Authors: Newt Gingrich
He’d try for what was left of the office of CinCPac. Maybe someone there could give directions, point him to where Collingwood and the rest of the team were trying to set up operations, if such a thing was possible.
A brilliant, nearly blinding blue light ignited almost straight overhead just as he reached the main gate, which was still intact. All around him paused, looked up, pointing. A panicked sailor shouted, shouldering his Springfield and squeezing off a round at the parachute flare that hung several thousand feet above the base. A second flare burst into radiant brilliance, and there was the distant drone of a plane engine.
“We got incoming!” someone screamed.
A mad jostle started, men beginning to run, without direction, some diving to ground, others going beneath cars. A .30-caliber machine gun, emplaced in a circular sand bag pit by the gatehouse, pointed straight up and started to shoot blindly, tracers arcing up, and seconds later, dozens of guns were firing in panic.
He just stood there, watching, and then he heard it, that damn freight train rumble. He had driven from one bombardment straight into another.
The first two shells detonated somewhere over on Ford’s Island, brilliant flashes of light. Several seconds later, two more. He could see dimly through the smoke a high geyser lifting up near the overturned
Oklahoma
, which was illuminated by the dozens of arc welders who were frantically cutting holes into the bottom of the ship, still trying to rescue comrades trapped within.
The salvo was shifting closer. He went to ground, not sure where the next four hit, and then seconds later more winged overhead, shrieking loud, mind-numbing, close, damn close, a series of explosions washing over him. One shell hit close enough that he felt the blast, the air being sucked out of his lungs, the concussion tearing through the ground, bouncing him. A split second later he heard the lashing roar of shrapnel, tearing into treetops, carving into buildings, windows that had survived the air raids now shattering in showers of glass.
Battleship veteran that he was, he knew he had a couple of minutes before the next salvo hit. He started to stand up, and then a higher pitched roar, lighter eight-, six-, and and five-inch shells began to rain down, minor when compared to the massive fourteens, but deadly nevertheless to anyone out in the open and less than a hundred yards away.
He started to run toward the still-burning ruins of headquarters, others running alongside him. He looked up, and to his utter amazement he caught a glimpse of
Oklahoma
, sharply illuminated by a parachute flare directly overhead. The men atop her were either insane or the bravest he had ever seen. They had barely paused in their work, arc welding lights still glowing hot blue,
sailors atop her returning to their mission of mercy, to save men still trapped within.
“Watson. Commander Watson!”
He slowed. It was a woman’s voice. He caught a glimpse of her, Collingwood’s administrative assistant from the decrypt center waving to him.
He went over.
“Dianne? Miss St. Clair? My God, woman, what the hell are you doing here?”
Somehow she still managed to look beautiful, in spite of her disheveled look, dress and blouse blood splattered, both nylons with runs, face mud smeared, but amazingly, her lovely blond hair still combed.
“Captain Collingwood sent me back here, to see if I could round up anyone from the team that might report in.”
“Incoming!”
He grabbed Dianne by the shoulder and pulled her down to the ground by his side. More shells burst across Ford Island, one appearing to hit
Oklahoma
, then several more, these falling short, crashing into the sprawl of workshops back toward ten-ten dry dock, or what was left of it after the torpedo strikes against it in the third-wave attack. The continual higher-pitched shrieks of the five-, six-, and eight-inchers now were scattering down around the base. Overhead, another flare popped. Guns from all across the harbor were firing upward, more than a few panicked men most likely thinking the bombardment was coming from airplanes overhead.
The hurricane roar from shells washed over them. He tried to collect his wits, still on the ground, breathing hard, his left arm throbbing as he protectively held it over young Miss St. Clair, who in the strange, hellish blue light forced what she must have assumed was a brave smile, though the terror in her eyes was obvious.
“Incoming!”
She pressed in against his side, a shuddering sob escaping her. He turned his head to look up, wondering for a second if he could actually see the passage of the three-quarter-ton monsters. More detonations
ignited within the flaming sea of oil from the ruptured oil tanks, vast sheets of burning oil soaring hundreds of feet into the air, spreading out, raining down. There were distant screams. He dreaded to think who was screaming—most likely firefighters now engulfed in the inferno.
He forced himself to concentrate. It was all random chance now… Either I lie here terrified, or I get up, accept the chance, and do something, anything.
He took a deep breath, pressed against the ground with his one good hand, and stood up.
“Come on, Dianne, where’s Collingwood?”
She came to her feet, shaking, leaning against his side for support.
“He’s set up shop at the radio repair shack, down by the east channel,” she stuttered. “Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
He was lying, but he just didn’t feel right leaving her out here in this chaos, random or not. The Japs most likely did have a map of the base, and just might try and toss a few shells into what was left of CinCPac headquarters. Not that the radio repair shack would be any safer; it was less than a hundred yards north of the east channel, the main tieoff basin for several dozen destroyers and light cruisers.
“Come on, Dianne, I need you to guide me there,” he said, figuring that it’d give her something to focus on, which it did.
She tried to run, but was still wearing a rather ridiculous set of heels. He was tempted to tell her to take the damn things off, but the road they turned onto was carpeted with broken glass, burning vehicles, and smack in the middle of the road the wreckage of what appeared to be a Japanese plane, still smoldering, the blackened, skeletal pilot still inside. Dead were simply dragged over to the side of the road, their faces covered with a shirt, a blanket, or a scrap of cloth.
Another brace of shells howled in. He didn’t push her to the ground; shards of broken glass were everywhere. Already he was learning to judge the sound. The first new salvo thundered into
Ford’s Island, impacting into the channel, the second salvo again high, hitting into the north end of the base and the inferno of the oil tank farm.
They turned a corner: a building, burning fiercely, white hot, screams from within, a volunteer fire crew using, of all things, a couple of garden hoses, out of which only a trickle of water was emerging—absurd looking, and yet so damn valiant. A lone figure emerged, the fire crew spraying him with a desolate trickle of water, steam rising from him, cradled in his arms like a child, a badly burned sailor, sobbing with pain.
Dianne slowed.
“Come on, keep moving,” James shouted, and she nodded, moving in close to his side like a frightened child.
The rain of five-, six-, and eight-inch shells was clearly unpredictable, winging in without warning or pattern. He could see the east channel, a half-sunk light cruiser, down by the bow, a shot impacting amidships. Gun crews continued to fire straight up from nearly every ship still in port, and there was now a steady rain of exploded fragments and spent .30-and .50-caliber bullets smacking back down, a deadly rain of debris. Their own antiaircraft fire was one more danger as it fell back to earth, the shells often with faulty fuses that failed to air burst, but would detonate when they finally hit the ground.
They turned left back on to a main street that led straight down toward the channel. It was ablaze with light, burning ships, flashes of gunfire, and then, terrifyingly, two fourteen-inchers impacting to the south of the channel, what looked to be an entire building soaring skyward, steel beams, wooden frames, more shattering glass, the concussion washing over them.
He spotted their destination. The blackout had been forgotten, and the door was open. Dianne had stopped momentarily to gaze, awestruck at the twin impacts. He grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her into the shack.
It was a long narrow building, tucked in between two small warehouses. They were most likely made of nothing more than a few steel beams and wood, like the building that had just been blown to
hell on the other side of the channel, but somehow their high bulk gave him at least a false sense of security.
The room was brightly lit, packed with several dozen men and a few women, most of them the crew from the basement of CinCPac, the others naval radio technicians. The walls and work benches were lined with radios of nearly every description, heavy bulky units pulled from destroyers, cruisers, and battleships and brought ashore for repairs. There were bins filled with every tube imaginable, the smell of solder heavy in the air. A seaman second class was seated just inside the door, bent over his work, panel off a unit, voltmeter probe in hand, carefully working away inside the radio as if nothing unusual were going on outside and winged death might not crash in upon him at any second.
“Watson!”
It was his commanding officer, the man who had recruited him out of retirement and back into the service in the cryptanalysis branch of Naval Intelligence, Captain Collingwood, pushing through the crush, coming up, hand extended. “You OK, man?”
James nodded and Collingwood looked down at his arm. The bandage had soaked through in spite of his mother-in-law’s handiwork as a seamstress.
“You should have stayed home.”
“Couldn’t,” was all he could say, and then they all braced for a second, looking up, the sound of more incoming thundering overhead, seconds later the concussion slapping through their feet.
James looked around at the confusion. Gone was the quiet, almost monastic atmosphere of their sanctuary basement in the now destroyed wreckage of the offices of CinCPac.
“Some of the boys here know some civilian ham operators and had them drag their gear down,” and Collingwood nodded toward three elderly men, and one young man, a nisei, standing around a massive unit the size of a small icebox, dials lit up. One of the three, with headphones on, looked up.
“The antenna. Go outside and check the damn antenna!”
A couple of young seamen technicians sprinted out of the room, and seconds later he could hear a clambering on the roof. My God,
those boys were up there while all hell was coming down around them. Their courage gave him heart.
“Coffee, sir?”
It was one of the secretaries, Miss Lacey. If ever there was an actual boss to the decrypt center it was she. Dianne might be Collingwood’s personal assistant, but it was Miss Lacey, with her schoolmarm looks, steel-rimmed glasses, and gray hair tied back in a bun who, more than one whispered, knew more about codebreaking than all of them put together. But tonight, here in the middle of hell, she was tending a coffee pot, offering James a mug, which he accepted with his right hand. He took a gulp and somehow it braced him.
“Dianne, give me a hand,” said Lacey, and the two went off.
“What in hell is the picture?” James asked.
A momentary pause. This one was going to be close.
“Down!”
Everyone ducked. A second later the fourteen-incher detonated against one of the warehouses flanking the shack. Every window on the north side of the building blew in, showering the room with shards of glass. Someone started to scream. One of the civilians staggered up, the side of his face and left arm lacerated with shards.
Dianne and Lacey were immediately on him, leading him to one side of the room and sitting him down.
Coming out from under the bench, James and Collingwood stood up, both looking at each other with wary smiles, trying to conceal their fear.
“There’s going to be a helluva fight out there,” Collingwood said, pulling James to one side. “An hour before the bombardment started over on the windward side, tugs managed to drag some of the wreckage clear of the main channel. A tight squeeze, but Admiral Draemel was able to sortie aboard the destroyer
Ward
, before things snagged up again.”
Draemel. The name was familiar somehow.
“Commandant of the Academy back in the thirties. Good man, tough,” Collingwood continued. “He tried to get out aboard the light cruiser
Detroit
, but it then snagged on the wreckage in the channel,
so he transferred his flag to the
Ward
, which was on the far side of the wreckage. Those are the guys who nailed that Jap sub before the bombing started.”
“What sub?”
Collingwood was about to reply when a sharp, high-pitched whine whipped overhead: a five-or six-incher. They instinctively ducked; the shell passed on.
“Tell you later. So anyhow, word is he’s out there, but we don’t have any radio contact yet. There’s a total of half a dozen or so destroyers, a few destroyer escorts, and the cruiser
Minneapolis
, which was off the coast when the first raid hit, and already had four destroyers with her.”
“And they’re facing battleships?” James asked, incredulous. “And the rest of the fleet is still bottled up here?”
Collingwood nodded, saying nothing.
“Got it!”
It was one of the remaining civilians, gingerly working a dial, adjusting it slowly.
“Put it on loudspeaker,” Collingwood shouted, and a second later came a thin wavery voice that with a minor adjustment came in stronger: Japanese. James listened, head cocked.
“It’s in the clear,” he said. “It’s fire control orders from one of the planes.”
All turned to look at him as he translated out loud.
“Dolphin one, no more targets, go to secondary.” He paused. “Dolphin two, south six hundred meters.”
He looked over at Collingwood, who had a fair mastery of Japanese as well and nodded in agreement.