by Kevin Miller
The minutes counted down, and the unsettling black column to the southeast was both welcome and foreboding. Midway was underneath it, but McClusky did not know the extent of damage. The column looked to be hours old. Between every nook and cranny of cloud were only shadows and empty blue water.
One minute to go. The decision he’d been dreading for the last half hour was upon him. They aren’t here! Which way to turn? If only the clouds would open up. If only a “speck” of an airplane outline would appear against one of the white buildups.
McClusky wrestled with his options. He could turn them south toward Midway, toward the inviting column that marked evidence of the Japs. They were there a short time ago – and could be still. He checked his plotting board again: too close. No admiral would put his fleet within 100 miles of a known air threat. Unless he knew it was no longer a threat. McClusky didn’t know.
North was where he had told Captain Murray he would go, along the course they had been spotted at dawn. It made more sense and gave the Japs plenty of sea room from which to attack Midway. Or Enterprise – if they had found it.
At 9:35, the sweep-second hand on his watch swept past 12. He’d flown his allotted extra fifteen minutes – and nothing. He checked the eight-day clock in the cockpit that he had synchronized with his watch when he strapped in: also 9:35. He selected the interphone.
“Chocalousek, we’re comin’ right. Look down there and find ’em.”
“Yessir, Commander.”
McClusky nodded to the right, then eased the stick in the same direction as his formation followed.
Trailing McClusky in VB-6, Kroeger flew wing on his CO while taking peeks at the scouts ahead and the surface underneath. He felt lightheaded, and took big gulps of oxygen through his ill-fitting mask. Was the oxygen system broken? He gutted it out as long as he could before he signaled the CO that he and Halterman were struggling to breathe. Skipper Best just shook his head in disgust. Kroeger didn’t know if Best’s ire was meant for him, or the airplane, or the situation.
Taking Bombing Six down to fifteen, Best showed his pilots they could breathe without supplemental oxygen. All that gas to lug their 1000-pounders up to twenty grand…wasted. Kroeger watched his fuel and wondered where McClusky was taking them now, and so damn fast at 190 knots, chewing up their fuel to keep up. All of them were in extremis.
It’s time to hit the Japs or go back.
Each man knew what was at stake. Go back and recover with their bombs? Maybe, but chances were the Japs would roll in on Enterprise before they could even get off the flight deck. Kill or be killed. Two hours ago the Jap snooper had found Task Force 16. They must know we are out here by now. That scout must have gotten off a report. Who knew if Enterprise was still there? Kroeger reckoned the odds were even that, one way or another, he’d end up in the water on this flight.
The dark plume to the south dominated his thoughts. The Japs had hit the Marines at Midway, hit the island like they had Pearl Harbor. Australia. India. With impunity. They were just down there!
Kroeger wanted to close throttle to save fuel but needed to stay with the CO. Best told them to fly south forty miles after they hit the Japs before heading home to throw off a Jap tail. Figuring his fuel again, he would shave that. Had to.
The formation above veered right. Skipper Best mirrored them from below. We must be heading back, Kroeger thought. Miles ago, beyond the point of no return, he had wanted to go back. Now, he wanted to attack something. He was going to run out of gas – knew it, all of them did – but maybe they could attack the enemy task force and at least make it back to the outer screen. He’d ditch next to the closest destroyer he could find.
Had to find the Japs first. Wade McClusky had to find them.
Leveled at 19,000 feet, Ensign Clayton Fisher felt a foreboding he had never felt in his life.
Almost two hours after they had left Hornet, he flew wing on Ring’s miserable SBD. CHAG held course, taking peeks between the clouds below. He seemed steady now…the bad business with Skipper Waldron had been over an hour ago. Fisher couldn’t wait to talk with the others about it, and especially the guys in Torpedo Eight.
Skipper Waldron on the radio again. How could Sea Hag not have heard him a while back? Attacking? Planes in the water? Sea Hag didn’t move in his cockpit. He just continued on, oblivious.
Who could blame the fighters for leaving? Twisting in his seat, he looked behind the Scouting Eight SBDs and couldn’t see any Fighting Eight F4Fs in trail. Low on fuel, all had gone back to the ship.
Maintaining his parade position, he checked the time: 0920.
Then, out of the corner of his eye. The VB were leaving! My squadron! Skipper Johnson was taking them southeast! Fisher checked below for wakes and saw none. He looked at Ring, who didn’t notice. To his right, Skipper Rodee slid the scouts into trail. Bombing Eight continued in an easy turn away, toward the black column of Midway.
First the VF, and now the VB! Fisher felt naked and alone, even with Radioman Ferguson sitting six feet behind him, even with Scouting Eight behind him. In growing distress, he sucked on his rubber oxygen mask, high over the very middle of the Pacific with nothing but the impassive sun and the moon…and that black column to the southeast. Death was surely under that column. American men…no, boys. Like him. Had they fought back, or was it like December 7th? He shifted in his seat to relieve the pain in his shoulder joints from the cold. Or was it tension?
VB-8 headed toward Midway, and Fisher counted them in quick glances as he held position. They were heading for a sure thing when ahead of Fisher was known oblivion. Could the Japs have moved this far from the sighting report? The ready room teleprinter had relayed that report almost four hours ago. Maybe they were ahead. Desperate, Fisher fidgeted in his seat as he looked for the enemy. Ahead, only the midmorning sun reflected off his spinning propeller. His eyes were then drawn to his fuel gauge, as they would be for each remaining minute of the flight.
He was down to 135 gallons.
He was going in the water, all of them were. Should he break and run after his squadron? They were still in sight. No. He’d be stripped of his wings. But Skipper Johnson took his squadron out of formation as Waldron had, as Commander Mitchell had. They just up and left, and only Commander Waldron had said anything on the radio. Are they all chickening out? What the hell is going on?
He studied Ring, wished he would turn to him, look at him, reassure him, just acknowledge him, and lead him home, something, anything. Commander Ring scanned the sea surface as before, focused on nothing else.
A minute later Fisher got his answer.
CHAG looked at Fisher, then pointed at the scouts. He signaled for a scouting line, and motioned to Fisher to fly down and pass the signal to the scouts. With a thumbs-up, Fisher nodded his acknowledgement before he slid back and away to join on VS-8.
As he broke free, Skipper Rodee turned the scouts left. They’re leaving! Fisher thought. Scouting Eight flew in a collapsed vee formation as they passed through 90 degrees of what Fisher knew was a 180-degree turn for home.
“Mister Fisher, the scouts are leaving,” Ferguson said over the interphone. He must be freezing back there.
“I know!” Fisher answered in frustration. In apprehension. In dread. The plane he was flying and the man behind him were his responsibility. He worked to the inside, in trail and burning fuel, in between, trying to keep an eye on Ring behind him as his best chance for home flew away in front. He was the pilot, a commissioned officer. Accountable. A man, no longer a carefree boy. Ensign Clayton Fisher. I’m just a damn kid!
His breathing increased as he struggled to decide. Go home with the scouts or join back with Sea Hag? It’s now or never! Scouting Eight was almost out of their turn for home. If he didn’t go soon, he never would join up with them. Or even find Hornet. Over his shoulder he looked for Ring and couldn’t find him in the blue. Where’d he go?
Almost hyperventilating with indecision, Fisher knew this was his last chan
ce, and with a deep breath – I have to! – he pushed down in a scooping turn that would buy him some knots to catch up to the scouts. Taking one last quick search for his flight leader, he pulled away to the east.
Commander Ring, now abandoned by all of the 58 planes he had set out with, continued ahead into unlimited visibility, unable to see a thing.
Chapter 15
HIJMS Hiryū, 0945 June 4, 1942
Maruyama was starving.
On the mess deck he scooped some rice balls into a napkin and stepped aft onto the passageway. The mess men stepped aside with a curt bow as a sign of respect for their returned warrior. The ship heeled port and then starboard to maintain position in the formation. Ignoring the deck motion, he popped one rice ball into his mouth and cradled the rest to share in the ready room.
Upon recovery some 45 minutes earlier, they had learned that Hiryū and the entire force had been under attack for most of the morning. The Americans had thrown everything they could at them, including the planes from Midway that had escaped before the attack. Fighter pilots back from the morning CAP spoke of downing wave after wave of ham-fisted and cowardly Yankee Doodles, all but helpless against them. Maruyama wondered if the real action was here instead of Midway to the south.
An American carrier had been spotted far to the northeast, which electrified the aviators. Sadly, Maruyama would miss the action. The Tomonaga strike force would sit this one out as CarDiv 1 had claimed the glory, again. Kankōs from Akagi would lead the attack, and Hiryū’s dive-bombers would have a major role. High above on the flight deck another Type Zero roared aloft.
He climbed a ladder and stepped onto the lower hangar bay. Fat kanbakus waited with armor-piercing bombs. Crewmen cleaned their windscreens with rags as others inspected control surfaces and weapon sway braces. The aft elevator was down, and handlers rolled a fighter onto it for the trip up to the flight deck. For a few minutes, brilliant sunshine illuminated the corners of the dark and enclosed bay.
Walking forward several frames, Maruyama ducked into a vestibule and climbed three more ladders to the ready room. As soon as he stepped inside, Lieutenant Kadano stopped him.
“Did you see Miyauchi-kun go in?”
Maruyama didn’t answer at first. I could almost touch him.
“No. Shot down by an unseen Grumman above us. He was on fire and fell out of the formation as we passed their airfield. I didn’t see him go in… We were in our run.” He looked at me through the flames.
“None of us did either,” Kadano said. “How about Kikuchi?”
“His engine was smoking, and we saw him head for Kure atoll to the west,” Maruyama answered the lieutenant. He craved sleep.
Kadano nodded. “Yes, a probable water landing in the lagoon. We’ll make a pass there on the way back this afternoon.”
“This afternoon, sir?”
“Yes. After our mates deal with the American task force, we’ll hit Midway again. Tomonaga-san radioed for a restrike.”
Maruyama remained silent. Half of the attack unit planes were lost or damaged; five hadn’t made it back. The number of remaining Grummans on Midway was anyone’s guess, but there were a lot of guns down there. Big and effective. The mood in the ready room was grim; none had experienced such losses.
“Lieutenant Hashimoto is compiling the accounts; give him your report at once and then take a cat nap. Doubt we’ll get back much before sundown.”
Maruyama answered with a crisp bow as Kadano scowled at the rice balls the junior airman carried.
“Duty first,” the pilot murmured. Chagrined, Maruyama nodded as Kadano left. He popped another rice ball in his mouth and handed the rest to Nakao, who sat on one of the benches.
It then hit him. Where is everyone? He answered his own question as soon as it entered his mind.
“Come on down, Jim!”
Like the other pilots in his division, Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Robert Laub searched the sky above after Skipper Lindsey called on the radio for the Fighting Six Wildcats that would defend them. “Come on down” was the signal for the F4Fs to get down on the waves and engage. They had to be nearby. Since VT-6 had departed Enterprise, the CO had flown the briefed heading, at the briefed airspeed. The SBD boys had pressed ahead: that Jap floatplane must have spooked the bridge.
Laub also looked for the dive-bombers because – There they are! On the northern horizon he saw the Jap task force, but the only smoke was from stack gas, no burning ships from SBD bomb hits. Could Mister McClusky have missed them to the south? He scanned above the enemy ships for a glint of sun off a wing, specks of dark Dauntlesses peeling off in their dives. Nothing. Laub and the others searched for their promised Wildcats as tension – and fear – rose inside them.
“Jim! C’mon down!” Skipper Lindsey radioed again, nervous pleading in his voice. Seated behind him, Chief Grenat scanned above for deliverance. Where is Fighting Six? The CO could barely fly, and needed help to get into the cockpit and strap in. He had limped around the ready room, wincing in pain, and struggled hard to climb the ladder to the flight deck. Anyone else would have been in traction after that flight deck crash last week. Laub was already sore from just two hours in his Devastator’s uncomfortable seat. The skipper’s back must be on fire right about now.
However, what was on the horizon ahead had their full attention. Four carriers! Battlewagons! Cruisers! We got ’em! Where’s the VSB? Where’s the VF?
Lindsey led VT-6 toward the now-alerted enemy, who was running northwest. He picked out Kaga, the big one. Pilots like Laub had studied images and silhouettes of the giant carrier. Through their windscreens they saw it, the real thing, huge, heeling hard through west in a starboard turn. Now in a stern chase, Laub kept a wary eye on the other flight decks off the nose to his right, and watched for any Zeros lifting off.
“Come on down!” Lieutenant Ely barked on the radio to back up the CO. No Wildcats in sight. No bombers rolling in. The Japanese carrier was ten miles ahead, trailing a white wake as it ran for safety. The torpeckers realized it would take almost fifteen minutes to pass it and build acceptable launch angles off its bow. Behind Laub, Radioman Humphrey cleared his free guns.
A fight was coming.
Blooms of gunfire blazed from the cruisers. Big guns trained at them. Lindsey detached the XO, who veered north for a classic anvil attack against the biggest Jap carrier: Kaga itself. Laub marveled at the other carriers falling off his right wing: tall and thin, with tiny little islands up forward. Some sent blinking light messages that Laub wished he could understand. What were they saying? Shoot the Americans?
Geysers in front and to the right. Big geysers from big shells. To the left, a destroyer laid smoke.
“Mister Laub, here they come! Port side nine o-clock!”
Laub saw them – two formations of three coming down their left as the plodding TBDs penetrated the screen. Zeros, painted khaki against the blue. He looked for others and found them high at his ten in a descending turn, taking their time, padlocked on the American torpedo planes. From a distance of only a mile, the mechanized wolves stalked their prey. Laub felt like prey, felt like a dumb pheasant flushed from an open field. And shot. Fast and quick, with the dogs howling after them and the sharp reports of the guns echoing off the tree line. Some escaped.
Some.
The first six fighters peeled off one by one, putting their noses on him, pulling lead. Petrified, Laub could only watch as he flew formation, unable to run. Staying in formation was all he knew, all any of them knew. Attacking a carrier? Hangar talk. Lines on a ready room chalkboard. Yellow chalk on a green board.
A Georgian, Humphrey screamed a rebel yell Laub heard over the engine noise. Over his left shoulder, Laub picked up an attacker. At that moment his whole being focused on the black prop spinner pointed at him. Humphrey was no less focused, and when the Zero was in range, he opened up on it.
Bup,bup,bup,bup,bup…bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup
Humphrey then held his fire as the fighter
roared over, a deep and throaty roar from a big and powerful engine. Skipper’s plane was the target. Lindsey’s TBD survived the onslaught, and Chief Grenat moved behind him. No time to look for damage.
“Yeeeeeeaaaaahhhhh!”
Humphrey squeezed his .30s again, and the TBD vibrated from their contribution to the hail of defensive fire from all seven in the division. The Zero shot past in another slashing swipe at the Devastators – big, dumb pheasants unable to escape.
Fire and black smoke to his left. Skipper? Is that Tom?
“Mister Laub!”
More Zeros zoomed by, markings on the tails, numbers like his, spitting bullets from the nose, their pilots concentrating on the deadly work before them. Cannon fire ripped through the formation like a mace. Once all the Japanese had taken their turns, Lindsey’s formation remained intact in their desperate stern chase.
Laub couldn’t believe they were all still flying and watched the determined Zeros circle in a daisy chain for another run. He selected his interphone.
“Humphrey! How you doin’?”
“Okay, sir! They’re comin’ around!”
“I see ’em,” Laub answered. He studied Kaga ahead, growing larger. The bearing drifted right, but too slow.
“Another five minutes, Humphrey, at least.”
“Doin’ my level best, sir!”
“I know! We’ll make it!”
In the middle of the enemy task force, the TBDs received antiaircraft fire from all quadrants – and cannon fire from above – as Zeros made run after run. One flaming Devastator in Ely’s division climbed into a wingover – smooth and controlled – before it plunged into the sea. Seconds later, another of Laub’s friends in a burning torpedo bomber flashed flame and nosed down with a large splash.
We’re gonna make it, dammit!
Ahead, a plane lifted off Kaga and turned hard. Then another. And another. Zeros! Next to him only two of the six Jap fighters worked them over with machine guns. As the gunners returned fire, Skipper Lindsey’s division continued on into the teeth of the enemy flak. Kaga now fought her assailants with her port side five-inchers that belched bright flame. On the flight deck gallery the smaller guns winked at them. Tracers floated off the ship before they whizzed past, and the sea became white with spray. Laub heard his engine, the jackhammer sound of Humphrey wailing away behind him, and the aluminum punches of machine gun rounds through his tail.