A Dawn Like Thunder

by Robert J. Mrazek

  Along with the survival stores in the two rafts, they had managed to salvage one canteen of water. Not knowing how long it would be before they were picked up, the three officers agreed to strictly ration the water.

  As they waited confidently for rescue, the first day passed into darkness. When the sun disappeared, the air temperature dropped fifteen degrees. They shivered through the long night beneath a brilliant canopy of stars.

  The next morning dawned clear. Mitchell set up a watch schedule so that one of them would always be awake to signal a passing ship or airplane. However, the sky and sea remained empty. All that day the sun beat down on them as they continued to drift across the trackless sea.

  A shark arrived on the second night. It came right up under Mitchell and Ruehlow’s raft, and the dorsal fin sliced through its thin rubber skin before knocking them both into the sea.

  Ruehlow landed on the shark’s back. Screaming in terror, he cut his hand shoving the shark’s fin away as he swam to Gray’s raft. Even though the shark disappeared, none of them slept for the rest of that night.

  The next morning, Mitchell found a tube of cement and some rubber patches and crudely mended the long slashes in the damaged raft. Otherwise, the third day passed as uneventfully as the first two.

  The water in their canteen ran out on June 7. By then, all three were weak and sunburned. Encrusted with salt, Ruehlow’s split forehead was agonizingly painful. In the late afternoon, they suddenly heard the distant growl of a plane approaching. It was heading west toward the sun at very high altitude. They attempted to signal the aircraft with a hand mirror, but it kept on going. Later, a passing squall replenished their canteen, but as the fourth night approached, their optimism about being picked up began to wane.

  Many miles to the north of them, Ensign Hump Tallman drifted along in his own life raft. He had successfully ditched his plane next to Frank Jennings, and the two of them had tethered their rafts together. Although they were unhurt, Jennings couldn’t find his canteen in the cockpit before his plane went down. The one they had was only half full.

  Tallman was bitter at what had happened on their flight to nowhere. He released some of his bitterness by writing down everything that had happened on the inflated panels of his raft with a lead pencil.

  When he was finished, the yellow skin was covered with his scrawled account of the screwed-up mission. Even if he never made it back, he hoped someone would eventually find the raft and discover how and why they had been lost.

  On their second night, a flying fish landed in Tallman’s raft. He cleaned it with a pocket knife and the two pilots ate it raw. The water in the canteen ran out on the third day, and their tongues began to swell.

  The sea slowly turned rougher, and waves swept over them. By the end of the fourth day, their eyelids were almost swollen shut from constant exposure to salt water. When Tallman heard the sound of an airplane engine, he had to part his eyes with his fingers in order to see it. Unfortunately, there was no signal mirror in either raft, and they had no way to get the pilot’s attention.

  Spread out across twenty miles of ocean, the remaining three pilots in the fighter squadron had all ditched alone. Ensign George Hill, the pilot who had run out of gas first, had gone down well to the west. Ensign Markland Kelly Jr. and Ensign John Talbot ditched within a mile of each other, but had then drifted apart.

  Cut off as the men were from sight of one another, each hour in their rafts seemed excruciatingly long, particularly during the cold nights. Talbot, who was fair-skinned, suffered horribly from sun exposure, and after four days, the blisters on his face and neck had burst open.

  They could only hope for a miracle.

  On June 8, the fifth day after their ditching, Talbot’s prayers were answered. Frank Fisler, the pilot of a PBY search plane, happened to spot his yellow raft floating on the surface of an empty sea and immediately landed to pick him up.

  Airborne again, Fisler radioed news of the rescue back to Midway along with the coordinates of his position at the time of the pickup. The location came as a surprise. The PBY search pilots had been searching for the Hornet fighter squadron in an area almost two hundred miles to the west of where Talbot had been found.

  After being provided with the new coordinates, the rest of the PBYs converged on the area where Talbot had been rescued, and hit pay dirt. One crew quickly spotted Mac McInerny and Johnny Magda, and landed to pick them up. Later that day, a third PBY found Hump Tallman and Frank Jennings.

  By then, the sea had turned rough. The PBY was pitching wildly in the sea as the two exhausted men were brought aboard. Tallman attempted to ask one of the crewmen to save the raft with his notes on it, but could only watch as the crewman fired several bullets into it before shutting the hatch. His written account of the mission sank with it.

  When darkness fell, the PBY pilots were forced to return to Midway. They were back early the next morning. In his first search pattern, Frank Fisler, the PBY pilot who had found Talbot the previous day, suddenly spotted the two rafts holding Mitchell, Ruehlow, and Gray.

  A tropical storm was brewing, and thirty-knot gusts had whipped the surface of the ocean into a small tempest. After he made a rough landing, weather conditions deteriorated even further.

  Although worried that the raging sea might dowse his engines on takeoff, Fisler concluded that the safest option was to get airborne again as quickly as possible. As the plane clawed its way into the air, a violent wave smashed into the PBY’s metal hull, popping scores of rivets and letting a small deluge of water into the forward compartment. Later, when he landed in the harbor at Midway, the hull began leaking like a sieve and it was a close race to reach the shoreline before the PBY went down.

  On June 10, the rescue planes flew out again to try to find the last two fighter pilots, Ensigns George Hill and Markland Kelly Jr. The weather was even more violent than the day before, and visibility was extremely poor. For hours, the planes crawled along at an altitude of one thousand feet looking for a sign of them.

  With light fading, the PBYs were forced to turn around to head back to Midway. At that moment, one of the crewmen in Fisler’s PBY saw a yellow life raft careening across the surface of the wildly raging sea. He called out the sighting on the intercom. A second crewman confirmed he had seen the raft, too.

  Fisler turned back.

  Circling over the yellow raft, a crewman dropped a smoke canister to signal that rescue was near. When the other PBYs joined Fisler, however, the pilots agreed it was far too rough to land. They flew back to Midway as night fell.

  Early the next morning they returned to the coordinates where the raft had last been seen and fanned out in every direction. Although they searched all day, there was no sign of the men or the raft.

  Kelly and Hill were never found.

  USS HORNET

  TORPEDO SQUADRON EIGHT

  FRED MEARS

  As the Hornet headed back toward Pearl Harbor, Fred Mears was ordered to go through the personal effects of the pilots and men who were lost in Torpedo Eight. It was the hardest thing he had ever had to do.

  Seeing a girl’s picture, an earmarked prayer book, or a wallet with various cards in it made us realize how much each one would be missed at home. It was a disheartening job. We also had to skim through the letters each had received before we sent them back to the nearest of kin, and in them we saw expressed the love and good luck wishes that seemed so futile now. Many of the officers and men had written last minute notes, as Waldron advised, and in censoring these — which it was our duty to do, much as we hated prying into them — we found the last heartfelt thoughts of brave men.

  Rusty Kenyon’s letter to his wife was found in his empty stateroom.

  Dearest Brownie,

  This is another one of those letters which I hope never gets to you unless I bring it myself, and give it to you from my own hand. You might call it a note on thoughts before the first attack from which I hope to return. This time the odds will be two to
one in the enemy’s favor if we do tangle with them. The fight will be out here off Midway Island.

  I feel more at ease now with thoughts of a battle ahead because I know that even if I have to die I will know that soon you will have a baby that is part of both of us. What love we have consummated together. . . . I know that there is nothing greater than love, and nothing finer. Everything I have is yours. You’re part of me, and I am part of you. . . .

  The happiest moments of my life have been those that I have spent with you. I love you sweetheart more than anything else in the world, more than life itself.

  With all my love, Rusty

  CORONADO BEACH

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  RETE GAYNIER

  After her final farewell to Ozzie in San Francisco before the Chaumont sailed, Rete had driven down to San Diego with several of the other pilots’ wives. She planned to stay there until the Hornet returned from the Pacific.

  Along with Betty Miller, the wife of another Navy officer, she found a room to let in a Spanish bungalow on Coronado Island, about a mile across the strand from downtown San Diego.

  Rete had immediately begun looking for a job, but the hunt proved futile. Since the Pearl Harbor attack, thousands had thronged the city to try to find work at the military installations. After leaving applications at dozens of offices, she could only hope that one of them would eventually contact her.

  Her life was on hold. So far, the informal grapevine among the Navy wives hadn’t picked up any news about the Hornet, or any of the other carriers out in the Pacific. Twice each day she waited for the postman in hopes of receiving a letter from Ozzie. It wasn’t like him not to write. Rete’s twenty-third birthday passed on June 2 without a word.

  She felt one connection with Ozzie, and that was through the war news delivered nightly on the radio. The reporters’ voices conveyed an immediacy that suggested they knew the details of each major event in the war as soon as it occurred. After supper, she and Betty would sit in their room and listen to the broadcasts on her portable radio.

  The programs always seemed to focus first on the war in Europe. That week, the Russian stronghold of Sevastopol in the Crimea remained under siege from the German army. In North Africa, the Germans were claiming to have captured thousands of British soldiers at Tobruk. Prime Minister Winston Churchill had just arrived in Washington for another round of meetings with President Roosevelt.

  Then it was on to the Pacific news, and the reporter announced that an important battle had apparently taken place near an island called Midway. The Japanese news service was claiming that its navy had sunk two American aircraft carriers there. She wondered whether the Hornet had been involved, and whether Ozzie was part of it.

  Soon, San Diego’s morning newspapers were proclaiming a major American victory at Midway, although none of the initial news accounts was specific about which ships had participated in the battle.

  Rete again turned to the unofficial Navy wives’ network, but the security lid was still on tight. No one was talking about what had actually happened or which ships had been involved.

  In the days that followed, she stayed close to the radio, monitoring each account of the battle, and hoping to hear news related to the Hornet and Torpedo Eight. More details emerged after a few of the senior naval officers stationed at Pearl Harbor were permitted to call their wives in San Diego to assure them they were all right. Word filtered down the ranks. It had been a carrier battle, all right, and the Hornet, the Enterprise, and the Yorktown had all been there.

  Rete held on to the firm belief that Ozzie was safe. If he had been in the battle, she reasoned, he would have been aboard the Hornet, and the Hornet had come through all right. Her close friend Kate was the wife of Johnny Magda, one of the fighter pilots aboard the Hornet. Kate hadn’t heard anything, either, but she remained confident that Johnny had made it, too.

  Rete only became anxious as the days slowly passed without any word from him. Ozzie was a letter writer. He would never have missed writing on her birthday, or wiring her from Pearl Harbor as soon as it was permitted. She took solace in the fact that if anything truly bad had happened, the Navy would have officially notified her. In one sense, no news was good news.

  Many other Torpedo Eight families were awaiting word from their loved ones, too. The delay was agonizing. On June 11, 1942, the mother of Grant Teats wrote him to express her anxiety.

  JENNIE TEATS

  SHERIDAN, OREGON

  JUNE 11, 1942

  Dear Grant,

  I am anxiously waiting to hear from you since this big sea battle at Midway. I really feel that your carrier has seen action and I wonder if it is the one damaged. I hope and pray that you are all right. Everyone is talking about the wonderful victory at Midway and all ask if I know where you are and if I have heard. I can tell you I will be glad to get a letter from you. . . .

  FORD ISLAND, PEARL HARBOR

  PETE PETERKIN

  Distraught over the news of Lang Fieberling’s death, Pete Peterkin had taken the responsibility for going through the items in his footlocker, the sum total of everything he had left behind. What he found seemed a pathetically small and melancholy reflection of his best friend’s life, and he privately vowed to visit Laura Cassidy, Lang’s fiancée, as soon as he returned to San Francisco. Fieberling’s possessions were inventoried before being sent on to his parents. The list included:

  Athletic Supporter (2)

  Bags, Zipper Brown (1)

  Athletic Shorts (1)

  Ball, Rubber (1)

  Caps, Cover, Khaki (1)

  Caps, Officers (1)

  Coats, Blue (1)

  Coats, Khaki (4)

  Drawers, Light (14)

  Gloves, Handball (1)

  Epilettes (2) (sic)

  Shirts, Khaki (4)

  Shirts, White (1)

  Bedroom Slippers (pr)

  Socks (7 pr)

  Trousers, Blue (1)

  Trousers, White (1)

  Trousers, Khaki (4)

  Undershirts, Heavy (3)

  Undershirts, Light (8)

  USS HORNET

  FLAG BRIDGE

  ADMIRAL PETE MITSCHER

  As the Hornet drew closer to Pearl Harbor, Pete Mitscher wasn’t sure what his next assignment would be, but he was hoping for a combat command in fast carriers. In the meantime, he finalized several decisions that directly affected the future of the Hornet air group.

  Stanhope Cotton Ring was relieved as the Hornet air group commander. Mitscher decided to make him a senior member of his staff. Mitscher also recommended that Ring be promoted to captain and be given the Navy Cross for his performance in the Midway battle. Ironically, it was the same medal posthumously awarded to John Waldron.

  After reviewing the After Action Report of the Midway battle prepared by his staff, Mitscher signed the report and forwarded it to Admiral Raymond Spruance. As the task force commander, Spruance was responsible for endorsing the report before it was forwarded to Admiral Nimitz.

  Upon reading the Hornet report, Spruance chose to do something quite extraordinary for an admiral reviewing the combat performance of one of his new peers. On the endorsement page, Spruance wrote, “As a matter of historical record, the Hornet report contains a number of inaccuracies. The Enterprise report is considered accurate and should be relied upon for reference.”

  FRIDAY, 12 JUNE 1942

  ROYAL HAWAIIAN HOTEL

  WAIKIKI BEACH, HAWAII

  MAC MCINERNY

  After being picked up in the sea along with Johnny Magda, McInerny was flown to Pearl Harbor, where he was sent straight to the hospital. The fair-skinned Irishman’s legs and feet were covered with painful boils. His face and upper body had been baked bright red.

  As the days passed, Mac McInerny kept waiting for someone to come and arrest him for dereliction of duty in abandoning the June 4 mission, but no one said a word about it.

  FRIDAY, 12 JUNE 1942

  CORONADO BEACHr />
  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  RETE GAYNIER

  Rete arrived home from work at the naval air station to find the telegram.

  THE NAVY DEPARTMENT DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND ENSIGN OSWALD JOSEPH GAYNIER UNITED STATES NAVAL RESERVE IS MISSING FOLLOWING ACTION IN THE PERFORMANCE OF HIS DUTY AND IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY X THE DEPARTMENT APPRECIATES YOUR GREAT ANXIETY AND WILL FURNISH YOU FURTHER INFORMATION PROMPTLY WHEN RECEIVED X TO PREVENT POSSIBLE AID TO OUR ENEMIES PLEASE DO NOT DIVULGE THE NAME OF HIS SHIP OR STATION

  REAR ADMIRAL RANDALL JACOBS, THE CHIEF OF NAVAL PERSONNEL

  She immediately called Ozzie’s parents in Monroe, Michigan. They had already received a copy of the same telegram. They urged her not to worry, telling her that men often went missing and turned up safe.

  Ozzie couldn’t be dead, she decided. They were so close that she felt sure she would have felt it if he was gone. Men fell in battle, but not Ozzie. She remembered his last words to her. He had promised he would come back.

  That night she tossed and turned in her room near Coronado Beach. Shortly before dawn, she must have fallen asleep, because it was still pitch dark outside when she awoke to see Ozzie beside her next to the bed. He was wearing his uniform. His face was calm and reassuring.

  “I’m all right, darling,” he said, his face close to hers. “I’m okay.”

  The next morning she decided that it couldn’t have been a dream. It had been as vivid as anything she had ever experienced, and could only mean that he was still alive. He must have survived the mission, whatever it was. She knew the battle had been fought over ocean. Perhaps he had made it to an island somewhere, a place that wasn’t even on the map.

  For the first time since receiving the telegram, she felt renewed hope.

  U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL

  PEARL HARBOR

  TEX GAY

  Tex recovered quickly from his wounds.

  One afternoon, he was put in a wheelchair and rolled out onto the front lawn of the hospital. He was still wearing his pajamas. A dozen press photographers were waiting for him there. A pretty nurse handed him a copy of the Honolulu Star-Bulletin. Its banner headline read, japanese smashed at midway. All the photographers took his picture.