All night long the huge convoy has been steaming nearer the Japanese-held Philippine Islands. The heavy fire support warships are far ahead, the troop-laden transports, are astern. In the center of this impressive array are the LST’s, flanked by a protective screen of LCI’s, the battle fellows of an Amphibious Force. Reports come in occasionally, witnessing the presence of enemy motor torpedo boats, but n° attacks are made by those little craft which pack so much power and speed in a plywood hull. It will probably never be known why the Japs did not riddle the convoy with tin fish from their PT boats.
We are moving to the attack of the island °f Leyte, which forms the western boundary of Leyte Gulf and lies at the approximate center of the Philippine Archipelago. The name was a new one to us before the attack orders were published. We had heard of Mindanao and Luzon, and we knew that there were about seven thousand other islands in the Philippine group. It wasn’t until we had studied reports that we began to realize the importance, size, population, and strategic position of this island which at one time was the world’s greatest hemp producer.
The entry into the gulf is uneventful. All hands are at battle stations, staring blindly into the black night ahead and wondering what this day will bring. Each man is conjuring up visions of the battle to come, complete with his part in it. He has confidence in the great men who planned this attack; he does not believe Tokyo Rose’s report that our licet has been annihilated off Formosa; yet he cannot visualize Tojo allowing us to cruise impertinently into the very heart of his empire without exacting severe tribute. No, Willie Door, the boy from the Iowa farm, can visualize his ship being hit—can hear the awful explosion—can see the flying pieces of hot, twisted metal—feel the horrible impact of the concussion…yet invariably he sees himself escaping with perhaps a slight wound and the purple heart ribbon to wear home at Christmas time. Such has always been the watchword of warriors—“It can’t happen to me.”
The first streaks of dawn begin to outline huge monsters of destruction—our battleships, which the japs claimed to have sunk off Formosa. Suddenly the sky reddens momentarily as one of the behemoths speaks in a questing, yet authoritative voice. Two giant shells, whose tracers look like red Chinese lanterns, begin a leisurely journey up into the black sky. High overhead they hesitate, still holding hands, and then finally agree on a place to land. Gently, as though they are hanging from parachutes, they settle to the earth—and far away on Leyte a laboriously constructed pill box becomes a gaping excavation. There are a dozen more “good” Japs on Leyte.
The battleship has started something. Soon the dawn sky is being torn into rags by a continuous bombardment from dozens of warships, and the questing Chinese lanterns drift in hordes in their eager efforts to search out the Japanese strong points. The greatest show on earth has started its performance. The stage is set, the footlights are being turned up, and the stars have made their entry.
There will be countless—and much more interesting—stories told of the accomplishments of the stars of this drama. The battleships, cruisers, destroyers, carriers, and pilots, LST’s, attack waves of LVT’s and LCVP’s, beachmasters, infantry and artillery troops, tank corps, etc.—each played its heroic and major part in the invasion of the Philippines. But my story concerns itself primarily with four tiny LCI(M)’s which had a special mission to perform. And so we will look at the events to follow from a box seat which these inconspicuous craft were allowed to occupy through the foresight of certain of the “brass hats.”
The bombardment has been going on for some time and is providing all hands with an impressive sight. One wonders how the enemy is taking it—how much longer he will submit to it without voicing his protest. As if in answer to that unspoken question, an enemy plane comes toward us low over the LST’s. As hundreds of anti-aircraft guns disgorge their tracer shells at this evidence of the presence of hostile forces, the plane appears to become the top of a Maypole, on which myriad gaudy streamers converge from the LST’s and LCI’s below. It is a sparkling, scintillating dance of death which is suddenly interrupted as the Jap pilot passes into the category of “ancestor.” The Maypole collapses and the streamers reluctantly dwindle away.
This little scene is enacted many times out across the convoy until both the audience and the players tire of it and concentrate on the main event. This is preceded by a lively bombardment of the beach—softening it up, as it were. An hour before the waves are to hit the beach, the four tiny LCI(M)’s start to cruise toward the Japanese stronghold—Liberanan Head. This consists of a hill, about 400 feet high, which rises out of the sea to dominate the surrounding flat country and which builds up inland to Catmon Hill, a thousand feet higher. The attack waves are to hit the beach a thousand yards south of Liberanan, and their flank must be protected. For this task two destroyers, a cruiser, and our four LCI(M)’s have been chosen. The destroyers and the cruiser lie off a mile or so, while the LCI(M)’s approach the beach to within 1,000 to 1,500 yards. The LCJ.(M)’s have been specially prepared for their work this day. Using the Army’s famed 4.2-inch mortars, which have been mounted on deck, they are to shell the landward slopes beyond the hilltop, which cannot be reached by naval guns because of the latters’ low trajectory. Due to the limited range of the mortars, the LCI(M)’s have to move in until they are practically looking into the muzzles of the Japanese guns on the hill and beach.
The four mortar ships start to pass a cruiser while moving to firing position. The cruiser’s guns are roaring continuously, pumping broadside after broadside into enemy positions. It is feared that the LCI(M)’s will blank the fire of the larger ship. The signalman’s blinker light begins to speak:
LCI(M)—“We are moving in to shell the beach.”
Cruiser—“Go ahead—so are we.”
The firing begins. Mortar shell after mortar shell is launched on its lazy parabola toward the beaches, and all eyes are turned that way to see what damage is being done. We are hoping to paint at least a grass shack on our conning tower. Many an anxious glance is cast over a shoulder toward threatening Liberanan Head, which looms above us silent and forbidding. But no screaming blast of fire and steel comes from this point, so eventually it is almost forgotten. The blast of our own mortars is almost deafening and our ears are further tortured by the impact of the cruiser and destroyer guns to seaward. The rush of their shells is both comforting and alarming as these steel- jacketed messengers of death clear our masthead by a few feet in their frantic flight to the enemy. Far out in the gulf are the huge battleships, which occasionally belch out a volcano of fire by way of letting us know that a ton of steel and explosive is passing over our heads.
A towering waterspout comes into being a hundred yards to starboard. The din about us is so great that apparently no noise accompanies this phenomenon.
“See that, Commander? That battleship out there must be sighting in on Liberanan Head. Wish those guys would be more careful!”
“That was probably just a ranging shot. They’ll spot up for the next one.”
A shell bursts above us. The puff of black smoke lingers a while and then slowly disintegrates.
“Can’t understand why those cans behind us should have any trouble with short bursts,” says the Skipper, an ex-destroyer man. “The five thirty-eight setup is almost foolproof.”
We shift fire at last to Liberanan Head, working on the reverse, or landward, slopes. The rate of fire is stepped up. The high trajectory of the mortar shells carries them over the top of the hill, so the bursts cannot be seen. There must be a lot of mighty surprised Japs behind that hill who thought they were safe from naval gunfire. The waves are coming in, led by a solid line of LCI gunboats firing an absolutely unbelievable blanket of 40-mm. and rocket shells. Nothing can possibly survive that barrage. The LVT’s lumber out of the water and tiredly hoist themselves up on the beach like anti-diluvian monsters. Troops pour out and disappear into the ragged shreds of the once beautiful coconut groves.
We are becoming more interested and more engrossed in our work on Liberanan Head. We have moved in to 1,000 yards— 900 yards—800 yards. The destroyers drop two more shells short and two geysers rise above the spot we have just left.
“Dammit, if those guys aren’t more careful they are going to hit us for sure!”
“What a way to go—getting hit by one of our own shells.”
“It’s lucky we moved in this near to the beach.”
“Look at that next mortar ship! Gee— those were close.”
We look around and see waterspouts on all sides. Could our own warships have mistaken us for Jap ships? But then a survey of the landing beach tells the true story. The LCVP’s are beaching among shell bursts. There are disabled boats and LVT’s here and there. As we watch, a shell hits the sand not 10 feet from one of the craft, which has fortunately already discharged its troops. As one man we all realize that ignorance is bliss—that the supposed faulty fuses and the supposed short rounds of our own warships were, in reality, Jap mortar or howitzer fire from Liberanan Head. We silently apologize for doubting the accuracy of our destroyer and cruiser gunfire and, surprisingly, feel relieved—for now we realize that there is a tangible enemy to fight.
We scan the hill carefully with binoculars —and finally catch the merest suggestion of smoke rising from behind a low ridge at the southern extremity of the Head. Perhaps this is the nest of guns which has been shelling the beach and our unit. The ship is trained on the spot—the mortars laid—the powder rings adjusted.
Rapid fire!
The mortars cough again and again as fast as the “dog-faces” can feed them. The naked eye can follow the flight of the shells as they start up into the blue. It seems as though the sky must be full of them—as though they were being caught in the clouds instead of falling back to earth. A rain of shells drops around us. The Japanese spotter has observed our maneuver and is trying to direct his fire upon us. The wait is interminable. Will our shells never get there? There is one consolation. Even if they get us now, there is no power other than the Hand of God which could stop or deflect the shells we have launched. For the Japanese, the die is cast—the grim reaper is riding a mathematically correct trajectory whose terminus coincides with the Jap emplacement. Or so we hope.
Black smoke rises from that insidious reverse slope. Bits of debris climb wearily up into the sky and then give up the struggle and fall dejectedly back out of sight behind the hilltop. The shelling of the landing beach ceases abruptly. We are no longer bothered with “sighting in” shots from our warships. And the Americans have won one more of the countless thousands of individual actions which will have to be fought in the liberation of the Far East.
So goes the saga of the baptism of fire of four little LCI(M)’s. They were not conspicuous—they performed no feats of valor with which to inspire future generations of fighting men—they didn’t kill all the Japs on Liberanan Head and make that promontory a pushover for our troops. They merely did the job for which they were designed. But they did that job well. To the Army troops on board who manned the mortars and to the naval officers and men who handled the ships and manned the antiaircraft guns came word from the Flotilla Commander that they were “superlative”— that “mere words” could not express his commendation.
An invasion attack force is a great team, every man—every ship and craft—has his or its own little job to perform. If each accomplishes his task, the invasion may be a success. We have all heard this teamwork mentioned time and time again. But rarely do we hear about the coaches—the “brass hats” and other officers—who devise the plays and choose the players. If they make a mistake, no amount of effort on the part of the individuals participating can rectify it. They and they alone are to blame. Hence, in this most brilliantly planned attack, too much credit cannot be given to those men who set the time and place, who chose the ships and men who were to take part in it, and who even went into such detail as to equip LCI’s with mortars so that the reverse slopes of the strong point could be neutralized and soldier’s lives saved.
Lieutenant Carnes resigned from the service after graduation from the Naval Academy in 1937, but entered the Naval Reserve and is now on active duty.