Days of Infamy

by Harry Turtledove

  “But I can’t!” Genda said.

  “You have to,” the doctor said firmly. “Dying gloriously for the Emperor is one thing. Dying because you don’t pay attention to what germs are doing to you is something else again. You’ll be fine if you take it easy now. If you don’t, you won’t—and you won’t do your country any good, either.”

  “But—” Commander Genda felt too rotten to work up a good argument. He supposed that went a long way toward proving the doctor’s point. They put him in sick bay. He lay on an iron-framed cot staring up at the gray-painted steel ceiling not far enough overhead. For this he had come out to Akagi?

  JIM PETERSON LOOKED down at his hands. By now, the blisters he’d got when he started road work had healed into hard yellow calluses. No, his hands didn’t bother him any more. A steady diet of pick-and-shovel work had cured that.

  Trouble was was, the work was the only steady diet he had. No matter what the Japs promised, they didn’t feed road gangs much better than they had the prisoners back at the camp near Opana. If the American POWs starved—so what? That was their attitude.

  And getting enough to eat wasn’t even Peterson’s chief worry. If that wasn’t a son of a bitch, he didn’t know what would be. Making sure nobody in his shooting squad—and most especially not Walter London—headed for the tall timber took pride of place, if that was the right name for it. The man didn’t give a damn about anything or anybody but himself. Everybody knew it.

  “He’s gonna get us all killed, you know that?” Gordy Braddon said as they dumped dirt and gravel into a hole in the road near Schofield Barracks. “He’s gonna get us all killed, and that ain’t the worst of it. You know what the worst of it is?”

  “Depends,” Peterson said judiciously. “Maybe you mean he’ll do something stupid and get himself caught and shot, too. Or maybe you mean he won’t just get us killed—he’ll laugh about it, too.”

  The PFC stared at him. “Shit, Corporal—you readin’ my mind or what?”

  “Hell, anybody with eyes can see what that London item is like,” Peterson said. “He’d take money out of a blind man’s cup—and then, if he thought somebody was watching, he’d toss back a nickel so he’d look good.” Quietly, out of the side of his mouth, he added, “Careful. He’s liable to be listening.”

  Gordy Braddon looked around. “Sorry. Don’t reckon he heard me, though.”

  “Okay.” Peterson checked, too, a lot more subtly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Can’t blame me for being jumpy, though.”

  “Only thing you can blame anybody for these days is letting his pals down. You don’t do that, by Jesus,” Braddon said. Two dive bombers blazoned with Rising Suns flew north over their heads, not too high. Braddon watched them till they were out of sight. “I think the Japs are jumpy, too. They’ve been doing a lot more flying lately than they had for quite a while. Wonder what the hell it means.”

  “Just one thing I can think of.” Peterson had watched the dive bombers, too, watched them with hatred in his eyes. Planes like that had done horrible things at Pearl Harbor—and, he gathered, against the Enterprise, too. Scowling still, he went on, “They must figure we’re going to try to take the islands back.”

  “Christ!” Braddon said reverently. “Hope to God you’re right. You think we can do it?”

  Before Peterson could answer, the Japanese sergeant who did duty as straw boss for the work gang pointed at the two of them and said, “Isogi!” That meant something like, Make it snappy! As slave drivers went, he was a fair man. He warned you before he turned the goons loose on you. If you didn’t get the message, it was your own damn fault. Peterson found it a good idea to busy himself with his shovel for a while. Braddon worked beside him.

  After a while, the Jap found someone else to yell at. It never took real long. For one thing, the American POWs were doing work they hated, work any idiot could see would help Japan against their own countrymen. No wonder they didn’t give it their finest effort. And even if they’d shown the best will in the world, they were still too weak and too hungry to work as hard as the Japs wanted them to.

  “I’m with you. I hope we can do it,” Peterson said when he judged the coast was clear. The Japanese sergeant didn’t come down on him. Neither did any of the other guards. He kept busy filling in shell holes and potholes just the same. “I’m afraid of what happens if we don’t send enough out to do what needs doing. Yeah, that’s what scares me. Back on the mainland, have they figured out how tough the goddamn Japs really are?”

  “If they haven’t, they sure ain’t been paying attention,” Gordy Braddon said. Like Peterson, he went on talking while he worked now. “They beat the shit out of us here. They did the same thing in the Philippines. They bombed San Francisco, for cryin’ out loud. What more does the mainland need?”

  “Maybe they’ve got the message over there. I hope so. But I don’t know. I remember how things were before the shooting started,” Peterson said. “Hardly anybody thought they’d have the nerve to pick a fight with us, and everybody thought they’d get their heads handed to them if they tried. After all, they were just using a bunch of junk made out of our old tin cans, right?”

  His laugh had a bitter edge. The Japs had used a lot of U.S. scrap metal till FDR stopped selling it to them. But they hadn’t built junk out of it. He’d never got a nastier surprise in his life than when he tried dogfighting a Zero with his Wildcat. The Jap in that fighter had taken him to school, chewed him up, and spit out the pieces.

  From what he’d heard since, he’d been damn lucky not to get shot while he was parachuting down to the ground, too. Plenty of pilots had been. The Japanese didn’t respect the chivalry of the air. As far as he could see, they didn’t respect anything but strength. If they had it and you didn’t, they walked all over you. If you had it and they didn’t . . . maybe they’d kowtow. Maybe. How could anybody know for sure? Nobody’d managed to make ’em say uncle yet.

  Walter London laid down his pick in the middle of the road. “I’ve got to take a whizz,” he announced, as if the bulletin were as important as one from the Russian front.

  To Peterson and the other men in the shooting squad, it was a lot more important than that. He looked at his comrades in mistrust. Was it his turn? He thought it was. He let his shovel fall. “Me, too,” he said.

  London scowled at him. “I can’t even piss without somebody looking over my shoulder.”

  “It’s not while you piss that really scares me,” Peterson answered. “But if you take off afterwards, I get shot.”

  “I won’t do that,” London whined.

  “Not while I’m watching you, you won’t,” Peterson said.

  London went off behind a bush. Peterson stood behind another one no more than ten feet away. He didn’t need to piss. He was sweating so hard, most of his water leaked out that way. London did a fine job of watering the grass. “See?” he said to Peterson as he set his clothes to rights.

  “Hot damn,” Peterson said. He almost added, Only goes to show what a pissant you are. Almost, but not quite. If he came down on London too hard, he’d give the SOB reason to run and hope everybody else in the shooting squad, or at least one Jim Peterson, got an Arisaka round right between the eyes.

  Peterson sighed as they both headed back to the roadway. Maybe having to make calculations like that was the worst part of being a POW. He went back to work while another northbound dive bomber roared by overhead. As soon as he got another hole halfway filled, he was forcibly reminded that exhaustion and starvation came in a long way ahead of calculation after all.

  WHEN MITSUO FUCHIDA went down to the Akagi’s sick bay to see how his friend Genda was doing, a pharmacist’s mate wearing a gauze mask over mouth and nose—a masuku, they called it in Japanese—chased him away. “Gomen nasai, Commander-san,” the petty officer said, not sounding sorry at all, “but Commander Genda is contagious. We don’t want anyone else coming down with his sickness.”

  “I just wanted to say hello and as
k how he’s doing,” Fuchida protested.

  “I will pass on your greetings, sir.” The pharmacist’s mate stood in the doorway like a dragon. “Commander Genda is doing as well as can be expected.”

  That could mean anything or nothing. “About how long do you think he’ll be laid up?” Fuchida asked.

  “Until he is well enough and strong enough to resume his duties,” the pharmacist’s mate said. Fuchida wanted to hit him. Petty officers slapped seamen around all the time, the same way Army noncoms did with common soldiers. Officers needed good reasons for belting noncoms, though, and a refusal—or maybe just an inability—to communicate wasn’t enough, not when the pharmacist’s mate was odds-on to be obeying the doctor’s orders by keeping Genda isolated.

  Thwarted, Fuchida turned away and went up to the officers’ wardroom. The food there was better than what he’d been eating in Honolulu. Captain Kaku was also there, eating a bowl of pickled plums and sipping tea. “Any sign of the Americans, sir?” Fuchida asked.

  The skipper shook his head. “Not yet, Commander. Believe me, you’ll be the first to know.” His voice was dry. Fuchida looked down at his own snack so Kaku wouldn’t see him flush. When the Yankees were spotted, he would lead the strike against them, as he’d led the first strike against Pearl Harbor and then the attack on the Lexington. Of course he would know as soon as anyone else did.

  He found another question: “How are our engineers doing on electronic ranging gear like the Americans have?”

  “I’d hoped Zuikaku and Shokaku would have it,” Captain Kaku answered. “No such luck, though. I think we understand the principles. Now the problem is getting it into production, installing it aboard ship, and training men to use it.” He shrugged. “We have our picket sampans out there, and we have H8Ks patrolling beyond them, and we have the cruisers’ float planes for close-in reconnaissance. Wherever the enemy comes from, he won’t take us by surprise.”

  “That’s what counts, sir,” Fuchida agreed. “As long as we meet the Americans on anything like equal terms, we’ll beat them.”

  “I see it the same way,” Kaku said. “Admiral Yamamoto is less hopeful. He fears the United States will outproduce us no matter what we do.”

  “Let the Americans try,” Fuchida said. “If we keep sinking their ships, it doesn’t matter how many they build. And we’ll be building, too.”

  “Hai.” The captain of the Akagi nodded. “This is also how it seems to me, Fuchidasan. You’re a sound man, very sound.” What Kaku no doubt meant was that he and Fuchida held the same opinion. He went on, “The admiral has a different view. He says we have no idea of how much matériel the United States can produce once all its factories start going full tilt.”

  “And the Americans, who have so much, begrudge us the chance of getting our fair share,” Fuchida said angrily. “They think they should be the only big power in the Pacific. We’ve taught them a thing or two, and if they want another lesson here, I’d say we’re ready to give them one.”

  As if his words were the cue in a play, a yeoman from the radio shack stuck his head into the wardroom. “Ah, here you are, Captain-san!” Excitement crackled in his voice. He waved a sheet of flimsy paper. “We have a report from one of the flying boats. They’ve spotted the American ships, sir! The pilot reports three enemy carriers, sir, with the usual supporting ships. Range about eight hundred kilometers, bearing 017.”

  Three against three, Fuchida thought. Equal terms—just what I asked for. Now to make the most of it.

  “Domo arigato,” Kaku breathed. After thanking the yeoman, he went on, “Any sign of transports—of an invasion fleet?”

  “Sir, I have no report of them,” the radioman answered.

  “If they are there, sir, they may be hanging back, waiting for their carriers to dispose of ours,” Fuchida said. “I wouldn’t want to expose troopships to air strikes.”

  “Hai. Honto. Neither would I.” Captain Kaku turned back to the yeoman. “You’ve informed Admiral Yamamoto?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” the man said. “He nodded to me and he said, ‘Now it begins.’ He spoke to me, sir!” He seemed immensely proud of himself. A Christian to whom Jesus had spoken might have sounded the same way.

  Kaku got to his feet. “I’m going to sound general quarters,” he said to Fuchida. “They’re still out of range, but now we know where they are.” To the yeoman again: “Do the Americans know that flying boat has spotted them?”

  “Sir, if they do, the message didn’t say,” the yeoman told him. Fuchida nodded to himself, liking the response. The man wasn’t trying to read anything into what he’d got from the H8K. Many radiomen might have.

  “Let’s tend to business, Commander,” Kaku said. “You’ll want to get your men ready for what’s ahead of them, I’m sure. And we’re all going to be busy before very long.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fuchida said. He and Kaku both hurried out of the wardroom. The skipper of the Akagi headed for the bridge. Fuchida made for the pilots’ briefing room on the hangar deck, right under the flight deck. Hardly knowing he was doing it, he rubbed at his belly as he hurried along. If he had a bellyache, he would just have to ignore it. More important things were going on. General quarters sounded before he was even halfway to the briefing room. He nodded to himself. This was why he’d gone to the Naval Academy at Eta Jima, to the naval aircraft training center at Kasumigaura, to war against the United States in the first place. One more strong blow . . .

  Sailors and officers ran every which way, hurrying to their battle stations. Fuchida ducked into the briefing room as the mechanics and other members of the maintenance crew began making sure the level bombers, torpedo planes, dive bombers, and fighters were as ready for action as they could be.

  One of the dive-bomber pilots made it to the briefing room less than fifteen seconds behind Fuchida. The man grinned and said, “I might have known you’d be here first, Commander-san.”

  “I’m not that fast,” Fuchida said. “I happened to be in the wardroom with the captain when the news came in. I was on my way over here before the alert sounded.”

  “News? What sort of news?” the pilot asked eagerly. “The sort we’ve been waiting for?”

  “Patience. Patience,” Fuchida answered with a smile of his own. “That way I’ll only have to tell the story once.”

  “Yes, sir.” The dive-bomber pilot didn’t sound patient. He sounded like a small boy reluctantly awaiting permission to open a present sitting there on a mat in front of him.

  More pilots swarmed into the briefing room, along with radiomen and bombardiers for the Nakajimas and Aichis. They were all chattering excitedly; they knew what the call to general quarters was likely to mean. They kept flinging questions at Fuchida, too, as he stood there in front of the map.

  When the room was full, he held up his hand. The fliers were in such a state, they needed a little while to realize he was calling for quiet. Slowly, a centimeter at a time, they gave it to him. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said when he could make himself heard through the din. “Thank you. The news I have is the news we’ve all been waiting for. We have found the Americans.”

  That started everyone talking at once again. He’d known it would. “Where are they?” “When do we take off?” The questions rained down on him.

  “We don’t take off yet—they aren’t in range,” Fuchida answered. “They’re about—here.” He pointed on the map. “One of our H8Ks picked them up way out there.”

  “Banzai! for the flying boats!” somebody shouted, and a cheer filled the briefing room. How can we lose with men like these? Fuchida thought proudly. Another pilot called, “What are we going to do about them, sir?”

  “I don’t know yet, not officially,” Fuchida replied. “Admiral Yamamoto and Captain Kaku haven’t given the orders. But I’ll tell you this—we didn’t come out here to invite the Yankees to a cha-no-yu.”

  The officers and ratings laughed. As if the round-eyed barbarians could appreciate a tea ceremony
anyway! “We’ll make them drink salty tea!” a pilot yelled.

  “That’s the spirit,” Fuchida said. “Be ready. I expect we’ll close with the enemy and attack. Banzai! for the Emperor!”

  “Banzai! Banzai!” The shout filled the briefing room.

  OUT ON THE Pacific, Platoon Sergeant Les Dillon was playing poker with four other noncoms when the B. F. Irvine’s engine fell silent, leaving the troopship bobbing in the water. “What the fuck?” He and two other sergeants said the same thing at the same time.

  “It’s your bet, Les,” Dutch Wenzel said.

  Dillon shoved money into the pot. “I’ll bump it up a couple of bucks,” he said. He had two pair, and nobody’d shown much strength. But the change in the background noise worried him. “What the hell are they doing? They break down? We’re sitting ducks for a goddamn Jap sub if we just park here.”

  “Thank you, Admiral Nimitz,” said Vince Monahan, who sat to Les’ left. He tossed in folding money of his own. “Call.”

  “I’m out.” Wenzel threw in his hand. So did the last two sergeants.

  “Here’s mine.” Dillon laid down his queens and nines. Monahan said something unpleasant. He’d had jacks and fives. Dillon raked in the pot. “Whose deal is it?” he asked.

  “Maybe we ought to find out what’s going on,” Monahan said. “We were steaming around in the North Pacific marking time, and then we started heading south like we were really going somewhere—”

  “Yeah. Somewhere,” Dillon said drily. The other men in the poker game grunted. A couple of them chuckled. They’d been heading for Oahu and whatever happened when they hit the beach. Now . . . Now they weren’t going anywhere.

  A few minutes later, the engines started up again. So did the poker game, which had stalled. The troopship swung through a turn. Dillon’s inner ear told him they were heading east now, more or less, not south. The game went on. The B. F. Irvine went through what felt like a one-eighty half an hour later, and then another one half an hour after that.