Pearl Harbor: A Novel of December 8th

by Newt Gingrich

  USS Lexington (CV-2) off Honolulu, Oahu, Hawaii, with Diamond Head in the background, 2 February 1933.

  NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER

  rich with that smell of the sea, the lush tropical green clinging to the mountainsides. It was still three hours before he had to be on campus to teach, plenty of time to just cruise around and enjoy the early morning light illuminating the mountains. He gained another five hundred feet, easily clearing up over the east rim of Diamond Head, the breathtaking view of Waikiki Beach beyond. Off in the distance he saw something that made his heart swell; it was distant but clearly visible… a carrier putting out to sea from Pearl.

  He saw a plane coming in from the east, a beautiful sight, one of the famed Pan American clippers, which now flew a regular route from San Francisco, coming in a bit early he figured, now down to a thousand feet, passing to the south of Diamond Head, ready to turn into the main loch at Pearl Harbor for final approach and landing.

  Now that was flying, he thought. Hard to imagine almost, though Life had done a big spread on the luxury to be found aboard, the full-time chef, sleeping berths, even a lounge and bar aboard. Pan American was boasting how they would ring the entire world with their huge four-engine “Clippers,” named, of course, after the legendary tall ships of a hundred years past, and soon no spot on the earth would be more than a three- or four-day journey away.

  A touch of envy, but his little Chief was enough for now.

  It all looked so peaceful, the war news distant, remote, on the other side of the world. He circled Diamond Head once and then turned back for his little dirt strip and another quiet day of teaching.

  Two hundred miles west of Lisbon

  19 September 1940

  Lieutenant Commander Genda still could not quite believe the experience he was having. The waiter, proper and correct looking in his dark blue Pan American uniform, bent over slightly with tray extended, offering him the famed drink of the plane, the Clipper Special, a mix of vodka, gin, and grenadine.

  Nodding his thanks he took the drink, leaning back in his luxurious well-padded seat, the décor a rich turquoise blue carpeting, seats, and even padding of the walls and ceiling, an effective sound barrier that drowned out the pulsing roar of the four Wright Cyclone 14-cylinder engines, each of which delivered 1,600 horsepower to lift this giant of a plane, the famed Boeing 314 Clipper, on its voyage across the Atlantic.

  He never dreamed he would ever be aboard such a plane, the greatest transoceanic aircraft ever built, and most likely ever to be built. Capable of carrying seventy day-flight passengers, or forty overnight passengers, each of whom would have their own individual sleeping berths, the plane was richly appointed in every detail.

  He had assumed that at the end of his tour of duty in England he would return as he had arrived, by very slow boat, a journey of a month or more. But someone back in Tokyo, most likely Admiral Yamamoto, had seen otherwise, and now he was to be rushed home, first the Clipper to New York, a train to the embassy in Washington to report there, another train to San Francisco, clippers to Hong Kong, and then a waiting Japanese plane for the final flight home.

  It was all so breathtaking and actually exciting that some felt that his thoughts, his reports, were worth the expenditure of such money to whisk him home in little more than a week.

  It told him as well that something was afoot, something was changing in Tokyo and he would have a role to play in it, and if the Emperor commanded, so he would obey.

  As his gaze drifted around the richly appointed plane, the turquoise carpeting, alternating with rust color in the next compartment aft, the heavy leather lounge chairs, the brass-railed spiral staircase that led to the flight deck above, the thick-cut and beveled glass in the lavatory… This is something only Americans would build, even while the world plunged into war. The thought of Japan having such aircraft filled him with envy. The range alone was staggering, two hops to refuel, first the Azores then Bermuda, then on to New York, each leg less than twelve hours. Stripped of all its luxury and weight, the bomb load it could carry, or a full company of Imperial marines… the thought was staggering, what such wealth implied, what five hundred planes such as this could do in time of war.

  The interior was divided into six passenger compartments, color scheme arranged in alternating turquoise or deep rust color. Just aft of the spiral staircase was the dining lounge, exceeding anything he had ever experienced aboard ship or train, a full-time chef onboard to tend to the passengers, and he had immediately demonstrated his skills when he produced a light lunch just before takeoff from the mouth of the Tagus River in Lisbon. The menu had offered a selection of fresh fruit, Spanish and Portuguese cheeses, the chef personally apologizing that because of the war, you know, French cheeses were no longer available, a fine selection of wines, thin slices of veal and asparagus, and for dessert, iced sherbets and, of course, the usual brandy and cigars.

  It had been a feast straight out of fantasy. Regardless of the diplomatic status of the embassy in London, the cook there was finding it increasingly difficult to obtain meat, eggs, fresh fish, even rice. One day there had been fish aplenty, but then he found out that a stick of German bombs had landed in the Thames, hundreds of dead bottom dwellers rising to the surface. He had passed on that meal, going out instead to find a corner dealer in fish and chips, not bothering to ask where her fish came from, most likely from the same source he realized later when struck by the after-results of the meal.

  After takeoff he had even been invited to go upstairs to the flight deck, a spacious affair with pilot, copilot, relief pilot, flight engineer, and navigator greeting him. Typical Americans in their friendliness, and when they found out he was not just a diplomat on his way home, but a naval pilot as well, the conversation had opened up, with discussion of range, the reliability of the huge Wright-Cyclone engines, the unique triboom tail, “could not get the damn thing to turn otherwise,” the copilot had quipped, and even discussion of hopes, once things “settled down,” for flights routing directly to Japan. The copilot knew the Pacific, having helped to lay out some of the routes, and spoke about the potentials of a base at Okinawa or even at Tinian… Genda was surprised the man even knew of those places.

  Later into the flight, the head pilot promised him that when the rest of the passengers were settled down and asleep, he’d let Genda take the controls for a bit, on the sly of course since it was against company rules; but it was obvious that Genda, who actually produced his battered logbook tucked into his carry-on briefcase, with over five hundred takeoffs and landings from carriers, knew his stuff. He nearly had the entire plane to himself. There were only eighteen other passengers aboard, all of them gathered aft, in the deluxe luxury suite and sixth compartment.

  They were all Americans, two of them generals, the third a colonel that he had vaguely heard of, “Tooey” Spaatz, a pilot from the last war and advocate of the Douhet theory of strategic bombardment.

  Conversation over lunch before takeoff had been polite and almost in the tradition of a regimental mess–business was off the table–instead it was about the luxury of the plane, Spaatz comparing it to the Sopwiths he’d flown in the last war and expressing a wish to have had a chance to try a little hunting up in the hills of Portugal before leaving, another officer talking about a desire to visit the sites of Wellington’s battles against the armies of Napoleon.

  “Another tin-pot invader who thought he could take on England,” Spaatz growled, the closest they ever got to the real reason why they were all aboard this plane, flying back to the States.

  Once in the air the Americans had gone aft to the luxury suite and left the rest of the plane to him. It was almost amusing in a way, all this vast plane to himself, the stewards and chef waiting for any request he might have.

  And so the request was yet another Clipper Special, and he settled down in the luxury of the forward compartment in one of the huge oversized chairs, on the starboard side, facing aft to avoid the late afternoon sunlight str
eaming in through the window.

  Setting down his drink, he pulled the attaché case out from an overhead rack, first checking to make sure that the small yellow grease pen dots on the latches had not been smeared. No one had touched it.

  Producing the key attached to his watch chain he unlocked the case and opened it, pulling out a sheaf of papers, the start of his written report, which when completed would be nearly the length of a book.

  His initial impressions of England’s response at the start of the war were that it was woefully foolish and shortsighted; an aggressive response in the first weeks might very well have overrun Germany clear to the Rhine, or at least taken out the Ruhr industrial basin, that in itself ending the fight.

  Its remarkable failure of intelligence, preparation, and coordination of command with her allies when the Germans finally turned their gaze westward on May 10 and the obvious consternation within the government in the weeks that followed when France collapsed, something any astute observer should have easily foreseen.

  And yet, on the other side of the coin, he admired their masterful handling of defeat, the evacuation of an entire army literally under the shadow of the Luftwaffe; it was still a mystery to him why the Germans had not closed the trap. But much of that was old news; other observers, the entire world had been watching for months. His interest, of course, was supposed to be naval, but his actual travel was severely restricted due to England’s wartime security. Still, he had a perspective now that only a few score of his countrymen could lay claim to; he had witnessed the summer of German air assaults to destroy the RAF and thus open the way for a seaborne invasion.

  Here was a case study to note in detail, and he started to shift through his papers, carefully stored in individually sealed folders related to various subjects ranging from effectiveness of German weaponry; to the delayed-action bombs, which were interesting, at times creating far more disruption than the explosion itself would have achieved, but of course not viable in any way whatsoever against a naval target; on down to his personal observations regarding the Spitfire versus the German 109s and 110s.

  He caught movement from the corner of his eye and looked up. An American, Spaatz, was in the main lounge, which would soon be converted over to where dinner would be served, a steward handing the American a drink, two drinks actually.

  The American looked his way and then started forward. As he cleared the spiral staircase to the upper deck the American slowed, motioned with the second drink in his hand.

  This could be interesting Genda thought, and he nodded agreement, pushing back the nearly empty glass on the sidearm of his chair. He quickly closed up the folder he was about to work on, put it back in the attaché case and snapped it shut.

  Spaatz had sharp, rugged features, a bit of an oversized nose, whether from drink or a good fistfight, it was hard to tell. But it was obvious he was “hard”; though most likely around fifty, he moved with the ease and tone of someone in to shape, even as the Clipper bounced and sideslipped slightly as it momentarily went into a bank of clouds.

  He kept the two drinks balanced and smiled.

  “Speak English?” he asked.

  Genda smiled and nodded.“But of course.”

  “Don’t worry about the turbulence, always get a bit of a bump when you fly through a cloud.”

  “I know,” Genda replied. “I’m a pilot as well.”

  The American smiled and Genda could see the appraising look. He was dressed today in what the Brits called “mufti,” dark double-breasted suit with vest and tie, while Spaatz was in uniform.

  Genda stood up and bowed slightly. “Lieutenant Commander Genda Minoru, until this week naval attaché to the Japanese Embassy in London.”

  “Carl Spaatz, Colonel, United States Army Air Corps.”

  There was a momentary pause, and then Spaatz extended the drink, and to Genda’s relief it was not the slightly fruity-tasting Clipper Special. It was honest to goodness scotch, neat.

  “Excellent choice in drinks, Colonel,” Genda said, motioning for this colonel to sit down across from him.

  “So, you said you fly,” Spaatz asked, first raising his own scotch in a friendly salute that Genda replied to. “What?”

  Genda laughed. “Everything the Japanese Navy has put in the air since the early twenties.”

  “I’ve heard about this new plane you have coming out, the Zero. You get your hands on one?”

  “I’ve been hearing about your new P-38. Is it a match for the German twin-engine 110s?”

  The two paused for a second, then both laughed.

  “Touché,” Spaatz said softly.

  “Actually the Zero is superb, I think a match for the Spitfire in a dogfight; at high altitude, though, it might be more even.”

  Shaath nodded. “If a German ever comes up against a 38 in those 110 crates, it’s their funeral. That plane of theirs is a mule.”

  “A mule?”

  “Neither horse nor donkey, a mule. Designed as a long-range fighter escort for their bombers, it can’t get into a tight fight; in fact it needs its own escorts if it is to survive. Use it as a bomber it has no load-carrying capacity. The worst of both. They should trash them all or simply use them for low-level ground support or perhaps as night fighters.”

  “I agree. The same for their Stukas. I heard they were torn apart and withdrawn from the main battle by early August,” Genda replied.

  “Looking for information on that?” Shaath responded.

  “But of course.”

  The American chuckled. “It’ll be public knowledge soon enough. The Brits claimed that unescorted the Stukas were like fish in a barrel, dropped dozens of them. The Germans certainly screwed that, sending them in without heavy escort.”

  “What were they hitting?” Genda asked.

  Shaath smiled.

  “I’ll have to leave that for you to find out.”

  “Touché,” Genda replied with a smile and Shaath smiled.

  “When did you start flying?’ Genda asked, figuring it was best to shift targets and put his companion back at ease. Besides, he already knew, the Stukas were slaughtered trying to take out the new British radio-guided directional towers, what the Americans were calling radar. The entire British coast was ringed with the towers, which looked like radio towers, but strung with a tangle of wires. He wondered how far along his own government was in developing them. Such a tool, to be able to detect enemy planes from a hundred miles out, would yet again change the entire nature of carrier-based warfare, all but eliminating the element of surprise, something to be sought by the attacker and dreaded by the defender. Suddenly the balance might shift toward the defender if this new radar worked. Something more to think about on the way home.

  Shaath grinned and sipped his drink.

  “Actually flew support for Pershing back in our little romp through Mexico in 1916. Saw some action on the western front, 1918. Things sure have changed since then.”

  He paused. “I mean, look at this plane. It’s just thirteen years since Lindy crossed the Atlantic, and the whole world was mesmerized by the feat. Now we cross in luxury, complete to flushing toilets, and a chef on board. Who’d have thought it?

  “Give it another three or four years and planes will be flying the Atlantic nonstop, maybe even the distance from San Francisco or at least Hawaii straight on to Tokyo.” Even as he finished speaking there was a slight stiffening between the two, and Genda wondered if the implications both thought of were the same. This size plane, perhaps bigger, perhaps six engines, stripped down as a bomber, carrying five, maybe ten tons of bombs across an entire ocean, five hundred of them could level San Francisco or yes, Tokyo, in a single night. He knew that Yamamoto had been worrying about the implications of Japanese paper and wood houses if such a bomber could hit their cities with incendiary weapons. It would be a disaster. But it was the type of weapon he knew his own country, for now, could never afford; only the profligate Americans had such surplus of wealth, of aluminum, and
above all else aviation gas. A fleet of five hundred such bombers, flying such an attack, would consume more fuel in a single night that every plane in the Japanese navy would use in half a year.

  “Did you see much of the air battles?” Genda asked.

  Shaath looked out the window, gently swirling the drink in his hand.

  “A bit,” he said noncommittally.

  Genda did not need to ask. Reports had come into the Japanese Embassy throughout the summer of teams of Americans coming over to evaluate the fighting and set up conduits for supplies. Already replacement aircraft, parts, ammunition, tanks, and artillery were flooding across the Atlantic, making good the losses of the spring in Belgium, Holland, and France.

  “And your thoughts?” Shaath asked.

  Genda hesitated. After all, he had downed three drinks in the last couple of hours and the nonpressurized cabin, flying at eight thousand feet, lowered oxygen just enough to affect inhibitions as well. He wondered just how strong his drink was relative to that of this sharp-eyed colonel. He wondered, as well, what he’d be like to face out there among the clouds.

  But what the hell, as the Americans said. It was no state secret and perhaps a bit of truthfulness might reveal something in return.

  “The Germans have lost, at least for the moment they have lost.”

  “I agree,” Shaath replied sharply, “but I’m curious as to your observations, you being in the navy.”

  “Two weeks ago I would have said the Germans had won. After much negotiation I was allowed out of London, under escort, to go to the Kentish coast to observe. The British were rightly engaging the Germans over their own territory, not venturing out into the Channel to seek engagement.”