Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th (42 page)

Many of the lighter vessels, destroyers and cruisers, were firing up their boilers, half a dozen of them beginning to make way. We must attack them as well.

And then the barrage started. This time, at least on the ground, the gunners were ready, sending up a blizzard of fire, little of it properly aimed, but even as the first of the Kates dropped down for a ran on the Nevada, it disintegrated into flames.

In less than a minute the second stage of the fight was on. Torpedo bombers and dive bombers were dropping in. Horizontal bombers at two thousand meters crossing over Ford Island and Hickam, aiming to take out the hangars. Another Val, trailing smoke, rolled over and went into a tight spiral, pilot regaining control at the last instant and guiding it into a hangar, dying as a samurai.

More explosions bracketed the battleships, though he was now ordering the remaining planes to stand off from there to seek other targets, but more than one pilot, drilled that the battleships were the primary target, dove in anyhow, unable to resist the claim that it was his bomb or torpedo that finished the deed.

Nevada was hit, and hit again, and he held his breath, waiting to see if it would begin to settle, or better yet, detonate, its wreckage blocking the entry. The ship began to swerve away from the channel, and he grunted with approval for her captain. He was making the right move, clearing the approach, moving to beach his mighty ship, which was all but fatally wounded. A cluster of bombs tore into the large dry dock, hitting the battleship and smaller destroyers contained within, but the great floodgates held. He tried to order a couple of the Kates to swing wide around the bay, line up, and drop their torpedoes for a straight-in run on the dry-dock gates---destroying that would cripple their primary repair facility--but in what was now a wild confusion of radio traffic, planes maneuvering in every direction, yet more explosions igniting, it was impossible to direct the fight any longer.

And as in the first attack, in little more than ten minutes it was over. The seventy Kates and Vals assigned to hit the main harbor in the second strike swinging clear of their targets, breaking to east and west, throttling up, skimming low and then climbing once well clear, but the price now was heavier, far heavier; he watched as three, then four more of his planes, trailing smoke, plummeted down, or just simply disintegrated in midair.

It was hard to make any sense whatsoever of the action now. The entire harbor area was wreathed in a thick, black oily smoke, as the last of the Zeroes broke away from their covering positions.

It was over.

He tried to scan with his binoculars but that was useless, too much smoke. He ordered his pilot to break into a steep 60- degree bank, circling sharply, giving him a clear view straight down.

Battleship row was finished, both airfields as well. Well over a score of other ships were damaged or destroyed to varying degrees ... a victory in two strikes, each of little more than ten minutes’ duration, that made Tsushima pale in comparison.

And yet, in all the confusion of battle he saw so many more targets yet to be taken. The submarines, so feared and dreaded in all the planning for this strike. At least six were tied off, undamaged. In the narrow loch, a score of other ships, destroyers and cruisers, were untouched, their guns firing at the retreating planes.

The fuel storage tanks. That caught his attention now. There had been general talk that if the Zeroes and Vals ran out of targets they should strike the oil tanks with strafing runs, and those Vals laden with 100-kilogram bombs drop there as well. It appeared as if none had been touched even though the tank farms directly adjoined the navy base.

And yet again, the carriers. Where in hell were the carriers?

“Take us to the rendezvous, straight across the island!” he ordered, and his pilot, nodding, set a northerly course.

At 180 knots it would take little more than eight minutes to traverse Oahu, time to evaluate and radio in. In little more than three minutes what was left of Wheeler was clearly in view. Half a dozen Zeroes only now breaking away ... and there, to the west he could see two of them weaving, dodging in and out of clouds, dark green planes in pursuit. At least two American fighters were finally up!

Two, that was all he could see. Two out of an estimated more than two hundred. Far off to the west he thought he could see a smudge of smoke darkening the horizon, the army air bases on the east end of the island, hit by both first and second waves.

But other than the distant dogfight there was nothing, no resistance! As his pilot edged around Wheeler, moving clear of the light scattering of antiaircraft fire coming up, he could see scores of aircraft burning on the ground; strangely, they were parked wingtip to wingtip . . . what was left of them.

He picked up his radio mike and clicking the key, began to transmit the afterstrike report back to the flagship. Pushing to the north end of the island he kept a careful scan. The air, earlier so crowded with planes of the Empire, was now all but empty, and still no sight of American resistance other than the distant dogfight. Looking back he could see the blanket of smoke spreading out and upward from Pearl, from Wheeler, and Schofield, and even from the east end of the island at Kaneohe.

The island was all but defenseless. Crossing out over the surf he looked down and was diverted for a moment by the beauty of the place, the lush tropical green, the turquoise blue of the ocean, the foaming white surf pounding into shore. The final rendezvous point was twenty miles north of the island, and he expected to pick up at least several of the fighters there, but the sky was empty. He ordered his pilot to circle tightly for several minutes, ignoring the news that their fuel was starting to run dangerously low. They had been one of the first of the strike wave to take off over four hours ago. All of that first wave should already be back and landed, preparing to turn around for the next mission.

He wanted to see, as well, if there was any organized pursuit or reconnaissance, for surely they’d send a scout plane up to loiter back, spotting the direction of the retiring aircraft and thus gaining some bearing, but still the sky was empty.

“Time for home,” he finally announced, and he could hear the sigh of relief as his pilot turned north-northeast, working on the calculation of where the fleet was predicted to be. But after a few minutes he felt a sudden concern and ordered a turn back to the rendezvous. Those planes dogfighting, they were fighters, their navigational ability trying to pick out a fleet at sea minimal at best, and his effort was rewarded. Within a minute he spotted a lone Zero, flying slow, a fluttering of dark smoke from its exhaust. He swung in alongside the ailing Zero, the pilot recognizing the command markings on Fuchida’s plane and saluting, obviously filled with relief as Fuchida smiled, saluted back, and signaled for him to follow ... Together the two planes, the last of the two strikes on Pearl Harbor, winged north, back to their carriers.

Malaya, Near the Border with Thailand 1:35 a.m. Local Time

“Sergeant Harris. . . come on now, come on!” Cecil shouted.

The first shell had hit near the side of the road leading into the airfield. The bastards had certainly marked out this target well. Through shelling the small airfield at night, they had already set several aircraft ablaze. He had hoped to get in, find a pilot, and commandeer a liaison plane to get him and Harris back to Singapore to report. They had left the beach a half hour ago when they saw the first of the Japanese landing craft coming in. This was no raid; it was a full-scale invasion, coming on hard and fast, support shipping coming in closer to shore, ready to run into the small harbor once the troops aboard the landing craft had seized the position.

Two shells had bracketed the road. Ridiculous thought, but he felt as if somehow they had spotted the small Bentley Harris was driving, a splinter blowing out a tire.

He had told Harris to just drive on the damn thing, but the marine sergeant refused.

“Have it changed in a jiffy, sir, can do this in me sleep.”

And while he was jacking up the car, two more shells had winged in and blown fifty yards away, while yet more rained down on the airfield itself, heavy stuff, five- and eight-inchers from the looks of it.

“Harris?”

There was no answer. Cecil had sprawled out by his side when they heard the incoming.

In the darkness he reached out to shake him and then pulled his hand back. He fumbled for the torch and flicked the switch on.

The man was dead, a fragment having sheered into his temple, side of his face shattered. It had been instant.

Damn all, he sighed. Poor bugger, survives Gallipoli, Palestine, Mesopotamia in the 1920s, and then to die like this.

There was nothing he could do for him. It all seemed so senseless, so useless this death, focusing it all back down to one man, whom fate had decreed would find his end here, on a nameless road, halfway round the world from the East End slums of his boyhood.

More shells came in, and he crouched down, feeling guilty for using Harris’s body as a shield.

He stood back up. He felt guilty, but he knew Harris had a pack of smokes in his pocket, and half rolling him over he took them out along with his American lighter and lit one. The hell with light discipline; a burning hangar was lighting up the night sky, barrels of fuel blowing into the air like rockets.

Slinging his notebook bag over his shoulder, he walked toward the airport, hoping to find a ride to get the hell out of here.

Akagi, 11:03 a.m. Local Time

“That’s him!” Genda cried excitedly, and in a rare moment Yamamoto let his emotions show, sighing with open relief. It was Fuchida’s plane, flying low and coming straight for Akagi, a Zero, trailing smoke, by his side.

Fuchida shot past, wagging his wings and snapping off a salute, canopy pulled back, and then banked up high and away, clearing the way for the damaged Zero to come in.

The Zero banked in sharply, barely lining up, drifting somewhat to port, correcting, then coming down hard, bouncing, almost losing control as it drifted a quarter of the way down the deck of the carrier, then settling in, tail hook finally catching on the fifth wire and screeching to a stop.

Deck crew worked feverishly, disconnecting the hook, a crew chief up on the wing of the plane, directing the pilot to throttle up, rolling to the forward elevator to clear the deck for the last of the planes to come in.

From four miles out Fuchida was taking his time, letting the damaged Zero get clear as he started in on his approach, lining up, following in perfectly, wheels touching down when only thirty feet past the fantail, tail hook snagging, the Kate lurching to a stop.

It was the last plane in, and a wave of relief seemed to sweep the deck of Akagi: the last plane was in, the last plane bearing the hero who had led the strike, and cheering erupted, dozens of men breaking discipline, coming forward to swarm around the plane as Fuchida, with a flourish, stood up, saluted the flag of Japan, then the Z flag, and then finally the bridge where the admiral stood waiting.

Alighting onto the deck, grinning with delight, he was surrounded by admirers, his crew chief coming up a bit shyly to salute him. With a ceremonial flourish Fuchida removed the headband he had worn throughout the strike and handed it back.

“A keepsake to your family,” he said. “Proof that you, too, were with me there.”

The chief’s eyes filled with tears, and he bowed low in thanks.

Pilots from both strikes swarmed around him, shouting, cheering, but his eyes were on Genda, up on the open bridge, and he did not need to be told to report in. Gaining the stairs up he took them two at a time in spite of his heavy flying suit and boots, hot now in the late morning air at sea level.

Taking off his flight helmet he approached the open bridge, and there was Yamamoto, standing rigid, but for once there was a flicker of a smile, an exchange of salutes, and then an open smile and handshake.

“I am pleased to see you safely back; you had us worried with your late return.”

“I wanted to make sure all who could get back did,” he replied modestly.”