Days of Infamy

by Newt Gingrich

  He felt a surge of trepidation. This man was too precious to lose now. His experience of leading at Pearl, both the successes and failures, had to be thoroughly reported, rewarded where necessary. Already he had planned for him to be moved up to a position parallel to Genda’s. And beyond all that, he was almost like a son. He loved this eager pilot, and the thought of sending him to his death caused a surge of pain.

  And yet he could not say no to such a samurai.

  “Go then!”

  Fuchida grinned, saluted, and started to leave.

  “Wait.”

  There was hesitation in Fuchida’s eyes as he looked back, almost fearing that the admiral was about to reverse his approval. “Not in a torpedo bomber. Besides, yours is gone.”

  “What then, sir?”

  “Take one of the Zeroes. One with a radio so you can lead. Stay out of the dogfighting, keep above the enemy fleet. I want the attack coordinated, well directed, and reported on accurately. There was too much confusion yesterday. I demand that you come back and report.”

  He could sense the touch of frustration.

  “No compromise. You can fly, but you are to lead as a daimyo of old, not to draw a sword and fight. You are to lead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yamamoto extended his hand.

  “Go, my son, and may the gods protect you.”

  Fuchida seemed overwhelmed by emotion, as if almost ready to embrace his admiral. He drew back, saluted, and sprinted down the stairs to the deck.

  On the flight deck, planes had already been spotted into position. Crew chiefs were in cockpits, engines beginning to turn over, warming up as Akagi swung around from a westerly heading to northwest, the quartering breeze blowing the exhaust from the planes across the deck. The dark horizon to the west was being replaced by early dawn to the east.

  He could see other ships beginning to turn. Signal pennants were going up from the flying bridge of Akagi giving the coordinates of the American fleet as last reported, Morse blinkers relaying that data as well.

  Pilots were pouring out of the ready room, Fuchida in the lead, running to the port-side wing of the lead Zero.

  They were now running fifty degrees north, speed still picking up, past twenty knots, the glorious old ship surging ahead.

  He knew he’d burn more fuel in the next hour than in an entire normal day. It would make the margin to reaching the Marshalls slim indeed, but this was the gamble of war. One solid strike and the mission would finally be accomplished. Then he could afford to limp slowly toward the tankers and their invaluable replenishment.

  He turned his binoculars to the south and could barely make out on the horizon the wounded Soryu, with Kirishima steaming astern. They were now turning as well. He debated whether they should move on west ahead of the others or not, but decided against it.

  “Hoist the Z flag,” Yamamoto announced, and a moment later that legendary banner unfurled from the highest mast, a cheer erupting on the deck.

  He caught a last glimpse of Fuchida standing in his cockpit, looking back at him, saluting, then sliding down, crew chief helping him to buckle in, then jumping off the wing. The forlorn pilot whom Fuchida had replaced stood dejected to one side, obviously humiliated, head lowered.

  The launch director, standing on the deck, holding signal flag aloft, waved it in a tight circle. Fuchida revved up his engine, and smoke whipped out of the exhaust pipes. At the signal the deck crews pulled back the wheel chocks. With a leap the Zero started forward into the wind, tail up in a matter of seconds, rudder angled against the torque, and he lifted off well short of the bow, plane after plane following, while strike waves from the other carriers, but minutes later, started aloft as well.

  USS Thresher

  06:15 hrs

  THEY HAD STAYED submerged since their failed attack on the Japanese carrier, and to the captain’s utter frustration, the enemy fleet was pulling away, his old tub unable to match their speed while submerged in a stern chase.

  But now?

  “Repeat the signal in the clear, damn it,” he snapped, not taking his eyes off the periscope.

  “Entire Jap fleet coming about and launching aircraft. Give our coordinates again and keep repeating!”

  Hickam Army Air Force Base

  06:17 hrs

  THE DRIVE INTO base had been tough, but he had managed it. More roadblocks were up, manned by national guardsmen. One near the base was a heavily manned position of regular infantry from the Tropical Lightning Division, Schofield Barracks. It was sandbagged, with two .30-caliber water-cooled machine guns posted. Margaret had found his wallet, tucked into his uniform pocket after all, and he had it out. The sight of his arm in a sling, amputated hand obvious, ID held up, had won through. Near the base entrance a lieutenant in charge had even ordered one of his men to drive the commander the rest of the way in, for which he was damn grateful. He was feeling light-headed and now a bit foolish over his earlier bravado.

  “Sir, you lose that in the fighting on Sunday?” the corporal driving him had asked, after several sidelong curious glances.

  “No. I was on the Panay when I lost my hand. Got nicked by some shrapnel, though, when Arizona blew.”

  “What’s the Panay, sir?”

  He did not reply. It was a question asked him hundreds of times since 1937, and he was sick of it. Damn it, didn’t they now know?

  His driver got him to what was now the radio center for both Hickam and Pearl. As he came into the open hangar, there were nods of recognition. He saw Joe, apparently at work for over a day now without sleep, with several of his ham operator friends, rigging up yet another set. More than twenty radios were up and running, antennas crisscrossing like a spiderweb high up in the rafters of the hangar.

  He was glad he had come. Collingwood was passed out, asleep on a cot in the corner. Lacey smiled and handed him a mug of coffee.

  “Something’s up,” she said, pointing to the radio that he knew was monitoring a frequency used by the Japanese fleet.

  He sat down by the operators, who motioned for him to pick up a headphone set. He started to listen in.

  They weren’t coding. The message was in the clear, chatter between scout planes already aloft, and then the frantic report of the plane that had located a target before being shot down.

  “Who’s in charge here?” James shouted, looking back from the radio.

  An Army brigadier came over.

  “I am,” was all James got. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Commander Watson. Until all this happened I was with cryptanalysis and monitoring for CinCPac.”

  The brigadier eyed him for a few seconds, noticing the sling.

  “I heard about you. OK, what’s up?”

  “Relay this to our fleet. They definitely have been spotted and should expect an attack. Damn, does anybody have charts around here?”

  He half stood up, looking around, but there wasn’t a nautical chart in sight.

  Yet more information came in a few minutes later from a sub, a report that it had been trailing the enemy fleet. James called for its data, too, to be relayed to the strike force. If anyone had good navigators on board who could pinpoint a location, the subs did.

  In a sense he felt part of it all now—he was doing something to hit back—but at the same time he felt impotent, like a spectator in far away bleachers while the real game was played out beyond his reach.

  Thirty miles north-northeast of Akagi,

  ninety miles southwest of Task Force Eight

  06:30 hrs

  THE TWO OPPOSING waves could actually see each other, the Japanese attack force, a hundred and twenty-two planes, tracking ten miles to the west of the ninety-two planes of the American force heading in the opposite direction.

  Fuchida looked at them hungrily, fighting the temptation to lead one squadron over, to slash in. It would only take a few minutes to close upon them, standing out clear against the sunrise.

  But his orders were firm. The few Zero pi
lots with radios begged to be cut loose, but he ordered them to stay on track, to protect the strike force, which was still not in any semblance of formation, raggedly attempting to form up.

  Attrition of the last two days had cut some squadrons down to just five or six planes, and he had broadcast in the clear for all dive bombers to form into a single group on the lead Akagi pilot and the same for the torpedo bombers. It was taking time, precious time, as they slowly climbed for altitude.

  He then radioed back to Akagi to expect an attack to hit within fifteen minutes at most—then led his group on.

  Lexington

  06:35 hrs

  THE CIC WAS a room of barely contained chaos, every radio operator at work, jotting down messages, shouting for assistants to pass them up, orders being given back.

  Newton and Sherman stood in front of the Plexiglas plot board, watching as two seamen on the other side traced in information, symbols, tracking lines.

  Radar and radio reports both confirmed an inbound wave of Japanese planes now eighty miles out: a report of a sighting of a Japanese cruiser to the southwest, thirty miles out, closing in their direction, and a report relayed in from Honolulu stating it had monitored Japanese radio signals confirming a strike launch ordered from what was believed to be the Akagi, most likely their flagship.

  “Radio the boys, that’s their primary target,” Sherman announced. “They should know what the hell they look like. I want the Akagi.”

  “Kaga looks almost identical,” Newton said softly.

  “Then tell them to sink the first bastard and then the other,” Sherman replied coldly, and Newton smiled.

  Akagi

  06:45 hrs

  “ENEMY PLANES SIGHTED!”

  Helmets were being passed around, and Admiral Yamamoto and Genda, by his side, took theirs and put them on. Binoculars raised, they could see the incoming wave, ten miles out, already with smoking trails as the defending fighters swarmed in on them.

  He tried to count their numbers. Several score at least, coordinated this time, in tight formations.

  In line of battle Kaga and Akagi were in the center. Three miles to the north were Zuikaku and Shokaku. Three miles farther to the south were Hiryu, Soryu, and Kirishima, their ring of eleven destroyers broken into three groups, five to the central group, three each to the other two.

  Antiaircraft guns from the northernmost group began to open up, dark splotches staining the morning sky. The enemy planes pressed on, their torpedo bombers beginning to drop altitude, all aimed straight at Akagi.

  “They’re coming for us,” Genda announced, “ignoring Zuikaku and Shokaku.”

  “It’s what I would have ordered them to do,” Yamamoto replied.

  Another two minutes. The heavy guns on both Kaga and Akagi opened up, though Akagi’s rate of fire was vastly slower due to damage below and the ditching of ammunition overboard while fighting the fires.

  The attack was coming on fast. A dozen or more planes were tumbling from the sky, trailing smoke, a few parachutes blossoming. Several Zeroes focused in on the torpedo planes, slashing into them, while high overhead the dive bombers continued on, now well past Zuikaku and her sister ship.

  Akagi started to heel over to port, the helmsman, as ordered, going into evasive maneuvers. A destroyer nearby nearly rammed into her bow, just barely avoiding collision as it turned aside.

  “There are more of them than last time,” Genda announced heatedly. “A lot more. This might be two carriers hitting us at once.”

  He focused on the lead dive bomber. Different design, looked almost like one of their Devastators.

  “That’s a Vindicator,” Genda announced, as if reading Yamamoto’s mind. “They’re usually land based.”

  As the first two dive bombers began their wing over, they exploded, one after the other, a Zero diving past them. Two more began their dives. One of the Zeroes cartwheeled, wing sheared off.

  Akagi was heeling hard over in a violent full turn to port.

  He saw the Dauntlesses moving into position up high, puffs of smoke from antiaircraft shells, a mad confusion of aircraft.

  Three of the Vindicators were shrieking down, their aim good. The three released fairly low before pulling out. One had its wing shearing off, either from a direct hit or overstress. But the bombs winged in, the first bursting a hundred yards off the bow, the second fifty yards from the port-side bow, but the third clipped the front of the landing deck, punched through into the depths of the ship, and blew.

  We might survive this, we might survive this, Yamamoto silently chanted. This bomb burst did not feel that bad, some splintering of the deck forward. Fortunately the hangar deck was empty of planes.

  But now the Dauntlesses were coming in, and he sensed this would be the moment.

  There were at least fifteen of them, six winging over, the others appearing to hold back. It must be a good commander up there, ready to divert the others if the first wave hits us hard.

  They were still turning hard to port, the bombers winging down, guiding straight in. Two more were hit, the bomb of one exploding right underneath the plane, taking out the plane behind it. But still they pressed in, two more bombs visible through the smoke.

  There was no need to be told to duck. He crouched down low and felt the two sharp impacts, the explosions erupting somewhere down deep within.

  “More!”

  He gazed up. The rest of the attack group was coming in and he knew that his beloved comrade, the first fleet carrier of His Majesty’s Navy, was now in mortal peril.

  The Americans came on relentlessly, more bombs dropping. Another impact, and this one astern, close enough that he felt the heat of the blast washing over the bridge. A loud screaming: a Dauntless, out of control, tumbled, barely cleared the bridge, and then disappeared astern, crashing in their wake.

  He stood up. Fires were burning the length of the deck, soaring up out of impact points, and he could feel their speed slacking off.

  “American torpedo planes!”

  Genda pointed to port but the smoke was so thick he could not see them.

  Heavy gunfire. An American plane appeared through the smoke, skimming the deck forward of the bridge, a Zero on its tail tearing into it, an American Wildcat behind the Zero, both Devastator and Zero bursting into flames, the Wildcat breaking away but it too now going down as antiaircraft fire tore off the aft fuselage of the plane.

  The intense bravery of all three pilots struck him, held his awed attention. A second torpedo plane came out of the smoke, crossed over the deck, and dropped back down as it cleared and skimmed off over the ocean. Hardly a gunner on the starboard side fired at it, their concentration still focused aloft.

  He caught a glimpse of four more bombers, dropping down, heading toward Kaga, then they were lost in the smoke.

  And then the double impact as two torpedoes struck nearly side by side astern, the force of the explosion throwing him back down, helmet cutting open his brow as he fell to the deck.

  Genda was by his side, helping to pull him back up, shouting for a corpsman. He waved him off.

  “I’m fine. My ship. Find out about our ship!”

  Akagi was still turning to port, but already slowing even more. From the starboard side exhaust stack a deafening burst of steam exploded out, indicating boilers were being flooded. A moment later he could sense the list beginning.

  And then there was a momentary silence, except for the hungry crackle of the fires sweeping the deck, an alarm sounding somewhere, men shouting—but the thunder of the guns, the shrieking roar of the planes was gone.

  They circled through one hundred eighty degrees, turning, helmsman shouting that the engine room was not answering. As they turned across the wind, he caught a momentary glimpse to the northeast. The surviving American planes were forming up in the distance, streaking away, bursts of antiaircraft fire from the escorting destroyers following them, a few Zeroes still in pursuit.

  But the damage had been done. He coul
d feel the list increasing, speed dropping away.

  His damage control officer, cradling what looked like a compound fracture to his arm, bone sticking out just above the elbow, stood before him, pale faced.

  “Sir, nothing is answering below. I have verbal reports of the hangar deck swept by fire, port-side engine rooms flooding, uncontrollable flooding below. The forward hit ruptured plates on the bow, and water is flooding in there as well. I’ve ordered counterflooding, sir, but …”

  He lowered his head, barely suppressing a sob.

  “Go on.”

  “Sir, I think you should transfer your flag.”

  A huge explosion erupted forward, fireball white hot. Obviously an aviation gas tank exploding, the explosion consuming fire crews that had been trying to train fire hoses into the hole punched by the bomb. That hole was now buckling back the entire forward deck of the ship.

  The list was continuing to increase; it was past ten degrees.

  He could see Kaga now. She had not been hit and was still steaming at full speed, coming around to run alongside her sister ship.

  He swept the bridge with his gaze. Another explosion, this one astern: vents of steam pluming up, an indication of boilers flooding or major steam lines letting go.

  Electrical lighting on the bridge flickered down, winked off. Emergency battery-powered lamps turned on their faint beams, piercing the gloom of smoke.

  Akagi was dying.

  “Order the crew to abandon ship,” he said quietly. “Signal destroyers to stand by to pick up survivors.”

  Genda, openly crying, saluted and started to turn away.

  “Sir, your flag. You are transferring, of course.”

  He forced a smile.

  “I’m not some suicidal fool, my friend. Of course I am transferring, but first let us get our valiant men up from below. Only then will I leave.”

  He paused.

  “And, Genda, make sure you retrieve the Z flag. Admiral Togo’s spirit would never forgive us for leaving it behind.”

  Over the Lexington