Task Force 38.0 was alive with activity as it prepared to strike a strategic Japanese target. All day on July 23, 1945, the task force rearmed and refueled. Toward evening, when all the fuel bunkers had been topped off, the force cut loose from the oilers and jockeyed into position. Aircraft carriers and battleships took stations in the center, ringed by cruisers shielded by an outer screen of destroyers. Blinker messages flashed from ship to ship. The course was set for 340 degrees, and at 7 p.m. the task force began its run toward its July 24 strike position.

A total of four U.S. Navy task groups constituted Task Force 38.0, under the command of Admiral William F. ‘Bull’ Halsey. Task Group 38.3 was a part of that force and included the carriers Ticonderoga, Essex, Randolph, Monterey and Bataan, the battleships North Carolina and Alabama, four light cruisers, two anti-aircraft cruisers and a screen of destroyers.

I was a Navy lieutenant and a dive-bomber pilot with Air Group 87, stationed aboard USS Ticonderoga (CV-14) with a complement of Grumman F6F Hellcat fighters, Grumman TBF torpedo planes and Curtiss SB2C Helldiver dive bombers. During the 9 p.m. briefing in our bombing squadron’s ready room, tension and speculation began to build as strike information came over the 2JG talker (the communications circuit) from flag plot, the tactical and navigational center.

The code names of the ships were established. Ticonderoga was to be Ginger Base. Then came the various frequencies for the strike leaders, the picket destroyers and air-sea rescue. Noting the information, we waited for the formal briefing by Lieutenant Lyndon McKee, the squadron’s air combat officer. He had so far remained in the background, not saying much.

‘Gentlemen,’ McKee finally said, clearing his throat, ‘Bombing 87’s target for tomorrow’s strike is the Japanese battleship-carrier Hyuga.’ He handed each of us packets of target overlay maps. He continued: ‘For your information, the Hyuga is one of the Ise-class ships, which has been converted to a combination battleship-carrier by the addition of a flight deck on her stern. As you study your overlays, you will note that this is a formidable target by reason of her own firepower as well as the fact that her position off the small island of Nasake Shima, just south of Kure, [Japan,] places her un-der the protection of numerous shore batteries on the coast. Also, there are guns on the hills to the east, north and west of her. So on your run-in, dive and retirement, expect to come under heavy anti-aircraft fire.’

Looking at the overlays, I recalled my 58 combat missions against airfield installations, supply depots and more gun emplacements than I wanted to remember. But this would be my first opportunity in my naval career to dive on a capital ship, and it would also be an excellent opportunity to become a casualty of war.

The bombing squadron’s skipper, Lt. Cmdr. Franz Kanaga, would lead the squadron in the first strike. I was designated as his section leader. My call sign was 3-307 Ginger. After the briefing, I went back to my stateroom, wrote a few letters and went to bed. But sleep was elusive.

At 4 a.m. the call, ‘General quarters, general quarters. All hands man your battle stations,’ came as a relief after the sleepless hours spent lying in the smothering darkness. The ready room was in chaos as everyone on the first strike got into flight gear, asked questions, made notations on their plotting boards and got last-minute weather data.

Conditions were not ideal. The weather was reported as marginal, and the task force had not reached its prearranged launch position. We were more than 100 miles short of the original proposed launch position, but the mission was going forward.

Finally the bomb-loading information came in from flag plot. Each Helldiver would be carrying a 1,000-pound, general-purpose bomb in the bomb bay, plus a 260-pound fragmentation bomb on one wing to partially compensate for the droppable wing tank (weighing about 680 pounds) on the other wing. We were cautioned that this unequal load might cause problems during takeoff. Then came the call over the 2JG talker, ‘Pilots, man your planes.’

Waddling out of the ready room in all my bulky gear, I paused on the walkway and looked down. I could see the blue-green water flashing by the hull and hear the sound of tractors on the deck as they rearranged the planes. The air was warm, and the sun was shining through patches of light, fluffy clouds.

Threading my way through the planes, I tried to find mine, No. 206. As usual the planes were mixed up, and we were not going to be able to take off in formation sequence. We would just have to reposition after join-up. The carrier’s stack blew out a shower of smoky cinders. The air was acid-tasting, stinging my eyes and burning my tongue.

My gunner, William ‘Tommy’ Thompson, met me at the plane. Together we checked the bombload, fuel tanks and armament. I climbed onto the wing, put my plotting board in its slot, threw a leg over the edge of the cockpit and climbed into my seat. I adjusted the seat height and moved the rudder pedals closer, so that I could really stand on them in a vertical dive. I cinched my shoulder straps one more time as the bull horn announced: ‘Stand by to start engine. Stand clear of propellers. Start the fighters on the catapults.’

The ship began to turn into the wind, the semaphore on the bridge went from red to green, and the order boomed out, ‘Launch aircraft.’ I looked at my watch. It was 7:24 a.m. The first of the fighters shot off the catapults and climbed up toward the sun. Launches continued at 15-second intervals.

My plane captain gave me the’start engine’ signal. I activated the starter switch and turned on the ignition, and the blades of the propeller slowly began to turn. There was a cough of white smoke, and the engine died. I tried it again. Ahead of me, the first of the Helldivers was moving into takeoff position.

A troubleshooter came back, jumped on the wing and yelled, ‘Hit her again!’ This time, with him pumping the throttle and me holding the starter switch down, the engine began to run–raggedly at first, then settling down to smooth revolutions. I throttled back to let the troubleshooter off the wing and then pushed the throttle up to 800 rpms to let the engine warm up.

The plane in front of me began to move forward. The deck handler turned to me next, motioning, with his hands over his head, for me to taxi forward. I came out of my slot, unfolded the wings at his signal, shoved the wing locking handle into the ‘lock’ position and set the flaps down 20 degrees.

Lieutenant Al Matteson was the first off. His plane got to the bow, but his wing loading was unbalanced. He started going into a tight right turn and the cameras began rolling. Momentarily flight operations were secured; the semaphore on the bridge went to red.

Matteson’s plane hit the water hard, and the Helldiver just disintegrated. I saw only one person getting out of the crash debris. The plane-guard destroyer was ordered to pick up the survivor. The semaphore on the bridge went back to green, and the order of ‘launch aircraft’ proceeded as if nothing had happened. No more than 25 seconds had elapsed. All I thought was, ‘Hell, we’ve lost our first plane for today’s strike, and we haven’t even completed the launch.’

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