Great Pacific War: A History of the American-Japanese Campaign of 1931-33 (29 page)

As darkness fell upon the scene, the defenders of Yap must have congratulated themselves on their successful resistance. They had, it seemed, held out all day against half the American fleet, inflicting serious damage on more than one ship and visibly frustrating an attempt to land troops. Perhaps, however, the more thoughtful among them were surprised at the comparative feebleness of the attack, and still more so at the temerity of the foe in allowing his transports to come within range of unsilenced guns. Admiral Hubbard, on his part, had no reason to feel dissatisfied with the day’s work, since events had fallen out precisely as desired. Remaining during the night at a distance of thirty miles to the south-east of the island, he closed in again shortly before dawn on the 19th, when the performance of the previous day was repeated, except that the
Florida
this time discharged her big guns but rarely. All that day the desultory cannonade continued, punctuated by attacks from Japanese planes. These, however, were too few in number to break through the American cordon of air patrols, and in no case did their bombs take effect. At 4 p.m. a submarine twice torpedoed the dummy battleship
Utah
, which was only kept afloat by the special buoyancy devices with which she had been fitted.

Towards nightfall the principal shore battery ceased firing, either from lack of ammunition or because the guns were disabled. To keep up the pretence of a landing operation, four “transports” again approached the shore, whence they were met by a dropping fire from isolated field-guns in well-concealed positions. Loath to expose the gallant volunteer crews of these ships to further loss, Admiral Hubbard finally ordered them out of range. They had played their part well.

Sixty hours had now passed since the expedition had left Angaur, and presuming the Japanese Commander-in-Chief to have heard from his scouts very soon after its departure, he might now be only five or six hours away. There was consequently not much time to spare. On the other hand, it was of vital importance that the garrison of Yap should feel themselves endangered up to the last moment, lest reassuring messages from them should cause the oncoming Japanese fleet to halt. Nor was Admiral Hubbard unmindful of his orders to await direct instructions from the Commander-in-Chief before breaking off the sham attack. But shortly after 9 p.m., when he had ceased fire and was making his dispositions for the night, he received the long-expected signal from his superior officer. This bade him proceed at full speed, with six of his destroyers, to join the main body, which was then about to pass between Yap and the Uluthi islands on its way to cut off the Japanese fleet. The dummy battleships and transports were ordered to return to Angaur, steering a course well to the eastward, which it was hoped would take them clear of any lurking submarines; while as an additional protection the remaining destroyers were to accompany them. Thus at 9.15 p.m. the
Florida
parted from her consorts and proceeded at 19 knots to the rendezvous, leaving the “scarecrow squadron” to make the best of its way back to Angaur. It need only be added that the
Florida
joined the fleet shortly after midnight, her arrival bringing Admiral Templeton up to his full strength of sixteen battleships.

To learn what the Japanese were doing while these events were in progress, we must revert to the pages of Mr. Nakabashi
[4]
who gives a clearer and more coherent narrative than is to be found in the official history:

During the morning of November 17, a report from Submarine Ro. 60, patrolling north of the Pelews, came to hand, announcing it had sighted a large fleet of enemy warships and transports steering N.N.E. The submarine had attacked with torpedoes, though without scoring a hit, and after being hunted by destroyers had emerged six miles astern of the enemy squadron, which was observed to be maintaining its original course. From this intelligence we assumed that the threatened invasion of Yap was about to take place. But how could the enemy be so misguided as to launch such an expedition under the very nose of our fleet? Did not his apparent recklessness indicate some deep-laid scheme to ensnare us to our undoing? Such thoughts, we know, passed through the mind of our Admiral and his staff. But they were no longer free agents. The War Council had issued its decree: ‘At the first hint of peril to Yap or Guam, throw in your whole force.’ Here was something more than a hint, yet still Admiral Hiraga would have hesitated had he been left free to obey his own intuitions. The enemy was doing precisely what he might be expected to do if he wished to bring about a decisive naval action. Already the transfer of our fleet from the north to the south must have convinced him of our resolve to fight if new insular territories were menaced. Possessing this knowledge, his course was obvious. He need only arrange a spurious attack upon one of our outlying islands, having previously disposed his main force in some advantageous position, to be sure of bringing out fleet to action under such conditions as suited him best. All this seemed clear as daylight to Admiral Hiraga and his staff.
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But their orders left them no latitude.

When news of the supposititious attack on Yap was received, there was no time and still less inclination to solicit fresh instructions from Tokyo. For sailors to attempt to reason with soldiers on a point of naval strategy had always proved futile. Soldiers had directed the conduct of this war so far, and would direct it to the end, despite the fact that it was, and had always been, essentially a struggle in which sea-power was the key factor. But though some of our officers thought they penetrated the American design, they nevertheless welcomed the challenge to decisive combat. Believing the enemy to have been weakened by the loss of several battleships — a belief, alas! that was to prove illusory — we were willing, nay, eager, to engage him. And so the fleet made ready to sail. All ships had steam raised in their boilers, for the summons which had now come had long been anticipated; but the ships of the First Cruiser Squadron, besides several destroyers, were taking in fuel at the oil wharves, and there was no time to wait for these vessels, which were ordered to follow after as quickly as possible. Minesweepers having reported the channel clear, the fleet moved out by divisions, the first ships passing Corregidor at 10.30 a.m.

The spectacle was a magnificent one as this, the greatest navy ever seen under the flag of Nippon, steamed out to meet the enemy. First went two destroyer flotillas and Rear-Admiral Uyehara’s Fourth Cruiser Squadron (
Myoko
,
Ashigara
,
Yonezawa
, and
Itsukushima
), the blue water of Manila Bay creaming beneath their sharp prows. They were followed by the aircraft carriers, upon whose spacious decks were seen many airplanes, among which moved blue-clad aviators and mechanics. Next in stately array came the battle-cruisers under Vice-Admiral Wada, headed by the colossal
Akagi
, and the smaller but still formidable
Kongo
,
Hiyei
,
Haruna
, and
Kirishima
. In the wake of these mastodons steamed the flagship Nagato, embodied for tactical purposes in Rear-Admiral Shimizu’s First Division, which comprised also the
Kaga
and
Mutsu
; and, finally, the Second Division —
Ise
,
Hiuga
,
Fuso
, and
Yamashiro
. Astern of the battle columns came the Second, Third and Fifth Cruiser Squadrons, thirteen ships in all.

When the First Cruiser Squadron caught up with the fleet, Admiral Hiraga would have twenty-one cruisers at his disposal. Of the thirty-three submarines at Manila, the fastest were ordered to follow the fleet at their best speed, eventually to take up such positions as the Commander-in-Chief might direct. The slower boats were also to make for Yap. While it was doubtful whether any submarines except those already patrolling in the vicinity could reach the theatre of operations in time to take part in the actual battle, Admiral Hiraga hoped that they would eventually be on hand to deal with disabled ships of the enemy and perhaps to harass his retreat. As our battle divisions came abreast of Corregidor Island the garrison paraded, and their hearty ‘Banzais’ came rolling to us across the intervening water. Cheering them in return, we passed on.

No sooner were we clear of Manila Bay than the fleet took up its cruising formation — the heavy ships in three short columns, the airplane carriers ahead, and the cruisers and destroyers forming a complete screen around us. Our speed was eighteen knots, but since all boilers were now under steam, we could increase our velocity at very brief notice. Overhead blazed the sun in a vault of intense blue, unflecked by a single cloud. Visibility was high, but range-taking at this juncture would have been rendered difficult by heat refraction. Almost as far as the eye could reach were the forms of ships, large, medium, and small. From the funnels of many smoke was pouring forth, and each ship left a foaming wake of vivid white as she cleft her way through the glassy sea. None but visual signals were permitted, for even the short-range radio might have betrayed us to enemy scouts. Half-a-dozen times during the day we took in messages from our patrols, all reporting the enemy’s advance towards Yap. By midnight we had covered more than 200 knots, but still had some 950 knots to traverse. It was clear that our destroyers would reach the scene with their bunkers half-emptied. That, however, would not matter if we met and defeated the enemy out of hand, in which case the boats could subsequently draw from the heavy ships enough oil to take them back to port.

The night was quite uneventful. No enemy submarines or airplanes were observed, though twice we had cause to suspect that radio messages were being sent from craft invisible to us yet near at hand. At 10 a.m. on the 18th we had a message from Yap, reporting hostile battleships within sight of the island, bearing S.W. At 10.45 came a second report: ‘Ten battleships bombarding us; fleet of transports lying out of range. Our batteries are in action.’ This time it looked as if the enemy must be in earnest. On the previous occasion, when Guam had been his ostensible objective, he had never actually approached the island nearer than several hundred miles, but now, at Yap, he was actually shelling the defences. What could this mean but that a landing was to be attempted? Further news was now awaited most anxiously, for if the defences were quickly subdued and a landing effected, the covering battleships might withdraw long before we could come up with them. For this reason our Commander-in-Chief turned the fleet on a course slightly more to the south-east, which would bring us across the track of the enemy if he eventually returned towards the Pelews.

But as additional messages came in it was obvious not only that Yap was offering a stubborn resistance, but that the attack was being conducted with a singular want of vigour. At 5 p.m. we heard that the defences were still intact, and that the Americans were firing mainly from their secondary armaments, few heavy projectiles coming ashore. Four hours later, the island reported the sharp repulse of an attempt to land, three enemy transports having been badly hit before they could steam out of range. At 10 p.m. came a message: ‘Enemy no longer in sight.’ All night long we remained in communication with our gallant comrades at Yap, in breathless anticipation of news that the attack had been resumed; for if the enemy had really given up his enterprise, our hopes of bringing him to action would be dashed. Conceive, then, the relief we felt on learning at 8 a.m. that hostile battleships were again off the island and had reopened their bombardment. But again, we asked ourselves, why does he persist in this crazy operation, knowing as he must that our fleet is racing eastward at full speed? Why expend his ammunition and risk damage to his ships in this senseless undertaking when he might soon have to bear the brunt of attack by our whole fleet?

By this time Admiral Hiraga was full of suspicion as to the genuineness of the enemy’s manoeuvres, but still he was constrained to go on. If he turned back and Yap did, after all, become the prize of the Americans, how should he justify himself? In truth, we had now no choice but to conform to the enemy’s movements, a course that became inevitable when we yielded him the initiative, as, thanks to the blunders of the Supreme War Council, we had done. It lay with him to make a thrust in this direction or in that, while we, ignorant whether such movement was genuine or feigned, had nevertheless to change our guard to meet it. It must be confessed, however, that few in the fleet outside staff circles suspected a deception in this particular instance. Too many of our officers, imbued with a contempt for American intelligence, were ready to believe the enemy capable of any mistake, however flagrant. To this overweening confidence in our intellectual superiority may be traced not a few of our misfortunes in the war. But at present we had little time for moralising. Frequent messages from Yap recorded the continuation of this second day’s bombardment, and although the ships’ fire was not heavy, it had by now subdued the main defences.

That evening we fully expected to hear of a landing. Instead, there came at 7 p.m. a report that four transports had been driven off by the fire of field guns. Two whole days, therefore, had the enemy squandered in a half-hearted attack on an island whose defences were of the feeblest! At 9 p.m. came the usual report: ‘Enemy withdrawing to sea. We are endeavouring to repair our batteries, but have only two guns left in action.’ By now we had come within 360 miles of the island, and at the present rate of travel would reach it at 5 p.m. the next day. If the enemy resumed his assault in the morning, he could not escape us, since by turning more to the south we should cut athwart his line of retreat. We must, in any event, continue our voyage throughout the night. At dawn we received from Yap a message reporting that the enemy was no longer in sight. This, though indicating that the attack had been abandoned, was not sufficiently definite for us to act upon, since at any moment the American fleet might return and continue its futile bombardment. But as the morning hours passed without bringing such news, the Admiral at length concluded that the enemy, having got wind of our coming, had finally given up his designs upon Yap and was returning to his base at Angaur, or, more probably, to Truk. This supposition was confirmed at 2 p.m., when two of our swiftest airplanes, which had been sent ahead to reconnoitre, sighted nine American battleships and many transports some 200 miles E.S.E. of Yap, steaming slowly towards the south-east.
[6]