Days of Infamy

by Harry Turtledove

  “If you will bring yourself back from the Hawaiian Islands to the business at hand, Mr. Crosetti . . .” said the instructor, a lieutenant from Pittsburgh named Ralph Goodwin.

  “Uh, yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Joe wasn’t the least bit sorry. “Can you imagine the look on the Japs’ faces when we buzzed ’em?”

  Goodwin had cool blue eyes and a manner that spoke of money. “Can you imagine the look on your face when I give you a downcheck for wasting your time—and mine?”

  “No, sir,” Joe said quickly.

  “All right, then. Why don’t you hop on in? We’ll run through the checks.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Joe scrambled up into the Stearman’s rear seat. It went up and down like a barber chair, to adjust to trainees of different heights. The man who’d taken the plane out last must have been big, because Joe had to raise it three or four inches. He clipped the parachute pack to the flying harness.

  Lieutenant Goodwin, meanwhile, had taken his place in the front seat. “You squared away there?” he asked.

  “Uh, just about, sir.” Crosetti reached up and adjusted the mirror attached to the upper wing. He might have been fooling with the rear-view mirror on a car somebody else had been driving. When he got it fixed the way he wanted it, he said, “All ready now.”

  “Okay. Let’s run through the checklist, then,” Goodwin said.

  “Right.” Joe hoped he hid his lack of enthusiasm.

  By the way the instructor snorted, he didn’t hide it well enough. “You do this every time you plop your fanny down in an airplane, Mister—every single time. The one time you forget, the one thing you forget, will always be the one you wish you hadn’t. A Stearman’s a very forgiving plane—you can do a lot of things that’d send you home in a box if you tried ’em in a hotter machine. But no airplane ever made will forgive out-and-out stupidity. And even if you don’t feel like running through the checks, I do—’cause it’s my neck, too.”

  Ears burning, Joe mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay.” Goodwin sounded amused, not angry. “Seems about two cadets out of three are like that. They get the hang of it, though. Let’s go through the list.”

  Through it they went, everything from the attachment of Joe’s safety belt to pedals and stick to throttle and magneto with the motor running. Everything checked out the way it was supposed to. “All green, sir,” Joe said above the roar of the seven-cylinder radial.

  “Looks that way to me, too,” Goodwin agreed. “Take her over to Runway Three-West and let the tower know you’ll be going into the air.”

  “Three-West. Aye aye, sir.” Slowly and carefully, Joe taxied to the end of the required runway. A plane was meant to fly, not to waddle along on the ground; taxiing was nothing like driving a car, the way he’d thought it would be. He exchanged formalities with the control tower. He also looked down the runway to make sure nobody else was landing on it or taxiing across it. That was like automobile traffic: charging out from a stop sign without looking was liable to get you creamed. “Seems all clear, sir,” he said to Goodwin. He wasn’t far enough along to take off without the instructor’s permission.

  “So it does. Get us airborne, Mr. Crosetti.”

  Joe advanced the throttle. The engine’s roar got louder and deeper. The Stearman shot down the runway. Actually, the little biplane was one of the most sedate airplanes ever manufactured, but it didn’t seem that way to him. Even though he was still on the ground, he kept one eye glued to the airspeed indicator. When it showed he was going fast enough, he pulled back on the stick. The Yellow Peril lurched into the air.

  “Smoothly, Mr. Crosetti, smoothly,” Goodwin said. “You’re not bulldogging a steer.”

  “Yes, sir.” Joe thought he’d made a great takeoff. He was flying, wasn’t he?

  “It’s like learning to drive a car,” Goodwin told him. “After you get enough hours, you won’t need to tell your hands and feet what to do. They’ll know by themselves, and they’ll do everything together. It’ll seem like second nature—if you don’t kill yourself before then, of course.”

  That comparison made sense to Joe. It also told him he wasn’t as far along as he’d thought. He remembered how ragged he’d been the first few times he got behind the wheel. A few less than perfect turns here—and the instructor’s sardonic comments accompanying each one—went a long way toward cutting him down to size.

  But he was flying! Even if he wasn’t such hot stuff yet, he was up in the air and learning what he needed to learn so he could go out and shoot down Japs one of these days. There was the Naval Air Station, and the woods and swamps behind it, and the blue bay in front, and the even bluer Gulf of Mexico out beyond the bay. Birds got a view like this all the time. The Stearman could outperform any bird ever hatched. (Even had it carried machine guns, it would have been helpless against anything this side of a Sopwith Camel, but Joe didn’t dwell on that.)

  Much sooner than he wanted to, he was coming in for a landing. “Gently,” Goodwin urged. “Smoothly. You’re juggling eggs. Cadets make ninety percent of their mistakes in the last twenty feet. If you only knew where the hell the ground is, you’d be Charles Lindbergh.”

  “I don’t want to be Charles Lindbergh,” Joe snapped. Lindbergh had done everything he could to keep the USA out of the war till the Japs jumped Hawaii. He’d been the Nazis’ teacher’s pet. And he’d been mighty quiet since December 7.

  “Okay, you’d be Jimmy Doolittle,” Lieutenant Goodwin said equably.

  “That’s more like it.”

  Jimmy Doolittle Joe wasn’t, or not yet, anyhow. The Stearman bounced hard when he put it down. His teeth clicked together. The instructor said something Joe hoped didn’t go out to the control tower. He brought the recalcitrant beast to a stop and killed the engine.

  “Well, sir?” he asked unhappily into the sudden silence that seemed so loud.

  But Goodwin had recovered his sangfroid in a hurry. “Well, Mr. Crosetti, you’re learning, that’s all,” he said. “I’ve seen men at your stage of training do better, but I’ve seen plenty do worse. You’ve got plenty of work ahead of you, but you can get where you want to go.”

  Joe knew where he wanted to go: where Jimmy Doolittle had gone before him. Doolittle had raided. Joe wanted to take Hawaii back all by his lonesome. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He knew that. But it was what he wanted.

  COLONEL MITSUO FUJIKAWA had been promoted for bravery after the conquest of Hawaii. But, even though Corporal Takeo Shimizu’s regimental commander now wore three stars on his collar tabs instead of two, he looked anything but happy. Like the rest of the men in the regiment, Shimizu stood at stiff attention on the grass of a park doing duty for a parade ground. His face held no expression. He stared straight ahead. He might have been carved from wood.

  It wasn’t going to help him. He could feel that in his bones. Nothing would help the soldiers, not after what had happened a few days before.

  Colonel Fujikawa prowled back and forth. Once upon a time, Shimizu had seen a picture of a daimyo hunting a tiger with a spear in Korea three and a half centuries earlier. The great noble wore fancy armor and a tall headgear with a floppy tip. Shimizu remembered that, but what he really remembered was the ferocity that blazed from the tiger. He’d never seen anything like it since—not till now.

  Even when Fujikawa stopped pacing, he still looked ready to roar and to spring. Instead of roaring, though, he spoke softly, and somehow made that more wounding than the loudest shouts could have been.

  “You are in disgrace,” he hissed. “Disgrace! Do you hear me? Do you hear me?”

  “Hai! We hear you, Colonel!” The men spoke as if they were part of a perfectly trained chorus. In an abstract way, Shimizu was proud of them—but only in an abstract way, because no matter how perfect they were, that wouldn’t do them any good, either.

  “Disgrace!” Colonel Fujikawa said once more. “You are disgraced, I am disgraced, the whole Japanese Army in Hawaii is disgraced, and the Japanese Navy in
and around Hawaii is disgraced, too. And do you know why?”

  Everyone knew why, of course. Shimizu knew why all too well. This time, though, no one said a word. It was as if, if no one admitted what had happened, somehow it wouldn’t have happened after all.

  But Colonel Fujikawa was intent on plumbing the depths of their iniquity. “The Americans—the Americans!—made us lose face. They bombed Oahu. They torpedoed one of our carriers. And most of their bombers escaped. It is an embarrassment. It is a humiliation. It is a disgrace, truly a disgrace.”

  As one man, the soldiers of the regiment hung their heads in shame. Shimizu lowered his at the same time as everybody else. Even as he did, though, he wondered why this was his fault. What could an infantry noncom do about bombers overhead except jump for cover and hope he didn’t get killed? Nothing he could see.

  The regimental commander went on, “The captain of the picket boat that spotted the American carriers was fished out of the water after the enemy sank it. He has committed suicide to atone for his failure to see that they had long-range bombers aboard. The commander of the antiaircraft defenses on this island has also committed suicide, to atone for his failure to shoot down even a single enemy airplane.”

  Now real fear ran through the regiment. Honorable seppuku was always a way out after failure. Saying good-bye to everything was not only honorable, it was also easier than living on as an object of scorn to everyone around you. But how far would that particular form of atonement reach?

  Colonel Fujikawa said, “Common soldiers, form two ranks facing each other. Move, you worthless wretches!”

  They moved. Now they knew what was coming. It would be bad, but it could have been worse. After a while, Fujikawa would decide it was over.

  “Sergeants and corporals, face one another,” Fujikawa added.

  Shimizu didn’t let the dismay he felt show on his face. He’d been through this mill before, too. Who hadn’t? Officers hadn’t, that was who. Unlike enlisted men, officers were presumed to be gentlemen. Here, now, they stayed at their stiff brace.

  When Shimizu turned to face Corporal Kiyoshi Aiso, who led another squad in his platoon, Aiso’s face was as expressionless as his. The other noncom was a long-service soldier; he had to be close to forty. But his weathered skin and the broad shoulders that bulged under his tunic said he’d grown strong with the years, not soft.

  Now, at last, Fujikawa shouted: “Each man, slap the face of the man in front of you! Take turns!”

  Corporal Aiso was senior, which meant he got to go first. Shimizu braced himself. Aiso let him have it, right across the cheek. In spite of being braced, Shimizu staggered. His head rang. He shook it, trying to clear his wits. Aiso hadn’t held back, not even a little bit.

  Then the other corporal stood at attention and waited. Shimizu slapped him hard. Aiso’s head flew to one side. He shook his head, too. Shimizu came to attention in turn. “The same cheek or the other one?” Aiso asked politely.

  “Whichever you please. It doesn’t matter one way or the other,” Shimizu answered.

  Aiso hit him lefthanded, which meant his head snapped to the right this time. The older soldier was just as strong with his off hand as with his good one. Shimizu asked whether he had a preference. Aiso just shrugged. Shimizu, a thoroughly right-handed man, struck his left cheek again.

  Usually, the noncoms would have kept the common soldiers at it, making sure they didn’t slow down and making sure they didn’t pull their blows. The noncoms were also caught in the web of humiliation today. The regimental officers stalked through the ranks. “Harder!” they shouted. “Keep at it! Who told you you could slack off? What kind of soldier do you think you are?”

  Unless Shimizu concentrated, he saw two of Corporal Aiso. He hoped he was just as blurry to the older man. His whole face felt on fire. He tasted blood in his mouth, and he wasn’t sure whether that was blood or snot dribbling from his nose. Probably both. Aiso wasn’t trying to box his ears, any more than he was trying to box those of the other corporal. That didn’t mean they didn’t get walloped now and again. Even Shimizu’s palm started to sting from giving too many blows.

  He couldn’t have told how long it went on. Privates started falling over. Cursing officers kicked them. Nobody was trying to get away with faking, not this time. Only when a polished boot in the belly or the spine failed to prod them to their feet were they suffered to stay on the ground.

  At last, contemptuously, Colonel Fujikawa yelled, “Enough!”

  Corporal Aiso had his arm drawn back for another blow. Shimizu hardly cared whether it landed or not. After so many, what difference did one more make? But Aiso stayed his hand. Shimizu swayed. Stubbornly, he kept on his feet. He didn’t care to crumple where his squad could see him do it. Since most of them were still upright, he would have lost face by falling.

  He felt as if he’d lost his face anyway. At the same time, he wished he could lose it. Then he wouldn’t have to feel it any more.

  “Go clean yourselves up,” Colonel Fujikawa commanded. “You are disgusting. The way you look is a disgrace to the Japanese Army, too.”

  And whose fault is that? Shimizu wondered blearily. But he would never have said such a thing, not even if the Yankees were disemboweling him with a dull, rusty bayonet. Discipline ran deep. After bowing to Corporal Aiso—who returned the courtesy—Shimizu gave his attention, or as much of it as he had to give, back to his squad.

  All of them were on their feet now. He didn’t know who had fallen and then got up again. He didn’t intend to ask, either. That would make whoever might have gone down lose face. The whole regiment had lost face. The whole Hawaii garrison had lost face. What point to singling out one or two common soldiers after that?

  Heads up, backs straight, they marched off to the barracks. Once there, they lined up at the sinks to wash their bloody faces, rinse out their bloody mouths, and soak their tunics in cold water to get the bloodstains out of them.

  “I thought my head was going to fall off.” Shiro Wakuzawa spoke with more pride than anything else.

  “We all did,” Shimizu said. The men he led nodded, one by one. His rank usually exempted him from such spasms of brutality. Not this time, though. He was as bruised and battered as any of them. No one could say he hadn’t been through it. No one could say he hadn’t come through it, either. For now, he was one of them.

  Senior Private Furusawa said, “If the Americans come again, we’ll be ready for them.”

  “Of course we will. Who’d want to go through this more than once?” Even after the abuse Wakuzawa had taken, he could still joke.

  “How could the Americans come again?” somebody else said. Shimizu was splashing his face with cold water—which hurt and felt good at the same time—and couldn’t tell who it was. The soldier went on, “They can’t try another raid like that. Furusawa’s right. We’d smash them flat.”

  Shimizu pulled away from the faucet blowing like a whale. He shook his head, which made drops of water fly everywhere—and which also reminded him how sore he was. “If the Americans come again, they won’t just raid,” he said. “They’ll run in a pack like wild dogs, and they’ll try to take Hawaii away from us.”

  Some of the soldiers in his squad nodded again. Others, men who hurt too much for that, softly said, “Hai.”

  WRITING THE REPORT on how the Americans had caught the Japanese garrison on Oahu flat-footed fell to commander Mitsuo Fuchida. He felt more as if the duty had fallen on him. Before sitting down in front of a blank sheet of paper, he went to pick Minoru Genda’s brain. Genda was one of the few men on the island with whom he could speak frankly.

  “It’s not very complicated,” Genda said. “They did something we didn’t expect, that’s all. You can’t get ready for what you don’t anticipate.”

  “Easy enough to say,” Fuchida answered. “What do I do for the other forty-nine and three-quarters pages of the report, though?”

  As it usually did, Genda’s smile made him look very
young. “You can tell General Yamashita and Captain Hasegawa that we won’t get fooled again.”

  Fuchida bowed in his seat, there in Genda’s office. “Domo arigato,” he said, spicing the thanks with all the sarcasm he could. “We’d better not. If we do, we’ll all have to open our bellies.” He wasn’t joking, or not very much. The garrison had put itself through a painful orgy of self-reproach. If it was humiliated again . . . much more blood would flow than had this time.

  “They are going to come sniffing around these islands. They haven’t given up, the way we hoped they would,” Genda said. “Carrier raids, submarines, maybe even flying boats, too.”

  “We need better ways to detect them,” Fuchida said.

  “The picket boats did their job, neh?” Genda said. “The skipper of that one was too hard on himself, I think. Why blame him for not looking out for B-25s when nobody else did, either?”

  “Picket boats can only do so much,” Fuchida insisted. “Things can sneak past them, or their skippers can make mistakes. Yes, I know we all made the mistake, but we should have known what the Yankees were up to before they got here.”

  “How?” Genda asked reasonably.

  “I don’t know,” Fuchida said. “Or maybe I do. Have the engineers ever figured out what that installation up at Opana was supposed to do before the Americans wrecked it?”

  “Whatever it was supposed to do, it didn’t do it,” Genda pointed out. “We caught them napping. They had no idea we were there till the bombs started falling. You were the one who signaled Tora! Tora! Tora! to show we’d taken them by surprise.”

  “No, it was Mizuki, my radioman,” Fuchida said.

  “And here I thought you were a Navy man, not a damn lawyer,” Genda said.

  “I am a Navy man,” Fuchida said. “As a Navy man, I want to know about that installation.”