The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  “I got one, sir!”

  To Laub’s right, a Zero flamed from its underside, the pilot pulling up and away. The flames spread fast, and the fighter entered a sharp turn, rolled level, then slowly inverted. In a power dive, it smacked the sea next to Kaga’s wide wake.

  Ely’s division lost another TBD that caught fire without warning and broke up. The left wing fluttered away while the burning fuselage spiraled down to the water. A trailing Devastator maneuvered to avoid the splash.

  Both divisions now ran parallel to the carrier, well inside a mile, each facing a broadside of antiaircraft guns. To Laub, Kaga’s entire port side was on fire, as rows of tracers arced above and kicked up spray below the Americans. One of the gunners in a TBD to his right fired at the carrier with his free guns. Stop wasting ammo, Laub mentally admonished. On the other side of the ship, Zeros dove and climbed; Laub was glad he could not see the grim results.

  Kaga then swung hard to port, into Laub, bow guns blazing from under the huge flight deck overhang. He could hear the gunfire, continuous muffled thunder, set against a steady chatter from the small stuff. Now too close, Lindsey veered them away, and Laub, with combat instincts learned only minutes ago, didn’t want to throw a wing up and present a bigger target. Kaga’s bow filled his field of view, white water lifting above the anchor deck as it cleaved the sea.

  With the carrier bow-on, Laub and the others could now only see three of their fellows as they fled to the south. The TBDs ran for their lives and one smoked. Laub saw that they were clean – they dropped! – and waited for an impact on the big hull. But there was none, and soon the ship reversed to parallel his division. Kaga’s attention shifted to him…and the Zeros returned.

  Having overtaken the ship, Lindsey needed to open distance for the attack and continued on through the fire. Laub glanced from one side of the formation to the other to pick up the fighters that would surely pounce. Where were they? He couldn’t see anything near, and his frantic head-whipping didn’t allow him a chance to really see the threat. He had to fly form on the skipper. He had to remain steady for Humphrey. He had to drop his fish and get out!

  With Kaga again presenting her broadside, Lindsey took his men as far as he could. Laub saw the signal and passed it down the line. They were turning in, attacking. They had come so far, their only chance. Where are the damn Zeros? He couldn’t afford to scan for fighters, he had to set up, stay in position, slow to eighty, hold fifty feet, 800 yards but no closer, 70 degrees off the bow. Or whatever they could get. A lucky hip shot?

  “Out our tail, sir. Zero deflection!”

  In his right turn, Laub twisted his neck all the way right and picked them up: three of them, nose on, and stationary. Their wings pulsed yellow. Cannon fire! The wispy streams of their trails indicated a miss high.

  Laub whipped his head back in time to see the CO’s plane burst into flame as the cannon rounds tore chunks out of the wings and empennage. Lindsey fell away from the formation at once and into the maelstrom, a frenzied spray of errant cannon shells and machine gun rounds. Horrified, Laub watched Lindsey’s plane explode on the water in a fiery splash.

  Their leader gone, the formation loosened up, the confused pilots unsure of whom to follow. Another TBD pulled up in an easy climb, streaming smoke, and released its torpedo as it burned. The torpedo climbed and wobbled away from the stricken plane. Laub watched, fascinated and shocked, as it reached its apex, for a moment suspended in midair before gravity took over. On its back, the burning Devastator nosed over and down, exploding on the water seconds before its torpedo followed it in.

  Every man for himself. Line up and drop. Rolling out, Laub throttled back and skidded his plane to slow. He was both furious and fearful, his teeth clenched to the point of pain, concentrating on his run, the only one he would get. He’d hit it, and he wasn’t ever going to come back. The huge carrier filled his field of view, and he saw a man running on the flight deck, a clear ridgeline above flashing pops of gunfire and a moving fog of cordite smoke.

  Next to him Irv McPherson dropped his fish and banked hard away to the right. Laub felt alone. He was alone, in the lead even if there was no one behind him to lead. He took aim on the forward part of the gray steel wall as fireflies of tracers floated by or shot past in every direction. Radio calls of fear and confusion. Somebody is hit; another has sight. Eighty knots! Now!

  Flushed with adrenalin, Laub yanked up on the release handle as the Mk-13 fell free with a welcome lurch. Safety was to the right, but he again feared throwing up a wing, especially only 500 yards from dozens of guns, all shooting at him. Point blank.

  With his throttle firewalled, he overbanked anyway – no choice! – and pulled his nose across as the carrier turned away, showing its stern and the huge girders that held up the flight deck. The engineering of this strange vessel amazed him even as a fusillade of tracers ripped past. What am I doing? he thought and got as low as he dared, overtemping the engine, manifold pressure be damned.

  Irv was still flying, and somebody else further west was, too, as the TBDs fled south amid splashes of bullets. Laub looked back and saw no plumes of water high against the carrier’s hull, no fires, nothing. Did all of us miss? Not one hit? A mile to his left were three gray planes like his, low on the surface. The cruel Jap fighters slashed at them without mercy. Three of the seven. Three.

  “Humphrey, you okay?”

  “Yes, sir! We missed, sir.”

  “I know. How’s yer ammo?”

  “Half a can left, sir!”

  Laub scanned the sky. He was safe for the moment. A destroyer cruised two miles to his right, firing at them, but from only one gun.

  “Make ’em count. We gotta fight the way we came in.”

  The Americans escaped as singles, and Laub noticed one of the planes to the east was too close to the water. Pull up, he thought, but it continued down in a shallow trajectory. The Devastator pancaked in with a splash that resembled a stone skipping on a pond, pieces flying off and tumbling through the air before they, too, fell back and slapped the water. No flame. No smoke. Were they already dead?

  His TBD felt like a fighter without the Mk-13 but accelerated slowly through 140 knots. McPherson and his unknown mate were a half mile at his four o’clock, all going for the same opening in the screen. To his left, a big ship charged at him, a cruiser. As he looked down the barrels of her bow turrets, the ship did not seem to take interest.

  Movement above the cruiser caught his eye. A Zero banked hard right. Toward him.

  “Humphrey, nine o’clock at a mile!”

  “Got him, sir!”

  Laub stayed low, both he and Humphrey padlocked on the enemy fighter. It was alone, painted gray with red dots on the wingtips, and Laub watched it approach. Maybe it didn’t see them…

  When it overbanked down a second later, rage welled up inside, from a place Laub did not know he had. This pilot was going to execute him, a motherless fawn in the open, the unfairness of it, the savagery of it.

  “You sonofabitch!” he bellowed, and yanked the stick left. He would engage and kill him. Kill. That bastard Jap. Right damn now.

  His Devastator rolled into the Zero, which now reversed to deliver a medium-deflection shot. This was single combat, but Laub’s TBD, though more responsive, would not do what he wanted it to do. He couldn’t meet the Jap head-on in a game of machine-gun chicken. Patient and focused, he held his bank, stayed low, watched the black nose approach from over his left shoulder. You are not going to get me!

  When the Zero’s nose lit up, Laub leveled his wings and pulled. The Zero’s short ranging-burst missed low and the pilot repositioned as Laub banked into him again. Humphrey opened up with his free guns, and rows of bullets criss-crossed the deadly space only a football field wide. Laub’s rudder pedals vibrated from a hit.

  Chapter 16

  McClusky, Northwest of Midway, 0950 June 4, 1942

  As the minutes counted up and fuel counted down, Wade McClusky replayed his decisi
on.

  Fifteen minutes earlier, he had turned his formation northwest to fly up the Japanese approach course. They had to be off his right nose, and he spent most of his time looking in that direction. With his binoculars he again scanned a break in the clouds before he methodically moved on to the next one. The breaks opened up as the formation passed overhead. Nothing.

  He sensed the nervousness of his pilots behind him. He was nervous, and it wasn’t because the Japanese were nearby. The high fuel flow to maintain altitude dominated his thoughts. If his fuel flow was high, those behind probably had higher flows to maintain position. He mentally calculated fuel flow against fuel remaining for the time and distance it would buy him. Enterprise was some 180 miles off his right shoulder, and he figured a rough Point Option course for home; 075.

  As each search of water came up empty, doubt crept in. Did I maintain a steady outbound course? Was the sighting report accurate? Did I calculate airspeed properly? From 20,000 feet, there was nothing but low scattered clouds and barren ocean, nothing from which to take a fix. Their fuel state was desperate, almost as desperate as a gasping man unable to breathe, and he had seen one SBD fall out of formation and glide down to the surface, probably due to empty tanks. McClusky sensed his formation was already in extremis. Searching for enemy fighters was secondary. They all scanned below for anything to hit. They could then escape…and breathe.

  Another minute passed. In five more minutes, it would be 1000, the time he gave himself to turn. He referenced his plotting board again. Ninety right was 045. On that heading, if they didn’t find anything once he calculated 150 miles from Enterprise, he’d turn for home. Cold, frustrated, and tense, McClusky placed the binoculars against his goggles and scanned two breaks to the west. Nothing.

  McClusky then searched a break off his nose. Above it, a rainbow hovered over the sea, vivid and pleasing. For a moment he admired it – all he could do – as he waited for the break to open.

  Whoa! What’s that?

  He lifted his goggles and put the binoculars against his eyes. A ship trailing a big wake. He focused. A single ship, the size of a light cruiser. Heading north.

  And Japanese.1

  It was a Jap ship all right. McClusky waggled his wings to get the attention of his wingmen before he pointed to ensure they saw it, too. With Ensign Pittman’s enthusiastic thumbs-up, he got his answer. Next to him was Earl Gallaher, and, after catching his attention, McClusky pointed down to his right. Earl’s vigorous head motion confirmed that he, too, had a tally on the enemy ship. McClusky’s fighter pilot instincts compelled him to scan the horizon at altitude for CAP fighters: clear. The Jap carriers must be nearby. But where? Why is this guy out here alone? Might be a destroyer…but where is he going so fast? He selected the interphone.

  “Choc, I think we found ’em. We’re gonna see where this guy is headed, but I think he’s gonna lead us to ’em.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chocalousek answered, and readied the radio for use.

  The ship left a wake that resembled a white arrow as it steamed alone at flank speed. McClusky paralleled its heading as he followed it off his right side. He peered into the next cloud break as it revealed, slowly, what it hid on the surface.

  His heart rate increased when he saw them: multiple dark specks trailing white slashes, steaming in all directions on the blue tabletop. Two carriers with light-colored decks resolved themselves as their escorts dashed about. The break opened up further to reveal two more flight decks and a battleship closer to him, escorted by more destroyers and cruisers. At least a dozen ships. We found the bastards. He selected the transmit button as relief washed over him.

  “This is McClusky. Tally ho! Have sighted the enemy.”

  He checked his watch: 1002.

  Spruance glanced at the clock. The dive-bombers had been gone for over two hours, the Hornet planes longer than that. The only transmissions received were garbled radio snippets from an uneasy pilot. Browning said they were from one of his fighter pilots. Nothing from the torpedo planes.

  Browning lit another cigarette and leaned over the chart table with a scowl on his face. At least he had stopped his pacing. It was as if he were the admiral, prowling and growling and rubbing his neck as he looked out to sea through narrow eyes.

  “Signal Hornet and ask if they’ve heard anything. Anything,” Browning snapped at one of the staff officers. As the order was passed to the signal bridge, he went back to the DR plot he kept on the chart, busying himself measuring distances, checking the bridge repeaters, plotting new courses. Spruance sat and watched, keeping his calm. Somebody had to.

  Had he done the right thing, countermanding his staff and sending the dive-bombers out alone, before the fighters and torpedo planes? He had stepped in to take the conn many times in his career, sometimes for confused junior officers unsure of how to take station, or unmindful of shoal water when entering a harbor. Having to assert himself with his chief of staff, a captain, was unexpected. They were spotted, time was of the essence, yet Browning had not acted when it was clearly called for, stubbornly holding out for a perfect launch composition. Perfect would have taken another thirty minutes, at best, and the launch was already thirty minutes late with most of the planes holding overhead and burning fuel. Spruance smiled to himself that he, although inexperienced in the ways of carriers, had to step in. His eyes met those of Oliver, who took his measure. Caught in a moment of reflection, Spruance smiled at his aide before he stood and walked over to Browning. The chief of staff took a drag on his cigarette as he searched the skies to the west.

  “What do you think?”

  Browning exhaled, and the sea breeze directed his cigarette smoke into Spruance’s face. His mind over the horizon, Browning didn’t realize what he had done. Spruance ignored the slight.

  “He’s either in his attack or still searching. I’m worried about the fighters, though. They’ve gotta be coming home, or they’ve gotta prepare for water landings.

  “When will we know?”

  Browning grimaced at the question.

  “Admiral, my guess is that unless McClusky finds something and transmits a sighting report, some of them, probably the fighters and torpeckers, will come back in an hour or so. The dive-bombers have another ninety minutes, tops.”

  “What if they’re unsuccessful?”

  “I’ve considered that, sir. They get back here at eleven, eleven-thirty, we’ll have to recover them – which will take 45 minutes – turn them around, maybe reload…I’m thinking a 1400 launch, maybe 1330 at best. We’ll have to use many of the same pilots, and they’ll only have time to hit the head and scarf down a sandwich and gulp a glass of water before they go again.”

  Spruance nodded his understanding, but how could over 100 planes from two carriers not find the enemy? And Fletcher had launched a strike an hour ago and still nothing? The radios remained silent.

  “Nagumo will be hitting us in that time,” Spruance said, keeping his voice low.

  “Yes, sir. Another concern. I’m considering a move east.”

  Spruance, also facing west, remained expressionless. Such a movement was in his command domain. He knew enough to know that moving east would make a long flight longer for his airborne pilots. However, moving east would increase his chances of avoiding an enemy attack. Would Browning recommend, or would he suggest command decisions?

  Enterprise and Hornet were all but empty. TF-16 had shot their bolt and Spruance would not get another chance until the afternoon. He felt vulnerable, and Browning was not radiating confidence. Like listening to Jack Benny on a Sunday evening while sitting in their own parlors, the nervous men looked at the radio speaker, waiting and hoping for something to come out of it.

  Then, a weak, crackling transmission.

  “…running low on fuel…return…”

  “Who’zat?” Browning barked.

  “Sounds like Jim Gray, the VF skipper,” Buracker answered. All turned their ear to the speaker, again waiting for something to em
erge from the static.

  “Enemy sighted, two carriers…”

  Spruance strained to listen as Browning stepped toward the microphone.

  “Two carriers!” he said. “Okay, he’s escorting the VT, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Buracker said.

  Browning scowled at the speaker, and muttered under his breath. “C’mon. Come on!”

  Another minute passed. Unable to restrain his tension any longer, Browning snatched up the microphone.

  “McClusky Attack! Attack immediately!” he shouted into it, breaking through 150 miles of static.

  Long seconds passed, and nothing.

  “Why aren’t they attacking, for crying out loud?” Browning fumed to no one.

  Spruance wished he knew the answer, too, but remained silent, knowing that an attack had better happen soon.

  Wonder if Nimitz is monitoring these transmissions?

  * * *

  1 HIJMS Arashi, which McClusky mistook for a light cruiser.

  Chapter 17

  LCDR Max Leslie, Bombing Three, 0940 June 4, 1942

  “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

  Max Leslie slapped the dashboard. As soon as he had flicked the switch to arm his thousand-pounder for electrical release, he had felt the familiar jump of a bomb falling from his Dauntless. He couldn’t believe it. He ground his teeth and pounded his fist on his thigh in frustration as he cruised toward the enemy at 15,000 feet. He wanted to explode. How could this have happened? And of all times now, leading his squadron toward the Jap carriers that were probably at their most vulnerable recovering planes.