Days of Infamy (46 page)

“Sergeant, stay here and post a guard on this street.”

The sergeant smiled, saluted. The command car with the wounded drunk and the terrified boy backed out of the street and on to the highway.

“OK, folks, let’s get back inside,” he announced. “The show is over. You’re safe, I promise you that by God.”

“Hey, I know you, Steve, you piece of shit,” the sergeant said, dragging the man still in the gutter up to his feet. “You say a word about this, you come back around here, and I’ll finish the job.”

He gave him a kick to the backside as the injured man, still clutching himself, staggered off down the street.

Margaret took Dianne by the shoulders and pointed her back toward the house.

The three went inside, closing the door. Dianne was no longer shaking; she was remote, stoic.

“Dianne, please give me the gun. Best we hide it for now.”

She held the weapon tight.

“Not for a while. They might be back.”

There were distant gunshots. All three looked back toward the open window, but the sergeant and his men were out in the middle of the street, obviously not concerned, standing in a circle, and smoking.

“I’ll make those boys some coffee,” Margaret’s mother announced, and she went into the kitchen.

Margaret stepped in front of Dianne and put her hands on her shoulders.

“You were so wonderfully brave out there.”

“No, I wasn’t, I was terrified.”

“Why did you do it?”

Dianne tried to force a smile.

“I like your mother,” was all she could say, and then both were in each other’s arms, crying.

“SIR, IT IS
my pleasure to report, all fires are out, watertight integrity is holding.”

Admiral Halsey, dozing, stirred from his seat, looked up at Stubbs standing before him, and smiled.

“Good job, Stubbs.”

“Sir, we got five boilers up and running.”

“The crew trapped in the engine room?”

“Reached them a half hour ago.” He paused. “Sir, half of them were dead from the heat, the others barely alive, but by God they kept us running. We pumped out sections of the two decks blocking them, and have a replacement crew in their place now.”

“Good, damn good,” Halsey sighed. “I want to go down to sick bay, shake their hands, God bless them.”

“It was hell down there, sir,” Stubbs sighed. “I went in with the
rescue crew. How they stayed alive in that inferno is beyond me. It would have driven most men insane.”

“Most everything this last day could drive men insane,” Halsey said. “It’s called war.”

Stubbs could not reply.

Halsey stood up, stretched, a bit embarrassed to realize he had indeed dozed off, and been asleep in his chair since sometime before dawn. His bridge crew looked away, as if abashed that their boss was realizing they had stood watch over him, not letting anyone disturb him when he had finally collapsed. An old petty officer had placed him in the captain’s chair and ordered everyone to leave him alone for a while.

And across those hours the survivors of
Enterprise
had fought to contain the last of the fires, shored up bulkheads about to burst, manned pumps and fire hoses, balanced the ship back to a reasonable list of but four degrees to starboard, then fought to block off flooded passageways. Then they had to fight their way down through two flooded decks to secure leaks so that a way could be found to the blocked-off engine room, their only source of power and hope of survival, and to rescue the forty-one men still alive down there who were keeping
Enterprise
alive.

Towlines to two destroyers had been cast off fifteen minutes ago, and
Enterprise
was under way on her own, making eight knots, due east. Forward was
Indianapolis
with her small group of destroyers, ringing the crippled carrier. Their own surviving destroyers and cruisers were matching speed except for two, one to either flank, that were sweeping wide at fifteen knots, searching out any potential threats from subs.

“Our position?” Halsey asked.

“We’re three hundred and ten miles southeast of Oahu, sir, making eight knots,” Stubbs replied.

He nodded.

“Any sign of the Japs?”

Stubbs looked over at the chief petty officer who had loyally been standing watch over “his” admiral while he slept.

“Sir, we monitored a fight, just after dawn, three hundred miles west northwest of Oahu. It was
Lexington.
Newton and Sherman got one of their carriers, confirmed as
Akagi.
Apparently it was their flagship.”

“Damn good,” Halsey said, “though Newton will never let me live that down, getting a kill like that.”

“But, sir, they got the
Lexington.
She went down just about the same time as
Akagi
was sunk.”

“Christ.”

He lowered his head.

“Newton, Sherman?”

“No word yet on survivors, sir. Just a report radioed in from
Chicago
saying that flag had been transferred. Knew that meant
Lexington
was gone. Jap radio traffic was confirming the sinking as well.”

He looked down at the flame-scorched deck of
Enterprise
, devoid of even a single aircraft.

“That leaves us the only carrier in these waters,” Halsey announced.

No one spoke. The only carrier, but fought out, barely afloat, limping off from the scene of battle.

“Any more attacks on Pearl, or the islands?”

“No, sir. Last sighting of the Japanese fleet, they were steaming due west at fifteen knots or better.”

“They’re pulling out,” Halsey said. “It’s over for now.”

They had to be pulling out, he realized. We’ve sunk two, maybe three of their carriers. They punched us hard, but we punched back at last, damn it. They were most likely low on oil and would make a run now for the Marshalls. But they would be back, of that he was certain. And we have to be ready for them, he thought with deep determination.

“Our oil supply, sir,” Stubbs finally said, interrupting his thoughts. “We definitely will not make it to the West Coast. Half our oil aboard was lost yesterday; half of what is left is mixed with seawater that will have to be distilled off.
Indianapolis
reports they are down to forty percent. Our destroyers will run dry within three days,
though they can calve off of
Indianapolis
if we maintain current speed of eight knots, which is all we can maintain.”

“So you’re requesting breaking radio silence to request a rendezvous,” Halsey asked.

“Sir, it’s not my place to advise,” Stubbs replied.

It was their only hope, Halsey realized, otherwise they would have to abandon all the destroyers, and even then he doubted they would get within five hundred miles of the West Coast. One destroyer was being detailed off to take the most critically wounded back to Pearl. Running the potential gauntlet of submarines was worth the risk compared to their chances if they did not get intensive care immediately. Once transfer of the wounded was complete and the destroyer on its way, it could relay the signal.

He took it in and looked to his petty officer.

“The destroyer with the wounded aboard—signal them to contact Pearl once well clear of us and request a rendezvous of an oiler with our group. Are Pearl Harbor communications back up?”

“We’ve been monitoring them again. Still that Hungarian code, sir, for voice.”

“Send it Morse, latest code. We need an oiler rendezvous. They can reply with coordinates. Signal traffic to an absolute minimum.”

“Sir, maybe the message should be hand carried by the destroyer rather than sent by radio?”

A good suggestion. He thought about it but finally decided against. If the destroyer got nailed by a sub, the message would be lost and they might never know it. Also, it’d take at least a day for the destroyer to get in, and in that time an oiler might steam a couple of hundred miles in the wrong direction for a rendezvous. He’d have to go with the risk.

“Have them send the signal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on, Stubbs, let’s walk,” Halsey said, and stretching he left the bridge, rubbing his face, realizing he needed a shave, a long hot shower… maybe only a shave with cold water, but the second, that wouldn’t happen until they were stateside.

He went down the flights of stairs and out onto the deck. It felt so lonely in a way, completely devoid of any activity other than a fire crew cleaning its equipment, gunners around one of the five-inch turrets, barrel depressed, swabbing the bore out, farther forward a work crew, laboring to lay temporary planking over the gaping hole that had been the forward elevator.

Stubbs walked by his side.

“Good job, Stubbs, about time you get a promotion.”

“No, thanks, sir. That means leaving her.”

He looked at him and smiled.

“It could be weeks, months before we’re back in it again.”

“I’ll have most of her repaired before we make San Diego, sir,” Stubbs replied. “I want to stay with this beauty when we come back out here and give it back to those bastards again.”

Halsey grinned.

“Fine then, no promotion, if that’s what you want, Stubbs. You saved her, she’s yours.”

“Thank you, sir.”

A nod indicated that he wished now to be alone, and Stubbs stepped back as Admiral Halsey walked forward, pausing for a moment to watch the crew laboring to string temporary supports across where the forward elevator had been. Apparently Stubbs had given up on the idea of repairing it while at sea, but wanted an active deck ready regardless. The sailors, filthy, most with shirts off, were precariously balanced as crews down below were setting up twelve-by-twelve oak beams, locking them into place, already laying out the first cross-deck stringer, men heaving and cursing. Most likely, it would not be able to support the weight of a fully loaded Devastator, but a Wildcat on rollout for liftoff could most likely safely pass over it.

Some of the men noticed who was watching, called out that the admiral was present, but he gestured for them to stay at ease, continue with their work, and walked on.

Farther forward more men were working, tearing out torn pieces of deck planking, bolting in replacement planks, gun crews for the
forty-millimeter mounts polishing down their pieces. Several had red suns painted on the barrels, claiming their kills.

He reached the bow. Two sailors, taking a smoke break, both of them filthy with oil stains and smoke, saw him approach and started to step back. He motioned for them to stand easy.

“Where you boys from?” he asked.

“Seaman First Class Hurt,” the first announced. “I’m from Black Mountain, North Carolina, sir.”

“Seaman First Class Minneci, sir, Newark, New Jersey,” the other said proudly, his Jersey accent clearly evident.

“Your battle stations?”

The two proudly pointed to the forty-millimeter gun perched forward, below the bow.

“We got one of the bastards yesterday, sir,” Minneci said. “Bang, head-on shot, he never dropped his torpedo!”

“Good work, son.”

There was an awkward moment, for after all the gulf between admirals and seamen first class was a broad one.

“Sir?”

It was Minneci.

“Think we’ll make it all the way, sir?”

“Make it?” and there was a touch of a sharp tone in his reply.

“No, sir, I don’t mean back to the States. We all figured you would pull that off.”

He relaxed, and nodded a thanks as Hurt offered him a cigarette, which he took, bowing his head over as Hurt lit it off the stub of his own.

“I mean back into the fight, sir. We want back in.”

He looked at the two, begrimed, hollow eyed with exhaustion. Below their feet, he could see where their neighboring forty-millimeter mount had been destroyed, nothing but black twisted wreckage. Fate had decreed, by not much more than a few feet, a fraction of a second in time, that their neighboring comrades had all died, but they were still alive and now asking him this question.

“Back in the fight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hell, on the day we sail into Tokyo Bay, you two boys personally look me up and I’ll shake your hands. Of course we’re going to be in the fight.

“To the end.”

JAMES STOOD UP
, rubbing his eyes. Radio traffic had quieted down and word had just been passed that naval personnel were to report back to Pearl, where signals were being rebuilt in an administrative office near the old CinCPac building. Headquarters were to be reestablished there.

He walked out of the hangar, Collingwood by his side, watching as the lone surviving B-17 on the island came in on final approach, shot up even more, it seemed, landing gear not down, all holding their breath as Gloria Ann pancaked in, props of the four engines either shearing off or bending back. The plane slid to a stop in the middle of the runway, fire trucks rolling alongside it. Fortunately, there was no fire as it was hosed down with foam, crew staggering out.

She had made a final run over the Japanese fleet, dropped a bomb load, without effect, but had radioed in the crucial report. They were steaming west, leaving the oil slick of what was believed to be
Akagi
, thirty miles astern of their position.

There had been one final air skirmish, a second Japanese strike launched against
Lexington’s
escorts. The escorts were pulling away at flank speed to the northeast, having inflicted one last blow, crippling, perhaps sinking a Japanese cruiser that had attempted to engage. The air strike had managed to sink but one destroyer in return.

Over thirty of
Lexington
’s “orphans” had made it in, some landing at Wheeler, others here, a dozen others reportedly ditching near the tramp steamer off Kauai, or near the sub, which had finally given up
the stern chase as the Japanese fleet pulled away. It meant the island had at least some strike capability again, but it also meant that far more than half of
Lexington’s
planes had been lost in the morning battle.