The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  “With luck we’ll have clear weather, Danny. Glad we’re goin’ at night, too. Don’ ever want those guys to see me again.”

  “You like night? I never met anyone who did.”

  “Danny, I’ll fight this whole war at night so long as the Nips can’t take a shot at us. Actually, at night I’m more afraid of you runnin’ into me, but I’ll take my chances.”

  The pilots sat on picnic table benches as they waited to brief. Iverson felt the difference right away…only half of his fellows from the morning. Like him, they had been up since midnight and were exhausted, too keyed up from the morning strike to nap. Now, as night approached, they wanted to sleep but could not. Need to drive a stake into the heart of the Japs while they’re down.

  There was at least one carrier out there, and possibly more. Who hit the others? Maybe some Navy guys got lucky: some of their newer model SBDs had diverted into Midway around noon, but they said they hadn’t seen a thing. Regardless, burning ships would be visible for miles, day or night.

  The two aviators took their seats on one of the back benches. Iverson preferred them to the front row, where one could get called on or volunteered for something. The lineup was on the blackboard: Captain Tyler would lead the Dauntlesses, with Captain Glidden in his division. Iverson liked Elmer. Calm under fire.

  Major Norris, waiting with folded arms, suddenly popped to attention.

  “’Tension on deck!”

  In one motion, the men sprung to attention as Navy Captain Simard entered the tent, with Lieutenant Colonel Kimes in tow.

  “Seats. Take your seats,” Simard enjoined them.

  The men sat back down, and Fleming whispered, “Pregame pep talk from the Navy.” Simard removed his Brodie helmet and began as Kimes scanned the rows of pilots.

  “Men, we’ve hit three Jap carriers that are burning northeast of us, about a hun’erd and fifty miles. You guys can further damage them tonight – and maybe even put them on the bottom. It’s an open secret now that we’ve got our own carrier off to the northeast. I believe their planes added to the damage you guys inflicted this morning, and now you can finish them off. So, your new CO – Major Norris – will lead you, and, to preclude them having an intact carrier nearby with fighter protection, we are going at night. Now, it goes without saying that if you come across an intact carrier, bomb that one first, but you had better know in your military mind that it’s a Jap and not one of ours. Any damage you guys can add to their fleet means less for us to deal with if they invade tomorrow.”

  Simard stopped and assessed the pilots.

  “You men did well this morning, as did the Army and Navy. That said, it is going to be you dive-bombers who can deliver the punch we need to disable them. I know that you saw their defenses firsthand, you’ve been through a lot, but we need you to go tonight – and probably tomorrow and the rest of the week. I heard one of you had your throat microphone cord cut by a bullet. Is that man here?”

  Iverson raised his hand, and saw that Kimes, his jaw set, almost smiled.

  “Yes, quite a story for the grandchildren. Heard you had some holes in your plane.”

  “A few, sir,” an embarrassed Iverson answered.

  “More like a few hundred,” Fleming added. A wave of laughter helped relieve the tension.

  “Well, then,” Simard said with a smile. “Hope your luck holds.”

  A hush came over the tent. Iverson felt foreboding, as did the others.

  He just jinxed Danny.

  Simard sensed he had overstayed his welcome, if a Navy captain ever was welcome. Kimes looked at his boots.

  “The major will now brief you. Good hunting and Godspeed.”

  “Ten-hut!”

  The pilots jumped to attention again as Simard and Kimes departed with a terse, “Carry on.”

  Norris was all business.

  “Take off time: 1915. Five SB2Us followed by you SBDs. Everyone has 500-pounders loaded. If at all possible, I’ll take off to the southwest and turn easy right so you can have the last of the twilight to join on me. They’re reported north-northeast, and hopefully we’ll have an update before we walk to our planes. We’ll climb to angels ten and go out in a stepped-down right echelon. Zach Tyler, keep close to Dick Fleming’s wing in my formation, and the rest of you SBDs, follow your lead. We’ll cruise at 135 knots, pretty much the best us old Vibrators can do.”

  Iverson did the math. Like the morning…about an hour and a half to get there. If the Japs hadn’t moved. Norris motioned with his hands as he spoke.

  “When we see the Japs, I’ll try to offset right and roll in left in a glide bomb attack as we did this morning. If there are two carriers, I’ll take the far and you SBDs the near. If aligned right or left, Zach, your SBDs will take the one on your side of the formation and I’ll take the other. Rendezvous the best you can, stay away from the water, and come back here together if possible or as singles. We should be able to see this raging fire for miles, and Captain Simard told me they’d illuminate searchlights for us to guide us home, so thanks to the Navy.”

  Night was a challenge, but a formation of Zeros in sunny skies posed a greater one. Once the American bombs went off, the Japs would shoot wildly into the night air, hoping to get a lucky hit. Iverson was last and would have to face the barrage fire, but at least he’d be able to see his target by the muzzle flashes.

  “No position lights… Goes without saying. Keep tight so you can maintain position and not get strung out where you have to jockey the throttle. Once we’re back here for our landings, illuminate your lights and do your recognition turns. Check the wind sock for the runway and the Aldis lamp for landing permissions. Again, no lights until you are over the lagoon on the way home. Questions?”

  Glidden raised his hand. “Sir, when does the moon come up?” he asked.

  Norris nodded that he understood. “Not until about midnight, Elmer. Depending on when we find them, probably not until we’re back here. The good news is that it’ll be dark over the target. Again, the Navy is going to have the lights on for us. What else?”

  “Radio discipline, sir? Will we use it?” Tyler asked.

  “Stay off the radio until you’re back here, and only if you need it,” Norris answered. “And if anyone makes a call, it will be me with a sighting report. The Nips can triangulate, so stay off the radio. Vital that we do.”

  The briefing ended and the pilots rose from their benches. Most headed for the latrine. Iverson checked his watch: 1835.

  “Hey, look out there,” Fleming said. “Wow!”

  On the eastern horizon they saw them – a line of green Army bombers well over a mile long. The low sunlight and clear air highlighted every detail as they set up to land. The B-17s were huge, and they seemed to hover and float as they approached the runway.

  “Sure would love to fly something like that one day,” Fleming said.

  “You don’ like throwing yourself at the ground?” Iverson asked.

  “Hey, I like to get up close and personal as much as the next guy, but look at those babies!”

  Iverson counted the Army bombers parked on the apron. “These guys are new. Reinforcements from Hawaii, I guess.”

  Each bomber, painted a fresh olive drab, touched down in sequence. The marines watched them roll past, bristling with guns.

  “Them fancy paint jobs ain’t gonna last long in this dusty furnace, but those are still nice lookin’ ships,” Fleming opined. He couldn’t take his eyes off the big planes. Iverson looked at him in wonder.

  “Good grief, Dick, you wanna marry one?”

  Fleming gave him a playful shove. “Hell, no! Can’t cook, for one thing!”

  Flying into the twilight, Iverson joined on Glidden’s wing from the inside of the turn, manipulating the trim wheels and fuel mixture controls by feel, his eyes glued to his lead. The sunset beyond Glidden’s SBD had turned the sky a deep red, streaked with yellow as the sun’s last rays reflected off cirrus clouds over Kure atoll. Between him and Glidden
was Bob Bear, flying parade like a good second looey.

  Once Glidden rolled out behind Tracy, he eased up the bearing line to get in echelon. Ahead, Norris had his charges in formation, stabilized and heading northeast.

  Norris’s wide turn took them west around Sand Island. Its black pall had not abated since the Jap attack. Below them, surf broke against the big bell-shaped reef north of the two main islands. Before night cloaked it, the atoll revealed vestiges of turquoise along the sandy strips of shoreline. A stationary PT boat floated in the lagoon, and a PBY water-taxied out for an all-night patrol. The eleven Marine Corps dive-bombers continued up in a shallow climb, in formation flying as one.

  To the north they found weather. Not scattered storms, but a solid wall of cloud. Maybe they could punch through it and find the Japs by their fires, even at a distance. Iverson could hope. He selected the interphone.

  “How ya doin’ back there, Reid?”

  “Okay, sir. Foot’s okay.”

  “Lemme know when you can’t see Midway anymore.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now stabilized northeast, they approached a gray wall that darkened with each passing mile. As they neared it, the pilots drew closer to their leads. If they lost sight, finding them again would be dicey. On the other side of the wall, if they found the other side. And if they were lucky.

  They flew under a ledge of cloud, a porch overhang that obscured the stars to the north. Off their left shoulders, the last glow of the late-spring dusk formed a dull ochre swath to the northwest. It ended where the weather began.

  After almost an hour airborne, Iverson could barely detect the outline of Glidden’s Dauntless. He knew that wouldn’t last. They would go in; Norris was going to punch through. The glow of engine combustion through Glidden’s cowl flaps and the dim backlighting of the wet compass on his canopy bow would soon be Iverson’s only references.

  And then they were in it – thick cloud, wisps of it visible as they flowed past Glidden’s illuminated cowl. Iverson bounced in his seat as the clouds buffeted his plane. With no horizon, he concentrated on his lifeline, Glidden’s two light sources in the pitch darkness. Glidden himself had to fly on Tyler’s wingman and on up the echelon. Norris was ahead someplace, and the entire formation was jostled in the moisture-rich air. When Reid said he couldn’t see Midway anymore, Iverson checked the time. An hour out. Feeling himself stable, Iverson took a peek at his fuel tanks. Time to transfer the left, and he reached down and found the knob by feel.

  He focused on Glidden’s two blurred luminosities, evidence that a plane was next to him. He held them steady, his hands making minute corrections on the flight controls. With his left, he felt for the trim wheels and turned the aileron a hair before going back to the throttle.

  He glanced up at the heading, then glanced again. They were turning, and he hadn’t noticed. Vertigo. Fight it, Danny.

  “What time is it, Reid?”

  “Twenty forty-five, sir,” Reid answered.

  Iverson sensed they were straight and level. But the compass heading continued to move. Iverson felt the tightness of his hand on the stick grip. They had been in the goo for thirty minutes, and his neck throbbed from the tension. Elmer Glidden’s cowl was alive, and keeping it in sight meant life for Iverson and Reid. He sensed a climb. Why are we climbing? To get out of this? He checked the altimeter and saw the needle unwind. No, they were descending. We’re descending! Iverson’s surprise turned to fear as vertigo raged inside him. Hang on to Elmer. Hang on!

  “Keep an eye on the altimeter, Reid.”

  “Yes, sir. We attacking now?”

  “Not sure,” Iverson replied, concentrating hard.

  Clay Fisher was exhausted. And upset.

  What a goat rope today had been! Even though a combat newbie, Fisher knew one when he saw one. Almost two hours flying to the southwest, and they hadn’t seen a thing. Everyone had abandoned Sea Hag. The memory of him flying alone into the vast Pacific was indelibly etched into Fisher’s mind. No fighters or torpeckers had shown up for the recovery. Not one. What happened to them? Not knowing gave Fisher a chill.

  Brief again in the afternoon, a chance for redemption. Another fumbled launch: late, and only half strength. The Enterprise guys got a fat carrier, and Fisher almost killed himself pulling out with a hung bomb over a Jap cruiser firing everything but the Master-at-Arms pistols. When he got back, his jaw dropped when somebody told him that a formation of Army B-17s had released on the same cruiser at the same time – almost through their formation! He’d never seen them, never heard anyone call out a warning. All he’d seen was steady fire and raging water, black pockmarks in the air, and glimpses of SBDs in front of him as they hightailed it to safety. Confusion, fear, unease. We’re gonna go back!

  But the Americans had burned at least three carriers, probably four. Though he and everyone else aboard Hornet had botched it, he sensed he had just been through a great battle – one that would be remembered – like Dewey at Manila Bay. The aviators had stood down for the night, but despite his exhaustion, Fisher was too pumped up to sleep. He climbed the ladder to the ready room, and, taking the passageway forward, looked into VT-8’s pilot ready room.

  The room was empty, and all the bulkhead pegs that held the pilot parachutes and life vests were also empty. On the chalkboard, someone had written ATTACK! in big letters.

  In the Bombing Eight Ready Room, he found his roommate Ken White, sitting at his chair, writing.

  “How’s it goin,’ KB?”

  White looked up. “Hey. Doin’ alright. How about you?”

  “I’m bushed, but can’t sleep. Thought you’d be in your bunk.”

  “Have you taken your shot? That’ll do it.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, Doc Osterlough is passin’ out bottles of Old Crow. Little ones. Told us to have a belt and hit the sack. ’Bout thirty minutes ago he came by our stateroom.”

  Fisher tried to recall where he was thirty minutes ago. Couldn’t remember, but he remembered that cruiser.

  “Why are you here then?” Fisher asked.

  “Same reason as you, I guess.”

  The men were silent, wanting to talk about what they and the ship had just gone through, but not knowing how to begin. Their friends were missing. Maybe dead. Maybe out there in rubber boats. The uncertainty wore on them.

  White broke the silence. “Heard any scuttlebutt?”

  Fisher nodded. “Four carriers burning, at least three. May have another one out there. Did you see Yorktown?”

  “No, you?”

  “Yeah, dead in the water and listing hard. I mean, the flight deck was almost in the water. About sixty, seventy miles from here when we landed.”

  “Some Yorktowners aboard. Heard most of ’em went over to Enterprise.”

  The men were again silent for a moment.

  “Doin’ okay?” White asked.

  “Yeah. Thinkin’ about the VT guys though.”

  White nodded in agreement. “Yeah… Did you see them go?”

  “Yeah. After Skipper Waldron told Sea Hag to go where the sun don’t shine, I looked down and saw ’em veer off right. You didn’t see ’em?” Fisher asked.

  White studied the bulkhead. “No, guess I was flying wing too close to watch. They all went. And no one knows what happened. Hal, Tex, Whitey, Rusty… No one knows. Same with the VF, but they turned back.”

  “Maybe they’re all in rubber boats.”

  “Hope so. At least some. Gotta be some that made it. Skipper Waldron is a madman to just break off and leave. Guess he’ll probably be court-martialed, if he’s alive.”

  Fisher had to agree. All the senior leadership he had seen on this floating cheese box was suspect. The afternoon launch had been like something from a Keystone Kops movie. Everyone was yelling to hurry up, gesticulating, falling over bomb carts. Goat rope.

  “Yeah. Maybe,” Fisher replied. “Hey, us juniors did as well or better against that cruiser.”

  “I�
�m with you, Clay. Think we’ll go tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Mop-up search, if nothin’ else.”

  At that moment Commander Osterlough stopped in the doorway.

  “Hey! You two. Hit the rack. Captain’s orders. Right now.”

  White got up as Fisher stood there, not sure if the ship’s doctor was going to put them on report.

  “I’m waiting,” Osterlough said, glowering at him.

  Fisher bolted through the door. “’Scuse me, sir.”

  White followed, and, as Osterlough watched, the ensigns slid down the ladder rails and went up forward to their staterooms.

  The passageways were lighted red for night adaption. Empty, even now before taps. They could discern frames ahead as they strode forward. Abandoned, as if a ghost ship.

  The 1MC sounded: Now stand by for the evening prayer.

  Fisher was in the lead but was now motivated to stop and listen. Tonight, this one time. It seemed appropriate. To starboard was an athwartship vestibule. He stepped in and motioned for White to do the same.

  “Let’s listen to the padre. Expect he’s given this one some thought.”

  The men waited with their heads bowed, expectant. Chaplain Harp’s familiar voice soon followed.

  “Father in heaven and author of life, we have witnessed war today and are again reminded of the depravity of man. Tonight we grieve for our lost and missing shipmates who did their duty in the embrace of Your unlimited grace. We do not yet know what tomorrow will bring; allow us to face the trial with courage, secure in the knowledge that we are blessed by the gift of Your eternal mercy. Allow us to do our earthly duties to our utmost abilities in the service of our great nation founded in Your love and goodness. Give us humility in victory, and offer prayer for the souls of our fallen comrades and those of the enemy vanquished. Guide our blows that they may quickly lead to peace for all mankind. We ask a special prayer for our flying men who must navigate great distances as they fight for all of us, here and at home. Be with them always in the air, in darkening storm and sunlight fair. In Your name we pray, Amen.”