The Pacific

by Hugh Ambrose

  In the early hours of June 7, before he and the pilots of Scouting Six reached their ready room, USS Yorktown slipped beneath the waves, the victim of a Japanese submarine's torpedoes. The two remaining American flattops fueled the fleet and set sail for Alaska, which had also been attacked by aircraft of the Imperial Japanese Navy. The day marked the six-month anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor--June 7 even fell on a Sunday. The pilots could relax and savor the moment. The army bombers on Midway were reporting more hits on the fleeing enemy. After a few days, a storm settled in around them and canceled flight operations. The task force soon gave up Alaska, turned around, and headed south for Pearl Harbor. On the way back, the radio room picked up a broadcast from Tokyo. The empire claimed to have sunk "one aircraft carrier of the 'Enterprise type' and one of the 'Hornet type,' each of 19,900 tons."17 The claim stood in stark contrast to Radio Tokyo's claim of June 6--that it had sunk six U.S. carriers and captured Midway Island.18 On board Enterprise and the other ships that had won the battle of Midway, men estimated the Japanese losses at "four--possibly five--Japanese carriers," plus "three battleships damaged or sunk," as well as "four cruisers and four troop transports" damaged or sunk.j As many as eighteen thousand to twenty thousand Japanese had gone down with those ships.19 Since Yorktown had been abandoned before she sank, her personnel taken aboard the escorts, the U.S. losses would be slight by comparison.

  Ensign John Lough's best friend on Enterprise was eventually tasked with surveying the missing pilot's belongings. Many men had the same task at that same moment. "The thing to do," Mike was told, "is to go through everything he's got . . . if there's anything there that's questionable," anything that might upset his parents, "you don't send it to them." In John's stateroom, he found nothing the least objectionable. John had been "a straight arrow kid." In the box of personal items Mike included a letter because he had to say something. He knew them. Expressions of friendship and of loss made it past the censors, not details. Although some flight crews had been pulled from the water in the days after the battle, Mike held out little hope of John's rescue. His duty to John made thoughts of his own fate unavoidable. "You're not infallible," he told himself as he packed it all up. Nothing could protect him from a bad break in the dangerous life of a naval aviator.

  On the morning of June 13, two weeks after the battle for Midway began, the carriers neared the Hawaiian Islands and the squadrons took off for Ford Island.20 Upon arrival the pilots were granted liberty and given a room at one of the fine hotels on Waikiki Beach--the Royal Hawaiian or the Moana--reserved by the navy. Officers paid $1 per night to stay at a hotel where guests paid $70 a night in peacetime.21 The pilots certainly recognized this as one of those times when rank had its privileges. The pampering staff and the fine cuisine had disappeared, however. Honolulu had barbed wire on its beaches, checkpoints with armed guards, and a ten p.m. curfew. Businesses downtown had limited hours of operation. The city was completely blacked out at night. The two hotels, under these conditions and filled with navy officers, felt a lot like being on a carrier except everybody wore their dress uniforms. The young ladies on the beach and in the restaurants attracted a lot of attention. Mike decided not to try to elbow his way through the crowd to speak with one.

  All the civilians knew about the Battle of Midway; the newspapers had carried the story since the day it began. On June 4, U.S. military leaders assured the public they had expected an enemy attack on U.S. territory as a reprisal "for the April 18 raid on Tokyo and other Jap industrial centers by Brigadier General Jimmy Doolittle and 79 intrepid companions."22 Admiral Nimitz, commander of the Pacific Fleet, had been cautious initially about announcing the number and type of ships sunk at Midway.23 His press releases praised the efforts of all those who had inflicted "very heavy" damage on the enemy, particularly the flight crews of the army, navy, and Marine Corps. In the days that had followed, reporters citing unnamed sources in naval intelligence leaked the fact that the U.S. forces "Knew Jap Task Force Was Coming--And Were Ready." Nimitz declared on June 6 that "Pearl Harbor has been partially avenged," and began providing details about what the reporters began calling "the greatest naval battle of the war."24

  The day before Enterprise's squadrons arrived at their hotels in Waikiki, the newspapers had headlined interviews with the flight crews of the army air corps' big bombers. "The Army pilots who actually dropped the bombs reported personally that they made hits on three Japanese carriers . . ."25 The dive-bomber pilots not only believed they represented a revolution in naval warfare about which the public was largely ignorant, but knew they had sunk the flattops.26 The first night in the dining room of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, a table full of Scouting Six pilots found themselves within earshot of a table of army pilots. The crews of the four- engine and twin-engine bombers spoke of sinking the carriers. Incensed by one army pilot's account of how he won the battle, one of the Dauntless pilots yelled, "By God, that's a damn lie!" and the fight was on.27 Bill Pittman, Mike's roommate, took part in the melee and told him all about it the next day.

  Even as some Scouting Six pilots raised a little hell, others were coming back from it. Micheel spotted Tony Schneider, one of the Big E's missing Dauntless pilots. Ensign Schneider, with Bombing Six, said he and Lieutenant Edwin Kroeger had run out of gas on the return from the first bombing run. They had landed near one another and the four men had gotten into two rafts. It had taken five days for them to be picked up, Tony said, five days in a rubber raft in an empty ocean. Mike told him his story of following two planes on his return from the first mission and something struck a chord. As they discussed the way the two planes went down, Tony and Mike came to believe they had shared that terrifying moment.

  SID'S FATHER HAD DRIVEN THEM OUT OF MOBILE THROUGH THE NEW BANKHEAD Tunnel and let them off by the side of the highway. Sidney Phillips and William "W. O." Brown had been joined by another How Company man on his way back from Biloxi. Securing rides north proved difficult and the three arrived late into their base at New River. They walked in nervously, knowing what happened to marines found to be AWOL (absent without leave). As it turned out, most of the regiment had had the same problem to some degree, so their tardiness was ignored.

  During the first week of June, they had Field Days, meaning they cleaned their camp. They also packed the battalion's equipment before moving on to their weapons, their packs, and their seabags. Orders to put their coats and their bathing suits on the top of their seabags offered no clues as to their impending destination.

  On June 8, they packed all day and boarded the train. Sid and his friend John "Deacon" Tatum claimed the last two seats in the last coach. At last they were under way. The feeling of adventure gathered steam as the world they knew passed. In Chattanooga they jumped off to get candy and ice cream. When night came, the black porters made up their beds in the sleeping car with clean sheets. In a few days, the old locomotive pulled them into the vast Southwest. The vistas opening up before them were ignored by the platoon, but the cattle ranches and oil wells and herds of antelope delighted Sid and Deacon. Place- names floated past: Dodge City, Boot Hill, even a monument to Wild Bill Hickok. At one stop they bought souvenirs from some Indian woman and told themselves they were "sightseeing at government expense." They stopped for lunch at a Harvey House and one of the women asked them if they were CCC boys.k Like many civilians, she did not recognize the green USMC uniform, but the angry response her question elicited fixed that.

  The thrill of the new, however, explained only part of the energy and excitement in the air. A feeling of impermanence gilded every moment.28 Even after arriving in San Francisco on June 13 and being assigned a berth on a ship in the harbor, the feeling of a higher purpose impelling them toward an unknown destination produced a carefree exuberance. They were not allowed to leave the ship every day, or even for an entire day. How Company stood inspection one morning, just to keep discipline tight. When liberty came they found many locations under guard, like the Golden Gate Bridge and the O
akland Bay Bridge. While some of How Company found their way to a bar, and others to the theater, Deacon and Sid walked to Chinatown. Signs in English gave way to exotic hieroglyphics. "Boy," Deacon declared, "those chink gals are good-looking." The wares displayed for sale included the strange and the unknown. Sid bought a newspaper and read about the navy's victory at Midway. He wondered if his uncle, a navy pilot, had been involved. The newspaper also carried a story about the big General MacArthur Day celebration held at a local stadium, when soldiers leaped from their foxholes "just as they did at Bataan."29 At a bookstore he bought some great books on the Civil War, which he sent home.

  All leaves were canceled on Sunday, June 21. Each marine aboard USS George F. Elliott, the entire 2nd Battalion of the First Marines (2/1), had to dump out the contents of his seabag on the pier for inspection. The word was the ship would sail at three a.m. This time, the word was close. At four a.m. it stood out from the pier and steamed past the island of Alcatraz. A marine called to a figure standing on the prison's dock, "Hey, Lucky, want to trade places?" Elliott passed through the submarine nets, under the Golden Gate Bridge, and into open sea. Twelve ships joined Elliott, which Sid noted unhappily bore the number AP 13. Towering waves and gale- force winds rocked the convoy. The vomiting began soon thereafter. Those who became seasick joined those who were hungover and soon the heads (toilets) were filled and the deck was awash with vomit. Sid and Deacon watched the coast fall away.

  The next day it was announced that they were headed for New Zealand, a journey that would take nineteen days because the convoy would have to zigzag as a precaution against submarines. The groans and grimaces accompanying the news came from most of the 2/1, who had decided after twenty- four hours that no place they had ever been rivaled Elliott for discomfort. Overcrowding made it difficult to sleep, eat, stand, or use the head. Discomfort gave way to disgust whenever the mess served chipped beef on toast, also known as shit on a shingle. When the ventilators went off in the holds, the marines blamed malicious swabbies. At the ship's store, the swabbies served the swabbies first, leaving their guests with few leftovers. Announcements over the ship's PA system blared commands frequently; each began with a loud "Now hear this . . ." The experience left the marines sputtering words like "rust bucket" and "African slaver."

  Within a few days Sid found himself on a work detail, chipping the paint off the interior surfaces of the ship. As had been discovered during the attack on Pearl Harbor, the years of accumulated paint burned very well. The paint had to be removed for the safety of the ship. To Sid and the fifty others who had to do it, however, it felt like make-work and they cursed it heartily. One morning a massive sailor, the chief bosun's mate, came up to Sid as he was chipping paint and ordered him to follow.

  "I am going to give you one of the best jobs available," the chief said, leading him to a large bathroom. Sid had just become the captain of the Officers' Head. "You are going to thank me in a few days." One deck below the ship's bridge, the head held six porcelain sinks, toilets, and urinals. Six shower stalls lined one wall. As he was instructed on how to keep all of the porcelain spotless, he thought of the long troughs of running seawater the men used for toilets downstairs. Here, he would be one of the few enlisted men with access to fresh water for bathing and washing his clothes. The tall bosun had been absolutely right.

  Crossing the equator offered some relief from the days of washing the head and watching the flying fish. On July 1, the ship's crew observed the navy tradition of initiating the pollywogs into shellbacks, "into the solemn mysteries of the deep." The lieutenants of the 2/1 got the worst of it, getting their hair greased with oil by the order of Neptunus Rex, Ruler of the Raging Main. The ceremony lightened the mood on a ship on which men had been ordered not to toss their cigarette butts over the side, lest they leave a trail for an enemy submarine to follow. Crossing the equator also meant sitting out on deck in the warm night air, watching Elliott churn a long bright ribbon of phosphorescence behind it. A stargazer, Sid was excited to at last see the famed Southern Cross, only to be disappointed when he found it so "irregular." Sid and Deacon admitted, "We really are tired of salt water."

  When land hove into view ten days later, though, the warmth of the equator had fallen far astern. July was winter in the Southern Hemisphere. Elliott sailed into the harbor at Wellington, ringed with high mountains and busy with ships from all of the allied countries. As usual, a fair amount of waiting around preceded the moment when the enlisted men stepped off the ship into the cold and rain. Sid and Deacon went walking to take it all in--signs for Milk Bars, distinctive trams gliding by, cars with right-hand drives. Deacon observed that the city, although much larger than Mobile, looked "twenty years behind the times."

  The New Zealanders welcomed the marines. At church one afternoon, Sid and Deacon met an older woman named Florence who invited them to her home for tea. Up the narrow streets they walked, wet and cold, carrying her groceries. Tall buildings had antiaircraft guns on them. All the windows were blacked out. Inside, they met Flo's invalid father and discovered her home did not have an icebox.

  The escape from duty, however, ended quickly. All the privates of the 2/1 became members of working parties. Elliott was going to be combat- loaded immediately. In a ship loaded for combat, the equipment and supplies are organized to sustain men in combat efficiently. In other words, the equipment and supplies on the ship would now be unloaded so as to be reloaded. Although officially the word was that they were preparing for a three-month jungle training exercise, the speed and execution of the entire process made everyone aware that something big was going on. All the ships of the First Marines were unloading and loading. The Fifth Marine Regiment, which had arrived in Wellington before them, left their camps, came down to the docks, and began to load their ships. In the rain, night and day, at high speed, simultaneously, the process turned the docks into a chaotic mess.

  For ten days, Sid worked four hours on and four hours off. He and the others hefted heavy boxes of ammunition from every weapon: 155mm, 105mm, 75mm, 90mm, 81mm, 37mm, 60mm, 20mm, .50 caliber, .30 cal, .45. The green boxes of .30-caliber ammunition had no handles, the mortar shells came in a peculiar cloverleaf packaging, and there were no gloves available to help with the spools of barbed wire. Cardboard boxes held all of their rations. The cardboard disintegrated in the rain, and soon the working parties stomped through a thick mush of wrappings and wasted food sprinkled with shiny tin cans.

  With all of its hatches open, the ship could not be heated. The officers and NCOs observed the work; not one deigned to help. The Wellington dockworkers had gone on strike. Even some of the Yankees of How Company appeared adept at shirking. Sid cursed them all as a marine should, as his Rebel Squad of #4 gun put their backs into the job. Sailors manned the cranes and marines drove the trucks. When they loaded goodies like rations of chocolate, they stuffed some into their pockets. When they handled clothing, they stole some sweaters to keep warm and helped themselves to a clean pair of pants. A few other guys noticed and tried it, but got caught, much to the joy of Sid's squad.

  Most days, Sid and the other members of #4 gun used their break to get off the dock and into the city. They bought lots of fruit, had a decent meal, or just got out of the weather by taking in a movie. A Yank in the R.A.F. was playing.l They met some New Zealand soldiers and compared weapons, emblems, and duties. The marines thought they learned a lot about the locals, including the use of "bloody" in most sentences, the preference for U.S. Marines over the U.S. Army, and the "heavenly ambition" of the young New Zealand women "to marry an American in the hopes of getting to the States." It surprised them to learn that the locals did not like to be called British, just as the people they met insisted on referring to Sid and Deacon as Yanks.

  More ships arrived in the bay around them, including a dozen of the navy's big battleships and cruisers. When the work ended on July 20, #4 gun slipped off to have tea and meat pies at the Salvation Army. Afterwards, all of the 2/1 went on a condi
tioning hike in the hills. Hiking seemed like a relief after the drudgery of loading; at least it came with a view. That evening, Sid and Deacon, having heard they would be shipping out soon, bought two pounds of candy to take with them and were surprised at the glares of disgust they received from the locals. When the next morning brought no sergeants demanding work, everyone knew they were headed for "the real thing," which sounded like a destination. That evening Elliott got under way. The long convoy of troop transports, including the Fifth Marines and a number of battleships, sailed north. Announcements about "maneuvers" fooled few. Deacon spoke of the destiny before them being God's Will. Sid asked for his old job back, as captain of the Officers' Head. The silly title made him smile, but the rights and privileges improved life aboard the rust bucket.

  THEIR LEAVES ENDED AFTER A WEEK AND THE PILOTS ALL REPORTED BACK TO Ford Island. Ensign Micheel noticed that most of the senior pilots, the old hands like his skipper, Gallaher, had disappeared. They had rotated home to train new squadrons and had, when they received their orders, departed before anyone changed their mind. Their haste seemed perfectly reasonable. Micheel and some of the other ensigns of Scouting Six were told to report to the commanding officer of Bombing Six at Naval Air Station Kaneohe. Mike's gunner, J. D. Dance, however, was not coming with him to the new squadron. The Aviation Radioman Third Class had requested flight training. Mike had happily written a recommendation, and Dance had been accepted.

  The new members of Bombing Six found a warm welcome at NAS Kaneohe. A band played and cold beers were proffered to pilots and airmen as they stepped from their planes.30 Located on the western edge of the island of Oahu, Kaneohe had only recently been constructed. The barracks, officers' club, and other buildings did not have air-conditioning, so the rooms grew pretty warm until the breeze came up in the late afternoon. A light rain usually followed. Unlike the airfields on the big island, Kaneohe sat well out of the flight traffic patterns, so there was little in the way of air traffic control. Life was easy.