In a kind of glazed trance that might have been identified as cowardice, Captain Grant watched the DDs as they headed directly at the Japanese cruisers that led the enemy attack, and it staggered him to think that those small DDs should volunteer to throw themselves at all this might in order to give the American carriers just a few more minutes to escape southward. Since he spoke to no one, his men could not guess at his thoughts, nor predict what he might do when orders came for them to speed out to face the enemy.
There was no time for such speculation, because another salvo of four gigantic shells bracketed the Lucas Dean, throwing it about, and then Captain Grant came to his senses.
‘Hard right,’ he said in a calm voice, and when the third salvo from one of the Japanese battleships landed well aft of the Lucas Dean, he gave the order to swing in a tight circle and head directly for where that salvo had struck, on the principle that when the Japanese spotters saw the fountains of red and green marker-dye, they would correct their sights and not fire at the same spot again.
‘Chasing salvos,’ it was called, and Grant displayed an uncanny sense of when to move exactly into the middle of the last splash, and when to veer well away in some radical direction.
Then came the thrilling command: ‘Small boys, move out!’
Over his intercom Captain Grant said, ‘Here we go, right at them. Every man.’ He did not finish his exhortation, for he knew it was not needed.
The Lucas Dean and three other small, fragile DEs leaped forward, abandoned the baby flattops, and sped directly at the oncoming battleships. It was preposterous, an act of insanity, boats so small against the mighty Yamato, Musashi and Kongo, but if the DEs could divert the battleships even momentarily, the American carriers might have a remote chance of escape. The gamble was that elements of Admiral Oldendorf’s southern fleet would come roaring north, or some part of Admiral Halsey’s big fleet might steam back to the rescue.
Because a constant rain of shells came at the Lucas Dean, the lead DE, Captain Grant had to dodge and duck, chasing salvos all over the sea, and this took him away from the other three little ships, so that when he was in position from which he might launch his torpedoes, he was alone, one small craft with three battleships coming at him in file.
‘Gentlemen,’ he announced quietly, ‘we shall cross their T.’ And that is exactly what he did. Starting from a point well to the east, he took the Lucas Dean on a course that carried him directly across the bow of the lead battleship, and when he had the three in the position he wanted them, he fired his entire spread of torpedoes.
Then came the most agonizing twelve minutes the crew of his DE would ever know, for it would take that long for the torpedoes to reach the battleships, and all the while the glorious fountains of color—red and green and blue and golden yellow—spouted about the little ship as the infuriated battleships fired at it. Ducking this way and that, Captain Grant evaded the salvos, keeping one eye always on the wake of his torpedoes.
‘It takes a long time, sir,’ Finnerty said, standing by with his notebook.
‘Full speed astern!’ Grant ordered, and the ship quivered as it halted in midflight, hesitated, and backed off while a mighty salvo landed a few yards ahead.
Now the Lucas Dean was doomed, for two cruisers had moved up to aid the battleships, and the bombardment became so intense that further escape was impossible. But then a low rain cloud swept in, coming from the west like a victorious runner. ‘God, I hope it reaches us!’ Finnerty cried.
‘I hope it stays away till we see the torpedoes,’ Grant prayed, and ignoring the incoming shells, he stared at the vanished wakes. ‘Eleven minutes. Soon twelve.’
Peering under the clouds, he continued to stare at the Japanese ships. ‘The BBs see our torpedoes,’ he announced calmly, and the men watched as the big ships turned in what seemed like wild confusion. Turning to Finnerty, he directed him to write: ‘All torpedoes ran hot and true. All missed.’
‘Look!’ the sailor Parker shouted. ‘We hit a cruiser.’ For only a second there was a distant roar, a towering geyser, and then the dark grayness of the saving cloud.
‘We may have hit a cruiser,’ Captain Grant told Finnerty, and Executive Officer Savage went among the men, shouting, ‘We crossed their T.’ He was right. One small ship with minuscule guns had driven the battlewagons into disarray, giving the baby flattops a few minutes of respite.
The four DEs turned in large circles and headed back to the flanks of the carriers, whose safety they were bound to defend, but they were rather useless there, so again came the command: ‘Small boys, move out!’ And once more Captain Grant and his men left the cover of their clouds, sped north, and engaged the great fleet bearing down upon the carriers.
Two of the DEs were promptly sunk by a hellish concentration of fire from the Japanese battleship and cruisers, and this left the forward carriers completely undefended, and unable to defend themselves. ‘Bare ass to the wind,’ it was called, and these carriers were just that. Each had one five-inch gun whose shells could not begin to pierce the steel plates of the Japanese ships. But in hopes that the meager weapon might do damage on deck, the baby flattops fired.
What happened in return was another miracle of warfare. The Japanese battleships turned their heaviest guns on the carriers, and the most exposed, the Chesapeake Bay, took four eighteen-inch shells at various parts of her deck, all within six minutes. But because the Japanese had expected to encounter American battleships, their guns were loaded with armor-piercing shells which would have created havoc had they struck the heavy plating of an American battleship, for then the steel-hard nose would cut through the deck, arm the fuse, and cause a gigantic detonation below.
When the same shells struck the paper-thin Chesapeake they screamed right through the ship, finding nothing hard enough to activate their fuses. When the sailors of the Chesapeake realized what was happening, one man cried, They’re making Swiss cheese!’ Four of the most powerful shells in the world had struck a Jeep carrier without causing a single casualty. There were, of course, eight gaping holes in the flattop, four where the AP shells entered, four where they left.
The Lucas Dean was not so lucky. With no more torpedoes to fire, it was only a partial warship, but Captain Grant was determined to use that part to maximum advantage. Throwing a heavy smoke screen, he dodged and zagged his way far forward until the ship reached a spot from which he could fire with some effect upon the smaller Japanese destroyers whose skins would not be thick enough to repel his shots. He fired sixteen times and accomplished nothing. But because he had taken a position close to the main Japanese fleet, the Lucas Dean had to be dealt with, and two cruisers came right at it, blazing harshly. Now there were no colored splashes, for the Japanese gunners could see their target, but there was still the game of chasing salvos, and Captain Grant played this to perfection, staying alive long enough to find shelter in another rain cloud.
But as he hid there, the Japanese cruisers could see what he could not: the cloud was extremely small, and the ship must be crouching somewhere within. Laying down a creeping barrage, the cruisers scored two hits, both fore, both devastating. However, the cloud remained long enough to give Grant sufficient time to survey the damage, and now he learned the rare quality of Mr. Savage, the executive officer, for this newly arrived Texan, who had never seen any ocean a year ago, took such complete command of emergency repairs that within half an hour the Lucas Dean was able to move under its own power, not fast but quite securely.
‘What now?’ Mr. Savage asked.
‘Back to the wars,’ Grant said.
‘What else?’ Savage replied.
Their DE could make only half-speed, and they had only a small portion of their ammunition left, but it was obvious that if they could in any way divert or harass the enemy warships, they might contribute slightly to the American position. So moving under protection of the rain clouds, they returned to the front and saw with extreme delight that American planes from the littl
e carriers had begun all-out attacks on the Japanese ships. If the Dean could cause only a trivial confusion, it might be enough to make some Japanese ship falter, and slow down, and become a better target for the aviators. So Grant threw his little craft right at the heart of the oncoming Japanese fleet.
In the legends of many people one finds accounts of how the gods favored men of extreme bravery. The American Indians, the ancient Greeks, the Romans and the Goths all believed that if a man displayed unusual heroism, he would receive unusual protection … up to a point.
Norman Grant, a beginning lawyer with a wife he loved back in the small Western town of Clay, was such a man. When Finnerty asked him, as the Lucas Dean limped haltingly north, ‘Do you intend to take on their whole fucking fleet?’ he said, ‘I do.’
For thirty-eight minutes this DE worked and wove its way as if it had a whole nest of torpedoes to discharge. It lobbed its few shells onto the decks of the much heavier warships, then walked the salvos back to safety. When it was clearly doomed, it found a rain cloud, and when two other equally heroic destroyers were shot out of the water, it somehow survived. It was a charmed ship, for the gods had taken it under their protection.
Every man aboard the Lucas Dean realized that their captain was proving himself to be a man of remarkable heroism, and some sensed that they, too, shared his courage. But heroism aboard a moving vessel is quite different from that required of a foot soldier, who can, if his spirit fails, run away. It requires true courage of monumental character for a soldier to stay and fight when he might flee, but aboard ship the captain merely points the bow in a certain direction, and no man on board can do a damned thing about it.
What caused Captain Grant to behave as he did that October morning? What produced in an ordinary lawyer from a small land-locked town in the West an impeccable sense of naval maneuvering? A chain of trivial incidents had linked together to make him the man he proved to be that day of battle:
1921, aged 7: His father speaking: ‘You mustn’t lie about the box of candy. If you took it, say so. No punishment I give you will ever be as bad as the punishment you will give yourself if you become a known liar.’
1932, aged 18: Mr. Stidham speaking: ‘We are most pleased, Norman, that you’re taking Elinor to the dance. Remember that we’re placing her care in your hands. Home by one. And you don’t have to prove that you can drive down a darkened road at seventy miles an hour.’
1941, aged 27: Head of the firm speaking: ‘I tell each lawyer who joins our firm only once. Over the past two decades four lawyers in this county have gone to jail for misappropriating funds with which they were entrusted. And I’ve testified against three of them.’
1943, aged 29: Navy bo’s’n speaking: ‘By the old standards there isn’t one of you men prepared to take charge of a Navy vessel. But I’m convinced you have character and courage, and that will suffice.’
• • •
Kurita’s fleet contained one battleship the Americans desperately wanted to sink, the Haruna, veteran of many battles, and because of its emotional challenge, always a prime target. In the hideous days of late 1941 when America shivered in humiliation after Pearl Harbor and the Philippines, the nation sorely needed a hero, so enthusiastic public relations men concocted the doctrine that Colin Kelly, braver than most, had sunk the Haruna. Photographs of Kelly, his airplane and the destroyed Japanese battleship flashed across the world. But to the embarrassment of the Navy, in the next sea battle Haruna was there, spreading devastation.
But in that battle she was sunk again, after a vicious fight which the public relations men described in vivid detail. Of course, in the next battle she was present, her guns belching. Again and again she was sunk, and then again, but here, in late 1944, she was steaming menacingly right at the little carriers. A score of aviators, learning of her presence, vowed to sink her … for real.
‘Haruna is mine!’ one pilot from the carrier Chesapeake Bay shouted into his radio as he peeled off to smash her with his heavy bomb. In fact, he was so determined to do so that he followed his bomb almost down to the deck, and saw with pleasure that he had delivered a mortal blow.
‘I’ve sunk the Haruna!’ he shouted in plain speech. But the Haruna sailed on, directly at the Lucas Dean.
When Finnerty saw the monstrous battleship bearing down, about four miles distant, he gasped, ‘Good God! Look!’
There was no way that the men of the Dean could determine that this was their hated enemy, and there was also no way that they could damage the perpetual survivor. But they could pretend that they had torpedoes, and if the oncoming battleship believed them, it might turn away and fall prey to the American airplanes aloft. So while shells fell about the damaged Dean, Captain Grant turned her broadside to the Haruna as if his tubes were filled with deadly fish.
He succeeded and he didn’t succeed. The Haruna did turn aside, but as it did so it launched a fourteen-inch shell that landed just aft of the Dean’s tower, creating havoc.
The Dean was not blown apart, and it was in no immediate danger of sinking, but it was so sorely damaged that it had to retire, seeking what cover it could, and as it turned back in flight, as if it had been whipped by bigger boys, Captain Grant covered his face. He could visualize the terrible destruction the Japanese battleships would now wreak upon the baby flattops; he wanted to weep for the dead of this day, for the gallant hopes that had died with them. He and his men should have been able to hold back the enemy, protecting their part of the vast battle-front, but they had failed. There must have been something more he could have done, and in his failure he did not now want to see the destruction of his fleet. He was not a sailor. He was not a Navy man. He knew none of the traditions. But he did not want to lose his ship. He did not want to know the ignominy of defeat.
Then he heard one word. It was uttered in a Texas accent: ‘Jesus!’ He assumed that Mr. Savage had seen some final Japanese warship bearing down on them, and quickly he looked up to decide what steps to take in this last extremity, for he was determined that this little DE go down fighting.
‘Look! Look!’ Finnerty cried, and soon Savage was bellowing, ‘Look at the bastards!’
When his eyes focused on the northern horizon, he saw a sight he could not believe. Admiral Kurita, with the entire American fleet defenseless and standing by for the slaughter, which would leave General MacArthur’s forces on Leyte unprotected, had given the order for a general retreat. With victory assured, he fled the dangerous seas in which little ships had kept coming at him, no matter how many times they were hit.
‘Finnerty,’ Captain Grant said quietly. ‘Mark this. At 0949 the Japanese fleet turned north and left the battle. The Lucas Dean has absorbed four major hits and can make only three knots, but she is still afloat.’
And then the gods had had enough. From out of the clouds to the west appeared a new type of warfare. It consisted of a Japanese dive bomber, manned by a single aviator wearing a white scarf decorated with a red rising sun. It was the first of a special breed of warrior, never before seen in warfare, and it came on and on, heading directly for the Lucas Dean.
It was a kamikaze, a plane and a man blessed before takeoff from a nearby land-based airfield. It was on a journey of no return, for the Japanese high command realized that if Sho-Go, their master plan, failed, they would be forced to rely upon other tactics.
‘Shoot him down!’ Mr. Savage screamed, but the bullets missed, their tracers showing high and low.
‘Get that son-of-a-bitch!’ Finnerty yelled at the gunners, but they could not adjust their guns to the resolute speed of this plane.
On and on it came, one small plane, one small man. In the end, just before the pair crashed into the Dean’s tower, the men of the Dean could see their enemy, a young Japanese, his face frozen into a horrible mask, his hands frozen to the controls.
There was a massive crash and an explosion of flame, which Mr. Savage’s men might have controlled except that from the north came another kamikaze, head
ed straight for the Dean. It, too, avoided the gunfire, and at the last moment the sailors on the Dean could see its pilot’s face, smiling, shouting, exultant, but they could hear no words, for almost instantly plane and man crashed into the port side of the DE, which exploded violently, broke in half and started sinking.
When Captain Grant climbed into Life Raft Number Three he made a swift automatic survey of what was now his command station: Some food, less water, the three guns, no radio. When this was completed he started an assessment of the crew’s condition, assisted by Pharmacist’s Mate Penzoss, who had a clear understanding of what had happened during the wild two hours of the DE’s rampage through the Japanese fleet: ‘Original complement, 329. I counted at least forty dead before that last plane hit. Let’s say ten more when she exploded. That makes fifty gone, 279 somewhere in the water.’
‘How many went down with the ship?’ Grant asked over his shoulder as he helped a swimmer climb aboard.
‘Let’s say fifty. So cut the number of swimmers to 229. How many here?’
Making a hasty count of the tangled bodies, Grant supposed that he had thirty aboard, including a dozen who were near death. Among those with lesser wounds was Tom Savage, the executive officer, whose face was very white.
‘Where’d it get you, Tom?’
‘A little fragment, must have been, here on the left side.’
Grant asked Doc Penzoss, a high-school graduate who dispensed aspirin and Atabrine, to look at the wound. ‘Did it break a rib?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Rescue craft’ll pick us up before noon. We’ll have a doctor look at you within the hour.’
Penzoss was called away from Captain Grant by cries from seamen who saw their comrades dying. He had one small bag of disinfectants and Syrettes and was determined to use them efficiently.
His place was taken by Yeoman Finnerty, who jotted in his notebook the figures that Captain Grant recapitulated: ‘If all six life rafts got into the water, and if each contained forty men, we’ll have saved the complement.’ But Grant could see only three rafts afloat in the oily waters, and none contained more than thirty.
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