Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  Then four more explosions, four more columns of water, each several hundred feet high. The first blast had come as a total surprise to the men on that ship; few had been on deck, but now the deck was swarming with men, racing to their battle stations.

  How much time had passed, he suddenly wondered. He started to look down at his watch, realizing that he had dropped

  Photograph taken from a Japanese plane during the torpedo attack on ships moored on both sides of Ford Island. View looks about east, with the supply depot, submarine base, and fuel tank farms in the right center distance. A torpedo has just hit USS West Virginia on the far side of Ford Island (center). Other battleships moored nearby are (from left): Nevada, Arizona, Tennessee (inboard of West Virginia), Oklahoma (torpedoed and listing) alongside Maryland, and California. On the near side of Ford Island, to the left, are light cruisers Detroit and Raleigh, target and training ship Utah, and seaplane tender Tangier. Raleigh and Utah have been torpedoed, and Utah is listing sharply to port. Japanese planes are visible in the right center (over Ford Island) and over the Navy Yard at right. Japanese writing in the lower right states that the photograph was reproduced by authorization of the Navy Ministry.

  NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER

  his coffee mug, the brown liquid spilling down his trousers. A minute, five minutes?

  The concussion of the four explosions hit him with near simultaneous blows and staggered him so that he was driven backward. Antlike figures seemed to be caught up in the rising columns of water, fire, smoke, torn metal; some intact, some just parts of bodies, men who had raced up onto the deck, some in uniforms, some just in skivvies, blown clear off the ship, tumbling through the air.

  The great ship lurched like a punch-drunk boxer taking the killing blow, seeming to stagger and then just slowly began to fall. The great ship was rolling. It was beyond any horror he had ever dreamed possible, such a ship, the pride of his navy, and it was dying, the great pagoda towers leaning now over the water, the entire port side of the battleship ripped open from bow to rudder, tens of thousands of tons of water actually blown back and away for an instant by the blasts, now filling the vacuum, punching inward, bulkheads within collapsing from the force.

  Oklahoma was rolling over. Her deck was now visible, hundreds of men, so antlike in appearance, the image searing into his soul so that he knew, never again could he ever see an image of men falling without thinking of this moment as they tumbled down the length of the deck. The concussions of hundreds of explosions were now washing across the harbor, other ships, exploding fireballs of dozens of PBYs caught on the ground on Ford Island were going up, dozens more at Hickman behind him. A Zero, guns blazing, racing past him, strafing the subs, a boy valiantly struggling to get the sub’s flag up, pitching backward off the deck.

  But it was the Oklahoma that held him, as it continued to roll. The great pagodas, two hundred feet high, like skyscrapers twisted, groaned, and then tumbled over. Atop them he could see the horror of a half dozen men atop each, tangled up in the steel latticework beams, plummeting to their deaths.

  The deck was now nearly vertical, men clinging to stanchions, splinter shields, gun barrels, ladders, some dropping, others hanging on, hundreds of heads bobbing in the water, upon which oil flames were beginning to spread.

  She rolled, turning over, the three great gun turrets tearing free of their mountings, each turret weighing as much as an entire destroyer. He saw a brief instant of men in the water, holding hands up over heads as if to ward off the crushing blow… gone, foaming muddy waves spreading outward, the deck now nearly inverted, screaming men trying to swim out from underneath, sucked back in by the tidal-like surge of water rushing into the bowels of the ship.

  A foaming wave, capped with flickering fire, black with oil, rolled out and away as the Oklahoma turtled and sank down to rest on the muddy bottom… hundreds of men, still alive, most of them dying, trapped inside. And in his feverish nightmares he could imagine the horror within. The ship in her death roll. It was his ship in a way, the way all men who love the navy feel about one ship in particular… when she was new and gleaming, smelling of fresh paint. The battle drills—he could remember the battle drills. We always knew they were drills, and the alarms would sound and those asleep would grumble awake to dog down the doors then practice emergency escape, climb one at a time up the narrow vertical ladders, unscrew the hatch in the false, or “splinter ceiling,” then you had to jackknife yourself over because the escape routes were not lined up, but rather were offset one from the other, so that a plunging shot could not come straight down through them… but it meant that those getting out would have to know how to climb, jackknife, crawl along a narrow space between the “splinter shield” or false deck above, a space not much more than eighteen inches wide, then reach the next hatch, and open it, to gain the next deck. Then up another ladder, and repeat the process again. If you were down in the lower decks and engine room, it would take a dozen such climbs to reach topside.

  And always it was a drill, and there was light, there was no being thrown from a bunk while still in deepest sleep into a nightmare of flame and darkness and cascading muddy water.

  But there was no such warning this time, no whisper that the “old man” would pull an escape drill before breakfast today. There was no understanding of how, or why, of who had done this, and why it was happening to you now, as flames shot through open doors that were not dogged down and screams echoed, and a tidal wall of black, foaming water surged down the corridors, bearing with it burned men, screaming men, dead men.

  Those still alive tried for the escape ladders, but now what had been topside in but a few minutes had pitched over to a forty-five-degree angle, and then a ninety-degree angle, and he could imagine those boys within, clawing at the ladders, a petty officer trying to keep them calm, but then panicking as well, for what was up was now sideways… and then, merciful God, it was going upside down and the emergency lights snapped off, and water was racing upward at you, or was it downward, thousands of tons of water, and comrades were clawing at your legs, screaming for you to keep moving, but you couldn’t move… you were trapped in a darkness as black as the lowest circle of hell… as the water crushed into your lungs and the only light, the blinding flashes within your mind as you died, was trapped in the blackness.

  James could not think, could not even begin to absorb the vision nightmares that were searing into him. He barely noticed West Virginia or Maryland, engulfed in flames. A pock-marking streak of machine-gun bullets stitched across the water in front of him, a round slashing the bench he had been sitting on but minutes before. Numbed, he looked: it appeared to be coming from Arizona, a gunner trying to track on a Zero streaking by, the gunner firing wildly. He didn’t move.

  And then, in that instant, the Arizona just disappeared. The flash of the explosion was so intense, so blinding, he shielded his face from the heat. The fireball bursting outward was as hot, as brilliant as the sun. Within its flame he could see glimpses of the entire ship, forward of the bridge lifting into the air, clear out of the water, and then the shock wave hit, staggering him backward. For an instant he thought the flame of it would actually wash over him and for the first time… in how long now… three minutes… five… six or seven?… he realized his own mortal peril. He dove to the ground. Behind him he could hear hundreds of windows shattering, screams, the fireball climbing heavenward, or was it climbing into hell?—for it seemed as if the entire sky was awash with flame. Jagged hunks of metal soared out of the fireball, splashing into the water. There was a momentary glimpse of a plane, wing sheared off, perhaps caught in the blast, tumbling in a spiraling dive, slamming into the harbor, engine howling, propellors shearing off and spinning out and away… parts of bodies, entire bodies falling from the sky… damned souls descending into the fiery pit, for the harbor was now awash with flaming oil.

  The top of a palm tree snapped off, crashing down beside him.

  The fireball spread outward and then
was gone, replaced by a plume of oily black smoke boiling up, the blown-out wreckage of the Arizona collapsing inward upon itself, the twisted pagoda tower leaning over drunkenly, boiling steam hissing as it settled to the bottom.

  And then… they were gone. The tormentors were just gone. Already the Kates and the Vals were winging off, disappearing back into dots. Over the airfields the Zeroes still wheeled and turned like hawks, looking for some prey that had escaped their first pounce, as if offering a challenge to any that remained within the smoking wreckage to come up and offer a fight challenge… but the rest were just simply gone.

  And the fleet before him was gone as well. Every battleship was aflame, settling into the mud, all except Nevada; though she was trailing a plume of smoke from a hit, and there was smoke as well boiling up from her stacks, she was firing up, cutting anchor lines away.

  But as for the rest, they were gone.

  He came to his feet, the world a blur. He fumbled for his glasses. They were covered in mud, and clumsily he took them off, wiping them clean on his mud- and grass-stained shirt. He put them back on.

  There was a marine lying on the ground nearby, curled up by the tree whose top had been sheared off, lying face up. He wanted to speak to someone, anyone, and woodenly he started to walk over and then slowed.

  The front of the man’s shirt was a spreading pool of red; his eyes were wide, unfocused, his mouth open in a silent

  Sailors in a motor launch rescue a survivor from the water alongside the sunken USS West Virginia (BB-48) during or shortly after the Japanese air raid on Pearl Harbor. USS Tennessee (BB-43) is inboard of the sunken battleship. Note extensive distortion of West Virginia’s lower midships superstructure, caused by torpedoes that exploded below that location. Also note 5-inch.25 caliber deck gun, still partially covered with canvas, boat crane swung outboard and empty boat cradles near the smokestacks, and base of radar antenna atop West Virginia’s foremast.

  NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER

  scream. It was the marine sergeant who had saluted him but minutes before.

  What do I do? He wanted to scream for help; he looked around. Out on the lawn scores of men were beginning to stand back up. Some were not moving at all, others were screaming, rolling back and forth in agony; one, sleeve torn off, arm torn off with it, was just walking about in slow circles, blood coursing down his side.

  He felt he should go to him, but what about the dead marine? Should I see to him?

  I’m in shock, he realized. The moment came back, and he struggled to hold the tears. The moment when Davy had died, the last breath slipping out of him, and he could no longer react, think, even at that moment feel anything other than a black empty void.

  Sound started to return to his consciousness. Sirens, ships’ bells, a staccato barking of a machine gun, the heavier crump explosion of a gun firing from the deck of one of the destroyers anchored in the narrow loch. A ship’s steam whistle shrieking, men shouting, a woman’s screams, overarching all a roiling, hissing roar, the thunder of ships burning, explosions lighting off as ammunition stores detonated, the whine of a plane, a lone Zero streaking down the length of the harbor, machine guns blazing, strafing men struggling in the water, and now a growing fusillade of return fire, tracers crisscrossing the harbor, the wild firing causing him to momentarily duck again, some windows shattering in the main administration building.

  That’s where I should go, he realized. Get back to my post, find something there, that’s where I should go.

  He walked slowly, back aching from being knocked over by the explosion of Arizona, coming around the flank of the building and then to the front.

  Now it was a madhouse. He caught a glimpse of Kimmel’s car pulled up over the curb. More vehicles were piling in, horns blaring, men leaping out, some running about wildly, as if driven to a frenzied insanity, shouting wildly to no one, to everyone.

  The marine guard he had walked past but a half hour ago was crouched against the side of the building,.45 drawn, looking heavenward, ready to fight his own war.

  “Watson!”

  It was Collingwood, standing in the doorway leading back down to the dungeon.

  He looked at him, unable to reply.

  “You all right?”

  He couldn’t reply, and Collingwood came up, reaching out, motioning to his left arm, and James winced and looked down. His shirt sleeve was torn open, blood trickling down to his wrist and covering his claw.

  “You’re hit, man.”

  From what he couldn’t tell. The Jap gunner, the wild firing, a fragment from the Arizona. He didn’t know… other than the fact that it did indeed now hurt. He shook his head and almost chuckled. The claw was actually mangled, bent back, the leather socket holding it to his arm torn, blood oozing out.

  Damn! To be hit in the same place twice—how strange, he thought. Both times in surprise attacks, and he looked back up at the sky, catching a glimpse of a Kate, flying high up, marked with distinctive yellow and red stripes… you goddamn bastards.

  “My God, man, you were right. We were right. It was here,” Collingwood gasped.

  He stepped into the foyer. The clock on the wall… 8:15 a.m. He had walked out of here just 35 minutes ago.

  “As if our being right matters now,” James replied softly.

  Over Pearl Harbor

  8:22 a.m.

  Orbiting at 3,500 meters, Strike Leader Fuchida trained his binoculars on the wreckage below. It was beyond all he had hoped for. Two, possibly three of the battleships were destroyed. One of them, he believed, was the Arizona; it was hard to tell because of the smoke. It had just simply disappeared in the massive explosion that had buffeted his plane so hard that for a moment he thought he had been hit by flak.

  Damage was far beyond the most optimistic estimates of what both he and Genda had made across all the long months of planning. They had assumed that 50 percent of the strike force might not make it to the target area or would be so harassed by enemy fighters and antiaircraft fire as to divert them away.

  Nothing had stopped them, and only now were the antiaircraft bursts beginning to come up, nearly all of them ineffective.

  He felt a strange mix of emotions. There was, of course, the sheer elation that a plan he had helped conceive had gone so flawlessly. And yet two things troubled him. Where were the carriers? Not one was in port, their usual mooring points empty. Even as he had his pilot orbit above the center of the harbor now, so he could scan out to sea, sweeping the horizon with his binoculars, hoping either that the carriers had fled upon some warning—but then if so, swarms of fighters would have been up to greet them—or that they were just now stumbling into range and the incoming second-strike wave could still be diverted to deal with them.

  That would finish the coup. The carriers sunk, not just in the harbor but out in the open sea, without any hope of recovery. But there was no sign of them, and he fixed his attention back below, for the second-strike wave would arrive in a few more minutes, and he was preparing a checklist of targets still to be hit.

  Then he had a second thought. It had been almost too easy, and as he surveyed the flaming wreckage of the battleships, the scores of planes burning on the ground at Ford Island, Hicham Field, he began to wonder. To the north amid the rising plumes from Wheeler, he could see the dotlike figures in white and khaki running about, could imagine hundreds more burning in the flaming waters of the bay, watching even as the Zeroes that were still loitering over the target area waited for any challenging planes to come up, arcing down to strafe… and he did find the sensation chilling.

  The target before had been an abstract, a map, a model, a test run on simulated targets. How many were dead down there?… and though imbued with the firm belief that it was necessary for the survival of Japan, he felt as he had over China, that in fact there was no feeling, no hatred, no fierce desire to kill as some of his pilots had expressed so fervently, if for no other reason than to appear to have the spirit of bushed.

  There wa
s a moment of wonder, wondering what those below must now feel toward him.

  “Sir! The second wave!”

  His pilot was pointing forward as they continued to bank through a shallow turn, heading eastward. From over Diamond Head he could see the wave of Avals and Kates soaring in. A major part of the second strike had been detailed to come down on the east coast of the island, in part because in the interval of launching the first and second waves, the carriers had moved to the southeast, but also because their planning assumed that any American defenses would swarm over the center of the island and to the north.

  But still there was no opposition in the air. Had they truly caught all of them on the ground?

  Zeroes leading the second strike raced in to assume covering positions, and as they did so, the last of the fighters from the first wave did one more dive to strafe, expending the last of their ammunition, then broke off, heading westward to depart the target area and once well clear, to turn northward to the rendezvous point twenty miles north of the island, where aircraft equipped with homing equipment would guide the fighters back to their ships. Switching his radio back on he began to detail off the targets. Kates armed with torpedoes were to now focus on docked cruisers and the one battleship, it looked like Nevada, which was beginning to make way, turning about to run for the open sea. If it could be caught and sunk at the mouth of the harbor, that would truly be a disaster for the Americans, perhaps shutting down the facility for weeks, even months, bottling up the entire fleet.

  Many of the lighter vessels, destroyers and cruisers, were firing up their boilers, half a dozen of them beginning to make way. We must attack them as well.