Curiously enough, the sub didn’t seem to see the Ward at all. It just kept moving ahead, trailing the Antares at about eight or nine knots.
“Commence firing,” Outerbridge ordered. They were now only 100 yards away and Boatswain’s Mate A. Art, captain of Number 1 gun, knew they were much too close to use his sights. So he aimed the gun like a squirrel rifle and let her go. It was exactly 6:45 A.M. when this first shot whistled over the conning tower and plunged into the sea beyond.
They were better squirrel hunters at Number 3 gun on the galley house roof. Gun Captain Russell Knapp gave his order to fire about 30 seconds later, with the target less than 50 yards away. The shell hit the base of the conning tower, just where it touched the water. The sub staggered but came on.
Now it was right alongside, sucked almost against the ship. For an instant it seemed to hang there — long enough to give Gunner’s Mate Louis Gerner an indelible picture of the glass in its stubby periscope — and then it was behind them, writhing and spinning in the Ward’s wake.
Four quick whistle blasts told Chief Torpedoman W. C. Maskzawilz to release his depth charges. One … two … three … four rolled off the stern. Huge geysers erupted and the sub was instantly swallowed in a mountain of foam. Maskzawilz, who set the pistols at 100 feet, noted with satisfaction that the sub “seemed to wade right into the first one.”
Up in the PBY Ensign Tanner was doing some soul-searching. Helping the sub might be the decent thing to do, but his orders were very strict —“Depth bomb and sink any submarines found in the defensive sea area without authority.” Now he looked down, the Ward was doing just that. A pang of hesitation, and Tanner made another run. This time he dropped some depth bombs of his own.
All these fireworks were watched with mild interest by the men on the tug Keosanqua. She loafed about two miles away, just off the harbor mouth, still waiting to pick up the Antares’ barge. Like everybody else on board, Engineer Blackmore thought it was merely some early-morning practice.
On the Ward, Lieutenant Goepner had a far more harrowing thought. He had the awful feeling that it might be an American sub. Of course, it shouldn’t have been there and, of course, it didn’t look like anything he had ever seen before; but could there have been a mistake?
In the PBY, Ensign Tanner had the same feeling. He and his copilot, Ensign Clark Greevey, assured each other that orders were orders. But if Tanner’s judgment was wrong, a lot of good that would do. He could see the court-martial now. And he could see himself labeled for the rest of his life as the man who sank the American sub. In a wave of youthful self-pity he began picturing himself trying to get any job anywhere. As the plane resumed its patrol, he grimly reported the sinking to the Kaneohe Naval Air Station and settled back to await the inevitable end of his career.
Only Outerbridge seemed absolutely confident. In fact, he decided that the report radioed at 6:51 A.M. wasn’t strong enough. It ran: “Depth-bombed sub operating in defensive sea area.” This might imply just a periscope sighting or a sonar contact. Throughout the years there had been too many spars and whales bombed for headquarters to get overly excited about a message like that. But the Ward had seen the sub itself, and that was the all-important point to put over. It was the one hope of stirring up some action, instead of the standard “verify and repeat.”
So Outerbridge quickly drafted another message. At 6:53 he again radioed the Fourteenth Naval District Headquarters. This time the report ran: “Attacked, fired on, depth-bombed, and sunk, submarine operating in defensive sea area.” He felt that “fired on” was the key phrase. Now they would know he used his guns. Now they would know that he at least saw something.
Even Outerbridge didn’t go all the way. He might have reported this extraordinary encounter in the clear instead of in code, and thus saved a few minutes. He might have used his blinker to signal the harbor control tower. He might have sent the more jolting message that was drafted but ended up crumpled in his file — it began with the words: “Sighted conning tower of strange sub, fired two rounds at point-blank range …” But at least he did something. At least he was willing, when other men were hypnotized by peace, to announce that he had blasted the daylights out of someone.
Whoever it was, it wasn’t Ensign Sakamaki. At 6:30 he and Inagaki were still trying to correct their boat’s trim. It was no easy job. Only one man at a time could wriggle on his stomach along the cramped tunnel that led fore and aft from the control room. They took turns slithering back and forth … shifting lead ballast, twisting the dials that released the air and filled the tanks with water. It took an hour to get the sub back on an even keel.
At last they started off again and even found time for a spot of lunch. They sat facing each other in the tiny control room, munching rice balls and exchanging cups of grape wine. As they finished, they grasped each other’s hands and again pledged success.
Ten minutes later Sakamaki, peeking through the periscope, was appalled to see that they were approximately 90 degrees off course. With the gyrocompass out of order, he was depending on an auxiliary compass, which he thought would at least show the right directions. Apparently it was out of order too.
He tried to reset his course with his periscope, but it wasn’t much help. Blindly the sub moved this way and that, always seeming to end up in the wrong direction. His hands grew wet with sweat. It was now about 7:00 A.M., and Ensign Kazuo Sakamaki was still a long way from the mouth of Pearl Harbor.
CHAPTER V
“Well, Don’t Worry About It”
IT WAS AN UNEVENTFUL morning at the Army’s Opana radar station near Kahuku Point on the northern tip of Oahu. Normally Privates Joseph Lockard and George Elliott made 25 plane contacts during the regular 4:00 to 7:00 A.M. watch, but this Sunday there was hardly anything.
The Opana station was one of five mobile units set up at strategic points around the perimeter of Oahu. They were all linked to an information center at Fort Shafter, which kept track of the plots picked up by the stations. The system could pick up any plane within 150 miles — when it worked. But it had just started operating around Thanksgiving and was still full of bugs. Lockard, Elliott, and the others spent most of their time training and making repairs.
At first they practiced from 7:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. But after Washington’s warning of November 27, they went on duty every morning from four to seven — General Short felt these were the critical hours. Then they trained until 11:00 and knocked off for the day. On Sundays they worked only the four-to-seven shift. To the men this was simply a change in hours, not a change in routine or approach.
It was all very casual at Opana. This was the most remote of the five stations, and the six men who ran it were left pretty much to themselves. They had a small camp at Kawaiola, nine miles down the coast, and commuted to work by pickup truck. They were meant to work in three-man shirts, but this Sunday they decided that a two-man shift would do. Lockard served as operator, Elliott as both plotter and motorman. The regular motorman stayed in the sack.
They went on duty at noon December 6. They had the double job of guarding the set with a .45 pistol and seven rounds of ammunition, and running it during the four-to-seven watch the following morning. That night they set the alarm for 3:45 A.M., tuned in the set on schedule at 4:00, and spent the next three hours waiting for something to happen. There was a flicker or so around 6:45 — apparently a couple of planes were coming in from the northeast about 130 miles away — but nothing more than that. They weren’t surprised when the Shafter Information Center phoned at 6:54 and told them they could start closing up.
At the information center, Lieutenant Kermit Tyler, the only officer on duty, was having an equally quiet time. Usually the place was quite busy as the five stations phoned in their contacts and the spotters moved little arrows around the big wooden plotting table. It was all make-believe, for the other services hadn’t yet assigned liaison officers to help screen out friendly planes, but still it made for lively practice. The control o
fficer would plan the interception of the “enemy.” His assistant, the pursuit officer, would relay his orders to mythical squadrons of Army fighters. Sometimes they even practiced with real planes.
But this Sunday there was little action. Few contacts; nobody to evaluate the planes that were spotted; no control officer to direct any interception. Except for the enlisted men at the plotting table, only the pursuit officer, Lieutenant Tyler, was on hand. But with nobody to give him orders and no planes to relay orders to, he had nothing to do. Nor did he really know what he was meant to do — he had only drawn this duty once before.
Actually, he was there purely for training. Major Kenneth Bergquist — in charge of the radar network — wanted the young pilots to learn as much about the systems as possible, so they could use it more effectively in interception work. Since the center had to operate from four to seven anyhow, this was a good chance to brush up. Today was Tyler’s turn, and it was enough if he kept his eyes peeled.
For the first two hours nothing happened. Around 6:10 one of the stations finally phoned in a contact, and the spotters began shoving their arrows around the board. At 6:45 some plots began to show up 130 miles north of Oahu — not much, but enough to make Lieutenant Tyler wander over and see how the clerk would mark them on the daily record. They showed up as little hen scratches pointing toward Oahu. Then suddenly it was 7:00 A.M., and everyone went off to breakfast.
Tyler was left alone in the room. For one of those reasons known only to the Army, his orders ran from 4:00 to 8:00 — an hour beyond everybody else’s. He settled back alone — no one to obey … no one to command … and now no one even to talk to.
The 7:00 A.M. closing time made little difference to Privates Lockard and Elliott at Opana. They were at the mercy of the breakfast truck. It usually came about seven, but a man couldn’t set his watch by it. With this in mind, they decided to keep the set running until the truck came. Elliott wanted to practice operating the set. After two weeks in the outfit, he could do the plotting pretty well, but still was no operator. Lockard was willing to teach him.
At 7:02 Elliott sat down and began fiddling with the controls. Lockard leaned over his shoulder and started explaining the various echoes or blips. Suddenly a blip flashed on the screen far bigger than anything Lockard had ever seen before. It was almost as big as the main pulse the unit always sent out. So big he thought the set was broken … that somehow the main pulse and mileage scale had gotten out of kilter. It was a pinball machine gone haywire.
He shoved Elliott aside and took over the controls himself. Quickly he saw there was nothing wrong with the set — it was just a huge flight of planes. By now Elliott was at the plotting table, and in a few seconds they nailed down the position: 137 miles to the north, three degrees east.
At 7:06 Elliott tried the headphones that connected directly with one of the spotters in the information center. The line was dead. Then he tried the regular Army circuit. After the clicks and hums and wheezes that are the overture to any phone call in Hawaii, he finally got through to the information center switchboard operator, Private Joseph McDonald. McDonald worked in a small cubicle just outside the plotting room and remained on duty even though the center was now closed.
Breathlessly Elliott broke the news: “There’s a large number of planes coming in from the north, three degrees east.”
McDonald thought there was nobody left at the information center, so he wrote down the message and turned around to time it by the big clock on the plotting room wall. Through the open door he suddenly noticed Lieutenant Tyler, sitting alone at the plotting table — there was someone in the building after all.
McDonald took the message to the lieutenant. Helpfully he explained that it was the first time he had ever received anything like this — “Do you think we ought to do something about it?” He suggested they call the plotters back from breakfast. They didn’t get too much practice, and this certainly seemed “an awful big flight.”
Tyler was unimpressed. McDonald returned to the switchboard and called back Opana. This time he got Lockard, who was excited too. The blips looked bigger than ever; the distance was shrinking fast — 7:08 A.M., 113 miles … 7:15 A.M., 92 miles. At least 50 planes must be soaring toward Oahu at almost 180 mph.
“Hey, Mac!” he protested when McDonald told him the lieutenant said everything was all right. Then Lockard asked to speak directly to Tyler, explaining he had never seen so many planes, so many flashes, on his screen.
McDonald traipsed back to Tyler: “Sir, I would appreciate it very much if you would answer the phone.”
Tyler took over, listened patiently, and thought a minute. He remembered the carriers were out — these might be Navy planes. He recalled hearing the radio on his way to work; remembered that it stayed on all night whenever B-17s came in from the coast — these might be Flying Fortresses. In either case, the planes were friendly. Cutting short any further discussion, he told Lockard, “Well, don’t worry about it.”
Lockard was now in no mood to keep on; he thought they might as well shut down the set. But Elliott wanted to practice some more, so they followed the flight on in —7:25 A.M., 62 miles.. . 7:30 A.M., 47 miles… 7:39 A.M., 22 miles. At this point they lost it in the “dead zone” caused by the hills around them.
Conveniently, the pickup truck arrived just then to take them back to Kawaiola for breakfast. They slammed shut the doors of the mobile unit, turned the lock, hopped in the truck, and bounced off down the road at 7:45.
At the Shaffer Information Center Private McDonald was still uneasy. He asked Lieutenant Tyler what he really thought of the blips, and was glad to hear the lieutenant say, “It’s nothing.” Shortly after 7:30 another operator took over the switchboard, and as McDonald left the building he suddenly stuck the original Opana message in his pocket. He had never done anything like this before, but he wanted to show it to the fellows.
Alone again in the plotting room, Lieutenant Tyler settled back to wait out the last dragging minutes of his own tour of duty. He had no qualms about the Opana message, and although he didn’t know it, on one count at least he was absolutely right —the all-night radio did mean some B-17s were coming in from the mainland. At this very moment 12 of the big bombers were approaching from the northeast.
But the planes that showed up on the Opana screen were a little less to the east, far more numerous, and at this moment infinitely closer.
Commander Mitsuo Fuchida knew they must be nearly there — they had been in the air now almost an hour and a half. But a carpet of thick white clouds stretched endlessly below, and he couldn’t even see the ocean to check the wind drift. He flicked on the radio direction finder and picked up an early-morning program from Honolulu. By twisting his antenna he got a good bearing on the station and discovered he was five degrees off course. He made the correction, and the other planes followed suit.
They were all around him. Behind were the other 48 horizontal bombers. To the left and slightly above were Lieutenant Commander Kakwichi Takahashi’s 51 dive-bombers. To the right and a little below were Lieutenant Commander Shigeharu Murata’s 40 torpedo planes. Far above, Lieutenant Commander Shigeru Itaya’s 43 fighters provided cover. The bombers flew at 9000 feet, the fighters as high as 15,000. All of them basked in the bright morning sun that now blazed off to the left.
But below, the clouds were still everywhere. Fuchida began to worry —would it be as bad over Pearl Harbor? If so, what would that do to the bombing? He wished the reconnaissance planes would report — they should be there by now. And then through the radio music he suddenly heard a weather broadcast. He tuned closer and caught it clearly: “… partly cloudly … mostly over the mountains … ceiling 3500 feet … visibility good.”
Now he knew he could count on the clouds to break once he reached Oahu. Also that it would be better to come in from the west and southwest — those clouds over the mountains made an eastern approach too dangerous. Then, as if to cap this run of good luck, the clouds below h
im parted, and almost directly ahead he saw a white line of surf breaking against a rugged green shore. It was Kahuku Point, Oahu.
Lieutenant Toshio Hashimoto, piloting one of Fuchida’s bombers, was simply charmed. The lush green island, the clear blue water, the colored roofs of the little houses seemed in another world. It was the kind of scene one likes to preserve. He pulled out his camera and snapped some pictures.
For fighter pilot Yoshio Shiga, this warm, sunlit land had a deeper meaning. Back in 1934 he had been to Honolulu on a naval training cruise … a visit full of good times and pleasant memories. To see Oahu again, still so green and lovely, gave him a strange, nostalgic feeling. He thought about it for a moment, then turned to the business at hand.
The time had come to deploy for the attack, and Commander Fuchida had a difficult decision to make. The plan provided for either “Surprise” or “Surprise Lost” conditions. If “Surprise,” the torpedo planes were to go in first, then the horizontal bombers, finally the dive-bombers, while the fighters remained above for protection. (The idea was to drop as many torpedoes as possible before the smoke from the dive-bombing ruined the targets.) On the other hand, if the raiders had been detected and it was “Surprise Lost,” the dive-bombers and fighters would hit the airfields and antiaircraft defenses first; then the torpedo planes would come in when resistance was crushed. To tell the planes which deployment to take, Commander Fuchida was to fire his signal gun once for “Surprise,” twice for “Surprise Lost.”
Trouble was, Commander Fuchida didn’t know whether the Americans had caught on or not. The reconnaissance planes were meant to tell him, but they hadn’t reported yet. It was now 7:40 A.M., and he couldn’t wait any longer. They were already well down the west coast and about opposite Haleiwa. Playing a hunch, he decided he could carry off the surprise.
The World War II Collection Page 41
