The Gray Days of November–December 1944 

Lieutenant Robert Prestidge served as engineering officer on board the USS LCI(R)-230, which fired rockets at Beach White, Leyte Island, on 20 October 1944, just prior to the landing of troops. In this narrative, he describes the action that unfolded in the aftermath of the epic battle—and the first kamikaze action he witnessed.—Susan P. Woodward 

The weather—drizzle and rain interspersed with periods of clearing, but always warm and moist. The smoke pots of hundreds of ships, lighted at dusk and continual intervals until dawn, created a gray pall of smoke and mist that covered everything. The Allies had been reduced to a tenuous struggle for control of the skies because of the heavy losses of aircraft from the small jeep aircraft carriers. Due to the terrible soil problems at the Tacloban Airstrip, and the soil-and weather-related construction delays at the other airfields, by the end of October, only a few P-38s were based on Leyte airfields. The Japanese could still strike by day or night at the hundreds of ships confined in Leyte Gulf. 

On the dark night of 3 November, one of the enemy planes prowling overhead hit a fuel dump at the Tacloban Airfield. Fifty-five-gallon drums of high-octane gasoline flew through the air like skyrockets. Rocket and firefighting ship LCI(R)-230 received orders to proceed to the scene of the fire and stand by. At 0400, the fire was reported to be burned out. At 0405, two enemy planes made a low-level run on the airstrip, dropping light bombs, but no hits were noted on the airstrip.¹ 

At 0626, Captain Bill Hughes received a call on the TBS radio from Lieutenant Zinsser, the beachmaster. The 230’s fire crew was assigned to go cool off a number of the smoking, unexploded gasoline drums at the airfield—the leftovers from the strafing the night before. The ship cruised over to the airfield, and I went over the side with three sailors and ran the long fire hose across the sand. 

The previous night, I had witnessed a number of the 55-gallon drums, after being hit by Japanese tracer bullets, take off with a “WHOOSH” and fly up to 10 or 20 yards with flames shooting out behind them. But presumably, the ones that were going to fly had flown. The fire crew and I stood at the end of the airfield with our hose, sprinkling seawater on about 75 smoking drums. 

After about ten minutes of spraying, we heard a strange whistling, rushing noise about 200 feet overhead. From the bow of the LCI(R)-230, Captain Hughes bellowed across the sand that I should return to the ship with the hose party on the double. I looked up just as two Japanese Zero fighter planes, large red meatballs visible on their fuselages, streaked down toward us and the airfield runway. They were flying so low that I could see the lead pilot through the Plexiglas cowling of his aircraft. He was helmetless, his glistening black hair held in place by a black rubber band wrapped around his head. I don’t know why, but an image flashed through my mind. At Visalia High School, we’d had a wonderful basketball player named Frankie Maruyama, who was a forward on the championship basketball team.² Frankie always wore a rubber band just like that around his head when he played. 

Two of the deck hands with me were relatively new replacements on board the ship. I believe they were draftees. As the Japanese planes dove toward us, one of them threw his head back with his mouth wide open. His buddy standing next to him did the same. They seemed paralyzed, gaping at the sky, transfixed by the sight of the enemy aircraft. 

Under those circumstances, the last thing you want to be is a sightseer. You want to be doing something—fast. I had to shout at the gapers to grab the hose and start moving back to the ship. In fact, I had to give them the cussing out of their lives to get them awakened. 

At about one hundred feet above, the Japanese planes whistled directly over us dropping light bombs. The fire crew and I dragged the hose up to the ship and clambered aboard, and the LCI(R)-230 immediately moved offshore to a better defensive position. Fortunately, all of the enemy’s bombs missed the airstrip. 

That night the LCI(R)-230 was directed to an anchorage north of Dulag, fairly near the junkyard. A whitish pall of smoke hung over the ghostly, still area as the ship snugged down in the darkness next to a wooden torpedo boat. Several other PT boats rested a few hundred yards further away, but there weren’t any other ships in close proximity. No air raid alerts sounded that evening, a rare blessing. Except for the midwatch personnel, the tired crew turned in. 

The fan in the wardroom porthole droned a steady, reassuring hum as it brought in humid, smoky air. Bill Hughes and I snored peacefully in our bunks until sometime after 0300 when a deafening explosion jolted us awake. The ship shook as she seemed to rise then fall back into the water. Sitting up in the narrow confines of my bunk, I sputtered, “We’ve been hit!” 

Already standing and reaching for his pants, Hughes replied, “No, it's a near miss.” 

Turning, I saw a bright glow through the porthole. To the starboard, orange flames danced up from the calm surface of the water. A rain of liquid fire and fine debris was falling from the sky. 

Not desiring a firsthand look at the carnage, I stayed in my bunk while Captain Hughes rushed to the bridge. Gunnery Officer Roy Grimes reported that the nearby PT boat was no more. A bomb, dropped at random through the murk by a night bomber, had struck one of the smallest targets in Leyte Gulf. The blast had blown the wooden boat asunder and ignited its high-octane gasoline tanks. Small pieces of wood and twisted metal floated on the water’s surface as a fine particulate continued raining down. Gasoline flames burned across the water very near the LCI(R)-230. Captain Hughes immediately ordered that the ship get underway to avoid the fire reaching us. 

A short time later, a rubber boat launched from a nearby PT found one man alive in the water. He had been blown clear and appeared uninjured except for cuts and scrapes. The survivor had been sleeping on the deck. There were no others. 

Someone told me later that when an explosion blossoms, the impact may be unevenly distributed. It is similar to the leavening effect of yeast in a biscuit. A bubble, or vacuum, somewhere near the center can escape the major force of the explosion. That sleeping sailor must have occupied a yeast hole in the explosive pattern and thus survived, but I wondered about the effects of the explosion on his eardrums. 

A hurricane blew into Leyte Gulf on 8 November and produced heavy swells and high winds for a few days. The nasty weather gave us a small break from enemy air attacks. 

On Sunday morning, 12 November, Commander Dwight Day passed the word that there would be a non-denominational Navy church service at 0900 hours on the main deck in front of the conning tower. At the appointed time, most of those who were not on watch assembled. Bill Hughes, Gunnery Officer Roy Grimes, and I were present, along with a number of enlisted men, including the acting heads of the engineering force, Frank Ziomek and Vincent X. Finan. Hats were removed and all stood throughout the service. 

It was a rare day. The sun had come out and a brisk breeze had dispersed most of the smoke. Commander Day took a forward position toward the bow, but he stood facing aft toward the group. The commander carried a small, well-worn, black leather-bound prayer book. He lifted the book and read several passages quietly but distinctly, seeming perfectly familiar and at ease. The rest of us stood uncomfortably, waiting at all times to hear the Flash Red warning, enemy planes flying over, and the call to general quarters. 

That was the only formal religious observance ever held on board the LCI(R)-230 although there was, in my judgment, a goodly amount of praying, both Hebrew and Christian, going on in that small ship. 

At 1135, Captain Hughes received an urgent call over the TBS to proceed at once to the landing beach off Dulag, about 15 miles to the south. The cryptic message stated that there had been “several collisions between ships and aircraft.” Within minutes, the LCI(R)-230 was heading south at full speed. Approaching Dulag, we saw a convoy of cargo ships anchored in the Southern Transport Area, several miles off the Dulag beach. An LCI fire ship was tied alongside one of the large Liberty ships, the Thomas Nelson. 

As we moved closer to the two ships, Commander Day and Captain Hughes stood on the bridge observing the scene. The gun crews hung around their gun stations although there had been no call to general quarters. Captain Hughes brought the 230 alongside the other fire ship, and lines were passed over. 

The captain of the sister LCI reported that the Thomas Nelson had arrived off Dulag with her four vast holds fully loaded with troops. Disembarkation had not yet begun when a Japanese pilot crashed his plane and attached bomb into one of the holds jammed with American soldiers and their equipment. The bomb had exploded, causing fires and many casualties. This had occurred a little over an hour earlier. The fire had been brought under control, and cleanup was underway. 

A Navy corpsman, an enlisted man with medical training, had recently arrived aboard the LCI(R)-230 for temporary duty. In addition, a temporary pharmacist’s mate had been sent to replace Francis Kudart, who was still recovering from malaria at a hospital in Australia. The corpsman, pharmacist’s mate, and I were directed to board the Liberty ship, the former to render medical assistance. As for myself, I have no recall as to why I was sent, except perhaps to report back on the situation. Nonetheless, what I saw will never fade from my memory. 

Carrying his black medical bag, the corpsman climbed the Jacob’s ladder from the deck of the other LCI fire ship up to the Thomas Nelson’s main deck. The pharmacist’s mate and I followed. When we reached the top, we both froze for an instant. Close at hand, a pile of dead bodies had been stacked like cord wood into a rough square about 12 feet by 12 feet. The bodies looked relaxed, like men sleeping, except that they were lying in a pool of blood. Near the pile of bodies, the ambulatory waited in line for medical attention from a group of corpsmen. The scene on the main deck was crowded, yet strangely calm and quiet. The seriously injured were being cared for first, but there were no cries or complaints. All were quiet and restrained, their faces gray with shock. 

Facing me, at the end of the line of waiting wounded, stood a tall, muscular soldier. He was about six feet two and must have weighed 200 pounds or more. He wore Army field shoes and green shorts made by cutting off a pair of Army issue combat pants, but he was bare above the waist. This freckle-faced soldier had a crop of rusty red hair and a good showing of red hair on his broad chest, but as he turned away from me I saw that all of the skin on his back, from neck to waist, was gone. Flash burn. A solid rack of red meat, not bloody but firm and raw, lay exposed. This soldier may or may not have had a syringe of morphine in him to ease his pain while he waited patiently. I hope that he did. To this day, I wonder if he made it. 

I returned to the ship as the corpsman and pharmacist’s mate set to work. A little over an hour later, word came over the radio that the repair ship Achilles (ARL-41), anchored at San Pedro Bay, had been hit, resulting in an explosion, fires, and casualties. The medical personnel were immediately summoned back to the ship and the LCI(R)-230 got underway to help put out the fire. At 1530, when we were within a mile of the Achilles, we were ordered to reverse course and return to Dulag. Another Liberty ship had been hit by a crashing plane. We were directed to pick up stretchers and blood plasma from LST-464 then go render assistance to the injured on board the Liberty ship. 

By 1730, just as the sun was setting, the crew finished loading up the medical supplies. We were shoving off from LST-464 when a Flash Yellow alert was followed by Flash Red. Our little ship moved between the LST and a large cargo ship that was awaiting unloading. There was still some light in the sky, and whatever smoke there was had dissipated in a pleasant breeze. From my station with the rear 20mm gun crew, I saw two low-flying aircraft forward of the LCI(R)-230 and close. They made a swift circle overhead, then one of the planes peeled off and headed toward our ship and the unloaded cargo ship, about 150 yards away on the port beam. The plane commenced a 45-degree dive. Our rear gun could not bear on the plane as the gun’s firing sector was the 200-degree arc to the rear. 

The diving plane, white with a large red ball on its side, was aiming straight for the cargo ship on LCI(R)-230’s port. The aircraft was a Mitsubishi Zero, the pilot clearly visible inside his plexiglass cowling. Distance was about 100 yards. 

On the cargo ship’s flying bridge, two hatless men in khakis manned a 20mm gun and fired at the plane as it rapidly closed. I glanced up at the LCI(R)230’s bridge and saw Bill Hughes standing next to Commander Day. Neither wore helmets. Hughes raised himself up on his toes and commenced jumping up and down like a rooter at an exciting football game. “Get him! Get him!” he shouted. 

From my spot on the stern, I could not tell if our forward guns were firing. Strangely enough, I never asked afterward. 

I watched the two gunners on the cargo ship’s flying bridge and thought, those poor bastards don’t stand a chance. I yelled, “JUMP!” But they could not have heard. They were too busy firing. In split seconds, they would be dead. 

Split seconds it was. Fifty yards up, half a football field. An instantaneous, whitish-gray cloud followed by the WHOOSH of a large explosion. Silence. Then, out of an expanding vapor cloud, thousands of tiny pieces of metal, Christmas tree tinsel, fluttered gently down to the sea and the cargo ship. 

A highly unlikely event. A miracle? One small 20mm, 40 mm, or .50 caliber bullet had struck the bomb attached to the belly of the diving plane. What were the odds? Who knows? War is a great roll of the dice. 

The remaining enemy plane made a tight circle at the elevation from which the first plane had begun his dive. Then its nose pointed downward and it appeared to be heading straight for us. Our gunners fired at it, and the Zero crashed into the stern of a nearby Liberty ship. Fortunately, no casualties or fires resulted. 

Ten minutes later, we tied up alongside the Liberty ship Leonidas K. Merritt. A diving enemy plane had crashed into her that morning, causing significant casualties. In the afternoon, another plane had crashed into the Merritt’s midships deckhouse, killing one man and wounding 11 others. No firefighting assistance was needed, but the LCI(R)-230’s corpsman and pharmacist’s mate went aboard to render first aid to the wounded. About 45 minutes later, crewmen from the LCI(R)-230 helped remove the last of the dead from the Thomas Nelson. Then another Liberty ship was hit, and we went alongside to assist in putting out the fire.³ 

After the war, I read that on 12 November 1944, 133 men were killed on board the Thomas Nelson and 88 were wounded by a crash-diving Japanese plane. The repair ship Achilles (ARL-41) lost 19 men when a kamikaze crashed through the forward main deck, causing an explosion and fires that burned out of control. Twenty-eight were wounded. An additional 14 were either vaporized by the explosion or blown into the sea. They were never accounted for. 

The LCI(R)-230 anchored at Dulag that night. While Roy Grimes stood watch, in the wardroom Bill Hughes and I agreed that the suicide pilots had scared the hell out of one and all when it seemed they were coming at us, or might veer our way accidentally. That’s when we first realized that the Japanese must have organized an attack plan under which certain pilots would dive and crash their planes into our ships. 

Hughes and I exchanged a long, quiet look. The droning nightly air raids with the enemy planes dropping phosphorous and bombs were one thing, the hit-and-run attacks through the smoke over Leyte Gulf were another—but this was a deliberate campaign by pilots who had consecrated their lives to destroy Americans and Australians through direct suicidal attacks. 

It gave us an awful feeling to know that those Japanese pilots wanted to die.