right toward where all the explosions were coming from.

  Suddenly Jerry came bursting out from some algar-roba bushes, calling, "Mom! Mom!"

  She stopped the car, let Jerry in, and hugged him.

  "A man helped me," Jerry said. "He pushed me into the bushes when a plane was coming."

  "What man?" his mother asked.

  "That man," Jerry said, and pointed to the body of a Marine corporal alongside the dirt road.

  Don's mom turned their car around and headed for Honolulu, as explosions shook the world all around them.

  Bill Fielder, in the borrowed Pierce Arrow convertible, had a hell of a time trying to get to Pearl. He was crazy with desperation-all he could think of was getting back to his ship!

  But it was a slow go. At first the streets were empty, but quickly they became clogged with cars and taxis, as well as emergency vehicles. Bill would whip his car around the jams, whenever possible, riding on the sidewalk if he had to. The sky boiled with black oil smoke, and it seemed like the end of the world-he passed by several water mains that had broken, shooting geysers fifty feet in the air, and people had loaded their cars up with toys and clothes, sometimes with baby buggies or bicycles strapped on the roof, like European war refugees, heading for the hills.

  The rolling lanes of the Kamehameha Highway were choked with civiUan cars and taxis piled with servicemen scrambling to get to their posts. It seemed to take forever, crawling toward Pearl Harbor. Finally, when he came over a rise, at the highway's highest point, he got a panoramic view: silver planes skimming over the sea toward battleships, bombs whistling down, dive-bombers howling in on their targets, shells exploding in midair, machine guns chattering, low-flying fighters strafing anything and everything, the harbor a mass of fuel oil, smoke and flames. Even from this distance, the acrid smell of burning and battle seemed to singe his nostrils.

  The worst of it was the battleships getting hit so hard-the Oklahoma had already capsized, and the Arizona could be next.

  He felt sick-at heart, to his stomach.

  "Come on, come on, come on!" Bill yelled, and he laid on his horn-not that honking would do any good. Everyone caught in this jam wanted it to move along just as badly as Bill did. But he was frustrated, knowing that time was running out.

  He just wasn't aware how soon.

  A bomb hit the Pierce Arrow, obliterating it, and Bill, leaving a charred, flaming husk of an automobile and very little of its driver.

  Bill Fielder had just become the first Arizona fatality.

  Moored aft of the Tennessee, a massive 608 feet long, the Arizona carried a main armament of twelve fourteen-inch guns, her hull shielded at the waterline by a thirteen-inch thickness of steel, with twenty inches of armor housing her four turrets. No more formidable weapon of war-at-sea was known to man than a battleship such as this.

  An armor-piercing bomb hit the ship between its number-two gun turret and bow, punching a hundred-foot hole in the deck, then exploding in a fuel tank below. Within seconds, almost two million pounds of explosives detonated, forming a fireball of red, yellow and black, the ship lifting twenty feet in the air, tossing men like rag dolls, ship's steel opening like a blossoming flower to spread petals of huge red flame.

  The halves of the ship tumbled into the water, where her skewed decks were walked by burning men, a ghostly, ghastly crew staggering out of the flames, one by one, dropping dead.

  Seaman First Class Dan Pressman-whose previous battle had been on Hotel Street, last night-had been manning a gun-director unit above the bridge, when he sustained burns over most of his body; still, he managed to make use of a line that had been made fast to the mast of a repair ship moored alongside the Arizona.

  Pressman and five other badly burned sailors-suffering shock, but wanting to live-swung high above the water on the line, going hand over hand to safety, even as
their ears were filled with the screams of fellow crew members on the burning, dying halves of the ship, or in the water beneath, which, surrealistically, was on fire, too.

  Her superstructure enfolded in flame, the Arizona- her shattered foremast tipping forward-settled to the bottom of the harbor, three-quarters of her crew…. some 1,177 officers and enlisted men … dead in the most devastating of all the blows delivered by Japan in the surprise air attack on Pearl Harbor.

  In his quarters at Fort Shafter, General Short had just gotten into his golfing gear, for the planned eighteen holes with Kimmel, Fielder and Throckmorton, when he heard explosions-which he recognized at once as bombs going off.

  He didn't think anything of it-the Navy was obviously having some sort of battle practice, and he was mildly annoyed that no one on Kimmel's team had warned him about it… unless they had told him, and he'd forgotten it.

  But the explosions seemed to build, grow nearer, and that got the general's curiosity up. He wandered out onto his lanai-the very porch where the evening before an FBI agent had told him about a possible coded message-and he could see smoke to the west, a lot of it… and black.

  Shrugging, he was heading back in to have some coffee before he left for the golf course, when he heard a loud knock at the front door. His wife was not up yet, so he went to answer it quickly, in case she had somehow managed to sleep through the Navy's infernal racket.

  Wooch Fielder, in blue sport shirt and blue slacks, was standing on the front porch. Fielder had the startled expression of a deer perked by the sound of a hunter, and his face was fish-belly white.

  "What's wrong, Wooch? Am I late?" The general looked at his wristwatch. "Didn't think we were playing till-"

  "Sir, we're under attack-it's the real thing."

  More explosions.

  The general leaned out the door, asked, "What's going on out there?"

  "Bicknell says he saw two battleships sunk."

  "Why, that's ridiculous…."

  "Sir, both Hickam and Wheeler have phoned- they've been hit."

  Short drew in a sharp breath; then, crisply, he said, "Put into effect Alert Number Three. Everybody to battle position."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Do it, Wooch-I'll be right with you."

  And he shut the door, reeling, knowing that if the Japs would mount a damn-fool sneak air raid, they might even risk landing troops; there was no telling how seriously this attack might develop.

  General Short knew only one thing for certain: he had to get out of these damn golf togs.

  Don and Jerry Morton's mother, terrified by the explosions around them, stopped the car, and led her boys into a sugarcane field, where they all sat with hands on their ears, heads between their knees.

  Now and then, Don's mother would ask either him or Jerry to peek up and see if the airplanes swooping overhead were American.

  And, for the next two hours, they never were. Shivering, Don wondered if his stepfather was okay on Ford Island.

  (He was not: the boys' stepfather had been among the first to die today, hit by a bomb on the Ford Island seaplane ramp.)

  The U.S. Pacific Fleet was a family of sorts-big, and yet small enough that most men knew anyone else in their specialized line of work; a man might enlist and stay on one ship until retirement, twenty or thirty years later. Officers had ties, as well, often going back to Annapolis days. Admiral Kimmel knew thousands of his men by sight, and hundreds by name, and dozens were his personal Mends.

  From his office window at fleet HQ, Kimmel could do little more than stand and watch his ships… and his men… die-the admiral helplessly bearing the thunder of exploding bombs, and the anvil clangs of torpedoes ravaging his ships, bleeding rolling clouds of smoke.

  His people tried to establish communications with the areas under attack, and sent messages to ships at sea, advising them of what was happening at Pearl. They could hear explosions and see waterspouts and, of course, the funnels of black smoke.

  "I must say," Kimmel said quietly to the officers around him, "it's a beautifully executed military maneuver … leaving aside the unspeakable treachery of it."

  As he stood there, a bullet came crashing through the window and struck him on the chest-leaving a sooty splotch on his otherwise immaculate white uniform. He bent to pick up what turned out to be a spent.50-caliber machine-gun slug.

  Softly, he said, "I wish it had killed me-that would've been merciful."

  Then he reached up and, with both hands, tore loose the four-star boards on bis shoulders; he went into his office and came back wearing two-star boards, having demoted himself.

  At the Japanese Consulate, Jardine and Sterling-with Burroughs and Hully tagging after-searched the compound. General Consul Kita was along, as well, a bored fat man in his pajamas; and when Jardine came to a locked door, toward the rear of the main building, he demanded that Kita open it. "I have no key," Kita said, unflappable.

  The acrid smell of smoke was leaching out from around the door.

  "They're burning papers again," Sterling said. "Kita, tell them to open up!"

  Sighing, seemingly blase, Kita began to knock, but no one answered; Burroughs yanked the man aside, and Sterling crashed his shoulder into the wood, several times, until the door finally splintered open.

  Four Japanese men in sport shirts and slacks were standing around a washtub in which they had been burning papers and codebooks. Around them in the small nondescript room were file cabinets whose drawers yawned open.

  Hully snatched a brown, accordion-style folder out of one of the men's hands, before he could dump its contents into the tub of flames. Jardine hopped into the tub and stamped out the fire, like he was mashing grapes into wine.

  Sterling had Burroughs train his gun on the four men while the FBI agent patted them down for weapons- they had none. One of the men was the Consulate's treasurer-they were all officials of the consulate.

  "Look at this," Hully said, holding up a sheet of typing paper taken from the brown folder. The white sheet bore a detailed sketch of ship locations at Pearl Harbor.

  "Where's Morimura?" Burroughs demanded of their prisoners.

  "Or should we say 'Yoshikawa'?" Sterling said. "Where is he?"

  None of them replied.

  But Kita, suddenly helpful, volunteered, "He had a golf match this morning."

  Sterling glanced at Burroughs. "Well, he's not in the building."

  "Nor is his driver," Kita said.

  Jardine took charge of Kita and the others, and Sterling, Burroughs and Hully checked out the Consulate's garage: the Lincoln was gone.

  "So we head for the golf course," Sterling said.

  "He won't be there," Burroughs said. "He's in hiding."

  "Where the hell

  Burroughs twitched a smile; Hully was nodding as his father said, "I think I know."

  And-under a sky momentarily quiet, but still thick with black smoke-they dashed out to the black Ford just as three more carloads of uniformed police, heavily armed, were forming a cordon around the consulate.

  FIFTEEN

  Retaliation

  In less than half an hour, in a peacetime attack unparalleled in the modem world, Japan had delivered the worst Naval defeat in American history.

  Thick black smoke draped Pearl Harbor, where all seven battleships moored at Ford Island had suffered damage, all hit by one or more bombs. In the overturned hull of the Oklahoma, most of the crew remained imprisoned, while others were trapped in the capsized Utah; rescue efforts in either case were hampered by continual strafing, until the silver planes of the Rising Sun finished their runs.

  In the lull that followed the first wave of attack planes, the Americans worked frantically to prepare in the event of another blow-and one was coming: a second wave of 169 fighters and bombers crossed the northern coast of Oahu at 8:40 a.m.

  Fifty-four high-level bombers and thirty-one fighters streaked toward Hickam Field and Kaneohe Naval Air Station and other bases, seeking more American p
lanes on the ground to blow up, often strafing civilian vehicles and residential areas, apparently just for the sheer hell of it. Eighty-one dive bombers prowled for any surviving warships in the harbor, with ships awaiting repairs becoming additional targets-like the flagship Pennsylvania, and the destroyers Downes and Cassin, all in Dry Dock #1.

  During this second attack, however, the Japanese pilots met stronger American resistance, and had to deal with billowing black smoke, a cover of their own raid's creation, obscuring their targets. The commander of the second wave of fighters, encountering fiercer ground fire than he'd anticipated, wound up crashing his Zero into a flaming hangar; and efforts to sink the fleeing battleship Nevada, to seal off the harbor with a mass of steel, proved unsuccessful.

  Small victories, in so large a defeat.

  With the exception of the occasional scurrying Oriental, disappearing down an alley or into a doorway, the streets and sidewalks of Chinatown were deserted. The rows of shops and cafes were as abandoned as an Old West ghost town, lacking only tumbleweed; the hustle and bustle of the Aala Market-where Sunday was just another day, any ordinary Sunday, that is-replaced with an eerie silence, deserted stalls filled with fresh fish whose dead faces stared with mute curiosity, as if to say, Where is everybody? Under a sky black with storm clouds of war, the smell of burning could be detected: not the acrid stench of fuel-oil fires from the harbor, but the crackling scorch-scent of refuse disposal, mingled with the unmistakable smell of fear. All around Chinatown, in metal drums or (as at the Consulate) washtubs or in backyard bonfires, issei and nisei were burning books written in the Japanese language, as well as Rising Sun flags and pictures of the emperor and photos of family members in Japan, even apparel like kimonos and getta; they were burying samurai swords and family heirlooms in their backyards-doing their frantic best to nullify any signs of Japanese influence and culture in Honolulu.

  Burroughs found in Japanese-dominated Chinatown nothing to confirm the long-held local apprehension that-in the case of war with Nippon-Oahu's Japanese would come charging into haole neighborhoods brandishing guns or even samurai swords. Nor was there any sign of them skulking off to plant dynamite satchels and mines under bridges and piers or at military installations and electric lines. And predictions that your own maid, your neighbor's houseboy, the cop on the beat, the farmer down the road, the nisei Hawaii Territorial Guard members, would band together against "Americans" (which they of course were themselves) hardly seemed to be materializing.