Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  “What the PM thinks, and that, dear friend, is a confidence between friends and no further. Call it a sign of trust.”

  “Fine then.”

  “Why use carriers on Singapore when land-based planes out of Indochina can do the job? Once you have Singapore, the oilfields of Sarawak and the Celebes in the Dutch East Indies fall by default.

  “I’d place my bet elsewhere.”

  “My God, you are talking about here,” James whispered. Cecil did not reply. He carefully began to fold up the linen from his sandwich, motioned to where Cecil’s sat on the park bench between them. James shook his head and several seconds later, a couple of gulls were happily tearing it apart, others swooping in to argue over the spoils.

  He emptied out the rest of the coffee into their cups and James took a gulp, his stomach rebelling slightly, all the caffeine and nothing down there to soak it up. He suddenly did feel hungry and looked a bit regretfully at the gulls, who were now flying off, squabbling even as they flew away with the remnants of the meal.

  His gaze went back to the harbor toward which the gulls were flying. Yet more Liberty Boats were coming in, boisterous sailors shouting and laughing. Over where the submarines were lined up, some of the crew, stuck with duty aboard, had spread out blankets and lay on the deck, soaking up the morning sun, a radio rigged up on the conning bridge of one of the subs playing the new Andrews Sisters hit “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”

  Over on the north side of Ford Island, a PBY had just landed and was taxiing across the water and then up the ramp, the morning recon flight around the island completed for the day. A couple of Army P-40s cruised by at low altitude, skirting the edge of the naval base as their pilots put in an hour or two of flight time before knocking off for a secluded getaway up in the hills or on an isolated beach with a young wife or girlfriend.

  Cecil looked at his watch.

  “Think you can whistle up a ride for me?” he asked. “I think it’s time to go.”

  “Certainly.”

  The two stood up and stretched.

  “I hope to see you again,” James said.

  Cecil smiled.

  “Oh, we will. What we talked about earlier. Who knows, I did bend the PM’s ear a bit. Our names are in the hat.”

  James nodded. It was an interesting speculation, but at the moment all he could do was look across the harbor, which now seemed to be bathed in a different light.

  Hitokappu Bay, Japan

  26 November 1941

  6:00 a.m. Tokyo Time

  25 November 1941

  10:30 a.m. Hawaii Time

  The two friends, Fuchida and Genda, stood side by side on the bridge of the carrier Akagi. The colors had just been raised, the national anthem played by the ship’s band, and all had then turned to bow first to the east and the sun, which had yet to rise, and then south to the homeland and the Emperor.

  They looked with excitement at Admiral Yamamoto standing near them. He had finally concluded that Genda was right and that he had to lead the fleet.

  Furthermore, once Yamamoto had thought through the implications of the strategic gamble to which he was committing the navy he made a number of significant changes in the operational plan.

  They were no longer on a smash-and-run raid. They were now committed to the destruction of the American Fleet and were planning for a cruise of decisive engagement. It was both exhilarating and awe inspiring. Once Yamamoto had thought through the logic of their position he had relentlessly and ruthlessly imposed changes to the plan to give Japan the greatest possible range of options in the opening weeks of the campaign.

  Yamamoto’s preparatory work was done, and he wasted no energy in anxiety or anticipation. He was now relaxed and beginning to build reserves of energy for the moment of engagement when his will, his creativity, and his nerve would matter. Until then he had competent subordinates to run the fleet and train the crews.

  Fuchida found himself much more filled with adrenaline than Yamamoto. He was so intensely committed to success that he almost quivered with energy.

  The deck was cleared of all but half a dozen planes, to be used for antisubmarine patrol as the fleet set out and Akagi built up to launch speed. But the harbor was already ringed by planes, skimming low and slow, back and forth beyond the opening to the bay. If but one American submarine should be present to see what was about to sortie out, the entire operation might be aborted, though orders were to attack any strange submarine without warning and hopefully to sink it before it could dispatch a message.

  The flight deck was lined with all the ship’s personnel, except for those absolutely needed in the engine room, the men most likely freezing in their formal uniforms in the near arctic cold.

  The Akagi’s captain turned to his quartermaster and gave the slightest of nods. “Dismiss the crew to their regular stations,” was all he said, “and take us out.”

  Yamamoto turned away, his back to those on the bridge, gaze fixed forward.

  Seconds later Fuchida could feel the vibration run through Akagi. It was the engines beginning to rev up. In seconds water would start foaming under her stern, but it was more than that, an electriclike vibration coursing through the entire crew.

  Down on the flight deck, boatswains’ pipes shrilled, ordering the men below, but they did not break ranks at once; many just stood in place, sensing the moment. Though even now, only the pilots and a handful of officers knew their destination and mission, that secret would not be revealed to the crew until later in the day. Still even the lowest of enlisted personnel knew that this was no ordinary training mission. The pride of the Japanese Fleet, a force of nearly a hundred ships, was gathered in the harbor. Two fast battleships, six of her carriers, escort ships, cruisers, destroyers, minesweepers, the crucial oilers, the destroyers already racing for the mouth of the harbor to form the forward screen.

  One would have to be dead, very stupid, Fuchida thought, not to realize they were sallying forth to war.

  Morale had soared even higher when the evening before, Yamamoto had quietly arrived without fanfare. Fuchida suspected that Genda knew of this beforehand, but security had obviously been maintained. Once Yamamoto was aboard Akagi, within minutes Nagumo had departed just as quietly, face drawn, tense, obviously enraged and humiliated. He had been beached at the very last minute, but few had complained, for now everyone on board was drawing comparisons with Admiral Togo in 1905 sailing forth for Tsushima. Everyone saw it as a good omen.

  Genda caught Fuchida’s eyes, motioned for him to follow, and together they went back down the steps and back out onto the flight deck. The Akagi was rapidly gaining speed, an icy wind sweeping the ship, but hundreds now stood about the bridge, looking up, wondering. Some started to approach Genda, but his gaze warned them off.

  And then it happened. An overly enthusiastic young ensign leaned over the railing, cupping his hands to be heard above the gale of wind and the roar of the engine exhaust stakes.

  “Admiral Yamamoto is leading us to victory!”

  The response was electric.

  One of the young lieutenants out on the open bridge did it first, throwing hands up high… Banzai… Banzai… Banzai.

  The cry was picked up, reverberated, a thousand or more voices joining in as the wind begin to whip down the length of the ship as it turned majestically, gathering speed, heading toward the vast sea beyond.

  “Did you do this?” Fuchida asked, looking at his friend.

  “No, I think you did,” Genda said softly.

  “But you talked to him about what I said.”

  Genda nodded.

  “But I thought he refused; he never said a word. This is the first I knew,” and as he spoke his voice began to break.

  That old man had kept his cards close, close indeed. He must have gone all the way to the Emperor, though, to discuss the change. Genda felt a twinge of pain for Nagumo now.

  “Three cheers, for Admiral Yamamoto sails with us!”

  And again cheers swep
t the deck.

  Fuchida could not contain himself, and he embraced his old friend.

  “You just might have changed history,” he said, voice choked.

  “No, my friend. You are the strike leader. It will be you who will ultimately decide that.”

  Fuchida, broke, unable to hold back his tears. If ever there was a moment to be alive, to be a pilot for Japan, it was here, now, this moment.

  Pearl Harbor

  28 November 1941

  0700

  The Big E moved slowly but steadily toward the harbor mouth. Task Force 2 was on the way to Wake Island to deliver aircraft. Admiral Halsey was carefully disguising their destination. In fact, security was so tight the marine pilots had been told they were only going out to sea for two days of experimental flying off the carrier. They only had one change of clothes with them.

  Admiral Halsey looked out at the three battleships and their accompanying cruisers and destroyers he would send off for training as soon as they got out of sight of land. He fully expected war to break out at any minute, hour, or day, and he did not want to run down to Wake Island encumbered by slow battleships. The Enterprise could make thirty knots and the cruisers and destroyers assigned to protect her could keep up. The old battleships were only capable of seventeen knots. As

  Vice Admiral William F. Halsey, Jr., USN. Photographed circa 1941, while he was serving as Commander, Aircraft, Battle Force. Copied from the USS Enterprise (CV-6) “War Album,” Volume 1.

  NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER

  an airman, Halsey thought their guns were irrelevant to the kind of fight he might get into and their lack of speed could be fatal.

  Halsey looked forward to this cruise toward Wake Island with confidence and enthusiasm. They were out to sea and he half expected that by the time he returned, currently scheduled for the morning of December 7, they would be at war.

  rocityPART THREE:

  The Battle of Pearl Harbor

  TWELVE

  7 December 1941

  7:30 a.m. Hawaiian Time

  8 December 1941

  3:00 a.m. Tokyo Time

  “Ha, there it is!” Strike Commander Fuchida, shoulder harness loosened, half stood up, Zeiss binoculars raised, looking straight ahead. Kahuku Point was nearly straight ahead, perhaps five degrees off to port, about forty kilometers ahead.

  He slapped his pilot on the shoulder, looking past him to their instrument panel. Speed 180 knots, some morning haze, a low scattering of clouds, ceiling about three thousand meters. Even as he watched intently, they went into a wisp of low-hanging mist, vision obscured, then broke back out, the slanting rays of the sun off his left shoulder illuminating all with a golden light.

  The Zeroes, throttles back, weaved slowly back and forth, above, forward, and to the flanks of the strike column. No signals, no sudden throttling up to sweep forward to ward off interceptors. Nothing. Just the island ahead, the morning light, the steady reassuring roar of the 1,200-horsepower Mitsubishi radial engine pulling them toward their destiny.

  In just a few minutes the peak at Kahuku Point resolved into a clearer view. After a week and a half at sea, most of it below decks as they pushed through forty-foot seas, even the most experienced of pilots wretched with seasickness, the lush inviting greenery of the peaks ahead was almost a soothing sight, a promise of warmth after cold, a promise of beauty… and a promise of a war so long contemplated, planned for, and now in but a few more minutes a war into which he would personally lead his nation.

  Thoughts raced through his head, a distraction. He had to focus, but still they were there. Boyhood dreams of samurai fantasies. The great legendary warriors, the famed duels of masters, the vast armies in the civil wars for the Shogunate. He was now the lead samurai, the one galloping forward, all eyes upon him. Fantasy, he thought, even as he grinned and touched the ceremonial headband given to him by his crew chief.

  The tension around him, the nearly two hundred pilots all looking toward his plane for the signal to attack, to charge forward.

  He raised his binoculars again, scanning the peak, then the airspace to either side. Surely they would be up, the peak a rally point, surely two hundred of their fighters would now be airborne. Were they so asleep?

  The airspace ahead was empty except for a tiny yellow speck. He focused on it: a Stearman biplane, a lone plane, civilian from the looks of it, most likely out to enjoy the sunrise. He smiled; it certainly was a beautiful sunrise; and there was a fleeting thought to break radio silence, to tell his eager Zero pilots to leave the plane alone. But he knew they would; they were primed for bigger game.

  The point was closer. He looked down at his wristwatch, strapped to the outside of his flight jacket. Zero: three zero seven Tokyo time; a quick mental calculation: 07:37 local time. The headphones still resonated with the soft gentle Hawaiian music of a station in Honolulu. Surely they would be off the air by now or broadcasting a warning, a general alert.

  The music continued, so inviting… and he felt even a tinge of sadness. So naively American, the poor fools. For all hell was now bearing down upon them.

  Zero: seven thirty-nine local time. He checked his watch again, as they raced toward the point at over three miles per minute. Already he could see clear into the middle of the island, the sugarcane fields along the north coast, the Waianae Range across the middle of the island, for the moment blocking the view of Wheeler Army Air Force Base and the harbor beyond.

  Nearly to the critical point, he could sense the strike leaders gazing in his direction. It was still not sure if total surprise had been gained or not, but now was the moment. He slipped the canopy back, the wind stream buffeting him, cool air shrieking past. The cockpit had been getting warm, or was it his own tension that made him sweat?

  It looked to be total surprise.

  He unclipped the Very flare gun from its holster set into the back of the seat before him. Cocked it open and put in a red flare shell. Sticking his arm straight up into the slipstream roaring by overhead he fired the gun, red flare streaking up, the signal that total surprise had been gained. The two attack plans, either for surprise or against stiff resistance, required two fundamentally different attack formations. In the former, the bombers would go straight in and hit before the enemy realized what was happening or were just beginning to prepare. A second flare meant frontal assault, with the Zeroes to streak ahead to clear enemy fighters before the attack commenced.

  The bombers to either side began to peel off into their various directions, the main body breaking into waves that would sweep down the west coast of the island then turn in to hit Pearl Harbor from the west and south. The other strike force to come down from the north straight over the island, while secondary strikes went against the airfields, the Zeroes going in to strafe.

  Within seconds the columns began to break off from the main stream… within minutes it would begin.

  But the Zeroes did not seem to be responding, and after a couple more minutes, he loaded a second flare to signal, and instantly regretted it, for some now saw this as a second signal and not a repeat of the first. Confusion began to reign, and suddenly all planes just began to roar straight in, some thinking it was surprise, some not. There was nothing he could do about it now.

  He turned aft to his rear gunner and radio operator. “Send the signal for complete surprise,” he shouted… “Tora… Tora… Tora!”

  USN Carrier Enterprise

  Two hundred and fifty miles west of Oahu

  7:35 a.m.

  Stunned, Halsey looked at the note just brought to him by signals. It came straight from the office of the Department of the Navy in Washington… a warning that war was imminent, perhaps as early as today.

  He now thanked God for the storm that he had cursed but the night before. He had planned to arrive back at Pearl this morning, but the edge of the storm sweeping across the north central Pacific had sent towering seas southward, so rough that they had delayed the refueling of his escorting destroyers and near
ly half a day of high-speed steaming had been lost. The slow movement had made him feel itchy, a perfect target if submarines were lurking about, but now… better to be out here than already in harbor.

  “Did this come straight from Washington or was it relayed from Pearl?” he asked.

  His signal officer shook his head. “Sir, we picked it up from the mainland; my boy on the radio receiver said it was nearly impossible to read but he got it. Given past performances I’d venture no one at Pearl heard it. They’ll most likely send it to them via cable.”

  He wondered for a second if he should relay the message back out, then shook his head. They were running under a self-imposed radio silence. He would not break that to second-guess whether this message had woken things up back on the island.

  “What’s our fix on Lexington?” He turned to look over at the chief petty officer on the plot board. He knew it’d be a guess; Lexington was under radio silence as well.

  The petty officer shook his head. “Sir, it’s only a guess on my part, but I’d say at least five hundred miles to our west, heading to Midway.”

  Halsey nodded, taking that in. Between them they could maybe muster a hundred and forty aircraft. He stood up and walked over to the plot table, the chief petty officer in charge already rolling out the large-scale map of the ocean between the Hawaiian chain, up to Midway, and the lower end of the roughly formed triangle that was Wake Island. A million square miles of ocean.

  In eight hours they could be back into Pearl… but why? We still have enough fuel for several days of steaming, our strength in aircraft is down. If need be once things clarify a bit, I can order a squadron flown back out.

  No, keep sea room away from the island for the moment, turn back westward and move toward Lexington. Maybe she’s got the signal, maybe not. He’d assume not. Always assume the worst, and then you aren’t surprised.

  Surprise, that’s what those bastards would go for. It might be somewhere right out here, perhaps Midway and Wake, best to move to cover that.

  He turned and looked at his expectant staff.