Reluctant Warriors (26 page)

On
Zukaku
, Admiral Osukawa sat confidently in his chair on the bridge. He had known
for many years that one day the United States would be his country's enemy. He thought,
as did every Japanese sailor, of national hero Admiral Togo who annihilated the Russian
fleet at the Battle of Tsushima Strait in 1905. That battle had assured the Japanese
a place at the table of the world's great nations. Now the Americans were pressing
the Empire on every front. More great victories were essential, he knew. He reveled
in the idea that he might humbly hold a place in the Japanese pantheon with Admiral
Togo.

His entire training had been for triumphant fleet action, a face-to-face battle of
samurai warriors who would vanquish the enemy and ensure the expansion of the Empire
and its dominance in Asia for decades to come. Now, the usual American material superiority
was reversed. A decisive victory over an inferior American force seemed only a matter
of time away, and he exulted to himself and for his Emperor.
I will expel the Americans
from New Guinea and ensure our success on this flank in this battle of civilizations,
he thought.

But after an hour, Osukawa began to feel uneasy. He turned to Satsuma. “Satsuma,
I feel the American salvos coming closer.”

“Yes, Admiral, the Americans have put up a spotter plane.”

“I knew it was a bad omen, Captain, when our planes were damaged by that storm as
we left Sasebo. What of our progress in getting around the enemy and onto the beachhead?”

“Sir, the old cruiser has more speed than we thought.”

“Well,” the Admiral responded abruptly, “did we hit her?”

“We're not sure, sir. But Lieutenant Komada assured me a moment ago that
Grand Rapids
is continually buried under tons of water from our near
misses. There's no question
that the concussion effects of these shells are causing her serious internal damage.”

“Yet she shows no sign of weakening speed or gun power.” Osukawa leaned forward intently.

“No, sir, but neither has she hit either
Niitaka
or us.”

There was a loud boom above, and then a near miss deposited an inch of water on the
bridge.

Osukawa nodded at Satsuma. “I suggest you urge Komada to redouble his efforts.”

“Yes, sir.”

Constantly changing course to throw off the enemy's aim, Captain Rodgers would calmly
hold up one hand or the other without saying anything. If the helmsman saw two fingers
on the left hand, he would turn two points to port; one on the right hand meant one
point to starboard. The helmsman would repeat the orders, and the word would be transferred
to “Guns” and the two destroyers.

The eight-inch, 256 -pound Japanese projectiles, some thirty-five seconds in the
air, continued to come close, plunging forty-five degrees down from their apogee
of forty thousand feet.

Rodgers smiled and chuckled to himself. “Well, they certainly are lousy shots. Can't
they figure out that all I'm doing is heading toward the splashes of the ship firing
the green dye “chasing salvos” and hoping for good luck with the other cruiser? They
correct their aim and are bound to miss again.”

With the shells from twenty large caliber guns aimed at
Grand Rapids
, a young sailor
on the bridge was beginning to shake and turn pale. Rodgers smiled and spoke to him.

“If they keep this up, they might just hit us.”

At that, a near miss deposited an avalanche of water on the bridge.

“Son, come over here next to me. I might need you,” Rodgers called. The
sailor quickly
followed the order and then stood next to his captain, almost as if seeking shelter.

“You're Beck, right? Where you from?”

The boy was still shaking. “Overland Park, Kansas,” he said, so afraid he did not
bother to say “sir.”

“That's Kansas City, right?”

“Yes.”

“I have a great pal from Kansas City I played baseball with in college, Johnny Parks.”

The young man perked up and smiled. “Yes, sir, everybody in Kansas City knows of
him. He was a big hero to us kids. When he got killed on
Lexington
at the Coral Sea,
the whole town went into mourning.”

Rodgers frowned and spoke quietly. “I didn't know. He was a good man.”

“Yes, sir!”

Remembering playing baseball with Parks brought an idea into Rodgers' head.
From
what we've heard,
he thought
, on several occasions—like at the Savo Island and the
Komandorski Islands battles—the Japanese have shied off from pressing their attacks
and retreated too soon. Perhaps we could throw them off guard and they'll make such
a mistake again. Johnny taught me to throw a palm ball, a pitch that looks like a
fastball but is really much slower. I think it's time to throw another palm ball.

“Tell Chief Clark to make smoke,” he said.

“Make smoke, sir?” one of the men on the bridge questioned.

“Make smoke!” he said insistently.

He turned to Admiral Wells, who had a quizzical look on his face.

“We should try to keep these people off balance,” Rodgers explained, half smiling.
“It can't hurt, and it might just confuse them.”

The admiral nodded. Several minutes went by, with the captain changing the course
several times in their death dance.

On
Zukaku
, Osukawa looked up as Satsuma rushed toward him.

“Admiral, the American is making smoke!”

Osukawa stood up quickly.

“Finally!” He smiled. “The American admiral is very bold but could not stand against
us. He is hurt and trying to cover his retreat. Either his engine has been damaged,
or our near misses have battered the old ship and caused severe flooding. Now is
our chance. Advance and finish her off !”

“Sir, ‘Guns' says they're turning,” one of
Grand Rapids
' bridge crew called out.

Wells and Rodgers went to the edge of the bridge, Rodgers picking up the phone.

“Sam, what's up?” Rodgers listened and relayed the words to Admiral Wells. “Looks
like they're countermarching on us. Sam figures they're turning back into us some,
probably thinking we're hurt.”

He waited while Cashion decided. “He thinks about 285, so slicing twenty degrees
into us to cut down the range. Hold on, Sam, and try to listen to this.

“Come to new course, 325 degrees.” Rodgers held the phone and turned to a bluejacket.
“Get Springer and Ransom in here.”

In less than a minute, the two officers walked in from the plot room.

Rodgers said, “You guys need to hear this.” He turned toward the admiral. “Sir, this
is the break we need. As they turn back on us, it puts us in front of them for a
change, far enough ahead that we can try to cut them off, give them a few broadsides.
If they are turning back at 285 degrees, and we cut them off by heading 325, we could
get in a number of salvos before they can do much to us. They'll be in a single line
and will only be able to use their forward guns, maybe four or six guns to our ten.”

The admiral had a better idea. “Well, the range will narrow. But, if you're going
to take that chance, why not really cut them off by turning to 345 degrees? That
would cut sixty degrees in front of them. It would be better to have ninety, but
they would turn away and not let us have that.”

Rodgers nodded. “Mr. Berry,” he called, “come to new course 345. Sam, you still there?
You heard that? If we want a chance, we're going to have to make a break for ourselves
right here. It was only a matter of time paralleling
them before they smashed us.
Put every gun in against that lead ship's big head.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rodgers put the phone down. “This really is our only chance to survive the next hour,”
he said solemnly.

With the help of the spotter plane, “Guns” Cashion was on target with his broadsides
and made two hits on
Niitaka
. At once the Japanese column veered off, again paralleling
Grand Rapids
, the range reduced to eight miles.
Well
, Rodgers thought,
I hope that
was worth it.

Nine minutes later, at 0959, the American cruiser was hit for the first time. The
projectile penetrated above the armor belt and exploded in the galley, killing forty-five
men and causing a very bad fire that took fifty minutes to contain. It also left
them with no food stores for the crew.

A number of near misses jarred the ship, and three duds hit
Grand Rapids
. As was
the case throughout the war, Japanese projectiles proved to have a high rate of failures.
Some members of the crew actually saw the shells. As they began their plunge on the
ship from their apogee, they reached terminal velocity at about 190 miles per hour,
producing a strange screeching sound that drew the men to look directly at them.

“Sir, radar reports planes to the east,” one of the bridge crew piped up. Rodgers
and Wells walked to the starboard side of the bridge.

“Radar now shows sixty to seventy planes, sir, thirty to forty miles out.”

Rodgers
and Wells watched the flying specks come closer.

Finally, the admiral spoke. “Damn,” he said, “Those are
our
planes. Look like bombers
in formation. They're our bombers, going to blast hell out of Rabaul!”

Rodgers smiled. “Well, that's just fine. At least it's not the enemy!”

He put his binoculars down and thought to himself:
This really is unbelievable. We
send out a plain language message two and a half hours ago that the beachhead is
in danger, and those dopes at HQ can't change the flight path of a load of airplanes.
I'll bet twenty of those planes would convince the enemy to withdraw.

The combination of the spotter plane calling
Grand Rapid's
“shorts” and “longs” and
Rodgers' uncanny ability to fool the enemy by his radical maneuvering began to pay
off. In the next forty minutes, her gunnery was superb.