Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th (39 page)

Within seconds the columns began to break off from the main stream . . . within minutes it would begin.

But the Zeroes did not seem to be responding, and after a couple more minutes, he loaded a second flare to signal, and instantly regretted it, for some now saw this as a second signal and not a repeat of the first. Confusion began to reign, and suddenly all planes just began to roar straight in, some thinking it was surprise, some not. There was nothing he could do about it now.

He turned aft to his rear gunner and radio operator.

“Send the signal for complete surprise,” he shouted... “Tora . . . Tora ... Tora!”

USN Carrier
Enterprise
, Two hundred and fifty miles west of Oahu:
7:35 a.m.

Stunned, Halsey looked at the note just brought to him by signals. It came straight from the office of the Department of the Navy in Washington ... a warning that war was imminent, perhaps as early as today.

He now thanked God for the storm that he had cursed but the night before. He had planned to arrive back at Pearl this morning, but the edge of the storm sweeping across the north central Pacific had sent towering seas southward, so rough that they had delayed the refueling of his escorting destroyers and nearly half a day of high-speed steaming had been lost. The slow movement had made him feel itchy, a perfect target if submarines were lurking about, but now ... better to be out here than already in harbor.

“Did this come straight from Washington or was it relayed from Pearl?” he asked.

His signal officer shook his head. “Sir, we picked it up from the mainland; my boy on the radio receiver said it was nearly impossible to read but he got it. Given past performances I’d venture no one at Pearl heard it. They’ll most likely send it to them via cable.”

He wondered for a second if he should relay the message back out, then shook his head. They were running under a self-imposed radio silence. He would not break that to second- guess whether this message had woken things up back on the island.

“What’s our fix on Lexington?” He turned to look over at the chief petty officer on the plot board. He knew it’d be a guess; Lexington was under radio silence as well.

The petty officer shook his head. “Sir, it’s only a guess on my part, but I’d say at least five hundred miles to our west, heading to Midway.”

Halsey nodded, taking that in. Between them they could maybe muster a hundred and forty aircraft. He stood up and walked over to the plot table, the chief petty officer in charge already rolling out the large-scale map of the ocean between the Hawaiian chain, up to Midway, and the lower end of the roughly formed triangle that was Wake Island. A million square miles of ocean.

In eight hours they could be back into Pearl... but why? We still have enough fuel for several days of steaming, our strength in aircraft is down. If need be once things clarify a bit, I can order a squadron flown back out.

No, keep sea room away from the island for the moment, turn back westward and move toward Lexington. Maybe she’s got the signal, maybe not. He’d assume not. Always assume the worst, and then you aren’t surprised.

Surprise, that’s what those bastards would go for. It might be somewhere right out here, perhaps Midway and Wake, best to move to cover that.

He turned and looked at his expectant staff.

“Bring us about on a heading of 290, twenty knots, signal our escorts the same and sound general quarters. This is no drill.”

Pearl Harbor 7:40 a.m. Local Time

James Watson, unable to contain himself, pushed back from his chair. He needed air, fresh air, not the steady hum of the air conditioner pumping its lifeless breath into the room. He had given up waiting for Kimmel and tried to return to his work, but it was impossible to concentrate.

He stood up, the others on duty looking at him with weary eyes. They were all half-crazed, he knew, but he knew as well that some thought him even more than half-crazed during these last few days. But no one said anything. You had to be crazy to be in this basement anyhow, a house of madmen, a basement of Canutes raging against the impending storm.

He walked over to the door, pushed it open, held his ID card up for the marine guard. A new kid, he didn’t know him, nor did he bother to even say good morning. The kid looked numbed, ready to doze off, kept awake only by the fact that he had to stay on his feet and would get a solid reaming if his sergeant found him slumped against the wall with lights out.

Back aching, James went up the long flight of stairs and out the second door; again the flash of his ID card and then into the foyer. The place was a ghost town. One officer hurried by, clutching a piece of paper. He didn’t recognize him. There was some flurry of activity in the signals room and he looked in through the open door. Someone was talking about the “Ward.” He wasn’t sure, “Ward,” a destroyer he thought, but someone was certainly fired up over it. A petty officer, seeing him looking in, went over and closed the door. He felt the gesture a bit rude but then shrugged his shoulders and headed out the main door.

If Kimmel had arrived there would at least be some semblance of activity, at least some playacting that the weekend staff were doing their work and were not just dozing off behind desks or staring vacantly out windows.

He needed air, fresh air, and still clutching his coffee mug he went out the front door, yet another flash of an ID card, a mindless ritual he now thought, for who cared? He could show a Mongolian driver’s license with a picture of Mussolini on it and chances were the nineteen-year-old marine guard would not even notice. It was Sunday morning in Hawaii, and if the guards were awake at all, they were contemplating when they’d get off duty and hit the beach, the surf, the girls, the cold beer, maybe even to catch the Army-Navy football game on a shortwave radio, which back stateside should be starting up by now.

He looked up toward the main gate as he stepped outside, hoping against hope that Kimmel might just be pulling in, but the parking spot marked for the admiral was empty. In fact, nearly all the parking slots were empty.

Oh well, he reasoned. Maybe for the best after all. His Cassandralike warnings had gone unheeded. It was well past sunup; if he tried to intercept Kimmel on the way in, waving a map with circles drawn on it, predicting the Japanese might very well be within three hundred miles of Pearl, he’d look like a complete and total fool, coffee mug in hand, shirt stained, unshaven. Kimmel was a good man, would smile and nod, most likely thank him for his concerns, then mark him off mentally as yet another reservist nutcase who perhaps needed a transfer for his own mental health.

He walked around the side of the building, yawning, covering his mouth as a couple of marines walked by and saluted smartly. He had to shift the mug to return the salute, and then realized he was completely out of uniform, no hat, shirt rumpled and, as usual, stained. Damn, he needed a cigarette. He shifted the cup of coffee to his claw hand and with his good hand reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack. At least down here, he could keep them in that pocket, not having to hide them from Margaret. He fished one out, flicking the pack up with his one hand, feeling slightly guilty at the taste of the tobacco, put the pack in his pants pocket, pulled out his Zippo, and lit it, all while still balancing the half-full mug of coffee in his claw hand.

There, his image was complete, he thought with a wry smile. Coffee mug, stained shirt, no hat, cigarette dangling, a pirate-type look with his mechanical hand to finish the impression. But then again, as he looked over to one of the walkways, he was no worse looking than some of the last of the overnight liberty boys coming back late for flag raising and morning roll. These last few were the really pathetic ones, drunk as lords, staggering down to the launches to take them back to their ships. If they had any sober thoughts in their minds, they concerned the fact that their chiefs would have them written up, with liberty denied for a month to come and plenty of duty cleaning the heads. They were a sorry-looking lot, one of them sadly saluting him as his comrades pushed him along, two others with a passed-out comrade between them, his face puffy, obviously on the bad end of a barroom or back alley brawl.

A marine sergeant, sharp-looking, heading in the other direction, slowed at their approach, seemed ready to lay into the group, then just simply told them to move along and get back to their ships. He caught James’s eye, saluted, and shrugged in a sort of “oh what the hell” way, as if to say there was no use in chewing out a bunch of drunk kids. James nodded in agreement and continued down to his favorite spot looking out over the harbor.

He settled down on one of the benches, mug balanced in his claw, cigarette still between his lips.

A beautiful morning. Forget about Kimmel, he thought. I’ve been here since Friday morning. Damn all, forget it for now. Margaret was most likely awake, God bless her. There wasn’t one wife in a thousand who would tolerate this schedule of his. He had promised to be home by Saturday afternoon so they could go out for dinner and a movie. She had gone to bed alone, and woken up alone.

Go home, he thought. Sign out and go home. Grab a shower, try and stay awake, and listen as she talks, suggests skipping church and heading to a secluded beach. She’d know that five minutes after they got there, he’d be fast asleep, but she had come to accept that. She’d most likely even pack along a small nip of scotch to lull him into an afternoon of quiet sleep under the palms, the sound of the surf gentle and soothing.

If I was still teaching, he thought, I’d be home with her right now, just waking up, her by my side. Their old Sunday ritual of him making breakfast, a habit started when young Davy was a boy and he would be home on leave, their boy tottering in to wake up “Pop,” and he’d let Margaret get a few more minutes sleep while “her men” pampered her. He felt a stinging in his eyes. No, don’t think of Davy, never think of that, at least not here, at least not during the daytime. Only when alone, when Margaret would not see the tears, during the middle of the night.

He took a deep drag on his cigarette, the smoke stinging his eyes now, causing him to blink. He watched the last of the kids piling into one of the launches. Davy would be their age now, and he pushed that away, too many times, too many of those kids, most of them fresh-faced boys who had hurriedly joined the navy, with its promise of adventure, rather than get swept into the draft for the army, reminded him of Davy, especially the tall, lanky ones, uniforms a bit too baggy on their narrow shoulders, but filled with a childlike pride and swagger after a night of being “a man,” drinking beer with their buddies and making feeble attempts at picking up a girl.

He dropped his cigarette, took off his glasses, and wiped the mist from his eyes, then put his glasses back on. He lowered his head, a bit embarrassed by the sudden rush of sentiment, pulled out another cigarette and lit it, and raised his head.

He caught a flicker of movement and looked off to the northwest. Just a dot moving, more dots, dozens of them. A bird? Birds? Strange looking. What was it? Though the sun was to his back he shaded his eyes from the glare reflecting off the water. Another movement from the corner of his eye. The deck of the Nevada, bandsmen gathering on the stem for the Sunday morning flag raising, the designated band for the harbor this morning to play the National Anthem. On the submarines anchored nearby, several crew members were out, two young sailors, one of them carrying the flag under his arm as he came up out of the aft hatch. Eyes would turn to the signal tower atop the Navy Yard’s water tank. In a few minutes the blue “prep” flag would go up, and then be lowered, signaling for all ships to have the national colors hoisted. The ritual, particularly on Sunday mornings, was done without much fanfare, the unlucky sailors assigned then quickly going back below decks, and if off duty, either grabbing breakfast or a little more sack time.

On the last of the returning Liberty Boats, the drunks and the half beat-up kid were loading aboard. The beat-up kid was now awake, looking around, exclaiming just where in the hell was he, and then he paused, looking to the north and, like James, shading his eyes and pointing. A few more heads were up, turning, shading eyes, looking to the north, the west.

From the deck of the Nevada came the sound of a trumpeter tuning up, a few notes of a Glenn Miller piece, then back to a scale so the band master wouldn’t chew him out for being disrespectful of the ceremony about to begin.

They would start the National Anthem in a moment, and he stood up.

He started to put his coffee mug down on the bench, ready to drop the cigarette, then looked back up again. It was 07:53 a.m., 7 December 1941... and at that instant Lieutenant Commander James Watson felt a frightful chill.

Akagi 7:48 a.m.

The signal officer burst onto the bridge, holding a sheet of paper.

‘Tora... Tora ... Tora!” he shouted.

A cheer went up, men slapping each other on the back, Genda looking back at Yamamoto, who was sitting in a chair, silent, just staring out to sea.