by Kevin Miller
Once on bearing line, he glanced around him. Above, Scouting Six were almost all joined; Group Commander McClusky was somewhere in that gaggle. To the east, a swarm of planes orbited over Hornet her air group mirrored their launch. Yorktown was around someplace, but he couldn’t find her and concentrated on his join up.
He slid under the CO and popped up on his right. Best signaled him to check fuel: 285 gallons remaining. He signaled that back to Best, who answered with a thumbs-up and a nod.
Others joined, and once the rest of Bombing Six was aboard, Kroeger and his mates could only wait and watch the deck. An SBD near the island had men milling about – XO’s plane? – and another pushed forward. They took it to the elevator to strike it below. From the midships elevator, a TBD rode to the flight deck. Overhead, the SBDs circled in lazy, fuel-burning turns as the pilots watched the delays on the flight deck below. After another wide circle, only two more VT-6 planes were on the deck, pushed by the sailors to their starting spots. Across the circle, Kroeger saw that the sky over Hornet was full of planes. Are they going to wait for us?
Minutes dragged, nerves frayed, and gallons remaining dwindled. Next to him, Skipper Best fumed. The torpeckers were nowhere close to being ready for launch. Outside of the turn, Kroeger closed the canopy to reduce drag and flew close to Best so as not to burn more fuel than necessary. Flying form, he admired the thousand-pounder his CO carried under him, a big weapon he also carried. He glanced down and saw 273 gallons. C’mon guys.
The time was 0745.
The pilots fidgeted in their cockpits as they flew easy circles, annoyed and then exasperated at the delay and already worried about their return fuel states. Behind them, their gunners sat and waited, resigned. Kroeger could only fly form. It’s always something.
Now the fighter escorts for VT-6 were coming up on the two forward elevators. Wish we had them, Kroeger thought. At least he and his wingman SBDs had a chance against a Mitsubishi. Tying the Wildcats to the torpeckers was the right thing to do; he didn’t resent them. What he did resent was holding, now for a full thirty minutes, the scout bombers even longer. He checked Hornet – and saw no planes over her! Incredulous, he scanned around the ship and caught her big gaggle of SBDs heading southwest, their VT squadron below them. Those guys are leaving on their own!
All 18 Scouting Six birds were up, and Kroeger wondered if the XO and the others down there would join Bombing Six on this attack. XO’s gonna be hacked if he misses out.
Another circle, another two gallons. It was the waiting that killed him. Hurry up and wait. The wait in the ready room, since long before sunrise, had been interminable. Silent, each man alone with his thoughts as they sat shoulder to shoulder.
Kroeger saw Skipper Best nod emphatically. What’s going on? The scouts rolled out to the southwest and entered a climb. The CO motioned with his hand to steady up, then signaled for a climb. Kroeger noted Enterprise with planes still cluttered aft, but the SBDs were heading out now, no question. He selected interphone.
“Guess we’re pushing out, Halterman. The rest will have to catch up best they can.”
“Yessir. I saw a Morse signal from the ship. Think they told us to go.”
“Good, we don’t have gas to wait all day.”
“Yes, sir.”
The time was 0754.
Stabilized, Kroeger noted the time and the heading: 231 magnetic. He pulled out his plotting board, marked the heading, and figured a ground speed in the climb of 130 knots. Checking the sea surface through gaps in the clouds, winds were light with only an occasional whitecap to discern direction. Once level, they’d accelerate to 150. Another hour. One more hour of waiting.
Passing 8,000 feet on the way up, they were met by a layer of white puffy clouds that stretched west to the horizon. Thirty-three SBD Dauntless dive-bombers of the Enterprise Air Group, armed and loaded, flew over the gleaming clouds and into the sunlit blue. Searching around him and through the breaks, Kroeger found no other planes from Hornet or Yorktown. Enterprise had sent her SBDs alone.
Bud Kroeger flew on his CO’s wing, monitored the engine instruments, and thought about what they would meet over the horizon.
Chapter 11
HIJMS Akagi, 0800 June 4, 1942
Nagumo considered Midway as he stood at the port bridge window. On the flight deck behind him, a Type 0 recovered from patrol chugged and popped as it taxied forward to the elevator. His secretary Nishibayashi handed him a glass of water, and someone shouted that another CAP fighter was circling overhead for landing.
He would hit Midway twice: first with the reserves now rearming and then with Tomonaga’s group sent back in the late afternoon to clean up any remaining resistance. At dusk he would retire northwest, then circle south to support Tanaka tomorrow. Not having perfect information gnawed at him. How many planes had Tomonaga lost? He wouldn’t know for at least an hour.
His mind distracted, Nagumo stepped to the forward windows for a change in scenery. Staff and bridge watch standers, aware of his presence at all times, moved aside in the crowded space, then filled in behind as he passed. Off the starboard bow, Tone’s blinker sent something to the flagship. He could read it himself but would let his staff inform him. Their job.
Nagumo stopped next to Aoki, who surveyed the screen ship positioning and his available sea room. The idling fighter on the forward elevator suddenly disappeared into the hangar bay below.
“That was a close shave back there,” Nagumo murmured to him.
“Yes, Force Commander. I just received word that two of my men perished from machine gun attack.”
“Loyal sons of Nippon. They died in great glory.”
“Yes, Force Commander.”
They stood in silence as Akagi and the Mobile Force continued southeast toward Midway – and Tomonaga’s returning attack group.
From the chart table, Kusaka groaned in frustration, loud enough for Nagumo to hear. He stood impassively, as was the custom of admirals. Kusaka would inform him within a half-minute, and he heard him approach.
“Force Commander, Tone Number 4 plane reports as follows: Sight what appears to be 10 enemy surface units. Bearing 010 degrees, distance 240 miles from Midway. Course 150 degrees. Speed over 20 knots.”
Nagumo brushed past Aoki and the helmsman toward the chart table. Lieutenant Commander Ono, the intelligence officer, plotted the position as the rest of the staff huddled along the table edges.
“Ten enemy surface units, but what kind?” Nagumo growled to no one. With the dividers, Ono measured the distance to the Kido Butai.
“Ha! Only 225 miles distant! We can hit him.”
Nagumo needed more.
“Ascertain ship types and maintain contact! Radio him. At once!”
“Hai, Force Commander,” Kusaka answered, and ensured that the message was transmitted.
An uneasy Genda stood near the hatchway. Ten ships to the northeast? Heading southeast at high speed…
It then hit him. Into the wind!
With no time to confer, Nagumo acted. “Kusaka, Aoki. Belay rearming. Put torpedoes back on all planes. Message CarDiv 2 to load planes for ship attack.”
The staff, now electrified, swung into action, and signalmen blinked the message to Kaga and Hiryū from the Morse lamps topside.
Nagumo and his brain trust remained at the chart table. Genda spoke.
“Force Commander, ten ships…by themselves? There must be a carrier among them.”
“Our scout planes cannot discern a carrier?”
“Admiral, it is a possibility we must consider.”
“Yes, and, by this chart, we can see that we are between two enemy forces. We’ll deal with the ships to the northeast first.”
Kusaka jumped in.
“Wise, Force Commander. Even if a carrier is present, at this range their torpedo and fighter planes cannot reach us, and their dive-bombers are at their extreme range. They must steam at least an hour to give them a chance. It would be foolhardy to attack wi
th no fighter escort. We have time to prepare. Besides, their reported course and speed indicates they are steaming away from us.”
Genda saw the flaws at once. He warned himself to be diplomatic and lowered his voice so the watch standers could not hear.
“Kusaka-san, we just saw them attack us without fighters, and they are steaming into the wind. We know we’ve been spotted, and they could have a shuttle-bomb attack planned at extreme range followed by landing at Midway.”
“All the more reason to neutralize Midway, which you opposed thirty minutes ago,” Kusaka replied dismissively.
Nagumo raised his hand. “We are closing the enemy and preparing to strike him. If the scout spots a carrier, we’ll be ready, and I want frequent reports from him. Masuda, when can you launch the strike?”
The Air Officer was fast on his feet.
“Force Commander, we could launch what we and CarDiv 2 have in readiness right now by…0830, allowing for spot and warm up. My estimation is that only half our torpedo bombers are still configured with torpedoes. We could launch them and the dive-bombers of CarDiv 2.”
“Fighters?” Genda asked.
Masuda’s pained expression betrayed him.
“Twelve…maybe twenty. We’ll need a similar number for our defenses here. But we must keep in mind the Tomonaga force. They’ll return in 45 minutes. To get this attack wave off, we must order it at once or wait until after the Tomonaga force is recovered and struck below. If all goes well, we could launch by 0945. This would give us added time to configure all the kankōs with torpedoes.”
Nagumo and the others considered Masuda’s assessment of what their carrier flight decks could actually accomplish. Even the battleship men knew these things took time. The Americans are so close!
Lookouts reported gunfire from screen ships to the south. All craned their necks and narrowed their eyes to see the action on the horizon.
“More Americans?” Ono wondered.
A lookout burst into the bridge.
“Sōryū reports enemy high-level bombers sighted to the northwest!”
A coordinated pincer attack? Genda wondered to himself. Fuchida pulled himself up to look aft.
Through their binoculars, Aoki and Kusaka scanned the southern horizon.
“Another attack from Midway? Can you see them?”
“No, Kusaka-san, too many low clouds, but the screen sees something.” On the horizon, a destroyer blinked a message Aoki could not decipher. Overhead, a shotai of fighters roared southeast.
Out of the clouds, a flaming plane trailed black smoke to the sea.
“Action to the southeast,” Kusaka said.
Another flame fell straight out of the clouds and disappeared once it touched the horizon. The men watched in silence, unsure if the plane was American or Japanese.
Squinting, Fuchida observed the skies to the northwest. He gave a play-by-play report as would a baseball broadcaster. “Boeing high-level bombers,” he said. “Sōryū is taking evasive action.”
“There they are!” Ono pointed off the bow.
A formation of American dive-bombers emerged from the clouds, one of them burning and trailing black smoke.1
Genda studied them through the binoculars. “Carrier-based dive- bombers – but coming from the direction of Midway,” he offered.
“They are attacking the CarDiv 2 flagship.” Oishi said.
Genda made a face. Ineffective glide bombing. Americans such as these are who defeated CarDiv 5 in the Coral Sea? The staff had professional contempt for their fellows in Shokaku and Zuikaku, but was this amateur attack the level of skill that had turned them back, postponing the southern operation? He remained quiet and watched the inept display. The burning plane, in a steady parabola, plunged into the sea with a visible splash.
Unnerved, Nagumo watched the surviving Americans approach Hiryū. “Where are our CAP fighters?” he asked. No one answered, spellbound at another suicidal Yankee attempt. The tight formation pulled off over the carrier, and all held their breath.
In close sequence, geysers erupted around Hiryū, climbing to over 100 meters high. For a moment the entire ship was obscured by the heavy spray.
“Please,” Nagumo whispered.
Hiryū emerged from the veil, unscathed.
With broad smiles, Nagumo’s staff let out their collective breath, and Oishi joked about the close call. “Hiryū’s laundry will be working overtime tonight!” The men laughed.
Zero-sens culled the American formation as a fascinated Genda watched with professional interest. Outside, Akagi’s captain scanned aft, monitoring the B-17s high to the north.2
The bomber formation drifted apart. Three are coming at me, Aoki thought. He handed the binoculars to his Air Officer. The aviator had better eyesight.
“Masuda, watch them. Are their bomb bays open?”
After a few seconds of study, Masuda answered. “They are open, Captain.” Zero-sens on the deck behind them warmed up to relieve the CAP.
“Very well. Let me know at once when you see bombs falling free.” Aoki stepped around the island aft to check for any escorts close to his starboard beam. Good. Open water.
“Here they come, Captain! Falling free!”
“Right standard rudder!” Aoki shouted as he stepped back into the pilothouse. “Right standard rudder!” he repeated so the helmsman would respond.
“Captain, my rudder is right standard!”
“Very well, increase your rudder to right full! Maintain ahead standard!” Nagumo and his staff kept silent in professional courtesy. Genda checked the seconds tick by on his watch.
As both helmsmen responded, Aoki joined Masuda outside. Sōryū and Hiryū also maneuvered hard to throw off the aim of the Boeings.
“You have them?”
“There,” Masuda pointed.
A cluster of heavy bombs floated down toward them. They held position on each other as they fell through the air. Silent. Seconds from impact, both officers perceived they would explode close to their still-roiling wake. Akagi heeled hard from the turn.
The sea next to the wake exploded in a tightly packed line of gray smoke and white spray. Water was still climbing into the air when the rapid-fire thunder from the explosions met their ears, shook them, and echoed off the hull. To the east, Hiryū heeled starboard as it turned to evade. Keeping a wary eye above, Aoki watched the bombers turn south, unconcerned about the few Zero-sens that followed.
Inside, the admiral and his staff stared at the chart, their only dependable source of information. Nagumo pushed his hand across his forehead.
“Kusaka, I want…to…know the composition of the American surface force! What’s the delay?”
“Admiral, during the attack we received a report that they turned to 080.”
“Very well, Chief of Staff, but what are they?” Nagumo fumed under his breath, struggling to maintain control so as not to cause undue concern among the ship’s sailors. Unforgivable. He clenched his teeth tight. We are behind schedule.
“Haruna is under attack,” someone pointed out.
Genda welcomed the perverse respite from the tension as he watched Haruna maneuver. Flashes and cordite smoke seemed to cover the battleship’s superstructure as it defended. Genda shook his head. More lackadaisical Americans in another pathetic glide bombing attack. One bomber flamed up and exploded halfway to its final resting place.3
“A carrier dive-bomber of an obsolete design, Force Commander,” Genda informed him.
Nagumo said nothing. How many more planes did Midway have? An existential threat, the atoll had to be dealt with. The American ships? Maybe a threat if a carrier was among them, maybe not. Midway was more known than unknown, and the air group leader was little help. Restrike? With no amplifying information? Nagumo pondered the options he had before him, all urgent and all necessary now. Midway and the American ships both had to be dealt with, but what truly was the priority? He needed double his force. He had to act…his responsibility. Doubt crept in.
Did I act too soon?
Kusaka left him, and though surrounded by his staff and watch standers on the overcrowded bridge, Nagumo felt alone with his thoughts.
It felt good.
* * *
1 VMSB-241 SBD attack, Maj. L.R. Henderson
2 Lt.Col. W.C. Sweeney, 431st BS
3 VMSB-241 SB2U attack, Maj. B.W. Norris
Chapter 12
Torpedo Eight, Southwest of USS Hornet,
0810 June 4, 1942
Belted in the seat of his cockpit, an agitated John Waldron looked as if he would explode.
From his position three miles below the rest of the Hornet Air Group, Waldron monitored the SBDs and Wildcats while he worked the navigation problem on his plotting board tray. Evans sensed Waldron was angry. No, irritated. No, frustrated. He went over a list of words that could capture the emotions of his CO as a scowling Waldron peered down the echelon of his TBDs, beginning with Evans. The skipper glanced right and assessed, then back to the plotting board. They were holding 238 magnetic. Evans remembered hearing a base intercept course of 240 before they had bolted from the ready room. Is that close enough?
High above, through breaks in the clouds, the bombers and fighters flew a double vee formation and edged ahead of Evans and his mates. They looked like a flock of geese flying south for the winter. He couldn’t tell the exact heading of CHAG Ring and the SBDs, but it was basically southwest. Pilots on the ends of the formation jockeyed their throttles to remain in position. Evans was glad he didn’t have to. As they flew, the VT pilots stole glances skyward. They had only been gone 15 minutes and had at least another hour to go…if the Japanese were there. What had happened to the Enterprise birds?
Waldron could not keep still in the cockpit, and, seated behind him, Chief Dobbs pressed his throat microphone at regular intervals. Evans assumed they were having a conversation. Waldron kept looking to starboard. Evans looked off his nose to see what his CO was eyeing. Nothing but empty horizon.
“We’re going in the wrong direction.”
The sudden radio transmission jolted Evans, and he looked over at Hal, who did not appear concerned. On Waldron’s left wing, Moose maintained formation with no reaction.
