LIEUTENANT Rokuro Kikuchi knew the end had come. The antiaircraft guns had found the range; now his horizontal bomber was bathed in fire and falling out of line. He pulled back the canopy and waved a last good-bye to his friends from the Hiryu.
The ground fire was far worse than expected. Not especially accurate—it rarely was—but the tremendous volume was enough to throw everyone off a little. Lieutenant Tomonaga’s lead bomber took a near-miss at the moment of release, jarring the plane and hurting its accuracy. More serious, another burst punctured the left-wing gas tank.
Looking down, Lieutenant Hashimoto was fascinated by the activity below—especially the little PT boats that scurried around like water bugs on the ponds back home. But above all he noticed one thing: there were no planes left at Midway. The Japanese had attacked “an empty target.” It reminded him of the way a snake sheds its skin; here the snake had crawled away, leaving only the cast-off skin behind.
Well, they must make the best of it. As planned, the Hiryu and Kaga units concentrated on Sand Island while the Soryu and Akagi took care of Eastern. If one could forget there were no planes, the results were not at all bad. Lieutenant Hashimoto’s own squadron got a good hit among the oil tanks on Sand, and Lieutenant Ogawa’s dive bombers really pasted the seaplane hangar. On Eastern, CPO Mori at first feared his bomb had missed—it seemed to land in some bushes—but a great explosion went up; so maybe he did some good after all.
By 6:48 they’d done all they could and were on their way to their rendezvous point. A few Zeros lingered, perhaps looking for some last easy kill, but by 7:01 they too were gone—disappearing, as they had come, into the northwest.
FOR PFC Morris McCoy at E Battery, the sudden silence was worse than the bombs and the gunfire. Major Warner, the Air Force man, had never known such an eerie quiet. No sound whatsoever, except the occasional wail of a tern, or the mournful honk of a gooney bird.
In the dugouts the men waited … and waited … then cautiously began to emerge, blinking in the bright morning sun. Almost the first thing Ensign Jacoby saw was the wreckage of the Japanese plane that crashed near the entrance of Captain Simard’s command post. The pilot’s body was lying nearby, a symbolic Rising Sun flag tied around his waist. It was the very first “enemy” Jacoby had ever seen, but with the foe right before him, his mood was empty of hate. It was just another man, whose teeth were pushed in the way his would have been, had the tables been somehow reversed.
The all-clear sounded at 7:15, and Midway began to pick up the pieces. On Eastern Island Colonel Kimes radioed his VMF-221 pilots: “Fighters land, refuel by divisions, 5th Division first.”
There was no answer. Kimes tried again. Still no answer. After trying several more times he began to understand, and new orders were sent: “All fighters land and reservice.”
One by one they straggled in—six altogether. Added to the four that crash-landed during the raid, it meant only ten had survived the fight … and only two of these were in shape to fly. VMF-221 was virtually wiped out: of the 25 planes that took on the Japanese, 23 were shot down or put out of action.
“It is my belief,” Captain Philip White observed in his action report, “that any commander that orders pilots out for combat in an F2A-3 [Brewster Buffalo] should consider the pilot as lost before leaving the ground.” Understandably bitter, yet a commander must fight with what his country gives him.
In any case, VMF-221 was gone. Nor was that all. The thick black smoke rolling skyward told the story on Sand Island’s fuel tanks, and the seaplane hangar was burning too. The Navy dispensary was a total loss; other buildings like the parachute loft were badly damaged. In the shell of the laundry, a five-gallon glass water cooler stood majestically intact amid the rubble and shredded shirts.
On Eastern the CP, the powerhouse, the mess hall and PX were all demolished, but what really hurt were the gas lines. True, they were always breaking down, but now some bomber had finished them for good—just when they were needed the most. Colonel Kimes shuddered to think of the bucket brigade he’d have to organize to refuel those thirsty B-17s.
Casualties were a happier story. Colonel Shannon’s reproduction of the western front had paid off well. Thanks to all his sandbags and dugouts, there were only 11 dead and 18 wounded among the islands’ defenders.
Best of all was the way they handled their planes. Only one was caught on the ground—an obsolete biplane used for utility work. The only other aircraft lost was a decoy plane made of packing crates and tin roofing. Dubbed the “JFU” (“Jap Fouler-Upper”), it played its role to perfection.
So they were still in business; But Midway’s biggest fear lay in what was yet to come. When would the Japanese be back? What would they bring next time? Were the battleships and transports just over the horizon, waiting to close in? Even the cheerful Dr. Ady, casting aside his jokes and bad coffee, grabbed a Springfield rifle and headed for the beach.
Two miles offshore a highly interested observer enjoyed the morning’s events—the antiaircraft puffs, the diving planes, the column of smoke rolling up. Commander Tanabe was still watching Midway from the Japanese submarine I-168. He was, of course, at the periscope, and from this vantage point he gave the crew a running account of the whole attack. They were overjoyed, and a great cheer rang out when he described the fuel tanks blowing up.
Leading the air strike, Lieutenant Tomonaga knew better. It didn’t matter that the damage was great; it didn’t matter that the losses were small. What did matter was Midway’s air strength… and that was still intact. Somehow the Americans had suspected something and cleared the field. Well, they couldn’t stay up forever. Soon they’d have to land and refuel… .
At 7:00, as the Japanese planes turned for home, Tomonaga radioed the First Carrier Striking Force: “THERE IS NEED FOR A SECOND ATTACK.”
CHAPTER 6
The Target Attacks
COMMANDER GENDA WASN’T SURPRISED by Tomonaga’s call for another attack. From an earlier message he rather suspected it might be necessary. And as Nagumo’s operations officer, he had no hesitation recommending the step.
The Striking Force had been at sea more than a week, and not a word of warning about any U.S. ships. The morning’s search planes had been out two hours, and they hadn’t found anything either. Even the Tone’s No. 4 plane—the late one—must be on its return leg by now. With no sign of the American fleet, it was folly to hoard the reserve air strength any longer. They should use it to finish off Midway.
Admiral Kusaka hesitated. Nagumo’s chief of staff was always prepared to carry out a second strike—if the U.S. Navy wasn’t around. So far everyone had assumed it wasn’t, but nobody really knew. Until now it hadn’t been crucial. If wrong, they could adjust—but no longer. These were the only reserves. He suddenly felt “a little like a hunter chasing two hares at once.” There was the United States fleet to catch … now there was this call for another go at Midway.
As he talked it over with Genda and Admiral Nagumo, the Striking Force raced on toward a point about 140 miles northwest of Midway. Here it expected to start recovering Tomonaga’s planes a little after 8:00 A.M. The force was steaming in regular battle disposition: the carriers formed a sort of square box—Akagi leading on the right, followed by Kaga; Hiryu leading on the left, followed by Soryu—with the screen of battleships, cruisers and destroyers deployed around in a large, loose circle.
The crew were all at battle stations … had been since 5:32 when the Nagara first sighted that PBY. They never managed to shoot it down—or another that joined it—and plenty of contact reports must have gone back to Midway. Now there was nothing to do but wait and watch. On the Akagi alone, 20 lookouts stood on top of the bridge scanning the sky.
At 7:05 everything seemed to happen at once: a destroyer up forward hoisted a flag signal; the Tone’s main battery opened fire; the Akagi’s bugler began sounding the air-raid alarm… .
ENSIGN Earnest understood that the six TBFs would rendezvous, link up with
the Marine bombers and fighters, and all go out together—but it wasn’t that way at all. Once clear of Midway, the dashing Lieutenant Fieberling turned northwest and led his torpedo planes straight for the Japanese position.
About five minutes out there was a moment’s excitement when they met an enemy fighter inbound for Midway. The Japanese made a single pass and continued on. The TBFs didn’t even shoot back; they too had other business. Still, here was the enemy. Feeling they had been “blooded” and passed the test, Earnest and Ensign Charles Brannon, flying alongside, exchanged a salute, playfully spoofing the squadron’s clenched-fist insignia.
They hurried on. For nearly an hour nothing happened—just a quiet trip at 4,000 feet through occasional puffy clouds. Around 7:00 Earnest noted what looked like a nondescript steamer plodding along below. Then another … then no end of them. He never saw anything like it. They were literally spread all over the ocean. In the distance he could make out two carriers steaming side by side and behind them still more ships—too far away to tell what they were. He had little time to drink it all in. Even as he called out the contact, his turret gunner Jay Manning warned that enemy fighters were closing in. At the same moment Lieutenant Fieberling signaled, and they all headed full throttle toward the two carriers. It was a long way down to 150 feet, with the Zeros snapping at them all the way.
At the second enemy pass, Manning’s turret gun stopped firing. Working the tunnel gun, Radioman Harry Ferrier looked back over his shoulder. He was horrified to see Manning’s body slumped at his post. In all his 18 years, Ferrier had never seen death before, and here in a single shattering instant he was staring right at it. All at once, he felt very scared and old.
He turned back to his own gun, only to find it useless. By now the TBF’s hydraulic system was shot away, dropping the tail wheel and blocking his field of fire. Another burst raked the plane, and a bullet tore through the bill of the baseball cap he was wearing. It creased his scalp, and he fell back dazed.
In the cockpit Ensign Earnest was having his own troubles. First the radio went … next the compass … then the controls began to go. He glanced out the canopy—large holes appeared in the wing. A sliver of shrapnel caught his right jaw and there was blood everywhere.
At 200 feet he was still boring in, when another burst got the elevator wires. The stick went limp; nothing responded, and Earnest was sure this was the end. There was no hope left of getting the carrier—no hope of coming out alive—but he still had rudder control, and he would do something with that. He gave it a hard kick and swerved toward the only Japanese ship near him, a three-stack light cruiser. He let the torpedo go.
Now he was down to 30 feet and steeling himself for the crash. At this point some instinct made him put his hand on the wing tab—perhaps to adjust for hitting the water—In a flash he realized he could fly the plane this way, even if the stick was gone. As he later put it, “Suddenly it was a brand new ball game.”
He zipped up and away from the scene. The Zeros, having written him off, were gone. Looking back, Earnest couldn’t see what had happened to his torpedo or to the other TBFs. He was all alone. He had no compass, no radio, and was on the far side of the Japanese fleet. But he hadn’t come this far to give up now. He headed for the morning sun, as Ferrier—the old man at 18—crawled up through the wreckage and nestled down behind him.
CLOSE behind the TBFs—so close he could see them going in for their attack—Captain Collins led his four B-26s. They too had flown out on their own: no rendezvous, no plans to work with the TBFs, B-17s or the Marines. They simply got their target and here they were.
The first thing Lieutenant Muri saw was some smoke on the horizon … then many destroyers … and there went his hopes for an easy morning. Studying the situation, he plucked a Chesterfield from a can he kept at his feet and put it in his mouth.
He was still fumbling for a match when a horde of Zeros appeared from nowhere. Captain Collins held his course, heading for the carriers he could now see at the center of the Japanese formation. Trouble was, the carriers were too well protected on the near side. It was necessary to curl around to their starboard to get a good crack at them. And that meant hedge-hopping a whole line of escorting destroyers.
But it had to be done. Veering to the left, Collins led his group over the escort, through a curtain of antiaircraft fire. Then hard to the right again, and straight for the carriers. As they raced in at 200 feet, an unknown voice yelled out in one plane, “Boy, if mother could see me now!”
There was no formal attack plan—not even time for assignments—the four planes just made a mad rush at the leading carrier. Collins alternately climbed and dropped, throwing the Japanese aim off, and Muri did his best to follow. Now they were in the middle of the formation; as Muri’s co-pilot Lieutenant Pete Moore glanced quickly around, every ship seemed a solid sheet of gunfire. The Japanese gunners would shoot at the water to see where the bullets hit. Using the splashes as tracers they would “walk” their fire right into the B-26s.
But they came on anyhow. Collins finally released at 800 yards and zoomed away to the right. Muri came hard behind, with the Zeros flying right into their own fleet’s line of fire in a desperate effort to stop him. Bullets smashed the Plexiglas turret; a ricochet clipped Sergeant Gogoj’s forehead.
Muri shouted to Moore to release the torpedo. But the improvised switch was something that Rube Goldberg might have invented—a trigger, a cable, a plug with innumerable prongs. Moore frantically squeezed the trigger, twisted the plug, still couldn’t tell whether the torpedo was gone.
“Is it away?” Muri kept shouting.
“How the hell do I know?” Moore answered.
Keeping one hand on the controls, Muri fiddled with the plug and trigger too. They never felt the welcome surge of the plane rising, relieved of the torpedo. Later they learned that at some point they had indeed released it.
Right now, they could only hope, and there wasn’t much time to do that. They were almost on top of the carrier. Banking hard, Muri flew straight down the middle of the flight deck. His bombardier Lieutenant Russ Johnson grabbed the nose gun and strafed in all directions. They had a brief, vivid glimpse of white-clad sailors scattering for cover.
Pulling out, Muri caught a fleeting glimpse of Lieutenant Herbie Mayes’s plane boring in too. It came all the way, almost hit the carrier, careened into the sea alongside. None of the group ever saw what happened to the fourth B-26.
No time to look, either. The Zeros were diving at them again. They riddled the landing gear, the fuel tanks, the propeller blades, the radio, the entire top edge of one wing. They wounded Pfc Ashley in the tail turret and Corporal Mello at the side guns. With an extra surge of effort Mello crawled up to the cockpit, covered with blood, to report the plane was on fire and “everybody’s hit back there.” Lieutenant Moore scrambled back, put out the fires, gave sulfa to Ashley and manned a gun.
At one point Muri thought to himself that the plane was really gone, and he’d rather splash than be shot down in flames. He moved to ditch the ship, but as sometimes happens, an extra ounce of reserve spirit seemed to grasp him and hold back his hand.
Finally the fighters broke off. Heading for Midway, Muri realized he still hadn’t lit the cigarette he put in his mouth just when the Zeros struck. But it was almost too late now. In his excitement, he had bitten it in two and swallowed half of it.
Thinking back, it was ironic that the only moment he felt safe was when he was directly over the Japanese carrier. Flying down her flight deck, he was simply too close to be shot at. Even so, it was anything but comforting to see that large Japanese battle flag streaming from her mast. After all those newsreels, here it really was. Nothing ever looked bigger.
LIEUTENANT Ogawa couldn’t get over how big the white star looked on those B-26s. So much larger than he expected. Until these American torpedo planes appeared, he had spent an easy morning policing the skies above the Striking Force with two other Zeros in his unit. The PBY
s were gone—at least temporarily—and they had little to do but orbit with similar units from the other three carriers.
Then unexpectedly Ogawa’s No. 2 man began firing his machine guns to attract attention. Ogawa looked and saw two separate flights of torpedo planes approaching through a hole in the clouds. The rest of the Combat Air Patrol saw them too, and Zeros began diving from all directions. Most piled into the leading flight of six TBFs; the rest, including Ogawa’s unit, headed for the other four American planes: the B-26s with the big white stars.
The carrier crews watched in excitement as the Zeros methodically picked off the TBFs. On the Akagi a storm of hand-clapping went up with every splash. It was almost like a theater audience watching a superbly skillful performance—which in a sense it was. None of the TBFs got close enough to make an effective drop, and five of the six were shot down well clear of the carriers.
With the B-26s it was another matter. The Zeros got on them, but they had more speed than anyone guessed, and they really knew how to use it. One of them fell, but the others kept coming … right at the Akagi, leading the right side of the box formation. But the Hiryu was in danger too, and on both ships men watched breathlessly as the torpedoes dropped. Happily they were very slow. The Hiryu, especially, dodged them easily—some sailors even picked one off with a machine gun.
The highly exposed Akagi had more trouble. At 7:11 Captain Aoki gave her a hard right rudder, heading into the approaching planes. As the first one dropped, he made a full turn to escape a torpedo to starboard, then another full turn to escape a second torpedo to port. All within two minutes.
More was to come. As the B-26s pulled out, heavy strafing ripped the Akagi’s deck, killed two men, knocked out the No. 3 AA gun, cut the transmitting antenna. And just when it looked as if the danger was over, the last B-26 didn’t pull out at all: instead it hurtled straight for the Akagi’s bridge. No one saw how it could miss. Admiral Kusaka felt sure they were done for. He instinctively ducked as the plane came right at him. But it didn’t hit: it cleared the bridge by inches, cartwheeling into the sea just off the port side. The whole bridge let out a yell of relief that meant the same in any language: “Wow!”