The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  After the chaplain finished, Fisher and White stepped into the passageway and resumed their trek forward. Fisher looked over his shoulder and saw Doc Osterlough ten frames behind, also heading forward. Osterlough recognized Fisher, and, without saying a word, pointed forward with a stern look – like his dad would have. Get to bed!

  They entered their stateroom and flicked on the red light. On each desk was a cordial bottle of Old Crow. White picked up his.

  “See? Take one of these and man your plane in the morning.”

  Fisher took his and unscrewed the top. Both sat down in their metal desk chairs.

  “Shall we toast? To our fallen comrades.”

  White unscrewed his bottle. “Our fallen comrades.” Both took a swig.

  “To Fighting Eight and Torpedo Eight,” Fisher offered.

  Both took another gulp.

  The 1MC crackled, and the familiar tune of Taps played throughout the ship. Tonight, the haunting notes had special meaning, and Fisher felt an electric charge run up his back. Men, whom I know, are missing. Maybe dead. He had seen death, like that time Hornet passed the floating body of a dead Jap sailor before the Army bombers had taken off. The Army guys themselves were missing, but this was different. Men like him, closer than brothers, were suddenly gone. Alone on the dark sea, in peril, or worse. They didn’t know.

  After the song ended, the Bosun picked up the microphone. Taps, taps. Lights out, maintain silence about the decks. Now taps.

  “All right, Clay. We best save the rest of this stuff for tomorrow night. Prob’ly go in the morning again.”

  The men undressed and draped their khakis on hangers that they hung on pegs. Their stateroom was a comfortable temperature, despite its location amidships, aft of the forecastle.

  White climbed into his bunk as Fisher brushed his teeth at the sink. He felt it now, the exhaustion. A condition he had heard of.

  Both lay on their backs in their bunks, eyes still open, and sensing the other still awake. Remembering. How could they forget? Dewey at Manila Bay. You may fire when ready, Gridley.

  “I missed, Clay.”

  Fisher listened to his friend above him, berating himself, not yet able to forgive himself – yet asking for forgiveness. From another scared ensign.

  “At least you dropped. I didn’t even do that.”

  “Your bomb was hung up; that was mechanical. My foul-up was mental. I pickled too high. Short.”

  “Hell, KB, I pickled high, too. All that stuff comin’ at us…I was damn scared.”

  “A heavy cruiser, a capital ship. And I missed it. All those drills, all that practice, and when it really counted, I failed.”

  Fisher didn’t know what to say, and surprised himself when he spoke.

  “We’re so hard on ourselves. We’ve never dove on a cruiser before. Cert’ly not one firin’ at us.”

  Silence returned.

  “Wonder if the VT guys found them. Did they drop? Guess we’ll find out one day,” White said, more to himself than Fisher.

  Hornet’s gentle roll was all but imperceptible, but Fisher felt it, in his spinal cord, in his mind. He was on a U.S. Navy warship in battle, but it seemed like a routine night at sea off Norfolk last fall. Nice time of year. Clear skies.

  Annie. What is she doing now? Where is she? Norfolk? Iowa? My wife. Fisher didn’t know where she was any more than she knew where he was. She knew he was in the Pacific. He knew she was in the states. My wife. I have a wife.

  “G’night, Clay.”

  “Goodnight, KB. We’ll both get another crack at them.”

  “Ain’t gonna miss next time.”

  “Next time I’ll pickle mine. Follow’n your lead, KB.”

  Above him White chuckled. They became quiet, and soon drifted off.

  Chapter 32

  HIJMS Hiryū, 0230 June 5, 1942

  Hundreds of men assembled abeam the island, not in ranks but huddled together on the only patch of flight deck not actively smoking. Climbing the eastern sky, a gibbous moon shone its light on them. The moon was waning. Maruyama considered that thought and kept it to himself.

  The light smoke mixed by the gentle breeze smelled of fuel oil, burned paint, and charred flesh. The hideous stench in their nostrils was an odor Maruyama knew he could never escape – no matter how long he lived.

  Hiryū had run to the west as fast as she could before fire consumed everything in the hangar bays. Once the flames penetrated the engineering spaces, the ship was doomed. Around midnight, as the moon broke the horizon, yet another induced explosion knocked everyone off their feet, and the flames returned. With the fire mains out, destroyers alongside poured water into any opening they could, and the carrier developed a list.

  Maruyama and his mates sought refuge on the boat deck aft until Hashimoto-san summoned everyone back up onto the smoldering flight deck. The pilots grumbled – the ship was clearly done for, and the Americans could appear at any moment. Dutifully, they climbed the ladders and shuffled down the smoke-filled passageways – lit by dim battle lanterns – until they found clear paths to the flight deck. Once outside, the moon provided enough light for them to be sure of their steps.

  As the burned-out hulk wallowed in the sea, the captain addressed the crew from the base of the signal bridge.

  “Men of Hiryū. You have fought well, and delivered two enemy carriers into our hand. No more could be asked of you, who landed crippling blows and fought to save our gallant flagship. You must now return to our beloved Nippon and man newer and more powerful ships in the service of His Majesty. With your contribution, His Majesty’s Navy will reconstitute itself and sweep our enemies from the seas. It is my duty to remain, but know that my spirit, and the spirits of your fallen mates, will help guide you and exhort you to victory.”

  Here and there men shouted their encouragement and respect for the captain. One raised his burned hand from a stretcher. Most of the men were bareheaded, bowed-down human forms silhouetted by smoke and the flickering light of a fire forward. The admiral then stepped to the rail to address the assembly. Maruyama’s mind went back to the last time he had seen him as he sped by in his kankō…only twelve hours ago. The twisted black mass of the forward elevator towered over the scene, backlit by the moon.

  “Honorable Hiryū crew… As the commander of Carrier Division Two, responsibility for the loss of gallant Hiryū and our sister ship Sōryū is mine and mine alone. To atone for my failures, I intend to stay aboard Hiryū alongside your beloved Captain Kaku. As a captain shares the fate of his ship, so shall I share the fate of this carrier division. Today, before our brave Tomonaga-san flew off to sink the Americans in his damaged plane, I told him I would follow him. I now follow him and our valiant shipmates who fought to save this ship. Now I give my final command: you are to abandon Hiryū…and continue your service to His Majesty and total victory.”

  Although they expected to hear these words at some point, hundreds of men could be heard catching their breaths at the thought of abandoning ship – this ship, Hiryū, the Flying Dragon. Imperious Akagi and Kaga had lorded it over the ships of CarDiv 2, but all aboard knew that Hiryū was the best carrier in the Mobile Force. His Majesty would miss her the most.

  Yamaguchi was not done.

  “Honorable Hiryū crew… Face west to our homeland!”

  While some shuffled, those who could did an about-face. Maruyama looked with them to the empty horizon.

  “Hiryū banzai!”

  “BANZAI!” the men thundered in unison.

  “Hiryū banzai!”

  “BANZAI!”

  “Hiryū banzai!”

  “BANZAI!”

  As their hope for the emperor to live 10,000 years echoed across the water, the men turned back to face Yamaguchi. From abaft the island bugles sounded, and, at the first notes of Kimigayo, the crew joined in, singing in solemn love of country. Tears flowed, the men unable to comprehend the loss, the humiliation. Defeat. It was unthinkable, and only because of the admiral’s com
mand did the crew not stay to join him.

  The moon had risen another ten degrees, and Maruyama was mindful of the time. He wished Nakao and Hamada were next to him and turned to find them among the throng of dim faces. He recognized an engine mechanic. Their eyes met, and the man turned away.

  The ensign was lowered from the truck, and Captain Kaku bellowed the command to abandon ship. Maruyama returned with the others to the route they had taken up. Some men continued aft to the ramp where they could lower themselves to waiting destroyers. He recognized Nakao and grabbed his shoulder.

  “Nakao-kun. Where is Hamada?”

  Nakao glanced at Maruyama, then shrugged as he continued to shuffle aft with the throng. “Someplace, I saw him up here earlier.”

  Maruyama searched the shadows around him, hoping to pick out his friend in the moonlight. Like the admiral and captain for their crew, he felt a responsibility for Hamada. They’d been through much.

  The men, crowded against each other in the suffocating passageways and down the gallery ladders, choked and coughed, but did not curse or cry. When they finally got to the fantail, a rescue destroyer’s high prow surprised them as lines and planks were secured across to port. Sailors lashed the wounded, oblivious to their danger, to their stretchers and carried them hand-over-hand to waiting crewmen on the destroyer. The ships screeched when their steel plates touched in the light swells.

  Maruyama and Nakao got in a group by the jackstaff and waited their turn to board. The destroyer sailors stared at the Hiryū crew. Even in the darkness, Maruyama could see their pity – and, in some cases, their contempt.

  “There’s Hamada. He just went aboard,” Nakao said, pointing.

  Maruyama nodded. “Good. We will fight again one day.” A mental load lifted, he could board in peace. Nakao scrambled over, and before he jumped, Maruyama stepped on the rail to assess the heaving steel hull plates. Men on the destroyer barked at him.

  “Now! Now!”

  Maruyama jumped and was grabbed by men who shoved him aft before they reached for the next survivor.

  He learned the ship was Makigumo. A plane guard escort. An ordinary screening vessel. Expendable. He walked along the rail aft, past the huge torpedo tubes and the twin turrets. On the fantail were two rows of depth charges. A chief shooed away curious Hiryū sailors who got too close.

  Maruyama looked up at the carrier, marveling at the great stanchions that supported the aft end of the flight deck. Besides the smoke emanating from the ship, he could not discern any signs of damage. On the starboard side, a cutter returned to take a load of men to another waiting destroyer. He checked his watch: 0340. To the east, the sky grayed as it had yesterday, when he sat in his kankō on the deck high above. Forever ago.

  Without a signal, the destroyer cast off. Maruyama felt the screws underneath him vibrate as it backed clear. Hamada limped up to him.

  “Maruyama-san!” They embraced amid dozens of their shipmates.

  “I’m glad you are safe, Hamada-kun. Are you able-bodied?” Maruyama noted the bandaged hand of his gunner.

  “Yes. Did you know Lieutenant Kadano is aboard?”

  “No! Good. I hope his leg is healing from the morning.”

  “They took him over on a stretcher. One of my fellow gunners is badly burned, too. Hope they have a medical facility on this ship.”

  Maruyama suspected the destroyer did not. Expendable.

  As Makigumo stood off, Kazagumo came in alongside to take on more men. Maruyama could now make out areas of blown-open hull plates from induced explosions. Thin smoke seeped out of every crevice and hatchway. Hiryū rolled in the swells but showed no sign of settling.

  After another efficient transfer, Kazagumo, her decks full, backed away into a red dawn. “When will we leave?” Nakao asked to no one. No one answered.

  Makigumo edged closer, and back came alongside Hiryū. Now what? An officer jumped over and disappeared inside. The men spoke among themselves about the reason. Was he going to relay a Combined Fleet order to the admiral to save himself? Rumors and murmuring increased, and, to the west, Kazagumo steamed away at full speed. Are we staying here to die with Hiryū?

  The officer returned to the fantail and climbed aboard. Again Makigumo backed away, then ahead with a hard turn to port behind the carrier. The ship’s loudspeaker blared:

  “We are right now going to torpedo and sink Hiryū. Battle stations torpedo, port side. Target Hiryū, bearing 90 degrees. Prepare to fire.”

  Hiryū survivors groaned and cried out at this horrible news. Hamada was overcome. “No, Maruyama-san! They cannot sink our ship! There must be a way to save Hiryū!”

  Maruyama said nothing as the destroyer crept into position. Around him, some men wailed as they would over the loss of a loved one, and tears flowed again. Others, like him, watched in stoic acceptance. Orders were shouted, and the tubes trained out to port as warning bells rang. Hiryū, waiting for the end, looked as if she could operate planes – except for the elevator against the bridge and smoke rising from the length of her.

  With a sudden hiss, a huge torpedo shot out from a tube and slapped the water, raising a gasp from the men. Maruyama and the others crowded the rail to see, as some knelt by the lifelines to allow others a clearer view. How do the destroyermen torpedoes work?

  Nothing. A miss, or a dud. The destroyer circled to starboard for another run.

  “Look for enemy planes!” a lieutenant shouted. More rumors of American submarines and mirages of enemy cruiser columns on the horizon circulated among the men. Makigumo made a wide circle and set up for another run. More shouts, more bells, and another sudden hiss and lurch as another 9-meter monster shot from the tube and dove into the sea.

  Maruyama counted the seconds till impact, but soon lost interest. Like the others, he had become too exhausted to care. Spent. He could only gaze upon the smoking flagship, the finest in the Imperial Japanese Navy, a dark silhouette against the dawn.

  Without warning, Hiryū’s bow seemed to jump out of the water, and the men gasped in amazement. It settled back as the ship rolled to port before a deep rumble met their ears. Makigumo accelerated and turned west. Looking back on their doomed ship, the men of Hiryū cried out for the spirits of their lost shipmates. They cried for their lost sense of security.

  Maruyama and Nakao worked their way aft to watch Hiryū sink as others – not wanting to witness it – filtered forward. The carrier remained on an even keel, and showed no signs of settling.

  “Look! On the flight deck!”

  Men pointed toward Hiryū, and all searched the deck. With an awful realization, they murmured that there was indeed movement on her. Survivors! One sharp-eyed sailor saw a man waving a cloth over his head. The Hiryū men cried for the ship to turn back. Maruyama saw one of the destroyer lieutenants cast a cold gaze toward the carrier.

  “Keep quiet! Enemy submarines and planes will be here soon! We did all we could.”

  “We cannot abandon our shipmates!” a man yelled back.

  “What have they been doing all morning? Rolling dice for your belongings?”

  Maruyama scowled as the heartless officer went about recording the names of the refugees. Some uttered epithets at him under their breath. They were hungry and thirsty, with many injured, but they were all Japanese. They deserved more than to be treated as contemptible prisoners.

  As the deck plates thrummed with the ship at full power, the lieutenant worked his way through the crowd. Maruyama waited for him to approach.

  “Name and rank,” he barked.

  Maruyama stood at attention. “Maruyama Taisuke, Petty Officer First Class. Pilot/Observer.”

  The lieutenant wrote in his ledger. “Pilot, eh? Where were you yesterday?”

  Chapter 33

  Midway, Eastern Island, 0430 June 5, 1942

  “Danny, wake up.”

  Iverson jerked awake from his deep sleep. Faint light from the east filled the open tent. Wha…?

  Fleming poked him again. “G
et up. Brief in thirty minutes. The swabbies have some hot coffee and bacon over there. C’mon.”

  Iverson pulled himself up and sat on the cot. He was at Midway. Yes, Midway. Been asleep four hours. He flew last night. Dark’rn Hades. Major Norris.

  “Hey, did Major Norris ever show up?”

  Fleming frowned. “No. Whitten was the last of ’em back, about 0130. They said the major took ’em down lower and lower to get underneath the stuff. Couldn’t see a thing, and he kept going, pretty steep. Prosser warned him on the radio, but he didn’t acknowledge. They think he was disorientated or somethin’ and flew into the water.”

  Iverson processed the news. Another major, another commanding officer. Gone.

  “A Jap submarine shelled us last night and we fired back. You hear ’em?”

  “No, didn’t hear a thing,” Iverson said, still groggy.

  On the strip, one of the big bombers rumbled down the taxiway.

  “You didn’ hear that? Boy, you were out like a light. Anyway, we’ve gotta stand alert 30 and be ready if the PBYs find something out there. We’ll be the ones to go get it, so c’mon. Let’s get some food.”

  Having slept in his flight suit, Iverson laced his boots and stood, catching his balance as he opened his eyes wide to gain his bearings. I’m at Midway.

  They stood in line for breakfast: hot biscuits, gravy, and bacon on paper plates. Coffee any way you want it so long as it’s black. They put their plates on an empty fuel drum away from the makeshift chow line. An Army bomber took off, followed by three others. Fleming watched in admiration.

  “Zach Tyler is our new CO,” Fleming said, his mouth full of biscuit.

  Iverson nodded. Three skippers in the past 24 hours. The fighter boys had lost Major Parks, too. Leading a formation around here is deadly.