by Kevin Miller
They had escaped from the Americans thirty minutes ago and had at least that long to go to find Hiryū. Next to him were four shot-up bombers and a few Zero-sens. The First Air Fleet was melting away, with only this sorry little formation, not even a full chutai, able to fight – if the mechanics could patch them up. They would, of course, and Maruyama and his mates would get inside these patched-up planes once they did. Like Lieutenant Tomonaga had, with a confident smile as he went to his death.
“Maruyama-ken, do you have water?” Hamada asked.
“I’m sorry, but no. Canteen shot open. How’s your hand?”
“Hurts more. The bullet broke a bone and tore open the meat of my palm.”
Maruyama twisted in his seat to see, and looked at Hamada goggle-covered eyes. He seemed lucid. “Keep it bandaged and keep pressure on it. We’ll be home soon.”
“My foot too. They hit my foot – above the toes. Boot ripped open. I noticed once the cleared the enemy fleet.”
“Did you wrap it?”
“Yes.”
“I have water,” Nakao said through the voicetube.
“May I please have a drink, Nakao-san?” Hamada asked.
Nakao shifted in his seat, and, without taking a swig for himself, handed his canteen over his shoulder to Maruyama who grabbed for it. The canteen was full, and Maruyama would have drunk more, but he opened the top and handed it back to the wounded Hamada.
“Thank you, mates! A toast to the sunk American carrier!” Hamada exulted. Maruyama admired the fighting spirit of their gunner.
Finished, Hamada handed the canteen back to Maruyama, who closed it and handed it up to Nakao. Maruyama had had his share of water. He was too sleepy to drink it now anyway. Many of his fellows had complained of exhaustion after a combat flight, short or long range, it did not matter. How could he sleep, knowing that Nakao must remain awake to fly and Hamada was wounded behind him? He passed the time by counting the bullet holes in the Akagi plane on his right, its torpedo somehow jettisoned. The gunner appeared to be taking a nap – or worse.
The waves rolled under them, endless and eternal. One moment a wave existed, then it didn’t, gone, disappeared, just like that, before another took its place. And another, in a never-ending sequence. But they would end, to crash on the shores of Honshu, or flow into the Inland Sea, and finally meet the shore of Hashirojima. Yes, the waves, endless and eternal, would one day end.
Hashimoto closed his throttle to descend, and, with binoculars, Maruyama scanned ahead. In the distance Hiryū steamed away from them, making her wounded kankōs chase her. Closing her, he saw she flew a white flag and black ball, and the others cried in relief when Maruyama informed them the ship was ready to take them aboard. The outer picket ships fired single shots, and the carrier slowed and turned into the wind. As the planes entered the landing circle, one Zero-sen buzzed the bridge, impatient. Hiryū steadied on course, and Nakao took his sequence. The impatient Zero-sen was aboard and already on the elevator to go below as Hashimoto’s pilot lined up for his approach. Around the carrier, screen vessels held position as silent sentinels, anxious, fearing they had overstayed. As they waited their turn, Maruyama contemplated the three black columns on the southern horizon, and, with a chill, sensed they were an omen.
Now dirty, Nakao rolled out for the long straight in, and Maruyama joined him in monitoring the landing light indications. Once they crossed the ramp, Nakao cut the engine, and the Type 97 dropped to the deck with a hard bounce. As the wire caught them, Maruyama bent forward from the sudden deceleration, then raised the tail hook. Gunners at their stations watched in silence as Nakao gunned the engine to taxi ahead as another kankō lined up behind. No one on the bridge greeted them as they taxied past. The ship’s mood was grim, the crew spent and demoralized. Maruyama, out of character, raised his hands in a triumphant clasp for the entertainment of the starboard gallery.
The dazed men looked back at him.
“What?” Mitscher asked with dismay, looking over Soucek’s shoulder to the horizon. Enterprise appeared to be in a turn.
“Yes, sir,” a chagrined Soucek answered. “They’re launching at 1530 on the contact to the west and want to know how many we can send.”
Mitscher checked his watch: ten minutes from now! He clenched his teeth in disgust and looked away as the last Bombing Eight Dauntless taxied up to the pack on the bow. Always conscious of the crew, he had to mask his frustration. Next were the CAP fighters – another five minutes at least. How could this have happened? No orders from Spruance’s staff, no consideration for half of TF-16’s striking power. It would be at least thirty minutes before he could recover the CAP, spot the bombers, and get them off. He had gambled – and lost.
An upbeat Ring appeared with Rodee in tow. Sea Hag saluted Mitscher as he came to attention.
“Reporting as ordered, Captain. We’re loaded and ready to go!” Behind Ring, Rodee was downcast, ashamed of the morning’s debacle as he held his salute.
Mitscher returned their salutes. “Stan, Enterprise is turning into the wind to launch…in ten minutes.”
Ring’s head snapped west. No way could his dive-bombers launch with them. If the Enterprise planes waited overhead, they could match up and go out as one big strike with Ring in the lead.
Soucek offered what he could. “Sir, the VB and VS are loaded and most are warmed up in the hangar bay. Once we get these fighters aboard and strike ’em below, we’ll spot the deck lickety-split so we can get our guys airborne ASAP.”
A stung Mitscher struggled with the damage to his pride. Does Spruance not trust me now? Launching late, despite the lack of warning, would do nothing to endear him. He had to redeem himself and his ship – and turned to the only man who could do it.
“Stanhope, if we can get you off in time to join with them, or if you go out alone like this morning, we’ve gotta find ’em and hit ’em. They were reported a hun’erd miles away, maybe one-twenty now. Can’t miss.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll cruise in the low teens and get out there in a jiffy. Forty-five minutes, fifty tops.”
“Good. Commander Soucek will figure the assigned heading and Point Option.”
“Probably somewhere between two-eight-zero and two-eight-five,” Soucek volunteered. “I’ll get it down to you, Stan.”
Mitscher raised his voice to be heard over the first Wildcat that chugged up the deck.
“May be night when you return. Your boys up to it?”
Ring opened his mouth to answer but could not. Rodee rescued him.
“Captain, most of my guys haven’t experienced a night landing. Don’t see how it can be helped though.”
Mitscher nodded. “Yes…moon’ll be down, but this weather should hold.”
On the horizon, a plane lifted off from Enterprise. Then another.
“They’re launchin,’ sir,” Soucek said, resigned.
Mitscher observed the flagship through the glasses and noted the time. 1525. He couldn’t even spot me five minutes.
Unable to control the operations on Enterprise, Mitscher focused on what he could. “Okay, Stan, brief up your pilots and I’ll have you man planes as soon as we can. Their carrier first, then escorting ships at your discretion. And I’m sorry, but I can’t spare any fighters for you.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Ring said. He lifted a salute that Mitscher returned. As Ring wheeled with Rodee to go below, Mitscher stopped him.
“Sea Hag, nothing yet from Torpedo Eight or Fighting Eight from this morning.”
A tight-lipped Ring nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Mitscher held his gaze.
“Good hunting, Stan.”
Chapter 28
HIJMS Nagara, 1615 June 4, 1942
From Nagara’s crowded bridge, Genda had watched the kankōs alight aboard Hiryū. He counted five. Is Tomonaga among them? They reported another enemy carrier sunk, but the fleet air arm was now whittled down to almost nothing. Yamaguchi planned for another attack on the third carrier a ca
ptured enemy flier had confirmed was part of the American force. With maybe ten planes. At dusk. To Genda this was lunacy, not even worthy of discussion. Even the bushido code discouraged rash misjudgment in pursuit of an enemy. Foolish pride.
Nimitz was wounded, too, yet Nagumo had no sighting reports of retreat. And Midway was still there, beat up from the morning, but in the last nine hours, planes could have been repaired, refueled, and rearmed. They could be heading here now, he contemplated as he watched the lone shotai of CAP fighters overhead.
Genda was convinced the Mobile Force must steam west at flank until nightfall. Escape. Reassess. Cancel the Aleutians operation at once, and, together with the battle force, rendezvous, regroup, and reattack. Genda glanced at Kusaka and Oishi. They stood next to Nagumo, both observing Hiryū while their commander read dispatches. Their damp and soot-stained uniforms were reminders of their escape from the flagship, its smoke still visible with the others to the south. Kusaka’s flash-burned face, covered in salve, had a witness mark across his forehead, evidence of the cap, now lost, that he had worn. With the First Air Fleet staff present as surprise guests, the cruiser’s bridge watch standers could barely breathe. Who could blame them?
Genda eased closer to the admirals to hear their conversation. Surely they could not be considering a dusk attack. Oishi spoke in low tones to Kusaka.
“Chief of Staff, many of our destroyers are tasked standing by our burning carriers to the south. They will be needed to form a picket line to sight and harass the enemy as we withdraw to rendezvous with the Second Carrier Striking Force. Recommend consider we scuttle the derelicts and form this line in the next hour so they can take station in time for Admiral Kondō’s main body to shell Midway and eliminate the air threat from it.”
Genda could not believe his ears. Are they still adhering to the invasion timeline?
Nagumo looked up to see Genda’s distressed face. He motioned him to join them.
“Genda,” Kusaka began. “The Second Carrier Striking Force is coming down from the Aleutians to join us. We’ll have more planes for your tasking in three days.”
Genda was skeptical. Three days – at least! Outwardly, he remained optimistic.
“Good news, Chief of Staff. Are we now sprinting out of here to the west?”
Kusaka shook his head. “Yamaguchi says he can hit them again, at dusk. If another strike can hold the Americans, it buys time for the Kondō force and Main Body to join us in neutralizing Midway and engaging with the American task force – should they give battle. The landing schedule can easily slip a day or two.”
“You recommend, then, we continue the assault on Midway?”
Oishi sensed a challenge. “Yes, and we’ve recalled our submarines to form a new cordon line east of us. The transport group is ordered to stand by to the northwest, out of danger, as Admiral Kondō joins us.”
Genda couldn’t restrain himself. “Oishi-san, the purpose of taking Midway was to force the Americans to come out. Clearly they have, and surprised us on our flank. What other surprises await?”
Oishi had little patience for Genda’s know-it-all insolence, but Genda wasn’t finished.
“Admiral, if I may, I recommend in the strongest manner that you consider we retire northwest at best speed. Hiryū is fighting well today, but no one can expect success with a meager nine attack planes, possibly damaged, and at nightfall.”
Nagumo sat listening, and waited for him to continue. Genda turned to Kusaka.
“Chief of Staff, if we run hard and rendezvous with the Main Body, we can bide our time out of range of their land-based air and meet up with the Aleutians force as they come down. Once joined, we can conduct proper searches and engage the Americans on our terms.”
An agitated Oishi shook his head. “What, we suddenly have unlimited time and unlimited fuel? So easy! And what of the soldiers on the transport force?”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Genda answered. “Send the transports home! They are no longer needed! The Americans have sortied, and we can lure them west before turning back to engage. Concur, Captain, deploy the destroyers and submarines, but in a moving picket to protect this force and the forces we are joining with.”
“Out of the question!” Oishi shot back. “The invasion has not been canceled. Night approaches, and that plays to our strength.”
Genda looked at the battleship man with contempt. The big-gun club would have their Tsushima. Even at the cost of the First Air Fleet.
Both Nagumo and Kusaka had grown up in big-guns and were sympathetic. Torpedoes to start, then heavy broadsides as the clumsy Americans charged into them at midnight. All to plan – just like this disastrous day.
Nagumo listened to the exchange in silence. He then spoke.
“Senior Staff Officer, he may have a point.”
Stung, Oishi bit his lip. He wasn’t giving up. Next to him, Kusaka remained silent. After taking a breath, Oishi made his case.
“Nagumo-shi rei, you’ve just destroyed two of his carriers which evens the odds. Help is arriving in hours, heavy firepower to augment ours, and more torpedo tubes to augment ours. They are wounded, too, and we’ve not been attacked from the vicinity of Midway since this morning. Admiral, Kaga and Sōryū haven’t a chance; leave them now and consolidate your rearguard force to give us and Kondō’s force an advantage later tonight when we engage.”
Emphatic, Genda pointed to Hiryū. “And them, Oishi-san? Send them again, not even a full squadron complement for a dusk attack on a carrier task force – and hope they can find their way back and aboard? They’re as exhausted as everyone is. Admiral, this is high risk and low reward.”
Nagumo raised a hand. “Enough. I’ve made up my mind. Withdraw Hiryū now, at best speed. No strike. And yes, Oishi, I’ll ask Combined Fleet for permission to scuttle the ships, but we must also transfer the survivors and wounded off the escorts and onto heavier units that can berth and treat them. No dusk strike.”
Kusaka exhaled disappointment through his nose. Why ask? Those ships are still yours to command!
“Genda-kun, again your logic is sound,” Nagumo said, his voice trailing off, dejected. He was drained. No, shattered. Genda had lost to him this morning; Nagumo wouldn’t listen. The three pyres to the south were proof. Kusaka and smug Oishi, blind to the possibilities and costs, were desperate for a change of fortune and still thought they carried the initiative. Even Combined Fleet thought victory was at hand, or at least possible. Nagumo, who had the most to risk, thought otherwise. He spoke.
“Let’s move northwest until dark. Then we can reverse south or southeast to intercept Kondō. At flank speed until nightfall; we’ll deal with the fuel bunkers later. And draft the message for permission.” Finished, Nagumo rubbed his eyes and looked off to starboard.
“What’s that?” Oishi asked, pointing outside.
Caught up in conversation, they had not noticed that Nagara had turned slightly. Off the starboard bow, an object, red in color, bobbed on the waves. Drawing closer, they now saw the object was a raft with two men inside.1 Keeping off 300 yards, the flagship sped past and dispatched a destroyer to rescue the men.
“Are they ours?” Kusaka asked of no one.
Genda suspected American. “I believe enemy. Torpedo plane or dive-bomber.”
Separated by distance and culture, the men on the cruiser and the men in the raft watched each other with wary eyes. Genda pitied his fellow aviators, even if the enemy. They were American, no doubt. Their raft was like a wounded animal unable to run, unable to escape, resigned to its fate as an unconcerned lion sauntered up to it to deliver the coup de grâce. The destroyer hove to, and, soon, the Americans would be aboard. Once interrogated, death would follow. Mercy killing.
“See to the message, Kusaka,” Nagumo mumbled, head down, spent.
“Hai, Admiral,” Kusaka said. As he followed, Captain Oishi threw daggers into Genda’s eyes.
* * *
1 ENS F.W. O’Flaherty and AMM1c B.P. Gaido, Scouting Six<
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Chapter 29
SBD 6-B-2, 1655 June 4, 1942
Kroeger’s pulse quickened. Wakes in the distance, heading northwest. The pilots tightened up the formation in anticipation, and in the adjacent cockpits, gunners checked their firing arcs and twisted in their seats to see the enemy for themselves. The weather had cleared, and, to the left, the sun hovered over a layer of clouds.
Further left were three columns of smoke, pinpoints on the surface that expanded into broad clouds and trailed off to the southeast. He judged them to be about fifty miles distant. Ahead of him, the wakes – big and white – continued away from the Americans.
In the middle was a carrier, one that had survived the morning attacks. Kroeger flew again on Skipper Best’s wing, at altitude with a 1000-pounder underneath. Ahead, Skipper Gallaher led the eleven Enterprise bombers on a heading that would take them south of the enemy formation. Kroeger understood the geometry and imagined a line from the wakes to the sun. That’s where they would go to push over. Along that line he saw a cruiser in escort. They would fly right over it.
Over his shoulder, the Yorktowners maintained position on the outside. When Gallaher pulled into the Japs, Shumway would be in good position to float his turn and hit the other heavy unit on the carrier’s starboard bow. Just then Gallaher came up on the radio.
“Dave, take the nearer battleship. Dick, follow me!”
Scanning north, Kroeger’s heart jumped when he saw them: specks over the task force, level altitude.
“Halterman, they’ve got a CAP up! Two formations, just off the nose starboard, one o-clock!”
Halterman rogered Kroeger as Gallaher began his acceleration down to push over altitude. As he flew form on Best’s left wing, Kroeger noted the disposition of the ships. The carrier was alone in the middle, the escorts in a wide circle. A loose screen, at least five miles across. Kroeger hoped he could pull off east; at the moment, an opening in the screen offered a clear escape route.