by Bruce Gamble
The shipboard gunners continued to blast away at the retreating planes, and two more Mitsubishis tumbled into the sea. In the aftermath, numerous gun crews claimed a share in the scoring. Chicago reported five enemy aircraft shot down, while other ships estimated between four and six torpedo bombers fell during the attack. The 4th Air Group indeed suffered a severe blow that afternoon, losing four planes and their crews over the task force. A fifth rikko, its senior radio operator dead and the pilot badly wounded, ditched on Deboyne Reef and sustained heavy damage. Another shot-up G4M proceeded directly to Lae and suffered additional damage upon landing. Thus, only six out of the original twelve torpedo bombers returned to Vunakanau. The attack had also been extremely costly for the 4th Air Group in terms of casualties, with thirty-one crewmen killed and at least two wounded—and not a single torpedo had struck its target.
Four minutes after the torpedo attack concluded, the nineteen G3Ms of the Genzan Air Group approached the cruiser force. Radar operators aboard Chicago tracked the formation as it closed from astern at an estimated eighteen thousand feet, but the twin-engine bombers weren’t after the American cruiser. Instead they targeted Australia, releasing some twenty large bombs in a single salvo. Towering columns of spray tinged with black smoke erupted all around the cruiser, and for several agonizing moments the ship was totally obscured. Crewmen on nearby ships thought she had blown up, as did the Japanese. And then, almost like an apparition, Australia emerged from the spray and the smoke, her upper decks glistening with seawater. Unbelievably, not a single bomb had struck the 630-foot-long warship, though two exploded close enough to give her hull a good shaking.
In all, thirty-one aircraft from Rabaul had attacked Crace’s cruiser force without scoring a single hit. Back at Vunakanau, however, the returning aircrews reported a completely different outcome to their superiors: “[O]ne California class battleship blown up; one Warspite class battleship received two torpedo hits, extensive damage; one Augusta class heavy cruiser sunk. Two torpedoes were fired against a Canberra class cruiser but results are unknown.”
Only one element of the report came close to the truth—the acknowledgment that a pair torpedoes had been launched at one of the ships. The rest was a combination of careless observation and pure invention.
The warships of Crace’s cruiser force had dodged every attack thus far, but they were not yet out of danger. Almost immediately after the G3Ms flew off, a new threat appeared from the north at high altitude. Three B-17s of the 40th Recon Squadron happened along just in time to see the G3Ms completing their bombing run. Mistaking the twin-engine planes for American medium bombers, the B-17s attacked Australia in the belief that it was a Japanese battleship. Fortunately for the cruiser, the bombardiers’ record against shipping did not improve. Crace reported that the pattern of bombs landed “seven cables” (about 1,400 yards) from Australia, though they splashed uncomfortably close to the destroyer Farragut.
AT APPROXIMATELY 1500 hours, a new sighting report from a Japanese reconnaissance floatplane convinced admirals Takagi and Hara that the American carriers had been located. The reported position was roughly 350 miles west of Shokaku and Zuikaku, and though the afternoon was growing late, Hara thought they could pull off a strike before sunset. It could not be completed before darkness fell, so only the most experienced airmen were picked. They would not have the support of fighters, for the Zeros lacked direction-finding equipment and could not find their way back to the carriers in the dark.
The Japanese were not aware that the hastily conceived strike was based on bad information. Once again, the reconnoitering aircrew had made a grievous mistake. They had actually found Crace’s cruiser support group again, not Task Force 17, which by coincidence lay cloaked beneath a thick overcast less than two hundred miles from the Japanese carriers.
For the handpicked crews of the Japanese dive-bombers and torpedo planes, the mission truly began to unravel when the Lexington’s radar detected the would-be attackers. Lexington and Yorktown launched additional Wildcats to join the existing combat air patrol, bringing the total number of fighters in the air to thirty. Lieutenant “Red” Gill skillfully vectored several Wildcats to intercept the first radar contact: nine Nakajimas of the Zuikaku carrier attack unit.
Believing they were still many miles from the American task force, the Japanese airmen were taken completely by surprise. Within minutes, five torpedo planes plunged into the sea, carrying fifteen airmen to their deaths. Other formations received similar treatment. The Wildcats downed two more torpedo planes and one dive-bomber in the fading twilight, and another torpedo plane later ditched near its carrier. In sum, the fruitless effort cost the Japanese nine planes and eight veteran crews. Worse, it raised the day’s total losses to at least twenty aircraft and one flattop.
Monitoring events aboard his flagship anchored in the Inland Sea, Admiral Yamamoto was dismayed by the news. That night his chief of staff, Rear Admiral Ugaki, wrote in his personal diary:
A dream of great success has been shattered …
Two enemy carriers still remain, while our torpedo bombers were annihilated. It will be risky to carry out an invasion attempt before destroying [the Allied forces]. Moreover, to make contact with the enemy tonight seemed impossible. In view of these [considerations], we suggested to the chief of staff, Fourth Fleet, that they put off the invasion of Port Moresby as the local situation warranted.
At Rabaul, Vice Admiral Inoue made a decision that would have seemed inconceivable just twenty-four hours earlier. The Allies were winning at this stage of the battle, having sunk Shoho and blocked the invasion fleet’s path to Port Moresby. Deeply concerned about the safety of the convoy, Inoue followed the advice of Yamamoto’s staff and issued a bulletin stating that the Port Moresby invasion was postponed for two days. He then detached two heavy cruisers from the MO Main Force to bolster the Striking Force and ordered the Port Moresby Invasion Force to withdraw temporarily to the north. There, in relative safety, the convoy was to await the outcome of the carrier battle that was certain to occur.
THE NEXT DAY, May 8, 1942, the American and Japanese carrier forces fought the first naval battle in history in which the opposing ships never made visual contact with each other. The outcome slightly favored the Japanese. Shokaku was badly damaged by three bombs and withdrew to Truk with 109 crewmen dead and dozens more wounded. In exchange, Lexington was hit by two torpedoes and two bombs, and Yorktown sustained damage to her flight deck from one direct hit. Lexington seemed to have initially weathered the attack, but several hours later the vapor from ruptured fuel lines ignited deep inside her hull, and the beloved carrier was disemboweled by violent explosions. The day’s action cost the Japanese some forty-two aircraft, a steep price that was partially offset by the returning airmen’s enthusiastic reports. The “Wild Eagles” claimed that they sank Saratoga—which is only logical, as Lexington allegedly had been sunk in February—and also claimed a carrier of the Yorktown class as “probably sunk.”
Vice Admiral Inoue was thrilled by the reports coming in from the MO Striking Force. He and his staff, believing that two American carriers had been sunk, congratulated themselves on yet another victory. Word was flashed to Admiral Yamamoto at Hashirajima and to Imperial General Headquarters in Tokyo, whereupon the Information Bureau consolidated the reports. The next morning, banner headlines announced the victorious news throughout Japan:
Crushing Blow Dealt Enemy Navies
Imperial General Headquarters, May 8 (5:20 p.m.):
Fleet units of the Imperial Navy operating in New Guinea waters discovered powerful units of the combined Anglo-American fleet sailing in the Coral Sea southwest of New Guinea on May 6, and attacking them on May 7, thunder-sank an American battleship of the California class, disabled a British heavy cruiser of the Canberra class, and badly damaged a British battleship of the Warspite class.
Continuing the battle on May 8, the Imperial Navy sank an American aircraft carrier of the Saratoga class and another
aircraft carrier of the Yorktown class. The Imperial Navy is still continuing the attack.
Thanks in large part to the outrageous claims submitted by the rikko units at Rabaul, the citizens of Japan believed the Imperial Navy had sunk at least three capital warships and seriously damaged two others. The exaggerations grew even larger five days later, when another banner headline boasted that eight Allied warships had been sunk or damaged in the Coral Sea. In reality, only the destroyer Sims had gone down immediately, while the Lexington and the Neosho, though horribly damaged, stayed afloat until American torpedoes ultimately sent them to the bottom.
Predictably, Imperial Navy losses were minimized by the Johokyoku. News releases revealed only that “a small aircraft carrier” had been sunk and “31 planes were yet to return.” The Shoho was not publicly named, and the government further diminished its loss by describing the anonymous carrier as “a converted tanker.”
Aboard his flagship, Yamamoto and the Combined Fleet staff were skeptical of the victory’s supposed greatness. On the afternoon of May 8, expecting to hear that more attacks were being conducted against the remnants of the American fleet, Yamamoto learned that the damaged Shokaku had been withdrawn to Truk. The rest of the MO Striking Force, low on fuel, was reportedly moving northward to meet oilers, after which the warships would support the landings on Ocean and Nauru islands. The most troubling information of all was that Vice Admiral Inoue, lacking carrier support for the Port Moresby Invasion Force, had ordered the ships to return to Rabaul. The Combined Fleet demanded an explanation, but neither Inoue nor his Fourth Fleet staff responded. Their silence sparked anger aboard the Yamato, according to Rear Admiral Ugake:
Not only did they not reply to our inquiry, they postponed the invasion of Port Moresby indefinitely. They were going to carry out the occupation of Ocean and Nauru Islands as scheduled and put the forces in defensive positions.
Thereupon our staff officers became very angry and demanded that we send a strongly worded telegram to [Inoue’s] chief of staff. They charged that the Fourth Fleet had fallen into defeatism after losing Shoho, [therefore] an order calling for exploitation of the battle achievement and destruction of the enemy remnant should be sent to them.
On the evening of May 8, Yamamoto ordered Inoue to annihilate the rest of the American ships. But compliance was no longer a practical option for the Fourth Fleet commander. The ships of the MO Striking Force were low on fuel, and Zuikaku possessed just twenty-one attack planes in operational status. Inoue could not refuse Yamamoto’s order, so he instructed Vice Admiral Takagi to hunt for the American warships after refueling. The latter spent most of May 9 replenishing his force and then headed briefly into the Coral Sea. The next morning, his search planes found nothing more than the drifting Neosho. Early that afternoon, Takagi turned back toward Rabaul, where he eventually delivered some of Zuikaku’s fighters.
Just like that, MO Operation fell apart. Yamamoto had no choice but to postpone the invasion of Port Moresby for a minimum of two months. And, in addition to all the other problems, the Imperial Army staff chose this time to express concerns over “the past weakness “of the South Seas Force and began proceedings to replace it with the Seventeenth Army. “We could carry [MO Operation] out now if we want,” wrote Ugaki in his diary, “but it is no use as long as the command taking charge of the operation is not yet fully determined.”
THE AUSTRALIAN POWs at Rabaul noticed a dramatic change in their captors. Prior to MO Operation some of the guards had boasted, “Japan take Moresby, then Australia, you go home.” The bragging had alarmed the Aussies, who had been caught up quite literally in the Southern Offensive’s remarkable victories. But now it was the Japanese who looked worried. They were silent, and some even seemed depressed. The reason became obvious on May 10 when most of the scattered naval forces returned to Simpson Harbor. “The ships that came into focus,” wrote Alice Bowman, “were a battered and dirty replica of the fleet that had sailed so jauntily out of Rabaul less than a week ago.” Among the warships she observed was a badly damaged aircraft carrier, undoubtedly Shokaku, which crept along the shoreline into Blanche Bay. Bowman observed that the carrier’s flight deck was empty and its “pitted superstructure stood out starkly.”
David Hutchinson-Smith also saw evidence of extensive damage among the ships. “How differently they returned and how our spirits soared,” he recalled. “[S]ome were on fire, others down by the stern, some listing heavily to port, others to starboard … some only kept afloat by continuous pumping. Those of the ‘invading’ troops who returned were dazed, sick and shaken and very, very glad to be able to put a foot on dry land once more.”
For the thousand-plus POWs of Lark Force and the two hundred civilian internees at Rabaul, the knowledge that the invasion had failed was a tremendous boost. Their only regret was that they could not openly celebrate, having learned from the bombing of the Komaki Maru that the Japanese hated more than anything to lose face.
THREE DAYS AFTER the Port Moresby Invasion Force returned, Admiral Yamamoto was granted an Imperial Rescript, his third since the beginning of the war. On this occasion the Emperor pronounced: “The air corps of the Combined Fleet, battling with high courage in the Coral Sea, inflicted a crushing defeat upon the American-British combined enemy fleet. We are deeply gratified.” Understanding the proclamation for what it was—a political statement for the benefit of the people—Yamamoto responded in a manner described as “slightly ambiguous.” He had good reason. Japan’s top admiral was thoroughly frustrated, not only because the primary goal of MO Operation had failed, but also because his losses continued to mount. Before dawn on May 11, the American submarine S-42 slammed two torpedoes into Okinoshima, flagship of the Ocean-Nauru invasion force. Damaged at Tulagi seven days earlier, the big minelayer had been repaired at Rabaul before undertaking the current operation. This time it was not so fortunate. While being towed near Buka the next morning, Okinoshima rolled over and sank. To make matters worse, the repair ship Shoei Maru, sent from Rabaul to aid the stricken minelayer, was attacked that afternoon by a different sub and sunk near Cape St. George.
The losses were not publicized, and the citizens of Japan continued to feed off the sensational stories presented by the Johokyoku. Two weeks after the battle in the Coral Sea, while the country prepared for its annual Navy Day celebrations, a nationwide radio broadcast was presented by the navy’s senior public affairs officer. Speaking for more than an hour, Capt. Hideo Hiraide recalled the lopsided victories won by the Imperial Navy in World War I and praised the outcome of the Coral Sea event. “The Imperial Navy,” he stated, “… emerged victorious, definitely sinking two of America’s most formidable aircraft carriers and annihilating all their shipboard planes.” Hiraide was contemptuous of the Allied commanders, calling them “incapable and unoriginal,” and even accusing them indirectly of cowardice. “The only thing that impressed us … was the speed with which the enemy remnants fled.”
Toward the end of his lengthy broadcast, Hiraide issued an ominous warning to the Australians: “Of all the belligerents, Australia is to be most pitied. The Sixth Continent, considered by many as a paradise, rose against us by banking on the worthless aid of the United States and Britain. This erstwhile paradise is about to be turned into shambles.”
Like the emperor’s latest rescript, the claims and threats uttered by Hiraide were nothing more than propaganda tools. Intoxicated by the early victories, the Japanese believed so completely in their own invincibility that they were easily convinced of a great triumph in the Coral Sea.
To this day, most historians give the Imperial Navy credit for a tactical victory after comparing the losses accrued by both sides. But they typically examine only the actions of May 7 and 8, during which the Japanese lost one small carrier compared to the Pacific Fleet’s loss of a large carrier, a destroyer, and an oiler. Similarly, historians usually credit the Pacific Fleet with a strategic victory due to the postponement of the Port Moresby invasion. In t
he strictest sense, both points are valid; but a fair and balanced assessment of the battle can only be made by considering the entire operation.
First, the Japanese achieved only one of their goals: the occupation of Tulagi, which came at the cost of two warships and some wooden patrol boats on May 4. (In describing these losses in his diary, Rear Admiral Ugaki regarded the sinking of Kikuzuki and Tama Maru as “fairly big sacrifices.”)
As for the so-called Japanese victory of May 7-8, the Imperial Navy paid dearly. In addition to the loss of Shoho, the fleet carrier Shokaku was put out of action for months, and neither she nor Zuikaku were available for Yamamoto’s pivotal quest to crush the Pacific Fleet at Midway a few weeks hence. Additionally, the Japanese lost dozens of their best and brightest airmen in the Coral Sea, including an inordinate number from the carrier-based torpedo squadrons and the land-based 4th Air Group.
Finally, the goal of occupying Ocean and Nauru islands was abandoned—but not until two additional ships had been sunk. In all, while accomplishing only one out of the operation’s three stated objectives, the Japanese lost six ships, nearly eighty planes, and scores of experienced airmen.
Yamamoto’s most important prediction proved accurate. Months before the start of the Pacific War he proclaimed: “For a while we’ll have everything our own way, stretching out in every direction like an octopus spreading its tentacles. But it’ll last for a year and a half at the most. We’ve just got to get a peace agreement by then.”
Yamamoto later revised the timetable, saying he could “run wild” for six months to a year, but even that was overly optimistic. Exactly 150 days after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Imperial Navy was stopped cold in the Coral Sea. The Southern Offensive had been blunted.