Days of Infamy

by Newt Gingrich

  Akagi

  06:00 hrs local time

  ADMIRAL YAMAMOTO LOOKED at the transcript handed to him, the conversation monitored between an American scout plane and a radio on Pearl.

  It spoke volumes to him. They had no idea where he was, otherwise there would have been some indication; the mere fact that the question was asked, rather than coordinates communicated, revealed that. Also, it meant that whatever damage the air strikes had rendered, the battleships had done their job well. All communications, and therefore coordination between land and their ships at sea, were either severed or tenuous at best.

  And it told him, as well, that at least one of their carriers must be nearby.

  The game was on.

  Scout plane X-ray Delta

  Twenty miles south of Oahu

  06:00 hrs

  “THIS IS X-RAY Delta. Got ’em! Oil slick ten miles off the coast south of the island, turning to heading 270 to follow!”

  Lieutenant Nathan King gave a slight nudge of his stick to port, his Dauntless slipped into a ten-degree bank, and less than a minute later he saw it! Battleship, it had to be their crippled battleship, six, maybe eight miles ahead, oil slick leading straight to it. The ship appeared to be under tow.

  God damn, it was a sitting duck!

  “This is X-ray Delta! Jap battleship, estimated twenty miles southwest Oahu. Can’t miss her, it’s bleeding oil like crazy. Am closing.”

  “Sir, we going for it?”

  King picked up his intercom mike, connected to his tail gunner.

  “You got any better ideas? It’s begging to be hit! We unload on her then circle till the strike group comes up.”

  “Sir, what about continuing to look for their flattops?”

  King hesitated. The darn kid was right. The admiral had made it a point: They were out here for the carriers, the battleship could wait. But damn it, the flattops were most likely hundreds of miles off, in someone else’s sector. The Japs would be insane to have them playing nursemaid to a crippled ship this close in to shore.

  He was closing at two and a half miles a minute at ten thousand feet. Punch a bomb into this bastard, maybe finish her, and then just spot their planes coming in and relay the reciprocal bearing back to Enterprise. He’d lead the way for the strike against the carriers and have a battleship to his credit as well. Hell, that would make the admiral happy and a damn hero as well, with the first big kill of the war.

  Half a dozen black puffs ignited in the air, far short, a mile ahead of him, first ranging shots of their heavy antiaircraft. He could even see their five-inchers winking.

  Pull away, wait for the rest of the strike wave?

  Hell, they might be getting vectored even now onto the carriers in another section.

  “We’re taking her,” King announced, sliding his canopy shut, pulling down his goggles. Feeding in full throttle he started to climb, wanting to get up to fifteen thousand feet before rolling into a dive. It’d throw their gunners off as well.

  “We got Japs! Four of them coming down. Break right! Break right!”

  King pushed his stick hard over to starboard even as he nosed up. Looking back over his shoulder he saw them coming out of the southwest, the direction he was supposed to turn and search along, before finally heading back to Enterprise. How the hell did they get here ahead of us? We were told we’d be on it first!

  Damn, were their carriers off that way?

  He didn’t even have time to make a call. Within a few seconds he was flying full out, skidding with opposite rudder and stick, nearly going into a stall, the low speed causing the first two Japanese fighters to overshoot and scream past while gunner’s mate Gary Olson, in the aft seat, fired back with the single, pitiful .30 machine gun, the only protection the Dauntless had. What kind of fighters were these? They were not the old Jap 96 models they had been briefed on. What the hell are they?

  “I’m jumped by four Jap fighters,” he managed to get out, then dropped the mike.

  There was no time to line up in a classic dive. He pushed over, heading in at a forty-five-degree bank for the Hiei. The enemy fighters circled back around for the kill.

  Hiei

  06:02 hrs

  IT WAS OVER before it had even really started. The lone American plane had barely got into range of his five-inch gunners when it detonated into flame, rolled over, and went down.

  There was cheering on the bridge, but Captain Nagita said nothing.

  Two things had been revealed. One was patently obvious. The Americans knew where he was; they had monitored the scout plane report. It was no surprise; the oil slick from their bleeding wound would lead them in to him all day until finally someone broke through.

  But it had revealed as well to the Americans that he was being protected by carrier planes and at least one of their carriers was in range.

  The battle was now on.

  Chapter Four

  Enterprise

  130 miles south of Oahu

  December 8, 1941

  06:03 hrs local time

  “X-RAY DELTA, THIS is Phoenix. X-ray Delta, this is Phoenix, come in.”

  “He’s gone,” Halsey said quietly, the petty officer operating the radio looking back at his admiral and nodding in agreement. McCloskey, standing to one side, gave a nod of agreement as well.

  They had broken radio silence long enough. He didn’t want to risk another minute on the air and perhaps give the Japs a better chance at getting a bearing on him. With the appearance of his scout planes, they now knew he was out here. That was all he wanted to give away, and calling a plane that was most likely down was far too dangerous.

  From outside he could hear the roar of the last of his planes launching, the slow, lumbering Devastators. The fighter and dive bomber squadrons were now aloft. Groups formed up, circling at five thousand feet while their slower comrades took wing.

  He looked back to his other radio operators. One radio was assigned to each of the four search planes. Operators shook their heads, protocol accepting that at such a crucial moment, the men didn’t need to take their eyes off their instruments or speak.

  He looked back to the plot board. If search plane X-ray Delta was off the chart—and even as he contemplated that, a seaman with a grease pencil put a question mark next to the symbol of the plane at its last reported position—then one whole leg of a return sweep would be lost.

  His strike force, now airborne, was heading almost due north, toward the reported position of the crippled Jap battleship, his assumption being that by the time they reached it, the search would reveal their flattops, one of which definitely had to be shadowing the enemy cripple. The appearance of the enemy planes confirmed that… but where the hell were they?

  And just as frustrating, he had listened in to the conversation between X-ray Delta and Pearl. My God, if all radio communications were down at every airbase on the island, how did they coordinate? He had hoped that by now someone over there would be doing their job right, and have the Jap carriers pinpointed to vector them in.

  It was all a gamble now. Suppose the strike force reaches the battleship but then they can’t find the carriers?

  He turned to stare at the plot board. The two seamen manning the translucent Plexiglas display were talking softly into their mikes, using grease pens to trace the northern track of the forty-two planes. One of them reached up and erased the question mark next to X-ray Delta and crossed off the symbol for the plane. A few inches away, the symbol for the Japanese battleship stood out clear.

  He looked at the clock. 06:05. It’d be 11:35 Washington time. One of the radio operators, monitoring a commercial station out of San Francisco, had announced earlier that the President would address the nation at noon East Coast time. Just about the time the strike force reached the enemy battleship. He stood silent, watching… waiting.

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  December 8, 1941

  11:30 hrs local time

  THE BLA
CK LIMOUSINE flanked by motorcycle police moved up Pennsylvania Avenue in a stately procession.

  Americans lined the avenue watching their President as he rode to the Capitol for a historic joint session address to the Congress. They knew it would be broadcast on radio, but they were here in Washington and they wanted to share in this moment of history with their own eyes.

  The crowds were quiet, solemn, respectful.

  They were enraged that their country had been attacked.

  They were infuriated that someone would cheat and launch an attack without warning.

  They were shocked by the ferocity and rumors of the casualties and the damage.

  They were not frightened.

  They were deeply determined.

  They were Americans—even if they had only been here a few years, they identified themselves as Americans. No matter where their relatives came from, they thought of themselves as Americans. The bad guys had had their shot. Now it would be our turn.

  They watched the President’s car with deep respect.

  He had carried them through the Great Depression and given them hope.

  He had always been strong and optimistic and cheerful.

  He was their leader and the leader of their nation.

  They wished him well, and they were going to listen to him carefully.

  Many of them prayed as he rode past. They wanted him and their country to be strong and courageous and determined and victorious.

  FDR felt the warmth and the support that was evident in block after block of silent people watching his car. Occasionally someone would wave, but mostly they stood silently and prayerfully.

  What a remarkable difference from inaugural parades, he thought to himself.

  Inaugurations were happy political times, and the winners had come to town to celebrate. They were a time to smile and wave and express happiness at political victory.

  This was totally different. He sensed that he was now going up to Capitol Hill not as a political leader but as the war leader of an aroused nation. Today was a day for history and not for politics.

  He wanted to achieve three things in this address to the joint session.

  First, he wanted to communicate to the American people the sense of rage they already felt and to bind them to a deep dedication to win no matter what the cost.

  Second, he wanted to signal Prime Minister Churchill and all our allies that America was prepared to fight. This speech had to overcome any doubts or uncertainties created by the defeat at Pearl Harbor and the ongoing fight around Hawaii.

  FDR knew it was important to turn defeat into opportunity, and confusion into the certainty of victory. This speech was an important building block toward that moment of shifting from defense to offense.

  Third, he wanted to send a signal to Tokyo and also to Berlin: America is now in the war, and America is going to win. He wanted to shake their sense of certainty and begin to get them worrying about the full might and power of the American people.

  Now it was up to him to deliver a speech that would resonate and echo around the world, so that everyone understood… and everyone would remember.

  It was funny how the first job of a war commander was words, and how those words then shaped and directed the war.

  Even in a wheelchair I can still direct the words so others will know why they fight and what they must fight for. Now let’s talk to the world, he thought as the car pulled up to the Capitol.

  Hiei

  06:15 hrs local time

  HE GLANCED AT the handwritten transcript of the radio report of one of the Zeroes, now circling in a screen around his ship. A report that numerous American planes were reported from the southeast.

  They were at full battle stations. There was nothing more he could do. The destroyers had cast off their towlines and sped up. No sense in having them as a target as well. Without the counteracting force of the destroyers’ laboring engines, they were now in a wide banking turn to the north, running at twelve knots, the imbalance of the damaged rudder causing an unsettling vibration to run through the entire ship.

  Akagi

  06:16 hrs local time

  “ARE THEY CERTAIN?” Yamamoto asked, looking over at his chief communications officer.

  “Yes, sir. The outer ring of the air patrol over Hiei is reporting an American strike wave approaching from the southeast. It will be over Hiei in another fifteen minutes.”

  He took it in. “How many planes?”

  “The Zero reported at least twenty.”

  Damn, only twenty. It could be a lead element of a bigger attack, or even one that was uncoordinated and had not grouped correctly, or it could be a strike from but one carrier. He had hoped that the three enemy carriers just might be grouped together, but there was no guarantee that such was indeed the case. They would be grouped together in the Japanese Navy, but the Americans seemed to do things differently.

  He did not want to break radio silence with any more longdistance messages to Soryu and Hiryu. He could only hope that at this moment they were monitoring their own planes providing cover for Hiei, and would now surmise where the enemy had come from.

  Twenty miles southeast of Hiei

  06:20 hrs local time

  DAVE DELLACROCE, SWEAT beading his forehead in spite of the cold at fifteen thousand feet, could see them. Two Japanese planes, painted white, circling above them, five miles or so off. Dawn was breaking up here, the glow of sunlight reflecting off their canopies. They had undoubtedly seen him as well, but neither side was closing to engage.

  He banked slightly, following as starboard wingman in a section of three, and spared a quick glance back over his shoulder.

  Where the hell were the Dauntlesses and Devastators? They had to go in together. But go in on what? The Jap fighters were already over the battleship; the hope of getting there first and then getting a vector on where they approached from was blown. And none of the other search planes had reported a damn thing other than empty sea.

  His section leader, as ordered, was going into a three-hundred-sixty-degree circle, the Wildcats looking for the bombers that were supposed to be right behind them, but had somehow disappeared in the scattering of clouds over the last fifteen minutes.

  He could see four Jap planes.

  His radio crackled. It was the squadron leader.

  “Anyone see the rest of our boys?”

  No one replied.

  Damn!

  “OK. Keep your formations tight. Stick to me like glue. We’re going in!”

  What?

  “Hey, ain’t we supposed to wait?” someone called back.

  “They’re above us and building up. We’re dead meat if we wait down here. Let’s clear the way. The bomber boys must be right behind us.”

  A momentary pause. No one replied, and Dave as the most junior of pilots in the squadron knew he’d be nuts to say anything.

  “We either fight now or get bounced from above. There’s only four of ’em, target practice for us. Keep your formations tight and stay with me!”

  Dave throttled up with the other Wildcats. Noses pointed high to gain precious altitude, fuel mixture nudged up, carb heat check for a few seconds and then shut off, trigger guard flipped back.

  In spite of his fear, for the next few seconds he could feel the exhilarating surge of it. It was a helluva long way from cruising around a Midwest airfield in a sixty-five-horsepower trainer. At full throttle the twelve-hundred-horse Wildcat accelerated, leaping heavenward, vibrating, sending a corkscrew thrill down his spine.

  They had been told by Intelligence that the Japs were still flying their old ′96 models off of carriers, planes that would supposedly be dead meat against a Wildcat. But these fighters looked sleeker. Retractable landing gear; they weren’t ′96s.

  What the hell were they? The new Zeroes that there had been rumors about? But they were supposedly not assigned to carriers yet. There wasn’t time to think about it now. The four Jap planes were breaking into two se
ctions of two, turning in to meet him.

  He spared a quick glance down. A scattering of morning tropical clouds was drifting across the ocean. Through a hole in one he could see what appeared to be the oil slick from their battleship. Don’t think about it now.

  Where the hell were the bombers? He looked back over his shoulders to both sides. The Devastators must be below the cloud cover. The Dauntlesses, not in sight.

  Range was closing fast, damn fast. Whatever they were, these Jap planes had power.

  The first pass through was a head-on which for a brief instant terrified him, the Jap fighter opening up while boring straight in, the two of them playing chicken with each other. He thought he clipped off part of a wingtip, felt the shudder of a hit as well, both banking hard right in the final split second before a head-on impact.

  He pulled back hard, stick in his gut, rudder full right, banking turn almost ninety degrees, plane ready to shudder into an accelerated stall, the pressure of the four-G turn narrowing his vision.

  He looked straight up and back. Where the hell were the other guys of his section?

  “Damn it, Dave, stick with me!” It had to be Gregory shouting.

  As he came through a hundred eighty degrees of turn he saw a fiery trail spiraling downward. Was it Gregory? Where was the Jap?

  For all in his squadron this was their first fight. Sure, they had practiced before against Army pilots in P-36s and 40s, but not now, not for real, and already, one—no, two—planes were flaming torches spinning down, both of them Wildcats.

  All formations had broken up, no coordination with wingmen. He caught a glimpse of a Wildcat below him about a thousand feet or so, a white Zero cutting in behind him, twin contrails appearing off its wingtips, triggered by the wing vortexes in the warm humid tropical air.

  He did a half roll coming out of his turn, pulled the stick back, dropping inverted and from three hundred yards astern of his unsuspecting target, which was closing in on the Wildcat it was pursuing.