The stray sheep he was diving on was the Kaga, now well away from the main formation of enemy carriers. Lieutenant Hurst knew that they would likely face a good deal less flak to go after that ship, for the rest of the formation presented a phalanx of defense, with the skies already beginning to puff up as one of the other squadrons decided to try their luck against the main body.
The enemy had seen them approaching, and though the fighters had not come up yet to challenge, the flak was pocking up the sky all around them. Kaga’s main weapon for a high elevation attack was her sixteen 5-inch dual purpose guns, eight on each side of the ship. They could outrange the 25mm auto cannons, but getting a hit wasn’t going to be easy as the fast moving dive bombers came in.
He watched as the airspeed slowly increased, moving through 260 to 280 knots. The enemy ship appeared under the cowl of the plane, and he could see he was lined up well. He nudged the nose just a little to the right, reduced his throttle a bit, and set his props. Coming down from the higher altitude required him to adjust the gas mixture slightly as the plane descended. His eyes ran quickly over his instrument panel, checking the carburetor heat, and noting the indicators telling him the safety was off and his bomb was ready to release. He took a quick look over his shoulder to check his rear seat gunner, seeing he was in position for the dive, then leaned forward to put his eye to the bombing telescope. The plane passed through 11,000 feet, and at 10,000 he pushed it over for the final vertical segment of the dive.
Hamilton set his goggles firmly in place, opened the dive brakes to trim his speed, and looked for his target. The chill of the air at cruising altitude was now gone, and he could feel the muggy warmth of the Pacific beneath him.
He had a 500 pounder underneath, and a pair of 100 pound bombs on the wings. As he dove, through 8000 feet to 6000 feet, he could hear Gunner Talkington yammering to himself on the radio as always, which brought a smile. Then he squinted to be sure he had his target in the crosshairs, and hit his bomb release. 700 pounds fell away, lightening the plane, and the Ensign pushed himself back in the seat, his stomach muscles tight, yelling at the top of his voice like all the others when they let that payload go. It was one more way to keep the blood in your head when you pulled out of that dive—yell for all you were worth. He didn’t want to black out, even for a moment on his first real combat dive, so he stayed focused, breathing hard as he closed those dive flaps to pick up speed and make good his escape from the bright flashing fire of the Japanese 25mm guns that had now joined the battle at lower elevation. He wanted to see his enemy beneath him when he pulled up, inwardly crossing his fingers that his aim had been true.
It was a strange feeling coming in like that, the noise of the plane, the sharp crack of the flak guns, the fitful calls on the radio, and the sensation of terrible speed, as if you were strapped on a meteor plummeting down through the sky. He had been lined up well, the plane very stable when he pulled to release those bombs, and now he had every expectation for a hit. He heard Talkington’s shrill voice yelling and knew the other man had just released his eggs too. But Walkie Talkie’s voice was suddenly cut off, and Hamilton turned his head to look for his mate.
The plane had been hit. A 5-inch shell exploded right in front of the Dauntless, the shrapnel shattering Talkington’s wind screen and taking him in the left shoulder with a severe wound. Other fragments had scored his wings, and these early versions of the plane did not have self-sealing fuel tanks. The resulting fire was going to end his mate’s dive the hard way, and that was his war, over before it started. He wasn’t going to have to worry about trying to find the Enterprise, thought Hamilton grimly. The only place he was ever going to land that plane was in the deep blue sea.
* * *
As the attack came in, Air Commander Sata Naohito ran for his station on the aft quarter of the island, a very small platform, just above the flight deck, and beneath the Type 91 AA fire director that was trying to feed the 5-inch guns the best firing angle to engage the planes. It had done well enough against Walkie Talkie’s plane, but not before he had released his bombs, which were now falling with very good accuracy. Naohito saw them coming, specks in the sky at first, yet growing ever larger, as though the heavens had hurled them directly at his station, and with deadly precision.
Down they came, the 500 pounder just barely missing the flight deck, while one of the smaller 100 pound bombs struck and exploded directly beneath his station. He had just stepped up onto the circular stairway around that fire director when the shrapnel took his legs from under him. Some struck the windows of the bridge itself, fifteen feet above, and the glass shattered from that impact. As he fell with the pain, Naohito felt the cold spray from that 500 pounder that had narrowly missed the ship, and could see white spumes of other bomb splashes bracketing the carrier. Then he felt a larger impact, and knew they had taken a direct hit with a heavy bomb. Hamilton’s aim had been dead on, and he was getting his payback for Lady Lex, for Pearl, and for old Walkie Talkie all in one. In that ten minute slice of the war, both ships in Carrier Division 1 had been hit and were now on fire.
Commander Naohito might have bled to death then and there, were it not for the fact that some of that shrapnel had also struck the Type 91 director, and gunnery officer Lieutenant Commander Miyano Toyosaburo had come out from the bridge to inspect for damage. He saw Naohito slumped on the winding stair, and immediately ordered men to his aid. Talkington’s hit, even with that much smaller bomb, had done just enough damage to put that director out of action, and though he did not know it, he had helped the next squadron get through that flak defense to press home the attack.
Though this was their first real combat experience, and they were up against very steep odds, the American pilots in their sturdy Dauntless planes were going to wreak havoc. Hamilton’s 500 pound bomb went right through the main flight deck, shaking the ship violently when it exploded to immolate the hanger deck spaces below. Though they were mostly empty of planes now, there were fuel canisters, hoses, tools, winches, and a rack of ordnance for the dive bombers was still at the ready. A fire started, and Japanese fire control on the carriers was going to prove for the first time here that it was not up to the task.
On the bridge above, Captain Jisaku Okada felt the concussion of the hit, and the intense vibration under his feet. First hit, second hit, it did not matter. His face burned with shame as he rushed to the shattered window to see what had happened. The dark black smoke was pouring from the center of his flight deck, where a slight elevation created a small bulge. He could see the hot wavering flames there, and the only consolation he could take was the fact that almost every plane on the ship was already in the sky. Even those last three zeroes that had been spotted managed to get off the deck just before the American dive bombers came in, and now they were savagely attacking the ship’s tormenters.
But how will I recover my planes if that fire is not soon controlled, he thought? Thankfully, there are many other decks free of harm, and no danger to the pilots should they return soon.
But the shame of being struck here was bad enough, let alone the thought that his planes might now have to land elsewhere, and he might have to return home without an air wing. He turned to a young Lieutenant, ordering him below to get a first hand report on the damage. Trying to sort out what was being shouted over the voice tubes was useless.
Another bomb landed very near the forward port side of the ship, and then Kaga rocked yet again as it was struck heavily near the bow. This time it blew away one of the big support girders there, causing the entire edge and corner of the flight deck supports to crumple and collapse right before Captain Okada’s unbelieving eyes. It looked as though the ship had struck something in the water, with the bow segment of the long flight deck rutted and bent. He did not think the damage was severe enough to inhibit landing operations, but the hit amidships had already decided that fate, and the sudden secondary explosion that now shook the Captain from his feet would decide the fate of the ship itse
lf.
Hamilton’s hit was now greatly compounded. The fire amidships had reached the ordinance rack, and three more 500 pound bombs that had not been properly stored went off one after another. The resulting explosion blew a massive 40 foot hole in the main deck, while also blasting deeper into the ship where it cut numerous steam pipes from the engines in the boiler spaces.
When Okada pulled himself to his feet, he saw the jet black smoke laced with hot white steam, and knew at once what had happened. There, through all that smoke and steam, he could dimly see the blood red circle of the hinomaru painted on the bow segment of the flight deck, Japan’s famous rising sun that would soon become an aiming point for industrious American pilots in the years ahead.
The symbolism of that insignia was rooted deep in Japanese culture, for the Emperor himself was said to be a direct descendant of the Sun Goddess Amaterasu, his authority thereby springing from divine origins. Seeing that emblem shrouded over by the choking black smoke and vented steam that was the life blood of his ship, was a great blow to Captain Okada, and he never forgot the ominous feeling he experienced at that moment.
Part III
Ultimatum
“We are not diplomats but prophets, and our message is not a compromise but an ultimatum.”
― Aiden Wilson Tozer
Chapter 7
Admiral Nagumo saw the explosion plume up from the center of his sister ship, and his eyes tightened. There was a collective groan from many of the younger officers, but Nagumo said nothing, standing stone still on the bridge. It was then that a damage control officer rushed in to report the hit to the lower forward deck of his own ship had been managed, and the fires were under control.
“We are still fully operational,” the young officer said hopefully, then he stopped and gaped out the window at Kaga, the intake of his breath a sharp punctuation to his optimistic report.
At that moment, all the fears and reservations Admiral Nagumo had harbored concerning this mission were made a real and tangible thing in the sight of Kaga burning off his starboard side. The enemy planes were still attacking, torpedo bombers swooping down and leveling off to make runs on Carrier Division 2 in the center of his formation. He could already see that Hiryu and Soryu were beginning to turn away to port, knowing there must be torpedoes in the water.
He also realized that in spite of the awesome spectacle of his powerful Kido Butai, it now seemed as fragile as a lotus blossom. Throw a handful of planes at it, for that was the sum of all that got in close enough to attack his sister ship, and look what could happen. They had been nearly two years planning, working out every conceivable detail of the operation. His squadron pilots had been all assigned to specific berths and targets. Genda had worked out the details to the letter, and the men had rehearsed it all for many months. The long cross Pacific approach had been conducted with perfect secrecy, save one lonesome Russian steamer that they had seen on their far horizon, which they allowed to pass unharmed. Everything had been working flawlessly, and the reports coming back from the first wave strike on Pearl Harbor had been ticking off the hits like a grandfather clock tolling midnight.
The names of the enemy battleships had been memorized by his pilots, and now the wardroom aide had been carefully painting the dark silhouettes for every hit obtained, his brush tipped in blood red paint. His enemy was feeling the power of the Kido Butai, California, Tennessee, West Virginia, all striped red with numerous bomb and torpedo hits, and doomed to sink. Maryland had been screened off from torpedo attack by the Vestal, but it had already taken three bomb hits from his skilled Val dive bombers, along with two more on Pennsylvania. On the other side of Ford Island, the battleship Utah, now only a target ship, had taken three torpedo hits and two more bomb hits. The Americans were going to have to fire at some other ship, for Utah would also sink, along with the heavy cruiser Detroit, with the Raleigh also damaged but still afloat.
Yet in spite of the heavy toll he had inflicted on his enemy, all Nagumo could see was the Kaga, the one thing that had gone wrong, and the only thing that seemed to matter to him now. Kaga was burning, clearly out of action, and now her speed was falling off considerably with the loss of steam to her engines. The time for gawking at the display was over, and he turned to give orders, his eyes hard on his Fleet Air Officer, Masuda Shogo.
“Signal the destroyers to render assistance to Kaga,” he said slowly. “The Kido Butai will now make a ten point turn to come around on the course taken by Carrier Division Two.”
They were not turning their backs on Kaga just yet, but they were certainly looking away. Nagumo knew the smoke from that fire would be seen for a hundred miles, and he wanted to get his fleet as far from this place in the sea as possible. Considering the stricken carrier’s loss of speed, he knew it could no longer run with the others. The destroyers would help provide good flak coverage, and if it became necessary to abandon the ship, they would be ready to take on survivors, and help her commit seppuku with their torpedoes.
One look at this second enemy attack had also confirmed the assumption made by many others when they saw it coming. There were now at least two enemy carriers nearby, and possibly more. They believed three were here, in the Pacific, and now he found himself wondering how the enemy could have discovered them so quickly.
I have struck a very hard blow, he thought, but the tip of my sword has already shattered. It is my duty to return this fleet intact, for this war is only just beginning. At the same time, here is the opportunity before us to find and destroy those enemy carriers as well. But at what further cost to me? This very ship has already sustained a hit. Yes, the damage was controlled, and we have lost little more than our pride in being the first ship struck by the enemy, yet fate would decree this, would she not? This is the Red Castle, the flagship of the Kido Butai. I have little doubt that Kaga has taken a blow that was meant for me, but we will all feel it now, each and every one of us.
News came on a runner that the dark enemy on his horizon had been found. Fleet Air Officer, Masuda Shogo, reported that an enemy carrier had been spotted and attacked, and that it was seen to be badly burning as the strike planes retired. They had traded Kaga for at least one American carrier, and still enjoyed the tremendous advantage of odds here. Yet at that moment he was powerless. All his planes were already in the sky, and soon to be looking for friendly decks to land, their fuel tanks low, guns running empty after the long morning battle. A minute later Commander Shogo reported Fuchida was returning with the bulk of all the first wave strike planes. Now he had to recover them, each and every one, and it would take a good deal of time before he could spot new planes for offensive operations.
What would come out of the skies in that interval? He had seen at least a hundred enemy planes in this attack. Was there a third carrier out there launching on his position even now?
“Sir,” came the senior officer of the watch. “Commander Fuchida reports enemy ships are approaching from the south! Three battleships!”
Nagumo whirled around, his face taut, eyes narrow. “Battleships?” There, it had finally come, the answer to yet another question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind. There were three dark silhouettes on the placards unblemished by the ward aid’s red paint. He looked at the tally, noting their names, Arizona, Oklahoma, Nevada. There could be no doubt as to why those ships had weathered the first strike unscathed—they were not in the harbor. They must have been far to the south and east when Fuchida led the first wave in, yet they have been laboring all morning to find us here, and now they come when I haven’t a single armed plane to throw at them.
“Sir, Admiral Mikawa with Battleship Division 3 asks permission to close and engage the enemy.”
Vice Admiral Gunichi Mikawa had planted his flag aboard the battleship Kirishima for this sortie, a most capable man, former Chief of Staff of the 2nd Fleet, and an Admiral on Navy General Staff and with Imperial Headquarters. Nagumo could not deny him this hour, though every instinct in his body was
warning him to turn now, use speed instead of steel, and to disengage.
“The Kido Butai will assume a course heading of 310 for aircraft recovery,” he ordered. “The screening force will engage the enemy task force and cover recovery operations involving the Kaga while we do so. All first wave planes will rearm and prepare for launch as soon as possible.”
“Then we will launch the third wave as planned?” asked Masuda Shogo, the light of battle in his dark eyes.
“There will be no third wave at Pearl Harbor,” said Nagumo. “All planes will rearm for naval strike operations.”
His Air Commander hesitated, the loss of the long advocated third strike a blow, but he immediately knew the reason for Nagumo’s decision was sound. There was blood in the water here. The enemy carriers had found them and struck hard, and now they had battleships on their far horizon to the south. Nowhere, not in any of their planning scenarios, had the prospect of encountering enemy battleships at sea been seriously considered. The American ships were old and slow, just like Mutsu and Nagato back home. That was why Battleship Division 3 had been selected for this mission, as the Kongo Class ships that filled its ranks had originally been conceived as fast battlecruisers, though only two such ships were present in the screening force, Kirishima and Hiei.
Tide Of Fortune (Kirov Series Book 20) Page 6