probably not far away for them. Fourth, they knew that the only feasible location for a landing was on the lee side of the island, with the best stretch being at the channel that separated Wake from Wilkes Island. This is all that the ninety-eight could have known. All other facts were denied to them. The Pacific, unending and silent, told them nothing and allowed nothing to be told.
Sometime during the night of October 6, in their low-pitched but deadly serious conversation, these four facts fused into a common agreement: they were to be rescued the next morning, at the juncture of Wilkes and Wake, by an American task force. So identical had the ninety-eight become, so smooth their method of communication, that their unanimity was as solid as a fused granite boulder. Not a man doubted that the task force would reach them.
The emaciated men now began to act with an incredible deadly efficiency. They called to the guards who, unsuspectingly, opened the doors and looked in. They were seized by the throat by powerful hands and strangled. Their bodies were thrown into the barracks and the ninety-eight began to move across Wake.
With an eerie quality, almost a ghostliness, they flitted past the innumerable dugouts and posts. When a Japanese head did appear and question them, the closest man would simply reach out, and with a strength of desperation, choke the questioner to death. In an area which was so crowded with persons, the passage of skilled and trained Marines would have been a miracle. Also, every Japanese on the island had become sensitive to even the smallest sound in the coral: it might be a rat or a land crab. Contrary to popular belief, starving men do not sleep a deep exhausted sleep. They sleep lightly, restlessly, nervously. But the ninety-eight filtered past dugouts, around command posts, past sentries, by a manned radar station, and finally came to the last pillbox which overlooked the channel between Wake and Wilkes. Quietly, without a word, they made a vicious silent assault on the pillbox. They captured it and killed every occupant without raising an alarm. Then they waited, gazing out over the ocean with utter confidence for the arrival of the dawn and the American task force.
Dawn came, pink and soft, and then passed into the brassy light of early morning. The sea was empty. Still the ninety-eight did not lose confidence. No one panicked. No one proposed doing anything except precisely what they were doing.
It was at this moment that the Japanese discovered what had happened. They quickly organized several companies into search parties, fully armed and carrying hand grenades. They searched Peale and found nothing. Then they started, in a line abreast, to sweep down Wake. They searched every dugout, every shell hole, behind every rock. As the Japanese skirmish line got to the narrow end of Wake, it grew denser and denser. The Americans waited unperturbed. Between them they had six guns and a small amount of ammunition. They looked out to sea calmly, and then back at the approaching Japanese. There was no hysteria, no whining, no defection.
The ninety-eight prepared to resist the hundreds of fully armed Japanese. They fought with their six guns, rocks, sticks, and some with their bare hands. It was short, bloody, and final. In a half hour, fifty of the ninety-eight had been killed.
The forty-eight Americans that were left stood in the welter of blood and bits of flesh, dazed by the explosion of hand grenades, but curiously calm. As the Japanese surrounded them they still looked out over the ocean, still hopeful that deliverance would come.
It did not. Prodded by bayonets and rifle butts, the remaining forty-eight formed two lines and marched back up Wake. They were taken to the north shore. There they were given shovels and ordered to dig their collective grave. They did this calmly and without protest or remorse. Occasionally one of the Americans would stand up, wipe sweat from his forehead, and gaze
Sometime during the night of October 6, in their low-pitched but deadly serious conversation, these four facts fused into a common agreement: they were to be rescued the next morning, at the juncture of Wilkes and Wake, by an American task force. So identical had the ninety-eight become, so smooth their method of communication, that their unanimity was as solid as a fused granite boulder. Not a man doubted that the task force would reach them.
The emaciated men now began to act with an incredible deadly efficiency. They called to the guards who, unsuspectingly, opened the doors and looked in. They were seized by the throat by powerful hands and strangled. Their bodies were thrown into the barracks and the ninety-eight began to move across Wake.
With an eerie quality, almost a ghostliness, they flitted past the innumerable dugouts and posts. When a Japanese head did appear and question them, the closest man would simply reach out, and with a strength of desperation, choke the questioner to death. In an area which was so crowded with persons, the passage of skilled and trained Marines would have been a miracle. Also, every Japanese on the island had become sensitive to even the smallest sound in the coral: it might be a rat or a land crab. Contrary to popular belief, starving men do not sleep a deep exhausted sleep. They sleep lightly, restlessly, nervously. But the ninety-eight filtered past dugouts, around command posts, past sentries, by a manned radar station, and finally came to the last pillbox which overlooked the channel between Wake and Wilkes. Quietly, without a word, they made a vicious silent assault on the pillbox. They captured it and killed every occupant without raising an alarm. Then they waited, gazing out over the ocean with utter confidence for the arrival of the dawn and the American task force.
Dawn came, pink and soft, and then passed into the brassy light of early morning. The sea was empty. Still the ninety-eight did not lose confidence. No one panicked. No one proposed doing anything except precisely what they were doing.
It was at this moment that the Japanese discovered what had happened. They quickly organized several companies into search parties, fully armed and carrying hand grenades. They searched Peale and found nothing. Then they started, in a line abreast, to sweep down Wake. They searched every dugout, every shell hole, behind every rock. As the Japanese skirmish line got to the narrow end of Wake, it grew denser and denser. The Americans waited unperturbed. Between them they had six guns and a small amount of ammunition. They looked out to sea calmly, and then back at the approaching Japanese. There was no hysteria, no whining, no defection.
The ninety-eight prepared to resist the hundreds of fully armed Japanese. They fought with their six guns, rocks, sticks, and some with their bare hands. It was short, bloody, and final. In a half hour, fifty of the ninety-eight had been killed.
The forty-eight Americans that were left stood in the welter of blood and bits of flesh, dazed by the explosion of hand grenades, but curiously calm. As the Japanese surrounded them they still looked out over the ocean, still hopeful that deliverance would come.
It did not. Prodded by bayonets and rifle butts, the remaining forty-eight formed two lines and marched back up Wake. They were taken to the north shore. There they were given shovels and ordered to dig their collective grave. They did this calmly and without protest or remorse. Occasionally one of the Americans would stand up, wipe sweat from his forehead, and gaze
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