Days of Infamy (64 page)

Let Laanui think what he wanted, though. As long as he sat on the throne and did as he was told, he served his purpose admirably.

W
ITH
H
AWAII IN
their hands, with h8k seaplanes and with submarines to refuel them, the Japanese could keep an eye on the West Coast of the United States. The big flying boats didn't have to carry bombs every time. Getting a look at what the Yankees were up to counted for just as much, maybe more.

Commander Mitsuo Fuchida wished he could go on more H8K missions. But he had a swarm of other duties, and that one flight had to suffice for him. He did attend every briefing by pilots coming back to the Pan Am Clipper berth in Pearl City.

“The Americans are more alert than they were the first time we visited them,” Lieutenant Kinsuke Muto reported. He paused to yawn, then said, “So sorry. Please excuse me.”

None of the officers who'd gathered to hear him could possibly have been offended. Even for an H8K, the round trip to the mainland took a long time. A pilot who did most of the flying had earned the right to be tired. “Go on, Muto-
san
,” Fuchida urged. “You can sleep soon.”

“
Hai
,” Muto said. “Yes, they are more alert. The blackout is better than it was—not as good as it ought to be, but better than it was. They had fighters out looking for us. Night interceptions aren't easy, but they found one of the planes in the flight.”

The officers listening to the briefing exchanged glances, but no one said anything. Like Fuchida, some of the others had to know about the USA's electronic
detection gear. Until someone figured out countermeasures, Muto didn't need to.

“There was an exchange of fire,” Muto continued. “The H8K has a couple of bullet holes in the tail, but nothing serious. The pilot broke off contact and escaped. After that, all the antiaircraft guns around Los Angeles harbor started going off. The tracers helped us more than they hurt; they showed exactly where the harbor was and lit it for us.”

“What did you see?” Three officers asked the same question at the same time.

“More freighters and more Navy ships than we did two weeks ago,” Lieutenant Muto answered. “They are building strength. What else can they be building it for but a strike against Hawaii?”

“Did you see any carriers?” Fuchida asked, ahead of anyone else.

“No, sir.” Muto paused to yawn again. “I'm sure I didn't. Carriers stand out because of their size and their flight deck. Warships, yes. Freighters—maybe troopships—yes. But no carriers.”

“If they aren't in Los Angeles, they will be in San Diego or San Francisco or Seattle.” Fuchida spoke with complete assurance. “The question is, how many will the Americans bring against us? That will tell a large part of the story of how the fight goes.”

“
Hai. Honto
. Our alliance with the Germans serves us well here.” Minoru Genda sounded as precise as usual. Fuchida admired the way his friend saw not only the big picture but also how pieces of it applied to a particular situation. Genda went on, “If Germany and the USA were not at war, the Americans could move more carriers from the Atlantic and attack us with overwhelming strength.”

“We're better than they are,” Fuchida said.

“We've had the advantage when we met them,” Genda responded. “We were lucky to get away from the fighting at the invasion with as little damage as we did. If that one torpedo hadn't been a dud, they would have sunk
Akagi
or hurt her badly. I heard the thud, and then—nothing. I was very glad.”

“Gaining the advantage before going into the fight is part of being better,” Fuchida said stubbornly. “Our pilots are better than theirs. Zeros are better than their Wildcats. We saw that.”

“Wildcats are good enough to be dangerous with a good pilot,” Genda said.

Fuchida snorted. “If the pilot is good enough, what he flies hardly matters.
But our fliers are better, all in all. As for Wildcats, they can take damage and they're very fast in a dive. Otherwise, the Zero outdoes them in every way.”

Major Kuro Horikawa was an Army pilot. He said, “You will have Army fighters and bombers to help you against the Americans.”

Neither Fuchida nor Genda spoke right away. Major Horikawa meant well. Telling him straight out that his planes weren't as important as he thought would make him lose face. Commander Genda chose his words with obvious care: “So far, neither side has had much luck striking ships with land-based aircraft.”

“Your planes will be very useful if the enemy lands on Oahu,” Fuchida added. “We will certainly be fighting out of the range of land-based fighters, though, and probably out of the range of most land-based bombers as well. Our goal is to defend Hawaii as far forward as possible.”

“Your G4M bombers are likely to be in the fight.” Horikawa couldn't quite hide his resentment. “They're land-based, even if they're Navy aircraft.”

“They were specially designed for long range,” Fuchida said. “Even so, it is not yet decided whether they will go into the fight.” The G4Ms got their extremely long range by carrying lots of fuel. They sacrificed crew armor, self-sealing gas tanks, and structural strength for that range . . . and raids on Australia, Burma, and India had shown them to be extremely inflammable. Fuchida didn't want to talk about that. The Navy didn't air its dirty little secrets in front of the Army, any more than the Army told the Navy about its.

“We need to find out about the American carriers,” Genda told Lieutenant Muto. That was the most important order of business for him, too. Any Navy man with a gram of sense knew carriers were what really mattered.
Yamato
and
Musashi
were the biggest, most powerful battleships ever built. But if American bombers or torpedo planes flying off carriers sank them before they came within gun range of enemy battlewagons, what good were they?

As far as Fuchida was concerned, the Navy would have done better to build carriers with the steel and labor that went into the superdreadnoughts. Other opinions had prevailed, though. He couldn't do anything about that but regret it.

“We'll try our best to locate them, sir,” Lieutenant Muto promised.

“Good,” Fuchida said. “We caught the Americans by surprise here. They had better not do the same to us.”

“They won't. We won't let them,” Genda said. “If they want to take these islands
back, they'll have to go through everything we can throw at them—and we can throw a lot.”

T
HE BUZZ OF
the Stearman's engine grew thinner as Joe Crosetti eased back on the throttle. The runway swelled beneath and ahead of him. He checked his airspeed and angle of descent. Still a trifle steep . . . He pulled back on the stick, just a little, and the Yellow Peril's nose rose a bit. Airspeed was okay, but he checked again to make sure his flaps were down. They were. They had been the last three times he checked, too.

Here came the runway. No time for second thoughts now. He just wanted to do things right.
Ninety percent of the trouble in the last twenty feet . . .
That wasn't a second thought; his flight instructor had drilled it into him till it never left his mind.

Down! The Stearman bounced. Joe's teeth clicked together. It wasn't so smooth as he would have liked, but he
was
down. If he bounced once, he didn't bounce twice. The little biplane taxied to a stop. Joe let out a long sigh and killed the engine. He unfastened his chute and his safety belt.

Lieutenant Ralph Goodwin strode across the tarmac to him. “Not bad, Mr. Crosetti,” he said. “Pretty smooth, in fact, up until the very last moment there.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joe said. “I'm sorry about that.”

“I've seen people walk away from plenty worse after their first solo,” Goodwin answered. “How does it feel?”

Realization of what he'd done washed through Crosetti. “Swell, sir!” He wasn't the first in his training squadron to solo, but he was ahead of more cadets than he was behind.

“All right, then,” Goodwin said. “Let's see you walk away from it.”

Joe got out of the Yellow Peril. He gave the wing an affectionate pat. “When can I go up again?”

“Oh, it won't be long,” the flight instructor said. “But you'll be moving into a new squadron soon. They may transfer you to another base—they'll have to check the openings here.”

As Chapel Hill had before it, Pensacola was starting to feel like home. “I hope they don't,” Joe said.

“Wouldn't hurt you if they did,” Goodwin told him. “You've got to be able to fly anywhere, not just at a place you know well. But you'll take a step up,
any which way. You've done what you can do on this baby. Time to see how you handle a Texan.”

“Yeah.” Joe knew he sounded less excited than he should have. He didn't want to climb into another trainer, even a more advanced one. He wanted to get into a Wildcat and start shooting down Japs.

Longing must have been naked on his face. Goodwin laughed and clapped him on the back. “Don't look down your nose at a Texan. The Aussies use the ones they make for ground-attack planes and light bombers—Wirraways, they call 'em. And there's even talk that they'll build a version with a cleaner airframe and a bigger engine and use it for a fighter.”

That struck Joe as a desperation measure. Of course, Australia was in pretty desperate shape these days. With Hawaii lost, the USA had a devil of a time getting supplies over there. And the Japs ruled the skies above the northern part of the country. Everybody wondered when they were going to invade, though it hadn't happened yet.

“Come on,” Goodwin said. “Let me buy you a beer. You've earned one, by God. Just remember, you've got to walk before you can run. Now that you've soloed, you're not taking baby steps any more.”

“Yes, sir.” Every word of that was true, and Joe knew it. Even so, he ached to be where the action was. He ached for there to
be
action. “Sir, when are we going to try and take Hawaii back from the Japs?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Goodwin replied. “I've got no idea—and if I did, I probably couldn't tell you anyway. You want to be along for that, don't you?”

“You bet I do—more than anything,” Joe said. “That's why I signed up for this. And after what those bastards did to my uncle and his family—”

“You still have a chance, I'd say,” Lieutenant Goodwin told him. “Come on—let's see about that beer.”

“Okay.” Unlike some of his buddies, Joe didn't do a whole lot of drinking. For one thing, he was still underage. For another, he didn't like the taste of the stuff all that much. But this was a ceremonial occasion.

Goodwin sat him down at the bar in the officers' club and bought him a Budweiser. A couple of stools over, two lieutenant commanders were still going on about the alligator hunt of a few days past. A pair of officers had poured down more than might have been good for them and gone out into the swamp not far from the base vowing to come back with an alligator. Some
time later, they'd proudly returned with a deceased snapping turtle tied to a broomstick. They'd taken it to market in Pensacola and got eleven cents a pound for it—plus ribbing that wouldn't quit.

“Here's to you, Joe,” Goodwin said, hoisting his own bottle of Bud. “And here's to giving the Japs what-for.”

“Thanks.” Joe sipped cautiously. Once, when he was a little kid, his old man had let him take a swig from a bottle of beer. It had tasted nasty then.
Am I poisoned?
he'd squeaked. His father had laughed like hell. He still wasn't crazy about the stuff, but it didn't make him want to get his stomach pumped any more.

The colored man behind the bar asked, “This here the gentleman's first solo?”

“That's right,” Goodwin told him.

He slid a dime back across the bar. “On the house.”

“Thanks.” The flying instructor stuck the little silver coin in his pocket. “See, Mr. Crosetti? You don't just save the country when you learn to fly. You save me money, too, so you're really a hero.”

“Right.” Joe felt silly. Part of him recognized that this was a piece of the celebration, too. The rest was embarrassed all the same. He worked conscientiously at the beer. He supposed one was okay. If he had more than one, he didn't think he'd be able to see straight for his afternoon classes. He had enough trouble keeping up in navigation the way things were.

When he went to the mess hall for lunch, Orson Sharp all but waylaid him. “How did it go?” his roomie demanded.

“I got up,” Joe answered. “I got down. I'm still here. I bounced the landing a little, but I'm still here.”

“All right!” Sharp grabbed his hand and squeezed it and pumped it up and down. Like everything else about the Mormon, his enthusiasm was perfectly genuine. He'd soloed the week before; his competence was perfectly genuine, too. He seemed delighted to have company, even though Joe was competition for a precious slot on a carrier. “We may be the first room where both guys have soloed.”

“Yeah?” Joe hadn't thought about that. “I guess maybe we are. Pretty neat. Maybe we'll stay together when we switch squadrons, too.”