Day and night were somewhat irrelevant terms. Floodlights bathed the Hiryu in an unnatural glow and permitted work to be done on her. Other ships were similarly lit as repair crews worked through the night, and, in the channel, the Akagi still burned, although not as brightly.
The emphasis on speed had come as the result of a garbled and incomplete message received from a Japanese submarine. Watanabe had relayed the information to Fuchida. “The sub had just begun to identify herself when she went off the air. We have no idea what her message was going to be, except that there was sufficient reason for her to surface and try to send. We presume she was sighted and sunk,” he said.
Fuchida had nodded grimly. If the sub had been sunk, it meant the Americans were nearby. But in what strength? Yamamoto had been adamant that the main body of the American navy was in Icelandic waters. Of course they could be racing toward Hawaii, but that trip would take weeks.
Both men had concluded that the likeliest threat came from American submarines. The unfortunate Japanese submarine must have spotted a large American wolf pack heading this way and had died sending the message.
Yamamoto had responded by urging haste with Fuchida’s project.
It was deemed far more likely to succeed in the short run than towing the Akagi from the channel. The Hiryu’s planes must be ready to attack the American subs and protect the fleet when it finally did emerge from Pearl Harbor.
Both men, however, were still extremely disturbed by the lack of air cover. Since it was night and the Japanese floatplanes lacked radar, most had been recalled so the planes could get some maintenance and the pilots get a little rest. Many of the remainder of the men of the fleet were also resting and preparing for the day. Yamamoto had determined that there was no point in all of them working themselves to exhaustion. Men were not machines. They were flesh and blood that had to eat and rest.
“Please tell me, Commander, precisely how many planes are in the air at this moment?”
Watanabe grimaced. “Two, and neither of them fighters.”
“Tomorrow night I’ll give you a dozen,” Fuchida promised.
Watanabe laughed. “It is a gift I’ll accept gladly. Then you can get back to the hospital, so your leg can heal.”
Fuchida wished Watanabe hadn’t reminded him about his wound. With all his activities, he had almost forgotten it. He had to stay seated most of the time with his leg propped up, but he could still command.
A distant growl caught their attention. It was hard to identify over the sounds of voices and clattering machinery emanating from the Hiryu.
“Planes,” Fuchida said, puzzled.
“Can’t be,” said Watanabe. Then he looked ill. “No, can’t be.”
Out of the darkness they dropped. The dive-bombers from the American carriers had easily eluded the Japanese search planes and, like moths attracted to light, had homed in on the lights illuminating the Japanese ships.
An American plane completed its dive and roared over Fuchida’s head. Seconds later, the bomb exploded on the Hiryu’s flight deck. The commander watched in dismay and horror as the crane flew into the air and tumbled into the barge beside the ship.
More bombs struck the Hiryu, and, like her sister the Akagi, she was soon engulfed in flames.
Fuchida steeled himself to count the planes as they swirled by and back into the dark. He stopped at thirty. This was no raid by older-model land-based planes left over from the initial battles for Hawaii. This was a carrier attack, and the attackers were newer-model Grummans.
More bombs ripped the Hiryu, and other ships began to take hits. Japanese antiaircraft guns filled the sky with glowing tracers, but they seemed to do little harm. As before, they couldn’t shoot what they couldn’t see until the last minute.
As the attack thundered on, the Japanese gunnery did get better, and American planes started to fall in flames from the lightening sky. Several Americans attacked the Yamato, which, despite being protected by nearly 150 antiaircraft guns, had several bombs explode against her superstructure.
And then it was over. Fuchida stood on his crutches and wept. The Hiryu was a burning ruin, and so were his hopes of protecting the fleet with her planes. The Kaga and Soryu were also burning, although not as badly as the Hiryu.
Fuchida was about to say something to Watanabe when a tremendous explosion ripped through the Hiryu, sending a shock wave over the area and ripping all around her with metal debris.
Fuchida found himself lying on the ground several feet from where he had been sitting. Much of his uniform had been blown off, and now his other leg hurt like the devil. He saw a piece of bone sticking through the skin of his thigh.
Watanabe lay beside him, but Watanabe was dead. A piece of debris had decapitated him, and his head was nowhere to be seen.
Fuchida attempted to focus his dimming vision on the remains of the Hiryu. She had broken in half, and both ends were sinking toward the middle.
He tried to rise and felt hands pushing him back. “Be still, sir. Let us take care of you.”
The commander was helpless. Both his legs were broken, and he was having trouble both seeing and hearing. He gave in to the darkness that was engulfing him. “Poor Japan,” he murmured. “What have we done?”
Across the harbor and through the flames and clouds of smoke, Admiral Yamamoto watched the destruction of his dreams and the future of his nation. For a brief moment, he contemplated going off to some solitary place where he could commit suicide in accordance with the code of bushido. But the thought passed as he realized that intentional death was the coward’s way out. No, he had an obligation to his men and his nation to retrieve as much as he could from the debacle swirling about him.
Thus focused, he concentrated on the options yet available to him. First, it was appallingly obvious that Fuchida’s task of lifting planes from carriers and onto the land was doomed. The Hiryu was sinking, and at least two other carriers were damaged. While they might still be able to off-load a handful of planes, it would take too much time, which meant that this was no longer the solution. The fleet had to move out of the harbor through the channel, and that meant concentrating on towing out the hulk of the Akagi.
And he no longer had days in which to solve the problem. Instead, he had hours.
Judging from the sheer number of American planes in the most recent attack, there were at least two carriers, possibly more, in the vicinity of Oahu. Identification of the carriers they were from might come from interrogating shot-down pilots if any had survived, but it was almost irrelevant. Such knowledge would not come from Japanese floatplanes and flying boats. They were patrolling, but they were vulnerable and would be shot down by the next wave of attackers.
Yamamoto still had two carriers and the rest of the surface fleet intact. Several of those ships had sustained hits, but nothing severe. In particular, the Yamato had been struck by a pair of bombs and seemed to have brushed off the damage. If the remaining portion of the fleet could sortie out and do battle with the Americans, at least some of the shame could be washed away.
The attempt to remove the Akagi must be accelerated, despite the risks. The Americans would be returning to their floating bases to refuel and rearm. They would be back in the harbor in a matter of hours. Japanese gunners would put up a stout defense, but it was a given that bombers would get through to the ships if there were no planes to impede them. Thus, it was also true that each ship damaged or sunk reduced the number of Japanese guns, which made it easier for the attackers to get through the next time. It was, he mused, a spiral into hell. It had to be broken before the rest of the Japanese fleet was pounded to pieces.