Death Squad, page 21
Lieutenant Woodward stared straight ahead and saw fire and smoke billowing out of the hull of the battleship. Bannon and the other GIs raked its bridge and decks with machine-gun fire as the battleship fired machine guns and cannon at the speeding PT boat. Water spouts from explosions fell around the PT boat, rattling Bannon’s teeth, but he kept his thumb triggers depressed and saw his tracers making long orange lines directly into the bridge of the battleship. Machine-gun bullets ripped into the plywood hull of the PT boat, sending splinters flying into the air, but Lieutenant Woodward was a man possessed and stayed on course, wanting to get as close as he could so that his last torpedo couldn’t miss.
The battleship loomed closer, a monstrosity of metal and fire in New Georgia Sound. Japanese sailors could be seen running on the decks amid flashes of light from the battleship’s guns.
“Torpedo tube four—FIRE!” screamed Lieutenant Woodward.
The torpedo shot forward into the water and dropped beneath the surface.
“Torpedo away, sir!” yelled Torpedoman Second Class Len Fulton.
“Yowie!” hollered Lieutenant Woodward, cutting his wheel to the left.
PT–114’ s hull skidded over the water as it turned away from the battleship. Lieutenant Woodward looked ahead and his jaw dropped as he saw three destroyers, all guns blazing, bearing down on him. He steered back into the center of the convoy as the GIs and sailors aboard the PT boat fired at all the ships around them. Bullets whizzed through the air, smacking into the plywood boat. A shell landed twenty yards away and the PT boat was knocked onto its side, everybody hanging on for dear life, but then it righted itself and kept on going. Japanese soldiers and sailors from the sinking transport ship swam in the water, and PT–114 ripped into them, sending them flying through the air in huge sheets of water.
Barrrooooommmmm! sounded the explosion on the battleship, the night becoming momentarily bright in the blast. Men and cannons were blown into the air, along with the guts of the huge ship. A violent shock passed through every rivet of the Aoba, and then it listed toward the side in which two gaping holes had been blown in its hull.
Japanese destroyers roared from all directions toward the PT boat, all guns blazing. There were so many explosions and bullets that Lieutenant Woodward could barely see.
“Sir, we’d better get out of here!” yelled Chief Boatswain’s Mate Trask.
“Smoke screen!” shouted Lieutenant Woodward.
Black smoke poured out of the funnel, and Lieutenant Woodward looked for a clear path through the destroyers closing in on him from all directions. He ran a circle through the smoke to confuse the destroyers and then made a run for one of the openings, realizing grimly that the PT boat wasn’t at its top speed anymore. He figured it was taking on water, and if he didn’t get away quickly, the destroyers would blow him out of the water.
“Hang on!” he screamed, gritting his teeth and heading for the path between two destroyers.
Bullets and shells rained down all around PT–114 as it streaked through its smoke screen. It came out the other side and everybody opened fire on the destroyers, raking their bridges and decks with bullets. A blast of machine-gun bullets from a destroyer knocked off the top of PT–114’s bow, and a shell explosion nearby lifted it out of the water, but it kept on going.
Bannon, sweat pouring from his face, held the thumb triggers of the fifty-caliber machine-gun down and saw his tracers sweeping across the bridge of the destroyer to the left of PT–114. Japanese bullets splattered across the deck of the tiny PT boat, and one of them hit Gunner’s Mate Third Class Thornton in the head, blowing it away.
Butsko found himself splashed with blood. He turned and saw Thornton lying in a clump at the base of the thirty-seven-millimeter cannon. Jumping to his feet, he ran across the heaving deck, climbed the ladder, and dived behind the cannon, leaning into the shoulder bars. He’d never fired a thirty-seven-millimeter cannon before, but he found the trigger buttons and pressed them. The cannon rocked on its pedestal and shells fired into the superstructure of a destroyer, knocking down its mast and sending massive chunks of metal flying into the air.
PT–114 sped toward the opening between the two destroyers, and the Japanese fire became more intense. The PT boat roared closer and then passed between them, as bullets ripped apart the control panel in front of Lieutenant Woodward’s eyes. A piece of wood hit him on the cheek, tearing it apart, and he flinched, causing the PT boat to veer toward one of the destroyers.
Chief Boatswain’s Mate Trask jumped on the wheel and brought it back on course. PT–114 passed between the destroyers and headed for the open sea as more Japanese bullets tore into its hull. One of the big Packard engines shuddered, and there was a horrible grinding sound below decks. Lieutenant Woodward opened his eyes and felt PT–114 slowing down.
“Come on, you son of a bitch!” he screamed, banging on the throttles.
The PT boat lost speed, and he figured he’d lost an engine, but he had two left and each could put out 1200 horsepower, enough to outrun any destroyer in the world. He heard a shell whistle over his head and realized it was going the wrong way. Peering ahead, he saw flashes of guns on the horizon and realized the US Navy was on the way.
He hunched over the wheel and aimed the PT boat toward Lunga Point. Behind him the destroyers turned back to protect their convoy, because they too had seen the approaching American fleet.
“We made it!” Lieutenant Woodward hollered, jumping up and down and banging his demolished instrument panel. “Yowie!”
Below on the deck of PT–114 the sailors and GIs stopped firing. They stood up on shaky legs and turned to look behind them. The convoy was brightly lit by fires on the battleship, and the transport ship that Lieutenant Woodward had torpedoed had disappeared beneath the water. Shells from the approaching American fleet poured onto the Japanese convoy, which was still trying to unload troops.
“They’re fucked!” Frankie La Barbara said, throwing punches at the air. “They’re fucked!”
EIGHTEEN . . .
On the shore Colonel Tsuji watched through his binoculars as the American fleet tore into the Japanese convoy. The Americans sent up flares and the battle was as bright as day as American ships pounded those of the Imperial Japanese Navy, which had been caught in a terrible predicament. The Japanese warships couldn’t leave until all the troops were unloaded from the transport ships, but it was difficult to unload the troops during the battle. American planes had appeared from Henderson Field and dive-bombed the Japanese ships relentlessly.
Approximately twenty percent of the Japanese soldiers had made it to the beach so far, and they were soaked and exhausted, some burned badly by the oil fires. Many were wounded. They huddled together all around Colonel Tsuji as Japanese medics scurried about and treated their wounds.
Colonel Tsuji felt sick in the pit of his stomach and thought he might vomit. He swallowed hard as he realized that the Japanese Forty-eighth Division wouldn’t make much of a difference in the battle for Guadalcanal. But there’d be other nights and other convoys. The Americans wouldn’t intercept all of them. Japanese strength on Guadalcanal would be built up somehow, and then they’d attack the Americans again and drive them into the sea.
He tried to convince himself of this as a barge motored toward the beach, carrying four tanks and soldiers. He trained his binoculars on the battleship Aoba, which appeared to be sinking in New Georgia Sound. The night was a catastrophe, but the war wasn’t over by any means. There’d be other nights and other battles. The Imperial Way would emerge victorious in the end.
Then the bile rose up in his throat and he couldn’t swallow it down. Dropping his binoculars, he ran toward the bushes to spew out the bitterness of defeat.
“Abandon ship!” shouted Admiral Tamaki.
The mighty Aoba listed forty-five degrees to starboard and water covered its foredeck. Sailors struggled to put out fires, and gun crews still fired their weapons at American ships swarming around them. An American shell hit the Aoba amidships, and the battleship shuddered at the blow. Gun turrets were blasted apart and sailors thrown into the sea.
The order was passed along to abandon ship, and General Ooka hung on to a rail to keep himself from falling onto the slanting deck. He looked through the shattered glass at sailors leaving their posts and running through flames toward the lifeboats. Two more American shells slammed into the Aoba with such violence that General Ooka was thrown to the deck, where he rolled down the incline until a bulkhead stopped him. Shaking his head, he staggered to his feet.
Admiral Tamaki, his face ashen, was hanging on to a brass rail. “General Ooka, I have given the order to abandon ship! You must go!”
General Ooka looked at Admiral Tamaki and felt great sorrow. He wanted to say something, but there was nothing appropriate at a time like this. He didn’t like the admiral, but he wouldn’t have wished such a disaster on anyone.
Admiral Tamaki trembled as he gripped the shiny brass rail. “Long live the Emperor!” he shouted.
“Long live the Emperor!” replied the ship’s officers who were crowded onto the bridge.
Admiral Tamaki glowered at them. “You all must go!”
“We wish to stay with you, sir!” said Ensign Nakamura.
“I have ordered you to go!”
The ship’s officers held on to rails and made their way out of the control room, and finally General Ooka was alone with Admiral Tamaki.
“This is my ship and I am still in command,” Admiral Tamaki said, his voice faltering. “I have ordered you to leave, General Ooka. What must I do to make you leave?”
General Ooka’s guts churned with emotion. “Do you have a last message for your wife, Admiral Tamaki?”
Admiral Tamaki looked away. “My heart is with her right now, and she knows everything. Long live the Emperor.”
“Long live the Emperor,” General Ooka replied, pulling himself toward the door. He gripped the side of it and stepped outside, to see the Aoba sinking quickly. Water covered all the lower decks, and crewmembers rowed away in lifeboats. He heard the roar of engines overhead and dropped to his stomach as a squadron of Hellcats appeared, strafing the superstructure of the battleship. Bullets slammed into metal over General Ooka’s head, and then they passed as suddenly as they’d come. He pulled himself erect again.
He made his way to the ladder and climbed down. After three steps he heard a shot on the bridge and stopped, closing his eyes. Admiral Tamaki had put a bullet in his brain, he realized, but there was no time to mourn. He continued to descend the ladder, reached the next deck, and looked around. The ship was going down fast, and he knew he’d have to get away from it or else it would suck him under. Holding the rail, he pulled himself to the side that leaned over the water and looked down. It would be a thirty-foot drop, and the sea was full of slabs of wood and swimming sailors. He threw one leg over the rail, then the other, hung on, and then jumped.
He kept his feet close together, one hand protecting his groin and the other covering his face. His hat flew off his head and he thought he’d been falling for an awfully long time, when his feet hit the water and he dropped like a rock beneath the surface.
The oil and salt burned his eyes, and he struggled against the water, fighting to return to the surface. He dared not open his eyes, and his hand struck something solid, then his head broke the surface and he heard screaming.
Treading water, he looked around at sailors flailing the air and water as dark triangular shapes circled around them. Sharks! he thought, his blood turning to ice. He kicked with his feet and swam away with all his strength, seeing a crowded lifeboat rowing away from him. He opened his mouth to shout “Wait for me!” but then caught himself. Even at a moment like this, a Japanese general should not beg for help.
“It’s General Ooka!” yelled a sailor on the stern.
The lifeboat turned in the water and headed for him. He looked back and saw the water boiling with shark fins at the spot where he’d seen the screaming soldiers. Looking at the lifeboat again, he kicked his legs and swam toward it, trying to hold down his mounting hysteria. The boat came closer and hands reached down to him. He held his arms up and they grabbed him, pulling him aboard.
His stomach and legs scraped over the gunwale and then he was safe in the boat. Sailors squeezed to the side and made room for him. The boat was so full, the water was only inches below the gunwale.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked a young lieutenant.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“There she goes!” somebody shouted.
General Ooka turned around and saw the Aoba sinking beneath the surface of the water. The bridge was nearly completely submerged, and General Ooka thought of old Admiral Tamaki floating around inside with a bullet in his head. The water covered the bridge, then only the upper portions of the superstructure were visible. The sailors pulled their oars with everything they had, and huge bubbles broke on the surface around the Aoba. Then there was a terrible crunching sound and it disappeared beneath the waves.
General Ooka looked around at burning Japanese ships turning the sky red. The sea was covered with lifeboats and the bobbing heads of soldiers and sailors. The American fleet was retreating; there was no more work for it to do. General Ooka closed his eyes and willed himself not to cry, but the tears came anyway. The sailors in the lifeboat looked away so they wouldn’t see his embarrassment.
The Forty-eighth was the first division he’d ever commanded, and now it was gone. Somehow, some way, he must avenge their deaths. He was still alive, and he’d move heaven and earth to obtain another command. Then he’d show the Americans what war was about. He’d attack and attack again until there was nothing left of them except broken bones and a river of blood.
I'll show them no mercy, he said to himself, trembling with emotion. I’ll kill them all.
The horizon glowed red from burning Japanese ships as PT—114 motored toward its dock at Lunga Point. Sailors on the dock threw lines aboard as it came alongside, and crew-members fastened them to cleats. On the bridge Lieutenant Woodward cut the engines and gazed, bleary-eyed, at ambulances, jeeps, and a truck. A crowd walked out onto the dock, and Lieutenant Woodward saw Commander Ames in his tan summer uniform with his collar unbuttoned.
Lieutenant Woodward turned his Red Sox baseball cap around on his head so that the bill faced forward, then stood up groggily. He turned around and descended the ladder to the deck where the GIs were handing down the wounded to medics.
Colonel Stockton walked beside Commander Ames, and as he drew close, he could see the men from his recon platoon jumping down to the dock. They staggered around as if drunk, bumming cigarettes from everybody nearby, and one of them held up his arms to help down a pretty Japanese girl. Colonel Stockton wondered where in hell she came from.
Colonel Stockton spotted Butsko and walked toward him. He wanted to congratulate him or say welcome home, but somehow that seemed too corny. Butsko looked like he’d been through a meat grinder, his face gashed and one of his hands held in front of him as if it was bothering him. Colonel Stockton put his hand on Butsko’s shoulder.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” he said.
Butsko’s eyes were bloodshot and at half mast. “I never thought I’d see you either.”
“What’s wrong with your hand.”
“It’s all fucked up.”
“I’ll get one of the doctors over here.”
“That’s okay. Some of the men are hurt worse than me.”
Medics carried the dead and wounded away on stretchers, loading them into the ambulances. The men from the First Squad milled around, waiting for somebody to tell them what to do. Sailors looked at the P T boat, which was torn apart in numerous places, and they wondered how it had made it back. Some stared at the Japanese girl, shivering with apprehension, Longtree’s arm around her shoulder.
Commander Ames walked up to Lieutenant Woodward. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”
“We have.”
“What the hell happened?”
“You’ll never believe it.”
Colonel Stockton looked at the Japanese girl. “Where’d she come from?” he asked Butsko.
“The men found her in the jungle. She’d run away from the Japs.”
“We’ll have to send her to Headquarters for questioning. Is she dangerous?”
“She hasn’t been yet, but you never can tell about fucking Japs.”
Colonel Stockton turned around. “Lieutenant Harper!”
“Yes, sir!” Lieutenant Harper ran toward him through the crowd.
Colonel Stockton pointed to the Japanese girl. “Take her to General Vandegrift’s headquarters for questioning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Harper walked up to Longtree and the girl, and Longtree knew what was coming.
“She speak English?” Lieutenant Harper asked.
“No, sir.”
“I’m afraid she’ll have to come with us.” He motioned for her to follow him.
She looked fearfully up at Longtree’s face, because she wouldn’t move unless he told her to. Longtree felt sick, because he didn’t want her to go, but he couldn’t fight the whole Army. “Go with him,” he said softly, pointing to Lieutenant Harper and then motioning into the distance.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she moved to kiss him, but he stepped back because he knew if he kissed her, he’d never be able to let her go. She understood and lowered her head, moving with resignation to the side of Lieutenant Harper. They walked away, and Longtree saw her delicate shoulders quaking with sobs.
