He spotted a pair of privates who had fallen to the ground, clutching their Arisaka rifles and staring toward the marine position. The captain cursed one and kicked the other; immediately their instincts and training took over and they rallied, bouncing upward to follow Ogawa to the attack.
Soon they were among the enemy foxholes, and now American and Japanese soldiers were locked in a true dance of death. Hand grenades exploded on the ground, fragments tearing into flesh of enemy and friend alike. Increasingly, the marines were falling back, coming out of their ratholes and racing away. A furious sense of glee filled Ogawa, and he chased one of them down, hacking his hamstring with the katana.
The man whirled about as he fell, his eyes locking upon the captain’s. Ogawa was surprised to observe not fear but a grim and chilling sense of purpose. The marine’s face was contorted by a consuming hatred that made the American look bestial, almost apelike. He was trying to bring his rifle around, to defend himself with the bayonet, but once again Ogawa’s lethal sword slashed. He left the bloody corpse in his wake and surged on with the two privates still racing at his flanks.
The battle raged in front of them and behind, across the hilltop to both sides. The determined and courageous shouts of the Japanese mingled with the animallike howls and roars of the Americans. Rippling explosions overwhelmed the vocalizations for seconds at a time. Always there was that steady crackle of gunfire, rifles, pistols, and machine guns popping like firecrackers.
A man, an American officer, stood calmly amid the chaos. He was watching Ogawa charge closer and making no move to get out of the way. Such passive impudence infuriated the Japanese captain, and he veered directly for the officer. A blast brightened the night, and Ogawa knew the man was looking at him, must see that lethal and bloody sword. Other Americans were scrambling to protect this impassive fellow—a pistol shot whistled past Ogawa, felling one of the privates. A marine knelt nearby but worked his bolt in frustration—clearly he was out of ammunition.
Now the American officer closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if he saw death and welcomed it. Ogawa cocked his arm, running in silence, aiming a slash that would cut the man from collarbone to waist.
But it was Ogawa’s body that was torn suddenly, as a fiery pain ripped through his thigh. He fell, thrashing his katana in futility as his right leg utterly refused to obey the commands of his mind. The captain wriggled around and saw the marine with the empty rifle. With a gagging sense of dishonor he realized that he had been stabbed by that pathetic little bayonet—somehow the American had lunged across ten feet of ground to stop Ogawa’s charge.
Blood was running from his leg, from high up near his groin. Ogawa felt cold terror for the first time—he was certain that the American bayonet had gored his manhood.
And then the blackness swallowed him.
“Come on—sir!” demanded Pete, taking the General by the arm, roughly pulling him toward the rear.
“Yes—of course. Thank you,” MacArthur replied, seemingly distracted. He was looking down at the officer Pete had bayoneted.
The man thrashed frantically, waving that lethal sword. Ellis swung his pistol and fired one point-blank shot; the wounded officer instantly ceased his movements.
“Let’s go—” Pete yelled.
Ellis took MacArthur by the other arm and the pair hauled him along, stumbling through the battlefield. Flashes of light illuminated the General’s face—he was looking around with a kind of detached interest—and revealed that the retreating marines were entering the reserve positions that had been excavated behind the initial line.
Artillery came in right behind them as the gunners tried their best to hold the attackers at bay. Pete, Ellis, and their four-star charge found shelter in a shallow trench right at the hillcrest. MacArthur watched the battle from within the hole, at least. Pete collected a dozen new clips of ammunition, and here they popped away at the attackers who were still revealed by the sporadic bursts of light. They were emerging from the darkness to both sides, as well as in front of them.
“It’s like Little Big Horn, isn’t it?” Ellis shouted.
“Yeah, except the Indians aren’t going to win this time,” Pete yelled back.
But he couldn’t shake the image of Custer’s men surrounded on a similar grassy hilltop, or the knowledge of how that one had ended. Nevertheless, he settled down and took careful shots at the swarming enemy. Ellis, he was pleased to note, kept up his own fire. And MacArthur, recovering his focus, had pulled out his own .45 and was shooting away.
Of course, George Armstrong Custer hadn’t had a battery of marine howitzers. Although they made a deafening racket, Pete wanted to cheer every time they fired. Slowly, the tide turned as those big guns pounded, while other brave men brought ammunition to the forward foxholes, and heroic spotters directed fire against every enemy concentration. Pete turned and looked at MacArthur again, saw the frown crease his brow. It was not fear, not even worry about possibly losing the battle … it was more like an ineffable sadness.
Pete remembered the look on MacArthur’s face when the Japanese officer with the sword was charging him. It was as if he wanted it, as if he welcomed it.
He wanted to die out here. The thought came to Pete with a certainty overwhelming any doubt. He’s got a death wish.
But the Japanese were coming again, and there was neither time nor reason to wonder about the General’s purposes. Pete Rachwalski was too busy trying to stay alive.
Over the hours he lost count, though he would later be told—and believe—that the Japanese attackers hurled themselves at the marines twelve times over the course of that lethal night. Every time they were defeated, the survivors tracked down and exterminated, the frenzy of the battle fading only with the arrival of the sticky dawn and the rising of the blood-red sun.
And the marines still occupied their foxholes on the crest of Bloody Ridge.
SIX
New Caledonia; Solomons
• FRIDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER 1942 •
SOPAC HO, NOUMÉA, NEW CALEDONIA, 0845 HOURS
A month into his new job as skipper of the Portland, Captain Frank Chadwick had acquired several collateral responsibilities. Initially, he was assigned to COMPHIBFORSOPAC—commander, Amphibious Forces, South Pacific Area and South Pacific Fleet—under the brilliant, impatient, and notoriously short-tempered Rear Admiral R. Kelly Turner.
Turner, stuck in Nouméa while his ships traveled regularly to the Solomons, worked hard all day, drank into the evening, then came back to work late into the night. No one could keep up with him. Wise men just tried to stay out of his way. As soon as Frank had completed his first cruise in the Portland, Turner assigned him command of a screening group, responsible for four destroyers in addition to his own cruiser.
Organizing a major command like SOPAC while dealing with immediate threats from a determined enemy and at the same time starting with major deficiencies in ships, men, and materiél would tax any man. Admiral Bill Halsey did superhuman work under difficult conditions.
COMAIRSOPAC—commander, Land-Based Aircraft, South Pacific Area and South Pacific Fleet—had a new boss, Admiral Aubrey Fitch. In addition to shortages, Fitch had to contend with army-navy rivalries, differences in supply, maintenance, training, and doctrine, a lack of forward air bases, all while fighting with what he had.
The army units in the South Pacific reported to the navy, rather than to MacArthur’s Southwest Pacific command. That resulted in COMGENSOPAC—commanding general, South Pacific Area—Major General Millard Harmon, not having direct authority over the troops he technically commanded, causing enormous difficulties in the chain of command. Admiral Halsey kept a second role for himself, that of commander of the Air Support Force, the main carrier force. All in all, it was a situation that would take a top-notch leader months or even years to unsnarl. Halsey needed to get it done yesterday and was coming closer than anyone could have imagined. As it happened, by the middle of September he was ready to leave his desk
in Nouméa and put to sea with his flag aboard the repaired Enterprise.
The admiral’s first mission briefing was straightforward. “Our first responsibility is to make sure our marines are able to hold on at Guadalcanal. Admiral Nagumo’s first responsibility is to make sure they don’t. Our intelligence tells us that Nagumo’s carrier force, who’ve roughed us up twice so far, at Pearl and at Midway, are going for three. Three on a match is unlucky, and I’d like that bad luck to rub off on him this time.”
His eyes searched the room. “Once we’ve achieve our first goal—and make no mistake, gentlemen, we will achieve that goal—we will extend it by achieving absolute air superiority over the Solomons. Third, we’ll evict the Japs from the rest of the Solomons. We will plan smart, fight hard, and play dirty. The road to Tokyo leads through Guadalcanal, gentlemen. We are on our way!”
They were good words, and they had an electric effect on the staff and the ship captains who attended the briefing. The situation on the water, however, was nowhere near as good as the admiral’s words. More than a month after the debacle at Savo Island, the enemy still retained complete control of the waters around the island during the night. The enemy’s skill at night fighting, especially its advanced optics for surface gunnery and fast, lethal Long Lance torpedoes, completely overmatched the U.S. Navy after dark.
During the day, however, the planes of the Cactus Air Force, as the Guadalcanal-based marine fighters and bombers were now known, were able to reverse the balance of power, forcing the Japanese to resupply and reinforce after dark. The dive-bombers based on the island took a deadly toll of any ships caught within range during the hours of daylight. The Americans, meanwhile, would race supplies in ashore in dribs and drabs during the day, but the ships would have to pull away from the island long before sunset or risk an encounter with Japanese surface ships after dark.
But the presence of Nagumo’s powerful fleet, known to number at least four and possibly five carriers, could alter that delicate equilibrium. The Japs were making the Tokyo Express run just about every night, bringing reinforcements and supplies down to the island. Without air superiority, the marines—and Henderson Field—were doomed.
Despite the losses of Midway and Savo Island, Halsey’s fleet was the most formidable armada that the United States Navy had sent against the Japanese. With the return of the newly repaired Enterprise, as well as the arrival of the Wasp and the Saratoga from the Atlantic and West Coast areas, the admiral had three fleet carriers with air groups well rested and at full strength along with their full complement of screening and support ships. Veteran pilots who had survived the sinkings of the Hornet, Lexington, and Yorktown had been seeded through these groups. Promising new tactics and constant training allowed fighter pilots to maximize the advantages of their stubby Grumman fighters—four heavy machine guns and the capacity to absorb a lot of damage and still remain in the air—while minimizing the Zero’s superiority in speed, altitude, and maneuverability. The fly-boys were itching for a fight.
In addition, two new fast battleships—the Washington and the South Dakota—now gave Halsey a gunnery punch that had hitherto been lacking. Another modern battleship, the North Carolina, was currently escorting the transport fleet bringing a major reinforcement for the First Marine Division to the embattled island of Guadalcanal. A day earlier, the Wasp had been assigned to that same escort, but Halsey’s first order had been to bring her back to join the other two carriers so that he could concentrate the punch of his air power.
The admiral announced his intention to cruise with his three carrier groups south of Guadalcanal, where the ships could benefit from the additional protection offered by the Cactus Air Force. The carrier air groups would still provide an umbrella as the transports made their run for Lunga Point and the airfield. The biggest threat down there came from enemy subs. The navy was doing everything it could with aggressive patrolling in the air and on the surface, as well as using every available destroyer to screen the precious flattops.
The day was filled with planning meetings involving task forces, boards, working groups, and committees of all sorts. Chadwick was in a meeting on improving fire support for transport groups en route to Guadalcanal when an officer brought in a freshly decoded communiqué from the transport fleet. Turner spat a curse as he read it, then gestured to the officer. “Tell the staff,” he ordered.
“We got a flash in from the North Carolina—she took a hit from a Jap submarine,” reported the lieutenant. “She’s down to half speed and is going to try to limp back to New Caledonia. The task force commander reports that he intends to proceed with the rest of the fleet and the reinforcements.”
“I wouldn’t have expected any less—he’s got to keep bulling through with his transports,” Turner said. “Vandegrift needs those fresh marines, and the air units need more gasoline. In the meantime, let’s get some combat air patrol over the North Carolina until she gets away.” Two members of their working group left immediately.
Reports on the retreating North Carolina came in through the night. Her destroyer escort had attacked the offending submarine with no indication of success, but at least they had held the enemy boat at bay until the wounded battleship could steam out of the danger zone. By dawn it was clear that the ship’s heavy belt armor—specifically intended for protection against torpedoes—would save her so that she could fight again.
Chadwick thought about Halsey’s first order when he took command the previous day: determined to concentrate his carriers in one fleet, he had ordered the Wasp to come south. Up until that time, the Wasp had been assigned to the same task force as the North Carolina. Chadwick guessed that if the enemy sub commander had spotted a carrier going past, the flattop would have been a goner.
Still later, another communiqué arrived, hot from the decoding room. “Message from General MacArthur, sir,” reported the courier.
Turner read excerpts. “Best wishes and godspeed to the gallant crew of the North Carolina … the transports continue bravely on to Guadalcanal … highest traditions of the United States Navy …” He looked up and smiled. “The General says he is sending bomber reinforcements to Henderson Field.”
• WEDNESDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER 1942 •
ABOVE IRONBOTTOM SOUND, 130 MILES NW
OF GUADALCANAL, 0455 HOURS
It was the third mission in four days for Ellis Halverson’s Lucky Dicers, the 65th Bombardment Squadron of the 43rd Bomb Group. Yesterday, rain had soaked the field so much that they couldn’t even get a plane off the ground. But now, as he led his formation of B-17s across the Solomon Sea, Ellis believed that today’s attack seemed to offer the best prospects yet. His stomach rumbled with hunger—hunger was a way of life for everyone living on the Canal—but the discomfort only heightened his determination as he flew toward the Japanese ships.
They had been briefed at 0230 and learned that the Japs had sent a run of the Tokyo Express—high-speed Japanese destroyers outfitted as transports—down the Slot, as the middle of the Solomons was known. The destroyer-transports were even then unloading their reinforcements and cargo on the shore of Guadalcanal. By dawn the ships would be headed for home. If the bombers were too late to interdict the supplies, they would at least see that those ships didn’t survive to make another run.
Each of the Flying Fortresses was armed with a full complement of thousand-pound armor-piercing bombs set with five-second-delay fuses, ideal for skip bombing.
These were borderline conditions for skip bombing. The evolving manual on the practice gave the four conditions in which skip bombing was known to be successful: first, at the first light of the dawn with the approach made from west to east with just enough light to silhouette the vessel; second, on clear nights with the moon below forty degrees elevation, the attack being made into the moon; third, directly out of a very low setting sun; fourth, from very low clouds or poor weather where an element of surprise was completely possible.
The Lucky Dicers would hit past the first
light of dawn.
Dawn broke into a clear day, good visibility among the patches of clouds that were never completely gone from this part of the world. The marines in the Pagoda—the Japanese-built mission hut—and in the cave below it on Guadalcanal kept the flight of army bombers posted on the retreating transports, even as the dive-bombers of the Cactus Air Force knocked out a couple of the enemy ships right after daylight. By the time the B-17s neared the target, the Japanese ships—six surviving destroyer-transports escorted by a couple of unmodified Japanese destroyers—were steaming north by northwest, passing the Russell Islands and making good speed into the New Georgia Sound portion of the Slot.
Coming in from the west, Ellis spotted his target and led his planes down to just over two hundred feet of altitude. The transports were outlined against the sun, as pretty a row of targets as you could ask for. If Halverson had anything to say about it, they had just completed their last task for the glory of the emperor.
Ellis toggled his microphone. “We’re going in line abreast. Everybody choose your targets. Remember, you don’t want to drop until you’re within three hundred feet of the target. Good hunting, men.”
Ellis guided the Skylark II with a skilled hand as they zoomed toward the second transport in the file. Looking to either side, he saw the squadron’s big bombers all in formation, low and fast and streaking toward the target. A few antiaircraft bursts popped into view as the screening destroyers blasted away, but the shots were too infrequent even to draw much attention. The transports were turning, trying to present narrow bow targets to the bombers, but the B-17s were coming in too fast for the evasion to be successful.
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