Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  Don stuck his head out from under the cowling.

  “We got it!” he said, trying to offer a reassuring grin. He could see the kid was scared, face pale, sweat soaked. He must be roasting in there, Don realized, remembering his own time, over twenty years ago, waiting to go up, ready to vomit with fear, and then trembling with anticipation when the engine of his Sopwith fired over, plane shaking, coming alive. Now he was reduced to just hanging around the base, watching with envy, offering flying lessons to civilians like his friend Watson, who had the luck of being called back in. The army had not seen fit to call him up, but damn it, he could still do something this day, even if it was just to hand up some tape to repair a plane and get back at the bastards.

  “Shit, I need some more wire!”

  The chief was halfway up inside the engine cowling, hand reaching back. Don looked around. A corporal was tearing into a toolbox, pulling out a strand of medium gauge, a foot-long section.

  “Strip the ends,” Don shouted, the corporal using a pocketknife, blood suddenly spluttering from his thumb as he severed off the end of the wire rather than strip it.

  Don grabbed the wire and the knife, worked to strip both ends clean.

  “Give me the damn wire!” the chief shouted.

  Sailors stand amid wrecked planes at the Ford Island seaplane base, watching as USS Shaw (DD-373) explodes in the center background, 7 December 1941. USS Nevada (BB-36) is also visible in the middle background, with her bow headed toward the left. Planes present include PBY, OS2U and SOC types. Wrecked wing in the foreground is from a PBY.

  NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER

  “It’s coming,” Don replied, trying to sound calm, he had to stay calm.

  “Jesus Christ, they’re coming in!”

  Don looked up, saw several men were pointing toward the east end of the runway: razor-sharp silhouettes banking out of a diving turn, lining up, coming in. Men working on the few surviving planes began to scatter, running in every direction; there was a cacophony roar of gunfire. Hundreds of guns opening up, machine guns, but mostly handheld weapons, Springfields, a sergeant with perfect poise leveling a.45, a corporal with a tommy gun.

  From one of the two Zeroes, he could see flame bursting from a wing. It started into a roll… it was coming straight toward them.

  Goddamn, it was coming straight at them.

  “The wire, give me the damn wire!” The chief mechanic was still up inside the guts of the engine, oblivious to what was about to happen.

  Don turned and caught the pilot’s gaze in the cockpit; the boy was wide-eyed with impotent rage.

  “Get me up there!” he screamed. “Get me up there!”

  Feeling a strange detachment Don turned back and handed the wire up to the mechanic, who did not see death winging in. The Zero, a hundred yards off, just another second… its starboard wing on fire, the plane dug into the runway, cartwheeling over, tumbling, tail section detaching in a fireball, coming straight at him.

  Survive France, he thought. Die here… what the hell…

  The disintegrating Zero plowed into the line of P-40s; in another second all, Japanese Zero, four American P-40s; twenty-three men, were consumed inside the fireball explosion.

  HE FELT ABSOLUTELY USELESS, yet again. He couldn’t fire a gun, and many around him were, most of them firing wildly; all he could do was stand and watch as it started to unfold, yet again.

  A fireball erupted off toward Hicham; it was hard to see since the battleships that were still afloat were burning fiercely, their oily black smoke drifting across the harbor, commingled with the continuing fires over on Ford Island.

  The noise, an insane mix. Air-raid sirens, which had been silent during the first attack, now continued to howl, but were nearly drowned out now by every gun in the harbor and beyond firing. A cruiser swinging to the north of Ford Island—what the hell was he doing going that way?—was sending up a firestorm as 20-mm, 40-mm, 5-inch mounts, and even the 8-inch mounts blazed away, concussion ripples racing across the harbor. Ships still tied off simply pointed their guns straight up. Impromptu machine-gun nests, set up by marines to guard the approaches on to the base, fitted out with light .30-cals,

  Scene on the southeastern part of Ford Island, looking northeasterly, with USS California (BB-44) in right center, listing to port after being hit by Japanese aerial torpedoes and bombs.

  NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER

  water-jacketed .50-cals, or just Lewis guns and Springfield rifles, were pouring it upward as well. Though he felt guilty for feeling it, there was almost a thrill to it, as if he were a boy overawed by a long-anticipated Fourth of July show. Tracers, red, green, orange, crisscrossed the sky; puffs of smoke burst, some at frightfully low levels, as the cruisers let loose. He swore for an instant that he could see the heavy shells soaring upward to detonate in crimson and black blasts of fire.

  Collingwood tugged on his sleeve and pointed. Coming in from the east, low… Kates, torpedoes slung beneath, eight of them. They were already west of Honolulu, some tracers snapping around them. From the north, two P-40s were zooming downward as if hugging the mountain slope north of the city.

  “Get the sons of bitches!” Collingwood shouted.

  James looked over at him. He had worked with this gentle, mildly spoken man for nearly a year… it was the first time he had heard him swear.

  “SIR!”

  It was his tail gunner, reaching around with one hand to slap him on the shoulder and then point to the north. Two enemy fighters.

  He turned back to his task, the two Zeroes assigned to escort this group would contend with them.

  At far lower altitude it was harder to distinguish landmarks. He felt a flash of regret; he should have taken the more difficult responsibility of command, stayed up at ten thousand feet as he had in the first strikes, to observe, direct. But no, he was in it now, and there was a fierce joy to it.

  They were straight on course as planned, approaching from the east toward the north end of the base. Almost directly ahead was the largest of the oil tank farms; that is where he would turn, to start swinging around to line up on his target.

  They were skimming low, less than a hundred feet off the ground now, buildings racing past, glimpses of people running, some tracers snaking up, rattlelike hailstones striking the plane, their starboard wing, a few holes, nothing serious.

  Half a mile… quarter mile. Just a few more seconds.

  Flash of movement; he looked up. The first of the Avals were coming down, diving on the oil tanks. His plane lurched, his pilot banking hard over now, turning to the north, fifteen seconds to swing around the reserve oil farm then turn out to the harbor and line up for the run in.

  He tracked the movement of the Val. More were coming down. The first plane released, bombs dropping away, pulled out, skimming low; behind him, seconds later, detonations. He

  Aerial view of the Submarine Base, with part of the fuel farm in the foreground, looking southwest on 13 October 1941. Note the artfully camouflaged fuel tank in center, painted to resemble a building. Also camouflaged as a building is the most distant fuel tank in the upper left. The building beside the submarine ascent tower (in right center, shaped like a backward “C”) housed the U.S. Fleet Headquarters at the time of the Japanese attack on 7 December 1941. Alongside the wharf in right center are USS Niagara (PG-52) with several PT boats alongside (nearest to camera), and USS Holland (AS-3) with seven submarines alongside. About six more submarines are at the piers at the head of the Submarine Base peninsula. USS Wharton (AP-7) is the large ship at left.

  NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER

  half expected huge fireballs; the explosions seemed muffled… No, this was bunker oil; it would not flash and explode, but it would still burn. Several tanks had ruptured from the bomb blasts. The second plane… an instant later it was nothing but a fiery comet, wings folding back, plummeting straight down into the oil field, its bombs detonating, the same fate for the third, wing shearing off, corkscrewing down, crashin
g into the edge of the harbor, exploding.

  Looking across at the tank farms, Fuchida felt a wave of envy. Every liter of aviation gas, of fuel oil for the navy was doled out like a miser would part with his gold. Below was enough fuel to match the entire reserve of his Imperial Majesty’s Fleet for a year. And he knew that for the Americans it was nothing; they had a thousand times more… but they would not have it here, where needed most, in a few more minutes. Still it seemed such a horrid waste.

  Another sharp banking turn, then the startling rattle of the 7.7-millimeter gun behind him, his tail gunner shouting, opening up. He spared a quick glance aft: a P-40 was swinging in behind him. The seven planes of his flight, as briefed, were turning in a tighter arc. He would lead them to the final turn for the run-in to target but would then swing wide, to come in last, saving his torpedo if the others failed. The third plane in line simply blew apart, a P-40 nearly colliding with the wreckage as it shot through the formation, pursued by one of his escorting Zeroes. Damn all! The fighter should have hit first!

  “He’s on us!”

  Tracers flicked past the portside wing, his pilot ruddering to starboard, skidding, dodging, long continual burst from the tail gunner. Fuchida looked aft, the view frightful. The P-40 was not more than fifty yards back, guns winking, his pilot skidding again, trying to throw off aim.

  A stream of tracers converged. He felt a shudder, saw part of the vertical stabilizer buckle and sheer off, another shuddering thump, his tail gunner grunting, gun now swinging wide as the boy doubled over in pain.

  Damn… to die like this…

  A hoselike stream of tracers tore into the tail of the P-40, shells detonating, splitting the plane in half, forward half with the doomed pilot, visible for a brief instant, tumbling over, smashing into the ground, tail section spiraling up, then twisting over in flames to go down.

  One of the Zeroes? He followed the smoking trail of tracers back. It was from the cruiser out in the harbor, now just a half mile away. Damn, saved by the panicked firing of the enemy.

  But now that garden hoselike stream of tracers was swinging toward him.

  The surviving six planes of his section had completed their banking turn around the oil farm, dropped down to just above the harbor in formation line astern, and were closing on the dock’s massive gate. He and Genda had debated if they could indeed shatter it. The largest dry dock in the Pacific Ocean between San Francisco and Tokyo.

  As the six planes ahead of him closed in, it seemed as if every gunner in that harbor knew what they were aiming for, and in an instant every gun was turned on the six Kates, geysers of water foaming a hundred feet up as an eight-inch shell fired to hit the middle of the harbor blew, the fountain of water catching the lead Kate, spinning it onto its back, plane plunging in, torpedo exploding, explosion taking out the second plane in the attack.

  Fuchida spared a quick glance aft as they turned across the north end of the harbor, just east of Pearl City, his pilot working hard. He could feel the imbalance, from the hits to the rudder and elevators, an unsteady vibration bucking the plane. Now he knew why that cruiser was up here: to lay down fire, and it was all aimed at him as they dodged and weaved.

  He saw the third plane of his strike team disappear into the smoke, water tumbling down from the heavens, hundreds of shells and bullets crisscrossing the harbor every second.

  They’d have to go in.

  He slapped his pilot, Matsuo, on the shoulder, pointing directly forward; there was a nod of understanding: down lower. They lined up and started their run in. Without warning there was a sharp flash of light and then, a second later, a concussive blast that he thought for an instant would slam them down into the harbor, his pilot barely recovering. He ignored the erupting flash of light to left and concentrated on what was ahead.

  “JESUS CHRIST!”

  James was on the ground; he needed no urging this time, Collingwood at his side, both of them hugging the earth as machine gun bullets danced across the lawn, tossing up tufts of grass, a shell, a large one, blowing against the guard hut, where only hours before he had helped the drunk sailors, the hut disappearing. Shells were screaming overhead, bullets zinging past, a high-pitched howl of a racing engine. He glanced up and saw just that, a plane engine, no plane behind it, just the engine, propeller still spinning madly, tumbling from the sky, tumbling end over end into the oil tank farm.

  Fires were igniting there. The bastards had indeed figured out it was worth the effort. So far half a dozen dive bombers had made their runs on it, three of them getting nailed, the other three dropping squarely on target. A dozen or more tanks were already burst open, rich black oil cascading out, some fires beginning to ignite and then a huge fireball, whether from a bomb, crashing plane, or the insanity of antiaircraft fire hitting an aviation gas storage tank. A hundred thousand gallons of hundred-octane fuel blowing. The expanding fireball soared heavenward, expanding out. He could feel the heat, the same as when the Arizona blew, raised his hand for a moment to shield his eyes from it, as if looking into the morning sun. Streamers of fire poured down from the skies, now setting flame to the hundreds of thousands of barrels of oil spilling out of ruptured tanks. The tank farm to the north was burning as well.

  “Another!” Collingwood shouted.

  James looked back to where his friend was pointing. The fourth Kate had emerged out of the wall of water kicked up by the exploding eight-inch shells, torpedo dropping away, and barely an instant later it was into the harbor, bouncing back up, cartwheeling end over end and exploding.

  He could hear guttural cheers from those around him. It was but one plane, but somehow it seemed like payback, an ironic payback since the attacking Kates were not more than a hundred yards out from the Arizona, still burning fiercely.

  “They’re going for number one dry dock!” James cried.

  ADMIRAL KIMMEL STOOD BY the window, silent, unmoving, watching as the fourth Kate tumbled end over end in a fireball explosion.

  “Burn, you bastard.”

  It was his chief, who had remained silent till now.

  Kimmel looked over at him. The chief was holding a flask and motioned toward it. Kimmel nodded, unscrewed the cap, admiring the handwork of the silver flask, USN insignia on one side, Marine on the other. He took a long sip, handed it back.

  He did not even hear the brace of two 250-kilo bombs plummeting down, crashing through the roof of the headquarters of CinCPac, “Commander in Chief, Pacific,” the first bomb detonating as it struck a steel support beam between the second and third floors, the second one crashing through floor after floor, clear down to the basement, striking but a few feet from where Commander James Watson’s now empty desk rested, hitting the concrete floor, plunger striking detonator, both bombs igniting less than a second apart, the first lifting the roof off the building, the second, explosive force contained by the basement blowing upward and out, bursting the frame walls, the entire building seeming to lift and then collapse in on itself, with more than a hundred men and women who had stayed at their posts dead, including Kimmel and his chief, who was just about to take a drink himself when the two bombs hit, a hundred more, most of them fatally injured, staggering, crawling out of the flaming wreckage.

  JAMES GAVE A SIDELONG GLANCE toward the collapsing headquarters building, Collingwood catching his gaze, both sharing that glance that only survivors of disaster could ever understand, that they had, by the grace of God, made the right choice together, otherwise they would now both be dead.

  Bombs were falling around them now, striking into repair shops. Down at the harbor’s edge four submarines, incredibly still tied off together, burst asunder from three hits by hundred-kilo general-purpose demolition bombs; no need for armor piercing on their thin skins. One sub, trying to back out into the harbor to make good its escape, was bracketed by two more bombs, rocking it like a toy boat in a child’s tub, the Val that had dropped them trailing black smoke, pulling up slightly then adding itself to the spread conflagr
ation of the oil farm. The sub quickly listed to port, men pouring up from hatchways and bridge, billowing black smoke engulfing them, and then something lit off, the submarine exploding, splitting asunder and settling to the harbor floor.

  Too much was happening all at once to possibly take in. An explosion. James caught a glimpse of it, flash memory of the torpedoes slamming into his beloved Oklahoma. It was the dry-dock gate, column of water soaring several hundred feet heavenward. Another Kate raced past, dropped, then jinked madly, banked over sharply, and skimmed directly over the turtled hull of Oklahoma, disappearing into the smoke boiling out of the burning battleships. Yet another Kate, but this one disintegrated before dropping, a hundred machine guns from all around the harbor shredding it, the tens of thousands of rounds that missed screaming overhead, kicking up turf, hitting sailors, marines, civilians scrambling to get away, some rounds arcing so high that half a minute later they’d crash into a window of a building, a car, or kill someone standing on a street corner in downtown Honolulu… a death of course to be blamed on the ruthless Japs, strafing innocent bystanders.

  “She’s holding,” Collingwood shouted.

  James said nothing. Somehow this moment of the fight seemed to focus everything. He had enough of a sense of the battle this day to know that the first two strikes, though a shock unlike any suffered by this nation since Shiloh or Gettysburg, had not been a killing blow. The carriers were at sea, the vast reserves of the Atlantic Fleet would soon be steaming to the Pacific; the ships lost, even those he loved, were as obsolete as the Buffalo and P-36 fighters matched against Zeroes.

  But now they were going for the jugular. The burning oil farm, four and a half million barrels, enough oil there to fuel the entire Pacific Fleet, ships and planes, be they Japanese or American, for a year or more. Without the largest dry dock, any serious repairs below the waterline, for battleship or carrier, were impossible. They were back, and this time, if successful, they could very well knock Pearl Harbor out of the war for months, perhaps a year or more to come.