Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  But James was American and, incredible as it seemed, America had not reacted to the war that his friends had tried to provoke that day with the Panay. It had revealed much about the character of America. They could be pushed, and if need be pushed hard, without reacting. They had built their Empire and expected the world to accept it, and then tried to hide behind their moral platitudes. But it was now Japan’s turn and in that he had utter faith, feeling a flicker of anger toward Cecil for even daring to ask him to make a choice. Two thousand five hundred years of history were behind Japan and her unbroken line of emperors.

  If it took sixty more years to fulfill that destiny here in China, then so be it… and he knew with utter certainty that neither England nor America would have the courage to dare to stop them. Other storm clouds were on their horizons and, hopefully, soon the Westerners would turn on themselves in their own frenzy and thus leave Japan to pick up the pieces that were left. He was Japanese, and no one from the West could ultimately understand the true meaning of that, even those whom he had considered to be his friends.

  He returned back to his desk, sat down, and begin to write up the report on the raid, noticed the address of James sitting on the corner, looked at it, hesitated, then balled it up and dropped it into the trash.

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  16 May 1940

  “General Marshall, I know you do not agree with my proposal for building fifty thousand aircraft a year. As commander in chief I have to follow my deepest instincts, my own judgment. It is clear from what we have seen in Spain during the Civil War, in China during the Japanese invasion, and now in Western Europe and North Africa that airpower is the dominant force. Germany and Japan have it and they are dominating. China, Republican Spain, Poland, France, all failed to have effective airpower, and now they are suffering. We must have dominance in the air if we are going to defend America.” Roosevelt looked up at Marshall from his wheelchair with an intense gaze.

  “Mr. President, we will implement your order if you insist. However, I feel obligated to point out that our war plan calls for a two-hundred-division army. If you insist that we build fifty thousand airplanes a year, we will have to divert so many men to the Army Air Corps and even more importantly to an industrial base big enough to build that many planes, that we will have a dramatically smaller ground force.” Marshall looked determined and spoke with sober precision.

  “General Marshall, I am afraid you will have to reshape your plans and reduce the number of divisions. I am going to issue an executive order today calling for fifty thousand aircraft a year,” FDR replied.

  Marshall could offer no reply, and the president offered his best winning smile.

  “I’m betting on the future here, General, and my instincts tell me that the future is with airpower.”

  SIX

  London Bridge

  7 September 1940

  1730 hours

  The noise was deafening, all encompassing, as if the world was indeed ending… and he could not help but be thrilled by the power and intensity of it.

  “You there, you ya bloody idiot, just what in hell are you doing?”

  Minoru Genda, stationed in London for the last two years as naval attaché to the Japanese Embassy, turned to face the air raid warden, crouching low, running toward him. The cacophony of noise continued to swell, the continual trembling wail of the air raid sirens, the pulsing thunder of thousands of engines overhead, and the ever-expanding concussion of explosions washing up the Thames River from the East End, which was taking the brunt of the raid.

  “Off this bridge now, you bloody fool!” and the warden reached out to grab him by the shoulder. Genda raised his hand, black leather of the oversized wallet containing his identification card and credentials flipped open, and stuck it in front of the warden, only inches from his face so that he had to step back.

  It identified him as a member of the diplomatic staff of His Imperial Majesty’s Government of Japan, one document in English, the other in Japanese, all of it very official looking and proper and guaranteed to intimidate a lowly air raid warden and for that matter many a member of the British government as well when used correctly.

  The warden stared at it for a few seconds and then the attention of both turned toward the river. A German twin-engine Heinkel 111 bomber, twisting and turning as it followed the banks of the river, was screaming straight toward them, skimming the river so low that as it turned it seemed as if its wing would dig into the water. A trail of black smoke was streaming out of its port-side engine. Behind it, a Hawker Hurricane was fifty yards off its tail, following every twisting turn of the desperate German pilot, cutting inside the turns to squeeze off short bursts. Some rounds hit, sparks flying off the wing, others missed, stitching into the river, each round sending up a geyser of water ten feet high, coming straight toward them.

  Genda and the air raid warden ducked down behind the stone siding of the bridge as the Heinkel 111, at more than 200 mph, screamed over the bridge, just feet above them, the thunder of its passing shaking Genda, the exhaust of its engines, the pungent smoke from the oil-starved pistons darkening the sky. It was so close that for a second he could actually see the face of the tail gunner, swinging his weapon around firing off a burst. The German pilot was now pulling up, struggling for altitude. Genda knew why; the drama was nearing its end.

  The sound of it all sent a corkscrew thrill down Genda’s back. The roar of the engines, the smell of the exhaust… he was back on the deck of his beloved Akagi or Kaga again. Planes revving up, preparing to take off. Soon he would be back there, in another week he was leaving London to return home, and he had witnessed what was now being called the Battle of Britain from its opening stage to now, this moment, to what some would think was its dramatic climax, most of the staff in the embassy exuberantly betting that the Germans would come marching past Whitehall within the week.

  A split second later the Hurricane screamed over the bridge, banking in tight onto the tail of the 111, tracers slashing into its victim. A few rounds from the tail gunner of the 111 splattered the stone bridge the two were standing on, fragments of stone kicking up.

  The 111, now maybe five hundred feet up, began to roll into a sharp, banking turn, fragments tumbling from the port wing and fuselage, the turn taking it toward the south bank of the Thames. It wasn’t a controlled turn, Genda could sense that. Either the pilot was dead, or the aileron cables had snapped, that and the port wing was beginning to sheer off, flame erupting from the ruptured fuel tanks. A body fell out of the bomb bay, then a second, the chute of the second jumper instantly opening, the other struggling for a few tragic seconds too long; even as the chute started to blossom he slammed into the mud of the embankment on the south side of the river. The open chute of the lucky one drifted behind the trees lining the river.

  The Heinkel 111 fireballed along its portside wing, which now sheered off completely, and the plane went into a tumbling spin. Seconds later there was a rumbling explosion and sheets of flame erupted near Waterloo Station.

  The Hurricane turned in a sharp bank to the north, the pilot, obviously unable to contain his exuberance, doing a victory roll as he climbed heavenward over Parliament, soaring upward to rejoin the fray.

  “That’s the stuff!” the warden screamed, jumping up, clenched fist raised in the air in salute. And Genda could not help but feel an exuberance as well as envy for that pilot at this moment, having made his kill like a samurai, clean, efficient, and with all of London watching below; and in spite of the overwhelming noise of battle, he could hear cheers: “That’s our boy! Get another Jerry, lad!”

  The warden half turned back to Genda.

  “That’s why you should be off this bridge. Get yourself killed out here like this.”

  Genda again held up his diplomatic pass, saying nothing, and the warden shook his head.

  “Bloody stupid slant eyes. If you want to get killed out here, that’s your business.”
/>   “I speak perfectly good English,” Genda said slowly. “And I am an officer in my country’s navy.”

  The warden, embarrassed, actually raised his right hand and offered something of a salute, mumbled an apology, and moved on, disappearing into the smoke from the burning Heinkel that still cloaked the bridge.

  Genda turned back to watch the unfolding battle. The main action was down along the East End, from Tower Bridge three miles away clear down to Greenwich. With the well-made excellent Zeiss binoculars that he was using to observe the fight, he estimated at least two hundred or more German bombers were at work, dropping their loads from what appeared to be several thousand meters up, above the range of the lightweight 20- and 40-millimeter antiaircraft guns, which were basically all that the British could muster for the defense of the city except for a few batteries of heavier weaponry clustered around the center of the city and government buildings.

  The concussions from the heavier bombs, 500 kilos or more, slapped against him, even from this distance. Smoke was columning up, darkening the skies. A huge secondary lit off. He saw the fireball soaring heavenward, counting the seconds until the blast washed over him. It was staggering even from miles away. Most likely the Woolrich arsenal, he thought. Still operational from the reports he had received, but a few days before most likely a thousand tons or more of explosives had lit off with that one.

  A high, almost bell-like tinkling interrupted him for a moment, and he saw a scattering of shell casings hitting the pavement in the middle of the bridge, bouncing, coming to rest, cast-offs from .30-caliber and 7.7- and 20-millimeter guns; hundreds more were pocking the water of the Thames. High overhead the sky was a latticework of contrails, the battle up there between Spitfires and ME-109s raging at twenty thousand feet or more, remote from what was transpiring down here, and yet still a deadly struggle for control of the air over London. Nearly invisible dots twisted and turned, as if their intent was to weave an elaborate pattern of contrails in the skies. It was beautiful to watch, and Genda, head tilted back, focused on it for a moment.

  Any semblance of formations seemed to have broken down, the heavenly battle a hundred duels, a puff of smoke, a flash of flame, the dot disappearing, contrail following it turning away, German or British he could not tell. Three contrails were streaking down from the west, up there, far away up there, coming out of the sun, pouncing, another flash of flame, the three continuing on into a sharp spiraling turn, looking for more prey. And how he wished with all his heart to be up there now. It almost didn’t matter which side, just to be up in the thick of it, pitting his skills against any who would dare to challenge him, again the thought of the samurai duels of old.

  There must be a thousand planes in the sky overhead, Genda thought, filled with a sense of wonder; the greatest air battle in the history of warfare was taking place this day, and here he was, stuck on the ground. Overhead, just from the German side alone, more aircraft than his entire navy could ever hope to launch.

  An explosion directly above and he looked up to see what appeared to be a Hurricane, disintegrating, both wings sheering off, plummeting down in a nearly vertical dive, a 109 pulling out behind it, engine screaming loudly as the pilot leveled off and began to climb, heading southeast, apparently racing for home, fuel most likely short.

  With a sense of horror Genda watched as the wreckage of the Hurricane tumbled down to fall somewhere along the north side of the river; and there, just above the burning fuselage, trailing smoke, was the doomed pilot, arms and legs flaying, parachute tangled into a burning streamer like a candlewick about to snuff out. The wreckage of the burning plane, and the man who had flown it but seconds before, crashed down on the north side, somewhere up near Trafalgar Square. He felt a wave of pity for the man, more likely a boy, since it was known that the RAF was indeed scraping the bottom of the barrel, putting up barely trained youths of nineteen with less than twenty hours of training in their planes. In the Japanese navy, it was expected that a pilot would have at least three hundred hours or more in a combat aircraft before he was deemed ready for battle. Planes and pilots, for Japan, were too valuable to be wasted lightly. But for England, they were on the desperate edge.

  He wondered if the doomed youth had been the same pilot who but a few minutes before had, with such high zest, pulled a victory roll over Parliament, climbing back up to meet his fate in the tumult raging above.

  More explosions from the East End drew his attention, while overhead the pulsing roar of hundreds of engines grew in intensity, the vast German air armada banking, turning about to head back southeastward to reload and, most likely, return come night, the fires of the East End now their beacon.

  He shook his head.

  The clattering of a bell sounded behind him. He saw a white ambulance racing across the bridge, behind it three fire trucks and several lorries loaded with infantry. Downstream, a fire boat was at work, streams of water arching high in the air, trying to douse a fire consuming a burning freighter. A bomb detonated near it, rocking the boat, yet it kept to its duty. Down on the river embankment behind him, half a dozen men, up to their thighs in muck, were dragging out the body of the dead German from the Heinkel. He turned away from the chaos to walk back toward his embassy, the report already forming in his mind.

  To have such power… to have such power and not to squander it as it was being squandered this day by the Germans, that would be the key to a Japanese victory.

  Oahu

  11 September 1940

  7:00 a.m. Local Time

  James Watson, former naval commander, now associate professor of mathematics at the University of Hawaii, eased in a little more rudder to counter the engine torque, eased back on the stick, not too much, just a touch, and the Aeronca Chief with all its fifty horsepower floated off the dirt strip and into the air. Nose down slightly, build up climb-out speed to sixty, then stick back again, best rate of climb a stately four hundred feet per minute. Not like the first ride he had been on, but still such a joy, a slight buffet from the gentle trade winds coming in from the northeast. High enough now to circle out over the ocean; if the engine cut off, more than enough altitude to glide back to the private landing strip at Kaneohe, just south of the naval air station there.

  A lone PBY Catalina twin-engine recon plane was taking off from the small bay, white foam spraying out, and James felt a touch of real envy. If only he had discovered flying back when at the Naval Academy twenty-five years ago, how different his career might have been. It took a Japanese pilot to show him the joy of it, and as he did nearly every time he took off, he wondered how Fuchsia was.

  Cecil had written him a note about Fuchsia, describing their last meeting, and James knew why Fuchsia had stopped their correspondence. After getting his private license and buying the Aeronca, he had actually sent a photo of himself with the plane to his old friend. The motivation why, he wasn’t sure. Part of him could never forgive nor forget what happened that day, but on the other side, Fuchsia had not been personally involved and according to Cecil had most likely been sent out to rein in the hotheads who had launched the attack. Part of it as well was, he knew, to send a message.

  Navy rehab had done some fine work with him. The rubberized hand looked fairly lifelike, fit over the stump comfortably. When he flew he used the mechanical claw hand; it was easier to grasp with and fortunately with flying he only needed his left to work the throttle and trim tab master switch; and there was always someone around to throw the prop for him. Nearly everything else was done with his right; once he demonstrated he could do so to his instructor, an old retired army pilot from the last war, he was cleared to solo and then got a license. His instructor, Don Barber, had an artificial foot; the real one he said was lost in a cloud somewhere over northern France back in 1918 and was still floating around up there, looking for its owner. It took one of Don’s friends to coax out the real story. How he had been pounced, shot up, his right foot damn near blown off, and he had started for a cloud, looking for
cover, only to realize his wingman was in trouble, then turned about to go back for him, dropping both Germans they had tangled with. He escorted his wounded wingman back and then passed out from loss of blood after landing his shot-up Spad. Somehow James felt his own injury paled in insignificance next to this man. At least Don had been able to fight back. All he had managed to do was be in the wrong place at the wrong time and had a hand blown off. He had not been able to do a damn thing in reply. Sure, the navy had made a big to-do over his Purple Heart, a Bronze Star for supposedly helping to pull a drowning civilian out–he was ashamed for ever allowing that medal to be forced on him–and then he’d been promoted and retired out as disabled.

  Learning to fly had been his real therapy, rebuilding confidence, giving him a goal, and his instructor had been the therapist, coaching him along, understanding the need, the two talking about the strange phenomena of “limb memory,” how Don said he still woke up in the middle of the night, foot itching like hell, and would actually reach down to scratch it, the same for James who still at times forgot he was missing a hand and actually reached out to pick something up, or got a damn annoying tingle that could never again be scratched.

  He knew that was the other reason he had sent the photo to Fuchsia. He made a point of wearing the mechanical claw rather than the cosmetic rubber hand, the claw holding the leather flight helmet and goggles Fuchsia had given him. He wanted him to see what his comrades had accomplished when they hit the Panay. He never heard back from him.

  He leveled off at three thousand, cruising comfortably down the east coast of the island, his favorite flight, following the coast toward Diamond Head. Still early enough that he didn’t have to worry about the turbulence that would build up to gut-wrenching levels by midday. It was a great day for flying, peaceful, like sliding on glass, the way he loved it. He wished he had dragged Margaret along. She had begrudgingly accepted his new hobby, the seventeen-hundred-dollar cost of the plane, and even gone up a few times, but the slightest bump and back to the airport they went. Today, with the side windows pulled back to let the breeze in, it was just so damn beautiful, the white surf, startlingly blue ocean, even up here the air