KERAMA RETTO — MARCH 26

In my first hour off the Kerama Retto I had the following experiences:

RETURN TO THE SHIP

A motor whaleboat from the U.S.S. CHILTON, an attack transport, brought me back to my ship after a stay of 18 days in the CHILTON’s sick bay. After an arduous campaign in the Palau Islands invasion, where my ship had been on duty from D-Day for about 155 days, my ship was ordered to report to the navy base at Espiritu Santo for a much­-needed engine overhaul. This long period at sea, under combat conditions (and, a violent typhoon which had sunk 5 destroyers but had spared our ship) had taxed our physical resources almost to the breaking point. Imagine, if you will, being confined to a ship, for about 5 months, without ever stepping ashore—on a floating plat­form 136 feet long, where you could not walk more than about 10 feet without bumping into some deck obstruction, such as a hatch, or a guntub—and being on a 24 hour-a-day constant alert on an end­less antisubmarine patrol. Added to this, for the last month we were on station off the Palaus, we subsisted on C-rations: the Navy, which had always fed us sumptuously, was forced to drain the entire western Pacific fleet of all possible food supplies so as to feed the various invasion forces storming the beaches of the Philippines. When we were ordered to Espiritu we had all lost weight—I was down to 122 pounds from my normal weight of 150.

The one-month overhaul at Espiritu found me in an increasingly languid way, which I could not explain. I was aware that whenever I went swimming in these hot tropical waters I felt chilled and not refreshed. When this respite had come to an end, we were ordered to get under­way for the Philippines and to report to the command afloat in Leyte Gulf for assignment.

When we arrived in Leyte Gulf we were placed on standby to make ready for the invasion of Okinawa. I was increasingly aware of headaches and a general feeling of being unwell. One evening I had gone aboard a transport for the movie. Just as the movie started, an air raid alert was sounded, and, as the transport came to General Quarters, all blowers were secured and all visitors were herded below decks. I felt very weak and unable to breathe, slumping to the steel deck. After the all-clear was sounded, all visitors left the ship. By now I had a severe headache and felt very weak. Upon arriving back at my ship I asked our Chief Pharmacist’s Mate to give me something for my headache. What happened then was not clear to me, but, as I later learned, 1 was unconscious in my bunk for the next two days until a senior officer came aboard, inquiring for me. When he learned that I was ill, he returned at once to his ship, the CHILTON and sent over a medical officer (a Captain!) and corpsmen, who brought me to their large ship. The medical officer examined me and said at once that I was suffering from pneumonia. I was admitted to sick bay aboard and spent the next 18 days in CHILTON’s sickbay.

By coincidence, there were three of us in sick bay with the same diagnosis: atypical pneumonia. We were given sulfa drugs, and, on orders from the Medical Officer, three times per day—in lieu of regular food, which we could not manage—each one of us had an eggnog, laced with a shot of medicinal Scotch! I remember to this day the solicitude with which visitors to the three patients offered to dispose of the reinforced eggnogs if the patients didn’t feel up to drinking or finishing same. As I recall, all three patients were hard of hearing during such visits, which then tapered off to zero.

One day an officer visited me in sick bay and informed me that the CHILTON and the invasion force would be getting underway the next day for the Okinawa operation.; and that I would be flown to Australia for recuperation. I remember thinking that I would never be able to look in a mirror again if I didn’t make the invasion, so I made a deal with him: let me ride the CHILTON up to Okinawa while my Executive Officer took my command up there; and when we all got there, I could go back aboard my ship. It was so arranged.

(The CHILTON’s medical officers and corpsmen had given me wonderful treatment, and I was very grateful. The last few days I was aboard­ we were underway for the Kerama Retto and would arrive in about 3 more days—I felt well enough to dress and go on deck for a while. The sea was running, not badly, but the CHILTON was pitching and rolling with an uneasy motion. Of course, to me, accustomed to small ships in all kinds of weather, it seemed like a joyride on an ocean liner. One of the crew told me that the CHILTON had been taken out of service on North Atlantic duty because it proved to be unseaworthy for the winter sea conditions in that area that it was considered to be safe to travel in the Pacific, which had very different weather and sea states from the North Atlantic; and that any ship hull being built to sail under North Atlantic Winter (NAW) conditions have a keel which would bear exact multiple of the number (as I recall) 63—the distance between wave crests under NAW conditions being 63’. Apparently, the CHILTON’s keel did not meet this formula. After hearing this, I looked forward more than ever to get back to my small ship, and then I figured out that the keel of my vessel did not meet the above formula! I made a mental note to send a polite letter to the Navy Department if my command were ever ordered to the North Atlantic for duty.

THE WELCOME

As the motor whaleboat came alongside my ship, my crew were lining the rail, calling out, “Welcome back, Captain!” I felt touched by this gesture on their part. This had been the first time I had been away from my command since commissioning. (During my stay in the CHILTON’s sick bay, my Executive Officer had assumed temporary command and had captained our ship from Leyte to Kerama Retto.)

THE RED MEATBALL

When I reached the bridge of my ship, the sun was just rising. I remember looking at the blood-red disc, as its lower limb touched the horizon, and exclaiming to myself, “Of course, that explains the precise color of the Japanese flag: the (as we somewhat irreverently called it) “red meatball!” (I had seen many sunrises at sea but never saw any the like of this. I would conclude, later, that the Kuroshio Current (the Japan Current— the Pacific equivalent of the Atlantic’s Gulf Stream) flows directly past Okinawa on its way to Japan; and that its warm waters and the cool ocean air mix so as to produce, not a haze, but moisture-laden air, which causes the morning sun in this area and off Japan to have such a distinctive red color. This does not explain why, e.g., Okinawa—on the edge of the warm Kuroshio—and Miami, Florida—on the edge of the warm Gulf Stream— have such different sunrises even though they are in the same latitude, 26 degrees North.

KAMIKAZE!

The sun had just cleared the horizon, and, as I looked in that direction, I saw a bright orange flash, followed immediately by a heavy plume of black smoke. I looked through my 7×50 binoculars, saw a destroyer, which had been on radar picket duty in that sector, and realized, with heavy heart, that the tin can had sustained a serious, direct hit from a Kamikaze. This was to be our introduction to the suicide planes, which would constitute a most serious threat to our forces for the next several months. (as we would discover, later, the average lifetime of a destroyer setting out on radar­ picket duty off Okinawa would be about 5 hours! The terrible toll taken by suiciders against our radar picket and other ships would not be accurately reported: by my own count, well over 50 destroyers off Okinawa would be attacked and heavily damaged—if not sunk—by these Kamikazes. Even now, I cannot summon up words to describe my feelings when I would see a destroyer setting out on radar picket duty 20 to perhaps 50 miles away from Okinawa, and, as this ship cleared Kerama Retto, heading for its station, with its crew of about 350, realizing that they had, not days, but a few short hours of life expectancy. I know, because I saw the pitiful wrecks towed in by Navy sea-going tugs and beached on Kerama Retto—that is, those lucky enough not to have been sunk on-station.)

KERAMA RETTO — March 26

Our invasion fleet, which had sailed about 1,100 miles north from Leyte in the Philippines, arrived, by plan, off the Kerama Retto in the pre­dawn darkness at about 0515, The sea was relatively calm and the sky was clear. Sunrise would occur at 0628.

The fleet of destroyers, transports, amphibious and patrol craft, under the control of the large command ship, MT. MCKINLEY, began to dispose itself for landing operations, scheduled for 0800.

As I recall, we had an Army troop strength of 10,000 ready to storm ashore.

At 0800 landings on the respective beaches were accomplished without much evidence of enemy shore reaction. It turned out that there were about 2,000 enemy personnel on the island groups which constituted the Kerama Retto. These enemy personnel were not combat troops, and mopping-Up operations by the L.S. forces proceeded so smoothly that by about noontime we were in control of the beaches, with very few casualties. My ship, which had been assigned to act as a radio control vessel off one of the target beaches, had had a relatively quiet time: except for random shells landing near us during the first few hours (and we were never sure whether these shells came from the enemy or from our ships overshooting their intended targets), it was quite like a tranquil training exercise conducted stateside. The weather was ideal, with calm seas and a brilliant sun. Accordingly, and in compliance with Standard Operating Procedures (SOP), followed by all well-run Navy ships, we anchored in one of the coves and knocked off for noon meal.

About 1300 several loud explosions were heard. They seemed to be coming from somewhere nearby. Seen more explosions, occurring every now and then. We had come to General Quarters after the first explosions and were alert for what might be enemy air attacks, but there was no sign—either on our radar or by voice warnings from the command ship—of any enemy air action as the source of these explosions. We were quite on the qui vive, because there had been no shellfire for the last three or four hours. And we knew that our gallant destroyers were on radar picket duty many miles to the north—as well as to the east, off the main island of Okinawa—to serve early warnings to our ships of any enemy air activity closing our area. However, there was no radio traffic of any sort being picked up by our ships in the Kerama Retto.

About 1400 command afloat issued an urgent voice message to all ships and Army personnel ashore.to be on the alert: no personnel were to approach or board any motorboats whereever found; that these motorboats had been armed by the Japanese by rigging bombs under the forward decks of these craft. It turned out that, after our Army and Navy personnel had completed their combat assignments and had secured the islands by rounding up most of the enemy, they were free to wander ashore to explore the beaches and many caves on these islands. To their delighted eyes they began to find nests of small motorboats, about 18 feet long, stored in the caves, and fully fueled. As I remember, these motorboats had wooden hulls and inboard engines. The temptation was too great for these frolicking young men, and soon they were cruising up and down the channels, for all the world like sailors on liberty hiring rowboats in Central Park. Little did they realize that they were operating bomb-equipped boats! As soon as they steered these boats into some obstacle- such as a reef or rock—the bombs detonated, killing our unfortunate men.

0ver 250 boats-each carrying 2 250-pound depth charges, armed as bombs, and stowed below decks forward-were found in the caves. After the prisoners take during the day had been interrogated, and documents found on the islands of the Kerama Retto had been translated, our intelligence staffs were able to provide an analysis, essentially as follows, these boats were obviously armed a s suicide weapons, with specially trained crews, to be used against the U.S military forces when Okinawa was invaded; and, because of the large number of boats (Some reports placed the figure closer to 500) found, it could be concluded that the Japanese counted on these suicide boats as a major defensive weapon.

The above intelligence analysis seemed quite persuasive to me. First, it was clear that the Japanese were committed to the use of suicide tactics. The increasingly heavy use, by the Japanese, of Kamikaze suicide planes demonstrated to us that our enemy would not hesitate to use surface craft for suicide missions- however repugnant that might seem to us-for the final, desperate defense of their empire. Second, it did not require the thinking of a savant to know that the invasion of Okinawa would engross a very large force of U.S. personnel and ships. I knew, from my own experiences at the invasion of the Palau Islands, that the first week-and, particularly the first day and night—of an invasion would produce a scene of orderly—or disorderly— confusion off the invasion beaches, where the ships would be milling around, in a relatively constricted area, the invasion beaches, with no room to maneuver, and. therefore, vulnerable to attack. I knew, also, that these suicide motorboats, with their low silhouettes, would not be picked up readily by radar nor by visual sightings. It seemed clear that these boats would, in all probability, strike during the hours of darkness against the massed fleet off the Okinawa beaches.

It seems clear that the Japanese were caught by surprise, first, by the selection of the Kerama Retto as the first invasion target (rather than Okinawa), and, second, by the steppe -up invasion date for the Kerama Retto operation. This could Lt proven by the fact that the crews of the suicide boats were on Okinawa and their boats were 20 miles away in the Kerama Retto: they never matched up!

THE MOON AT KERAMA RETTO

During the week at Kerama Retto the moon was to be more an enemy than a friend to my ship. The full moon would occur on the evening of March 28. Therefore, from the first night (March 26) on, we could expect to be bathed in moonlight from early evening until dawn. Moonrise would occur a few hours after evening sunset every night and would constitute a formidable threat to all ships in the vicinity of the Kerama Retto because of suicide planes.

After completing patrol operations on the first day, our ship was ordered to anchor in the vicinity of the Kerama Retto. Unlike the relatively blissful morning and afternoon conditions, with no enemy aircraft activity, the nights were to be filled with continuous Kamikaze sorties against our fleet. I made a command decision to seek out an anchorage, close aboard one of the islands, which would allow our ship to be down-moon and so close to the beach that a Kamikaze would not be able to sight our ship in the brilliant moonlight or, if it did see us, that it could not make an effective attack on us.

At this point, it might be instructive (as it was to me!) to make the following interjected comments. When I was a reservist in the U.S.N.R. V-7 program at the U.S.S. PRAIRIE STATE in the summer of ’41, one of our Navigation instructors, Lt. Paul Warfield—a thoroughly decent and gifted instructor, reported to have been the Navigator on one of our crack ocean liners (the SS UNITED STATES, as I recall)—sought to impart to us some of his deep knowledge about navigation, gained at sea. He made the point that, unlike taking sun and star/planets sights with the sextant, the moon was quite a different story. He used the expression, “moon illusion”, meaning that, if one were to try to take a sextant sight, which depended, for accuracy, on being able to discern the horizon line, one could not use the moon for such sights. In the ensuing years, when I was at sea and attempted to take sextant sights under full moon conditions, I became aware of the accuracy of his comments: no can do! At the Kerama Retto, under the virtually full moon conditions, I was aware that, while Lt. Warfield’s observations about taking sextant sights were absolutely valid, this did not cover—and was not so intended by him—the other characteristics of moonlight. E.g., the so-called albedo effect of the moon. The albedo effect of the moon is the reflectivity of that body on the earth and is stated to be 7%. While 7% seems to be a very small percentage of the reflectivity of the sun on a clear day (100%), anyone who is outdoors on a bright moonlit night and looks upmoon at objects shown clearly in the moon’s silver light would be a bit skeptical to know that the albedo effect is but 7%.

Every night when we looked for an appropriate anchoring spot close aboard the cliffs of one of the islands, I was presented with the same dilemma: how to anchor as close as possible to the beaches—so as to merge in with the cliffs—and at the same time, to be far enough off from those same beaches so as not to be a target for snipers from the beaches. My problem each night was compounded by the length of my (longest) starboard anchor chain, (90 fathoms) and the depth of water close to the beaches. Under ideal conditions, and subject to unusual factors, the ratio of the length of the anchor chain paid out to the depth of the water would be 5:1. However, the water was deep almost to the shore, thus, I had to anchor very close to the beach each night.

This anchoring procedure worked each night except during mid- week, when— perhaps because of unusual currents—our ship began to drag its anchor. I felt the vibrations throughout the ship and ran up on deck, where I was greeted by sniper fire from the beach. I remember thinking how indignant I was that the sniper was firing on a Navy man: snipers are supposed to fire on Army personnel! In any ever.t, we got underway—cautiously—from that unfriendly spot and selected another anchoring spot further offshore.

MIDWEEK ACTIVITIES AT KERAMA RETTO

Our ship had had a virtually free hand at anchoring each night until about midweek (after the sniping attempt on our ship), when command afloat ordered all ships to anchor in designated spots. Reports had it that the Japanese had mounted night swimming attacks on anchored vessels in the Kerama Retto. The word was passed to all ships that they would anchor by evening twilight and that absolutely no small boat traffic would be permitted, once evening twilight had set in, and that armed guards would be posted on all ships throughout the night to spot and fire on any movement, whether by small boats or- particularly-by swimmers, who were expected to be Japanese carrying mines or other explosives.

I remember one night, just as evening twilight had ended, a Navy whaleboat coming alongside after being very carefully examined by our crew, who had weapons at the ready. The whaleboat had just made the “curfew.” The crew of the whaleboat turned out to be an Underwater Demolition Team(UDT), who had, (a) an urgent need to have an evening meal, and, (b) an assignment ashore later. Navy hospitality is famous-it certainly was aboard our ship—and, in short order, our visitors were enjoying a meal with us. I chatted with the casually dressed young officer in charge of the UDT team and learned, to my astonishment, that his team planned, after evening meal was over, to go ashore in the darkness—and despite the curfew—to set up a radar beacon, for the use of our forces the next day. My ship never felt so comfortable to me as I sent this gallant team over the side, wishing them Godspeed, into the inhospitable darkness, headed for what could be a one-way trip if they encountered the enemy on the target beach.

We took the warnings about Japanese small boats or swimmers very, very seriously. I remembered my experiences during the Palau Islands invasion. One day my ship, which had sonar (equipment to detect submarines) was ordered into a channel near Babelthuap Island, where an enemy submarine had been sighted. My ship went in, performing a sonar sweep of the waters without success, then was ordered to anchor at the mouth of the channel in case the sub—if there was one—tried to escape to the sea. we were there for about two days. On the last day, about 1400, a group of Japanese small craft came downstream toward us, and we began to engage them in heavy fire. They turned away and retired. For the balance of that afternoon and that night we were on the alert for swimmers, who, by intelligence reports, would be carrying explosives and would drift with the favorable current down on our ship.