Far to the west Spruance continued his pursuit of the Japanese fleet, but it had been a discouraging day for Task Force 16. The trail was cold, the chase long, and when the strike was finally launched at 3:00 P.M., the distance was still 230 miles. On the hopeful side, the attack packed a powerful punch: 32 dive bombers from the Enterprise, 26 from the Hornet.
Two hours passed, but they saw nothing below. Three hours—still nothing. Gas was low … it was getting dark … the fliers were tired and hungry. Over the radio a voice kept saying, “Let’s go home.”
Finally at 6:20 someone spotted the wake of a single ship hurrying westward in the gathering darkness. Not much of a target, but it was this or nothing. With Dave Shumway leading the way, the 58 dive bombers poured down on their lone quarry.
It should have been an unequal fight, but it wasn’t. The ship, which turned out to be a destroyer, twisted and squirmed with fantastic skill. Fifty-eight bombs rained down—but not one hit. Worse than that, a blast of antiaircraft fire caught Lieutenant Sam Adams’s plane. He plunged into the sea.
As the rest headed home, the big trouble began. It was really dark now, and the pilots knew little about night carrier landings. On the Enterprise Captain George Murray turned on his deck lights to help. Robin Lindsey, the landing signal officer, switched from paddles to illuminated wands. He nursed down plane after plane, until it seemed the parade would never end. Finally he turned to his signalman and asked how many more. “I’ll be damned if I know,” answered the sailor, “we’ve got more than we’re supposed to have already.”
It turned out that five of the Hornet’s planes had come in too. Completely green, their pilots were happy to land on the first carrier they saw. In return, one Enterprise plane came down on the Hornet.
Lieutenant Ruff Johnson, leading Bombing 8, couldn’t find any carrier at all. His homing signal was out; his tanks were all but drained. He called his rear-seat man McCoy and asked if he could swim. McCoy answered “negative,” so the skipper told him to get out his survival book and learn quickly. Then at the last minute they sighted the task force, and Johnson asked the Hornet to blink her side lights.
Marc Mitscher did better than that. These were dangerous waters—enemy subs might be lurking—but fliers were sacred to Mitscher, and he didn’t hesitate a minute. Two searchlight beams shot into the sky. Johnson landed without even enough gas to taxi down the flight deck. As he rolled to a stop his chief mechanic leaped on his wing with joy: “Captain, you S.O.B., are we glad to see you—oh, I beg your pardon.”
It was also a fruitless day for the B-17s. During the morning Colonel Allen’s eight bombers finally located the two damaged ships west of Midway. Arriving at 8:30, they dropped a total of 39 bombs from 20,000 feet, but even the communiqué writers found little to cheer about. The fliers themselves, one of them later recalled, considered the attack “a terrible disappointment.”
Undeterred, the B-17s went out again in the afternoon. First Colonel Allen’s group, then a separate bunch under Captain Ridings took off after the same “burning carrier” Spruance was chasing. They had no better luck than the Admiral. Like the Navy planes, they searched in vain far to the northwest. And also like the Navy planes, they finally settled for that lone destroyer. Attacking at various levels from 9,000 to 16,000 feet, they aimed 79 more bombs at the target. The Jap skipper proved as elusive as ever.
COMMANDER Motomi Katsumi was one of the best in the business; he maneuvered the destroyer Tanikaze with enviable skill as the American bombs rained down from above. For Katsumi it was the climax of a wasted day. Early in the morning Nagumo had sent him to check the reports that the Hiryu was still afloat. He found nothing and was returning to rejoin the fleet when he was hit by both dive bombers and B-17s.
All those bombs on one destroyer. Yet Katsumi managed to dodge everything. The only damage came from a fragment of a near-miss that slashed through his No. 3 turret: it set off an explosion that killed all six men inside. The Tanikaze continued on, linking up with the fleet shortly after sunset.
It turned out that the other ships too had spent some anxious moments. Around 2:30 P.M. radio intelligence had warned of enemy aircraft high overhead. A false alarm, but no less nerve-racking. Then at 5:25 the Nagara detected some heavy bombers heading west. These planes were real indeed, but friendly clouds intervened, and the fleet was never discovered.
It was a curious scene the Americans missed. Most of Yamamoto’s great armada had now rendezvoused 350 miles northwest of Midway, and dozens of ships lay motionless on the gray sea as a stream of cutters shuttled back and forth, transferring survivors from the stand-by destroyers to the battleships Haruna, Kirishima, Mutsu and Nagato.
All through the afternoon and into the evening the fleet lay licking its wounds. During the night Yamamoto steamed still farther west out of carrier range. Early on the 6th Admiral Kurita joined up with the cruisers Kumano and Suzuya. That meant every major element in the fleet was now safe, except for the damaged Mogami and Mikuma, left behind with a couple of destroyers. They would have to fend for themselves.
ALL through the night of June 5, and the predawn hours of the 6th, Admiral Spruance steamed west at a conservative 15 knots. Having failed to overtake the ships to the northwest, he didn’t want to overrun the cripples to the southwest.
At 5:10 A.M. the Enterprise sent 18 scouts on a 200-mile sweep to the west, and around 6:45 two separate contacts were made. The Hornet launched the first strike—26 dive bombers, 8 fighters—and by 9:30 they could see the Japs ahead. There were two big cruisers and two destroyers trying to screen them. At 9:50 Stan Ring called, “Attack when ready,” and Gus Widhelm replied with his favorite battle cry: “Widhelm is ready; prepare the Japs!”
Down they screeched, getting hits on both cruisers and a destroyer. But the Japanese fought back hard, and heavy antiaircraft fire knocked down one of the SBDs. The Hornet group headed home for more bombs.
Now it was the Enterprise’s turn. At 10:45 she launched 31 dive bombers, 12 fighters and 3 torpedo planes, all led by Lieutenant Wally Short. They found the cruisers easily, but wasted half an hour searching for a nonexistent battleship 40 miles farther on. By 12:30 they were more than willing to settle for what they had. Cocky from past triumphs, hungry for a kill, and free at last of the deadly Zeros, they tore into the Japanese with fierce elation. Their radios told the story:
This is Wally pushing over on the rear ship now.
Close up on me.
Hey, any of you fellows got any bombs? There is a Mogi class cruiser in the rear.
Oh baby, did we put that God-damn can on fire.
Looks like that battleship blew up too… .
Get the sons-of-bitches again. OK, that’s fine.
Hit em again—give em hell.
They will never get that fire out.
Put all of them smack on the bottom.
That one blew up too. Good hit. Good hit.
Boy that’s swell. Boy, oh boy. You son of a gun,
You’re going up … wish I had a camera along.
Tojo, you son-of-a-bitch, you’ll not get your
laundry this week.
And if all this wasn’t enough, the Hornet planes were back with a second load at 2:45 P.M. By now both cruisers were a shambles, and one of them was being abandoned. A destroyer stood alongside, taking men off, when the bombers began to dive. As she tried to pull clear, Lieutenant Clayton Fisher plastered her too.
The Hornet’s eight fighters came next. There was no antiaircraft fire now, so they swooped low, ripping into one of the cruisers with their machine guns. As Lieutenant J. F. Sutherland whipped by, he noticed a mass of people huddled on the stern, shaking their fists in futile rage. His reaction was one of sudden sympathy for their helplessness, and he flew back to the Hornet contemplating how quickly a hated enemy could become a pitied human being.
One final touch. In the late afternoon the Enterprise launched two camera planes to record the day’s handiwork. Reaching the scene,
Lieutenant Cleo Dobson, leading the flight, found the abandoned cruiser still burning and dead in the water. Men were swimming all around her. He dropped to 100 feet and took his time. His crystal-clear pictures froze the ship in all her agony—her amidships torn and smoldering, a sailor climbing down a rope ladder, another in a small raft by the stern.
Off to the west he sighted the other cruiser and the two destroyers crawling away as fast as possible. In a magnificent golden sunset he headed back to the Enterprise thinking of the small difference that separates the winners from losers. That night he confided in his diary, “I keep thinking to myself how I would hate to be in the place of those fellows in the water. I offered a prayer to God that I be spared their fate.”
FIREMAN Kenichi Ishikawa could make out several hundred other men swimming in the water; so he was all the luckier to reach this raft. Scrambling aboard, he lay exhausted and looked back at the sinking Mikuma. She was going fast now—though not as fast as the setting sun. It was dusk when she finally rolled over on her port side and disappeared into the Pacific.
Even so, she lived up to her reputation as one of Japan’s toughest big cruisers. The very first attack knocked out her bridge, fatally wounding Captain Sakiyama, yet the exec Commander Takagi took over and fought on. The second attack finished her—five hits and then her torpedo supply exploded.
Takagi ordered abandon ship. As the men poured over the side, Lieutenant Nasao Koyama drew his sword and committed hara-kiri on the forward turret. The destroyer Arashio moved in and was picking up survivors when the third attack came in. Scores were killed when a bomb landed squarely on the destroyer’s stern.
It was almost as bad on the Mogami. She took five hits altogether, the last exploding amidships, where it permanently sealed a number of men in the engine room. A near miss also honeycombed her port side—someone later counted 800 holes. About 90 men were lost altogether. But Captain Soji and his leading officers came through, and Lieutenant Saruwatari did a superb job at damage control. By sunset the fires were out and the bulkheads holding. Escorted by the two damaged destroyers, she limped away toward Truk and safety.
SAFETY for the Yorktown meant Pearl Harbor, and by the dawn of June 6 the chances seemed better than ever of getting her there. Sunrise found the battered carrier still holding her own in a calm and dazzling sea.
Captain Buckmaster led the salvage party aboard. With a small burial party he first climbed to the sharply canted flight deck, where many of the dead still lay at their posts. Chief Pharmacist’s Mate James Wilson turned to give some instructions, but the Captain silenced him with a wave of the hand. Uncovering, he addressed himself in prayer, gave thanks for the victory, and recited verbatim the beautiful but seldom used service for Burial of the Dead at Sea.
This moment of reverie soon gave way to the clatter of hammers and the sputter of acetylene torches. Working parties started cutting away loose gear to lighten the ship. Others pitched two stranded planes, all live bombs and torpedoes into the sea. Lieutenant Greenbacker began collecting the classified papers strewn about.
The Hammann nudged up to the starboard side to provide power, portable pumps and fire hoses. Down below, men attacked the blaze still smoldering in the rag locker and began the important work of counterflooding. A high moment came when the first 5-inch gun on the port side was cut loose and dropped overboard. Free of the weight, the whole ship shook … and seemed to straighten up a little in relief.
By 1:00 P.M. they had worked 2° off the Yorktown’s list. It was time for a break, and the Hammann sent over fruit and sandwiches. Some distance out, the other five destroyers slowly circled the carrier. They were listening for submarines, but it was hard to tell. Echo-ranging conditions were poor due to what destroyer men call a “thermal barrier.” Yet this was often the case on calm days, and there was no hint of real trouble. It was just 1:30, and on the Yorktown the men were about to go back to work. …
COMMANDER Tanabe raised his periscope for a last look. The carrier was now about 1,300 yards away. She was still under tow, but barely moving. The destroyer was still alongside. The others were still circling slowly—no sign they suspected. The hydrophone man said he couldn’t even hear the enemy’s sound detection system working. Tanabe made a mild joke about the Americans all being out to lunch.
The I-168 had worked hard for this perfect chance. Nearly eight hours had passed since the lookout’s cry of a “black object” on the horizon. It was, of course, the crippled U.S. carrier, just where Tanabe expected to find her at dawn.
It was only 5:30, and for the first 10 or 20 minutes he stayed on the surface. Approaching from the west, he was still sheltered by darkness. Then it got too light for that, and he submerged, poking up his periscope every 15 minutes.
By 7:00 the I-168 was about six miles off, and Tanabe had a much better picture of the situation. For the first time he could see the destroyers guarding the carrier. To make detection harder, he now cut his speed to three knots and raised his periscope only once or twice an hour.
Ever so carefully, he stole closer. To get a sure kill, he decided to fire his four torpedoes with a spread of only 2°, instead of the usual 6°. This meant a bigger punch amidships, but it also required getting as near as possible.
He dived still lower, hoping to get through the destroyer screen. Next time he looked he was safely through, but now he was too close. The carrier loomed like a mountain only 700 yards away. He needed that much for the torpedo to run true. Slowly he curled in a wide circle to starboard, coming around to try again. This time everything was perfect… .
“HEY, look, porpoises!” CPO Joseph Kisela heard somebody call, pointing off the starboard side of the Yorktown. A couple of men stared out to sea. “Porpoises, hell!” a sailor snorted.
A machine gun on the bridge began firing. This was the prearranged signal in case of danger. There was a wild scramble topside. Coming up from the engine room, Lieutenant Cundiff looked to starboard and saw four white torpedo streaks heading straight for the ship. An avid photographer, he gasped. “What a once-in-a-lifetime shot, and no camera!”
Lieutenant Greenbacker, about to transfer some files to the Hammann, fled “downhill” to the port side of the quarterdeck. Then the thought occurred that torpedoes might be coming from that side too. He worked his way back “uphill” to the center of the ship—as close to neutral ground as he could get. Here he waited for the torpedoes to hit, and that seemed to take forever.
One missed … one struck the Hammann … the other two passed under the destroyer and crashed into the Yorktown amidships. Once again there was that teeth-rattling jar that came only from torpedoes. It whipped the tripod mast, shearing off most of the rivets at the base. It knocked down the ship’s bell, shattering it completely. It bowled over the damage control officer, Commander Aldrich, breaking his left arm. It hurled Commander Davis, cutting loose the 5-inchers, right into the sea. It almost made Commander Ray bite off the stem of his pipe.
Seeing it was about to happen, Chief Electrician W. E. Wright made a wild leap to the deck of the Hammann. But this was no solution, for she was hit at almost the same instant. Wright was blown high in the air, landing in the water.
Commander Arnold True was desperately trying to back the Hammann clear when the torpedoes hit. To the end his gunners were firing at the streaks, hoping to explode the warheads. The crash hurled True across the bridge and into a chart desk, breaking two ribs and knocking out his wind. He couldn’t speak for several minutes.
Few words were needed. The Hammann’s fate was clearly sealed. The concussion from the two hits on the Yorktown stove in her plates, and the direct hit snapped her almost in two. She looked like a toy ship that had been dropped from a great height—upright but broken.
Within two minutes the foredeck was awash, and the executive officer Lieutenant Ralph Elden ordered abandon ship. As the bow went under, most of the crew swam off. Chief Torpedoman Berlyn Kimbrell, however, remained on the rising stern, trying to put the de
pth charges on “safe” and handing out life jackets. When Boilermaker Raymond Fitzgibbon went over the side, Kimbrell shook hands with him and gave him the Churchill “Victory” sign.
Then she was gone, but the worst was yet to come. The depth charges—though presumably set on “safe”—went off anyhow. (There are a dozen theories.) An immense explosion erupted under the water, right where everyone was swimming. The concussion was fantastic: one sailor’s metal cigarette lighter was mashed absolutely flat in his pocket The effect on a man’s body could be far worse than that.
The destroyers Benham and Balch left the screen, rescuing the lucky ones who escaped, plus several from the Yorktown too. One man swam up to the Benham and climbed aboard unassisted. It was the same ship’s cook they had saved on the 4th, who wanted only to help in the galley. This time he simply said, “I know where the galley is, I’ll go get to work.”
Long after everyone else was picked up, the Balch spotted a lone swimmer among the debris. He was desperately trying to hold the faces of two other men out of the water. It was the Hammann’s skipper Commander True. Barely conscious himself, he had struggled alone for nearly three hours to keep two of his dying men alive.
On the Yorktown it was time to leave again. The two new hits on the starboard side had the effect of straightening her up, but that was deceiving. She was definitely lower in the water. The Vireo pulled along the starboard side, and the salvage party swung down the lines to safety.
When everyone else seemed to be off, Captain Buckmaster came down hand over hand. Then at the last minute Commander Delaney and one of his engineers appeared from a final inspection below and also left the ship. Deprived of the privilege of being the last to leave, Buckmaster was enormously upset. He even wanted to swing back up the line and touch the Yorktown again, but the Vireo cast off before he could make it.
While the rescue work went on, the Gwin, Hughes and Monaghan charged here and there looking for the submarine. The three destroyers dropped numerous depth charges, but for five hours there was no evidence of success. Then at 6:45 the Hughes suddenly saw smoke on the horizon. A check with the glasses showed a sub on the surface about 13 miles away. Its diesels were smoking, and it was racing west, trying to get clear of the area.
The World War II Collection Page 90