Buckmaster began a final tour of the Yorktown alone. First along the starboard catwalk all the way to the 5-inch gun platforms. Then back to the flight deck by No. 1 crane … down through Dressing Station No. 1 …forward through Flag Country and to the captain’s cabin … across to the port side … down the ladder to the hangar deck.
Now it was really dark. There were a few emergency lamps in the island structure, but absolutely nothing down here—just yards and yards of empty blackness. He didn’t even have a flashlight—someone had swiped that long ago.
He groped through a labyrinth of passageways and compartments, trying to walk with the list, keep his footing on the oil-slick deck. He banged into hatches, stumbled over bodies, slashed his leg on some jagged piece of steel. On he went—always searching for any sign of life, shouting from time to time into the darkness.
No answer, except great belching sounds of air bursting out of compartments as one more bulkhead gave way and the water rushed in. Or sometimes a clanking door or a grating of steel, as the ship rose and fell in the gentle swell. He went as deep as he dared. Finding no one, he felt his way topside again and walked aft to the very stern. A brief pause for a last look at his ship; then Elliott Buckmaster swung over the taffrail, caught a line, and dropped to the sea. “Well, there goes 20 years’ sermon notes,” sighed one of the Yorktown’s chaplains as his raft moved clear of the ship. Captain Buckmaster also found a raft, loaded with wounded, and hung onto the ratlines. A launch came up, tossed over a line and began to pull. As the line jerked taut, a mess attendant lost his grip and drifted astern. He went under twice, yelling for help. A figure darted over and saved him. It was Buckmaster.
Dr. Davis had nothing to cling to. He was still swimming by himself, which perhaps made him all the more apprehensive when he glanced around and thought he saw the snout of a large fish. He turned the other way, but it followed him. Steeling his nerve, he made a grab—and came up with his own wallet.
Lieutenant Commander Hartwig could hardly believe his eyes. His destroyer Russell had been picking up scores of men—they came aboard in every conceivable way—but never anything like this. One of his launches was approaching the ship crowded to the gunwhales with perhaps three times its supposed capacity; it was towing a life raft so loaded with men it was invisible; and the raft in turn was towing a long manila line to which scores of men were clinging like bees; and as if all this wasn’t enough, at the very end of the line was the Yorktown’s supply officer Commander Ralph Arnold, holding aloft his hat. Arnold, it later turned out, had just made commander; his wife had sent him a brand-new scrambled-eggs cap, and he wasn’t about to ruin it in the oily water. At the moment Hartwig simply yelled down to him that no Yorktown sailor would ever have to tip his hat to get aboard the Russell.
Off to port Lieutenant Commander Harold Tiemroth on the Balch was putting into practice all the rescue plans he so carefully made after Coral Sea. His men tossed over the specially prepared cargo nets and were soon hauling in scores of oil-soaked men. His hand-picked rescue swimmers Seaman Lewis and Fireman Prideaux went after those too exhausted to reach the ship. Ensign Weber took the motor whaleboat on trip after trip, sometimes gathering in 50 men at a time.
It was much the same on all seven destroyers. The Benham alone picked up 721. By 4:46, when the Balch completed a final swing around the scene, the little flotilla had rescued a grand total of 2,270 men. But the real meaning of this lay not in statistics, but in the human beings themselves. There was the Yorktown cook who gave up his life jacket, swam a thousand yards to the Benham, then asked as he scrambled aboard, “Where’s the galley? The cooks are going to need all the help they can get tonight.” There was Commander Laing, Royal Navy; now dripping with oil; he reached the deck of the Morris, put on his British cap, saluted the colors and said, “God bless the King; God bless the U.S. Navy.” There was the injured seaman—also on the Morris—who climbed aboard unassisted, saying, “Help some of those other poor guys that are really hurt.” He had lost his own leg at the knee.
ON THE Astoria Admiral Fletcher had watched the Japanese torpedo planes wing in. He never felt more frustrated. They certainly knew how to find the Yorktown—but he was still in the dark about them. Where was that fourth carrier? Three hours had passed since he sent out Scouting 5 to search the northwest, but still no word at all.
Turning to Rear Admiral “Poco” Smith—his host on the Astoria—Fletcher told him to rush two cruiser seaplanes to Midway and tell the CO there, “For God’s sake send a search and find out where this other carrier is.”
If Fletcher sounded anguished, he had a right to be, but actually the answer was already on the way. Even before the first torpedo slammed into the Yorktown’s side, one of the scouting planes solved the riddle.
Lieutenant Sam Adams had gone out with the rest of Scouting 5, leading a two-plane section assigned to the most westerly sector. Like the others in the group, he found nothing but ocean for three long hours. By 2:30 he was heading back—nearly halfway home—when he suddenly saw those revealing white wakes.
He counted carefully. Ten of them down there. The two SBDs edged closer; Adams could now make out four destroyers, three cruisers, two battleships … and yes, there was the carrier. They were all heading north, 20 knots. He worked out the position, reported it by voice, told his rear-seat man Karrol to send it by dot-dash too.
“Just a minute, Mr. Adams. I have a Zero to take care of first.”
Adams had been so absorbed in identifying ships that he missed the fighter completely. Somehow he and the other SBD dodged clear, and at 2:37 they turned for home.
The report reached the Yorktown just as the torpedo attack was breaking. There was a rush to relay it to Task Force 16 by TBS radio, but it didn’t get off before the power failed. It was then blinkered to the Astoria to be relayed on, and Admiral Fletcher knew at last that his search for the fourth carrier was over.
Shortly after 3:00 Admiral Spruance had the message on the Enterprise, and his staff slapped together what strength they could: no torpedo planes, no fighters, bits and pieces from three different dive bombing squadrons. Bombing 6 and Scouting 6 had only 11 planes left between them, but Bombing 3 contributed 14 refugees from the Yorktown, and they made up for a lot. Lieutenant Earl Gallaher of Scouting 6 would lead the attack.
Down in the ready rooms the pilots restlessly waited. By now the excitement of the morning strike had worn off; most of the men were terribly tired, and they couldn’t help looking at the empty chairs of those who failed to come back.
Then about 3:15 the teletype machines began clacking; the talkers moved into action; the rooms stirred to life. Out came the plotting boards; the men once again bent low, working away at their navigation.
“Pilots, man your planes.” At 3:30 the Enterprise turned into the wind, and Gallaher led his mixed group off. One of them had engine trouble, returned almost right away. But the rest continued on, 24 planes heading into the afternoon sum
Even as they left, a miracle was taking place on the Hornet. By 3:00 the crew had given up hope for her missing squadrons. Then, unexpectedly, planes were spotted coming in from the south. Japs? No, these were SBDs. Gloom turned to joy and relief as 11 lost planes from Bombing 8 began landing at 3:27. Lieutenant Commander Ruff Johnson had refueled his squadron at Midway and returned to the ship to get back in the fight.
They were gassed up and on their way out again by 4:03. Adding a few extra planes in shape to fly, the Hornet launched 16 dive bombers altogether. The Enterprise planes had half an hour’s head start, but this didn’t bother the green young ensigns who filled out the Hornet’s group. Led by a reserve lieutenant named Edgar Stebbins, they’d get in on as much of the show as they could.
“TF 16 air groups are now striking the carrier which your search plane reported,” Admiral Spruance radioed Admiral Fletcher as the dive bombers headed out. Then he added, “Have you any instructions for me?”
“None. Will conform to your movements.�
� To Fletcher this was the only sensible thing to do. He was the over-all commander, but he trusted Spruance and Spruance’s staff. They would do things the way he would himself. They had two carriers; he had none. So he bowed out, and from now on the battle was squarely in the hands of Raymond A. Spruance.
“IT’S still possible to win this battle,” thought Commander Kanoe, the Hiryu’s executive officer. “It’s an even game at worst.” Admiral Yamaguchi thought so too: with one U.S. carrier bombed out, a “second” torpedoed, it was again one-to-one. He quickly put Lieutenant Hashimoto—just back from the torpedo attack—in charge of a third strike at the U.S. force.
Trouble was, he had so little left. At best, only five dive bombers and four torpedo planes were in shape to go. No fighters were available—the six remaining Zeros had to protect the Hiryu. All the officer pilots were gone except Hashimoto and Lieutenant Shigematsu. Everybody was dead tired; Hashimoto, for instance, had been flying since dawn—this would be his third big mission of the day.
Still, it had to be done, and no time to lose. All would be lost if the Americans hit first. Yamaguchi decided the strike must leave right away—at 4:30—and once again the fliers lined up beneath the bridge. This time it was Captain Kaku who spoke. He told them he trusted them completely, but as he walked down the line, patting each man on the shoulder, he could see how exhausted they were.
He finally sent a mechanic running down to sick bay for some stay-awake pills. The man came back in a few minutes with a bottle cryptically marked “Aviation Tablet A.” Commander Kawaguchi suggested they just might be sleeping tablets instead, and the very thought threw Captain Kaku into a rage. He turned on the mechanic, called him a fool and threatened the direst punishment. A quick phone call to sick bay straightened everything out—no mistake, these were indeed the stimulants. The storm blew over, but the incident suggested the pilots weren’t the only ones whose nerves were frayed.
It was so clear, in fact, that everyone was exhausted, Admiral Yamaguchi decided to postpone the strike until 6:00 P.M. They’d lose 90 valuable minutes, but the gains should be worth it. The crew could get something to eat—no one had been given anything since breakfast. The change also meant they’d now hit the enemy at dusk; this gave the small handful of Japanese planes a much better chance against the U.S. defenses.
Down in the engine room the phone rang: send up a couple of men to bring back battle meals for the rest. Ensign Mandai watched them go—he could almost taste the rice balls coming, In the ready room, Lieutenant Hashimoto was too tired even to eat. He lay down on one of the brown leather sofas to catch a few minutes’ rest. On the flight deck most of the mechanics took a break too, but a few kept working, tuning up the Soryu’s Type 13 experimental reconnaissance plane; it would go ahead of the rest to pinpoint the American position. In the air command post Lieutenant Commander Kawaguchi was just popping a rice ball into his mouth… .
It was exactly 5:03 when a startled lookout shouted the words all dreaded the most: “Enemy dive bomber’s directly overhead!”
CHAPTER 11
The Emperor’s Portrait
THIS TIME THEY WERE easy to find. Around 4:45 Lieutenant Earl Gallaher sighted the telltale white wakes about 30 miles to the northwest. Several minutes later he could make out a carrier, half a dozen other ships, scurrying along on a westerly course. Gradually climbing to 19,000 feet, he circled around the Japanese fleet so as to attack from out of the sun. Far below, the ships steamed on, blissfully unaware.
At 4:58 all was ready. Neatly stacked down by divisions and sections, the dive bombers began a high-speed run-in. As they roared toward the target, Gallaher opened up on his radio: Enterprise planes would take the carrier, the Yorktown group the nearer battleship. Then a sharp, quick warning: Zeros, ahead and above.
They struck with that breath-taking rush the American pilots were getting to know so well. Some said there were 6, some 12; but they were everywhere at once and it was hard to tell. One pounced on Ensign F. T. Weber, lagging behind the rest of Bombing 6. Straggling was always fatal when Zeros were around, and this time was no exception.
Earl Gallaher almost collided with another as he pulled up out of the formation to start his dive. For a split second they squarely faced each other; then the Zero vanished as Gallaher pushed over. Next instant he was screeching down, leading his makeshift squadron against the last of Nagumo’s operating carriers.
Finally catching on, the ship twisted hard to port in a desperate evasion maneuver. It was too late for Gallaher to correct his dive; so he pulled up sharply just before release, hoping to lob his bomb at the vessel. The trick occasionally worked, but not this time. First Gallaher, then several other Scouting 6 pilots dropped near-misses just astern.
Seeing it happen, Lieutenant Dave Shumway made a fast decision. His Yorktown planes had been ordered to hit the battleship, but now he shifted to the carrier too. His first section swept past Dick Best’s Bombing 6, just getting ready for their own pushover. Best dived on schedule anyhow, his little group from the Enterprise all mixed up with the Yorktown crowd. It was another of those moments that would have given fits to the instructor back at Pensacola.
The Zeros tore at the group all the way down. Their last flight deck was at stake, and they knew it. They performed amazing stunts. One fighter made a pass on Ensign Cobb, pulled out, then made another—all while Cobb was in the same dive. Another turned himself into a “falling leaf” to keep Lieutenant Harold Bottomley in his sights.
Lieutenant Wiseman crashed, then Ensign Johnny Butler. In the Yorktown wardroom Butler had always said how much he wanted to be a fighter pilot and tangle with the Zeros. He got his chance—but in an SBD. It wasn’t nearly enough.
At first it looked as if the carrier might escape. Her sharp turn, the Zeros, a sudden dose of antiaircraft fire, all seemed to throw the dive bombers off. Ensign Hanson saw several misses ahead of him, then watched with dismay as his own bomb missed too. Disgusted, he looked back—and saw a sight that blotted out his disappointment. One, two, three bombs landed on the ship in quick succession.
They all claimed her. Scouting 6 probably got one hit … Bombing 3 certainly two … Bombing 6 another—but it was hard to tell. Toward the end everyone was diving at once, and in all that smoke the hits and misses looked pretty much alike. In any case, it was a thorough job. So much so that two of the last planes from Bombing 3 switched back to the battleship originally assigned. It seemed a waste to drop anything more on the carrier—her flight deck was a shambles.
GLASS showered down on Captain Kaku, navigator Cho, everyone else in the Hiryu’s wheelhouse. The first hit had landed squarely on the forward elevator platform, hurling it back against the island structure, breaking every window on the bridge. The blast blew Commander Kawaguchi clear off the air command post, down to the flight deck. Miraculously unhurt, he picked himself up just in time to be knocked down again by three more hits in the bridge area.
Down in the engineroom Ensign Mandai heard a bugle start sounding the antiaircraft alert over the loudspeaker system. It was still blowing when he felt a hard jolt, then two or three more. His heart sank. He could tell a miss because the shock always came from one side or the other; this time it came from directly above.
The lights went out, then came on again as the engineers switched over to emergency power. Other troubles weren’t so easily solved. Smoke poured down through the air ducts; the two men sent up for food came scrambling back through an open hatch—smoke and flames swept in after them.
In the ready room Lieutenant Hashimoto lay dozing on his sofa when a sudden “hammer blow” slammed into his back. He awoke with a start, stumbled onto the blazing flight deck, Winked at the incredible sight of the elevator platform leaning against the front of the bridge.
Captain Kaku, of course, could see nothing. The engines were all right—the ship still raced along at 30 knots—but with his view completely blocked it was impossible to maneuver. Anyhow, they could keep moving and go to w
ork on the fires. Commander Kanoe ordered the magazines flooded; damage control parties tackled the flames from the only fire main still working.
Commander Kawaguchi stood near the island structure, watching the men battle the blaze. There was very little left for an air officer to do—the forward third of the deck was one big crater. Then, as he stood there, several big geysers of water shot up perhaps 50 yards off the ship. He looked up in astonishment. As if they didn’t have enough trouble already, B-17s were bombing them too.
IT WAS a tough assignment for Major George Blakey, leading his six B-17s from Hawaii to Midway. They were coming to beef up the base’s tiny force of heavy bombers—had been flying for over seven hours—and now, when almost in sight of Eastern Island, Midway was ordering them to attack the Japanese fleet before landing. Gas was low; the men were tired. It was a hard job under any circumstances, and even harder for men who had never been in combat before.
The flight leaders conferred by voice radio. Did they have enough gas? Midway said the Japs were 170 miles to the northwest—out and back meant perhaps 400 more miles of flying. They figured they could just about make it if they stuck to their present altitude of 3,600 feet. This was absurdly low (Colonel Sweeney’s Midway group was operating at 20,000 feet), but it had to be this or nothing. Blakey radioed they were on their way.
Shortly after 6:00 Captain Narce Whitaker, leading one of the three-plane nights, spotted a column of smoke on the horizon ahead. Drawing near, he could make out a burning carrier, surrounded by a milling swarm of cruisers and destroyers. But in the compartmentalized way of war, even now there were those who didn’t grasp the picture. Lieutenant Charles Crowell, a young officer in one of the B-17s, had no idea the Japanese were below. When the order came to prepare for the bomb run, he assumed the plane was lost and had to lighten its load.
The World War II Collection Page 86