Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  Fuchida held his breath, looking from one to the other, and then, within seconds, the risk he had taken, the risk he knew Genda had taken, but would not admit to, became clear; they had indeed changed what might have been.

  Yamamoto looked straight at Genda.

  “Prepare for a third strike to be launched no later than 1400 hours.”

  Fuchida actually felt tears come to his eyes. He sensed that here, at this moment, some profound change had indeed occurred. Too many had spoken of this attack as “a raid.” No, now it was a true fight, a true battle of annihilation, just as he and Genda had talked about for so many years.

  “But what of their carriers?” Kusaka persisted.

  “I think they are far away. We know they are used to ferry aircraft to other islands such as Midway and Wake. I think they are south of Oahu. But as a precaution we will send back but half our available bombers for the next strike. Some to be armed with light bombs to be scattered over the oil tank fields, others with heavier demolition loads to smash the destroyers, submarines, and cruisers still at anchor, the precious torpedoes to be held back except for a special task group to torpedo the main dry-dock gate.

  “The remaining planes will be divided into two groups. A strong air patrol of fighters to be maintained over our own fleet. A second strike force, armed with torpedoes and armor piercing if we should locate their carriers. Additional search planes to be sent out to seek them to the west and south of Oahu.”

  Kusaka stood rigid, unable to speak.

  “Were you not followed back by any scout planes of theirs?” he asked, as if grasping for a final straw to hold back Yamamoto’s decision.

  “No, sir, not a one. It is why I lingered as long as I did and kept close watch on my return. No one followed us.”

  “Then prepare my orders. Commander Fuchida, your report has been decisive, now go and see to the next strike wave. I want you to lead it.”

  Fuchida sprinted from the room.

  2:45 p.m. Local Time

  “There it is!”

  Though the air was cool at ten thousand feet, Fuchida had to lift his goggles up and wipe his eyes, which were stinging with sweat.

  His pilot was pointing forward, slightly to port. He raised his binoculars, looking over the pilot’s shoulder, and grunted approval.

  Navigation was good. How could it not be: commercial radio stations in Honolulu were still broadcasting, some with announcements and news alerts, amazingly one still playing music. All the lead navigation planes of his strike force had to do was dial in the signal, set their directional antenna, and then ride the beam straight in to their target.

  They were coming in at ten thousand feet, taking advantage of the high toppings of the midday clouds; it was a bumpy ride when going through them, dangerous as well for formations. He suspected that two of his Avals, which had disappeared, most likely had collided in one of the clouds, but it kept them concealed… and amazingly, they had yet to sight a single American plane!

  Still, once near land, the Americans would be blind and deaf not to see and hear the strike force of 100 planes approaching Kahuku Point, a mix of Zeroes, dive bombers, and torpedo bombers. The admiral had decided that only fifteen of the planes would carry torpedoes this time, and both he and Genda agreed. When the enemy carrier force was finally spotted, those precious weapons would be of better use there. The mission of eight of the torpedo-laden planes was to blow open the gates of the massive dry dock and the smaller ones if possible. Its destruction would render Pearl Harbor useless as a major repair facility, forcing heavily damaged ships to retire all the way to the American West Coast. That would then set those wounded ships up for Japanese submarines who would be waiting off Hawaii to pick off slow-moving crippled ships. The other torpedo planes were to focus on any ships attempting to flee the harbor, ideally to sink them in the main channel; even a destroyer going to the channel bottom could very well bottle it up, and prevent ships from coming in for days, perhaps even weeks or months.

  The other Kates and all the Avals were loaded with a variety of ordnance, a fair percentage carrying lighter 50- and 100-kilo bombs, to destroy repair shops, the headquarters for the American commander in the Pacific; the thin-skinned submarines, which the admiral had declared were now a highest priority target; and the oil tank farms that sprawled out to the northeast side of the harbor.

  Kahuku was clearly visible through a hole in the clouds. Ten miles off, from there twenty-five more to Pearl. He could feel the sweat beading down his back. He wanted this attack; the rewards could be profound, but he knew as well that this time it was not going to be as easy. Surprise was gone and now the Americans would be trying to stop him.

  “Over there!”

  He looked to where his pilot pointed, a lone plane coming out of the clouds toward them, still about four or five miles off, but standing out stark and clear against the backdrop of a towering cumulus cloud.

  They had been spotted, but so far no organized response.

  Only one plane up, a lone scout. He made a quick decision. The primary plan would be followed. Half a dozen fighters to hover over the airbase at Kaneohe to keep any surviving planes on the ground, the rest of the strike force to push straight in, Zeroes in the lead in case there were any surprises ahead. He raised his flare gun up and fired it, one red shell, signal to proceed straight toward the target as planned. Seconds later, six of his Zeroes throttled up and banked to port, ready to close on the plane that had spotted them, then to push on to Kaneohe.

  The lone fighter was closing in, its stubby form registering. Insane, an old P-36, only one, no formation, no squadrons. He could only shake his head at their stupidity or incompetence… and also he had to admit admiration for the spirit of bushed of that lone pilot, whoever he was.

  Nine thousand feet over Kahuku

  2:47 p.m. Local Time

  “Repeat, eighty-plus Japs. Zeroes, Avals, looks like Kates. Bearing from Kahuku seven-five, at ten thousand, heading.”

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Jeremiah Sims, class of 1940, Purdue, who but a few months ago thought that being in the army air corps reserves was a grand deal, raised his goggles to wipe the sweat from his eyes then pulled them back down.

  This wasn’t supposed to be happening. It was supposed to be a posting to Hawaii; plenty of flying, weekends on the beach, just swarming with girls eager to date a pilot; not this. Seven hours ago he had actually been on a secluded beach below Diamond Head. A wonderful night with a girl named Dianne.

  This wasn’t supposed to be happening…

  He caught a glimpse of the planes that disappeared into the clouds, only to surge out again seconds later. He tried to run the calculation, all the calculations, count them, their heading, his heading, a quick scan of instruments, throttle full open, manifold pressure nearing red line, carburetor deicer on—no, switch it off, need more power… flick the cover off the machine-gun switch, slight fluctuation of the wings, unsteady on the stick… goddamn it, stop shaking!

  “Their heading estimated 235 degrees,” and his concentration broke. He caught the flash of a Jap, plane white, nearly invisible against the clouds except for that red meatball painted on the wing, breaking down toward him, two more following.

  Turn in toward it. You won’t make it to their bombers. Turn in on them. Head on!

  Line it up in the sights. Jesus, it was coming on fast. They said the Zero was fast.

  He remembered something, flicked the radio on.

  “Repeat, eighty-plus Japs, eighty-plus, heading straight toward Pearl. I see them clearly! Closing to engage the bastards.”

  He dropped the mike, hand back on throttle, trying to push it just another inch forward, thumb poised on trigger. One Jap coming straight on. The other two now breaking, ready to circle.

  Damn, they are fast.

  He pushed down on the trigger, felt the recoil of the four thirty-calibers opening. Felt good, first time for real. Two of the Japs were breaking left and right as one came straight in.


  What the hell do I do?

  He kept his thumb down. Watched the tracers from his guns. They were plunging down, under the Jap. Pull back, raise your nose, drop them in on him!

  When it hit, there was no sound, just the shattering of the forward canopy as a 20-millimeter shell from the Zero that had been turning to his port side slammed a 30-degree deflection shot straight into his engine, a dozen 7.7-millimeter machine-gun bullets stitching across his cockpit, severing rudder cables, one bullet slicing through his stomach. The Zero coming head-on opened up at nearly the same instant, the pilot shaking his head, the American firing far too soon, one of the Zero’s 20-millimeter shells tearing into the guts of the Wright Cyclone engine, severing the gas line, the explosion of the shell and the heat of the engine igniting the hundred-octane fuel that sprayed out.

  A second later the plane turned sharply into an accelerated stall, snap-rolled, and went into a spin, flame blowing into the cockpit.

  Lieutenant Jeremiah Sims tried to struggle with the canopy release but already the Gs were building up from the spin, disorienting him, the explosion of flame searing into his lungs.

  It was all happening too fast, dear God. The mountains, they’re so green.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace…”

  Headquarters CinCPac

  pearl harbour

  2:47 p.m. Local Time

  The phone rang, silencing the room. Admiral Kimmel picked it up, listened, features fixed.

  “Sound the alert,” was all he said, and he hung up. “It’s a third attack coming in!”

  Only seconds after he spoke the spine-chilling warble of an air-raid siren sounded, rising in pitch. All across the harbor more sirens began to echo, joined by the distant clarion call of a bugle aboard a cruiser sounding battle stations.

  James stood in the far corner of the room. He had not said a word throughout the chaotic hour-long conference but felt throughout that he wanted to scream, to denounce, to scream a warning as the admiral, and vice admirals, captains, and commanders of all the various departments argued and recriminated and debated, with Kimmel silent, issuing few orders, his gaze at times drifting to the window with its shattered panes, the roar of ships burning along battleship row, a background symphony of disaster.

  “Spotters along the northeast coast report an incoming wave of Japanese planes, fifty plus,” Kimmel finally announced.

  “Can we be sure?” a captain asked. “This is the fifth alarm since this morning.”

  “It was confirmed by a pilot in a P-36 out of Wheeler. He reported eighty-plus planes coming in.”

  Kimmel hesitated, looking back out the window.

  “Said he was closing to engage, then contact was lost.”

  “Jesus Christ,” someone whispered, “one of those antiques against a Zero.”

  James struggled against the nausea. He was enough of a pilot now to know what that lone pilot would accomplish.

  “Gentlemen, go to your posts,” Kimmel said quietly.

  James looked over at Collingwood. What were their posts? During the infrequent drills for those on shore, they were told to simply put helmets on and stay in place down in the basement. They had men listening for any Japanese radio transmissions. There might be something for them to work on decoding. But now, with another attack coming in?

  The room quickly emptied, men scattering; already there was gunfire. He looked out the window: a destroyer out in mid-harbor, racing past the burning battleships, with its forward and aft five-inch mounts pointed high, was already firing on something.

  Kimmel remained motionless, and James realized that this man, at this moment, wished to be like the ship’s captain of old, in fact was most likely praying for that fate. He would stay here, stand by the window, and pray that this time they hit him. A chief with hash marks halfway up his arm stood behind the admiral, and for a brief instant caught James’s gaze of admiration, the flicker of his gaze indication for him to get the hell out and leave them.

  He followed Collingwood out into the corridor. It was a flood of men rushing back and forth, some in panic, tin hats being put on, a few purposeful, grim-faced; it was like an ant nest stirred up into chaos.

  “Let’s get our people out,” Collingwood shouted. “This place is a death trap.”

  James nodded in agreement, and racing toward the door to their basement lair, he noticed that the marine guard was no longer there. Collingwood was far ahead of him, down the stairs, James unable to keep up. He had refused any morphine or treatment for his arm, sliced by something just above the stump of his hand. One of the female secretaries down in the basement had bandaged it with a torn-up piece of towel, blood soaking through, now dark, and by God it was hurting like hell now.

  Collingwood, far ahead of him at the bottom of the stairs, again no guard there, fumbled for his keys, then pulled the door open.

  “Everyone get the hell out!” he shouted. “Out now, we got another attack coming in!”

  James felt absolutely useless and backed up against the wall as those who had worked for months trying to decipher warning of this moment began to race up the stairs. He wasn’t sure what to do, some looking at him.

  “Just get as far away from this building as you can,” he offered. “Find some cover. We’ve got about ten minutes!”

  The room emptied, Collingwood reappearing.

  “Shouldn’t we leave someone behind to guard?” James offered.

  After all, this was perhaps the most secured room of any room operated by the navy in the entire Pacific.

  “It won’t be here in ten more minutes,” Collingwood said, almost grinning at the absurdity of James’s offer. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  As they reached the top of the stairs and then ran out the main doors, they were greeted by a thunderous roar. The sound, the sight of it was spectacular. Of the eighty or so ships that had survived the first two attacks, only about a third of them had managed to round up crews, get a head of steam and start for sea, but every last one of them now had their guns manned. And most were firing, tracer shells arcing up, concussions from five-inchers, even some of the eight-inchers on the cruisers firing their heavy loads, hopefully fused to air-burst. James looked up at the blackening bursts of clouds dotting the skies over Pearl Harbor. He did not see a single plane, but by God, if an attack was coming in, it’d give them something to think about.

  Six Miles Northeast of Pearl Harbor

  2:55 Local Time

  Canopy still open, Fuchida took the sight in, trying to stay calm, focused. So far only a scattering of American fighters had dared to intercept, their burning wreckage littering the landscape from Kahuku to the outskirts of Honolulu. His lead squadron of fighters was starting its dive on Hicham, ready to jump any opposition that was left and dared to come up.

  But that was not his concern now. It was the wall of antiaircraft fire ahead. The sky was black with it. Panic firing, that was obvious, shells bursting at random altitudes from a thousand feet all the way up to fifteen thousand feet or more. Below he could see several explosions igniting in the city, their gunners most likely forgetting to set for an altitude burst, the shells just arcing straight up and then coming down to kill on the ground. Indicator of their training, their panic… but still, the sight of it chilled him. This was not going to be like the first two attacks.

  He slid the canopy closed, slapped his pilot on the shoulder, and leaning forward pointed straight ahead. Over Genda’s

  Planes and hangars burning at Wheeler Army Air Field, Oahu, soon after it was attacked in the morning of 7 December 1941, as seen from a Japanese navy plane. Donation of Theodore Hutton, 1942.

  NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER

  objections, he had announced that this time he was going to personally lead the torpedo attack on the massive dry dock, rather than standing back. He wanted this, to add his own personal blow, and besides, his men needed this example now if they were going to brave what was ahead.

  His plane ban
ked over to the north, swinging wide, the other seven Kates of his attack group following, circling to the north of the harbor and then dropping down low, to race straight in and release at three hundred yards from the gates of the dock.

  He felt his stomach surge up as his Kate nosed over and started to dive.

  Hicham Field

  2:59 p.m. Local Time

  Don Barber, moving awkwardly on what he called his “peg leg,” stuck his head into the open cowling of a P-40, trying to help the crew chief trace back the wiring from the main solenoid, which must have been severed. It was one of the few surviving planes from the first attacks but had been hit by half a dozen rounds and some shrapnel. They had tried repeatedly to get the engine to turn over, but it refused to fire up.

  He had no real business being here. It’d been nearly twenty-five years since he had flown for the army and had part of a leg blown away in the skies over France. But on Sunday mornings he liked to drop in, have coffee with “the boys.” A couple of his old comrades from 1918 were still active on this base, with plenty of brass on their hats or hash marks on their sleeves, and a pass onto the base was no problem.

  He had arrived an hour before the first attack and since then had pitched in, helping with trying to get the few remaining planes airworthy in case the Japs came back.

  The shriek of the air-raid siren had been background noise until someone came running toward them shouting that this was the real thing, not another false alarm.

  “I think I got it!” the chief cried, pointing his flashlight up into the bowels of the Allison engine. Sure enough, several wires were clearly severed by what must have been a shell fragment not much bigger than a dime.

  Without being prompted, Don pushed up a roll of black electrical tape. No time to replace the wires; splice and tape. Hell, that’s how it was done back in the last war.

  The thought struck him hard. The last war. We’re in another war.

  “Goddamn it, chief! Fix it. I can see Japs!”

  It was the pilot. The kid had missed the first two strikes but had finally made it into the base and had spent the last four hours strapped into the cockpit, ready to go up as soon as they figured out what the hell was wrong.