by Kevin Miller
Last month Nimitz’s staff couldn’t tell him the exact number of carriers arrayed against him. Now they identified specific ships. And a specific admiral, Nagumo himself, like Fletcher a battleship man by trade, but also like Fletcher on a carrier bridge depending on boys flying powered kites to do the fighting for him far over the horizon.
Jutland? The battle they had spent their career studying and fighting on tabletops? When and where was he expected to form a battle line when the enemy could appear and strike from anyplace on the compass within minutes? Tsushima? Any lieutenant could “cross the T” when the enemy is visible from miles away, and cooperative. No, this new weapon – the airplane – was an order of magnitude different, and no one yet understood it. Naval warfare had been transformed inside Fletcher’s career, before his eyes, and though they gave it lip service, most of his peer group was still in denial. The boys in the cockpits – many just babes in arms during the Great War – knew no different. They were comfortable flying over 100 miles and doing the fighting, talking on radios, and making decisions that Fletcher wished he could make. Once they disappeared, Fletcher, Fitch, Halsey, and now Ray Spruance could only wait for their return and hope for an accurate report.
Lewis stepped outside from flag plot and saw Fletcher gazing at the horizon. “Penny for your thoughts, sir.”
Fletcher looked down at the sea. “Well Spence, here we are, on their flank if the intelligence can be believed. Tomorrow? Thursday? More waiting.”
“Nimitz’s staff was adamant about Thursday morning, and the dispatch sent three days ago confirms it.”
“So what am I to do, send everything we have to a latitude/longitude northwest of Midway at dawn and there they’ll be? What if CINCPAC is wrong? What if they end-around us and go toward Hawaii? Am I to engage on a hunch from some commander drinking coffee in Makalapa Hill?”
An uneasy silence followed. After a moment, Fletcher continued.
“What choice do we have? We must launch our own planes to search the waters north of us. If we find them or Midway planes find them, Ray Spruance will be ready to strike after Nagumo is positively identified. We’ll be ready to augment that and clean up what’s left.”
“How close, sir?”
“Inside 150 miles, but outside 100. The fliers are concerned about the range of the TBD plane. Between Ray’s two carriers, he should have over 100 planes to attack four of theirs – if the intel proves correct.”
“And if they have a fifth? The two ‘Aleutian’ carriers in the report could be a ruse.”
“Or a diversion to get us to go up there. That’s why I’ve gotta search and hold us in reserve. If we made it to this fight after last month, one or more of theirs may have, too.” Fletcher then changed the subject.
“How are the brown shoes doing today?”
“Taking it all in stride, sir. Ready. Confident.”
“Good, good. Just wish we had more fighters. We’ve gotta keep more back to defend us, and so does Ray.”
“The aviators want to keep the carriers together in mutual support.”
Fletcher concentrated on a far-off destroyer, blinking a light message to another.
“I know. What do you think?”
“That’s one school of thought. The other is that the enemy will be better able to pounce on two. Once we rendezvous we’ll stay in visual range, but operate as separate task forces. We’ll probably become separated at some point anyway.”
Fletcher nodded. The lessons of Coral Sea were seared into his mind. Lewis continued.
“Admiral, I’m worried about our torpeckers.”
“That they won’t get through or won’t work?”
“Both, sir.”
“Why? The VT and the planes on Lexington sank that light carrier1 and almost sank their fleet carrier.”
“Sir, Lexington’s air group was good – and we don’t have them anymore. Our group is now cobbled together, but more than that, if we are scouting and flying CAP over the task forces, I’m not sure we’ll have enough VSB and VF to help the TBDs when we send them in. They’re slow, no getting around it, and, from what I hear, the pilots have little confidence in them. Halsey’s staff has almost zero confidence…I met up with some of them at Pearl.”
Fletcher gazed at the planes on the bow, parked on the port side. The TBDs were big – three seats – but the engine seemed small, perched way out in front, unlike the Grumman fighters with engines that took up the front half of the airplane. Some of the TBDs had their wings folded. One had only the right wing folded, as if to salute its readiness to follow orders.
“They won’t go?”
“Sir, they’ll go, and they want to go, but I’m afraid we are going to lose some this time, and the losses may be heavy. First, we have to get them close…and then we’ll need some luck. We got lucky in the Coral Sea.”
Fletcher nodded. Once again his boys would risk their lives. Eager to do it, and under his orders. What choice did he have, did Ray Spruance have, but to send them? They had to send everything. Over the damned horizon…and then wait, the agonizing wait. That was their best chance. Besides, practically every time they went out a flier was lost; it was almost a weekly occurrence without combat. None of them were under any illusions, and this time against Nagumo and four of his combat-proven carriers, if the CINCPAC staff was correct.
His orderly appeared with a cup of coffee. Fletcher, now sitting in his bridge wing chair, sipped it absentmindedly as he gazed out to sea, thinking of Nagumo, the TBD planes, and that curtain of racing fire. Above, he heard a shouted report to the bridge but could not discern the meaning. After a minute, Spence popped his head outside.
“Task Force Sixteen sighted off the port bow, sir.”
Fletcher nodded. “Very well.”
The American task forces were now rendezvoused at Point Luck, with Frank Jack Fletcher in command once again.
* * *
1 HIJMS Shoho
Chapter 4
HIJMS Akagi, June 2, 1942
Commander Mitsuo Fuchida favored his left side as he scuffled along the passageway. The emergency appendectomy the night they sortied required him to stay off his feet to heal, but after six days in sick bay he had had it. Akagi rode the gentle late afternoon swells with ease, and, as he passed an open hatch, he saw murky skies and the dim silhouette of a cruiser no more than 2,000 yards abeam.
Tomonaga would perform admirably as the strike commander, but that he, Akagi’s Air Unit Commander, was missing this operation, the big one that would lead to decisive combat with the Americans, hurt more than the pain in his right side. They would probably not encounter the Americans until after June 6 at the earliest, almost a week away. The surgeon said he was down for several weeks…and no argument. Restless, he sought the familiar air control post forward of the island. Maybe his friend Genda would be there, or Captain Oishi, and he could get the latest.
Fuchida considered Commander Minoru Genda a worrier. If only he had more faith in his own ability he thought. The First Air Fleet Operations Officer was a brilliant planner, making it easy for units like Fuchida’s to strike with success. Opening the metal door, he was greeted with the familiar image of his friend hunched over the chart table.
“Genda-kun, is the battle won?”
Genda turned to see Fuchida in a robe and slippers. “Looks like you are prepared to fight the Americans.”
Fuchida smiled. “Yes, though I hope they don’t come today.” He closed the door behind him and unfolded a chair next to the chart table, wincing as he eased himself onto it.
“What are you working on now?” he asked.
Genda manipulated the chart dividers and measured the distance on the scale. “Our best launch position and time. We won’t know till that morning what the winds are. I’m hopeful for southeast, but, if they’re westerly, we’ll need to move in closer.”
“Like Pearl Harbor?”
“Yes, almost a copy, a smaller copy,” Genda replied. “I want us to launch outside
200 miles when the horizon is just visible. All should be off in fifteen minutes.”
“How many?”
“A total of 108; 9 Zero-sens from each carrier, 18 Type 97s each from Hiryū and Sōryū and 18 Type 99 kanbakus from us and Kaga. Three fighters from each ship as CAP.”
“What will they carry?” Fuchida asked.
“Model 25s for the dive-bombers and 800 kilograms for the Type 97s. The facilities are of light construction and built on sandy coral; 250 kilograms will do the job and not run them out of fuel. Level-bombers from Hiryū will hit the fuel tanks and barracks facilities on Sand Island and kankōs from Sōryū have the crew facilities and power station on Eastern. Type 99s will dive on parked aircraft and the seaplane hangar.” Genda motioned with his hand. “They’ll swing around here to the east and dive with the sun at their back. Zero-sens will strafe parked aircraft and light targets of opportunity.”
Fuchida nodded his understanding. Genda continued.
“As you can see, the attack will be a lot like Darwin. The kanbakus will have a long arc to the east to set up, but this time the enemy will probably see them.”
“The Americans may have their own CAP.”
“They may. Regardless, the level Type 97s will go in first and the dive- bombers second, per doctrine. We have plenty of fighters to escort them and to then tear up the islands. The objective is to eliminate their airplanes and their ability to fuel any reinforcements.”
“Then what? Wait for the Americans? Where?”
“That’s up to the Force Commander, but the landing force will attack a day after we do. That operation should take two days at most, and we can support them. I hope he positions us to the southwest as we wait for the Americans to come out of Hawaii, keeping us that much closer to Wake.”
“Combined Fleet doesn’t think they’ll come.”
“I know. They haven’t been paying attention. The Americans have been ‘coming’ since February in the central islands. Hell, a playboy air racer attacked our capitol and put the emperor at risk! And they still think the Americans won’t fight.”
“Yes, and they thwarted us at Coral Sea.”
“Because we sent the amateurs of CarDiv 5! Again, penny-wise and pound-foolish headquarters didn’t send enough force. This time we have plenty, with carriers who know what they’re doing – unlike Shokaku and Zuikaku.”
Fuchida used his finger and thumb to measure the distance from Oahu to a position southwest of Midway. Genda nodded.
“That’s well over 1,000 miles,” he said. “I think they’ll come out on the 5th, and it will take them two days to get here. We have a line of subs along the Midway-Hawaii chain to report and harass them. By then the Hashirojima Fleet will be here to take any survivors under their big guns,” he added. He coughed twice, his sarcasm hidden by the deep dry convulsions that wracked his body. Fuchida ignored it. Everyone caught something underway.
“Wish they would let us,” Fuchida opined, more to himself than to Genda.
“They won’t. They still don’t get it.”
Fuchida nodded. “Are you going to show this to Oishi-san or Admiral Kusaka?”
“They’ve seen it. They said it’s fine and to carry on, like they always do. I’m just fiddling with time and distance.”
Unable to bear being out of it, Fuchida still wanted more. “What’s the search posture?”
Genda pulled a small chart lying at the top of the table. “Float planes, along this arc, let’s see…031 to 181. That includes planes from us and Kaga on the two southern legs, southwest of Midway.”
“Why?”
“If any Americans are nearby, that’s where I think they’ll be. It will also help us sanitize ahead for the landing force coming up from the southwest. Our Type 97s are faster and more survivable than the float planes, so they get the hottest sectors.”
“You think of everything, Genda-kun.”
“We did get this from Combined Fleet: have planes loaded with torpedoes and armor-piercing bombs in the hangar bay in case any Americans are nearby. We’ll keep our best torpedo crews and crack dive-bomber pilots in reserve. We don’t expect Midway will to be a moving target.”
“You think of everything!”
“I wish I could think of a way you could fly on the strike!”
“Agreed. I am breaking rules now as it is.”
“When will your stitches come out?”
“Tomorrow, with luck.”
Fuchida pulled himself up to look through an open porthole. The cruiser to port had become even more difficult to discern in the thickening mist.
“Weather’s coming down.”
“Yes, at least we are safe from American patrols and probably submarines, unless we stumble upon them.”
“Glad I’m not station-keeping on the bridge.” Fuchida said.
“Yes, tempers are short…and it’s still daylight. Go below, Fuchida-kun. Keep the doc off your back. I’ll bring you a glass of sake later.”
“Thank you, my friend. Your plan looks good.”
“Would only be better with you in it.”
Bill Evans shoveled a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. Around him in Hornet’s wardroom were his Torpedo Eight squadronmates, all nugget ensigns as he was, seated at a long table with white linen and china, eating the evening meal and trying not to think about anything else.
“Squire, could you pass the salt please?”
Evans picked up the salt and pepper shakers and passed them to Abbie.
“Thanks, shipmate. They don’t prepare roast beef here like they do in Kansas City.”
Whitey looked up from his plate. “Kansas City. Kansas City. That’s all you talk about.”
“When I ain’t talkin’ about the fine flying qualities of the Douglas TBD Devastator, yer right.”
“What side, Kansas or Missouri?”
“Kansas, the only side. God’s country.”
“Well, we ain’t in Kansas no more, are we?” Whitey said, with an edge that surprised those around him.
“That’s right, Dorothy, we’re in the middle of the blue Pacific, with Tojo comin’ to meet us so we can flap our wings and give him the middle finger before he shoots it off. Sure wish Toto was comin’ to meet us.”
Evans knew where this was going. All were on edge, and Abbie wasn’t going to help matters by goading Whitey.
“Knock it off, guys,” Teats said. At six feet tall and muscular, he could stand up to Abbie.
“Yes, sir. Just enjoying the ambiance here aboard the Good Ship Hornet, our newest ship with the oldest airplanes.”
“Yeah, and the TBD has been in the fleet only four years,” Whitey said.
“Yep, and Orville and Wilbur had their first flight less than forty years ago,” Evans said, fanning the flames without meaning to. Abbie threw another log on.
“That’s right, good old American know-how. And thanks to the nice folks at the Douglas Aircraft Company, we get to fly the finest corrugated tin flivver money can buy.”
None of the pilots at the table responded. Abbie raised his hand.
“Milford, coffee, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the steward nodded.
Around them sat other Air Group aviators at their tables, all in semi-wrinkled wash khaki uniforms, some wearing neckties. Here and there was laughter and spirited conversation. Stewards in white frocks served meals and cleared dishes.
“Think we have a chance?” Rusty asked of no one.
“Skipper gives us one, okay, half,” Teats said, regretting his words as soon as they left his mouth.
“Half a chance is better’n none at all,” Abbie said, reaching for an ashtray. The steward returned with black coffee in a white cup and saucer, trimmed in blue.
Evans pursed his lips. He didn’t want to say it. Hal jumped in for him.
“The guys on Lexington all made it back. They went in coordinated and sank a Jap carrier. The Japs aren’t ten feet tall.”
“Did they do it with Sea Hag leadin
g?” Abbie asked. By instinct, the pilots glanced about as Abbie, unconcerned, pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket. Teats spoke next.
“The skipper is going to get us some fighters, and even if all of us lose sight of the bombers above us, we’re all flying the same heading. We’ll get there after them, and after they roll in their dives, I’m ready to put the yellow bastards on the bottom.”
“Yeah, we’ve practiced this attack what, once or twice?” Whitey said.
Abbie nodded as he patted his ashes into the tray. “And never with a ‘tin fish’ under me. How about you, Ulvert? Tin fish or weenie under you? Or do you prefer pickle?”
Whitey gave Abbie a look. His sarcasm was wearing thin. The men ate in silence.
“Milford, what do we have for dessert tonight?” Teats asked.
The steward smiled. “Oh, we have a treat for the officers! Apple pie à la mode! That’s with hard ice cream!”
The table perked up. Hard ice cream! A delicacy.
Teats smiled at Milford. “Hard ice cream, eh? Did you mess-cranks hand crank it?” The others laughed.
“No, sir! No, sir!” Milford beamed back. “We done kep’ it in the ice box! Save it for special occasions!”
The pilots looked down at their plates. They could only force a smile, knowing what Milford didn’t. A reminder that dawn was less than twelve hours away.
Teats raised his head and smiled back at the proud steward, still excited that he knew something the pilots did not. “Okay then, Milford. Mom’s apple pie and a big scoop of ice cream for me, please.”
“Yes, sir! Yes, sir!”
Teats pressed him. “A big one, now!”
“Yes, sir! Oh, yes, sir!” Milford basked in the attention.
All of the pilots ordered the same. Evans turned his coffee cup upright, something he didn’t usually do after the evening meal. Why not? A steward quickly filled it, steam from the cup mixing with the table’s cigarette smoke.
Across the room, a table of scout pilots shared a sudden laugh. Evans savored each bite of pie, for a moment remembering his childhood. Whitey broke the silence.
