by Kevin Miller
“Sir…we couldn’t protect them. Lem Massey found the Japs and turned north to attack…we were with him. As soon as we steadied out they hit us, about twenty Zeros, I never got an accurate count. My guys had their hands full defending themselves – lost one of my wingmen.”
“Torpedo plane losses?”
Thach nodded, preparing him. Fletcher’s heart sank. Oh, no.
“Yes, sir, at least half. They all went in. Didn’t see any hits, and that carrier was still out there when I left. Some TBDs got away, and I came across a survivor headin’ home, shot up pretty bad. Saw another one to the south. I couldn’t stay with them. Too slow. We tried, sir.”
“But the dive-bombers sank one?”
“Don’t know if it sunk, sir, but it was solid flame, the length of the ship. I watched the VB dive on it… Sun off their wings. It looked like a beautiful silver waterfall,” Thach said, smiling. “That ship is done. Wouldn’t be surprised if it sank.”
Fletcher nodded. One down, confirmed by a credible eyewitness.
Lewis pressed Thach. “And the burning ships to the west, Jimmie? You sure they’re carriers?”
“Yes, sir, you can tell by their high flight decks over the bows, which was the only part of them not burning. Huge explosions, and the condition of one of them looked like the carrier Max bagged. On fire from stem to stern, huge columns of black. I’d say ten miles west. Not sure who got them, but they weren’t from Yorktown.”
A watchstander shouted so all could hear. “Inbound raid at the screen edge!” Fletcher turned toward the horizon, then back to Thach.
“You better stay put with us, son. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir,” Thach said, unsure of what to do next or where to stand on the unfamiliar bridge.
Fletcher felt the pace quicken, the terse commands, the tension, the building fear as they all waited. CAP fighters engaged the bogeys, and his ships ran southeast. Lewis returned, and somebody yelled, “Ten miles!”
“Let’s go watch,” Fletcher said, as Lewis and the rest of the staff moved outside and on to the flag bridge. Thach followed.
Leaning over the starboard rail, they saw them: sudden dark splotches of AA against the sky. A pinprick of fire appeared and fell to the surface, trailing black. An airplane. The western screen ships had opened up, and amid the bursts, Fletcher made out the enemy formation, a row of dots moving in slow motion. Faint streams of tracers lifted skyward toward them. White contrails inscribed small arcs that revealed CAP fighters turning hard before they disappeared into the abyss of blue. A dot glinted in the sun, then two, and nearby, a formation of dots. One blew up, and another black smear streaked down.
Binoculars against his eyes, Lewis recognized the fixed undercarriage of the enemy planes. “Dive-bombers, sir…and not all that many. Ten?”
“Will the CAP and screen get them?”
“Yes, sir, but only one has to get lucky.”
Scattered and culled by the Wildcats, the Japanese formation broke up into smaller groups. Fletcher saw them clearly now. He could not hear them yet over the rumble of gunfire from his western screen, but they were coming. Fletcher was no aviator but he’d seen this less than a month ago. Even if the Wildcats were on them, some of the enemy planes would get through.
“See any torpedo planes?”
“No, sir!”
“Good.”
One gun fired, and then all of Yorktown’s guns opened up at once: a hurricane of lead, sheets of tracers sent aloft by a unified engine of defensive fire. Inside the freight train of chatter and howling metal could be heard the crew-served five-inchers, their sharp booms rattling the ship. It sounded like a twister on the plains, sudden and all-enveloping, but, unlike a tornado, it did not abate, did not recede as it cut its deadly swath. Fletcher stood fast in the middle of it, traveling at 25 knots as Yorktown sprinted to avoid the blows of telegraphed punches.
Surrounded by antiaircraft bursting around it, the first bomber peeled over, and Lewis shouted, “Let’s go inside!” The bulkheads would offer them 3/8 of an inch of steel to protect them from splinters and flash. Chances were the bomb would miss, or hit some other part of the ship. Yorktown was big, but it wasn’t that big. Fletcher could only huddle under the chart table. It was unseemly, he thought subconsciously, especially with his silly doughboy helmet. Better than nothing. Outside, the kids stretched their necks to the sky under their tin hats as they fired at the hated Aichi’s and screamed at them in fear and rage.
The first bomb whistled through the cacophony of gunfire and hit someplace aft. The power of the blow transferred through the decks and jolted all on the bridge. Yorktown’s defensive fire continued unabated, and Fletcher’s eyes met those of the young fighter squadron CO. To Fletcher, they conveyed sorrow, as if Thach had let him and his shipmates down. Don’t be too hard on yourself. This is war.
The second bomb exploded with a thunderous roar that knocked everyone over. A shock wave pushed them, and anything not bolted down, against the forward bulkhead. All sensed the missile’s trail of destruction deep inside, right below them. Sickened by the sound of death, Fletcher expected heavy casualties, more than last month. Lewis went to retrieve the chart, blown off the table and now damp as it lay on the deck. Yorktown’s defensive fire continued as heavy smoke flowed into the bridge.
Another hit, this one forward, a knife puncture through siding, followed by a muffled boom. Smoke filling the space, on all fours to breathe. Gunfire subsiding, must be done. The crackling flames sounded as if they were coming from the other side of the aft bulkhead. Fletcher felt the ship slow, a familiar feeling. A sickening feeling.
“We gotta get out to weather deck, sir!” Lewis shouted, as he and Thach helped their admiral to his feet. The men had stopped firing the small caliber, and soon all the carrier guns fell silent as the rumble of gunfire from the screen ships continued.
“We’re clear, sir!” Lewis said as they watched the last of the Japanese attackers claw their way west through their screen. Heavy smoke poured from the uptake vents and shrouded the aft end of the ship in darkness. Fletcher checked the water surface some sixty feet below. Only a small bow wave flared out as Yorktown coasted to a stop.
Dammit.
The flight seemed never-ending.
Puffy white clouds drifted behind Childers as he studied their shapes, the same way he did as a boy on the plains, lying on his back in the dirt. He faced aft, sun burning the left side of his face. No longer sweating, he felt cold as if he and Harry were at 10,000 feet.
Harry said something about the screen, the ship. Childers didn’t understand. He was thirsty, and his canteen empty. His legs hurt, especially his right ankle. He couldn’t help anymore, and he shivered in the heat. Sun so hot, ah froze to death. Suzannah, don’t you cry.
“Comin’ up on home, but she’s not moving. Smokin’ kinda bad, too.”
Home? Yorktown? Childers had to prepare for the arrestment…but slumped back in pain and exhaustion. He selected the interphone.
“Where? How far?” he rasped.
“Off to starboard. Almost right over her.”
Childers pushed himself up to look. Nothing.
“Where? I don’t see her?”
“You can’t see her, Lloyd? She’s right next to us. They’re reparin’ some hits on deck. We can’t land on her.”
Childers first thought was of Wayne. “Wayne! Is he okay?”
“Dunno, probably,” Harry answered as they flew past their damaged ship. “She’s not in a real bad way, got some VF spotted forward, crew all over the place. Deck’s clobbered, Lloyd, we gotta press on. Two flattops ahead…if we can make ’em.”
Now beyond caring, Childers thought of his brother down there. Wayne! The Japs got him, too! Weak and half-blind from blood loss, he could only sit and wait for Harry to take them to another ship. He hoped it was Hornet, where he had a friend in VT-8. Wayne. Mother. The engine sputtered and caught, sputtered and caught.
“We’re not gonna mak
e it, Lloyd. Prepare to ditch. Stow yer gun.”
Prepare to ditch. Ditch in the sea… Why is it called that? Ditching. Childers and his brother dug ditches in Norman, the red clay of their childhood. I’m twenty-one today. It’s my birthday.
Did Wayne make it?
Harry dropped the tailhook. We’re gonna land! Childers thought. Land on a carrier. The engine sputtered and died, and all he heard was the wind whistling through the canopy. “Get ready, Lloyd!” Harry shouted, and Childers braced himself for landing. USS Hornet would have a doctor; it was a new ship. Maybe the doc was already helping Wayne.
“Brace yourself!”
Childers felt their plane twitch as Harry corrected for the LSO. The engine was silent… Why is the engine off?
The first slap stunned him, but, before he could think, the second impact slammed him forward. Spent cartridges propelled off the floor and pelted him from below as water doused him from above. Their TBD had stopped and Childers wondered why he was wet. Why is the engine off?
“Get out, Lloyd!” Harry cried as he unstrapped to help his wounded gunner. Out on the wing of the sinking TBD, he reached in to Childers’s cockpit to unbuckle his lap belt. “Dammit, Childers!” Harry cursed before trying again.
He felt Harry’s hands pull at him. “Oww!” Childers cried as Harry forcibly lifted him up and over the side.
“Here, hang on while I get the rubber boat!” Harry shouted as Childers hunched over the rear cockpit. “There’s a tin can next to us that’s gonna get us! Hang on, Lloyd!”
Childers felt the plane wallow in the swells and winced as salt water sloshed against his right ankle. On the floor of the cockpit he saw blood mixed with seawater. Sharks!
The raft inflated with a whoosh, and the calm seas allowed Harry to keep it next to the wing. Childers patted the fuselage. Thanks for gettin’ us back.
“C’mon, Childers!”
Childers then became puzzled. Why are we standing on the wing?
“Lloyd, they’re comin’ in a whaleboat! Just a few more minutes.”
Childers felt Harry grab his waist and pull him back to the raft. Rising on a swell, Harry pushed him, and Childers fell into the raft, bellowing in pain. Harry, you sonofabitch!
On his back, eyes stinging from saltwater and the sun, Childers heard the whaleboat motor up and saw Harry catch a line thrown to him. Childers could only close his eyes and listen.
“What ship, sir?”
“Yorktown!”
“Is he bad?”
Childers cracked open his eyes as he waited for Harry’s answer.
The pilot nodded. “Yeah, pretty bad.”
“We got a doc aboard,” the destroyerman said, then ordered his coxswain. “Back off a bit…watch the damn tail. Bring us left; no! Yer military left.”
“What ship are you guys?” Harry asked as Childers felt the boat bump the raft.
“USS Monaghan… Sir, can you help us with him? Smitty, help the sir pull him over. Easy.”
Like a child, Childers was helped over the gunwale of the whaleboat and winced again as his tailbone landed on the wooden deck. The sailor talking with Harry seemed older, like a chief. Thank goodness a chief has me.
“Sorry, buddy! We’ll have you aboard in two shakes of a lamb’s tail! The damn Nips left about ten, fifteen minutes ago. Looks like they beat up Yorky bad. How’d you guys do out there, sir?”
Harry hesitated. “Think we hit one or two of them. Most of our guys got shot up, though. Did you see any more of us torpedo planes?”
“Sorry, sir, all planes look the same to me… Okay, cast off! Clear… Let it drift a bit. Okay, Smitty…starboard accom ladder. Go.”
As the coxswain gunned the throttle and the whaleboat accelerated and turned, Childers sat with his back on the center console: in the sun, drenched, spent, no longer caring. He craved sleep, even though every pounding swell jarred his back and his tailbone. Harry was nearby with the salty chief. They’d take care of him. Harry took his hand and squeezed it hard.
“We’re comin’ alongside a destroyer, Lloyd. Just a few more minutes. Hang on. Don’t sleep, dammit.”
Childers nodded, unable to talk.
“You saved us, Lloyd. You saved our lives.”
Childers nodded again and passed out.
* * *
1 ENS G.H. Goldsmith and ARM3c J.W. Patterson, Jr., Bombing Six
2 LTJG W.E. Roberts and AMM1c W.B. Steinman, Bombing Six
Chapter 23
Flight Deck, USS Yorktown, 1230 June 4, 1942
Fletcher walked the flight deck as he had that hot, sunny day in the Coral Sea four weeks earlier, to see the damage for himself. He had seen death before, too many times in his career…didn’t want any more images of dead kids in his memory. But he had to assess – and had to be seen assessing.
Smoke poured from the hole next to the island as crewmen darted about clearing debris and dragging both timbers and plating forward to patch the other hole near the elevator. Emerging from behind the smoke, medical personnel carried a man in a stretcher to the port catwalk. A crowd of men had gathered aft of the island, and, ahead of Fletcher, a man – more boy than man – was down on all fours. Retching. Another boy walked away from the scene, crying from a sight he would never forget.
“Watch where you step, sir,” Lewis warned as they approached the group, and Fletcher scanned the deck ahead of him. Amid wooden splinters and unidentifiable debris was a hand with half a forearm: cut clean and palm down. Fletcher stopped and gathered himself while a corpsman retrieved the part, placed it in a bag, and continued his search for other remains. Men tended to the wounded on the 1.1-inch gun mount, the gun tub riddled with shrapnel. One dead sailor was slumped over the barrels, the back of his kapok jacket shredded and bloody. The man was decapitated. Fletcher averted his eyes to maintain his composure. Nearby, a chief directed the men to remove the gun’s ammo cans and heave them over the side.
The mood differed from that after last month’s attack. As Yorktown wallowed and smoldered, Fletcher sensed fear in the crew. Their ship lay prostrate: in the open, a column of towering black smoke marking their position. The Japs had at least one – maybe two – carriers out there. They’d be back to finish Yorktown off. Sailors scanned the horizon for help. Only one of their torpedo planes had made it back, only one, and seeing the ship immobile and the deck holed, flew on to find another flight deck. Fletcher glanced up at the radar antenna on the spotting tower. Dead, not moving. No early warning capability. Communications out.
“Spence, we can’t fight from here. We’ve gotta transfer.”
“Yes, sir. Astoria?”
“Yes. Have them send a boat.”
“What about Yorktown, sir?”
Fletcher had thought of little else since the attack. The Japs would be back. He considered options: Make a stand here with Ray, or send everything east to regroup and wait for a report from either his scouts or the Midway PBYs? Around Fletcher the sunburned sailors shouted to one another as they hammered in timbers and deck plates in the event Yorktown could raise enough steam to operate planes and escape. A miracle.
The order to Astoria was passed as Fletcher strode forward toward the repair party near the elevator. Already the men had dragged steel plates to cover the wooden frame they had built over the hole as chiefs continued to bark their orders. He and Lewis looked south for signs of Spruance. Only a few destroyers and some planes were visible.
“My eyes are gettin’ old, Spence. You see him?”
“No, sir, but I did before the attack. He’s just over the horizon, probably recovering.”
Fletcher nodded as the deck rolled gently under him. Ahead on the brilliant sunlit sea: friendly ships, his ships, and their promise of salvation, making best speed toward him. Behind him: black smoke and blood, nervous kids hammering wood and moving debris, chiefs and officers spurring them on, pushing them. The combat-experienced men scanned the sky with a wary eye. A chief caught them. Fletcher heard his salty bellowin
g, familiar, and, in a way, comforting. “Knock off the skylarking, dammit, they’ll be comin’ back!”
Fletcher smiled at the chief’s language. Chiefs.
Instinctively, Fletcher scanned west. Nagumo was out there, bloodied. And dangerous.
Kroeger stepped into the ready room. Where is everyone?
He knew, of course. Had seen his mates fall out of formation and ditch before they found the Japs, had seen them fall from the sky in flames after they had. Not many of the Sails were back either. A handful of the torpeckers were aboard and in the pattern. The one he saw on deck was shot to hell. Maybe the others had found refuge over in Hornet.
What a cluster! The forever launch, chewing up gas with a wasted climb to altitude, nothing to see but clouds, bad oxygen, and the damn ship over fifty miles from the expected Point Option! Half the squadron in the water. Then a break… There they are! Practically the whole Jap fleet, the attack geometry perfect. And then, the knucklehead Sails just about hit us as we push over on our target! Thank God the skipper took us over to the other carrier. Hit, but probably not bad enough to sink.
Weber walked in and dropped his parachute where he stood. With eyes closed, he breathed through his mouth. Deeply, to calm himself.
“Fred, you okay?”
Eyes still shut, Weber nodded. “Jus’ need to let it all out.” To Kroeger, Weber seemed to have aged ten years.
“Where’s the CO?” Weber asked as he removed his cloth helmet and Mae West.
“Think he went up to the bridge.”
“Yeah… And Bud, you hit it. Did you see your hit on the pull off?”
Kroeger looked at Weber with skepticism. “I saw a fire and a geyser aft when I looked back. Halterman thinks we hit it. Akagi, I’d say.”
“You did hit it. I saw the CO’s hit, and it scraped their paint close aboard the port side.”
“Hell, I dropped just as he did, with him in my bombsight as I pickled.”