People who never have been in naval combat owe it to those who have to try to understand what it is like. In combat, life or death depends often on some seemingly insignificant coincidence, an act of God, a yet-unknown sense, or just plain luck. This is my story of only one of the hundreds of kamikaze attacks that made life on board U.S. ships a living hell in the final days of World War II, and how a cup of coffee—a cuppa joe, as we all called it—saved my life.
The wartime U.S. Navy ran on coffee; much of it still does. It kept us awake and alert. We were often at general quarters (GQ), expecting to attack the Japanese or be attacked by them, sometimes averaging no more than a few hours' sleep a night for weeks at a time. Fresh coffee usually was made at the beginning of every four-hour watch—at GQ, not even that often. The first man to find the Silex empty would throw in more ground coffee and water. Pressed for time, he was always concerned more with effect than flavor. The coffee got stronger, more bitter, more vile with every hour that passed so that if I had a cup by about six bells, I thought of Socrates drinking the fateful hemlock.
I was a Lieutenant, E(L)-T (electronics technical officer), on the staff of Rear Admiral Arthur D. Struble, U.S. Navy, a remarkable man. He commanded Task Group 78.3 for the amphibious landings at Mindoro in the Philippines, and our flagship was the light cruiser USS Nashville (CL-43). Our task group left San Pedro Bay, Leyte, on Tuesday, 12 December 1944, and steamed at the best speed it could make under the cover of darkness. Kamikaze attacks, which inflicted heavy losses, came only in daytime.
At dawn on the 13th, I showered and put on a freshly laundered uniform. Word had been passed, ordering all hands to do this. The ship's doctor said it would reduce the danger of serious infection if we were wounded. After a quick breakfast, I went to the combat information center (CIC). Even though I was not yet on the watch schedule nor assigned a GQ station, I always went to CIC during general quarters. I needed to show the radar operators a new operating technique. I thought this was probably the only way we would have even the slightest hope of detecting kamikaze airplanes approaching low over terrain. When kamikazes were high and over the sea, we saw them quickly and easily on radar, but a plane coming in very low over land usually could slip by unnoticed, because massive returns from the terrain would obscure its echo. Unfortunately, we often had land masses all around, so timely detection, either by radar operated in the conventional way or by lookouts, was highly improbable.
Frequently, we were unavoidably within one or two miles of land, and at such times a suicide plane could crash on our deck roughly 30 seconds after first becoming visible either to the lookouts or to the radar operators. If the men were distracted, even momentarily, there would be almost no warning at all. Because we could not avoid going through straits and near island groups, we had to accept the risk and the consequences. This, above all, was my greatest concern.
A new experimental search technique using the "A scope" had the capability of increasing the warning time to a few minutes, which might make the difference between life and death. I was demonstrating this procedure when someone told me that the chief of staff wanted to see me up on the flag bridge, on the double.
The panoramic view from that elevated position was something I will never forget. Located above the bridge with no deck over it to obstruct visibility, the flag bridge was high above the sea. Perhaps 30 officers and enlisted men were there, in gun tubs or on lookout platforms nearby.
The day was one of breathtaking splendor. White, cotton-ball clouds dotted a cobalt sky, creating a dazzling contrast. When the sea is deep, it takes on the indigo hue of ink, and the sky that day seemed a more vivid blue than usual. Brilliant sunlight sparkled on a moderate sea, and all around us I saw our immense task group, giving the false illusion of irresistible power and the deceptive impression of invulnerability. On every ship men were scanning the skies with 7 by 50 binoculars, while others sat by their antiaircraft (AA) guns. Our flagship was in a protected position, well inside the destroyer screen.
The beauty of it all hinted that we were on some sort of a pleasure cruise to some tropical paradise. The men in the gun tubs and lookouts on elevated platforms, oblivious to hazard, exchanged high-spirited banter.
Nearby, I noticed the staff communications officer. I liked him. He had come up through the ranks from enlisted man in a rapid series of promotions and had been on one of the battlewagons sunk at Pearl Harbor. He had shown exceptional initiative and bravery under fire. A big, powerful man with impressive presence, he knew his job thoroughly and radiated competence and self-confidence. He was a born leader and a pleasant shipmate; we all liked him—it was impossible not to. Our exchange, as I recall it, went something like this:
"Good morning Mr. Beech, . . . beautiful day isn't it?"
"Yep. Couldn't be nicer. Did the chief of staff send for you?"
"Yes, he did," I replied. "Otherwise, I'd be in the CIC. Ought to be there right now. Don't like it when we're this close to land. Look, we'll soon have that island close abeam to starboard."
"Well, there are plenty of lookouts and gunners; maybe too many. I see not only the regular watch, but also some off-duty men who have come up to bask in the sun and enjoy the view. I don't like to say anything, not being in the ship's company, but there is always the possibility they will distract one another. A lookout alone can concentrate on his job. Two together are apt to talk, argue, and forget why they are there."
"I hadn't thought of it like that, but now that you mention it, I must say I agree. Besides, some are needlessly exposed in case of enemy action. By the way, do you know why the chief of staff wants to see me?"
"I think he is going to assign you to a battle station up here."
"What? Oh, no! My GQ station has always been CIC. The admiral wouldn't want it any other way."
The chief of staff, a Navy captain, came slowly up the last few steps to the flag bridge. When I had met him for the first time, three months earlier, he had seemed quite genial, but the admiral was present then. When the admiral was not around, he became decidedly disagreeable with all junior officers. Toward Admiral Struble, he behaved with sycophantic subservience.
The two of us saluted him, and he returned our salutes with a perfunctory reflex gesture. Then, I remember that he said, "Mr. Riley, I sent for you to give you your GQ station. I want you up here with me on the flag bridge." Even this late in the war, those of us who had been trained as radar technical officers occasionally had serious problems with some of the older officers who had no real knowledge of radar nor faith in it and would not let us do our job. Here was another one. I think that, because these older men did not understand how radar worked, they resented junior officers who did—especially reservists. They went out of their way to underrate its capability. I hoped the enemy was making the same mistake.
"Sir, with all due respect," I said, "I'm the staff radar officer. I was trained in radar and CIC. I wrote the radar annex in the op plan for this operation. I know a new radar search technique that is not yet used on this ship, but there has been no opportunity until now to train the operators. When you sent for me, I was just starting to do that." I spoke fast, expecting to be cut off before I could finish. "I would like to be in the CIC right now doing that. The admiral himself assigned me to that GQ station in all previous operations. May I ask you to reconsider?"
I saw both shock and fury in the chief of staff?s eyes and looked first at him and then at the commander, hoping for some discreet support.
"Mister," the chief of staff replied, "I don't care what you have done in the past. I'm telling you what you are going to do from now on. It is a job that has to be done. It has to, because I say it has to. Is that clear?"
What could I say? After a moment's hesitation, the commander spoke up. I recall what he said: "Lieutenant, sometimes we have to carry out orders that may not make sense to us, but it is not for us to judge whether they do or don't. That is the responsibility of the senior officer." His reply was ingenuous; it held a multiplicity of meaning. He had chosen his words carefully. Couched in terms of utmost respect, he said what I could not have. In his reply was the subtle suggestion that neither he nor I saw the logic of the orders, but if they proved to be a mistake, the chief of staff would bear the full responsibility. He had discreetly planted a seed of doubt.
The chief of staff then hesitated. I hoped he was trying to think of a way to back down without losing face. On a sudden impulse, I said: "Sir, may I suggest that the three of us go down to the wardroom, have a cup of coffee, and discuss this?"
Momentarily undecided, he finally said, gruffly, "No, I'm staying here. You go on if you want to, but right after that I want you back here."
The commander already had taken several steps toward the ladder, but then he looked at me and said, "Well, I guess I?ll stay here, too." What choice did he have? If he had left the chief of staff to go with me, his position would have been all too clear.
I went down the ladder. The wardroom was just below the main deck and forward of the quarterdeck—not far away. Alone there, I found a Silex and poured a hot cuppa joe, asking myself why I was drinking the coffee I disliked so. I had sworn off the stuff six months earlier, but I felt an irresistible urge to have a cup, even if the coffee was bad—and it was. I cannot say I had any sense of impending disaster.
I drank the steaming hot brew as fast as I could get it down without burning my mouth. Just when I put the empty cup on the green baize table cover, an ear-shattering explosion and concussion jarred the ship, causing her to shudder under the impact.
I knew that massive damage had been done. The blast had blown the crystal out of my watch. I was spattered with blood and tiny flakes of flesh that had been blown through the passageways of the ship. But I was unharmed. As I had heard neither gunfire nor a GQ alarm before the explosion, I thought we had been torpedoed. We had not. It was a kamikaze. If we had seen it in time, every AA gun on our ship and on ships near us would have been in action.
Carrying two 63-kilogram bombs, and with nearly full tanks of aviation fuel, the plane, a Zero, had crashed on our port quarterdeck—above me and about 30 yards aft. Numerous rounds of ready box ammunition had been situated near each of our three 5-inch gun batteries that were on both the port and starboard quarterdecks, and more by the twin 40-mm mounts. Most of that ammunition exploded at once, along with the two bombs. These simultaneous explosions riddled bulkheads the length of the ship. Much of the rest exploded while the damage-control detail was trying to extinguish the inferno of burning aviation fuel. Flames spread instantly from foremast to mainmast and leaped as high as the signal bridge. Another roared in the Number 2 fireroom uptakes (third deck), and our ship was marked by billowing black smoke that towered hundreds of feet, making us a likely target for another attack. Quickly, .50-caliber Japanese ammunition from the Zero joined the cacophony of ammunition explosions in the fire.
In an instant, 323 men had been killed outright, mortally wounded, severely burned, or mangled, out of a crew of about 1,100. Four were never found.
When the explosion occurred, I ran aft to mount the ladder to the CIC, just forward of the quarterdeck, but met a wall of flame. The door to the CIC was dogged tightly—the men inside trapped by burning fuel. A human torch, a gasoline-soaked officer or chief petty officer with his left leg blown off at the hip, stood for a moment above me clutching a rail for support, and then pitched head-first down the ladder and lay dead at my feet, flames consuming his entire body. I do not recall that this man screamed in agony. I think he must have, yet I remember only silence. Perhaps I had been temporarily deafened by the blast. Did he kill himself deliberately to end his torment, or did he try to use the leg that was no longer there?
The forward exit from the wardroom was unblocked, and through it I reached the main deck to make my way aft toward the flag bridge where I had been only minutes before. The first thing I saw, coming on deck, was a piece of aircraft marked with the red rising sun of Japan. It had been blown almost to the bow of the ship.
Never will I forget stepping over the headless body of a seaman. Only his neck and right ear remained attached to the corpse. Near him lay the legless body of another. I slipped in pools of blood and stopped once to administer morphine to a dying man, using one of several syrettes I carried for such emergencies. His eyes were burned out and his flesh cooked, hanging from his bones like torn gray rags. Yet he was still conscious—whimpering, suffering, certainly aware of impending death, and perhaps thinking of loved ones he would never see again. I stopped once to take refuge behind a barbette, while burning ammunition continued to discharge. Near the quarterdeck, in the midst of flames that leaped as high as a four-story building, was a dead man on hands and knees—his body in the process of cremation. I recall wondering how he could remain in that improbable position. His hair and clothing had been burned or blasted off. Pressure had built up inside his body, making him look like a fat pig being roasted.
The damage-control detail was already at work, its men hosing down a munitions locker covered with burning fuel. They had taken only two minutes to arrive. I saw gloved men already in the gun tubs with the dead, throwing Bofors ammunition into the sea. It was too hot to touch and might have exploded in their hands, but they had been trained superbly. In emergencies such as this, men do what they have been taught to do and appear to conquer fear completely. The fire was out in 20 minutes. Until then, the ammunition locker could have blown at any instant.
On reaching the flag bridge, I found that everyone who had been there was dead—but not just dead. Some were literally blown to bits. Bulkheads, rails, stanchions—everything—was covered with a scum that minutes before had been muscle, organs, and brain tissue. Blood was everywhere, slippery like oil, its odor salty and nauseating.
I saw that the men in the gun tubs and the lookouts on platforms aloft had all been killed by concussion. Most lay with arms hanging down, and as the ship rolled, their arms all swung in unison like pendulums marking time, but the time they marked was the eternity of death. The limpness of the dead is profoundly distinctive. I knew at a glance that a check for vital signs would be futile.
On the flag bridge, heads, pieces of heads, eyeballs, intestines, severed feet still in shoes, arms, hands, and torsos, slipped and slid in blood that surged like a red tide as the ship rolled slowly this way and that on the beautiful, blue sea.
Above, puffy white clouds drifted silently like cotton balls over the horrific scene.
A Cuppa Joe
For an electronics officer on board the light cruiser Nashville in late 1944, a cup of stale Navy coffee was all that came between him and the grim consequences of a kamikaze attack.
By John Powell Riley Jr. & Artwork by Robert C. Semler