At one point a group of welders seemed about ready to fold. Out of nowhere a naval officer appeared and asked them to gather around. The Japanese, he explained, were on their way to Midway … they thought the Yorktown was sunk … wouldn’t they be surprised if they found her fit and ready to fight? His psychology worked; the men rushed back to their jobs.
All the night of the 28th the pace continued, the Yorktown spouting sparks and blue flashes as the welders worked on. It was a nightmare for the ship’s crew, but few had time to rest anyhow. Gunner’s Mate Jefferson Vick was typical—he spent 48 hours straight hauling bombs aboard, with only one five-hour break.
While the work went on, an odd thing was happening in nearby Honolulu. First the electric power failed in the Kahala district. Then when that was fixed, it failed in the Nuuanu Valley. The same thing happened from time to time in other parts of town. The local citizens were used to the erratic ways of the Hawaiian Electric Company, but this time was no accident. Needing extra power to run the enormous amount of repair equipment, the Navy Yard contacted Leslie Hicks, president of the company, and explained the emergency in confidence. Hicks said he thought he could help, and quietly staged “failures” in one district after another, diverting the desperately needed electricity to the Yard.
By midmorning on the 29th they had run out of time. At 11:00 the cocks were opened, the dry dock flooded, and the Yorktown towed back into the harbor. It was a slow, delicate job getting her out—much too slow for the tower, which kept flashing, “EXPEDITE! EXPEDITE!” Hundreds of men still worked on her; Bill Bennett’s shipfitters were gone, but the electricians and mechanics were everywhere.
In his cabin Captain Elliott Buckmaster labored over a million last details. Commander Dixie Kiefer, the ship’s colorful executive officer, dropped by at one point, urging the Captain to put his own personal belongings ashore. No, said Buckmaster, he was too old a sea dog for that—never get separated from your personal gear.
The work went on, ashore as well as afloat. The Yorktown’s landing signal officer, Lieutenant Norwood Campbell, struggled to get the new squadrons in shape for carrier landings. The pilots were mostly from the Saratoga. She had been torpedoed in January, and since then they had spent a good deal of time kicking around. Lieutenant Commander Max Leslie’s Bombing Squadron 3 was sharp—they had spelled the Enterprise’s bombers on the Doolittle raid. But Lieutenant Commander Lance Massey’s Torpedo 3 was rusty, and Lieutenant Commander John S. Thach’s Fighting 3 was very much a mixed bag: some were Yorktown veterans; some hadn’t seen a carrier for months; some had never served on one.
At the moment all were at Kaneohe on the other side of the island. Most still didn’t know what was up, except that they were suddenly practicing a lot. But that day word began to get around. Commander Leslie took his rear-seat man, Radioman W. E. Gallagher, aside and told him they had a new assignment: they were joining the Yorktown and going out to meet the Japs. He didn’t say where, but Gallagher was to be ready in the morning.
Saturday, May 30, dawned clear at Pearl Harbor. On the Yorktown the shrill call of a bosun’s whistle was the first signal for many that Admiral Nimitz was coming aboard. They had won their fight to get her ready; now it was time to wish them “good luck and good hunting.” Turning to Buckmaster, the Admiral said to announce to all hands that he was sorry they couldn’t go back to the mainland yet. They had a job to do. But when it was over, he’d send the Yorktown to the West Coast for liberty, and he didn’t mean peanuts.
At 9:00 the engines began turning over. Far below, yard hand Fred Rodin and his gang were still wrapping insulation around some newly installed pipes. Suddenly someone yelled down the shaft, “OK, boys, all ashore that’s going ashore—we’re pulling out.” Rodin and his mates bolted topside—this was one trip they didn’t want to make. The Yorktown was already gliding downstream as the last of them dropped down into a launch and bobbed off toward the shore. On she went, picking up speed as she moved down the channel. On the flight deck the ship’s band—with perhaps just a touch of sly humor—lustily blared out, “California, Here I Come.”
That afternoon she picked up her revamped air group—flown out as usual from the base—and by nightfall the whole task force was far beyond the sight of land. They had accomplished wonders—the Yorktown was there—but the odds were still long this brilliant moon-swept night. It would take more than the best intelligence, planning and determination to beat Yamamoto’s huge armada. They knew it at CINCPAC too, and it had a lot to do with naming the rendezvous point where Spruance and Fletcher were slated to meet. This dot on the map—this mythical spot on a trackless ocean—they wishfully called “Point Luck.”
FOR Lieutenant Commander Toshitake Ueno, this same moonlit night brought only bad news. As the darkened U.S. ships pounded north, his submarine I-123 lay idle and useless off French Frigate Shoals, several hundred miles to the west. According to the final version of the Japanese plan, the I-123 was meant to help refuel two seaplanes, up from Kwajalein, for a last-minute look at Pearl Harbor—but there would be no refueling tonight. A big American patrol plane lay anchored in the lagoon.
It was odd. When first tried in March, “Operation K” (as they called it) went off very well. Then the two big seaplanes came up from Kwajalein, refueled from the tanker-submarines, and flew on to Pearl Harbor without any hitch. True, they didn’t accomplish much, but that wasn’t the fault of the arrangements. The rescue sub stood by; the radio beam worked; the refueling went smoothly; and above all nobody bothered them at French Frigate Shoals.
This time was different from the start. When the I-121—first sub to arrive—reached the Shoals on May 26, she found a U.S. seaplane tender already sitting at anchor. Soon the I-122 and I-123 also came up, and the next three days were spent peeking through periscopes, waiting patiently for the tender to go away. But she didn’t, and by the night of May 29 something had to be done. Tomorrow was the big day: the planes would be leaving Kwajalein during the night, planning to arrive and refuel at dusk on the 30th. As senior officer, Commander Ueno took one last look—two ships were there now—and reluctantly radioed the situation to Kwajalein. Vice Admiral Eiji Goto understood; he radioed back that the operation was postponed a day; expect the planes on the 31st.
Now it was the night of the 30th, and pretty much the same story. As Commander Ueno searched the moonlit anchorage, he couldn’t see the tender, but there was no mistaking that PBY—the Americans were still there. Around midnight he again radioed Kwajalein that the place was being watched. This time the answer came from Goto’s boss, Vice Admiral Nishizo Tsukahara commanding the 11th Air Fleet: the planes wouldn’t be coming at all; Operation K was “suspended.”
It meant there would be no reconnaissance of Pearl Harbor, but little matter: Nimitz’s ships were safely at their berths. And there they would stay, until the great attack smashed at Midway and brought them rushing out into Yamamoto’s great trap.
AT PEARL it seemed strangely empty with the fleet gone, but there was still plenty of activity at CINCPAC. Coming to work that evening, Commander Layton brought along his helmet for the first time since December 7. From Rochefort’s intercepts he knew this was the night for Operation K. French Frigate Shoals were under close watch, but if something went amiss there might be a lot of flak flying about. Nothing happened, of course, except that several of Layton’s colleagues kidded him for bringing his helmet to work for no reason at all.
* The official records are naturally full of abbreviations and code words. “CV” is Navy lingo for carriers, “VF’ for fighters, “VSB” for scout-bombers. “Balsa” is a code name for Midway. For simplicity’s sake, this book will usually translate such designations into layman’s terms, but they seemed too much a part of the flavor of the note to do so here.
CHAPTER 3
Ready
NOBODY TOLD ADMIRAL NAGUMO that Operation K had failed. Radio silence seemed too important. So the First Carrier Striking Force plowed on toward Midway, the s
taff free from worry. They would get the word if “K” turned up anything useful … they heard no results, so there was nothing worth reporting.
Spirits were high on every ship. In the golden weather the first days out, the pilots practiced their bombing and torpedo runs, thrilling the men on deck. Watching them from the guard destroyer Nowaki, Commander Magotaro Koga couldn’t imagine anyone beating them. “Our hearts burn with the conviction of sure victory,” he scribbled that night in his diary.
Even the little things were turning out right. Through one of those happy accidents that can occur in any navy, three months of PX rations had been distributed at once—joyful bargaining filled the air. Only one man was having bad luck: first night out, Commander Mitsuo Fuchida, leader of the Akagi’s air group, came down with appendicitis. Now he wouldn’t be able to lead the planes against Midway, duplicating his great feat at Pearl Harbor.
The weather turned sour on the afternoon of June 1—fortunately they had just finished refueling—and for the moment the flyers had little to do. Fighter pilot Raita Ogawa relaxed in the Akagi’s wardroom while a scratchy gramophone ground out the popular song, “Kirameku Seiza”; its lilting strains reminded them all of planes high in the sky. Torpedo pilot Takayoshi Morinaga lay in his bunk on the Kaga reading modern Japanese history. The Hiryu’s assistant air officer, Toshio Hashimoto, could be found deep in a game of contract bridge. On the Soryu bomber pilot Juzo Mori amused himself playing a sort of bamboo flute called a shaku-hachi. Several others aboard liked doing this too, and they’d gather together in a corner of the flight deck, their plaintive music floating incongruously over the deck as the big carrier charged on.
Hundreds of miles to the southeast the Invasion Force lumbered along at a slower pace. On the bridge of the Jintsu Commander Toyama struggled to keep the 13 transports in some sort of order. The formation was quite simple—just two parallel columns of ships—but the convoy had been slapped together so quickly there wasn’t time to learn the signals, and the transports had a way of straying. The troops couldn’t have cared less. They practiced weapons handling and landing-craft procedures when they could, but there wasn’t much room, and most of the time they were just jammed together, squatting on the open decks talking of girls and home.
Far to the rear—600 miles behind Nagumo—steamed Yamamoto’s great Main Force of 34 ships. On the seven big battleships the men whiled away their free hours sunbathing, doing calisthenics and simply puzzling. The Japanese Navy always kept Tokyo time, wherever it was; now many of the new recruits, fresh off the farm, felt they were entering a strange part of the world indeed, where the sun rose at three o’clock in the morning.
On the Yamato Admiral Yamamoto moodily dabbed at a bowl of rice porridge. His huge appetite had finally caught up with him, and he now had a mild case of diarrhea. A more serious problem was the intelligence coming in. Starting May 29, his radio-traffic people had noted a heavy increase in U.S. messages in the Hawaiian and Aleutian areas, much of it from aircraft and submarines. It suggested a U.S. task force might be at sea.
The disturbing signs multiplied. A U.S. submarine just ahead of the Transport Group was sending long coded messages to Pearl. Wake Island reported American patrol planes operating far out of Midway. A fresh radio traffic analysis showed 72 of 180 intercepts were “urgent”—a suspiciously high percentage. On the other hand, a new intelligence estimate from Tokyo on the 31st again placed U.S. carriers off the Solomons. It was all very baffling … enough to make a man wish that Operation K had worked out.
And now it appeared the submarine cordons were fouled up too. Three of the four subs assigned to the line west of Hawaii were involved in the “K” fiasco; they’d be late getting on station. Worse, all seven assigned to the cordon northwest of the Islands would also be late. They were the ones meant to take position across the Hawaii-Midway line on June 1, but fitting out took longer than planned, and now they wouldn’t get there till June 3.
Should any of this information be relayed to Nagumo and the carriers? Admiral Yamamoto was inclined that way, but Captain Kuroshima was strongly opposed. As in the case of reporting on “K,” he felt radio silence was too important. Besides, the Akagi’s own radio must be picking it all up anyhow. Nothing was done.
The question again arose a day or so later. Tokyo’s radio intelligence now definitely suspected a U.S. carrier force somewhere off Midway. Once again Yamamoto was inclined to relay the word on to Nagumo; once again the “God of Operations” preached the gospel of radio silence; once again nothing was done.
Six hundred miles ahead, Nagumo’s carriers steamed on. In the Akagi’s radio room, the operators bent low but heard nothing. The Yamato wasn’t talking and Tokyo was too far away. With its small superstructure, the Akagi had a comparatively weak wireless; it just couldn’t catch those distant signals. And now the weather was failing too. All day June 1 it grew steadily worse—a fine rain mixed with heavy mist. The ships plunged ahead, dim blurs in the gathering gloom.
THE view was sharp and clear at Midway, as Commander Tanabe of the submarine I-168 swung his periscope toward the dazzling coral sands of the atoll. He had been hanging around for three days now, making meticulous observations. These he carefully radioed to Tokyo, to be relayed on to the advancing fleet.
There was much to report. Patrol boats came and went. Some 90-100 planes landed in a day … including a number of bombers. The PBYs took off at dawn, returned in the evening—suggesting patrols at least 600 miles out. Several construction cranes were at work: the garrison must be strengthening its defenses.
Most of the time Tanabe stayed submerged two or three miles offshore, his eyes glued to the periscope. Around him the crew hopefully fingered the good luck charms that Ensign Mochizuki had just given them all from Kameyama Shrine. They hadn’t been seen yet, but it was risky business poking around this way; once they sneaked within 800 yards of the beach.
At night the I-168 surfaced and Tanabe continued his studies with binoculars. Midway was under blackout; still it was possible to see a little. At one point he counted nine work lights burning. Clearly something was up.
THE past month had been a hectic one for the defenders of Midway. They still had a long way to go, but at least they could look with some satisfaction on what they had already done.
Certainly it all began with Nimitz’s visit. Until then the base felt itself pretty well forgotten, except for an occasional shelling by some Japanese submarine. But that May 2 was a revelation. Nimitz was everywhere—and into everything. On Sand Island he rummaged through the underground command posts … he poked around the big seaplane hangar where the PBYs were serviced … he crawled into every gunpit of the Marines’ 6th Defense Battalion. Then over to Eastern Island, twenty minutes across the lagoon. Here he examined the Marine airstrip and shook hands with all the pilots. When he finally flew off, the Marines conferred upon him their highest accolade: he was, they all agreed, a “Goddamned gentleman.”
About two weeks later equipment began pouring in. Commander Simard and Lieutenant Colonel Shannon had filed a list of their needs on May 7, but the first thing to come wasn’t on any list at all. It was a pair of shoulder eagles for Simard—giving him a spot promotion to captain. At the same time Shannon was promoted to full colonel.
Both soon learned they’d be earning those eagles the hard way. About May 20 Admiral Nimitz’s letter arrived, addressed to Simard and Shannon jointly, spelling out the Japanese plan. It was all there, every step, as far as Nimitz then knew it. Most sobering of all, he put the date at May 28—only one week away.
No one felt the pressure more than Shannon. Though under Simard, he was the Marine commander and directly responsible for Midway’s defense. Next evening he called his key men together at the “Castle,” an unpretentious house left over from Midway’s civilian past. Here he told the group that the Japanese were coming, and outlined the steps to be taken to meet them. Adjutant W. P. Spencer then covered various matters in more detail, including instr
uctions on what to do if taken prisoner.
At this point Marine Gunner Dorn E. Arnold, who had been in the Corps forever, closed his notebook. Shannon asked if he wasn’t interested. Arnold replied that he didn’t need this information since he didn’t intend to be taken prisoner. He was damned if he’d end up “pulling some Japanese Pfc around in a rickshaw.”
As finally outlined, Shannon’s plans reflected his past. He was an old-time Marine, up from the ranks, of Belleau Wood vintage. Barbed wire, barrages, dugouts had all left an indelible impression, and sometimes it seemed he wanted to turn Midway into another Hindenburg Line. But he also had the hard-nosed tenacity that went with this kind of warfare, and that more than anything else was what Midway needed right now.
They had a good test of their spirits the very next morning. May 22 began calmly enough—Captain Simard was buried in work at his command post … the 81 mm. mortars were practicing on the south shore … Pharmacist’s Mate Edwin Miller was swiping a snack from the hospital kitchen. Then suddenly it happened. A terrific explosion shook Sand Island; a cloud of dust and smoke billowed into the sky.
The Japs were here—everyone was sure of it. The men grabbed their helmets and raced for their battle stations. But it wasn’t the Japs; it was far more discouraging. Some sailor, testing connections, had crossed the wrong wires and tripped a demolition charge under Midway’s gasoline supply. Half the tanks, about 400,000 gallons, were gone. It damaged the distribution system too; from now on they’d have to fuel the planes by hand from 55-gallon drums.
It was enough to dishearten any one, but Captain Simard didn’t panic. No heads rolled; no scapegoats; no angry recriminations. He calmly cabled the bad news to CINCPAC and asked for any help they could give. As for Colonel Shannon, airplanes were another world anyhow. “Wreck ‘em on the beach,” he growled, and it seemed more comforting than ever to have this tough old leatherneck as a rallying point.
The World War II Collection Page 67