Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  He felt he should go to him, but what about the dead marine? Should I see to him?

  I’m in shock, he realized. The moment came back, and he struggled to hold the tears. The moment when Davy had died, the last breath slipping out of him, and he could no longer react, think, even at that moment feel anything other than a black empty void.

  Sound started to return to his consciousness. Sirens, ships’ bells, a staccato barking of a machine gun, the heavier crump explosion of a gun firing from the deck of one of the destroyers anchored in the narrow loch. A ship’s steam whistle shrieking, men shouting, a woman’s screams, overarching all a roiling, hissing roar, the thunder of ships burning, explosions lighting off as ammunition stores detonated, the whine of a plane, a lone Zero streaking down the length of the harbor, machine guns blazing, strafing men struggling in the water, and now a growing fusillade of return fire, tracers crisscrossing the harbor, the wild firing causing him to momentarily duck again, some windows shattering in the main administration building.

  That’s where I should go, he realized. Get back to my post, find something there, that’s where I should go.

  He walked slowly, back aching from being knocked over by the explosion of Arizona, coming around the flank of the building and then to the front.

  Now it was a madhouse. He caught a glimpse of Kimmel’s car pulled up over the curb. More vehicles were piling in, horns blaring, men leaping out, some running about wildly, as if driven to a frenzied insanity, shouting wildly to no one, to everyone.

  The marine guard he had walked past but a half hour ago was crouched against the side of the building, .45 drawn, looking heavenward, ready to fight his own war.

  “Watson!”

  It was Collingwood, standing in the doorway leading back down to the dungeon.

  He looked at him, unable to reply.

  “You all right?”

  He couldn’t reply, and Collingwood came up, reaching out, motioning to his left arm, and James winced and looked down. His shirt sleeve was torn open, blood trickling down to his wrist and covering his claw.

  “You’re hit, man.”

  From what he couldn’t tell. The Jap gunner, the wild firing, a fragment from the Arizona. He didn’t know ... other than the fact that it did indeed now hurt. He shook his head and almost chuckled. The claw was actually mangled, bent back, the leather socket holding it to his arm tom, blood oozing out.

  Damn! To be hit in the same place twice--how strange, he thought. Both times in surprise attacks, and he looked back up at the sky, catching a glimpse of a Kate, flying high up, marked with distinctive yellow and red stripes ... you goddamn bastards.

  “My God, man, you were right. We were right. It was here,” Collingwood gasped.

  He stepped into the foyer. The clock on the wall... 8:15 a.m. He had walked out of here just 35 minutes ago.

  “As if our being right matters now,” James replied softly.

  Over Pearl Harbor 8:22 a.m.

  Orbiting at 3,500 meters, Strike Leader Fuchida trained his binoculars on the wreckage below. It was beyond all he had hoped for. Two, possibly three of the battleships were destroyed. One of them, he believed, was the Arizona; it was hard to tell because of the smoke. It had just simply disappeared in the massive explosion that had buffeted his plane so hard that for a moment he thought he had been hit by flak.

  Damage was far beyond the most optimistic estimates of what both he and Genda had made across all the long months of planning. They had assumed that 50 percent of the strike force might not make it to the target area or would be so harassed by enemy fighters and antiaircraft fire as to divert them away.

  Nothing had stopped them, and only now were the antiaircraft bursts beginning to come up, nearly all of them ineffective.

  He felt a strange mix of emotions. There was, of course, the sheer elation that a plan he had helped conceive had gone so flawlessly. And yet two things troubled him. Where were the carriers? Not one was in port, their usual mooring points empty. Even as he had his pilot orbit above the center of the harbor now, so he could scan out to sea, sweeping the horizon with his binoculars, hoping either that the carriers had fled upon some warning--but then if so, swarms of fighters would have been up to greet them--or that they were just now stumbling into range and the incoming second-strike wave could still be diverted to deal with them.

  That would finish the coup. The carriers sunk, not just in the harbor but out in the open sea, without any hope of recovery. But there was no sign of them, and he fixed his attention back below, for the second-strike wave would arrive in a few more minutes, and he was preparing a checklist of targets still to be hit.

  Then he had a second thought. It had been almost too easy, and as he surveyed the flaming wreckage of the battleships, the scores of planes burning on the ground at Ford Island, Hickam Field, he began to wonder. To the north amid the rising plumes from Wheeler, he could see the dotlike figures in white and khaki running about, could imagine hundreds more burning in the flaming waters of the bay, watching even as the Zeroes that were still loitering over the target area waited for any challenging planes to come up, arcing down to strafe ... and he did find the sensation chilling.

  The target before had been an abstract, a map, a model, a test run on simulated targets. How many were dead down there? ... and though imbued with the firm belief that it was necessary for the survival of Japan, he felt as he had over China, that in fact there was no feeling, no hatred, no fierce desire to kill as some of his pilots had expressed so fervently, if for no other reason than to appear to have the spirit of bushido.

  There was a moment of wonder, wondering what those below must now feel toward him.

  “Sir! The second wave!”

  His pilot was pointing forward as they continued to bank through a shallow turn, heading eastward. From over Diamond Head he could see the wave of Vals and Kates soaring in. A major part of the second strike had been detailed to come down on the east coast of the island, in part because in the interval of launching the first and second waves, the carriers had moved to the southeast, but also because their planning assumed that any American defenses would swarm over the center of the island and to the north.

  But still there was no opposition in the air. Had they truly caught all of them on the ground?

  Zeroes leading the second strike raced in to assume covering positions, and as they did so, the last of the fighters from the first wave did one more dive to strafe, expending the last of their ammunition, then broke off, heading westward to depart the target area and once well clear, to turn northward to the rendezvous point twenty miles north of the island, where aircraft equipped with homing equipment would guide the fighters back to their ships. Switching his radio back on he began to detail off the targets. Kates armed with torpedoes were to now focus on docked cruisers and the one battleship, it looked like Nevada, which was beginning to make way, turning about to run for the open sea. If it could be caught and sunk at the mouth of the harbor, that would truly be a disaster for the Americans, perhaps shutting down the facility for weeks, even months, bottling up the entire fleet.

  Many of the lighter vessels, destroyers and cruisers, were firing up their boilers, half a dozen of them beginning to make way. We must attack them as well.

  And then the barrage started. This time, at least on the ground, the gunners were ready, sending up a blizzard of fire, little of it properly aimed, but even as the first of the Kates dropped down for a ran on the Nevada, it disintegrated into flames.

  In less than a minute the second stage of the fight was on. Torpedo bombers and dive bombers were dropping in. Horizontal bombers at two thousand meters crossing over Ford Island and Hickam, aiming to take out the hangars. Another Val, trailing smoke, rolled over and went into a tight spiral, pilot regaining control at the last instant and guiding it into a hangar, dying as a samurai.

  More explosions bracketed the battleships, though he was now ordering the remaining planes to stand off from there to
seek other targets, but more than one pilot, drilled that the battleships were the primary target, dove in anyhow, unable to resist the claim that it was his bomb or torpedo that finished the deed.

  Nevada was hit, and hit again, and he held his breath, waiting to see if it would begin to settle, or better yet, detonate, its wreckage blocking the entry. The ship began to swerve away from the channel, and he grunted with approval for her captain. He was making the right move, clearing the approach, moving to beach his mighty ship, which was all but fatally wounded. A cluster of bombs tore into the large dry dock, hitting the battleship and smaller destroyers contained within, but the great floodgates held. He tried to order a couple of the Kates to swing wide around the bay, line up, and drop their torpedoes for a straight-in run on the dry-dock gates---destroying that would cripple their primary repair facility--but in what was now a wild confusion of radio traffic, planes maneuvering in every direction, yet more explosions igniting, it was impossible to direct the fight any longer.

  And as in the first attack, in little more than ten minutes it was over. The seventy Kates and Vals assigned to hit the main harbor in the second strike swinging clear of their targets, breaking to east and west, throttling up, skimming low and then climbing once well clear, but the price now was heavier, far heavier; he watched as three, then four more of his planes, trailing smoke, plummeted down, or just simply disintegrated in midair.

  It was hard to make any sense whatsoever of the action now. The entire harbor area was wreathed in a thick, black oily smoke, as the last of the Zeroes broke away from their covering positions.

  It was over.

  He tried to scan with his binoculars but that was useless, too much smoke. He ordered his pilot to break into a steep 60- degree bank, circling sharply, giving him a clear view straight down.

  Battleship row was finished, both airfields as well. Well over a score of other ships were damaged or destroyed to varying degrees ... a victory in two strikes, each of little more than ten minutes’ duration, that made Tsushima pale in comparison.

  And yet, in all the confusion of battle he saw so many more targets yet to be taken. The submarines, so feared and dreaded in all the planning for this strike. At least six were tied off, undamaged. In the narrow loch, a score of other ships, destroyers and cruisers, were untouched, their guns firing at the retreating planes.

  The fuel storage tanks. That caught his attention now. There had been general talk that if the Zeroes and Vals ran out of targets they should strike the oil tanks with strafing runs, and those Vals laden with 100-kilogram bombs drop there as well. It appeared as if none had been touched even though the tank farms directly adjoined the navy base.

  And yet again, the carriers. Where in hell were the carriers?

  “Take us to the rendezvous, straight across the island!” he ordered, and his pilot, nodding, set a northerly course.

  At 180 knots it would take little more than eight minutes to traverse Oahu, time to evaluate and radio in. In little more than three minutes what was left of Wheeler was clearly in view. Half a dozen Zeroes only now breaking away ... and there, to the west he could see two of them weaving, dodging in and out of clouds, dark green planes in pursuit. At least two American fighters were finally up!

  Two, that was all he could see. Two out of an estimated more than two hundred. Far off to the west he thought he could see a smudge of smoke darkening the horizon, the army air bases on the east end of the island, hit by both first and second waves.

  But other than the distant dogfight there was nothing, no resistance! As his pilot edged around Wheeler, moving clear of the light scattering of antiaircraft fire coming up, he could see scores of aircraft burning on the ground; strangely, they were parked wingtip to wingtip . . . what was left of them.

  He picked up his radio mike and clicking the key, began to transmit the afterstrike report back to the flagship. Pushing to the north end of the island he kept a careful scan. The air, earlier so crowded with planes of the Empire, was now all but empty, and still no sight of American resistance other than the distant dogfight. Looking back he could see the blanket of smoke spreading out and upward from Pearl, from Wheeler, and Schofield, and even from the east end of the island at Kaneohe.

  The island was all but defenseless. Crossing out over the surf he looked down and was diverted for a moment by the beauty of the place, the lush tropical green, the turquoise blue of the ocean, the foaming white surf pounding into shore. The final rendezvous point was twenty miles north of the island, and he expected to pick up at least several of the fighters there, but the sky was empty. He ordered his pilot to circle tightly for several minutes, ignoring the news that their fuel was starting to run dangerously low. They had been one of the first of the strike wave to take off over four hours ago. All of that first wave should already be back and landed, preparing to turn around for the next mission.

  He wanted to see, as well, if there was any organized pursuit or reconnaissance, for surely they’d send a scout plane up to loiter back, spotting the direction of the retiring aircraft and thus gaining some bearing, but still the sky was empty.

  “Time for home,” he finally announced, and he could hear the sigh of relief as his pilot turned north-northeast, working on the calculation of where the fleet was predicted to be. But after a few minutes he felt a sudden concern and ordered a turn back to the rendezvous. Those planes dogfighting, they were fighters, their navigational ability trying to pick out a fleet at sea minimal at best, and his effort was rewarded. Within a minute he spotted a lone Zero, flying slow, a fluttering of dark smoke from its exhaust. He swung in alongside the ailing Zero, the pilot recognizing the command markings on Fuchida’s plane and saluting, obviously filled with relief as Fuchida smiled, saluted back, and signaled for him to follow ... Together the two planes, the last of the two strikes on Pearl Harbor, winged north, back to their carriers.

  Malaya, Near the Border with Thailand 1:35 a.m. Local Time

  “Sergeant Harris. . . come on now, come on!” Cecil shouted.

  The first shell had hit near the side of the road leading into the airfield. The bastards had certainly marked out this target well. Through shelling the small airfield at night, they had already set several aircraft ablaze. He had hoped to get in, find a pilot, and commandeer a liaison plane to get him and Harris back to Singapore to report. They had left the beach a half hour ago when they saw the first of the Japanese landing craft coming in. This was no raid; it was a full-scale invasion, coming on hard and fast, support shipping coming in closer to shore, ready to run into the small harbor once the troops aboard the landing craft had seized the position.

  Two shells had bracketed the road. Ridiculous thought, but he felt as if somehow they had spotted the small Bentley Harris was driving, a splinter blowing out a tire.

  He had told Harris to just drive on the damn thing, but the marine sergeant refused.

  “Have it changed in a jiffy, sir, can do this in me sleep.”

  And while he was jacking up the car, two more shells had winged in and blown fifty yards away, while yet more rained down on the airfield itself, heavy stuff, five- and eight-inchers from the looks of it.

  “Harris?”

  There was no answer. Cecil had sprawled out by his side when they heard the incoming.

  In the darkness he reached out to shake him and then pulled his hand back. He fumbled for the torch and flicked the switch on.

  The man was dead, a fragment having sheered into his temple, side of his face shattered. It had been instant.

  Damn all, he sighed. Poor bugger, survives Gallipoli, Palestine, Mesopotamia in the 1920s, and then to die like this.

  There was nothing he could do for him. It all seemed so senseless, so useless this death, focusing it all back down to one man, whom fate had decreed would find his end here, on a nameless road, halfway round the world from the East End slums of his boyhood.

  More shells came in, and he crouched down, feeling guilty for using Harris’
s body as a shield.

  He stood back up. He felt guilty, but he knew Harris had a pack of smokes in his pocket, and half rolling him over he took them out along with his American lighter and lit one. The hell with light discipline; a burning hangar was lighting up the night sky, barrels of fuel blowing into the air like rockets.

  Slinging his notebook bag over his shoulder, he walked toward the airport, hoping to find a ride to get the hell out of here.

  Akagi, 11:03 a.m. Local Time

  “That’s him!” Genda cried excitedly, and in a rare moment Yamamoto let his emotions show, sighing with open relief. It was Fuchida’s plane, flying low and coming straight for Akagi, a Zero, trailing smoke, by his side.

  Fuchida shot past, wagging his wings and snapping off a salute, canopy pulled back, and then banked up high and away, clearing the way for the damaged Zero to come in.

  The Zero banked in sharply, barely lining up, drifting somewhat to port, correcting, then coming down hard, bouncing, almost losing control as it drifted a quarter of the way down the deck of the carrier, then settling in, tail hook finally catching on the fifth wire and screeching to a stop.

  Deck crew worked feverishly, disconnecting the hook, a crew chief up on the wing of the plane, directing the pilot to throttle up, rolling to the forward elevator to clear the deck for the last of the planes to come in.

  From four miles out Fuchida was taking his time, letting the damaged Zero get clear as he started in on his approach, lining up, following in perfectly, wheels touching down when only thirty feet past the fantail, tail hook snagging, the Kate lurching to a stop.

  It was the last plane in, and a wave of relief seemed to sweep the deck of Akagi: the last plane was in, the last plane bearing the hero who had led the strike, and cheering erupted, dozens of men breaking discipline, coming forward to swarm around the plane as Fuchida, with a flourish, stood up, saluted the flag of Japan, then the Z flag, and then finally the bridge where the admiral stood waiting.