by War
The Hornet dive-bombers and fighters, in abysmal futility, had already fallen out of the fight. At the vacant intercept point their group leader had turned south _toward the atoll, away from Nagumo's force. This group had then broken apart, some flying on to Midway to refuel, others turning back to the Hornet. Most of the latter would splash with dead engines.
While the Enterprise squadrons under McClusky were blundering westward, the Yorktown had finally launched, well after nine o'clock-but it had sent off only half its planes. Rear Admiral Fletcher was saving the rest for some emergency. Nagumo's carriers meanwhile were plowing northward, his intact air force fueled and rearmed, preparing to launch at half past ten a total coordinated attack with a hundred two planes.
Only one eccentric element-as it were, one wild cardremained in this all but played-out game: the three slow American torpedo squadrons. These were operating out of sight of each other, in a random and quite unplanned way. No torpron had any idea where another torpron was. The commanders of these weak and outmoded machines, three tough mavericks named Waldron, Lindsey, and Massey, were doing their own navigation. It was they who found the Japanese.
"Fifteen torpedo planes, bearing 130!"
Nagumo and his staff were not caught by surprise, though the absence-again! -of fighter escort must have astounded them. The bearing showed the planes were coming from the carrier Nagumo was closing to destroy. Fifteen planes, one squadron; naturally the Yank carrier would try to strike first.
But the vice admiral, with an advantage, as he believed, of four to one in ships and planes, was not worried. He had no idea that he was closing three carriers. The float plane pilot from the cruiser Tone had never reported the other two.
There was an ironic fatality about this search pilot. He had been launched half an hour late, and so had made his crucial sighting late.
He had failed at first to recognize the flattop he saw; and thereafter he had not mentioned the other carriers.
Having turned in this sorry performance, he vanished from history; like the asp that bit Cleopatra, a small creature on whom the fortunes of an empire had briefly and sadly turned.
The fifteen aircraft sailing in against Nagumo were Torpedo Squadron Eight of the Hornet. Their leader, John Waldron, a fierce and iron-minded aviator, led his men in on their required straight slow runs-with what feelings one cannot record, because he was among the first to diethrough a thick antiaircraft curtain of smoke and shrapnel, and a swarming onslaught of Zeroes. One after another, as they tried to spread out for an attack on both bows of the carriers, Waldron's planes caught fire, flew apart, splashed in the sea. Only a few lasted long enough to drop their torpedoes. Those who did accomplished nothing, for none hit. In a few minutes it was over, another complete Japanese victory.
But even as the fifteenth plane burst into flames off the Akagis bow and tumbled smoking into the blue water, a strident report from a screening vessel staggered everybody on the flag bridge: "Fourteen torpedo planes approaching!"
Fourteen MORE? The dead, risen from the sea as in some frightful old legend, to fight on for their country in their wrecked planes? The Japanese mind is poetic, and such a thought could have flashed on Nagumo, but the reality was plain and frightening enough. American carriers each had but one torpedo squadron; this meant that at least one more carrier was coming at him. The report of the accursed Tone float plane was therefore worthless. There might be four more carriers, or seven. Who could tell what devilry the ingenious Americans were up to? JapanesO. intelligence had flatly failed. As Nagumo had once sneaked up on Pearl Harbor, could the enemy not have sneaked several new carriers into the Pacific Ocean?
"Speed all preparations for immediate takeoff!"
The panicky order, abandoning coordinated attack, went out to the four carriers. The air raid bugles brayed, the thick black-puffing AA thumped out from the screen, the carriers broke formation to dodge the attackers, and the Zeroes, halting the slow climb to combat patrol altitude, dove at this new band of unescorted craft. These were Gene Lindsey's squadron from the Enterprise. The scarred, unwell commander had led them straight to the enemy while McClusky groped westward. Ten planes went down, Lindsey's among them.
Four evaded the slaughterers, dropped their torpedoes, and headed back for their ship. If any torpedo hit, it did not detonate.
Yet another big victory! But all steaming order was now gone from the Carrier Striking Force. Evasive maneuvering had pulled the Hiryu almost out of sight to the north, and strung the Akagi, the Kaga, and the Soryu in a line from west to east. The screening vessels were scattered from horizon to horizon, steaming smoke and cutting across each other's long curved wakes. The sailors and officers were working away on the carrier flight decks with unabated zest. They had already cheered the flaming fall of dozens of bombers from Midway, and now two waves of Yank torpedo craft had been minced up by the Zeroes! The four flight decks were crammed with aircraft; none quite set for launch, but all fueled and bomb-loaded, and all in a vast tangle of fuel lines, bombs, and torpedoes, which the deck crews were cheerfully sweating to clear away, so that the airmen could zoom off to the kill.
Warren Henry had thought of the Enterprise as an eggshell eight hundred feet long, full of dynamite and human beings.
Here were four such eggshells; more nearly, four grandiose floating fuel and ammunition dumps, uncovered to the touch of a match.
"Enemy torpedo planes, bearing 095!"
This third report came after a short quiet interval. The Zeroes were heading up to the station whence they could repulse dive-bombers from on high, or knock down more low-skimming torpedo planes, whichever would appear. The four carriers were turning into the wind to launch; but now they resumed twisting and dodging, while all eyes turned to the low-flying attackers, and to the combat patrol diving in a rush for more clay-pigeon shooting. Twelve torpedo planes were droning in from the Yorktown. These did have a few escort fighters weaving desperately above them, but it made little difference. -Ten were knocked down; two survived after dropping torpedoes in vain. All three torpedo squadrons were now wiped out, and the Nagumo Carrier Striking Force was untouched. The time was twenty minutes past ten.
"Launch the anack!"
The order went out all through the force. The first fighter escort plane soared off the deck of the Akagi.
At that very moment the almost unrecognizable voice of a staff officer uttered a scream which perhaps rang on in Nagumo's ears until he died two years later on the island of Saipan, under attack by another Raymond Spruance task force: "HELL-DIVERS!"
In two slanting lines stretching upward into the high clouds, unopposed by a single fighter, dark blue planes were dropping on the flagship and on the Kaga. The Zeroes were all at water level, where they had knocked down so many torpedo planes and were looking for more.
A more distant scream came from a lookout pointing eastward: "HELL-DIVERS!"
A second dotted line of dark blue aircraft was arrowing down toward the Soryu.
It was a perfect coordinated attack. It was timed almost to the second. It was a freak accident.
Wade McClusky had sighted a lone Japanese destroyer heading northeast. It must be returning from some mission, he had guessed; if so, it was scoring a long white arrow on the sea pointing toward Nagumo. He had made the simple astute decision to Turn and follow the arrow.
Meantime, the torpedo attacks of Waldron, Lindsey, and Massey had followed hard upon each other by luck.
McClusky had sighted the Striking Force at almost the next moment by luck. The Yorktown's dive-bombers, launched a whole hour later, had arrived at the same time by luck.
In a planned coordinated attack, the dive-bombers were supposed to distract the enemy fighters, so as to give the vulnerable torpedo planes their chance to come in. Instead, the torpedo planes had pulled down the Zeroes and cleared the air for the dive-bombers. What was not luck, but the soul of the United States of America in action, was this willingness of the torpedo plane squadrons
to go in against hopeless odds- This was the extra ounce of martial weight that in a few decisive minutes tipped the balance of history.
So long as men choose to decide the turns of history with the slaughter of youths -and even in a better day, when this form of human sacrifice has been abolished like the ancient, superstitious, but no more horrible form-the memory of these three American torpedo plane squadrons should not die. The old sagas would halt the tale to list the names and birthplaces of men who fought so well. Let this romance follow the tradition. These were the young men of the three squadrons, their names recovered from an already fading record.
U.S.S. YORKTOWN
TORPEDO THREE Pilots Radiomen-Gunners Lance E. Massey, Commanding Descanso, California Richard W. Suesens Waterloo, Iowa Wesley F. Osmus Chicago, Illinois David J. Roche Hibbing, Minnesota Patrick H. Hart Uos Angeles, California John W. Haas San Diego, California Oswald A. Powers Detroit, Michigan Leonard L. Smith Ontario, California Curtis W. Howard Olympia, Washington Carl A. Osberg Manchester, New Hampshire Harry L.
Corl Saginaw, Michigan Wilhelm G. Esders St. Joseph, Missouri Leo E.
Perry San Diego, California Harold C. Lundy, Jr.
Lincoln, Nebraska Benjamin R. Dodson, Jr.
Durham, North Carolina Richard M. Hansen Lakefield, Minnesota John R. Cole La Grange, Georgia Raymond J. Darce New Orleans, Louisiana Joseph E. Mandeville Manchester, New Hampshire William A.
Phillips Olympia, Washington Charles L. Moore Amherst, Texas Troy C.
Barkley Falkner, Mississippi Robert B. Brazier Salt Lake City, Utah Survivors Lloyd F. Childers Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
TORPEDO SIX
Pilots Radiomen-Gunners
Eugene E. Lindsey, Commanding San Diego, California Severin L.
Rombach Cleveland, Ohio John T. Eversole Pocatello, Idaho Randolph M.
Holder Jackson, Mississippi Arthur V. Ely Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Flourenoy G. Hodges Statesboro, Georgia Paul J. Riley Hot Springs, Arkansas John W. Brock Montgomery, Alabama Lloyd Thomas Chauncey, Ohio
Survivors
Albert W. Winchell Webster City, Iowa Robert E. Laub Richiand, Missouri Edward Heck, Jr.
Carthage, Missouri Irvin H. McPherson Glen Ellyn, Illinois Stephen B. Smith Mason City, Iowa Charles T. Grenat Honolulu, Hawaii Wilburn F.
Glenn Austin, Texas John U. Lane Rockford, Illinois Gregory J.
Durawa Milwaukee, Wisconsin Arthur R. Lindgren Montclair, New Jersey John H.
Bates Valparaiso, Indiana Edwin J. Mushinski Tampa, Florida John M.
Blundell Fort Wayne, Indiana Harold F. Littlefield Bennington, Vermont Douglas M. Cossitt Oakland, California William C. Humphrey, Jr.
Milledgeville, Georgia Doyle L. Ritchey Ryan, Oklahoma William D.
Horton Little Rock, Arkansas Wilfred N. McCoy San Diego, California U.S.S. HORNET TORPEDO EIGHT Pilots John C. Waldron, Commanding Fort Pierre, South Dakota James C. Owens, Jr.
Los Angeles, California Raymond A. Moore Richmond, Virginia Jefferson D. Woodson Beverly Hills, California George M. Campbell San Diego, California William W. Abercrombie Merriam, Kansas Ulvert M.
Moore Bluefield, West Virginia William W. Creamer Riverside, California John P. Gray Columbia, Missouri Harold J. Ellison Buffalo, New York Henry R.
Kenyon, Jr.
Mount Vernon, New York William R. Evans, Jr.
Indianapolis, Indiana Grant W. Teats Sheridan, Oregon Robert B.
Miles San Diego, California Radiomen-Gunners Horace F. Dobbs San Diego, California Amelio Mallei Santa Rosa, California Tom H. Pettry Ellison Ridge, West Virginia Otway D. Creasy, Jr.
Vinton, Virginia Ronald J. Fisher Denver, Colorado Bernard P.
Phelps LA)vington, Illinois William F. Sawhill Mansfield, Ohio Francis S. Polston Nashville, Missouri Max A. Catkins Wymore, Nebraska George A. Field Buffalo, New York Darwin L. Clark Rodney, Iowa Ross E.
Bibb, Jr.
Warrior, Alabama Holus Martin Bremerton, Washington Ashwell L.
Picou Bouma, Louisiana Robert K. Huntington South Pasadena, California Survivor George H. Gay, Jr.
Houston, Texas Warren Henry had, of course, not a glimmer of this tactical miracle.
Shut in his cockpit, isolated by radio silence, locked into the array Of blue bombers roaring through the sky over a thickening cloud cover, all he knew was that McClusky at last had - for one blessed reason or another - turned northeast; that radio silence had been broken by one weak garbled aircraft transmission and another, suggesting that somebody must have found the Japs, the next by a ship's high-powered radio, squawking in the unmistakable high-strung tones of Miles Browning, "Attack! I say again, ATTACK!"
For the first time in over two hours, Warren then heard the baritone voice of McClusky, calm, clear, faintly sarcastic, the young professional cooling the excited old fud, "Wilco, as soon as I find the bastards." At once he felt a surge of warm confidence in McClusky.
Within minutes the Japanese fleet burst into view, a stunning spread of ships from horizon to horizon, showing through breaks in the layer of clouds.
It looked just like the Pacific Fleet on a major battle exercise.
That was Warren's first thought, and to dive-bomb them seemed like murder. McClusky droned orders to commence the descent to the attack point. The bomber group sank toward the dazzling white clouds, and broke through the upper layer for a panoramic view of the whole enemy force under wisps of low cloud.
The formation was in bad disorder. Long wakes curled and Crisscrossed in the sea like a child's finger painting of white on blue, the screening ships raggedly headed this way and that; black AA puffballs floated all over the scene; and the pale yellow lights of gun muzzles winked everywhere. In his first glimpse Warren had seen only one carrier, but here were three almost in column, all heading into the wind, with black smoke and long, long white wakes streaming straight back; and far to the north was another big ship, possibly a fourth one, in a clump of escorts.
Tiny aircraft in a swarm were flitting and darting at wavetop height among the ships. Warren saw one trail smoke, another burst into flame; some kind of action was going on down there, but where was the combat air patrol?
The sky was eerily vacant. McClusky was already issuing attack orders! One squadron to one carrier, Scouting Six for the rear flattop, Bombing Six for the second one; let that third one go for now.
It was all happening fast, for there was McClusky starting to push over into his dive, and Warren's squadron leader was following him.
From here on this was familiar stuff, plain squadron attack drill, the ABC of dive-bombing. The one difference'- so he told himself in these last seconds, with his hand on the diving brake lever, when he was beginning to feel better than he had ever felt in his whole life-the one difference now was that the oblong thing which he had to hit fifteen thousand feet down there on the sea wasn't a target sled but a carrier! That made the shot a hell of a lot easier. The flight deck was a hundred times the size of a sled. He had more than once splintered the edge of a sled with a dummy bomb.
Yet again, where was the combat air patrol? That had been his worry right along, unescorted as they were. This thing so far was an unbelievable cinch. He kept glancing over his shoulders for Zeroes pouncing out of the clouds. There wasn't a sign of them. McClusky and the first few bombers, already on their steep way down far below, one staggered behind the other, weren't even catching any AA. Warren had often pictured and dreamed of attacks on carriers, but never of a walkover like this.
He said into the intercom in high spirits, "Well here we go, I guess, Cornett. All set?"
"Yes, Mr. Henry." Matter-of-fact drawl. "Say, where the heck are the Zeroes, Mr. Henry?"
"Search me. Are you complaining?"
"No sir, Mr. Henry! Just you drop that egg in there, sir."
"Going to try. We'll have the sun on our starboard side.
That's where they're likely to show up."
"Okay, Mr. Henry. I've got my eye peeled. Goo
d luck."
Warren pulled the lever of his diving flaps. The perforated metal V opened all along his wings. The airplane mushily slowed. The flattop went out of sight beside the ftmlage, under the wing. The nose came up, the plane gave its almost living warning shudder; Warren pushed over, dizzily dropped the nose straight toward the water far, far below, and straightened out in a roller-coaster plunge.
And there, by God, was the carrier in his telescopic sight, right over the.little wobbling ball. Now if the telescope only wouldn't fog up as they plunged into the warmer air!