Days of Infamy (9 page)

He braced against the splinter shield.

To either flank he could see the other destroyers accelerating as well.

“Range, eight thousand two hundred and closing!” The voice of the young seaman calling out the chant had raised half an octave.

More flashes from the battleship. Seconds later the first shells arched overhead, kicking up geysers far astern.

“Forward battery fire at will, fire at will!” the
Ward
’s captain shouted, and a few seconds later the single forward turret opened fire and began pumping out a round every eight to ten seconds, the other destroyers firing as well, while two miles astern,
Minneapolis
began to turn to port, its forward turrets lighting off, sending eight-inch shells screaming overhead in reply. As her turret astern was exposed, three more shells were on their way.

Someone hit on the first salvo, a flash on the deck of the Jap battleship.

“That’s the stuff!” Draemel cried, slamming his clenched fist on the railing.

“Now charge, damn it, charge!”

It was the most un-Navylike of orders but it fit the moment.

“ALL BATTERIES ENGAGE
to port. Signal engine room, full speed ahead, turn to heading …” he paused for a brief instant.

Damn Yamamoto. He had been warned of this. They were in the classic trap. On the lee of an enemy shore with no room to turn and evade, a clear target outlined by the fires ashore, and now an unknown number of enemy ships coming in on them from the open sea.

Turn in toward them?

No… run straight ahead. All our guns can bear while only their forward guns can fire in reply.

“Flank speed, bearing 260 degrees!” he ordered.

The heavy fourteen-inch turrets ponderously shifted, swinging about fore and aft, shifting to port, barrels depressing as the range finders aloft called down to the fire control center with the range and bearing of the rapidly closing targets, ordering ammunition loads switched to armor piercing.

It took a very long two minutes, a very long two minutes, but at last number one turret fired back.

THE FLASH FROM
the guns of their secondary batteries was blinding, burning out his night vision as he was focused on the ship.

“Range… seven thousand one hundred yards …”

The geyser of water blew two hundred yards forward of the destroyer to his port side, the column of water soaring a hundred feet into the air, seconds later the charging destroyer, pitching and rocking, slashing through the wake of the blast and the cascades of sea water showering down.

More flares were erupting above them. Suddenly a blinding spotlight clicked on, and then another, from the Japanese cruiser to the west of the battleship, the spotlight sweeping back and forth.

The flashes from his own single four-incher were blinding as well, so that he let his binoculars drop.

Eight bursts of light, as brilliant as the sun, fired in sequences of
two, each sequence spaced a couple of seconds after the next from the battleship straight ahead, joined a few seconds later by the second battleship, which had been running a mile astern of his target. Their heavy guns were opening up at last.

My God, here it comes.

And it came, the fourteen-inch shells raining down, one striking directly between
Ward
and the destroyer to port, and then in a second his portside companion was gone, just simply gone, caught amidships, three quarters of a ton of armor-piercing slicing through the hull just above the water line.

The destroyer escort to his starboard side had taken a similar hit, but luck had held for her. The armor-piercing shells were designed for a plunging strike into an enemy cruiser or battleship, designed to slice through eight, ten inches of armor and then to keep on punching down before finally detonating. For the starboard-side destroyer escort, it had simply gone through the paper-thin superstructure of the bridge, killing four men, turning the ship’s captain into a pulplike spray, and then punched through the starboard side to strike the sea a quarter mile away before exploding.

But for the ship to port, the shell had angled into the engine room, hitting a steam turbine which was encased with high-grade steel, and blown, the explosion breaking the back of the ship, tearing off the entire aft end, the flash bursting into the aft magazine for the five-inchers, igniting half a dozen tons of powder.

Another shell burst in the ocean seventy-five yards off the portside bow of
Ward.
Not a killing blow, though the overpressure underwater ruptured plates, and shrapnel eviscerated the crew of the forward antiaircraft gun, which had started to open up as well, silencing their brave but futile efforts.

“Range six thousand, five hundred yards!”

He looked over at the captain of the
Ward.
The lad stood not saying a word. Draemel smiled inwardly. Best damn tradition of Annapolis on display here. His boys were doing OK, and he was proud of them—but how many of these kids would die in the next few
minutes, how many were already dead? He had heard some unsettling rumors. Suppose after all this their torpedoes weren’t effective, suppose they just bounced off the armor siding of that thirty-six-thousand-ton monster straight ahead? If so, he hoped everyone on the damn ordnance board responsible fried in hell. He was pitting well over two thousand young men on this gamble. It had better be worth it.

He could not let his fears show now. There was only one order left to give, when to turn and launch torpedoes, and he prayed to God his nerve would hold long enough to do that—and that he lived long enough to do it right. He had seen the destruction in Pearl. It was payback time, and he wanted in on that first strike back.

There was a momentary eye contact between him and the young captain, illuminated by the flash of the Japanese guns. Both forced a smile, said nothing, but the look expressed a thousand words about fears, courage, the realization of what had to be done, and the realization of the price that job would require.

They were well within torpedo range now, almost suicidally close. But the farther out with his torpedoes, the slower the speed for the weapon once launched. At this range, to reach their target, speed would have to be set at under thirty knots. Hell, this old destroyer moved faster than that. He wanted them in damn close for a highspeed launch at maximum torpedo speed of forty-five knots. It was rumored the Japs could fire theirs from ten thousand yards or more away, but no, he wanted to be right on top of the sons of bitches and spit in their eye before he’d cut loose, to make sure they put her on the bottom of the sea.

THEY WERE UP
to flank speed at last, running full out at over twenty-two knots, burning more fuel in a minute than they would cruising for a half hour at ten knots.

Another four miles and they would clear the west coast of the island and could turn northward and away.

Damn Yamamoto! He should have assigned all the destroyers with me, I’d have then had a protective screen to portside to intercept this unexpected attack, Nagita thought bitterly.

“Their range is four thousand meters!”

They must have launched by now, he thought. It would be suicide to come any closer. Already two of the attacking ships were gone.

He spared a quick glance to the charts. They had five miles of sea room to starboard. Should he turn in but then have no maneuver room, or race straight on?

He hesitated.

“RANGE FOUR THOUSAND
, six hundred yards!”

Another salvo, another destroyer hit, bow shearing off, the ship for a second looking as if it would actually dig in bow first and upend over.

“Sir?”

It was the captain of the
Ward
, trying to sound calm, in spite of the hurricane of noise.

“One mile out,” Draemel shouted, voice nearly drowned out by the bark of the lone four-inch gun forward. “I want it so close we can’t miss! We’re almost under their big guns, they’re shooting flat trajectory, their heavy rounds passing over us now,” and even as he spoke the bridge was rattled by the howl of a fourteen-inch shell shrieking past them, so close the concussive blast of the passing bolt was actually felt. It was followed a few seconds later by a strike from a six-inch shell, hitting the smokestack astern, blowing it apart. He could hear screaming from down on the deck.

“Aye, aye sir. One mile it is.”

“TURN TO BEARING
300!” Nagita shouted.

The Americans were insane. They were closing straight in! He could not help but be filled with a certain awe. Four of their ships were definitely hit, what appeared to be a cruiser farther out engulfed in flames.
Kirishima
, apparently not the target of this mad charge, was concentrating her fire on the larger target.
Tone
was racing out on a bearing of 220 degrees, angling across the western flank of their attack, her guns engaging the American cruiser as well. Idiots! It was the destroyers now that were the real threat. The cruiser could have waited.

“RANGE TWO THOUSAND
nine hundred yards!… she’s turning sir, turning away!”

He didn’t need his binoculars to see it… the battleship’s silhouette was shifting, turning in toward land, running obliquely away.

He ran a quick calculation: running speed of torpedoes, target angling away at forty-five degrees now from their attack, it would lengthen the run. Give it two more minutes.

He hoped the torpedo officer aboard this ship was trained well and knew his settings. They were only going to get one shot to launch from starboard.

“In two minutes we turn hard to port, and launch. Radio that order, in the clear, to the other ships.”

JAMES AND THE
others in the radio shack stood silent. The bombardment had lifted once the insane charge of the destroyers had started.
There had even been a scattering of cheers both in the shack and from outside along the docks.

But they had been able to hear every word of command, broadcast in the clear: the distress calls from destroyers crippled and falling out of the attack, and also the sudden silences, which spoke volumes.

“This is
Ward.
All ships, on my mark, prepare to turn in sixty seconds to bearing 280 degrees, and then launch torpedoes. Mark!”

“Fifty seconds …”

And then the radio just went silent.

HE WAS STILL
alive—at least he thought he was. The six-inch shell had slashed into the forward turret, a torrent of splinters and shrapnel washing up over the bridge, piercing the tissue-thin skin of the so-called splinter shield, glass of the bridge shattering behind him.

His left side was numb. He felt nothing, he tried to reach around with his right hand to feel it, but couldn’t find anything to grab hold of. In the flashes of light he caught a glimpse of a petty officer, staring at him in shock, and then he looked down in amazement.

His left arm was gone just below the shoulder, blood pouring out in a pulsing stream. The
Ward
’s young CO was on the deck by his side, at least what was left of his decapitated body.

He felt
Ward
begin to heel over hard. They were turning, preparing to launch. The petty officer was by his side, saying something about sick bay. He snarled at the man to stand fast and remain at his post.

The battleship was visible before him, now impossibly big, flashes of light, guns of every caliber firing, a torrent of shells slashing into the
Ward
, which was beginning to lose way even as it turned.

Damn it, God, give me a few more seconds, just a few more seconds!

“Torpedoes away!”

He turned and saw the splashes as the eight torpedoes, launched by pneumatic bursts of high pressure air, hit the water, one after the other. Looking back to port, it was hard to see, but it seemed that at least one other destroyer was still in the fight, turning, launching as well…

“OK, you bastards, now it’s your turn to get some,” he gasped.

“SIR—TORPEDO WAKES INBOUND!”

He held his breath, scanning the waters. Searchlights swept back and forth, one stopped, focused on a white, bubbling wake coming straight amidships.

Closer, it was racing in… too late to order evasive maneuvers. They were going to take this one!

He stepped back and away from the railing. The flash could roast a man alive. He prepared to shield his face with his arm.

Something hit, he could feel it… but nothing, no explosion.

By all the gods! He almost wanted to laugh… It was a dud.

And then a cry that more torpedoes were coming in.

WARD WAS
DYING
. The engine room was reporting flood. He could barely hear it, he could barely hear anything now as he stood braced against the shattered splinter shield, hanging on with his one hand.

The petty officer, ignoring his protests, was bracing him up.

“I’m taking you to the doc now, sir!”

“Another minute,” Draemel gasped. “They should have hit by now!”

“Goddamn torpedoes,” someone was screaming, “Goddamn torpedoes! Duds, we’re firing Goddamn duds!”

He felt an infinite weariness. My God in heaven, after all this, please God no. Don’t let these men die in vain.

And then, as if in answer to his final prayer, it happened. A brilliant flash, so close he could feel the concussion as it raced through the water after hitting the Jap battleship amidships, and then, five seconds later, a second flash, far astern. Something told him that had to be one of his, one from the
Ward
, one from this crew.

“You did it, boys,” he gasped, “by God you did it! Proud of you!”