Saburo Dohi's place was quickly taken by a new arrival. Since the beginning of the kikusui kikusui operations, there was a constant flow of new faces at Kanoya. Those who had departed on one-way operations, there was a constant flow of new faces at Kanoya. Those who had departed on one-way tokko tokko missions now numbered in the hundreds. missions now numbered in the hundreds.

The mood among the pilots waiting for their final flights was a mixture of melancholy and pride. With the arrival of spring, some volunteered to help the local population, who were mostly farmers, with their harvesting. The villagers reciprocated by bringing them gifts-eggs, chickens, even a cow.

One day a mother and daughter came to Kanoya to visit the young woman's fiance. They hadn't heard from him recently and they were concerned. What they didn't know was that he was a tokko tokko volunteer. He had made his last flight a few days before. The pilot's best friend was at a loss what to tell the two women, so he sought the advice of Cmdr. Tadashi Nakajima. volunteer. He had made his last flight a few days before. The pilot's best friend was at a loss what to tell the two women, so he sought the advice of Cmdr. Tadashi Nakajima.

The senior officer thought it would be too cruel to tell the truth. The women were informed that the young man had left a few days before to go to an advance island base. They were showed the room that had recently been occupied by the departed pilot. The young woman touched the bamboo bed on which her fiance had recently slept. "No further questions were asked," recalled Commander Nakajima, "but they seemed instinctively to understand what had happened."

26

GUNSLINGERS GUNSLINGERS TASK FORCE 58

130 MILES NORTHEAST OF OKINAWA

APRIL 11, 1945

Lt. Mark Orr peered into the blackness beyond the h.e.l.lcat's nose, trying to pick up the bogey. It was like staring into an inkwell. The visibility was down to four miles, the sea and the night sky blending into a horizonless void. Orr and his wingman, Ens. Tom Stixrud, had been on station over the carrier task force when the FIDO sent them on a hot vector after the bogey.

It was nerve-wracking. Even with precise radar vectoring to within close range of the bogey, the night fighter pilots still had to get close enough to actually see see the target before they could shoot him. Night air-to-air intercepts were a dangerous and demanding form of combat, wholly different from the swirling dogfights of the daytime. Night fighter pilots trusted their lives to their instruments, constantly fighting the vertigo induced by the lack of visual references. Every pinpoint of light-star, gunfire, ship's light, aircraft engine exhaust-provided a false clue that could lure them into the black ocean. the target before they could shoot him. Night air-to-air intercepts were a dangerous and demanding form of combat, wholly different from the swirling dogfights of the daytime. Night fighter pilots trusted their lives to their instruments, constantly fighting the vertigo induced by the lack of visual references. Every pinpoint of light-star, gunfire, ship's light, aircraft engine exhaust-provided a false clue that could lure them into the black ocean.

Someone had to do it. More and more the j.a.panese were turning to night attacks. Under cover of darkness, raiders slipped past CAP pilots and destroyer lookouts. Radar was the only means of detection, and shipboard fighter directors vectored the night CAP airplanes to intercept the incoming bogeys. The night fighters used their own onboard radar for the final intercept of the mostly invisible enemy. On most nights the system worked splendidly. Sometimes it didn't work at all.

The men who flew the night fighters were segregated from the air group by the clock and by culture. The other pilots-the day fliers-viewed them with awe and suspicion. Anyone who actually volunteered volunteered for night carrier duty was, by definition, certifiably weird. The night fighters went by various names-"Gloomies," "Bat-CAPs," and "red goggle gang," so called because of the goggles they wore to protect their night vision. for night carrier duty was, by definition, certifiably weird. The night fighters went by various names-"Gloomies," "Bat-CAPs," and "red goggle gang," so called because of the goggles they wore to protect their night vision.

The Gloomies aboard Intrepid Intrepid were led by Orr, a thirty-year-old Texan who formerly had been an instrument instructor in the training command. Orr and his pilots lived like nocturnal animals, sleeping by day, hunting bogeys by night. were led by Orr, a thirty-year-old Texan who formerly had been an instrument instructor in the training command. Orr and his pilots lived like nocturnal animals, sleeping by day, hunting bogeys by night.

Orr and Stixrud were 40 miles east of the task force, closing on the bogey, when Orr picked him up on his...o...b..ard radar. The shadowy silhouette of a Betty bomber loomed out of the darkness ahead of them. Like a pair of disciplined hunting dogs, the h.e.l.lcat pilots went after him, alternating firing pa.s.ses. Stixrud attacked from behind, then pulled away as Orr came in on a 45-degree flat run from the starboard side. When Orr broke off, Stixrud came back in to blaze away at the Betty's left side.

It was a cold and efficient exercise, lasting less than three minutes. Stixrud delivered the final burst of machine gun fire. An orange ball of fire punctuated the night sky. Sheathed in flame, the Betty rolled onto its left side and plunged into the ocean.

Twenty-five minutes later, Orr was chasing another bogey while Stixrud remained at the CAP station. Orr again slid in close behind the bogey-another low-flying Betty bomber-and opened fire. He could see his bullets converging like tentacles on the Betty, but the j.a.panese plane somehow kept flying.

As Orr kept shooting, his .50-caliber gun barrels overheated. Now half of them were no longer firing. Exasperated, he kicked the h.e.l.lcat's rudder left and right, trying to spray the reduced machine gun fire across the j.a.panese bomber.

Then came a warning from the FIDO. The two airplanes-Orr's h.e.l.lcat and the j.a.panese Betty-were flying directly into the fleet's antiaircraft screen. Orr had to break it off before he was. .h.i.t by the ships' gunners.

In the next second, as if on signal, gunfire from the fleet escort ships erupted around both airplanes.

By now Mark Orr was a driven man. Ignoring the flak, he pulled in close enough to the j.a.panese bomber to see the orange flickers from the engine exhausts. Before he could fire again, a destroyer fired an antiaircraft burst directly in front of him. Orr zoomed over the top of the destroyer, still chasing the Betty, which was now headed directly for the carrier Yorktown Yorktown.

Orr stayed on the Betty's tail, spraying bullets with his three still-firing guns. By now both the bomber's engines were ablaze. Just as it seemed inevitable that it would crash into Yorktown Yorktown, the Betty abruptly nosed over and hit the ocean.

Now Orr was the only target left, and the ships' gunners kept blazing away. Flying at 50 feet off the water, Orr zoomed through the hail of antiaircraft fire, somehow exiting the area without taking a hit.

It had been a h.e.l.l of a mission, but it wasn't over. The climax of a night fighter mission was the night carrier landing. With his eyes fixed on the tiny illuminated stick figure of the landing signal officer on the edge of the flight deck, Orr landed the h.e.l.lcat back down on the darkened Intrepid Intrepid. With adrenaline still surging in his veins, he made his way down to the Grim Reapers' ready room, eager to tell someone what it was like out there.

n.o.body cared. The day fighter pilots were busy watching a movie in the ready room. They weren't interested in the exploits of the weird Gloomies.

As much as any man on the Grim Reaper roster, Lt. Wally Schub flew, talked, and looked like the Hollywood version of a fighter pilot. He had a dark mustache and wore the practiced gaze of a hard-eyed gunslinger. As one of Tommy Blackburn's "irregulars" in the VF-17 days in the Solomons, Schub had gunned down two j.a.panese aircraft. Since then, he had been waiting for the day when he could add three more and be an official "ace"-a fighter pilot with five enemy kills to his credit.

Now it was a few minutes past noon on April 12, 1945, and Schub was leading one of the three VF-10 Grim Reaper CAP divisions over the radar picket stations. On the most dangerous of the stations, RP1, was the destroyer Ca.s.sin Young Ca.s.sin Young, whose fighter directors were frantically vectoring the CAP fighters toward the incoming blips on their radars. The raiders were coming directly for the picket ships, flying down the corridor of airs.p.a.ce from Kyushu to Okinawa that the tin can sailors were calling "Kamikaze Alley."

Schub was the first to spot the bogeys. There were fifteen of them, Val and Kate dive-bombers, spread out in a loose gaggle low on the water. Directly behind Schub's division came another Grim Reaper division, this one led by a Marine, 1st Lt. W. A. "Nick" Nickerson. Nickerson was one of four Marine Corsair pilots, formerly deployed aboard Wasp Wasp, who had volunteered to augment Intrepid Intrepid's Corsair fighter squadron.

The lumbering j.a.panese dive-bombers were fat targets. On his first pa.s.s, Schub flamed two of the hapless Vals. On Schub's wing, twenty-one-year-old Ens. John "Barney" G.o.dwin shot down another, and Schub's second two-plane section-Lt. (jg) Whit Wharton, another VF-17 Jolly Roger veteran, and Ens. Walt Brauer-sent three more down in flames.

Right behind them came Nickerson, shooting down two Vals while his Marine wingman, 2nd Lt. H. O. Taylor, knocked down another. Ens. Fred Meyer, leading the second section, turned his guns on a Val dive-bomber and a Nakajima fixed-gear "Nate" fighter, sending both down in flames. Another Tail End Charlie, Ens. Ed Deutschman, added one more Val to the tally.

The one-sided dogfight was over in minutes. Of the fifteen kamikazes in the formation, twelve had been blown out of the sky, and the three lucky survivors had disappeared. None of the Corsairs had taken any hits, but the two divisions were now scattered.

As Nickerson was making his way back to the Intrepid Intrepid, he spotted another swarm of ten j.a.panese planes-a mix of Jill torpedo bombers and Judy and Val dive-bombers. They were circling at 5,000 feet, about to pounce on the picket destroyer Purdy Purdy and her gunboat escorts. With Ed Deutschman on his wing, Nickerson swept down from directly overhead, splashing one of the Jill torpedo bombers, then going for the Judy dive-bombers. and her gunboat escorts. With Ed Deutschman on his wing, Nickerson swept down from directly overhead, splashing one of the Jill torpedo bombers, then going for the Judy dive-bombers.

Too late, Nickerson realized that these Judys were different. Unlike most of the kamikaze-configured planes, these had tail gunners. Nickerson saw the winking orange flashes of the 7.7-millimeter machine guns. An instant later he felt the bullets thudding into his engine. A sheet of oil blacked out his windshield.

With no forward visibility, Nickerson dove through the enemy formation, praying he wouldn't hit one of them or take more bullets. Directly behind him came his Tail End Charlie, Walt Brauer, who flamed one of the Judys in pa.s.sing.

Nickerson's engine, punctured by the tail gunners' bullets, was out of oil. One way or the other, he was going into the water. He had only one decision left to make: ditch or bail out?

Despite the oil-smeared windshield, he opted for ditching. Flying on instruments, his only view out the side of the canopy, Nickerson glided the Corsair down to the wave tops. The fighter hit, skipped once, then lurched to a halt, still upright. The Marine scrambled out and, minutes later, was hauled aboard one of the LCS gunboats escorting Purdy Purdy.

The leader of the third Grim Reaper division was a heavyset lieutenant named Frank Jackson. Jackson's division had been vectored to intercept another wave of kamikazes, but as they closed on the bogeys at 20,000 feet, Jackson realized that they weren't slow-moving dive-bombers and torpedo planes. They were sleek Oscar and Zero fighters, and they were flying cover for the kamikazes.

The fight was on. As Jackson and his wingmen, Lt. (jg) Tommy Tucker, 1st Lt. G. A. Krumm, and 2nd Lt. H. F. Newell, the last two both Marines, swung in behind the j.a.panese planes, they realized that these weren't the usual unskilled kamikaze airmen. Three tight-turning Zeroes whipped into a pursuit curve on Jackson's tail, their cannons blazing. Jackson was saved by his wingman Tucker, who flamed one of the Zeroes and put enough rounds into the other two to drive them off Jackson's tail.

Seconds later, Jackson was locked on to the tail of another Zero, but before he could open fire, the Zero pitched up in a steep climb. With Jackson in pursuit, the Zero executed a sharp wingover turn to the left, while Jackson mirrored the maneuver, turning to the right. The two fighters swung back toward each other in a head-on pa.s.s, guns firing.

Jackson saw the ominous orange flashes from the Zero's machine guns and wing-mounted cannons. He could also see his tracers pouring into the Zero's blunt nose and its wing roots. Smoke belched from the Zero.

The Zero pilot had had enough. He dove for the ocean with Jackson still in pursuit. With the East China Sea rising to meet him, Jackson hauled the Corsair's nose out of the dive just in time to see the Zero exploding into the water.

Minutes later, Jackson had rejoined the melee above and was on the tail of another Zero. His guns had overheated during the mano a mano with the first Zero, and now only one of the six .50-calibers was firing. He was popping away at the hard-turning Zero when, too late, he glimpsed something dark blue in his peripheral vision. It was a stubby FM-2 Wildcat fighter, one of a four-plane division that was chasing the same Zero.

In the next instant Jackson felt the sickening crunch of the two fighters' wings coming together. With his airplane out of control, Jackson flung the canopy open and clambered over the side. Seconds later, he was descending to the sea beneath his parachute canopy.

After floating for a while in his life raft, Jackson was picked up uninjured by the destroyer Hudson Hudson. The pilot of the Wildcat, a young ensign named C. J. Jansen from the escort carrier Petrof Bay Petrof Bay, wasn't as lucky. His fighter had tumbled out of the sky like a broken toy, and Jansen was never found.

While the air battle swirled above the radar picket ships, another division of Grim Reaper Corsairs was flying TCAP-target combat air patrol-over Tokuno. The VF-10 executive officer, Lt. Cmdr. John Sweeny, had spotted a formation of Zeroes headed south at 17,000 feet. Sweeny led his division in a climbing 360-degree turn, swinging onto the Zeroes' tails.

It should have been John Sweeny's moment of glory. Sweeny's pursuit curve led him into a perfect firing position. With the shape of a j.a.panese fighter fixed in his gun sight, he squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened. Sweeny rechecked his armament switch, making sure it was in the on position, and squeezed again. Nothing.

Sweeny kept trying. He engaged another Zero with the same result. The d.a.m.ned guns wouldn't fire. Seething with frustration, Sweeny wouldn't quit. He locked on to the tails of five different Zeroes without firing a shot.

Sweeny's wingman, Ens. Jack Twedell, was having no such problem. Chasing a Zero through a wide right turn, Twedell hammered it with his machine guns until it burst into flames.

Meanwhile, the leader of Sweeny's second two-plane section, Lt. (jg) Les Gray, was entering the record books. Gray was a veteran of the old Grim Reaper h.e.l.lcat squadron and already had four kills to his credit.

With the fierce determination of a man about to become an ace, Gray followed a Zero through a split-S-rolling inverted and pulling through the bottom half of a loop. Bottoming out, he put another burst into the Zero. The j.a.panese pilot did another split-S, pulling out at wave-top height, then abruptly crashing into the water.

With his status as ace now official, Gray wasn't finished. He spotted a lone Zero exiting to the north. With the Corsair's superior speed, Gray finally caught up with him over the j.a.panese island of Amami Oshima, shooting the Zero down with a two-second burst into the c.o.c.kpit.

The sky was clear of enemy fighters. Sweeny, filled with disgust over his nonfiring machine guns, was calling it a day. With his wingman in tow he headed back to Intrepid Intrepid, leaving Les Gray and Ens. Jack Halbe on the CAP station over Tokuno.

For Gray and Halbe, it was almost a welcome respite after the heart-pounding engagement with the Zeroes. CAP duty again became what it was most of the time-an exercise in tedium.

The tedium lasted exactly thirty minutes. Then it was interrupted by a burst of gunfire.

Neither Gray nor Halbe saw it coming. From out of the sun a solitary enemy fighter-an elliptical-winged Mitsubishi JM2 Jack fighter-came swooping down on them.

Halbe's first clue was the impact of the 7.7-millimeter machine gun rounds. Bullets thunked into the c.o.c.kpit, and he felt a searing pain in his leg. The forward fuel tank shattered, spewing raw gasoline into his face. Halbe was saved from instant death by the armor plate around his seat. By some miracle the streaming fuel didn't light off and burn him alive.

Les Gray was already turning hard into the j.a.panese fighter, trying to throw him off Halbe's tail. Halbe's Corsair had gone into a spin. A bullet had gone through his knee, and another had torn through his parachute. Bailing out wasn't a good option, but neither was ditching.

It didn't matter. The out-of-control fighter was flopping through the sky like a shotgunned pigeon. Halbe struggled against the rotation of the spin, which was pressing him into the seat. Finally he was able to jettison the canopy, then haul himself over the edge of the c.o.c.kpit and into the slipstream.

Tumbling through the air, Halbe yanked the rip cord. The canopy fluttered, then popped open, and Halbe saw that one entire panel of the chute had been shot away. The rest of the chute held together. Halbe made a larger-than-normal splash, coming down in the ocean close to the sh.o.r.eline of j.a.panese-owned Amami Oshima.

Les Gray was trying to even the score, but the Jack pilot who'd shot Halbe down wasn't sticking around. The j.a.panese fighter was fast, nearly as fast as the Corsair, and the pilot's diving pa.s.s on Halbe left him with plenty of excess speed. Gray watched the Jack continue its dive down to treetop level and streak over Amami Oshima at high speed, heading north. Gray squeezed off a few rounds at his tail, mostly for the h.e.l.l of it, then turned back to look for his wingman, who by now was crawling into his life raft.

Gray flew low cover over Halbe's raft, ready to strafe any j.a.panese boats that might be tempted to come after him. After an hour, a Dumbo rescue seaplane splashed down and hauled the wounded pilot aboard.

Lt. (jg) Phil Kirkwood, a calm, cold-eyed young man from New Jersey, was another VF-10 veteran who had four enemy kills to his credit. Since arriving at Okinawa aboard Intrepid Intrepid, he'd scored again, officially joining the list of aces. Kirkwood had a special incentive: a businessman back in his hometown had offered to pay $100 for each enemy plane Kirkwood shot down.

At midafternoon on April 12, Kirkwood was leading another CAP flight over the embattled picket ships. His wingman, Ens. Norwald "d.i.c.k" Quiel, was a Tail End Charlie who had already figured out that flying on Kirkwood's wing was a good deal. Not only did Kirkwood have a knack for finding bandits, but sometimes he even shared them with his wingmen. Today was one of those days.

They were at 16,000 feet when Kirkwood called out a bogey 10 miles on their nose, 3,000 feet below them. Closing rapidly, they tagged the bogey as a bandit-a two-engine Betty bomber. Kirkwood fired first, getting hits on the right engine, but his excess speed carried him past the Betty.

It was Quiel's turn. Making a flat run on the bomber's starboard side, he put another long burst into the right engine, setting it ablaze. The doomed Betty rolled into a spiraling dive to the ocean.

Quiel's kill was the last in what had been a day of spectacular air-to-air engagements. The Corsair pilots landed back aboard Intrepid Intrepid flushed with victory and full of themselves. The atmosphere in the smoke-filled, low-ceilinged ready room crackled with excitement as the pilots jabbered and gestured, reliving moments of death and near-death. flushed with victory and full of themselves. The atmosphere in the smoke-filled, low-ceilinged ready room crackled with excitement as the pilots jabbered and gestured, reliving moments of death and near-death.

April 12 was a day for the record books. In a single sortie, three Intrepid Intrepid CAP flights had gunned down thirteen Vals, one Judy, one Nate fighter, one Jill, and six Zeroes-a total of twenty-two confirmed kills, with one more probable. Every one of the twelve pilots had scored at least one victory. CAP flights had gunned down thirteen Vals, one Judy, one Nate fighter, one Jill, and six Zeroes-a total of twenty-two confirmed kills, with one more probable. Every one of the twelve pilots had scored at least one victory.

Then came the divisions led by Gray and Kirkwood, who contributed four more kills, giving the Grim Reapers a total of twenty-six enemy planes downed for the day. And any doubts anyone had had about the Marines who recently joined the squadron were put to rest. Nine of the day's kills were shared by four Marine pilots.

A more sobering statistic was that three Corsairs were lost. Nickerson had been gunned down by a Judy tail gunner, and Jackson bailed out after a collision with a friendly fighter. Jack Halbe had been ambushed in a high-side attack out of the sun. The good news was that all three pilots were okay. Each was now a guest aboard the tin can that had plucked him out of the water.

The j.a.panese pilot who shot down Jack Halbe, they figured, was not one of the amateurs they had been fighting. He had pulled off a perfectly executed hit-and-run, picking Halbe off with one quick burst, then exiting without ever taking a hit. On some level beyond their gut hatred of the j.a.panese, the Americans could almost feel admiration for the enemy pilot's skill.

Almost, but not quite. What they felt most of all was a desire for a rematch. Next time they'd shoot the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d out of the sky.

One pilot in the ready room didn't feel like celebrating. Grim Reaper executive officer John Sweeny would not forget the day he should should have become an ace. Fixed in Sweeny's memory were the dark shapes of five Zeroes, one after another, superimposed on his gun sight, his finger squeezing the trigger, hearing only the silence of his nonfiring .50-caliber guns. have become an ace. Fixed in Sweeny's memory were the dark shapes of five Zeroes, one after another, superimposed on his gun sight, his finger squeezing the trigger, hearing only the silence of his nonfiring .50-caliber guns.

A bitter pill, but it was the nature of aerial warfare. Sweeny had been around long enough to know that fate treated fighter pilots capriciously. Your shot at glory came and went in the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat. Sweeny had missed his shot.

27

BLACK FRIDAY BLACK FRIDAY SHURI LINE, OKINAWA

APRIL 12, 1945

In his headquarters beneath Shuri Castle, General Ushijima could hear the steady pounding of the heavy artillery. The great excavated s.p.a.ce was deep enough that it was virtually impregnable to any sh.e.l.lfire the Americans could deliver. Still, the thunder of the sh.e.l.lfire was rattling every fixture in the s.p.a.ce.

Ushijima could also hear the sounds of combat around his conference table. The two senior officers on his staff, Lieutenant General Cho and Colonel Yahara, were at it again. Cho had consumed more than his usual ration of sake, and his voice was more strident than ever. They should stop this defensive campaign, Cho insisted. It was time to launch a ma.s.sive counterattack.

During the past two weeks, Yahara had become increasingly isolated in his views. Almost to a man, the other staff officers were leaning toward Cho's side. j.a.panese warriors shouldn't be allowing the enemy to advance on his own terms, dictating the time and place of battle. It was an echo of the same argument the hard-liners were making in Tokyo.

In his usual manner Ushijima nodded, listening to both sides. Until recently he had sided with the calm and rational arguments of Yahara. But the battle was taking its toll on Ushijima. He was losing men and ground at an unsustainable rate.

In the fiery rhetoric of General Cho, Ushijima was hearing the seductive call of the samurai: Repel the invaders. Hurl them back into the sea. Better to die while attacking than to be hunted down like fleeing animals Repel the invaders. Hurl them back into the sea. Better to die while attacking than to be hunted down like fleeing animals.

Ushijima let himself be persuaded. Over Colonel Yahara's vehement protests, the general gave the order: prepare the 32nd Army for a counterattack.

General Cho would be the architect of the operation. It would be a night a.s.sault, the kind of engagement at which j.a.panese infantry excelled. Success would hinge on quickly infiltrating the American lines, mixing positions, preventing the enemy from using his heavy artillery.

According to Cho's plan, six battalions of infantry-three of the Imperial j.a.panese Army's 62nd Division and three of the 24th-would penetrate the American line, hitting the U.S. 7th Division on the eastern front and the 96th Division on the west. The j.a.panese troops would slice through the American line, advance to within four miles of Kadena airfield, then take cover in the hundreds of tombs. By daylight they would emerge to attack the rearguard American units.

Like General Cho himself, the plan was wildly optimistic. At the last minute, Colonel Yahara was able to reduce the a.s.sault forces to four battalions. Even the commanders of the advance battalions, sensing the inevitable extermination of their units, held back some of their forces.

General Cho's plan was complete. The counterattack would launch after nightfall on April 12.

It began with a thirty-minute artillery barrage. The sh.e.l.ling was the heaviest single j.a.panese artillery bombardment of the war-over 3,000 rounds raining down on the American units clinging to their positions on the western flank.