He wouldn’t have to look far. That Jap had been a bastard, but a brave bastard. He’d done as much to the Bunker Hill as he could. Planes were still burning despite the ocean water the hoses poured on them. Burning gasoline and oil floated on top of the water, and had to be drowned or washed over the side.
If that Zero smashed down half a minute earlier… Joe shuddered. He would have been right in the middle of the fireball.
Now all he could do was help hang on to a hose that tried to defeat the flames. His burned hands screamed at him. He ignored them. The burns weren’t all that bad, and he didn’t think he was making them worse. He’d worry about it later any which way.
“Did you see that fucker?” asked the petty officer behind him. “You see the way he crashed that goddamn plane?”
“I sure did,” Joe answered. The CPO who held the nozzle doused a burning Hellcat that might have been his. “If he’d done it a little earlier, he would have got me.” There. He’d said it. The sky didn’t fall. But he didn’t think he would ever have the feeling that nothing could happen to him, not any more. Now he was just another-what had some wise guy called it? — another fugitive from the law of averages, that was it.
“He knew he was screwed, so he screwed us, too,” the petty officer said. “How the hell do you stop a guy who already knows he’s gonna buy a plot?”
“We didn’t,” Joe said.
“No shit!” the petty officer agreed. “Can you imagine what it would be like if a hundred o’ them Jap bastards tried to crash their planes into carriers and battlewagons all at once? They could fuck up the whole goddamn U.S. Navy.”
Joe thought about it. The idea was scary, but only for a moment. He shook his head. “Never happen, buddy. No way in hell. Where you gonna find a hundred guys crazy enough to kill themselves like it was close-order drill? Not even the Nips are that nuts.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” the petty officer said after some thought of his own. “You’d have to be Asiatic to do somethin’ like that, and not even the Japs are Asiatic that kind of way.” He pointed to an escort carrier off to starboard. A column of smoke rose from that ship, too. “Bastard must have put a bomb into her-either that or another plane got her.”
“Bomb, I think,” Joe said. “You can stick a bomb under just about any fighter. There was just the one plane, wasn’t there?”
“Well, I thought so,” the rating answered. “Now I ain’t so sure. God, what a fucking mess this turned out to be.”
He had that straight. Damage control was on the ball. They’d kept the fire from spreading, and now they just about had it out. But Bunker Hill’s flight deck was still a mess. They would have to shove six or eight planes over the side. They would have to repair the planking on the flight deck, too; some of it had caught fire. The air stank of gasoline and motor oil, of burnt paint and burnt rubber and burnt wood. And there was one more odor, too, one that made spit flood into Joe’s mouth before he realized what caused it, and then made him want to be sick. The smell of burnt meat would never be the same for him again.
PLATOON SERGEANT LES DILLON CROUCHED in a shell hole just north of the Wheeler Field runways. The Japs had machine-gun nests on the other side of those battered cement strips. Before long, somebody who didn’t have to do it was going to order the Marines to cross that bare ground. And they would, too, or die trying. Les didn’t want to be one of the poor bastards who died trying.
He heard the sweetest sound in the world: radial engines up in the air screaming their heads off. Hellcats strafed the Jap positions. He watched those.50-caliber rounds chew up the grass over there. Then he heard different engines: Louis Armstrong instead of Benny Goodman. The Dauntlesses put bombs down right on the money and then roared away to get more ordnance and do it again.
Crossing the killing ground still wouldn’t be easy. Any Jap who wasn’t dead or maimed would be up and shooting the minute the Marines came out of their holes. Even the ones who were maimed would hang on to a rifle or a grenade. They weren’t about to let you take them alive. That was fine with Les Dillon. He didn’t want to take them alive anyhow.
A whistle sounded. Les grimaced. This was it-the moment he hadn’t been waiting for. “Up, you bastards!” Captain Bradford yelled. “Are we Marines or not?”
That flicked the men’s pride. The company commander had to know it would. Les sprang up and ran forward. He hunched over as low as he could and dodged from side to side. All of that did more good than snapping your fingers to keep the elephants away, but not a whole hell of a lot.
And the planes hadn’t cleaned out all the Japs. He’d figured they wouldn’t. Marines fell. Others flopped down to fire back. An ice-blue tracer snapped past Dillon’s head. His first thought was of a firefly on benzedrine. His next was that the round had come much too close to punching his ticket. He should have thought that first, but your mind did crazy things sometimes.
Then he was in among the Japs. Some of them were real infantrymen; others, by their clothes, groundcrew for airplanes. They all fought like madmen; the next Jap with any quit in him that Les saw would be the first. But the Marines had no quit in them, either. More of them rushed up to help their buddies. The Japanese didn’t get much in the way of reinforcements; Les had the feeling the ones fighting here were the last Japs standing for quite a ways.
And then they weren’t standing any more. The Marines still on their feet finished off any of the enemy who still twitched. Word about the Opana POW massacre had got out. The Marines hadn’t been any more inclined to take prisoners than the Japs were to be captured even before it did. Now… Maybe they’d follow a direct order to try to capture some enemy soldiers for interrogation. Then again, maybe not. Had the Japs won the fight, Les knew a bullet through the head was the best he could hope for. Things went downhill from there, and in a hurry, too.
Three Sherman tanks rumbled and snorted across the ruined runway. Les eyed them with a mixture of appreciation and disgust. He was glad to see them-he was always glad to see tanks, because they took so much pressure off the foot soldiers-but he would have been gladder if they’d shown up an hour earlier. They could have made taking this position a hell of a lot easier.
He wasn’t the only one with that feeling, either. “Nice of you to join us, girls,” a Marine lisped, giving the tankers a limp-wristed wave.
“They didn’t want to get their hair mussed,” another grimy, unshaven leatherneck added, even more swishily than the first one. Les started to giggle. He didn’t know why, but listening to tough guys acting like a bunch of fruits always broke him up. Some fairies got into the Marines. When they were found out, they left the Corps a lot faster than they’d joined it. He’d seen that happen a few times, in China and back in the States. Some of the men who got bounced were losers for other reasons, too. Others would have made pretty fair Marines if they weren’t queer.
He laughed again, on a different note. For all he knew, there was a faggot or two in the company now. As long as a man didn’t advertise it-some did-how were you supposed to know?
Even while such thoughts occurred to him, he got down in a hole some Jap didn’t need any more. You didn’t want to be on your feet and upright when the Japs could start taking potshots at you any second. The tank crewmen, meanwhile, yelled insults back at the Marines who fought on foot. One bow gunner wanted to jump out of his tank and kick ass. The driver on that tank restrained him. He was probably lucky: ground pounders were likely to be in better shape and meaner than guys who had armor plate to hold the war at bay.
“Enough!” Les yelled. “Everybody-enough! We’ve got Japs to kill. You want to beat on each other, wait till we take Honolulu.”