While the fleet rested at Eniwetok, sailors and officers took liberty ashore. Two different islets had been designated as recreation zones, one for officers and one for enlisted men. Beer was rationed, two cans per man, but there was plenty of black-market liquor available as well, especially on the islet designated for officers’ recreation. One day in mid-August, a group of well-oiled Hornet aviators was standing on the dock, waiting for a launch to take them back to their ship. Horseplay ensued. An ensign was shoved into the lagoon. He swam back to the beach and charged down the dock, intent on revenge. Dozens more went into the water. Before long, any man wearing a dry khaki uniform was a fair target. Even Commander Harold L. “Hal” Buell, the Hornet’s air group leader, was seized by his feet and arms and swung into the lagoon. He did not mind. “After all,” he wrote, “it was good clean fun, and the water helped to shake off the effects of an afternoon of imbibing.”33
Returning dripping wet to the dock, Buell glimpsed a small, white-haired man being pitched headlong into the lagoon. The victim was already airborne when Buell recognized him as Admiral McCain. Naval etiquette gave leeway in certain circumstances, but in general, drunken aviators were not permitted to lay hands on a three-star admiral and heave him into the sea. Buell shouted a warning, but too late. He and several others dove after McCain immediately:
As we got hold of him and helped him to his feet, he was gasping and wheezing and said: “Get my hat, boys, get my hat.” The hat, a special version of a field fatigue hat with the gold band and scrambled eggs almost all green from salt air, was his lucky hat and well-known among the fleet pilots. We retrieved the hat, got the admiral back up on the dock, and expressed our deepest regrets for our conduct. . . . He was a small man, almost fragile, and looked like a strong wind could blow him away. Dripping salt water, seaweed, and coral sand, he kept grinning as he shook hands with each of us while we continued making our apologies. He asked for a dry cigarette, lit up, and started telling us how good it was to be back with his “fighting men.” With blue eyes twinkling from a wrinkled face, dominated by both a nose and ears of heroic proportions, McCain looked for all the world like a leprechaun.
As the boats began to arrive, one of the first was McCain’s motor launch. Completely white, spotless, with brass gleaming and three-star blue flag flying, it was a beautiful sight. The admiral was now having fun with his boys, and didn’t want it to end. So he asked us to join him on the boat; he would take each of us to our ship. To the dismay of the spotless boat’s crew, a dozen or more dirty, bedraggled pilots came aboard with the admiral. We then wound our way through the mass of warships in the harbor delivering each pilot to his ship.34
Task Force 38, as it was now redesignated, sortied from Eniwetok on August 28. As always, the departure was a long and intricately choreographed procedure: destroyers and cruisers went out through the deepwater exit channel just before the carriers and immediately commenced sonar-ranging for enemy submarines. All ships dialed up high speed—the better to get away from the perilous approaches, where Japanese submarines were known to lurk—and coalesced into a cruising formation without breaking the pace. Mitscher’s force was at full strength, comprising eight Essex-class carriers and eight light carriers divided into four task groups, embarking more than a thousand airplanes altogether. This cruise was to be the longest and most ambitious in the year-long history of the fast carrier task force.
On a map of the Pacific, a 3,000-mile-long arc of island groups reached from Japan through the Bonins, the Marianas, the Carolines, and the Palaus, terminating in the southern Philippines. Having taken the Marianas, American forces would now extend control southward down that long arc. Task Force 38 would cover the impending Operation STALEMATE amphibious landings on islands in the Caroline and Palau archipelagoes. By November, if all went as planned, they would occupy or otherwise neutralize every important island in the chain from the Marianas in the north to Mindanao in the south. The forthcoming cruise would take the carriers to the front door of the Philippines, where they would reduce Japanese airpower in the region ahead of MacArthur’s planned invasion of Mindanao on November 15. Photo reconnaissance flights had identified no fewer than sixty-three Japanese airfields in the Philippines, and according to the best intelligence estimates, they were supplied with about 650 aircraft of various types.
Up the crescent, between the Marianas and Japan, were the little islands known as the Bonin and Volcano groups, called the Nanpō Shotō by the Japanese. The Americans had nicknamed them the “Jimas.”35 They had become a strategic hot spot since the Americans had landed in Saipan ten weeks earlier. Iwo Jima was especially significant as a way station for enemy air reinforcements headed south. Jocko Clark’s Task Group 58.1, which included the Essex-class flattops Hornet and Yorktown, launched five big carrier raids against the Bonins between June 15 and August 5. Again and again, the American carrier planes returned to pulverize the airfields, ammunition dumps, antiaircraft batteries, fuel tanks, and ground complexes. They had shot down nearly a hundred planes over the Jimas and destroyed another hundred on the ground; they had dive-bombed Japanese shipping in the harbors, strafed fishing sampans offshore, and torpedoed Japanese convoys at sea. Although the rank and file of the fleet did not know it, Admiral Spruance was arguing strenuously for an invasion of Iwo Jima, and the relentless carrier raids were providing useful intelligence about the state of Japanese defenses on the island.
Clark later said that he “regarded those islands as my special property,” and his aviators nicknamed them the “Jocko Jimas.” Upon returning to Eniwetok the previous month, they had drawn up stock certificates in an imaginary real estate investment company, the “Jocko Jima Development Corporation,” which advertised its business as the acquisition and development of “exclusive sites in the Bonin Islands.” Designated “shareholders” were presented with colorfully illustrated stock certificates, which entitled the owner to a share in “choice locations of all types in Iwo, Chichi, Haha, and Muko Jima—only 500 miles from downtown Tokyo.” As “president” of the make-believe firm, Clark signed each certificate in his own hand. Share No. 1 was issued to Admiral Mitscher. The certificates soon became prized collectors’ items and were traded (in some cases for real money) throughout the Pacific and as far afield as Washington.
Now, as Task Force 38 went to sea again, the force divided into its component subunits. Three groups turned south to strike assorted targets in the Caroline and Palau islands, and one (Task Group 38.4, under Ralph Davison) went north to call on the Bonins yet again. In a three-day strike, Davison’s airmen flew 633 sorties over the islands, returning with claims of forty-six Japanese planes shot down or destroyed on the ground and six ships sunk.36 In his report to Halsey and Mitscher, Davison remarked: “Shares in Jocko JRIC development corporation selling at new high after brisk turnover in airfield and industrial sites.”37
Davison’s carriers lost only five airplanes in the operation. One of the downed planes was a Grumman TBM Avenger piloted by Lieutenant (jg) George H. W. Bush, a future president of the United States. His plane was hit and damaged by antiaircraft fire over Chichi Jima. Bush parachuted into the ocean and was later rescued by a submarine, the Finback—but his two aircrewmen, and six other aviators from other downed planes, were captured, tortured, and executed by Japanese military personnel on the island. Four of the prisoners were partly eaten by Japanese officers in an episode of ritualistic cannibalism. These ghastly events and the war crimes trials of the perpetrators were documented by James Bradley in his 2003 book Flyboys.
Halsey and his staff had left Pearl Harbor in the New Jersey on August 24. Halsey had brought an enormous staff with him, nearly two hundred officers and sailors, amounting to about 10 percent of the ship’s crew. The superstructure of the 45,000-ton battleship had been extensively reconfigured to serve as the fleet command center. Two decks under the captain’s bridge were occupied by “flag country,” which included a new flag plot retrofitted with state-of-the-art communicatio
ns and radar technology, a spacious flag bridge with verandas to starboard and port, berthing compartments for officers and bluejackets, and a cavernous wardroom that doubled as a conference center.38 This region of the ship was considerably larger than the corresponding arrangements on Spruance’s smaller flagship Indianapolis. The newly updated wardrooms and mess facilities were sumptuous by navy standards. Lieutenant Carl Solberg, an intelligence officer, recalled that the junior officers were pleasantly surprised by the quality of the meals served in their wardroom, on white linen tables—“fresh steaks and chops, tossed salads and not just ice cream every evening but Baked Alaska every Sunday.”39
Before falling in with Task Force 38, Halsey wanted to confer with MacArthur’s leading naval and air commanders in Manus. During the ten-day passage from Hawaii, the New Jersey and her three escorting destroyers conducted daily antiaircraft gunnery drills, with the gunners firing at target sleeves towed behind the battleship’s floatplanes. The New Jersey’s 16-inch guns were also fired in practice. To the satisfaction of the Third Fleet communications staff, the powerful concussions of the big weapons did not interfere with the workings of their equipment, a problem that had plagued previous flagships. Mick Carney put the flag plot staff through a series of high-pressure drills known as “simulated battle problems.”40 At this point Halsey and his flagship were separated from Task Force 38 by thousands of miles, and Mitscher remained in tactical control of the carriers—but Halsey sent him frequent instructions from the towering radio antennae of the New Jersey. Even now, before the flagship had fallen in with the fleet, it was clear that Halsey would take a more hands-on approach than his predecessor.
Halsey and his “Dirty Tricks Department” had their own ideas about how to fight and win the Pacific campaign, and they did not hesitate to propose major revisions to existing plans. During the interim period before taking command of the fleet, Halsey had argued that most of Operation STALEMATE was unnecessary. In his view, the remote equatorial archipelagoes of the Carolines and Palaus were prime candidates to be bypassed, and he recommended transferring the troops slated for those landings to MacArthur’s control for use in an accelerated invasion of the Philippines.41 Nimitz had countered by ordering the bypass of one major stalemate objective (Babelthuap in the Palaus) and agreed to consider bypassing Yap in the Carolines—but the CINCPAC was firm that invasions in the western Palaus (Peleliu and Angaur) would proceed as planned. Halsey’s staff also proposed a major redeployment of the Pacific submarine force, aimed at shifting its targeting priority from Japanese merchant vessels and tankers to Japanese warships. This gambit was firmly rejected by the Pacific Submarine Force commander, Admiral Charles A. Lockwood.
In Pearl Harbor there was a feeling that Halsey and his Third Fleet staff were spending too much time and energy trying to revise the basic blueprint for winning the Pacific War. Nimitz’s deputy, Forrest Sherman, sat down with Mick Carney in mid-August and delivered a blunt message. The Third Fleet’s job was to execute operations planned by the Joint Chiefs and the Pacific Fleet headquarters. “It was made very clear to us that we were not to concern ourselves with strategic planning,” recalled Carney, “that this was a function of the C-in-C Pacific headquarters, taking its directives from Admiral King and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. This was specifically not the business of the tactical fleet commanders. Now, this was driven home to us very, very clearly and very, very forcefully.”42 Even while at sea, however, Halsey continued to indulge what Lieutenant Solberg called “his penchant for improvisation,” frequently radioing bold suggestions to Nimitz—most of which the CINCPAC rejected.43 During the same period, Nimitz gently reprimanded Halsey on several occasions for exceeding his authority or failing to comply with prior orders.44 The Fifth to Third Fleet transition, it is fair to say, got off to a rocky start.
On September 8, the New Jersey fell in with Task Force 38 north of the Caroline Islands. Halsey and several senior staff officers transferred via highline to Mitscher’s flagship, the Lexington. According to the Third Fleet War Diary, the crew of the New Jersey was “thrilled to see four stars go over the side at sea.”45 In a long conference in flag country on the Lexington, they refined their plans to strike the Philippines.
A week’s worth of carrier airstrikes on Yap, Palau, and Mindanao had revealed that Japanese air power in the region was surprisingly feeble. Over many targets the carrier airmen had encountered little or no resistance. They had blown craters in airfields; demolished buildings, storage dumps, and defensive structures; and attacked whatever enemy shipping and small craft they found in the harbors. The full strength of three task groups tore into the Palau group for three consecutive days from September 6 to 8, reporting “extensive damage to ground installations, ammunition and supply dumps, the radio stations, barracks, buildings, and warehouses on Peleliu, Angaur, Ngesebus, and Babelthuap.”46
Moving west to hit Mindanao on September 9, Task Force 38 expected a much hotter reception, but again encountered only weak and scattered Japanese resistance. Attacking planes were met by only a handful of defending Japanese fighters, all of which were quickly shot down. The carrier airmen claimed about sixty Japanese planes damaged or destroyed on the ground. They bombed and strafed shipping and small craft in Davao Gulf and Sarangani Bay, returning with claims of about forty vessels sunk or set afire. Only a dozen U.S. planes were lost in these strikes—eight to flak, four to accidents. One F6F fighter was lost when it made a low-altitude run over a river barge. The plane’s .50-caliber incendiary strafing fire set off a cache of ammunition on the barge which exploded and engulfed the aircraft.
At their postflight debriefing sessions with the air intelligence officers on the carriers, aviators complained that they were not finding enough worthwhile targets. In aerial photos taken during and after the raids, many of the Mindanao airfields appeared deserted, and the ground facilities were primitive and minimal. The Third Fleet War Diary generously gave credit to General Kenney’s Fifth Air Force B-24s for their previous bombing runs over the island: “Evidence that the Fifth Air Force had already done a thorough job of reducing Japanese installations on Mindanao was found and that carrier strikes on this area were not wholly needed.”47
The carriers and their screening ships now moved east, over the horizon, to rendezvous with a squadron of fleet oilers. The ships topped off fuel and collected their incoming mail. Conferring by low-frequency short-range radio, Halsey and Mitscher agreed that further aerial attacks on Mindanao would be a waste of time. Intelligence analysts on Halsey’s staff were boldly speculating that Japanese airpower might be verging on complete collapse. A strategic estimate published on September 9 considered the possibility that the Japanese fleet might sortie against the American fleet in a suicidal naval banzai charge. The analysts speculated that Japanese leaders might even deliberately seek complete destruction of their own fleet, reasoning that “an early defeat would permit greater salvage from the wreck of the Empire than a defeat of the fleet when we were ready to land troops in the homeland.”48 This was an extraordinary theory—that a faction within the Japanese naval command had already concluded that defeat was inevitable, and was attempting to force the Tokyo regime to an early surrender. The supposition was wrong, but the stunning lack of enemy resistance in the southern Philippines seemed so bizarre and incomprehensible that even far-fetched speculation was given a fair hearing.
Halsey called off the Mindanao strikes and took most of the fleet north to the central Philippines, where it would hit targets on the islands of Leyte, Cebu, and Negros. (Davison’s Task Group 38.4 remained in the Palau area, several hundred miles to the east, in order to provide air support for the pending amphibious landings on Peleliu and Angaur.) Third Fleet air and intelligence analysts were giving serious consideration to an even more audacious gambit—a surprise carrier airstrike on Manila and the big Japanese air complexes on central Luzon. Halsey wanted to destroy bulk fuel storage tank farms near Manila, a blow that he believed might hobble Japanese fleet
units passing through the area.49
After a high-speed overnight northbound run, three task groups arrived in the waters off Leyte Gulf at dawn on September 12. The sea was mild, with light breezes. As the first light came up, sailors on the decks of the ships could see the green mountains of Samar on the northwest horizon. Eight flight decks launched more than 350 fighters and bombers. They flew away to the west, gradually joining up in a big vee-of-vee pattern as they climbed to altitude. They were still climbing as they flew over Leyte, where an American soldier who had escaped capture in 1942 was awakened by the drone of engines overhead. “I got a case of goose pimples I had been saving for three years,” he later wrote. “Yeah, guess my biggest thrill came right then.” Filipino villagers and guerillas cheered savagely for the attacking planes: “People dragged American flags out of mothballs and waved them and hollered, ‘Kill the Japs! Kill the Japs!’ That was the best thing they could shout. It was what they wanted most in life.”50
Hal Buell, the Hornet air group leader, was among the first over Cebu airfield, one of their principal objectives. From altitude he could see dozens of Japanese aircraft parked along the taxiways and aprons. Dust was kicking up from the ground and men could be seen running among the planes; the Japanese appeared to be rushing to scramble their interceptors. F6F Hellcats flew low over the field and strafed parked and taxiing enemy planes before they could take flight. Buell, flying an SB2C Helldiver, pushed over into his dive and aimed for the end of the runway. Two Japanese Zeros were taking off in a wing-to-wing formation. Selecting an aiming point between them, Buell released his entire bomb load, consisting of one 1,000-pound bomb and two 250-pounders: “The bombs struck among the two fighters just as they were leaving the ground. The leader veered right into the jungle in a flaming arc; the other exploded at the end of the runway.”51
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