I'll never forget the meeting. It was the first week in December 1944, and I was an ensign on board the USS Charles Ausburne (DD-570). Commander H. W. Baker, commanding officer of the Fletcher-class destroyer, had called all the officers to the wardroom. He started off by announcing that the U.S. invasion of Mindoro, one of the Philippine Islands, was to take place on about 15 December. He then explained that the Ausburne would not be involved in the assault landings but would probably be called on to convoy the first resupply echelon a few days later. "There will be more excitement on this trip," he predicted, "than there will be in the landings."
The skipper then proceeded to explain the whole phase of the operation and describe our task in the subsequent Luzon landings, which were originally set for 20 December. As it turned out, that operation was postponed until 9 January 1945 to permit more air cover to be used in the attack phase, and on the 20th we were escorting a resupply convoy from Leyte Gulf's San Pedro Bay to Mindoro.
The next day, 21 December, was devilishly hot, the blue sky dotted here and there with white, fleecy clouds. Flying fish by the millions scattered in every direction as the bow of our tin can cleanly knifed through the crystal waters. Our trip through the dangerous Surigao Strait—that death trap where a goodly portion of the Japanese fleet lay, sunk several months earlier during the Battle of Leyte Gulf—had been uneventful, primarily because we had come through in the blackness of night.
Admiral Holloway's retelling of events at the Battle of Surigao Strait
in the Naval Institute's Americans at War Series
Naturally, we feared most of all attack from the skies. In a ship, you have just so much protection from planes. There are no foxholes once you board the steel decks of any one of Uncle Sam's seagoing units. Though your speed may at times exceed 35 knots, that alone is not enough to escape a 1,000-pound bomb hurtling down on you.
In addition to the ordinary weapons carried by bombers, we had to contend with diving aircraft piloted by exalted members of Japan's Kamikaze Corps. Nicknamed by us "air rammers," they had been spreading destruction galore, and where hits weren't scored, the nerve-wracking ordeal of a session spent with them was a bit more than the ordinary Sailor would bargain for.
The whole darn trip, begun just two days earlier, had been one dash to general quarters after another. On this day, I'd managed to keep track of the alarms up to and including number nine. After that—and the ninth occurred at about 1400—I gave up in disgust. Excitement? Sure, but the "cry of wolf" had gone up so often that we'd all come to the confident conclusion that we would really see no action.
Thus it was at 1630 the alarm sounded again, only this time bells rang, too. That meant but one thing: It was the real thing. My battle station was close to the radio shack, but like every other darn fool who had just a standby station, I was out on the superstructure deck just under the signal bridge, where I could watch the entire panorama unfold. For 15 or 20 minutes there was no activity. I was busy dashing from one side of the deck to the other, into the radio shack to see if anything was coming over the circuits, back again on deck hoping I had missed nothing.
Wham! A puff of black smoke broke far overhead. The farthest ship in the screen had begun to fire on the attacking planes, which were coming within range. And now the tracers began to pour from every gun on every ship in the convoy. As horrible as war is, there is something downright thrilling in a display of tracer shells as they split the sky, illuminating it with so many thousand streaks of flame.
The fire concentrated on one particular plane, and everyone on board could see it was definitely in trouble. How he managed to stay aloft as long as he did I'll never know, but a few seconds later a burst was followed by a trail of smoke that funneled into the sky as he tried to evade the terrific flak being thrown at him. But then began his earthward plunge of death. Down and down he came until he crashed into the water with a tremendous explosion. A shout went up from the foot of the ladder. Repair Party One was so happy it looked like a cheering section at a ballgame.
I made a dash into the radio shack to try to get some information from one of the boys manning a voice circuit as to how many planes were believed to be in the attacking force. According to what he could overhear, 20 had been sighted, and possibly more were moving in. For air cover—combat air patrol, as it's called—we had three P-38 Lightnings, hopefully.
As quickly as word passed that a large attacking force was moving in, you could see the situation tighten. The men didn't say much. They bit their lips and stared at the sky. I couldn't stay in one place. I paced from one side of the superstructure deck to the other. It was useless to try to work. The concussion from the 5-inch gun outside the shack was so terrific it made typing impossible. The din from the antiaircraft fire fairly rocked the entire ship.
Having previously weathered air attacks too numerous to count in the North African and European theaters, I figured this one could not be far worse. Frankly, I never had quite the respect for the Japanese as warriors that I had had for the Germans.
Act Two of this thrilling drama was due to unfold at any moment, and I didn't intend to miss a moment of the performance. Suddenly, the curtain went up. Three Japanese planes came streaking across the sky with the three P-38s hot on their tail. As the Japanese planes, which I believe were Zekes, roared overhead with our fighters trailing them, it reminded me of a basketball game during which your opponent suddenly intercepts your pass, dribbles past your defense, and dashes down the floor, while you hotly pursue him, hoping he'll miss the sure "snowbird." This time it was not a game. The stakes were costly, and instead of one opponent, there were three hell-bent on scoring at all cost.
Bursts of 5-inch shells and thousands of 20-mm, 40-mm, and .50-caliber antiaircraft rounds ripped across the sky. Down and down one of the enemy planes plunged, and then there was a tremendous explosion as it crashed onto its target—a landing ship, tank, LST-460. Great plumes of orange and black smoke belched forth from the deck of the wounded ship. The entire vessel seemed enveloped in a mass of fiery death.
Standing next to me was one of the radiomen, a standby at the time. He suddenly shouted, "He's diving," and pointed to the second plane in the formation. Down he came, and once more huge columns of smoke gushed forth from another ship, LST-749, that was hit. Great columns of black smoke seemed to pour hundreds of feet into the air.
And now the third plane went into his dive, struck his target—the Liberty ship Juan de Fuca—a glancing blow, and plowed into the sea. The fire on board this ship was quickly extinguished, but veritable infernos engulfed the other two victims of the suicides.
LST-460 was now listing badly, and it soon became apparent that in a matter of minutes she would need to be abandoned. Through field glasses we could see men jumping into the sea. One of the destroyers that had come alongside to effect a rescue put one of her men over the side with a line tied around him. He swam about helping the suffering men onto life rafts, which were being tossed over the side of the ship. If there was ever a chap who should have been decorated, it was him. It soon became necessary for his ship to cut the line on him when she was suddenly brought under attack. Fortunately, another ship picked up her swimmer within 15 minutes.
A thousand yards off our port beam, meanwhile, another Japanese plane had started a run on one of our destroyers. The tactics of this plane were somewhat different, though. Instead of coming down in a vertical dive, he was approaching in a long, low glide. Every gun on the destroyer was trained on the target, and the sky in the vicinity of the plane was just one blazing sheet of steel. Wham! One of the 5-inch guns scored a direct hit, and the plane simply disintegrated in midair. I dare say pieces of it were scattered for miles around.
Directly overhead were two other planes. One was bearing on the ship directly behind us in a power dive, but the guns soon found their target and the plane started trailing smoke, burst into flames, and finally fell into the sea nearby.
And then somebody yelled that a dogfight was going on high off our starboard quarter. A P-38 was dueling another Japanese flier and seemingly getting the better of him, for the enemy plane was weaving crazily and suddenly started a seaward spiral. Like a flaming comet, it crashed into the ocean. Before the attack ceased, two more planes fell to antiaircraft fire and two more to the fighters overhead.
Our ship never did sound the all clear; we just remained at general quarters. When she was the flagship of Commodore Arleigh Burke's "Little Beavers" (Destroyer Squadron 23) during the Solomons campaign, the Ausburne once stayed at general quarters for 56 consecutive hours. Having participated in 38 separate engagements, she was certainly a veteran of nearly every conceivable type of naval warfare.
At precisely 1940, Mix—that is, Lieutenant (junior grade) N. Mixson of Charleston, South Carolina, our communications officer—came by the radio shack and called me outside. He motioned me to follow him. Looking tired and seemingly worried, he turned and asked where my lifejacket was. "In my locker," I replied. He snapped: "That's a helluva place for it. Go and get it." I took one look at the dogged hatches and complained that they had watertight integrity down there and I didn't feel like undoing all those doors. "Suit yourself," was his reply.
When I continued to press him for information, he replied: "This looks like it. There are 30 planes coming in on us, and we don't have a sign of air cover."
I gave him a worried look, started toward the ladder topside, and told him I was headed back to the radio shack. Instead, Mix suggested we go in the CIC (combat information center) and listen to the TBS (talk between ships circuit). I agreed, but so many people were already in there that there was scarcely room enough for two more.
Instead, we went back to the wardroom. The only light showing was a red battle lamp from the overhead. With us were the doctor, a pharmacist's mate, and a couple of radiomen acting as messengers. I drank one cup of black coffee after another. No one said a word. The executive officer came out of CIC and snatched a quick cup of java, saying nothing. Not one of us dared ask him a word for fear that the answer could be more discomforting than the anxiety under which we labored. Thirty planes, I kept telling myself. And to think, ever since June 1942 I'd time and time again asked for sea duty. I'd secured my wish and a bit more than I originally bargained for. That much I was willing to admit.
Eventually, the supply officer trailed into the wardroom. His GQ station didn't particularly worry him. In fact nothing worried him, or so it seemed. As he came in, I had to laugh. He was wearing a battle helmet, a Mae West vest, a kapok preserver, a couple of knives, a flashlight, and a whistle, which was strung around his neck on a lanyard. He didn't think it was very funny. Really nothing was very ludicrous then, but I couldn't help wondering if some of the junk that some fellows considered important at a time like this might not be their undoing. How could any poor devil swim with that junk around his neck?
A few minutes later, one of the officers on watch in CIC stuck his head out of the door and yelled that the planes appeared to be turning off. They had come within four miles but for some unexplainable reason had not seen fit to press home their attack any further. I looked at Mix, and we both heaved a sigh of relief.
History of the 'Divine Wind'By Bill GordonIn early 1944, as their losses mounted during the U.S. advance across the Pacific, the Japanese Navy and Army began developing suicide weapons that they hoped would turn the tide of war. These Special Attack, or tokko, weapons included explosive motorboats and Kaiten human torpedoes. In August development began on the Ohka rocket-powered human bomb, to be carried to its target area by a modified G4M2 Betty bomber. The most effective and numerous suicide weapons, however, proved to be standard or slightly modified Navy and Army aircraft. On 19 October 1944—several days before the Battle of Leyte Gulf—Vice Admiral Takijiro Ohnishi formed the first four squadrons of the Kamikaze Special Attack Corps at Mabalacat airfield in the Philippines. Six days later, 15 bomb-laden A6M Reisen Zeke fighters and one D4Y Suisei Judy bomber carried out suicide attacks that sank the USS St. Lo (CVE-63) and damaged five other escort carriers. Suicide attacks, primarily by aircraft, became the centerpiece of Japan's military strategy until the end of the war. They reached a peak during the Battle of Okinawa, with ten mass Kikusui (Floating Chrysanthemum) kamikaze attacks. The first and largest Kikusui operation, on 6-7 April 1945, involved 230 Navy and 125 Army suicide-mission aircraft. During the war, the Navy's Kamikaze Special Attack Corps lost 2,525 men, more than 90 percent of whom were between ages 18 and 24. The Army's Special Attack Corps lost 1,432 men in aerial suicide attacks. The Army never used the term "kamikaze" ("divine wind") for their Special Attack squadrons, but English speakers use this name for both Navy and Army pilots. The Navy used Zero, or Zeke, fighters in almost half of its kamikaze attacks, but during the Battle of Okinawa even trainers and floatplanes participated in Special Attack missions. The Army, meanwhile, employed a wide variety of planes for suicide attacks, with the Ki-43 Hayabusa Oscar fighter, the Ki-51 Type 99 Sonia assault plane, and the Ki-27 Type 97 Nate fighter being the most frequently used. Japanese kamikaze attacks did not stop Allied forces from taking the Philippines, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa, but they caused considerable damage, including 49 ships sunk and more than 300 vessels damaged. If one includes both hits and near misses causing damage, 27 percent of kamikaze aircraft succeeded between October 1944 and early March 1945 in attacks off the Philippines, Taiwan, Iwo Jima, and Ulithi. However, as the number of experienced pilots dwindled, the success rate during the Battle of Okinawa fell to 13 percent as most aircraft made sorties from mainland bases in southern Kyushu. Allied combat air patrol fighters and antiaircraft fire destroyed most kamikaze aircraft before they could reach their targets. Although many young Japanese men "volunteered" for suicide missions, they often had no real option to refuse. Vice Admiral Ohnishi made this clear to his officers in October 1944: "We will tolerate no criticism of any kind of the operations that are about to be undertaken. . . . Stern discipline will be meted out to anyone who criticizes orders or neglects to carry them out. In flagrant cases there will be no hesitancy about exacting the extreme penalty." In many instances, commanding officers ordered the formation of Special Attack squadrons with no formal call for volunteers. The aviators of the Kamikaze Special Attack Corps carried out their missions with courage, but U.S. Navy men facing them, especially those at Okinawa radar picket stations protecting the main fleet from strikes, showed just as much bravery in shooting down the determined attackers. Mr. Gordon, a financial manager with Pratt & Whitney, created and maintains Kamikaze Images, an extensive Web site that explores the portrayals and perceptions of kamikaze pilots (http://wgordon.web.wesleyan.edu/kamikaze/index.htm). |