by Herman Wouk
“It’s authenticated, Admiral,” Browning said over his shoulder.
“Launch the attack,” said Spruance.
Startled, Browning jerked his head around from the chart to look at Spruance. “Sir, we’ve received no orders from Admiral Fletcher.”
“We will. Let’s go.”
At the chart, the air operations officer lifted a worried face. “Admiral, I make the distance to the target one eighty. At that range our torpedo planes won’t get back. I recommend we close at least to one fifty.”
“You’re quite right. I thought we were about there now.” The admiral turned to Browning. “Let’s put out a new fleet course, Captain Browning, closing them at full speed. Tell the Hornet we’ll launch at a hundred and fifty miles.”
A sailor in dungarees, life jacket, and helmet came thumping up the long ladder with a message board. Spruance initialled it and passed it to Browning. “Here are the orders from Fletcher.”
URGENT. COM TF 17 TO COM TF 16. PROCEED SOUTHWEST AND ATTACK ENEMY CARRIERS WHEN DEFINITELY LOCATED. WILL FOLLOW AS SOON AS MY SEARCH PLANES RECOVERED.
Miles Browning was a fighting man, everybody acknowledged that, and he had been waiting most of his professional life to see such a dispatch. His ill humor vanished. A beguiling masculine grin lit his lean weathered face (he was a well-known ladykiller, too) and he squared his cap and saluted Raymond Spruance. “Well, Admiral, here we go.”
Spruance returned the salute and went out in the sun.
In the ready rooms, when the carrier sighting printed out on the teletypes, the nervous irritation of the pilots cleared away. False alarm forgotten, they cheered, then fell to plotting and calculating. Guesses fired back and forth about probable time of launch. The range of the torpedo planes was of course the problem. Their chances of survival were reckoned poor at best, and the torpedo pilots deserved a decent chance to get back.
Visiting the ready room of Torpedo Squadron Six to kill the slow-grinding time, Warren found his friend Commander Lindsey in flying suit and life vest, his bandages gone, blood-caked scars on his hand and on his pale sunken face. This was the man whose plane had crashed on the first day out. “Ye gods, Gene, did Doc Holiwell shake you loose?”
Commander Lindsey said, unsmiling, “I’ve trained for this, Warren. I’m leading the squadron in.”
The torpedo squadron room was unusually quiet. Some aviators were writing letters; some doodled on their flight charts; most of them smoked. Like the dive-bomber pilots they had stopped drinking coffee, to avoid bladder discomfort on the long flight. The effect here was one of taut waiting, as outside an operating room during surgery. At the blackboard a sailor wearing earphones was chalking new numbers beside RANGE TO TARGET:153 miles.
Lindsey said to Warren, glancing at his own plotting board, “That checks. We’re closing fast. I figure we’ll close to a hundred thirty miles. So we’ll be launching about an hour from now. This is for keeps, and we’ve got to get the jump on the little bastards, so even if we strain a bit —”
“Pilots, man your planes.”
Glancing at each other and at the pallid squadron commander, the pilots of Torpron Six got out of their chairs. Their movements were heavy, not eager, but they moved. So alike were the expressions of grave hard resolve on their faces, they might have been nineteen brothers. Warren threw an arm around Lindsey’s shoulder. His old instructor slightly winced.
“Happy landings, Gene. Give ‘em hell.”
“Good hunting, Warren.”
The fliers of Scouting Six were trampling by in the passageway, shouting high-strung banter. Warren fell in with them. As the squadron ran out on the gusty sunny flight deck, a sight met his eye that always thrilled him: the whole task force turning into the wind, the Enterprise, the Hornet, the far-flung ring of cruisers and destroyers, all moving in parallel; and old Dad’s Northampton right up there, swinging from the port beam to a station almost dead ahead in dazzling sun glare. With farewell shouts and waves the pilots climbed into their planes. Cornett nodded at Warren from the rear seat, placidly chewing tobacco in long bony jaws, his red hair flying in the wind.
“Well, Cornett, here we go to get ourselves a Jap carrier. You ready?”
“Stew lot yew dang sartin cummin,” Cornett approximately replied, then broke into clear English to add, “The canopy is freed up.”
Thirty-five dive-bombers were spotted on the flight deck, their motors coughing, roaring, and spitting dense blue fumes. Warren’s plane, among those farthest aft, carried a thousand-pound bomb; as flight operations officer he had made sure of that. The take-off run for some of the others was too short, and their load was a five-hundred-pound bomb, with two more hundred-pounders. Warren’s launch was heavy and lumbering. The SBD-3 ran off the end of the deck, settled much too close to the water, then began a wobbling climb. The rush of warm sea air into the open cockpit was soul-satisfying. A professional calm settled on Warren as he wound up the wheels and flaps, checked his dancing dial needles, and climbed skyward in a string of soaring blue bombers. The Hornet dive-bombers too were single-filing into the air in steep ascent about a mile away. Far above some shreds of high cloud, the gleaming specks of the combat air patrol circled.
At two thousand feet, as the squadron levelled and circled, Warren’s exaltation dimmed. He could see, on the shrunken Enterprise far below, that the launch was lagging. In their square deck wells the elevators sank and rose, tiny men and machines dragged aircraft about, but the time crawled past seven thirty, seven forty-five. Soon almost an hour of gasoline was gone, and still no fighter escorts or torpedo planes were airborne! And still the two carriers plowed southeast into the wind, away from the atoll and the enemy, slaves to the wind in launch or recovery, no less than sailing ships of old.
A signal light flashed on the Enterprise, beaming straight up. Letter by letter, Warren read the message, addressed to the new group leader, Commander McClusky: Proceed on assigned mission.
A second shocker, after the very long-range launch — suddenly, no coordinated attack! What was going on? No fighter protection, no torpedo planes for the knockout punch: the Enterprise dive-bombers ordered to go in alone against the Jap interceptors! Rear Admiral Spruance was jettisoning — or allowing Halsey’s staff to jettison — the whole battle plan at the outset, with the drills of a year, the fleet exercises of many years, and the entire manual of carrier warfare.
Why?
A barometer in Warren’s spirit registered a quick sharp rise in the danger of this mission, and in the chances of his dying. He could not be sure what “those idiots down there” had in mind. But he suspected that between the inexperienced Spruance and the overeager Browning — who was something of a joke among the veteran pilots — the thirty-six Enterprise dive-bombers were being squandered in a jittery shot from the hip.
Warren Henry knew too much military history for a young flier. To him all this strongly smelled of the Battle of Balaclava:
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die —
Resignedly, he made hand signals to his wing mates. From planes roaring along a few yards below and behind him, they grinned and waved. They were both new ensigns; one was Pete Goff, clutching a cold corncob pipe in his mouth. McClusky waggled his wings and swooped around to the southwest. Warren did not know McClusky except to say hello. He had been the squadron CO of the fighters, but there was no telling how he would perform as group leader. The other thirty-five planes gracefully veered to follow McClusky. Making his turn over the screen, Warren saw from his tilted cockpit the tiny Northampton straight below, cutting a long white wake ahead of the Enterprise.“Well, old Dad,” he thought, “there you are, sitting way down there, and here I go.”
On the bridge of the Northampton, Pug Henry stood among crowding officers and sailors in gray helmets and life jackets. He had been watching the Enterprise since dawn. As the departing bombers dwindled to dots, he stared after them through binoculars. Everybody who served on the cru
iser’s bridge knew the reason.
The wind was smartly flapping the signal flags. Below, noisy swells were breaking on the hull like surf. Pug raised his voice to the exec at his elbow, “Secure from GQ, Commander Grigg. Maintain condition Zed. AA crews stand easy at their guns. Float plane pilots stand by the catapults ready to go. Double the regular lookouts for aircraft and submarines. All hands be alert for air attack. Where men remain on battle stations, serve out coffee and sandwiches.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
In a different tone Pug went on, “Say, incidentally, those SBDs won’t be breaking radio silence till they’re over the target. We’ve got the right crystals for the aircraft frequency, haven’t we?”
“Chief Connors says that we do, Captain.”
“Okay. If you hear anything, call me.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
In the sea cabin, Victor Henry slung helmet and life jacket on the bunk. His eyes smarted. His legs were leaden. He had not slept all night. Why were those dive-bombers flying off unescorted to face a cloud of Jap interceptors? His own prize lookout, Tray nor, a sharp-eyed Negro youngster from Chicago, had spotted a Japanese float plane slipping in and out of low clouds. Was that the reason? Pug did not know what orders had gone out to the squadrons of the Yorktown and the Hornet; he could only hope the whole battle picture made more sense than he could yet discern. The game was on, that was sure.
From the old triple photograph frame on the chart table, between Madeline and Byron, Warren looked out at him sternly in the Academy graduation picture: a skinny solemn ensign in a big white officer’s cap. Well, thought Pug, a damned good lieutenant was flying off against the Japs, with fitness reports that were a string of “outstandings,” and a solid combat record. His next job would be as a Stateside flight instructor, no doubt. The air cadet programs were clamoring for combat veterans. Then he would rotate back to an air group in the Pacific, to gain command experience and reap medals. His future was radiant, and this day was the needle’s eye of his destiny. Hardening himself to endure the wait for a break in radio silence, Pug took up a detective novel, reclined on his bunk, and numbly tried to read.
Why, in fact, did Spruance send off the dive-bombers?
The battle decisions of a commander are not easily analyzed; not even by himself, not even in reminiscent tranquillity. Not all men of war are at ease with words. Events evaporate and are gone, especially the evanescent moments of a battle. The memoirs composed long afterward are as often misleading as illuminating. Some truly proud men say or write little. Raymond Spruance left few words about his Midway conduct.
He was acting in the battle under a Nimitz directive that is on the record: “You will be governed by the principle of calculated risk, which you shall interpret to mean the avoidance of exposure of your force to attack by superior enemy forces without good prospect of inflicting, as a result of such exposure, greater damage on the enemy.“ The Navy had a sour slang translation for this: “Sock ‘em and rock ‘em, but don’t lose your shirt”; a standard admonition to a weak force going out against odds. Boiled down, it meant little but “Try to win with conservative tactics.” Few military orders are harder to obey. And he had unwritten orders from Nimitz not to lose his carriers, even if it meant giving up Midway. “We will get it back later,” Nimitz had said. “Save the fleet.”
Some hard truths had been squeezing Spruance, under these hobbling instructions. He was a stranger to the ship, to Halsey’s staff, and to air operations. He could not force a speedup of the appallingly slow launches on the Enterprise or the Hornet merely by throwing an admiral’s tantrum. In this matter he was in fact helpless. The Yorktown had drifted aft below the horizon while recovering its search planes, so he couldn’t consult Fletcher. A Jap float plane had been sighted, and the special intelligence officer who knew Japanese said that it had sent a position report. So the edge of surprise was melting away like butter on a hot skillet. Midway atoll was reported under attack by enemy aircraft. His dive-bombers were circling and circling overhead, burning up gasoline.
Given the distances in the combat triangle, and the known aircraft ranges and speeds, Spruance could hope that his dive-bombers, if,they left now, might reach the enemy in his moment of weakness, when his planes were getting back from Midway low on bullets and gas. But there was one grim catch to that. The PBY had seen only two carriers. Nimitz’s intelligence staff had predicted four or five. Where were those missing flattops? Were they coming at Task Force Sixteen from the north, the south — even in an end run from the east? Would they pounce when all his dive-bombers were off, attacking the first two?
An oppressive urgent choice confronted him: either hold back the bombers for a full coordinated attack, and hope meanwhile for news of the missing carriers; or hit out now, gambling that they would show up near the two in sight.
Spruance hit out. It was hardly a “calculated risk.” It was the steepest and gravest of gambles with the future of his Navy and his country. Such decisions — only such once-in-a-lifetime personal decisions — test a commander. Within the hour his far more experienced and stronger opponent, Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, would face much the same hard choice.
A Jew’s Journey
(from Aaron Jastrows manuscript)
JUNE 4, 1942, MIDNIGHT.
SIENA.
I have just listened to the BBC and to Radio Berlin, hoping for I know not what — a last-minute turnabout in the war news, possibly, to justify putting off a desperate decision. There was none. Under the propaganda cosmetics — the German paint whorish, the British ladylike — one discerns the same grim face of events: Germany and Japan triumphant.
In my meeting with the archbishop today I encountered a subtle change. His Excellency is something of a peasant, with a red jowly face, a solid build, and an earthy vocabulary. But he is cultured and tolerant. I like him and tend to trust him. This time he received me not in his cozy wood-panelled study, but in his cold grand outer office. He sat behind a splendid old desk. When I came in he did not stand up, but motioned me to a chair. I understood. I am no longer the well-known American author at whose villa he can now and then enjoy a good dinner, fine wine, and jocose pedantic talk. I am a suppliant. The wheel has turned, and the archbishop with it.
Still, he has looked into the matter. As to the Italian authorities, no immediate harm threatens us. Of this he assures me. He knows of no new program to round up Jews. Our status as enemy aliens under house arrest is of course most singular. He has been told we are marked for privileged treatment, and for release to Switzerland when various problems are cleared up. The question of concealing ourselves may therefore not arise.
Still, if it does, hiding out in the countryside would be a possibility, he agrees. But taking refuge in Siena’s environs would be unwise. The story of famoso scrittore americano trapped by the war is common Sienese gossip, and no hiding place around here would be secure.
He has cautiously raised the topic with the bishop of Volterra, an old walled town some fifty miles to the northwest, on the winding mountain road down to Pisa. Many years ago, I visited the Etruscan antiquities in Volterra. An alabaster bowl I bought there sits on my desk now, filled with roses. It is a town forgotten by time. The inhabitants are a darkly handsome dour lot. His Excellency jokes that they are probably Etruscan by blood and pagan at heart. Several people wanted by the Fascist regime are lying low in Volterra. Should the worst come to the worst, he can put us in touch with the Volterra bishop, who will be sympathetic. But he feels we should just keep calm and await our eventual release. He stood up smiling to see me out, thus cutting the meeting quite short.
I am shaken by his having talked to the Volterra prelate. How do I know that he can be trusted? Under all the bland reassurance, the archbishop offers us no hiding place himself; and as for future emergencies, he holds out only a promise of sympathy from the bishop of Volterra, a man I don’t know, who owes me nothing. This dusty outcome brings me to the alternative.
[The
following passage in A Jew’s Journey, eight and a half handwritten pages in all, is in the original manuscript a series of strange marks. Such sections occur all through the notebooks after June 4. The key to the cipher is given in the clear English text below. The first line of the passage looks like this:
I have avoided until now describing the alternative in these pages. Once it contains such things, my notebook becomes a ticking bomb. Bethinking me of Leonardo’s mirror handwriting. I have decided to spell out perilous matters in English, but in the backward-running Yiddish alphabet, which will look to the uninitiated like hen scratchings: a temporary shield against prying eyes, or a sudden pounce by Italian police. A simple device, but the short-term security is good.
I scarcely dreamed, when I began A Jew’s Journey, that I would be using spy tricks in writing it! My life’s candle sputters and flares as it burns down, making melodramatic shadows leap about me. Yet I intend to record everything of consequence that happens from now on. By touching a match to tinder-dry faggots in my fireplace, I can in seconds reduce this book to ash.
To the alternative, then.
A Sienese doctor has revealed himself to us as a Jew and a secret Zionist. He plans to flee Italy with his family, hoping to reach Palestine; he is sure that all of Europe’s Jews are doomed. Avram Rabinovitz, the tough Palestinian organizer of the Izmir voyage, has been in touch with this man, whose departure plans are now complete. Tomorrow he will send a confirming message to Rabinovitz. They are willing to include us in the flight arrangements. I must tell the doctor by morning whether we wish to come along.
The plan envisages an escape route via Piombino, Elba, Corsica, and Lisbon. The nub of it is a Turkish ship, once again; this time a freighter, which carries a cargo of Turkish tobacco from Istanbul to Lisbon every two months. This flavoring tobacco is important to the Allied war effort, so the vessel has British clearance. The ship’s captain reaps a fortune by stopping at dead of night off Corsica and taking on Jewish stowaways for gold. In Lisbon we and our Zionist friends would part company. They would hope to go on to the Holy Land, one way or another, and we of course would simply walk into the American consulate.