Robert Conroy - 1942

“That good, huh?” Hawkins managed through clenched teeth.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Out-fucking-standing.”

A thousand yards away, a long column of Japanese trucks wound slowly down a rough path. They were bunched up, but, slow as they were, they were moving behind Jake’s force. In a few minutes, they would be in position. Hundreds of Japanese soldiers would then disgorge from the trucks and climb the hill.

Hawkins had clawed himself upright by grasping a tree. “Damn, there are a lot of them. I guess it’s over, ain’t it, Colonel Jake?”

“Sure looks like it, Captain Hawk,” Jake said. They could fall back the way they’d come, but doing so would put them back where that Japanese patrol waited for them to come running. Or, in his and Hawkins’s case, come crawling.

“I guess we should stay here, then. No point in chasing around anymore, is there?” Hawkins said.

None of the Americans had any intention of being taken prisoner. After all they’d done, the Japanese would make their suffering long and horrible. They’d all decided to do what was done in the bad cowboy and Indian movies-save a last bullet for themselves.

“Colonel, if I can’t manage it, will you shoot me?” Hawkins asked.

“Only if you’ll do the same for me.”

“Deal. Christ, I wonder if this is what Custer felt like?”

“Fuck Custer,” Jake said. “I’m just glad we hurt the bastards and saved some of our people.”

The destroyers were the first Japanese ships out of the channel. Twelve had entered it, but only eight emerged. The other four had been pulverized by swarming American dive-bombers. The sinking destroyers did manage to avoid blocking the channel by beaching themselves.

When the remaining destroyers emerged, they found themselves in range of a double line of American destroyers and light cruisers, along with a half dozen submarines and still another swarm of planes. Behind them was another line of battleships and heavy cruisers, all firing on the head of the column.

Japanese torpedoes were vastly superior to their American counterparts, but only a handful of destroyers managed to launch any before they were overwhelmed by concentrated American firepower. Even so, one American destroyer and a light cruiser were hit and sunk.

After the destroyers came the battleships Yamato and the Kongo, with the remaining Japanese light and heavy cruisers trailing them. The Yamato was so huge she made the other Japanese battleship look like a toy. Overhead, newly promoted Rear Admiral Marc Mitscher watched from his seat behind the pilot of a Grumman TBF Avenger. It was his job to choreograph the deadly dance unfolding below. The U.S. Navy had total air superiority, but they’d lost about a third of their aircraft to Japanese gunners. Mitscher had to ensure that the remainder were utilized properly.

The size of the Yamato caught his breath. He’d seen her in the harbor, even watched as planes attacked her, but this was different. Now she approached the American battle line with her eighteen-inch guns blazing.

As the Yamato plowed through the sea, swarms of American planes flew about her. From his perch, Mitscher thought they looked like gnats around an angry bull elephant.

For the first time, American torpedo bombers were able to unleash their weapons while dive-bombers plunged from the sky. The Yamato took hit after hit, sometimes appearing to shudder, but she continued on.

Then the sixteen-inch shells from the North Carolina and the Washington raised mountainous splashes as they sought the range. These were quickly followed by shells from the older Colorado and Maryland. The Maryland had been damaged at Pearl Harbor, and her presence in the battle line was an inspiration to the crews of the other ships. Mitscher ordered the planes away lest they be hit or knocked down by the concussion from American shells.

Hit after hit struck the Yamato, and flames could be seen coming from her pagoda-like superstructure. One of her forward turrets was knocked out, and the other seemed damaged, with one of the great guns askew. The Yamato turned so her rear turrets could be brought to bear on her American tormentors. This meant it was impossible for her to close with her adversaries, but that no longer seemed her task.

“Good God,” said Mitscher, “won’t anything stop her?”

The Yamato had endured more punishment than could be imagined, much less survived. He wondered what kind of hell was going on within her. So far, nothing had touched the giant battleship’s power plant, but, one by one, her guns were put out of action and she became a flaming wreck. Admiral Oldendorf commanded the battle line, and he sent the Maryland and the light cruisers to finish off the Yamato with torpedoes. The Colorado had been hit by the Yamato and was burning and dead in the water.

The North Carolina and the Washington, along with the heavy cruisers, soon bracketed the Kongo with their shells and killed her. While this went on, Mitscher’s planes continued to savage the remaining Japanese ships until there were none.

Mitscher looked for the Yamato. American ships continued to fire shells and torpedoes at almost point-blank range, and the Japanese ship was listing to starboard. Finally, the beast was dead and sinking.

“That’s for the boys on the Pennsylvania,” Mitscher said, and his pilot laughed harshly. Both had friends who’d died on the Pennsylvania.

It was over. The ocean outside the entrance to Pearl Harbor was littered with the smoking ruins of dead ships. Mitscher wondered how much fuel remained in their plane and was astonished at the amount. He checked his watch. The battle had taken less than an hour.

Lieutenant Goto nearly embarrassed himself as he half jumped and half fell out of the front of the truck. His sword had gotten tangled up in his legs, nearly causing him to land in the soft dirt by the side of the miserable road.

Behind him, the other trucks disgorged their passengers. It would take but a few moments for Captain Kashii to organize the men and begin their climb up the hill. Goto was confident it would be all over quickly. Then he could get back to the relative comforts of Hilo. He never thought he’d actually long to return to that squalid and abandoned town.

With the noise of the trucks and the shouting of his troops drowning out everything else, Goto’s first realization that something was dreadfully wrong came when the trucks behind his began to explode and the men started to scream.

Another ambush, he thought, and a major one. Then a dark shadow swooped overhead, and it was followed by another and another. “Planes,” he shrieked, and dived into the bush. Others in Kashii’s command had already beaten him to what they hoped was safety.

The ground around Goto was churned by bullets as another plane swept by. He glanced skyward and saw the Americans who’d already struck turning and preparing for another attack while others strafed and bombed at will.

There was a deafening explosion as a bomb ripped through just behind him, sending pieces of vehicles and soldiers flying into the sky. Within moments, every truck in the column was burning and bodies lay everywhere. The Americans understood where the surviving Japanese were attempting to hide and strafed the ground to either side of the trucks. Goto fought back his fear as bullets impacted within a few feet of him, showering him with dirt.

Then it was over. The planes were gone. Almost disbelieving, Goto realized he was unhurt. Oh, a few bumps and scratches, but nothing serious. He stood, and several others did as well, but few had been as fortunate as he. A soldier stood by Goto. One of his arms had been ripped off, and he was bleeding profusely. He groped for assistance with his remaining arm, and Goto pushed him away. The soldier fell over a legless corpse and didn’t get up.