by Kevin Miller
Clear of danger, the pilots panted their relief in the passageway. Dobson was white with fear.
“Bud, we’re dead. No, I’m dead, and Skipper Gallaher’s dead. Oh, my gosh! I’d rather get shot at than go back up there again.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. We best tell Mister Shumway and Short.”
“Yeah. Just hope those guys got some photos to save our bacon.”
“Yeah. Hey, Cleo, I wanna know… You had your chance out there. Why didn’ you strafe those guys like you said you would?”
Dobson fought back tears of frustration. “You know, when I saw them poor bastards in the water – and then wavin’ at us – I got chicken-hearted. I couldn’ open up on ’em, Bud. I jus’ couldn’ do it!”
Kroeger put his hand on Dobson’s shoulder. The past three days had been rough, and he’d never forget this flight. He hoped that he and Cleo would be friends into old age.
“You did right, Cleo. Ya did right.”
Chapter 43
USS Monaghan, 0455 June 7, 1942
“Childers, wanna see your ship sink?”
Childers propped himself up on his elbows. The crew of Monaghan had treated him and Harry well since the rescue; he was in an officer’s country stateroom. They’d told him he was lucky they had a surgeon aboard. That he had lost so much blood he’d have died without one. Monaghan and the other cans had torn after the Jap sub that torpedoed Yorktown the day before. Depth-charged it for hours, but missed. When they got back, they learned that the destroyer alongside Yorktown had been cut in half and sank in minutes. Hammann, someone said. No warning. Gone in minutes. You know not the day nor the hour…
“Yeah, I wanna see,” Childers answered. The sailors complied, one man on either side as they hoisted him to his feet and over to the porthole.
Outside, the dawn broke on a glorious Sunday morning. A mile off, Yorktown’s flight deck caressed the water.
“Holy cow,” Childers murmured, spellbound at the sight of his ship on its side.
“Wow, look at that, would ya! She’s going,” one of them said. Yorktown’s brown deck timbers formed a wall, like a giant drive-in movie screen in an open field. Rattles and muffled thuds of machinery crashing from inside the ship reached their ears.
“Whoa!” the men exclaimed as the giant tripod mast was torn from its footings. It bounced off the near vertical flight deck before it crashed into the sea and disappeared. Around Yorktown, destroyers who had spent the night with her lowered their ensigns to half-staff, paying respects.
The ship settled lower on her port side, not quite capsized, graceful and majestic. Her battle ensign, still at the truck, dipped toward the surface and touched it. Monaghan and the other escorts stood off, their crews fascinated yet reverent. Yorktown’s massive island superstructure now rested on the surface, and the men watched in amazement. Torrents of seawater roared into her uptakes as spray billowed out.
Childers noticed men outside on Monaghan’s weather decks, each awe-struck at the scene. The carrier floated on its side for a long time in an apron of gurgling froth. When Monaghan moved to her starboard, they saw it.
“Look at that! There’s where that sub torpedo hit her yesterday!”
None could speak at the sight of Yorktown’s exposed hull plates and the mortal wound she received when the torpedo caught her at the turn of the bilge. Yorktown lay resting as the destroyer men stared in silent wonder.
“How did she last this long?” one muttered. No one answered.
After a moment, she lifted her nose and the men marveled again at her red keel plates and bulbous bow. She settled back for her final plunge. This was it.
USS Yorktown, the ship that had held off the Japanese twice in 30 days, fell back on her stern. Her forward flight deck rotated up and cut through the water to create the gallant carrier’s last wake.
Childers had a lump in his throat. He hoped Wayne was safe someplace, but the near vertical hull signified the end of his home, the home from which he had turned twenty-one. The final resting place of unknown shipmates. Please, not Wayne.
With dignity, the great carrier gracefully sank from view. The 40mm barrels on the bow pointed toward heaven as Yorktown slipped into a calm sea that finally covered the starboard forward corner of the flight deck. With barely a wave, she was gone.
A destroyer sounded a long blast, followed by blasts from all three. The deep, vibrating thrum of Monaghan’s horn filled every space aboard. Men ignored the deafening blare as the small boys paid tribute. Then, silence.
“Wow. We’ll never forget that,” a Pharmacist Mate said.
Speechless at what he had witnessed, Childers didn’t move. Darce. Brazier. Hope they made it.
One crewman noticed his moist eyes.
“Childers, I’m real sorry. Good ship.”
Childers nodded as his chin quivered. “Yes, she was a good ship. Hope my brother made it.” The tin can sailors didn’t know what to say.
Foam marked the spot where she sank. A destroyer entered and slowly crossed through.
“What’s Balch doing?” the pharmacist asked. “Like grave robbing, if you ask me.”
Childers was grateful for the change in subject and felt Monaghan’s steam engines speed up and the deck plates vibrate underneath his feet. The Yeoman next to him spoke.
“Looks like we’re headin’ someplace. Sure hope it’s Pearl.”
For the first time since they had helped him to the porthole, Childers looked away, knowing that whenever he wanted, he’d be able to replay this memory.
“Thanks, fellas. You can take me back, now.”
Spence Lewis knocked twice on Astoria’s flag cabin door. He heard Fletcher say, “Enter.”
The admiral stood at his sink in a t-shirt, shaving. He saw Lewis in the mirror.
“Good morning, Spence.”
“Good morning, Admiral. I’m here…with bad news,” Lewis said, closing the door behind him.
Fletcher ran water over his razor and set it down. He dabbed his face with a towel to remove the shaving cream.
“Okay. Whatcha got?”
“Sir, Yorktown sank.”
Fletcher frowned as he absorbed the news. “Figured she couldn’t last. When?”
“Thirty minutes ago. Got a message from Elliott in Balch.”
Fletcher picked up his khaki shirt and pulled it across his shoulders.
“Are COMINCH, CINCPAC, and TF-16 info addees?”
“Not COMINCH, sir, but Nimitz and Spruance, yes.”
Fletcher buttoned his starched shirt, wrinkled from wear.
“COMINCH knows.1 Expect I’ll be answering for it at Main Navy.”
“Admiral, it was bad luck they found us twice and not TF-16.”
“Was it bad luck a Jap sub got inside the screen?”
Lewis didn’t know how to answer. The kids on the small boys had let their guard down. Their commander was responsible for it.
“Sir, she was damaged from last month. We had to abandon her or risk more losses.”
Fletcher opened his trousers to tuck in his shirt.
“I know, I know. We made the best decision we could with the info we had. In hindsight, we should have stayed with the whole force to bolster the screen.” He buckled his web belt, making sure that the gold tip showed. Straight gig line. Decades of habit.
“Admiral, you’re still in command. Spruance is refueling, and Saratoga is coming up with replacement airplanes for him tomorrow. Yamamoto is still out there, and his carriers are threatening Dutch Harbor.”
In front of the medicine cabinet mirror, Fletcher carefully parted his hair. “I want to transfer to Saratoga tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And after breakfast I want to review the message traffic. Any update from Ray since last night?”
“Not yet, sir. He’s probably rendezvoused with the tanker and should be alongside for most of the day.”
“Said his boys damaged a cruiser. Is that confirmed?”
/> “Now reported sunk, sir. Nothing else reported east of the International Date Line.”
“Good, good,” Fletcher replied. Yorktown’s gone. They’ll blame me for that one, too.
“Spence, I think this battle is over.”
Lewis smiled and puffed up his chest. “Congratulations, sir! Four carriers. Makes our life a whole lot easier now.”
Fletcher shrugged. “You know, we did well. We won. Midway’s secure. But we lost Yorktown, and we lost a lot of men. We can’t sustain these losses.”
“Heroes all, sir. We’ll never forget them. Admiral, we didn’t see but a handful of their planes, but, like in the Coral Sea, this was fought in the air. This one, sir, is a modern-day Jutland. They’ll be talking about it for years. Actually, sir, it’s like Trafalgar – a rout. They won’t come back here.”
Fletcher appreciated his friend’s words, but he was also a realist. No way is Ernie King going to allow comparisons of me to Nelson.
“You’re kind, Spence. Let’s get some breakfast. Another long day of report writing ahead.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Seated at the desk in his in-port cabin, Mitscher stared at the blank paper in front of him. Where to start? When they left Norfolk three months ago and transited high-speed to the canal? When they picked up the Army planes in San Francisco after another high-speed transit with little to no flying? When they launched Doolittle after steaming six thousand miles, then rushing back to Pearl, rushing to help in the Coral Sea and missing it, rushing to return to Pearl, and, two days later, rushing for Point Luck? Mitscher’s pilots were green and it showed, and his squadron commanders were little better. Stanhope. He trusted him, trusted his ability. But he had missed the Japs Thursday, and all – all – of his men had left him with nothing to show for it. Only Johnny had found the Japs like he said he would, his brave men following. He deserved a medal – all the torpeckers did – for facing the enemy in those beat-up TBDs. Was all this BuAer’s fault for not getting the big Grumman torpedo bombers off the production line in time? He lit another cigarette.
Mitscher could not get over the fact that Enterprise and Yorktown had found the enemy and hit them and he hadn’t. Those ships had won the battle. Only yesterday his pilots had scored hits on a half-dead cruiser. And the whole task force knew it. Soon the whole fleet would, as would Washington. What could he write that wasn’t putting lipstick on a pig? Almost fifty dead, most of them from Torpedo Eight. And Admiral Ingersoll’s son…
Johnny practically begged you, and you wouldn’t give him one measly fighter.
Hornet was not a happy ship. His responsibility. He’d take her back to Pearl Harbor and turn over command to Charlie Mason. Maybe Charlie would do better. He rubbed his bald head in frustration. We’ve been in commission less than nine months!
Mitscher held his pen over the blank pad, waiting and hoping for the words to come. Whatever he managed to write, a come-around awaited him on Makalapa Hill.
On the mess deck, Kroeger referenced the frame numbers as he strode aft on the port-side passageway of Enterprise. He found the oversize door stenciled in block letters: MEDICAL DEPT.
Entering, he spoke to the first Pharmacist Mate he saw.
“I’m looking for Lieutenant Best?”
The man eyed Kroeger. “Not really a good time for visitors, sir.”
“Please. He’s my CO. We flew together Thursday morning.”
The Mate was impressed. “Wow! Did you hit the Japs, sir?”
“He hit ’em twice,” Kroeger said, pointing to the patient ward.
The man hesitated, and Kroeger pressed him.
“It will do him good. Please. I’ll be quiet.”
“Well, the chief said no visitors. You’ll have to wear a mask, sir.”
“No problem,” Kroeger said with an appreciative smile.
Handing Kroeger a mask, the Pharmacist Mate led him to the ward. Peeking in first, he opened the curtain for Kroeger.
Best lay in bed, his face ashen. He also wore a mask. He studied Kroeger, not sure.
“It’s me, sir. Bud.”
“Oh, Kroeger. How ya doin’?” Best wheezed. A shocked Kroeger had never seen Best like this. Human and vulnerable.
“Is this okay, sir?” the Mate asked Best.
“Yeah, sure. He’s fine,” Best rasped, waving the sailor away.
The curtain closed behind him, and Kroeger stood alone with Best.
“What do you have, Skipper?”
Best propped himself up. “Latent tuberculosis, the doc says. Think I breathed some bad oxygen Thursday morning. Remember when we flew south after hitting that second carrier?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I wasn’t feeling good. Even kept it from Chief Murray. To tell the truth, I’m not sure how I got us back. Anyway, I forced myself to land, but couldn’t get out of the plane.”
“Sir, I heard that, but thought you were just exhausted or wrenched your back on the pull, like Mister Gallaher.”
“Shhh,” Best admonished as he pointed. “He’s right over there.”
Kroeger lowered his voice.
“When do you come back?”
Best looked away.
“Well, they tell me after wasting a few years in the sanatorium, but the doc doesn’t hold out for flying.” Best lowered his voice to a whisper. “They’re all quacks. I’ll get back to Pearl and see a specialist who’ll give me some damn pills. I’ll be fine.”
Kroeger wasn’t so sure. Tuberculosis. TB. Serious.
“Hell, Kroeger, we dodged everything the Nips threw at us, and it’s the damned oxygen that lays me flat.” Best then coughed in a fit that lasted several seconds. A spot of red formed on Best’s mask.
Kroeger didn’t know what to say.
Recovered, Best wanted more scuttlebutt. “How’s Joe Penland doing?”
“Doing well, sir. Lieutenant Shumway is our acting CO till you get back on your feet. We’re not scheduled to fly much today. Maybe some patrols later. We’re headin’ east to gas up with a tanker.”
Best nodded, his mind elsewhere.
“I was too hard on Weber. Dave’s a good man, but he jammed us in the dive. Should have allowed us in first. That was Willie’s brief. Weber did the best he could. Bad luck a Nip was there to pick him off.”
“Yes, sir,” Kroeger said. There but for the grace of God.
“Good man. Hard to believe he and the others are gone. Maybe the flying boats and small boys can comb the…”
With no warning, Best was wracked by another coughing fit. A helpless Kroeger could only watch.
“Do you want water, sir?” he asked. Must do something.
“No,” Best gagged, waving him off. “They won’t let me.” He then pointed to the IV drip tube in his arm. Kroeger again waited.
“Do you think about dying out here, Kroeger?”
The unexpected question caught him off guard. Sure, he thought. Doesn’t everyone?
“Sir, I try not to. I’ve been scared plenty of times, even before Pearl Harbor. Don’t even need combat flying to scare myself. Yes, sir, I get scared…but I’m more scared not to go.”
The skin around Best’s eyes crinkled. Kroeger perceived he was smiling.
“Yes. I’ve scared myself, too. I get scared of prangin’ the airplane, scared of letting you guys down. But I’ve never, ever, thought I was going to die. Never have. Can’t even imagine it, even now with TB – if that’s what I really have.”
Kroeger nodded, again lost for words.
“Kroeger, if you can think that way – that it’s going to be the other guy – you’ll go far in this business. Don’t be stupid, of course, and there’s lots of things that can bite you, like contaminated O2 for heaven’s sake, but –”
Best coughed again, hard, almost doubling him over and causing him to wince in pain.
“Kroeger, we’re all gonna die…but you don’t have to die now, even in this war. Maybe I’m the only nut who thinks that way, but it works for m
e.”
“You’ll outlive us all, sir.”
Best smiled under his mask. “Take care of the boys, Kroeger, and Dave Shumway. He needs the support of you guys. Everything else going okay?”
Kroeger knew he should leave now. The dressing down from the admiral yesterday could wait.
“Everything’s okay. Get well soon, sir. We’ll make you proud.”
As Kroeger opened the curtain to leave, Best rasped again.
“Bud, thanks for comin’.”
Kroeger turned to see him nod in appreciation, his eyes full of meaning. Kroeger had never heard the CO call him “Bud” before.
“You’re welcome, Skipper. By your leave, sir.”
From his hospital bed, Best saluted, and Kroeger returned it.
Clay Fisher was spent.
Last night he had had his best sleep in weeks, but the physical stresses and constant tension of the past five days had left him drained.
They had won the battle. Licked the Japs. Scuttlebutt was that, after the refueling, they would get some of the new Grumman torpedo planes and go off to hunt more wounded Jap ships crawling west. Fine. But first, I need a day.
He thought of Annie. If only she knew what had happened out here. Then he thought of what he should write her. The completely botched first morning of battle? How close he had come to “buying it” that afternoon? The loss of so many, including the entire torpedo squadron? He’d gone to flight school with Grant Teats. What caused me to go VB and him to get VT? No, there was nothing he could tell her about this week except that he was there, and, for the moment, still alive.
KB entered the stateroom.
“Clay, I was just in the ready room. We’ve got an assignment.”
Fisher shook his head. On a Sunday morning. “Now what?”
“We’ve gotta inventory the personal items of those lost in Torpedo Eight. We’ve each been assigned a pilot.”
Fisher nodded. This was no red-ass. It was a solemn duty. In a dispatch, they had learned that Tex Gay had been rescued and said his squadron mates were all shot down in front of him. Tex had been able to ditch and spent the night in the water, the open ocean. Wounded, with sharks around. He was lucky.