Days of Infamy

by Newt Gingrich

  One side of him reasoned that whatever forces the Americans had just might try to swing north, to avoid engaging the superior numbers they knew they would be facing. The second argument was that they might try and swing south. Though his pilots were certain they had sunk one carrier to the south and perhaps two, the reports might not be accurate.

  The ships to the south were definitely Yorktown class. A bombardier with a handheld camera had photographed one of the carriers. It was their number six, the Enterprise. But there was no hard evidence that the Yorktown was in the Pacific. Intelligence reports just before the fleet had left from Japan indicated the Yorktown was definitely on the East Coast of the United States. Could it have moved out here by now, or were the intelligence reports wrong?

  The numerous reports that they had built their plans around were clear on the fact that only one Yorktown-class carrier, the Enterprise, was currently based at Pearl Harbor, along with the two older and far bigger carriers, Saratoga and Lexington. Not a single debriefing of the crews in the strikes to the south had indicated sighting those two ships clearly and unmistakably.

  It meant to him that Saratoga and Lexington were still to his west. If it was those two carriers (in a sense, the sister ships of Akagi and Kaga; both of them had originally been laid down as battle cruisers but because of the Washington treaty changed instead to carriers), the Americans might very well be able to match us in number of planes tomorrow.

  That realization decided it. He must keep the fleet together.

  The question now was their direction. North to avoid us? South to try and link up with the American ships known to be in that area, perhaps even a surviving carrier? Or would they come straight in, seeking a fight?

  I would seek out our main force, he thought, calculating it off of the position reported from their final attack of today.

  We will be the target they’d seek. If roles were reversed, it would be the one my first instincts would tell me to seek. And for that very reason alone, I would assume a shift, moving the damaged carrier into the center, protected by the others. It had been war-gamed out before when the older doctrine of matching but two carriers and no more had been changed by him to combining six, and perhaps someday even eight or ten. If one is damaged, ensure that it is protected by the others. And in reality we have two damaged ships; though his beloved Akagi could launch, it was still wounded and not able to sustain any more serious blows. As it was, both ships would need to be docked for several weeks or more for repairs back in Japan.

  Keep the group together then, assume the Americans will come seeking us. Tone and Chikuma, his two seaplane cruisers, could be positioned to either flank, north and south, and arc outward with their long-range search planes covering the southern and northern flanks, while the six carriers in the middle with the battleship Kirishima moved westward at reduced speed to conserve fuel. Then, if contact was made to either flank, he could turn and run at high speed, at least for several hours, to engage. If the enemy was straight ahead there would have to be contact, of that he was all but certain.

  Someone coughed. It was Genda. He opened his eyes and saw that they were all staring at him. It must have appeared as if he had fallen asleep. He looked at his wristwatch. He must have been sitting thus for thirty minutes or more, no one speaking, and wondered if he had indeed dozed off for a few minutes, Genda’s cough a polite wake-up call.

  “Order Soryu and Hiryu to close on our position as we steam due west throughout the night at ten knots to conserve fuel. Before dawn we will position the carriers in a broad circle around Soryu to protect her with Kirishima nearby to provide additional antiaircraft coverage.

  “Tone to move north, seventy-five miles north of our flank, Chikuma to do the same to the south, launching their search planes at first light, their pattern to be in a half circle west to east. One hour before dawn Zuikaku will turn about into the wind and launch its search planes, and use its remaining bombers as search planes as well. They will depart fully armed, their pattern to be northwest to southwest, overlapping the pattern of the cruisers. All of Zuikaku’s fighters to be launched as well to provide cover over the fleet. Once fully launched, Zuikaku will steam at best speed to rejoin the main group.

  “Any questions?”

  Genda, as chief of air operations for the entire task force, was rapidly jotting down notes, looking over at a sheet that listed the number of ready aircraft on each of the carriers.

  “Sir, our numbers of attack aircraft will be cut by one quarter if Zuikaku’s role is to provide search and cover. We’ll have less than a hundred aircraft available for offensive operations.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “And if the Americans have two of their Saratoga-class carriers out there, we’d actually be outnumbered.”

  “I am aware of that as well. Your point?”

  “None, sir,” Genda replied cautiously. “I just wished to state the facts as your air officer.”

  “Thank you, Commander Genda.”

  “Are there any other questions?”

  Fuchida stirred, cleared his throat, but said nothing.

  Yamamoto smiled.

  “Yes, I am lifting the ban on flying for my eager strike leader,” Yamamoto said. “It is just that you must promise to return safely. No more foolhardy leadership such as I heard about on the third strike at Pearl Harbor. Do we understand each other?”

  “Of course, sir,” Fuchida said with a grin. “And nevertheless, I promise you two carriers sunk tomorrow, sir.”

  “Let us hope it is their carriers and not ours,” Yamamoto replied softly. “Now, an order for all of us. Sleep.”

  He looked at his wristwatch again.

  “Six hours for all of us, at the very least. We shall need it tomorrow.”

  A nod indicated the meeting was over, and the staff filed out of the office.

  He unbuttoned his formal uniform jacket, took it off, and laid it over the top of the chair where Genda had been sitting. As he did so he looked once more at the charts spread out on the table.

  It had been a close-run battle today. Though he wanted to claim complete victory, the sinking of one, perhaps two of their Yorktown-class carriers, he knew he could not, though staff back in Tokyo, once reports were sent in, would trumpet that. It was a disease he knew was endemic to both the Army and Navy in Tokyo, to become flush with success and overstate the results without absolute confirmation. It led to overconfidence. It was possible that in reality, he had taken the harder pounding today, with Soryu stable but out of the fight and Akagi damaged. If the gods had not intervened, and the bomb carried by the heroic American pilot had exploded rather than being a dud, it could have been two carriers out of action, Akagi perhaps even sunk, given that the hangar deck had been crammed with fully loaded strike planes.

  Regardless of all their planning, it was proving that upon such random chances victory or defeat at sea often played out.

  War itself was indeed random chance, and to his gambler’s heart, it was part of the appeal.

  Tomorrow chance must play to our side. If they do indeed have both of their Saratoga-class carriers to our west, we must find and sink them before they find us.

  He stretched out on a cot in a corner of the room, not even bothering to turn off the light, just making sure first that the blackout curtains were properly drawn and secure.

  He could feel the slow, steady beat of the engines far below, Akagi moving nearly with the wind and a following sea.

  There was barely enough oil for one more fight. He had hoped it would have been today that finished it. It had not been. If he was forced to come around several times into the wind and run defensively at flank speed against incoming attacks, the situation with oil would become extreme. It might prove necessary to order one or more of the reserve tankers out of the Marshalls to meet the fleet the day after tomorrow—a risky move, given that reports had come in that the first attempt to take Wake Island had failed. That base was still in American hands, and
Midway, as yet untouched, was dangerous as well. The fleet would have to thread between the two to reach the Marshalls. Sending a lone tanker without escort to meet them was a risk he would have to ponder.

  Yet another gamble.

  Draw that card tomorrow when it is time, not before, he thought, and within another minute, following his own orders, he drifted off to sleep.

  Three hundred miles northwest of Oahu

  22:40 hrs local time

  REAR ADMIRAL NEWTON walked the open deck of Lexington, rising, dropping in a slow rhythmical roll, the Pacific living up to its name this evening after so many days of rough seas, long gentle swells that if one was in a bunk could somehow carry one back to a long-suppressed memory of a cradle rocking. Though he was not even conscious of it as he walked, he wondered if perhaps that was part of the reason men could so love their ships, speak of them as “her,” for that gentle rocking carried with it a primal memory, an ancient rhythm of peace.

  The stars were out in all their splendor; moonrise was still an hour away. Once this was a time to be enjoyed when standing watch in such a sea. Now in this new world, it was a time when lookouts would be doubled, tensions rising, for a low moon rising could silhouette a ship to a lurking submarine stalker, giving to him that momentary advantage when he could slash in and kill.

  But for now, only the stars were out, Orion high in the southeastern sky, the hunter—and we are the hunters now.

  He moved between planes, Devastators parked farthest aft, next in position the squadron of Dauntless dive bombers, and then the marine squadron of Vought Vindicators that had been slated for delivery to Midway but were now still on board.

  Just before dawn that entire squadron would launch as the Task Force’s scout planes. They were as antiquated as the Devastators, and having monitored some of the reports from the battle between Enterprise and the Japs, he had surmised the chances of the Vindicators surviving as a primary strike weapon were next to nothing.

  He slowly walked between the folded-up wings of the planes. In the darkness deck crews were still at work, the only illumination dim red battle lanterns and red-covered flashlights. On the hangar deck below, those planes that for various reasons had problems—a bad magneto, a leaky cylinder, a balky landing gear, or just simply some damn “gremlin,” as the men called them—were being tracked down and repaired and would be spotted up to the deck later. Sherman had announced that every single available plane must be ready for launch. They would only have one good shot at the enemy, and he wanted that to be with everything Lexington could possibly put into the air.

  Newton moved farther forward. The ready Wildcats were spotted into place, wings down. Though night carrier flights were rare, with few pilots yet qualified, after hearing how the Japs had used scout planes to coordinate their bombardment of Pearl Harbor, he would not put it past them to have them out searching once the light from a three-quarter moon illuminated the seas.

  In the cockpit of each Wildcat sat a deck crewman, ready at an instant’s notice to start the plane up, the pilots trying to relax, ordered to stretch out and take it easy in the darkened first squadron ready room just inside the bridge so as not to diminish their night vision. He knew those boys most likely were not sleeping. Who could?

  In the darkness on the deck few recognized him as he passed. He bumped into one sailor who was coming out from under the wing of a Wildcat, who grumbled, “Damn it, hey, watch it Buddy.” He chuckled, “Sorry,” and moved on.

  He went farther forward, walking near the port side gunnery positions. The gun crews were standing down, but ready for alert. The old 1.1-inch guns each had one man on them now, ready to switch on the electrical power, connect into the fire control center to get the weapon ready in a few extra seconds, until his resting comrades reached the position. Spray covers had been removed from breeches and muzzles, the ready ammunition racks behind each gun filled.

  He reached the forward edge of the deck, walking over the huge painted number 2, and stepped up to the white safety line across the forward edge of the bow. He stood alone. They were running at ten knots, heading nearly straight into the northeasterly breeze, the wind thus a refreshing twenty knots, whipping his light jacket.

  The water ahead was churned over, foaming. It was the wake of the destroyer running half a mile ahead, a lone red light, hooded so it could only be seen from nearly directly aft, marking its stern, barely visible. But against the horizon, in the starlight, he could just about make out the deeper darkness of its outline. He was angered for a moment by a brief flash of light, some darn fool not yet used to wartime discipline opening a porthole, or door, not ensuring first that the blackout switch would automatically turn off the interior light as the door was opened. It went dark again.

  He hoped someone on board noticed it and the offender was hauled before the captain. There was more than enough experience now from the Atlantic, stories of ships being lost to submarines because of such slackness.

  We’ve trained for this for years, and tonight is real, he thought. Of course some, including himself, had served in the Atlantic during the last war, but everyone knew that the show was already winding down. There had been a handful of skirmishes against German subs, true antiques when compared to what was out there now, but never a major ship-to-ship action, let alone what was being contemplated for little more than eight hours from now.

  This is the first for all of us. I’m still awake, unable to sleep. He doubted if more than a stoic few aboard this ship, or their escorts, were asleep, even though all hands, except for the ready crews, night watch, and extra lookouts, had been ordered to stand down and try and get at least four hours.

  Most were undoubtedly in their bunks, in the darkness staring at the ceiling, some praying, and some whispering back and forth to each other. He had passed the word that the radio reports coming in from Enterprise’s strike teams be broadcast throughout the ship. He wanted them to hear what they were facing. Perhaps it had been a bad move, given the total annihilation of the Devastators. He almost regretted their knowing the fate of their comrades, but now was not the time to pull punches with his men, to swaddle them. It was time for them, for an entire nation, for all Americans, to face the brutal realities of war, to know what they were fighting, what they must face, and that yes, tomorrow some of them would indeed die.

  Something in his gut told him that this might be Lady Lex’s last night upon the waves. Odds were most likely three to one, but could be as high as six or seven to one. No one yet had a truly accurate fix on their numbers. Sherman’s XO, though a bit embarrassed to take the position, fearing he’d be seen as a coward, argued vehemently for them to turn away and just evade the Japanese fleet for now, to save their “Old Girl” for later battles. If Enterprise was indeed gone, they were the only carrier left in the entire Pacific, except for Saratoga, which was still on the West Coast.

  There was a logic to his argument, even as it was evident that the XO personally was against it, playing the role of devil’s advocate, and it caused a momentary pause in their conference at 1800 hours, as the ship stood down from full battle alert, half of the crew sent below to get their first hot chow of the day.

  For generations, the moment of battle at sea had been joined, both sides had a fair assessment of the other. Destroyers, or frigates and sloops of old, had scouted out the battle line of the enemy, counted ships, their ratings, guns aboard, even their names. As battle lines drew closer, the two-and three-deckers could see each other, pick their targets, and know what they would strike and what they would be struck with in return. Often commanders even knew exactly who was leading on the other side, had perhaps even been friends with them, and could be friends with them again, given the way alliances so easily changed in the days of kings and sailing ships.

  This was all so different. Earlier this day the first carrier-to-carrier battle in the history of warfare had been fought. It had been a matter of confusion, random chance, flights lost, targets missed or accidentally f
ound. Neither side knew the numbers, the strength, even the ships of the other. It was like two pugilists fighting in a darkened arena, perhaps catching brief glimpses of the other in flashes of light. Captains and admirals did not even see the enemy, forced to rely on the reports of young men, some in reality barely trained, often shaken, some wounded, others in shock.

  It was thus that he and Sherman had made their decision. There might be but three Jap carriers out there, and if so, they knew their offensive numbers had to be down with the losses sustained over Pearl and in the strikes on Enterprise. If so, they might even have a slight edge in numbers.

  On the other hand, there might be six or more carriers out there. If so, they would most certainly be overwhelmed, even if they got the first strike in and sank or crippled one or two of the Japanese.

  Two nights ago he would have been far more confident. That confidence was shaken after hearing about this new fighter, this sleek high speed “Zero” they had on their carriers. Naval intelligence had assured him and Halsey that the Japanese carriers still flew their older “96” models, which the Wildcat could at least match up against. This failure of intelligence was as damaging as all the other failures in intelligence. He knew that every Devastator crew member on board was already giving himself up for dead.

  And he could not even reassure them with the numbers they would actually face come morning.

  Three carriers or six? Two paths. His history classes so long ago at the Academy taught all of them about generals and admirals on the edge of a stunning victory, pausing, believing their foe was still superior while in fact he was reeling back and needed but one more blow to finish him. Afterward when history showed the truth, that general or admiral was haunted for the rest of his life by the thought that he could have won a battle, perhaps even a war, if he had only shown the guts and determination to risk all, like Meade at Gettysburg, who could have finished the war that day if he had attacked after Pickett’s Charge went down to defeat. And yet, on the other side of that equation was someone overconfident, pushing in, and going down to tragic defeat, forever haunted by the folly of his decision, and the realization of so many lives lost through his futile action, like Lee himself at Gettysburg, when he ordered Pickett in.