“Aye, aye sir. One mile it is.”
Hiei 01:38 hrs
“Turn to bearing 300!” Nagita shouted
The Americans were insane. They were closing straight in! He could not help but be filled with a certain awe. Four of their ships were definitely hit, what appeared to be a cruiser farther out engulfed in flames. Kirishima, apparently not the target of this mad charge, was concentrating her fire on the larger target. Tone was racing out on a bearing of 220 degrees, angling across the western flank of their attack, her guns engaging the American cruiser as well. Idiots! It was the destroyers now that were the real threat. The cruiser could have waited
Ward 01:36 hrs
“Range two thousand nine hundred yards! . . . she’s turning sir, turning away!”
He didn’t need his binoculars to see it . . the battleship’s silhouette was shifting, turning in toward land, running obliquely away
He ran a quick calculation: running speed of torpedoes, target angling away at forty-five degrees now from their attack, it would lengthen the run. Give it two more minutes
He hoped the torpedo officer aboard this ship was trained well and knew his settings. They were only going to get one shot to launch from starboard
“In two minutes we turn hard to port, and launch. Radio that order, in the clear, to the other ships.”
Pearl Harbor 01:41 hrs
James and the others in the radio shack stood silent. The bombardment had lifted once the insane charge of the destroyers had started
There had even been a scattering of cheers both in the shack and from outside along the docks
But they had been able to hear every word of command, broadcast in the clear: the distress calls from destroyers crippled and falling out of the attack, and also the sudden silences, which spoke volumes
“This is Ward. All ships, on my mark, prepare to turn in sixty seconds to bearing 280 degrees, and then launch torpedoes. Mark!”
“Fifty seconds . . .”
And then the radio just went silent
Ward 01:42 hrs
He was still alive--at least he thought he was. The six-inch shell had slashed into the forward turret, a torrent of splinters and shrapnel washing up over the bridge, piercing the tissue-thin skin of the so-called splinter shield, glass of the bridge shattering behind him
His left side was numb. He felt nothing, he tried to reach around with his right hand to feel it, but couldn’t find anything to grab hold of. In the flashes of light he caught a glimpse of a petty officer, staring at him in shock, and then he looked down in amazement
His left arm was gone just below the shoulder, blood pouring out in a pulsing stream. The Ward’s young CO was on the deck by his side, at least what was left of his decapitated body
He felt Ward begin to heel over hard. They were turning, preparing to launch. The petty officer was by his side, saying something about sick bay. He snarled at the man to stand fast and remain at his post
The battleship was visible before him, now impossibly big, flashes of light, guns of every caliber firing, a torrent of shells slashing into the Ward, which was beginning to lose way even as it turned
Damn it, God, give me a few more seconds, just a few more seconds!
“Torpedoes away!”
He turned and saw the splashes as the eight torpedoes, launched by pneumatic bursts of high pressure air, hit the water, one after the other. Looking back to port, it was hard to see, but it seemed that at least one other destroyer was still in the fight, turning, launching as well. .
“OK, you bastards, now it’s your turn to get some,” he gasped
Hiei 01:44:30 hrs
“Sir--torpedo wakes inbound”
He held his breath, scanning the waters. Searchlights swept back and forth, one stopped, focused on a white, bubbling wake coming straight amidships
Closer, it was racing in . . too late to order evasive maneuvers. They were going to take this one!
He stepped back and away from the railing. The flash could roast a man alive. He prepared to shield his face with his arm
Something hit, he could feel it. . . but nothing, no explosion
By all the gods! He almost wanted to laugh ... It was a dud
And then a cry that more torpedoes were coming in
Ward 01:45 hrs
Ward was dying. The engine room was reporting flood. He could barely hear it, he could barely hear anything now as he stood braced against the shattered splinter shield, hanging on with his one hand
The petty officer, ignoring his protests, was bracing him up
“I’m taking you to the doc now, sir!”
“Another minute,” Draemel gasped. “They should have hit by now!”
“Goddamn torpedoes,” someone was screaming, “Goddamn torpedoes! Duds, we’re firing Goddamn duds!”
He felt an infinite weariness. My God in heaven, after all this, please God no. Don’t let these men die in vain
And then, as if in answer to his final prayer, it happened. A brilliant flash, so close he could feel the concussion as it raced through the water after hitting the Jap battleship amidships, and then, five seconds later, a second flash, far astern. Something told him that had to be one of his, one from the Ward, one from this crew
“You did it, boys,” he gasped, “by God you did it! Proud of you!”
The world was darker now. He could barely see the flash; everything was drifting out of focus
“Proud of you, sir.” It was the petty officer, laying him down on the blood-soaked deck. “You did it.”
But Draemel no longer heard him as he drifted off, some memory floating for a moment, strange, not here. The grandkids, God, I’ll miss them growing up. . .
He was already gone when seconds later a direct hit from one of the Hiei’s six-inchers burst in the forward magazine, delivering the death blow to a gallant ship and all but twenty of her hands
Hiei 01:47 hrs
“I want a damage report now!” Nagita shouted, looking back at his wide-eyed staff
Phones in the bridge were ringing, but he didn’t need to be told that they were losing headway and the ship was no longer answering the helm
His senior damage control officer was on one of the phones, talking rapidly, and yet still maintaining a sense of calm. Nagita knew he too had to regain control of himself
The officer finally hung up the phone and turned back to face his admiral
“One torpedo amidships, port side, detonating in a fuel bunker. Damage can be contained, but we’ll lose most of the fuel. Transfer pumping has started
“The second, though, sir. It struck portside astern. Possible damage to portside screw, and the rudder is not responding to the helm, sir. It’s either gone or bent. We don’t know yet.”
Nagita took it in, saying nothing
Yamamoto’s foolishness, he thought bitterly, and now this. He looked to starboard. The enemy coast was little more than four miles away, shoreline bright with fires
“The enemy?”
“All ships apparently destroyed, sir, or retiring.” He nodded
“Foolhardy,” he whispered, “but valiant. I never expected such courage from them. They could have launched from twice, three times the range but did not.”
No one spoke
“Signal out destroyers to prepare to take us into tow. We must clear these shores before dawn.”
He walked back out onto the open bridge and leaned over the railing to look aft along the port side. Even in the dark, illuminated now by the burning hulks of two of the enemy destroyers, he could see where the water was darker and flattened out. They were hemorrhaging their precious oil and with each passing second slowing down, even as Hiei started into a uncontrolled turn to starboard, now listing as well. Back on the bridge he could hear his chief engineer taking control of the situation, ordering counterflooding to balance out the list, and to prepare a harnessed diver to go over the side to examine the rudder
It was not yet two in the morn
ing local time. In a little more than three and a half hours, the eastern horizon would begin to glow--and they would indeed be bait for the American carriers, if they were out there. He now wondered if that was Yamamoto’s intent all along, a damaged battleship that the American aircraft carrier commanders could not resist attacking, and thus reveal themselves. If so, and he survived, he would take this to the Naval Board, the government, if need be even the Emperor. To toss aside a battleship for their flimsy carriers was criminal and must be punished
Chapter Three
Enterprise, 270 miles south-southwest of Oahu December 8, 1941 01:55 hrs local time
The radio in the CIC had been silent for over ten minutes, no one speaking, many still looking at the loudspeaker as if somehow it would come back to life
My God, Halsey thought, Draemel had guts. An inner voice whispered to him that the man was dead. It’d be like him to go out like that
He inwardly raged at the silence. There had been one garbled transmission from one of the destroyers, unidentified, reporting two hits on the Jap battleship, but no follow-up as to extent of damage
One of those monsters, bigger than anything the Navy now had afloat, could take three or four torpedoes and keep right on going . . . but then again, one crucial hit, like the legendary shot on the Bismarck . . . she just might be crippled!
He looked over at the plot board, illuminated by the dull red glare of the lighting in the CIC, a seaman first class standing with grease pen poised, ready to mark the latest position
All they had were two Jap battleships. Where the hell were the carriers?
What was their admiral doing? Who was it? With this aggressiveness, it felt like Yamamoto
They had to have at least four carriers out there, maybe six, perhaps even their entire known fleet of eight. If so, his sense of pride and honor would most likely mean that Yamamoto had sailed with them. He had read everything he could on the man. He’d been the topic of conversation more than once since word was revealed of his promotion. Several had met him, saying he was one helluva poker player, a master of the bluff, the audacious move, ready to gamble all on the throw of a card and yet with a razor-sharp mind, instantly calculating the odds. He was, as well, a man who seemed to be blessed with that rare gift, luck, the throw of the card usually going in his favor. If that was indeed him leading out there, from the front, in the tradition of Nelson, Farragut, and John Paul Jones, it showed him to be a man of guts
He could have pulled a raid and by now be hundreds of miles away. No, he was hanging on--and his desire? Perhaps an invasion itself, but something told Halsey that wasn’t the case. CIC had been monitoring reports for over eighteen hours now. The Japanese were hitting everywhere at once, across nearly a sixth of the earth’s surface. They had to be spread thin when it came to logistics, transports, troops, the nuts and bolts of staging an invasion and then holding an island like Oahu. Perhaps the gambler Yamamoto was going for that
Perhaps
That was a probable the more panicky would grasp on to. He was focused on the moment, and invasion or not, he knew with utter certainty what Yamamoto was really after this morning: him. The surviving American carriers, that was what he was throwing the dice for now
In spite of the panicked radio broadcasts out of Honolulu, the reporter on the air giving a blow-by-blow account of the fight out at sea, as if reporting on a ball game--and not knowing a damn thing about what he was talking about--at least had given them one valuable clue: the bombardment had stopped, at least for the moment
There were reports of Jap paratroopers landing in the Dole plantation, another of landing craft coming in at Kaneohe. He doubted both. The Japanese simply did not have the transport planes to reach Hawaii with paratroopers
He looked at the chronometer: 02:05 local time
Until someone dragged a dead Jap paratrooper or Imperial marine in front of him, the hell with those reports. What he did know for certain was that Draemel had gone down fighting and possibly crippled one of their battleships, which was most likely limping away from the coast at this very moment
“I want air crews awakened at 03:30, and make sure they have a damn good breakfast,” he announced
He didn’t add the grim thought that for many it would most likely be their last
“Entire crew to stand to at 04:00. Search planes to launch at 05:15.”
His air boss, Lieutenant Commander Wade McCloskey, stood silent, but he could read the man’s thoughts. McCloskey had been temporarily promoted to CAG, Commander Air Group, replacing, at least for the moment, Commander Howard Young, who had flown on to Pearl yesterday morning, taking off at dawn to return to base. It was standard procedure, planes flying back in once in range of the island, giving the men some added air time, and a morale booster for those selected, since it meant they got back home hours ahead of their ship
But yesterday’s morale boost had flown straight into disaster. Young had taken off with eighteen planes from VB-6 and VS-6, all Dauntlesses, what could have now been part of his big punch. Most of them were dead, either dropped by the Japs or shot down by panicky sailors and soldiers on the ground
The air units McCloskey now commanded were little more than half the normal strength for Enterprise. He had but nineteen Dauntlesses and eighteen Devastator torpedo bombers on board. Halsey thanked God he had not sent on the boys from VF-6, his fighter squadron, so he still had nineteen Grumman F4F-3 Wildcats, enough to provide a screen for an offensive strike while at the same time enough remained behind to cover this task force. It meant he had a total of fifty-six aircraft on board, just a little over half of what Enterprise was capable of handling . . . and here they were now in the middle of a war and he felt like a pugilist with one arm already tied behind his back
McCloskey stood silent, waiting for any additional orders. Being pulled off the line and up onto the bridge obviously rankled the man, but he was damn near forty years old, Halsey thought when making the decision, a very old man indeed to be out there in a dogfight. McCloskey would have to run things from the bridge, and he was a man Halsey knew could be trusted to see it done right
“Can I lead?” McCloskey ventured, looking him straight in the eye, but already sensing the answer
Halsey shook his head
“I’ll need you here. Besides, when was the last time you slept? Those going up at dawn need to be fresh, and you’ll be up the rest of the night getting the strike ready. Sorry, Commander, your place is here with me.”
McCloskey nodded reluctantly
“I know the boys aren’t trained for night launch, but we can’t wait for dawn. First search planes out at 05:15, fully loaded strike force prepared and on the deck as well.”
“Yes sir,” and the reply was wooden, without emotion. Both knew that given the experience of their pilots, more than one of them would most likely crash on takeoff in the predawn darkness
“I want every plane available for launch at 05:45. Ten fighters to be held back as CAP, five of them in the air at all times, other five ready to launch immediately.”
“Sir?”
“Didn’t you understand me? At first twilight we start to launch our strike wave.”
“Sir, without a report from the scout planes?” McGloskey asked. Halsey pointed back to the plot board
“They got a battleship out there that is hit, maybe crippled. By dawn it will have moved only forty, maybe fifty miles at most.”
“That’s still thousands of square miles of ocean to find him in, sir.”
“That bastard will run due west to the Marshalls,” and Halsey walked over to the plot board, stabbing at it with a stubby forefinger. “He’ll be there, and the Japs will have fighters over her. If we can get in there by dawn, ahead of their own air support which they’ll send in to cover the cripple, then maybe, just maybe we can track the incoming fighters sent to cover the battleship, do a reciprocal bearing, and find the carriers!
“We’ll make full steam due north till it’s time to turn
into the wind. That puts us a hundred miles south of them. Our boys will be over her before dawn, ahead of the Japs, and we’ll find those carriers and get in a first strike.”
“And if they aren’t there or get there ahead of us?” McCloskey asked cautiously. “Then what?”
“If that’s the case,” Halsey replied with a sarcastic smile, “on December ninth, I’ll be beached, and someone with more sense will be in command.”
He didn’t add that chances were that finding the Japs first or not, they’d most likely be dead before nightfall. With less than forty strike planes, half of them antiquated Devastators, flying death traps, his boys would be lucky to take out one, at best two of their carriers, leaving at least one, maybe upward of three or four of their carriers to launch an overwhelming attack in reply
Caution whispered to him. Turn about now, stay out to sea, try to link up with Lexington as he had first planned to do, until the third strike wave had hit Pearl and all communications via CinCPac had ceased
But now? The Japs were most likely finished with Pearl. With a damaged battleship to sweat over, they’d head back to the Marshalls. Newton might be running south to try a hookup, or then again, north in an attempt to cut off the Japs if they were indeed north of the island. He wasn’t going to gamble Enterprise on such guesses. But regardless, if he could get a solid first strike in now, Lexington could do a killing follow-up
This was about pride now as well. The Navy, across a hundred and sixty-five years of her history, had never taken such a blow as it had this past day. If he turned tail and hid, sure there’d be defenders who would say he had made the wise, conservative choice. But in his mind the name of the Enterprise and his own would be forever besmirched as the ship and the admiral who turned and ran, rather than go in harm’s way, perhaps even leaving Lexington to die alone
Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy Page 43