On the western end of the line, the 6th Marine Division battered away at the terrain feature they called “Sugarloaf Hill,” which the Japanese called “Amekudai.” A ridge of coral rock and volcanic ash, about 300 yards long and 100 feet high, was flanked by two other hills, Half Moon and Horseshoe, in an arrowhead configuration. Sheer escarpments had been excavated and honeycombed with tunnels and firing apertures. The arrangement of the terrain ensured that the Japanese always had multiple, overlapping fields of fire on all approaches. Both sides understood that this part of the line was critical; if the Americans broke through, they would have a clear lane to flank and envelop Shuri Castle. The Japanese commanders, with a direct line of sight to the battle from their observation posts at Shuri, responded to each new U.S. thrust by pouring reinforcements into the area. The Americans pulverized Sugarloaf with barrages of artillery, rockets, napalm, smoke grenades, and naval gunfire. For ten consecutive days, the 6th Marine Division attacked the complex with tanks and infantry. Again and again, the marines gained a tenuous foothold atop Sugarloaf, only to be forced to withdraw by fierce Japanese artillery barrages and infantry charges. Finally, on May 26, the Americans seized the position and held it, beating back repeated furious counterattacks.
Colonel Yahara believed that if the Japanese artillerists had enjoyed greater reserves of ammunition, they might have held the marines off indefinitely. As it was, the defenders “were unyielding and fought so intrepidly [that] the battle at Amekudai lasted much longer than expected. Even after Amekudai was captured by the enemy, it was so unbelievable to our troops that they continued to fight.”53
The stalemate began to give way as the eastern and western ends of the Japanese lines buckled, and soldiers and marines advanced down the coasts. This double envelopment threatened to isolate the main defensive strongholds at the center of the Japanese lines. Having turned the Japanese flank at Sugarloaf, the marines cleared the southern coastal road across the Asato River and entered the desolated city of Naha. From that position, the marines now had an open route to the Kokuba Hills, which would lead into the Shuri defensive system. To the east, 96th Division seized the eastern shoulder of Conical Hill, which rose 476 feet above the coastal plain around Yonabaru, and Japanese positions overlooking Nakagusuku Bay became untenable. Tactical withdrawals followed, and the Japanese forces fell back by about half a mile to a new line immediately north of Shuri.
General Ushijima was now persuaded that his forces could no longer hold the coast-to-coast line that they had held for a month. The flanks, east and west, were caving in under the enemy’s relentless onslaught. The entire Japanese line had been pushed back by about half a mile, and Ushijima had no more infantry reserves to replace his losses. His forces still held the concentric fortifications around Shuri, but the Americans were poised to launch a crushing pincer attack from two directions. As Colonel Yahara later wrote, “Overall, the situation appeared stable, but in reality, after May 28, it was comparable to a patient in the final stage of tuberculosis. He may look normal, but his chest cavities are hollow.”54
During the heavy rains of late May, the Thirty-Second Army command bunker had become even more fetid and miserable. The flooding was so bad that “brooks flowed in the tunnels,” and all hands were put to work raising the beds and furniture.55 American artillery shells had seemingly pinpointed the mouth of their cave, and fell thickly around the entrance at all hours, so that leaving the bunker for any reason was a risky proposition. In urgent radio cables to Tokyo, General Ushijima notified the Imperial Headquarters that his position was about to be overrun. He asked for another round of kamikaze attacks on the fleet offshore, hoping against evidence that the U.S. ground forces could be starved of ammunition and supplies. IGHQ told Ushijima to hold the line as long as possible, and prolong the battle in order to buy time for the homeland to prepare its defenses.
Colonel Yahara, who had been right in the past, proposed a tactical withdrawal to the Kiyan Peninsula, at the southern point of Okinawa, where subterranean positions had already been prepared in high rocky terrain that would stop the American tanks. The move south would not alter the result of the Battle for Okinawa—the Thirty-Second Army was going to be destroyed, and all the Japanese commanders knew it—but it might extend the duration of the fight and claim a higher toll of dead and wounded Americans. The idea was opposed by several of the division and brigade commanders. The Sixty-Second Division chief of staff noted that thousands of men had died defending Shuri, and their comrades wanted to die on the same ground. There were thousands of wounded men in the tunnels, who would have to be left behind. The civilian governor of Okinawa was concerned about the fate of civilians in the Shuri area; many would try to follow the army south, and they would be caught in the crossfire, or fall into the enemy’s hands.
After hearing the contending arguments, Ushijima decided in favor of the southern retreat. “Some of our fighting strength is left,” he said, “and we are getting strong support from the islanders. With these we will fight to the southernmost hill, to the last square inch of land, and to the last man.”56
The Japanese commanders employed deception and guile to conceal their withdrawal. Designated frontline units staged “demonstration” attacks on the American lines, while the bulk of the army left their positions at night and moved south, either in vehicles or on foot. The Japanese Sixty-Second Division withdrew on the night of May 24–25, while rearguard units staged fierce attacks on the U.S. 77th Infantry Division. The Japanese Twenty-Fourth Division pulled back three nights later, and the Forty-Fourth Independent Mixed Brigade on May 31. Each retreating soldier carried as much ammunition and provisions as he could manage, about 130 pounds per man. Most of the wounded were left behind; many were killed by receiving a drink of milk laced with potassium cyanide.
The top commanders of the Thirty-Second Army pulled out of their Shuri bunker on May 27, leaving the command cave in cohorts. General Ushijima struck out alone, on foot, walking down a rocky trail in darkness. Staff officers, attempting to keep up with him, stumbled and fell, bruising themselves badly. The route was strewn with dead Japanese soldiers and Okinawan civilians, many of whom had been putrefying in the open air for a long time. The officers climbed into the back of a truck and rode along on the darkened roads, without headlights, passing long columns of retreating Japanese troops and immense crowds of civilian refugees.
The Americans did not recognize what was happening until the bulk of Japanese forces had escaped to new defensive positions in the Kiyan Peninsula. Inclement weather had worked to the benefit of the Japanese, as rain, mists, and overcast concealed their movements even in daylight. Through gaps in the clouds, U.S. pilots occasionally caught glimpses of large numbers of Japanese streaming south, but they assumed they were all civilians. For American commanders who had battered against the seemingly impregnable lines around Shuri Castle, it seemed inconceivable that the Japanese army would voluntarily yield this prized fortress. Even the in-house intelligence sections of the army corps and division commands judged that the Japanese were planning to make their final stand on those heights.
The American pincer now closed on the weakened Shuri complex. The fight was long and bitter, even against the depleted Japanese rearguard forces left behind to cover the Thirty-Second Army’s withdrawal. Bucketing rains cut visibility to 10 feet. Vehicles could not climb the washed-out roads to the top of the ridge, making resupply difficult. Low-flying U.S. planes air-dropped provisions and ammunition into zones marked by flares and smoke pots. Finally, on May 29, advance units of the 1st Marine Division entered Shuri Castle—or the ruins of the castle’s ancient stone masonry—while elements of the 77th Division took the adjoining town. The sacrificial Japanese rearguard offered ferocious resistance right up to the end, and perished to the last man.
ADMIRAL HALSEY RETURNED to take command of the fleet, relieving Spruance, at midnight on May 27. The next day, McCain relieved Mitscher in command of the fast carrier striking force. The Fifth
Fleet reverted to its designation as the Third Fleet; Task Force 58 was again Task Force 38. The New Jersey was being refitted, so Halsey and his Dirty Tricksters now rode in her sister, the battleship Missouri.
The command turnover had occurred a month earlier than planned. The reason, never publicized, was that Nimitz and King wanted their “first team” of Spruance, Mitscher, and Turner in command during the OLYMPIC landings in Kyushu the following November. To maintain the five-month rotating command cycle, it was necessary to bring Halsey and McCain back early.57
For the moment, Task Force 38 continued to cover the amphibious fleet off Okinawa, and its planes flew close air support missions over the island. The fighting ashore was well in hand, and kamikaze attacks were smaller and less frequent, but the threat remained. The carrier groups were weary after more than two months of intense daily operations. One group, Admiral Ted Sherman’s 38.3, was sent down to Leyte Gulf for a period of rest and reprovisioning. Arthur Radford’s Task Group 38.4 was sent north to launch another round of fighter sweeps against airbases on Kyushu. Jocko Clark’s Group 38.1 (in which Halsey’s new flagship operated in the inner screen) stuck close to Okinawa and provided combat air patrol over the island.
The first of June brought the first indications of a typhoon brewing in the south, near the Palaus. Weather Central at Guam tracked the northbound “tropical disturbance,” collecting and aggregating weather reports by ships, submarines, and long-range patrol planes. The reports were scattered and often contradictory, offering a confused picture. But on June 4, third anniversary of the Battle of Midway, there were worrisome reports of a full-scale typhoon heading directly for the waters off eastern Okinawa, the Third Fleet’s current location.
As usual, the storm’s track could not be predicted with perfect accuracy, but no one had forgotten the previous December’s disaster. Aircraft were recalled to the carriers and struck down in the hangar decks, where they were secured with double and triple lashings. The destroyers were hastily refueled. After conferring with his staff and weather forecasters, Halsey chose to put his two task groups on an east-southeast course of 110 degrees, estimating that it would put them well clear of the storm, with a margin of “sea room” away from Okinawa. But subsequent reports suggested that the storm had taken a more northerly course, and was traveling faster than previously supposed. Barometric pressure was sinking and the skies were turning ugly. Halsey ordered a course change to the northwest. His idea was to cross ahead of the storm, skirting across the projected track to its more docile western semicircle. But the typhoon seemed to have a malevolent purpose of its own, as if it were deliberately chasing the Third Fleet. Those who had been with the fleet six months earlier felt a sinister sensation of déjà vu.
Clark’s Task Group 38.1 got the worst of it. In the early hours of June 5, radar scopes in his flagship Hornet detected a tight circular “eye” of the storm, the hallmark of a powerful typhoon, bearing directly down on them.58 The Hornet was bucking like a destroyer in the steep seas. The smaller ships were in danger of being swamped. At 4:20 a.m., Clark contacted McCain on the short-range voice radio and asked permission to turn south, so that his ships could run before the storm. McCain bucked the question up to Halsey, and the reply was delayed by twenty minutes. During the interval, Clark ordered all ships to heave-to and steer into the waves as best they could. At 4:40 a.m., when McCain’s affirmative response was received on the flag bridge of the Hornet, it was too late to act. Clark’s ships were pinned down in the shrieking maelstrom.
As the first purple glow of dawn appeared on the eastern horizon, a “mountain of water” broke over the bow of the Hornet. “Gad!” said Roy L. Johnson, the ship’s executive officer, “it must have been ten times as high as a house, and the impact of all of that, when it came down on the flight deck, carried away everything. The edges of the flight deck were bent down; all the antennae were gone; all the catwalks and some airplanes were over the side. We were in bad shape.”59
As conditions gradually abated, it became clear that the entire task group had suffered a cruel beating. No ships were lost, but nearly all reported significant damage, including all four carriers in Group 38.1. The forward corners of the flight decks of the Hornet and the Bennington had folded over, like place markers in a book. About 100 feet of the bow of the heavy cruiser Pittsburgh had been torn completely off the ship. The Pittsburgh’s sister Baltimore—the ship that had carried FDR to Hawaii the previous year—was also heavily battered, although she stayed together and was later repaired in drydock. Total aircraft losses were 233 swept overboard, 36 damaged beyond repair and jettisoned, and 23 more badly damaged. Six men had been lost at sea; four others were severely injured.
As the storm blew over, Halsey ordered another round of strikes on Kyushu. The Hornet was in no shape to launch planes, but Clark was determined to try. An F4U Corsair trying a deck run on the shortened flight deck nosed straight down into the sea and sank with its pilot. The folded-over flight deck created too much air turbulence. The crew broke out blowtorches and attempted to cut away as much of the damaged portion on the deck as possible, but after working through the rest of the day and night, the blowtorch teams had only cut away a small portion of the damaged steel. At Clark’s prodding—even though he was not the captain of the ship—the Hornet managed to launch planes off the stern. This remarkable carnival trick had never been attempted on an Essex-class aircraft carrier. The engines were reversed and “sternway” was made into the wind. The ship’s engineer fretted over excessive strain on the engines. But for two days, the Hornet conducted flight operations in this manner, launching planes directly over the fantail and recovering them over the damaged bow.
On June 10, General Kenney’s Fifth Air Force was ready to assume full responsibility for the air defenses at Okinawa, and the Third Fleet was released to pull back to Leyte Gulf for a badly needed period of repairs, reprovisioning, and rest. The fleet was exhausted, and the storm-mauling only exacerbated the situation. After his flagship Yorktown dropped anchor in San Pedro Bay, Admiral Radford fell into his bunk and slept almost twenty-four hours straight.60 Admiral Sherman’s Task Group 38.3 had been at sea for seventy-nine days, engaging in combat during fifty-two of those days—a navy record.61
Having blundered into a second typhoon in six months, Halsey knew that his command was hanging by a thread. He lost no time in laying the groundwork for his defense. Weather reporting, he told Nimitz, had been abysmal. Reports of the storm’s position and track had literally been all over the map: “The early estimates of the storm’s location covered an area of 34,000 square miles. The reports were also greatly delayed.”62 A court of inquiry was convened in the wardroom of the New Mexico. It was chaired by Admiral John Hoover, the same gimlet-eyed seaman who had chaired the court that had blamed Halsey for the December typhoon. Task group commanders Clark and Radford gave harshly critical testimony. Radford, a future chairman of the JCS, judged that “Admiral Halsey was completely responsible and, in this instance, culpably negligent.” He suggested that both Halsey and McCain, having just returned to the fleet after a long stateside leave, were too proud to take advice from their more experienced subordinates. Acknowledging the poor state of weather reporting, Radford said that basic seamanship should have guided the two admirals to better decisions: “Why [Halsey] tried so hard to get all three task groups together remains a mystery to me; the individual groups could have done much better on their own. My group would have escaped the storm by remaining where we were.”63
The court of inquiry recommended that “serious consideration” be given to relieving both Halsey and McCain of their commands, and reassigning them to other duties. The ultimate decision was left to higher-ups. King evidently did give serious consideration to relieving both admirals, and Secretary Forrestal said he would back the decision. In the end, however, it was decided to keep Halsey on, while recalling McCain to Washington to serve as deputy chief of the Veterans Administration. (The war ended before McCain was
relieved, and the admiral died of a heart attack before he could assume his new post.)
In this case, it is likely that Halsey’s status as a popular hero had saved his command. Throughout that summer of 1945, his image and his smashmouth oratory were featured prominently in the American press. The very same week that the court of inquiry rendered its verdict, Halsey’s leering face appeared on the cover of Time magazine, under his trademark slogan: “Kill Japs, Kill Japs, and Then Kill More Japs.”64
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