The Rising Sun: The Decline and Fall of the Japanese Empire, 1936-1945 (Modern Library War)

by Toland, John

  The good swimmer, Assistant Paymaster Takahashi, who had bounced off the hull, regained consciousness deep under water. Above him glowed a hole of light—too far to be reached. Suddenly a boiling vortex heaved him up. He gasped for air and swam frantically from the undertow. At a distance he turned. Musashi was on end, stern in air. In a daze he thought, The ship is standing straight up! He felt the concussion of an underwater explosion. The battleship slid out of sight. All at once there was nothing, not a soul in the strangely calm waters. I am the only survivor. He struggled through the viscous oil, collecting bits of flotsam. Then, as if in a dream, he heard distant singing and swam eagerly toward the voices.

  Hosoya had also seen Musashi sticking up, a black silhouette against the last rays of the sinking sun. Four or five men were clustered at the end of the elevated stern. They seemed to hang on tighter as the great ship plunged. He felt himself being sucked back. There was a gigantic rumble and he flew high in the air. Life seemed to stop as he looked down—almost as if it were happening to someone else—into a great hole in the water far below. He had been gulped and spewed out. Instinctively he rolled into a ball just before splashing back into the sea. Again he was pulled under, into turbulent waters. Still in a fetal-like positron, he tumbled around almost unconcerned, with no thought of breathing. Almost too late he realized what was happening and desperately clawed up. At the surface he drew in wonderful air.

  The moon lit up the dark sea. There were no voices. He too imagined he was the sole survivor. Someone grabbed him from behind. Hosoya couldn’t swim well and purposely sank. The grasping hand let go and when Hosoya surfaced, he was again alone. Then heads began to show up on all sides. He joined a group of men—one was Executive Officer Kato—and they started a search for anything that would float. Hot oil almost a foot deep engulfed them, blackening their faces except for white, swollen mouths and shiny eyes. For an hour Hosoya and Kato clung to the same box. The executive officer began to drowse and Hosoya punched him awake. Someone joked about hitting a superior officer. They sang the national anthem, naval marches and finally popular songs like “Shanghai Gal.” After almost four hours, searchlights swept the area and the escort destroyers began picking up survivors. One, however, refused to be rescued. Chief Gunnery Officer Koshino swam away into the darkness.

  3.

  More than three hundred miles to the north, off Luzon in the Philippine Sea, Ozawa’s Mobile Fleet was steaming south. The admiral was to have joined Kurita and Nishimura in the combined attack on Leyte Gulf, but on his way to the battle he had thought of a more effective way to use his four carriers and two semicarriers. He doubted that he could inflict serious damage with only 116 planes. The Mobile Fleet made an impressive appearance, however, and perhaps he could utilize it to draw Halsey’s powerful carrier force away from the Leyte area and give Kurita a chance to slip safely through San Bernardino Strait. Ozawa radioed Combined Fleet of his intentions.

  The problem had been to make his presence known to Halsey without arousing his suspicions. He did it by launching a strike at Essex, Lexington and Princeton with seventy-six planes just as Kurita was entering the Sibuyan Sea, moments before the first attack on Musashi. It was a hodgepodge collection of almost thirty types of aircraft, but as they took off, the Z flag was raised as it had been twice before in the war—at Pearl Harbor and Midway. The attackers reported hitting two carriers and overflew to Luzon. They had done no damage at all, and moreover, failed in their primary mission. Halsey assumed they were part of the land-based attack on Princeton and didn’t take the bait. Ozawa, therefore, was forced to send his two semicarriers, Ise and Hyuga, along with five other ships, farther south as a decoy.

  At last American search planes sighted this force, and as Ozawa wanted, this led to the “discovery” at 4:30 P.M. of his main force. He radioed Kurita that the enemy carrier force would probably be drawn north to engage him, thus leaving San Bernardino Strait unguarded. For some reason, the message was never received.

  As Ozawa had predicted, this time Halsey fell for the ruse. He knew that the Kurita fleet was steaming toward the gateway to the Philippine Sea, but thought it had been so badly mauled that it “could merely hit and run.” Anyway, Admiral Kinkaid’s Seventh Fleet, clustered around Leyte Gulf, had more than enough power to destroy Kurita. So why just lie off San Bernardino Strait like a cat at a mousehole and wait for the enemy to strike the first blow? The primary target was Ozawa’s carriers. If he destroyed them his future operations “need fear no threat from the sea.” Besides, he had no intention of letting Japan’s last carrier force escape free, as Spruance had in the Philippine Sea battle; he would not be accused of being unaggressive.*

  Just before 8 P.M. Halsey pointed on a map at Ozawa’s position three hundred miles away and told his chief of staff, Robert Carney, “Here’s where we’re going. Mick, start them north.” All that day Halsey had acted as commander of Task Force 38 as well as commander of the entire Third Fleet. In fact, he was leaving Marc Mitscher little to do.

  Rear Admiral Carney wrote dispatches ordering all three of Mitscher’s available carrier groups to the north. (There was a fourth, recalled from a resupply trip to Ulithi, but it was still hundreds of miles to the east.) Two of these commanders were troubled by the abrupt order. Rear Admiral G. F. Bogan—alarmed by a report that the long-darkened Japanese navigation lights in San Bernardino Strait were lit—personally relayed this disquieting intelligence to one of Halsey’s staff officers, who impatiently replied, “Yes, yes, we have that information.” Rebuffed, Bogan decided not to recommend that he and Vice Admiral W. A. Lee stay behind with their groups to guard the strait.

  “Ching” Lee himself was suspicious of Ozawa and cautioned Halsey that the Japanese carrier force might be a decoy to lure them north. The reply was a curt “Roger.” A little later Bogan, too, warned Third Fleet that he was sure Kurita was coming through the strait and got the same answer.

  On Lexington, Marc Mitscher took Halsey’s latest orders to his three task groups to mean that he had been relieved, in effect, as commander of Task Force 38. “Admiral Halsey is in command now,” he told his chief of staff, Arleigh Burke, and started for bed.

  Commodore Burke was not willing to let it go at this. “We’d better see where that fleet is,” he said, and soon word came back that Kurita was “still very much afloat and still moving toward San Bernardino.” It was important enough to awaken Mitscher with the suggestion that he urge Halsey to leave two task groups behind to stop Kurita. “Does Admiral Halsey have that report?” Mitscher asked, and when the answer was affirmative, said, “If he wants my advice, he’ll ask for it.” He rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Halsey had not altogether ignored the warnings that Kurita was probably coming through San Bernardino Strait that night. He had already sent out a message that four battleships and a score of cruisers and destroyers “will be formed as Task Force 34” under Admiral Lee to engage Kurita if he appeared. Halsey intended this “merely as a warning,” but it was interpreted as an order by Admiral Kinkaid—on his flagship Wasatch in Leyte Gulf—who by chance intercepted the message. Assured that Halsey had “set up a plan to guard San Bernardino,” Kinkaid no longer worried about Kurita. His concern lay in a different direction. A smaller Japanese surface force—it was Nishimura—was coming up toward him from the south and would probably try to slip through Surigao Strait under cover of darkness and go after the ships massed in Leyte Gulf.

  Despite the fact that Kurita had been discovered prematurely and already suffered grievous losses, the plan to disrupt MacArthur’s invasion at Leyte Gulf was proceeding better than Combined Fleet had any right to expect. Ozawa had successfully lured Halsey to the north, leaving the strait unguarded and the American commander of shipping in Leyte Gulf complacent. Kurita could still bring more surface fire power than any other fleet in existence, and in the south Nishimura with his seven ships was approaching Surigao Strait on schedule and intact.

  Kurita, however, would
not be able to keep the rendezvous; the air attacks had delayed him half a day. He radioed Nishimura—on his flagship, Yamashiro—to proceed as planned but that he himself would not get to Leyte Gulf until 11 A.M. Nishimura took the news stoically. Like Kurita he was close-mouthed, a seagoing admiral who had never served in the ministry. He was determined to break through Surigao Strait at any cost and die a useful death. (His only son, Teiji, who had graduated at the top of his class at Etajima, had fallen in the Philippines.)

  In the van, reconnoitering, was the heavy cruiser Mogami, along with three destroyers; they were followed by two old battleships, Fuso and Yamashiro, and the remaining destroyer, Shigure. Just before 11 P.M. Shigure sighted three PT boats. On order from Nishimura she turned into them and hit two of the boats. Nishimura radioed Kurita: ADVANCING AS SCHEDULED WHILE DESTROYING ENEMY TORPEDO BOATS.

  Nishimura’s was not the only Japanese fleet bound for Surigao Strait and the Decisive Battle. Thirty miles behind him came the Second Striking Force, commanded by Vice Admiral Kiyohide Shima. It was an orphan force, despite its impressive appellation, comprising two heavy cruisers, a light cruiser and four destroyers. Originally trained to be the advance guard for Ozawa, it had arbitrarily been placed under Southwest Area Force, headquartered in Manila, and assigned to escort duty. Shima had resisted the order—it would be ignominious to be left out of the coming battle—and his protest to Combined Fleet got him back into action; this time he was to join Kurita in the assault on Leyte Gulf. As he approached the Philippines from the north through the South China Sea, he still did not know exactly what role he would play. Off Lingayen Gulf he got a terse order from the commander of Southwest Area Force to “charge into Leyte Gulf,” but again there were no details. A little later, however, a message from Kurita arrived, briefly outlining the joint-attack plan. On his own, Shima decided to follow Nishimura into Surigao Strait; together their two limited forces would be more effective.

  Nishimura was informed of Shima’s decision but knew nothing more. The two admirals were going into battle, and were from different commands, yet had never communicated with each other. And Nishimura was on radio silence. Acting independently, they would need luck to be able to join forces. As Nishimura neared the strait, PT boats struck again but all their torpedoes missed. The admiral finally radioed that he would go through the narrows between the little island of Panaon and Mindanao—the southern entry to Surigao Strait—at 1:30 A.M.

  SEVERAL TORPEDO BOATS SIGHTED BUT ENEMY SITUATION OTHERWISE UNKNOWN.

  Still intact, Nishimura steamed through the ten-mile portal on schedule and turned into Surigao Strait itself. Only fifty miles north lay his target—the massed enemy transports.

  In the lead were two destroyers, and one mile behind came the flagship, Yamashiro, flanked by Shigure and another destroyer. Bringing up the rear, six hundred yards apart, were Fuso and Mogami. Three more PT boats darted out through darkness to launch torpedoes at the destroyers, but Nishimura’s luck held. All missed and this time one boat was destroyed.

  The moon had set and no wind stirred; the strait was “as calm as a graveyard.” It was pleasantly warm on deck, if hot below. Magellan had sailed through these same treacherous waters, now deceptively, smooth as glass, from the other direction on March 16, 1521. As if in ominous warning, there were occasional flashes of lightning.

  Just ahead, Kinkaid’s powerful Seventh Fleet, veiled by darkness, was waiting with apprehension mingled with expectation; no one knew for certain how big the converging Japanese forces were. Aboard the cruiser Nashville, General MacArthur refused the captain’s request that he disembark. “I have never been able to witness a naval engagement and this is the opportunity of a lifetime. Proceed to the battle area when you wish.” Kinkaid invited the general to come aboard his flagship, a transport, but the reply was final: “Transfer from a combatant ship to a noncombatant ship? Never!” The admiral was forced to keep Nashville out of the fight.

  Tactical command of the action was under Rear Admiral Jesse Oldendorf, and to stop Nishimura and Shima’s modest aggregation he had six battleships, four heavy cruisers, four light cruisers and twenty-eight destroyers. Oldendorf was a cheerful man, and reports that his PT boats had scored no hits did not ruffle him. Their main function had been to observe. Soon the Japanese would face destroyers, and then the guns of the cruisers and battleships. At 2:40 A.M. on October 25 a picket destroyer radioed: SKUNK 184 DEGREES, EIGHTEEN MILES.

  Nishimura was advancing single file in battle formation. First came the four destroyers, then the two battleships, Yamashiro and Fuso, and the heavy cruiser Mogami. Fifteen minutes later a lookout on the destroyer Shigure sighted three ships four miles ahead. The flagship shot up flares, illuminating seven enemy destroyers. They closed fast, and just after 3 A.M. fired twenty-seven torpedoes. One hit Fuso and she sheered out to starboard. Five-inch shells were dropping all around the American destroyers, but joined by a second squadron, they came in for another attack.

  At 3:20 Shigeru Nishino, captain of Shigure, saw phosphorescent wakes “as bright as day” directly ahead. Shigure and the other three destroyers heeled over violently, but their attempted evasion came too late. Nishino heard a series of quick explosions. The destroyer just ahead sank with a loud sizzling sound, like a “huge red-hot iron plunged into water”; another was left helplessly adrift and the third limped off.

  One of the torpedoes struck a more important target, Yamashiro. Nishino heard a calm voice from the flagship say in the clear, “Our ship hit by torpedo. All ships attack!” From what Nishino could see, Yamashiro, about a mile and a half away, seemed undamaged. He pulled back to join other ships in a formation attack but could find nothing. What had happened to everyone?

  Admiral Nishimura, unaware of the extent of the damage to his fleet, radioed Kurita and Shima from his flagship:

  URGENT BATTLE REPORT NUMBER 2. ENEMY TORPEDO BOATS AND DESTROYERS PRESENT ON BOTH SIDES OF NORTHERN ENTRANCE TO SURIGAO STRAIT. TWO OF OUR DESTROYERS TORPEDOED AND DRIFTING. YAMASHIRO SUSTAINED ONE TORPEDO HIT BUT NO IMPEDIMENT TO BATTLE CRUISING.

  Eight minutes later, at 3:38 A.M., there was a flash of light to the rear, followed by an awesome rumble. The damaged Fuso, nine miles away, had been blown in half. Both ends remained afloat, burning furiously. Twenty minutes later, with a rumble, Michishio, the drifting destroyer, also disintegrated.

  But Nishimura would not give up. With his remaining three ships, Yamashiro, Mogami and Shigure, he continued north toward Leyte Gulf—and into the leveled guns of the Seventh Fleet. Oldendorf had caught his foe coming bow-on. He had crossed the T, as Nelson had done at Trafalgar and Togo at Tsushima, where more equal forces were involved. At 3:51 the cruisers opened fire followed by the six battleships—all but one had been hit or sunk at Pearl Harbor. This barrage was “the most beautiful sight” the commander of the American destroyer screen had ever witnessed. The blinding streams of tracers arching above his head resembled “a continued stream of lighted railroad cars going over a hill.”

  Both Mogami and Yamashiro returned fire even as they recoiled from hit after hit. The heavy cruiser loosed torpedoes at 4:01 A.M. and was soon deluged by shells from destroyers which had closed in. Burning and crippled, she turned back south. Yamashiro was also ablaze from stem to stern. At 4:09 the heavy shelling inexplicably stopped. (Oldendorf had got word that he was hitting his own destroyers.) In the hiatus Yamashiro too reversed course and started south after Mogami, but the flagship was undone. Within ten minutes she capsized and sank, taking with her Nishimura and almost the entire crew.

  Thin-skinned Shigure was still alive. One shell had ripped through her stern but hundreds of others had missed, sending up an almost constant wall of water on either side. Nishino, benumbed by the deafening roar of battle and the jarring concussions of near misses that had knocked out every precision instrument, saw a large ship in flames to his left. It looked like a huge hunk of red-hot iron; it must be Fuso. He ordered right rudder, but there was no response. He
brought the destroyer to a stop for repairs.

  To the south, just as the first torpedoes were being launched at Nishimura, Shima’s Second Striking Force had entered Surigao Strait at 28 knots. Almost immediately Shima’s column was set upon by PT boats, which damaged the light cruiser Abukuma so severely she had to be left behind. The remaining six ships continued north. They were engulfed in a sudden squall but blindly continued to thread their way through the narrows at the same speed. At 3:25 A.M. the squall ended and Shima, who had not received Nishimura’s “Urgent Battle Report Number 2” that his flagship and two destroyers had been torpedoed, ordered the Second Striking Force to go into battle formation with the flagship Nachi in the lead, followed by the other heavy cruiser, Ashigara, and the four destroyers. Rain spit spasmodically and visibility was poor, but Shima called for more speed. Everyone on Nachi’s bridge strained to see ahead. Suddenly there came a blinding blossom of light that seemed to fill the entire strait. Some capital ship had blown up; Shima hoped it was American.

  It was Fuso.

  To encourage Nishimura, Shima said by radiotelephone, “We have arrived at battle site.” His column was still bearing down at almost top speed. Ahead, two ships (they were the two sections of Fuso) were blazing intensely like “steel-mill flames,” and Shima deduced that Nishimura’s fleet had been smashed. The Second Striking Force passed to the left of the burning sections, hugging the coast to keep out of the glow.