Dedication
To the crew of the Arizona, for their service and sacrifice.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Picture Insert
Battle Facts
Pearl Harbor Stats
Timeline of the Pearl Harbor Attack
Q&A About the Attack on Pearl Harbor
An Excerpt from Soldier Dogs #3: Capture the Island
About the Author
Books by Marcus Sutter
Back Ads
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941
OAHU, HAWAII
The attack came out of nowhere.
No warning, no declaration of war, no siren, before the enemy descended on the US naval base at Pearl Harbor in a wave of fire, panic, and destruction.
All across the island of Oahu, unsuspecting Americans were enjoying a perfect Hawaiian Sunday morning in what was as close to paradise on earth as one could get. Warm sunlight shone between the leaves of gently swaying palm trees. Stores and restaurants opened in preparation for a day of weekend shoppers. Hula music played softly on radios in windows and cars as coffee brewed and breakfast sizzled in pans. On the decks of the vessels of Battleship Row, a group of seven military battleships in port at the harbor, sailors were finishing up breakfast, playing a little early catch on deck, or getting ready for a weekend’s shore leave with their wives and families.
Then, the roar of plane engines.
The crackle of machine gun fire. The thunder of bombs exploding. The thud of torpedoes slamming into ship hulls beneath the rocking waves.
America was being attacked.
That was all anyone knew.
On the deck of the USS West Virginia, Joseph Dean, eleven years old and son of the ship’s head cook, had no idea the planes raining gunfire and destruction on him and his friends were from the Empire of Japan. He didn’t know that the aircraft carriers from which those planes had taken off had left Japan eleven days earlier with plans to destroy Pearl Harbor. He didn’t know the small black packages they dropped were armor-piercing bombs. And he had no way of knowing that the nearby USS Arizona had just taken on nearly 1.5 million gallons of fuel in preparation for a trip to the mainland.
All Joe knew was that Skipper, his new dog, had sensed something. She’d started barking at the edge of the ship, losing her cool in a way he’d never seen before. It had spooked them all—a warning of something they didn’t understand.
A warning that came too late.
Joe watched as the planes appeared overhead. They swooped aggressively low over the ships along the row, bathing them in bullets and bombs. Suddenly Joe was dodging bullets and smelling smoke, and then—
BOOM!
A wall of white-hot air slammed into Joe. He flew through the air and landed on his back.
Joe sat up, dazed and hurt. Stunned, he could only watch as the Arizona was cut in half by a massive explosion. The ship’s belly was like an opening into the pit from one of his grandmother’s Bible stories, a raging fire that filled the sky with oily black smoke. As Joe tried to regain his bearings, the thirty-four-thousand-ton battleship began to sink to the bottom of the harbor after only ten minutes, the deafening blast taking with it over a thousand American lives.
As Joe stared on in horror, Skipper appeared in front of him. She barked and barked, trying to rouse him to action. Terrified and confused, Joe threw his arms around her neck and hugged her for dear life.
“Oh, Skipper,” he cried, his body shaking against hers. “What’s going on? Who’s attacking us, girl? How did this happen?”
Chapter 1
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1941
5:30 P.M. HAWAII TIME
Joseph Dean glanced over his shoulder. The dog was still there, keeping a block’s distance.
He had to be following him, right?
Joe had first noticed the dog back by the docks, where he’d ridden his bike to search for shells. He was midway through digging up what he thought was a conch shell—it turned out to be only a piece of one, which was useless for his purposes—when he’d felt a prickle on the back of his neck. He was being watched. But by who?
He’d looked around the beach and didn’t see any people—and then he spotted the dog, watching him from the mouth of an alley between houses. Joe had kept digging for shells, acting like he didn’t notice, but the whole time he’d felt the dog’s eyes on him. Then, when he’d hopped on his bike and ridden away, the dog had appeared behind his bike, always a block away. Now it was obvious he was being followed.
At first, when the dog had come trotting out after him, Joe had been a little worried he was wild or rabid, especially given how dirty his paws and face were. But the dog’s big, soulful eyes and the way his floppy ears perked up whenever Joe looked back at him made him look friendly.
I wonder if he’s even a he, thought Joe absently. Maybe it’s a girl dog—
He stopped himself right there. Why was he even thinking about it? Mama had enough mouths to feed with him, Pop, and Baby Kathy. She had enough on her mind. There was no way she was setting out an extra plate for some stray, even if that plate was just scraps.
Joe kept pedaling and tried to distract himself from the dog. He took a deep breath of the salty air and savored the evening around him. Even though the harbor was crowded with giant battleships and big industrial equipment, Pearl Harbor had one heck of a sky at sunset, calm blue giving way to blazing pink and burning orange at the water’s edge. The warm breeze tasted like sea salt, the shells in his bike basket gave off a fishy smell that he kind of liked, and in the distance he could hear a seagull crying out. Even though he sometimes missed his family’s old home in Texas, he had to admit that Oahu was pretty magical.
In a place this beautiful, you could close your eyes and forget that there was war brewing abroad—at least, until a B-52 from the American naval base ripped by and made your teeth rattle in your head.
Joe looked out into the sunset and did his best to keep his mind busy . . . but try as he might, he caught himself glancing back over his shoulder.
The dog was still there, looking friendly as ever.
Joe came to a halt, and the dog did the same. He smiled; it was like they both had the same feeling, wanting to get close but wondering if it was a good idea.
Darn it, why was he doing this? He’d have to get rid of the dog eventually. Better nip it in the bud while he had a chance.
“Go on, get!” said Joe, trying to sound mean.
The dog raised his eyebrows and looked over his shoulder before turning back to Joe. He looked like he was saying, Me? Are you talking to me?
“Get out of here!” said Joe, doing his version of Pop’s hard voice, the voice he used when he had to work late or had taken guff from some loudmouth sailor who thought tormenting the mess hall staff was his patriotic duty. “You can’t come home with me! Get going!”
The dog didn’t move—but then Joe heard him laughing!
No, wait, that wasn’t right. Whirling around, Joe locked in on the source of the laughter—two white sailors in blue uniforms, pointing at him while they shared a bag of roasted peanuts. They were young, barely out of high school by the looks of them, but swagge
ring like they thought they were commanding officers. He felt his cheeks burn as he lowered his head and tried to pretend he didn’t notice them.
“Nice try, boy,” said the sailor on the right, a short man with bright eyes and a sharp little smile. “Real tough guy, aren’t you?”
Joe said nothing. Pop had warned him about sailors like this. They’d call you “boy” and tease you just so you’d react and say something mean; then they’d get you in trouble for talking back to a white man.
They’re just bullies who like what little power they get by being born white, Joe told himself, repeating Pop’s words. The worst thing you can do is give them what they want. Then they win.
“Say, kid,” said the other sailor, a tall guy with a big block head, “why’re you messing around with that dock stray anyway?”
“He just started following me home, sir,” said Joe, laying the politeness on thick. Mama and Pop had always told him, even if a sailor is rude, you have to be polite back. Maybe they didn’t deserve it, but it wasn’t worth the trouble.
“Hey, Norman, isn’t that the dog that’s always swimming out by the Tennessee?” said the block-headed one, turning back to his beady-eyed friend.
“Oh yeah,” said Norman, chewing peanuts with his mouth open. “You’re right, Mulvaney, it is! We’ve seen that mutt before. Swims over to some of the guys eating lunch, begs for scraps. You must be attracting him with your stinky basket of shells there.”
The sailors walked over to Joe and peered into his bike basket. Norman sniffed, made a noise in his throat, and dropped his peanut shells into it.
That was it! Joe wheeled his bike back and picked the peanut scraps out of his basket. Before he could remind himself to be polite, he snapped, “This ain’t a garbage can, jerk.”
“Is that right? Sure smells like one,” said Norman, his smile looking very mean all of a sudden. He took another roasted peanut from the bag, cracked it open, dumped the nut into his mouth, and flicked the shell at Joe’s basket with a snicker.
“Whuff!”
All three of them started as the dog appeared between them. Joe hadn’t noticed the dog closing in, but suddenly he was there, facing off against the sailors. The dog didn’t growl or lower his head, but he let out one throaty bark—Whuff—that made Norman freeze in his tracks.
“Careful, Norman,” said Mulvaney.
“Ah, it’s fine, he’s just a tough dog is all,” said Norman. “Guess we know who the skipper of this ship is, huh, boy? Huh? I’m no trouble, boy. Who’s a good boy? You want a peanut?”
“You’re not supposed to give dogs peanuts,” said Joe. “It’s bad for them.”
“Oh yeah, wise guy?” said Norman. “Says who?”
“Says my dad,” said Joe. And just for good measure, he tossed in: “He’s the cook on the West Virginia.”
The name-drop worked—both men looked up at Joe with wide eyes.
“Your dad’s Marcus Dean?” asked Norman.
“That’s right,” said Joe. He relished the glance the two sailors shared. Everyone respected Joe’s dad, and not just for his Italian meat sauce. He was loyal, kind, and tough as nails. Besides, it was one thing to chew out a black serviceman on board a ship, but messing with his son on shore? Joe could tell these sailors knew better.
“Come on, Mulvaney, I’m getting bored,” said Norman, shooting a glare at Joe. “Careful with that dog, boy. You can’t be friends with every stray you meet by the docks.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Joe. As he watched the soldiers stroll off, he suddenly felt less sure of himself. Watching them run away at the mention of his dad was fun, but what if they were stationed on the West Virginia and saw Pop tonight for dinner? What if they mentioned him to Pop and complained that he’d mouthed off?
That’d be some birthday present for Pop, all right, getting chewed out by two angry white sailors coming back from shore leave.
Joe’s worries were interrupted by a cold nose brushing his fingers. He looked down to see the dog nuzzling his hand with a big happy look on his face.
Joe couldn’t stop himself—he pet the dog’s face and gave him a scratch behind one ear. The dog’s tail wagged like crazy.
Joe sighed. He knew Mama would be upset, and Pop probably wouldn’t be all too happy either—but he couldn’t just leave the dog out here. Especially not after he’d stood up for Joe!
“Okay,” he said. “You can come with me. But just for tonight, okay? And you have to be good. No barking or begging.”
The dog sat and stared at him with wide, bright eyes. To Joseph, it looked as if he were standing at attention. He remembered the sailor’s comment earlier, and he laughed.
“At ease, Skipper,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go home and I’ll try to sneak you some dinner.”
Joe got back on his bike and started pedaling. This time Skipper didn’t keep any distance at all between them but ran alongside him with ears flapping in the night air.
Joe smiled down at his new companion. It was just for the night, he told himself, and the dog wouldn’t cause any trouble. Anyway, what could happen in only a day?
Joe rode home with Skipper at his side, not knowing that in the next twenty-four hours, he’d be living in a country at war.
Chapter 2
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1941
7:30 P.M.
Joe ate the last of his peas and stared daggers at the oven.
This was torture!
He didn’t mind peas—heck, he even liked peas. But right now the whole house smelled like cake—the delicious almond cake that Mama was making for Pop’s birthday tomorrow. And here he was, forced to sit at the kitchen table and eat chicken, peas, and grilled pineapple as though he couldn’t smell cake baking.
Joe remembered from school that there was an amendment in the Constitution that outlawed “cruel and unusual punishment.” He wondered if Mama could get arrested for making him eat peas while the house smelled like cake.
Still, he wasn’t so distracted that he forgot his plan. He pulled his napkin down on his lap, preparing for his next move. “Mama, can I have some more chicken, please?”
Mama looked up from where she sat with the baby by the radio. She went to the roasting pan in the kitchen and grabbed her tongs.
“Wing or breast?” she asked.
Joe remembered his grandmother giving chicken to her old Bassett hound Jesse back in Texas. She’d always pick out the bones, said dogs have a habit of choking on them. “Breast, please.”
Mama grabbed him another chicken breast with the tongs and put it on his plate. From her arms, Baby Kathy gave him a little smile, like she somehow knew what he was planning. Joe winked at her, and the smile grew bigger. Good thing she couldn’t talk!
The minute Mama turned away from him, Joe gave the piece of chicken a few jabs with his fork—no bones, perfect—and then moved it from his plate down to his napkin and pretended to be chewing a big mouthful. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but as he watched Mama, he saw that distant look in her eyes, the one she got whenever someone on the radio talked about the war in Europe. She had too much on her own plate to worry about his.
“Everything okay, Mama?” he asked her.
“Hmm? Oh, it’s fine, honey,” she said, shaking her head as if she were trying to shake off the bad thoughts. She bounced the baby in her arms. “Just worried about the war, is all.”
Joe felt his mouth draw down. The pineapple’s aftertaste was suddenly very bitter. “The war” could mean anything. “Nothing’s happened here, right?” he asked. “Pop’s ship isn’t going to the Pacific, is it?”
“No, thank God,” she said. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen any time soon. There’s just more news from Europe. That Hitler’s at it again, trying to invade Russia.”
“How’s he doing?” asked Joe, a little afraid of the answer.
“Apparently, his soldiers got caught in the snow and froze,” said Mama.
“Way to go, idiot,” said Joe.
&nbs
p; “Joseph Dean, you watch your language at the dinner table!” she said. But underneath that reprimand was a laugh she couldn’t help or hide. He smiled, feeling warm inside. These days, making Mama laugh was a victory. It was hard enough, what with everything going on in the world, but with a new baby and a husband who worked long hours on a battleship, she deserved every laugh she got.
Joe felt that warm feeling fade the more he thought about the war. The stories coming from abroad were totally crazy. He’d heard about Hitler, a twisted ruler in Germany who made dramatic speeches and expected people to worship him. Hitler was on the march across Europe now, taking over one country after another and rounding up Jews, black people, and anyone else who didn’t fit his idea of the “master race.”
Pop had told him about that, how Hitler thought there should be a ruling class of tall, blond, blue-eyed white people, and that anyone different than that should be rounded up and taken away by the government. In Hitler’s eyes, Joe and his family were less than human because they were black.
Joe wondered what Hitler would say if he were standing in front of Pop, a hardworking man with a thousand-yard stare that made Joe stay out of trouble before he even thought of getting into it. Joe didn’t think Hitler would give him a speech about how much better he was than Pop. Hitler would be like those white officers earlier today, shaking in his boots and walking away with his head down.
He felt the heat of the chicken through the napkin on his lap and remembered his next move. “May I be excused?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Mama. “But clear and scrape first.” Joe slipped the napkin in his pocket as he stood. He scraped his bones into the garbage, tossed the plate in the sink, and ran outside.
After hopping down his front steps, Joe scanned his narrow street. No sign of anyone coming out of the tiny houses.
Quietly, he headed to the alley between his home and the Leesons’ house and peeked behind the trash cans, next to his bike.
Instantly, Skipper hopped up and put his paws on Joe’s shoulders. Joe tried to say “down,” but instead got a face full of excited licks from the excited dog.
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