Days of Infamy (18 page)

It was hard and cynical, but that was what was needed if
Enterprise
was going to even the score and take at least one Japanese carrier out of the fight.

LIEUTENANT
Dellacroce saw the three group leaders come running out from the bridge onto the deck, heading for their planes. On a large chalkboard, secured to the side of the bridge, a navigation officer was writing out, in large letters, the up-to-date coordinates of
Enterprise
, their route to where it was believed a target might be, and the bearings from there to Oahu, or back to where
Enterprise
might be two hours hence. Hand shaking, Dellacroce tried to write down the update on his knee pad.

He stank of vomit. His crew chief, a guy who had him thoroughly intimidated when he had first come on board and landed way too hard, nearly cracking a strut according to the air boss, was now quiet, almost like an older brother. He had brought him a ham sandwich and a thermos of ice cold Coke. The Coke had settled his stomach a bit. He’d skipped the sandwich, and together they had waited,
enduring the terror of watching the dive bombers winging in while he stayed in his plane, and the long hour since then as the strike was prepared, Devastators were reloaded with torpedoes, ammunition replaced, bombs slung under the few Dauntlesses left.

He was scared to death, literally shaking with fear. McCloskey leaned over the side of the flame-scorched bridge and set the flag in signaling launch.

His crew chief patted him on the shoulder.

“You’ll do good, kid. God be with you,” and he was off the wing of the plane, coming around to the front, hands raised up, crossed, indicating for him to hold as three of the Wildcats forward started their runups. He now raised a hand, circling it, signaling for throttle, and Dave edged it in, not too fast—it could flood, stall the engine—vibration rattling him, noise deafening, not just heard but felt in every fiber of his being. It used to be such a damn thrill. Now it was frightening.

More power, full throttle. Oil temperature going up, final scan of instruments. The first plane was rolling out, the second one… Glance back to his crew chief, who was watching the air boss on deck commanding the launch. A nod. Signal to the crewmen to pull back the wheel chocks. Fist high overhead from crew chief, circling fast, who saluted then pointed to the launch master, the “Airedale” in a yellow shirt, passing command of Dave’s plane over to him, the commander of the launch, who was making the same gesture. This was the man now in control of his fate. The yellow shirt suddenly crouched down and pointed forward.

Dave had been jamming down hard on both brakes. He released them, pushed stick forward, fed in right rudder. The Wildcat lurched forward, tail raising up, and rolled out past the still smoldering deck where the two Devastators had burned. God, he could still hear those men screaming. His plane drifted, the beginnings of what could be a ground loop… Damn it, focus! He pushed in yet more right rudder, straightening out, edge of the deck coming up, stick felt light, center it, now just a touch of back pressure … and he was off.

He flew on straight, lifting his landing gear, notching up flaps, watching airspeed. At one hundred twenty true air speed he began to turn to port, watching the Wildcat ahead, slowly circling up now to wait for the rest of the group to form.

“Dear Jesus,” he whispered, “don’t let me screw this one up.”

THE FIRST SET
of his rearmed and refueled Zeroes was ready, the deck crew having worked wonders. It was the fastest time yet for recovery of a strike force, rearming and now launching for a follow-up attack. The bombers would soon be ready to go as well.

Rear Admiral Ozama looked over at his sister ship,
Hiryu
, half a dozen miles to port, obscured by a passing shower, and could not help but grin a bit with inner delight. It had been his men that got the
Enterprise
, though
Hiryu
’s men were insisting they had hit a second carrier, while his pilots reported it was definitely only a cruiser.

Already his crew were boasting of having taken out the famed
Enterprise.
This mission would be a follow-up coup. For surely if
Enterprise
had been to the south, then Yamamoto had indeed guessed wrong. It would not be like the Americans to leave their
carriers scattered about. Chances were that somewhere nearby
Lexington
or
Saratoga
, perhaps both, were still waiting to be hit. His losses of the previous two days had been heavy, over half his strike force shot down or so badly damaged as to no longer be flyable. But between
Soryu
and
Hiryu
, he could still send over thirty strike craft and an escort of fifteen fighters, while leaving ten fighters in reserve.

Soryu
turned into the northeasterly wind and began to launch.

“SKIPPER, THERE IT
is!”

Lieutenant Commander Struble looked to where his wingman, Lieutenant Mark McCarthy, was excitedly pointing, broadcasting in the clear.

They had been flying at five thousand feet, punching in and out
of the already towering cumulus clouds that promised a day of showers, the clouds he hoped were concealing their advance. Remarkably, he had managed to keep his entire force, the five Wildcats, seventeen Devastators, and eight Dauntlesses intact, not wandering off as they flew into zero visibility for a few tense minutes, and then punched back out into brilliant tropical sunlight.

Sure enough, McCarthy had seen them. Ten degrees off to port, about eight miles out, wakes of ships visible as they were turning about, to the northeast… Damn it, straight into the wind—they were launching!

He clicked into the general frequency all planes were set for.

“This is Struble. We got ’em. Jap carrier eight miles out, ten degrees to port. Attack formation. Let’s make this one count, guys!”

He wagged his wings twice, then pulled back on the stick. His climb rate with half a ton of bomb slung beneath was around eight hundred feet a minute. No time to circle around to get up to an optimum fifteen thousand, maybe up to ten thousand at best. The climb would slow the dive bombers while the Devastators would go into shallow dives, which would level out a hundred feet above the water, and come in at just about the same time he began to wing over. This time they were together and this time they were going to do it right.

“Jap! Two o’clock high!”

Sure enough, one was diving in, circling out slightly to get in behind the Devastators, which were flying in tight formation, dropping down.

“We’re on the torpedo planes, stick to me!”

It was the fighter squadron leader.

Right call. The Devastators were flying coffins. If he could get up to dive altitude, they could punch through any fighter screen. The slow, lumbering torpedo planes were sitting ducks. God help them.

He flew into a cloud and for a moment the oncoming battle was lost to view.

“LAUNCH! LAUNCH!”

The first of the Zeroes was already clear of the deck. One after another the rest of the strike force was revving up, the deck chief breaking with any protocol of safety. As quickly as a plane ahead began to roll, he signed the chocks of the next plane in line to be pulled without waiting for the previous plane to clear.

Admiral Ozama held his breath, looked over at the captain of the ship, who had turned to face aft, binoculars raised.

“Prepare to turn hard to port!”

Ozama said nothing. If they started to turn now, the wind coming down the deck would shift, putting the planes taking off into a dangerous crosswind.

The Zeroes were off, the first of the Vals was rolling out.

“Hard aport!”

“STRAIGHT IN, GO
straight in …” The radio loudspeaker in the CIC crackled, signal lost for a second.

“That’s Lindsey, with the Devastators,” McCloskey whispered.

“Got ’em! Look at the size of that bastard… Hey, they’re launching!”

“Two Japs, coming in on our six. Where the hell are our fighters?”

“Shut the hell up. Start your runs!”

“Hit. God damn, going in …”

Halsey stood silent, listening, hearing the excitement, the fear, praying for those boys, who he knew would press in regardless of odds, and almost certainly die doing it.

LIEUTENANT DAVID DELLACROCE
banked his Wildcat into a turn so tight he feared for a second that it would snap into an accelerated stall, the stick in his hand, the rudder pedals beneath his feet shuddering with the vibration. He grunted, the four-G turn pressing him down, his vision narrowing. He rolled out onto the tail of a Zero that was pouring its load of 7.7mm bullets and 20mm shells into a Devastator. The frantic tail gunner of the torpedo bomber was only able to offer feeble resistance with his lone .30 machine gun, which now apparently had jammed as well. He could see the kid trying to chamber the jammed round free and then collapse back in his seat, canopy ripped apart by the fire from the Zero, a second later the Devastator nosing straight over, slamming into the sea.

But he was on the damn Zero, tearing a burst into its tail from less than a hundred yards out. Not more than a second’s worth, the enemy pilot instantly reacting, pulling back hard on his stick, soaring straight up.

Dave knew enough not to chase. He had learned already the bastards could outturn him. It was slash and then run, hoping they didn’t get on his tail.

Maybe it was a kill after all. Part of the Jap’s starboard elevator sheared off, fragments of debris falling away from the enemy plane as it climbed into the sun, trailing smoke.

Again, it was all so damn fast. Quick glance to port and starboard.

The Devastators were leveling out. My God, anyone flying those crates had to be insane. Level flight at 120 knots, then keep level, low, get to within a mile, better yet half a mile before dropping.

The first bursts of antiaircraft were opening up, a spreading wall of black smoke. A Jap destroyer was racing in their direction, light 25mm guns firing, tracers streaming up.

How many left?

He wasn’t sure.

A flash of fire. Port side—it was the group leader. The Zero behind him banked sharply away. The Devastator was pouring flame out from under the cowling.

Merciful God, the pilot inside must be burning alive, and yet still for another ten seconds or so he held straight and level. He dropped his torpedo. Futile—they were still four miles out.

The Devastator winged over to port and cartwheeled in, the ocean enveloping it—a mercy, ending the anguish of being burned alive. Yet another horror, he now realized, when it came to the torpedo bombers. For the fighters and dive bombers, up higher, you had altitude to bail out. These poor bastards, flying at fifty to a hundred feet, could only ride their fireballing planes in, and thus die with them.

Tracers snapped past his canopy.

God damn!

A Zero coming in from his left, at nearly ninety-degree deflection.

He didn’t even have time to react. The Zero passed over him, clearing by not twenty feet, and for a split second he swore he could see the pilot, goggled, looking down. Was he saluting or giving him the finger?

Did Japs give the finger, he wondered.

He started to turn to starboard, try to cut in behind the Jap, who was banking hard to port, lining up on a Devastator.

The Jap fired a burst that all but tore off the wing of another torpedo bomber, and it too cartwheeled in before Dave could even fire a shot at the attacker, who pulled up sharply, rolling… He was gone.

Merciful Jesus, the Devastators were getting slaughtered, and yet still they pressed in. He caught a glimpse of one of his comrades rolling up into a high inverted turn, canopy blowing back, pilot tumbling out, parachute popping, a couple of seconds later the Wildcat nosing straight over and going in. But the parachute was on fire and the pilot as well, writhing in agony. He flew past him, caught a glimpse of his face, wreathed in flames.