Watanabe, Yamamoto thought, but Watanabe’s ashes were in a box awaiting shipment to Japan. That is, he thought wryly, if we are able to get out of our prison. Even if they did, the ashes of the dead trailed behind the living as a priority for escape.
“What is it?” the admiral asked.
“Some good news,” Fujii said. “At last the channel’s clear.”
Yamamoto took a deep breath. Why hadn’t this happened earlier? The towing had managed to move the Akagi a little ways, and the final clearing effort had used explosives. A few hours before, engineers had blown her to pieces. They had waited only for confirmation that some giant piece of the carrier hadn’t shifted and blocked a different part of the channel. Several engineers had died trying to jam the carrier with explosives, because hot spots still existed and there had been several small, premature detonations.
“We will sortie immediately,” Yamamoto said grimly. “What are the Americans doing?”
“Waiting for us,” Fujii answered. “Their planes have been watching, and their ships are poised to pounce on us as we emerge from the channel. The American carriers are out of sight, but we can see four battleships and at least as many heavy cruisers. There are numerous light cruisers and destroyers as well. They will be waiting to cross our T”
Of course, Yamamoto thought. Crossing the T was the classic naval maneuver that every naval commander attempted to perform. In it, all of one fleet’s guns could be brought to bear on the head of an enemy column, which could use only a portion of its own guns. The fleet that crossed the other’s T was almost always victorious.
The Americans would cross his T, and there was nothing he could do about it. His ships had to exit the channel in a single line, into the teeth of the American guns and torpedoes. Fujii had neglected to mention the likelihood of American submarines.
“The destroyers will lead,” Yamamoto said, repeating what had already been decided. “They will attack the Americans with torpedoes and scatter them. Then the battle line will emerge, with the Yamato leading and the others following. As the Yamato’s guns destroy the American ships, the cruisers will search out and destroy the American carriers. Give Admiral Abe my congratulations on the great victory that he will win. I will wait here for his return.”
Fujii gasped. It was a death sentence for Abe and his ships. “Yes, Admiral.”
Yamamoto waited until he was alone again before burying his head in his hands. One or two ships might fight their way through, but the whole effort was what the British called a forlorn hope, an effort virtually destined for failure.
Yamamoto would not be waiting for their return. A submarine was positioned just off Honolulu, and, during the distraction of the battle, he and a handful of others would be rowed out and taken aboard for their escape to Japan. A transport ship also waited off Honolulu for the opportunity to escape with the irreplaceable remaining carrier pilots. The highly skilled pilots had never fought, and, with the exception of those lost on the Akagi and a few others, all were alive. With them, the handful of new carriers Japan was building could be staffed. Without them, the carrier planes would be flown by untrained personnel who would be slaughtered by the more experienced and increasingly skilled Americans. The sortie of the Yamato and the others was nothing more than a giant distraction. The pilots had to be saved.
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?”
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
