Days of Infamy

by Newt Gingrich

  “That is all.”

  He slammed the phone back down into its cradle.

  No one on the bridge spoke. He stalked over to his chair and settled in.

  At first light he’d launch, with only sixty-four planes on board. Instinct told him that the bombarding force might very well be a lure to bring him into range and reveal his position. But there was no way in hell he was going to back off now. If anything, he just might get in the first punch and catch them by surprise.

  Go in harm’s way!

  That had been drilled into him nearly forty years ago back at the Academy. John Paul Jones’s words were engraved on the soul of every midshipman. He had trained for this moment across all the years since. He knew the odds. There had to be at least four Jap carriers out there, maybe five or six, and if he launched first against the bombarding fleet, he could expect a full counterblow.

  After the first two attacks, there had been an attempt to set a rendezvous with Lexington, but both ships were now holding to complete radio silence after the third attack and what was assumed to be the destruction of CinCPac on Oahu. Without radio contact from the island to coordinate their movements without their having to reply, neither he nor his counterpart on Lexington, Admiral Newton, was willing to risk disclosing their location by maintaining radio contact. He and Lexington would have to go it alone. To try and coordinate could very well bring in every Jap sub and surface ship within a hundred miles. Anyway, American doctrine had been for carriers to fight in units of one and avoid offering the enemy a bunched-up target. Being on his own felt comfortable and was exactly what they had practiced in peacetime.

  If this was Enterprise’s last day, they would take as many Japs as possible with them.

  IJN battleship Hiei

  Five miles south-southeast of the main channel into Pearl Harbor

  December 8, 1941

  00:31 hrs local time

  “COMMENCE FIRING ON Pearl Harbor,” Captain Nishida Maseo, commander of the Imperial Japanese Navy battleship Hiei, announced.

  Around him was a flurry of action. His gunnery control officer turned and picked up the telephone linking to the fire control center, where their elite crew, who had so long anticipated this moment, was standing ready. The bombardments of the last hour and a half, hammering the air and army bases at Kaneohe and Fort Bellows, with several salvos into Fort Shafter and Honolulu, had been but a preliminary. They had saved the bulk of their precious fourteen-inch shells for this moment, this moment when the real bombardment, the unleashing of hell would truly begin.

  With their sister ship Kirishima following a mile astern, firing three hundred shells as well, they would lay down the equivalent destructive load of a six-hundred-plane air strike in the next two hours. Let Yamamoto talk of his carrier-based planes. Now was the moment to prove that it was battleships after all that would ultimately prove who was still the queen of battle upon the seas. The additional weight of the five-and six-inch secondary batteries on both ships, and the guns of their escorting destroyers and cruiser, would add yet even more chaos.

  He could feel the vibration, the four massive turrets, each packing two guns of fourteen-inch caliber, rotating, imagine in the fire control room the final coordinates being fed in, observations from the scout plane circling above Pearl, even now dropping illumination flares over the still flaming dockyards, oil tanks, submarine pens, workshops, and hulks of the now impotent American battleships. If the Americans thought they had faced the fury of Japan before, they were mistaken. In a few more minutes they would know what true fury was.

  Each salvo would be eight shells, each loaded with half a ton of high explosives, each shell capable of shattering anything within a hundred meters of impact. A hundred of them, capable of completely obliterating a square kilometer of ground and anything resting upon it.

  The massive turrets, illuminated by the beams of moonlight, were visible from the armored bridge. To stand in the open now would shatter the eardrums of any man not well protected.

  A klaxon sounded, the signal that the huge batteries, the massive fourteen-inches guns raised, were poised, waiting for the moment when stabilizing gyroscopes indicated that the guns were laying true and level.

  The first turret lit off, its minute adjustments in angle and declination decided by the fire control team decks below in the armored citadel where the guns were controlled, though individual turret commanders could direct fire as well if need be.

  The recoil of the fourteen-inchers actually staggered the ship. Those ill prepared and not braced for the blow were knocked off their feet by the massive recoil. Number two turret followed suit several seconds later, and then number three and four aft fired. Tons of shells winged upward, climbing to well over twenty thousand feet, reaching apogee, and then started to shriek down on the island. A mile astern the Kirishima exploded with a similar salvo. Sixteen massive blows were about to impact the wreckage-strewn Pearl Harbor and Hickam.

  Pearl Harbor

  December 8, 1941

  00:32 hrs local time

  HE FINALLY LEFT his car in a side parking lot, beyond the main gate into the naval base. Traffic into the base was a mad tangle, stalled by a head-on collision between a Dodge convertible and an Army truck that apparently had come barreling out of a side street and plowed into the Dodge. Corpsmen were working on the driver of the Dodge as James stepped around him, the poor man a bloody mess, the driver of the army truck standing there woodenly, bleeding from a bad scalp wound and a broken nose.

  As he looked around, he wasn’t sure where exactly to go now that he was here. His headquarters was gone. He was not, in a sense, a fighting man. There were more than enough sailors, marines, and even some infantry swarming about in confusion, toting Springfields and BARs. A team trotted past carrying a heavy .50-caliber water-cooled machine gun.

  He felt out of place now, wondering if he was just getting in the way. He couldn’t even pitch in to help with the wreckage, or lift a stretcher; hell, he felt so light-headed he wondered if he should be on a stretcher himself.

  Everything was illuminated by a lurid dim light, the flaming oil tank farms burning close enough that he could feel the radiant heat. Out in the harbor, Arizona, or what was left of it, was still awash in flames, thick coils of oily smoke from all the fires casting a heavy pall over the entire harbor and base, choking, dulling the illuminating fires so that there was a Dantesque feel to the entire scene, as if he had stepped into the first circle of hell.

  He’d try for what was left of the office of CinCPac. Maybe someone there could give directions, point him to where Collingwood and the rest of the team were trying to set up operations, if such a thing was possible.

  A brilliant, nearly blinding blue light ignited almost straight overhead just as he reached the main gate, which was still intact. All around him paused, looked up, pointing. A panicked sailor shouted, shouldering his Springfield and squeezing off a round at the parachute flare that hung several thousand feet above the base. A second flare burst into radiant brilliance, and there was the distant drone of a plane engine.

  “We got incoming!” someone screamed.

  A mad jostle started, men beginning to run, without direction, some diving to ground, others going beneath cars. A .30-caliber machine gun, emplaced in a circular sand bag pit by the gatehouse, pointed straight up and started to shoot blindly, tracers arcing up, and seconds later, dozens of guns were firing in panic.

  He just stood there, watching, and then he heard it, that damn freight train rumble. He had driven from one bombardment straight into another.

  The first two shells detonated somewhere over on Ford’s Island, brilliant flashes of light. Several seconds later, two more. He could see dimly through the smoke a high geyser lifting up near the overturned Oklahoma, which was illuminated by the dozens of arc welders who were frantically cutting holes into the bottom of the ship, still trying to rescue comrades trapped within.

  The salvo was shifting closer. He went to groun
d, not sure where the next four hit, and then seconds later more winged overhead, shrieking loud, mind-numbing, close, damn close, a series of explosions washing over him. One shell hit close enough that he felt the blast, the air being sucked out of his lungs, the concussion tearing through the ground, bouncing him. A split second later he heard the lashing roar of shrapnel, tearing into treetops, carving into buildings, windows that had survived the air raids now shattering in showers of glass.

  Battleship veteran that he was, he knew he had a couple of minutes before the next salvo hit. He started to stand up, and then a higher pitched roar, lighter eight-, six-, and and five-inch shells began to rain down, minor when compared to the massive fourteens, but deadly nevertheless to anyone out in the open and less than a hundred yards away.

  He started to run toward the still-burning ruins of headquarters, others running alongside him. He looked up, and to his utter amazement he caught a glimpse of Oklahoma, sharply illuminated by a parachute flare directly overhead. The men atop her were either insane or the bravest he had ever seen. They had barely paused in their work, arc welding lights still glowing hot blue, sailors atop her returning to their mission of mercy, to save men still trapped within.

  “Watson. Commander Watson!”

  He slowed. It was a woman’s voice. He caught a glimpse of her, Collingwood’s administrative assistant from the decrypt center waving to him.

  He went over.

  “Dianne? Miss St. Clair? My God, woman, what the hell are you doing here?”

  Somehow she still managed to look beautiful, in spite of her disheveled look, dress and blouse blood splattered, both nylons with runs, face mud smeared, but amazingly, her lovely blond hair still combed.

  “Captain Collingwood sent me back here, to see if I could round up anyone from the team that might report in.”

  “Incoming!”

  He grabbed Dianne by the shoulder and pulled her down to the ground by his side. More shells burst across Ford Island, one appearing to hit Oklahoma, then several more, these falling short, crashing into the sprawl of workshops back toward ten-ten dry dock, or what was left of it after the torpedo strikes against it in the third-wave attack. The continual higher-pitched shrieks of the five-, six-, and eight-inchers now were scattering down around the base. Overhead, another flare popped. Guns from all across the harbor were firing upward, more than a few panicked men most likely thinking the bombardment was coming from airplanes overhead.

  The hurricane roar from shells washed over them. He tried to collect his wits, still on the ground, breathing hard, his left arm throbbing as he protectively held it over young Miss St. Clair, who in the strange, hellish blue light forced what she must have assumed was a brave smile, though the terror in her eyes was obvious.

  “Incoming!”

  She pressed in against his side, a shuddering sob escaping her. He turned his head to look up, wondering for a second if he could actually see the passage of the three-quarter-ton monsters. More detonations ignited within the flaming sea of oil from the ruptured oil tanks, vast sheets of burning oil soaring hundreds of feet into the air, spreading out, raining down. There were distant screams. He dreaded to think who was screaming—most likely firefighters now engulfed in the inferno.

  He forced himself to concentrate. It was all random chance now… Either I lie here terrified, or I get up, accept the chance, and do something, anything.

  He took a deep breath, pressed against the ground with his one good hand, and stood up.

  “Come on, Dianne, where’s Collingwood?”

  She came to her feet, shaking, leaning against his side for support.

  “He’s set up shop at the radio repair shack, down by the east channel,” she stuttered. “Do you know where it is?”

  “No.”

  He was lying, but he just didn’t feel right leaving her out here in this chaos, random or not. The Japs most likely did have a map of the base, and just might try and toss a few shells into what was left of CinCPac headquarters. Not that the radio repair shack would be any safer; it was less than a hundred yards north of the east channel, the main tieoff basin for several dozen destroyers and light cruisers.

  “Come on, Dianne, I need you to guide me there,” he said, figuring that it’d give her something to focus on, which it did.

  She tried to run, but was still wearing a rather ridiculous set of heels. He was tempted to tell her to take the damn things off, but the road they turned onto was carpeted with broken glass, burning vehicles, and smack in the middle of the road the wreckage of what appeared to be a Japanese plane, still smoldering, the blackened, skeletal pilot still inside. Dead were simply dragged over to the side of the road, their faces covered with a shirt, a blanket, or a scrap of cloth.

  Another brace of shells howled in. He didn’t push her to the ground; shards of broken glass were everywhere. Already he was learning to judge the sound. The first new salvo thundered into Ford’s Island, impacting into the channel, the second salvo again high, hitting into the north end of the base and the inferno of the oil tank farm.

  They turned a corner: a building, burning fiercely, white hot, screams from within, a volunteer fire crew using, of all things, a couple of garden hoses, out of which only a trickle of water was emerging—absurd looking, and yet so damn valiant. A lone figure emerged, the fire crew spraying him with a desolate trickle of water, steam rising from him, cradled in his arms like a child, a badly burned sailor, sobbing with pain.

  Dianne slowed.

  “Come on, keep moving,” James shouted, and she nodded, moving in close to his side like a frightened child.

  The rain of five-, six-, and eight-inch shells was clearly unpredictable, winging in without warning or pattern. He could see the east channel, a half-sunk light cruiser, down by the bow, a shot impacting amidships. Gun crews continued to fire straight up from nearly every ship still in port, and there was now a steady rain of exploded fragments and spent .30-and .50-caliber bullets smacking back down, a deadly rain of debris. Their own antiaircraft fire was one more danger as it fell back to earth, the shells often with faulty fuses that failed to air burst, but would detonate when they finally hit the ground.

  They turned left back on to a main street that led straight down toward the channel. It was ablaze with light, burning ships, flashes of gunfire, and then, terrifyingly, two fourteen-inchers impacting to the south of the channel, what looked to be an entire building soaring skyward, steel beams, wooden frames, more shattering glass, the concussion washing over them.

  He spotted their destination. The blackout had been forgotten, and the door was open. Dianne had stopped momentarily to gaze, awestruck at the twin impacts. He grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her into the shack.

  It was a long narrow building, tucked in between two small warehouses. They were most likely made of nothing more than a few steel beams and wood, like the building that had just been blown to hell on the other side of the channel, but somehow their high bulk gave him at least a false sense of security.

  The room was brightly lit, packed with several dozen men and a few women, most of them the crew from the basement of CinCPac, the others naval radio technicians. The walls and work benches were lined with radios of nearly every description, heavy bulky units pulled from destroyers, cruisers, and battleships and brought ashore for repairs. There were bins filled with every tube imaginable, the smell of solder heavy in the air. A seaman second class was seated just inside the door, bent over his work, panel off a unit, voltmeter probe in hand, carefully working away inside the radio as if nothing unusual were going on outside and winged death might not crash in upon him at any second.

  “Watson!”

  It was his commanding officer, the man who had recruited him out of retirement and back into the service in the cryptanalysis branch of Naval Intelligence, Captain Collingwood, pushing through the crush, coming up, hand extended. “You OK, man?”

  James nodded and Collingwood looked down at his arm. The bandage
had soaked through in spite of his mother-in-law’s handiwork as a seamstress.

  “You should have stayed home.”

  “Couldn’t,” was all he could say, and then they all braced for a second, looking up, the sound of more incoming thundering overhead, seconds later the concussion slapping through their feet.

  James looked around at the confusion. Gone was the quiet, almost monastic atmosphere of their sanctuary basement in the now destroyed wreckage of the offices of CinCPac.

  “Some of the boys here know some civilian ham operators and had them drag their gear down,” and Collingwood nodded toward three elderly men, and one young man, a nisei, standing around a massive unit the size of a small icebox, dials lit up. One of the three, with headphones on, looked up.

  “The antenna. Go outside and check the damn antenna!”

  A couple of young seamen technicians sprinted out of the room, and seconds later he could hear a clambering on the roof. My God, those boys were up there while all hell was coming down around them. Their courage gave him heart.

  “Coffee, sir?”

  It was one of the secretaries, Miss Lacey. If ever there was an actual boss to the decrypt center it was she. Dianne might be Collingwood’s personal assistant, but it was Miss Lacey, with her schoolmarm looks, steel-rimmed glasses, and gray hair tied back in a bun who, more than one whispered, knew more about codebreaking than all of them put together. But tonight, here in the middle of hell, she was tending a coffee pot, offering James a mug, which he accepted with his right hand. He took a gulp and somehow it braced him.

  “Dianne, give me a hand,” said Lacey, and the two went off.

  “What in hell is the picture?” James asked.

  A momentary pause. This one was going to be close.

  “Down!”

  Everyone ducked. A second later the fourteen-incher detonated against one of the warehouses flanking the shack. Every window on the north side of the building blew in, showering the room with shards of glass. Someone started to scream. One of the civilians staggered up, the side of his face and left arm lacerated with shards.