Days of Infamy (21 page)

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Struble shouted.
“Enterprise
launched sixty planes this morning. We’re what’s left. Now get the hell away from us or so help me God you’re dead. Leave us alone!”

Startled, the lieutenant stepped back, Struble eyeing him coldly.

Those standing around watching were silent, some turning away so if need be they could claim they had not witnessed an officer striking another.

The lieutenant straightened himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t know,” and he walked away.

Struble turned back to look at Dave.

“Who flew that Devastator?” he asked softly.

“I think it was Mina,” Dave said woodenly.

“Be like him,” Struble replied.

“Kid in the back seat, it would have been Anderson. Good kid, flew with me several times,” one of the other Dauntless pilots whispered, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out another cigarette, lighting it off the butt of the one he was just finishing.

He offered the pack to Dave, who without comment nodded and took a cigarette as Struble flicked open his Zippo and helped him light it, almost gently holding his hand so others would not see he was trembling.

It was his first cigarette. It went straight to his head. He liked it. If anything, it blocked out the other smells blanketing the field.

They slowly started to walk toward the mess hall, no one speaking.

Strange, he thought of a college lit class, a professor reading from
Henry V.
“We few, we happy few …”

Bullshit. Six out of sixty. We few, we sick, terrified few…

“
SORYU
IS SEVERELY
damaged, but already had half its planes aloft when they were attacked, and
Hiryu’s
group has joined them. They have a good fix on the target and are closing.”

Yamamoto nodded as Genda spoke.

Charts were spread out on the table, latest positions marked.

Soryu
and
Hiryu
were a hundred and twenty miles to the south. The other three carriers of his group were within five miles, having steamed with him.

He had yet to pinpoint the
Saratoga-class
carriers. He was all but certain now they were not to the south, so they had to be to the west.

Launch a strike to support
Soryu
and
Hiryu?
By the time my planes get up there, what was left could already be sunk, two hundred fifty miles away. Then what if we do spot two more carriers to our west? I could be outnumbered more than two to one.

He said nothing, closing his eyes.

One of two things. Either there was one American carrier to the south—it had launched the first strike against
Hiei
, its torpedo
squadron not participating, recovered its planes, and launched the second strike, which they had just faced—or there was indeed a second carrier, and the claim by the
Soryu
pilots of a kill was correct. Both of them might very well be sunk already. There was no definite report of actually seeing one go down, only the excited claims of pilots who saw the hits, and then the confusion about whether the second ship was even a carrier after all.

Too many variables, he thought. His instincts told him that at least one, maybe two of their ships were still to the west, otherwise the attack on
Soryu
would not have been a dozen or so planes, it would have been a hundred or more.

“Sir, we need to come about anyhow now to recover our combat air patrol and the returning search planes,” Genda said quietly.

He remained silent, staring at the chart, drawing imaginary lines, sorting the complexities, and of course gambling out the odds.

At last he stirred.

“Hiryu
and
Soryu
can finish off what is to the south. We keep our strike aircraft in reserve until we pinpoint their Saratoga-class carriers, which I am convinced are west of us.”

Genda nodded excitedly. Fuchida, who was standing in the corner of the room, looked at his admiral hopefully. Perhaps the ban on his flying today would be lifted.

“And
Hiei?”
his chief of staff asked.

“It is finished,” Yamamoto said coldly.

“Are you abandoning one of his Majesty’s most valuable ships?” Kusaka asked heatedly.

“Yes, I am,” Yamamoto replied coldly. “It has served its purpose well. The Americans have a saying, that one cannot make an omelet without breaking an egg.
Hiei
revealed the presence of at least one of their carriers and destroyed numerous planes and shore facilities. If we are afraid to risk our battleships, and at times lose one, then why bother to have them in the first place? With such thinking we should leave them anchored in Tokyo Bay for the rest of the war.”

Kusaka opened his mouth as if to reply, then just turned away.

“The rest of our planes?” Genda asked.

“Held in reserve. I want all remaining strike planes fully loaded, ready for launch. We turn about just long enough to recover our air patrols and search planes, send up the next wave of searchers and air cover, then come about again to the west.

“You are dismissed.”

The group filed out, leaving him alone, his attention focused on the map.

Is that Halsey still to the south? Or is he somewhere to the west? Strange, in the battles of long ago, you knew your opposing general or admiral. You could even see him and seek him out for single combat.

So is this single combat now? Halsey and me? The aggressiveness of their response indicated Halsey, who bore the reputation that of all the American carrier commanders he was the most reckless and daring. It was obvious he had tried to place his first strike over
Hiei
by dawn, not to hit the battleship, but to track on the incoming defensive fighters. He had lost that gambit.

There was another problem emerging. The damn wind from the northeast. It meant coming about and running up to flank speed every time they had to recover and launch. It was eating up too much fuel, far more than he had calculated. To send out a strike wave now, against a target at extreme range, then maybe have to come about yet again if the
Saratoga
or
Lexington
was discovered closer in… Fuel would become tight indeed. This was a new reality that would have to be factored into all future thinking about fleet campaigns. It was the destroyers running low on fuel that defined everything. The big ships were fine, but the little ships got very empty very quickly.

He realized he was learning something new here, in this the first carrier-to-carrier battle in history. He who found the other first usually won—but the question was, how do you find him? There was far more random chance in this than perhaps in any other form of battle in history—and it appealed to his gambler instincts.

HE WAS BACK
up on the bridge, watching as the last of the temporary planking was laid down to cover the hole in the deck astern. Up forward, the smoldering fires had been contained.

The four destroyers and two cruisers escorting were ringed in close to provide covering fire, one more several miles ahead trying to spot for subs. They were running at thirty knots. If a Jap sub was out there, its only hope of getting in a shot would be from head on. The other three destroyers were now forty miles aft, picking up survivors from
Salt Lake City
, which had gone down minutes after being hit.

We’re eating up fuel at a prodigious rate, he realized. The tin cans will be dry by this time tomorrow if we keep it up. How could our peacetime calculations have been so wrong? Still, this is war. Move quickly or die. Keep the task force together or die. If we go slow we stay in range, and with only two flight-worthy fighters that would be suicidal. It is time to run.

From the corner of his eye he saw the signals officer stepping out on the bridge, and he knew by the man’s face what was coming.

“Sir, radar reports forty-plus aircraft, inbound, sixty miles out, bearing 290 degrees. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

General quarters was again sounding, crews working on repairs dropping tools, running to their battle stations.

“Order the remaining planes to launch as well.”

“Sir?” McCloskey asked.

“Launch now, damn it!”

“We’re not into the wind, sir.”

“Don’t you think I know that!” and he pointed to the squall line of clouds on the horizon to the southeast.

“If I turn into the wind, we might lose that cover. Launch now!”

His air boss stood silent and then saluted, turning away. Leaning over the railing he pulled out of its socket the signal flag for “hold” and replaced it with “launch!”

Deck crews, sensing something was coming with the call to general quarters, leapt to their duties, and less than a minute later the engine
of the lead Wildcat powered up. The second followed suit, engine stuttering, a balky cylinder not firing, exhaust black, but it had to go.

Halsey could see the hesitation on the part of the launch director on the deck. The man actually looked back up to the bridge.
Enterprise
was not turning into the wind… It was to be a crosswind takeoff, minus the extra lift provided by the trade winds blowing straight down the deck.

McCloskey signaled for a go. The launch director waved his hand over his head, signaling the pilot to throttle up to full power. There was a momentary glance from the pilot to the bridge. Was it anger? Halsey wondered. The man snapped off a salute, which Halsey returned.

At full throttle the Wildcat’s twelve-hundred-horse engine was screaming, jets of blue flame flashing from its exhaust stacks. Wheel chocks were pulled, and it lumbered forward, tail beginning to rise, right rudder to compensate for torque, left aileron over to fight against the fifteen-knot crosswind.

Rimming the flight deck, antiaircraft guns were being cranked up, turning to face aft, gunnery chiefs patched into the CIC to get the latest radar read on altitude and range—though chances were there could be torpedo planes coming in low, under the radar.

The tension was electric, engine room pushing rpms to the max,
Enterprise
up to nearly thirty-three knots, helmsmen ready for the first order to maneuver once the attack started. The destroyer to port cut a magnificent wake of white foam as it sliced through the ocean at nearly forty miles an hour, five-inch guns pointed heavenward in anticipation of hell.

“Report from blue team one,” the loudspeaker on the bridge crackled. “Forty-plus planes inbound, thirty miles out, bearing 290. Closing to engage.”

“God damn!”

It was McCloskey. Halsey turned to look forward. The first Wildcat had lifted off and even now was banking around off the port quarter, having turned straight into the wind, but the second plane with the balky engine was skidding. On a land airbase it would have been called a ground loop, a pilot losing it in a crosswind takeoff or
landing—once started, it was damn near impossible to get out of. The Wildcat weathervaned to port, turning into the wind. There was no room to compensate on a carrier deck, and it skidded off the landing deck, portside, fifty yards aft of the bow, wheel catching in a forty-millimeter gun mount, crushing the crew as it collapsed, wing tanks rupturing, spilling out two hundred gallons of 100 octane av gas over the gun crew as the plane upended, hung for several seconds inverted, the gas now spilling into the still howling radial engine, igniting in a fireball… The landing gear snapped off. The plane went over the side, as fire spread along the gun deck.

Enterprise
was empty… It had shot its bolt.

All he could do now was stand back, wait, take the blow, and pray that his ship survived.

He did not have long to wait. The first report of a visual sighting came in, and seconds later he was jolted as the aft five-inch guns fired the first salvo of antiaircraft shells.

Off to port and aft the guns on the destroyers and cruisers opened up as well.

The fight was on.

As admiral in command, it was no longer his place to give tactical orders. Again he was a bystander, watching. Glimpses of the Japanese dive bombers were visible through the fifty percent cover of cumulus clouds that dotted over the ocean. Almost directly astern he could make out approaching aircraft, one of them on fire, the torpedo planes bearing in.

It was going to be bad this time.

STRIKE LEADER UGETSU
, flying off of
Hiryu
, unbuckled his harness and half rose out of his seat, struggling to fix his binoculars on the American ship. It was hard work; the late morning air was turbulent, and the Kate surged, rose, and plummeted down in the moist tropical air.

Was this the same ship?

There was a fire on its port side forward. Damage from a previous hit? He could see a slick of fire trailing aft—perhaps a crash on takeoff?

They had spotted a vast oil slick, wreckage, and three American destroyers now sixty kilometers back to the northwest, near where the first attack had taken place. It must have been one of their carriers. This had to be the second one.

“Sir!”

His pilot was signaling to look down and banked the Kate slightly to port.

Excellent. The torpedo bombers were going in. There would be no escape for this American carrier.

He slipped back down in his seat, refastening his harness. Ahead and low, a black puff of smoke: the first of their antiaircraft guns opening up.

Nowhere near as bad as yesterday during the final strike at Pearl.

“Attack now!”

THE VOICE, SOUNDING
remote, crackled on the loudspeaker: “Attack now!”

All were tense, waiting. Was this the second American carrier? Should Yamamoto have sent in planes to support
Hiryu
and
Soryu?

It was too late now to change that; the range was too great.

He stood expectant, waiting.

HEELING OVER,
ENTERPRISE
turned hard to starboard, cutting a curving wake, the sky overhead and to the northwest black with bursting flak. The first wave of Japanese dive bombers, six attacking in pairs spaced five to ten seconds apart, were coming in. The nearest bomb
burst, a close one, rocked the ship less than fifty yards off the port bow. If they had continued on their course but a few more seconds it would have been a hit.