Meanwhile, the right stream had broken into two, with one crossing the coastline and making for Pearl Harbor across the island, and the second continuing on course past the island, then turning back to attack Pearl Harbor from the open sea.
The first wave of Japanese bombers struck at 0755 hours and the second at 0900. By then the task force had changed course and was making for the Japanese Inland Sea, hoping to avoid any encounter with carrier-based aircraft from Task Forces 12 and 8 or with land-based aircraft on Oahu. Intelligence reported that at least one squadron of long-range, four-engine B-17 bomber aircraft was en route from the continental United States. Despite the risk of detection by radio direction finders, shortly after 1030 hours, a priority message from the Japanese task force was radioed to headquarters of the Imperial Japanese Navy in Tokyo: "Tora (Tiger), Tora, Tora." It was the prearranged code for the successful completion of the attack.
(Three)
Although he tried to be very nonchalant about the whole thing, Second Lieutenant K.J. McCoy made his first aerial trip from Anacostia to the West Coast. All in all, once he got used to it, he found it very enjoyable. The airplane was a Navy transport, but so far as he could tell, identical to the Douglas DC-3s used by civilian airlines. The Navy called it an R4-D, yet it even had white napkins on the seats to keep your hair tonic from soiling the upholstery.
It was considerably more plush than the aircraft that carried him from California to Hawaii. As Major Almond had warned, there were a lot of people in California with an AAA priority waiting for air transportation to Hawaii. He could wait, the sergeant told him, until there was a space, but he should understand that when two people had an AAA priority, the one who was senior in rank got the seat. As a second lieutenant, he was liable to wait a long time.
There was another way to get to Hawaii. The Army Air Corps was flying a squadron of B-17 bombers to Hickam Field. They had excess weight capacity because they would not carry bombs, and they were carrying passengers.
"Well, if that's the only way to get there, Sergeant," McCoy said, with feigned reluctance, "I suppose that'll have to be it."
The truth of the matter was that he was a little excited about the idea of flying on a bomber. And the flight started off on an ego-pleasing note, too. When he got to the airbase and presented his orders, a thoroughly pissed-off Air Corps major had to get out of the airplane so that Second Lieutenant McCoy of the Marines with his briefcase and AAA priority could get on.
They were supposed to land at Hickam Field about noon. An hour before that, the radio operator established contact with Hawaii. Moments later the pilot came back in the fuselage and told the crew and the four supercargo passengers (two Air Corps lieutenant colonels, an Army master sergeant, and McCoy) what had happened in Hawaii.
It was all over when the B-17 appeared over Oahu, but some dumb sonsofbitches didn't get the word and shot at the B-17, not just once but twice, the second time as they made their approach to Hickam Field.
The airfield was all shot up. There were burning and burned-out airplanes everywhere, and not one hangar seemed to be intact. An enormous cloud of dense black smoke rose where the Japs had managed to set off an aviation fuel dump.
They had no sooner landed than an Air Corps major appeared in a jeep and told the pilot to take off again for a landing field on a pineapple plantation on one of the other islands. He seemed thoroughly pissed-off when the pilot said he didn't have enough fuel aboard to take off for anywhere.
McCoy very politely asked the Air Corps major about transportation to the Navy Base at Pearl Harbor.
"Good Christ, Lieutenant!" the Air Corps major said, jumping all over his ass. "Are you blind? Pearl Harbor isn't there anymore!"
There was no point arguing with him, so McCoy, the briefcase in one hand and his suitcase in the other, started walking.
There were a lot of other excited types at Hickam running around like chickens with their heads cut off, and even more who seemed to be moving around with strange blank looks in
their eyes.
None of them were any help about getting him from Hickam to Pearl Harbor, even after he showed a couple of them his credentials. So McCoy decided that under the circumstances it would be all right to borrow transportation. He found a Ford pickup with nothing in the back and the keys in the ignition.
The MP at the gate held him at rifle point until an officer showed up. The officer took one look at the credentials and let him go.
As he approached the Navy Base, there was even more smoke than there'd been at Hickam Field. When he got to the gate, the Marine MP on duty wasn't any more impressed with the credentials than the Army MP at Hickam Field had been, and he had to wait for an officer to show up before he would let him inside.
While he was waiting for the officer to come to the gate, McCoy asked the MP if the Marine Barracks had been hit, and if so, how badly. The MP wouldn't tell him. That worried McCoy even more. Tommy was in the Marine Barracks, which meant in the middle of this shit. He didn't like to consider the possibility that Tommy had got himself blown up.
The officer who came to the gate passed him through and told him where he was supposed to go.
The Navy seemed a lot calmer than the Air Corps had been, but not a whole hell of a lot. Still, he found a classified-documents officer, a middle-aged, harassed-looking lieutenant commander, who relieved him of the contents of the briefcase. As McCoy was taking off the handcuff and the.45's shoulder holster so he could put them into the briefcase, he asked the lieutenant commander what he was expected to do now.
"Get yourself a couple of hours of sleep, Lieutenant," the lieutenant commander said. "And then report back here."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The lieutenant commander looked at him strangely.
"You got a wife, anything like that, Lieutenant," he said. "You might want to write a letter."
McCoy's eyebrows rose quizzically.
"You're going on to Cavite," he said. "With a little bit of luck, you might get there before the Japs do."
"The Japs hit Cavite, too?"
"And everything else in the Philippines," the lieutenant commander said. "But what I meant is 'before the Japs land in the Philippines.' "
"Is that what's going to happen?" McCoy asked.
The lieutenant commander nodded. Then he shrugged.
"There was a Secret Operational Immediate [the highest-priority communication] a couple of hours ago," the lieutenant commander said. "A Japanese invasion fleet was spotted headed for the Lingayen Gulf. Why the hell it was classified Secret, I don't know. The Japs must know where they are and where they're headed."
"And you think that once I get there, I'm stuck?" McCoy asked.
"I didn't say that," the lieutenant commander said. "But if I was going to fly into Cavite on a Catalina, I'd write my wife, or whatever, a letter."
"Thank you," McCoy said.
McCoy didn't even consider writing his sister. If anything happened to him, she would find out when they sent the insurance check to her kids. Briefly, the notion of writing Pick entered his mind, but he dismissed it. He wouldn't know what the hell to say. And he thought, for a moment, of writing Ernie. Just for the hell of it, I thought you would like to know I love you.
Then he saw that for what it was, a damned-fool idea, and went looking for Tommy. It wouldn't be exactly what he had had in mind when he'd thought about seeing Tommy at Pearl Harbor. Tommy didn't even know he was an officer. He'd planned to surprise him with that, to see what he did when he saw him with the lieutenant's bars.
He got back in the borrowed pickup and drove to the Marine Barracks.
One of the barracks buildings had been set on fire, but the fire was out. There were bullet marks all over, and in the middle of the drill field was a huge unidentifiable, fire-scarred chunk of metal.
There weren't very many people around. A few noncoms, and some other people. But no troops. Nobody seemed to be running around looking for something to do.
He found the headquarters building and went inside. There was a guard in field gear and steel helmet at the door. He saluted. And there was a first lieutenant and a PFC in the personnel office. The lieutenant spotted him before the PFC, who belatedly jumped to his feet.
"Reporting in, Lieutenant?" the lieutenant asked.
"Passing through, sir," McCoy said. For a moment, he thought about dazzling the lieutenant with his special agent credentials, and then decided that wouldn't be right.
"What can I do for you?"
"My brother's assigned to the First Defense Battalion," McCoy said. "I've been wondering about him."
"No doubt," the lieutenant said. He handed McCoy a yellow lined pad.
"This is the first casualty report," he said. "My clerk's about to type it up. All the names on there are confirmed casualties, or KIA, but that's not saying all the casualties are on the list."
"Thank you, sir," McCoy said. He quickly scanned the names. Tommy's name wasn't on it.
"Well, he's not on it," McCoy said. "He's a private. McCoy, Thomas J."
The lieutenant started to consult a list, and then remembered just seeing that name. He consulted another list at the head of which he had penciled, "Cut orders transferring Wake Island."
One of the names on the list of those to be shipped out (as soon as transport could be found) as reinforcements for the small Marine force under Major James Devereux on Wake Island was McCoy, Thomas J.
"He's in the beach defense force," he said. "I don't know where the hell to tell you to look for him."
"I don't have the time, anyway," McCoy said.
"You said you were passing through?"
"On my way to Manila," McCoy explained.
"To the Fourth Marines?"
McCoy nodded. There was no point in telling this guy he was a courier.
"You're going to have a hell of a time finding transport," the lieutenant said.
"Maybe, with a little bit of luck, I won't be able to," McCoy said.
"I did a hitch with the Second Battalion until '39. As an enlisted man. Good outfit."
"I used to be on a water-cooled.30 in Dog Company, First Battalion," McCoy said.
"Look," the lieutenant said. "They're not going to ship you out of here for a couple of days, at least. The odds are, your brother will be back in here. If he gets in, I'll pass the word you're here and send him over to the transient BOQ."
"Thanks," McCoy said.
"What the hell, a couple of old China Marines have to take care of each other, right?"
"Absolutely," McCoy said. "Thanks again."
When McCoy had gone, the lieutenant looked over the list of names of people to be transferred to Wake Island as soon as possible, erased Private Thomas J. McCoy's name from it, and penciled in another. He had no doubt that Wake Island would fall. And besides, no matter where he was, there would be enough war left for Private McCoy. And for his brother. The Philippines were probably going to go under, too, if what happened this morning was any indication. Christ, Hawaii might fall.
This would give them a chance to say hello. Or good-bye.
When McCoy drove back to COMPACFLEET, he parked the borrowed truck where no one could see him get out of it, and then went in search of something to eat.
The lieutenant commander found him in the cafeteria eating a bologna sandwich.
"I just looked all over the goddamn BOQ for you," he said. "That's where I told you to go."
McCoy, his mouth full, held up the bologna sandwich.
The lieutenant commander handed McCoy a briefcase and a pad of receipt forms. Then he took him to Ford Island, where a Catalina was being fueled by hand.
The airbase was a shambles, and the dense cloud of black smoke rising from Battleship Row was visible for a long time after they had taken off.
(Four)
Headquarters, 4th Regiment, USMC
Cavite Naval Base
Manila Bay, Territory of the Philippines
1300 Hours, 9 December 1941
The 4th Marines was just about clear of the area when McCoy finally found it. They had apparently moved out in haste. There was a large pile of packaging material, rough-cut lumber, cardboard, and wood shavings, on what had been the neatly trimmed lawn in front of Regimental Headquarters.
The buildings were deserted. Completely deserted, McCoy thought, until he was nearly run down by the colonel, trailed by the sergeant-major, as he turned a comer.
They were in khakis, no field scarves, wearing web belts with.45s dangling from them, and tin hats. Both of them had '03 Springfields slung over their shoulders.
McCoy was in greens, with a leather-brimmed cap.
The colonel's eyebrows rose when he saw McCoy.
"I know you. Who are you?" the colonel demanded.
McCoy popped to attention.
"Corporal McCoy, sir!" he barked.
"Shit," the sergeant-major said, and laughed out loud.
"Lieutenant McCoy, sir," McCoy said.
"I'll be damned," the colonel said. "What the hell is going on, McCoy? Lieutenant?'''
"I just graduated from Platoon Leader's Course, sir."
"And they assigned you back here?" the colonel asked, incredulously.
"No, sir," McCoy said. "I'm an officer courier. I just got in. I thought I'd… come by and say hello to Captain Banning."
"Jesus H. Christ!" the colonel said, and shook his head and marched out of the building.
(Five)
Santos Bay, Lingayen Gulf Luzon, Territory of the Philippines 0515 Hours, 10 December 1941
Captain Edward J. Banning lay behind a quickly erected sandbag barrier at the crest of the hill leading down to the beach.
The day was going to be cloudless. Cloudless and probably hot.
It was entirely likely that he would die here today, possibly even this morning. Behind a sandbag barrier on a hot, cloudless day.
The beach was being defended by two companies of Marines. They had not had time (or material) to mine the approaches to the beach. They had four water-cooled.30-caliber Brownings, six air-cooled.30-caliber Brownings, and half a dozen mortars. Somewhere en route, allegedly, were two 75-mm cannon from a Doggie-officered, Philippine Scout Field Artillery Battery.
A mile offshore were two dozen Japanese ships, half merchantmen converted to troop transports, half destroyers.
At first light, they were supposed to have been attacked by Army Air Corps bombers. Banning was not surprised that they had not been. The Japs had wiped out the Air Corps in the Philippines after it had been conveniently lined up on airfields for them. It had occurred to some Air Corps general that since there was a chance of sabotage if the planes were in widely dispersed revetments, they could be more "economically" guarded if they were gathered together in rows.
They had been all lined up for the Japs when they came in.
There would be no bombers to attack the Japanese invasion force, and the Japanese landing force would not be repelled by two companies of Marines and a handful of.30-caliber machine guns.
These two companies of the 4th Marines would die here today, in a futile defense of an indefensible beach.
And the rest of the regiment would die on other indefensible beaches.
He was resigned to it.
That's what he had been drawing all his pay for, for all those years, so he would be available for a situation like this.
He heard movement behind him and turned to see what it was, and had trouble believing what he saw.
It was Corporal "Killer" McCoy, without headgear, wearing a khaki shirt and green trousers, staggering under the load of a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle, Caliber.30-06) and what looked like twenty or more magazines for it.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Banning asked.
With what looked like his last ounce of energy, McCoy set the BAR down carefully on the sandbags and then collapsed on his back, breathing heavily, still festooned with bandoliers of twenty-round magazines for the BAR.
"I found the BAR and the Ammo at a checkpoint," McCoy breathed, still flat on his back. "Whoever was manning the checkpoint took off."
"What are you doing here?" Banning asked. "And wearing an officer's shirt?"
"I thought you knew," McCoy said. "I went to the Platoon Leader's Course."
"No, I didn't know," Banning said. "But what the hell are you doing here?"
"I came in as a courier," McCoy said. "Now that I am here, I guess I'm doing what you're doing."
He rolled onto his stomach and raised his head high enough to see over the sandbags.
"Jesus Christ, they're just sitting out there! Isn't there any artillery?"
"There's supposed to be, but there's not," Banning said. "There was also supposed to be bombers."
"Shit, we're going to get clobbered!"
"Did somebody order you up here, McCoy?" Banning asked.
"No," McCoy said simply. "But I figured this is where I belonged."
"Where are you supposed to be?"
"They told me to hang around the Navy Comm Center, in case there was a way to get me out of here. But that's not going to happen."
"You've got orders ordering you out of the Philippines?" Banning asked. McCoy nodded. "You goddamned fool! I'd give my left nut for orders like that."
McCoy looked at him curiously.
Perhaps even contemptuously, Banning thought.
"Get your ass out of here, McCoy," Banning said.
McCoy didn't respond. Instead he picked up Banning's binoculars and peered over the sandbags through them.
"Too late," he said. "They're putting boats over the side."
He handed Banning the binoculars.
Banning was looking through them when the tin cans started firing the preassault barrage. The first rounds were long, landing two, three hundred yards inland. The second rounds were short, setting up plumes of water fifty yards offshore.
The third rounds would be on target, he thought, as he saw the Japanese landing barges start for the beach.
The Corps I - Semper Fi Page 36
