The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  Henderson’s burning plane spun out of control in a slow roll down, trailing heavy smoke. Others, either smoking or flaming, followed him. Iverson was too busy to count them. Three? Four? Elmer Glidden moved up to take the lead, but, at 4,000 feet, they were in among the puffy clouds and had lost sight of the carrier. They had to get lower.

  Iverson entered the cold mist of a cloud, and, for a moment, felt secure. I’m invisible; they’re invisible. He broke clear again, and the whole of the Japanese fleet spread out below him. Wakes large and thin inscribed white curves on the blue surface. Here and there flashes of gunfire erupted from the escorts, and the Zeros reappeared.

  “Reid, there’s lots of ships down here!”

  “Lots of Japs up here, sir!” Reid bellowed before squeezing off another burst. Iverson then heard him shout, “Motherfuckers!” above the roaring engine.

  The punctures on the wings – which sounded like pencils jabbed through foil – and the snaps outside were followed by the guttural roar of the attacker. Each hit registered in their spinal cords. The gunners fired back feverishly. Iverson saw the gunner next to him grit his teeth in fury and fear as he fired. Iverson closed up the formation and took peeks at the carrier. It had a red ball painted on the forward flight deck. Overhead, a plane circled lazily.

  “You okay, Reid!”

  “Yes, sir, but I’m low on ammo!”

  They were running on the nearest carrier, which was running from them. Glidden leveled them off at 2,000 and shouted something into his throat mic. Iverson couldn’t receive it, but he knew what to do.

  His bomb was armed, switches set. Only ten SBDs remained, and the overwhelmed lieutenants flew formation while trying to skid away from the Zeros. At the same time, they had to make a glide bomb run in an unfamiliar airplane.

  Iverson’s left arm was locked, balls to the wall, damn the redline! Black AA puffs burst around him with loud detonations. Sparks flew off the prop and a chip appeared in the right quarter panel of the windscreen. He couldn’t hold steady for Reid. Had to jink. Had to stay with the captain.

  Whuff, whuff, whuff

  “What the hell was that?” Reid cried.

  Iverson didn’t know himself. A shell burst behind the SBD to his right, and the pilot flinched into him. Iverson pushed down to avoid a midair and saw holes in their fuselage. No smoke.

  Whissshhh

  Fragments riddled the back of his plane, like a handful of gravel thrown against it, and Reid cried out.

  “Sonofabitch! Fuck!”

  “You okay, Reid?” With the carrier under their nose, they were seconds away from release. Glidden kissed off his wingman and pushed over into his run.

  “I’m hit! Dammit!”

  “Where you hit? We’re goin’ in now!” Iverson shouted.

  “In the foot sir…bleedin’…I can still fire.”

  “Okay – fire then!”

  Iverson nosed over 10 degrees and left the throttle up. To hell with the dive brakes Don’t know how to use the damn things, anyway. The carrier was still turning left and presented its stern to them. Definitely a Zero on the big, yellow deck. Sudden flashes along the edges. He sensed lights float toward him and then zip past.

  Whuff, whuff, whuff

  It was antiaircraft! Big! The eerie sound was formed by shells piercing the air.

  Passing one thousand feet, Iverson concentrated on his bombsight crosshairs, holding them steady on the wooden deck as his dive angle shallowed. The SBD shuddered from more punctures, more impacts. Glidden was off right, hosed by the carrier’s machine gun tracer fire.

  Eight hundred feet… men visible on the deck. Below, the raging rapids of a powerful wake churned the sea white.

  Six hundred feet… Iverson had his hand on the release. Hold it steady… 230 knots… individual planks visible… That red circle… Flashing muzzles…

  Iverson heaved on the release and felt the Dauntless lift up as 500 pounds fell away. In back, Reid gave out a whoop before Iverson suddenly yanked the plane over on the right wing and pulled. A massive geyser from Glidden’s bomb erupted next to the ship. The explosive spray came within mere feet away as they flew past. Arcs of tracers curved underneath them as Iverson found Glidden and another Dauntless hightailing it east. Another geyser. And another. Iverson could no longer assess his hit. The Zeros were back.

  Iverson’s left arm strained against the throttle, and he whipped his head around to search for fighters. Two of them bore in from the left, co-altitude, leading edges flashing. Iverson pushed down to the wave tops before resetting back up. The Zeros roared overhead before three more of the Mitsubishis came in from the ship. Iverson waited for the first to position before he stomped on the rudder to skid. The Zero missed high and boiled the water ahead of Iverson into a froth. There’s a Dauntless. Follow it. Captain Glidden or no, pick your way through the ships and get out of here. He shouted over his shoulder.

  “Reid! Reid?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You with me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you can shoot something, shoot it!”

  Iverson flew on instinct. Sun. Fly to the sun. Antiaircraft splashes raised geysers on the water ahead while smaller splashes from the spent machine gun rounds of the fighters stippled it. Ahead was a gray plane with a star. Go with it. The rudder pedals twitched under his boots like a nibble on a fishing line. Bullet hits? He checked the pedals, and felt relief when they responded. Southeast to the sun. Run southeast.

  He flinched when the canopy frame on his left exploded. He felt a tug by his neck and reached for the microphone cord: severed. Useless anyway.

  “Mister Iverson! There’s one coming at our four!”

  Iverson saw the Zero and turned into it. Saddled in, the enemy fighter pumped out cannon rounds as it maintained distance and pulled lead. Iverson pushed down, making the rounds miss high. Flying above the waves with nowhere else to go, Iverson pulled back in as the fighter repositioned. By instinct, Iverson chopped his throttle and selected the dive brakes. As the stubby SBD “stopped” in midair, the Zero roared past, unable to stay inside. As soon as the nose was off him, Iverson retracted the brakes and firewalled the throttle, looking for someone to join on.

  He picked on open lane between two screening destroyers. Another Dauntless had the same idea a half-mile ahead. To his right were geysers around the battleship they had flown over. The Vindicator boys! Black smoke marked the flight path of one nosing down to the ocean.

  The destroyer was at what he thought was a mile; he hadn’t had enough experience around ships to be confident in the distance. A Zero swooped down to strafe his mate ahead, missing long as water churned up around the SBD.

  Iverson’s plane was shot up bad, and Reid wounded behind him. The engine ran rough, but the oil pressure held steady. Once Iverson got past the screen, there’d still be the fighters to contend with.

  “Reid!” he shouted over his shoulder. “How’re you doin’?”

  “Okay, sir!”

  “The gun work?”

  “It’s…sir.”

  Iverson couldn’t hear his answer and craned his neck to check Reid’s condition. Behind him, the carrier emerged from a curtain of smoke, evidence of at least one hit. He turned to get a better view, and saw he was trailing mist. Fuel? His gallons remaining indication was fine. Must be oil from the sump.

  Somehow, he was heading southwest and crossed the destroyer’s bow, looking down the barrel of its deck guns as he did. To the left were some Vindicators, which, like him and the rest of VMSB-241, scrambled to get out of there. Every man for himself now. A Zero came out of a cloud and blasted one of the hapless SB2Us with cannon. Engulfed in flames, it fell into the sea like a stone. He heard a metallic click behind him.

  Tat tat…tat tat tat tat

  What’s Reid shooting at? He twisted his head left and picked it up at once – a black nose pulsing yellow from the cowl as rounds flew in front of them. Iverson lifted his nose up and stomped on the
left rudder to spoil his aim. The Japanese pulled off and reversed over him. For an instant, their eyes met as the enemy pilot looked into Iverson’s cockpit. He’s just a kid!

  The Zero flew off south, now attracted to a small covey of Vindicators clawing their way home. The old hand-me-down dive-bombers seemed to be pasted against the sky. Iverson banked left to join on them. Iverson’s best guess for Midway was southeast toward the sun. He stayed on the waves as he looked for airplanes, gray ones to join on and khaki ones to avoid.

  Are the Zeros gone? Around him were his marines, singletons or in section. At the moment, everyone was leery of everyone else. Better to escape and defend alone than to fly wing on someone and attract attention or not see an assailant coming.

  They continued on a heading of 150. Clear of the screen, clear of the CAP fighters. In the shot-up bombers, men kept their heads moving to search for threats. Some of the marines began a shallow climb, and Iverson joined them. An SDB approached on his left wing. It was Captain Fleming, who pulled acute and took the lead on the left. Relieved, Iverson let him, and communicated his condition as best he could, showing the frayed end of his earphone cord. Fleming gave him a thumbs up as his gunner looked at Iverson’s shredded plane with mouth open.

  They climbed above the clouds, where others joined on them. Iverson counted only six. Hope the other guys make it alone, he thought. He knew all would not. He had seen the flaming scout bombers. Seen one explode. They got at least one hit on the carrier. Maybe it was his bomb. Who won’t be at chow tonight? Did the Navy fellows in their new planes make it okay?

  Would he and his squadron mates come back here today? Tomorrow?

  An engine cylinder missed. Iverson had little choice but to ignore it; they were at least an hour from home with nothing below but water and cloud. Another SBD trailed faint smoke but it seemed to be flying well. He had lost sight of the SB2Us, slower in the best of times. Iverson was just glad he wasn’t flying one of the old canvas-covered beaters.

  “Reid?”

  The private shouted something back. Iverson nodded his head to show Reid he had heard him. Still with me.

  Far down on the horizon, a column of black rose through the clouds. Midway. Iverson guessed at least fifty miles. His left-hand fuel tank indication was low – one tank probably holed and empty – but he figured he had 30 minutes, enough for fifty miles. He’d save some in the descent.

  Now Glidden moved up to take the lead. Its prop feathered, one SBD fell out of formation, and Iverson watched it as long as he could. A flying boat will find them. He made a note on his plotting board.

  “Reid!”

  Behind him, Reid moaned something, as loud as he could in his weakened state. He must be bleeding bad. Iverson now saw the breaking surf on the north shore of the atoll. The engine chugged, and a puff of black flew over the windscreen. C’mon.

  Sand Island was closer, and with the fuel low and engine acting up, he wasn’t sure he’d make Eastern. Ditching short with a wounded Reid in back was the last resort. He made the decision – Eastern.

  “Stay with me, Reid! Another ten minutes!” Iverson shouted.

  “I’ll make it, sir! I…all right.”

  As the other Dauntlesses sped ahead, Iverson flew over Sand Island. A heavy black pall rose up from the burning fuel tanks and the Navy seaplane apron. Below them a gun emplacement opened up with two half-hearted shots before it went silent. Next to it another emplacement smoked from a direct hit.

  Iverson swung over the channel to line up on the runway at Eastern, itself burning near the arming area. He dropped the flaps. Nothing.

  Cycling the switch didn’t help. He groaned. A no-flapper…he could do it. Had to. The ailerons were holed but responding. So was the rudder, and he skidded left – easy now – to bleed off airspeed and line up.

  With his right hand, he pushed down on the gear handle. The airplane yawed right as the gear lowered. Iverson sensed the reason, and the cockpit gear indication verified it. The left wheel was still up, or at least not down and locked. He needed to land now. Gear be damned. He inhaled to shout.

  “Reid, we only have one wheel and no flaps. Hang on!”

  “…sir!”

  Iverson didn’t see a green light to land. Hell with it. One SBD was rolling to the end; Iverson wouldn’t get that far. He was committed now, and as he lined up, he saw men on their gun mounts stare up at him. He felt fast. Hold it up as long as possible. Once he had the runway made, he eased back on the throttle. A cyclinder misfired… engine vibrating but running. We’re gonna make it!

  He held the nose down until near the runway threshold, then cut the engine and applied back pressure to the stick. The Dauntless floated in ground effect for a long time, still flying and not slowing. Patience. Don’t prang it. He was committed: plenty of runway left. He began to settle and waited for the right main to touch. It kissed the runway – hold it, hooold it – and Iverson edged the stick right to keep the wing up. Without warning, the left wing fell and dug in, and the two marines were thrown to the right as the wounded plane made a violent and dusty half-loop to a stop.

  In the distance, men cheered, and coral dust kicked up by the landing choked Iverson before it dissipated. Without the engine and slipstream noise, he could speak in a normal tone. He wanted water. And food.

  Iverson unstrapped and cut a finger as he pulled himself up on the jagged metal canopy bow.

  “Sonofabitch…You okay, Reid?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Iverson’s empennage was a tattered metal mess, with most punctures inward and some metal shards splayed outward. Below, a stream of fluid splattered on the runway.

  “How’s yer foot?”

  “Damn bullet or shrapnel cut the boot on the laces, sir. Bled for a while but I was able to stop it with my handkerchief. Guess the corpsman will hook me up with some mercurochrome or somethin’… Just hurts a lot.”

  Iverson inspected Reid’s foot: torn up leather and blood. Didn’t seem too deep. On the runway another SBD chugged past them after their landing, pilot and gunner waving. Iverson waved back, noticing the holes in their tail. Is that Elmer?

  Reid hoisted himself up. The floor of his cockpit was littered with casings and smears of blood. Felt good to stretch. Good to be alive.

  Iverson helped him out, and Reid tested the foot on the wing root.

  “Good to go, sir. I’ll live.”

  “Good man, Reid. Let’s see what the head shed got.”

  Iverson jumped down and winced. Too long sitting.

  “We got that carrier, sir. It was smokin’ heavy.”

  Iverson nodded. “I thought Captain Blain was with us. You see him?”

  “About halfway home I saw them fall out. Think they ditched, sir.”

  Iverson nodded again. He had made it. Major Henderson, Al Tweedy…they hadn’t. Fell right in front of him. Exploded right in front…

  They walked stiffly across the coral and matting toward the Operations tent as a fire from the arming area continued to blaze. Iverson scanned the sky to the east and saw a covey of dive-bombers. The SB2Us. They made it! He tried to count but they were weaving too close to each other to get an accurate number. Looks like most made it. More than us anyway. He shook his head at the thought of it. The canvas-and-bailing-wire Wind Indicators had just won the war.

  Captain Fleming met them at the tent.

  “Danny, was that you with the one-wheel landing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’s your plane otherwise?”

  “Has some holes.”

  Fleming looked at Reid’s blood-stained leg.

  “Do you have some holes, Danny? You men okay?”

  “We got nicked, sir.”

  Reid stepped forward. “A Jap bullet cut the lieutenant’s earphone cord, sir.” A sheepish Iverson grabbed the frayed end dangling from his flying helmet to prove it.

  “Criminy sakes, Danny! You sure yer okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Never knew it happened.
We didn’t have any radio or interphone anyway.”

  For a moment Fleming stared at Iverson’s earphone cord in disbelief. “You never knew…?” He then turned to Reid. “You okay, Private Reid?”

  “Yes, sir, good to go.”

  Fleming shook his head in amazement at the men.

  “Okay, get the doc to bandage up your wound, and, if you can fly, we’ll prob’ly go again this afternoon, so go easy on the sauce. Here come the Vibrators. Maybe they’ll have more word.”

  Iverson and Reid turned to watch the clattering dive-bombers approach, close enough for a better count. Fewer than ten.

  Fleming could only shake his head. “Yep…one ride I am glaaad is over.”

  * * *

  1 HIJMS Hiryū

  Chapter 9

  Navigation Bridge, HIJMS Akagi, 0700 June 4, 1942

  Vice Admiral Chūichi Nagumo stood imperious as his chief of staff, Rear Admiral Ryūnosuke Kusaka, took the message from the orderly and read it as Genda watched him.

  “Hmmm,” Kusaka groaned. “Nagumo-shi rei, the group leader signals that another attack is necessary.”

  Nagumo absorbed the message and gave a nod of understanding. It had been folly for Combined Fleet to expect that one attack, even with 100 planes, could neutralize the American fortress. With the time built in to the schedule, he could mop up the islands’ defenses before Kondō landed his forces in the morning. The message from Tomonaga implied heavy resistance. How many have I lost?

  A bugle sounded. Air raid! As gazes snapped south, gunfire commenced from the ring vessels. One of them made smoke. By instinct, the staff looked above the horizon to catch a glimpse of the attackers. What were they, and how many? Genda searched the sky with binoculars. Trigger-happy gunners on the escorts must be frightened of a returning floatplane. On the flight deck, crews ran to their stations as the entire Kidō Butai put their helms over to port.

  “Americans. Looks like torpedo bombers. Four? Five? Can’t see any others,” Genda said.

  Mere dots in the distance, diving Zero-sens pounced on the enemy planes and set them aflame one by one. The Americans had targeted Hiryū to port. As the Zero-sens scored, cheers erupted on the bridge and from flight deck galleries. One American1 turned away toward Nagara, and Fuchida saw its planform in the distance and sensed it was bigger than the American Douglas torpedo planes. The last of the Americans burst into flames and splashed into the sea short of Hiryū. As Akagi sailors roared in elation, the lookout above them shouted a warning.