"He's just a kid," remarked the venerable officer of the deck, Lieutenant Montgomery West, who was all of thirty-one. "Wonder what he has to tell Spruance?"
"Maybe he knows something about Saipan from a previous incarnation," McKay said. He stared gloomily at the two-foot thick operations plan. "That's about the only thing they haven't put into this encyclopedia."
As the bosun's chair grew closer, the important passenger tilted his head to look up at the ship. "My God," Captain McKay said.
It was his son, Second Lieutenant Semmes McKay, USMC.
In Captain McKay's cabin, after Sammy had met Admiral Spruance, Byron Maher and other members of his grinning staff, the lieutenant's cheerful manner vanished. "Okay, Dad. What the hell's going on?" he demanded. "Am I being shanghaied? Are you going to park me on this tub while my men hit the beach without me? If that's the plan, I'm not buying it."
"There is no plan. Spruance just took it into his head that it would be nice if we had dinner together."
"On the level?"
"Sea scout's honor," McKay said. "You'll go back to your men tomorrow morning, when we arrive off Saipan."
A broad smile — Rita's smile — sprang across Sammy's face. "It's a deal," he said, holding out his hand. He was a head shorter than his father, with the same slim, angular build. But he had Rita's features — the determined chin, the bold blue eyes, the combative mouth. He had little of his father's intellectual interests, his wary approach to life. In the perverse way that nature switched genes, it was McKay's daughter, Barbara, who had inherited his temperament.
For supper, Chief Steward's Mate Horace Aquino outdid himself. He mixed two of the coldest most perfectly balanced daiquiris McKay had ever tasted. The meal that followed — shrimp cocktails, steak, chocolate ice cream sundaes — was a masterpiece. Between courses, Horace showed Sammy pictures of his ten children, including a high school graduation picture of his oldest son, who was in the mountains of Luzon fighting the Japanese. Finally, after spiking the coffee liberally with brandy, he withdrew.
Now what? McKay wondered. Since Sammy became a teenager, he had had difficulty talking to him. He seemed to prefer sharing his secrets, if any, with his mother. His attitude toward his father — and the Navy — had been so antagonistic, McKay had been amazed when he decided to go to Annapolis.
"Barbara tells me you and Mom are having a fight about something."
"That's hardly news, is it?" McKay said.
"I hope it isn't about me."
"Of course not.”
"I gather she wanted you to talk me into aviation. I'm really glad you let me make up my own mind, Dad. I meant what I said in my letter."
"I ... I'm glad you feel that way."
He sounded tepid. Was he revealing he had been too absorbed in his ship, in Win Kemble's fate, to think about Sammy's choice? Should he lie outrageously, preach an Emersonian sermon on self-reliance? No.
"What's bugging you and Mom—the usual? She's got you a juicy assignment on King's staff or something like that and you don't want it?"
"Something like that," McKay said.
"Mom's great, unique. But without your example, Dad, I would have wound up the most total yes man in the U.S. of A. You showed me how to stand up to her. How to do it without — you know — losing her affection."
Captain McKay nodded, too amazed to say anything.
"I can see why you want to stay out here and win this thing. It's great for me — to know we'll be on the same team. When we hit the beach tomorrow and I see those shells taking the Japs apart, I can tell my guys, 'That's my old man."
"We'll be doing our best, you can depend on it," McKay said. "The new battleships from Task Force Fifty-eight bombarded today. Seven of them. They fired 2,432 sixteen-inch and 12,544 five-inch. Presuming they obeyed the operations plan."
"Wow!"
There was no point in telling Sammy the fast battleships had never bombarded before and the chances of their hitting anything significant were minimal.
"The old battleships and other rusty hulks like us go to work tomorrow."
"Great. We'll have nothing to worry about but where to bury the bodies."
Dread clutched Arthur McKay's heart. "Let's hope so," he said.
A waning moon gleamed feebly through the clouds as the island of Saipan took shape in the grayish green dawn. For fourteen of the previous twenty-four hours, the Jefferson City's guns had pounded Japanese positions. Eight old battleships, seven heavy cruisers, six light cruisers and twenty-six destroyers had joined her. Unfortunately Saipan was not a coral atoll that could be flattened by a three day hurricane of metal, like Kwajalein. It was twelve miles long and fifteen miles wide. It had mountains and valleys, railroads and towns and a civilian population, as well as a 30,000 man garrison. Targets had to be carefully selected, if any impact was to be made on the Japanese defenses. The bombardment force had divided the island into six sections. The orders from Admiral Spruance emphasized accurate, deliberate fire. Not a shell was to be wasted. Replenishment ammunition was thousands of miles away.
In turret three, Johnny Chase and his men had fired, by Johnny's count, 3,338 eight-inch shells. No other turret on the ship had been able to maintain fire from all three guns for the entire fourteen hours. Johnny's scarred, mask-like face glared down at the crews as they performed their endless mechanical dance around the insatiable guns. They were not just working for Johnny. There was another presence in the turret, watching them as their backs heaved with the clack and hiss of the breechblocks opening, the roar of compressed air rushing through the hot barrels. It was not the green ensign sitting in the little steel booth at the rear of the turret. It was Richard Meade, Ensign Babyface, the man who had saved their lives off Guadalcanal. They were working for him, and Chase never let them forget it.
"Bores clear!" shouted the gun captains. The turret whistle hooted like a berserk owl, straining arms shoved the 260-pound shells into the open breeches. The rammer men threw their levers, the shells thudded home, more arms and shoulders swung the powder bags after the messengers of death, backs bowed and heaved again, and the breechblocks hissed and crashed. With a whir of gears the big silver breeches sank into their pits as the guns elevated. Back danced the men and the firing buzzer went dot-dot-dash. The guns crashed; inside the turret it was more a concussion than a sound, felt more than heard. The guns leaped back, the hungry silver breeches rose, hissing and whining and spat out their empty shell cases. The dance began again.
After fourteen consecutive hours of this labor, the turret crews staggered onto the main deck looking like corpses coming out of a grave. Many of them collapsed and had to be carried to sick bay where Dr. Levy and Dr. Cadwallader, agreeing for once, said it made no sense to drive men past their breaking point. But neither protested when Johnny Chase and the other turret captains came down at dawn to order the hospital cases back to the guns. Even Levy had begun to accept the war as a greater god than science.
As turret three resumed firing at 0430, Johnny Chase made one of his rare utterances. Even off duty, the turret captain seldom spoke. He spent most of his time on deck, staring out at the sea, or in his rack, staring at the overhead. The men were convinced he was communing with the dead. Chase spoke to a little rammer man named Flynn, who drooped beside number two gun.
"I ate chow with the radioman in our scout plane," Johnny said. "He told me we didn't hit a goddamn thing worth shooting at yesterday."
"Did anybody else?"
"Not as far as he could see."
"Stand by to elevate," the ensign said.
The turret trained to starboard, the guns lifted their menacing snouts, the shells rose on their hoists and slid into the gleaming breeches.
"Hit something, you no good fucker," Flynn said. "Hit one for Babyface."
The ensign pressed his ready button. "Commence firing," growled Gunnery Officer Mullenoe in main forward. Dot-DotDash went the warning buzzer. The guns crashed, the breeches rose, spat out their empty ca
sings and the dance began again. Johnny Chase's green eyes acquired their otherworldly glow. Little Flynn crouched by his rammer, gazing in awe at their turret captain. Johnny was talking to Ensign Baby-face, Flynn was sure of it. Maybe they were not hitting anything, but they were doing their jobs. Maybe that was all Babyface wanted them to do.
While the guns boomed, Harold Semple listened to Tokyo Rose on the CIC radio.
“To the crew of the USS Jefferson City, greetings on your last day on earth. As the flagship of Operation Forager, you are target number one for Japan's deadly gunners on Saipan. You have already been blasted by a number of direct hits and spent the night burying your dead. Today will be your coup de grace. As for your friends aboard the Minneapolis, Honolulu and other cruisers, they are destined for the same fate. The submarines of the Imperial Fleet are swarming to the waters around you for easy pickings. Now, to show you that the quality of mercy is not strained from the Emperor's noble heart, we will entertain you with some of your decadent music.”
A jazz band began playing "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight."
"OhI I hate that woman," Harold said. "I'd like to scratch her eyes out.”
"I'd like to fuck her brains out," said CIC Radarman Whizzer Wylie. "She sounds real slinky to me."
Harold found the words terribly exciting. He gave Wylie his sultriest glance. Wylie met his eyes for a split second,
then went back to watching his screen.
No, Harold vowed. He had promised himself, the captain, Edna. He would stay celibate, pure, safe.
For two hours the Jefferson City and three other heavy cruisers pounded the Charan Kanoa beaches where the Marines were to land — the same beaches they had bombarded for fourteen hours on the previous day. Finally, as the sun rose in a blaze of red and gold, the transports carrying the first wave of Marines steamed into position. Overhead roared wave after wave of bombers from the carriers to blast the beaches with 500- and 1,000-pound bombs. For another half hour the cruisers bombarded again. Then the signal fluttered from the halyards of Admiral Kelly Turner's flagship: "Land the Landing Force."
Lieutenant Semmes McKay was not in the first wave. But Captain McKay watched the small boats churning toward the shore with his mouth dry, his heart pounding. The sandy beach was only a few yards deep. It vanished into scrubby grass, palm trees, an occasional flame tree blooming with vermilion flowers. Then the land rose steeply in a series of steps to a looming green ridge called Mount Tapotchau.
"I feel like we're invading Hawaii," George Tombs said. "I wish we were," McKay said.
As the line of assault boats advanced, the battleships and destroyers joined the cruisers in a final stupefying bombardment of the beaches. While the amphtracs crawled across the barrier reef, another wave of seventy-two planes roared in from the carriers, some firing rockets that echoed across the water like the crack of a giant whip.
The moment the amphtracs began the final rush to the beaches, the impossible began to happen. Sheets of Japanese machine-gun fire poured across the water toward them. Geysers leaped beside the fragile boats as mortar and artillery shells fell among them. On the beaches, machine guns cut down hundreds of the first Marines out of the boats. Mortar and artillery fire blew up amphtracs and LST's.
"I can't believe it!" George Tombs cried, watching the bodies pile up. "How in Christ could they have survived that bombardment?"
"They did," McKay said. "Now the question is what are we going to do about it?"
For the time being, the answer was nothing. They could only watch as the situation on the beaches worsened. Japanese artillery firing from concealed positions inland soon had the coral reef zeroed in. As the fourth wave of amphtracs began crawling across it, the whole reef erupted with explosions from heavy shells.
"My God, they must have mined it," George Tombs said. "That's artillery," McKay said. "Watch. You'll see the rounds coming in."
"What wave is Sammy in?"
"That one."
He picked up the telephone and called Byron Maher in flag plot. "Why can't our spotter planes locate that artillery?" he asked. "We could blow them away with a couple of salvos."
"I'll mention it to the admiral."
Maher was back on the line in sixty seconds. "He says he doesn't want to interfere with Admiral Turner's operation."
By the book. That was how Spruance operated. It was also an admission that he had no desire to tangle with Kelly Turner's violent temper and gigantic ego. At the War College, Spruance had been the senior faculty member, but Turner had overshadowed him with the brilliance of his imagination, the sheer cleverness of his lectures. He had only one flaw. He was incapable of admitting a mistake.
Was his son being sacrificed to the system that had destroyed Win Kemble, the system that said, in essence, Those whom Cominch blessed could do no wrong?
No, no. McKay struggled to control his careening emotions. It was the fog of war — one of Spruance's favorite phrases — that was menacing Sammy. He could hear Spruance's dry voice in the lecture hall describing how they must try to plan every detail of a forthcoming battle — and at the same time be prepared, once the battle began, to deal with confusion, chaos as the fog of war descended.
For the rest of the day, the greatest naval force ever assembled could only watch helplessly, less than a mile offshore, while the Marines fought for their lives against an enemy who resisted with apparently unquenchable confidence. The night brought furious counterattacks, which were repulsed with the help of showers of star shells fired by the fleet. Their phosphorous glow illuminated the Japanese tanks and infantry at pointblank range for Marine field artillery.
Around midnight, an exhausted McKay tried to sleep. It was impossible. He got up and tried to write a letter to Rita, telling her about his dinner with Sammy. No go there, either. It was too unbearable. All the love he had never been able to express, the words he had never been able to say to Sammy wound through his brain, punctuated by the distant explosions on the beach.
On the bridge he found Montgomery West was OOD. "I don't think we're going to sit here much longer, Captain," he said.
"Why not?
"Spruance just got a message from a submarine in the Philippine Sea. The whole Japanese fleet is heading this way."
The Fog Of War
Our air will first knock out enemy carriers, then will attack enemy battleships and cruisers to slow or disable them. Battle line will destroy enemy fleet either by fleet action if the enemy elects to fight or by sinking slowed or crippled ships if enemy retreats. Action against the enemy must be pushed vigorously by all hands to ensure complete destruction of his fleet.
There it was — the battle plan that might end the warp that might get everyone, or almost everyone, home alive. On the bridge of the Jefferson City, Captain McKay read and reread the message Admiral Spruance had just sent to all the ships of the Fifth Fleet. There was no question that the showdown of the century — the decisive battle between the Japanese and American navies — was about to take place. Somewhere in the blank six hundred miles of ocean to the west, the Combined Fleet was steaming toward them.
He thought of Sammy, under ferocious Japanese machine gun and mortar fire on Saipan. Keep your head down for a while, kiddo, he begged him. If we can do the job out here, those bozos may realize it's time to surrender.
"Captain," the talker said, "Admiral Spruance wonders if you would like to join him on the forcastle."
In five minutes he was walking up and down beside the man on whom his hope — all their hopes — depended.
"You've done your share of night fighting in the Solomons, Arthur. What do you think of this?"
He handed him an exchange of messages with Rear Admiral Willis Lee, commander of the battleship force, and Admiral Marc Mitscher, commander of the fleet's carriers.
First came a query from Mitscher. "Do you desire night engagement? It may be we can make air contact late this afternoon and attack tonight. Otherwise we should retire to the eas
tward tonight."
Lee replied, "Do not (repeat not) believe we should seek night engagement. Possible advantages of radar more than offset by difficulties of communication and lack of training in fleet tactics at night. Would press pursuit of damaged or fleeing enemy, however, at any time."
What daring, McKay thought. Was there an admiral in the world who would hesitate to pursue a damaged or fleeing enemy? McKay suddenly remembered Bull Halsey's anguished face in the Solomons. He heard him saying, You can't win a war without losing ships.
"I'd ignore Lee if you want a fight to the finish. It may cost us a few ships, but once you sink your teeth into them, they'll never get away."
Spruance looked past him into the empty western ocean, his face expressionless as usual.
"Do you remember my lecture on the battle of Tsushima Strait?" Spruance asked.
“Of course.”
"I've always admired the way Admiral Togo waited for the Russian fleet to come to him. Do you think this situation is similar?"
"In some ways. But not in others."
"You're thinking of the carriers. You were always talking about carriers at the War College, Arthur. Why didn't you become an aviator?"
The irritation in Spruance's usually emotionless voice was unmistakable. It was the old struggle for rank and power between the battleship and carrier men, still being fought out here six hundred miles from the Japanese coast.
"My wife — and my friend Win Kemble — talked me out of it.”
They walked up and down the forecastle for another hour. Spruance maintained an icy silence.
Back on the bridge, Officer of the Deck Montgomery West ventured a cautious question.
"Is there a fight for the heavyweight championship on the card, Captain?"
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