They went into the kitchen.
“She cried for hours,” Margaret whispered, “wanted to leave, to walk home, insisting her boyfriend might still be alive and looking for her. Mom stuck with her, even when that girl really let loose with some pretty rotten things about us.”
Margaret hesitated.
“I think I would have thrown her out, but Mom took it. At last she just collapsed in tears and went to sleep. I think Mom has been up all night like that.”
“Dianne is a good kid. Try not to take what she said too hard.”
“You like her?” and he caught a slight edge of accusation and tried to step around it.
“Collingwood thinks the world of her. She comes from good family. Her father was in Annapolis, an instructor when Collingwood was there. She passed the security check with flying colors.”
He realized he was being a bit too enthusiastic about her and fell silent.
“I bet Collingwood likes her,” Margaret replied softly, even as she measured out the coffee into the percolator, filled the pot with water, and put it on the stove. Fortunately it was electric; those using gas had been cut off.
Registering a bit slow, he finally caught on to the implication in Margaret’s comment.
“Come on. Old Collingwood is a decent man, loves his wife as much as I love you. Dianne’s a kid, not much older than Davy would have been.”
“How come you never talked about her?”
He drew closer, put his good arm around her waist and drew her closer.
“Think about it. I never said a word about work, period. We were all under strictest orders; it was the most secret operation in the Navy. The fact that she got a security clearance to work in our office says something about her character. Her boyfriend was a pilot, and there’s nothing else to tell.”
He thought of the blown-out wreckage of CinCPac headquarters. The thousands upon thousands of pieces of paper floating around, scattered across the lawns, top secret documents, coding books. Hell, we’re going to have to rebuild all of that.
He could sense her relaxing a bit.
“Sorry, just so you know how it is.”
“Sure.”
He suddenly realized that there were just the four of them in the house.
“Your cousin Janice, is she OK?” he asked a bit nervously.
“She called from the fire station right after you fell asleep. She’s staying there for now, helping with blood transfusions. God, James, she said it’s a madhouse. They’re so desperate they’re sterilizing milk bottles and using them to store blood. There’s so many wounded at the bases and in town. I’ve got type A; I think I should go down.”
He violently shook his head. The last thing he wanted was his wife walking around alone out there.
“Not on your life. Stay here and keep an eye on your mom.” He didn’t add Dianne’s name into that equation.
“You’ve got your duty, I’ve got mine,” she replied sharply.
“Wait until I get back, then I’ll drive you down. Is that OK?”
She reluctantly nodded in agreement.
The coffee began to percolate. She offered to make him some eggs and bacon and he refused, just settling for toast. He was afraid if he ate anything more, his stomach would rebel. In spite of his bravado, he was feeling a bit lightheaded and nauseated.
She poured him a cup, leaving it black, no sugar or cream, as he preferred it, as nearly everyone in the Navy drank it. The toast filled his stomach a bit, settling it down.
As they opened the front door he looked back at his mother-in-law. She smiled at him, and then looked down at Dianne, who was still asleep, not wishing to move and disturb her.
“Keep an eye on her,” he whispered, “and try to get her to stay here till things settle down. She can’t go home, and she needs someone to look after her.”
The old woman smiled, and he felt such a wave of love for her he tiptoed back over and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
“Be careful, my son,” she whispered in Japanese.
“Of course, Mom,” he replied, in the same language.
He went outside. Not yet dawn to the east, moon fairly high in the southern sky, to the west, the flickering glow of fires still raging.
He slipped into Collingwood’s old DeSoto, realizing again it was going to be tough to drive with one hand, but he had made it up here, he’d make it back.
Margaret closed the door of the car and leaned into the window, kissing his forehead.
“You still have a fever. If it starts to get any worse, you come home immediately.”
“Of course.”
He looked into her eyes and hated to say it now. “You have the gun.” She nodded.
“Things should be OK. But if something goes wrong...” He paused. “If an invasion starts and I can’t get back, don’t resist. Chances are you’ll be left alone.”
Memories of what Cecil had told him about Nanking drifted up, what he had seen as well in China. She was American, so was her Mom, but if they were invaded, their race might protect them.
But will their being American protect them from us? he wondered sadly. It will have to be enough, he thought. If not, then this is no longer a country worth fighting for. A horrifying thought as he looked back to the west, the fires from the oil tank farms still soaring into the night sky.
“Just be careful. Stay inside. There are enough decent folks around here, nothing is going to happen.”
She nodded, saying nothing.
“I’ll be home at the end of the day, I promise.”
She leaned in and kissed him.
He forced a smile, shifted the car into reverse while bracing the steering wheel with his knees, and backed out. He shifted into first and started up the hill and then out on to Pali Highway, the glowing of the fires to the west almost as bright as a rising sun.
The White House December 9. 1941 09:30 hrs local lime
It had been a tough night for sleep. The President had been tempted to ask for a mild sedative, but decided against it. If some new crisis hit that needed a decision he had to be instantly alert.
He dressed and had breakfast in his bedroom. One of his Secret Service agents rolled him into his office and left him alone. His secretary had placed his datebook on the table, opened to the day’s scheduled events. Several had been crossed out, replaced with more pressing matters: meetings with Marshall and Stark in an hour and a half for a briefing update. There was also a single typewritten sheet, a briefing paper, one or two sentences highlighting what had transpired during the night.
No contact with Lexington. No contact with Enterprise.
Pearl reports monitoring Japanese report claiming one Yorktown-class carrier (Enterprise) sunk, one damaged.
Sighting of German submarine off of Newfoundland coast reported. Attacked by USN destroyer, aided by Canadian destroyer escort, no confirmation of results.
Strike report from Pearl confirms battleship of Kongo class, most likely Hiei (36,000 tons), sunk by submarine 5:00 p.m. Hawaiian time.
Strike report from Pearl confirms one Japanese carrier of Soryu class (18,000 tons) seriously damaged. Second Japanese carrier, perhaps flagship, struck by one dive bomber, its pilot deliberately crashing his plane into the ship. Recommendation will be forthcoming for appropriate decoration for pilot.
Report from Pearl confirms one pilot shot down five Japanese planes in one day. Recommendation for decoration forthcoming.
Report from Pearl, three aircraft from Enterprise recovered there.
No new information from Manila.
No new information from Singapore.
Hong Kong has surrendered to the Japanese.
He continued to scan the report while sipping his coffee. Two Medals of Honor, he thought; the nation needs heroes as soon as possible, and those two fit the bill.
There was a knock on the door and it cracked open. It was Eleanor, and he smiled, motioning for her to come in. She came around to the side of his desk and scanne
d the datebook as she rested a hand on his shoulder.
“I see the luncheon with your mother and me has been canceled,” she said quietly.
“Priorities of war now,” he said.
She nodded, picking up the night report, looking it over.
“Do you think the Japanese report is accurate? Why no word from our aircraft carriers?”
“Security. If the Enterprise is still afloat, a single radio transmission could be monitored and tracked. The same with Lexington. Maybe later today we’ll know for certain.”
“What do you think?”
“It sounded like Enterprise took a terrible pounding yesterday.” He paused. “If Pearl is reporting only three planes from that ship landing there, it could indicate Enterprise is sunk and orphan planes are all that is left of her.”
“God save those boys,” she sighed. “How many are aboard a carrier?”
“About two thousand men.”
“Nearly half as many dead, then, as reported from Pearl Harbor so far.”
He nodded, saying nothing.
She put the report down. He shifted a bit uncomfortably in his chair, lighting a cigarette, a subtle signal that he wanted to be alone for a few minutes before the day started.
“I wanted to talk with you about something over lunch,” she finally said.
“Let’s do it now, Eleanor, but I’m sorry, it will have to be brief.” He looked up at her, trying to smile as he said it. “I have meetings starting in half an hour.”
“This is important, Franklin. We’re already hearing rumors about anti-Japanese propaganda,” and she unfolded a newspaper that she had kept in her left hand and laid it upon his desk. It was a political cartoon, a crude caricature of a leering “Jap,” buck-toothed, with thick glasses, laughing as he plunged a samurai sword into Uncle Sam’s back. A decapitated body, labeled “China,” lay at the “Jap’s” feet.
“How all Japs fight,” was the caption.
It was stunning how quickly the mood of America had changed. When the Chicago Tribune had leaked the secret plans for Rainbow Five, on December 4, their political cartoon on the front page was a worried “Midwest,” Illinois represented by an Abraham Lincoln-looking character, staring towards Washington, D.C., and written above the image of the White House and Capitol was the caption “War Propaganda!” Now but a few days later it was a caricature of Uncle Sam getting stabbed in the back. What they had decried but days before as propaganda had finally been realized as reality.
“So?”
“Franklin, it’s no different than the Nazi pictures of Jews. I don’t want to see this of us.”
“People are angry. It was a stab in the back.”
“Franklin. Fight their government and their military yes--but this? It could spread. There are already calls for every Japanese citizen in America to be rounded up and put in concentration camps for the duration.”
“Eleanor, one thing at a time.”
“Bad enough that we are calling on Negro soldiers to be drafted while back home they are less than third-class citizens but are now expected to fight anyhow. Hatred of the Japanese . . . If you don’t say something, at least about those living here, it could get out of control. We say we’re fighting to defend democracy and against racism. We have to live up to that.”
He looked up at her. She could be so damned determined. He-knew how polarizing she was politically. It seemed half the country adored her, the other half grumbled she was “that communist agent” inside the White House.
He finally nodded.
“I have a press conference in twenty minutes. I’ll make some kind of statement about not letting our passions run away, to remember we’re all Americans. Will that satisfy your”
“For now,” she said, with a trace of a smile.
She patted him lightly on the shoulder and left the room.
He sighed, lighting another cigarette.
He knew she was, after all, right. He loathed racism as much as she did, but had to face far more bluntly the political realities of the moment. She wanted to push for more legal protection of Negroes in the South, and yet the solid Democratic base in the South would melt away like ice in July if he pushed that agenda too hard.
Perhaps, in a strange twisted sense, this war might actually help to serve that purpose. As the Civil War had finally brought Lincoln around to the need for liberation and the Thirteenth Amendment, something he never could have openly supported in 1861, perhaps this war would do the same. If Negro soldiers stand, fight, and die alongside white comrades, how can equal rights still be denied if victory is finally achieved? If the first reports about Japanese fifth columnists in Hawaii and California are finally proven false, that except for a few rotten eggs they are indeed loyal Americans, the issue there will go away. But if evidence provided otherwise, he knew it would be nearly impossible to resist the political pressure, perhaps even necessary if only for the protection of the Japanese-American citizens themselves.
It was going to be a long day, he realized, but an interesting one, and he began reviewing briefing papers, thinking about how he would handle the press in a few minutes. Confidence, always display confidence and determination. At even the worst of moments we must never falter. Otherwise how can I expect young men to go out and die, as did the pilots of Enterprise yesterday, unless they know that back here, we are behind them 100 percent, believe in them, and believe in ultimate victory.
Then he stopped and reflected. Was Enterprise still afloat? And Lexington! He looked at his wrist watch. First search planes were most likely going out now for both sides, seeking, and the first one to find and strike would almost certainly win.
He lowered his head and began to pray.
Akagi 05:40 hrs local time
With binoculars trained on Zuikaku, steaming at flank speed into the northeasterly breeze, he could barely make out the silhouette of the ship to the northeast, outlined by the beginning of nautical twilight.
The first of the Zuikaku search planes lifted clear of the deck. The second one followed twenty seconds later, another twenty seconds after that. As each plane built up speed, climbing, it turned. A couple of minutes later one of them flew directly over Akagi, rocking its wings in salute. Deck crews looked up; a few took off their caps and waved. Not the wild enthusiasm of two days ago, when the first strike wave started its launch toward Pearl Harbor. The men were too exhausted now for that.
That search plane continued on its track to the northwest. The dozen planes sent aloft by Zuikaku would fan out on tracks north-northwest to south-southwest. Tone’s six seaplanes, with pilots and spotters on board well trained for this kind of mission, would cover the arc northwest to east-northeast. Chikuma, to the south would do the reciprocal from southwest to east-southeast.
Zuikaku’s Zeroes would launch next, ten planes to provide cover over the fleet, two of them to trail astern, watching back toward Oahu, which was now over three hundred fifty miles away. The only potential threat from that direction was perhaps their B-17s or PBYs, if any had survived. Still, it would not do to have a land-based plane locate the fleet for the American carriers.
Ten minutes later the last of Zuikaku’s, planes launched. The carrier came about sharply, the interval of launch having separated her from the rest of the fleet by over ten miles, and began to race at flank speed back to rejoin the protective circle half a dozen miles across.
No one aboard that carrier ever noticed the four torpedo wakes that crossed astern by four hundred yards where she would have been if she had continued on the same course but for one more minute. Nor did any ship monitor the frustrated radio report from the American sub, which had been engaged in a stern chase on the surface for the last two hours, the captain all but giving up until almost, it seemed, heaven sent, the one Japanese carrier had come about and begun to steam straight toward him, illuminated by the moonlight, caught visually in the powerful night binoculars mounted on the minuscule bridge of the sub.
His message of coordi
nates had been sent repeatedly and had been heard.
Lexington 05:50 hrs local time
“You have your coordinates. You know your targets. Go for the two largest of their carriers. Ignore anything else, especially their damn battleship. We want carriers. If you get hit, and can’t make it to your primary, then attack whatever you can.”
Admiral Newton leaned against the back wall of the ready room, saying nothing as Captain Sherman finished his comments.
“Remember, we’ve got a sub trailing them. If you get too badly shot up to make it back here, turn east, send out a distress signal, and try to ditch. We are not going to leave you out there the way the Japs do with their men. We will get you back, I swear that to you. We will get you back.”
As he spoke, Newton could see him paying particular attention to the Devastator and Vindicator pilots. Morale with them had gone to hell during the night. The Catholic chaplain reported that every last man from that squadron had come to him or his Protestant counterpart for communion or general absolution, with all leaving farewell letters. “Pilots, man your planes!”
Sherman stepped away from the podium and hurriedly tried to shake the hand or pat the shoulder of each man heading out the door.
The room emptied, and Newton came up to the captain’s side. He could see tears in the man’s eyes. Rather than go up to the bridge, they followed the last of the pilots out into a roaring cacophony of noise. Every engine was turning over. Backseat gunners for the Dauntlesses and Vindicators were already strapped in, as were gunners and bombardiers aboard the Devastators.
The combat air patrol of six Wildcats was already aloft, circling high above the fleet. The first of the Wildcat escort fighters began its rollout. Orders were to launch every fifteen seconds, and even before the first plane had cleared the next one started its roll. The yellow-shirted launch director dramatically crouched down, pointed straight forward for each plane, watched it for a few seconds, making sure it was accelerating, keeping alignment to the center line, and able to clear even if it should lose an engine, then turned his attention to the next plane in line.
Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy Page 65