1942

Jake Novacek stifled a scream as he dragged Hawkins into the brush while his handful of other survivors covered them. It had been only a small Japanese probe, but it had been enough. Hawkins had taken a bullet in the leg that had smashed the bone, and Jake had been hit in the chest by a bullet that first ricocheted off a rock. If it had hit him squarely, he would have been dead. As it was, he had several broken ribs. Hawkins’s leg was strapped to a rough splint made out of a tree branch.

With agonizing slowness, they reached the crest of the ridge and looked down into the narrow valley. “Shit,” Jake muttered.

“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?”