Edge of Valor (36 page)

Some sailors, particularly the career ones, resented seeing their well-honed fighting machine turned into a circus. As the day wore on, there was a lot of horseplay and the inevitable breakdown in discipline. But at the back of every mind was the worry that the Japanese would try one last trick, and they would be unprepared for it. It was all strange and different. They wondered if it could come back to haunt them.

By sunset everything was ready—at least for the morrow's activities. But there was a more difficult issue yet to face: How were Americans and their Allies to set aside their hate and resentment for all the lives lost, the horrible wounds, the time lost from loved ones, and the irreparable damage done to priceless buildings and works of art throughout Japan's once-vaunted Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere? For some, there would be a lifetime of resentment and pain, of nightmares, and sadly, in some cases, of drunkenness and suicide. But clear thinkers, the real statesmen who worked so hard in the background,
hoped better times would begin on 2 September 1945. At least, that is what they planned: that the tone would set a new beginning for Japan, her neighbors, and the world.

But tonight there was still mistrust. Japan technically remained at war with the Allies, and the men in the anchorage felt it acutely. After years of battle, people were edgy. Nobody knew what tomorrow would bring. Rumors persisted—would a flock of kamikazes appear? What sort of trick would the Japanese pull at the last minute?

Hardened by years of fighting and hate, the men on the ships in Tokyo Bay followed their instincts. All lights were doused at sunset, and darken ship was strictly enforced. Fleet Admiral Nimitz, the senior officer present afloat (SOPA), ordered condition III watches set. Guns were loaded and ready to fire on pre-designated targets ashore. The younger men fell asleep easily and began snoring. But sleep wouldn't come for many of the veteran sailors and Marines. They had seen too much on the long road across the Pacific. Many didn't want to sleep for fear of the horrible nightmares that struck in the middle of the night: the cold sweats, the quick breathing, the pounding heart, the curses of others growling at them to shut up.

Steady on, mates. God be with thee
.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

2 September 1945

USS
Missouri
(BB 63), Tokyo Bay, Japan

T
he morning dawned overcast over Tokyo Bay. There was no wind, leaving the water a flat slate gray with barely a ripple. Seagulls ranged about the fleet crying to one another, perhaps sensing a change in the air. To the west lay Tokyo, its firebombed silhouette barely discernible against the morning mist. To the southwest was the once-busy port of Yokohama, also a bombed-out relic. South of Yokohama was the Yokosuka naval base, a prize the U.S. Navy would soon claim. To the eastern side of Tokyo Bay lay the scenic Miryra Peninsula, its trees and craggy hills likewise shrouded in morning mist.

The
Maxwell
's motor whaleboat was fully loaded. In the back sat Cdr. Alton C. Ingram, the ship's commanding officer; Lt. Cdr. Elton P. White, the executive officer; and Capt. Jeremiah T. Landa, commodore of DESRON 77. Seated forward were members of the U.S. Army Air Corps: Maj. Marvin F. Radcliff, 1st Lt. Leroy Telford K. Peoples, Capt. Jonathan L. Berne, and Sgt. Leonard Hammer. Representing the U.S. Marine Corps were GySgt. Ulysses Gaylord Harper and his twelve-man squad. The uniform of the day, as prescribed by SOPA, was working khakis, no tie, for officers, and working whites or utilities for enlisted. No ribbons and no weapons were to be displayed.

Standing high in the stern, the tiller between his legs, was Boatswain's Mate Second Class Alvin Birmingham, the motor whaleboat's coxswain. Birmingham's shoes were shined, his hair was clipped, and he wore crisp undress whites. His hat rode low on his forehead, an inch above the eyebrow, telling everyone that this was Birmingham's boat; that he was the coxswain and that today he was proud to be part of a major event in history. Similarly dressed was the bowhook, Richard Dudley, the seaman deuce GQ lookout with sharp eyes. A third member of the boat's crew was her engineer, Fireman Third Class Louis T. “Sherlock” Rathbone, also in starched whites, who handled the whaleboat's four-cylinder Buda diesel.

With all the men on board, the whaleboat was at capacity and wallowed in the wakes of the boats crisscrossing the busy bay as it drew closer to the
Missouri
on what should have been a placid Tokyo Bay. But wakes merged and slapped at them as they drew closer to the
Missouri
, causing them to buck and heave. Ingram figured they had maybe twelve inches of freeboard, meaning water would slop in the boat from time to time. But the bilge pump could handle that.

He felt good about today and was especially happy for the people who surrounded him. A promise is a promise, and Otis DeWitt had come through, inviting everyone Ingram had asked, down to the last private, first class.

For convenience, Ingram had brought them on board last night and threw a special dinner. After that, he gave them bunks. The ship's regular crew, officers and men, did not gripe when they were asked to give up their bunks. The weather was balmy enough so they could sleep outside on the 01 level. But Ingram kept the galley open and stocked with sandwiches and Kool-Aid for anyone who couldn't sleep. Predictably, the Marines went back again and again.

Later that night, the usual epithets drifted through Ingram's porthole: “Hey, jarhead, you can piss off the fantail or you can use the head right through that hatch, take your pick”; or “Outta my way, squid”; or “Stupid birdman.” They all loved it.

The boat crunched into another trough, with Birmingham swinging his tiller to avoid the worst of it. Water flew over the bow and misted over the starboard side. Three Marines were seasick and were heaving over the side. First Lieutenant Peoples, who had turned a dark shade of green, held valiantly onto what had been a fine breakfast.

Jerry Landa and Tubby White were making stilted conversation about the boat's extended fuel capacity when another wave slapped the bow, throwing up a wall of water. Most of it flew overhead, but a handful hit Radcliff squarely in the face.

Radcliff muttered, “I knew there was a reason I didn't join the Navy.”

Berne and Hammer hooted.

Ingram threw over a clean towel.

Radcliff blotted his shirt and muttered. “Obviously your revenge for you sitting in my jump seat.”

Landa said dryly, “Only trying to help. Word's out that you haven't taken a shower in three weeks.”

Radcliff gave a wry smile. “See you on the next MATS flight, Captain.”

Landa asked, “You mean you'd stick me in the cargo hold?”

“If there's room.”

Landa and Radcliff traded grins as the whaleboat drew to within five hundred yards of the
Missouri
. Birmingham wove through traffic as though he were on the Pasadena Freeway. He dodged through a line of destroyers that, like sleeping greyhounds, laid to behind the
Missouri
's starboard side, brown stack gas lazily
drifting up into the morning. One by one, they offloaded VIPs on small boats to head for the
Missouri
's quarterdeck, situated forward on the starboard side.

Birmingham's destination was the port-side quarterdeck, where lesser guests were boarding. Again they fought the slop and wakes thrown up by craft ranging from 26-foot motor whaleboats to giant 51-foot personnel boats to LCVPs and tank-carrying LCMs. By Ingram's count there were at least fifty circling, waiting to disembark their passengers.

Birmingham called to Ingram, “We're in luck, Captain.” He pointed to a sailor wagging semaphore flags near the quarterdeck. “That's us: Dog five-two-five.”

Ingram said, “Sounds good to me.” He turned to Peoples. “You ready to head in, Leroy?”

“Uhhhhghhh,” said Peoples.

“I'll take that as a yes. Take her in, Birmingham. And then find a spot under that boat boom up forward. With any luck they'll let you up to see some of the action.”

“Yes, sir.” Birmingham gave a four-bell signal for full speed.

The
Missouri
grew more and more massive as they drew close. This is a big ship, and she is beautiful, thought Ingram. To someone used to living on a little destroyer, the battleship's 52,000 tons seemed like 500,000.

Birmingham rang three bells, and Rathbone backed the whaleboat, perfectly stopping it at the landing. Landa was first out, followed by Ingram, then Tubby White, and then the rest.

The OOD, a full commander, stood at attention with a gleaming brass telescope tucked under his left arm, throwing salutes like a Marine gunny on a parade ground. The instant Landa stepped on board, the
Missouri
's messenger of the watch rang four bells and the PA system echoed with, “DESRON seven-seven arriving.”

Ingram was next up, with the messenger announcing, “
Maxwell
arriving.”

The rest of Ingram's party followed close behind, and within thirty seconds the messenger was announcing new arrivals.

Twenty young sailors stood before them. One of them, a young blond gunner's mate, second class, wore a nametag that said his name was Hopkins. He walked up to Ingram. “Are you the
Maxwell
party, sir?”

“That's right.”

“Everybody here?”

“All set.”

“Then please follow me.”

Although things were pretty basic on the battleship's main deck, Ingram was glad Hopkins knew his way around. Time and again he eased his party through a group of sailors like a linebacker, shouting, “Gangway.”

As they walked, the bell rang on the PA system announcer called, “Commander, Third Fleet, arriving.”

Halsey had stepped on board.

Everyone on the main deck paused momentarily, as if expecting him to walk around a corner.

“The big hitters are in town,” said Ingram, dodging a giant deck-mounted ventilator.

“I'm waiting for Harry Truman,” said Landa.

Again, the bell gonged on the PA system. “Supreme commander of the Allied Powers arriving.”

MacArthur had just stepped on board. Ingram had been with him in the Philippines and Corregidor. In those days, which seemed an eternity ago, he had seen the general just once; now he would see him again, both having traveled a long and hazardous route through the Pacific.

The party climbed a ladder to the 01 deck and drew up near the port side of the massive number two gun turret. Pointing to another ladder, Hopkins said, “Up there is where you'll be, gentlemen, atop this turret. You'll have a perfect view of the deck below. Captain Murray made sure you have front-row places to stand. Your numbers are taped on the deck.”

Landa whistled. “Numbers?”

“Yes, sir. You'll find someone up there with spot assignments. He'll have your number assignment,” said Hopkins.

“What'll they think of next?”

“Between you and me, Captain, best thing they can think of is sending us home,” said Hopkins.

“Now you're talking,” said Peoples. He smiled, the color returning to his face.

Radcliff said, “Easy, Leroy. Now that you're an aircraft commander they won't let you rest until you've flown the last buck private out of the war zone.”

“Life isn't fair,” said Peoples.

Hopkins said, “Please excuse me, gentlemen. If I don't get back soon the watch commander will cancel my leave for the next ten years.”

“Go, son, go,” said Ingram.

Hopkins backed up, saluted, and then walked off past a group of officers. Ingram recognized General Sutherland in the pack. He was speaking with a civilian. Sutherland looked up, caught Ingram's eye, and beckoned him over.

Ingram said to Tubby White, “Get everybody up there, Tubby, and check them in. We'll be up in a minute.”

“Got it,” said White.

With a nod toward Sutherland, Ingram said to Landa, “You want to come? I may need you to keep me out of trouble.”

Landa said, “You sure you want me? As you know, I'm an expert at pissing off senior officers.”

“Please remember that General Sutherland walks in the highest circles and will be most happy to assist you in your climb to the top.”