Days of Infamy

by Newt Gingrich

  The phone on the bridge rang. A young ensign, sticking his head out, shouted, “Captain, we got a report of torpedo running to starboard!”

  Halsey went with the captain around to the starboard railing and looked out. It was a blood-chilling sight, the wake of a torpedo cutting through the water, running exactly parallel to them less than fifty yards off, slowly overtaking the carrier. A few seconds later another call, reporting a second torpedo, this one to port, on the same track.

  Enterprise was boxed, unable to maneuver as two more dive bombers winged in. And somehow running straight ahead, unable to turn, saved them. The dive bomber pilots, side by side, coordinated their release well, and the bombs detonated where Enterprise would have been if she had started to turn in either direction.

  From bow clear back to the bridge Enterprise seemed to be burning, listing now several degrees to port, plates below the waterline crushed in from the near misses.

  Deck crews were valiantly struggling to save their planes, unable to move farther aft due to the bomb explosion in the recovery area, nor forward because of the fire raging along the deck forward of the bridge. Firefighters were turning their water hoses and foam sprayers on the planes, soaking them down, while other teams sprayed foam underneath to try and contain the spreading pool of av gas from the destroyed Devastator and the Val. A second Devastator burst into flames, crew trapped inside. He could hear their screams.

  If the deck had been packed with the ship’s full complement of nearly a hundred planes, rather than the thirty survivors of the first strike and patrol, there would have been no room to move aircraft, and a massive chain reaction would have ignited them all.

  Thus momentarily saved, Enterprise staggered into a low-hanging mist, an early morning tropical shower, still engulfed in smoke and flames. The second wave, this one from Hiryu, was upon them, eight Kates, nine Vals, and seven escorting Zeroes. Through the clouds the strike leader in a Val saw one of the escorting cruisers, Salt Lake City, momentarily mistook it for a small carrier, half obscured by the smoke trailing astern from the Enterprise, and at the same instant heard an exuberant report from one of the surviving Vals from Soryu that the first enemy carrier was awash in flames and starting to roll over.

  He went into his dive on the cruiser, followed by the rest of his group, and a minute later the cruiser was a flaming wreck, hit by three bombs and bracketed by three near misses. The group leader for the Kates, flying lower, at the last possible moment countermanded the order to hit the cruiser, but then was torn apart by antiaircraft fire from a destroyer, his group then splitting up, four heading for Enterprise, the other three for the burning cruiser. One of the surviving Wildcats died fending off the attack on Enterprise; a second pilot rammed a Kate when he ran out of ammunition. One of the torpedoes, however, took the cruiser amidships, breaking its back. Another Kate declared a hit on the Enterprise and proudly announced it was sinking. In reality he had missed, the torpedo striking wreckage falling off the ship astern.

  And then it was over, the attack wave leaving, planes scattered out, a lone Wildcat of their combat air patrol reporting the Japs were retiring to the northwest, the same direction they had come from. There remained a total of four American fighters still alive over the carrier. There was no place for them to land, and McCloskey gave them the option of circling until the deck was cleared, when they could try a landing without arresting gear, or running instead for Pearl. There was a hesitation, and then their leader loyally said they’d hang on and circle. They had guts. It’d been practiced before, landing without arresting hook on, assuming a hit to the stern of the ship, but the entire deck would have to be clear to give them enough space for a rollout, with brakes locked, a temporary barrier set up at the bow as a final stop point, though hitting the wires strung there would smash the prop and take the plane out of action.

  A brief tropical squall lashed the deck for a moment as they steamed through the low-hanging clouds. The cooling rain was a relief, and it helped a bit with the fire, and then the ship burst back out into sunshine. Halsey thought for a moment how such random things, that momentary squall, might one day be seen as a significant part of the battle, a hand of God that perhaps saved his ship.

  Fire crews were out all along the deck, pouring water down into the hole aft, other crews foaming down the impact along the railing. A small dozer, driven by a crewman in an asbestos suit, was pushing the twisted, burning wreckage of the two Devastators over the side railing. Halsey caught a glimpse of a chaplain walking alongside the tractor, making the sign of the cross in blessing as one plane after another went over the rail, her dead, flame-blackened crew still strapped in, and disappeared into the sea.

  “Stubbs. I want a report!”

  He was overriding the captain, but the hell with protocol.

  The chief engineering officer for Enterprise, Commander Stubbs, was out on the bridge, helmet off, wiping his brow. During the excitement of the attack he had nearly chewed through his unlit cigar, which hung now at a drunken angle from the corner of his mouth.

  “Sir?”

  “How bad?”

  “We got fires down in the main galley, a severed gas line aft which has been secured. Aft machine shop is still burning. Reports of at least twenty hull ruptures, nearly all on the starboard side from bulkheads fifteen through thirty-five, from near misses. Watertight security is holding, though. Thank God no direct torpedo hits.”

  He forced a smile. “She’ll hold, sir.”

  “Good man. Now how soon can I launch?”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me, damn it. How soon can we launch?”

  Stubbs went over to the railing of the bridge and looked at the fire still raging forward.

  “Give me an hour, sir.”

  “Fine.”

  “But sir, what about recovery? We won’t be able to land a full strike force for hours. Those birds up there now, the fighters, we can squeeze in, but the others?” and he shrugged his shoulders. “The entire arresting system was blown out, and it’ll take hours to cover that hole once the fire is contained. And that covering is going to have to be reinforced to withstand the shock of touchdown from the heavier planes.”

  “I’ll figure that out later,” Halsey replied. “Just get us ready to launch as soon as possible. I think the Japs are close, real close. Maybe less than a hundred miles off. I want to hit those bastards before they get in a second blow. Now get to it, man!”

  Akagi

  08:00 hrs

  The first after-battle reports were coming in, picked up from squadron leaders of Soryu and Hiryu returning to their ships.

  One Enterprise-class ship, most likely the Enterprise itself, was reported as listing and sinking, deck awash in flames. Strangely, a second ship—the squadron leader insisted it was a carrier as well—was sinking. His report was countered though by an angry Zero pilot from Soryu, insisting the Hiryu’s men had hit a cruiser.

  Frustratingly, his search to the west was proving fruitless. The first search planes were returning, and a second wave was preparing to go out. The task force of four carriers had yet to strike a single blow this day. All the action had been by the pilots of Soryu and Hiryu. They had most likely made a kill, but to be certain, they should go back for a second attack as soon as possible.

  Enterprise

  08:50 hrs

  HALSEY GLARED AT the three squadron leaders who stood before him on the bridge. Enterprise had only eight of the original Dauntlesses left, augmented by the Dauntlesses used as search planes and five Wildcats to escort. The Devastators were still intact as a group except for the two lost when the Val had hit them.

  “You got separated this morning, no coordination. Do that again and all three of you are beached and will be teaching student pilots somewhere in North Dakota. Do we understand each other?”

  No one spoke.

  “Form up here, within sight of this ship, then track northwest, together, as a single unit. They’re less than a hundred mil
es out, I think at least two Jap carriers for certain, and I want them both.”

  He spared a quick glance back down to the deck. Steam and smoke were still billowing out from the hit astern.

  They had slowed to ten knots, running southwest, away from their intended target, but going relative to the wind so that the fires still burning on the hangar deck aft were not fanned. Smoke was coiling out from either side, billowing straight up in a funereal shroud. Forward the last of the fire had been suppressed, though smoke and steam were still rising. Half a dozen miles astern all could see where Salt Lake City was still burning, broken in half, going down.

  “I want payback,” Halsey snarled.

  “Sir.” It was Struble. He nodded toward the torn-up deck astern.

  “What about recovery?”

  Halsey nodded, hating to say what he was about to order. It would mean his ship, as a truly effective combat force, was out of it, once these planes were launched.

  “The target is most likely a hundred miles southwest of Oahu. After you hit it …”

  He paused, looking aft toward the still torn-up deck.

  “Unless you hear otherwise from me, you are to proceed on to Oahu and land there.”

  “Word is our planes that landed there yesterday got shot to hell,” Struble replied, trying to sound calm.

  Halsey nodded.

  “Let’s hope they have their shit in order today.”

  “At least they won’t be able to track us back,” Struble finally replied, and Halsey nodded in agreement.

  No one spoke in reply.

  “Now go sink some Japs.”

  The three saluted and scurried off the bridge. He watched them go, shaking his head. No one a week ago was talking about the Japs having the rumored Zeroes on their carriers, and now his planes were getting shredded by them. This was a forlorn gesture he was now ordering back into the fight against them. He wondered if any of them would still be alive an hour from now.

  He looked over at Wade McCloskey and could see the pleading look in his eyes, and he was almost tempted to yield. Hell, once this flight lifted off, there’d be no job for him, but instinct told him to keep this man on board for now. There’d be use, damn good use for him later.

  Down on the deck he could see pilots looking up at the bridge in anticipation of McCloskey giving the flag signal to begin launch. And in his heart he knew he was looking at men as doomed as those who went in with the Light Brigade or Pickett’s Charge.

  It was hard and cynical, but that was what was needed if Enterprise was going to even the score and take at least one Japanese carrier out of the fight.

  LIEUTENANT Dellacroce saw the three group leaders come running out from the bridge onto the deck, heading for their planes. On a large chalkboard, secured to the side of the bridge, a navigation officer was writing out, in large letters, the up-to-date coordinates of Enterprise, their route to where it was believed a target might be, and the bearings from there to Oahu, or back to where Enterprise might be two hours hence. Hand shaking, Dellacroce tried to write down the update on his knee pad.

  He stank of vomit. His crew chief, a guy who had him thoroughly intimidated when he had first come on board and landed way too hard, nearly cracking a strut according to the air boss, was now quiet, almost like an older brother. He had brought him a ham sandwich and a thermos of ice cold Coke. The Coke had settled his stomach a bit. He’d skipped the sandwich, and together they had waited, enduring the terror of watching the dive bombers winging in while he stayed in his plane, and the long hour since then as the strike was prepared, Devastators were reloaded with torpedoes, ammunition replaced, bombs slung under the few Dauntlesses left.

  He was scared to death, literally shaking with fear. McCloskey leaned over the side of the flame-scorched bridge and set the flag in signaling launch.

  His crew chief patted him on the shoulder.

  “You’ll do good, kid. God be with you,” and he was off the wing of the plane, coming around to the front, hands raised up, crossed, indicating for him to hold as three of the Wildcats forward started their runups. He now raised a hand, circling it, signaling for throttle, and Dave edged it in, not too fast—it could flood, stall the engine—vibration rattling him, noise deafening, not just heard but felt in every fiber of his being. It used to be such a damn thrill. Now it was frightening.

  More power, full throttle. Oil temperature going up, final scan of instruments. The first plane was rolling out, the second one… Glance back to his crew chief, who was watching the air boss on deck commanding the launch. A nod. Signal to the crewmen to pull back the wheel chocks. Fist high overhead from crew chief, circling fast, who saluted then pointed to the launch master, the “Airedale” in a yellow shirt, passing command of Dave’s plane over to him, the commander of the launch, who was making the same gesture. This was the man now in control of his fate. The yellow shirt suddenly crouched down and pointed forward.

  Dave had been jamming down hard on both brakes. He released them, pushed stick forward, fed in right rudder. The Wildcat lurched forward, tail raising up, and rolled out past the still smoldering deck where the two Devastators had burned. God, he could still hear those men screaming. His plane drifted, the beginnings of what could be a ground loop… Damn it, focus! He pushed in yet more right rudder, straightening out, edge of the deck coming up, stick felt light, center it, now just a touch of back pressure … and he was off.

  He flew on straight, lifting his landing gear, notching up flaps, watching airspeed. At one hundred twenty true air speed he began to turn to port, watching the Wildcat ahead, slowly circling up now to wait for the rest of the group to form.

  “Dear Jesus,” he whispered, “don’t let me screw this one up.”

  Chapter Six

  Soryu

  160 miles south-southwest of Oahu

  December 8, 1941

  09:41 hrs local time

  THE FIRST SET of his rearmed and refueled Zeroes was ready, the deck crew having worked wonders. It was the fastest time yet for recovery of a strike force, rearming and now launching for a follow-up attack. The bombers would soon be ready to go as well.

  Rear Admiral Ozama looked over at his sister ship, Hiryu, half a dozen miles to port, obscured by a passing shower, and could not help but grin a bit with inner delight. It had been his men that got the Enterprise, though Hiryu’s men were insisting they had hit a second carrier, while his pilots reported it was definitely only a cruiser.

  Already his crew were boasting of having taken out the famed Enterprise. This mission would be a follow-up coup. For surely if Enterprise had been to the south, then Yamamoto had indeed guessed wrong. It would not be like the Americans to leave their carriers scattered about. Chances were that somewhere nearby Lexington or Saratoga, perhaps both, were still waiting to be hit. His losses of the previous two days had been heavy, over half his strike force shot down or so badly damaged as to no longer be flyable. But between Soryu and Hiryu, he could still send over thirty strike craft and an escort of fifteen fighters, while leaving ten fighters in reserve.

  Soryu turned into the northeasterly wind and began to launch.

  Seven miles southeast of Soryu

  09:41 hrs local time

  “SKIPPER, THERE IT is!”

  Lieutenant Commander Struble looked to where his wingman, Lieutenant Mark McCarthy, was excitedly pointing, broadcasting in the clear.

  They had been flying at five thousand feet, punching in and out of the already towering cumulus clouds that promised a day of showers, the clouds he hoped were concealing their advance. Remarkably, he had managed to keep his entire force, the five Wildcats, seventeen Devastators, and eight Dauntlesses intact, not wandering off as they flew into zero visibility for a few tense minutes, and then punched back out into brilliant tropical sunlight.

  Sure enough, McCarthy had seen them. Ten degrees off to port, about eight miles out, wakes of ships visible as they were turning about, to the northeast… Damn it, straight into the wind
—they were launching!

  He clicked into the general frequency all planes were set for.

  “This is Struble. We got ’em. Jap carrier eight miles out, ten degrees to port. Attack formation. Let’s make this one count, guys!”

  He wagged his wings twice, then pulled back on the stick. His climb rate with half a ton of bomb slung beneath was around eight hundred feet a minute. No time to circle around to get up to an optimum fifteen thousand, maybe up to ten thousand at best. The climb would slow the dive bombers while the Devastators would go into shallow dives, which would level out a hundred feet above the water, and come in at just about the same time he began to wing over. This time they were together and this time they were going to do it right.

  “Jap! Two o’clock high!”

  Sure enough, one was diving in, circling out slightly to get in behind the Devastators, which were flying in tight formation, dropping down.

  “We’re on the torpedo planes, stick to me!”

  It was the fighter squadron leader.

  Right call. The Devastators were flying coffins. If he could get up to dive altitude, they could punch through any fighter screen. The slow, lumbering torpedo planes were sitting ducks. God help them.

  He flew into a cloud and for a moment the oncoming battle was lost to view.