The World War II Collection

by Lord, Walter;

  “Hope you’re ready,” a flier on the Hornet said to Gus Widhelm, one of Scouting 8’s jauntier characters. “I’m ready,” Widhelm replied, “I only hope the Japs are.”

  On the Enterprise many of the fighter pilots added an extra twist to getting ready—they were lining up at the water cooler. The theory was to drink up now; if shot down, they could last that much longer before thirst became a problem.

  “Pilots, man your planes,” for the third time this morning the traditional summons came over the loudspeakers. On the flight decks of both the Hornet and the Enterprise the starters whined, the motors sputtered and roared, the blue exhaust smoke washed back in the light morning breeze. The two carriers veered apart—the Hornet and its escorts falling out of line, the Enterprise group continuing on course. Then at 7:00 both ships swung sharply into the wind (this morning not enough and from the wrong direction), and the launching began.

  The fighters and bombers were already taking off when the men of Torpedo 8 left their ready room. As they zipped up their flight jackets, tightened their yellow Mae Wests, and pulled on their helmets, Commander Waldron gave them a few final words. He said he thought the Japanese ships would swing around once they discovered U.S. carriers present; they would not go on to Midway as everyone seemed to think. So don’t worry about navigation; he knew where he was going. “Just follow me. I’ll take you to ‘em.”

  Climbing the ladder to the flight deck he turned to his young navigator Ensign Gay, reminding him to “keep on my tail.” Then up to the bridge for final instructions, stopping by the chart house long enough to assure his friend Commander Frank Akers that he’d take the squadron all the way in. His exchange with Captain Mitscher was very brief—neither was given to oratory. As the Commander promised to “get hits,” Mitscher gently put his hand on Waldron’s shoulder.

  Across the water the Enterprise planes were taking off too; the plan was to rendezvous above the carrier, then fly out together in a single, coordinated strike. The dive bombers left first at 7:06—climbing, circling, forming into ever larger groups. Taking off like that, a flier’s heart always thumped a little faster, but it also had its secret pleasures. As one pilot has remarked, “To get off a carrier deck, one does have a lot of mechanical preparation on deck and a never-failing audience, which means that the beginning of every strike involves fulfillment of Walter Mitty dreams. I’d say the actual takeoff forced one into some self-confidence and bravado, unlike the infantry situation where no one was watching.”

  Orbiting high above the Enterprise, Lieutenant Commander Wade McClusky, leading the carrier’s whole Air Group, waited for his torpedo planes and fighter escorts. Fifteen minutes … a half-hour went by, and still no sign of them. Impatiently he studied the flight deck far below: “Action seemed to come to a standstill.” Meanwhile, he was using up desperately needed gas, just circling and waiting.

  There were many reasons for the delay. Spruance’s decision to throw a “full load” at the enemy had its price—no more than half the planes could be on the flight deck at once. Also, there was a last-minute change in the bomb load on some of the planes; that took time too. In addition, a torpedo plane broke down. But above all, there was the problem of inexperience. Carrier operations might be an old story to the Japanese, but the Americans were still just feeling their way. Confusions of all sorts were bound to occur while the U.S. Navy got “on-the-job training” in this new business of carrier warfare.

  At 7:28 there was a new complication. Spruance’s radar picked up something suspicious; then the Enterprise’s forward gun director, with its powerful range finder, sighted it for certain—a Japanese seaplane lurking on the southern horizon. It hung there much too long to hope it had missed them. No doubt about it: they had been spotted.

  The chance for surprise seemed gone—with the planes only half launched. Still, there was no thought of calling off the operation. As Miles Browning pointed out, the Japanese would be locked in their present course at least till they recovered their Midway strike. But it was more important than ever to get going fast.

  By 7:45 Spruance felt he could wait no longer. The Enterprise’s fighters and torpedo planes were still on deck, but the launching had dragged on long enough. He’d just have to give up the plan for a coordinated strike and send out what he had—the rest could follow. The ship’s blinker flashed to McClusky, “Proceed on mission assigned.”

  As the dive bombers headed southwest, Lieutenant Jim Gray’s Fighting 6 was already taking off. Then it was Torpedo 6’s turn. The injured Gene Lindsey hobbled over to his borrowed TBD. The plane captain had to help him climb in, but the skipper was as determined as ever to lead his squadron. They left at 8:06.

  On the Hornet John Waldron’s Torpedo 8 was leaving about the same time. For George Gay and the other “boot” ensigns it was all a brand-new experience. They wondered how hard it would be taking off with that “pickle,” as they invariably called the torpedo. Not only had they never done it before, they had never even seen it done. For all that, it turned out to be easy, and they too were heading out at 8:06.

  But if this suggested that the Hornet’s and Enterprise’s air operations were in any way coordinated, that would be misleading. This was another art America had yet to learn. Here, neither Air Group knew what the other was doing, much less what the Yorktown’s planes were up to. And while the two torpedo squadrons were indeed leaving at the same time, the circumstances were entirely different. The Enterprise’s Torpedo 6 was chasing after its dive bombers; while the Hornet’s Torpedo 8, although last off, was actually leading its group.

  Captain Mitscher’s idea was to send his slow torpedo planes ahead, while the faster bombers and fighters were climbing to rendezvous high above the ship. These could then catch up en route, and all would attack together. Fine in theory, but risky too. With the torpedo planes below a thousand feet and the rest of the squadron at 19,000, it would be easy to miss connections.

  So now Torpedo 6 and Torpedo 8 were each heading out alone—separately yet close together—with very little to choose between them. One difference lay in the courses they took. Torpedo 6—under the meticulously correct Gene Lindsey— was flying exactly as prescribed. His course was 240°, or generally southwest. Torpedo 8, on the other hand, was veering off to the right, flying a more westerly course. The unorthodox John Waldron had said to forget navigation—just follow him—and he meant it. Another difference lay in the number of planes. Torpedo 6, short one TBD, had only 14; while Torpedo 8 was at full strength with all 15 on hand.

  Looking down from above, Lieutenant Jim Gray watched 15 torpedo planes join up and set out with no escort. As skipper of Fighting 6 it was his job to protect Torpedo 6. Not knowing the squadron was short a plane, he decided these unescorted TBDs must be his. He took station over them and continued to climb.

  This was in line with an arrangement he had with Lieutenant Art Ely, operations officer of Torpedo 6. Shortly before take-off, they had agreed that Gray would fly high enough to protect not only the torpedo planes but the dive bombers too. After all, it was the bombers that took the big beating at Coral Sea. But the torpedo planes weren’t neglected; if they needed any help, Ely was to radio, “Come on down, Jim.”

  As they continued on, Gray noticed another torpedo squadron flying behind him and heading more to the southwest. For a while he tried to cover them too, but the gap grew steadily wider. Finally he gave up and concentrated on those below. He didn’t realize it, but the others were the 14 planes of Torpedo 6—the squadron he was meant to cover.

  Directly below, the 15 planes of Torpedo 8 lumbered on—oblivious of the fighters above, of navigation, of everything except the determined man who led them. Waldron had his planes flying in two rough Vs; there were six sections of two and one section of three bringing up the rear. He, of course, was leading; Ensign Gay was flying the last plane in the last section.

  Around 9:00 Waldron opened up on the intercom to warn they were being watched. Gay looked up and saw a J
apanese seaplane trailing them in the distance. It finally broke off and Torpedo 8 continued on, wondering what sort of reception committee the seaplane’s radio might recruit. At the moment, there was nothing in sight—Torpedo 8 was all alone between the empty blue sea and the broken white clouds.

  High above the clouds, and a little to the south, the Hornet’s 35 dive bombers and 10 fighters overtook Waldron’s squadron and continued on to the southwest. Whether it was due more to the clouds or the diverging course no one would ever know, but the rendezvous had failed. Torpedo 8 continued on alone.

  About this time Waldron put his planes into a long scouting line. It was nearly time they sighted something, and this might make it easier. Soon, over his right wing, he saw two columns of smoke rising from beyond the horizon. He swung to the right, waggling his wings for the others to join up again. By 9:20 they were there, skimming the waves, going full throttle toward Nagumo’s outer screen of cruisers and destroyers. “He went just as straight to the Jap fleet as if he’d had a string tied to them,” George Gay later recalled. Pardonable license. If the enemy forces weren’t exactly where Waldron expected to find them, they were close enough. But there’s a limit to Sioux intuition, and the Commander’s reasoning was somewhat off. Nagumo had indeed turned north, but only a minute or so before Waldron got there. There was a different reason why the Japanese were far short of the position estimated by Spruance’s staff. Nagumo was short because he had spent so much of the past two hours dodging the planes from Midway.

  In any case, Waldron had found them, and as Torpedo 8 roared closer he could soon make out three carriers already turning in evasion moves. Picking out the one to his left— southernmost of the three—he drove on in. The carrier threw out a curtain of antiaircraft fire. Waldron then shifted to the central carrier instead—it was smaller but looked easier to reach.

  The rest of Torpedo 8 swung with him—Ensign Grant Teats, the lumberjack … Ensign Harold Ellison, the insurance man … Ensign Bill Evans, the Wesleyan intellectual … all of them. Outnumbered amateurs, they never faltered, but they had so far to go—the carrier was still nine miles off.

  Without warning 10, 20, no one knew how many Zeros came raging down at them from somewhere high above. These fighters knew their business—they concentrated on the leading planes of Torpedo 8. The very first Zero picked off a TBD on the far left. Waldron came on the radio, asking his rear-seat man Horace Dobbs whether it was “ours or theirs.” Gay, who had all too good a view of the proceedings from his position at the rear, broke in to say it was a TBD.

  Torpedo 8 continued on, with the Zeros diving again and again. The rear seat men did their best to fight back, but even the new twin mounts were no match for the Japanese. The Zeros were just too fast, the TBDs just too slow. Waldron again opened up on his radio, trying to reach Commander Stanhope Ring, leading the rest of the Hornet’s planes: “Stanhope, from Johnny one, answer.” But there was no answer.

  The Zeros kept pounding, and more planes fell. Yet Waldron had one satisfaction: he was at last ramming home an attack, right down the enemy’s throat. It was what everything had been leading to all these months—all that training, all that psychology—it was what his whole life was all about. Now that the big moment had come, there was a touch of fervor in the broken phrases that crackled over his radio: “Watch those fighters … See that splash! … How am I doing, Dobbs? … Attack immediately … I’d give a million to know who did that.”

  Then he got it too. A burst of flame—a brief glimpse of him standing up in the blazing cockpit—and he was gone. Then another went, and another. It was always the same: that sheet of flame, the blur of erupting smoke and water, the debris swirling by to the rear. Watching planes fall in these early battles, young Americans often thought of the old war movies they had seen. But this wasn’t like those movies at all. George Gay could only think of the time he was a boy and tossed out orange peels from the back of a speeding motor-boat.

  Soon there were only three TBDs left—Gay and two others. Next instant the others were down and there was only Gay. Bullets slashed into his plane and rattled against the armored back of his seat. His gunner Bob Huntington was hit, and Gay felt a sharp pain above his left elbow. He fumbled with his torn sleeve; the bullet was spent, and he easily pressed it out. Not knowing what else to do with it, he put it in his mouth.

  Incredibly the plane was still flying. And now he was by the destroyer screen, heading straight for the carrier. He was coming in on her starboard side, and as he drew near, she turned hard toward him, hoping to offer less of a target. Instinctively (or, more accurately, thanks to all those blackboard sessions), Gay pulled out to the right, cut across the carrier’s box, and swung back to the left. Now he was coming in on her port side.

  All the ship’s guns were firing. The air around him was black with antiaircraft bursts, but Gay kept boring in.

  At 800 yards he pressed the release button. Nothing happened—the electric connections had long since been shot away. He couldn’t use his left hand, so he jammed the stick between his knees and yanked at the manual release. The plane gave a welcome surge; the “pickle” was on its way.

  Now to clear out. He was much too close to turn away. Those guns would pour into the plane’s belly at point-blank range. So he did the only other thing he could do. He kept on coming.

  Flying “right down the gun barrel” of a big pompom up forward, he hopped across the flight deck, did a flipper turn and flew aft along the starboard side. It was a wild moment as he swung by the island below bridge level— “I could see the little Jap captain up there jumping up and down raising hell.”

  Scooting by the afterpart of the flight deck, he had a glimpse of a sight that made him yearn for a heavy machine gun up forward. The deck was full of planes, clearly being rearmed and refueled. Gas hoses were scattered all over the place, and a few incendiary bullets could have started an inferno.

  For a split second he felt an urge to crash into the whole mess, but then he decided things weren’t that bad. The plane was still flying; he felt pretty good. Maybe he could get out of this, come back and hit them again someday. He dropped down close to the water and headed astern of the carrier.

  The Zeros weren’t about to let him get away a second time. A string of them poured down from above, and the second or third one caught him. An explosive shell carried away his left rudder control, flash-burning his leg. Nothing worked any more, and Gay pancaked hard into the ocean. The fifteenth and last plane of Torpedo 8 was gone.

  Circling high above, Lieutenant Jim Gray was having a comparatively uneventful morning. Fighting 6 had little trouble following those 15 torpedo planes most of the way. Like most fighter pilots, he left the course to the planes he escorted; after all, they had an extra man. So now he just “followed the crowd,” which he still assumed to be Torpedo 6.

  As the time drew near when they should be sighting the Japanese, Gray began to worry about Zeros. It would be hard to protect both McClusky’s dive bombers (whenever they appeared) and those torpedo planes far below. Then, as if in answer to a prayer, he saw a low-lying cloud bank directly ahead. Fine. The torpedo planes could use this for cover, as they did at Coral Sea, and he could concentrate on keeping the upper area safe for the dive bombers. If anything went wrong below, there was always the prearranged signal with Torpedo 6 that would bring him rushing down.

  Shortly after 9:00 the 15 torpedo planes disappeared under the clouds and Gray saw them no more. But it was easy to guess they must have made contact, for soon afterward he sighted the white feathers of the Japanese wakes at the far edge of the overcast. Fighting 6 began circling above, watching for Zeros, wondering where McClusky was, occasionally catching a glimpse of the ships below. The torpedo attack must be going well; no one called the magic words, “Come on down, Jim.”

  As ENSIGN Gay’s TBD smacked into the sea, the right wing snapped off, and the canopy hood above his head slammed shut with the impact. The plane began filling with water. Gay de
sperately tugged at the hood. He was scared. The Japanese were one thing, drowning was another.

  Somehow he finally yanked it open. Climbing out, his first thoughts were for his rear-seat man Bob Huntington—there had been no word from him since he said he was hit. The plane was sinking fast, but Gay made a dive anyhow to try and pull him out. The wreckage sank too soon.

  Gay inflated his Mae West and looked around. The plane’s rubber boat bobbed up, deflated and in its bag … then the black cushion Huntington used to kneel on while working. Gay tucked the boat under his arm, and recalling stories of Zeros strafing helpless pilots in the water, he pulled the cushion over his head and kept as low as possible. From this unusual vantage point, he settled down to a front-row view of the First Carrier Striking Force in action.

  AT9:36 the Akagi ordered cease-fire; the fighters were bringing down the last of the U.S. torpedo planes. They had given the Soryu quite a scare, but beyond that nothing. To the critical eye of the experts on the Striking Force, the American tactics were very primitive. Surprisingly, they had no fighter escorts. Nor. did they split their attack, as the Japanese had learned to do. They foolishly kept in a single unit and simply hurled themselves at the Soryu. Bunched together, they were easy to shoot down. Their torpedoes (the men on the Soryu thought they saw four) passed harmlessly by the carrier.

  So a sixth American attack had been beaten off. But there was little time for self-congratulation, for at 9:38—just two minutes after the Akagi’s cease-fire—a new enemy flight of 14 torpedo planes was sighted, steadily boring in from the south.

  THE smoke, the distant wakes were farther north than Gene Lindsey expected. Fortunately, Torpedo 6 was flying at 1,500 feet—below the clouds yet high enough to catch those first telltale traces 30 miles away.