ABOVE ROADSTER BEACH ZONE, OFF THE WEST COAST OF
KYUSHU, JAPAN, 0738 HOURS (X-DAY, N-HOUR + 0138)
Lefty Wayner was leading his squadron home with nearly empty fuel tanks. His hands were cramped and his ass was sore. A film of oil coated his goggles and the interior of the cockpit. But his mind was unaware of these mundane physical facts. Instead, he remained stunned by the scale of dying he had witnessed, the thousands of Americans immolated by the furious onslaught of suicide planes. The Hellcats of VMF Forty-eight had splashed some two dozen Japs, and the shipboard AA had claimed more. But all too many had gotten through. Now the Hellcats were heading back to fuel up. He hoped they could make the ship before anyone splashed on an empty tank.
Fortunately, the captain had brought the Missionary Ridge in closer to the action. As he approached, Lefty was surprised to see three more carriers—the whole of Admiral Chadwick’s task group—also in view of the shore. It was a daring move but one for which the pilot could only be grateful.
He touched his microphone. “Sheepdog One to all Sheepdogs. If you’re on your reserve tank already, go in first. Rest of you, line up and take turns like nice flyboys.” Lefty, of course, held back as the Grummans of his squadron started into their landing patterns. As squadron commander, he would be the last to touch down.
A voice crackled in his earphones, the flight control officer from the Missionary Ridge. “Sheepdog One, we have a bogey, eight o’clock low, coming in fast. Can you intercept?”
Lefty looked over his right shoulder, banking the Hellcat so he could look down toward the surface of the sea. He spotted it almost instantly: a small plane, almost wingless, approaching quickly. It was hard to pick out the little aircraft itself, but it was clearly marked by the stream of smoke drifting along behind. It was bearing directly toward the Missionary Ridge, still three or four miles away, coming on with incredible speed.
Immediately the pilot put his F6F into a power dive, veering toward the mysterious enemy plane. It must be some kind of rocket, he reasoned, since he could see no sign of a piston engine, and nothing else easily explained that blazing velocity. The Hellcat dove steeply, almost straight down, in a frantic effort to intercept that approaching plane. Even from a mile overhead, Lefty could see that it would be close—he’d have only a split second to make a shot before the rocket blasted past him.
The enemy plane never veered, shooting straight toward the carrier like an arrow, or a bullet. It was two miles away, then one, and the ocean was coming up fast below the screaming Hellcat. Lefty would get one quick burst.
“Lead the target—lead it!” he barked to himself as he kicked the rudder slightly, aimed for a spot in front of the Jap rocket plane.
He touched the triggers and the six heavy machine guns chattered. The stream of bullets, marked by tracers, shot past the nose of the plane—and the Jap flew right into that stream.
The explosion slammed through the skies, shattering the glass of Lefty’s cockpit, jamming his controls. Blinded by glass, debris, and the sheer force of the wind, he pulled back on the stick, bringing the Hellcat out of the power dive and into nearly level flight.
But he was still descending, slightly, and then the ocean was right there.
USS GETTYSBURG (CV-44), ROADSTER BEACH ZONE, OFF
THE WEST COAST OF KYUSHU, JAPAN, 0740 HOURS (X-DAY,
N-HOUR + 0140)
Chadwick watched as the suicide plane erupted into a cloud of debris. Like every other observer, he held his breath as the Hellcat that had made the kill struggled to pull up. He exhaled sharply, bitterly, as he saw the splash. A nearby destroyer immediately veered toward the site of the crash, but the admiral couldn’t take the time to watch any longer.
“What the hell was that thing?” demanded one of the staff officers, a young lieutenant commander.
“Has to be a rocket,” said the flight control officer. “Packed with explosives. Like a German V1, only with a pilot.”
“Looks like our flyboy made it out,” reported another man, a spotter with binoculars pressed to his eyes. “The DD is fishing him out of the drink.”
“Thank God for that,” Chadwick said fervently. “That pilot probably saved a thousand lives.”
“But why was that rocket plane coming toward us?” asked Dickens. “They’ve been concentrating on transports all morning.”
“I’ll bet anything that SOB had orders to attack transports. But he can’t resist an aircraft carrier, can he?” Chadwick said to his chief of staff.
“I guess not, sir.”
The admiral strode to the outer flag bridge and looked across his fleet. He could see the other three carriers a few miles off. Toward shore, the island of Kyushu was completely screened by the thick clouds of smoke rising from the burning transports. It took only an instant for Chadwick to make up his mind.
“Get Admiral Hill on the horn. I want permission to take these flattops in closer. I want every goddamn Jap suicide pilot to see us here, and maybe we can draw ’em off the transports long enough to get the troops ashore.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
It was only a minute before Admiral Hill was back on the TBS radio. “You want to use the carriers as decoys?” he asked, getting right to the point.
“Yes, Admiral. At least until we get those transports unloaded. If we can take a little pressure off, we might be able to save a lot of lives.”
“Hell, go for it,” Hill replied. “Anything that gets more of my marines onto that beach, I like. I’ll pass it upstairs for review, but in the meantime, good luck, Frank.”
“Yes, Admiral. And thank you, sir.”
The connection was broken, and by that time the big, gray hull of the Gettysburg was coming around, carrying the great flattop even closer to the enemy shore.
USS INDIANAPOLIS (CA-35), LIMOUSINE BEACH ZONE, OFF
THE SOUTHWEST COAST OF KYUSHU, JAPAN, 0745 HOURS
(X-DAY, N-HOUR + 0145)
Admiral Raymond Spruance paced back and forth on the flag deck as a steady stream of messages came to him—mostly concerning suicide attacks.
What a hellish battle this was. The relentlessly depressing dispatches had been pouring in all morning. This transport, then that transport, obliterated by enemy suicide planes. Five hundred men killed on this ship, a thousand perished with the next. And there seemed to be no end to the relentless stream of aircraft flown by these fanatical pilots.
Even so, he had been brought up short by Admiral Hill’s message. Four carriers—and all their escorts—brought in practically on top of the landing fleet? Already the Corrigedor had taken a hit on the flight deck, and the fighter pilots of all the ships were buzzing around like crazy, trying to protect the flattops from the numerous Japanese that suddenly turned toward these tempting targets.
But it had been twenty minutes since the last hit on a transport, and that was real breathing room, by God.
“Chadwick is logically correct,” he agreed. “Let him stay where he is—and send out orders to the rest of the carriers. Bring them in close to all the beaches and have them stand ready to attract the attention of these suicide attackers.”
USS GEORGE CLYMER (APA-27), ROADSTER BEACH ZONE,
OFF THE WEST COAST OF KYUSHU, JAPAN, 0750 HOURS
(X-DAY, N-HOUR + 0150)
Like an armada of spiders, marines in full fighting gear climbed down the huge rope net that hung down over the side of “Lucky George” and led to the waiting landing craft below. Some marines moved quickly. Pete took his time and made sure the men in his company took their time as well.
Fox Company consisted of three platoons, each commanded by a lieutenant with a sergeant as deputy. Each platoon had three squads of about a dozen men, each led by a corporal. The squads were further broken down into fire teams of four, with a lance corporal as team leader. Two were rifle platoons, one was a weapons platoon. The weapons platoon had mortars, machine guns, and flamethrowers.
That was the theory, anyway. Casualties, transfers
, and the “needs of the service” often meant platoon and company strength was lower than it should be. Funny how that never seemed to alter the mission, though.
All around, black pillars of smoke rose into the air, each marking death and destruction on a transport of the V Amphibious Corps. The sky was thick with Japanese intent on suicide attacks. Pete was very anxious to make it into a landing craft before “Lucky George” got hit. He heard another nearby explosion, saw the blossom of crimson flame surge into the sky. Scratch one more transport, with a thousand men or more.
Then a particularly loud aircraft engine sound made him look up. It was a Zero, and it was coming straight at the deck. Black bursts of antiaircraft fire scattered around it, maddeningly close. But the Jap plane banked sharply and vanished from Pete’s sight as it flew behind the bridge.
“Hold on, everybody!” he shouted.
The explosion shook the cargo net violently. Pete wrapped his arms tightly around the rope and held on for dear life, even when he was smashed face-first against the ship’s hull. Two men in his company didn’t make it. He heard their screams as they fell into the water. There was little or no hope of rescuing them.
Above, he could hear the crackle and roar of flames as “Lucky George” burned. Damage control parties were already on the way, according to the ship’s loudspeaker. “Let’s go, Fox Company!” he shouted. They moved more rapidly but still with great care.
Navy men were there to help them make that last difficult leap from the cargo net into the boat. It wasn’t unusual to make it face-first. Anything beat landing in the water. Pete waited, directing the men of his company into the various boats and ensuring in each case there was an officer and a sergeant on board. Finally, he got on the last boat, following Captain Gilder.
The normal procedure was for someone from the deck to yell, “Shove off, Coxswain, you’re loaded!” but they were busy.
“Let’s go,” Gilder ordered, and the captain of the boat gunned the engine and motored toward the rendezvous point.
Pete turned around. A plume of black smoke, shot through with streaks of angry flame, billowed upward from the transport’s bow. The damage control parties were obviously getting things under control on “Lucky George,” but there were waves of suicide planes still on the way. Another one was heading right at the transport. It looked like “Lucky George” was out of luck.
Suddenly, that plane banked to the right and sped off in a new direction. Pete swiveled to follow it and was shocked to see a huge ship cruising only a few miles away. What the hell is that carrier doing out there? The Jap was heading toward that ship, not another transport!
But the aircraft carriers were supposed to be farther away, where they could launch without being targets themselves. Why was it inviting attack? Was it here to lure the planes away from the transport?
If so, it was working. Pete could see three more planes turn toward the carrier like moths drawn to flame.
And then it was time to head for the beach.
FIFTEEN
Kyushu
• MONDAY, 19 MARCH 1945 •
APPROACHING BEACH PONTIAC, ROADSTER BEACH ZONE,
KYUSHU, JAPAN, 0815 HOURS (OPERATION OLYMPIC,
X-DAY, N-HOUR + 0215)
As the Higgins boat churned toward the beach, the chop increased into gray swells, lifting the little landing craft onto the crests and then dropping it precipitously into the troughs. The bow kept lifting up and slapping hard on the water. Already, nearly a third of the marines had puked, the vomit mixing with the sea spray and coating the bottom of the boat. Whether the vomiting was seasickness or nerves, Pete didn’t know. From the sickly white looks of terror on a lot of faces—officers as well as enlisted—nerves certainly played a big part.
This was Pete’s fourth beach landing. The first was Gavutu, part of Guadalcanal, which had been nasty. He’d just made lance corporal then. In the Philippines, where he went from corporal to staff sergeant, the opposition was pretty tough, but he was in a late wave. At Okinawa, the landing had been unopposed. Nothing from the enemy for about two weeks, then the shit hit the fan.
What else could he do? How else could he prepare his men for what they were about to experience?
“Everybody’s scared shitless,” he shouted over the roaring diesels. “Some get scared before, some during, and some after. Your best bet is to get scared after. Before is okay. During can get you killed.” That was true enough. “I’m scared shitless the whole time, but I keep moving. I don’t bunch up with other marines. I don’t freeze. Those three things get a lot of men killed. Focus on your job. Afterward, you can get the shakes. But that’s what booze is for.”
Pete didn’t know if a marine gunnery sergeant was supposed to admit he was terrified, but it was the truth. The biggest reason he hadn’t died so far, though, is that he didn’t let his fear freeze him. He kept moving. He hoped that advice would make the soldiers a little calmer. A few were listening in, and that was good. Calmness was increasingly in short supply as they got closer and closer to the beach.
As for Pete, he felt the odds were against him. He’d done this before. So many people had died around him, it was simple justice that it would be his turn this time.
Down in the boat, he couldn’t see the action, but he could hear it. A barrage of explosions, swooping aircraft engines, and the occasional gush of water were about all that could make it over the diesels of the Higgins boat. Overhead, the dawn skies had turned brimstone black from the incredible barrage, as if marking a signpost: “You are now entering hell.”
The boat churned onward, bouncing more violently as they neared the breakers. Closer to shore, the Japanese artillery opened up with a barrage so intense it felt like rain. Pete couldn’t stand not seeing anymore, so he stuck his head up. His stripes kept the three-man crew from ordering him to keep his head down and the rest of him the hell out of their way, but he stayed carefully to the side anyway.
Plumes of water shot up as shells hit the water. Many rounds fell short, spuming ocean and sand up from the shallows. Other shells hit true. A burst of flames marked the funeral pyre of a nearby landing craft that didn’t make it in—the boat was incinerated, a whole platoon killed, at the moment of impact. Another boat about twenty yards to the right took a direct hit. Pete could see bodies and body parts flying into the air. A minute later, there was an explosion right in front of them. As the boat hit the wave, it was lifted several feet into the air, canted to the right, and came crashing down, knocking men and equipment everywhere. One of his men fell out of the boat altogether. He couldn’t tell who it was. The poor bastard was probably drowning, and there was nothing anyone could do. Maybe he’d get lucky and shed his equipment before he died. Maybe.
Pete could see the boat’s coxswain struggling to keep on course. At least there wasn’t too much danger from mines. Divers had been busy for several nights clearing safe lanes. Still, they might have missed a few.
There was a horrible skidding and scraping sound from underneath the boat as they reached shallow water. The front bow began to open.
“Weapons! Keep ’em high and dry! Move! Make sure you know where your feet are! Head for cover as soon as you get to shore!” All the platoon sergeants were hollering the same advice at their men. Everybody knew what to do, but when there was live ammo, people tended to forget the small stuff.
“Come on, men! Let’s show those Japs what American marines can do!” shouted Captain Gilder, and the men piled out of the boat and into the water. The cold came as a shock. The water came up only to Pete’s waist, but some marines were at chest depth. Holding their rifles overhead, the marines slogged forward into a hail of machine gun bullets. He could hear them whizzing by like angry bees. He could see them splash into the water. One hit the water directly in front of him only a foot away. He could feel the impact, but not much. Someone screamed, right in his ear, but he didn’t stop to see who or why.
He was in a lottery of death. Skill and experience meant
nothing. The bullets hit you or they didn’t. You moved as quickly as you could in the water, but it was agonizingly slow. The water was another enemy, viscous and stubborn and resistant, dragging down his feet with its leaden weight. He pushed on, dragging his boondockers through the soft, shifting sands.
A bullet hit Private McKinlay in the face, spattering blood and pieces of skin and bone around him. He fell backward into the water, probably dead. Pete’s only thought was relief. It wasn’t me. Thank God it wasn’t me. McKinlay was from Ohio somewhere. That was all he could remember.
Corporal Lichtman, who was ten feet ahead of him, crumpled forward and landed facedown in the water. Pete didn’t see what happened. Lichtman had been with the company since the Philippines. It wasn’t me. Thank God. It wasn’t me.
More angry bees buzzed by him. Then suddenly there was a sharp pain in his upper right shoulder. Shit! Omigod omigod omigod I’ve been hit! Don’t let me die don’t let me die. His heart pounded in his chest. He vomited the remainder of his breakfast. But he wasn’t falling, wasn’t dying…not yet.
There went one… two… five more of his men. Even those who were only wounded fell with loaded packs into the water. The only ones who stood up again had dropped pack and weapon.
The water was taking on a pink froth, the tinge visible in the curling breakers, the explosions of brine as the waves broke and crashed onto the sloping sand of the shore. The waves dumped more than water onto the beach—they cast limp bodies onto the land and rolled back out to collect more flesh. Some of those bodies lay motionless, soaked and lifeless, while others twitched and groped and clawed their way farther out of the sea.
Ahead of him was the beach, right there. It was only another ten yards or so. Each step he took was an agony of slow motion. He had the strange sensation that the strand of dry land was moving away from him, warping like a fun house mirror. Waves still carried the detritus of battle, the bodies of marines cast upon the land as the breakers crested, surged, and broke.
MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan Page 31