The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

Reveille! Reveille! All hands heave to and trice up…

  Spruance smiled to himself. Enterprise, and all the ships in the task force, were already wide awake, had been all night, and in relaxed general quarters. Minutes passed as his staff fretted in silence, like a wound up tension spring. The radio then crackled with a long Morse transmission, this time with clear and unambiguous words that tripped the release.

  Two carriers and battleships heading Midway at high speed…three two zero, one eighty from Midway…

  Browning lunged at the dividers as all crowded over the chart. One officer plotted the bearing, and with a straight edge, ran a pencil line out to the northeast. Browning measured the range – and measured it again to be sure.

  “That’s a different Catalina,” Buracker offered.

  Browning nodded. “Yeah…okay. Two carriers…where are the others?”

  Spruance wanted to know that too, but for now he had positive identification on two carriers. Whaddaya know. Right where Chester Nimitz said they’d be.

  While his staff plotted the sighting report and their current ship’s posit, Spruance unrolled his maneuvering board. Baffled, Browning and Buracker watched. They had never seen anything like this admiral, a recluse who carried a blank mo-board with him at all times, like some security blanket. Spruance then took a pencil from his pocket and marked the paper with an “N” on the top before asking for the ranges and bearings from Midway. Oliver watched him plot the information as if he were an officer of the deck, an ordinary lieutenant. Halsey barked orders and demanded answers; Admiral Spruance did it himself. Does he think we can’t plot a sighting report?

  The staff was dumbfounded as they watched Spruance silently mark the paper and measure the distance with the thumb and index finger of his hand.

  “Is the contact report authenticated?”

  “Yes, sir,” Browning answered.

  Spruance took the measure on the scale, and thought out loud. “One seventy-five, and we’re closing.”

  The others waited for a decision.

  Spruance then rolled up the maneuvering board and faced Browning.

  “Launch everything you’ve got at the earliest opportunity,” he said quietly.

  “Aye, aye, Admiral!” Browning said. He then pointed at Buracker. “Have the bridge signal the task force to steam us west at twenty knots. Get the group commander and COs up to the bridge. Pilots, man your planes. Oh yes, suggest to the captain that we go into GQ.”

  “Expected launch time?”

  Browning looked at the clock: 0610.

  “We’ll shoot for zero-seven-hundred. Comm-O, signal Hornet and TF seventeen with blinking light: ‘Steaming west at twenty to launch full complement at zero seven.’”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  While some officers left the shelter to accomplish their tasks, others passed orders on the voice tube and sound-powered phones. Spruance motioned for Browning to sit beside him.

  “What’s your launch plan?”

  Browning forced himself to be patient. Halsey would know, would have directed it himself. The staff knew what he was thinking, and he knew what they were thinking. The sequence and the why behind it was evident to all – all except this new admiral. Queer. Peculiar. This is the best we’ve got?

  “Sir, we’ll launch our CAP fighters first and then the VS and VB – our dive-bombers, sir – already spotted on deck. We’ll launch them, the SBDs will hold overhead, and we’ll bring up the escort fighters and torpeckers – ah, torpedo bombers sir.”

  “I understand all the nomenclature, Captain. Please continue.”

  “Yes, sir. Hornet will do likewise, and we’ll go at them with a coordinated attack of dive-bombers from above and with TBDs coming in on the deck to finish them off. Mister McClusky has the group lead, and I find him dependable and aware of the importance of this first strike. Stanhope Ring over on Hornet is top drawer. We’re going to get those two carriers, and chances are the other two are nearby and just missed by the PBY.”

  “Very well. What are the shortfalls?”

  Browning bristled at being second-guessed by the black shoe. This wasn’t some management job interview. We’re attacking the Japs, sir!

  “Admiral, I see none at the moment. In 45 minutes we we’ll launch two deck-load attacks of over 100 airplanes, and they should arrive by 0930. Even if the Japs move at flank speed, that’s only 75 miles from where they are right now. Our SBDs can scan quite a bit of ocean from high altitude and can lead the slower VT to them. We have plenty of firepower to attack four carriers, and more than enough for two.”

  Spruance wasn’t convinced. Something always goes awry. But orders were orders: attack at first opportunity with everything he had.

  “Admiral, we’re manning the planes now and running west. I’d like to increase speed and run southwest until ten minutes prior to launch time. We should be able to shave fifteen, twenty miles before we turn into the wind to launch. That’ll take no more than 30 minutes. Then we turn southwest and close them again. That should put us inside 150 miles for their return leg.”

  “Very well,” Spruance said as he got up. Under him the deck tilted as Enterprise turned west, and he felt the thrum of her screws as the bridge increased turns. To starboard, the obedient screen ships matched the flagship’s turn. Spruance assessed them, then the weather. Clouds seemed to have broken up since dawn. Light seas.

  The 1MC sounded.

  “General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations…”

  The sounds of beating feet and shouted orders floated up from below. Hatches were dogged closed with metal clanks and gunners dropped ammo cans next to their light guns on the gallery decks. The flight deck burst with activity as dozens of men in multi-hued jerseys scrambled amid the maze of aluminum. Helmeted men lined the catwalks, their blue chambray shirts rolled down to cover forearms sunburned from months at sea.

  “Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding…”

  The time was 0630, and the task force ships bounded west with bones in their teeth.

  Spruance peered down and saw Murray and Browning on the bridge wing below speaking with their aviators. The pilots – commanding officers! – were practically boys, with lieutenant bars on khaki collars that peeked out of their yellow Mae Wests. They each carried a plotting board to make dead reckoning calculations with grease pencil as they flew at dizzying speeds toward the enemy. He shook his head at the wonder of it.

  Across the water was the shaded side of Hornet, the fleet’s newest ship. How are they doing? he wondered.

  A nervous Marc Mitscher stood on Hornet’s starboard bridge wing and looked west.

  Nagumo was out there; the patrol boys had found him as predicted. Now his boys were manning planes to smash Nagumo before he could counter. The Japs would discover the Americans before lunch – he knew it – and hoped Fletcher and Spruance did, too. He wished he could send more fighters with Ring but could not spare them.

  Stan Ring was about to lead the greenest pilots in the fleet against the most experienced in the world. Would 59 airplanes be enough? He crushed his cigarette butt against the ashtray in disgust. It was never enough. Nagumo had a superior fighter, and Mitscher could only send half a squadron of Wildcats to protect Ring’s three squadrons, one separated by altitude. Was Johnny Waldron right? Too late now.

  With their pilots in the ready rooms, he had Ring and the squadron COs summoned to the bridge.

  VF-8’s Mitchell arrived first, and his eyes locked on Mitscher immediately. Oh, oh, Mitscher thought as the fighter squadron CO walked toward him with purpose.

  “Captain, please, sir,” Mitchell spoke in a low tone. “Let us go in with the VT.”

  An agitated Mitscher shook his head.

  “No, Pat, we’ve been over this,” he said, impatient with his petulant lieutenant. “You are needed and can perform better up high. You’ll support Commander Ring and the dive-bombers. Do you read?”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Mitchell answered, dejected
. Those poor bastards won’t have a chance.

  Ring and the others arrived, and Mitscher motioned for them to come into the charthouse with him. He faced Ring.

  “Your boys ready to go?”

  “Yes, sir, Captain. Loaded and ready,” Ring said, his helmet cinched tight. Mitscher noted his necktie, perfect dimple in place. The others had their collars open.

  “Ruff?”

  “Yes, sir, pilots are confident, planes in the pink,” Johnson answered.

  Mitscher nodded his understanding and turned to his VS skipper.

  “How about your scouts, Walt?”

  Rodee nodded. “Yes, sir. Ready.”

  Mitscher turned to Waldron. The pilot’s eyes were determined, piercing. Not accusing, but impatient. Johnny wants to kill something.

  “We’re ready, sir,” Waldron said, before Mitscher could ask.

  Mitscher sensed Waldron wanted to say more, was holding it inside. He caught himself before asking Waldron to spill it. There’s no time.

  “Good. We’ll launch the first CAP at zero-seven, then Walt’s scouts, then you, Ruff. We’ll get all of you off except half the VT. Then we’ll bring you up, Johnny, and get your guys airborne as soon as we can. Nav plotted their position and our expected launch posit. A heading of 240 should bring you to them if they hold their course and speed. If there are changes, we’ll blinker them to you, but right now 240 is your course. We’ll close you after you depart, and I expect the flagship will have us on the reciprocal just outside 100 miles. They’re launching their own attack, and you may encounter them en route, but, Stan, you’re only responsible for your air group. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir, Captain.”

  The squadron COs nodded. Mitscher noted Waldron breathing through his nose like a prizefighter in his corner, waiting for the bell.

  “Johnny?”

  Waldron couldn’t hold it in any longer. While he still had a chance, he had to fight, to fight for his men.

  “Captain, may we have one fighter to escort us?”

  Before he could finish, Mitscher was shaking his head in pent-up frustration as he looked down at the deck. Perturbed himself, Ring took a step forward.

  “Skipper, we’ve been through this!” Mitscher snapped. “The F4F handles better up high, there are more than twice as many planes than you up there for them to escort, and once Pat’s fighters slash through their CAP, they’ll be heading down to help you on the deck.”

  “Captain, we need help. This is their crackerjack team, four carriers from the intel – which has so far been right. We’ll put fish in them, but my guys are flying a jalopy truck at 110 knots. Please sir, we can –”

  “Johnny, I said no! And we are not discussing it anymore. Am I understood, Commander?”

  Waldron’s tight lips betrayed him, and he looked away. The entire bridge was silent as all – from COs to watch officers – were taken aback by the exchange. He’s arguing with the old man, Oklahoma Pete!

  Mitscher took a moment to compose himself as the embarrassed aviators stood waiting to be dismissed. Outside, the first Wildcat starting cartridge popped, a reminder to all that minutes were ticking away.

  “Sea Hag, what are you flying?”

  “Sir, I’ll be in one of Ruff’s bombers and will lead both SBD squadrons in a group. Johnny and his boys will be underneath. We’ll join overhead until the last TBD gets airborne and joined, then head out as a group flying 240 as ordered.”

  Mitscher nodded his approval. “What if you don’t see them at the end of your leg?”

  “Sir, I’ll bring us south to follow their track toward Midway –”

  Conversation stopped as Waldron shook his head vigorously. Ring glared at him, and Mitscher’s annoyance was evident. With everyone waiting, Waldron piped up again, facing Mitscher.

  “Sir, they’re gonna find us soon, and, when they do, they’ll be coming northeast. Besides, they can’t get too close to Midway because of the air threat.”

  “Waldron, you’re guessing!” Ring snarled. “They don’t know we’re here, and they’re focused on mopping up the island. They’ll stay 100 miles off to soften it up and support the landing tomorrow.”

  “Sir, we would do that, but they don’t have to! Their Zeros and Nakajimas can easily attack Midway from 200 miles. They risk too much by closing Midway, and I’m telling ya, sir, they’re going to find us. Captain, I recommend an outbound heading of 250, at least 245. And once we get to the end, search north. It’s imperative for my guys – and Pat’s fighters – that we go right at them and not burn fuel in a search.”

  Ring was both dumbfounded and incensed by Waldron’s insolence. He had never witnessed or even heard of such insubordination. And from a fellow Annapolis man! In public, on a ship’s bridge, junior officers within earshot! There was no time to deal with this now, minutes from launching to destroy the Mobile Force. Below them, more cartridges fired and more engines coughed to life. Johnny Waldron would not get his own group. Ring would make sure of it.

  Mitscher placed his hand on Waldron’s shoulder and could feel the tight muscles and tension within the pilot. Seeing one of his COs ready to explode caused him to try another approach. It dawned on him that this could be it for Johnny. Before him stood a warrior. Waldron’s conduct could be dealt with later. There’d be time for that after the battle.

  “John, Commander Ring has the lead, and 240 is the heading we’ve been assigned by the flagship.”

  “Captain…”

  “Skipper, we’re all tense. You and your boys can do it; the VT boys on Lexington and Yorktown did well in the Coral Sea. We have a plan we’ve trained to, and we have our orders. We must man the airplanes now.”

  The time was 0639, and Hornet knifed toward the southwest at 25 knots with the rest of the task force.

  Mitscher, his ire gone, smiled as he shook the hands of each squadron CO, wishing them good luck. He squeezed Waldron’s hand a bit longer, to convey support.

  “Good hunting, Skipper.”

  Waldron nodded as their eyes met, professional enough to know he had fought the good fight. “We’ll find ’em, sir, and we’ll get hits.” He nodded emphatically, as if convincing himself, already in the cockpit and leading his men. Mitscher grabbed Waldron’s arm before letting him go. A foreboding came over him. Johnny’s not coming back.

  Ring allowed the others to leave the bridge ahead of him.

  “I’m sorry, Captain.”

  “We’re all tired. They can be forgiven.”

  “Sir, you were justified…”

  “Stanhope, go. We’ll discuss later. Good hunting.”

  Ring saluted and said, “Yes, sir. By your leave, sir.” He then departed through the hatchway. Outside, four dozen reciprocating engines spun deadly propellers into a deafening roar as the pilots manned the airplanes. Mitscher sensed that the watch standers on his bridge were afraid to move. He needed to cut the tension, and stepped toward the 1MC microphone.

  “Officer of the deck, report.”

  “Captain, we’re steady on 240, making revolutions for 25 knots. Flagship orders next turn at zero-six-fifty to a launch heading.”

  “Very well,” Mitscher replied. He rehearsed in his mind what he was going to tell the crew about the upcoming action. He motioned his readiness, and the bosun blew a four-note signal on his pipe into the microphone, signaling a message from the captain. Once the last note faded, he handed the microphone to Mitscher.

  “Hornet, this is the captain,” he said, looking ahead off the bow to the southwest.

  Chapter 8

  VMSB-241, Northwest of Midway, 0655 June 4, 1942

  Through a hole in the clouds, Iverson saw it.

  A Japanese carrier, at their eleven o’clock and fifteen miles.1 Flat, with no superstructure that he could see, and a strange deck color. It turned away at high speed with an escorting destroyer crossing its wake.

  “We’ve got ’em, Reid! Look for CAP!”

  “Yes, sir!” the private shouted back, char
ging the gun.

  Major Henderson gave the hand signal to descend to eager wingmen on either side of his cockpit. Glidden passed the signal, and Iverson relayed it down the echelon. He was puzzled. Why wasn’t Henderson going for the carrier? He then saw why: another carrier, closer, on the nose.

  Splashes erupted around the far carrier. The Navy guys in those new Grumman torpedo planes? He scanned the air around the carrier and to the west. Nothing.

  A hole opened up in the clouds below: a ship! A big one with a huge pagoda mast and two massive turrets forward. A battleship! Muzzles blazed from its guns amidships before the behemoth was again covered by cloud.

  Henderson pushed them steeper, increasing their airspeed to over 200. The carrier was inside ten miles and turning left, showing its broadside. On the hull and across from the little tower in the middle stretched a strange black slash. An airplane was on the flight deck. Taking off or landing? He couldn’t tell.

  “Zeros! Four o’clock!”

  Iverson jerked his head right as Reid opened up with the .30s. All the gunners fired on three attackers who appeared as silent as barn owls, in for the kill. They went for Henderson, white mist from their machine gun rounds marking their killing paths.

  As they pulled off, Henderson’s Dauntless burst into flame.

  “Seven o’clock!”

  Three more enemy fighters roared over, and the sharp reports of their cannon produced terror inside the American cockpits. Major Henderson held on in his burning Dauntless as the SBD next to him sliced down with its left wing on fire. The Zeros zoomed up into the brilliant blue, red meatballs on wings that gleamed white in the sun. Iverson whipped his gaze from the Japanese to Henderson, then back to the carrier. It seemed to recede even as they approached at near redline airspeed.

  Tat tat tat tat…tat tat tat tat tat tat tat

  “Mister Iverson, we got one! We got one!”

  Iverson felt punctures on the aluminum skin and heard the snaps of rounds passing by his ear. One ricocheted round rattled inside the fuselage. Wisps of gun smoke from cannon rounds formed translucent rings to mark their flight paths as the Zeros ripped another one of his mates from the sky. The carrier turned hard away, lengthening the run in. We’ll never make it.