Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy

by Newt Gingrich

  The look aft nearly cost him his life: a slight nudge forward on the stick, a sudden sensing of a change in lift, ground effect, meaning he was within feet of the world below, the rolling ocean. Panicking, he yanked back on the stick, zooming up a hundred feet, leveling out

  “The dive bombers!”

  It was Gregory, closing up on his tail

  He looked aft again, didn’t see the dive bombers, or any impacts from the Devastators

  Christ in heaven, they were all dead, and not one hit. He felt tears welling up, but then tracers snapped past his canopy, and no emotion other then terror now held sway as he dived back down to skim the waves, jinking and weaving to escape

  10,000 feet above Soryu

  As he climbed up to attack position, heartsick, Struble watched the slaughter of the Devastators and the valiant attempt by the escorting Wildcats to hold the Zeroes back

  “Arm your electrical releases!” Struble ordered, and as he passed the order to the seven Dauntless dive bombers with him, he flipped up the toggle of the electrical release. This time he would do it right and nail the bastard below

  It was a new addition, according to the technicians who had installed it, a helluva lot easier than the old manual release lever. Once armed, you just pushed a button and the bomb was away, rather than having to reach over while in an 80-degree dive and pull a lever

  And as he flicked the switch, his plane surged up

  “God damn! Belay that order! Belay that order!”

  “Son of a bitch, sir!” It was McCarthy. “I just lost my bomb!”

  “I’ll kill those bastards if we get back!” It was Mullins, his bomb gone too

  “Don’t touch the damn switch!” Struble shouted again. “Count off. How many still have their bombs?”

  Enterprise

  Fuming with rage, Halsey said nothing, though he’d personally make sure that whatever dumb bastard had thought up this new improvement sat out the war somewhere up in Alaska

  “Got mine, skipper . . .”

  “Still have mine . . . .”

  Five had reported in. What was left of his strike force had nearly been halved by the most asinine of glitches

  As for the Devastators, they had heard the radio reports and then silence

  “All of us go in,” Struble’s voice crackled

  “And do what? Piss on them?”

  “We all go in. Draw fire. Get ready ...”

  “Do it,” Halsey snapped. “Damn it, do it!”

  Above Soryu

  “To starboard . . . now!”

  Struble led the way, winging up and over, rolling his Dauntless onto its back and then pulling the stick in, the classic turn into a dive

  He was at near vertical, dive brakes spreading open on each wing, engine throttled back several hundred rpm. The Jap carrier was nine thousand feet below, still turning. Twenty seconds to release, it’ll travel three hundred yards in that time . . . calculate where it will be then

  They had practiced this a hundred times, but always on towed targets. Now Hiei this morning, but damn it, after all the years of training my bomb is gone

  Line up anyhow . . . eight thousand feet. . . seven thousand . .

  Dellacroce caught a glimpse of them. Seven dive bombers coming down, nearly vertical. Fire in his direction had slackened, then ceased, all attention focused on the dive bombers

  He started to pull up, heading toward the base of the clouds. There was nothing he could do to help the dive bombers now, and he thanked God for that. To turn back into that kind of fire ... he just thanked God he was beyond range

  “Where the hell are their fighters?” It was Gregory

  “On the bombers.”

  “Now what?”

  He didn’t reply, suddenly mesmerized

  The first bomber pulled out of its dive, but apparently nothng fell away, the same with the second, this one in flames though, crashing astern of the carrier ... but the third! Its bomb hit just aft of the bridge, a brilliant flash of light, fireball erupting heavenward, followed seconds later by another bomb hitting forward

  “Burn, you bastard!” Dave screamed

  Enterprise

  “She’s burning, damn, the whole carrier is burning! Scratch one flattop!”

  The radio signal crackled, distorted. Cheers were erupting in the CIC. A chief petty officer interrupted, shouting for the men to be silent

  “This is Struble. That’s two hits confirmed . . .”

  Halsey, arms folded, looked at the plot board, trying not to show any emotion. It was a strange mix within: exultation--they had finally hit back. Rage and frustration as well. If not for the damn electrical releases it could have been four or five hits

  One Jap carrier down . . . perhaps. Three, maybe four or more still out there. And they would be back and he was down to a combat air patrol of but two Wildcats, and a hangar deck emptied, where there had been nearly sixty planes before dawn

  “All Phoenix force, form on me.” It was Struble. “We’re heading to land.”

  Halsey said nothing

  “Repeat please?”

  Halsey realized the rest of the pilots had not been briefed on his decision that the strike force should head for land rather than attempt a return to Enterprise

  “God damn it. I’ve got two birds crippled, we’ll never get them back home, and besides, you want the bastards to follow us back?”

  Wisely, he didn’t say a word about the damage to Enterprise. There were murmurs of approval around Halsey, and he nodded in agreement. If he got out of this, and that pilot got out of it, he’d pin a medal on him

  Five miles north of Soryu

  “Gregory, you got that?” Dave asked radioing over to his friend flying a few feet away. Something didn’t seem to be right with him. His plane was badly shot up and flying erratically

  “Sure do. Fine with me.” His voice was strained

  The question was, where the hell were the bombers anyhow? They were into the clouds, visibility damn near zero. He could barely make out Gregory by his side

  “You OK over there?”

  “Hey Dave, I took one.”

  “What?

  “Shot. Shit, I’m gut shot.”

  “Just stick close on the wing, buddy,” Dave replied, and now his voice was tight. He’d only known his wingman for three weeks, but what they had gone through in the last twenty minutes was a bond that could stretch across a lifetime

  “We’re heading to land. Stay on my wing.”

  He looked at his compass, guessed that a heading around 70 degrees or so would take them in to Oahu. “Just stick close.”

  Enterprise

  “Latest damage control report,” Halsey snapped

  Stubbs, who was in a corner of the CIC, phone pressed to his ear, ignoring all else that was going on, looked over at the admiral

  “Sir, fires on the hangar deck are contained.”

  “Once the fire is under control”--and he looked at the plot board, the estimated position of the Jap carriers, and drew a reciprocal bearing, directly away--”turn to 130 degrees. We are getting the hell out of here. Flank speed.”

  He paused. Do that for twelve hours and his destroyers would start running dry. This had been his biggest surprise operationally. The peacetime estimates of fuel use were totally wrong. The destroyers used far more fuel than expected when operating in wartime speeds. They would have to recalibrate everything to this new reality. By nightfall they could refuel the destroyers from Enterprise if they had to. The big carrier held more than enough fuel for an emergency transfer to the destroyers. Then they would have to find a tanker or get to Pearl. He’d have to leave them behind and pray that somehow, someone could get an oiler to a rendezvous, otherwise in another two days she’d be without escorts. He’d worry about that later

  “Sir?” It was one of the radio operators, looking over his shoulder, holding up a sheet of note paper, and Halsey took it

  It was from the Indianapolis! She had been far south
, down at Johnston Island doing gunnery practice, and had turned north to rendezvous and was now less than a hundred fifty miles off, momentarily breaking radio silence, looking for him

  How do I reply?

  “One signal, short and quick,” Halsey finally said. “Not more than ten seconds. We don’t want them to get any fix, if possible. Check with navigation, estimate where we’ll be in six hours, then tell them to head on to that bearing at twenty knots, nothing more.”

  He left the CIC and went back out onto the bridge

  Whoever he was fighting ... he had just knocked down the first hornet’s nest, and they would now be looking for Enterprise to finish her

  It tore into his guts to have to say it

  “We are getting the hell out of here while we still can.”

  Chapter Seven

  Oahu December 8, 1941 10:41 hrs local time

  “Greg, get your landing lights on, wheels down, and stick close to me!” Dave announced

  He still had Gregory with him, but had no reply from him for the last twenty minutes. Another Wildcat, number eight, he couldn’t remember the guy’s name, had formed up with them as well. The four Dauntless dive bombers they were escorting were trailing half a mile back. He hoped that all the trigger-happy gunners on Oahu would recognize the distinctive stubby wings of the Wildcat and not open fire. The Dauntless could be, from a distance, mistaken for a Japanese Kate

  They ran parallel to the beach, a mile out. There was no need to get any navigational fix on Oahu. One could easily pick the island out from fifty miles away with the buildup of clouds above it, and the other clouds made up of black smoke

  He had tried to raise Hickam, Ford Island, even Wheeler, but no luck, though he had managed to talk with a B-17 radio operator who told him the ground stations were still out and advised that nearly everyone was taking ground fire and to try coming in with lights on

  He lined up, turning onto final while still out to sea, wagging his wings

  Something hit. He saw flashes of gunfire from down on the beach. From a thousand feet up he could see men running about, more flashes, and a few tracers going wide

  Damn idiots, if I make this in alive I’m going to go over there and kick someone’s butt, he thought

  A glimpse of motion to starboard, a plane turning

  God no, not more Japs!

  It turned: a Brewster Buffalo, flying slow, wagging its wings. Pilot guiding in alongside him, canopy back, a wave and then pointing forward

  Someone was thinking down there. The Buffalo, edging ahead, leading him in. An Army plane, more recognizable to all the trigger-happy fools on the ground

  He saw Hickam, a nice long runway. A moment of fear: a bulldozer out in the middle of the runway plowing dirt into a massive crater. He’d have to come in and touch down long, clearing the crater. The control tower was gone, only smoking wreckage. The trade winds were blowing, and smoke from the burning oil fields half obscured the main landing strip

  He throttled back, mixture rich, adjusted prop. He felt a bit of a shudder--one of the props must have been hit; he could feel the vibration

  Ease back a bit on the stick . . . throttle closed off

  Damn! A few more tracers, and then it stopped, the Buffalo still leading the way, just ahead, frantically wagging its wings as a signal to those on the ground that the incoming planes were friendlies

  He could barely make out the bulldozer, and someone atop it waving his arms as if to signal him to break off

  Dumb idiot, of course I can see you, he thought, but I gotta land somewhere!

  He cleared the dozer, felt the ground effect take hold, the Wildcat floating. Pull the stick back, it was nearly in his gut... a lurch, bit of a bounce, another lurch ... he was down

  He stuck his head out to see past the nose of his plane, caught a glimpse of a ground crewman, waving for him to taxi left. He followed the man’s lead, turning off the runway, knowing that his comrades were coming in only seconds behind him

  The blessed Buffalo was soaring back up, turning over the harbor, disappearing into the smoke

  He was off the runway. There was nothing but wreckage, burned-out hulks of dozens of planes, some still smoldering. There was another bulldozer at work, simply plowing the once proud aircraft aside

  His ground crewman signaled for shutdown. He gave a brief throttle up, then cut it back and threw the magneto switch off. The propeller spun for a few more seconds and then came to a stop. The blade pointed nearly to the vertical. . . was twisted back at the leading edge, half a foot chopped away

  Someone was up on his wing

  “You from the Enterprise, sir?”

  He looked at the young Army corporal

  He couldn’t speak, just merely nodded

  “Let me help you out, sir.”

  He felt strong hands grasp him. He didn’t protest, he wasn’t even sure if he could actually stand up. Someone else was up on the wing, helping. He stepped out of the cockpit, legs wobbly, glad for the help, and climbed down

  The air was thick, acrid, stinking of burning oil, gas, that strange metallic smell of melted aluminum

  The first of the Dauntlesses was touching down. His two remaining Wildcats were parked to either flank of his own plane. Gregory was not moving. Someone was shouting for a medic. He should go over, but knew he just couldn’t, not for a minute or two

  He just stood on the ground, knees trembling, breathing in the warm tropical air that stank of destruction. An ambulance, red cross on its side, pulled up. A couple of medics jumped out, and one ran over to Gregory’s plane

  He couldn’t move, barely realizing that one of the ground crew still had an arm around him

  This must be what hell looks like, feels like. The funeral pyre of planes lining the runway, the smoking wreckage of the control tower, the massive inferno of the burning oil fields, the battleships he had caught a glimpse of on his way in. Jesus, how different from but two weeks ago, when Enterprise had put to sea, its crew grumbling once clear of Pearl because the old man had announced they were not going out for just a few days of maneuvers, but were making a delivery run to Wake Island. And now coming back to this

  “Christ almighty, look at this!”

  He half turned. More ground crew were coming, almost like orphans whose own planes had been taken away, and now at least a few others had come back for them to nurse. One of the men was pointing to a hole in the fuselage, just aft of the canopy, big enough to put one’s fist through. In fact his entire plane seemed like a sieve. Part of his vertical stabilizer was blown clean off

  He still couldn’t react, turning to watch as the last of the four Dauntlesses touched down, bounced hard, almost nosed over in recovery, slammed down hard with a jolt. One by one the four planes taxied over to line up beside the Wildcats. On the third plane, he could see the tail gunner slumped over, a horrifying sight. Nearly decapitated, the gunner must have been hit by a twenty-millimeter shell or a piece of flak. His blood had streamed out, caking the aft end of the plane. The pilot was wounded as well; ground crew were running up to help

  “You OK, sir?”

  It was the corporal who was still holding on to him. He nodded, not speaking

  A medic came up to him, practiced eyes scanning

  “Sir, why don’t you come over here and sit down.”

  The medic put his arm around Dave’s other side, and they walked the few dozen feet to the ambulance and he sat down on the tailgate . . . and then the shaking hit

  He felt nothing but shame. He was supposed to be going around now, slapping his comrades on the back. That’s the way they always showed it in the movies. What comrades? He had a dozen this morning; there’s three of us left--and as he watched them gingerly lifting Gregory out of his cockpit he wondered if it was down to two. Gregory wasn’t moving

  “You hit, sir?”

  He looked up at the medic, still not able to speak, afraid if he did so it would just be childlike gibberish, or worse yet, tears. He shook his h
ead, but he could feel the corpsman running his hands over his body as someone helped to take off his Mac West, leather helmet, and goggles

  “Sir, we heard you got the bastards good!”

  He looked up. It was a young army lieutenant, holding a clipboard

  He didn’t react

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Dellacroce, David.”

  The lieutenant wrote it down

  “How many of their planes did you get?”

  How many?

  Was it one on the first strike? Two on the second?

  The kid stood there eager, waiting, pencil poised. Kid? Hell, he’s most likely five years older than me, but still he somehow looks like a kid. He’s not yet been “out there.”

  He didn’t say anything, just stared at him

  “The guy’s in shock,” someone whispered. “Leave him alone for now.”

  “I’ve got an intelligence report to fill out.”

  Behind the intelligence officer the oil fields were burning. An explosion made him flinch; the others didn’t seem to react

  “Sir, drink this.”

  The medic handed him a paper cup. He didn’t ask what it was, he just upended it. The whiskey hit with a jolt, warming, easing

  He saw Struble approaching, walking slowly, as if drunk. He started to stand up, but Struble motioned for him not to move and then just extended his hand

  “You OK?”

  He nodded

  “Goddamn bomb switches,” Struble snapped angrily. “But still we left the bastard burning.” “I saw.”

  “The Devastators?”

  He could only shake his head. “All gone.”

  No one spoke for a moment

  “Who did the suicide? I saw him hit. Damn, the whole aft end of the carrier was burning.”