“Keep your head down, you dang fool,” Deke warned him, dragging Philly behind the shelter of a steel bulkhead. As much as any spot on the ship was safe while under attack, it at least felt comforting to have a few inches of metal between them and the plane. They could feel each concussion of the bigger guns reverberate through the ship and into their very bones. Deke could hear bullets ricocheting off the deck.
Philly had been right. The plane looked as though it was coming right at them — right down their throats. Deke saw the bomb or torpedo — whatever it was — separate from the aircraft. For a moment, the payload seemed to hang in the air — and then it plunged right at them.
Deke grabbed hold of the nearest chunk of metal and shut his eyes, expecting to be blown to kingdom come.
But either the Japanese pilot’s aim was off or the destroyer’s maneuvering had paid off. The bomb slanted down and struck the sea, lifting a geyser of salt water that soaked everyone stationed on the bow.
Having missed its chance at a killing blow, the Japanese pilot tried to pull up and away, perhaps to circle back for a second chance. The blazing guns of the destroyer weren’t having any of that. Tracers raked the Japanese plane, and it began to disintegrate as it passed the stern. What was left of the enemy plane slammed into the ocean, leaving burning wreckage on the surface.
Everyone’s ears rang in the sudden silence once the guns quit firing. It was hard to say who had fired the shots that downed the plane. In a sense, every gunner on the ship had played a part. Cheers filled the air. USS Ingersoll had lived to fight another day.
“I’ll be damned,” Deke said.
They’d been quick to say that sailors had an easy life. They wouldn’t be saying that again.
Even if the men on the ship weren’t looking forward to what lay ahead, they knew that everything they did, no matter how small on the great stage of war, was necessary to defeat Imperial Japan.
Much of that strategy was developed in the mind of one man, General Douglas MacArthur.
MacArthur was currently working alone in his office, looking over the latest reports. He got to his feet, glad to stretch, and walked to the huge map on his wall. War in the Pacific was like a game of hopscotch, thought MacArthur. Hop, skip, jump. Each move carrying them ever closer to Japan. Hopscotch was a child’s game, but there was nothing childish about the war that was being waged across the warm, blue waters of the Pacific.
Thousands of American men had perished fighting on the sands or on the seas. Perished was too fine a word for it, he mused. They had died fighting, plain and simple, against a savage and relentless enemy.
His critics could accuse MacArthur of many faults, from being self-serving to having an imperious nature. But the truth was more complex. MacArthur was a soldier, through and through, every bit as savage and determined in his genteel way as a GI in the trenches. Everything in his life had been seen through the lens of strategy — whether it was his career or winning the war. To accuse him of simple vanity overlooked the fact that he was far from a small-minded man.
In his thinking and in all his actions, he had far more in common with the likes of Washington and Lee, or even Napoleon or Caesar, than the “everyman” American general favored by the press. Americans didn’t always relate to MacArthur, and neither did the men serving under him, but he was going to win the war in the Pacific.
A staff officer popped his head into his office, where the general paced back and forth in front of the map. “Sir, can I get you anything?”
“Not unless you have a spare division in your pocket.” The general shook his head. “On second thought, I’ll have a cup of tea.”
Most military men were devoted coffee drinkers who also favored cigarettes and scotch. The general preferred tea and a pipe. In a sense, the tea was a concession to MacArthur’s having spent scarcely any time in the continental US for years. Through and through, he was a man of the vast Pacific.
Tall and solidly built, MacArthur was imposing in his own way. Well into his sixties, he was older than most of the command staff. For all the myth that had built up around him, he was human enough. He felt self-conscious about his balding head and, as a result, insisted on wearing a hat most of the time. The pipe didn’t make him seem any more youthful.
But he was no tired old general, rather an energetic man still in his prime.
Just a few months ago, during the darkest days of the war, reaching the Japanese home islands had seemed an impossible feat. Sure, there had been the Doolittle Raid that dropped bombs into the heart of Tokyo, showing the Japanese that they were not beyond the reach of the American military. But that had been a largely symbolic act, America thumbing its nose at the Emperor and all his militant minions. But now the tide had turned.
MacArthur did his best thinking when he was pacing. He paused long enough to study the map on the wall. Something big was afoot. Soon, the final campaign to crush Japan would begin.
That campaign would start with the Philippines. There was a definite sense of justice from that, considering that the Japanese had seized the islands in 1942, after they had been a US possession for nearly half a century. The loss had been a major defeat for the United States. Japan’s victory also had been a personal affront to MacArthur, who had commanded US forces there.
To be sure, he had made mistakes in the defense, such as not doing more to protect American air defenses. Japanese raids had quickly wiped out the US planes before they could even get off the ground. In years to come, historians would be relentless in their second-guessing of MacArthur and his shortcomings in regard to those airfields.
Then again, salvaging the air defenses might only have prolonged the inevitable and even allowed those planes to fall into Japanese hands. Cut off from reinforcement from the sea by the Japanese Navy, without any supplies or spare parts, MacArthur simply didn’t have the resources to sustain much of an air war against the forces of the Rising Sun.
The general had a deep affinity for the Philippines and its people. It seemed to be an ideal melding of the Far East and the West. Part of that stemmed from the fact that Manila had an old-world, European feel, thanks to its Spanish heritage.
MacArthur would have preferred to stay and fight like the soldier that he was. After all, he had seen the trenches in WWI, far different from Eisenhower, who had never been in combat but now commanded Allied forces in Europe.
But FDR had recalled him from the Philippines rather than have his general go down fighting. The general had resisted the order, but in the end he’d had no choice. Wisely, FDR had not wanted the general to be captured and become another pawn of war, which might also have been a huge embarrassment to the United States.
So he had left, escaping ahead of the Japanese invaders. Several thousand US troops were not given the same opportunity. They fought desperately but surrendered in the end. The result had been the dreadful Bataan Death March, a harbinger of Japanese cruelty in the Philippines and wherever else they made their presence known.
Alone in his office, MacArthur stared at the map for the millionth time, letting the geography sink in. The Philippines itself was a series of islands rather than a single large island or continent. Beyond lay the rich resources of Asia. Whoever occupied the Philippines essentially controlled the sea lanes that brought vital natural resources to the Japanese home islands: oil, rubber, lumber, even basic food supplies. Planes stationed here were that much closer to Japan. This strategic location was why Japan had taken control of the Philippines in the first place. The islands were essential to Japan. It was also why MacArthur was going to take them back.