Days of Infamy (27 page)

Joe and his ham radio friends were now the link and the experts to keep it up until the cables could be repaired.

There was a pause on both sides. Now that he had the only stateside link, at least an official link, what to report? And for that matter, what to ask? Neither side had a common code source to refer to at this moment. That would be sorted out, but it could take hours, even
days or weeks. Their coding systems had been destroyed when CinCPac was hit. And that made him realize just how badly they’d been hit. The delicate infrastructure of cable and radio links, updated coding systems, coordination on when to change codes, their own information here on the island about Japanese codes, all of that was lost in flaming wreckage. In one swift blow the Japanese had not only crippled the fleet and taken Pearl Harbor off the charts for months as a viable base, they had also wiped out their ability to monitor and even to communicate. Now that they had a link back to the states, what could they even do with it, other than talk in the most vague and general terms?

“How bad is it?” O’Brian asked.

“Bad. There were three air strikes yesterday, you undoubtedly know that. During the night we endured three hours of bombardment from at least two, repeat that, two Japanese battleships of the
Kirishima
class. One was crippled but still afloat reportedly twenty-five miles southwest of Oahu.”

He looked out the hangar door. Several more planes had come in. It was obvious the Army and Navy were at least cooperating with this one, a strike was being prepped up, but against what, he didn’t know, nor would he discuss it on the air.

He wasn’t even sure if he should report yet on the fact that the
Enterprise
pilots were claiming they had crippled and most likely sunk at least one Japanese carrier.

Just what the hell else do I report? Would it be safe to give the last reported position of the Japanese fleet, in the clear? It had been radioed back by one of the valiant B-17 pilots who had found what was believed to be the main fleet, and not the two carriers struck earlier. The pilot reported four flattops, which added to the carriers the
Enterprise’s
boys had attacked meant they had six, perhaps five if the report of one being sunk was true. It would tip off the Japs, though chances were they knew they’d been spotted, but it might, just might be monitored by
Lexington
or any subs out there.

He went ahead.

“Here is the last reported position of the main Japanese carrier
force. Four carriers confirmed, a second group of two, one crippled or sunk.”

He looked over at a petty officer holding a note pad, who held up the sheet with the longitude and latitude listings, and read it off.

“Got that, Kilowatt Two. Good information. We’ll see it gets passed along.”

“I’m transferring the mike over to one of the base radio operators,” James said. “This station is now permanently on line until ordered otherwise. Do you have any news for us before I sign off?”

A pause.

“Just let folks know the entire nation is mobilizing up. I’ve never seen anything like this. Recruiting stations are flooded. Help is on the way to you out there. And those Jap bastards have no idea what they’ve started, but by God we’re going to finish it.”

An idea that Dianne had come up with earlier was now laid before him as she slipped a piece of paper in front of him, the question already written out.

“Stateside. Do you have any bohunks around?”

“What was that?”

“You heard me, you stupid mick, I’m asking for a bohunk.”

He didn’t say more. If they were in the same room he would have actually given O’Brian a big wink, like in the movies. There was silence for long seconds, and he did not dare to repeat the question. It’d be too obvious then.

“Got you on that one, Kilowatt Two. We’ll get it taken care of.”

“On the same wavelength then, stateside,” he said with a grin. “Thanks, stateside, I’m turning the mike over now.”

He stood up stretching, a seaman first class taking over his chair. He caught Joe’s eye.

“Thanks.”

“Glad to help, sir.”

He hesitated but had to say something.

“My wife, she’s nisei, half Japanese,” he said. It sounded wooden, uncomfortable, the way he remembered more than one man saying,
“Why, some of my best friends are colored,” and then the inevitable “but …” afterwards.

Joe did not reply.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is this …” and his voice trailed off, not sure exactly what it was he was trying to say.

“I think there’s going to be some tough times,” Joe said quietly.

Those listening to the conversation drifted back a bit, obviously nervous, James bringing up the subject a reminder that, it was an uncomfortable one.

“We’re all supposed to be Americans, you as well,” James finally said, knowing that sounded almost as lame as his comment about Margaret.

“I’d like to think so,” Joe replied.

“I’ll give you my address, phone number. You have any problem, you contact me at once. Once things calm down a bit, I’ll see if I can snatch some more CinCPac letterhead and get a letter of commendation drawn up for you, also a voucher for your equipment.”

Joe tried to force a smile.

“Thanks.” He hesitated. “I owe this country a lot. If this equipment is payback, that’s fine with me. If still over there, I’d most likely be drafted into their damn army and be in China or some godforsaken place fighting for that jerk of an emperor, and I’ve got two boys who’d get sucked into it too. I’m glad I could help.”

No one spoke. A sergeant, listening in, stepped up, without saying anything gave a friendly slap to Joe’s shoulder and walked off, others now nodding as well.

“Can you rig up another radio? I got some frequencies I’d like to see monitored.”

“Sure, what are they?”

“Japanese.”

“I’ll get on it.”

He nodded his thanks and walked out of the hangar. The northeasterly breeze was blowing the roiling clouds of smoke from the oil storage depot across the base. Flames continued to flicker from a bulldozed pile of what had once been P-36s and P-40s. Out in a
cleared area, three B-17s, two PBYs, five Dauntless dive bombers, half a dozen P-40s and-36s, and three Wildcats were lined up—this time well spaced apart, with ground crews scurrying about, loading up munitions. A fuel truck was parked next to a B-17, hose connected up to a wing tank. From an old Ford truck, sailors were off loading five-gallon jerry cans of gas, hauling them over to a P-40 where an Army mechanic perched on a ladder was pouring the gas into the plane with a funnel.

“Sir, why don’t you go home?”

It was Dianne.

He smiled and shook his head.

“Once we get a monitor back on their main naval frequencies, then I’ll take a break. By the way, that was a great idea, using Hungarian. Unique language with no connections to Latin, Slavic, or Germanic-based roots. Not a chance in hell the Japs have someone who can speak it with their fleet.”

She smiled.

“My older sister married a bohunk—I mean Hungarian—guy back in New York. They met at NYU. My folks threw a fit at first. He wasn’t Princeton or Yale like they had hoped for, but at least he’s Catholic, so they got used to it. Great guy; they got two kids now. So it just sort of came to me. He taught her how to say some rather dirty words and no one understood a word of it.”

“Well, it was brilliant, and I think they got the message.”

When she had cooked up the idea, he and Collingwood had first laughed it off. Where the hell were they going to find a native-speaking Hungarian in this chaos, until one of the sailors standing nearby overheard them and announced he had a buddy who was a cook who grew up there. That cook was now sitting in a corner of the hangar, obviously overwhelmed by all the brass wandering around, and by the way he was being treated with deference. Once someone stateside who could speak the language was dragged in and put on the radio on the other end, they’d at least have some semblance of coding that could throw the Japanese off for a little while. Hopefully,
someone on board the carriers knew the language as well and could listen in.

She helped him light another cigarette. Without the hook it was difficult to get a match lit. He winced slightly when out of old habit he raised his left arm to take the cigarette out of his mouth, having mastered the art both with his rubberized hand and with the hook.

The damn thing was starting to hurt again, but the pain was different, deeper, and he wondered if it meant infection was beginning to set in.

He didn’t have time for that now, and he went back into the hangar, warm in the afternoon sun, the air thick with the smell of burning oil, settled back down on the blanket spread out for him on the floor, and dozed off.

LIEUTENANT DAVE DELLACROCE
found it difficult to swallow. He thought of the shot of whiskey that a medic had given him after landing this morning, wishing he had another, in fact the whole damn bottle. Instead all they had given him now was a warm bottle of Coke. He put it down, eyes fixed on the officer approaching them.

Along with thirteen other pilots he sat at a mess table while the briefing officer, an army colonel, came over to the corner where the pilots waited. Several were actually asleep, sprawled out on the floor or on tables. The call came for attention and their comrades roused them.

Dave caught Struble’s eye. Both knew that in a few more seconds they’d find out if there was any chance left of living through this day or not.

“You men get something to eat?” the colonel asked, trying to sound friendly.

Several nodded; no one spoke. Dave felt he was crazy. Eat now? If he didn’t puke it up immediately, it would definitely come up once he was into the air.

The colonel hesitated and then opened up his briefcase and pulled out what was nothing more than a hand-drawn map and put it on the table.

“Jesus Christ, not the carriers again,” one of the Dauntless pilots whispered. “What about the battleship?”

“The Navy says they are moving a sub into position now to finish off the battleship. It’s a sitting duck.”

“And if the sub misses or gets nailed?” another pilot asked. “Hell, he could get away after dark.”

“Not far, and they think they’ll have enough of the channel cleared to start getting destroyers out again by nighttime as well. That battleship is dead meat. But the carriers aren’t. One of your comrades located what we think is the main fleet.”

“Stupid son of a bitch,” someone whispered.

“We’re dead meat,” Brandon Welldon, the pilot of B-17 Gloria Ann, sighed.

The colonel looked at him, not responding, almost embarrassed.

“We bombed their battleship this morning with three bombers, the target moving at ten to twelve knots, unable to maneuver, and got one, maybe two hits, sir,” Brandon said. “You’re asking us to go after a well-protected carrier, doing thirty knots? Sir, frankly that is insanity, and when it is over this island won’t have a single plane left.”

There was a muttered chorus of agreement, and the colonel stiffened.

“Those are the orders, gentlemen. Wheels up at 14:30 hours. Good luck to you.”

The colonel turned and walked away.

“Yeah, good luck to us,” Welldon snapped, “bullshit. We’ll see you in hell, sir.”

The colonel pivoted on his heels and the other pilots were on their feet moving in by Welldon’s side.

“What are you going to do about it, sir? Ground me? Go ahead, it’ll mean I will live to see tomorrow.”

“Twenty years in Leavenworth, how does that sound?” the colonel replied coolly.

“You ever see a plane go down in flames, sir?” and he placed cold sarcasm on the word “sir.” “You ever see a man bail out, on fire, parachute burning when he tried to open it, sir?”

The colonel stood silent.

“You’re talking insubordination in the face of the enemy,” he finally announced, but his voice was shaking slightly and pitched low.

No one spoke, the tension about to explode.

“What the hell.” It was Struble, the dive bomber pilot. “We’re all dead men anyhow with this war, might as well get it over with.”

The tension eased off ever so slightly. Welldon, shaking his head, snatched up the hastily drawn briefing map with the last reported coordinates of the Japanese carriers.

“Let’s go,” he sighed and started for the door, brushing against the colonel as he passed, forcing the man to step back slightly.

Dave, glad he had not had anything to eat, stood up, legs shaking, and moved with the group.

“Lieutenant.”

It was the colonel.

Welldon barely slowed, looking back over his shoulder.

“I have seen men burn,” the colonel replied. “I flew on the Western Front in 1918, and we didn’t have parachutes then.”

Welldon stopped, eyes fixed on the colonel, and he finally nodded.

“I wish I was going with you,” the colonel said softly. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but those are the orders.”

“Yes, sir,” was all Welldon could say.

The colonel made the gesture first, raising his right hand in a salute.

“God be with you,” he said, voice husky.

Welldon and the others saluted in return and headed out the door to their planes.