“That’s what we’re here for, ma’am,” Corporal Petrocelli said. He looked her up and down, not like a man eyeing a woman (thank God!) but more like an engineer wondering how long a badly battered piece of machinery could keep running. Taking a couple of small cans out of a pouch on his belt, he handed them to her. “Here you go. Reckon you need these worse’n we do.” Thus prodded, Private Schumacher coughed up some rations, too.

“Thank you,” she whispered, on the edge of tears. Then she proved she did have a little common sense left: she asked, “How am I going to open these?”

“Here-try this.” Schumacher gave her a knife-no, a bayonet, longer and slimmer than the one on his rifle. It looked much too deadly for such a mundane job, but it would probably work. He said, “Took it off a dead Jap a couple days ago. Was gonna keep it for a souvenir, but there’s more. You can get some use out of it.”

“Toadsticker like that’ll scrag anybody who gets out of line, too,” Petrocelli said.

If I’d had it back in the brothel, if I’d stuck every man that touched me… Jane grimaced. If I’d done that, I’d’ve killed so many, the Army would probably be in Honolulu by now.

Not far away, somebody shouted. Jane had no idea what he said. It made sense to the soldiers, though. They trotted away. Schumacher looked back over his shoulder and waved. Then they were gone.

And most of Wahiawa had to be in American hands, and Jane had a weapon and food-my God, real food! She went back into her refuge under the bushes and behind the log. Maybe she’d come out after a while, and maybe she wouldn’t. In the meantime… She used the bayonet to open a can. It was roast-beef hash. She hadn’t eaten beef in going on two years. She thought it was the most wonderful thing she’d ever tasted, which only proved how long she’d gone without.

XIII

THE AMERICANS WERE GOING TO OVERRUN WHEELER FIELD. LIEUTENANT SABURO SHINDO could see as much. The Japanese on the ground were doing everything they could to hold back the enemy. They’d taken gruesome casualties, and the Yankees still moved forward. The Americans had more and better tanks than the Japanese. They had more artillery, plus Navy vessels bombarding Oahu. And they had complete control of the air.

Shindo knew how important that was. He’d enjoyed it during the Japanese conquest of Hawaii. Having American fighters and bombers overhead from dawn to dusk was much less enjoyable than being up there himself.

Now he had the chance to get up there again. The groundcrew men at Wheeler Field had cannibalized Zeros and Hayabusas for their weapons. They’d cannibalized half a dozen wrecked fighters to put together one that would-they hoped-fly. Shindo hadn’t even had to pull strings to get to take it up against the Americans. He was, as far as he knew, the last pilot at the field alive and unwounded.

There was an American movie about a man made from parts of other men. The fighter Shindo would fly against the Americans was a lot like that. Most of it came from Zeros, with occasional pieces from Hayabusas. It was a deathtrap. He knew as much. Under normal conditions, he wouldn’t have walked past it, let alone got into the cockpit. Now… The whole Japanese garrison on Oahu would die. How was the only thing that mattered. Shindo wanted to die hitting back at the enemy, hurting the round-eyed barbarians who’d dared strike against his divinely ruled kingdom.

Before he got into the Frankenstein fighter, a groundcrew man handed him a bottle of the local not-quite-gin. He wouldn’t have drunk before an ordinary mission. What difference did it make now? None he could see. He’d have to be lucky to make a proper attack run. He’d need a miracle, and not such a minor one, to come back.

“Good luck. Hit them hard,” the groundcrew man said as Shindo handed back the bottle. “Banzai! for the Emperor!”

“Banzai!” Shindo echoed. He climbed up into the cockpit, closed it, and dogged it shut. The engine fired up the first try. Shindo took that for a good omen. He’d been desperately short of them lately. So had all the Japanese on Oahu.

One more good omen would be taking off without blowing up. He had a hundred-kilo bomb slung under the plane. What passed for a runway was only enough grass to get him off the ground… he hoped. If there wasn’t quite enough grass or if a wheel bumped down into a hole the grass hid-his mission would be shorter than he expected.

Despite the risks, he wished the bomb were bigger. The fighter could carry 250 kilos without any trouble, but the armorers hadn’t been able to find one that size. He shrugged and adjusted the safety harness. Then he released the brakes. The plane rolled forward. He gave it more throttle. When he neared the end of the grass, he pulled back on the stick. The Zero’s nose came up. He couldn’t have asked for a smoother takeoff.

He got a panoramic view of the fighting as he climbed. Wahiawa was gone, lost. So were the Schofield Barracks, just north of Wheeler Field. If the mechanics had waited much longer to get busy with their wrenches and pliers and rivet guns, they wouldn’t have been able to do this.

Below him, Wildcats and the new American fighters dove to shoot up a Japanese ground position. Machine-gun fire rose to meet them, but no real antiaircraft guns opened up. None of the American planes paid any attention to Shindo. If they noticed him at all, they assumed he was one of them. A Zero’s size and shape were a little like a Wildcat’s, but only a little. The biggest help he had was the Yankees’ assumption that no more Japanese aircraft could fly. If he couldn’t be Japanese, he had to be American. Logical, wasn’t it? But logic was only as good as its assumptions. Since those were wrong…

He flew north, toward the waiting American fleet. A flight of southbound planes waggled their wings at him. Maybe they thought he was in trouble. He politely waggled back, as if to say everything was fine. They flew on. So did he. He smiled a thin smile. As he had in air battles past, he could follow their vector back to the carriers that had launched them. “Domo arigato,” he murmured, doubting they would be glad to have his thanks.

The rest of the U.S. task force-destroyers, cruisers, and battleships-lay close inshore, so their big guns could shell the Japanese. They went at it methodically. Why not? No one could hit back at them. Shindo didn’t intend to. These ships, however impressive (and they put the biggest Japanese fleet to shame), weren’t the ones that really mattered. He wanted the carriers.

They steamed farther offshore, to make sure nothing from Oahu could reach them. Lieutenant Shindo smiled again. Something from Oahu was heading their way anyhow.

There they were! They had destroyers around them to protect against submarines and to deliver antiaircraft fire. They must have long since picked him up on radar. Even if they had, though, they didn’t think he was hostile.

Then he muttered, “Zakennayo!” The carriers still had a combat air patrol overhead. Here came a Wildcat to look him over. Just in case, the pilot was bound to be thinking. Shindo could survive a lot of things, but not close visual inspection. He knew the moment when the enemy flier realized what he was. The Wildcat suddenly sped up and started jinking.

The American thought he could win a dogfight. A lot of Wildcat pilots made the mistake against a Zero. They hardly ever made it more than once. This Yankee wouldn’t. Shindo turned inside him, got behind him, shot him up, and sent him spinning down toward the Pacific.

But the Wildcat pilot must have radioed his buddies. They all swarmed toward Shindo. He’d just run out of leisure. Things would happen in a hurry now. He dove toward the closest carrier. The Americans still didn’t space them out as widely as they should have. If the Japanese could have organized a real attack, they might have mauled this task force. As things were, Shindo could only do his best.