by Kevin Miller
With a flick of his thumb, 1,000 pounds fell away as he yanked the plane up and overbanked right. Looking down the wing line, he noted the white rooster tail of the destroyer as it sprinted away from danger, its deck crammed with men who huddled close. Too late.
An explosion aft covered the stern with smoke and flame and white spray. A hit! He rolled out and pushed down to the waves, gaining airspeed as he did, his senses sharp and in total control of everything around him. A string of tracers floated off and dove into the sea in ordered sequence. The tracers missed. Again they missed.
“We got a hit, sir!”
“Open fire!”
No sooner had the words left Fisher’s lips than Ferguson opened up on the enemy ship. He sprayed it with a long burst, a release of pent-up tension and repressed fear. His way of contributing. Clear of the ship’s light guns and out of range, Ferguson’s machine gun shells would only bounce off the thin hull plates – if they could even reach the destroyer. Fisher heard Ferguson shriek with laughter, and the firing stopped.
The formations rendezvoused: all accounted for. The triumphant kids in each windswept cockpit smiled at each other and passed their thumbs-up signals in exultation and relief. Sensing there would be no more attacks today, they flew back to Hornet without a care. Within minutes, they saw her in the distance as fate smiled upon them this hour. They would take their good fortune and make the most of it. Tomorrow would come quickly.
Clay Fisher reveled in his hit. Retribution for those lost. Payback in his own small way. He could go home now as an equal to the graying doughboys of the Great War, having seen the elephant as they had.
Fisher held position on Lynch without thinking, his mind on the men he had just seen. Japanese ships had been shooting at him for three days, but today he had seen them as men. Orientals, but men. Like him. Up close, through his bombsight, and with his own eyes, he had seen them as they thrashed about in the water. Afraid. Dying. His bomb hitting a vital area or springing the hull plates of that burning battleship may have finished her. He pulled up, almost by reflex. Rash impulse or right decision? Lynch would surely ask him why when they got back. I couldn’t bring myself…
He looked back over his shoulder. Smoke from the battle rose high above the enemy ships, and Fisher knew he would never forget the image.
Spruance still lacked a clear understanding of what his planes had done.
Was it a cruiser or a battleship? Or two cruisers? More? His returning fliers said there were two groups of ships, and Hornet’s reports offered little clarification. The two Yorktown lieutenants now leading his planes differed on what they had both seen just an hour ago, and a camera in one plane had fogged up, making the film useless. Even the reports of his cruiser floatplanes that had bird-dogged the Japanese since midmorning were unclear. At least his three TBDs were back safe, but they hadn’t dropped, as the Japanese still had means to resist. He needed detailed answers, now.
Browning suggested a plan. “Admiral, we can send a photo recon mission and have photos in your hands by sunset.”
“Please see to it,” Spruance replied.
Soon after, word came down to the Bombing Six ready room that a plane was needed to escort a Scouting Six SBD to photograph the burning Japanese ships. The duty officer turned to Kroeger, sitting in his high-back chair.
“Bud, they need a plane to escort the scouts on a photo recon of the Jap ships. Want it?”
“Sure,” Kroeger said. “I’ll get word to Halterman next door.”
“Ah…no. You’re gonna take a civilian. That guy from Movietown News, older fellow.”
“What!” Kroeger exclaimed. “This is still combat. I’m not takin’ any civilian on a sightseeing tour!”
“Bud, it’s from above, and we’re tapped out of pilots. But maybe I can scrounge one if you can’t.”
Kroeger hadn’t flown yet and was the de facto squadron Executive Officer. This mission called for a veteran pilot, not a newbie ensign with a civilian newsreel operator.
Kroeger frowned as he got up to check with the Sails next door. “I’ll take it, for cryin’ out loud.”
He entered the Scouting Six ready room. Many of the pilots who had flown on the last strike were still there. They had red lines on their foreheads, evidence of hours under their cloth helmets. Dusty Kleiss gulped down a paper cup of water as Kroeger entered.
“Hello, Bud. What can we do for Bombing Six?”
“Dusty, who’s flying this add-on photo hop?”
“I think Cleo Dobson. Hey, Dobby!”
From the chart next to the chalkboard, the tall ensign walked down the aisle.
“Yeah? Hey, Bud.”
“Cleo, you goin’ on this photo add-on?” Kroeger asked him.
“Yep. You goin’ too?”
Kroeger nodded. “Yeah, just got word I’m going with you, and I’ll have that Movietown guy with me.”
“Okay, good. I’ve got a Chief Photo Mate. The bridge wants to know what’s out there, so we’ll get some brownies of them.”
“Dusty, were you just there?” Kroeger asked.
“Yeah, two big boys, but cruisers, one heavy and one light. Your guys think one is a battleship, but the beam is too narrow. And two small boys in escort.”
“You nail ’em?”
“Sure did. You guys put a bunch of bombs on the heavy cruiser, and we followed. It was a flaming wreck when we left.”
“Flak?”
“Oh yeah, and heavy when we got there. Hornet had just left when we showed up, so they were ready for us. But we all made it.”
“Easy to find?” Dobson asked.
“Easy. About two-six-zero and no more than a hun’erd miles. You’ll see the oil slick as soon as you get to altitude. It’s huge.”
Kroeger and Dobson thanked Kleiss. Around them, excited aviators angled to go back. Seeking quiet, Kroeger led Dobson out into the passageway to talk.
“All right, Cleo, you’re the scout pilot. I’ll fly on your wing with my movie guy.”
Dobson nodded. “Okay. We’ll join overhead and go out there at about ten or so. We’ll see what kind of reception they have for us and work our way in.” He then lowered his voice.
“My fixed guns are ready, and I’m tellin’ ya right now, I’m gonna strafe the bastards. Even if they’re in the water. They shoot us in rafts and behead our guys… So, I’m gonna give ’em a taste. Same treatment they gave to the poor guys on Langley in the Java Sea.”
Kroeger leaned in and looked up at the tall pilot. “Cleo, you better not. I’ve got a civilian.”
“That old codger ain’t gonna say a thing, an’ he can barely see as it is. After we get the pictures, you can come back here if you want to, but I’m stayin’.”
Time was short, and they had to man up for launch. And Kroeger had to meet his passenger. With luck he’d flown in an SBD before. Anything.
“Cleo, be smart.”
“They told me to!”
“Who told you?”
“People senior to you. Anyway, you’re warned, Bud. Go back alone when we’re done. I’ll be along shortly.”
Disgusted, Kroeger turned for his own ready room.
You’re gonna be sorry, Cleo.
* * *
1 HIJMS Arashio
Chapter 42
Over HIJMS Mikuma, 1730 June 6, 1942
As the wrecked warship listed to port, smoke seeped out from the length of it to form a thin gray curtain. To Kroeger, it reminded him of a veil a lady would use to cover her head at church.
The ship was more of a burned-out hulk, abandoned by the others, still visible as they steamed off to the west. Kroeger assessed them at twenty miles, a larger ship between two small boys, all trailing smoke.
With Dobson in the lead, they circled the doomed vessel, easing closer as they watched for gunfire.
“Are you gettin’ this, sir?” Kroeger asked on the interphone.
The newsreel man, Mr. Brick, didn’t answer. Kroeger twisted in his seat to chec
k on him. Brick waved back as he continued to film the scene. The gentleman must be the oldest man aboard; two gunners had to help him up the wing, over the gunwale, and into the seat. The rear seat was a tight fit even for a young radioman. Kroeger returned his scan to the smoldering ship. At least the old coot can hear me. In Dobson’s plane, the chief snapped photo after photo from his bulky camera.
Dobson circled away and descended below 500 feet. Approaching the ship from the port side, Kroeger slid to the outside to keep Dobson and the ship in view.
“Can you get closer?” Brick shouted.
He doesn’t know where the switch is. Kroeger answered him on the interphone.
“Sorry, sir. We hafta stay here in formation.”
“Okay, just asking!” he shouted back.
Dobson flew them down the port side, the chief clicking away. Dozens of men clustered on the fantail, some waving, and in the water near the stern, more men waved. Do they think we’re Japanese? Kroeger thought. The men who bobbed in the water were covered with a thick sheen of oil, their heads black. No lifeboats were in sight, and the superstructure was a maze of blackened scrap metal. Kroeger guessed this ship would soon sink, and, with their mates retreating west and night approaching, he imagined the Japs were goners.
Dobson veered away from Kroeger as he entered a shallow climb – then turned back.
Don’t do it, Cleo.
Dobson accelerated toward the ship. An hour ago, he had said he was going to strafe the Japs in the water like the Japanese had the Americans – murder them – the same helpless men who now waved at their American enemy in human kinship. We’re abandoned and dying. Please help us! A spark on the water would light off the dark slick the ship stewed in, immolating the men and reigniting fires on the aft end of the ship. Maybe these men had killed the Hornet guys lost in the morning. But it was different now that they had no means to fight back, no way to escape. An ordinary wave served as their white flag of surrender.
Dobson pushed his nose down toward them. Kroeger’s heartrate increased. Cleo, don’t.
Was he really going to do it, now, with a civilian in the back seat recording it? Good grief! The men were going to die, but did it have to be Cleo – and with me as an accomplice – who’d slaughter them in a hellish and fiery death?
Kroeger had his thumb on the radio transmitter. It was just the four of them. Who would ever know? Would the geezer in back say anything? They’re all but dead anyway. Why not put ’em out of their misery now and get a sense of satisfaction doing it? Maybe one of them would survive and tell the tale of American ruthlessness. A warning to the rest. You want a fight? You’ve got one! Maybe just one would live to tell it.
Thou shalt not kill.
Dobson veered left and leveled off as he flew along the port side again, the chief snapping away as before, with the sunlight to his back. The only hull paint that wasn’t blackened was up on the prow, a dark gray. Most of the ship was charred molten slag: twisted steel frozen in grotesque shapes, revealing little of its original construction or purpose.
Dobson signaled for throttle and a climb. Kroeger stayed with him and gave Mr. Brick as update.
“That’s it, sir. We’re headin’ back.”
“Okay! Got some great footage!”
“Good, sir,” Kroeger replied, glad they were done.
He took another look behind his wing at the smoking ship. Cleo didn’t shoot the poor devils. Relieved, Kroeger settled in for the short flight back. He sensed this battle was over.
“Sir, got some bad news. The Japs got a sub in the screen and torpedoed Yorktown.”
Spruance absorbed the words from his trusted lieutenant. Oliver stood before him in sorrow as he held the message. I’m very sorry, Admiral. Standing next to Spruance at the chart table, Browning shook his head in disgust.
“Very well. Thanks, Oliver,” Spruance said.
“A destroyer too, sir. Hammann. It was alongside providing power. One fish cut her in half, and the other hit the carrier on the starboard side.”
“Both sunk?”
“Nothing about Yorktown, but Hammann, yes sir.”
A deflated Spruance nodded his understanding and studied the chart. A submarine got in the screen. How far were they from the salvage effort? On the chart he measured with his fingers…about 400 miles. A submarine between him and Fletcher, and there could be others. Sara was torpedoed east of Hawaii. Just let your guard down for a moment…
“Miles, when do we expect our reconnaissance flight back?”
Browning looked at his watch. “Should be twenty minutes, sir.”
“Good. Get this word to the task force: sub attack northeast of Midway. Gotta keep our lookouts alert.”
“Yes, sir. Do you want to continue pursuit, sir?”
Spruance looked at the chart again as he formed his answer.
“I’m inclined to recover everything and retire east unless TF-16 or CINCPAC directs otherwise. We need to refuel, and everybody is exhausted. I can see it in their eyes.”
And yours, sir, Oliver thought.
Browning pointed to the chart. “And Wake’s up ahead. We’re pressin’ it, yes, sir.”
“Concur. For now, let’s recover them and turn northeast to the tanker rendezvous. Antisubmarine posture… Fifteen-knot advance should be sufficient.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral.” Browning said. Since yesterday’s shouting match with the pilots, their relationship had been professional and cordial. Regardless, Spruance wasn’t going to have Browning on his staff again. Wouldn’t stand for it.
“And I want those pilots up here as soon as they land.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral, I’ll see to it.”
Off the flight deck and inside the island, Dobson and Kroeger searched for the ladder to take them to the flag shelter.
The flight deck officer had met them when they stepped off their wings. The chief and Mr. Brick took their cameras below so the Photo Mates could develop the film.
“Ever been up here before, Bud?”
“No, but I think this is the ladder.”
Kroeger led them up. Yes, the right one.
Once at the flag shelter, the two pilots waited. Oliver walked over to them.
“Recon pilots?”
“Yes, sir,” Kroeger answered.
“Great. Did you get photos?”
“We had cameramen,” Dobson said.
“Good. Wait here.”
As Oliver notified Spruance, the two pilots continued to wait. When Browning stepped out from the windbreak, he leveled his eyes on Kroeger. He had seen Browning from a distance, but his imposing height and icy glare froze Kroeger in place. Spruance appeared and walked up to Dobson.
“Gentlemen, what did you see?”
Dobson answered. “Admiral, we saw a ship dead in the water and burning. There were survivors in the water next to it and a bunch of men on the fantail. To the west, about twenty miles I’d say, were three more ships: two small boys and a larger ship. They were all smokin’ and moving west.”
“Did it fire at you?”
“No, sir, we didn’t see any fire. It’s pretty much junk, sir.”
“What type of ship was it?”
Dobson smiled. “I don’ know sir, but it sure was a big one!”
Spruance’s face tightened into a scowl. Kroeger sensed at once they were on dangerous ground.
“I asked what type of ship. Battleship? Heavy cruiser? Light cruiser? Can you tell ship types?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what type and class?”
Dobson was sinking fast.
“Sir…I…I don’t know. It was pretty tore up. It had turrets forward, I remember that.”
Unimpressed at the ensign’s answer, Spruance clasped his arms around his chest.
“Do you have recognition cards to help you identify ships?”
“Sir, I, ah, I din’t look at ’em.”
“Why not?” Spruance shot back, exasperated. “This is important.”
Spruance struggled to contain himself. He turned to Kroeger.
“And you? Did you reference the cards?”
Kroeger wanted to die.
“No, sir. I forgot them, sir.”
Spruance recoiled in disgust. As he stepped back, a volcano built inside his slight frame.
“What squadron are you two in?” an irritated Browning demanded.
“Lieutenant Junior Grade Kroeger, sir. Bombing Six.”
“Ensign Dobson, sir. Scouting Six.”
Spruance pounced on him.
“A scout pilot, you say? And you don’t recognize ship types?”
Dobson shook with fright. His mouth open, he finally stammered out an answer.
“Sir, I know ours pretty good, just not the enemy all that well.”
Stunned at the answer, Spruance’s face transformed into a sarcastic sneer. The ensign needed to know this was serious business.
“Not the enemy? Young man, that’s why we just sent you! I expect more from my pilots, especially my scout pilots who have been trained to recognize and report ship types accurately. Have you received such training?”
“Yes, sir.” Dobson said. He and Kroeger both stood at attention, trembling.
“Then no excuse! Captain Browning, get Captain Murray up here.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Spruance then turned to Kroeger. The anxious pilot didn’t dare lock eyes with him.
“And you, lieutenant? You’re senior here? What’s your excuse?”
“No excuse, sir,” a raspy-voiced Kroeger replied. He would have preferred diving into Jap antiaircraft to being braced up on the flag shelter.
Spruance grunted and paced a few steps toward the chart table before turning back to the petrified pilots. He’d end their misery.
“I’m disappointed in both of you. Dismissed!”
Kroeger turned for the ladder while a panicked Dobson snapped a salute as if jolted by an electric current.
“You men are dismissed. Go!” Spruance barked, pointing at the ladder.
Barely able to breathe, Kroeger led them down. He didn’t turn back to Dobson or say a word until they reached flight deck level.