MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan

by Douglas Niles

  They slowed and pulled up just a few hundred feet short of the target. Ellis released his bombs and quickly jammed the throttle to full speed, pulling into a climb. Something rocked the plane as one of the ack-ack shells blasted a little close to home, but then they were past the ships, all the bombers climbing and circling back.

  “Hot damn, skipper!” It was Grisham, crowing from the copilot’s seat. “We got a ton of hits! Look at those bastards burn!”

  The aircraft of the 65th flew above their targets, and Ellis took the time to make a careful assessment while the bombardier shot up a whole roll of film snapping pictures. Of the six transports, four of them were burning furiously, falling out of formation. The two survivors streamed northward with one destroyer, while the other tin can circled around its stricken charges like an aggrieved border collie trying to protect a flock of wounded sheep.

  “None of those guys will make it back to Rabaul,” Grisham predicted. “Not if the marines can get a few SBDs up here to finish them off.”

  “Send out the position and bomb damage assessment,” Ellis said. “Time for us to get back to Henderson.” No planes lost. It was a good day in the Solomons for the Lucky Dicers.

  • FRIDAY, 2 OCTOBER 1942 •

  AKAGI, 200 MILES EAST OF RABAUL, 1845 HOURS

  Admiral Nagumo’s stomach was roiling again. He should be confident, he knew—he should be sublimely certain that the Kido Butai would prevail when it inevitably matched strength and skill against the three American carriers known to be in the South Pacific.

  After all, for the first time since before Midway, Nagumo had five splendid carriers under his command. The Akagi and the Soryu had been repaired and restored, their air groups replenished to full strength. The Hiryu, Shokaku, and Zuikako filled out the complement of carriers, as mighty a force of naval aviation as currently sailed the seven seas.

  But there were too many variables, too many things he didn’t know.

  How many flattops were in the enemy fleet, and where were the American carriers? How aggressive would the new American admiral be? What about the planes based on Guadalcanal? They had been savaging the daily rat runs, as the Japanese called the replacement and reinforcement convoys running down the Slot.

  How much of a threat would they be against Nagumo’s precious carriers? If they found him before he found them, they could come screaming down from the clouds and shatter his beautiful ships in a matter of minutes. He had seen proof of that at Midway, and he was determined not to let it happen again.

  Yet the only way to stay safe was to stay far away from the Americans, and that was a pointless course of action. Whatever the enemy tactics and deployments, the admiral knew that he had to strike. And he had a powerful force with which to make that attack.

  Even more frightening, perhaps, than the enemy aircraft was the knowledge of Admiral Yamamoto, back at Kure now but still looming dark and forbidding over Nagumo’s shoulder. The great man had been less than thrilled with Nagumo’s victory at Midway! There was no pleasing him, and yet Nagumo was willing to risk his ships, and his life, in the attempt.

  With that memory, his decision was made.

  “Mark a course of one eight zero,” he told his plotters. They would move closer to the Americans, let the enemy get a whiff of this mighty task force. Perhaps they could be drawn into a rash attack. Perhaps they could be smashed, and destroyed. If only the Kido Butai could close the distance without being discovered, he had a chance to win a great victory, perhaps even to change the course of the war!

  But still, he was afraid.

  • MONDAY, 5 OCTOBER 1942 •

  PORTLAND, 80 MILES EAST OF GUADALCANAL, 1845 HOURS

  A patrolling American submarine spotted Nagumo’s fleet, the Japanese First Mobile Strike Force, as it moved south from Rabaul and passed around the large Solomon Island known as Bougainville. Admiral Halsey’s three carriers remained near the protective cover of Henderson Field and awaited the enemy’s approach. Now, at last, they had an accurate position for their target. The coded radio broadcast included confirmation of at least two enemy aircraft carriers—everyone on the staff took it for granted that there were several more, as yet unobserved.

  The cat-and-mouse game was on.

  Frank Chadwick, commanding his fire support group, began plotting Nagumo’s whereabouts to satisfy his own curiosity and to try and get a handle on Admiral Halsey’s intentions. It was Halsey’s job to engage and destroy the enemy when he could. It was Frank’s job to see that transports made it to the Canal with their precious cargos intact and to keep them safe until they were unloaded.

  He could imagine the frantic bustle aboard Halsey’s flagship as staff scattered like dry leaves whirled in a cyclone. Captains and flight crews received their commands and readied their planes for launch. Crews slung bombs and torpedoes beneath the planes and topped off their fuel tanks. Screening vessels took up defensive positions around the big carriers, and every gunner’s eye was trained toward the sky.

  Within ten minutes of the submarine’s report, bombers were rumbling down the three flight decks. The big-bellied TBF torpedo planes, having the longest range of the American types, launched first. They formed up in their lumbering squadrons as the SBD dive-bombers took to the air behind them. The Grumman Wildcat fighters were still launching as the bomber squadrons started toward the place where Nagumo’s carriers had been spotted.

  “Transport group commander calling, Captain.”

  Chadwick dropped quickly down to the radio room. “Portland,” he said.

  “How long have we got?” the transport group commander asked.

  “No news yet. We should have some definitive word on any air activity coming our way shortly. I recommend you keep working. Henderson Field is launching now, so we’ll have air cover.”

  His task completed, Chadwick stepped out to the external bridge and watched the Cactus Air Force fighters roar past overhead, wishing for a moment he were among them. But he would have had to move away from flying no matter what, and command of a cruiser made a pretty good second prize.

  AKAGI, 220 MILES NORTHEAST OF GUADALCANAL,

  1850 HOURS

  When the newest runner from the radio room entered the admiral’s bridge, Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, commander, First Carrier Strike Force Kido Butai, felt his stomach acid rise again. He burped, and a burning sensation shot halfway up his chest. He took another gulp of milk from the glass that rested on a silver tray next to his private chair. He never sat in his chair. He was too nervous for that. He tried to bite his right index fingernail, but it had already been bitten down to the quick.

  The runner saluted. “Message from the Akagi’s captain, sir,” he said. “He is coming to speak to you directly.”

  “All right. Give me the bad news,” said Nagumo as soon as Captain Aoki Tajiro hurried into the admiral’s command center.

  “The Americans have observed us,” the captain informed Nagumo. “A submarine has broadcast a message from only ten miles away. We must assume they have spotted at least one of our carriers.”

  Nagumo still didn’t know where the American carriers were. It would be careless to the point of recklessness for Kido Butai to maintain its current bearing when an enemy air attack was virtually inevitable. Unlike Midway, he lacked a corresponding target of his own.

  “Turn around! Make a course bearing three six zero!” the admiral ordered. “Flank speed to the north!”

  Nagumo paced back and forth as the splashes from the depth-charging destroyers were still crumping off to the east where the American submarine had been lurking. The boat had sent its radio report from very close to the Japanese fleet—a sign of true urgency—and Nagumo knew the captain had been right: his carriers had been located by the Americans.

  As it was, there was nothing for it but to make a temporary withdrawal. This was not the time, nor the circumstance, for the Decisive Battle.

  • SATURDAY, 10 OCTOBER 1942 •

  HENDERSON FIELD, GU
ADALCANAL, 1905 HOURS

  Ellis Halverson watched the last B-17 touch down, and he could only hope that the Japs didn’t send a battleship down to bombard the field tonight. The revetments and taxi strips around the field were so crowded that a single randomly lobbed twelve-inch shell could hardly fail to disable a dozen aircraft. Those raids, not nightly but not infrequent either, were the greatest threat to air operations from Guadalcanal.

  Some thirty-five of the Cactus Air Force planes were now bombers of the United States Army Air Force—three nearly full-strength squadrons, both heavy and medium. Combined with the fifty marine dive-bombers, they gave Henderson Field a punch that any surface ships of the IJN would do well to notice.

  And notice they had.

  Over the last few weeks, the Cactus Air Force had laid undisputed claim to the daytime airspace over the southern Solomon Islands. The convoys of the Tokyo Express had been suffering losses in the neighborhood of 50 percent on each mission, and as a result they were at least temporarily out of business. One ass-kicking air raid or naval bombardment of Henderson Field, however, might be enough to change all that.

  Still, for weeks the Cactus Air Force had kept the pressure on—until the last few days when, by Halsey’s orders, they had suspended the raids against the transports and stood by for a potential attack against the enemy carrier force. Bombs and fuel were preloaded, and the pilots and crewmen never strayed far from their planes. But for the last five days they had been cooling their heels, waiting for a target that never seemed to appear.

  Halverson’s stomach growled as he turned toward the mess tent. The pilots, like the ground crewmen, the marines, and the engineers, were routinely hungry on Guadalcanal. Many suffered from malaria, and the pilot thanked his lucky stars that, so far, he hadn’t been one of them. As it was, he found it hard enough to fly, to maintain his concentration and reflexes at a level that didn’t endanger his crew and himself. It seemed like ages since he’d had a good night’s sleep.

  He was still a hundred yards away from the mess tent—and the hot food he so desperately needed—when the thundering boom of big naval guns reverberated from out on the sound. A siren began to wail, and men scrambled for the slit trenches that crisscrossed the ground around the airfield. A few seconds later the first blasts shook the ground with a tremor that Ellis could feel through the soles of his feet. They were big guns, but not the earth-crushing shells from a battleship. Probably a cruiser with eight-inch batteries, he guessed—still capable of doing a lot of damage to human flesh and to delicate airplanes.

  After one longing glance at the mess tent, he turned and jogged toward the nearest trench. It was shaping up to be another long, hungry night.

  • SUNDAY, 11 OCTOBER 1942 •

  SOPAC HQ, NOUMÉA, NEW CALEDONIA, 0621 HOURS

  The Portland was in port for the first time in weeks when Frank Chadwick got word that there were new orders waiting for him. Wanting to stretch his legs, he took a boat to the dock and went right into the headquarters building. Five minutes later he was knocking on Admiral Turner’s door.

  “Come!” came the curt reply.

  “Good morning, sir. You wanted to see me?”

  Turner looked up. He was sweating and at the same time had the shivers. Malaria. But if he refused to go to bed or report to sick bay, there wasn’t anything a mere captain could do to compel him. “Yes. The Portland’s been reassigned. You’re now attached to the Air Support Force.”

  Chadwick raised his eyebrows slighly. “Not my idea, Chadwick. But it’s not my decision.”

  “Just the Portland, sir, or my fire support group?”

  “Right now, just the Portland. See Halsey for the rest. Dismissed.” Turner went back to his paperwork without a moment’s pause.

  Chadwick went to Halsey’s office, knowing that the admiral was at sea but still hoping he could get his orders clarified. He found the chief of staff, Admiral Carney, running the show ashore.

  “Chadwick … oh, yes. The Portland. You’re a carrier escort, part of the Enterprise group.” Cruisers, destroyers, and other ships formed a screen around a vulnerable carrier to make a carrier group. Cruiser command would be in the Minneapolis, so Frank would be responsible only for his own ship. Halsey’s flag would stay aboard the Enterprise.

  Halsey made his intentions clear in the first meeting. “I’m fed up with this hide-and-seek bullshit! I’ve decided to give Nagumo a challenge he’s not going to be able to ignore. We’re going to make a run north, right into the Solomon Sea.”

  Frank Chadwick had memorized the geography of this part of the ocean weeks earlier. When he, along with every other man at the table, turned his attention to the large map on the bulkhead, he knew exactly what he would see. Until now, the fleet’s position between the Santa Cruz Islands and the Coral Sea had given them lots of maneuver room and kept them a good distance from any land-based Jap aircraft.

  They would lose both of those advantages in the Solomon Sea. The chain of islands with the same name formed a staggered but significant barrier to the right, bordering the sea to the east and northeast. Except for Guadalcanal, at the very southern end of the chain, those islands were under enemy control, and several of them contained forward air bases. The farther north Halsey steamed, the less support he could get from Henderson Field—they would move beyond fighter range within the first day of northward steaming. To the west and southwest of the Solomon Sea, embattled New Guinea provided a solid barrier against maneuver. New Guinea was also the site of significant Japanese bases at Buna and other places. Then, to the northwest, forming a barred gate across egress from the Solomon Sea, the island of New Britain stretched like a breastwork, anchored by the most powerful enemy base in the area: Rabaul.

  But they all knew that Halsey’s intention was to provoke a fight. This should do it, Chadwick thought with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation.

  Indeed, there was something dramatic and dashing about the run into the Solomon Sea. The daring maneuver would bring Halsey under risk of attack, but it might just force Nagumo to expose his own carriers to battle. Chadwick admired the admiral’s courage, even as he sweated out a thousand small details and concerns.

  “Now, we’re promised some land-based air cover from Milne Bay, for what that’s worth,” Halsey noted. His tone was contemptuous, and Chadwick shared the sentiment. It was widely known among naval aviation officers that the Army’s P-39 and P-40 fighters—both based in eastern New Guinea—were even more outclassed by the Zeros than were the Grumman Wildcats. At least the F4F Wildcat pilots had come up with some innovative tactics for dealing with the more nimble enemy aircraft. Most recently, the Thach weave—named after its inventor, a pilot from the Yorktown—allowed two Grummans to protect each other and even pick off the occasional unwary Zero.

  But now the fleet, with the task forces running together and each carrier surrounded by a ring of screening vessels, plowed through the tropical seas. It would face challenges lurking literally on every side.

  What if the Japanese spotted them? The Cactus Air Force had shot down a lot of enemy planes over Guadalcanal. But how many bombers did the Japs have left on Rabaul? Could the Americans possibly find themselves under attack by both land- and carrier-based aircraft? Was there a Jap submarine out there right now, waiting to lance a torpedo into the bowels of the Enterprise—or the Portland!

  And where were Nagumo’s goddamned aircraft carriers?

  SEVEN

  Pacific Ocean; Solomon Sea

  • MONDAY, 12 OCTOBER 1942 •

  PBY BLUE LADY, 100 MILES NORTH OF SANTA ISABEL

  ISLAND, SOLOMONS, 1701 HOURS

  “Skipper, the weather is starting to close in. Whattya say we pack it in for the day before we run into a typhoon or something?” Lieutenant (j.g.) Willy Peters made the suggestion casually, but Derek “Duke” Whitman, sitting in the pilot’s seat, could feel the intensity of his copilot’s gaze,

  “Dammit, Willy, those aren’t more than a few thunder-heads.
I want to give it another fifty miles before we head back to Espirito.”

  “Yeah. Still bucking for admiral, aren’t you?” Willy snorted, shaking his head. His tone was somewhere between teasing and disgust, but enough toward the latter that Duke was getting ready to lose his temper. Sometimes Willy just didn’t take things seriously enough.

  Duke was readying his rebuke when his copilot stole his thunder by straightening in his seat, craning toward the side window. “Holy shit!” he gasped. “There’s a fleet down there!”

  Duke altered course toward the north immediately, bringing the nose of the big seaplane around so that he, too, could see the sun-speckled swath of sea. There were too many ships to count on that calm surface, a massive armada steaming resolutely toward the southeast, running parallel to the chain of the Solomon Islands some seventy miles away. The clouds parted for them like the curtain opening on a Broadway stage, and they had a perfect view from one horizon to the other.

  “Do you see what I see?” asked Willy, reaching for the radio.

  The pilot only nodded mutely, listening as his partner radioed in the truth of what they could plainly observe: there, in the middle of that massive fleet, were no fewer than five aircraft carriers of the Imperial Japanese Navy.

  PORTLAND, 1712 HOURS

  Chadwick could imagine Halsey’s reaction when he first heard the PBY’s report.

  “Don’t tell me it’s too late to launch a strike!” Admiral Halsey would snarl. “I’ve been hunting that son of a bitch Nagumo for a month, and for the last thirty-six hours we’ve stuck our head right into his hornets’ nest. Now that we’ve found him, we’re going to hit him with every damn thing we have.”