Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  “Yes, I do know,” Grew replied.

  Damn all, he thought to himself. Both of us are beginning to box each other in. There will be less and less room to maneuver diplomatically. The situation was getting out of control.

  FIVE

  Nanking, China

  30 March 1938

  Since he was chief flight officer to the Thirteenth Naval Air Corps, currently stationed at a captured Nationalist airstrip just outside the city of Nanking, Lieutenant Commander Fuchida’s participation in this raid was not really necessary.

  But he was up anyhow this morning, dawn just breaking the eastern sky, the air smooth, no turbulence, like sliding on an icy pond, his Type-96 Mitsubishi responding to the lightest touch of stick and rudder as he went into a sharp, banking turn a thousand meters above the burning target below.

  His job was to help plan operations, train his pilots, and see to the overall operations of his squadron; in private he had been sent over from the staff college to make sure that another “Panay Incident” did not happen.

  Several days after that attack, Rear Admiral Zenshiro Hoshina, chief administrator of the Naval Air Corps, had summoned him personally. “We cannot afford another such,” Hoshina started, hesitating, “incident with Westerners. It was utter rashness for it to happen. One would expect it of the army, but not of our own pilots, whose discipline is higher.”

  Fuchsia said nothing, for after all, every navy pilot held their counterparts in the army in disdain. Let them try and land on a pitching carrier deck in a force-five blow, or for that matter carry out a disciplined attack and actually hit their targets with precision.

  “So I am sending you over to ride herd on those men for a while,” Hoshina had continued, and Fuchida’s heart sank. It meant he was being taken out of his class at the War College, a definite step backward in his career.

  Hoshina had sensed his dismay and smiled. “Don’t worry. You’ll still be on the rolls as part of the training here. Clear up any problems with discipline in China, and you’ll be back here in six months and finish your studies by the end of the year.”

  He had sighed with relief and actually bowed in thanks.

  “I’ve watched you, Fuchsia. You have judgment, discipline. I want someone out there to watch things directly, to make sure there are no more such,” and again he hesitated, “‘mistakes’ and besides, the combat experience will do you good.”

  So now he circled over the blazing village in his Type-96 Mitsubishi, fuming with anger.

  The bombing had been poor. No excuse. He had already marked the crews of three of the bombers for a solid chewing out. They had obviously dropped early, their loads simply cratering paddies and an orchard.

  As to the target, whoever had designated it was a fool, or, as he suspected, the enemy had been forewarned. It was obvious there was nothing down there but yet another burning village, now most likely littered with a couple of hundred dead, and not a single uniform in sight, not a single secondary explosion. If Nationalist forces had been hiding ammunition and supplies there, as Army Intelligence had informed them yesterday, requesting the strike, someone had either had second sight or found out about the raid and moved the supplies out.

  Security around the base, on the outskirts of Nanking, was still far too lax. Chinese laborers working to keep the runway operational with the onset of the spring mud, coolies delivering food, even those working in the kitchen. He had tried to push them all out, to have everything done by Japanese troops, but the base commander said it was impossible. So he was willing to bet that word had leaked out, yet again.

  THE LAST OF THE BOMBERS turned back to the south-southeast, ten minutes to cross the Yangtze, and ten minutes beyond to their base. As the bombers started for home, he decided to drop down for a closer look, his wingman, Lieutenant Masatake Okumiya, closing in on his starboard wing. As a squadron leader he had a radio, but Masatake did not, so it was still communication by wing wags and hand signals. Yet another thing that he felt had to be modernized at once.

  Fuchsia nodded, pointed to his eyes and then up, Masatake saluted in reply, pulling back up to keep high cover and a lookout in case an enemy fighter actually did appear.

  There had been several tangles over the last few months with Nationalist fighters, old Curtiss Hawks flown by Chinese pilots, and reportedly there were even some Soviet “volunteers” flying I-16s for the Communist forces. He had yet to tangle with either, and this morning’s raid was as uneventful as the dozen others he had flown on so far. The few Chinese fighters that were encountered now either fled or were shot down, the 96s far superior in all respects. The enemy pilots usually kept their distance, especially when it was Japanese naval planes doing the job.

  He rolled from a sharp banking turn into a split S, inverting, going over on his back, pulling the stick back sharply, easing back on the throttle slightly.

  The plane was a joy, fast with a maximum speed of nearly four hundred kilometers per hour, able to go through a 360-degree roll in just seconds. As he pulled the stick back into his stomach, the horizon disappeared, and several Gs pressed him into his seat; he was coming straight down on the burning village. He could see people scattering. He continued to hold the stick back, then eased off slightly. If a student pilot had pulled this stunt with him at this altitude there would have been hell to pay, but he knew what he was doing, knew his plane, and didn’t pull out from the inverted dive until he was less than fifty meters from the ground, racing at near the VNE for the plane, “velocity do not exceed.” The moment felt good, plane stable, no tremor, the stick solid in his hand. He was now just above the road leading out of the village, heading up toward the front lines. He caught glimpses of peasants scattering in fear. He tried not to think about that. All too often the army pilots, when coming back from a mission, would empty their remaining ammunition on the terrified peasants. He had forbidden that practice and was amazed when several had questioned him one night at evening mess about the order and he found that he had to justify it, not morally, but rather as a “waste of expensive ordnance.”

  There were tracks on the muddy road, the early morning light sparkling off the water that filled the ruts. And in an instant he knew. Damn, next time, from now on, someone would fly in first on these damn raids against a target that wasn’t fixed in place and check before a single bomb was dropped.

  A couple of kilometers ahead was a bamboo grove, to either side the ground open, all of it farmed. He raced toward the grove and then caught a reflected glint of light. He banked 45 degrees as he thundered over the grove, and there he saw them–four trucks, crews already jumping out of the vehicles that had obviously come from the village, cut bamboo piled atop them in a vain effort at concealment, but the ruts a beacon straight to the target.

  He banked up sharply, circling, gaining a hundred meters so when he went into his strafing run and nosed over, he’d still have plenty of ground room on the run in. Too many pilots had been killed on strafing missions when, so intent on their target, they forgot that to keep the target in their sights it meant they had to be in a shallow dive and not pull out too late.

  He lined up on the east side of the road half a kilometer away and raced in, cover on the trigger flipped up, finger poised, ready to brush against the hard metal; just the slightest touch and the machine guns would ignite, the cold morning wind whipping past to either side of the open cockpit.

  Another few seconds… a Nationalist soldier out in the middle of the road, running in blind panic… bad luck for you, fellow… he brushed the trigger, ready to walk the tracers into the truck park, ready to flip sharply and bank if secondary explosions should light off.

  A glimpse of the terrified Nationalist, staggering backward, rifle raised…

  And then the blow… forward windscreen shattering, shards of glass blowing back, wind howling at over three hundred kilometers per hour blasting his face. Thank heaven my goggles are down was the flash thought; a split second later black oil was flinging into his fa
ce, blinding him.

  He yanked back on the stick, one hand up to try and wipe his goggles clear, not even sure if he was hit. Disoriented now, he looked to one side, saw he was in a high banking turn. Impossible to see his instruments, sensing the controls going sluggish, losing lift in the high banking turn, starting to head into an accelerated stall, at this altitude no time to break the stall, especially if it snapped into a spin.

  His heart was pounding. He pushed the stick forward and to the left, feeding in left rudder as well, wondering for a second if the controls would even respond. They did. Rudder was working, ailerons, elevator, no damage there. The plane leveled out. Oil was still streaming back, smashing into his face, filling his mouth and nose; it was almost impossible to breathe. He fumbled for his oxygen mask. Somehow it was not clipped to the side of his helmet, knocked off, maybe shot away. Again he looked to his port side to try and orient himself. Horizon was nearly level now, sense of control returning, but smoke was now making it hard to see. The big radial engine forward was rougher by the second, a cylinder or two beginning to misfire. It was impossible to see his instruments, to check oil pressure, engine temperature, temperature. Smoke was pouring into the cockpit, smelling of burning oil.

  Damn, damn all! A bullet, one damn bullet fired blindly, most likely had pierced the cowling, severed an oil line, then smashed into his windscreen. One damn bullet, and he had a flash memory of his English instructor at Etajima, the Kipling poem about the Sandhurst graduate, the thousands of pounds spent on his education, to be snuffed out by an Afghan taking a potshot with a bullet costing one rupee.

  A shadow. He looked again to starboard: it was his wing-man! Up so close the planes were almost touching. He could barely make him out through the oil-covered goggles, but he could see that Masatake was wagging his wings–follow me.

  Fuchsia let go of the iron grip he had been keeping on his stick with both hands, waved, pointed to his goggles, shook his head to try and signal he was blinded.

  Masatake ever so slowly went into a banking turn with a gentle climb.

  He finally leveled out but continued to climb.

  Good old Masatake was leading him home and going for altitude. Every meter gained was six meters of glide if and when the engine cut out.

  The engine was getting rough. When would a piston finally seize up? He slowly worked the throttle back, dropping rpms, leaning the fuel mixture out, working cowling flaps wide to force as much cooling air as possible into the engine, a tradeoff since if there was fire the extra rush of air would fan it. If a fire was igniting, all hell would break loose, and his sense of smell was alert. It still smelled like hot boiling oil, hopefully from the ruptured line spraying onto the engine and manifold, but if it caught into an open blaze, it was time to get the hell out; and, unlike some, he had no qualms about using his parachute that others disdained as cowardice. Fools! A pilot was worth his weight in gold, in fact, actually most likely far more than his weight in gold when the cost of training him across the years was actually calculated.

  But he had no idea where in hell he was, if over Nationalist lines; the prospect of being a prisoner was unacceptable. There were rumors circulating that the Nationalists were torturing then executing prisoners. It’s what we do, he thought, a grim irony, trying to argue with them that he was a naval pilot and thus different than the army. A poor excuse, he knew. No, the engine had to be nursed along.

  Rougher engine and still rougher. Shut it down now and avoid fire. No, wait… the minutes dragged out, engine sputtering, sounding like it was going to seize, then kicking back in. Mitsubishi made an engine that could take punishment, oil starved it’d still keep running. He was still flying.

  Again good old Masatake by his side, wing tip tucked up close, and then a wave, barely visible, pointing down, and then he slowly began to drop. Fuchsia nodded. They must be close. More smoke. He cut the throttle completely, working the hydraulic pump to feather the prop, then turned off the magneto switches. The engine stuttered, there was a shudder and it stopped, but the smoke continued to cascade into the cockpit; it was all but impossible to breathe now. He fumbled around, trying to find the oxygen mask again, and at last grasped it, pressing it to his face… damn, it had indeed been shot away, a hole through the hose, and that gave him a cold chill; it meant the bullet had missed him by no more than a fraction as the mask hung to his side.

  He couldn’t judge altitude, had no idea where he was, he just stayed focused on Masatake, who was bleeding off speed. A wave from Masatake, a gesture as if pointing down. He thought he could see the flaps on Masatake’s plane cranking down, and he followed his lead. The plane had fixed landing gear, so no worry there. Air speed dropping off, slowing, stick heavier, the edge of a stall approaching, nose pitching up, imitating Masatake.

  Then an instant of panic as Masatake suddenly accelerated and started to pull up.

  And at nearly that same instant there was a hard slap, the ground! His plane bounced, hung for a second. Smoke was dying off. He stuck his head over to the side, caught a recognizable glimpse of the control tower; another slap, all three wheels down, no need to work rudder against torque from the engine; he rolled past the tower, looked up, saw Masatake now flying above him thirty feet or so higher, acting as a guide for directional control, but he no longer needed that. He pulled his goggles back, able to see, eyes stinging from the smoke, but he could see as he rolled out to a stop.

  Silence. Absolute silence.

  He was shaking, fear now really digging into him and a few seconds later, still strapped in, he tried to lean forward as he vomited and then gasped for air.

  Hands around his shoulders, shouts, sound of a truck pulling up, men leaping out, someone, his crew chief, pulling him out of the cockpit and down the wing. Gasping for air he vomited again and felt complete and utter shame at doing so, worried that those gathered around would think it was fear. It was the damn oil.

  “Water,” was all he could croak out. And a canteen was pressed to his lips. He rinsed, spat it out, someone was wiping his face even as they led him away from the side of the plane and over to the truck.

  “Sir, let me rinse your eyes,” someone said. He nodded, cool water splashing on his face, a towel gently wiping the oil away, more water, more wiping.

  “Try and open them now, sir.”

  He opened his eyes. They stung like hell, but he could see. Breathing was still difficult. Someone pushed an oxygen mask to his face and he took the air in, breathing deeply, coughing, half vomiting again, black oil clearing from his throat.

  An engine. He looked up; it was Masatake, taxiing in, swinging to one side of the runway. A fire crew was hosing down Fuchida’s plane, engine hissing under the cascade of water.

  Masatake climbed up out of his cockpit, jumped down from the wing, and came running over. Fuchsia suddenly realized that dozens, maybe a hundred or more, were watching. He had to play the role again, hoping that the trembling would just be seen as illness from breathing and swallowing oil.

  Masatake slowed and Fuchsia did not salute, instead he bowed formally.

  “I owe you my life, my friend.”

  He felt Masatake’s hands on his shoulders pulling him back up, and he looked into the grinning face of his comrade, who let all formality break and hugged him, then stepped back.

  “Hey, you got oil all over my new flight suit,” Masatake joked, and there was a thickness to his voice as the two gazed at each other.

  Fuchsia could not speak for a moment, embarrassed by the emotional display, and then turned away, walking over to his plane where a crowd was gathered around. The crew chief, up on a wing, soaking wet, leaned up over the forward cowling and exclaimed: “You can see it, one damn lucky shot, cut open an oil line, up through here,” and he pointed to the hole in the cowling, “and through here.” He pointed to the oil-caked remnants of the windscreen and then looked back with amazement at Fuchsia.

  It was unspoken but both knew what the other was thinking. A few more c
entimeters to one side, and that bullet would have shattered his skull, and he would be tangled into a burning wreck eighty kilometers to the north on the other side of the Yangtze. Funny, he could not even remember crossing the river now.

  “Sir, I think we should get you back to the infirmary,” one of the medical staff announced, still holding the oxygen bottle.

  Fuchsia shook his head. “I’ll be all right,” he replied, his voice raspy. “Actually something to drink would be better medicine.”

  Within seconds half a dozen eager hands were offering small flasks of sake. He took one, the owner grinning and bowing slightly. He forced himself to gulp it down, even though it burned. Again, part of the show of command, something the men would talk about later.

  The drink hit his head, and he swayed slightly, everyone now laughing good-naturedly.

  Air crewmen gathered around as he forced himself to walk to the control tower and his barracks just beyond. A shower, change of clothes, then quietly over to the infirmary afterward.

  Eyes still burning, he looked around at his comrades and then stopped short, surprised beyond ability to speak. It was a Westerner, tall, and immediately recognizable–his old friend Stanford.

  What the hell was he doing here? Fuchsia wondered in confusion, and then remembered. The base commander had informed him that a Western reporter would be allowed onto the base to interview him. Another gesture after the Panay situation to try and smooth the waters.

  He had no idea that it would be Stanford.

  His old friend approached a bit hesitantly, the pilots and ground crew gathered around Fuchsia falling into silence, some nervous, more than a few features going cold as if this man were an intruder.

  Fuchsia broke the tension, stepping forward, hand extended. “Sir, my old friend,” Fuchsia said.

  Stanford smiled and extended his hand, and Fuchsia started to pull his back, realizing he was covered with oil; but Stanford took it anyhow, shaking it warmly, so un-Britishlike, and then actually patted him on the shoulder.