“Gimme a .45 and ten of them Japs and I’ll show>em how close they really are to the end.”
“You’ll get your chance, Chief.” He walked over to Jonathon Peete, finding him stooped over, yanking on a long section of I-beam. “How you doing, Mr. Peete?”
Peete lifted the I-beam high over his head and, with a growl, tossed it over the side. “Fine, Captain.”
“What’s that?” Donovan pointed to a thick, smoldering lump of wreckage jammed next to mount 51.
“Looks like what’s left of an engine, sir,” said Peete. “It’s part of jumbled wreckage that fell on us from the San Cristobal when we pulled clear.”
“Oh.” Donovan recognized a section of propeller blade bent around the engine.
Merryweather walked up. “Kind of bizarre, isn’t it?”
“Wonder if it belonged to a Wildcat or a TBF?” asked Donovan.
Merryweather said quietly, “I don’t think either one, sir.”
“Pardon?”
“Right there.” Merryweather pointed. “Part of the cowling. It’s painted black.”
There was a sinking feeling in Donovan’s stomach.
“That’s right, Captain. This is what’s left of the Jap’s engine. “And look here, on the cowling, some Nip writing and an insignia of some kind.” Merryweather pointed to the cowling, a still-recognizable section of about two by three feet. Japanese characters were written in yellow on one edge. Prominent in the middle was a meticulously drawn picture of two red apples on a square white field bordered by gold filigree.
Donovan noticed a welder cutting the crumpled cowl in sections. “What are you doing?”
Merryweather gestured. “Well, the marines and army guys are always taking Jap flags and samurai swords. Why can’t we grab a souvenir for a change?”
“Why not?” Donovan replied sarcastically.
“You want a section, Skipper?” asked Merryweather.
“Sure, why not?” said Donovan.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
24 October 1944
IJN Yamato
Sibuyan Sea, Philippines
The dive-bomber roared overhead. Added to the crack of anti-aircraft guns, the noise was incredible. Sixteen men braced themselves in the armored flag bridge. Noyama had been briefed that the main deck armor plate aboard the sixty-five-thousand-ton battleship Yamato was 198 millimeters thick. It was designed to survive a direct hit from a five-hundred-kilogram bomb dropped from three thousand meters. During the months swinging at anchor in Lingga Roads, Noyama had walked the decks of the Yamato and Musashi many times. On occasion, he’d dug a heel at the deck, finding no resounding thud, just the sound of his heel hitting something very, very solid. Yes, the Yamato’s main deck did feel 198 millimeters thick.
But this bomb burst with a terrible roar. Everyone was knocked over by the concussion, including Kurita, Ugaki, and Takata, their arms and legs tangled and jumbled together. Groaning and cursing, Ugaki was first to his feet, brushing off his tunic. With both hands, Kurita grabbed the chart table and hauled himself to his feet, blinking. Then he grabbed his head, cried out, and fell to his knees.
Noyama’s leg had given way with the blast, and he had trouble getting up. Finally he limped around the chart table. “Admiral?”
Kurita muttered something. But the ack-ack, and the screaming engines outside, and the screaming men inside, obliterated the answer. Finally Kurita rose and began moaning and pounding his head on the chart table.
“Admiral!” gasped Noyama.
“Headache. Ahhh,” murmured Kurita.
Noyama grabbed the talker. “Dr. Koketsu. Where is he?”
The talker spoke on the sound-powered phone for a moment, then said, “Sick bay, sir.”
“Get him up here,” said Noyama, rushing back over to Kurita.
Kurita’s eyes opened and he blinked again. “Any damage?”
Noyama checked a tote board. “Bomb hit forward near the anchor chain. Damage superficial.” Those decks really are thick, he thought to himself. “Are you all right?”
Kurita grabbed his head again, “Shit, this hurts. And my knees feel like they’re going to break in half. Even hurts to bend my damn arms.”
Noyama grabbed a rolling high stool. “Here, try this.”
Kurita nodded and sat. “Koketsu?”
“On his way.”
Smoke gushed through an exhaust vent, filling the flag bridge. A rating rushed over and cranked a valve shut, but the damage was already done. Everyone was coughing and hacking and waving their hands at the smoke.
“Open that damn hatch,” sputtered Kurita.
“But sir... “ said the rating.
“We must breathe. Open it you fool,” barked Kurita.
The rating undogged the hatch. Fans were turned on and soon, the space was clear of smoke. Noyama ducked outside to see a fire on the fo’c’sle, the smoke enveloping the forward part of the ship. But no, the bomb hadn’t penetrated the deck.
The noise outside was deafening, as if all of the Yamato’s twenty-five-millimeter anti-aircraft guns were firing at once. All around them, the First Striking Force unleashed its fury at Halsey’s planes, the sky dotted with innumerable flak puffs. From all quarters, Halsey’s dive-bombers and torpedo planes buzzed like hornets in coordinated attacks. Noyama was amazed at the sheer size of the attacking force.
Worse, Kurita’s mighty fleet steamed circles in the Sibuyan Sea, totally confused, some ships nearly ramming each other as they frantically maneuvered to avoid U.S. Navy bombs and torpedoes. Since 1030, death had been raining from the sky. Now at four in the afternoon, they’d staggered through at least five devastating air raids. Just fifteen minutes ago, they’d heard that the heavy cruiser Myoko had taken at least one torpedo and dropped out of formation. Worse, the superbattleship Musashi trailed thirty-two kilometers behind, billowing smoke and listing. Recent reports said she was dead in the water, with at least fifteen torpedo hits and as many bomb hits. And the planes kept coming down on the Musashi, singling her out.
One flashed past Noyama and ducked through the hatch: Dr. Koketsu. Noyama turned to follow and was nearly shoved inside by the concussion of clattering anti-aircraft guns. He found Koketsu standing beside Kurita, jamming a thermometer in the admiral’s mouth, his hand atop the admiral’s shoulder.
Kurita, his voice hoarser than ever, leaned around Koketsu and yelled at Lieutenant Commander Seiji Takahashi, his communication officer. “Where’s our air cover? What about Fukudome?
“I’m trying, sir. Reception is poor.” Takahashi was rattled. He was a replacement for the fleet communications officer Commander Yonishi Matsuda, who had been lost on the Atago. And gone with the Atago were the fleet air codes, so Takahashi had very little to work with. Still he gamely kept at it, calmly speaking into the handset while Kurita shouted in his other ear.
Kurita jumped to his feet. “Get that silly bastard to–”
With both hands, Dr. Koketsu pushed the admiral back onto his stool.
“Let go!” shouted Kurita, the thermometer nearly falling out.
“Fine,” said Dr. Koketsu, catching the thermometer. “If you wish to die, then I’ll be glad to get out of here.”
Noyama walked up. “Admiral, please.”
Glaring at both, Kurita sat.
“That’s better.” Dr. Koketsu reinserted the thermometer and said, “Your fleet needs you, Admiral, and you need me. We can get this done.”
“What the hell’s wrong with me?” grumbled Kurita. “I felt fine this morning.”
“It’s your dengue fever. I told you it’s going to take two or three weeks. Remember?”
“I don’t have two or three weeks,” bellowed Kurita, clasping his hands over his ears. “Close that damn hatch!” he shouted to a rating.
The hatch was closed and dogged again. At length Koketsu pulled out the thermometer. “Hmmmm. It’s only 38.9.” He thumbed Kurita’s upper and lower eyelids.”
How much sleep did you get last night
?”
“Enough,” Kurita shot back.
Imperceptibly, Noyama stood a bit behind Kurita, shook his head and waved two fingers: two hours.
Glancing at Noyama, Dr. Koketsu asked Kurita, “Were you unconscious just now?”
Kurita barked, “No.”
Noyama nodded. Yes.
Koketsu looked across the flag bridge to where Ugaki and his staff were clustered. He cast a hand at a silver carafe. “What’s that?”
“Water, sir,” replied one of Ugaki’s lieutenant commanders. “It’s Admiral Ugaki’s personal carafe. He won it in a shooting contest four years ago at the Emperor’s aviary.”
“Pass it over, please,” asked Dr. Koketsu.
Ugaki slowly looked up, his face saying, what the hell’s going on?
Dr. Koketsu beckoned with fingers on an upraised palm. He looked at Noyama and said, “Your job is to make sure he drinks plenty of water.” He pulled a bottle from his pocket and slammed it on the table. “Aspirin. He can have two every four hours. If he needs more, call me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Noyama.
With a look at Kurita, he said, “Most importantly, he must sleep. If he doesn’t, then the dengue will simply be prolonged.” He looked Kurita in the eyes. “Do you understand, Admiral?”
“Don’t you have anything better than aspirin?” rasped Kurita.
“That’s all I have for now. And I want you to go to bed,” said Dr. Koketsu.
Kurita cast a hand toward the sound of screaming engines overhead. “Hear that? There’s a war on.”
“Very well,” said Dr. Koketsu. “I’ll have a cot sent up. Use it when you can.” He stood and looked Noyama in the eye. “Keep me informed. Make sure he gets some sleep. And make sure he drinks water.” Then he dashed out.
“Yes, sir,” Noyama called after him.
Kurita rolled bloodshot eyes across the room to Ugaki who’s hands were full dealing with the Musashi situation. It was looking worse. And it just wasn’t just the Musashi that Noyama saw as he looked up to the BATDIV 1 status board. The battleship Nagato had received two bomb hits; the Haruna had been straddled by five near misses.
“Tell Musashi to make for the nearest beach,” Ugaki ordered his communications officer, a completely bald lieutenant commander named Boshiro Hirota. “She can become an AA platform.”
“Admiral Inoguchi reports Musashi has lost all power,” Hirota reported. “She’s listing thirty degrees and her bow is almost awash.”
The rattle of cannons and machine guns told the story of the living hell outside as bombs and torpedoes continued to be launched from enemy planes. The sudden silence in the room told of the Musashi’s own living hell as they realized she could be lost.
Ugaki pounded his fist, “Can she make a beach?”
Hirota relayed the request.
They heard a buzz as the message came back. Refusing to raise his eyes, Hirota said, “No, sir. Admiral Inoguchi reports the list is almost thirty-five degrees now. He is going to give the order to abandon.”
“No!” shouted Ugaki. He reached for the phone.
“Leave it alone!” Kurita rasped from across the room. “Inoguchi is a good man. He knows what he’s doing.”
Ugaki stiffened, turned his back, and jammed his hands on his hips.
Kurita added, “What destroyers are available to pick up survivors?”
Hitching his pants, Rear Admiral Takata checked a tote board and said, “Right now, the Tone is standing by Musashi. Destroyers Kiyoshimo and Hamakaze are to the farthest rear of our formation and should be available, sir.”
Kurita said, “Right, send Kiyoshimo and Hamakaze for the survivors. Recall Tone back to us. We’re going to need her.”
“Yes, sir.” Takata grabbed a message pad and began scribbling.
“Ugaki,” shouted Kurita.
Ugaki turned and hissed, “How can I help you, Admiral?”
“Listen to me, all of you.” Kurita wobbled to his feet and braced a hand on the chart table. “We’re sailors of the Imperial Japanese Navy. So let’s act like it. Let’s get organized. Look outside. We’re all a jumble. Ugaki, get your battleships in order. Takata. Same with the cruisers and destroyers: get them organized. As soon as possible, I want to turn west and get out of range of Halsey’s damn airplanes. They’re pecking at us one by one, and at this rate we’ll never make it through the San Bernardino Strait.”
As if on cue, it became quiet outside. Takahashi covered his earphone with a hand and reported, “Cease fire. The enemy is retiring.”
Ugaki turned to a petty officer. “Damage reports?”
“Just the two bomb hits, sir.”
Takahashi held up his hand. “Myoko took a hit in the after engine room. Two shafts out of order. Ten-degree port list. Best speed is fifteen knots.”
Kurita snapped, “Dammit. Another one gone. Send her back to Brunei.” Then he shouted, “Well, what are you all waiting for? Lets get all these portholes and hatches open and get some real air in here. After our minds have cleared, let’s figure out how far west we have to go before we turn again for the San Bernardino Strait.” His voice crackled as he pointed through a newly opened porthole. “Look at that idiotic fleet out there, pride of the Imperial Japanese Navy. All turning in circles, doing their best to ram each other. You’d think we were the damn Chinese navy!”
He pointed a bony finger. “Get those ships organized! I want us in a proper ring formation on base course two-nine-zero in five minutes.”
He beckoned to Noyama.
“Yes, sir?”
Kurita’s face looked jaundiced and pallid. But his eyes were afire as he hissed, “Get a message off to Fukudome. Where is the air cover you promised? Be blunt about it. I repeat, where is the air cover you promised? A copy of that goes to Toyoda, Nishimura, Shima, and Ozawa.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get on it.”
* * * * *
It was 1710 when Dr. Koketsu popped through the hatch. Kurita sat in his stool on the chart table. He was fast asleep, his head cradled on his arms. Dr. Koketsu growled when he saw a form on the cot, its face to the bulkhead. He strode over and kicked him in the rump.
“Ahhh.” Rear Admiral Takata turned over and sat up. “I’ll have your balls!” He rose.
“That’s Admiral Kurita’s cot, you fool,” shot back Dr. Koketsu, a captain, a rank lower than Takata. “He should be–”
“–I gave it to him,” said Kurita.
“Sir, how do you feel?” asked Dr. Koketsu, walking over.
“Like the zookeeper’s heels have marched through my mouth.”
“Are you drinking water?”
“And pissing it away just as quickly.”
“Good. I want you to–”
“Takata. We’re ten minutes late.” Kurita looked up to the clock. “Order formation course change for the San Bernardino Strait.”
“Yes, sir.” Takata rose, hitched his pants, and threw an ugly look at Dr. Koketsu. Then he grabbed a message pad and went to work.
Noyama was surprised. Kurita’s voice sounded fairly strong. “Here, Admiral,” he said, pushing over Ugaki’s carafe. “It’s full.”
Takahashi walked in with a clipboard. “For you, sir.”
Kurita signed for the message and then read it. “Well, we have our orders.” He lay down the clipboard and called across the room. “Where’s Admiral Ugaki?”
“On the bridge with Admiral Morishita, sir,” replied Hirota.
The place came alive as they went back to work. Kurita looked again at the message and asked Noyama, “Where’s your little brother?”
“Second Air Fleet Group at Clark, sir,” replied Noyama.
Kurita leaned on the chart table and said quietly. “I wonder who will die first.”
“Sir?”
For the first time in days, Kurita looked positively rested and at peace. “We’re headed for the San Bernardino Strait. Even if we make it through, I doubt if we’ll live to see the sunset
tomorrow.” With a nod, he walked to a status board.
He’d left the clipboard in plain sight. Noyama spun it around. It was from Admiral Toyoda, CinC of the entire Combined Fleet, to all commands:
ALL FORCES WILL DASH TO THE ATTACK, TRUSTING IN DIVINE GUIDANCE.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
24 October, 1944
Price House
MacArthur command post
Tacloban City, Leyte Island, Philippines
“Verdammit, nein!” Major General Charles Willoughby shouted in his thick German accent. His cold was decidedly worse, making his demeanor nearly intolerable. He sneezed once again and carefully dabbed at his nose. Intelligence chief to Douglas MacArthur, Willoughby was six-three, wiry, with thin lips, sharp features, and straight black hair meticulously parted down the middle. His “summer cold” had been dogging him for days. He’d picked it up while at sea on the Nashville and hadn’t been able to shake it. Worse, it made him irritable to those working around him.
Born in 1892, Adolf Tscheppe‑Weidenbach was the son of Baron von Tscheppe Weidenbach of Baden, Germany. After attending the University of Heidelberg, he migrated to the United States in 1910 and changed his name to Charles Willoughby. He joined the army in 1914, reached the rank of major, and served on the western front in World War I. Willoughby went into the intelligence business in 1924 and served abroad as a military attaché in South “American embassies. MacArthur found Willoughby in 1939 and appointed him his intelligence chief. He’d served well ever since, often colliding with the erudite, Yale-educated politico Lieutenant General Richard K. Sutherland, MacArthur’s chief of staff. Owen Reynolds often wondered if MacArthur kept those two around just for the fun of watching them fight. Both were born to the purple, but their two cultures couldn’t have been more diverse: Willoughby, the Prussian son of a German baron, versus Sutherland, the son of a senator from West Virginia, later a Supreme Court justice.
Although they got along well, Owen Reynolds didn’t want to risk another outburst from his boss. It was 2300 and everyone else was asleep upstairs, getting their first solid rest in weeks: MacArthur, Kinney, Huff, Eichelberger, and Sutherland. Anxious to get off the Nashville and see the action close-up, MacArthur secured the Price house in Tacloban City, capital of Leyte, for a command post. Perfectly suited, the Price house was a two-story stucco-and-concrete mansion on the corner of Santo Niño and Justice Romualdez streets right in the center of town. The home’s original owner was an “American businessman, Walter Price, now a captive of the Japanese in Santo Tomás prison on Luzon. Price’s Filipina wife had been tortured by the Japanese and lived in the jungle while the Japanese turned her home into an officer’s’ club. Even now she was too frightened to return.
A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF Page 36