by Toland, John
3.
Now, even in Tokyo, it was clear that the American invasion of the Philippines was imminent. General Kuroda, who had realistically prophesied that Japanese land-based planes could not thwart American sea power, was relieved of his command on the specious grounds that he was “devoting more time to his golf, reading and personal matters than to the execution of his official duties.”
His replacement as commander of all ground troops in the Islands was one of the heroes of the early victories, the conqueror of Singapore. After that campaign, General Tomoyuki Yamashita had been sent to Manchuria to train troops. He was not allowed to stop off in Tokyo. This, explained Imperial Headquarters, was to prevent the Russians from learning of his new assignment, but Yamashita, who had been at odds with Tojo for years, was convinced it was just an excuse to get him out of public sight.
On his way south Yamashita told his operations officer, Major Shigeharu Asaeda, who like his chief was impatient for action, that he feared the Philippine campaign was “going to be another Battle of Minatogawa”—one fought by a commander who knew from the beginning he had no chance of victory. But he hid this pessimism from his new staff, and upon arrival at 14th Area Army headquarters at Fort McKinley near Manila on October 6, told them that the fate of Japan rested on the outcome of the battle. Each officer had a “heavy responsibility” to fight resolutely, daringly and with determination to win. “If we all remember this, the Japanese Army must win in the end.”
Less than twenty thousand troops—the 16th Division—were garrisoned on the island that was MacArthur’s target, Leyte. This unit had landed on the east coast of Luzon on Christmas Eve, 1941, and after participating in the seizure of Manila, fought on Bataan. But the majority of its present complement, including its commander, Lieutenant General Shiro Makino, were replacements who had never before been in battle. In the Japanese Army their reputation was poor; they were mostly draftees from the Kyoto-Osaka region and were “better businessmen than fighters.”
Leyte was wedged between two larger islands, Samar directly to the northeast and Mindanao to the south. In shape it resembled a molar with its roots pointing to Mindanao. On the east coast a fertile plain ran along Leyte Gulf for thirty-five miles. No reefs protected its open sandy beaches, making it a perfect site for landing operations. But a few miles inland MacArthur’s men would have to cross a complex of swamps, streams and rice paddies which were almost impassable except by road during the rainy season, which had already begun. The rest of the island was mountainous and heavily wooded, equally difficult to attack or defend. It was infested with small bands of guerrillas, who were in conflict with one another as often as with the Japanese. Their principal value to MacArthur was the reliable information they radioed him about General Makino’s defenses.
There were almost a million people on the island, all of them—except for 3,076 Chinese, and a sprinkling of Europeans, Americans and Japanese—placid Visayans who lived by farming and fishing. The principal crops were rice, sugar cane, corn and copra.
At Hollandia as well as at Manus, one of the Admiralty islands two hundred miles north of New Guinea, a vast armada—including battleships, cruisers, small carriers, destroyers, transports, tankers, amphibious craft, minesweepers, salvage tugs and floating drydocks—was preparing to set sail for Leyte. The ships were manned by 50,000 sailors, and the transports and amphibious craft carried 165,000 troops of MacArthur’s Sixth Army. The invasion of Leyte would be by far the greatest operation in the Pacific. For the first time all the forces of MacArthur, Nimitz and the overseas bomber commands would be united.
The safe passage of this convoy was still Mitscher’s concern and to accomplish this he was to range from the Philippine Sea to the East China Sea and back. Task Force 38, which had already practically eliminated Japanese air power in the Philippines, first steamed a thousand miles north to Okinawa, an island the Japanese considered part of the homeland. Mitscher’s 1,396 sorties on October 10 destroyed a hundred planes and considerable shipping, including four cargo vessels, a submarine tender and a dozen torpedo boats.
The admiral swung back south to bomb northern Luzon the following day. Then he reversed course again and just before sunrise on October 12 launched fighters from his four carrier groups at Formosa. Here he met his first serious opposition. Vice Admiral Shigeru Fukudome, commander of the Sixth Base Air Force, sent up 230 fighters to ambush the Americans. Many of his young pilots had learned their combat technology only from films,a but they would probably outnumber the enemy at least 3 to 2.
From his command post Fukudome saw in the distance enemy planes sweep down to his airfields; high above, tiny specks—Zero interceptors—began plummeting toward the Americans. There were flashing explosions and long arching trails of smoke. Fukudome excitedly clapped his hands. “Well done! Well done! A tremendous success!” But the Americans continued to come on in perfect formation. The downed planes were his own. His fighters had been like “so many eggs thrown against the stone wall of the indomitable enemy formation.”
Fukudome lost a third of his interceptors in the first strike, and the rest in the second. There was nothing to send up against the third. The Americans resumed their raids the following morning and, unopposed, damaged Formosan air installations more heavily than the previous day. The Japanese retaliated at dusk. Thirty-odd bombers specially designed for night attacks swept out toward Task Force 38, skimming the waves to avoid radar detection. Three dive bombers eluded interceptors and released their bombs at the carrier Franklin. Two bombs went wide, but the third exploded on the deck-edge elevator. Fire broke out on the port quarter but was soon extinguished. The heavy cruiser Canberra (named after the Australian cruiser sunk in the Battle of Savo) was not so fortunate. A torpedo slammed into her side, ripping a huge hole. Water cascaded in and she came to a dead stop ninety miles from Formosa.
Halsey, on his flagship New Jersey, faced a difficult decision. Should he abandon Canberra or risk another ship in an attempt to tow her at 4 knots the thirteen hundred miles to Ulithi Atoll in the Carolines? Halsey characteristically took the chance and ordered another cruiser to draw Canberra clear. To divert the Japanese he ordered a third and unscheduled series of raids on Formosa. In the morning Mitscher sent out three sweeps against Formosan airfields while 109 huge Army Air Force B-29’s left their bases deep inside China to hit the Takao area. By dusk, over five hundred Japanese planes had been destroyed in the three-day air battle.
But the surviving Japanese pilots, whose vision of battle had come from a lakeful of models on the Toho film lot, reported the biggest victory in Japanese naval history, and as Halsey’s fleet withdrew to strike elsewhere, Admiral Toyoda—at the time in Formosa on an inspection trip—saw this action as confirmation of American disaster. He ordered Fukudome to go after the “remnants” of the Third Fleet with every bomber left. The next day, October 15, Fukudome launched three strikes. One group alone found the enemy, and it was repelled. The following afternoon a flight of 107 aircraft caught up with the retreating Americans. Only three penetrated the fighter screen and one hit the light cruiser Houston with a torpedo. Over sixty-five hundred tons of water rushed in and she seemed destined to share the fate of the first Houston, destroyed off Java, but damage-control parties kept the leaks in check, and like Canberra, she was towed away.
Halsey had not lost a single ship in the sweeps extending from Okinawa to Luzon. Facetiously he radioed Nimitz: THE THIRD FLEET’S SUNKEN AND DAMAGED SHIPS HAVE BEEN SALVAGED AND ARE RETIRING AT HIGH SPEED TOWARD THE ENEMY. He was heading south to support the coming invasion of Leyte.
In Japan neither Combined Fleet nor Imperial Headquarters had any reason to doubt the reports of momentous victories by returning pilots. An official communiqué was issued on October 16 announcing that in the Formosan battle eleven enemy carriers, two battleships, three cruisers and one destroyer or light cruiser had been sunk and almost as many others damaged. In addition, 112 planes had been shot down. It was admitted that 312
Japanese aircraft had not yet “returned” but this was small price for crippling the Third Fleet. The Emperor called for a celebration in Hibiya Park.
To the south a typhoon raged through the Philippines, but by dawn of October 17 the storm had subsided. Through a sea whipped by heavy winds an American attack group—two light cruisers, four destroyers and eight destroyer transports—followed three minesweepers into Leyte Gulf. For twenty minutes one of the cruisers, Denver, shelled Suluan, a small island in the mouth of the gulf. Then the 6th Ranger Infantry Battalion debarked from the transports in a driving rain to land unopposed. The Rangers were looking for mine charts in a lighthouse but found none. They disposed of most of the thirty-two-man Japanese garrison, but not before a lookout sent out a radio warning. He so exaggerated the size of the attack group (he reported that “two battleships, two converted aircraft carriers and six destroyers” lay off his island) that their presence created a major alert. Admiral Toyoda, still on Formosa, signaled Admiral Takeo Kurita to bring his formidable First Striking Force up from Singapore, then ordered Ozawa’s Mobile Fleet to steam out of the Inland Sea (where it had reorganized after its crushing defeat in the Philippine Sea) and head south toward the Philippines. He also instructed submarines to make for the Leyte area and attack the American fleet. Then he took off for Japan so he could be at Combined Fleet Headquarters once the Decisive Battle started.
But the man in charge of the defense of the Visayans saw the Suluan alert as yet another false report. At Cebu, General Sosaku Suzuki remembered the panic when whitecaps off Mindanao were reported as landing craft. How could the enemy possibly launch an invasion after suffering a greater naval defeat than at Pearl Harbor? His superiors in Manila were just as skeptical; observation pilots had reported seeing nothing in Leyte Gulf through the clouds and rain.
On Leyte itself, General Makino alone feared it was a genuine invasion and ordered an alert—against the advice of his staff, who argued that the American shipping in the mouth of Leyte Gulf was the remnants of the Formosa battle blown south by the typhoon.
October 18 dawned fair, and the Rangers had no trouble landing on Homonhon, an island next to little Suluan. (One of Makino’s staff officers flew over the gulf about this time but saw nothing through the fog.) There were no Japanese, no fortifications. Without opposition (“Here we are with all these goddamn bullets and no Japs!”) the Rangers accomplished their mission: the erection of a navigation light to guide the convoy. Fifteen miles to the south, other Rangers were swarming ashore at Dinagat, a much bigger island guarding the lower approaches to the gulf. It, too, was uninhabited, and a second navigation light was set up at the tip end, Desolation Point. The convoy would enter the gulf between these two islands.
By noon the entrance to Leyte had been secured. Two hours later the battleship Pennsylvania, along with two cruisers and several destroyers, began to bombard Leyte itself along the gulf. Then underwater teams in landing craft moved in to scout conditions on the beaches. Japanese dug in along the neat rows of coconut trees lining the beach road opened fire, sinking one of the craft. Ignoring the hail of bullets, the other teams went to work and were soon back with a welcome report: the shore was clear of mines and obstacles.
Makino’s communications—inadequate to begin with—had been almost completely disrupted by the storm, and he knew none of this. Reassured by the officer who had just flown over the gulf and seen nothing of import, he reported to Suzuki that the American ships sighted earlier in the gulf had probably been looking for refuge from the typhoon.
In Japan this complacency was not shared by Combined Fleet. Just before noon Admiral Toyoda gave the execute to SHO-1, and for the first time his staff revealed to the Army at a combined meeting its detailed plan for an exhaustive battle; the Navy would attack the landing forces in Leyte Gulf with every available ship. This “all-or-nothing” attitude distressed General Kenryo Sato. If the Navy failed, what chance would the Army have in its Decisive Battle? “The Combined Fleet belongs not only to the Navy but to the state,” Sato pointed out. Its destruction—he used the word “self-destruction”—would leave the homeland open to invasion. “Only the existence of the fleet will make the enemy cautious,” he said in a choked voice. “So please, gentlemen, be prudent.”
“I am very grateful to know,” said Rear Admiral Nakazawa, the Operations Section chief, “that the Combined Fleet is so highly regarded by you Army men.” His words were sincere. He pleaded for “a fitting place to die.” The Philippines would be the last opportunity. “Please give the Combined Fleet the chance to bloom as flowers of death.” His voice faltered. “This is the Navy’s earnest request.”
Sato could not withstand the tears or the argument. He acceded gracefully. That afternoon the Emperor gave his blessing to SHO-1.
• • •
South of the Philippines, scattered over thousands of square miles, the invasion convoy—420 transports and 157 warships—was steaming steadily toward Leyte Gulf. In the van were battleships, cruisers and destroyers of the support and bombardment units, and just before dawn on October 19 they entered the gulf and began shelling the landing beaches. At the same time carrier planes were striking at every air base on the Visayans. They almost completely destroyed the remaining Japanese air power in the area.
The stage was at last set for the appearance of the gigantic invasion convoy. At eleven o’clock that evening it rendezvoused seventeen miles east of Leyte Gulf and steamed slowly toward the opening, marked by the navigation lights on the islands of Dinagat and Homonhon. Protestant and Catholic services were piped over public address systems, and more than one man had the sinking feeling that he was listening to his own last rites. Up ahead could be heard the muted boom of destroyers lobbing shells onto the landing areas.
In eleven hours the GI’s would storm those beaches, and they tried to rest in the stuffy holds. Those who could not sleep counted the slow hours in their bunks or came up on deck in search of fresh air. The ships seemed to be barely moving as they glided through the mouth of the gulf. There was little talk; everyone was too engrossed in his own thoughts and fears. On the left loomed an ominous mass, Dinagat Island, dark except at the tip end, Desolation Point, where a white beacon steadily gleamed.
A GI fell overboard. It was reported over the circuit: “Ships astern keep lookout.” Rescue seemed hopeless in the swift-running phosphorescent waters, but twenty minutes later a small craft near the end of the formation sighted the soldier and hauled him aboard.
In the first gray light of October 20—MacArthur had designated it A-Day, since D-Day, to the public, meant June 6, 1944—the dim outline of Leyte materialized. The sun rose behind the convoy, illuminating clear skies overhead. In minutes it was uncomfortably hot. The quiet was shattered abruptly as three battleships opened fire. Gray smoke plumes erupted along Violet and Yellow beaches near Dulag. Twelve minutes later a Japanese observation plane appeared. Ack-ack bursts bloomed on all sides, but the little aircraft moved off unharmed.
At about seven o’clock three other battleships joined in the cannonade, their target White and Red beaches to the north, just below Tacloban, the capital. Within an hour the transports began moving sedately over the glassy water to positions seven miles offshore. The battleships ceased fire to allow cruisers, destroyers and gunboats to move in closer and take up the bombardment. The continuous thunder of guns was suddenly exceeded by an awesome swoosh as thousands of rockets shot up simultaneously from the little gunboats. Seconds later there was a thunderous clap. The entire shoreline was “a solid sheet of blinding and exploding flame.” When the smoke cleared, those on the transports stared incredulous—where there had been lush jungle growth now lay “a barren, tangled, smoking, dust-covered waste.”
At nine forty-five—fifteen minutes before H-hour—the landing craft, which had been jockeying for position as if they were in a sulky race, bored in toward the beaches on a twelve-mile front. In the north the 1st Cavalry Division stormed ashore at White Beach. Sharpsh
ooters knocked snipers out of palm trees with carbines and Garands; concrete pillboxes were dynamited and cavalrymen swept onto the coastal highway. To their left the 24th Infantry Division also landed without difficulty—two of their men, one a Filipino, planted the American and Philippine flags on Red Beach—but they ran into nests of resolute Japanese and it took them several hours to reach the road. Farther south the 96th Infantry Division splashed safely ashore at Orange and Blue beaches. Fortunately, most of the artillery located at Catmon Hill, which dominated the region, had been destroyed by the naval bombardment. They pushed inland for almost a mile before they were slowed by marshes and scattered resistance. To their left at the extreme southern end—Violet and Yellow beaches—the 7th Infantry Division, which had seen action at Attu and Kwajalein, encountered the stiffest opposition, but Dulag was captured by noon.
MacArthur watched the landings intently from the bridge of the cruiser Nashville until lunch. He reappeared on deck a little before two o’clock, wearing a fresh khaki uniform, sunglasses and marshal’s cap. He climbed into a barge loaded with officers and newsmen. It headed for the transport John Land, on which Sergio Osmeña, the President of the Philippines since Quezon’s death three months earlier, waited along with General Carlos Romulo to be picked up. Romulo hadn’t seen MacArthur for two years and eagerly clambered down the rope ladder.
“Carlos, my boy!” MacArthur exclaimed. “Here we are—home!”
Osmeña’s affable greeting to MacArthur belied his true feelings. It had taken a personal plea from President Roosevelt to persuade him to return to the Philippines in the shadow of the general. But the exhilaration of the moment overrode personal differences. They were all talking at once. “We’re here” was repeated over and over. MacArthur slapped Sutherland on the knee. “Believe it or not,” he said with a grin, “we’re back.”