Torpedo 8 drifted back to its quarters. Most of the men puttered, read or played records. Ensign Abercrombie won $45 at poker. Waldron himself wrote a tender note to “Dearest little Ann,” one of his children, and endorsed a small check to his father-in-law. He had already written Adelaide everything he could say: “… I love you and the children very dearly and I long to be with you. But I could not be happy ashore at this time. My place is here with the fight.”
Only Ensign Gay was still busy. As navigation officer he was attending to the last-minute job of getting some charts run off for the rest. Finally it was time to turn in, but he found it hard to sleep. Bulletins on the battle were beginning to come in … the PBYs were out making their midnight attack. Gay felt “a little bit nervous, kind of, like before a football game.”
Throughout the fleet others had the same trouble. On the Enterprise Dick Best slept “like a baby,” but more were like Lieutenant Dickinson of Scouting 6, restlessly visiting back and forth, talking the night away. One thing was true of them all. As Lieutenant Jim Gray, skipper of Fighting 6, has put it: “It is doubtful that there were any atheists in Enterprise on the night of 3 June 1942.”
Through the night and into the first hour of June 4, the U.S. force steamed on, always edging southwest toward Midway. On the Yorktown’s bridge Admiral Fletcher’s staff were “biting their nails” wondering why the Japanese carriers were still unreported—they should be well within Midway’s range by now. “After a battle is over,” Fletcher later remarked, “people talk a lot about how the decisions were methodically reached, but actually there’s always a hell of a lot of groping around.”
He finally decided to launch a search to the north at dawn, just in case the enemy might be sneaking down that way. Certainly they were out there somewhere; everyone knew that by now. Belowdecks, Seaman Melvin Frantz slipped down to his locker and switched his money to his wallet: “By tomorrow night I might be swimming.”
Up in sky control on the Enterprise the assistant gunnery officer, Lieutenant Elias Mott, restlessly flicked on a portable radio. Wherever it happened to break out, he knew battle would be joined in the morning. Maybe a little music and news from home might help. Honolulu came in strong and clear: the news said a leading entertainer had just been commissioned a lieutenant commander. Mott bitterly snapped it off— “That’s all I need from home tonight.”
ACTUALLY, “home” was taking things far more seriously than Lieutenant Mott thought. The Army had never completely given up thinking that the real Japanese target was the West Coast, and tonight was a time of great jitters. Leaves were canceled; West Coast radio stations were silenced for a while; a nine-minute “blue” alert was sounded in the San Francisco Bay area. Radar had picked up an unidentified target 60 miles off the Golden Gate. Whatever it was, it soon faded away, but not the feeling of fear and alarm.
To get early warning of any assault, the Navy’s Western Sea Frontier Command established a picket line of patrol boats and yachts 400 miles off the California coast. Ashore, the Fourth Army and the Western Defense Command urged the public to report immediately any Japanese seen wearing the uniform of an American soldier. There was little chance of mistaken identity, because all Japanese-Americans in uniform had been shifted to other areas, except three men on special duty at Fort Ord.
Conditions were even more tense in Hawaii. By now every one knew “something was up,” and the wilder rumors had a big Japanese fleet heading straight for Pearl Harbor. Army patients were discharged from the hospital at Schofield in anticipation of battle casualties. The Civilian Defense Volunteers were called to duty. General Emmons urged all women and children living in downtown Honolulu to evacuate to a safer place. A strange silence seemed to hang everywhere— a mixture of hope and fear.
At Pearl Harbor the Marine guards manned the machine guns atop the concrete pillars of the Navy Yard gate. Trucks were parked as roadblocks across the entrance before dark. On all ships the gun crews were at their posts.
Shortly after dark there was an A-l, all-out “red” alert. All repairs came to a stop. Workers manned machine guns on the shop roofs: others stood by the fire hoses. The yard was completely blacked out and sealed off. When the graveyard shift came they were told to go home; the swing shift, caught by the alert, sat around in the shelters. They tried to sleep or smoked and talked about the coming invasion.
Behind blackout curtains, the CINCPAC staff worried the night away. Commander Layton found himself thinking of the people he knew on the other side. He wondered what an old friend like Takashi Kanoe was doing right now.
ON THE Hiryu Commander Takashi Kanoe paused briefly before the ship’s shrine outside Captain Kaku’s cabin, then hurried on to the bridge. As executive officer, this was Kanoe’s battle station, and looking down, he could already see the planes warming up in the pre-dawn darkness.
Below decks the ship was springing to life. The fliers were up at 4:00 and had breakfast on trays in the ready room. Normally they had just an action meal before battle, but this time they got the full treatment—rice, soybean soup, pickles, everything. And to top it off there were dry chestnuts and cold sake—a traditional combination served from the earliest times to Japanese warriors entering battle.
The Hiryu’s air officer, Lieutenant Commander Susumu Kawaguchi, had never heard of such a breakfast. All this symbolism suddenly made him take Midway far more seriously. In his final briefing, he made a special plea, urging the pilots to “put their nerve into it.”
Beyond that, there was little to say. The men were all veterans, knew their jobs perfectly, and Kanoe had complete faith in their leader Lieutenant Joichi Tomonaga. A tough, silent, hard-drinking man, Tomonaga was an expert torpedo plane pilot. He had seen no action since Pearl Harbor and was champing at the bit. When he said good-bye to his wife at Beppu, he seemed particularly glad to get aboard the Hiryu and head for battle. Kanbe noticed this, and when Fuchida came down with appendicitis, he immediately thought of Tomonaga as the ideal man to take over. Kanoe put it to his old Academy classmate Commander Minoru Genda, who was Nagumo’s operations officer, and the matter was quickly settled.
The briefing over, the pilots headed for their planes. Overhead a few stars lingered in the sky. It was still quite cloudy, but the eastern horizon glowed orange, promising clear weather ahead.
On all the carriers the scene was much the same … yet as varied as human nature. On the Soryu CPO Mori and his friends engaged in the nervous banter that fighting men find useful at such times. “You’re going to get it today,” someone told Mori. “No, you’re the one,” he retorted exactly as expected. Then they turned to joking about who would end up with each other’s savings accounts. On the Kaga serious, thoughtful CWO Morinaga quietly adjusted his senim bari around his waist. According to ancient tradition, its thousand stitches—each sewn by a different well-wisher—would give him divine protection.
On the flagship Akagi a wobbly Mitsuo Fuchida struggled topside to see them off. Then Commander Genda arrived on the bridge in pajamas; he too had been sick, down with a wretched cold, but was determined to be on hand today. And no one could have been more welcome. Admiral Nagumo depended enormously—some said too much—on the brilliant mind of his operations officer. On practically any subject Nagumo accepted Genda’s recommendations without question. Indeed, cynics referred to the striking force as “Genda’s fleet.’’ But his appearance at this moment was a shot in the arm for them all. In a rare display of sentiment by that dour old sailor, Nagumo threw his arm around the Commander’s shoulder.
“All hands to launching stations,” blared the Akagi’s loudspeaker.
“Start engines.”
A sudden roar, and the soft gray of dawn blazed with unexpected color. Exhausts flared white … wing lights flicked on, red and blue … floodlights bathed the yellow flight deck. “Commence launching,” ordered the bridge, and the air officer Commander Shogo Masuda swung his green signal lamp in a great arc over his head.
Lieute
nant Shirane’s Zero crawled forward … gathered speed … thundered down the deck and into the air. Eight more fighters followed, then 18 dive bombers. As Lieutenant Chihaya’s plane flashed by, he had his canopy open and waved to the cheering men on deck.
The other carriers were launching too, their planes orbiting slowly around the fleet till they were all in formation. From the Hiryu’s bridge, the ship’s only passenger watched with more than academic interest. He was Lieutenant Commander Asaichi Tamai, appointed to command the air wing of the new naval base to be established at Midway.
By 4:45 they were all formed up and on their way—36 level bombers from the Hiryu and Soryu; 36 dive bombers from the Akagi and Kaga; 36 fighters, 9 from each carrier. Heading southeast, they soon faded into the brightening sky. All was quiet again on the carriers, but not for long. Orders went out to prepare the second attack wave—Nagumo’s insurance policy in case a U.S. fleet unexpectedly turned up. In total strength these reserves matched the force now winging toward Midway. The main difference lay in the arming. This time the level bombers would carry torpedoes, and the dive bombers would switch to armor-piercing missiles for use against ships. It all added up to 36 dive bombers from the Hiryu and Soryu; 36 torpedo planes from the. Akagi and Kaga; and, again, 36 fighters from all four carriers.
In the first rays of the morning sun, the elevators brought the new planes up … flight deck crews wheeled them into position … mechanics shackled on the torpedoes. The pilots stood by, loafing and relaxed. It seemed almost a waste to hold back so many good men this way—Lieutenant Takashige Egusa on the Soryu was the finest dive-bomber pilot in the Navy—but Nagumo wanted to be safe. Anybody could bomb an island, but a moving ship took skill. As long as there was any chance of the Americans appearing, however unlikely, he wanted to have his best men available.
On the same unlikely chance, he had also ordered search planes to scout generally eastward for 300 miles. There were only seven of them—a motley collection from five different ships—and they had to cover an arc of 165°, but nobody was taking this effort too seriously. Nagumo remained convinced that there were no U.S. carriers around, and Genda had a reputation for always slicing reconnaissance rather thin. Every plane used for patrol work meant one less for the slashing attacks that were his specialty.
Today the search also had a ragged start. The planes were meant to leave at 4:30, same as the Midway strike, but it didn’t work out quite that way. The cruiser Tone, which was contributing her No. 1 and No. 4 float planes, had catapult trouble, and that held her up awhile. But finally all was fixed, and at 5:00 A.M. the Tone’s No. 4 plane—last of the seven to leave—soared eastward into the sunrise. It was a half hour late, but to Lieutenant Takeda, the Tone’s hard-working air officer, that shouldn’t make very much difference.
IT WAS breakfast as usual—almost—in the Enterprise wardroom, as the U.S. fleet hovered 200 miles north and slightly east of Midway. Although only 1:30 A.M., Steward Collins had everything ready. Lieutenant Best had his invariable shirred eggs … Lieutenant Gray had his “one-eyed sandwich”—an Enterprise specialty consisting of a slice of toast holed to accommodate a fried egg.
For some of the old hands it seemed like any other day. But for others it was different. Lieutenant Commander Wade McClusky, leading the Enterprise Air Group, felt the usual quips were missing; a hushed note of expectancy hung over the room. On the other hand, Commander Fox sensed a note of nervous gaiety. In any case, as supply officer, Fox knew for a fact that appetites were below par.
As McClusky sampled his scrambled, eggs, he was surprised to see Lieutenant Commander Gene Lindsey slide into the seat beside him. Skipper of Torpedo 6, Lindsey had cracked up coming in the other day. Fished out of the Pacific with a badly wrenched back, he was meant to be sidelined indefinitely. Now here he was, not only up but planning to fly in a spare torpedo plane. When one of his pilots asked how he felt, Lindsey obliquely replied, “This is the real thing today, the thing we have trained for, and I will take my squadron in.”
Breakfast over, the pilots drifted off to their ready rooms. There was one for each squadron on every carrier, and they looked more like classrooms than anything else—rows of seats with writing arm attached, a blackboard up front for the latest dope on position, wind, course, target and the all-important “Point Option” where the ship could be found again after a strike. There was also a teletype machine that clacked out bulletins which were projected on a screen.
At the moment there was little on the blackboard and the teletype, was silent—Nagumo’s force still hadn’t been found. On all three carriers the pilots hauled out their plotting boards from drawers under their seats, checked a few odds and ends, then sat back and waited. Cards and paperbacks appeared. Seats were adjustable, and a man like Ensign Whitey Moore of Torpedo 8 was soon leaning back, grabbing a little extra sleep—he could never get enough.
Commander Waldron slipped down to the Hornet’s wardroom for morning coffee with Commander Ed Creehan, the ship’s engineering officer. They were old Annapolis classmates, and this was a daily custom. Today Waldron was in an exalted mood—Torpedo 8 would at last have a crack at the enemy. He said he was going to “get a Jap carrier” or he wouldn’t be back.
The minutes crawled by. On the Yorktown Ensign Charles Lane of Bombing 3 decided to leave behind his Clemson ring and Hamilton watch in case he didn’t return. On the Enterprise Commander McClusky began assembling his flight gear in the little office he used outside the squadron ready rooms. At this point his regular rear-seat man stumbled in to report he had just broken his glasses. Of all times. McClusky put in a hurried call to Bombing 6 for a spare gunner who didn’t need glasses, and in a few moments a bright-looking lad named Chochalousek appeared. He had no combat experience, but he was just out of aerial gunnery school—welcome news on this particular day.
The U.S. force continued southwest—the Yorktown trailing about ten miles behind the Enterprise and Hornet. On the Yorktown’s bridge Admiral Fletcher still wondered where Nagumo could be. He had sent out his “just-in-case” search to the north, but there was no word from that direction. No word from the Midway planes either.
LIEUTENANT Ady was an hour out of Midway now, and still no sign of the Japanese. “Elected” to patrol the all-important 315° segment, so far he was having a milk run. The big PBY droned on, the long rays of the rising sun lighting the broken clouds ahead.
Then around 5:10 a small seaplane came whistling along from out of the west. It was on an opposite course and didn’t swerve an inch—just hurried on toward Midway about 120 miles away. Ady radioed the single word “aircraft,” then followed it up with a longer description.
To the crew in the PBY, it meant only one thing: the Japanese fleet must be close. On they flew through occasional squalls. By 5:30 the weather was clearing “upstairs,” but there were still some cloud banks near the water. As Ady approached one of these, two aircraft carriers burst through from the other side—just 20 miles away and steaming directly toward him. It was, he thought, like a curtain going up at the theater.
In the next patrol sector to the south, Lieutenant William Chase had also spent an uneventful first hour. His PBY was flying about 15 minutes behind Ady’s, but the sunrise, the clouds, even the coffee were much the same. Then around 5:40—probably just after Ady discovered his carriers—Chase found something too. There to the north was a huge formation of fighters and bombers flying toward Midway. Standard procedure called for a carefully encoded contact report, but this was no time for that. In plain English, he shot off a fast warning: “MANY PLANES HEADING MIDWAY, BEARING 320, DISTANCE 150.”
“THAT’S him!” Relief, excitement, elation, anticipation were all mingled together in Admiral Spruance’s first reaction, as news of the contact reached him on the flying bridge of the Enterprise. It was the same on the Yorktown, where Admiral Fletcher thankfully realized the long wait was over.
So the Japanese carriers were found … but where? The first brief contact r
eports were agonizingly sketchy. Task Forces 16 and 17 were both tuned to the PBY frequencies, so there was no delay, but there was certainly confusion. For one thing, the fact was quickly lost that two different PBYs were reporting two different sightings; messages were mixed together. making for inconsistencies. More important, there was nothing yet on enemy course and speed—absolutely vital for launching an attack.
LIEUTENANT Ady was doing his best. After that electrifying discovery of the carriers, he veered to the left, circling slowly around the Japanese fleet. He used the clouds as much as he could, sending back bits of information as fast as he gathered it: “5:34, enemy carriers” … “5:40, ED 180, sight 320°” … “5:52, two carriers and main body of ships, carriers in front, course 135, speed 25.”
That was enough. Somehow the full picture didn’t reach the Yorktown’s bridge until 6:03, But once in hand Admiral Fletcher lost no time. At 6:07 he signaled Spruance, “Proceed southwesterly and attack enemy carriers when definitely located. Will follow as soon as search planes recovered.”
Task. Force 16 plunged forward at 25 knots. On all ships general quarters began sounding—at 6:15, the harsh staccato of the buzzer on the Enterprise; at 6:26, the urgent clang of the Hornet’s gong. It varied from ship to ship but the effect was always the same: the scrambling, the pounding of feet, and always in the background the insistent clamor of the alarm itself.
ON SAND ISLAND the powerhouse whistle blasted away; the siren on Eastern added its wail. Private Love, just lining up for chow, dropped all thoughts of breakfast and raced for his antiaircraft battery. Lieutenant Donald Cooksey, 6th Battalion dental officer, rushed to his first-aid post, well aware of Colonel Shannon’s sharp reminder, “A dead or wounded doctor is no damn good to me.” In his Eastern Island dugout Captain W. M. Bell, platoon leader of I Battery, recalled an old Marine dictum that it was an officer’s duty to look calm and well-groomed at all times. He carefully shaved, dressed, and sipped a glass of pineapple juice before going to his platoon.