Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy

by Newt Gingrich

  The stars were out in all their splendor; moonrise was still an hour away. Once this was a time to be enjoyed when standing watch in such a sea. Now in this new world, it was a time when lookouts would be doubled, tensions rising, for a low moon rising could silhouette a ship to a lurking submarine stalker, giving to him that momentary advantage when he could slash in and kill.

  But for now, only the stars were out, Orion high in the southeastern sky, the hunter--and we are the hunters now.

  He moved between planes, Devastators parked farthest aft, next in position the squadron of Dauntless dive bombers, and then the marine squadron of Vought Vindicators that had been slated for delivery to Midway but were now still on board.

  Just before dawn that entire squadron would launch as the Task Force’s scout planes. They were as antiquated as the Devastators, and having monitored some of the reports from the battle between Enterprise and the Japs, he had surmised the chances of the Vindicators surviving as a primary strike weapon were next to nothing.

  He slowly walked between the folded-up wings of the planes. In the darkness deck crews were still at work, the only illumination dim red battle lanterns and red-covered flashlights. On the hangar deck below, those planes that for various reasons had problems--a bad magneto, a leaky cylinder, a balky landing gear, or just simply some damn “gremlin,” as the men called them--were being tracked down and repaired and would be spotted up to the deck later. Sherman had announced that every single available plane must be ready for launch. They would only have one good shot at the enemy, and he wanted that to be with everything Lexington could possibly put into the air.

  Newton moved farther forward. The ready Wildcats were spotted into place, wings down. Though night carrier flights were rare, with few pilots yet qualified, after hearing how the Japs had used scout planes to coordinate their bombardment of Pearl Harbor, he would not put it past them to have them out searching once the light from a three-quarter moon illuminated the seas.

  In the cockpit of each Wildcat sat a deck crewman, ready at an instant’s notice to start the plane up, the pilots trying to relax, ordered to stretch out and take it easy in the darkened first squadron ready room just inside the bridge so as not to diminish their night vision. He knew those boys most likely were not sleeping. Who could?

  In the darkness on the deck few recognized him as he passed. He bumped into one sailor who was coming out from under the wing of a Wildcat, who grumbled, “Damn it, hey, watch it Buddy.” He chuckled, “Sorry,” and moved on.

  He went farther forward, walking near the port side gunnery positions. The gun crews were standing down, but ready for alert. The old 1.1-inch guns each had one man on them now, ready to switch on the electrical power, connect into the fire control center to get the weapon ready in a few extra seconds, until his resting comrades reached the position. Spray covers had been removed from breeches and muzzles, the ready ammunition racks behind each gun filled.

  He reached the forward edge of the deck, walking over the huge painted number 2, and stepped up to the white safety line across the forward edge of the bow. He stood alone. They were running at ten knots, heading nearly straight into the northeasterly breeze, the wind thus a refreshing twenty knots, whipping his light jacket.

  The water ahead was churned over, foaming. It was the wake of the destroyer running half a mile ahead, a lone red light, hooded so it could only be seen from nearly directly aft, marking its stern, barely visible. But against the horizon, in the starlight, he could just about make out the deeper darkness of its outline. He was angered for a moment by a brief flash of light, some darn fool not yet used to wartime discipline opening a porthole, or door, not ensuring first that the blackout switch would automatically turn off the interior light as the door was opened. It went dark again.

  He hoped someone on board noticed it and the offender was hauled before the captain. There was more than enough experience now from the Atlantic, stories of ships being lost to submarines because of such slackness.

  We’ve trained for this for years, and tonight is real, he thought. Of course some, including himself, had served in the Atlantic during the last war, but everyone knew that the show was already winding down. There had been a handful of skirmishes against German subs, true antiques when compared to what was out there now, but never a major ship-to-ship action, let alone what was being contemplated for little more than eight hours from now.

  This is the first for all of us. I’m still awake, unable to sleep. He doubted if more than a stoic few aboard this ship, or their escorts, were asleep, even though all hands, except for the ready crews, night watch, and extra lookouts, had been ordered to stand down and try and get at least four hours.

  Most were undoubtedly in their bunks, in the darkness staring at the ceiling, some praying, and some whispering back and forth to each other. He had passed the word that the radio reports coming in from Enterprise’s strike teams be broadcast throughout the ship. He wanted them to hear what they were facing. Perhaps it had been a bad move, given the total annihilation of the Devastators. He almost regretted their knowing the fate of their comrades, but now was not the time to pull punches with his men, to swaddle them. It was time for them, for an entire nation, for all Americans, to face the brutal realities of war, to know what they were fighting, what they must face, and that yes, tomorrow some of them would indeed die.

  Something in his gut told him that this might be Lady Lex’s last night upon the waves. Odds were most likely three to one, but could be as high as six or seven to one. No one yet had a truly accurate fix on their numbers. Sherman’s XO, though a bit embarrassed to take the position, fearing he’d be seen as a coward, argued vehemently for them to turn away and just evade the Japanese fleet for now, to save their “Old Girl” for later battles. If Enterprise was indeed gone, they were the only carrier left in the entire Pacific, except for Saratoga, which was still on the West Coast.

  There was a logic to his argument, even as it was evident that the XO personally was against it, playing the role of devil’s advocate, and it caused a momentary pause in their conference at 1800 hours, as the ship stood down from full battle alert, half of the crew sent below to get their first hot chow of the day.

  For generations, the moment of battle at sea had been joined, both sides had a fair assessment of the other. Destroyers, or frigates and sloops of old, had scouted out the battle line of the enemy, counted ships, their ratings, guns aboard, even their names. As battle lines drew closer, the two- and three-deckers could see each other, pick their targets, and know what they would strike and what they would be struck with in return. Often commanders even knew exactly who was leading on the other side, had perhaps even been friends with them, and could be friends with them again, given the way alliances so easily changed in the days of kings and sailing ships.

  This was all so different. Earlier this day the first carrier-to-carrier battle in the history of warfare had been fought. It had been a matter of confusion, random chance, flights lost, targets missed or accidentally found. Neither side knew the numbers, the strength, even the ships of the other. It was like two pugilists fighting in a darkened arena, perhaps catching brief glimpses of the other in flashes of light. Captains and admirals did not even see the enemy, forced to rely on the reports of young men, some in reality barely trained, often shaken, some wounded, others in shock.

  It was thus that he and Sherman had made their decision. There might be but three Jap carriers out there, and if so, they knew their offensive numbers had to be down with the losses sustained over Pearl and in the strikes on Enterprise. If so, they might even have a slight edge in numbers.

  On the other hand, there might be six or more carriers out there. If so, they would most certainly be overwhelmed, even if they got the first strike in and sank or crippled one or two of the Japanese.

  Two nights ago he would have been far more confident. That confidence was shaken after hearing about this new fighter, this sleek high speed “Zero” th
ey had on their carriers. Naval intelligence had assured him and Halsey that the Japanese carriers still flew their older “96” models, which the Wildcat could at least match up against. This failure of intelligence was as damaging as all the other failures in intelligence. He knew that every Devastator crew member on board was already giving himself up for dead.

  And he could not even reassure them with the numbers they would actually face come morning.

  Three carriers or six? Two paths. His history classes so long ago at the Academy taught all of them about generals and admirals on the edge of a stunning victory, pausing, believing their foe was still superior while in fact he was reeling back and needed but one more blow to finish him. Afterward when history showed the truth, that general or admiral was haunted for the rest of his life by the thought that he could have won a battle, perhaps even a war, if he had only shown the guts and determination to risk all, like Meade at Gettysburg, who could have finished the war that day if he had attacked after Pickett’s Charge went down to defeat. And yet, on the other side of that equation was someone overconfident, pushing in, and going down to tragic defeat, forever haunted by the folly of his decision, and the realization of so many lives lost through his futile action, like Lee himself at Gettysburg, when he ordered Pickett in.

  And there was another element of the equation. In the morning his boys would, for the first time in their lives, actually fly into combat, while their opponents were already well seasoned, some undoubtedly from the war in China, but all of them hardened by two days of operations. Regardless of how many hundreds of hours of training a pilot, or any soldier, had, the shock of just one hour or even minutes of battle taught far, far more about survival, about killing versus being killed. In that the Japs most definitely had the edge. On the other hand, the Japanese pilots were also tired from their long trip across the Pacific and their three sorties against Pearl Harbor and then yesterday’s action against Enterprise. Maybe that exhaustion would cut some of their advantage in superior technology and training.

  Such logic, though, or worries about superior planes or pilots, must not make him hold back now. If he let his concern show, it would infect this entire task force. I must project confidence, especially to those few who will directly face the enemy tomorrow alone in their planes.

  The eastern horizon was beginning to glow brighter off the starboard quarter. He stood silent, hands in jacket pockets, wishing suddenly for a cigar or cigarette but knowing he could not light one out here. The moon started to break the horizon, a golden shimmer stretching across the gently rolling waves, the light illuminating the outline of a destroyer a mile off.

  He could hear the PA crackling to life, the call for extra lookouts to report, to ensure watertight security below decks, a bit of a surge as speed picked up from ten to fifteen knots to give them a little more maneuvering capability, to lessen their vulnerability to a torpedo attack. Aft, two plane engines turned over, warming up, then throttling back to idle, ready now for launch if the Japs had a night scout plane somewhere up there and it was spotted. The moon was clear of the horizon. His task force was up to fifteen knots, tracking north-northeast, and in two hours would shift to east-northeast.

  Neither he nor his rival knew that the two task forces would slip past each other in the night, barely a hundred miles separating them from each other.

  He yawned, turned his back, and started back down the deck, passing without comment a small knot of sailors who stood in a circle. Whispered conversations were going on, gallows humor, betting on whether they would be dead, swimming, or still on this deck tomorrow night. The agreed-upon odds were at the very least swimming, but “we’ll take a few of the bastards with us down to the bottom.”

  He was tempted to wander over, place his own bet, for morale purposes, of course, that they’d still be standing on this deck, counting off how many Jap carriers were sleeping with Davy Jones, but he moved on. It wasn’t his style.

  It was time to get some sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Honolulu December 9, 1941 04:30 hrs local time

  James awoke with a start, bedsheets soaked with sweat, disoriented, the nightmare still half real. Oklahoma was rolling over and he was inside, going over with her.

  He sat up, shaking, a shot of pain coursing up to his shoulder when he tried to rest the stump of his hand on the bed.

  “Damn!”

  He had to go to the bathroom and swung his feet off the bed and on to the floor. He was still disoriented, thinking he was home, not at his cousin’s house. He nearly walked into a wall, then tried to open a closet door.

  “James?”

  In the shadows he saw Margaret sit up; she had been slumbering, curled up on a chair.

  “You OK?” she asked.

  “Need the bathroom,” he announced.

  She switched on a light.

  “Turn that off,” he gasped, and she did as ordered. He looked out the open window. The city was supposed to be under blackout, but power had been restored to some quarters of the town, light streaming from more than one window. Not that it really mattered; to the west, the fires from Pearl and Hickam, the oil tank farms, still flickered and glowed, a target that could be marked twenty miles out to sea.

  “This is absurd,” she announced. “I don’t need you banging into walls,” and she switched the light back on, then went over and drew the curtains shut.

  She opened the bedroom door, and motioned him down the hallway, ready to go with him into the bathroom if need be.

  “I can do this myself,” he announced, a bit embarrassed, and went into the bathroom and relieved himself. With the light switch on he looked in the mirror.

  Damn, I look like hell, he realized: hadn’t shaved in days, eyes dark rimmed, face a bit gaunt, pale. His mouth felt gummy, disgusting. He opened the medicine cabinet, found a can of tooth powder, held it with his right hand, pried the lid off, then just held it up and shook some of the powder into his mouth and swished it around, spitting it out into the sink. He turned the water on; barely a trickle came out, brown, almost muddy looking, and he realized the tank for the toilet was just barely filling as well. Blown water mains; pressure was still down.

  He switched off the light and came back out into the hallway.

  “Open your mouth,” she ordered and popped a thermometer in, guiding him back to the bedroom, where the light was still on, pointing for him to sit on the bed.

  She checked the thermometer a couple of minutes later.

  “Just over a hundred,” she announced. “You’re still fighting the infection. Now get back in bed.”

  He shook his head.

  “Back to the base.”

  “James, don’t be absurd.”

  “I’m not. How many Japanese translators and code readers do they have down there?”

  “I don’t know, you never told me about your work, but I’d guess there are enough on duty. You’ve done your part, now for God’s sake, get back in that bed.”

  He shook his head.

  “I have to go back,” and he looked at her sharply. “Now help me get dressed.”

  She sat down by his side, gingerly took his arm, raised the bandage to her face and sniffed. “Smells a bit strange.”

  “It’s the sulfa. I’m feeling better; it isn’t throbbing like it was before.”

  He was half lying. It still hurt like hell, but the pain did feel a bit different now. With the fragment of God knew what pulled out by Dianne, the throbbing sensation was gone, though the infection was still there. The fragment, what was it? Part of Arizona when she blew? The thought made him sick, hating the memory of that moment. And I want to go back down there?

  Take a day or two in bed, his weaker and yet more sensible half whispered. And besides, given the tensions in the city, he wanted to stay here, look out for Margaret and her mom. Lord only knew what had transpired in the city during the night. He had heard more than one story about lynching of Negroes in the South and Midwest not all that f
ar in the past, more than a few of his comrades in the Navy talking about witnessing such things, and an unpleasant few obviously not caring, or even joking about it. Were we capable of that here, now? Could there be some in this town who would trigger a “Crystal Night,” as it was called in Germany, and run riot against Japanese civilians?

  Without doubt there could be the same here if that darkness was allowed to fester, the same as an infection, and then spread. He looked at Margaret, her jet-black hair, the oriental cast to her eyes which had so bewitched him when first they met, and which still after twenty-one years could steal his breath away. Some would now call them the eyes of the enemy.

  If that is how this war turns, then God save us all. Perhaps I should stay here. If things turn ugly, I can at least protect them.

  And yet if I let that fear keep me here, what will I think later? I’m needed down at Pearl. I at least did something useful yesterday, even if only for a moment. If their boy was still alive, chances were he’d be in the Navy now. Kids his age had died by the thousands these last two days; more would die today. I’ve got to do something.

  “Help me get my jacket on and make up some kind of sling.”

  “Damn your stubbornness and sense of duty,” but there was a touch of a smile as she whispered to him.

  She went out to the hallway, fished through the linen closet, came back a moment later with a towel, folded it into a triangle, and making a sling, helped him slip his arm into it. He tried not to grimace or react to the pain.

  “To hell with the jacket,” she said. “It’s a filthy mess anyhow, they’ll know you’re an officer from your hat. Now let me make you some coffee.”

  Together they went down the small corridor into the living room. On the sofa his mother-in-law was sitting upright, and for a second he wasn’t sure who the other person was, head nestled in the old woman’s lap. It was Dianne, blanket half off her. In the moonlight he could see her tear-stained face. She was fast asleep. He had to admit she did look beautiful, and he could understand Margaret’s initial reaction, even before Dianne’s bitterness toward the Japanese was voiced. His mother-in-law smiled sadly and made a shushing motion with a finger raised to her lips.