Challenge for the Pacific

by Robert Leckie

  Then the Avengers came skimming in off Ryujo’s bows, launching an anvil attack from either side so that no matter which way the enemy carrier turned to evade she would still be exposed to warheads.

  Ryujo never had a chance.

  Scarlet flames shot up from her. Explosions staggered and punctured her. Smoke billowed upward in huge balls that thinned as they rose into the air like pillars. As many as ten bombs had pierced her decks and at least one torpedo flashed into her side. She was an iron red sieve and Commander Hara watched in agony as she rolled over to expose her red-leaded belly. There was a hole in that, too. Then Hara’s ship and the others were rushing to her side to take off survivors. Three of her Zeros appeared, returning from the Guadalcanal strike. They circled wistfully overhead before ditching alongside the destroyers. The pilots were rescued. Ryujo would sink shortly after dusk with a hundred Japanese still aboard her.

  To the west, Rear Admiral Mikawa saw the smoke columns rising from the dying carrier, and he turned to look fearfully in the direction of Henderson Field.

  Ryujo’s fighters and bombers had joined with about a half-dozen Betty bombers from Rabaul to raid Henderson earlier that afternoon. All of Captain Smith’s available Wildcats had been waiting for them. They shot down sixteen enemy planes. Captain Marion Carl flamed two bombers and a Zero, and Lieutenants Zennith Pond and Kenneth Frazier and Marine Gunner Henry Hamilton shot down a pair apiece. Four Wildcats were lost, but only three pilots.

  It was far from being the most famous aerial battle in Solomons history, but it marked the beginning of the end for Japanese air power.

  When Admiral Nagumo heard of the attack on Ryujo he thought that the time to avenge Midway was at hand. He still believed that Fletcher had three big carriers in the vicinity, unaware that Wasp had been sent south to refuel. The flattops which a float plane had reported sighting after two o’clock were Enterprise and Saratoga.

  Certain that Fletcher had flown off all his planes against sacrificial Ryujo, Nagumo ordered Zuikaku and Shokaku to send every eagle they could fly screaming against the Americans.

  They missed Saratoga entirely, but they caught Enterprise at about half-past four—and they also caught a tiger by the tail.

  Fletcher had not forgotten Lexington or Yorktown, and he had not flown off all of his planes. He had fifty-three Wildcats stacked in the skies, waiting. They tangled with the Japanese planes—dive-bombing Vals and single-engine torpedo-launching Kates heavily protected by layers of Zeros—and a wild scrimmage raged overhead. Even returning American dive-bombers and torpedo-planes roared into the battle.

  But most of this action raged at the edge of a perimeter far outside the range of Enterprise’s guns; far, far beyond the sight of lookouts squinting into the bright tropic afternoon. The Big E, yet to be scratched in the Pacific War, still sailed along at twenty-seven knots with all her planes up and all her Marines and sailors at battle stations. A few minutes after five o’clock a 20-mm gun-pointer caught the flash of sun-on-a-wing. It was a Val turning over, the first of thirty.

  Enterprise’s guns opened up. Behind her, mighty North Carolina belched out an umbrella of steel and smoke over the imperiled flattop. But the Vals kept coming down. Every seven seconds one of them peeled off and dove. They attacked with all the skill that Felt’s dive-bombers had shown over Ryujo. Even though square-winged Wildcats slashed and growled at them coming down, risking friendly aircraft fire, the Japanese pilots never faltered.

  Soon Big E’s gunners could see the landing-gear “pants” of the leading Val, could make out the horrible dark blob of an egg nestling between them, and could see, with indrawn breath, that blob detach, yawn, and fall.

  There was a monstrous shuddering slap against Enterprise’s side. The first bomb had near-missed.

  Big E twisted and turned. Her own gunners and North Carolina’s spat networks of steel across the sky, but at 5:14 the big carrier took her first bomb-hit of the war. A thousand-pounder crashed through the after elevator. It penetrated to the third deck before its delayed-action fuse exploded it with a whip-sawing roar that flung every man aboard up-down-and-sideways. Thirty-five sailors were killed. Huge holes were torn in the deck and sideplates were ruptured. Thirty seconds later, the second bomb hit—only fifteen feet from the first.

  Again a violent whipping motion, again death—thirty-nine sailors—but this time smoke and fire. Stores of five-inch powder bags had been hit.

  Listing and pouring out smoke, the Big E still raced along at twenty-seven knots—and then she took a third bomb.

  Fortunately, it was only a 500-pounder, and its fuse was defective. Damage was comparatively slight. Enterprise was still moving ahead, and all that Captain Arthur Davis and his men need do now was to save their burning ship.

  From Lieutenant Commander Herschel Smith in Central Station came the orders. Surrounded by deck plans and diagrams of every system—fresh and salt water, oil and gasoline, ventilation, steam, electricity—and flanked by a battery of telephone-talkers, Smith relayed his instructions to teams of fire-fighters, repairmen, and rescuers.

  Men with hoses played streams of water on burning bedding or clothing, men with foam generators smothered burning oil, men with CO2 extinguishers put out electrical fires; and men in asbestos suits and breathing-masks shambled into burning compartments to rescue wounded or burned sailors, bringing them to other men in gauze masks and white coats who sewed flesh or straightened bones or sprayed charred skin with unguents. Other men with axes trimmed shattered timbers around deck holes, hammering square sheets of boiler plate over them. Debris parties cleared the decks of bomb fragments or replaced torn planking. Weakened and dangerous areas were marked off. Gradually, Big E was prepared to receive planes topside. Belowdecks, officers and bluejackets strove to get her on an even keel again. Three portside ballast tanks were flooded while those to starboard were pumped out. Flooded storerooms had to be pumped dry. Carpenters began repairing two big holes in Enterprise’s side, above and below the water line. Working up to their armpits in water, using emergency lighting, they built a cofferdam of two-by-six planking placed vertically a foot from the side of the ship. They covered the holes from the inside with heavy wire meshing. Between the meshing and the cofferdam they packed mattresses and pillows. Then they wedged the cofferdam tight against the packing and began pumping.

  An hour after the last bomb struck, Enterprise turned into the wind at 24 knots to receive aircraft.

  Less than an hour later, the helmsman reported, “Lost steering control, sir,” and a few minutes later the rudder had jammed and Enterprise was turning, turning helplessly to starboard.

  Captain Davis slowed to ten knots. He broke out the “Breakdown” flag. He ordered the rudder fixed. And Enterprise circled like a defenseless whale while North Carolina and cruiser Portland stood close by and the group’s destroyers raced around and round them, sniffing for submarines. Below, Chief Machinist Mate William Smith buckled on a rescue-breather-vest and put on his breathing-mask. He filled his pockets with the tools that he thought he would need and stepped into the rubble-strewn oven that was the elevator machinery room. At the other end, behind a dogged-down hatch, was the steering engine room …

  Above, Enterprise’s big air-search antenna swung—and stopped. “Large bogey. Two seven zero, fifty miles.” It was Nagumo’s second strike. Thirty Vals from Zui and Sho. And Enterprise still turned …

  Below, the heat had sent Smith sagging to the deck. He was dragged back. He recovered and returned, accompanied by Machinist Cecil Robinson. They stumbled through the debris to the hatch. They got their hands on the dogs, and passed out …

  Above decks the seas and the skies were darkening. Anxious gunners tilted their chins into the gathering gloom. The big bedspring antenna swept the skies …

  Smith and Robinson had been rescued. They had revived and had stumbled to the hatch again. They swung it open. Smith darted inside. He saw that the mechanism had not completed its shift to port. He complete
d it. The rudder moved again.

  Above, the helmsman reported: “Steering control regained, sir.”

  Enterprise straightened and sailed south.

  Nagumo’s eagles had missed her. They had flown past fifty miles away, going southeast. Enterprise recovered the last of her planes. One flight of eleven Dauntlesses led by Lieutenant Turner Caldwell was too far away to return. They flew on to Guadalcanal, landing after dark by light of crude flares. They were warmly welcomed, and they would prolong their “visit” for almost a month.

  And now all of Fletcher’s ships were retiring. Admiral Kondo’s battleships and cruisers came tearing after them. In a night action, they could blow the lightly armed flattops to bits, they could overwhelm North Carolina and her cruisers.

  But Fletcher’s caution this time had thwarted the enemy. Kondo could not catch up. The Battle of the Eastern Solomons had ended indecisively. Nevertheless, Ryujo was forever lost and Enterprise, though knocked out of action for two months, would come back to fight for Guadalcanal again, and again.

  Admiral Tanaka’s convoy of troops had withdrawn to the northeast again while Admiral Nagumo’s pilots struck at Enterprise. Then, hearing reports that two enemy carriers had been left burning and probably sinking, Admiral Mikawa in Rabaul ordered Tanaka to turn south again.

  With a sinking heart, Tanaka obeyed.

  Night of the twenty-fourth came and his ships plowed on.

  Below him, off Guadalcanal, five destroyers of his command bombarded the Americans. Then they sped north to join Tanaka. They were aged Mutsuki and Yayoi, and the newer Kagero, Kawakaze, and Isokaze. They joined up early in the morning of August 25 at a point 150 miles north of Henderson Field. Tanaka was delighted to have them. He drew up his signal order for their movements and formations, and just as it was being wigwagged the enemy Dauntlesses broke through the clouds.

  The dive-bombers were Mangrum’s Marines and Caldwell’s “visitors” from Enterprise. They had caught the Japanese unawares, not even able to ready their guns to return fire.

  Lieutenant Larry Baldinus planted his bomb forward of Tanaka’s flagship Jintsu. Near-misses staggered the big cruiser and showered her with tons of geysering water. Another bomb struck the forecastle. Men fell and steel fragments flew. Tanaka was knocked out. He recovered consciousness in clouds of choking smoke. As the smoke cleared, he saw a Dauntless flown by Ensign Christian Fink swoop down and set Kinryu Maru afire with a well-placed thousand-pounder. Admiral Tanaka ordered Jintsu to limp back to Truk for repairs, and began transferring to Kagero. He instructed Mutsuki and Yayoi to take off Kinryu Maru’s troops. Then he took Kagero and the other destroyers speeding north out of airplane range.

  But the Dauntlesses had radioed Tanaka’s location and their message brought eight Flying Fortresses over Kinryu and her ministering destroyers. In a shower of deadly eggs Kinryu was finished off and Mutsuki, lying motionless in the water, was sunk almost instantaneously.

  Commander Kiyono Hatano of Mutsuki was one of the survivors fished from the water by men of Yayoi. To him had fallen the ignominious honor of skippering the first Japanese ship to be sunk by horizontal bombers, and he took it with resignation, saying: “Even the B-17s can make a hit once in a while.”6

  Then Yayoi put about and sailed north.

  More ships and more soldiers had been lost to the Emperor. Of the troops who were finally put ashore in the Shortlands, many were wounded or burned and none had their weapons.

  Ka had failed and American toes still clung to Solomons soil.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  TRUK was quiet.

  Major General Kiyotake Kawaguchi and most of his brigade had sailed south in the big transports Sado-maru and Asakayama-maru, and the Nagumo and Kondo fleets had refueled and set out for waters northeast of Bougainville, where they would cruise on call while the carrier aircraft joined the onslaught on Henderson Field.

  Weary sailors of the few warships still anchored inside Truk Lagoon took advantage of the respite. They swam or merely loafed aboard ship, watching the blue ocean boil white over the fringing reef. Others fished. The lagoon abounded in fish of all varieties and the men had their fill of sashimi, thin strips of raw fish which Japanese consider a delicacy.

  Aboard destroyer Amatsukaze one day the men caught a falcon which had fluttered down and perched on the mast. They put it in a crude cage. Then someone caught a rat. The rat was placed inside the cage with the falcon and Amatsukaze’s crew gathered around to watch. Hearing their voices, Commander Tameichi Hara came out on deck to investigate.

  The falcon sat calmly on its perch. Its eyes were closed. The rat raced around in terror. Suddenly, the falcon blinked and swooped on the rat. It put out one of the rat’s eyes, and the sailors cheered. Now the rat scurried around the cage with the falcon whirring after it. One turn, and the falcon put out the rat’s other eye. The men roared their approval, and Commander Hara returned to his cabin with tightened lips.

  Hara was not dismayed by the cruelty of his men. It just seemed to him that the falcon was an American dive-bomber and the rat was a Japanese destroyer.1 And “Rat,” as Commander Hara knew, was the code word for the new plan of reinforcing Guadalcanal.

  Admiral Tsukahara commanding Southeast Area Force had decided that Japanese strength was to be built up steadily on Guadalcanal by stealthy night landings from destroyers. He directed Admiral Tanaka, still steaming up The Slot, to carry out the first Rat Operation the night of August 27.

  Tanaka quickly instructed his Shortland headquarters to place about 400 men and supplies for three times that many aboard three destroyers. They were to leave the Shortlands, which was still out of range of Henderson Field, at five in the morning and arrive at Taivu on Guadalcanal at nine that night. Two hours after they had departed, Tanaka, then safely home, received an Eighth Fleet order postponing the landing until the next night. Tanaka quickly replied that the ships had already left, but Eighth Fleet countered: “Recall destroyers at once.”

  Tanaka obeyed. But his patience was wearing thin. For the third time since he had assumed command of Guadalcanal Reinforcement Force he had received conflicting orders from Tsukahara and Mikawa. Again Tanaka rued the haphazard character of the Guadalcanal operation. If such confusion continues, he thought, how can we possibly win a battle?2 Probably, Tanaka would have been horrified if he had known the extent of that confusion.

  At Rabaul, Tsukahara and Mikawa operated from separate and apparently rival headquarters. Each interpreted intelligence reports as he saw fit and each drew up his own plans.3 The result was confusion for Tanaka the Tenacious, who had to struggle to keep his bow into those contrary winds.

  So the three destroyers were recalled, refueled and set to marking time in the harbor pending departure at the same time next morning.

  That night, cruisers Aoba and Furutaka slid into Shortland Harbor with Tanaka’s old friend Aritomo Goto. Both admirals expressed their fears over Rabaul’s slipshod management. Then Tanaka learned that four other destroyers being assigned to him were headed for Guadalcanal from Borneo loaded with an advance echelon of the Kawaguchi Brigade. They also were to land at Taivu on the night of August 28.

  So Tanaka ordered Captain Yonosuki Murakami to take his three refueled destroyers, plus one more, and join up with the Kawaguchi group then at sea. But the Kawaguchi destroyers radioed that a fuel shortage prevented their stopping in the Shortlands; they would go on to Guadalcanal.

  They did go on, sailing on a Rabaul schedule that put them within daylight range of Henderson Field. Colonel Mangrum’s Dauntlesses went boiling aloft and caught them squarely in The Slot. Asagiri with Captain Yuzo Arita aboard took one 500-pounder in her innards and blew up. Shirakumo was left dead in the water and Yugiri was staggered and sent limping home.

  Tanaka was consumed with rage upon hearing the report. Once again ships and men had been lost because Rabaul would not or could not understand that landings in the face of enemy air power were suicidal. A midnigh
t conference was called to discuss the disaster, and then, Captain Murakami radioed that he was turning back to the Shortlands. Tanaka was speechless. Much as he wanted to, he could not order Murakami to take his troop-laden destroyers to Guadalcanal as ordered, because now they could not make it before dawn and would be easy prey to American planes.

  Admiral Tanaka contented himself with tongue-lashing Captain Murakami in the morning. Then Tanaka, in turn, took a blistering reprimand from Tsukahara and Mikawa. He passed it along with interest to Murakami and sent him hotly south.

  After breakfast that morning Sado-maru and Asakayama-maru sailed into Shortland Harbor with Major General Kawaguchi and his main body. Kawaguchi, a fine figure of a man with his guardsman’s mustache and his neatly-pressed khakis, came aboard Tanaka’s new flagship, the heavy cruiser Kinugasa. Kawaguchi said he was anxious to get the bulk of his brigade to Guadalcanal as quickly as possible. Tanaka said he would have his wish. When properly planned, Rat runs were swift and safe. American air might be a daylight danger but at night Guadalcanal and The Slot were Japanese. Moreover, air cover could now be supplied. The new airfield at Buka on northern Bougainville was operational and had received 29 Zeros on August 28.

  General Kawaguchi demurred. With consummate courtesy he explained that he detested destroyer transportation. He preferred barges. He had landed successfully in Borneo after a 500-mile voyage by barge. Destroyers had little space, and it was because of this limitation that Colonel Ichiki had been forced to land with reduced rations and insufficient equipment. Big barges could carry all of Kawaguchi’s men and equipment. That equipment, as Kawaguchi did not inform Tanaka, included the general’s dress white uniform. He intended to wear it during flag-raising ceremonies at Henderson Field. And that, said General Kawaguchi, was that: barges it would be, just as General Hyakutake had agreed.