Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th (43 page)

“May I ask about our losses?”

“We think thirty,” Genda replied.

Thirty; he wondered who. To lose a comrade was always a shock, bat still, just thirty. Only the day before, they had talked about a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty. It was a miracle, a proof indeed of the support of the gods of Japan this day.

Yamamoto motioned for him to follow, and with Genda and chief of staff Kusaka, who had stayed on even though his “boss” Nagumo had been relieved, the four went to the small aft conference room, Genda closing the door.

“You must be thirsty,” Genda offered, and Fuchida nodded, the mention of drink for the first time making him aware of just how thirsty he indeed was, his mouth as dry as a bone.

Genda motioned to a thermos, opened it, poured out a cup of tea into a mug, and offered it over. Fuchida gladly took it and drained it in a few gulps.

“Your report now,” Yamamoto asked, obviously impatient to begin.

“All battleships in the harbor have either been totally destroyed or rendered inoperative for months, sir.”

“The carriers, though.”

“As I reported by radio, no carriers were in the harbor.”

“Your opinion?” Yamamoto asked, at the three gathered round him.

“Sir, even now their three carriers might be preparing a counterstrike,” Kusaka offered heatedly. “We do not know where they are. We must assume there was some warning, and they were able to clear the harbor. They could be anywhere, even behind us, preparing to launch a surprise counterstrike. I strongly urge that we should clear these waters as was planned in the war games before we sailed.”

Genda, standing almost on the balls of his feet, just behind Kusaka, was barely able to contain himself.

Yamamoto nodded to him to speak

“Respectfully, sir,” Genda replied, “I must beg to disagree.”

“Why so?” Yamamoto asked.

“Sir,” and he turned to face Kusaka, “what was the purpose of this mission?”

“Is this the time for some didactic discussion of mission goals?” Kusaka replied sharply. “We have achieved what we set out to achieve, we have sunk the American fleet. To risk our precious carriers, which are needed elsewhere now, would be folly.”

Fuchida, junior ranker in the room, was silent, and was grateful to all the gods that he had first ventured to speak to Genda two months ago about who should command this mission. For if not, perhaps it would be Nagumo they were having this meeting with rather than Yamamoto . . . and if that had been the case, he knew what the decision would have been.

“We have only sunk part of them,” Genda interjected forcefully, “and might I add a part of their fleet that ultimately posed little direct threat to us.”

“I would not call the guns of Oklahoma, of Maryland and Arizona, a minor threat,” Kusaka snapped back.

“Those guns were destroyed in little more than ten minutes by the first strike wave. What happened this day changed naval warfare forever, sir. It is the carrier now that decides the day.”

“In this most unusual of circumstances,” Kusaka replied hotly, “ships anchored without warning of impending strike.”

“A question, please,” Yamamoto interjected, looking now at Fuchida.

“Anything, sir.”

“There was absolutely no resistance, none as the first wave came in?”

“None, sir. No planes aloft; it was long minutes before the first of their guns replied, and by then the damage was all but complete.”

Yamamoto turned away from the group and went back out on the bridge for a moment, open doorway framing him. He finally turned and walked back in. ”You are certain you had complete surprise?” And now he looked at Fuchida.

“Yes, sir. A few, maybe half a dozen of their planes sortied, to face the second strike. None for the first wave. For the first five minutes or so barely a gun was fired in reply. It was a complete and total surprise. My radio operator was tuned into their commercial station and they continued to broadcast music for at least ten minutes after the attack started before finally an announcer came on with a warning saying they were under a surprise attack and all personnel to report to their stations.”

Yamamoto sighed and then wearily shook his head.

“How complete is the damage?”

“Sir, the battleships are burning hulks.” He paused and looked over at Genda, who nodded for him to continue. “But there are still numerous targets.”

“Such as?”

“Sir, their oil tank farms. You will recall that in planning we talked about them. Enough fuel to keep their fleet in operation for half a year or more. The huge dry dock. Its gate is still intact. Shatter that and it can delay repairs of numerous ships. And besides that, sir, there are dozens of destroyers, cruisers, and, most importantly, submarines that are tied off in rows.”

“Are you certain?” Yamamoto interjected. “The smoke, the confusion. Surely most of those ships were hit as well.”

“Sir, I regret, but I think too many of our pilots were intent on hitting the big targets, the battleships. More emphasis in the second strike should have been placed on these other ships and the oil supplies. I take responsibility for that fault.”

“Heat of action,” Yamamoto said quietly. “You did masterfully, Commander.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Your recommendation?”

“Launch a third strike at once, sir. There will be little resistance now other than their antiaircraft fire, which did not prove to be too efficient. They were panicked. Gain complete air control. Expand the zone of damage. A third strike is essential now.”

He gestured to the porthole where, barely visible, one of the fast battleships steamed as escort.

“Venture the battleships in, sir, at dusk and bombard the harbor during the night to sow even more confusion and damage. We have control of the target; exploit that control to the fullest while we can.”

“To launch a third strike will mean our loitering here in these waters for the rest of the day,” Kusaka replied sharply. “Surely they will acquire us and launch a counterstrike. Even now their carriers might be steaming this way, ready to launch. We have won. Let us not throw away our victory now with overconfidence.”

Fuchida held his breath, looking from one to the other, and then, within seconds, the risk he had taken, the risk he knew Genda had taken, but would not admit to, became clear; they had indeed changed what might have been.

Yamamoto looked straight at Genda.

“Prepare for a third strike to be launched no later than 1400 hours.”

Fuchida actually felt tears come to his eyes. He sensed that here, at this moment, some profound change had indeed occurred. Too many had spoken of this attack as “a raid.” No, now it was a true fight, a true battle of annihilation, just as he and Genda had talked about for so many years.

“But what of their carriers?” Kusaka persisted.

“I think they are far away. We know they are used to ferry aircraft to other islands such as Midway and Wake. I think they are south of Oahu. But as a precaution we will send back but half our available bombers for the next strike. Some to be armed with light bombs to be scattered over the oil tank fields, others with heavier demolition loads to smash the destroyers, submarines, and cruisers still at anchor, the precious torpedoes to be held back except for a special task group to torpedo the main dry-dock gate.

“The remaining planes will be divided into two groups. A strong air patrol of fighters to be maintained over our own fleet. A second strike force, armed with torpedoes and armor piercing if we should locate their carriers. Additional search planes to be sent out to seek them to the west and south of Oahu.”

Kusaka stood rigid, unable to speak.

“Were you not followed back by any scout planes of theirs?” he asked, as if grasping for a final straw to hold back Yamamoto’s decision.

“No, sir, not a one. It is why I lingered as long as I did and kept close watch on my return. No one followed us.”

“Then prepare my orders. Commander Fuchida, your report has been decisive, now go and see to the next strike wave. I want you to lead it.”

Fuchida sprinted from the room.

2:45 p.m. Local Time

“There it is!”

Though the air was cool at ten thousand feet, Fuchida had to lift his goggles up and wipe his eyes, which were stinging with sweat.

His pilot was pointing forward, slightly to port. He raised his binoculars, looking over the pilot’s shoulder, and grunted approval.

Navigation was good. How could it not be: commercial radio stations in Honolulu were still broadcasting, some with announcements and news alerts, amazingly one still playing music. All the lead navigation planes of his strike force had to do was dial in the signal, set their directional antenna, and then ride the beam straight in to their target.

They were coming in at ten thousand feet, taking advantage of the high toppings of the midday clouds; it was a bumpy ride when going through them, dangerous as well for formations. He suspected that two of his Vals, which had disappeared, most likely had collided in one of the clouds, but it kept them concealed ... and amazingly, they had yet to sight a single American plane!

Still, once near land, the Americans would be blind and deaf not to see and hear the strike force of 100 planes approaching Kahuku Point, a mix of Zeroes, dive bombers, and torpedo bombers. The admiral had decided that only fifteen of the planes would carry torpedoes this time, and both he and Genda agreed. When the enemy carrier force was finally spotted, those precious weapons would be of better use there. The mission of eight of the torpedo-laden planes was to blow open the gates of the massive dry dock and the smaller ones if possible. Its destruction would render Pearl Harbor useless as a major repair facility, forcing heavily damaged ships to retire all the way to the American West Coast. That would then set those wounded ships up for Japanese submarines who would be waiting off Hawaii to pick off slow-moving crippled ships. The other torpedo planes were to focus on any ships attempting to flee the harbor, ideally to sink them in the main channel; even a destroyer going to the channel bottom could very well bottle it up, and prevent ships from coming in for days, perhaps even weeks or months.

The other Kates and all the Vals were loaded with a variety of ordnance, a fair percentage carrying lighter 50 and 100 kilo bombs, to destroy repair shops, the headquarters for the American commander in the Pacific; the thin-skinned submarines, which the admiral had declared were now a highest priority target; and the oil tank farms that sprawled out to the northeast side of the harbor.

Kahuku was clearly visible through a hole in the clouds. Ten miles off, from there twenty-five more to Pearl. He could feel the sweat beading down his back. He wanted this attack; the rewards could be profound, but he knew as well that this time it was not going to be as easy. Surprise was gone and now the Americans would be trying to stop him.

“Over there!”

He looked to where his pilot pointed, a lone plane coming out of the clouds toward them, still about four or five miles off, but standing out stark and clear against the backdrop of a towering cumulus cloud.

They had been spotted, but so far no organized response.

Only one plane up, a lone scout. He made a quick decision. The primary plan would be followed. Half a dozen fighters to hover over the airbase at Kaneohe to keep any surviving planes on the ground, the rest of the strike force to push straight in, Zeroes in the lead in case there were any surprises ahead. He raised his flare gun up and fired it, one red shell, signal to proceed straight toward the target as planned.

Seconds later, six of his Zeroes throttled up and banked to port, ready to close on the plane that had spotted them, then to push on to Kaneohe.

The lone fighter was closing in, its stubby form registering. Insane, an old P-36, only one, no formation, no squadrons. He could only shake his head at their stupidity or incompetence ... and also he had to admit admiration for the spirit of bushido of that lone pilot, whoever he was.

Nine thousand feet over Kahuku: 2:47 p.m. Local Time

“Repeat, eighty-plus Japs. Zeroes, Vals, looks like Kates. Bearing from Kahuku seven-five, at ten thousand, heading--”

Lieutenant Junior Grade Jeremiah Sims, class of 1940, Purdue, who but a few months ago thought that being in the army air corps reserves was a grand deal, raised his goggles to wipe the sweat from his eyes then pulled them back down.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. It was supposed to be a posting to Hawaii; plenty of flying, weekends on the beach, just swarming with girls eager to date a pilot; not this. Seven hours ago he had actually been on a secluded beach below Diamond Head. A wonderful night with a girl named Dianne.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening . . .

He caught a glimpse of the planes that disappeared into the clouds, only to surge out again seconds later. He tried to run the calculation, all the calculations, count them, their heading, his heading, a quick scan of instruments, throttle full open, manifold pressure nearing red line, carburetor deicer on--no, switch it off, need more power... flick the cover off the machine-gun switch, slight fluctuation of the wings, unsteady on the stick ... goddamn it, stop shaking!

“Their heading estimated 235 degrees,” and his concentration broke. He caught the flash of a Jap, plane white, nearly invisible against the clouds except for that red meatball painted on the wing, breaking down toward him, two more following.

Turn in toward it. You won’t make it to their bombers. Turn in on them. Head on!

Line it up in the sights. Jesus, it was coming on fast. They said the Zero was fast.

He remembered something, flicked the radio on.

“Repeat, eighty-plus Japs, eighty-plus, heading straight toward Pearl. I see them clearly! Closing to engage the bastards.”

He dropped the mike, hand back on throttle, trying to push it just another inch forward, thumb poised on trigger. One Jap coming straight on. The other two now breaking, ready to circle.

Damn, they are fast.

He pushed down on the trigger, felt the recoil of the four thirty-calibers opening. Felt good, first time for real. Two of the Japs were breaking left and right as one came straight in.