The Twilight Warriors

by Robert Gandt

  Erickson was astonished. Blackman wasn’t a Tail End Charlie like Erickson. He was one of the guys who were supposed to know how to stay alive. Later, they learned what had happened. When Blackman’s Corsair pulled out of its dive, the starboard horizontal stabilizer separated from the tail. No one knew why, whether it was the result of previous damage or a flaw in construction, but Al Blackman had been doomed from the moment he entered the dive.

  Erickson thought about it for a while. If it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone. Even me. Then he stopped thinking about it. If he let it bother him, he couldn’t do this job.

  One final challenge remained: the Big One—carrier qualification. Without the ability to launch and land back aboard a carrier, none of a Navy fighter pilot’s other skills counted. Until now, the Tail End Charlies’ belief in their own invincibility had not been shaken. They were still bulletproof. Landing the Corsair on a carrier was going to be a piece of cake.

  Then they saw the carrier.

  The USS Core was a “Jeep carrier,” an escort carrier converted from a merchant ship hull. Jeep carriers were intended to escort convoys and support amphibious landings. Their designation was CVE, which, according to their sailors, stood for “combustible, vulnerable, and expendable.”

  Most of the pilots didn’t mind the day landings. They didn’t even mind the fact that they were out in the tossing Atlantic on a butt-freezing winter day, with a low cloud deck that was spitting rain and sleet. Beneath the clouds the visibility was okay, and in the landing pattern they would try to concentrate on the LSO—the landing signal officer—and ignore the fact that the Core’s stern was heaving up and down like a yo-yo in the heavy seas.

  From his platform on the aft port deck edge, the LSO coached the pilot with a pair of “paddles”—canvas-covered signal boards—signaling whether the plane was too high or low, fast or slow, angling his outstretched arms one way or another to align the plane with the deck. When the airplane was over the deck edge, the LSO gave the “cut”—a paddle across his throat. The pilot chopped the throttle, and the airplane dropped like a dump truck onto the deck.

  Carrier qualification was tough on the airplanes. Several blew their tires after especially hard landings. One of the Tail End Charlies bounced back into the air, coming down nose low and gouging a hunk of wood from the deck with the big three-bladed propeller. With amazing efficiency, the deck crew hauled the wounded birds to the forward deck and soon had most of them flying again.

  As soon as a pilot got his three landings, he’d climb out of the seat and another would take his place. When Erickson’s turn came, he strapped into the still-running Corsair, ran through his cockpit checks, then gave the deck officer the signal that he was ready. When the deck officer swung his flag forward, pointing down the deck, Erickson shoved the throttle forward and released the brakes. Hurtling off the bow, Erickson nudged the Corsair’s nose up, and the big fighter lifted into the gray sky.

  He turned downwind, passed abeam the carrier, and started his turning approach. He spotted the LSO, who was giving him a “roger”—paddles level, no urgent signals to add power or slow down. Nearing the blunt, unforgiving ramp of the ship, he saw the cut signal and yanked the throttle to idle. The Corsair thudded into the wooden deck, and Erickson felt the hard tug of the shoulder straps as the tailhook snagged a wire. Less than a minute later, he was roaring back into the sky.

  Each pilot needed three landings for day qualification, then had to make two at night. After Erickson’s third day landing, he thought it was almost becoming fun.

  Then came nightfall, and the fun ended.

  It looked like the carrier had sailed into an inkwell. The only lights the pilots could see were the line-up lights on the landing deck, which were visible only within a cone of 12 degrees. German submarines were reportedly lurking off the U.S. Atlantic coast, so neither the Core nor her escorts were showing any running lights. The destroyers ahead and behind the carrier were each marked with a tiny blue light.

  Everyone was having trouble. The LSO was waving off one pilot after another. Some were taking as many as five passes to get their first landing. To the pilots watching from the darkened deck, awaiting their turn, it looked dangerous as hell out there.

  It was. While they watched, one of the Corsairs turning into the groove—the short final approach to the deck—abruptly wobbled its wings. Before the LSO or anyone else could react, the fighter stalled and crashed into the fantail—the stern—of the carrier. There was a shuddering explosion, a brief orange flash, then nothing. The pilot, Lt. (jg) Larry Meade, was killed instantly.

  Night operations were suspended—but not for long. Two hours before sunrise it was Erickson’s turn. After a botched first pass, he found his way through the murk and managed to land aboard. Then he repeated the process, completing his two required night landings. Following the director’s signals, he folded the fighter’s wings and taxied to the bow. Despite the freezing temperature, sweat steamed from beneath his helmet. Erickson knew he should have felt jubilant, but he wasn’t. He was just glad to be alive.

  The next day the Tail End Charlies said goodbye and good riddance to the Core. They were finished with training. The next time they saw a carrier, it would be the real thing—the USS Intrepid in the Pacific.

  They were headed for the war. But first a tradition had to be observed.

  Partying was as much a part of squadron life as flying. Still, the historic Atlantic City bash would be discussed in hushed tones at reunions for the next half century. Most of the pilots had only blurred memories of the event, but one thing they agreed on later: it was probably a mistake to have invited everyone—especially the senior officers and their wives.

  Of course, they should have known what to expect. The man responsible for planning the party was the squadron executive officer, Lt. Timmy Gile. Gile was an ace from the fighting in the Solomons, a bachelor, and a renowned hell-raiser.

  The party started out fairly subdued, with the usual toasts and pronouncements. The officers were in their dress blues, their ladies wearing semiformal dresses. Then it gathered momentum. Gile had booked a sixteen-member female group called the Philadelphia Debutantes. They were followed by the second act, a voluptuous stripper who went by the name of Toni the Tease.

  By eleven o’clock most of the pilots were soused, the senior officers’ wives scandalized, and Timmy Gile’s place in squadron history secured. Not only had he organized the party to end all squadron parties, but he disappeared with Toni the Tease.

  3 YOU ARE ALREADY GODS

  MABALACAT AIR BASE, PHILIPPINES

  OCTOBER 21, 1944

  Lt. Yukio Seki took his place in the front rank, a step ahead of the others. Seki wore his flight suit, helmet, and goggles, with a billowing white scarf tied about his neck. Since dawn he and his pilots had been ready for departure.

  Seki was exactly the kind of officer Admiral Ohnishi had been looking for to command the first official kamikaze unit. He was a graduate of the Eta Jima naval academy and had already distinguished himself as a gifted naval officer.

  Now Seki had under his command twenty-four volunteer pilots, with twenty-six Mitsubishi A6M Zero fighters, given the American code name “Zeke.” The unit was divided into four sections, all with poetic names: Shikishima, a poetic name for Japan; Yamato, the ancient name for Japan; Asahi, the morning sun; Yamazakura, for mountain cherry blossoms.

  Tears welled in Admiral Ohnishi’s eyes as he delivered the orders to the volunteers. “You are already gods without earthly desires,” he said in a quavering voice. “But one thing you want to know is that your crash-dive is not in vain. Regrettably, we will not be able to tell you the results. But I shall watch your efforts to the end and report your deeds to the Throne.” They lined up for a farewell drink from a ceremonial container. Their fellow pilots took up an ancient Japanese warrior’s song:

  If I go away to sea,

  I shall return a corpse awash;

  If duty calls
me to the mountain,

  A verdant sward will be my pall;

  Thus for the sake of the emperor

  I will not die peacefully at home.

  The mournful notes of the song still hung in the air as the pilots manned their planes. Seki gave his commanding officer a folded paper, which contained strands of his hair. It was a traditional samurai gesture, a farewell gift to his fiancée and his recently widowed mother.

  One after the other the Zeroes, each armed with a 250-kg. (551-lb.) bomb, roared down the runway and headed off for their targets.

  And then returned.

  They had combed the area where the enemy fleet was reported until their fuel was depleted, then returned to Mabalacat. Seki was mortified. With tears in his eyes he apologized for his failure.

  The next day Seki sortied again—and once more returned. Four times this happened, day after day, because of the same problem. The weather over the Philippine Sea bedeviled them. With no radar and little reconnaissance support, the Zero pilots had to pick through the towering cumulonimbus clouds that swelled over the ocean. Every gray shadow and shaft of sunlight looked like a target. Each time they returned to Mabalacat in bitter disappointment.

  Meanwhile, beyond their view in the Leyte Gulf, the greatest sea battle in history was unfolding.

  Sho-1 had begun. The ambitious Japanese operation—a three-pronged strike of surface ships—was converging on the American amphibious force at Leyte. Two separate Japanese surface forces were coming from the south, while Admiral Takeo Kurita’s northern force, led by the world’s mightiest battleships, Yamato and her sister ship Musashi, charged into the Sibuyan Sea, headed for the San Bernardino Strait. A fourth force, a decoy fleet of carriers with a smattering of warplanes, was positioned several hundred miles northeast of the Philippines to draw Adm. William “Bull” Halsey’s carriers away from the fray.

  In the early hours of October 25, 1944, the southern striking force, commanded by Admiral Shoji Nishimura, was wiped out in a classic night surface battle in the Surigao Strait before they could reach the critical Leyte landing ships. Kurita’s northern force was hammered in the Sibuyan Sea by U.S. carrier-based warplanes. By the end of the day, Musashi and a third of the force had been sunk. The pride of the Imperial Japanese Navy, the mighty Yamato, took two bomb hits but managed to control the damage and stay in the battle. Admiral Kurita reversed course, appearing to withdraw to the west from the battle.

  Halsey had taken the bait. He sent his fast carriers roaring after the Japanese decoy carrier force, leaving the critical San Bernardino Strait unguarded. That night, Kurita again reversed course and passed through the strait. At dawn the Japanese force was bearing down on the virtually undefended fleet of escort carriers called Taffy Three.

  They took the Americans by surprise. Kurita’s warships poured fire into the hapless escort carriers, sinking the escort carrier Gambier Bay and three destroyers. Then the Japanese admiral made his own critical misjudgment. Thinking that he was engaging the main American carrier force, Kurita ordered a retreat. With a stunning victory in his grasp, he cut his losses and withdrew to the north.

  It still wasn’t over. Passing back through the San Bernardino Strait and into the Sibuyan Sea, Kurita’s fleet again came under attack from U.S. carrier planes. Though his warships took more damage, Kurita managed to escape with most of his fleet intact.

  The Battle of Leyte Gulf was a crushing defeat for the Imperial Japanese Navy. Conventional weapons and tactics had failed to inflict serious damage on the American fleet. But on the morning of October 25, 1944, while Kurita’s warships were in full retreat, Lieutenant Seki’s unconventional weapons were headed for their targets.

  This time Seki was determined that he would not return. His five bomb-laden Zero tokko aircraft were escorted by four conventional fighters. They would comb the ocean to the east of the Philippines, and if they failed to find the carriers, they would strike at the flotilla of enemy supply and amphibious vessels supporting the landings on Leyte. These ships were nowhere near the value of enemy carriers, but they would be convenient targets.

  It was midmorning when Seki spotted what he was looking for. Down below in the gray seas off the coast of Samar were the telltale flat-topped shapes of aircraft carriers. What he didn’t know was that these were the escort carriers of the Taffy Fleet, still recovering from their surprise battle that morning with Kurita’s fleet.

  Each of the five tokko pilots selected a target. On Seki’s signal, they began their attacks.

  Kamikaze. It was a new word to Rear Adm. Tom Sprague. Like most of the men aboard his flagship, the escort carrier USS Sangamon, Sprague had never seen a kamikaze. He was the commander of Task Unit 77.1, known as “Taffy One,” and had overall command of the three escort carrier units.

  Sprague’s carriers had already had a close call that morning. Their only losses from the Japanese battleships and cruisers were Taffy Three’s Gambier Bay as well as two screening destroyers and a destroyer escort. Now that the Japanese had withdrawn, Sprague had given the order to stand down.

  Suddenly, a new threat: from out of the gray sky appeared a Zero, weaving through a belated storm of antiaircraft fire. As Sprague watched, the Zero dove toward USS Santee, one of the Taffy One escort carriers. The Zero’s 20-millimeter cannons opened fire, spraying the flight deck.

  Every observer, from Sprague to the lookouts on Santee, knew what would happen next: the Zero’s pilot would release his bomb and pull out of the dive.

  He didn’t. Without wavering from the dive, the Japanese plane plunged straight into Santee’s deck. The bomb crashed through the wooden deck and exploded on the hangar deck below. In the ensuing carnage, sixteen men were killed and dozens more wounded.

  The attack astonished the men of the Taffy Fleet, but no one attached special significance to it. Japanese planes had been known to crash into their targets, especially after they were already hit.

  And then, minutes later, it happened again. Another Zero dove into the deck of the escort carrier Suwannee.

  The attacks continued. In quick succession, Japanese planes dove into the escort carriers Kalinin Bay, Kitkun Bay, and White Plains.

  By now it was clear: the Japanese had launched a wave of suicide attacks.

  At 1051, a low-flying Zero roared toward the stern of the escort carrier St. Lo. A half mile astern, the Zero pulled up, rolled inverted, and dove straight into the carrier’s flight deck.

  Just as with Santee, the kamikaze plane penetrated the thin wooden deck and exploded in the confined hangar bay, but the crash on St. Lo was even deadlier. A compartment of torpedoes and bombs exploded, ripping through the bowels of the carrier, sending an aircraft elevator and flaming hunks of metal and bodies a thousand feet into the sky.

  St. Lo was doomed. Within half an hour the carrier had sunk and 143 crewmen were dead or dying.

  Tom Sprague and the men of the Taffy Fleet were bewildered. They were among the first to witness a terrifying new weapon. How did you defend yourself against an enemy who was determined to die?

  At Mabalacat, there was jubilation. Seki’s mission had succeeded beyond their dreams. Not only did all five of the tokko planes succeed in hitting enemy ships, but some of the fighter escorts had chosen to join them. A Japanese ace named Hiroyoshi Nishizawa, who witnessed the attacks, thought it was Seki who had dived on the St. Lo. If so, Yukio Seki would enter history as the first kamikaze to sink a major enemy ship.

  The tokko warriors provided the only bright moment in a disastrous week. In the four engagements that became known as the Battle of Leyte Gulf, the Imperial Japanese Navy lost three battleships, ten cruisers, thirteen destroyers, and five submarines. U.S. losses amounted to one light carrier, USS Princeton, the Jeep carriers St. Lo and Gambier Bay, and two destroyers and a destroyer escort. For the Americans, whose fleet now commanded the Pacific, it was a pinprick. For the Japanese, it was a blow from which they would never recover.

  But the success of Seki’s kamika
zes sent a thrill of pride through the demoralized Japanese forces. In the Battle of Leyte Gulf, the little cadre of tokko warriors—Ohnishi’s young gods—had caused more destruction to the enemy than all the navy’s battleships and cruisers.

  Now, more than ever, they wanted to continue the hunt. Waiting for them off the eastern shore of the Philippines were the real trophies—the big Essex-class aircraft carriers.

  The bullhorn blared in every compartment aboard Intrepid: “General quarters! All hands man your battle stations!”

  The announcement was becoming routine. Since midmorning on November 25, Japanese snooper planes had been probing the carrier group’s defenses. Each time the ship’s crew had gone running to general quarters.

  Intrepid was the flagship of Task Group 38.2, under Rear Adm. Gerald Bogan. In the group were Intrepid’s sister ship Hancock, the light carriers Cabot and Independence, the battleships Iowa and New Jersey, the light cruisers Biloxi, Miami, and Vincennes, and seventeen destroyers.

  The antiaircraft guns were firing again. On the flight deck, pilots waiting to take off were peering nervously into the sky. They had become unwilling spectators to the show over their heads.

  A kamikaze was diving on Intrepid. The Japanese fighter took a hit from a 40-millimeter round and crashed into the sea off Intrepid’s starboard side. Behind it came another, a Zero fighter-bomber, weaving through the tracers and mushroom bursts of gunfire, coming almost straight down. Less than a mile away was Hancock. Hancock’s pilots, just like those on Intrepid, were watching the descending apparition. Which carrier is he going for? In a few seconds, they had the answer.

  At the last instant, the Zero disintegrated, but its flaming hulk crashed onto Hancock’s flight deck. Amazingly, the only casualty was the kamikaze pilot, Flying Petty Officer 1st Class Isamu Kamitake, whose remains were still in the wreckage of his airplane.

  More kamikazes were inbound. The antiaircraft bursts closed in on a low-flying Zero, exploding it 1,500 yards astern. Another appeared, and it too went into the water close to the stern.