The Twilight Warriors Part 11

Burke shrugged off the question. "No."

"But you have launched before you can possibly be sure of their location."

"We are taking a chance," said Burke. He put his finger on a point on the chart. It was well south of Yamato Yamato's most recent position. "We are launching against the spot where we would be if we were the Yamato." Yamato."

Mitscher, for his part, seemed to have no doubts. He had gotten over his misgivings about having a destroyer sailor as his chief of staff. In fact, he'd become sufficiently impressed with Burke that he tried to have him promoted to rear admiral. Burke resisted, not wanting to be promoted over the heads of many senior captains, and settled for the rank of commodore, a wartime quasi-flag status with a one-star insignia.

Now that they had played their hand, it was time to open up with Spruance. But the Bald Eagle could still be disingenuous. He told Burke, "Inform Admiral Spruance that I propose to strike the Yamato Yamato sortie group at 1200 unless otherwise directed." sortie group at 1200 unless otherwise directed."

Unless otherwise directed. The words hung in the air while Mitscher, still feeling out of sorts, slumped in his padded chair. Fixed in his memory was the night during the Battle of the Philippine Sea when he had proposed to Spruance that his task force race toward the enemy carrier fleet in order to be in position for a dawn strike. After an agonizing delay, the cautious Spruance had denied Mitscher's request to attack.

Now Mitscher worried that Spruance might again hold back. It would take two hours for the strike groups to reach Yamato Yamato. If Spruance countermanded the air strike order, it would be at best a huge embarra.s.sment for Mitscher. At worst it could be the end of his command.

The minutes ticked past without a reply. As noon approached, it began to make less and less sense to recall the warplanes. In any case, no gasoline would be saved and the bombs would have to be dumped, if not on the enemy, then into the sea.

Then came a relayed report from the search planes. The Yamato Yamato task force had been sighted. Burke's hunch was correct. The first wave of warplanes was about to engage the enemy task force. task force had been sighted. Burke's hunch was correct. The first wave of warplanes was about to engage the enemy task force.

Mitscher still hadn't heard from Spruance. He sent a follow-up message: "Will you take them or shall I?"

More minutes ticked away. Then Mitscher received the reply he had been praying for. It was probably the shortest operational order of the war: "You take them."

20

FIRST WAVE FIRST WAVE USS INTREPID INTREPID WESTERN PACIFIC, 120 MILES SOUTHEAST OF MAMI Os.h.i.+MA SOUTHEAST OF MAMI Os.h.i.+MA

APRIL 7, 1945

Erickson wondered what the h.e.l.l was going on. It was 1030, and he had just been rattled out of his bunk. He'd been the duty officer for the 0600 launch. He was catching up on lost sleep when the squawk box in the Boys' Town bunkroom blared, "Ensign Erickson, report to the ready room."

He threaded his way through pa.s.sageways and knee-knockers, across the hangar deck, and up the ladder to the ready room. He could sense the excitement in the smoke-filled compartment. Flight leaders were already briefing their pilots. Erickson had been yanked out of his bunk because they needed every available pilot. His buddy from flight training, Bill Ecker, had injured his hand and couldn't fly. Erickson was going in his place.

He wasn't flying with Hyland that day. The CAG was already airborne on another strike, and VBF-10 skipper Will Rawie was leading the mission. It was a ma.s.sive strike, with planes from almost every carrier in the task force. Intrepid Intrepid's air group would be joined by planes from Yorktown Yorktown and and Langley Langley, with Rawie leading the combined strike group.

They were going after something big. It was called the Yamato Yamato, and it was headed for Okinawa.

Erickson, now wide awake, pulled on his gear and headed for the flight deck. When he found his Corsair in the middle of the deck, he had to stop and stare. The fighter had a thousand-pound bomb fastened to its belly. So did all the others. Erickson had never dropped a bomb of this size before.

The plane captain, a chatty New Yorker named Felix Novelli, helped him strap in. Before he climbed down from the wing, Novelli handed Erickson a canteen of water and a chocolate bar. Plane captains didn't normally pa.s.s out candy bars, but today was special. It was Novelli's twentieth birthday, the plane captain told him. He wanted Erickson to sink the Yamato Yamato as a present for him. as a present for him.

Up and down the flight deck, clouds of gray smoke belched from exhaust stacks. Propellers kicked over. Big radial engines were chuffing to life, all resonating in a staccato growl.

The fighters at the front of the pack were already throttling up, following the deck officer's signals. The s.h.i.+p was steaming into a stiff northeasterly wind. Most of the fighters would be making deck launches-rolling down the deck under their own power-instead of catapulting.

Things were happening quickly. The deck officer was poised in front of the starboard wing, whirling his flag over his head. Erickson eased the throttle up. The deck officer swung his flag forward, pointing down the deck, and Erickson released the brakes. He shoved in the right rudder to counter the torque of the engine as he pushed the throttle to full power. The roar of the 2,000-horsepower Pratt & Whitney filled the c.o.c.kpit, resonating through the airframe. The Corsair lumbered down the deck, its tail coming up as it gained speed, lifting off the bow and clawing its way into the sky.

Erickson joined the gaggle of dark blue warplanes circling beneath the clouds. His four-plane division was led by Lt. (jg) Wes Hays, a chuckling, round-faced Texan. The number two and three slots were filled by two more ensigns, Jim Hollister and Russ Carlisi. Erickson slid into his accustomed number four Tail End Charlie position.

When the strike force was a.s.sembled, "Red One"-Rawie's call sign-headed them to the northwest. Weaving through the ragged bottoms of the cloud layer, they crossed the Ryukyu island chain just south of the island called Amami Os.h.i.+ma.

Peering into the clouded skies, the spotters dutifully counted the planes. Never had they seen so many American warplanes in a single day. This was the third wave to pa.s.s over Amami Os.h.i.+ma in the past hour.

By noon the report had arrived on the bridge of the battles.h.i.+p Yamato: Yamato: more than 250 American enemy airplanes had pa.s.sed over Amami Os.h.i.+ma, all heading north. It appeared to be a ma.s.sive air strike. more than 250 American enemy airplanes had pa.s.sed over Amami Os.h.i.+ma, all heading north. It appeared to be a ma.s.sive air strike.

Seated in his commander's chair on the starboard wing of the flag bridge, Admiral Ito acknowledged the report with a silent nod. Since early that morning when they'd begun the southward dash for Okinawa, Ito had said almost nothing. He sat in his chair, arms folded, more an overseer than a director. Most of the tactical decisions he was leaving to Rear Admiral Ariga, captain of the Yamato Yamato.

Twenty minutes later, hovering over the screen of his air search radar, Ens. Mitsuru Yos.h.i.+da saw them coming. They first appeared in the scope as three large blobs, one for each formation. Gradually the blobs dissolved into groups, then flights, then individual airplanes.

From the bridge came a flurry of orders. Each s.h.i.+p in the task force increased its speed to 25 knots. The entire formation swung together to an easterly heading. Every gun station was on alert.

The waiting was over, and so was the guessing. They knew the form the battle would take. Yamato Yamato would be fighting a sea-air engagement, not a surface action against other s.h.i.+ps. The lookouts would focus on the incoming bearing of the enemy planes. would be fighting a sea-air engagement, not a surface action against other s.h.i.+ps. The lookouts would focus on the incoming bearing of the enemy planes.

As if on signal a veil of light rain appeared, descending like a curtain from the clouds to the sea. It gave Yos.h.i.+da a bad feeling. In weather like this, airplanes were harder to see than battles.h.i.+ps.

As usual, no one in Spruance's flag plot aboard New Mexico New Mexico could read the admiral's emotions. The Fifth Fleet commander was wearing his standard blank expression. Given the circ.u.mstances, he could rightly feel a mixture of disappointment and elation. One way or another, his forces were about to engage the j.a.panese task force. could read the admiral's emotions. The Fifth Fleet commander was wearing his standard blank expression. Given the circ.u.mstances, he could rightly feel a mixture of disappointment and elation. One way or another, his forces were about to engage the j.a.panese task force.

Spruance, being Spruance, was taking nothing for granted. Maybe Mitscher's warbirds would destroy the Yamato Yamato task force. Maybe not. In any case, he had no intention of countermanding Deyo's orders. If by some fluke of war the j.a.panese eluded Mitscher's planes, Deyo's battlewagons, cruisers, and tin cans would be the last line of defense between task force. Maybe not. In any case, he had no intention of countermanding Deyo's orders. If by some fluke of war the j.a.panese eluded Mitscher's planes, Deyo's battlewagons, cruisers, and tin cans would be the last line of defense between Yamato Yamato and the beaches at Okinawa. and the beaches at Okinawa.

Spruance's own flags.h.i.+p, New Mexico New Mexico, was now attached to Deyo's battle line. If there was the slightest chance of a historic shoot-out between battles.h.i.+ps, the Fifth Fleet commander was going to be there.

Aboard his own flags.h.i.+p Tennessee Tennessee, Admiral Deyo and his staff were still working up the battle plan. That morning they had steamed out of the roadstead at Kerama Retto to rendezvous with the other s.h.i.+ps of the task force. Idaho Idaho was leading a battles.h.i.+p division that included Spruance's was leading a battles.h.i.+p division that included Spruance's New Mexico New Mexico and Deyo's and Deyo's Tennes Tennessee. The second battles.h.i.+p division would comprise West Virginia, Maryland West Virginia, Maryland, and Colorado Colorado. Their flanks were guarded by seven cruisers and ten destroyers.

Rear Adm. Mort Deyo, age fifty-seven, was a wiry, bushy-browed battles.h.i.+p sailor who had fought in both the Atlantic and Pacific. He had escorted convoys in the prewar days, then delivered naval gunfire at Utah Beach in the Normandy landings and again in the invasion of southern France. Like Spruance, Deyo could still dream. He clung to the vision of a last cla.s.sic surface battle with the j.a.panese.

Deyo had just received a cheery send-off from his immediate boss, Vice Adm. Kelly Turner: "We hope you will bring back a nice fish for breakfast." Deyo was in the act of scribbling his reply, "Many thanks, will try to..." when he was interrupted by an incoming report. Mitscher's planes had just found the j.a.panese fleet.

Deyo tried to swallow his disappointment. He finished the message with, "... if the pelicans haven't caught them all." Mort Deyo had been around the Navy long enough to know that some things never changed: given the chance, the d.a.m.ned airedales would steal all the glory.

Pelicans or not, Deyo was sticking to his orders. He was taking his battlewagons north. If nothing else, he was going to earn for himself a footnote in military history. Morton Deyo would be the last naval commander in World War II-perhaps in history-to form a battle line against an enemy fleet.

It was supposed to be a coordinated strike, with Task Force 58's carrier task groups supporting each other. The tactic had been used and refined since the first air battles of the South Pacific. In successive waves, strike groups from each carrier would bore down on the j.a.panese task force. The fighters were supposed to go first, strafing, rocketing, dropping their light ordnance, distracting the enemy gunners while the SB2C h.e.l.ldivers plunged almost straight down with their heavy bombs. They would be closely followed by the Torp.e.c.k.e.rs-TBM Avenger torpedo planes-which needed all the distraction and diversion they could get when they made their dangerous low-alt.i.tude runs straight at the enemy s.h.i.+ps.

At least, that was the plan.

The plan wasn't working that day. There was nothing coordinated about the frenzied, disjointed air strike on the Yamato Yamato force. Each carrier had launched its strike force without waiting for any other. Each strike leader was trying his best to be the first to hit the target. force. Each carrier had launched its strike force without waiting for any other. Each strike leader was trying his best to be the first to hit the target.

The first to find the task force were the planes of Task Group 58.1, from the carriers San Jacinto, Bennington, Hornet San Jacinto, Bennington, Hornet, and Belleau Wood Belleau Wood. Right behind them came the strike group from Task Group 58.3, the carriers Ess.e.x, Bunker Hill, Bataan Ess.e.x, Bunker Hill, Bataan, and Cabot Cabot.

Missing from the task group's complement were the planes from Hanc.o.c.k Hanc.o.c.k, which had gotten a late start, taking off behind the others. Now Hanc.o.c.k Hanc.o.c.k's group was wandering in a fruitless search, trying to locate the j.a.panese task force.

At 1045, nearly an hour after the first warplanes had launched, another 106 planes of Rear Adm. Arthur Radford's Task Group 58.4 launched from Intrepid, Yorktown Intrepid, Yorktown, and Langley Langley, all led by Lt. Cmdr. Will Rawie.

As each flight of warplanes arrived over the target, they had to jockey for position in the narrow band of sky between the ocean and the lowest deck of clouds at about 1,500 feet. The risk of a midair collision was almost as great as the chance of being hit by the enemy gunners.

The SB2C h.e.l.ldivers were plummeting down through whatever hole they could find in the overcast, sometimes having to share the hole with other airplanes. Some of the dive-bomber pilots lost sight of their targets in the clouds, then had to make frantic corrections as they broke clear and respotted their target.

Radio discipline had gone to h.e.l.l. The tactical radio frequency was a bedlam of excited chatter, pilots yelling out target locations, calling bomb hits, reporting planes going down.

The j.a.panese s.h.i.+ps were zigzagging across the water like rabbits evading hounds. The destroyers, more nimble than the big cruiser Yahagi Yahagi and the dreadnought and the dreadnought Yamato Yamato, were the hardest to hit. They were also the most vulnerable, sinking quickly when they took a bomb or torpedo.

Hamakaze went down within minutes of the first attack. Two more destroyers were trailing black smoke, moving at only half speed. They were maneuvering in a counterclockwise screening circle around went down within minutes of the first attack. Two more destroyers were trailing black smoke, moving at only half speed. They were maneuvering in a counterclockwise screening circle around Yamato Yamato, adding their guns to the collective antiaircraft fire.

For most of the pilots, it was their first look at the san s.h.i.+ki san s.h.i.+ki "Beehive" sh.e.l.ls fired from the ma.s.sive 18.1-inch guns. The sh.e.l.ls were monsters, each weighing as much as an automobile and filled with incendiary tubes that burst in a cone toward incoming airplanes. The "Beehive" sh.e.l.ls fired from the ma.s.sive 18.1-inch guns. The sh.e.l.ls were monsters, each weighing as much as an automobile and filled with incendiary tubes that burst in a cone toward incoming airplanes. The san s.h.i.+ki san s.h.i.+ki looked like a Fourth of July fireworks display, spewing out tendrils of phosphorus and dark shards of lead and shrapnel. looked like a Fourth of July fireworks display, spewing out tendrils of phosphorus and dark shards of lead and shrapnel.

The pilots noticed something else peculiar. The antiaircraft fire was exploding in multiple colors. It was another j.a.panese tactic they'd heard about but not seen-each s.h.i.+p's gunfire a separate color to a.s.sist the gun directors in spotting their fire.

But the san s.h.i.+ki san s.h.i.+ki and the colored gunfire were a good sign. It meant the j.a.panese guns were probably not radar-directed. They were using visual aiming and ranging-and doing a bad job of it. Though they were putting up a storm of anti-aircraft fire, the gunners were missing with great consistency. A few unlucky warplanes had taken hits, but most were eluding the gunfire. and the colored gunfire were a good sign. It meant the j.a.panese guns were probably not radar-directed. They were using visual aiming and ranging-and doing a bad job of it. Though they were putting up a storm of anti-aircraft fire, the gunners were missing with great consistency. A few unlucky warplanes had taken hits, but most were eluding the gunfire.

The best news was the absence of enemy fighters. It was almost too good to be true. For some unfathomable reason, the j.a.panese had deployed the task force with no air cover from the air bases on Kyushu. The Americans could concentrate on hitting the targets without constantly checking their six o'clock for enemy fighters.

It was Mitsuru Yos.h.i.+da's first good look at enemy airplanes. There were at least a hundred of them, separating into groups of dive-bombers, torpedo planes, and fighters. They were taking their time, each group maneuvering into a different quadrant. While Yos.h.i.+da peered upward, what looked to him like an entire squadron of airplanes emerged from a hole in the clouds. One after the other they peeled off in a dive.

Most were headed for Yamato Yamato.

"Commence firing!" The order came from Yamato Yamato's captain, Rear Admiral Ariga, in the tower-top command post. In the next instant, twenty-four antiaircraft guns and 120 machine guns opened fire. Thunder reverberated through the steel decks of the battles.h.i.+p. From across the water came the echoing gunfire of the screening s.h.i.+ps. The gloomy sky turned crimson with the explosions of a thousand sh.e.l.ls. The h.e.l.lish concussion of antiaircraft fire, roaring engines, and rattling machine guns beat like a hammer on the flesh of every man aboard the s.h.i.+ps.

Yos.h.i.+da felt himself filled with a mix of terror and exhilaration. Tingling with excitement, he gritted his teeth and broke into an involuntary grin.

The long, gray shape of the battles.h.i.+p swelled in Lt. (jg) Bill Delaney's winds.h.i.+eld. He could see the lines of the tracers arcing upward. Puffs of flak were bursting on either side of him. The airframe of the Avenger torpedo plane was rocking from the concussion of the gunfire.

Delaney was in the strike group from Belleau Wood Belleau Wood, the first to arrive over the enemy task force. He'd become separated in the clouds from the other Avengers, and now he was on his own. While circling in the broken overcast, he'd spotted something through a break in the clouds. It was the big prize-the battles.h.i.+p Yamato Yamato. With more zeal than sense, Delaney rolled into a solo attack on the world's most heavily armed wars.h.i.+p.

Too late, the thought struck him that it was a bad idea. Even when escorted by fighters and accompanied by other warplanes, the Avenger made a vulnerable dive-bomber. Designed as a torpedo plane, it was slow, even in a dive, and its fat shape made it a juicy target for s.h.i.+pboard gunners.

But Delaney was committed. Struggling to keep his gun sight pipper on the target, he released his bombs. He pulled out, skimming low over the bristling guns of the Yamato Yamato. Over his shoulder he glimpsed his bombs exploding in an impressive but harmless geyser off Yamato Yamato's beam.

So far he'd been lucky. The j.a.panese gunners all missed him in his dive-bombing run. They kept missing as he bottomed out in his dive. As he was exiting the scene at low alt.i.tude and 250 knots, they stopped missing.

He sensed the tracers converging on him. He felt something hit the belly of the Avenger like a hammer blow. He felt it again, and this time he saw his starboard wing tip disintegrate. The fuel tank in the right wing burst into flame. Seconds later the c.o.c.kpit was filled with smoke.

The flames were spreading. Delaney pulled the nose up, trading airspeed for alt.i.tude. He yelled at his two crewmen, radio operator William Tilley and gunner Ed Mawhinney, to bail out.

The right sleeve of Delaney's flight suit was on fire, and he could feel something burning under his seat. Over his shoulder he saw Tilley and Mawhinney fling the aft c.o.c.kpit canopy open. Seconds later, they were gone.

Delaney clambered out onto the port wing, faced aft, and dove off. His parachute canopy opened, and on his way to the water he caught sight of Tilley and Mawhinney descending in their chutes. Seconds later, Delaney was in the water, freeing himself from the entangling shroud lines and inflating his raft.

He realized he was close-too close-to the j.a.panese wars.h.i.+ps. When they spotted the bright yellow raft, they'd use it for target practice. To h.e.l.l with the raft.

Bobbing in the freezing water, Delaney tried to get his bearings. Tilley and Mawhinney were nowhere in sight. He could hear gunfire, explosions, and the sound of airplanes. Even though he was out of the battle, Delaney knew one thing for sure: he was going to have one h.e.l.l of a view.

Mitsuru Yos.h.i.+da smelled blood. It was a peculiar smell, mixed with the heavy odor of gunpowder. Then came a sound, distinct from the overwhelming din of battle, an out-of-place smack. He realized that it was the sound of a skull hitting the bulkhead. The sailor next to him on the bridge had just been killed by a hunk of shrapnel.

Bombs and machine gun bullets were raining down on Yamato Yamato. Her thick armor plate was resisting most of the bombs, but shrapnel and bullets were mowing the deck crew down like a scythe. In one deafening explosion, a bomb from a h.e.l.ldiver wiped out a 5-inch gun turret, shredding the bodies of all the gunners. Another bomb exploded into the radar room, killing everyone inside.

In his command post atop the bridge tower, Yamato Yamato's captain, Rear Admiral Ariga, was standing out in the open barking commands. The navigation officer occupied Ariga's seat, coordinating the battles.h.i.+p's wild evasive turning and veering. At the helmsman's post in the wheelhouse, the chief quartermaster was spinning the small spoked wheel that sent electrical steering signals to Yamato Yamato's ma.s.sive hydraulic-powered rudder.

The dive-bombers were the hardest to defend against because they were attacking from almost straight overhead. The gunners were having trouble tracking them until they'd already released their bombs and were pulling out of their dives.

The fighters were attacking in shallow dives, mostly dropping lighter bombs, but their machine guns were raking the s.h.i.+p with deadly precision. Anyone caught on the exposed weather deck was turned into mincemeat.

The worst place to be was at the 25-millimeter machine gun mounts. By the second wave of air attacks, almost none of the original gunners was still alive. Replacements rushed to take their place, only to be killed themselves. Shattered bodies and hunks of scorched flesh littered the deck.

Ariga was peering into the sky, trying to judge the flight of the tiny wobbling objects hurtling toward him, yelling commands to the helmsman. He was able to evade many of the bombs, but not all. With terrible frequency they were cras.h.i.+ng down on Yamato Yamato's deck. Even more were exploding in the water close enough to buckle bulkheads and shear rivets, opening up compartments to flooding.

The battles.h.i.+p's gunnery officers were cursing the miserable results of their antiaircraft fire. Communications had been shattered early in the battle, ending all coordination of the air defense guns. Each gun director was picking his own targets, firing independently. Like most technical skills in the Imperial j.a.panese Navy, s.h.i.+pboard gunnery had fallen victim to poor training and backward technology. For the overwhelmed gunners, shooting at the swarming American warplanes was like trying to catch hornets with their bare hands.

Yamato's nine 18.1-inch main guns, designed for surface warfare, were ill-suited as air defense weapons. They were mounted in three turrets, and each took an interminable 40 seconds to reload between firings. Even though the gunners were firing the vaunted san s.h.i.+ki san s.h.i.+ki antiaircraft sh.e.l.ls, the projectiles were exploding like harmless fireworks, hitting almost nothing. Even the secondary guns-the half-dozen 6-inchers and twenty-four 5-inch guns-were designed primarily to be used against other s.h.i.+ps. antiaircraft sh.e.l.ls, the projectiles were exploding like harmless fireworks, hitting almost nothing. Even the secondary guns-the half-dozen 6-inchers and twenty-four 5-inch guns-were designed primarily to be used against other s.h.i.+ps.

Yamato's most potent antiaircraft weapons were the two dozen 5-inch guns and her 150 machine guns. The machine guns could be deflected to fire straight up. Most of the machine guns fired at a rate of 220 rounds per minute, but some up on the tower bridge could fire at twice that rate. The trouble was, the machine gun crews were being mowed down as quickly as they could be replaced.

The worst was yet to come. Off Yamato Yamato's port beam appeared the torpedo planes, looking dark and ominous in the gray murk. The Avengers were jinking to throw off the gunners but continuing straight through the hail of fire. Yamato Yamato's gun directors were firing the big 18.1-inch guns directly into the water ahead of the oncoming warplanes, trying to throw up a wall of shrapnel-filled water. It didn't stop them.

As the Avengers bored in closer, the smaller guns on Yamato Yamato joined in the collective defense. One of the torpedo planes took a hit in the wing, pulled up in flames, then plunged into the sea. joined in the collective defense. One of the torpedo planes took a hit in the wing, pulled up in flames, then plunged into the sea.

The others kept coming. Torpedoes began dropping from the bellies. The gray shapes slashed through the water on converging courses toward Yamato Yamato.

Yamato's captain ordered a violent turn toward the incoming torpedoes, trying to "comb the wakes"-paralleling their path and steering between them. As Ariga barked the orders, two junior officers on the bridge plotted the tracks of the incoming torpedoes on a maneuvering board.

It worked, almost. The first bubbling white wake streaked past Yamato Yamato's sides. Then another. It seemed that Ariga's luck was holding. Another pa.s.sed close abeam.

Then one slammed into Yamato Yamato's port bow. The impact knocked Captain Nomura, the executive officer, to the deck. Staggering back to his feet, Nomura, who also had the job of chief damage control officer, called for flooding reports. Yamato Yamato was still making 27 knots, he was told, and she wasn't listing. was still making 27 knots, he was told, and she wasn't listing.

Two more bombs exploded on the deck near the aft gunnery control tower. The explosions caused heavy casualties but didn't penetrate to a vital place belowdecks. Yamato Yamato was damaged but still fighting. The first wave of attackers seemed to be withdrawing, leaving was damaged but still fighting. The first wave of attackers seemed to be withdrawing, leaving Yamato Yamato's crew to wonder when the next was coming.

They didn't have long to wonder. The next wave was almost there.

21