It was their only hope, Halsey realized, otherwise they would have to abandon all the destroyers, and even then he doubted they would get within five hundred miles of the West Coast. One destroyer was being detailed off to take the most critically wounded back to Pearl. Running the potential gauntlet of submarines was worth the risk compared to their chances if they did not get intensive care immediately. Once transfer of the wounded was complete and the destroyer on its way, it could relay the signal.
He took it in and looked to his petty officer.
“The destroyer with the wounded aboard--signal them to contact Pearl once well clear of us and request a rendezvous of an oiler with our group. Are Pearl Harbor communications back up?”
“We’ve been monitoring them again. Still that Hungarian code, sir, for voice.”
“Send it Morse, latest code. We need an oiler rendezvous. They can reply with coordinates. Signal traffic to an absolute minimum.”
“Sir, maybe the message should be hand carried by the destroyer rather than sent by radio?”
A good suggestion. He thought about it but finally decided against. If the destroyer got nailed by a sub, the message would be lost and they might never know it. Also, it’d take at least a day for the destroyer to get in, and in that time an oiler might steam a couple of hundred miles in the wrong direction for a rendezvous. He’d have to go with the risk.
“Have them send the signal.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, Stubbs, let’s walk,” Halsey said, and stretching he left the bridge, rubbing his face, realizing he needed a shave, a long hot shower . . . maybe only a shave with cold water, but the second, that wouldn’t happen until they were stateside.
He went down the flights of stairs and out onto the deck. It felt so lonely in a way, completely devoid of any activity other than a fire crew cleaning its equipment, gunners around one of the five-inch turrets, barrel depressed, swabbing the bore out, farther forward a work crew, laboring to lay temporary planking over the gaping hole that had been the forward elevator.
Stubbs walked by his side.
“Good job, Stubbs, about time you get a promotion.”
“No, thanks, sir. That means leaving her.” He looked at him and smiled.
“It could be weeks, months before we’re back in it again.”
“I’ll have most of her repaired before we make San Diego, sir,” Stubbs replied. “I want to stay with this beauty when we come back out here and give it back to those bastards again.”
Halsey grinned.
“Fine then, no promotion, if that’s what you want, Stubbs. You saved her, she’s yours.” “Thank you, sir.”
A nod indicated that he wished now to be alone, and Stubbs stepped back as Admiral Halsey walked forward, pausing for a moment to watch the crew laboring to string temporary supports across where the forward elevator had been. Apparently Stubbs had given up on the idea of repairing it while at sea, but wanted an active deck ready regardless. The sailors, filthy, most with shirts off, were precariously balanced as crews down below were setting up twelve-by-twelve oak beams, locking them into place, already laying out the first cross-deck stringer, men heaving and cursing. Most likely, it would not be able to support the weight of a fully loaded Devastator, but a Wildcat on rollout for liftoff could most likely safely pass over it.
Some of the men noticed who was watching, called out that the admiral was present, but he gestured for them to stay at ease, continue with their work, and walked on.
Farther forward more men were working, tearing out torn pieces of deck planking, bolting in replacement planks, gun crews for the forty-millimeter mounts polishing down their pieces. Several had red suns painted on the barrels, claiming their kills.
He reached the bow. Two sailors, taking a smoke break, both of them filthy with oil stains and smoke, saw him approach and started to step back. He motioned for them to stand easy.
“Where you boys from?” he asked.
“Seaman First Class Hurt,” the first announced. “I’m from Black Mountain, North Carolina, sir.”
“Seaman First Class Minneci, sir, Newark, New Jersey,” the other said proudly, his Jersey accent clearly evident.
“Your battle stations?”
The two proudly pointed to the forty-millimeter gun perched forward, below the bow.
“We got one of the bastards yesterday, sir,” Minneci said. “Bang, head-on shot, he never dropped his torpedo!”
“Good work, son.”
There was an awkward moment, for after all the gulf between admirals and seamen first class was a broad one.
“Sir?”
It was Minneci.
“Think we’ll make it all the way, sir?”
“Make it?” and there was a touch of a sharp tone in his reply.
“No, sir, I don’t mean back to the States. We all figured you would pull that off.”
He relaxed, and nodded a thanks as Hurt offered him a cigarette, which he took, bowing his head over as Hurt lit it off the stub of his own.
“I mean back into the fight, sir. We want back in.”
He looked at the two, begrimed, hollow eyed with exhaustion. Below their feet, he could see where their neighboring forty-millimeter mount had been destroyed, nothing but black twisted wreckage. Fate had decreed, by not much more than a few feet, a fraction of a second in time, that their neighboring comrades had all died, but they were still alive and now asking him this question.
“Back in the fight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hell, on the day we sail into Tokyo Bay, you two boys personally look me up and I’ll shake your hands. Of course we’re going to be in the fight.
“To the end.”
Hickam Army Air Force Base 12:05 hrs local time
James stood up, rubbing his eyes. Radio traffic had quieted down and word had just been passed that naval personnel were to report back to Pearl, where signals were being rebuilt in an administrative office near the old CinCPac building. Headquarters were to be reestablished there.
He walked out of the hangar, Collingwood by his side, watching as the lone surviving B-17 on the island came in on final approach, shot up even more, it seemed, landing gear not down, all holding their breath as Gloria Ann pancaked in, props of the four engines either shearing off or bending back. The plane slid to a stop in the middle of the runway, fire trucks rolling alongside it. Fortunately, there was no fire as it was hosed down with foam, crew staggering out.
She had made a final run over the Japanese fleet, dropped a bomb load, without effect, but had radioed in the crucial report. They were steaming west, leaving the oil slick of what was believed to be Akagi, thirty miles astern of their position.
There had been one final air skirmish, a second Japanese strike launched against Lexington’s escorts. The escorts were pulling away at flank speed to the northeast, having inflicted one last blow, crippling, perhaps sinking a Japanese cruiser that had attempted to engage. The air strike had managed to sink but one destroyer in return.
Over thirty of Lexington’s “orphans” had made it in, some landing at Wheeler, others here, a dozen others reportedly ditching near the tramp steamer off Kauai, or near the sub, which had finally given up the stern chase as the Japanese fleet pulled away. It meant the island had at least some strike capability again, but it also meant that far more than half of Lexington’s planes had been lost in the morning battle.
All within the radio hangar knew the battle was winding down, though the rest of the island was still on high alert, with rumors of invasion rampant, and other rumors reaching the base of more than one incident of backlash, of two lynchings, several shootings, and just random senseless destruction of homes and businesses. General Short, at noon, had allowed a civilian station to go back on the air, the first announcement being that martial law was still in effect, and that any acts of violence or rioting would be met with deadly force.
He was worried about Margaret and his mother-in-law. He
just wanted to go home, but didn’t quite know how to pull away yet, until Collingwood finally suggested that their work was done for now and they both needed some rest.
They slowly walked to Collingwood’s car, as if both were half hoping to be called back. For two days their lives had been totally absorbed by this moment, and by walking away, they knew they were stepping away from it, that it was now in the past, something of history, rather than the pressing reality of the moment.
“How many do you think we really got?” James asked, as they got in Collingwood’s DeSoto and started back to the naval base.
He shook his head.
“Hell, you know as much as I do.”
“I’m guessing two,” James replied. “One for Enterprise, one for Lexington.”
“Only one confirmed, and that was Akagi” Collingwood replied. “Remember, guessing is our business, but when it comes to counting carriers sunk, I’ll play conservative.”
Akagi. He remembered his old friend Fuchida. Fuchida had talked about the first of Japan’s carriers, his love for it. His guess was that it had indeed served as the flagship and that Yamamoto himself was most likely on board, a hunch that Collingwood agreed with and had passed up the chain, for what it was worth. If true, there was a chance that Yamamoto might be dead . . . and his old friend as well.
“And we lost Lexington, and Enterprise is a cripple,” James said wearily.
It startled all of them when a destroyer briefly broke radio silence, using a prewar code, requesting an oiler rendezvous, if possible tomorrow, five hundred miles to the southeast of Oahu, with Pearl to broadcast the coordinates, and then gone off the air. One could read a lot into that message. The subtext was clear. The destroyer had been escorting Enterprise. It had made the broadcast rather than run in with the message because the situation was desperate. Enterprise was most likely severely damaged to the point that it needed a dry dock, and it was slowly limping back to the West Coast, desperately short on fuel.
The worry now was that the Japanese had picked up the signal as well, perhaps had already cracked the prewar code, and surmised the same, that Enterprise was still alive, crippled, and desperately short of fuel. . . and would send a reception committee of subs to whatever coordinate was broadcast.
After several backups, a long snarl in traffic moving between Hickam and Pearl, they finally reached the parking lot where James had left his car . . . to confront a gaping crater fifty feet across and half as deep.
“God damn, it makes you think it’s personal,” James sighed, realizing his old reliable Plymouth had taken a direct hit from a fourteen-inch shell.
As they backed up and drove off, he remembered a clause in his auto insurance policy. “Void if damaged or destroyed by acts of war.”
He hoped Margaret wouldn’t insist upon selling his plane now, to pay for a new car. But then again, was his old beloved Aeronca Chief still intact? Or had it been shot up as well? If so, even more than the loss of the car, that would really piss him off.
They finally turned onto Pali Highway, and Collingwood drove him home before turning back around to head to his apartment near Waikiki. Still the same: roadblock, East Coast evacuated, the Japs might invade.
Neither said a word as they produced their IDs and were finally waved through.
“A guy on the next floor of my apartment keeps a Studebaker here on the island. Good guy, Josh Morris, he usually winters here from L.A., some Hollywood agent type. I got the keys to his car, turn it over for him every few weeks or so. I’ll bring it over tomorrow; you can use it until he shows up, if ever.”
“Thanks.” He was still brooding on the loss of his car, wondering if maybe since it was lost in the line of duty, the Navy might help pick up the bill. Hell, a year ago I was retired. I sacrificed a third of my pay when I was called back up.
But then again, he almost felt guilty thinking of it as they passed a block of houses, half of them burned out, a crater marking where someone’s life or lives had been randomly cut short--like millions of other lives in this insane world of 1941. And he thought of Joe, who had so eagerly donated his entire business in order to get their communications up and running again. Chances were he’d never get a dime back for his efforts, and he didn’t seem to care. He was proud of what he had done for his country.
They turned onto the street where Margaret’s cousin lived. And as always, he wondered if she had some sort of secret telescope to know when he was coming home. She was already out the door.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, we’ll get that other car,” Collingwood said, as James started to get out.
“OK.”
“James.”
“Sir?”
“You did good, damn good.” He sighed.
“But not good enough. None of us did good enough.”
Collingwood touched his left shoulder and James winced. Though the infection seemed arrested for the moment, it still hurt like hell.
“That was two days ago. I’m talking about now, about tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He smiled and got out, Margaret helping him.
“You OK?” he asked, sensing something. “Sure,” she said forcing a smile.
He was surprised to see Dianne standing by the door, his beloved mother-in-law by her side, the old woman with her arm around Dianne. Dianne’s features had a look of exhaustion. He noticed the pistol in her hand.
Something had happened, he didn’t know what, whether it boded well or ill.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” Margaret said. “Thank God you’re home safe.”
Epilogue
Kaga 540 miles west of Oahu December 10. 1941 23:55 hrs local time
The summons from Tokyo had come as he expected it would. It was ordered that the Commander in Chief, Naval Forces Pacific, was to report immediately to Tokyo for consultations with the government, the Naval Board, and the Emperor. By midday, a four-engine seaplane would meet the fleet to take him back.
A full squadron of Zeroes would provide escort as they flew the thousand-mile gap between Wake Island and Midway, still held by the Americans, finally to be handed off to Zeroes that would provide cover to the Marshalls. Once refueled, the plane would start the long two-day journey back to Tokyo.
He smiled at his two subordinates, sensing that they were still fuming with rage over the summons received last night.
“It is but of the moment,” he said with a smile. “Those back home wanted a war, but never truly understood the price of war, and they must be educated to it and its risks if we are to win.”
Genda started to say something but then lowered his head. “Go on, Genda, I trust your judgment.”
“Sir, they will try to hang the loss of Akagi, Hiei, a cruiser, and a hundred and forty aircraft on you.”
He held up his hand, motioning for him to relax.
“And in return we can confirm the annihilation of their battleship line, the destruction of their main Pacific naval base, the decimation of their aircraft, and the sinking of one of their precious carriers, perhaps two, even three.”
“I would claim at least two,” Fuchida interjected.
“I thought the same until we intercepted that signal from their destroyer. Why send an urgent demand for oil with a meeting hundreds of miles southeast of Oahu? Surely we did not destroy all of their reserves on Pearl Harbor. Also, your brave attack destroyed the only dry dock that could repair a ship as big as their Enterprise. Therefore, I believe it is still afloat, crippled, and heading to their West Coast. Your gallant attack has therefore left us the chance to still finish their carrier off.”
Fuchida did not say anything.
“If it had been Akagi’s pilots who led that strike, with Fuchida as commander,” Genda replied forcefully, “that ship would be confirmed sunk.”
“Are you casting aspersions on the bravery or accuracy of reports of the pilots from Soryu and Hiryu?” Genda, embarrassed, shook his head. “And can our gallant Fuchida be everywhere at o
nce?” Fuchida reddened and lowered his head.
“I thank the gods he was with us yesterday. His sharp vision alone perhaps saved Kaga from the same fate as Akagi’.”
The admiral sighed and looked out the window.
“No, I am not worried about the whining of petty politicians and bureaucrats. As I said, they need to be educated. They wanted a war, they have one now, and it will come with a price.
“If we had turned aside after our two strikes, even the three strikes on Pearl Harbor and the other land bases, then we would be haunted with the knowledge that two, perhaps three or more of their carriers were still afloat, ready to strike back. We can confirm only one.”
He hesitated.
“And, yes, for argument’s sake for now, I’ll claim another, though I doubt it. To claim it subtly but lay the prospect before them is a gambit of the moment. Though with the foolish breaking of their radio silence and our dispatching of three submarines in pursuit, maybe there will be an additional American carrier in the bag, as they say.”
He smiled.
“It has only started. There will be more risks, more damage to be absorbed, but unless we unhinge the Americans now, drive them back with ferocity and continually defeat what they throw at us, in the long run, it will wear us down. We can not give them breathing room, time to rearm, to build anew. We must force them to continue the fight now. Hopefully our blows will be so hard that the political will that their president has so far marshaled will crumble into bitter political wrangling and casting of blame. If that happens and we continue to defeat them, perhaps with their will weakened by internal squabbling, they will agree to negotiate after all.”
Later this day, as the fleet passed south of Midway, a strike would be launched against that American base by the four carriers still serviceable, even while an attack from land-based aircraft again pounded Wake Island.
His plans were already forming: once his carriers were refueled, resupplied, and fresh squadrons loaded on board, to turn back around, and seize those two islands . . . and from there to enforce a stranglehold blockade on the Hawaiian Islands. They had no carriers in the Pacific, unless, as he suspected in his heart, at least one of their Saratoga-class ships had evaded him completely undamaged. If that were so, then he must sink that next.
Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy Page 70