Days of Infamy

by Newt Gingrich

  “God save those boys,” she sighed. “How many are aboard a carrier?”

  “About two thousand men.”

  “Nearly half as many dead, then, as reported from Pearl Harbor so far.”

  He nodded, saying nothing.

  She put the report down. He shifted a bit uncomfortably in his chair, lighting a cigarette, a subtle signal that he wanted to be alone for a few minutes before the day started.

  “I wanted to talk with you about something over lunch,” she finally said.

  “Let’s do it now, Eleanor, but I’m sorry, it will have to be brief.” He looked up at her, trying to smile as he said it. “I have meetings starting in half an hour.”

  “This is important, Franklin. We’re already hearing rumors about anti-Japanese propaganda,” and she unfolded a newspaper that she had kept in her left hand and laid it upon his desk. It was a political cartoon, a crude caricature of a leering “Jap,” buck-toothed, with thick glasses, laughing as he plunged a samurai sword into Uncle Sam’s back. A decapitated body, labeled “China,” lay at the “Jap’s” feet.

  “How all Japs fight,” was the caption.

  It was stunning how quickly the mood of America had changed. When the Chicago Tribune had leaked the secret plans for Rainbow Five, on December 4, their political cartoon on the front page was a worried “Midwest,” Illinois represented by an Abraham Lincoln–looking character, staring towards Washington, D.C., and written above the image of the White House and Capitol was the caption “War Propaganda!” Now but a few days later it was a caricature of Uncle Sam getting stabbed in the back. What they had decried but days before as propaganda had finally been realized as reality.

  “So?”

  “Franklin, it’s no different than the Nazi pictures of Jews. I don’t want to see this of us.”

  “People are angry. It was a stab in the back.”

  “Franklin. Fight their government and their military yes—but this? It could spread. There are already calls for every Japanese citizen in America to be rounded up and put in concentration camps for the duration.”

  “Eleanor, one thing at a time.”

  “Bad enough that we are calling on Negro soldiers to be drafted while back home they are less than third-class citizens but are now expected to fight anyhow. Hatred of the Japanese… If you don’t say something, at least about those living here, it could get out of control. We say we’re fighting to defend democracy and against racism. We have to live up to that.”

  He looked up at her. She could be so damned determined. He knew how polarizing she was politically. It seemed half the country adored her, the other half grumbled she was “that communist agent” inside the White House.

  He finally nodded.

  “I have a press conference in twenty minutes. I’ll make some kind of statement about not letting our passions run away, to remember we’re all Americans. Will that satisfy you?”

  “For now,” she said, with a trace of a smile.

  She patted him lightly on the shoulder and left the room.

  He sighed, lighting another cigarette.

  He knew she was, after all, right. He loathed racism as much as she did, but had to face far more bluntly the political realities of the moment. She wanted to push for more legal protection of Negroes in the South, and yet the solid Democratic base in the South would melt away like ice in July if he pushed that agenda too hard.

  Perhaps, in a strange twisted sense, this war might actually help to serve that purpose. As the Civil War had finally brought Lincoln around to the need for liberation and the Thirteenth Amendment, something he never could have openly supported in 1861, perhaps this war would do the same. If Negro soldiers stand, fight, and die alongside white comrades, how can equal rights still be denied if victory is finally achieved? If the first reports about Japanese fifth columnists in Hawaii and California are finally proven false, that except for a few rotten eggs they are indeed loyal Americans, the issue there will go away. But if evidence provided otherwise, he knew it would be nearly impossible to resist the political pressure, perhaps even necessary if only for the protection of the Japanese-American citizens themselves.

  It was going to be a long day, he realized, but an interesting one, and he began reviewing briefing papers, thinking about how he would handle the press in a few minutes. Confidence, always display confidence and determination. At even the worst of moments we must never falter. Otherwise how can I expect young men to go out and die, as did the pilots of Enterprise yesterday, unless they know that back here, we are behind them 100 percent, believe in them, and believe in ultimate victory.

  Then he stopped and reflected. Was Enterprise still afloat? And Lexington? He looked at his wrist watch. First search planes were most likely going out now for both sides, seeking, and the first one to find and strike would almost certainly win.

  He lowered his head and began to pray.

  Akagi

  05:40 hrs local time

  WITH BINOCULARS TRAINED on Zuikaku, steaming at flank speed into the northeasterly breeze, he could barely make out the silhouette of the ship to the northeast, outlined by the beginning of nautical twilight.

  The first of the Zuikaku search planes lifted clear of the deck. The second one followed twenty seconds later, another twenty seconds after that. As each plane built up speed, climbing, it turned. A couple of minutes later one of them flew directly over Akagi, rocking its wings in salute. Deck crews looked up; a few took off their caps and waved. Not the wild enthusiasm of two days ago, when the first strike wave started its launch toward Pearl Harbor. The men were too exhausted now for that.

  That search plane continued on its track to the northwest. The dozen planes sent aloft by Zuikaku would fan out on tracks north-northwest to south-southwest. Tone’s six seaplanes, with pilots and spotters on board well trained for this kind of mission, would cover the arc northwest to east-northeast. Chikuma to the south would do the reciprocal from southwest to east-southeast.

  Zuikaku’s Zeroes would launch next, ten planes to provide cover over the fleet, two of them to trail astern, watching back toward Oahu, which was now over three hundred fifty miles away. The only potential threat from that direction was perhaps their B-17s or PBYs, if any had survived. Still, it would not do to have a land-based plane locate the fleet for the American carriers.

  Ten minutes later the last of Zuikaku’s planes launched. The carrier came about sharply, the interval of launch having separated her from the rest of the fleet by over ten miles, and began to race at flank speed back to rejoin the protective circle half a dozen miles across.

  No one aboard that carrier ever noticed the four torpedo wakes that crossed astern by four hundred yards where she would have been if she had continued on the same course but for one more minute. Nor did any ship monitor the frustrated radio report from the American sub, which had been engaged in a stern chase on the surface for the last two hours, the captain all but giving up until almost, it seemed, heaven sent, the one Japanese carrier had come about and begun to steam straight toward him, illuminated by the moonlight, caught visually in the powerful night binoculars mounted on the minuscule bridge of the sub.

  His message of coordinates had been sent repeatedly and had been heard.

  Lexington

  05:50 hrs local time

  “YOU HAVE YOUR coordinates. You know your targets. Go for the two largest of their carriers. Ignore anything else, especially their damn battleship. We want carriers. If you get hit, and can’t make it to your primary, then attack whatever you can.”

  Admiral Newton leaned against the back wall of the ready room, saying nothing as Captain Sherman finished his comments.

  “Remember, we’ve got a sub trailing them. If you get too badly shot up to make it back here, turn east, send out a distress signal, and try to ditch. We are not going to leave you out there the way the Japs do with their men. We will get you back, I swear that to you. We will get you back.”

  As he spoke, Newto
n could see him paying particular attention to the Devastator and Vindicator pilots. Morale with them had gone to hell during the night. The Catholic chaplain reported that every last man from that squadron had come to him or his Protestant counterpart for communion or general absolution, with all leaving farewell letters.

  “Pilots, man your planes!”

  Sherman stepped away from the podium and hurriedly tried to shake the hand or pat the shoulder of each man heading out the door.

  The room emptied, and Newton came up to the captain’s side. He could see tears in the man’s eyes. Rather than go up to the bridge, they followed the last of the pilots out into a roaring cacophony of noise. Every engine was turning over. Backseat gunners for the Dauntlesses and Vindicators were already strapped in, as were gunners and bombardiers aboard the Devastators.

  The combat air patrol of six Wildcats was already aloft, circling high above the fleet. The first of the Wildcat escort fighters began its rollout. Orders were to launch every fifteen seconds, and even before the first plane had cleared the next one started its roll. The yellow shirted launch director dramatically crouched down, pointed straight forward for each plane, watched it for a few seconds, making sure it was accelerating, keeping alignment to the center line, and able to clear even if it should lose an engine, then turned his attention to the next plane in line.

  The Dauntlesses were parked nearly amidships, 1,200-horse-power Wright Cyclone engines howling at full throttle, a hurricane of noise. It was so overpowering that one could actually feel it coursing through every fiber of the body, the thunder of a nation aroused. Wheel chocks were pulled on the lead plane of the squadron, and it began its roll forward, slower than the Wildcats with a half ton armor-piercing bomb slung to its belly. Every bomb had a message chalked on it:

  “Eat this, Togo.”

  “Remember Pearl Harbor!”

  “See you in hell.”

  And more than a few that no stateside censor would allow to be printed in the papers.

  Newton had to brace himself against the side of the bridge as the back blast from the powerful engine of the Dauntless next to him started its rollout. He saw the young tail gunner looking straight at him.

  Perhaps the toughest job of all, he thought. At least a pilot had some sense of control of his fate. The kid in the rear seat was just along for the ride that he might return from, or might not; that was in the hands of his pilot and God. Newton stiffened and saluted the kid, who just continued to stare at him, braced for the takeoff.

  Next came the Vindicators, needing a lot more deck space with their far less powerful 825-horsepower Twin Wasp Junior engines. Marine pilots as well—recovery for them, if they got back, would be tough; none of them were qualified for carrier landings. If war had not broken out, they’d be on Midway today. Their original mission had been to fly off of Lexington and land at Midway to reinforce the garrison.

  He looked back to where the Devastators were moving into position, wings being locked into place. Then he heard shouts, a commotion forward, and caught a glimpse of a Vindicator angling off the deck to starboard, torquing, starboard wing dropping as it skidded, staggering off the side of the ship fifty feet short of the bow, edge of the wing clipping the gun deck. It rolled up onto its side, seemed to be hanging in midair as Lexington continued to race forward at flank speed of over thirty-five miles per hour. Rolled onto its back and then disappeared.

  The plane launching behind it skidded slightly to the left, appeared almost to be doing a repeat of disaster in the opposite direction, then straightened out and lifted off.

  An explosion rocked the ship. Running up to the side of the bridge he could see a huge column of water erupting skyward fifty yards off their starboard beam, the bomb detonating, fragments of plane going up with it.

  “I want a damage report from below,” Sherman shouted, and one of his aides ran off.

  The Devastators finally began their rollout, while overhead the squadrons slowly circled, forming up, struggling for altitude. A ninety-plane strike was ready to go once the last of the lumbering torpedo bombers were aloft.

  He watched each of them go, the deck almost empty now, hundreds of men, their jobs done, watching, some subtly gesturing as if by the motion of their hands they could help lift the old planes into the air, others saluting, a few waving and cheering.

  The last of the Devastators lifted off, and suddenly there was just silence, except for the whipping of the forty-five-knot wind blowing down the length of the deck, Lexington already beginning to slow, turning from its northeasterly heading to a course due south at fifteen knots.

  “Sir!”

  Newton broke away from his thoughts, looking aft to the circle of foaming water, now a couple of miles astern, where the Vindicator had crashed. A destroyer circled around it—a futile gesture really, as if the two men aboard her could have somehow survived the impact, let alone the explosion of the bomb on board.

  It was a seaman first class, standing stiffly.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Sir. Combat Information reports radar detecting an inbound, twenty miles to the southwest. Two of the Wildcats have already been ordered to intercept.”

  For a moment he was tempted to tell Sherman to countermand the intercept order. It was most likely a Japanese scout plane. Perhaps it’d miss them, but the presence of the Wildcats would by their mere presence confirm the existence of this carrier and its possible location.

  He looked at the sky, brightening by the minute. There was a scattering of low-hanging stratus, morning mist rising off the ocean, but no buildup yet of cumulus or the towering cumulonimbus of later in the day, which might conceal beneath it an entire fleet.

  Sherman went into the bridge and up the steps to the Combat Information Center, room bathed in red light, still under nighttime conditions. He followed.

  The radar screen, small oval wonder, its magic images impossible for him to interpret, flickered green. The operator, seeing the approach of the admiral and captain stiffened, then pointed to a wavy point in the lower corner, hard to discern with so many other points and lines appearing and disappearing.

  “That’s it, sir. He must have been flying low and then started to pop up. Definitely tracking from the west-southwest, and heading straight toward us.”

  Even within the confines of the CIC, he could hear the thunder of the strike wave, having formed up, now tracking southwest, bearing 220 degrees, toward the position of at least four carriers reported by the submarine. The search plane was from nearly west, behind them.

  Were their carriers closer? Should part of the wave be diverted to scout it out?

  A radio loudspeaker crackled to life. It was one of the Wildcats reporting a visual, a Japanese float plane. They were closing to engage.

  At nearly the same instant one of the radio operators turned to announce a transmission on a Japanese frequency, loud, extremely close—most likely the scout plane calling in their position.

  “We better get ready,” was all Sherman had to say, turning away and heading up to the bridge.

  Fifteen miles west-southwest of Lexington

  “CONFIRMED. ONE SARATOGA-CLASS carrier, half a dozen escorting ships.”

  Damn!

  His pilot went into a sharp banking turn, diving. He had caught a glimpse of movement, an American plane.

  “We are under attack! Repeating coordinates!”

  The spotter looked again at his navigational clipboard. They’d been aloft for little more than twenty minutes. Tone was thirty-five miles away, so close there was a chance that smoke from the American ships could be spotted and closed on at full dawn. He could clearly see dozens of American planes aloft moving across the eastern horizon, outlined by the early light of dawn.

  He was barely able to get the message out one more time, warning as well that an American strike wave was outbound, apparently bearing south, before the combined firepower of two American Wildcats slashed into the fuselage, wings, and cockpit, killing both h
im and the pilot.

  In flames, the plane rolled over on its back and dove into the sea.

  Akagi

  05:55 hrs local time

  ADMIRAL YAMAMOTO TURNED away from the seaman still clutching the flimsy sheet of paper, noting the coordinates radioed in by the scout plane, which had just gone off the air, obviously shot down, and gazed at his signals officer.

  “Pass the order and radio immediately, all ships. Turn to a heading straight into the wind, 050 degrees. Launch all aircraft immediately, strike aircraft to receive coordinates momentarily.”

  “Radio?” Genda asked.

  “They know where we are,” Yamamoto snapped. “We heard their transmission from Pearl, in spite of whatever damn language it is they are using, and part of the message sounded like it was reading off numbers, coordinates of longitude and latitude. We can’t waste a minute with flags or Morse blinkers. Send it now! Helm, bring us about to a heading of fifty degrees, order flank speed.”

  He strode over to the chart table, scanned it, circling a spot with a pencil.

  “They’re to our northeast! They must have slipped around the flank during the night, and Tone is less than thirty-five miles away!”

  He looked back at Genda.

  “It is them; it is their remaining carrier fleet! Order all planes to launch.” He looked again at the chart. The American planes were slower but were already aloft.

  “We have forty-five minutes at most.”

  Genda saluted and dashed from the bridge. Akagi was already responding to the helm, and even before general quarters sounded, all knew that something was up, already heading to their stations.

  “Sir!”

  He looked up from the chart. It was Fuchida, standing there eager, already dressed in a flight suit, almost trembling like a racehorse just before the gate opened.