Pearl Harbour and Days of Infamy

by Newt Gingrich

  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 him 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 bu
t 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.

  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 t
en 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 pilots 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.