By 8:20 the danger was over. The B-17s flew off; the Soryu and Hiryu emerged untouched; and the orbiting planes waited for the signal to start landing. On the Akagi Admiral Nagumo had good reason to feel satisfied. Four times the Americans had attacked; four times they were beaten off. For over an hour the Striking Force had taken everything the enemy could give—and every ship remained intact.
At this moment a new message arrived for Nagumo from the Tone’s No. 4 plane, still shadowing the U.S. task force: “The enemy is accompanied by what appears to be a carrier bringing up the rear.”
This was a stunning surprise. The last thing, anyone expected. Originally—when the Tone’s plane first reported the American force—Admiral Kusaka had half-suspected there might be a carrier out there. But that was 52 minutes ago. Surely if there was one, the pilot would have seen it almost right away—nobody could miss anything that big for long. Yet the fellow had sent several messages since then, and never a hint of a carrier. Now here he was saying there was one after all.
No more thoughts about a second attack on Midway. They must strike that carrier instead. The only question was when. Should they attack immediately? Or should they wait till they switched the second wave back to torpedoes and armor-piercing bombs? Or until they recovered Tomonaga’s planes? Or until they refueled the fighters that had been flying air cover? Or maybe some combination of these possibilities?
Nagumo’s staff had barely posed these questions when one more unexpected development occurred. Still another group of American planes—the fifth that morning—was sighted flying toward them.
IT ALL seemed remote and unreal to Lieutenant Ringblom, approaching at 13,000 feet with Major Norris’s group of 11 Marine Vindicators. Just out of flight school, fresh from the states, it was hard to believe that here he was, flying against a real enemy. He was too inexperienced to appreciate his predicament either, pitting this ancient plane against the First Carrier Striking Force.
But his education was beginning. At 8:17 he sighted the Japanese ships through the broken clouds, and almost immediately three Zeros turned up. They seemed to be toying with the Vindicators as they nonchalantly did vertical rolls right through the formation.
Getting down to business, one of them poured a few bursts into Lieutenant Daniel Cummings’s plane, last in the Marine group. Cummings heard his gunner stop firing and called to him, but there was no answer. Nor could one have been expected. Private Henry I. Starks of Springfield, Illinois, was really a mechanic, not a gunner. But during the great buildup Colonel Kimes had run out of gunners, and Starks had volunteered. When he climbed into Cummings’s plane that morning, he had never fired a machine gun in the air, and had only been in the plane three times. He had no chance to learn to be a good shot, or even protect himself, but he died, giving his best.
As more Zeros arrived, Major Norris led his men on a fast shallow dive toward some clouds. On the far side was a line of ships—no one could say what type. Sweeping down into the overcast, he radioed his order to attack and calmly instructed every one that the way home would be 140°; expect to get there around 9:00.
Bursting out of the clouds at 2,000 feet, Norris found a battleship and cruiser directly below. There was also a carrier on the horizon, but the Japs were throwing everything at him, and he figured he could never reach it. Picking the battleship instead, he peeled off into a much steeper dive. Everyone else followed.
Plunging down, Lieutenant Ringblom had a fleeting impression of orange gun flashes all over the ship. Tracers whipped by; balls of black smoke everywhere. To his astonishment, he saw identical round holes, about six inches in diameter, appear in each of his ailerons. Some enemy gunner had fused the shells for the wrong altitude, and they had passed right through without exploding.
One after another the Marines released at 500 feet, then skimmed away, hugging the water for protection. Pulling out, Lieutenant Sumner Whitten found himself between two lines of Japanese ships. All were firing hard, some aiming their main batteries at the sea to make a wall of water that might slap down low-flying planes. To his gunner, Sergeant Frank Zelnis, Whitten was staying around much too long—he seemed to be almost sight-seeing. Zelnis finally called out, “You dropped your bombs; let’s get the hell out of here before we get hit.”
Still sticking close to the water, the Marines headed for home. For 20 minutes Lieutenant Ringblom was never higher than 50 feet above the sea. A Zero trailed behind, making occasional passes, but Ringblom somehow escaped. Certainly it must have been luck, for he tried no tactics at all. He flew a straight steady line all the way. He was now much better educated in war, but still too scared and ignorant as a pilot to even look back.
CAPTAIN Tamotsu Takama handled the Haruna beautifully. The Americans pressed home their attack, yet the old battleship managed to dodge everything. Two near-misses were logged at 8:29, but the damage control officer Lieutenant Commander Yoshino reported they were nothing to worry about.
On the Akagi’s bridge, Admiral Kusaka once again felt a surge of relief. For the fifth time they had come safely through an American attack. And what a variety! Torpedo planes, B-26s. B-17s, those curious glide bombers. And as if these weren’t enough, a submarine was reported to be poking around too. It all made Kusaka think of Hiruko-Daikokuten, the legendary Japanese demon with three heads and six arms.
It was hard to concentrate on other matters, but a new message from the Tone’s No. 4 plane made it more imperative than ever to do something about that American carrier lurking to the east. At 8:30 the search pilot reported two more cruisers a little to the west of the ships sighted earlier, and trailing them by perhaps 20 miles. It suggested the possibility of an additional enemy task force. Yet most of the second wave were still equipped with land bombs; the torpedo planes were still belowdecks; Tomonaga’s force was still waiting to come in; the fighters were still low on fuel. What was best to do?
“Consider it advisable to launch attack force immediately,” signaled Rear Admiral Tamon Yamaguchi from the Hiryu shortly after 8:30. Yamaguchi was leading the Second Carrier Division (Hiryu and Soryu), and he found it incredible that Nagumo had done nothing yet. He knew what he would do: strike immediately with everything that would fly. Whether they carried the right kind of bombs, whether they had torpedoes or not, whether they had fighters or no fighters—nothing meant as much as getting in that first blow.
His reaction was predictable. Yamaguchi was one of those aggressive young leaders who embodied the new spirit of the Imperial Navy. Hand-picked from the start, he had been carefully brought along every inch of his career—including duty in Washington and graduate courses at an American university (in his case, Princeton). Now gossip had him someday succeeding the great Yamamoto as Chief of the Combined Fleet. Even so, in the strait-laced Japanese Navy it took a rare degree of independence—and exasperation—to indicate so openly his impatience with his chief.
He was willing to take that risk too. Flashed by the Hiryu’s blinker, his message was quickly picked up by the destroyer Nowaki … relayed to the Akagi … and delivered to the Chief of Staff Admiral Kusaka.
No, thought Kusaka, it would just be throwing away planes to follow Yamaguchi’s advice. Launching an attack immediately meant sending the bombers alone, for the fighters had all been used up protecting the carriers, and to send bombers without fighter support was really inviting disaster. Look what had happened to the unescorted American planes during the past hour and a half.
Instead of going off half-cocked, it would be far wiser, he felt, to delay a little and do the job right. First, recover both Tomonaga’s planes and the second-attack-wave fighters that had been diverted to combat air patrol … next, rearm and refuel them all. And while that was going on, they could also be switching the second wave back to torpedoes and armor-piercing bombs. With proper coordination, they could then launch everything at once for an all-out assault on the U.S. task force. This was his recommendation to Admiral Nagumo.
In the end, as always
, Nagumo turned to Commander Genda. What did he think? Genda was most concerned about the planes just back from Midway, now orbiting above the carriers. They had been in the air four hours—all were nearly out of gas. They should be recovered before anything else was done—and that included launching this new attack.
If Tomonaga’s planes splashed with empty tanks, scores of top pilots would be lost, affecting not only Midway but the whole schedule of operations planned for the months ahead. On the other hand, it would delay matters only 30 minutes to recover this force. Then they could go ahead with the second attack, supported by such fighters as might be ready at that time. So he too was against Yamaguchi’s recommendation.
As usual when Genda spoke, there was no dissent.
“Here we go again,” laughed Commander Shogo Masuda, air officer on the Akagi, as orders came to clear the flight deck and rearm once more. On all four carriers the hangar deck crews, in T-shirts and shorts, swarmed over the planes, unloading the bombs they had just put on. Dollies rolled up with the torpedoes and armor-piercing bombs again, and the job began of shackling them back in place. There was no time for routine procedures—or even precautions. As the land bombs were taken off, nobody took them back to the magazines. They were simply rolled out of the way and left lying on the deck.
With the flight decks cleared, the four carriers turned into the wind. At 8:37 signal flags flew from every mast, telling Tomanaga’s planes to start coming in. On the Hiryu a bomber wobbled down to a one-wheeled landing, the pilot passing out as it rolled to a stop. Though shot in the leg by an American fighter, Lieutenant Hiroharu Kadano had somehow managed to keep formation, make his run and get back anyhow.
Another bomber circled the Kaga, its landing gear still up. The crew waved red flags, everything, at the pilot, but he seemed so slow to understand. Finally he did get the point, lowered his wheels and came on in. When the plane stopped, they found Air Petty Officer Tanaka half-conscious and shot in the head. Spirit alone must have carried him back.
And, of course, there were those who didn’t get back at all—11 altogether.
Climbing down from his bomber on the Soryu, CPO Juzo Mori joined the other pilots on the flight deck just below the bridge. They stood around swapping experiences, while the division commander Lieutenant Abe went up to report to Captain Yanagimoto.
Nobody had time to listen. All the officers were busy preparing to attack the American carrier. The Midway report could wait. On the Soryu the air officer simply told CWO Tatsuya Otawa that he’d better get something to eat right away … he’d be needed again soon enough. Even Lieutenant Tomonaga, commanding the whole attack, found it hard to make his report. Going to the Hiryu’s bridge with Lieutenant Hashimoto, he found both Captain Kaku and Admiral Yamaguchi absorbed in plans for the new strike. Shrugging off Nagumo’s blunt rejection of his advice, Yamaguchi was now trying to get the Hiryu’s and Soryu’s horizontal bombers (just back from Midway) reloaded with torpedoes. They could then serve as still another attack wave against the U.S. task force.
It was no time to listen to a battle report. He quickly drafted Tomonaga and Hashimoto into the new project, and they rushed off to set the wheels in motion. Hopefully they could have the planes rearmed, refueled and ready to go again by 11:00.
On the Akagi, Admiral Nagumo breathed more easily. The box formation was tightening up again, gradually releasing the extra fighters from air cover duty. They were now being refueled and resupplied with ammunition. The shift back to torpedoes was well under way. The Midway strike planes were coming in smoothly. The Chikuma was going to send out four search planes to replace the Tone’s No. 4 plane, and thus keep a firm eye on the enemy.
Meanwhile the Tone’s pilot was still on the job. At 8:55 he radioed, “Ten enemy torpedo planes heading toward you,” but this made little impression. Nagumo was too busy planning his own next step. At the same moment the Akagi’s blinker was flashing a confident message from the Admiral to the rest of the Striking Force; “After completing homing operations, proceed northward. We plan to contact and destroy the enemy task force.”
Nagumo also radioed his intentions to Admiral Yamamoto, coming on with the Main Force about 450 miles to the rear. Telescoping his exchanges with the Tone’s plane into one over-simplified paragraph, Nagumo reported: “Enemy composed of 1 carrier, 5 cruisers, and 5 destroyers sighted at 8 A.M. in position bearing 10 degrees; distance 240 miles from AF. We are heading for it.”
Everything was falling into place. Shortly after 9:00 the last of Tomonaga’s planes were recovered, and at 9:17 the Striking Force made a 70° change in course to the northeast. To save time the ships did not turn in formation, but swung left in their tracks—thus the “box” of carriers now found the Hiryu leading the Akagi on the right side, the Soryu leading the Kaga on the left.
Admiral Nagumo was nearly ready. All ships had reported; everything was set. The second wave would conform to Organization No. 4: 18 torpedo planes from the Akagi, 27 from the Kaga; 36 dive bombers from the Hiryu and Soryu; 12 fighters from all four ships—3 from each. He would have preferred a few more Zeros, but overall this promised the “grand scale air attack” he wanted. He would launch promptly at 10:30. Yamaguchi might fret, but it was so much better to take a little longer and do the job right.
Suddenly at 9:18 a destroyer near the Tone began laying a smoke screen. Then the Tone herself did the same. Plane-sighting signals fluttered from one ship after another. Engine room telegraph bells rang for maximum battle speed. Along the eastern horizon, about 20 miles away, the Chikuma’s lookout counted 16 torpedo planes. He was one off—there were 15—but his confusion was understandable: there wasn’t much time to count. These planes were coming straight in—without splitting or swerving—hurtling themselves directly at the First Carrier Striking Force.
CHAPTER 7
“Pilots, Man Your Planes!”
SWEEPING TOWARD THE Japanese ships, Ensign George Gay watched their sharp turns, the smoke pouring out, and decided they must already be under attack. It looked as if the 15 planes of Torpedo 8 were late.
They were far from late. Yet Gay’s fears were natural. It had been a morning full of tense waiting, false starts, and finally a late launching from the Hornet. Yet this too was understandable, for the top command was still groping for the right decisions on the skimpiest information.
Racing southwest at 6:30, Task Force 16 had nothing to go on except those first contact reports—growing colder every minute. Spruance’s staff could listen to the PBY traffic, but there was nothing in since 6:02. The other best source—Midway itself—they couldn’t pick up at all. The fleet and the base were on entirely different frequencies, so there was no direct way to get anything reported by Midway’s Army and Marine pilots. Everything had to be relayed by Pearl—a slow, hit-or-miss process. Nor could Task Force 16 ask any questions—radio silence limited the fleet’s efforts at self-help to eavesdropping.
But cold information is better than none, and assuming the Japanese would continue to close Midway as last reported, Spruance’s chief of staff, Captain Miles Browning, urged that the attack be launched at 7:00 A.M. Browning, inherited from Halsey, was a difficult man—almost impossible to get along with—but there was no doubt about his mind. He calculated that Nagumo would then be 155 miles away—just within effective striking range. That meant a long flight to the target—practically no safety margin—but it was all-important to attack at the earliest possible moment. The key to everything was surprise … to hit the Japanese before they discovered the U.S. force.
Spruance understood. Originally his own inclination was to launch at 9:00. Task Force 16 would then be about 100 miles away, and this would allow a certain margin of error for the planes to find the enemy, strike and get back home. But Browning was his man on this, and if the chief of staff said 7:00, he would follow that advice.
Still, it was a tough decision. The fighters had a combat range of only 175 miles, the torpedo planes not much more. There would be little
leeway for maneuvering, even less for fooling around in case of navigational errors. Many of the planes were bound to splash—hopefully the destroyers could rescue the crews—it was a risk that had to be taken.
At the same time, Spruance took another risk, equally daring: he would hit the Japanese with everything he had. It was a temptation to hold something back, for the contact reports mentioned only two of the four enemy carriers meant to be present. Perhaps the others were lurking somewhere else. But CINCPAC’s intelligence said they were bunched together, and it was all-important to hit hard. Spruance decided to take his chances.
The Enterprise would attack with 33 dive bombers, 15 torpedo planes, 10 fighters; the Hornet with 35 dive bombers, 15 torpedo planes, 10 fighters—everything available. Only a handful of scouts and fighters were left to fly antisub and combat air patrols. That too was cutting it thin, but here again was a risk that had to be taken.
Meanwhile the pilots waited restlessly in various squadron ready rooms. Five hours had passed since that 1:30 breakfast, and nobody’s disposition was noticeably improved. Nor did it help to have two false alarms that sent everyone trooping up to the flight deck, only to be ordered back below.
But on one of these false alarms an odd thing happened. As the members of Scouting 6 stood up to go, they unaccountably shook hands all around. They were quite surprised at themselves, for studied casualness was an unwritten law. Maybe this time was different after all.
Things seemed more normal when the order was canceled, and they trooped back to the ready room, griping about the bridge. More waiting, more fidgeting… .
Then around 6:45 the teletype machines began clacking again. Once more the men got out their pencils as the “talkers” went to the blackboards and chalked up a new set of data: enemy position based on 6:02 contact report … heading … speed … Point Option where their own carrier could be found again. The pilots busily scribbled away, hunched over their plotting boards like schoolboys taking a final exam.