A Dawn Like Thunder

by Robert J. Mrazek

  As Kondo sifted the reports from his ships’ commanders, he became convinced that his ships had sunk one battleship, four cruisers, and two destroyers. A second battleship was reportedly sinking. As a result, he concluded that the Japanese transports bringing the soldiers of the 38th Infantry Division could now disembark the remaining troops without serious interference.

  Canceling Admiral Yamamoto’s explicit order to shell Henderson Field, Kondo withdrew his entire force. While retiring northward, he received the unwelcome news that Kirishima was no longer capable of full power. Her engines were operating, but as with the Hiei two nights earlier, one of the American shells had flooded her steering compartment. The ship could barely make headway.

  Kondo left a screening force of destroyers with her, and continued north.

  In spite of heroic efforts by Kirishima’s crew to contain the fires that had been ignited deep inside her by the Washington’s sixteen-inch guns, the flames continued to spread. When they approached the ammunition magazines, they were flooded. However, the battleship continued listing to starboard until it rolled over and sank at 0325.

  Far to the south of Kirishima’s grave, the last four Japanese transport ships raced toward the northern shore of Guadalcanal, desperate to disembark their precious troop reinforcements before daybreak.

  There was no time now for the transports to stand offshore for the orderly transferral of troops and equipment to the beaches. Dawn was only two hours away, and the convoy commander radioed orders to the captains of the transports that they should run their ships aground.

  At 0400, the four transport ships rammed into the shoreline west of the American positions at Lunga Point. A frantic effort began to unload the men and hundreds of tons of supplies and equipment from the hold of each ship.

  Twelve miles away at Henderson Field, the pilots and crews of the Cactus Air Force waited in the darkness for their opportunity to destroy them.

  Sunday, 15 November 1942

  Henderson Field, Guadalcanal

  0550

  At the first hint of dawn, eight Dauntlesses took off down the bomber strip. The Japanese transports were so close that the dive-bombers were pushing over into their attacks almost as soon as they were in the air.

  To one of the pilots, the beached transport he was diving on looked like a disturbed ant hill as hundreds of Japanese sailors and soldiers scrambled for safety. There was no ground fire to deter the dive-bombers, and they quickly delivered direct hits on the first two transports with thousand-pound bombs.

  Their flight was followed by Avengers carrying five-hundred-pound bombs. All four transports were wreathed in flames when another five Dauntlesses arrived with thousand-pounders to continue the destruction.

  It was like a turkey shoot with sitting ducks.

  By 0900, the carnage was over. There were no targets left. The four transports were flaming infernos. The unloaded piles of ammunition, equipment, and supplies had been blown up alongside the ships.

  Eleven transports had left Shetland Harbor near Bougainville carrying ten thousand Japanese troops, thirty-two thousand artillery shells, tons of food and medical supplies for thirty thousand troops, and hundreds of tons of military equipment.

  When the Japanese made an inventory of what had actually reached Guadalcanal, it consisted of fifteen hundred bags of rice, two hundred sixty boxes of artillery ammunition, and two thousand dazed, unequipped soldiers. In carrying out the mission, the Japanese navy had lost two battleships, one heavy cruiser, three destroyers, and ten transport ships. Its army had lost many thousands of Japan’s premier shock troops, along with all of their equipment.

  Although the Guadalcanal battle would require several more months of hard fighting before it reached its conclusion, the strategic question had finally been decided. The Japanese would initiate only one more major air attack on Henderson Field before abandoning their effort to retake it in February 1943. From that date to the moment of their surrender in August 1945, the Imperial Japanese forces were in constant retreat across the Pacific.

  Henderson Field, Guadalcanal

  Torpedo Squadron Eight

  0930

  Swede needed one more mission, one last chance to wreak vengeance on the enemy. Unfortunately, Lieutenant Colonel Moret, who commanded the new Marine torpedo squadron, refused to let him fly one of his planes. Larsen had been officially relieved. It was time for him to go.

  Swede had requested that he be allowed to stay on as an air operations officer so that he could put all of the experience he had gathered to good use in winning the Guadalcanal campaign. His request was rejected.

  Pete Peterkin made arrangements for the ten men left in the squadron to fly back to Espiritu Santo in a B-17 on the morning of November 16. Of the ten men, there were only two fliers left, Swede and Larry Engel. Pete was the only other officer. The remaining seven were Chief J. C. Hammond, Roy Williams, Hugh Lawrence, Basil Rich, Wiley Bartlett, Charles King, and Ridgeway Liccioni.

  After the Cactus air group had come back from destroying the four beached transports, search planes flying a sector northwest of Guadalcanal reported sighting several more enemy vessels, drifting and apparently abandoned. They had been part of the troop convoy wiped out the previous day.

  Swede decided to go after them. He knew it was pointless to ask Colonel Moret for the planes to do it. Instead, he went to see Navy Lieutenant Al “Scoofer” Coffin, who commanded the Enterprise’s torpedo squadron, and had been operating out of Henderson Field since the Enterprise had made its air attack on the battleship Hiei two days earlier. Coffin was waiting for orders to return to the carrier.

  Swede asked him if he could borrow two of his Avengers for a quick run up the Groove to finish off the last transports. Coffin said sure. Maybe a couple of his own guys would want to go along, too.

  Taking Larry Engel and two of the Enterprise torpedo pilots with him, Swede led the four Avengers up the Groove one last time. When they arrived over the still burning transports, the ships were drifting without power in the middle of a debris field dotted with rafts, small boats, and floating wreckage. If any Japanese remained alive, they weren’t manning the ships’ antiaircraft batteries, which were silent.

  Swede went in to attack at two hundred feet. As he approached the ship to launch his torpedo, he suddenly saw a Japanese sailor dive headfirst off the stern into the sea. Perhaps the sight of the man affected Swede’s aim. Coming in behind him, Larry Engel saw Swede’s torpedo run wildly off course.

  Engel’s torpedo hit the transport amidships and set off a fiery explosion. The pilots circled overhead as the ship settled by the stern and sank within a few minutes. After it was gone, they went down to strafe the rafts and small boats until their ammunition was expended. Then they flew back to Henderson Field.

  It was the last attack in the war made by Swede Larsen’s Torpedo Eight.

  Homeward Bound

  Monday, 16 November 1942

  Henderson Field, Guadalcanal

  Torpedo Squadron Eight

  0700

  On their final morning at Guadalcanal, Lew Aronson, who now commanded Mahoney’s special weapons company, invited Swede and the men of Torpedo Eight to have an early breakfast with him at his new camp.

  During their first stay with the unit, Pete Peterkin had fallen in love with the hotcakes Mahoney’s Marines ate almost every day. After enjoying them again that morning, he asked the company cook for the recipe. When he checked his watch, Peterkin was shocked to see that they were late for their scheduled departure aboard the B-17 he had lined up for them.

  They left the camp on the run, but by the time the men arrived at the airfield, the B-17 was airborne and on its way to Espiritu Santo. When Peterkin checked at the operations tent, he was told there were no other planes large enough to take the men and their gear. It left the group in a sour mood.

  At around 0930, Peterkin was making arrangements for where they would stay that night when the low rumble of multiengine aircraft c
ould be heard approaching the field. He looked up to see six transport planes coming in to land.

  It took a good deal of persuasion, but one of the transport pilots agreed to take them to Espiritu Santo without official orders. After the plane’s cargo had been unloaded, the men of Torpedo Eight came forward to board with their personal gear.

  When Wiley Bartlett approached the plane with a Nambu rifle he had found after the October 24 battle, the pilot told him he couldn’t bring it on the plane. A few of the other men were also carrying guns and swords. Their pleas to keep the booty fell on deaf ears. Faced with the possibility of being left behind, Wiley Bartlett threw his rifle on the ground and climbed aboard. The others added their weapons to the pile.

  Pete Peterkin decided that he wanted to be the last man in the squadron to leave Guadalcanal, and waited until the others got in the plane. When he saw Hugh Lawrence jump down to the runway to enjoy a last smoke, Pete jumped out after him, waiting until Lawrence was back inside before climbing back in himself.

  The transport arrived at Espiritu Santo five hours later after an uneventful flight. When they were taken by truck over to Torpedo Eight’s camp, Peterkin was impressed with all of the new facilities that had been constructed in the two months he had been gone. Bruce Harwood invited him to stay in the screened bungalow he shared with George Flinn at the edge of the sea.

  For some reason, the calmness of the facility seemed to put Swede in a foul temper. He began loudly criticizing the “goldbrickers” who had stayed behind in plush quarters while the squadron was up fighting the real war on Guadalcanal.

  A converted cargo ship, the USS Kitty Hawk, had been designated to carry the squadron back to San Diego. Everyone tried to stay out of Swede’s way as the hours ticked down to the departure time on the eighteenth.

  Swede brought the officers together and told them that, unlike the enlisted men, they had two options for getting home. The first was to return with the rest of the squadron aboard the Kitty Hawk, which would arrive in San Diego in about two weeks.

  The second was to take their chances hitching a ride on one of the many aircraft heading back to Pearl Harbor through New Caledonia. At Pearl, they might catch a faster ship or maybe even find a seat on a plane heading stateside.

  The pilots talked it over that evening. The word was that the Kitty Hawk would be packed with nearly a thousand men. They would be crammed like sardines into the staterooms and compartments, the facilities would be poor, and the food undoubtedly monotonous. On the plus side, the Kitty Hawk was steaming straight to San Diego. Therefore, it was highly unlikely they would be waylaid to join some other understrength torpedo plane squadron.

  The option through Pearl Harbor gave them a chance of getting home sooner, but they also were more likely to be press-ganged into a unit that was heading back into harm’s way. None of them were anxious for that to happen until they had enjoyed the pleasures of a home leave.

  It was a gamble.

  Pete Peterkin had no doubt about his choice. Not being a pilot, he was unlikely to get shanghaied along the way. He was going to fly to Pearl Harbor and then try to catch a plane to San Francisco where his wife, Jane, would hopefully be waiting for him.

  Smiley Morgan was ready to take his chances, too. From Pearl Harbor, he envisioned getting aboard a converted cruise liner like the famous Lurline that George Gay had taken back after the Midway battle. It would be filled with lovely nurses who would be thrilled to meet a young Navy combat flier who had been recommended for the Navy Cross.

  After Smiley spoke persuasively about his great expectations, Bob Ries decided to go with him. The thought of spending two weeks stuffed into a compartment with ten guys did not hold the same allure as returning aboard a cruise liner with several hundred nurses to choose from. Andy Divine thought about it awhile and said he wanted to go, too.

  Bruce Harwood was flying back to San Diego on a higher travel priority to arrange the stateside transition for all of the men in the squadron before they got there. The rest of the pilots, Bert Earnest, Gene Hanson, Fred Mears, Bob Evarts, Aaron Katz, and Bill Dye, opted for the Kitty Hawk.

  Fred Mears had become addicted to playing Monopoly. Aboard the Kitty Hawk, they would be playing for high stakes, and he was confident that he would be a good deal wealthier when they reached San Diego.

  Tuesday, 17 November 1942

  Espiritu Santo

  Torpedo Squadron Eight

  0700

  After spending the night in Bruce Harwood’s cabin, Pete Peterkin hitched a ride the next morning on a B-25 heading to New Caledonia. At one point during the flight, the plane experienced a mechanical malfunction, and the pilot sent back word for everyone to put on parachutes and prepare to jump.

  Pete couldn’t believe that after coming through two months of green hell, he would now be forced to jump out of an airplane in the middle of the Pacific. He stood in the navigator’s compartment and silently prayed they would make it. When they finally arrived, he quickly caught another flight headed to the island of Nandi in the Fiji Islands. This plane was outfitted with bunks, and he soon fell asleep.

  Smiley Morgan, Bob Ries, and Andy Divine had gone out to the airstrip in the morning, too. They got seats on a PBM amphibious plane that was going to New Caledonia. When they got to their first destination on the island of Suva, the two PBM pilots, who were contract fliers from Pan American Airlines, refused to go any farther. They didn’t like to fly at night.

  The three Navy pilots walked around town, hoping to buy an exotic souvenir to bring home with them, but the shops were empty. Everything good had been sold at outrageous prices to the crews of the American ships that regularly put in there.

  They discovered that some of the Polynesian women were more than six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds. Even Bob Ries was intimidated. The three of them had lunch in one of Suva’s seedy hotels.

  The food was served by native waiters in black tuxedos. The ambience was slightly undercut when Smiley looked down at the packed-dirt floor and noticed that the waiters were barefoot.

  Espiritu Santo

  Torpedo Squadron Eight

  1300

  Newton “Del” Delchamps was cleaning his Colt pistol when Aviation Ordnanceman First Class Gordon Comstock, the leading mate in the shop, stopped by to tell him that Swede had called for a final muster of all the enlisted men to hand out promotions for meritorious conduct during the Guadalcanal campaign.

  “I think you’re going to get a promotion, Del,” Comstock told him.

  At eighteen, Del had already survived the sinking of the Yorktown and had made it through a succession of hairy combat missions before he crash-landed in the Pacific aboard Bill Dye’s plane. He hadn’t claimed credit for shooting down any Japanese planes, but he thought he deserved a promotion to aviation ordnanceman second class.

  He put down the forty-five and walked out to the clearing in the coconut grove where the men were gathering in a big circle. Swede was already there, standing alone in the middle of the group. Del took a place in the circle between his pilot, Bill Dye, and Dye’s or-iginal turret gunner, Wiley Bartlett, the eighteen-year-old half-Cherokee from Alabama. When Judge Wendt had been wounded, Swede had chosen Wiley as Wendt’s replacement.

  Once they were all assembled, Swede announced that he was going to reward those men who had earned promotions at both Espiritu Santo and Guadalcanal over the last two months.

  Jack Stark was standing in the circle opposite Del Delchamps. Swede’s announcement came as a surprise to him. He and Ed Dollard had faithfully kept all of the records of the squadron members’ individual actions at Guadalcanal, as well as the daily activities of the men who had remained at Espiritu Santo. He assumed that once they were aboard the Kitty Hawk, Swede would ask him for the documentation he and Ed had prepared on each enlisted man in the squadron before making his recommendations for promotion.

  From inside the circle, Swede walked up and stood in front of the first man.

 
It was a radioman–tail gunner who had brought down a Zero floatplane during one of the Guadalcanal air battles. After telling the man he had performed well in the air, Swede promoted him on the spot.

  He then began working his way around the interior of the circle, sometimes stopping to promote a man, sometimes passing a man by without a word. He stopped in front of Bill Tunstall.

  Tunstall was the man Swede had accused of trying to kill him by failing to fill his gas tanks before a training flight back at Norfolk. A machinist’s mate second class, Tunstall had never gotten up to Guadalcanal. At Espiritu Santo, he had been responsible for preparing the Avengers that were sent to fight up there, and worked on the ones periodically flown back down for maintenance and repair. He was considered one of the best plane captains in the squadron.

  “No promotion,” said Swede without further elaboration.

  As Swede continued to go down the line of men, Jack Stark realized that he was making the determinations solely on the basis of his personal assessment of each man, rather than the man’s actual record. He thought it was particularly unfair to the ones who had remained at Espiritu Santo. Swede couldn’t know which men had worked the hardest to keep the squadron strong.

  Farther down the line, Swede stopped in front of another machinist’s mate who had stayed behind on Espiritu Santo. Jack knew him to be unreliable and lazy. Swede promoted him.

  Swede had walked past more than half the men in the circle when he came face to face with Newton Delchamps. Stopping, he grinned up at the strapping six-footer. Thinking the smile must bode well for him, Del grinned back. He was a third-class ordnanceman. Being promoted to second class would mean a nice pay raise.

  “Delchamps,” Swede began, “it says in the Bible that God looks after widows and fools. You better hope so because you’re goddam worthless.”

  Still grinning, he moved on to the next man in line.

  Del couldn’t believe it. Just as Swede had done back at Guadalcanal when he had ordered Del to salvo the four bombs into the sand, Swede had humiliated him in front of every man within earshot. Shaking with anger, he grabbed for his forty-five, but realized he had left the pistol back in his quarters.