Men raced about the Hiryu’s decks getting ready. If there was anyone in the crew who failed to appreciate the crisis, he soon got the word. The loudspeaker tersely described the damage to the other three carriers and announced it was “now up to the Hiryu to carry on the fight for the glory of greater Japan.”
The air officer, Commander Kawaguchi, hammered out the plan of attack. Ideally, of course, both dive bombers and torpedo planes should go together on a coordinated strike. But it would take an hour to put torpedoes on the planes back from Midway, and the time had passed for games like that. The dive bombers were ready; they’d go at once. The torpedo planes would follow later. The all-important thing was to launch an attack—any kind of attack—as soon as possible.
Lieutenant Michio Kobayashi understood all this well. He would be leading the dive bombers, and he was a good choice. A veteran of Pearl Harbor, he had been flying missions since the earliest days. Tall and taciturn, he had a kind of quiet drive that Kawaguchi could trust. Trouble was, he had only 18 dive bombers in his little force.
They were even worse off for fighter escort. They had used up too many trying to cover the carriers during the morning attacks. Now the best that Kawaguchi could do was scrape together six Zeros.
By 10:50 all was set. The dive bomber pilots poured out of the ready room as always, but then came an unusual step. Before manning their planes, they were assembled on the flight deck under the bridge, and Admiral Yamaguchi addressed them. He pointed out they all knew how “critical” the situation was—they were all that was left—hence everything depended on their efforts. But for this very reason, he stressed, they mustn’t be reckless. It would be a temptation to do something foolhardy, but Japan’s hopes depended on their coolness and skill.
The little group broke up, and the 18 men made for their planes as the motors began turning over. On impulse Commander Kawaguchi rushed up to his Academy classmate Lieutenant Takenori Kondo, leader of a bomber section. They shook hands as Kawaguchi urged his friend on. “I’ll do my best,” Kondo smiled. Then with a wave he was off.
At 10:54 the first Zeros roared off the deck, and by 10:58 the whole force was in the air. They wasted no time in climbing and circling; every minute counted as they quickly headed east.
Watching them go from the air command post, Commander Kawaguchi prayed for revenge.
CHAPTER 9
Dead in the Water
ONLY TWO HOURS HAD passed since Wade McClusky left with the Enterprise’s dive bombers, yet it seemed an eternity to Commander Leonard Dow. As Spruance’s communications officer, “Ham” Dow would know the results of the strike as soon as anyone, yet he knew nothing—except that McClusky was long overdue. He should have reached the Japanese at 9:20; now it was 10:00, and still no word from him.
To make matters worse, radio reception was bad—lots of static and fading—and some fool in the Aleutians kept sending inconsequential messages, which CINCPAC dutifully relayed for the Enterprise’s information. Dow finally asked Pearl to stop. If he couldn’t hear McClusky, at least he could be spared this useless stuff.
The tension seeped over the whole ship—in fact, the whole task force—affecting all ranks. Lieutenant Commander Bromfield Nichol, Spruance’s operations officer, felt the “terrific anxiety” of a man who had been deeply involved in the planning. Lieutenant (j.g.) Wilmer Rawie, a young pilot not assigned to the strike, had the empty feeling that comes from not being with friends in trouble.
On the screening destroyer Monaghan a very green ensign named Robert Gillette stood nervous and fidgeting like the rest. Then he noticed the skipper, Lieutenant Commander Bill Burford, deeply engrossed in a book. Burford had a knack of being in the thick of things (he had rammed a midget sub at Pearl Harbor), and Gillette assumed he must now be doing some last-minute brushing up on tactics. Closer inspection revealed that the Commander, imperturbable as ever, was poring over a “girlie” joke book.
At 10:05 the long wait ended. Through the static-filled air came a message from McClusky indicating that he was at last in contact with the enemy. But beyond that, it was anybody’s guess. More long minutes of static. At 10:08 a frantic Miles Browning shouted over the radio, “Attack immediately!” More static.
On the screening destroyer Balch Captain Edward P. Sauer was listening too. Reception varied so much from ship to ship that he never caught McClusky’s contact report at all. His first clue that the Commander had found the enemy was an unmistakably American voice that suddenly burst over the circuit, “Wow! Look at that bastard burn!”
In the radio room of the cruiser Astoria a similar group was tuned in on Max Leslie and the dive bombers from the Yorktown. If Leslie sent a contact report, they never caught it, but they too got occasional hints that a lot was going on. Once through the static they heard an especially jubilant voice cry, “How we doin’, Doc?”
More long minutes of waiting. Then, around 11:00, some specks in the western sky. But they turned out to be Jim Gray’s Fighting 6—deeply disappointed men who never linked up with the SBDs and could shed no light on the attack.
Finally around 11:50 the Enterprise’s dive bombers began coming in. Not in proud formations, the way they went out, but in twos and threes … and sometimes alone. Wade McClusky led this straggling parade, and it had been a rough trip back for the air group’s skipper. First, he was shot up by the Japs … next the ship was 60 miles from Point Option, where he was meant to find her … then he almost landed on the Yorktown by mistake. But now at last he was dropping down—with only five gallons of gas left.
At this point he was waved off by the landing signal officer Lieutenant (j.g.) Robin Lindsey. It seemed another plane was still in the landing area. But McClusky wasn’t about to stay up any longer. He playfully thumbed his nose at Lindsey and came in anyhow.
Rushing to Flag Plot, he reported to Admiral Spruance: three carriers hit and burning; a fourth one hadn’t been touched. He was still giving his account when the Enterprise’s executive officer Commander W. F. Boone suddenly broke in: “My God, Mac, you’ve been shot!” McClusky had forgotten to mention it, but blood was indeed trickling from his jacket sleeve to the deck. He was hustled off to sick bay with five different wounds in his left arm and shoulder.
In the confusion, his news of the fourth carrier was apparently overlooked. So was a similar report by Dick Best when he landed a few minutes later and checked in with Miles Browning.
On deck, anxious eyes carefully counted the planes from each squadron as they sputtered in. The task was anything but cheerful. Apart from the frightful losses of Torpedo 6, so many of the dive bombers were gone too—18 out of 32 altogether.
Most of them ran out of gas on the way back. Partly it was that long, relentless search for the enemy; partly the Enterprise’s miscalculation in estimating where she could be found again. At that, some of the pilots almost made it—Lieutenant Dickinson was picked up only ten miles from the ship. But others were gone for good. Lieutenant Charles Ware brilliantly guided his division through the attack and two melees with the Zeros … then vanished, choosing a course home that could lead only into the empty sea.
The Hornet’s fliers had an even rougher time. Stan Ring led Scouting 8 safely back after their wild-goose chase south; a plane from Bombing 8 came with them; then nothing. When Clayton Fisher, the returnee from Bombing 8, went down to the squadron ready room, the unassigned pilots crowded around him in anguish: “Fisher, you’re the only pilot in our squadron to get back; and nobody has come in from Fighting 8 and Torpedo 8!”
Ultimately three more SBDs from Bombing 8 did turn up, but that was it. The minutes dragged by with no sign of the rest. Thirty-nine planes had vanished. The only other arrival was a fighter from the Yorktown, badly mauled by Zeros. Returning from the strike, its wounded pilot picked the Hornet as the first U.S. carrier he saw. Thumping down heavily on the flight deck, his guns went off and raked the island structure, killing several men. A shaken crew went back to their vigil.
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p; The shipboard members of Torpedo 8 refused to give up hope. The personnel officer, Lieutenant George Flinn, knew the planes could keep flying five hours and 20 minutes at the most, but long after that deadline he still searched the skies. Some miracle just might bring them home. Even when everyone else had given up, he kept chicken dinners ready for them all.
At least the wait was shorter on the Yorktown. Her planes had been launched an hour later, and except for the fighter that crash-landed on the Hornet, they had no trouble finding their way back. The ship was just where Commander Arnold said she would be. By 11:15 Max Leslie’s dive bombers were overhead, but at the last minute it was decided not to land them until Fighting 3 returned—Jimmy Thach’s men would be lower on gas.
So the bombers orbited, but their good news wouldn’t keep any longer. One of them signaled by Aldis lamp that they had sunk an enemy carrier. Cheers rippled through Task Force 17, and scuttlebutt quickly took over. It was said that the Japanese fliers, having lost their ship, were landing at Midway and surrendering to the Navy.
Admiral Fletcher wasn’t yet ready to celebrate. There were supposed to be four carriers out there, and he still knew of only two. He had heard nothing from the PBYs for five hours, and so far it was impossible to get a clear picture from his own planes now circling above. Were there really two other carriers? If so, where were they?
He decided to have another look to the northwest. At 11:20 he sent off Lieutenant Wally Short with 10 of the 17 dive bombers he had been holding in reserve all morning.
Meanwhile, Jimmy Thach had returned, and after another interruption while the Combat Air Patrol was relieved and strengthened, the fighters began landing about 11:45. Once again the crew went through the agonizing business of counting. It was better than it might have been: four out of six came home.
Thach hurried to Flag Plot, reported to Admiral Fletcher: three carriers definitely out of action, the battle seemed to be “going our way.” Well, that cleared up part of the mystery. Fletcher now knew there was at least a third carrier out there. What about a fourth? Thach couldn’t say. He saw only the three that were burning. He didn’t know whether there was still another one or not.
At this moment the Yorktown’s air-raid alarm began sounding: bogeys, lots of them, coming in from the west. Admiral Frank Jack Fletcher now knew definitely—beyond any doubt whatsoever—that there was indeed a fourth Japanese carrier around.
“Bogeys, 32 miles, closing,” the Yorktown’s radar officer, Radio Electrician V. M. Bennett, reported at 11:52. They were also climbing, which ruled out friendly planes and the possibility of a torpedo attack. It all added up to enemy dive bombers, and since the Yorktown was first in their line of approach, she would clearly be the target.
The screening destroyers moved in close, the cruisers Astoria and Portland stood off to starboard, putting themselves between the carrier and the coming storm. The Yorktown herself turned southwest, showing her stern to the attackers. She cranked up her speed from 25 to 30.5 knots.
She was all buttoned up. Fuel lines were drained and filled with carbon dioxide. A portable gasoline tank on the flight deck was pitched overboard. Repair parties were at their posts, doctors and medics at every dressing station. Her guns were manned, all pointing west.
And no carrier boasted more fire power. The Yorktown’s gunnery officer Lieutenant Commander Ernest J. Davis had a simple theory that if you put enough bullets in the direction of attacking aircraft, eventually some plane would run into one. Carrying out this idea, he even borrowed all the spare machine guns from the planes in the hangar and lashed them to the catwalk rails.
But the Yorktown’s first line of defense lay in her Combat Air Patrol—12 fighters orbiting restlessly above the ship. As soon as the alarm sounded, Lieutenant Commander Pederson moved into action, vectoring them out toward the approaching bogeys. Now they were converging on a point 10,000 feet up, some 15-20 miles to the west. Flying his F4F, Lieutenant (j.g.) Scott McCuskey peered ahead. There coming straight toward him was a group of 18 planes. He felt butterflies deep inside—like playing football, just before, the opening whistle… .
LIEUTENANT Yasuhiro Shigematsu couldn’t resist the temptation. His six Zeros were meant to escort the Hiryu’s dive bombers now winging toward the American fleet. But there, right below, was a group of U.S. planes heading home for their carriers. They looked like torpedo planes (actually they were SBDs), but whatever the type, they were perfect targets. He decided he could pick these off and get back on station before Lieutenant Kobayashi’s bombers ever reached the enemy force.
The Zeros roared down on the SBDs, but they proved far more battle-wise than expected. Shigematsu got none of them, and they shot up two of his planes so badly they limped back home. Thoroughly mauled, he broke off and rejoined Kobayashi. The fighters were back in plenty of time, but there were now only four of them to protect the bombers.
The formation flew on. The Chikuma’s No. 4 and No. 5 search planes had been ordered to point the way, but Kobayashi now had some far better guides. The planes Shigematsu attacked were not the only Americans going home. The air was full of them, all heading back from the Japanese carriers. Kobayashi slipped behind one group and tagged along.
Just before noon, 30 miles ahead, he saw what he wanted. There, beyond a bank of clouds and surrounded by bristling cruisers and destroyers, steamed a great carrier. He opened up on his radio and ordered the rest of his 18 dive bombers, “Form up for attack.”
Then it happened. From somewhere above—and with no warning whatsoever—a dozen U.S. fighters hurtled down on Kobayashi’s little formation, ripping it apart, and dropping six planes almost simultaneously into the sea.
THE burning planes reminded Lieutenant John Greenbacker of falling leaves as he watched from the Yorktown on the horizon. The fighter-director radio crackled with the excited voices of pilots swarming in for the kill: “1202: all Scarlet planes, bandits 8 miles, 255° … 1204: planes still on course … 1204: OK, break ‘em up, Scarlet 19; going to attack about 3 enemy bombers about 5 miles … 1205: TALLY-HO! Join up on me … Scarlet 19, get those bombers on my right wing. Let’s go!”
Lieutenant Greenbacker felt sure that none of the Japanese would escape, but eight somehow broke through. On they came toward the Yorktown, fanned out in a wide arc, one behind the other. They were still out of antiaircraft range, and the wait seemed interminable as the men of Task Force 17 braced themselves for the blow.
“What the hell am I doing out here?” wondered Donat Houle, a young seaman on the destroyer Hughes, and it was indeed a long way from home in New Hampshire. On the Yorktown herself Machinist’s Mate Worth Hare waited silently in Repair 5, down on the third deck. It was dark, and he was deep inside the ship. A feeling of fear burned in his stomach. At the battle dressing stations, the medics lay down in their flashproof clothing, covered their faces with their arms. Out on deck the British observer, Commander Michael B. Laing produced a small black notebook and began jotting down impressions to send back to London.
Captain Buckmaster moved out on the navigation bridge. He was supposed to stay in the forward conning tower when the ship was in action, but he couldn’t maneuver from there. So he kept his exec under cover instead, ready to take over if anything happened. Buckmaster himself stood out in the open, yelling instructions through the narrow slits in the side of the tower.
On the flag bridge Admiral Fletcher still worked at his charts. A staff officer entered and politely reported, “The attack is coming in, sir.”
“Well,” said Fletcher cheerfully, “I’ve got on my tin hat. I can’t do anything else now.”
In these last, suspenseful moments there were, oddly enough, a few men present who didn’t have the faintest idea that the enemy was about to strike. Circling above the Yorktown, Max Leslie and his squadron of dive bombers had waited while the fighters landed; now they were about to come in themselves. Intent on their instruments, watching the carrier’s movements, none of them noticed the air battle
erupting to the northwest. Nor could they hope to know the tension and turmoil on the ships below.
Leslie led the way into the landing pattern. Lieutenant Lefty Holmberg followed close behind, concentrating on the job of getting his wheels and flaps down, his propeller in high rpm. He noticed that the skipper was in a nice position to get aboard; he was pleased to see that his own plane was just the right distance behind. Suddenly the landing signal officer gave Leslie a “wave-off.” Strange—Leslie always made it the first try. Holmberg turned to land himself. He too was waved off. Puzzled, he passed close along the port side of the flight deck, trying to see why they didn’t let him land.
He was just opposite the after gun gallery when the four 5-inchers opened up. Smoke, fire, blast scared him half out of the cockpit. Thoroughly frightened, he darted away from the ship and joined up with Leslie. The Yorktown’s radio crackled a belated warning: “Get clear—we are being attacked.”
Gun bursts peppered the sky, but the Japanese planes kept coming. Soon they were easy to see, even without binoculars. A burst caught one; it flared up and fell; the other seven flew on. Now they were almost over the Yorktown.
Signalman William Martin watched them all the way. He was assigned to a searchlight mounted on the Yorktown’s smokestack: his job was to challenge approaching aircraft. He knew perfectly well who these were, but as a good signalman he flashed the challenge anyhow. He got his answer soon enough: the lead plane flipped over and began to dive. Unfazed, Martin opened the searchlight shutters wide, hoping to blind the pilot and spoil his aim.
No one would ever know whether it worked. At the same moment Commander Davis’s whole arsenal of automatic guns opened up with a roar. No less than 28 different guns were firing from the starboard side alone. A rain of bullets and shells chopped the bomber in two. But even as it disintegrated, its bomb tumbled free and down toward the Yorktown. Captain Buckmaster caught a brief but vivid impression—it looked oddly like a small keg of nails coming down.