Kimmel hesitated, looking back out the window.
“Said he was closing to engage, then contact was lost.”
“Jesus Christ,” someone whispered, “one of those antiques against a Zero.”
James struggled against the nausea. He was enough of a pilot now to know what that lone pilot would accomplish.
“Gentlemen, go to your posts,” Kimmel said quietly.
James looked over at Collingwood. What were their posts? During the infrequent drills for those on shore, they were told to simply put helmets on and stay in place down in the basement. They had men listening for any Japanese radio transmissions. There might be something for them to work on decoding. But now, with another attack coming in?
The room quickly emptied, men scattering; already there was gunfire. He looked out the window: a destroyer out in mid-harbor, racing past the burning battleships, with its forward and aft five-inch mounts pointed high, was already firing on something.
Kimmel remained motionless, and James realized that this man, at this moment, wished to be like the ship’s captain of old, in fact was most likely praying for that fate. He would stay here, stand by the window, and pray that this time they hit him. A chief with hash marks halfway up his arm stood behind the admiral, and for a brief instant caught James’s gaze of admiration, the flicker of his gaze indication for him to get the hell out and leave them.
He followed Collingwood out into the corridor. It was a flood of men rushing back and forth, some in panic, tin hats being put on, a few purposeful, grim-faced; it was like an ant nest stirred up into chaos.
“Let’s get our people out,” Collingwood shouted. “This place is a death trap.”
James nodded in agreement, and racing toward the door to their basement lair, he noticed that the marine guard was no longer there. Collingwood was far ahead of him, down the stairs, James unable to keep up. He had refused any morphine or treatment for his arm, sliced by something just above the stump of his hand. One of the female secretaries down in the basement had bandaged it with a tom-up piece of towel, blood soaking through, now dark, and by God it was hurting like hell now.
Collingwood, far ahead of him at the bottom of the stairs, again no guard there, fumbled for his keys, then pulled the door open.
“Everyone get the hell out!” he shouted. “Out now, we got another attack coming in!”
James felt absolutely useless and backed up against the wall as those who had worked for months trying to decipher warning of this moment began to race up the stairs. He wasn’t sure what to do, some looking at him.
“Just get as far away from this building as you can,” he offered. “Find some cover. We’ve got about ten minutes!”
The room emptied, Collingwood reappearing.
“Shouldn’t we leave someone behind to guard?” James offered.
After all, this was perhaps the most secured room of any room operated by the navy in the entire Pacific.
“It won’t be here in ten more minutes,” Collingwood said, almost grinning at the absurdity of James’s offer. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
As they reached the top of the stairs and then ran out the main doors, they were greeted by a thunderous roar. The sound, the sight of it was spectacular. Of the eighty or so ships that had survived the first two attacks, only about a third of them had managed to round up crews, get a head of steam and start for sea, but every last one of them now had their guns manned. And most were firing, tracer shells arcing up, concussions from five-inchers, even some of the eight-inchers on the cruisers firing their heavy loads, hopefully fused to air- burst. James looked up at the blackening bursts of clouds dotting the skies over Pearl Harbor. He did not see a single plane, but by God, if an attack was coming in, it’d give them something to think about.
Six Miles Northeast of Pearl Harbor: 2:55 Local Time
Canopy still open, Fuchida took the sight in, trying to stay calm, focused. So far only a scattering of American fighters had dared to intercept, their burning wreckage littering the landscape from Kahuku to the outskirts of Honolulu. His lead squadron of fighters was starting its dive on Hickam, ready to jump any opposition that was left and dared to come up.
But that was not his concern now. It was the wall of antiaircraft fire ahead. The sky was black with it. Panic firing, that was obvious, shells bursting at random altitudes from a thousand feet all the way up to fifteen thousand feet or more. Below he could see several explosions igniting in the city, their gunners most likely forgetting to set for an altitude burst, the shells just arcing straight up and then coming down to kill on the ground. Indicator of their training, their panic ... but still, the sight of it chilled him. This was not going to be like the first two attacks.
He slid the canopy closed, slapped his pilot on the shoulder, and leaning forward pointed straight ahead. Over Genda’s objections, he had announced that this time he was going to personally lead the torpedo attack on the massive dry dock, rather than standing back. He wanted this, to add his own personal blow, and besides, his men needed this example now if they were going to brave what was ahead.
His plane banked over to the north, swinging wide, the other seven Kates of his attack group following, circling to the north of the harbor and then dropping down low, to race straight in and release at three hundred yards from the gates of the dock.
He felt his stomach surge up as his Kate nosed over and started to dive.
Hickam Field 2:59 p.m. Local Time
Don Barber, moving awkwardly on what he called his “peg leg,” stuck his head into the open cowling of a P-40, trying to help the crew chief trace back the wiring from the main solenoid, which must have been severed. It was one of the few surviving planes from the first attacks but had been hit by half a dozen rounds and some shrapnel. They had tried repeatedly to get the engine to turn over, but it refused to fire up.
He had no real business being here. It’d been nearly twenty-five years since he had flown for the army and had part of a leg blown away in the skies over France. But on Sunday mornings he liked to drop in, have coffee with “the boys.” A couple of his old comrades from 1918 were still active on this base, with plenty of brass on their hats or hash marks on their sleeves, and a pass onto the base was no problem.
He had arrived an hour before the first attack and since then had pitched in, helping with trying to get the few remaining planes airworthy in case the Japs came back.
The shriek of the air-raid siren had been background noise until someone came running toward them shouting that this was the real thing, not another false alarm.
“I think I got it!” the chief cried, pointing his flashlight up into the bowels of the Allison engine. Sure enough, several wires were clearly severed by what must have been a shell fragment not much bigger than a dime.
Without being prompted, Don pushed up a roll of black electrical tape. No time to replace the wires; splice and tape. Hell, that’s how it was done back in the last war.
The thought struck him hard. The last war. We’re in another war.
“Goddamn it, chief! Fix it. I can see Japs!”
It was the pilot. The kid had missed the first two strikes but had finally made it into the base and had spent the last four hours strapped into the cockpit, ready to go up as soon as they figured out what the hell was wrong.
Don stuck his head out from under the cowling.
“We got it!” he said, trying to offer a reassuring grin. He could see the kid was scared, face pale, sweat soaked. He must be roasting in there, Don realized, remembering his own time, over twenty years ago, waiting to go up, ready to vomit with fear, and then trembling with anticipation when the engine of his Sopwith fired over, plane shaking, coming alive. Now he was reduced to just hanging around the base, watching with envy, offering flying lessons to civilians like his friend Watson, who had the luck of being called back in. The army had not seen fit to call him up, but damn it, he could still do something this day, even if it was just to han
d up some tape to repair a plane and get back at the bastards.
“Shit, I need some more wire!”
The chief was halfway up inside the engine cowling, hand reaching back. Don looked around. A corporal was tearing into a toolbox, pulling out a strand of medium gauge, a foot-long section.
“Strip the ends,” Don shouted, the corporal using a pocketknife, blood suddenly spluttering from his thumb as he severed off the end of the wire rather than strip it.
Don grabbed the wire and the knife, worked to strip both ends clean.
“Give me the damn wire!” the chief shouted.
“It’s coming,” Don replied, trying to sound calm, he had to stay calm.
“Jesus Christ, they’re coming in!”
Don looked up, saw several men were pointing toward the east end of the runway: razor-sharp silhouettes banking out of a diving turn, lining up, coming in. Men working on the few surviving planes began to scatter, running in every direction; there was a cacophony roar of gunfire. Hundreds of guns opening up, machine guns, but mostly handheld weapons, Springfields, a sergeant with perfect poise leveling a .45, a corporal with a tommy gun.
From one of the two Zeroes, he could see flame bursting from a wing. It started into a roll... it was coming straight toward them.
Goddamn, it was coming straight at them.
“The wire, give me the damn wire!” The chief mechanic was still up inside the guts of the engine, oblivious to what was about to happen.
Don turned and caught the pilot’s gaze in the cockpit; the boy was wide-eyed with impotent rage.
“Get me up there!” he screamed. “Get me up there!”
Feeling a strange detachment Don turned back and handed the wire up to the mechanic, who did not see death winging in. The Zero, a hundred yards off, just another second ... its starboard wing on fire, the plane dug into the runway, cartwheeling over, tumbling, tail section detaching in a fireball, coming straight at him.
Survive France, he thought. Die here ... what the hell...
The disintegrating Zero plowed into the line of P-40s; in another second all, Japanese Zero, four American P-40s; twenty- three men, were consumed inside the fireball explosion.
He felt absolutely useless, yet again. He couldn’t fire a gun, and many around him were, most of them firing wildly; all he could do was stand and watch as it started to unfold, yet again.
A fireball erupted off toward Hickam; it was hard to see since the battleships that were still afloat were burning fiercely, their oily black smoke drifting across the harbor, commingled with the continuing fires over on Ford Island.
The noise, an insane mix. Air-raid sirens, which had been silent during the first attack, now continued to howl, but were nearly drowned out now by every gun in the harbor and beyond tiring. A cruiser swinging to the north of Ford Island--what the hell was he doing going that way?--was sending up a firestorm as 20-mm, 40-mm, 5-inch mounts, and even the 8- inch mounts blazed away, concussion ripples racing across the harbor. Ships still tied off simply pointed their guns straight up. Impromptu machine-gun nests, set up by marines to guard the approaches on to the base, fitted out with light ,30-cals, water-jacketed .50-cals, or just Lewis guns and Springfield rifles, were pouring it upward as well. Though he felt guilty for feeling it, there was almost a thrill to it, as if he were a boy overawed by a long-anticipated Fourth of July show. Tracers, red, green, orange, crisscrossed the sky; puffs of smoke burst, some at frightfully low levels, as the cruisers let loose. He swore for an instant that he could see the heavy shells soaring upward to detonate in crimson and black blasts of fire.
Collingwood tugged on his sleeve and pointed. Coming in from the east, low ... Kates, torpedoes slung beneath, eight of them. They were already west of Honolulu, some tracers snapping around them. From the north, two P-40s were zooming downward as if hugging the mountain slope north of the city.
“Get the sons of bitches!” Collingwood shouted.
James looked over at him. He had worked with this gentle, mildly spoken man for nearly a year ... it was the first time he had heard him swear.
“Sir!”
It was his tail gunner, reaching around with one hand to slap him on the shoulder and then point to the north. Two enemy fighters.
He turned back to his task, the two Zeroes assigned to escort this group would contend with them.
At far lower altitude it was harder to distinguish landmarks. He felt a flash of regret; he should have taken the more difficult responsibility of command, stayed up at ten thousand feet as he had in the first strikes, to observe, direct. But no, he was in it now, and there was a fierce joy to it.
They were straight on course as planned, approaching from the east toward the north end of the base. Almost directly ahead was the largest of the oil tank farms; that is where he would turn, to start swinging around to line up on his target.
They were skimming low, less than a hundred feet off the ground now, buildings racing past, glimpses of people running, some tracers snaking up, rattlelike hailstones striking the plane, their starboard wing, a few holes, nothing serious.
Half a mile ... quarter mile. Just a few more seconds.
Flash of movement; he looked up. The first of the Vals were coming down, diving on the oil tanks. His plane lurched, his pilot banking hard over now, turning to the north, fifteen seconds to swing around the reserve oil farm then turn out to the harbor and line up for the run in.
He tracked the movement of the Val. More were coming down. The first plane released, bombs dropping away, pulled out, skimming low; behind him, seconds later, detonations. He half expected huge fireballs; the explosions seemed muffled ... No, this was bunker oil; it would not flash and explode, but it would still burn. Several tanks had ruptured from the bomb blasts. The second plane ... an instant later it was nothing but a fiery comet, wings folding back, plummeting straight down into the oil field, its bombs detonating, the same fate for the third, wing shearing off, corkscrewing down, crashing into the edge of the harbor, exploding.
Looking across at the tank farms, Fuchida felt a wave of envy. Every liter of aviation gas, of fuel oil for the navy was doled out like a miser would part with his gold. Below was enough fuel to match the entire reserve of his Imperial Majesty’s Fleet for a year. And he knew that for the Americans it was nothing; they had a thousand times more ... but they would not have it here, where needed most, in a few more minutes. Still it seemed such a horrid waste.
Another sharp banking turn, then the startling rattle of the 7.7-millimeter gun behind him, his tail gunner shouting, opening up. He spared a quick glance aft: a P-40 was swinging in behind him. The seven planes of his flight, as briefed, were turning in a tighter arc. He would lead them to the final turn for the run-in to target but would then swing wide, to come in last, saving his torpedo if the others failed. The third plane in line simply blew apart, a P-40 nearly colliding with the wreckage as it shot through the formation, pursued by one of his escorting Zeroes. Damn all! The fighter should have hit first!
“He’s on us!”
Tracers flicked past the portside wing, his pilot ruddering to starboard, skidding, dodging, long continual burst from the tail gunner. Fuchida looked aft, the view frightful. The P-40 was not more than fifty yards back, guns winking, his pilot skidding again, trying to throw off aim.
A stream of tracers converged. He felt a shudder, saw part of the vertical stabilizer buckle and sheer off, another shuddering thump, his tail gunner grunting, gun now swinging wide as the boy doubled over in pain.
Damn ... to die like this . . .
A hoselike stream of tracers tore into the tail of the P-40, shells detonating, splitting the plane in half, forward half with the doomed pilot, visible for a brief instant, tumbling over, smashing into the ground, tail section spiraling up, then twisting over in flames to go down.
One of the Zeroes? He followed the smoking trail of tracers back. It was from the cruiser out in the harbor, now just a half mile away. Damn, saved
by the panicked firing of the enemy.
But now that garden hose-like stream of tracers was swinging toward him.
The surviving six planes of his section had completed their banking turn around the oil farm, dropped down to just above the harbor in formation line astern, and were closing on the dock’s massive gate. He and Genda had debated if they could indeed shatter it. The largest dry dock in the Pacific Ocean between San Francisco and Tokyo.
As the six planes ahead of him closed in, it seemed as if every gunner in that harbor knew what they were aiming for, and in an instant every gun was turned on the six Kates, geysers of water foaming a hundred feet up as an eight-inch shell fired to hit the middle of the harbor blew, the fountain of water catching the lead Kate, spinning it onto its back, plane plunging in, torpedo exploding, explosion taking out the second plane in the attack.
Fuchida spared a quick glance aft as they turned across the north end of the harbor, just east of Pearl City, his pilot working hard. He could feel the imbalance, from the hits to the rudder and elevators, an unsteady vibration bucking the plane. Now he knew why that cruiser was up here: to lay down fire, and it was all aimed at him as they dodged and weaved.
He saw the third plane of his strike team disappear into the smoke, water tumbling down from the heavens, hundreds of shells and bullets crisscrossing the harbor every second.
They’d have to go in.
He slapped his pilot, Matsuo, on the shoulder, pointing directly forward; there was a nod of understanding: down lower. They lined up and started their run in. Without warning there was a sharp flash of light and then, a second later, a concussive blast that he thought for an instant would slam them down into the harbor, his pilot barely recovering. He ignored the erupting flash of light to left and concentrated on what was ahead.
“Jesus Christ!”
James was on the ground; he needed no urging this time, Collingwood at his side, both of them hugging the earth as machine gun bullets danced across the lawn, tossing up tufts of grass, a shell, a large one, blowing against the guard hut, where only hours before he had helped the drunk sailors, the hut disappearing. Shells were screaming overhead, bullets zinging past, a high-pitched howl of a racing engine. He glanced up and saw just that, a plane engine, no plane behind it, just the engine, propellor still spinning madly, tumbling from the sky, tumbling end over end into the oil tank farm.
Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th Page 34