The torpedo dropped by the second surviving Kate struck, another column of water, this one by the east end hinge of the dock, column of water subsiding, antlike figures scrambling along the dockside… still it held.
“Another!”
Collingwood pointed as yet another Kate, this one marked with stripes on its tail, the upper half of the vertical stabilizer shot away, raced past them. Obviously some sort of command plane, oblivious to the firestorm that now focused on it. Whoever was in that plane, he hated the bastard, and yet he could not help but feel some admiration as well… the son of a bitch, if he survived the next few seconds… would decide it.
“STEADY… STEADY!” FUCHIDA shouted the command, looking over the shoulder of his pilot. Another spray of shot hit them, stitching across the canopy, glass shattering, plane lurching to port. He had kept his right hand lightly on the stick, ready to take over, feet barely touching the rudder pedals, left hand on throttle. His pilot was hit, he could feel it. The stick swung to port; he braced it hard, steadied it.
“I’m fine. I can do it!” The pilot’s voice gasped through the speaking tube that connected them.
It was nearly impossible to see, tracers flicking past the forward windscreen, another blow, where on the plane he couldn’t tell. Water foaming up, shots fired low to blind them, to knock them over as they skimmed in at thirty feet, now throttled back to 120 knots for release in the shallow harbor.
“steady… steady!”
Fuchida caught a glimpse of a wingtip, red rising sun on it, sticking out of the water, aviation gas burning on the surface. Another explosion, huge, geyser to starboard. He turned for a second… a ship burning. Arizona? Hard to tell with the smoke. Another ship, red hull inverted, glimpse of men standing atop the overturned ship, some with guns, shooting.
“Steady!”
Now he saw it. Column of water from who, Tomida or Usaka, dropping? He thought he saw Usaka banking away. Hoped so. A friend, comrade from China.
“Steady!”
He was within range. Drop now. No. Risk it, a few more seconds. He pushed in a little left rudder, a touch of aileron, righten, line up at the centerline of the gate, hit it there.
“Steady…”
Another thump, more thumps. Smoke—us or a shell burst? Blinding for an instant. Shoot through it. Yes! Now!
“Launch!”
Fuchida pulled the manual release at the same instant letting go of the stick long enough to strike the electrical release button. He felt the plane instantly surge up as the one-ton mass of the torpedo dropped away.
His pilot was hurt, badly hurt, no reaction. Keep it down low; the loss of the one-ton torpedo had lifted them higher, straight into the overarcing storm of antiaircraft fire. He took over, pushing his stick down, for an instant fearing he had overreacted and would hit the water, leveling out, propwash churning the harbor surface. Dodging now, gaining a few feet in order to bank to starboard, then weave back to port. Don’t go over Ford or Hicham, race straight for the channel opening and out to sea.
Ahead he saw a ship, back broken, destroyer… light cruiser? It was sinking in midchannel, settling to the bottom. Flash of tracers coming from overhead, hitting the water ahead. Glimpse of a wing, looking up, American… trailing smoke, caught in the maelstrom of fire from every direction, breaking away. He aimed straight at the sinking ship, skimming over its deck, already awash, turned, felt another hard thump, blow on the port wing, heart-stopping moment, stream of fuel venting… but no fire. He headed for the open sea beyond.
“OH GOD, OH GOD, NO,” JAMES cried.
The last torpedo: he could see its wake, streaking unerringly toward the dry-dock gate. Another hammer blow, the third one now. Another column of water rising up, wreathed in smoke and flame, and even before it began to settle he could see the surface of the harbor swirling and then become a tidal cascade, a wall of water thirty feet high bursting into the dry dock as the great gate buckled and gave way. Horrifying, a launch busy plucking men out of the harbor was caught, upended and swept in, wooden hull splintering, millions of tons of water flooding over the shattered hulk of the old battleship Pennsylvania, which had been inside the dry dock for overhaul and shattered in the first two attacks. Now its broken mass shifted and pivoted as the wall of water poured in, the wreckage
Battleships West Virginia (BB-48) (sunken at left) and Tennessee (BB-43) shrouded in smoke following the Japanese air raid. Courtesy of the U.S. Naval Institute Photograph Collection.
NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER
age of the broken ship upending. The surge of water reached the far wall of the thousand-foot-long dock, a tsunamilike wave splashing up over the far end, sucking some men into its swirling mass, then recoiling back, the flood now racing back in the opposite direction, the force of the surge tearing one of the dry-dock doors completely free of its hinges, sending it to the bottom of the harbor.
There was nothing he could do now but just stand there and watch. Already the attack was subsiding, though the antiaircraft was still nearly as intense, gunners firing blindly into the smoke engulfing the harbor, now killing far more of their comrades than enemies. Explosions were igniting from Pearl City, across Honolulu, and as far north as Schofield as antiaircraft shells rained down.
In spite of the continuing fusillade he stood back up and looked over at Collingwood. The oil tank farms were ablaze now, a conflagration with a plume of smoke that already was soaring ten thousand feet to the heavens, surely a beacon that could be seen from a hundred miles away. A dozen more ships were burning or sunk, several of them out in the main channel; one looked to be a heavy cruiser, down at the bow, propellers sticking out of the water, amazingly still turning. The submarine pen was a shambles. They had hammered that good; three of the four boats that had been tied off were either blown apart or settling to the bottom, a fifth boat sunk out in the harbor, bridge sticking out of the water, men clinging to it. Repair yards were a sea of flames, his own building gone, collapsed in on itself, burning fiercely.
Collingwood was as silent as he.
“I’m going home,” James said quietly.
“What?”
“Margaret. She’ll be frantic with worry. I’m going home.”
“James?”
“What in hell am I supposed to do?” James snapped, and he held up the twisted claw of what had once been his hand, the steel “hook” covered with dried blood. “Did anybody listen to us, goddamn it? So what the hell are we to do now?”
Collingwood could not reply.
“I’m going home. I’ll be back tonight, if there is anything to come back to,” he said again, and without waiting for a reply he turned and walked away.
He walked past the flaming ruins of headquarters, pushing around a fire crew that stood impotent, cursing, hoses hooked up to a hydrant, but there was no water pressure. In the parking lot a dozen or more cars were wrecks, several burning, one with what looked like an airplane propellor speared through its roof. His own car, '39 Plymouth, untouched except for a neat hole through the passenger side windshield, drilled by a spent bullet, rest of the window cracked.
It felt almost surreal fishing the keys out of his pocket with his good hand, sliding them in, hitting the starter with his foot, engine turning over.
He backed out of his slot, weaved around the side of an abandoned car, blackened, still smoking. He gave it a sidelong glance, fearful of what he might see inside, and then wished he hadn’t looked.
He hit the gas, heading for the gate. There was a guard, but he was checking the line of cars that, amazingly, were still trying to get into this madhouse. Pulling out, he had, for the first few blocks, an open road ahead. A concussion blow, distant. He looked in his rearview mirror, saw a ship, anchored, bursting asunder, magazine most likely touching off.
Honolulu. Chaos. Several blocks in flames, partially collapsed apartment, dozen or more bodies out front, covered in -blood-soaked sheets. He pulled over several times to let ambulances pass, a convoy of hal
f a dozen army trucks, a crazed civilian with a shotgun, pointing it straight up, just firing at nothing. A cop suddenly stepped out of nowhere, motioning for him to stop. An instinct telling him that they were commandeering cars, or he’d have to put up with some damn stupid interrogation, he floored it and weaved around him. Then the sight of several dozen civilians, all of them Japanese, hands resting on the tops of their heads, standing in front of a police station, a lone cop with a shotgun watching them.
He looked away, hit the gas, kept on going, heading up into the pass over the mountains via the Pali highway. The air was a bit cooler, clean, afternoon clouds breaking over the top of the pass; it’d rain in another hour or so. He cleared the pass, weaving through the tunnel, coming out the other side. Plumes of smoke were rising on the trade winds from fires at Kaneohe Naval Air Station. He weaved down the mountain, shifting gears. Damn, the stump really hurt now. He spared a glance: fresh blood oozing through the rough bandage.
Coming into Kailua people were out in the streets, a few buildings burning. From a turn in the road he caught a glimpse of the small army air base at Bellows, smoke from there, another fire up on the slope, most likely a plane down. And then, amazingly, puffs of smoke out to sea, more tracers arcing out from shore, a glimpse of a Jap plane, my God, was it the one with the yellow tail? It was limping north, a mile or so out from the coast, skimming the waves.
North. No one, absolutely no one prior to this third attack had figured out where the Jap carriers were located. Well, that answer was obvious now, and for a few seconds he thought of pulling over, finding a phone, calling it in. Call who? He drove on.
He watched the plane disappear. If you lived through that, you bastard, you are one lucky son of a bitch… till next time.
And as he turned the corner, there in the street he saw Margaret. Somehow that instinct of hers, or maybe her “secret telescope,” had told her. She was running toward him. He pulled over to the curb below their house and frantically she was tearing at the door, opening it, sobbing, pulling him out of the car, hugging him fiercely.
He was afraid to put his injured arm around her, she was wearing her favorite Sunday dress, ivory colored, close fitting.
“Oh, my God, James!” and she drew back, sensing his pain, gently touching his arm.
“I’m all right. All right.”
And she was in his arms again, oblivious to the blood soaking her.
He looked up toward the lanai of his house, his beloved mother-in-law carefully coming down the steps, leaning on her cane, face filled with relief.
She was, of course… Japanese… and as she came to his side to embrace him, he did not know what to say.
4:45 p.m. Local Time
He struggled to line up onto the glide slope. Their carriers had the most advanced landing system in the world, angled lights so that when you were aligned center, at the right glide slope, you’d see the green shaded lights to either side of the center line of the deck. It worked fairly well, except in rough seas with deck pitching.
It was rough seas, the deck was indeed pitching, and he was bringing in a dead plane. He knew his tail gunner was dead, the stench was present, the boy’s body having voided its contents after long minutes of a painful death rattle. He suspected his pilot was dead as well, slumped to one side of the cockpit, right foot jammed against the rudder pedal, making it all but impossible to counter the dead weight as he struggled to fly the plane from the midseat position. Instruments were impossible to see from where he sat, no way to adjust anything other than throttle, stick, and rudder. He had almost crashed when after clearing the island, he struggled up for altitude, unbuckled, and leaned over Matsuo, who was unconscious and managed to flip over the fuel tank lever, but every liter in the port wing was long gone. All the tanks were dry now. Engine was sputtering in and out, something hit in there as well… it wasn’t as bad as back in China when he was blinded by oil, but then again, he wasn’t trying to bring a crippled plane in onto a rolling deck at sea.
Nose down, trying to keep up air speed, he leaned to one side, canopy open, horrified to see that the Zero that had cut into the pattern in front of him had pancaked, wheels up, skewing sideways, and burst into flames. The deck was not clear!
The aft-deck fire crew was spraying the wreckage down with foam, deck crew trying to close in, to push the wreckage aside, a couple of men in white asbestos suits clawing at the canopy, pulling the pilot out of the flame-engulfed cockpit.
He was lined up, quarter mile out. Ditch? No. Might still save this plane. If Matsuo is still alive, and they ditch, he’ll drown.
Try to angle to the starboard side a few more feet. More right rudder, left stick, crab in. Engine sputtered again, seized, propellor stopped. He couldn’t reach the control to feather it, it was now drag. The Kate started to fall like a rock.
Damn!
Straighten out. Edge of the landing deck coming up. He could see men scrambling, jumping away, fire crew dropping hoses, running.
The Kate slammed in barely a dozen feet forward of the aft end of the landing deck. There was no way for him to know that the support struts for the left wheel had been shot away, and it sheared off under the blow of the hard landing. The Kate collapsed onto its portside wing, which snapped at the wing root into the fuselage, plane pivoting, wooden deck splintering, his vision blurred by the impact. Barely enough time to try and brace as the Kate skidded into the wreckage of the burning Zero, the impact spraying gas from the rupture tanks of the fighter, coating the Kate in flames.
Panic. He saw the fire splashing in through the shattered canopy, Matsuo now coated in fire. Frantically he tried to slap the flames down with his gloved hands.
Blindness… white foam spraying in. Smashing glass, someone up by his side with a crowbar, prying the canopy back. He started to choke on the smoke and foam. Hands reaching in, unbuckling his harness.
“Matsuo first!” he gasped, trying to grab the shoulders of his pilot, but his rescuer ignored his pleas, pulling him bodily out of the plane, a blanket, asbestos, thrown over him, blocking the heat as he was dragged clear.
He stumbled trying to regain footing, cursing, unsure for a second where he was, disoriented. My plane, my crew!
“Fuchida!”
He felt arms around his shoulders, blanket falling away, as if returning to the world again. It was Genda.
Genda was holding him by the shoulders, tears streaming down his face.
“You’re alive!” and he unashamedly grasped him in a bear hug.
“Of course I’m alive,” Fuchida gasped, startled as Genda actually began to visibly shake, sobbing.
Even as they spoke the fire crew were pushing the two back and away from the fire on the deck, a blizzard of foam washing over the wreckage of the two planes. Fuchida looked back. They were pulling the bodies out of what was left of his Kate. Matsuo and the boy. They were both dead.
He looked aft. The sky was empty, no one else in the pattern even as a small tractor pushed up against the side of his Kate and edged it over the port side, trailing torn fabric, aluminum, a bent propellor digging into the wooden deck, tearing a furrow. The wreckage upended and went over the side.
Somehow, the sight of that horrified him. It had been his plane, a damn good plane. It had carried him back to safety. He felt as if he had betrayed it somehow, that a prayer should be said as she floated for a moment, inverted, and then disappeared beneath the wake of Akagi.
He looked forward. Where were the rest of the planes?—and it was as if Genda sensed his question.
“For Akagi, only you and one other Kate returned. Four Zeroes, six Avals, ten Kates, now counting yours, eleven out of twelve gone.”
That was nearly half the strike force launched from here little more than two and a half hours ago.
“Oh god,” Fuchida sighed.
“Later,” Genda said. “He’s waiting for you.”
Genda helped him as they skirted around the smoldering wreckage of the Zero, which was now r
eceiving the same treatment as his Kate, bulldozed over the side. Her pilot… he didn’t look. The man was dying, terribly burned, unable even to scream, his lungs were so badly seared by the fire, several of the deck crew kneeling by his side as a corpsman held him. He wanted to go over, fearful to find out who it was, unable to recognize him; but Genda, clutching him tightly, steered him toward the bridge.
By the doorway he was waiting, Yamamoto, breaking with protocol, coming to meet his returning samurai, rather than waiting for him to approach.
Fuchida could not reply when, to his amazement, Yamamoto stepped forward and embraced him, tears in his eyes, the sight of it causing the strain of the last few days, the last ten hours, the terrifying seconds before release to finally take hold at last. Fuchida lowered his head, ashamed of his own tears, the sob that wracked his body.
“My son, we thought you were dead,” Yamamoto gasped.
Fuchida could not reply.
“You are the last plane in,” and then the admiral, aware of all who were watching the role he must play, braced himself, chuckled softly in spite of his tears of emotion. “You keep coming in last, making us worry. We have to talk about that.”
“I’m sorry to have caused you concern,” Fuchida said, and realized his words were somehow hollow, wooden.
“It was reported you disappeared after destroying their dry dock. I hoped against hope…” and his voice trailed off for a moment.
“We did it?” Fuchida asked.
“You didn’t know?” Genda interjected.
He could only shake his head.
“Three torpedoes hit. Yours was the last, it shattered the gate. We’re sending a scout plane over now to photograph the results.”
He thought of that firestorm of gunnery; he pitied the pilot who had to face that just for a damn photograph.
“It is reported the oil farms are totally destroyed,” Genda continued. “At least three more ships sunk while trying to flee, one of them in midchannel, a dozen more damaged or destroyed along with numerous buildings, including their headquarters. Six or more of their submarines destroyed.”
Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th Page 36