Red Randall at Pearl Harbor

by R. Sidney Bowen

  Red Randall was in Hawaii on that fateful morning of December 7, 1941, when the Japanese struck their treacherous blow against the United States. The son of an Army Air Force Colonel, Red was determined to be an Army pilot himself. But, when war finally came, he was thrown into a series of exciting events that permitted him to serve his country much sooner than he had hoped. In his encounter with a secret agent of Japan, Red’s courage and ingenuity were put to the supreme test. How Red, and his friend Jimmy Joyce, outwitted the diabolical Kato Harada and foiled the planned Japanese invasion, makes for a rapid-fire story where the action seldom lets up.

  RED RANDALL 1:

  RED RANDALL AT PEARL HARBOR

  By R. Sidney Bowen

  First Published by Grosset and Dunlap in 1944

  Copyright © 1944, 2021 Robert Sidney Bowen

  First Electronic Edition: June 2021

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with Cosmos Literary Agency.

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

  This and the other books in the series were originally written and published in the 1940s, when language and attitudes were much different to today. In order to preserve the spirit of the original writing and terminology, we have kept revisions to a minimum.

  Chapter One – For Luck

  THE ALARM CLOCK on the bedside table made a click and then gave forth a gentle, pleasant tone that grew more insistent with each passing second. By the time it was sounding off in earnest the good-looking redheaded young man who was stretched out under the sheets stirred himself, reached out a groping hand, found the clock, and pushed down the little plunger on top. The strident note ceased abruptly and presently even the echo had died away into silence.

  For a couple of minutes after that, however, Red Randall remained under the sheets blinking at the soft, velvety darkness of a Hawaiian night, and trying to force his sleepy brain to recall the reason he had set the clock for this unearthly hour. Eventually, however, he found himself sitting up in bed, switching on the table light and looking at the alarm clock. The hands told him it was exactly twenty-seven minutes of five in the morning. But nothing else registered, until he suddenly noticed his flying helmet and goggles on a nearby chair.

  Bingo! Everything clicked then, and he went out of bed in a single leap and grabbed for his clothes.

  “Rise and shine, big boy!” he grunted to himself. “You signed for six-thirty, and if you’re not there some lug is going to cross you off and take it himself.”

  With a nod for emphasis he began to throw on his clothes. Then he whirled into the bathroom to splash water in his face, make a pass at his red mop of hair with a comb, and then back to catch up his helmet, goggles, and flying log book. He was halfway through the door when he realized the light was still on. He wasted more time debating with himself than it would take him to walk back over and put it out. Then with a shrug he turned the switch.

  He had not been in Hawaii for more than a month and therefore he was not too familiar with the house he shared with his father, Colonel J. G. Randall, Fifth Pursuit Group, U. S. Army Air Corps, Hickam Field. No wonder he bumped into just about everything in the darkness except the kitchen stove. And each time he plowed into something he held his breath for fear he would awaken his Dad. As a result he almost jumped out of his rubber-soled shoes when he reached the screen porch and was quietly greeted by that gentleman in person.

  “Is that you, Red? Or is it a tank battalion just passing through?”

  “Gosh! You up, Dad?” Red gulped. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

  “Well, I’d certainly be awake now, if I had been,” his father replied with a chuckle. “No. I couldn’t seem to get back to sleep, so I came out here to sit. Where you off to, the airport?”

  “That’s right,” Red told him. “I signed for a plane for six-thirty. I want to get in some practice licks around the course.”

  “Course?” his father echoed, and then grunted, “Oh, yes. The Around the Island Race at the Club Flying Meet next week. How does it look? Figure to show your elevators to the other guys?”

  “I’m sure going to try,” Red said. “But I don’t know. There’s a new guy joined the Club last week, and he’s pretty hot. I’m hoping to take him, though. Heck, Dad! You’ll skin me if I don’t!”

  “Will I? Why, Red? Why should I?”

  “Because he’s Navy,” Red came right back. “His old man is a Torpedo Bomber Squadron Commander, or something.”

  “Old man, Red?” his Dad said quietly. “Is that what the other pilots call me?”

  “Huh, Dad? Why...er... No, I guess not. They call you my Dad, or the Colonel, or... Well, you know.”

  “Well, I hope so, anyway,” the senior Randall said. “So, if I were you; I wouldn’t call any other guy’s father the old man.”

  “Okay, if you say so, Dad,” Red said, and took a couple of steps toward the screen door. “Well, I guess I’ve got to be scramming.”

  “What’s this other guy’s name?” Colonel Randall asked.

  Red made a faint grimace in the darkness and let his hand drop from the screen door handle. “Jimmy Joyce,” he said. “A pretty hot pilot, too, but I don’t go for him much. I guess he’s okay, though.”

  “Joyce, Joyce?” his Dad mused aloud. “Why, yes, yes! I know his father. Commander Paul Joyce. I met him in the Canal Zone quite some time ago when he was on the Lexington. One of the best pilots in naval aviation. If Jimmy takes after his father in a cockpit, you have got a race on your hands, son.”

  “You’re telling me?” Red muttered. “But he’s going to have to go some, just the same. And, heck, Dad! That’s no kind of pep talk. The guy’s Navy! Expects to enter the Academy at Annapolis next fall. So he says, anyway. You don’t want me flying second to the Navy, do you?”

  “My, my, of course not!” the senior Randall laughed. “Army must always sink the Navy. Still, it often helps to have an idea what you’re up against in the opposition. And Commander Joyce is one of the best. Incidentally, he happens to be two years younger that I am, son.”

  “Okay, okay!” Red said quickly. “Nobody’s old man is an old man after this. That’s a promise. Well, be seeing you, Dad.”

  “What’s your hurry, son?” his father called out. “You can get to John Rogers Airport in half an hour in your car. We really haven’t seen much of each other since you came out to the Islands. And... Well, I can’t sleep, and if you’re not in such a hurry, why not sit and chat for a spell? Matter of fact, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  For a moment Red hesitated. He wanted to get over to John Rogers Airport as soon as he could and make sure that he would get that Ranger-powered Fairchild two-seater that he had flown yesterday. In his book, it was the sweetest ship owned by the Flying Club. And he was counting on it being his baby on the day of the Around the Island Race. But suddenly he had a funny feeling. It was a feeling he could not describe in words to himself, or even begin to understand why it s
uddenly came to him. Perhaps it was because of the fact that he had found his Dad out here on the screened porch, saying he could not sleep. First time he had ever heard his Dad say that. His Dad was tough as steel and unquestionably the hottest pilot who ever pulled on a pair of goggles. For him not to be able to sleep was just plain nutty...unless he was plenty worried. And it was that last thought that decided Red. He turned quickly from the screen door and went over and dropped down beside his father in the porch swing.

  “Hey, what gives, Dad?” he demanded. “Are you worried about something, and...? Hey! Do you really think we are going to go to war with the Japs? Have you heard anything special, Dad? I mean...”

  “Ease back on your throttle, Red,” the senior Randall interrupted, and placed a silencing hand on his knee. “You’re flat turning into a spin. Not so fast. One question at a time, son.”

  Colonel Randall paused, and the sound of a soft sigh checked the questions that immediately popped back to the tip of Red’s tongue.

  “Yes, I think we are going to go to war with Japan, Red,” his father presently said in a quiet voice. “They’ve been asking for it, and I’m afraid we’ll have to give it to them. And much sooner than we’d like to, considering one thing and another. That’s what I want to talk to you about, Red. If war breaks out, with Japan or Germany, I may not continue to be stationed here at Hickam. I might be sent to any one of a thousand different places. Frankly, I was tempted to write you and tell you not to come, because I knew then that conditions were bad and would probably get worse. But I’d promised you a winter out here with me, so I didn’t write. Well, Red, I hate to say it, but you’d better count on going back to your Aunt Betty’s in Seattle pretty soon. If things pop, there’s no telling where I may be sent, or...”

  “Wait a minute! Holy smoke, Dad!” Red Randall exploded. “You don’t mean before the Air Meet next week, do you? I was counting on...”

  “No, not before then, I guess,” his father interrupted. “But I think you’d better plan to make the boat the week after next. I hope you understand, Red. It’s not that I’d feel you’d be in my way, son, you know, or anything like that. You’re just eighteen, and you’re entering West Point next fall. And...well. I’ve got plenty of faith and confidence in you. You’ve seen a lot of the world for someone your age. And, as the saying goes, you know a lot of the right answers. It isn’t that I’d be worried about you. It’s...it’s just that I’d feel better able to do whatever job I had to do, knowing that you were with your aunt. See what I mean, son?”

  “Sure, Dad, sure,” Red replied just a wee bit too quickly. “I understand. Sure, if you were sent someplace else, I’d be way off the beam stuck out here alone. Though this place is murder he says!”

  “He what?” Colonel Randall gulped. “Murder?”

  “Oh, that’s just a saying, Dad,” Red explained. “Haven’t you heard it on the radio? It’s a song. Ozzie Nelson first played it, I think. It means tops, hot stuff, cooking on gas. You know! Plenty keen. But, Dad? You’ve heard something, haven’t you? I mean, about us starting to throw high hard ones at the Japs?”

  “No, nothing hush-hush, if that’s what you mean,” his father replied. “Of course the Islands have been on Alert Number One for some time. That, if you don’t know, is a precautionary measure against possible sabotage. But we haven’t gone on Alert Number Three, which would mean that an attack was coming at any moment. However—it may sound silly of me to say so—I have a feeling that things are going to go off with a bang, when they do go off. And frankly, I’m not alone in thinking that. A lot of us feel that M-Day is much closer than anybody suspects. I could be wrong, and possibly I am, but that’s how I feel. So, son, you take the boat back to the mainland the week after next. Is that a bargain?”

  “Okay, Dad,” Red echoed very unenthusiastically, “if you say so. Maybe things will change, though. But I’ve really got to scram along now, Dad. If I don’t, someone else may grab the ship I want. And it would be my luck for it to be that guy Joyce.”

  “Run along, son,” the senior Randall said and got up from the porch swing. “Best of luck, and keep your nose down on the turns. I’ve got to go over to Operations myself. I believe there are some Flying Fortresses coming out from the Mainland this morning. So...no, wait a minute, Red. There’s something I forgot. I was going to wait until you’d graduated from the Point. But I guess I won’t. Here, Red. And I hope they’ll bring you all the luck in the world.”

  Colonel Randall found Red’s hand in the shadowy light and pressed something into it. The young man looked down at what he had in his hand, and suddenly there was a lump in his throat as big as a baseball.

  “G-g-gee, Dad!” he finally blurted out. “The Air Service wings you won in the World War!”

  “Yes, my first pair of wings, son,” Colonel Randall said quietly. “I’ve kept them all these years to give them to you when you had won your wings as an Army pilot. Somehow, though, I don’t want to wait until then. So I’m giving them to you now, to keep until you have the right to put them on your tunic. And...well, maybe they’ll bring you luck in the race next week. There they are, anyway.”

  Red Randall did his best to swallow the lump in his throat, and looked at his father out of eyes that seemed to be slightly misted.

  “Gee, Dad, thanks, and I do mean thanks!” he said. “This is a day to put down in my diary. I sure won’t forget this day. I’ll... Hey! What the heck is the date, anyway? I know it’s Sunday.”

  “Yes, Sunday, December Seventh, Nineteen Forty-one.” Colonel Randall chuckled and put an arm about his son’s shoulders. “Hawaii does make one forget. Now chase along. And good flying, son.”

  “Right on the old beam, plenty, that’s me now!” Red called back as he went through the screen door. “Be seeing you, Dad. And thanks again, a million, sir!”

  Chapter Two – Death at Dawn

  RED RANDALL WAS rolling his father’s 1938 Ford coupé down the winding narrow road lined with kiawe trees that led to the John Rogers Airport, when suddenly the engine under the hood gave a gasping cough and quit cold. Slipping the car out of gear, the young redhead let it coast along under its own momentum, pressed the starter button time and time again, and worked on the choke knob. It was decidedly no soap, however. The coupé coasted to the end of its roll and became just another automobile bogged down.

  “Fine, fine!” Red muttered and kicked open the door on his side. “This makes everything just dandy. Why the hell didn’t Dad trade in this load of junk, anyway, I’d like to know!”

  There was no one about, however, to answer that question for him. Banging the door shut, he lifted up the engine hood and glared savagely at the power plant. That didn’t help at all. The engine remained dead. He took off the distributor head, cleaned the contacts with his handkerchief, and fiddled a fingernail between the points. By then he realized it might be a good idea to check on the gas. He did and found that he had half a tankful. He also checked and found that the gas was coming through to the carburetor okay. In short, unless the coil had gone haywire, the doggone thing should start.

  But the engine would not start. At the end of fifteen minutes, the battery began to complain bitterly and threatened to quit cold, too. It was now just seven minutes past six o’clock.

  “Two miles to go!” Red groaned, and wiped sweat from his face with his handkerchief, leaving streaks of grease where the sweat had been. “Only two miles, and this crate would up and die. Doggone it! Now some bird is sure to get that ship I want.”

  Giving the car a parting look that should have burned off every bit of paint, he started along the winding road at a dogtrot. He had taken less than a dozen steps when suddenly, off to his left, came an unearthly cry that froze him in his tracks and made every red hair on his head stand up straight on end.

  “My God!” he eventually got out. “What was that? Somebody hurt, or do they have night birds over here that make a noise like that?”

  For another moment or so he stoo
d rigid, peering hard through the dim light at the heavy growth on the left side of the road. The blood-chilling cry was not repeated and he was just about to start walking again when, like a bolt out of nowhere, a shadowy figure shot out of the heavy growth. The shadowy figure and Red saw each other at the same instant. Red saw a dark-skinned face—at least so it seemed in the faint light—and the flash of a long-bladed knife.

  That’s what he saw in the split second allowed. Then he was suddenly clipped from a dozen different angles at once, and his next sensation was that of spinning like a top on his head in the road. He stopped spinning, fell over heavily on his face, and just lay there trying to get his breath and to stop the rest of the world from whirling past his eyes. In an abstract sort of way he thought he heard the pounding of feet going down the road. But he was not sure, and he made no effort to lift his head and find out because he was still too stunned to move a muscle.

  Eventually his breath returned, and his whirling senses quieted down. Automatically he pushed himself up to a sitting position and started moving his hands over his body to find out if he were hurt any place else besides the top of his head, which felt as though it had been split open by an axe. He seemed to be still in one piece, however. And even when he gingerly touched the fingers of one hand to the top of his head, he found there only a big lump and not a single drop of blood. By now anger had displaced shock.

  “That so-and-so!” he fumed, and scrambled up onto his feet. “Why didn’t he look where he was going? He…”

  Red choked off the rest in a gulp as memory surged back into his brain. He remembered the flash of that long-bladed knife. And he remembered something else. Something else that he had seen in that split second, but had not actually grasped until now. It was the long, jagged scar on the face of the shadowy figure who had hit him and bowled him over in the middle of the road. That scar began just in front of the left ear and traced a zigzag course all the way down to the left corner of the mouth.