by Kevin Miller
“Looks like we’re goin’ home, Ferguson. We tried.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ring steadied out and entered a shallow descent. Now what? They were way too far away to let down for landing. Maybe Sea Hag was tired of freezing at altitude. Fisher felt confident they had the fuel, and, passing fifteen thousand, removed his mask and let it dangle off his right elbow. He then heard Ring transmit.
“Ruff, we’re gonna hit this guy. You’ve got the lead on the left.”
Fisher’s eyes opened wide. They were going to attack the light cruiser! Getting rid of the bomb was good, but the fuel they’d consume in the attack left no margin for navigation error on the long flight home.
The lonely ship came into view, charging toward them. Johnson took his division to a point ahead and right as Ring S-turned his little formation to fall in behind. Fisher would follow Sea Hag, with Ben Tappan last off. The sun was too low to be of any help, and suddenly the ship opened fire. They see us.
Johnson opened his dive-brakes and sliced down on his prey, now turning hard into him. Fisher felt rushed. What am I forgetting? He then remembered to roll back the canopy, and the increased roar of the engine and slipstream filled the cockpit.
“Ferguson, get ready to attack!”
“Should I defend or back you up, sir!”
“Back me up!”
Low blower, low pitch, carb heat. Charge guns. Fisher double-checked that the bomb was armed and, with his eyes on Ring, reached down to feel for the emergency release. Ring’s wing turned red as his flaps opened, and Fisher slapped the dive-brake handle back to stay with him. Without a warning, Tappan overshot, then slipped back into position.
Johnson pulled off as the ship twisted under the column of SBDs that fell on it. The destroyer had a twin turret forward and two aft, with dozens of automatics the length of it. All the ship’s guns fired at the deadly gray airplanes. White circles from near misses formed next to the ship as it reversed its turn at full speed. Fisher saw a hit. No – stack gas.
The radio chattered: Enterprise planes had the ship in sight, in from the north. Fisher’s eyes remained locked on Ring, who then pulled hard away from him and dropped his nose.
A blast from behind shook Fisher, then another. Go!
He pulled down and stepped on bottom rudder as his nose fell in behind Ring, who was established in his dive into a confused nest of yellow fireflies on a background of white spray. Outside, the airspeed built as the prop windmilled lazily in front of the bombsight. Fisher assessed the target speed – much faster than the cruiser yesterday – and aimed at a spot well ahead, more than a ship’s length. He tensed his body as tracers sliced past him, snapping at the air. The yellow balls floated in front of him then ripped past with no warning. He lost sight of Ring – Forget it! – and watched the ship reverse as he peered around the bombsight. The altimeter needle unwound, and his airspeed held at 240. Ferguson!
“You okay?!”
“Three thousand! Yes!”
The splashes around it stopped, and the ship heeled into him. With no time to reposition, Fisher did what he could, bunting as much as he dared in a vertical dive.
“Two!”
Fisher mashed the pickle button and yanked the emergency release to be sure. He felt the familiar jolt as 500 pounds fell away before he pulled hard, the g-force falling on him in crushing waves, his hand retracting the flaps while his vision narrowed to a soda straw.
Fisher leveled and jinked away left then back to the right. Ben was clear – Good! – but Sea Hag was nowhere to be seen. A sudden geyser lifted seawater hundreds of feet into the air off the ship’s stern. Fisher continued right to the southeast and home, the ship ignoring him as it fired at threats above. More geysers as more plump SBDs pulled off. Enterprise birds. With a spark, one flamed up, pulsing bright, trailing fire that turned to a black line pointing to the water. Pull up! Pull up, dammit!
Holding a steady dive, the flaming Dauntless plunged into the sea, white spray mixing with flame, the rising cloud shaped like a black mushroom.
Alarmed chatter on the radio. Open the throttle and get away from the water. Get out of this desolate wasteland of blue. Who was it?
Fisher and the others steadied up for the 250-mile trek home. In the cockpit by his right knee were two low-fuel tank indications. The sun was setting behind his right shoulder. It would be down in an hour, earlier on the surface, and it was now a race against fuel and fading light.
Over his right tail, he watched the Enterprise planes plaster the enemy ship. Revenge for their mate. He heard someone say Adams. Yes, another pilot confirmed it. They got Sammy Adams! Fisher didn’t know the man, but he knew him. He was one of them, he belonged here, and furious Enterprise pilots mourned his loss even as they pounded the Jap who had killed him.
Fisher leveled off and steadied up on a heading of 130. He leaned the mixture and noted both the airspeed and fuel flow. Next to him, small silhouettes of SBDs, backlit by the reddening sky, paralleled his course for home. Sea Hag is probably one of them. One plane was behind him… Must be Ben Tappan. Nobody joined on anybody else in their own solitary races against fuel and time. He closed the canopy to save fuel and to keep the cockpit warmer for Ferguson.
“How you doin’ back there, Ferguson? See a hit?”
Ferguson answered. “Hard to say, sir. Maybe.”
“Did we get hit before the roll-in? Felt something close.”
“Don’t see any damage from where I sit, but yes, sir, close as I ever want to get.”
Fisher could only nod. After a moment he added. “Another hour and a half for home.”
Ferguson didn’t answer as they flew on in silence.
Climbing away from the lone Jap ship, an amazed Bud Kroeger judged it unharmed after more than three squadrons had pummeled it. “Halterman, did anyone hit it?” Kroeger asked his gunner.
“No, sir,” he answered.
Kroeger joined up on Lieutenant Smith as they headed home. Behind them the VS were off. They had lost one. Sammy Adams…one of the Yorktown boys. Nice fellow. And his gunner. After what they had been through yesterday, to lose their friend to a worthless tin can would be excruciating to the Yorktowners.
Kroeger’s dive had been good. As he tracked the Jap, he marveled that the ship had emerged time after time from a blizzard of explosions and spray, bracketed by near misses. He recognized the ship as a destroyer, one of their big ones. The AA reminded him of a summertime picnic sparkler. That ship put up one hell of a fight.
He suspected he was long as soon as the bomb came off. The second geyser was his – yes, long. More brackets followed, but no hits. Amazing
He moved away from Smith enough to check his own navigation on the plotting board tray. Over 250 miles. The sun will be down almost an hour before we get there, he thought. He had enough fuel for recovery if the ship was at Point Option and into the wind. He closed the canopy and secured carb ice. He and the others would need every drop of fuel.
Halterman yelled out, then came up on the interphone. “Whoa, sir. Flashes behind us near that Jap. Someone else is hittin’ it.”
Must be more from Hornet, Kroeger thought. Be an even darker recovery for those guys.
Minutes passed, and Halterman came up again. “Sir, I’m gettin’ a strong signal from the ship.”
“Good. Is this a good heading?”
“Yes, sir.”
Kroeger breathed easier riding a strong homing signal. Heading solved. However, there wouldn’t be a moon up when they got there, and the thin overcast above wouldn’t help matters. It would be dark.
“Cap’n’s on the bridge!” a lieutenant sang out. “Belay your reports,” a calm Mitscher said as grabbed his binoculars before stepping out to the starboard wing. The light cruiser Atlanta steamed 4,000 yards off his beam in escort. A new one, and for a moment Mitscher admired her lines. Her plates shone pink in the twilight.
The western sky blazed red. Not the most dramatic sunset he’d ever seen, but m
ost sunsets out here in the tropics were breathtaking. Red skies – sailor’s delight – but Mitscher had more on his mind. Twelve planes carrying 24 of his men were still out there. Had been for over three hours.
He asked for a radar update. Clear. He asked for the status of Enterprise. None of her their bombers had returned.
Again he thought of Waldron, hoped he was out there. Owed him an apology. Waldron had all but begged for help yesterday. Mitscher allowed himself a smile. Maybe Johnny was in a rubber boat, using his trousers as a sail. He’d sail a thousand miles to Hawaii in his skivvies, cussin’ a blue streak!
The officer of the deck approached him. “Cap’n, request permission to darken ship.”
“Approved,” Mitscher answered.
His mind went back to Ring and his dive-bombers. They had found something and bombed it. A single light cruiser. No carrier. At least it was something. Walt Rodee’s scouts had come back with their bombs still attached. Empty-handed. Again! Mitscher knew he’d have to explain his performance on Makalapa Hill. Snake bit was not listed in Rocks and Shoals.
On the horizon, Enterprise formed a dark silhouette, as did the screen ships. Dusk now. Mitscher scanned the sky in search of information. Twenty minutes. Twenty more minutes till the last glimmer of sun, the dull glow of twilight. Then dark. Tough for submarines to attack him…much tougher for pilots to find him. The OOD stuck his head out of the pilothouse.
“Cap’n, radar shack reports a line of contacts bearing three-one-zero, forty miles inbound.”
“Very well,” Mitscher answered. Soucek appeared and stepped outside.
“Captain, I believe that’s Ring.”
“Concur. Better have their lights on during their recognition turns.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gettin’ dark, Apollo.”
“Yes, sir. What are you thinking?”
Mitscher pulled at his chin. “Submarines are always a threat, but these boys are gonna need help. Turn on the deck edge lights. What do you think?”
Soucek looked across the water at Enterprise. “What’s he doing? Don’t see any lights.”
Spruance found Murray in the chart room with the navigator. “George, a moment please.”
Murray followed him out to the port gallery. To the east, Hornet was barely visible.
“Yes, sir, Admiral.”
“Can your pilots land at night, and under these conditions?”
“Admiral, it’s always riskier at night, but I recommend we illuminate our deck and masthead lights.” Pointing at Hornet, he continued. “Not sure about him, but most of my guys are not proficient at night landings, and some have never done one. Imagine it’s the same for him.”
Spruance nodded. “I tend to agree that we need our lights on to help them. If they go in the water we’re out of business, not to mention the human cost.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lights on. Bring ’em home. Screen ships comb the waters for subs like their lives depend on it. And ours.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral.”
While Mitscher and Soucek discussed it, Enterprise illuminated her flight deck lights and island floodlights. “Answers our question, Apollo. Turn ’em on. Point a searchlight straight up. Help our guys.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Mitscher crossed the bridge to the port side gallery, his favorite spot to watch his boys return. Like a father, he took care of them. An SBD, wingtip lights illuminated, approached the ramp. The pilot took his cut and plopped down.
As it rumbled forward Mitscher peered into the cockpit. Stanhope? Ruff? Hard to tell in the low light. No, it was a younger man, a nameless ensign. The plane was from Bombing Eight. One of Stanhope’s formation. The bomb yoke was empty. Good! We’ve drawn blood.
“Apollo, who’s the pilot of this one?” he shouted
Soucek checked the roster in Pri Fly.
“Ensign Fisher, sir, Bombing Eight,” he shouted back.
Mitscher nodded. “Very well. Send him my congratulations on his landing.”
“Captain, he’s Sea Hag’s assigned wingman.”
Now troubled, Mitscher nodded again. Did they get Stanhope?
Despite the dangers from submarines, a relieved Kroeger saw light up ahead. Two clusters… Must be the carriers. He’d never seen Enterprise lit up at sea like this, and one of the ships had a column of light that bounced off the clouds high above. Between him and the light clusters were SBD wingtip position lights. He checked his wingtips to ensure they were on.
“There’s home, Halterman. They’re waitin’ for us.”
Halterman’s receiver pointed them at Enterprise, and, as they got closer, Kroeger was able to discern that home was on the right, some twenty miles away. He adjusted the cockpit lighting and flicked the Grimes light down to check fuel. Fifteen gallons in each tank. They’d make it.
Ahead, the SBDs made their recognition turns, and Kroeger followed as he rolled the canopy hatch back. Only when he looked down and saw wake phosphorescence from a darkened escort ship did he know he was inside the screen. Enterprise was oriented southeast, into the wind, horizon barely discernable. He had trailed Smith the entire time and took interval on him as he completed his landing checklist.
“Prepare for landing, Halterman.”
The night was dark – no moon – but the ship gave off plenty of light to determine lineup. Easing to 100 feet, Kroeger slid toward the wake. Ahead, lighted paddles of the LSO gave a cut signal to Smith. Kroeger concentrated on airspeed and altitude. Don’t get slow.
From the LSO platform, Lieutenant Robin Lindsey showed him a “roger” pass before he suddenly lowered his arms. I’m low! Kroeger thought and gunned the throttle. He eased toward the ramp, eyes on Lindsey.
Lindsey then dropped his right arm, and, by reflex, Kroeger closed his throttle to correct. His SBD approached the ramp, and all Kroeger could see was Lindsey, arms outstretched, eyes on Kroeger. The LSO then flicked the right paddle across his neck.
Kroeger chopped the throttle and eased back on the stick as the Dauntless slammed down on deck. The hook snagged a wire and wrestled the SBD to a stop. Kroeger and Halterman bounced in their seats and leaned forward from the sudden deceleration.
“Nice landing, sir!” Halterman said as Kroeger found the director and waited for the signal to taxi forward. Once free of the cable, he was directed ahead – hurry! – and Kroeger taxied out fast, knowing another low-fuel SBD was right behind. He heard orders on the flight deck loudspeaker but could not understand them. Past the barrier, the director then had him slow – easy, easy – as his spinning prop neared the planes in the pack up forward. They chocked him behind Smith’s SBD, and the director reminded Kroeger to secure his position lights. Dummy!
He switched the engine off on signal, and after four hours in the seat pulled himself up and out of the cockpit. Once on the wing, he stretched his back. Another spinning prop that eased next to him seemed close in the darkness.
With his plotting board under his arm, Kroeger jumped off the wing and looked to get off the deck amid the silhouettes of SBDs and noise of running engines. Starboard side toward the island looked clear. With careful steps and an SBD elevator as guide, Kroeger made his way to the island under the bridge, Halterman following. At the island, he looked for the hatchway to the ready room.
Another SBD took a cut and the engine quit as the plane trapped aboard. Out of fuel. The sound of the cable pulled out of its housing echoed on the suddenly quiet flight deck.
Cheers rose from the deck crew aft. “Wow, Mister Kroeger, those guys must be livin’ right!” Halterman said.
Kroeger could only nod as he undogged the hatch. His legs shook, and once inside the island he took deep breaths to collect himself.
* * *
1 HIJMS Tanikaze
Chapter 37
HIJMS Nagara, 2100 June 5, 1942
Genda knew he should not be outside, should not let the men see him – a senior staff officer – idle like this. The sun had b
een down for some time, and most of the survivors were below. If Nagara’s chiefs caught them about the weather decks after darken ship they would be punished. Genda could be punished, too, but he doubted they would take on a staff commander. However, if they put him on report, he would gladly accept any punishment the captain wished to mete out. He deserved it.
From the boat deck under the catapult he had watched the sunset as the cruiser steamed into it. Around Nagara, the remnants of the Mobile Force held station on the Main Body with giant Yamato in the middle. The commander in chief was aboard. Genda had to face him, to atone. He dreaded it. Having Yamamoto merely look at him now would be akin to being run through by a sword.
His pen. His pen had indeed swayed the destiny of the empire. Just as he had feared. Genda thought of nothing else as the tension built in his midsection. More than a failure, more than a defeat. No, it was over now. Japan could not recover from this calamity.
The search. Perfunctory and routine, like any morning at sea. The Americans had spotted the invasion force the day before. Yet he and the rest of the staff had dismissed it – even clumsy Americans can use their flying boats to search. Hell, that night an American plane had attacked and torpedoed a fat maru. They knew we were coming! And we sniffed our disdain.
Four carriers attacked Midway…when two could have done the job, holding two in reserve! Tomonaga could have led all the planes from CarDiv 2, leaving Akagi and Kaga ready with antiship weapons – as Combined Fleet directed! Genda’s insides had churned with acid since yesterday morning. It had been his directive to apportion the strike force from among four decks after his determination that battleship and cruiser float planes were sufficient to search thirty-degree sectors at dawn. How could he make amends for such unforgiveable blunders?
He thought of the invasion plan. Must adhere to the scheduled timetable! Tides, logistics, the Southern Operations campaign needs next month. Operation MI was no express train to Osaka, but the First Fleet Staff – his staff! – treated it as such! A timetable! Bitter bile rose to his throat as Genda held himself and the others in contempt. Had they not learned anything from Clausewitz? They were there to offer battle to the American Navy. Who among them thought the Americans would offer first?