Days of Infamy by Harry Turtledove

miracle, hadn’t been hit, but stood there in shock, a dreadful amazement frozen on his face.
    â€œCome on,” Jiro told his boys, trying to ignore the stink of the blood that was everywhere on the shattered sampan. “We’ve got to do what we can for them.”
    â€œWhat if that plane comes back?” Kenzo quavered.
    Jiro shrugged fatalistically. “What if it does? It shows you what the haoles think of how American you are, neh? ”
    Neither Kenzo nor Hiroshi had anything to say to that. Gulping, they scrambled onto the other sampan.
    â€œC OME ON ! C OME on!” Lieutenant Yonehara shouted. “Move! Move! Move! You can’t waste a minute! You can’t even waste a second!”
    A great stream of Japanese soldiers emerged from the hold of the Nagata Maru . Once upon a time, during his brief schooling, Corporal Takeo Shimizu had heard something about the circulation of the blood. There were little things inside the blood that swirled through the body over and over again.
    Corpuscles! That was the name. He wouldn’t have bet he could put his finger on it, not after all these years. He felt like a corpuscle himself, one outof so very many. Corpuscles, though, weren’t weighted down with helmets and bayoneted rifles and packs that would sink them like stones if they couldn’t make the journey from the transport to the landing barges coming alongside.
    It was black night, too, which didn’t make things any easier. The Nagata Maru had charged forward all through the day and after darkness came down. The ship and the other transports unloading their cargoes of soldiers and equipment were supposed to be near the north coast of Oahu. Shimizu hoped their captains and navigators knew what they were doing. If they didn’t . . .
    Someone stepped on his foot. That gave him something more urgent than captains and navigators to worry about. “Watch it,” he growled.
    â€œSo sorry,” a soldier said insincerely.
    â€œSo sorry, Corporal ,” Shimizu snapped. The soldier, whoever he was, let out a startled gasp. It was still too dark to recognize faces, and Shimizu hadn’t been able to tell whose voice that was, either.
    The Nagata Maru rolled and pitched in the Pacific swells, rising and falling six or eight feet at a time. Behind Shimizu, somebody noisily lost the supper he’d had the evening before. The sharp stink made the corporal want to puke, too. Again, though, he had other things to worry about. The swells wouldn’t make boarding the barges any easier.
    His platoon commander didn’t seem worried. “This isn’t bad, men,” Lieutenant Yonehara called. “We could board in seas twice this high!”
    â€œOh, yeah? I’d like to see you try it,” said a soldier protected from insubordination by darkness. Another soldier stepped in the new puddle of vomit and cursed monotonously.
    Yonehara’s platoon did keep advancing toward the rail, so Corporal Shimizu supposed other men from the regiment were going down the side of the ship and onto the barges. It was either that or they were all going over the side and drowning. They could have done that back in Japanese waters, if it was what the High Command had in mind. They wouldn’t have needed to come all this way.
    â€œWait!” a sailor called. The tossing didn’t seem to bother him a bit. “Another barge is coming alongside. That’s the one you’ll go into.”
    Corporal Shimizu wondered how he could tell. It was as dark as the inside of a pig. Something hard and cold caught him just above the belly button—the rail. Automatically, his hands reached out to take hold of it. His righthand closed on iron, his left on rope: part of the netting down which he’d scramble when the word came.
    He stood there, hoping the pressure behind him wouldn’t send him over the side before he was supposed to go. Without warning, the sailor