left in bypassed groups.
Mechanics, fuel, ammunition, and other supplies would be ferried out later, and engineers would quickly enlarge the primitive fields, but the effort freed the overcrowded decks of the carriers for normal operations against the American forces.
It had been assumed that the Americans would react quickly to the Japanese presence, and they had. The landing and the swift raid on Pearl Harbor had provoked an immediate reaction. Like angry bees from a threatened hive, the Americans had flown to Molokai with everything that Japanese intelligence said they had.
Commander Mitsuo Fuchida thought it incredible that the American patrols had not found them until Admiral Nagumo’s forces were almost under their nose. How could the Americans have been so inept a second time? Had the loss of their fuel hampered them so badly? The Japanese good fortune was incredible.
Fuchida quickly concluded that his presence was not required to assist in the ferrying operations. Instead, he took the opportunity to fly a Zero from the carrier and take part in the battle with the Americans. Actual combat had been denied him for much of the Pearl Harbor battle because of the need for him to observe. Now there was nothing to observe, only the need to destroy the Americans.
The Japanese Zero was simply the best fighter in the Pacific. Fuchida thought it might have an equal in the British Spitfire, but it didn’t matter. There were no Spitfires over Hawaii, only American P-36s, which paled in comparison with the darting swiftness and maneuverability of the Zero.
The plane was a Mitsubishi A6M2, Zero-sen, navy Type-O carrier fighter Model 21. It could fly at speeds in excess of 330 miles per hour and could stay airborne for eight hours when supplied with external fuel tanks. It had two 20 mm cannons, one on each wing, and could be configured to carry bombs.
Made of an aluminum alloy, the plane was lightweight, remarkably agile, and it could outclimb anything anyone else had. Worse for the Americans, the Zero had come as yet another Japanese surprise, and the Japanese high command was confident that no American had ever seen it before, much less examined it or fought against it.
It did cause Fuchida and his comrades some concern that, in order to cut weight and emphasize speed, there was no armor plating to protect the pilot, and the fuel tanks were not self-sealing. When that potential problem was discussed, some pilots replied with morbid humor that their best protection was not to get shot.
And all the Americans who saw a Zero now, he exulted, were dying. An American P-36 was in his sights, and he squeezed the trigger, sending a stream of 20 mm shells into the plane’s body. A plume of smoke appeared by its tail, then a bright flame, and the P-36 rolled into a death spiral. There was no parachute.
It was his second victory that day. Not only were the Americans inferior pilots flying inferior planes but they were vastly outnumbered.
Over his radio, Fuchida heard one of his pilots jokingly complain about the necessity of Japanese planes’ queuing up to take a turn at one of the few remaining American targets. This had brought laughter from the other pilots, and Fuchida did not order them to stop chattering. Let them laugh now, he decided; the hard fighting would come later, when the Americans gathered their forces for a real battle.
A B-17 appeared in front of him. Astonishingly large, the bomber was also badly hurt and flying alone. One of its four engines was smoking, and its propellers were stilled. Even so, the three remaining engines kept it on course toward Oahu. The pilot and crew had seen the futility of their efforts and were attempting to flee back to Pearl Harbor.
Fuchida was paired with another Zero, who attacked the tail gun with a quick strafing pass. When this distracted the American gunner, Fuchida swept in and destroyed the gun along with much of the bomber’s tail.
The American plowed on through the air, and Fuchida felt a grudging degree of respect. The bomber was a true warrior, and so were the men who flew it.
Warrior or not, the bomber must die. With the bomber’s rear vulnerable, Fuchida banked and again attacked from behind. Another stream of shells ripped into the remaining right engine and sent pieces of it into the sky as the machinery disintegrated.
That was enough. The bomber banked to its left and began to glide toward the ocean. Fuchida would get a portion of a kill for this one.
As he watched, the surviving crew members bailed out. Fuchida was sadly confident that the overmatched tail gunner was not among them. The plane was his coffin, and he would ride it to his grave.
A couple of his planes signaled that they were going to strafe the men in the parachutes. “No,” Fuchida commanded. “Let them live if they can. They can tell their brothers how good we are.”
The commander checked the skies. There were absolutely no American planes in sight. Had the massacre been that complete? Had none of the Americans escaped? He checked with his commanders and was told that ten of his planes had been shot down and another dozen damaged in the brawl. Since Japanese pilots despised parachutes as cowardly, he’d lost at least ten pilots in the overwhelming victory. He wondered where the replacements would come from.
Now the buildup on Molokai could commence without interruption. He was fairly confident the Americans had little left to throw at them. With absolute control of the skies, the Japanese planes could commence taking the American military facilities on Oahu apart piece by piece.
Fuchida radioed that he was returning to the Akagi, where there would be a conference with Commander Genda and Admiral Nagumo. Tomorrow he would ferry himself to Molokai and launch and command operations against Oahu. They would continue until the Americans were destroyed and Oahu occupied. He felt a moment of pity for the enemy. They were unquestionably brave, but they were so poorly equipped, and, if the last few weeks were any indication, they were terribly led. He hoped it would stay that way. For Japan’s sake, it had to.
“You’ve got to be kidding” was Lieutenant Jamie Priest’s first comment on hearing the orders.
Another of his fellow lieutenants had just informed him that the damaged battleship Pennsylvania would slip out that night and, under the cover of darkness, try to make it to the United States.
Jamie had also been informed that he would accompany her on her escape.
Grudgingly, Jamie acknowledged that it made sense. The Pennsylvania was useless where she was and, as the day’s air raid had proven, would be a prime target for the Japanese planes. She hadn’t been hit in this last attack, but further damage was inevitable if she remained. The battlewagon had to get to a California shipyard, where her two forward turrets could be replaced and her ruptured hull plates repaired.
It also made sense to sneak out at night while the Japanese navy was preoccupied with protecting the landing site on Molokai. When Molokai was secured, the Japanese fleet was certain to take up station outside Pearl Harbor’s narrow entrance and dare any ships to try to escape.
Yes, there was some danger from submarines and other, smaller, warships, but it was a chance that had to be taken. If they stayed where they were, the Jap planes would surely sink the Pennsylvania. If she fled now, there was at least a chance she would make it. It was a lousy choice, but, Jamie thought ruefully, it was the only one they had.
Jamie’s position on the Pennsylvania was undefined. Normally, he would have been directing fire control for one of the destroyed turrets. Instead, he was given a damage control party even though he had little experience at that grim task. The Pennsylvania would depart with only a little more than half of her normal crew and supplies, and her fuel tanks would not be full.
“Perhaps she’ll go faster because she’s lighter,” he heard one of the crew joke.
Not funny, Jamie thought. He also didn’t think much of the idea of heading west when they left Pearl and taking the long northern way around the island before turning toward the United States. The idea was to confuse any Japs who might be lurking east of Pearl’s entrance and get behind them before making the homeward dash. He hoped the Pennsylvania’s commander, Captain C. M. Cooke, knew what the hell he was doing. Jamie didn’t know Cooke at all well. Naval captains rarely discussed matters with lieutenants.
“A dash,” they were calling it, and he laughed. Now there was a joke. Because of the hull damage, it was unlikely that the Pennsylvania would get anywhere near her top speed of twenty-one knots. No, he would have preferred to get as far away from Oahu as fast as they could and the hell with any Japs in the way. If they were caught, they weren’t going to get away anyhow.
While they made frantic, last-minute attempts to make the battleship more survivable, the sun slowly went down and darkness covered the harbor. Jamie could see the shapes of the four destroyers that would be their escort to America. They looked terribly small and vulnerable.
