“Wind it up,” Lieutenant Kennedy said, a few minutes before half past four the afternoon of August 1.

A rumble filled the air as the first of the trio of Packard engines was started. Down in the engine room, Motor Machinist First Class Gerald Zinser waited for the word to engage the drive.

Behind the helm, Lieutenant Kennedy revved the Packard, then adjusted it back to an idle. Satisfied with the sound, he called down for the drive to be engaged. Then he carefully steered PT-109 away from shore. Slowly the boat made way up the channel. The sun was low in the sky, and the light through the haze cast a pale orange glow over the heights of Rendova Peak.

Seaman Second Class Raymond Albert was on the stem deck. He could see sand crabs scurry from the water’s edge as the noisy PT boat idled past. Overhead a small flock of green parrots flitted past, changing directions in midair before heading across Lumberi to find refuge in the tall palms. The wake angled toward shore and washed against the mangrove roots lining the rim of the water.

Ensign George Ross was a friend of Kennedy’s who had hitched a ride on PT-109 for the night. Formerly the executive officer of PT-166, a vessel sunk by friendly fire on July 20, Ross was without a boat and wanted to take part in the action. Kennedy offered to let him operate the aged thirty-seven-millimeter army antitank gun that PT-109 had been tasked with testing. The gun was crudely lashed with planks onto the foredeck, and Ross was staring at the placement and wondering if it would remain on board after it was fired. There was little Ross could do about it now, so he raised his eyes and stared off the bow.

Fifty yards ahead, several bottlenose dolphins leapt in the air, looking for all the world like a flowing arc of wet gray paint. Staring to port, Ross watched the water a hundred yards ahead boil as a school of baitfish danced across the top of the water. To starboard, Ross thought he caught the glimpse of a shark’s fin piercing the surface, but when he looked more carefully, he could see nothing.

“Ensign Thom,” Kennedy shouted above the noise of the engines.

“Sir,” Thom said, approaching from the stairs leading belowdecks.

“Go below and tell Zinser that engine three feels sluggish.”

“Yes, sir,” Thom said as he went belowdecks.

“Skipper reports number three feels sluggish,” Thom shouted over the din.

Zinser was wiping his hands with a rag. He pointed at a round glass bowl attached to an engine.

“Seems to be okay now,” Zinser said. “There was some gunk in the fuel.”

“I’ll let him know,” Thom said, as he started to leave.

“Mr. Thom?” Zinser said.

Thom turned around and smiled at Zinser. “Yes, Zinser?”

“We’re going to see action tonight, aren’t we?”

The enlisted men respected Thom. One reason was because he was as open and honest with the crew as the rules allowed. “Word is the Express is running. We are going to try to sink a few.”

Zinser nodded. “What’s the chance we get tomorrow night off?”

“Hard to say,” Thom said. “I guess that depends on tonight.

Thom had never spoken truer works, but neither he nor Zinser knew that yet.

Thom went to the helm station and touched Kennedy’s shoulder. “Zinny had some bad fuel.”

“Yeah,” Kennedy said, “she’s smoothed out now.”

Thom stared at the sky. The last flicker of light was washing down the side of the distant peak. In the Solomon Islands, it grows dark quickly. One moment there is waning sunlight, and within half an hour the first stars can be seen. It was as if a switch had been flipped off.

“It’ll be clear tonight, sir,” Thom noted.

“All the better for hunting,” Kennedy said easily.

ON THE JAPANESE destroyer Amagiri, there was a level of tension that came from knowing they were being stalked. Somewhere in the night were the pesky American mosquito boats. The fast plywood attack crafts came quickly and disappeared just as fast. This was a strange and new type of marine warfare. The Japanese sailors were not trained for this. Historical rules dictated that ships fired on other ships when they were in sight. Sneaking and hiding in the dark was a little unnerving.

Truth be told, the PT boats had not caused much damage — their torpedoes were notoriously inaccurate, and to use their deck guns, they needed to be close enough to the ships of the Express to be in harm’s way themselves. Still, they were out there in the blackness, came quickly without warning, and sped away as if on the wings of eagles.

Gunner Hikeo Nisimura adjusted the chin strap on his helmet and stared to port. From his vantage point in the bow gun, he had an unusually broad view of the areas Amagiri steamed past. This evening, the top of the peak on Kolombangara Island was shrouded in clouds. As he watched, the last remnants of the setting sun dropped below the horizon, and the peak began to grow purple from top to bottom, as if a giant had poured on a ladle of plum sauce.

And then, although the temperature was nearly seventy degrees, Nisimura felt a chill.

In Amagiri’s pilothouse, Commander Kohei Hanami stared at the chart, then ordered the speed increased to thirty-five knots. Hanami was both a stem taskmaster and one who believed in rigid schedules. In the holds of his command were 912 soldiers and nearly a hundred tons of supplies that were bound for Munda Airfield, where the Japanese army was fighting a losing battle against the American marines. Amagiri’s part in this plan was to arrive at the base at Vila on Kolombangara Island, off-load the soldiers and supplies, then steam back to her base before daylight.

ENSIGN Ross WALKED back from the bow to the helm. The flotilla was cruising north through Ferguson Passage. To starboard, barely visible in the black of night, was the outline of Vonavona Island. Ross stood for a moment, hands on his hips, and smelled the air. Salt and seawater, mildew and fungus. From over the water on land came the scent of night-blooming jasmine and limes mixing with the musty smell of mangrove roots at low tide. He sniffed again.

A smell of home.

The scent of baked beans wafted through a hatch. Then the smell of meat being fried in lard. Beans and Spam was the order of the night. Ross just hoped the cook had some powdered lemonade to add to their chlorinated water for flavor.

Reaching Kennedy behind the helm, he smiled. “Smells like dinner’s almost ready, Jack.”

Kennedy adjusted his orange kapok life vest. “I can hardly wait, Henry,” he said, smiling.

“I checked out the thirty-seven millimeter,” Ross said. “She’s ready for firing.”

“Mamey’s in the forward turret?” Kennedy asked.

“Yes,” Ross said.

“He’s a good Massachusetts man,” Kennedy said, “from Chicopee.”

“I talked to him,” Ross said. “He mentioned he’s new to your crew.”

“Yes,” Kennedy said. “Starkey, Marney, and Zinser down in the engine room — all new to 109.”

“How do you feel about them?” Ross asked.

“All good men,” Kennedy noted. “Ready to fight.”

“That’s good,” Ross said, “because I have a feeling they’ll soon have a chance.”

Kennedy nodded and stared into the black night. “I do, too, Henry,” he said easily. “I do, too.”

The time was half past 9 P.M.

There were a total of fifteen PT boats on patrol, as the Japanese flotilla consisting of the destroyers Amagiri, Arashi, Hagikaze, and Shigure steamed south. The boats worked in small groups, with PT-109 patrolling with PT-157, PT-159, and PT-162 of Division B.

Radar was a recent addition to the PT boats, and only a few of the vessels had been equipped. The radar sets were finicky, unreliable, and subject to interpretation by the operator. Still, they were better than nothing — and when they did work, they added a margin of safety and success to what were for the most part random search-and-destroy missions.