Fires were igniting there. The bastards had indeed figured out it was worth the effort. So far half a dozen dive bombers had made their runs on it, three of them getting nailed, the other three dropping squarely on target. A dozen or more tanks were already burst open, rich black oil cascading out, some fires beginning to ignite and then a huge fireball, whether from a bomb, crashing plane, or the insanity of antiaircraft fire hitting an aviation gas storage tank. A hundred thousand gallons of hundred-octane fuel blowing. The expanding fireball soared heavenward, expanding out. He could feel the heat, the same as when the Arizona blew, raised his hand for a moment to shield his eyes from it, as if looking into the morning sun. Streamers of fire poured down from the skies, now setting flame to the hundreds of thousands of barrels of oil spilling out of ruptured tanks. The tank farm to the north was burning as well.
“Another!” Collingwood shouted.
James looked back to where his friend was pointing. The fourth Kate had emerged out of the wall of water kicked up by the exploding eight-inch shells, torpedo dropping away, and barely an instant later it was into the harbor, bouncing back up, cartwheeling end over end and exploding.
He could hear guttural cheers from those around him. It was but one plane, but somehow it seemed like payback, an ironic payback since the attacking Kates were not more than a hundred yards out from the Arizona, still burning fiercely.
“They’re going for number one dry dock!” James cried.
Admiral Kimmel stood by the window, silent, unmoving, watching as the fourth Kate tumbled end over end in a fireball explosion.
“Bum, you bastard.”
It was his chief, who had remained silent till now.
Kimmel looked over at him. The chief was holding a flask and motioned toward it. Kimmel nodded, unscrewed the cap, admiring the handwork of the silver flask, USN insignia on one side, Marine on the other. He took a long sip, handed it back.
He did not even hear the brace of two 250-kilo bombs plummeting down, crashing through the roof of the headquarters of CinCPac, “Commander in Chief, Pacific,” the first bomb detonating as it struck a steel support beam between the second and third floors, the second one crashing through floor after floor, clear down to the basement, striking but a few feet from where Commander James Watson’s now empty desk rested, hitting the concrete floor, plunger striking detonator, both bombs igniting less than a second apart, the first lifting the roof off the building, the second, explosive force contained by the basement blowing upward and out, bursting the frame walls, the entire building seeming to lift and then collapse in on itself, with more than a hundred men and women who had stayed at their posts dead, including Kimmel and his chief, who was just about to take a drink himself when the two bombs hit, a hundred more, most of them fatally injured, staggering, crawling out of the flaming wreckage.
James gave a sidelong glance toward the collapsing headquarters building, Collingwood catching his gaze, both sharing that glance that only survivors of disaster could ever understand, that they had, by the grace of God, made the right choice together, otherwise they would now both be dead.
Bombs were falling around them now, striking into repair shops. Down at the harbor’s edge four submarines, incredibly still tied off together, burst asunder from three hits by hundred- kilo general-purpose demolition bombs; no need for armor piercing on their thin skins. One sub, trying to back out into the harbor to make good its escape, was bracketed by two more bombs, rocking it like a toy boat in a child’s tub, the Val that had dropped them trailing black smoke, pulling up slightly then adding itself to the spread conflagration of the oil farm. The sub quickly listed to port, men pouring up from hatchways and bridge, billowing black smoke engulfing them, and then something lit off, the submarine exploding, splitting asunder and settling to the harbor floor.
Too much was happening all at once to possibly take in. An explosion. James caught a glimpse of it, flash memory of the torpedoes slamming into his beloved Oklahoma. It was the dry-dock gate, column of water soaring several hundred feet heavenward. Another Kate raced past, dropped, then jinked madly, banked over sharply, and skimmed directly over the turtled hull of Oklahoma, disappearing into the smoke boiling out of the burning battleships. Yet another Kate, but this one disintegrated before dropping, a hundred machine guns from all around the harbor shredding it, the tens of thousands of rounds that missed screaming overhead, kicking up turf, hitting sailors, marines, civilians scrambling to get away, some rounds arcing so high that half a minute later they’d crash into a window of a building, a car, or kill someone standing on a street comer in downtown Honolulu ... a death of course to be blamed on the ruthless Japs, strafing innocent bystanders.
“She’s holding,” Collingwood shouted.
James said nothing. Somehow this moment of the fight seemed to focus everything. He had enough of a sense of the battle this day to know that the first two strikes, though a shock unlike any suffered by this nation since Shiloh or Gettysburg, had not been a killing blow. The carriers were at sea, the vast reserves of the Atlantic Fleet would soon be steaming to the Pacific; the ships lost, even those he loved, were as obsolete as the Buffalo and P-36 fighters matched against Zeroes.
But now they were going for the jugular. The burning oil farm, four and a half million barrels, enough oil there to fuel the entire Pacific Fleet, ships and planes, be they Japanese or American, for a year or more. Without the largest dry dock, any serious repairs below the waterline, for battleship or carrier, were impossible. They were back, and this time, if successful, they could very well knock Pearl Harbor out of the war for months, perhaps a year or more to come.
The torpedo dropped by the second surviving Kate struck, another column of water, this one by the east end hinge of the dock, column of water subsiding, antlike figures scrambling along the dockside ... still it held.
“Another!”
Collingwood pointed as yet another Kate, this one marked with stripes on its tail, the upper half of the vertical stabilizer shot away, raced past them. Obviously some sort of command plane, oblivious to the firestorm that now focused on it. Whoever was in that plane, he hated the bastard, and yet he could not help but feel some admiration as well. . . the son of a bitch, if he survived the next few seconds . .. would decide it.
“Steady ... Steady!” Fuchida shouted the command, looking over the shoulder of his pilot. Another spray of shot hit them, stitching across the canopy, glass shattering, plane lurching to port. He had kept his right hand lightly on the stick, ready to take over, feet barely touching the rudder pedals, left hand on throttle. His pilot was hit, he could feel it. The stick swung to port; he braced it hard, steadied it.
“I’m fine. I can do it!” The pilot’s voice gasped through the speaking tube that connected them.
It was nearly impossible to see, tracers flicking past the forward windscreen, another blow, where on the plane he couldn’t tell. Water foaming up, shots fired low to blind them, to knock them over as they skimmed in at thirty feet, now throttled back to 120 knots for release in the shallow harbor.
“Steady... steady!”
Fuchida caught a glimpse of a wingtip, red rising sun on it, sticking out of the water, aviation gas burning on the surface. Another explosion, huge, geyser to starboard. He turned for a second... a ship burning. Arizona? Hard to tell with the smoke. Another ship, red hull inverted, glimpse of men standing atop the overturned ship, some with guns, shooting.
“Steady!”
Now he saw it. Column of water from who, Tomida or Usaka, dropping? He thought he saw Usaka banking away. Hoped so. A friend, comrade from China.
“Steady!”
He was within range. Drop now. No. Risk it, a few more seconds. He pushed in a little left rudder, a touch of aileron, righten, line up at the centerline of the gate, hit it there.
“Steady . ..”
Another thump, more thumps. Smoke--us or a shell burst? Blinding for an instant. Shoot through it. Yes! Now!
�
�Launch!”
Fuchida pulled the manual release at the same instant letting go of the stick long enough to strike the electrical release button. He felt the plane instantly surge up as the one-ton mass of the torpedo dropped away.
His pilot was hurt, badly hurt, no reaction. Keep it down low; the loss of the one-ton torpedo had lifted them higher, straight into the overarcing storm of antiaircraft fire. He took over, pushing his stick down, for an instant fearing he had overreacted and would hit the water, leveling out, propwash churning the harbor surface. Dodging now, gaining a few feet in order to bank to starboard, then weave back to port. Don’t go over Ford or Hickam, race straight for the channel opening and out to sea.
Ahead he saw a ship, back broken, destroyer. .. light cruiser? It was sinking in midchannel, settling to the bottom. Flash of tracers coming from overhead, hitting the water ahead. Glimpse of a wing, looking up, American ... trailing smoke, caught in the maelstrom of fire from every direction, breaking away. He aimed straight at the sinking ship, skimming over its deck, already awash, turned, felt another hard thump, blow on the port wing, heart-stopping moment, stream of fuel venting... but no fire. He headed for the open sea beyond.
“Oh God, Oh God, No,” James cried.
The last torpedo: he could see its wake, streaking unerringly toward the dry-dock gate. Another hammer blow, the third one now. Another column of water rising up, wreathed in smoke and flame, and even before it began to settle he could see the surface of the harbor swirling and then become a tidal cascade, a wall of water thirty feet high bursting into the dry dock as the great gate buckled and gave way. Horrifying, a launch busy plucking men out of the harbor was caught, upended and swept in, wooden hull splintering, millions of tons of water flooding over the shattered hulk of the old battleship Pennsylvania, which had been inside the dry dock for overhaul and shattered in the first two attacks. Now it’s broken mass shifted and pivoted as the wall of water poured in, the wreckage of the broken ship upending. The surge of water reached the far wall of the thousand-foot-long dock, a tsunami-like wave splashing up over the far end, sucking some men into its swirling mass, then recoiling back, the flood now racing back in the opposite direction, the force of the surge tearing one of the dry-dock doors completely free of its hinges, sending it to the bottom of the harbor.
There was nothing he could do now but just stand there and watch. Already the attack was subsiding, though the antiaircraft was still nearly as intense, gunners firing blindly into the smoke engulfing the harbor, now killing far more of their comrades than enemies. Explosions were igniting from Pearl City, across Honolulu, and as far north as Schofield as antiaircraft shells rained down.
In spite of the continuing fusillade he stood back up and looked over at Collingwood. The oil tank farms were ablaze now, a conflagration with a plume of smoke that already was soaring ten thousand feet to the heavens, surely a beacon that could be seen from a hundred miles away. A dozen more ships were burning or sunk, several of them out in the main channel; one looked to be a heavy cruiser, down at the bow, propellors sticking out of the water, amazingly still turning. The submarine pen was a shambles. They had hammered that good; three of the four boats that had been tied off were either blown apart or settling to the bottom, a fifth boat sunk out in the harbor, bridge sticking out of the water, men clinging to it. Repair yards were a sea of flames, his own building gone, collapsed in on itself, burning fiercely.
Collingwood was as silent as he.
“I’m going home,” James said quietly.
“What?”
“Margaret. She’ll be frantic with worry. I’m going home.”
“James?”
“What in hell am I supposed to do?” James snapped, and he held up the twisted claw of what had once been his hand, the steel “hook” covered with dried blood. “Did anybody listen to us, goddamn it? So what the hell are we to do now?”
Collingwood could not reply.
“I’m going home. I’ll be back tonight, if there is anything to come back to,” he said again, and without waiting for a reply he turned and walked away.
He walked past the flaming ruins of headquarters, pushing around a fire crew that stood impotent, cursing, hoses hooked up to a hydrant, but there was no water pressure. In the parking lot a dozen or more cars were wrecks, several burning, one with what looked like an airplane propellor speared through its roof. His own car, ‘39 Plymouth, untouched except for a neat hole through the passenger side windshield, drilled by a spent bullet, rest of the window cracked.
It felt almost surreal fishing the keys out of his pocket with his good hand, sliding them in, hitting the starter with his foot, engine turning over.
He backed out of his slot, weaved around the side of an abandoned car, blackened, still smoking. He gave it a sidelong glance, fearful of what he might see inside, and then wished he hadn’t looked.
He hit the gas, heading for the gate. There was a guard, but he was checking the line of cars that, amazingly, were still trying to get into this madhouse. Pulling out, he had, for the first few blocks, an open road ahead. A concussion blow, distant. He looked in his rearview mirror, saw a ship, anchored, bursting asunder, magazine most likely touching off.
Honolulu. Chaos. Several blocks in flames, partially collapsed apartment, dozen or more bodies out front, covered in - blood-soaked sheets. He pulled over several times to let ambulances pass, a convoy of half a dozen army trucks, a crazed civilian with a shotgun, pointing it straight up, just firing at nothing. A cop suddenly stepped out of nowhere, motioning for him to stop. An instinct telling him that they were commandeering cars, or he’d have to put up with some damn stupid interrogation, he floored it and weaved around him. Then the sight of several dozen civilians, all of them Japanese, hands resting on the tops of their heads, standing in front of a police station, a lone cop with a shotgun watching them.
He looked away, hit the gas, kept on going, heading up into the pass over the mountains via the Pali highway. The air was a bit cooler, clean, afternoon clouds breaking over the top of the pass; it’d rain in another hour or so. He cleared the pass, weaving through the tunnel, coming out the other side. Plumes of smoke were rising on the trade winds from fires at Kaneohe Naval Air Station. He weaved down the mountain, shifting gears. Damn, the stump really hurt now. He spared a glance: fresh blood oozing through the rough bandage.
Coming into Kailua people were out in the streets, a few buildings burning. From a turn in the road he caught a glimpse of the small army air base at Bellows, smoke from there, another fire up on the slope, most likely a plane down. And then, amazingly, puffs of smoke out to sea, more tracers arcing out from shore, a glimpse of a Jap plane, my God, was it the one with the yellow tail? It was limping north, a mile or so out from the coast, skimming the waves.
North. No one, absolutely no one prior to this third attack had figured out where the Jap carriers were located. Well, that answer was obvious now, and for a few seconds he thought of pulling over, finding a phone, calling it in. Call who? He drove on.
He watched the plane disappear. If you lived through that, you bastard, you are one lucky son of a bitch ... till next time.
And as he turned the comer, there in the street he saw Margaret. Somehow that instinct of hers, or maybe her “secret telescope,” had told her. She was running toward him. He pulled over to the curb below their house and frantically she was tearing at the door, opening it, sobbing, pulling him out of the car, hugging him fiercely.
He was afraid to put his injured arm around her, she was wearing her favorite Sunday dress, ivory colored, close fitting.
“Oh, my God, James!” and she drew back, sensing his pain, gently touching his arm.
“I’m all right. All right.”
And she was in his arms again, oblivious to the blood soaking her.
He looked up toward the lanai of his house, his beloved mother-in-law carefully coming down the steps, leaning on her cane, face filled with relief.
She
was, of course ... Japanese ... and as she came to his side to embrace him, he did not know what to say.
4:45 p.m. Local Time
He struggled to line up onto the glide slope. Their carriers had the most advanced landing system in the world, angled lights so that when you were aligned center, at the right glide slope, you’d see the green shaded lights to either side of the center line of the deck. It worked fairly well, except in rough seas with deck pitching.
It was rough seas, the deck was indeed pitching, and he was bringing in a dead plane. He knew his tail gunner was dead, the stench was present, the boy’s body having voided its contents after long minutes of a painful death rattle. He suspected his pilot was dead as well, slumped to one side of the cockpit, right foot jammed against the rudder pedal, making it all but impossible to counter the dead weight as he struggled to fly the plane from the midseat position. Instruments were impossible to see from where he sat, no way to adjust anything other than throttle, stick, and rudder. He had almost crashed when after clearing the island, he struggled up for altitude, unbuckled, and leaned over Matsuo, who was unconscious and managed to flip over the fuel tank lever, but every liter in the port wing was long gone. All the tanks were dry now. Engine was sputtering in and out, something hit in there as well... it wasn’t as bad as back in China when he was blinded by oil, but then again, he wasn’t trying to bring a crippled plane in onto a rolling deck at sea.
Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th Page 35
