The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  “Reid, is the radio turned on and working?”

  Reid fiddled with the set before shouting back his answer. “It’s on, sir, but I can’t hear nothin’. No DF either.”

  Iverson shook his head. Fine. No radio. He could see Major Henderson, and he could drop a bomb on whatever he was led to.

  “Okay, skip it,” Iverson shouted back. “Watch for Japs.”

  There it was.

  Through the latticework of the cockpit canopy, Maruyama studied Midway through his binoculars. A faint circle of white on the sea, characteristic of so many Pacific atolls he had seen during the past six months. Resting on the far end of the circle were two small islands. Their target was on Sand Island, on the right some thirty miles distant.

  Tomonaga banked left as the strike group followed. Kankōs from CarDiv 2 would attack in level delivery from northeast to southwest, minimizing ranging error on the fixed facilities. Once the Type 97s were in their run, Type 99 dive-bombers from Akagi and Kaga would float their turn and roll in from the southeast, out of the sun. With Midway now on the leading edge of their right wing, Maruyama had a clearer view, and specks of airplanes climbed from the runway on Eastern Island. In the lagoon he saw the wake of a small boat – no real warships. Surely the American flying boat had sent a warning. He scanned the skies around the atoll.

  “Look for Grummans!” he barked as Tomonaga reversed them in an easy right-hand turn for the attack. Through his binoculars Maruyama focused on Eastern Island and saw a plane lift off. He studied it. Fighter? Dive-bomber?

  Anticipating their run-in, Tomonaga’s obedient wingmen tightened up. Behind him Maruyama noted the sun glint off the whirring propellers of Hiryū’s black-nosed bombers.

  Rolling out, he checked the switches and was about to move to the bombardier station when Nakao jerked the aircraft right.

  “Grummans!” the pilot cried.

  Maruyama looked up in time to see two of the American fighters dive past Tomonaga, fat barrels with big wings roaring through the formation in steep power dives.2 The coloring of the Grumman fighters matched the sky, but as tracers rocketed past, his eyes were drawn to the black engine cylinders and blinking yellow lights on the wings. Maruyama saw one red-faced pilot clearly in his khaki helmet and flying suit. On the tubby fuselage was a huge white star.

  The group leader’s wing flamed up – Tomonaga-san! – and, from above, Zero-sens knifed down after the assailants to give chase. Black smoke from a burning kankō in the distant Sōryū formation produced a graceful curve down, and the formation became unsettled as the pilots nervously looked for more threat fighters.

  “They’re on fire!” Hamada shouted.

  Flames from the kankō on their right wing billowed from the wing root as Maruyama and his mates watched their fellows struggle in the cockpit to put them out.

  “It’s Miyauchi!” Nakao cried in horror as the flames grew along the fuselage, watching as the frantic crewmen screamed in fear behind their pilot, Miyauchi, who held position with grim focus. The burning bomber drifted closer, and Maruyama could see their arms flailing amid the flames, burned hands working to throw the canopy back in wild panic. They were almost touching now, and, were it not for the loud slipstream, Maruyama could have shouted encouragement to them. The fire grew, and the observer could no longer be seen in the cockpit as the Type 97 nosed down. In back, the gunner stood as he swatted at the relentless flames that funneled toward him inside the canopy, and, before it disappeared below the wing, a sickened Maruyama saw the gunner, his legs on fire, jump overboard in desperation.

  Miyauchi!

  His fire somehow extinguished, Tomonaga’s plane trailed white mist from the wing as he continued in toward Sand with the surviving kankōs. To the south was a swirling dogfight of nimble Zero-sens and stubby American fighters. He caught a glimpse of one rectangular-winged Yankee burning as it corkscrewed down.

  The seaplane hangar dominated Sand Island, and beyond it were the fuel tanks, their target. Forcing himself, Maruyama took his bombardier station, lying prone under the pilot, who continued to fly a loose formation on the chutai lead and Tomonaga. Maruyama found the hangar in the bombsight and waited until the fuel tanks drifted into view.

  “Target in sight…weapon armed…two degrees left, fly heading two zero six!” Above, Nakao complied with his observer’s instructions.

  “Look for Grummans!” Maruyama shouted again, his eye glued to the bombsight.

  “Hai!” Hamada shouted back.

  The Type 97s continued in at 11,000 feet, and Nakao yelled, “Antiaircraft fire!” over the muffled cracks of detonations nearby. Maruyama held his concentration, fighting to anticipate drift that would require last-second corrections to Nakao. He would release the bomb once the sight crossed the edge of the big tank; a short hit would at least damage the smaller one.

  Here and there, muzzle flashes dotted the sand and scrub. Lying prone, Maruyama could only ignore the hot American steel that was clawing its way skyward to meet him. Guns were all about the island, flashing yellow flames, silent reminders of an enraged enemy. He sensed Nakao drifting.

  “Steady…”

  The tanks came into view, and they were headed for the edge of the big one. Still time for a quick correction.

  “Left one degree. Left!”

  He assessed the wind from the gun smoke, a strong crosswind from seaward. Blast! Was there time to offset?

  “Left one!” he snapped and felt the airplane respond under Nakao’s hand. Bombs from the first chutai floated through the viewfinder as the crosshairs moved along the surface and touched the big tank.

  “Release!” he cried as he pulled the bomb-release lever. The airplane shuddered with a welcome jump as the huge bomb fell free. Hamada couldn’t contain himself.

  “Banzai!”

  Maruyama stayed on the sight, flinching as a shell detonated. The bomb time of fall was calculated for almost 20 seconds. While Nakao was free to maneuver as necessary, he maintained position on their lead and Tomonaga’s chutai ahead. He wanted to sit up and see, to leave his vulnerable and cramped position, separated from hot lead by only thin aluminum. No protection. And no warning. The shells from flashes he saw seconds ago could be outside now.

  Sharp cracks from antiaircraft sounded nearby, and Nakao cried in shock. Sakamoto! Maruyama forced himself to stay on the sight.

  He then saw a flash on the main fuel tank with a huge secondary that generated an expanding shockwave from it. Direct hit!

  “Direct hit!” Maruyama yelped, scrambling to extricate himself from the bombsight and sit up under the canopy. As he pulled himself up over the rail, he saw Sakamoto’s plane trail black smoke and nose down. No movement in the cockpit was visible. Behind him, Hamada cried for his fellow gunner.

  Ugly black puffs appeared among the formation as Tomonaga led them down the length of Sand Island. His kankō pilots could only hold position as they flew past at 150 knots of airspeed. The fire was heavy; sparks appeared on the tail of a bomber ahead that was sprayed with fragments. The American shells were leading them, and Maruyama checked that all the Type 97s were clean of their weapons. Sanctuary was to the west, and Tomonaga entered an easy turn over the breaking waves on the southern shoreline. Looking down, Maruyama saw numerous gun emplacements fire as if they were individual barrels in a rotating Gatling gun.

  With the island falling back, heavy smoke rose over their target in a dense column and covered the seaplane base, all of it blown northwest. On Eastern it was the same, and Maruyama could see the kanbakus in their dives, flashes from their bomb hits on the parking aprons and runway. The skies over each island were filled with black smudges, and their perimeters belched a steady flame of antiaircraft, many of the guns heavy caliber. Tomonaga passed the lead and left the formation with his wingmen, circling northwest to get a better look and assess damage as the others continued west to the assembly area.

  “See any Grummans?” Nakao asked over the voicetube.

  Hamada
answered. “None nearby. Zero-sens are dealing with them to the east. Our mates are scoring too!”

  Around Maruyama, the kankōs formed up, some seeping fluid, others with canvas flapping from damaged control surfaces. One of the bombers had a gunner, his shoulder and arm bloody, slumped over the edge of his cockpit, jagged holes in the aluminum skin underneath him as evidence. Maruyama studied the ghastly image. Who was he? What mate did I just lose?

  They were clear now, black puffs receding as they left the flaming islands behind. On them, the Americans continued to fire as flashes from high and low caliber guns sprinkled about the sandy scrub. Lucky for the Americans that their seaplane spotted them and sent a warning. The enemy was caught flat-footed at Pearl Harbor and Darwin, but Maruyama had never seen resistance like this.

  “There goes Kikuchi-san with Araya. We are leading now!” Nakao cried.

  The leader of the second chutai nosed his smoking kankō toward Kure Atoll to the west as his wingman Araya followed in escort. With Tomonaga and his wingmen in what was left of the first chutai gone back for reconnaissance, Maruyama now led the Hiryū level-bombers to the assembly area.

  “Continue west. Once clear we’ll begin a rendezvous turn.”

  “Hai.”

  About him, only eight Type 97s remained as they closed up the formation. Observers and gunners took gulps from canteens and caught their breath from the tension of battle.

  “Hamada, keep your eyes open. Let me know when you see the group leader come back,” Maruyama ordered his gunner over the voicetube.

  “Hai.”

  Iverson – and every other head in 18 Dauntless cockpits – stole glances west as black smoke rose near the Sand Island seaplane hangars. Growing palls of smoke also bloomed on Eastern.

  “Looks like the Navy guys are getting it,” Reid shouted.

  “Yes,” Iverson shouted back, unable to intervene. He resumed his stationing, keeping on Major Henderson’s wing line, who rolled out of the turn and steadied them up on a course of 320.

  “Looks like we’re on our way, Reid. Figurin’ an hour, hour an’ fifteen!”

  “Yes, sir. Everyone’s here!”

  Fifteen miles to the west, Nakao entered a right turn and conserved fuel. Black smoke now towered over Midway, and, above them, high altitude winds carried it east. Far to his left, Maruyama saw Kure between breaks in the clouds. Lieutenant Kikuchi would make a water-landing there. Uninhabited. They’ll probably spend the day sunning themselves. He informed the others.

  “Kikuchi-san is nursing his sick plane toward the atoll to the west. They’ll be rescued tomorrow, two days at most.” Nakao glanced west to see for himself and nodded.

  The Sōryū Type 97s joined up below in trail, and, alone or by twos, the kanbaku dive-bombers from the CarDiv 1 ships assembled. The Sōryū group seemed intact, and, for something to do, Maruyama counted them as he waited.

  They all waited, a familiar experience. Wait for Tomonaga to rejoin and take them away from this place, then, after a long open-water transit, wait to land. Then wait to find out the next mission. Maruyama hoped it would not be back here, now an angry beehive of entrenched guns that still fired in the distance, despite the thick columns of black smoke rising from both islands. In the lagoon, he spotted the wake of a patrol boat. Studying it through the binoculars, he watched as the boat fired an automatic gun into the air.

  Silhouetted by the smoke, sunlight glinted off the wings of three airplanes approaching them at level altitude. He found them in his glasses: black-nosed kankōs, surely Tomonaga-san. Nakao passed through west as Tomonaga maneuvered his formation on bearing line. Waves of Zero-sens, that Maruyama recognized by their crisp shotais, followed them from above. No American fighters were visible.

  “Continue your turn. Tomonaga-san is joining.”

  Nakao acknowledged Maruyama and held his easy right turn as the others maintained position.

  Tomonaga no longer trailed mist, and the lumbering Type 99s continued to straggle in from lower altitudes. A message group burst over the radio, one from the group leader. Maruyama recorded it, and his heart sank.

  We must return here.

  He kept this from the others as Tomonaga took the lead back and continued to circle over the assembly area so the returning chutais could join. He checked the time: 0705.

  * * *

  1 LTJG W.E. Chase, VP-23

  2 Capt. J.F. Carey, 2Lt. C.M. Canfield, VMF-221

  Chapter 7

  Flag Shelter, USS Enterprise, 0535 June

  Spruance pulled himself up the ladder and into the flag shelter as he scanned the horizon around Enterprise. Off to port was Hornet, about 4,000 yards he figured, and the screen positioning met his approval. Further to port the sun broke through the heavy clouds, and he assessed the calm weather and seas. Ingrained habit. On the flight deck aft, he heard an airplane engine chug at idle power.

  Buracker and the others, their backs to the admiral, were hunched over the chart facing the radio speaker. Surprised by his admiral, Buracker stood up straight and was about to call attention, but Spruance raised his hand.

  “Good morning, Admiral,” Buracker said.

  Browning and the others turned and stiffened to attention. “Good morning, sir,” Browning said, his burning cigarette held in fingers along his trouser seam.

  “Good morning gentlemen, and please, carry on. What news?”

  Browning relaxed and stepped toward Spruance.

  “Sir, we had a false alarm a half hour ago and had the pilots man the planes, but we’ve stood down. They’re in the ready rooms. Deck’s spotted for launch: CAP fighters followed by scouts and VB. Just waiting for the word now.”

  “Very well. Where’s Yorktown?”

  “North of us, sir. They’ve been flying this morning and we’re maintaining visual on them.”

  Spruance stepped to the port gallery and surveyed the deck below. The after half of the ship was jammed with blue-gray airplanes, a deadly maze of wings and propeller blades. Except for a lone engine aft, they were quiet, and the men in the colorful jerseys walked among them like any other day. The irregular outline of Hornet’s deck proved that she too had a deck-load of strike planes spotted aft. Peering over the rail he saw Yorktown, just visible to the north.

  “Sir, we’re monitoring the patrol aircraft frequency from Midway. They’ve had flying boats out all night. All we can do is wait.”

  Spruance put his maneuvering board on the shelf, and his aide, Lieutenant Oliver, handed him a cup of coffee. He sipped it and looked off to the west. We’ll find them soon enough.

  The staff was still huddled around the radio, staring at it as if it would talk to them, and, by the looks of the stuffed ashtray, they’d already smoked a pack of Chesterfields each.

  “Miles, where are we from Midway?” Spruance asked.

  Browning motioned a fix on the chart. “Admiral, we’re here and Midway is about 230 miles south. We’ve been closing it during the night.”

  “How old is this fix?”

  “Dawn, sir, backed up by the ship’s dead reckoning plot.”

  “Where are we from the planned intercept point?”

  “Southwest of us sir, but inside 200 miles.”

  “Very well. What do you think?”

  “Admiral, given our standing orders, once we get a confirmed sighting report, we go. A problem is the winds, light from the southeast. We’ll have to turn into it for launch, and if the Japs are where we think they are, we’ll be opening.”

  Spruance nodded, imagining the triangle formed by two fleets and one island on the open ocean. Here and there disembodied voices broke through the radio static as Buracker and the others stared at the radio with arms folded, waiting for something to act upon.

  More crackling static filled the silence in the shelter as the men pondered what was happening over the horizon. How close are they? Have we been spotted? Then, Morse signals in the clear.

  …enemy carriers…

  “Did you hear t
hat?” an excited Browning said to no one.

  “Yep, enemy carriers! That’s from one of the Catalinas,” Buracker said, smiling.

  “Okay, where? What patrol plane?”

  Spruance stood off to the side with hands behind his back, unable to do anything but wait. He had to hand it to the CINCPAC staff. They were right.

  Minutes passed with nothing. Enterprise with her task force ships turned east to keep sight of Yorktown, which was in the midst of flight ops. Cigarette butts jammed the ashtrays as the officers tapped them out one after another. The time was 0545. The staff radioman listened…

  …many planes…closing Midway three-two…one fifty miles…

  “Was that fifty miles?” Browning barked, again to no one.

  “No, sir, one fifty.”

  On the chart they plotted the bearing and range from Midway. Buracker pulled at his chin. “They’re probably an hour away.”

  “Yes, but what kinds of planes, and how many is many?” Browning replied. Spruance assessed the back-and-forth of his staff, trying to piece together fragmented information as it came in on scratchy radios. The reports were both blessing and curse.

  “And where are the damn carriers?” Browning growled in frustration. He looked at the radio as if expecting an answer.

  “The planes are fueled and loaded?” Spruance asked.

  “Yes, sir. Pilots standing by in their ready rooms.”

  Spruance nodded his understanding. His staff had been up half the night in nervous anticipation. Incomplete reports from pilots added to the tension. He glanced at Oliver, who jumped up to refill his porcelain coffee mug.

  As the sun rose higher, the men sat waiting as the second hand on the bulkhead clock twitched with each passing second. The Jap attack group must have Midway in sight by now. Buracker stood to stretch as four bells sounded on the 1MC, followed by the bosun.