June 16

FOR CLARK’S AND HARRILL’S TASK groups, weather off the Bonins only worsened after the first afternoon, which hardly seemed possible. But it was true: Aerology examined the evidence and concluded that a typhoon was inbound. Consequently, flight ops were canceled the morning of the sixteenth, allowing many sailors and all aircrews to get some additional sack time after dawn GQ.

Clark had capped Chichi-Jima with a pair of Hellcat night fighters, preventing any takeoffs before dawn. With miserable weather at sunup the Japanese, not illogically, concluded that no sane aviator would fly during the day, but they reckoned without the combative juices of Joseph J. Clark. Things improved marginally after noon, permitting launches of local patrols and a small strike. Fifty-four planes surprised Iwo, bombing and strafing some sixty aircraft on the field. This time the AA gunners were not so vigilant as before, and they dropped only one Yorktowner. No “meatballs” got airborne, to the disappointment of some Hellcat pilots who missed the previous day’s melee.

Though Harrill stayed, he reckoned he didn’t have to fly. His group launched no strikes.

Getting aboard was another risky venture, but the 58.1 tailhookers were up to the challenge. Just one plane crashed—likely from battle damage—though some staffers attributed the success partly to Jocko Clark’s intercession. Normally twitchy anyway, he watched the recovery from Hornet’s bridge, employing subtle body language to nudge a pilot into the proper groove. Whatever other incantations he employed, they worked. All planes were back by 1710, and the two groups proceeded independently to rendezvous off Saipan.

Preparing for the run south, during the day Clark astonished everyone by ordering his carriers to refuel the “smallboys.” Underway replenishments probably had never been accomplished in a storm approaching typhoon dimensions, though the destroyers bucked the pitching seas and got away with it. Some lines and hoses parted under inordinate strain, but the exceptional seamanship of the U.S. Navy was seldom better demonstrated.

 
Around the task force that day only one snooper was splashed: an Emily by Langley’s VF-32. Farther north, up near Guam, escort carrier fighters bagged a Betty.

Meanwhile, Enterprise’s Killer Kane was shot down by American gunners. Launched early that morning with four fighters and seven bombers, Kane was designated Strike Able’s airborne target coordinator. He took the violent catapult shot into the predawn darkness and, running lights illuminated, joined with wingman Lieutenant Junior Grade Robert F. Kanze for the hundred-mile trip to Saipan.

Approaching the U.S. ships twenty-five miles offshore, Kane and Kanze doused their lights but kept their IFF transponders on: electronic beacons identifying them as friendly on radar. It was still dark below, but wakes were visible beneath the morning clouds.

Then Kane’s world exploded. A five-inch shell erupted beneath his port wing, jarring him so hard that his goggles were knocked off. Obviously radar controlled, the destroyer guns continued firing; nasty gouts of explosions rent the dark sky around him.

Kane prepared to jump. He released his safety harness and slid back the canopy. Then he noticed that he was still flying and his engine was running. Standard procedure took hold: Don’t bail out except for a fire or structural failure. Kane poured the coal to the abused R2800, diving westward to get out of the flak zone, hollering with profane eloquence over the air support net. He even identified himself with his day’s call sign, Cherokee. No good: The flak kept bursting.

Then the Pratt & Whitney died. With zero oil pressure, Kane had no choice but to put the stricken Hellcat down in the water. He hit hard, skipped, then splashed to a stop. He’d been too busy to refasten his restraints and was tossed forward into the gunsight. Nevertheless, the CAG abandoned ship, inflated his small raft, and nursed a bleeding forehead. While awaiting rescue he reviewed everything that had occurred and found no fault of his own. The destroyer crew that hauled him aboard found Commander William R. Kane one cranky aviator. With his head bandaged, he was highlined back to the Big E that afternoon, off flight status until further notice.

That same day the Japanese continued their optimistic ways. One Betty of Naval Air Group 755 and four Jills from Air Group 551 attacked, claiming they sank one cruiser, damaged another, and probably torpedoed a third.

 
Latitude 11 North, longitude 130 East: rendezvous of the far-flung elements of the Mobile Fleet. Some 250 miles east of Samar, well into the Philippine Sea, the first order of business was fueling. Oilers maneuvered into position alongside Vice Admiral Matome Ugaki’s battleships, exchanged pilot lines, then rigged out the big hoses and transferred thousands of barrels of fuel oil. The loss of a destroyer and damage to a tanker two days before did not significantly affect the operation.

With the first phase completed, the tankers turned toward Ozawa’s carrier force. It was a long, laborious process, lasting until the evening of the seventeenth, some 220 miles along the northeasterly track toward Saipan. That chore accomplished, the First Supply Force then diverted to the designated point to link up with the Second Force’s two oilers and escorts, about five hundred miles from the Philippines.

The geometry of the battle was taking shape, proceeding at the stately pace of a fleet oiler.

 
American submarines continued dogging Ozawa’s trail; he simply could not shake them. One was Herman Kossler’s Cavalla, running surfaced late the night of the sixteenth. Radar contact showed a small formation: two oilers and a pair of escorts. Kossler had found Ozawa’s Second Supply Force and turned up the RPMs to get ahead of his quarry. Early in the morning he dived and was ready to shoot, but the alert destroyers were on to him. They drove him down long enough for the oilers to escape.

Kossler reported the contact, expecting to proceed with his patrol. But ComSubPac, Vice Admiral Charles Lockwood, had other ideas. He regarded fleet oilers as worthwhile targets and sent Cavalla back on the hunt. Kossler reversed his helm and gave chase.

It was a valiant but fruitless effort. Aside from an hour’s head start, the supply force was unknowingly aided by Japanese aircraft that twice forced Cavalla under. Kossler and his officers made other plans that would yield spectacular results.