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 black 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, 06:16 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 long-distance 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 06:30 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 sections 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
Dave’s four .30-caliber Browning machine guns opened up, forty rounds a second slashing out, calibrated to converge into a target at two hundred fifty yards, the convergence crisscrossing just ahead of his target, beginning to spread. Sixteen rounds slashed across the forward cowling of the Zero, severing an oil line, two more cutting into the fuel line, a red-hot tracer sparking the spray of gas into a flash of fire. A second later the Zero was trailing smoke, snap rolling to avoid his fire. He shot past the enemy plane, losing sight of him
It had yet to even register whether he had done anything or not
My God, it is all so fast. Damn fast. No time for bullshit heroics or witty comments back and forth like in the movies, where the enemy were all so clearly visible, and slow, and just sitting ducks. He lost sight of his target
“Number seven! On your tail!”
It took a second to register: I’m number seven!
He caught a glimpse of tracers snapping over the top of his canopy, and he was still in a forty-five-degree dive, inverted
Pull stick, and fly into it. Roll, he’s got my wing. He pushed stick forward, instantly pulling two negative G’s. Damn, I always puke with negative G’s
He was too frightened to vomit now. The tracers were dropping away. He pulled a sharp half roll, reversed stick, instantly back to two positive G’s, looked aft. The Zero was gone. Another smoking trail of fire visible for a second, this one a white plane in flames, going down. My kill?
“He’s still on you, seven!”
He strained to look aft. Caught a glimpse of the Zero following him, tightening his turn inside of him. Damn, they can outturn us! Everyone said our planes outturned theirs! Someone gave us the wrong info!
Reverse roll, he’s got me. Try to outturn, he’s got me. They were still at twelve thousand feet
He slammed his stick forward, stomach feeling like it was up in his throat, and he began to vomit even as he nosed over into a power dive nearly straight down at eighty degrees
Outrun him, go for a cloud below
Damn! I’m supposed to be part of the squadron. Where the hell are they?
He fumbled for his mike
“Diving! Can’t outturn these bastards!”
His mission was to provide air cover and support for the attacking bombers. That was gone now. He was flying to save his life, tracers winking past him first to port, then starboard, as the Zero tried to line up on him, the heavier Wildcat beginning to pull away . . . and then they were into the clouds
He had no idea what the bottom ceiling was as his plane shuddered slightly from the change in air density of the cloud and the turbulence within it
Tropical, morning. Most likely less than a thousand-foot base above the ocean. He was redlining at over 320 miles per hour and down to three thousand
He pulled back hard, G load building up again, four, then five, world going darker, blurry, vision narrowing, orientation lost inside the gray-shrouded world
Blinding flash of sunlight--he was out of the cloud, blue ocean below, a moment of panic again: I’m going in--and then he leveled out, five hundred feet above the gently rolling Pacific
And then a buffet, a flash of fire and smoke. He had come out of the cloud with a Jap battleship barely a mile off his starboard wing, Their gunners were opening up
He pulled into a chandelle, climbing and turning, caught a glimpse of another Wildcat popping out of the cloud, this one, amazingly, actually on the tail of a Zero, stitching it. Flaming wreckage tumbling out of the cloud behind the dueling planes; impossible to tell if was a Jap or one of his
He felt like a complete and total idiot, for a few seconds imagining standing before McCloskey or even Halsey himself--if I get out of this alive, he thought--explaining not only why he had failed to escort the bombers but had gotten separated from his squadron as well
The bombers? Where the hell were they? Where were the Jap flattops?
Flashes of tracers again. He looked aft. The bastard had chased him all the way down, popped out of the cloud behind him and was lining up for a kill, flying through his own antiaircraft fire from the battleship
Dave pulled back on his stick, rolling out of the banking turn, and popped back up into the cloud . . . and for the moment out of the fight
Eight miles south of Hiei, 06:28 hrs local time
Lieutenant Commander Dan Struble, leading the combined squadron of fifteen Dauntless dive bombers, caught glimpses of the air battle raging eight miles or more off his starboard wing, listening in on the same frequency as the fighters, hearing the near panic, thin trails of smoke streaking down. Now what?
He could see the Jap battleship. We can be over it in less than three minutes. Hold back? Where the hell were the flattops? “This is B-17 Gloria Ann, anyone out there read me?” Jesus Christ, what the hell was a 17 doing out here, he wondered. He keyed his mike
“Go ahead, Gloria Ann, this is Phoenix Three.”
“Are you bombers?”
He hesitated. It could be a Jap
“Can’t say, Gloria Ann,” he replied finally
“Well damn it, whoever you are, there’s three of us and we’re taking out that Jap battleship. If you’re nearby I’d appreciate some help. I�
�m coming in from Wheeler.”
Do I support or not? They had flown little more than a hundred ten miles. Plenty of fuel left for an hour of searching before having to head back. But search where? The old man said he wanted their flattops. Well damn it, no one was telling him where they were, and his fighter escort was gone
“You with me, Phoenix?” It was almost a plea. He could actually see them, or at least the bursts of Japanese gunfire that was now shooting towards the northeast
“Skipper, we got Japs at five o’clock high!”
His tail gunner’s voice cracked with excitement. The kid was barely eighteen
He looked aft. Couldn’t see them
“How many?”
“Three coming in, sir!”
A second later there was a flash of light. One of his bombers off his starboard side, flying in echelon astern, snap rolled over, wing trailing flame, a Jap cutting up through the formation. It was one of their new fighters he had heard rumor of. That decided it!
While he was looking aft another bastard had snuck up on them from below!
We’re going to get cut apart up here if we hang around any longer
“Come on, Phoenix, help us!” It was the B-17, and he could see that one of them was trailing smoke as they lumbered toward the battleship
He keyed his mike
“Phoenix three, follow me. Let’s get the battleship!”
Halsey would most likely hang his hide out to dry, but then again, that would only happen if he was still alive an hour from now. There was no way in hell they were going to outfly these new damn Jap fighters, loaded down with half-ton bombs, without their own escorts covering them
Enterprise, 06:29 hrs local time
“God Damn It,” Halsey snapped, angry gaze fixed on the loudspeaker. It was getting hard to discern anything. Radio discipline was breaking down entirely, but it was clear enough that his fighters, flying ahead, had not cleared away any of their fighters, or for that matter picked up an inbound track, and his dive bombers were committing to the battleship
Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy Page 46