The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  “Yeah, and I was still tracking when the first bomb exploded, huge geyser just off the port side forward, an’ the ship moved right into the splash. But your hit, Bud…as I released, I saw yours explode amidships.”

  “I just saw smoke and a geyser aft,” Kroeger answered.

  “Then I must’ve missed short, darn it, but you hit it, because I swear the first bomb was a near miss. Did you see it burn?”

  “It was burning, but not like that guy to the west. Think that one was Kaga. Pretty sure of it.”

  “Yeah, no wonder, with practically two whole squadrons of SBDs to plaster her. Did you see that one giant explosion? Looked like a mushroom.”

  “Yeah, felt it. Did you?”

  “Oh, yeah! And didja see that ship to the north? Whooo-wee, it looked like a blast furnace. Musta been the Hornet guys!”

  “Or Yorktown.”

  “You hit a moving, turning carrier – the darned flagship, you lucky SOB! And how about that Jap floatplane that ran on us? It was like the CO just swatted it out of our way!”

  Kroeger allowed himself a smile, but he and Fred were still the only ones in the ready room. They heard planes taxi outside, Dauntlesses, hopefully their squadron mates. Maybe the scouts.

  “I’m sure you and the CO holed it,” Kroeger said. “But there’s still one more out there. It was to the north as we cut through the screen, between us and that burning carrier to the northeast. You see it?”

  “Yeah,” Weber nodded. Both men considered what that meant.

  Best entered the ready room and leveled his eyes on Weber.

  “Weber, you gotta stay in position or yer gonna get shot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His message delivered, Best changed his tone. “Nice bombing, you two. Three for three. Have you debriefed yet?”

  “No, sir,” Kroeger answered.

  “Tell them we hit Akagi forward, midships, and aft. She’s not going to fly anymore today. I saw two other burning carriers and one untouched. I just relayed that to Captain Browning. Have you seen any more of our guys?”

  Kroeger and Weber shook their heads. The reciprocating coughs and chugs of another plane taxiing forward filled the room.

  “They may have gone to the other ships. Your radiomen okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” the pilots answered in unison.

  “Good. Okay, get some food, and be ready to go again. I’d say in another hour. Stay close to the ready room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bob Laub was the first to enter the VT-6 ready room, empty save for the enlisted phone watch. Skipper Lindsey, the XO, Tom… He had seen them go in, had seen them get hit and struggle to control their burning planes. Each of them had tried well past that sickening point that all hope was lost. Doomed. Did they know? Laub had thought about it most of the way back.

  Tom Eversole – the nicest guy in the squadron. Gone.

  McPherson walked into the ready room and slumped into the nearest chair.

  “You okay, Irv?”

  The ensign nodded.

  “How about Ed? Didn’t he land before you?”

  McPherson closed his eyes, fighting to keep control.

  “Irv…?”

  “I saw him go into the head. To piss…or throw up.”

  Laub sat down across the aisle. He didn’t know what to do. Skipper and XO…gone. Was Lieutenant Riley the one guy in the second division who had made it?

  “Irv, did you see that second division guy ditch after we cleared the Japs?”

  “Yeah, but don’t know who it was. Then that one guy who wouldn’t join on us. Not sure who he was. Think it was the XO?”

  “No, I maintained contact on the XO as we went in. He was shot down. As sure as I can be.”

  McPherson nodded. Both men were spent. Starving and thirsty, they were too tired to get a cup of water, too exhausted to debrief. They were stunned by what they had just experienced: shell shock, they had called it in the Great War. They could only sit in their grimy, sweat-stained flying togs. Laub loosened his necktie, then pulled it off and let dangle from his fingers to the deck. Damn neckties. Must be in the proper Uniform of the Day. For Torpedo Six, officers’ ties were only good for tourniquets.

  From the passageway, Laub heard a scuffle. “I’ll kill him!”

  Laub and McPherson turned to listen to a commotion from outside the ready room.

  “Where’s Gray? – Get your damn hands off me!”

  Laub bolted up and into the passageway. Chief Smith struggled against three men as they tried to restrain his rage. He had a .45 pistol in his hand with his finger on the trigger. Grunts and shouts, and Smith’s wild eyes…

  “You bastards were afraid to shoot the Japs, but shoot me? Sons of bitches!”

  Laub lunged at Smith. “Chief Smith! Put it down! Give it to me!” he bellowed.

  “No, sir! The VF let us die out there!”

  McPherson now joined the fracas, as five of them struggled to restrain Smith, who was looking to kill the CO of Fighting Six.

  Inches from Smith’s face, Laub unloaded at the top of his lungs.

  “Now, Chief! Now! Gimme the gun, right now!”

  Surprised by Laub’s ferocious outburst, and pinned against the bulkhead, Smith slacked off as two of the pilots pried the pistol from his hand. His foul breath assaulted Laub in quick pulses as the chief relaxed his muscles. Smith’s eyes narrowed and focused on Laub: one of them. Worthless officers!

  Fighting tears, Smith fumed at Laub. “Mister Laub, you heard the XO, didn’t you? ‘Come on down, Jim!’ Well, where were they, sir? I didn’t see a single fighter!”

  “Chief Smith, you are to secure to the Chiefs Mess!” Laub recognized another chief who was helping to restrain Smith. “Can you get him down there?”

  Smith wasn’t finished.

  “Then, sir, I come back here, shot to hell, do my damn recognition turn, and still one of these VF assholes shoots me! We’re all half dead, and they don’t know their ass from third base!”

  “Chief Smith, that’s enough!” Laub thundered. “You are relieved! Secure to the Chiefs Mess and stay there! That’s an order!” Shocked sailors watched the spectacle from either end of the passageway.

  “Yes, sir, Mister Laub,” Smith muttered with open disdain.

  “Damn you, Chief, not one more word or yer on report! Go below, now! Now! You two, make sure he gets there and stays there.”

  Smith glared at Laub in contempt as the men released their hold, allowing him to turn for the ladder well. Laub held his gaze as he did, not backing down.

  Laub spun for the door, took the pistol into the ready room, and dropped the magazine. No round chambered. Smith wasn’t that out of his head, but this incident could not be forgotten. The squadron maintenance chief then entered the ready room.

  “Mister Laub?”

  The pistol still in his hand, Laub turned. The chief’s eyes fell to the weapon, then back to Laub. Laub set it on a cabinet, barrel facing away.

  “Yes, chief.”

  “Sir, the captain ordered us to push Tare 11 over the side.”

  “Captain Murray?”

  “Yes, sir, it was leakin’ fuel and oil all over the deck…what little it had. I don’t know how Smitty got it back.”

  “Chief Smith’s plane?”

  “Yes, sir. Don’t even know how he kept it airborne – the tail looked like Swiss cheese. Said our guys shot him on the way home, too, after the Japs roughed him up. Madder than I’ve ever seen him when he climbed out.”

  Laub nodded. He’d forget the passageway incident. Officially.

  “Sir, what happened out there?”

  Laub grappled with the memories: burning Devastators, tracers and spray, crunching metal, the torpedo floating in mid-air. Fire.

  “We saw…four carriers and ran at one. Set up the anvil attack, but the Zeros tore up the XO’s division. Then us. We dropped, but our angles were poor.” The CO’s plane exploded…

  “Are they going to send
you back, sir? The dive-bombers say they want to get another flattop they saw. We’ve got just three flyable planes, sir, two on deck and one in the hangar bay.” McPherson stood behind the chief, waiting for Laub’s answer.

  But he couldn’t answer. Couldn’t find the words. Go back? That decision was above his pay grade. Go back? Today? Back out there?

  “Dunno,” Laub answered, pained, unsure. Overwhelmed.

  “Mister Laub, sir, as far as I can see, you are the senior officer in the squadron.”

  The chief’s words stunned Laub, and he recoiled in disbelief, as if stung by a wasp. McPherson waited too, expectant, his face dark. Was it too much to ask? Go back?

  Laub dug deep, eyes downcast. Thinking about Tom. Fatigue fell on him like an avalanche.

  “No. We’re done,” he answered, not lifting his eyes, his mind still out there. “I’ll report to Commander McClusky. We’re done.”

  “Sir, I saw some men taking him to sick bay. He got shot.”

  Laub’s nod was weak and barely perceptible. He’d stay in the ready room, in his chair next to the bulkhead. It was too much to ask – of him or anyone. Three planes…the Japs would splash them all in one pass. Suicidal to go back. He needed food but was too tired to go below. He needed a moment. Just a moment. A catnap. He was alive, and took deep breaths to prove it.

  The acting commanding officer of Torpedo Six sat in his ready room chair and wedged his head between the seat headrest and the bulkhead. With his eyes closed and mouth open, he fell asleep under a second avalanche – one of responsibility.

  Chapter 24

  Flight Deck, HIJMS Hiryū, 1320 June 4, 1942

  Hurrying behind his mates, Maruyama burst out of the catwalk hatch into the sun. Crewmen crowded the catwalk, slapping his back, exhorting him. Maruyama was annoyed by the bottleneck they made, especially when one man stopped one of the pilots to deliver a personal message. Pushing past, he popped his head over the level of the flight deck and saw why; hundreds of crewmen had jammed the catwalks, waving their caps and lifting their arms in a banzai send-off for the pilots. Instead of the confidence of that morning, the faces of the men now showed desperation, pleading. Please avenge us!

  The deep guttural sound made by the warmed up Zero-sens drowned out Maruyama’s Type 97s that belched and purred from their spots aft. He checked overhead; a number of dive-bombers had returned and circled for their turns to land. Climbing the small ladder to the flight deck, he continued to trot behind the others as they all dashed to their planes, conscious of the hundreds of eyes on them. Most searched the sky in anxious anticipation of another American attack.

  The man ahead was transfixed by something behind him while running toward the spinning propellers. Maruyama stole a glance and saw why: three black pillars towered above the scattered cotton ball clouds over the Mobile Force. The dark shapes resembled tall trees in an open field, their branches intertwined, their tops sheared by winds high above any altitude Maruyama had ever flown.

  The fighter pilots lowered themselves into their cockpits. As they did, the torpedo men scampered under their wings as they too entered the dangerous maze of idling airplanes parked for takeoff. Foreboding filled him as he recognized one of the Mitsubishis was from Kaga – an orphan out to avenge his family.

  Maruyama found his kankō on the aftermost spot, port side. Nakao was already inside strapping in. Slung underneath was a Type 91, like the torpedo he had carried that morning. Oklahoma had been a sitting duck, groggy from sleep, but whatever was over the horizon now would be moving, alerted and escorted. As he crouched under the wing along the deck edge, he saw Hiryū’s frothy wake flare out on the water as the carrier turned to the launch heading.

  Exhaust fumes filled his nostrils as Maruyama jumped onto the wing and bounded up and into the middle seat. His torpedo bomber vibrated against the chocks, and the flags above the bridge snapped and fluttered as they matched the crew’s tension on deck. Maruyama and the grim faces in the cockpits felt it. The desperation. The uncertainty. Nine hours earlier, every man in the force had experienced supreme confidence. Now, the black scars on the southern horizon served as warning. You can be beaten. Even by the hapless Americans.

  Standing straight out, the flapping flags aligned down the deck, and the ship steadied up on an even keel. Nearby were the escorts, many with sailors visible as white dots on their upper works – stationary, watching as Hiryū’s assembled crewmen did – this desperate hope to avenge Sōryū.

  Once strapped in, Maruyama counted the Type 99s circling overhead. Five! Only five of Kobayashi-san’s force of dive-bombers! One of them misted from a wing tank. He also noted a lone plane circling, a Zero-sen. Like those warmed up on deck forward, a full shotai of Zero-sens had been sent to escort the dive-bombers, with only another orphan to return.

  Lieutenant Tomonaga wouldn’t have it. In the ready room, Ishii and Obayashi had pleaded with him to trade planes for this attack. Tomonaga-san had refused, said the Americans were only 90 miles away. He now sat in the pilot seat of his leaky plane, damaged from the morning strike. Old now at nineteen, Maruyama knew courage. Ninety miles. Bah! The brave strike leader wasn’t coming back. Who could dare refuse to fly with him?

  Behind Maruyama, Hamada strapped in and prepped his gun for battle.

  “Maruyama-ken, the dive-bombers sank an American carrier!” the excited gunner said over the voicetube.

  “What?” Maruyama answered.

  “It’s true! The kanbakus dropped a message. One carrier on fire and sinking. We’ll get another one. Then we’ll be evenly matched!”

  In the pilot’s seat, Nakao let out a whoop of delight, but Maruyama could only dwell upon the forlorn collection of planes overhead. And ahead of him on deck. Six fighters and ten carrier attack planes! Against two American carriers and their deadly Grummans!

  The first fighter roared down the deck and into the air as the hopeful crew waved their caps in a wild send-off. On a nearby cruiser Maruyama noted the white dots doing the same as their bow knifed through the water toward the enemy.

  The remaining Zero-sens rolled and lifted off the deck almost in formation, their takeoff intervals dangerously close. Tomonaga goosed his throttle and pivoted on the centerline, the animated crew waving with no letup. He gunned the engine and rolled, clutching his heavy torpedo as his kankō picked up speed. Maruyama and all the torpedo men assessed his takeoff roll. Tomonaga’s wheels left the deck well before the end – nothing to fear on takeoff. Nine hours ago, it was all they feared.

  The heavy Type 97s rolled for takeoff with a safer interval, and ahead of Maruyama a stray torpedo bomber from Akagi lined up. The Akagi plane roared off, rudder fluttering as the pilot worked to keep it on centerline aboard his new and smaller home.

  Once the Akagi plane was rolling, Nakao eased to the centerline and pivoted. He waited until the Akagi plane cleared the bow, and Maruyama sensed they should be rolling. They were the last plane on deck, and, once clear, Hiryū could recover the circling dive-bombers. He was looking over Nakao’s shoulder to see what the delay was when he felt the pilot gun the engine. The kankō shuddered in place as Nakao held the brakes, with hundreds of their crewmen cheering them on, waiting in heightened anticipation their majestic takeoff, as if – by their bellowing banzais – they could thrust them at the enemy themselves.

  With a jolt, Nakao released the brakes and they shot forward, increasing speed, pulled forward by the human will of the frenzied men along the sides of the deck. As Maruyama sped past, he was amazed by their faces: faces contorted by a rage and fury and bloodthirsty wrath he did not know his people were even capable of. Boys who bared their teeth in screams of revenge that Maruyama could not hear over the engine, fists clenched, caps blurred from muscular and spirited waving, their bodies vibrating in savage ferocity. As they approached the island, Maruyama looked up to see Admiral Yamaguchi lift a salute, somber, unlike the self-assured confidence of the morning. Electrified, Maruyama noticed the admiral’s eyes locked o
n him as Yamaguchi held his fingers to his cap bill. Maruyama popped his arm up to return the salute, to honor his warrior leader. As the Type 97 reverberated past the island, Maruyama dropped his salute as the admiral held his, and the sound of the men met Maruyama’s ears, a deep human roar, a rolling thunder, louder than the engine cylinders firing at full RPM.

  The men lifted Maruyama up and threw him in vicious anger to the east, to vanquish the Yankee barbarians who had killed their mates, who had dishonored Nippon, and who had dared to oppose their divine rights. Nakao cleaned up and turned inside of the Akagi plane to join the chutai. For one last look at home, Maruyama twisted in his seat. As the carrier receded into the distance, the white-uniformed men along Hiryū’s catwalks swayed like rows of day lilies in a windy field.

  Ensign Johnny Adams walked forward with Ram Dibb along Yorktown’s battered deck. Ahead of the Wildcat pilots, a damage control party hammered down the deck timbers that repaired the hole on the port side as two men drug a steel plate patch into place. A chief took a sledge hammer to one already positioned, driving it lengthwise before delivering the final blow that drove it flush with the deck. As they worked, the men took cautious glances to the west and then toward the two pilots ambling along the deck. Adams felt their accusing looks. The chief scowled at him. Why can’t you pretty-boy aviators defend us?

  Both pilots had tangled with Japs, but Dibb had flown in combat three hours ago with their new CO and his new way of fighting. Johnny wanted the gouge and listened as they continued forward, eyes on the deck for holes or metal shards. Using his hands as any fighter pilot would, Dibb described the morning fight as the sailors around them gleaned what they could.

  “So the CO had me leave the formation, and now I’m exposed, scared outta my skin, and, sure enough, two of the SOBs roll in on me from my eight, little high, kinda flat, so I jammed the first one just as he reversed on me.” Dibb stopped and picked up a wooden splinter in front of him. After a cursory inspection, he chucked it overboard in a sidearm motion.

  “You turned with him?” Adams said, surprised.