Kimmel was still in his quarters dressing and awaiting confirmation of Ward’s report of the submarine sinking when Fuchida’s first wave deployed a few miles north of Opana Station. At a point roughly opposite Haleiwa Field, Fuchida signaled for the general attack at 0750. Precisely one minute thereafter Murata called on his torpedomen for their strike. Northwest of Ewa the torpedo bombers split into two groups of eight planes each under Nagai and Matsumura and raced for the west side of Pearl Harbor. Another flight under Murata and Lieutenant Ichiro Kitajima, composed also of two groups but with twelve planes each, flew southeastward, then swung north and northwestward in a large arc over Hickam Field and headed directly for Battleship Row.
Each torpedo group attacked in formations of twos and threes. Every torpedo pilot had explicit instructions to close in on his target, even at the risk of his life. If his observer-bombardier thought he might miss, the pilot would make additional runs until quite sure of a hit. If, after several passes, the observer still could not get a good sighting, he was to use his judgment and choose another target.
Kimmel’s telephone rang again. Murphy had called him back, this time to report that Ward had stopped a sampan hovering near the submarine action. Even as the duty officer spoke, Fuchida, now opposite Barber’s Point, flashed to his horizontal bombers Tsu, tsu, tsu—much the same signal as his earlier To, to, to, but applicable only to his own group.1
Takahashi’s dive bombers had already swung into action. The sound of airplanes attracted the attention of Rear Admiral William Rea Furlong, in command of Battle Forces Pacific, a formidable fleet of service vessels. Furlong was strolling along the quarterdeck of his flagship, the minelayer Oglala, awaiting his call to breakfast. Oglala was so ancient she seldom left dock, and the reaction of a seasoned sailor newly assigned to her was likely to be a half-incredulous, half-affectionate “What a tub!” This particular morning she happened to be in Pennsylvania’s normal berth at Dock 1010, outboard the cruiser Helena. Furlong, who lived aboard the ship, was senior officer present afloat (SOPA) that morning.
Furlong paid little attention to the roar of engines until he saw a bomb drop. What a stupid, careless pilot, he said to himself, not to have secured his releasing gear. The missile exploded harmlessly in a shower of earth near the water’s edge at the southwest end of Ford Island. As the pilot cut hard to port and sped up the channel, Furlong saw the red ball of the Rising Sun and reacted instantly. “Japanese! Man your stations!” he shouted. At his command Oglala flashed the alarm: “All ships in harbor sortie.”2
On West Virginia Ensign Roland S. Brooks saw what he thought to be an internal explosion on California and ordered Away Fire and Rescue Party! Actually the flame and smoke came from a burning hangar on Ford Island. His order brought hundreds of officers and men swarming topside, giving his ship a few precious seconds’ grace and undoubtedly saving hundreds of lives.3
At that instant, about 0755, Matsumura and Nagai led the third and fourth torpedo groups from Hiryu and Soryu respectively straight to the west side of Ford Island. In Matsumura’s eagerness to confirm the vessels he dipped so low that his plane rustled the sugarcane and he felt “the warm air of an unending summer land.” Within seconds a pair of torpedoes cut swift paths through the shallow water to the light cruiser Raleigh and the target ship Utah. This waste of priceless torpedoes infuriated Matsumura, who had specifically instructed his men to avoid Utah. But Lieutenant Tamotsu Nakajima, young and inexperienced, thought he saw one missile slam into her and followed suit. And very disgruntled he was later because he had not profited by his drill in the recognition of American ships. Listing heavily to port, Utah began to capsize.4
Raleigh’s officer of the deck called the antiaircraft men to their guns, assuming the air action to be “part of a routine air-raid drill.” But just then, about 0755, a torpedo struck the cruiser at Frame 58, flooding the forward engine room and Nos. 1 and 2 firerooms. At once Seaman First Class Frank M. Berry ran for the ship’s alarm, but it did not go off because “the electricity went the first thing.”
The concussion awakened Ensign John R. Beardall, Jr., twenty-two year-old son of the President’s naval aide. He hurried to the quarterdeck in his red pajamas, and one of the first things he saw was “those big red balls . . . and it didn’t take long to figure out what was going on.” His antiaircraft battery went into action within five minutes because all of Raleigh’s 3-inch guns had their ammunition in the ready boxes. By 0805 Raleigh listed hard to port. In spite of counterflooding, the list continued. Captain R. Bentham Simons immediately directed efforts to save his ship from capsizing. Meantime, at 0800 another torpedo had hurtled between Raleigh and Detroit about twenty-five yards from the latter’s stern, to bury itself harmlessly in the mud 5
In these crucial early moments Nagai flew across Ford Island, intent on hitting Pennsylvania in dry dock. But seeing that the mooring slip would check the torpedo, he loosed his missile at Oglala. As if to compensate the Japanese for having missed Detroit, the torpedo slid under Oglala and burst against the light cruiser Helena, crippling both ships in one blow. Oglala’s log described the result: “The force of the explosion lifted up fireroom floor plates and ruptured hull on port side.” Helena’s log recorded: “At about 07571⁄2, a series of three heavy explosions felt nearby. At about 0758, ship rocked by violent explosion on starboard side.”6
Incredibly, all this action took place while Murphy delivered his brief message to Kimmel. The duty officer was still speaking when a yeoman rushed into his office, shouting, “There’s a message from the signal tower saying the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor and this is no drill.” Murphy passed the shocking news to Kimmel. The admiral slammed down the receiver and dashed outside, buttoning his white uniform jacket as he ran.7
Next door to Kimmel, the lawn of the Earles’ new home commanded a clear view of Battleship Row across the harbor. Kimmel and Mrs. Earle stood transfixed as the planes flew over “circling in figure 8’s, then bombing the ships, turning and dropping more bombs.” They “could plainly see the rising suns on the wings and would have seen the pilot’s faces had they leaned out.” Mrs. Earle’s sympathetic heart spilled over in grief and pity for the admiral as he watched “in utter disbelief and completely stunned,” his stricken face “as white as the uniform he wore.”
“I knew right away that something terrible was going on, that this was not a casual raid by just a few stray planes. The sky was full of the enemy,” he said later. Gazing toward his beloved ships with bombers and fighters swooping over them like vampire bats, they saw “Arizona lift out of the water, then sink back down—way down.” In those terrible moments neither uttered a word; the ghastly picture before them said everything.8
History had already swept past Kimmel with the speed of a movie out of control, beyond human capability to see or comprehend. Any number of Americans saw Murata’s flight as it lumbered in and peeled off to strike but assumed that local planes were practicing. Even when the first torpedoes began to fall, many observers reacted as did Lieutenant Lawrence Ruff, waiting for mass to begin aboard the hospital ship Solace: “Oh, oh, some fool pilot has gone wild.”9
One individual who grasped the situation quickly was Bicknell, who had a panoramic view from the lanai of his home above and behind Pearl Harbor. From the viewpoint of Japanese strategy, the attack made sense to him; nevertheless, the reality astounded him. “Well, naturally, when you are looking out of your window on a peaceful Sunday morning and see a battleship blow up under your eyes, you are pretty apt to be surprised.” Suddenly he began “mumbling about these ‘poinsettias and hibiscus’” much to his wife’s perplexity. It had suddenly occurred to Bicknell that the Mori telephone call might have contained a code for certain types of ships.10 *
If so, the code words merely confirmed what the Japanese already had learned. As they dropped their torpedoes that morning, Murata’s men knew exactly what types of ship they would find in position. Murata waited eagerly for his observer’s report. Would the new fins, perfected so late and adjusted so hurriedly, really work? “Atarimashita! [“It struck!”]” cried the observer. The triumphant cry echoed and reechoed as one after another the planes sent off their lone but mortal missiles. Elatedly Murata radioed his report: “Torpedoed enemy battleships. Serious damage inflicted.”11
This was the news that Japan’s naval leaders awaited—the outcome of the all-important torpedo attack on Battleship Row. On that crucial mission hung the results of the entire operation. Genda’s heart pounded with joy. Now the attack will be a success, he thought. Whatever fierce satisfaction Nagumo and Kusaka may have felt, they remained outwardly calm. They and their staff officers present on the bridge exchanged glances. A faint smile played over Nagumo’s lips—the first time Genda had seen Nagumo smile since the task force left Hitokappu Bay.12
One of the first torpedoes to strike West Virginia came from Matsumura on his second swipe at Battleship Row. “A huge waterspout splashed over the stack of the ship and then tumbled down like an exhausted geyser . . . immediately followed by another one. What a magnificent sight!” So impressed was Matsumura that he told his observer to photograph the scene. But the man misinterpreted the order and blazed away with his machine gun, wrecking the antenna of his own plane.
“By this time enemy aircraft fire had begun to come up very fiercely. Black bursts were spoiling the once beautiful sky,” Matsumura recalled. “Even white bursts were seen mixed up among them.” The white smoke came from harmless training shells as the Americans hurled everything imaginable at the Japanese while seamen smashed the locks of the ships’ magazines. Now those magazines began to yield their deadly harvest, and Matsumura soared away, picked up a fighter escort, and headed for the rendezvous point.13
Ensign Nathan F. Asher, on the bridge of the destroyer Blue, never understood how his men “got their ammunition from the magazines to the guns in the fast and swift manner that they did.” A few of the crew had awakened with Sunday morning hangovers but later said “they had never sobered up so fast in their lives.”14
As luck would have it, Vestal’s officer of the deck was CWO Fred Hall, who the previous night had predicted a Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Hall immediately recognized the red disk under the bombers’ wings and ordered Sound General Quarters! But the quartermaster, jaw at half-mast, stared at Hall as if he had lost his mind. “Goddamn it,” howled the officer, “I said ‘Sound General Quarters!’ Those are Jap planes up there.” And he himself pulled the signal at 0755. Vestal opened fire at 0805. A bomb struck her “at frame 110 port side.” and “a second hit at frame 44 starboard side.” Each bomb killed one man and wounded several others.15
Oklahoma was moored port side at Berth F-5, outboard of Maryland in an exposed position. Goto closed in on his target. Suddenly the big ship loomed directly before him. “I was about twenty meters above the water,” Goto said later, “when I released my torpedo. As my plane climbed up after the torpedo was off, I saw that I was even lower than the crow’s nest of the great battleship. My observer reported a huge waterspout springing up from the ship’s location. ‘Atarimashita!’ he cried. The other two planes in my group . . . also attacked Oklahoma.”16
Electrician’s Mate First Class Irvin H. Thesman was ironing a pair of dungarees in the power shop when the public address system blared out: “Man your battle stations! This is no shit!” Although startled by such uninhibited language over the ship’s PA, Thesman thought it just another drill. So he grabbed a bag of tools and a flashlight and dogtrotted to his station in the steering gear compartment.17
Two hits in rapid succession had already torn into Oklahoma’s vitals. Boatswain Adolph M. Bothne found both the aircraft ammunition ready boxes and the fire and rescue chest locked. He picked up a hammer and a cold chisel from a gear locker. At that moment “a third torpedo hit in the middle of the ship, and the ship started to list noticeably. . . .” Bothne “had to walk uphill to go to the starboard side, and after they had the ready boxes open there and the ammunition out they had no air to load the guns, and one of the men said there was no fire locks on the guns.”18
Hastening toward his battle station in Turret No. 4 amidships, Gunner’s Mate Second Class Edgar B. Beck decided there was no point in continuing on his way because “it was clear that we were going over.” So he decided to concentrate on helping his buddies through the shell hoist, their only means of escape. He knew that when the ship capsized, the 14-inch shells, which weighed about 1,400 pounds, would break loose and crush to death anyone in their path.19
Oklahoma’s executive officer, Commander J. L. Kenworthy, was the senior officer aboard. He and the ship’s first lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander W. H. Hobby, concluded “that the ship was fast becoming untenable and that an effort should be made to save as many men as possible.” So Kenworthy ordered Abandon Ship and directed the men “to leave over the starboard side and to work and climb over the ship’s side out onto the bottom as it rolled over.”20
Murata’s strike on West Virginia and Goto’s on Oklahoma came practically together. Now a torpedo swept right under Vestal and, in the words of Chief Boilermaker John Crawford, “blew the bottom out of Arizona.”21 Major Alan Shapley, the tall, handsome commander of Arizona’s Marine detachment, was enjoying his breakfast when he felt “a terrific jar.” Thinking one of the forty-foot boats must have dropped off the crane to the fantail, he ran topside to investigate. He vividly recalled some sailors standing at Arizona’s rail watching a flight of planes flash across the harbor. He heard one of the men remark, “This is the best goddamn drill the Army Air Force has ever put on!”22
Captain Van Valkenburg and Damage Control Officer Lieutenant Commander Samuel G. Fuqua reached the deck about the same time, and the captain proceeded to the bridge. Fuqua directed Ensign H. D. Davidson to sound General Quarters. About that time the ship “took a bomb hit on the starboard side of the quarterdeck, just about abreast of No. 4 turret.”23
It was the torpedo strike which Kimmel and Mrs. Earle saw from Makalapa Heights. “I knew the ship had been hit hard,” Kimmel said later, “because even then I could see it begin to list.” He did not recall having summoned his car, but suddenly it appeared, braking to a screaming halt. His longtime driver, Machinist Mate First Class Edgar C. Nebel, was at the wheel. Kimmel dived into his car. As it roared off, Captain Freeland A. Daubin, commander of Submarine Squadron Four, jumped on the running board. The admiral and his hitchhiker reached headquarters at about 0805, just as California shuddered with her first torpedo, rapidly followed by another “port side at frame 110.”24
California, flagship of Pye’s battle force, was moored singly in Berth F-3. This put her below the tanker Neosho to the southward on the edge of Ford Island in the direction of Pearl Harbor’s outer channel and the sea. Train felt two distinct but rather dull thuds against the ship. These were the torpedoes crashing home. Immediately she began to list to port. By now guns blazed aboard California.25 But of all the battleships in Pearl Harbor that morning, she was least capable of absorbing punishment. In preparation for Monday’s inspection several manhole covers had been removed and others loosened. When the two torpedoes struck, water poured into the fuel system, cutting off light and power. An alert ensign, Edgar M. Fain, directed prompt counterflooding measures which saved the vessel from capsizing.26
Up to this time the inboard battleships had escaped with little damage. Now Fuchida’s horizontal bombers roared on the scene to strike them as well as the outboard craft. After giving his attack signal, Fuchida had dropped back from the lead position, the better to observe the action, yielding pride of place to his number two plane. The honor was well deserved, for this aircraft held Aso and Watanabe, the tireless bombing team which had made the initial breakthrough in high-level practice.*
On the first run over the target, air turbulence prevented proper sighting, and only the number three plane released its missile. Throughout training this bombardier had experienced difficulty in timing. When Fuchida saw the bomb plunge ineffectually into the water, he assumed that the culprit had blundered and shook his fist at number three in a rage. The disappointed bombardier indicated by gestures that enemy fire had jarred his bomb loose. Fuchida felt remorseful for having jumped to conclusions but had no time to brood. His own plane now rocked as if hit by a giant club.
“Is everything all right?” he cried out.
“A few holes in the fuselage,” his pilot replied reassuringly.27
Two shocks thudded against West Virginia. By the time Commander R. H. Hillenkoetter, her executive officer, reached the quarterdeck, the ship had begun to list rapidly to port. Then came a “third heavy shock to port.” Soon the top of Turret No. 3 caught fire. Another stunning explosion threw Hillenkoetter to the deck.
When the attack began, Captain Mervyn Bennion, West Virginia’s skipper, and her navigator, Lieutenant Commander T. T. Beattie, soon found communications disrupted, so they “went out on the starboard side of the bridge discussing what to do.” Lieutenant Claude V. Rickets asked and received permission to counterflood, which he did with the able assistance of a boatswain’s mate named Billingsley. This helped correct her list and kept her from capsizing.28
As Kimmel dashed out of his car at headquarters, the explosion of bombs, the whine of bullets, the roar of planes, the belching guns of aroused defenders, the acrid smell of fire and smoke—all blended into a nerve-racking cacophony of chaos. Murata’s bombardiers still dropped their torpedoes, while dive bombers pounced like hawks on nearby Hickam Field and Ford Island. Far above, high-level bombers rained their deadly missiles as fighters shuttled in and out, weaving together the fearful tapestry of destruction. Numb and stricken, Kimmel rushed into his office, his face a mask of bleak incomprehension as he tried to pull himself together amid the tumbling ruins of his world. He had neither time nor inclination for self-pity. “My main thought was the fate of my ships,” he said, “. . . to see what had taken place and then strike back at the Japs.”29
Now his staff began to rally to his side. Smith found Kimmel, shocked but composed, watching the attack from the War Plans Office with Pye. He reminded them that they should not be together; a single blast could kill them both and leave the Fleet without a commander in chief. Pye moved to the other end of the building.30
As Davis jumped out of his car, he observed a group of officers, enlisted men, and civilians standing around the headquarters, gaping into the sky. Conditions inside, in Davis’s opinion, were not much better. The air officer immediately manned his telephone, trying to reach anyone, anywhere on Oahu, who could get the Navy’s planes into the air to seek the source of the attacking aircraft.31
Hurrying down the hall to his office, Layton ran into Captain Willard A. Kitts, Jr., Kimmel’s gunnery officer. The captain proved his bigness of character by greeting Layton generously: “Here is the young man we should have listened to.” Grimly just, McMorris said to Layton, “If it’s any satisfaction to you, you were right and we were wrong.” Layton could have done without such concrete vindication as the Japanese were providing. He plunged into a sea of intelligence reports, which constantly grew more and more complex and confusing. Like Davis, he tried to find the nest of these Japanese sea hawks shooting up the Pacific Fleet.32
Murphy had already dispatched a message to CinCAF, CinCLANT, and CNO: “Enemy air raid, Pearl Harbor. This is not a drill.” A few others followed. At 0812 Kimmel advised the entire Pacific Fleet and Stark: “Hostilities with Japan commenced with air raid on Pearl Harbor.” Then at 0817 he instructed Patrol Wing Two: “Locate enemy force”—a succinct order easier to give than to accomplish.33
The atmosphere in Kimmel’s headquarters struck Curts as one of “no hysteria, but ordered dismay.” The communications officer joined Kimmel and Smith as they, too, tried to determine from what direction the attacking planes had come. The three officers could not see the actual strikes, but speedy reports kept them abreast of the situation. The effectiveness of the Japanese operation astounded them. But even Davis assumed that the enemy had but one carrier or two at the most.34 At this time no one apparently recalled the Martin-Bellinger or Farthing reports, both of which had called the shots with almost uncanny accuracy.
Aboard the stricken Oklahoma about 150 men “perched along the blister ledge” at Bosun Bothne’s direction. “Then the ship seemed to hesitate. . . .” At that moment the fourth torpedo struck. Oklahoma “bounced up, and when she settled down she turned over.” Some of the men slid down the side into the water.35 Mrs. Earle still watched the grisly scene from in front of her home. “Then slowly, sickeningly, the Oklahoma began to roll over on her side, until, finally, only her bottom could be seen. It was awful, for great ships were dying before my eyes! Strangely enough, at first I didn’t realize that men were dying too.”36
Thesman and his group in the steering gear compartment dodged to avoid being knocked senseless as lockers and spare parts tumbled down. At twenty-five, Thesman was the oldest in the group and felt responsible for his shipmates. Water began to trickle in through the ventilation system, and the sailors stuffed the ducts with mattresses, blankets, and anything else they could find.37
At this time the entire Japanese force seemed to concentrate their particular fury on the hapless Arizona and West Virginia. Just after Oklahoma heeled over, Arizona trembled with an indescribably fearful explosion and concussion which seemed to suck the very life out of the air. It may have been the dedicated, crack bombardier Kanai who sent down the missile that hit beside the No. 2 turret and detonated in the forward magazine.38
Almost 1,000 men perished in that frightful moment, including Admiral Kidd and Captain Van Valkenburgh. An ensign later told how the quartermaster had just reported to the captain a bomb hit “either by or on No. 2 turret.” The next thing he knew, “the ship was sinking like an earthquake had struck it, and the bridge was in flames.” Hastening forward after the first hit in a fruitless attempt to fight the fires, Fuqua met someone who informed him “that he observed a bomb go down the stack.”39 This story has persisted; however, some survivors believe it incorrect, pointing out that the angle of the stack would have prevented it and that such a strike would have exploded in the boiler room, not the magazine.40 Fuqua, too, thought it improbable, but he did not intend to argue the point at that moment. Pausing only to order the forward magazine flooded, and finding that “all guns on the boat deck had ceased firing,” he realized that “the ship was no longer in a fighting condition.” He ordered Abandon Ship and set about rescuing the wounded.41
Strangely enough, the explosion that destroyed Arizona saved Vestal. The concussion put out her fires as though a giant candlesnuffer had been clapped over her. It also sent tons of debris down on her decks—“Parts of the ship, legs, arms and heads of men—all sorts of bodies,” even living men. The explosion flung overboard about 100 men from Vestal, among them her skipper, Commander Young. Vestal’s crew began to fish out of the water hideously burned refugees from Arizona. Aboard the repair ship each survivor received a shot of morphine, and shipmates hurried them to a hospital or to Solace as fast as possible.
About this time someone ordered Abandon Ship. Just as the first of the crew started to leave, a figure like some strange sea creature climbed out of the harbor and stood athwart the gangway. It was Young, oil dripping from his face and body, but none the worse for his dunking. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he demanded of the officer of the deck.
“We’re abandoning ship,” the man replied.
“Get back aboard ship!” Young roared. “You don’t abandon ship on me!” With that he and his remaining crewmen returned to their stations.42
Debris from Arizona also covered Tennessee and accounted for more of her damage than the two Japanese bombs which hit her. The attackers continued to pound Arizona, which took a total of eight bombs in addition to the torpedoes. The ship became totally untenable at approximately 1032. Of her complement of 1,400, fewer than 200 survived the attack.43
As though enraged because West Virginia seemingly refused to sink or capsize, Murata’s torpedomen slammed more missiles into her. After she had taken six steel fish, Abe’s flight of horizontal bombers dropped two bombs on her at 0808. A “large piece of shrapnel” struck Bennion in the stomach and mortally wounded him. Beattie sent for a pharmacist’s mate, and Lieutenant Commander Doir C. Johnson hurried up with a big, well-built black mess attendant, Doris Miller. He had been the ship’s heavyweight boxing champion, and Johnson thought he was just the man to help lift the captain out of danger.
The chief pharmacist’s mate dressed Bennion’s wound as best as he could. As smoke and flames engulfed the ship, Bennion ordered his subordinates to leave him where he was, the only order of his they ever disobeyed. He remained conscious, asking alert questions about the progress of the fight almost to the last. After he died, Johnson saw Miller, who was not supposed to handle anything deadlier than a swab, manning a machine gun, “blazing away as though he had fired one all his life.” As he did so, his usually impassive face bore the deadly smile of a berserk Viking.44
Thus far Nevada had escaped the fate of the other battleships, being in a less vulnerable position. At 0802 her machine guns “opened fire on torpedo planes approaching at port beam.” This was Kitajima’s group from Kaga. One of his planes fell to the battleship’s fire “100 yards on port quarter. . . .” A second dropped shortly thereafter, but not before releasing his missile, which at 0803 tore a huge hole in the ship’s port bow about frame 40 and flooded a number of compartments. This was the ship’s “greatest structural casualty.”
Nevada’s skipper, Captain F. W. Scanland, was not on board, but Lieutenant Commander J. F. Thomas, USNR, senior officer present, took over promptly and efficiently. At 0805—just as Fuchida’s high-level bombers appeared “on both bows”—Nevada began to list “slightly to port.” The battleship’s 5-inch and .50 caliber guns opened immediate fire. Within a minute “several bombs fell close aboard to port. . . .” Counterflooding began two minutes later. Because burning fuel oil on the surface, ignited when Arizona received her first major strike, now threatened Nevada, “it was considered necessary to get under way to avoid further danger. . . .”45
Tales of heroism far beyond the call of duty abounded on Nevada, as on every ship in Pearl Harbor. Twenty-one-year-old Ensign Joseph K. Taussig, Jr., whose admiral father had weaned him on the subject of a war with Japan, was officer of the deck. When General Quarters sounded at 0801, he acted as air defense officer and went at once to his battle station on the starboard antiaircraft director. Being the senior officer present in the AA battery, he “took charge and directed its fire” even after a missile passed completely through his thigh. Refusing all efforts to take him to a battle dressing station, he “insisted in continuing his control of the AA battery and the continuation of fire on enemy aircraft. . . .”46
Although severely damaged, Nevada was still very much afloat and full of fight when Lieutenant Ruff scrambled up her side from Solace’s motor launch. He knew that, with the captain and other senior officers ashore, unusually heavy responsibilities would fall to him and to Thomas, who was belowdecks at his battle station. When Ruff got close enough to communicate, he suggested that Thomas run the ship’s activities below while he, Ruff, would manage topside.47
One by one Murata’s torpedo bombers, having discharged their missiles, roared away, picked up a fighter escort and winged northward. They had lost five torpedo planes, all from Kaga.48 As always in dealing with contemporary battle reports, it is virtually impossible to determine exactly whom to credit with what specific kill. Indeed, American accounts were wildly at variance, as was only to be expected in view of the stunning surprise, the excitement of battle, and the billows of smoke rolling up from the burning ships. Moreover, the Americans were fighting, blind mad, and each man was eager to claim for his own outfit any aircraft he saw go down in flames.
When word reached Kimmel about the fate of his battleships, it wrung a groan of anguish from his lips. But much as the loss of his ships grieved him, what really tore his brave heart was the death and suffering of his men.49 These were not neat rows of statistics to Kimmel. In that day the United States Navy was a small, neighborly community where almost everyone knew everyone else. A man might enlist on one ship and stay with her until he retired twenty or thirty years later. Comradeship at Annapolis, service together, and family intermarriage bound the officers with ties none the less binding for being intangible. Kimmel knew thousands of men at Pearl Harbor by sight, hundreds by name, and scores as personal friends. All of them, from seasoned skippers to the greenest sailors, were his men, his responsibility.
Curts was standing beside Kimmel at the window when a spent bullet crashed through the glass. It struck the admiral on the chest, left a dark splotch on his white uniform, then dropped to the floor. Kimmel picked it up. It was a .50 caliber machine-gun bullet. Somehow the slug seemed symbolic. Much as Kimmel craved the chance to avenge this terrible day, in his heart he knew that the debacle spelled the end of his career as CinCUS. Kimmel was not given to dramatics. But such was the depth of his sorrow and despair that he murmured, more to himself than to Curts, “It would have been merciful had it killed me.”50