MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan

by Douglas Niles

  “A-all right, Gunny. All right.” Pete could feel him relax. The crisis was past. “Uh, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Uh—am I…uh—do you—”

  Pete grinned. “Do I think a few minutes of stress make you a coward, sir? Is that what you’re asking?” Damn right I do. Hell, I’m just as scared as you. Maybe more. But I’m not running out on the job.

  “Uh—yeah.”

  “No, sir. Absolutely not,” he lied. “First time under fire, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It happens all the time. You take care of the wounded like I suggest, you keep doing your job, you’ll be okay. You’ll make a fine marine officer, sir. I know you will.” If a line of bullshit helps turn you around, I’m happy to crap it out.

  “T-thanks, Gunny.”

  “Don’t mention it. Let’s get back to the others.”

  The rest of the men had taken the opportunity to down a bit of food or smoke a cigarette. Two had managed to fall asleep. They all managed to avoid expressions of curiosity when Pete and the lieutenant returned. “The lieutenant has some orders for us,” Pete said.

  Kinney looked at Pete questioningly, then at the men. “Uh, I’m dividing us into two groups. Everybody who’s wounded will follow me. We’re going to retrace our steps, find other wounded, get them to safety, then come back and find some more. Marines don’t abandon marines. It’s our mission to get any of our people to safety we can find. Gunny and the rest of you will continue with the original plan to clear out Japanese emplacements and link up with the 1st Battalion. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pete said, saluting the lieutenant. He then walked along the line of men. Most of them had wounds of some sort—Pete himself had that scrape on his arm where a bullet had grazed him. He picked out the three men in worst shape. For good measure, he pointed to Corporal Canfield as well. He hated to lose him, but the shavetail needed an experienced marine to babysit him. “These are the wounded, sir,” he said, turning to the lieutenant.

  “Thank you, Gunny,” Kinney replied.

  He had the good grace to be ashamed. Maybe he’d turn out to be a decent officer after all. You could never tell.

  “Finish your food and smokes, then we’ll move out,” the lieutenant added.

  Not bad, thought Pete. Now he’s starting to get it.

  SIXTEEN

  Kyushu

  • MONDAY, 19 MARCH 1945 •

  USS GETTYSBURG (CV-44), ROADSTER BEACH ZONE,

  OFF THE WEST COAST OF KYUSHU, JAPAN, 2210 HOURS

  (OPERATION OLYMPIC, X-DAY, N-HOUR + 1610)

  Rear Admiral (lower half) Frank Chadwick braced himself on the hatch frame and looked around the flag bridge, now canted crazily to port as the Gettysburg continued to settle unevenly into the ocean. The gash in her hull was a fatal wound—of that there was no longer any doubt. She had been ripped by a terrific underwater explosion, a blast much greater than that of the lethal Long Lance torpedoes that the Japs had used so effectively throughout this war. Speculation—and Chadwick was inclined to agree—had it that suicidal enemy submariners had driven a midget sub up against the carrier’s hull and detonated it. In any event, water had flooded the engine rooms, and too many compartments were breached to keep the ship afloat. Loss of life was heavy among the black gang, the sailors who fueled, ran, and maintained the carrier’s big diesel engines.

  The admiral’s bridge was illuminated now by emergency lights, abandoned except for the chief signalman standing next to the coding machine and a few other sailors waiting for orders to clear out. Commander Dickens leaned through the hatchway, somehow looking unflappable even though his uniform was torn and his face smudged with oil and soot.

  Chadwick drew a breath, shook his head. It was time.

  “Cable to Admirals Hill and McCain,” he told the signalman. “I am transferring my flag to Pensacola, then to Missionary Ridge as soon as possible.”

  The Gettysburg listed heavily in the calm waters. There was no hope of saving her, of dragging her to Ulithi, Manila, or Pearl Harbor for repairs. A half dozen destroyers and destroyer escorts circled the stricken flattop; they had already hoisted most of her crew from the water. A glance through the fading twilight showed the cruiser Pensacola approaching with a bone in her teeth, ready to take the admiral’s party and a complement of surviving crewmen aboard.

  And now it was time for the admiral to go. Captain Withers was still on the bridge—he would be waiting for the flag staff to depart before he abandonded ship—and there was no point in hanging around any longer. Chadwick followed Dickens as the chief of staff led him down the ladders, through the passages, out of flag country and the carrier’s tall island. The admiral came along numbly, his mind a myriad of questions extending far beyond the shell of this stricken flagship.

  Had the desperate diversion been worthwhile? Certainly, the carriers had drawn plenty of suicide planes, as well as the deadly submarine. Something like six hundred of the Gettysburg’s crew had died in the battle. The light carrier Normandy, too, had taken several hits but during the evening steamed away from the combat zone under her own power. The rest of the fleet had filled the sky with antiaircraft fire and tried to hang on for dear life. Several of Chadwick’s escorting ships had been subjected to near misses, and one DE had taken a hit right in the bridge, killing the captain and dozens of men.

  And maybe two or six or ten transports had been spared; and each of those transports might have put a thousand marines onto the beach.

  All day long the Hellcats of the carrier’s fighter squadrons had fought savagely to defend their carrier and the transports. Navy pilots risked barrages of antiaircraft in single-minded pursuit of enemy planes. The Grummans of Amphibious Group V—reinforced by fighters from some of the other carriers still over the horizon—shot down the incoming Japanese suicide planes in droves. The enemy pilots were either terribly inexperienced, or so fixed in their determination to crash into a ship that they disdained any opportunity for air combat. They plunged through the screen of fighters, right into the thick puffs of antiaircraft that, over the course of the day, had blackened the skies like an ominous thundercloud.

  Chadwick’s task group now had a new mission: recover four carriers’ worth of planes with two carriers’ worth of deck space. Some planes wouldn’t come back, of course, but enough would that they’d have a problem. At least the Gettysburg’s sacrifice had drawn away those suicide planes: they’d been hit by three and succeeded in stopping dozens more. Most of the crew had evacuated successfully. Aboard the Gettysburg now there was only the captain, himself, and the skeleton crew of damage control parties and medical people.

  They crossed to the edge of the flight deck and descended one more ladder, Dickens bringing Chadwick to the catwalk below the flight deck on the port side, the low side. They were still thirty feet above the water, which rolled gently against the gray hull, the ocean utterly black in the night, and very, very deep. Ropes dangled from the railing of the catwalk, hanging all the way to the water, and lots of small boats from nearby destroyers were busily picking up the sailors who had been evacuating for the last hour.

  “A bosun’s chair for the admiral?” asked a chief petty officer. His face was slicked with soot and blood, and sweat glistened on his arms and his chest where it was visible through his ripped tunic.

  Not far away a few brave swabbies—good swimmers, the admiral heartily hoped—advanced one at a time to the railing of the catwalk to launch into the water with dives, cannonballs, and other antic plunges.

  “Thanks, Chief. The rope will do fine,” Chadwick replied, joining the short file of men waiting to descend on the nearest line. A seaman first class stepped aside to let the admiral through.

  “Thanks, son. But that’s okay—I’ll wait my turn,” Frank said, touched.

  The batteries on the nearby destroyers and the Pensacola suddenly erupted, blasting a fresh volley of metal and explosives into the night sky. Chadwick braced himself, l
istened to the fire wax and wane over the course of a minute. In the thickening dusk he couldn’t see an enemy plane; when the guns ceased firing, he couldn’t hear it either.

  “False alarm?” the nearby swabbie said hopefully.

  “Or they got the son of a bitch,” the grizzled CPO replied, before gently prodding the young sailor to the edge of the catwalk. “Your turn, kid.”

  Even at night that AA fire, Chadwick observed as the sailor shimmied down the rope, had been a real shit storm in the sky. As the admiral stepped forward to take his own turn, his mind wandered, considering the implications for the future. Tactical doctrine had changed over the course of this war. Now ships, including the carrier and all of its escorts, were outfitted with a bristling array of three-inch cannon, Bofors guns, .50 caliber machine guns, all deployed to defend against enemy air attack. Each carrier had an AA cruiser among its escort, a vessel that had been designed and armed specifically as an antiaircraft ship.

  But they needed more guns, faster firing, bigger calibers! What the hell were those Japs trying to do, anyway? What could drive them to mass suicide attacks? It’s like they weren’t even human, not in the sense of civilized people!

  And then the admiral’s turn came, and Chadwick sat on the edge of the catwalk, took the rope in his hands, and swiveled his butt off the edge. For a sickening moment, he swayed into space, but then started to slide down the line, using his legs instead of his hands to brace himself.

  Fifteen seconds later, he was in the—shockingly cold—ocean, and a minute later a bosun’s mate was hauling him into a whaleboat like a freshly landed catfish.

  • TUESDAY, 20 MARCH 1945 •

  APPROACHING USS MISSIONARY RIDGE (CV-48), 0709

  HOURS (OPERATION OLYMPIC, X-DAY + 01)

  Lefty was flying in a daze, guns empty and fuel tank nearly the same, the tail end of a section of five fighters returning to the carrier. It was his first flight on the second day of the battle—and already his fifth sortie of Operation Olympic. He had added eight planes to his kill total in that time—his squadron had claimed more than fifty—but all those kills were only a drop in the bucket.

  Where the hell had the Japs been hiding all these planes? And who in hell were they getting to fly them?

  The second question was the more stunning to Lefty. It had been churning in his mind for more than twenty-four hours. He hadn’t slept more than a few minutes the night before. Paperwork, debriefing, and planning had kept him up until 0100; then he hit his bunk and spent the next few hours tossing and turning, thinking about that question.

  What kind of crazy fanatic would get into an airplane seat knowing full well that he was going to die at the end of the flight?

  Were the pilots of Nippon braver than American pilots? Lefty wouldn’t concede that point, not while he could still draw a breath. Were they cockier? He didn’t think that was true, either. From the flights he had seen, these were pilots who had barely any training at all—they were lucky to get the damned planes off the ground!

  There had been some covering fighters, trying to interfere with the Hellcats, flying cover for the suicide planes. Some of these had been flown by veteran pilots, flying modern aircraft like the Oscar and Frank; Lefty had dueled one for more than a half hour, the fight ending only when the enemy plane’s wings buckled as the pilot tried to pull out of a power dive.

  But that had been the exception. He’d seen suicide planes try to juke their way out from under Hellcat guns only to have the pilot lose control, augering in to the ground or the ocean before the guy could pull out of the spin. Others flew straight and steady but couldn’t quite hit the mark—vast numbers of suicide attacks had missed simply because the pilots lacked the skill to fly into a ship-sized target. Even so, they kept coming, waves and waves of them throughout X-day, and now it was looking like day two wasn’t going to be any better.

  He could see the belly of the Gettysburg—the big, new ship had turned turtle during the night—and the gaping hole where a suicide submarine had gashed her belly was an ugly wound. Not far away, the second wave of transports waited at anchor. They busily debarked more landing craft full of troops and supplies, and endured the enemy air attacks. Already this morning, two of them had been struck. They burned furiously, spewing pillars of black smoke into the sky between the Missionary Ridge and the beach.

  Now the flight deck was in front of him. Lefty’s F6F leveled out, lined up for the approach, and the pilot sighted “Paddles.” He came in a little high, and the Hellcat bounced on the deck, dragging the tailhook far enough that it didn’t catch until the third cable. Damn, he thought. Haven’t landed that rough since P’cola.

  He unfastened the canopy but was grateful when his crew chief scrambled up the ladder to push the glass enclosure back. Lefty pushed himself out of his seat, his mind on a cup of coffee and, if the coffee kicked in fast enough, a good crap.

  “It’s going to be at least three hours before she’s ready to go up again, sir,” the chief said. “We’re going to replace the plugs and filters. Maybe you could catch a little sack time?”

  “She was running okay,” Lefty countered. “Belay the maintenance—I’ll be ready to go in thirty.”

  “Um, sir. Commander Wiggins ordered me to do the work. Told me to tell you you could take a nap or help him fill out action reports. He led me to believe he didn’t think you’d be much help to him with the reports, sir.”

  Commander Wiggins was the flight officer, commander of all flying operations on the Missionary Ridge. He was tough as nails but somehow managed to scare the shit out of you in an avuncular fashion.

  “Thanks, Chief,” Lefty said, relaxing a little. “I take the commander’s point and will see you in three hours.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  As Lefty made his way to his bunk in his small cabin, he realized that he’d never been this tired in his whole life.

  APPROACHING USS NEW GEORGIA (CVE-78), STATION

  WAGON BEACH ZONE, 1802 HOURS (X-DAY+01)

  The wreckage of the Japanese Zero was still burning within a nearby escort carrier. From the air, you could see that it had ripped a gaping hole in the flight deck and wrecked a great portion of the hangar deck immediately below. Damage control parties scrambled across the deck, and teams of sailors aimed the spray of powerful hoses into the smoking crater. The little CVEs were smaller, much less armored than the great fleet carriers, and this one would clearly be out of action for the foreseeable future.

  Then that stricken ship fell behind, and the TBM-3 Avenger turned for its final approach to another escort carrier, the New Georgia. Gregory Yamada, sitting in the backseat, had time for one quick glance, and then every ounce of his being was devoted to prayer, because it looked for all the world as if the marine pilot was determined to plow right into the carrier’s deck.

  “How y’all holdin’ on back there, Major?” the pilot shouted, nosing the Avenger down toward the water.

  “Okay,” Yamada lied as he watched the escort carrier bob up and down in the rough water. The view was making him seasick. He tightened his grip on the sides of his seat—he was holding on hard enough to leave marks, he suspected.

  The pilot laughed while jinking up and down to stay in line with the randomly moving target. “Aircraft carrier’s a big fucker until you try to land on one. Then the fuckin’ boat’s just a tiny little thing. Especially the fucking jeep carriers, y’know? Scared me shitless the first time I had to do it. Nearly joined the Order of the Wet Diaper.”

  Yamada thought he might join the Order of the Wet Diaper himself. He wanted to scream, “Pull up! Pull up!” because it was so abundantly clear that the Avenger pilot was going to crash. But the pilot was still talking as if nothing was wrong, so Yamada had to trust him—even though it seemed like a hell of a waste of a pilot, a major, and a perfectly good airplane.

  The ride in was bumpy, and Yamada didn’t like flying under the best of circumstances. He couldn’t look anymore. He had been leaning forward
in his seat to peer over the pilot’s shoulder, but the view was just too disturbing. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and began to recite. “Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is…”

  “Y’all prayin’ back there?” shouted the pilot. “Put in a good word for me, if you don’t mind. But don’t worry about this landing. I’ve never yet had a fatal accident with an army major on board.” He chortled at his own joke while wobbling from side to side. The wheels were going down, clunking into place with ajar that seemed likely to tear the wings loose, or something.

  “Hang on!” the pilot shouted. “Here we go!”

  Yamada tried to concentrate on his prayer. “…and blessed be the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Hail Mary, full of grace…”

  The pilot cut the throttle wide and the mighty engine suddenly fell silent at the same instant the arresting hook grabbed the wire. The stop was abrupt, throwing Yamada forward in his seat so hard he felt certain there would be a black-and-blue mark where his seat belt held him tight. Then and there was only the silence. Blissful silence. They were down.

  “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it, Major?” chuckled the pilot as he looked back over his shoulder at a sweating and pale Yamada.

  “All in all, I’d rather be in Philadelphia,” Yamada replied in a bad W. C. Fields voice, which drew another laugh.

  “You’re all right, Major. For an army puke, I mean. Sorry, pardon my French.” The deck crew wheeled a ladder to the side of the plane.

  “It’s okay. For getting me safely onto this floating postage stamp, you can say anything you want.” One crewman climbed up and began opening the cockpit.

  Another laugh. “Floatin’ postage stamp. That’s a good one. Well, here you are, COD. Cargo on Deck. Thanks for flying Semper Fi Airways. Come again soon.”