1942

CHAPTER 24

Jake Novacek carefully and quietly aimed his Springfield. The Japanese scout was barely visible in the tree about two hundred yards away. Jake had a dilemma. To fire and shoot the scout would alert the other Japanese soldiers in the area, but it was highly likely that the soldier would see Hawkins and his companions as they moved to a new firing position. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, Jake thought.

The Japanese response to the American attack on Pearl Harbor had been so immediate and so savage that the Americans had been thrown off balance. The Japanese at Hilo had become a whirlwind of brutal activity.

Jake estimated that three of the four companies of marine infantry stationed at Hilo had exploded out toward where they thought the Americans were hiding. He cursed himself for not anticipating the savagery of their response; as a result of his failure, his small force was reeling and disintegrating.

The Japanese had extracted information regarding the Americans from a civilian population that surrendered the knowledge as an alternative to seeing their loved ones raped, burned, mutilated, and chopped to living pieces before their eyes by Lieutenant Goto. In very short order, trucks full of Japanese soldiers had closed in on Jake’s sanctuary. The Japanese weren’t very good soldiers, which made it fairly easy for Lieutenant Brooks and his marines to ambush them and inflict a disproportionate number of casualties.

But the marines were only a handful, and the Japanese learned quickly. Brooks was dead and the other marines either dead or scattered after their last known position had been overrun. Brooks had bought them a little time, however. It had enabled Jake to dismantle the facilities and move Gustafson and some of the others by fishing boat to Maui, where Ernie Magruder and two of his companions had managed to land. A fourth plane was rumored to have landed on Molokai.

Alexa had gone with Gustafson, which took a big load off of Jake’s mind. Their parting embrace had been tearful, with her not wanting to leave, but Jake had been adamant. On Maui, she might just survive, while he would not have been able to think had she remained on Hawaii. On Hawaii, she and the others would have been hunted down like dogs. Survival, he reminded her, was their primary goal. If everyone couldn’t make it, that was too bad. Once again, she should do everything she had to in order to live.

In the long term, Jake thought that time was on his and Alexa’s side. Only thing, the Japanese soldiers were just a few hundred yards away. If the radio reports were to be believed, the Japanese at Pearl Harbor had been clobbered and were continuing to be pounded. This meant that liberation was imminent, possibly in only a few weeks.

But, he thought grimly, first I have to live through this day.

The Hawaiians and others in his contingent had been dispersed, to return to their families and try to blend into the surroundings. Again, he felt they would make it long enough for help to come. So that left him and the Japanese scout in his sights. He didn’t think the Jap saw him, but Hawkins and the others were impossible for the Jap to miss. Either way, he thought, the Jap was going to send for his little yellow brothers to help him.

“Fuck it,” Jake snarled and pulled the trigger. A second later, the scout tumbled from the tree.

There was pandemonium in Admiral Nimitz’s San Diego command center for the Pacific Ocean Area. Just when they had written off the entire operation as a noble failure, Doolittle had radioed the word that a carrier had been sunk in the channel.

This, coupled with overheard Japanese messages, confirmed that a degree of victory had just been snatched from disaster. Doolittle had mentioned something about the American pilot intentionally crashing his plane on the carrier, which he identified as the Akagi. If that were true, it was agreed that the still unnamed pilot was due one helluva medal. Sadly, it looked like it would be posthumous.

Only one question now remained-what to do about Spruance?

While there was a strong consensus that he should be unleashed on the trapped Japanese, a vocal minority led by Vice Admiral Robert Ghormley felt there should be more assurances that the channel was actually blocked.

“It’s too big a risk,” Ghormley said. “It may look blocked, but we won’t know until the Japs try to get out. Give it a day, maybe two, and let’s verify it.”

The vice admiral’s voice carried weight. He had been responsible for planning the operation and knew more about its details than anyone else. However, Ghormley had a reputation for caution. Hardly a sin, Nimitz thought, but was it time to be reckless or time to go for the jugular?

Nimitz decided. “Send Spruance. The longer we wait and it is blocked, the more time the Japs’ll have to solve their problem.”

Jamie Priest was the runner who relayed the information to the radio center. Moments later, he was back in Nimitz’s conference room, exhilarated and fascinated by what was happening.

“Spruance acknowledged?” Nimitz asked.

“Yes, sir. No doubt about it.”

Nimitz nodded, then looked at Jamie with a curious smile. “Tell me, did the radio people note anything unusual with the transmission of his confirmation?”

Jamie was puzzled. “Sir?”

“Commander, did the signal come from where it was expected, or elsewhere?”

It was impossible to tell distance, but a good operator could get a feel for the direction of a signal. “Admiral, the operator said it came from a good deal farther north than he expected it to.”

Nimitz shook his head, then he grinned. “I’ll be damned. Ray Spruance left early,” he said, thinking of his admonition to Spruance to be careful. Then he laughed. “He’ll be there before the Japs can do a thing.” And, Nimitz thought, here’s to everyone who thought Spruance was too scholarly and indecisive for the command thrust upon him because of Halsey’s illness.

More than a dozen officers crowded into the office that overlooked Pearl Harbor. Admiral Yamamoto was the only one seated, while the others clustered around him. He saw no point in returning to the flagship Yamato. Neither it nor the remainder of the Japanese fleet was going anywhere for a while.

Yamamoto’s mouth was a grim slash, and he looked ashen. What had been an aggravating pinprick operation by the Americans had become a disaster. No matter how he tried to rationalize what had happened, he could not escape the fact that Japan had suffered its first significant naval loss in almost a century. The question of who had won or lost the battle in the Coral Sea had just become moot. Japan had definitely lost the second battle of Pearl Harbor with the sinking of the Akagi.

How the Americans had come up with such a resourceful and daring plan was almost irrelevant. Japan had lost a battle and, even more humiliating, had done so in front of many thousands of civilians. It would be Yamamoto’s responsibility to apologize to the emperor for his failure. He would do it and offer to retire.

But first he had to get his fleet out of its unwelcome anchorage. He noticed Commander Fuchida easing his way into the room. Fuchida was on crutches and had released himself from the hospital. He had broken his leg leaping from the burning Akagi and was lucky to be alive. He’d been pulled out of the oil-covered and flaming water only seconds before he would have been burned alive. Yamamoto ordered a second chair brought in, and Fuchida accepted it gratefully.

Admiral Nagumo would not be there. He had been on the bridge of the Akagi and was presumed incinerated. So too were the majority of the carrier’s pilots and crew. Fuchida had been lucky. Only a couple of hundred had survived the catastrophe, and many of those were severely burned. Maybe Nagumo had been lucky too, Yamamoto thought. He would not have to confront the results of the defeat.

“Is there good news?” the admiral asked.

“Only a little,” Commander Watanabe responded. “With the exception of the Akagi and some slight bomb damage to the Ryujo, we are in good shape. Our floatplanes and seaplanes continue their patrolling, and there is no sign of any American ships or planes-”

“However,” Yamamoto interrupted, “we have only a few of those virtually unarmed planes, and most of them have very limited range.”

“True,” Watanabe said.

“Then it is imperative that we get out of this harbor. What is the situation with the Akagi?”

Watanabe grimaced, and there was a distinct shuffling in the room. The Akagi lay on its side in the channel. A sizable portion of it remained above the water, and that part still burned fiercely. Oil and gasoline continued to spill out and burn on the water.

“The engineers say it will be sometime tomorrow before the fires are out. After that, the hulk must cool down sufficiently for the damage to be assessed. It is now confirmed that the Akagi was torpedoed as well as bombed. Several survivors, including Commander Fuchida,” he said and gestured to the commander, “have reported seeing torpedo tracks and explosions against her port hull.”

“And where is the sub?” Yamamoto asked.

“Gone. She escaped when our picket destroyers all went after the wreckage of the American flying boat that landed near the coast.”

Fools, Yamamoto thought, but the damage had been done. “What about other subs? Where there was one, there might be many.”

“The destroyers are back on station, Admiral. Their captains are properly chastened and are vigilant. No other submarines have been sighted.”

“Very well. Back to the Akagi. Can any ships leave, and when can she be moved?”

“With her still burning, it’s hard to tell. There may be room for destroyers to squeeze by, but not anything larger. As to moving her, the engineers are not optimistic. Traditionally, the holes in her hull would be plugged and then she would be righted as the water was pumped out. But this is a process that could take months under normal conditions for a ship her size.”

“No!” Yamamoto said harshly. “If we are here for more than a few days, the Americans will gather like wolves and savage us. If they figure out that we cannot move or launch planes, even their ships in the Atlantic will be steaming here. Tow her out.”

Watanabe was confused. “Sir, we don’t have any tugs strong enough to do that. The Akagi is not just aground. Her hull is full of water, and towing her in that condition will require a massive effort.”

Yamamoto glared at him and then at the others. “But we do have some of the most powerful warships in the world. Use the battleships as tugs. Attach lines to the Akagi and haul her off. Use every ship in the fleet if you have to. If the fires are out tomorrow, I want the lines attached as soon as possible. We must get our carriers out of here!”

Yamamoto took a deep breath and calmed himself. Then he turned to Fuchida. “I must presume that the effort will take time. While that is being done, I want planes to be taken off at least one of our carriers and be able to use the field on Ford Island. Can it be done?”

Fuchida thought quickly. The field on Ford was in bad shape, but that would be relatively easy to fix with plows and shovels. The planes were a different matter. They could not be flown off a carrier. They would have to be unloaded by crane and would quite likely have to have their wings removed. He thought there were cranes available on the shore, but he wasn’t certain. But, even if there were, had they been damaged in the earlier fighting?

Regardless, once the planes were on the ground, the wings would be reattached and the planes could either taxi or be pulled by truck to the field, from where they could begin to patrol and fight. But not until then. What an incredible mess.

“Can it be done?” Yamamoto repeated.

“Yes,” Fuchida replied cautiously.

The admiral understood his hesitation. He trusted Fuchida’s judgment. “How long will it take?”

The commander shook his head. The pain in his leg was increasing. “A week.”

Yamamoto nodded. In a week, either the Akagi would have been cleared from the channel or he would have planes flying from Ford Island. In a week he would be able to defend himself. In the meantime, the Japanese fleet was almost defenseless.

Colonel Omori had eased in and caught the end of the conversation. “Admiral,” he said, “I understand that some of the American flyers have been picked up. I wish to interrogate them in order to find out just how the Americans knew that we were going to be here in sufficient time to plan the attacks.”

Yamamoto looked at him with scarcely concealed disdain. Four badly wounded survivors from the crashed flying boat had been picked up and were being held only a few feet away. They were all enlisted men.

“Tell me, Colonel,” he said sarcastically, “do you really think that Roosevelt or Nimitz entrusted such important information to men of such low rank?”

Omori bowed deeply to hide his embarrassment. “Of course not, sir.”

“Leave the prisoners where they are. Do not waste your time on them.” Yamamoto continued, “Concentrate on finding those who attacked Wheeler. You have confirmed that they were indeed Japanese, haven’t you?”

A second survivor had been located. He had been left for dead by the attackers and had revived sufficiently to confirm what the first soldier had said. The men who had murdered his corporal and nearly killed him had indeed been of Japanese descent. Since all those of Japanese descent in Hawaii had always been considered Japanese citizens by Tokyo, even before the annexation, the act was one of treason and not of war.

“It is confirmed,” Omori said and heard shocked hissing in the room.

“Then you will find those who have betrayed Japan. I will defend the fleet. You search for the traitors. I doubt you will have far to look. Unless, of course, they have joined their brethren so skillfully hiding from you on the other island.”

Flushed with shame, Omori left the room. He understood full well that the attack on Wheeler had been the cause of the problem and remained the main problem. Because of the attack on Wheeler, there had been no planes to defend against even a small American force. Because of the attack on Wheeler, the fleet was bottled up in Pearl Harbor. And it was his fault that the attack had taken place. Omori’s kempetei were responsible for the security of the islands, and through his failures the attack on Wheeler had taken place.

Omori lit a cigarette and walked to where his car and driver waited. Someone in the Japanese community knew about this and would pay dearly, as would the Americans on Hawaii. He would talk to Toyoza Kaga and see if he had heard anything about disaffected young Japanese who would strike against their homeland.

Commander Boshiro peered through the periscope of the I-74 and cursed silently. A large force of warships, American by their silhouettes, was in his view. He pivoted and saw two carriers and at least one battleship. Other, smaller vessels ringed the larger ships, and they were on a direct course for Hawaii. It was also possible, even likely that additional ships were out of his limited view.

Boshiro had a dilemma. He was submerged in relative safety, and planned on remaining that way until dark. Then he could surface and cruise faster, possibly close in on some of the enemy ships. Then he would attack. That would be prudent. Surfacing in daylight would make the I-74 as visible to the Americans as they were to him.

But he was fairly certain that Admiral Yamamoto in Pearl Harbor was unaware of the force creeping up on him. Thus, he had to warn the admiral immediately, and that meant surfacing so that a radio message could be sent off.

Surfacing would be tantamount to suicide. Additional American ships were coming into view, and they confirmed his suspicions about the size of the American forces.

They also made his decision simple. Regardless of the cost, Yamamoto had to be warned. “Surface,” he ordered.

Admiral Raymond Spruance paced the bridge of his flagship, the carrier Enterprise. A little while earlier, the sound of explosions had resonated in the distance.

“Well?”

Captain Mitscher had taken it on himself to find out. “Damndest thing, but a Jap sub came up just about right under a couple of our planes. After the pilots got over their shock, they began strafing and bombing. Those were the explosions we heard.”

Spruance nodded. It was bound to happen sooner or later. It was too much to hope they would never be seen. “Did they get the sub?”

“Confirmed. Both pilots reported seeing her break in half and sink. A destroyer is just about there and has spotted large pieces of wreckage and a couple of bodies. She’s not on the bottom and pretending to be dead; that sub is gone.”

“There was only one reason for her to surface like that,” Spruance said. “She’d seen us and was going to signal her friends. Did she get off a message?”

Mitscher shrugged. “We don’t know. It all happened so fast, no one was listening.”

“Then we must assume she did,” Spruance said thoughtfully, “and react accordingly.”

The admiral continued pacing. “We must assume that she gave Yamamoto a full description of the fleet, its direction and speed. Yamamoto will be able to do the calculations and recognize that we can attack just after first light. He will have all his defenses prepared for us.”

He stopped and stared up at the sky. “Then we must weigh that fact against our instructions, which were explicit: We were not to take any undue risks with the fleet.”

Mitscher was aghast at the implication. “Jesus, you’re not thinking of pulling back, are you? Not after we’ve come this far!”

Spruance smiled benignly. “Hell no. Of course we’re not pulling back. We’ll just speed up and attack a little sooner.”

The aircraft carrier Hiryu had been moved as close to Ford Island as was possible, but she was still about a hundred yards off. The darkness and the presence of wrecked American ships made moving closer in to shore dangerous, and the availability of barges made it unnecessary.

A large crane had been set up on the Hiryu’s flight deck. It had been dismantled from a shore facility and moved to the carrier, where it had been reassembled and buttressed to stand the weight of an airplane. Despite its looking jury-rigged, the engineers were confident it would work.

While this work was going on, several Zeros had been disassembled and were ready to lift into the barge. There would be one plane per barge, and it would take almost an hour to raise and lower the plane onto the vessel. From there, it was an extremely short trip to the island, where another winch would remove the plane and set it on dry land. Trucks would then tow it to the airfield, which was already almost ready for planes to take off and land as literally hundreds of men had been filling the cratered runways all day and night.

Commander Fuchida estimated that his disassembly-assembly line would begin within minutes, and, once the first plane was at Ford Island, at midday, Zeros would be ready for combat at the rate of one per hour. He had moved to the island, where he would watch the carrier and oversee the other part of the operation. He did not consider basing himself on the carrier. His leg would not permit him to move about. As it was, he was in a wheelchair.

He was pleased, as was Commander Watanabe, who stood beside him, visibly impressed. If everything went according to their improvised schedule, the Hiryu’s sixty-plus planes would all be patrolling Oahu’s skies in a little more than two days, and not the originally estimated one week. A smaller number of planes would be ready by nightfall.

Day and night were somewhat irrelevant terms. Floodlights bathed the Hiryu in an unnatural glow and permitted work to be done on her. Other ships were similarly lit as repair crews worked through the night, and, in the channel, the Akagi still burned, although not as brightly.

The emphasis on speed had come as the result of a garbled and incomplete message received from a Japanese submarine. Watanabe had relayed the information to Fuchida. “The sub had just begun to identify herself when she went off the air. We have no idea what her message was going to be, except that there was sufficient reason for her to surface and try to send. We presume she was sighted and sunk,” he said.

Fuchida had nodded grimly. If the sub had been sunk, it meant the Americans were nearby. But in what strength? Yamamoto had been adamant that the main body of the American navy was in Icelandic waters. Of course they could be racing toward Hawaii, but that trip would take weeks.

Both men had concluded that the likeliest threat came from American submarines. The unfortunate Japanese submarine must have spotted a large American wolf pack heading this way and had died sending the message.

Yamamoto had responded by urging haste with Fuchida’s project.

It was deemed far more likely to succeed in the short run than towing the Akagi from the channel. The Hiryu’s planes must be ready to attack the American subs and protect the fleet when it finally did emerge from Pearl Harbor.

Both men, however, were still extremely disturbed by the lack of air cover. Since it was night and the Japanese floatplanes lacked radar, most had been recalled so the planes could get some maintenance and the pilots get a little rest. Many of the remainder of the men of the fleet were also resting and preparing for the day. Yamamoto had determined that there was no point in all of them working themselves to exhaustion. Men were not machines. They were flesh and blood that had to eat and rest.

“Please tell me, Commander, precisely how many planes are in the air at this moment?”

Watanabe grimaced. “Two, and neither of them fighters.”

“Tomorrow night I’ll give you a dozen,” Fuchida promised.

Watanabe laughed. “It is a gift I’ll accept gladly. Then you can get back to the hospital, so your leg can heal.”

Fuchida wished Watanabe hadn’t reminded him about his wound. With all his activities, he had almost forgotten it. He had to stay seated most of the time with his leg propped up, but he could still command.

A distant growl caught their attention. It was hard to identify over the sounds of voices and clattering machinery emanating from the Hiryu.

“Planes,” Fuchida said, puzzled.

“Can’t be,” said Watanabe. Then he looked ill. “No, can’t be.”

Out of the darkness they dropped. The dive-bombers from the American carriers had easily eluded the Japanese search planes and, like moths attracted to light, had homed in on the lights illuminating the Japanese ships.

An American plane completed its dive and roared over Fuchida’s head. Seconds later, the bomb exploded on the Hiryu’s flight deck. The commander watched in dismay and horror as the crane flew into the air and tumbled into the barge beside the ship.

More bombs struck the Hiryu, and, like her sister the Akagi, she was soon engulfed in flames.

Fuchida steeled himself to count the planes as they swirled by and back into the dark. He stopped at thirty. This was no raid by older-model land-based planes left over from the initial battles for Hawaii. This was a carrier attack, and the attackers were newer-model Grummans.

More bombs ripped the Hiryu, and other ships began to take hits. Japanese antiaircraft guns filled the sky with glowing tracers, but they seemed to do little harm. As before, they couldn’t shoot what they couldn’t see until the last minute.

As the attack thundered on, the Japanese gunnery did get better, and American planes started to fall in flames from the lightening sky. Several Americans attacked the Yamato, which, despite being protected by nearly 150 antiaircraft guns, had several bombs explode against her superstructure.

And then it was over. Fuchida stood on his crutches and wept. The Hiryu was a burning ruin, and so were his hopes of protecting the fleet with her planes. The Kaga and Soryu were also burning, although not as badly as the Hiryu.

Fuchida was about to say something to Watanabe when a tremendous explosion ripped through the Hiryu, sending a shock wave over the area and ripping all around her with metal debris.

Fuchida found himself lying on the ground several feet from where he had been sitting. Much of his uniform had been blown off, and now his other leg hurt like the devil. He saw a piece of bone sticking through the skin of his thigh.

Watanabe lay beside him, but Watanabe was dead. A piece of debris had decapitated him, and his head was nowhere to be seen.

Fuchida attempted to focus his dimming vision on the remains of the Hiryu. She had broken in half, and both ends were sinking toward the middle.

He tried to rise and felt hands pushing him back. “Be still, sir. Let us take care of you.”

The commander was helpless. Both his legs were broken, and he was having trouble both seeing and hearing. He gave in to the darkness that was engulfing him. “Poor Japan,” he murmured. “What have we done?”

Across the harbor and through the flames and clouds of smoke, Admiral Yamamoto watched the destruction of his dreams and the future of his nation. For a brief moment, he contemplated going off to some solitary place where he could commit suicide in accordance with the code of bushido. But the thought passed as he realized that intentional death was the coward’s way out. No, he had an obligation to his men and his nation to retrieve as much as he could from the debacle swirling about him.

Thus focused, he concentrated on the options yet available to him. First, it was appallingly obvious that Fuchida’s task of lifting planes from carriers and onto the land was doomed. The Hiryu was sinking, and at least two other carriers were damaged. While they might still be able to off-load a handful of planes, it would take too much time, which meant that this was no longer the solution. The fleet had to move out of the harbor through the channel, and that meant concentrating on towing out the hulk of the Akagi.

And he no longer had days in which to solve the problem. Instead, he had hours.

Judging from the sheer number of American planes in the most recent attack, there were at least two carriers, possibly more, in the vicinity of Oahu. Identification of the carriers they were from might come from interrogating shot-down pilots if any had survived, but it was almost irrelevant. Such knowledge would not come from Japanese floatplanes and flying boats. They were patrolling, but they were vulnerable and would be shot down by the next wave of attackers.

Yamamoto still had two carriers and the rest of the surface fleet intact. Several of those ships had sustained hits, but nothing severe. In particular, the Yamato had been struck by a pair of bombs and seemed to have brushed off the damage. If the remaining portion of the fleet could sortie out and do battle with the Americans, at least some of the shame could be washed away.

The attempt to remove the Akagi must be accelerated, despite the risks. The Americans would be returning to their floating bases to refuel and rearm. They would be back in the harbor in a matter of hours. Japanese gunners would put up a stout defense, but it was a given that bombers would get through to the ships if there were no planes to impede them. Thus, it was also true that each ship damaged or sunk reduced the number of Japanese guns, which made it easier for the attackers to get through the next time. It was, he mused, a spiral into hell. It had to be broken before the rest of the Japanese fleet was pounded to pieces.

But how had the American carriers appeared off Oahu at this precise time? Was German intelligence so slipshod as to mistake the presence of the Americans off Iceland? Or had the Germans betrayed their Asian allies to their white counterparts? Yamamoto decided he would write down his thoughts and have the message sent to Tokyo.

And how had the Americans known so far in advance as to be able to place their ships and planes in such an advantageous position? There were only three options: Treason, espionage, and the breaking of the Japanese codes. Of the three, he considered espionage the most likely. There were far too many people in Hawaii who had known in advance of his arrival. The information could have been stolen from them and sent to the United States via those damned guerrillas on Hawaii. That a Japanese citizen could have betrayed his country in favor of the Americans was unthinkable. So too was the idea that the Japanese codes had been broken.

At least the Americans on the Big Island would be eliminated. Colonel Omori had given his assurances in that regard.