by Kevin Miller
“What is it, sir?” Bibb asked.
Evans could only give his best guess. “The Zero canopy is big, but that’s a long canopy… Could be a Nakajima.” He focused his eyes, and made out a red mark on the fuselage.
Evans was fascinated. The enemy. Surely it had seen them. It? No, Japs. Japanese boys were in that plane, and no doubt alerting more Japanese boys. Were they ahead? How many? How many ships, planes, boys? By now, every crew in the formation watched as the interloper flew away. The horizon ahead was empty. Evans checked the clock: 0910. With nervous energy he reached down to wind it.
Japanese.
Evans knew in his heart they were human, far removed from the buck-toothed caricatures of recruiting posters. But they were alien. With an alien culture, an alien tongue. Eastern. Evans was from the Midwest: Indianapolis, Indiana. Where were these Japs from? The only Japanese city he had heard of was Tokyo. He remembered his mother admonishing him for digging a deep hole in the backyard. You’ll dig through the earth to China! Tokyo must not be too far off then. Evans wondered what kind of people they were, what was going through their minds now. Indianapolis. Tokyo. Though they come from the ends of the earth.
Waldron pointed ahead and clenched his fist, pumping it with excitement. Evans followed his eyes forward.
And he saw them, tiny indentations on the horizon, like jagged rocks on a ridgeline. Wisps of shadow, appearing stationary, yet seeming somehow to move with methodical purpose. He noticed a light, a blinking light, as if it were from one of the tin cans that escorted Hornet. Drawing closer, the indentations changed shape as the ships maneuvered in a formation that took up most of the horizon. Some of the features were long and flat…
They had done it!
Skipper Waldron had done it! The CO pushed on the stick and his pilots followed, gaining airspeed as they descended to the wave tops. Where were the VB, the scouts? Evans looked south and up through the cloud breaks. Nothing. Next to him, Waldron signaled for attack formation, and Evans passed it to Hal who relayed it down the line.
“Stanhope from Johnny One. Enemy sighted.”
Evans searched for the rest of the air group. He couldn’t help it. Since the split, the distance between them had opened what he figured was fifty miles. Hell, the Wildcats could cover that in ten minutes, the SBDs in fifteen. Maneuvering into attack position on the Japs ahead would take most of that time. “Stanhope from Johnny One… Answer…enemy sighted.”
Behind him, the XO’s division slid aft into position and provided the mutual support of the defensive triangle the CO had briefed. Evans fell back into a right echelon, making it easier to fly form on the skipper and see the enemy formation ahead.
It was impressive.
The strange ships were pale gray in the sun, many maneuvering hard with white water flying off their bows. Evans counted three carriers; the biggest was the farthest away. A plane was landing on one of the nearest ships, and no CAP fighters were visible. He looked over his shoulder at Hal, who smiled back.
“Stanhope from Johnny One…”
Leveling at 100 feet, they charged ahead at 120 knots, the fastest they could get with the fish they carried. Waldron led them to the nearest carrier, low and sleek, some ten miles ahead.1 To Evans’ left, a Japanese destroyer appeared two miles off, surprising him. It fired its bow gun, and Evans was transfixed by the yellow bloom from a gun trained at him. He wished he could somehow stop and write notes but realized how ludicrous that was. No, he would remember every second of this experience for the rest of his life. Torpedo Eight had penetrated the outer screen of the Jap fleet! All the training, all the ready room talk. This was it – torpedo attack – maybe their only chance, maybe his only chance. Where is the CAP? Waldron then transmitted, clear and composed.
“We will go in, we won’t turn back. We will attack. Good luck.”
Evans and the others held their positions as they absorbed the message. He and the others searched in vain for friendly fighters to help. He saw no VB or scouts high above ready to plunge on the Jap carriers, to draw their fire, to wound them, to open a lane for Evans and the rest of the torpeckers.
But Evans felt no fear. Heck, the Lexington boys had done it, and with these same TBDs! VT-8 would, too. December 7th was a stroke of luck; the Japs had caught us with our pants down. Evans had confidence in himself, the TBD, and the squadron. And Skipper Waldron. He had done it!
Waldron turned in his seat and pointed over his left shoulder. Fighters. Zeros! Evans picked up three of them in a left bank, with three trailing. They maneuvered to come out of the sun. There are three more, and another three!
“You see ’em Bibb? Looks like a whole squadron of them passing down our port wing.”
“I got ’em, sir!”
High to the southwest Evans picked up many more dots, all converging on the Americans. The first group of Zeros were swinging their wing line, in no hurry, setting themselves up. Evans watched them while he maintained position, and behind him the second division of TBDs had stepped down from the first. Glancing right, he saw the echelon weave as wary TBD pilots, distracted from formation-keeping, watched the fighters set up behind them, now in hard, knife-edge turns.
“Johnny One under attack!” Waldron radioed.
The Zeros to this left closed in, still banking hard, and to Evans’s estimation about to overshoot the entire American formation. Maybe they aren’t that good, he thought, and in an instant considered that the skipper had positioned the TBDs like a porcupine, quills ready to strike any predator that got too close. The Japs are just watching, afraid to mix it up with us! Evans then looked up. He was shocked to see more Zeros – seeming to dive straight down on them! He checked his six.
Oh my gosh!
Amazed, Evans watched the lead Zeros go from 90 degrees off to nose-on in a flash, tighter and faster than he had ever seen a Wildcat turn. In unison, they fired on one of the second division planes, with yellow flashes blinking from their noses. Around him, the TBD gunners fired back as the pilots held course. When Bibb opened up, the chatter of the twin .30s was louder than Evans had ever heard but was soon drowned out as the three-plane of Zeros roared overhead and off right.
Once off, the high fighters were in, and they swooped down on a trailing TBD, setting it ablaze with accurate high-deflection gunfire. Back to his left, the swarming fighters took their turns, and, out of the corner of his eye, Evans saw a large splash with a black smoke trail behind it. Another Zero dove down, and streaks of light reached out to one of Evans’ friends.
No!
The Japs swirled about them like khaki-colored sparrows, the rising sun “meatball” on their wings easily visible. Their black nose cowlings hid guns that shot synchronized yellow flame between spinning propeller blades. As they pulled off, Evans could make out their human faces through the closed cockpits, alien faces that looked at him with calm detachment. Your turn will come.
Terrified, his head swung with wild-eyed fear to pick up the next attack. Behind him Bibb blazed away at the Japs as the skipper shouted something on the radio. He looked over to Hal.
Hal!
Nagumo’s staff peered through their binoculars as guns from the screening vessels to the east opened fire on unseen attackers. They observed faint silhouettes of carrier planes diving and climbing. Fuchida admired the performance of the CAP fighters. A flash, followed by a thin, black smoke trail, appeared, then another. On the other side of the bridge, Captain Aoki ordered a port turn.
“Enemy torpedo planes… Carrier based,” Genda offered.
Nagumo turned to him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, Force Commander. An obsolescent model, painted gray as all of them are, and coming from the east.”
“The scout report was correct,” Kusaka said with a smile. “This is all the evidence we need.”
Genda was captivated. “There goes another… Looks like ten enemy, maybe more.” They look like waterfowl on a faraway lake.
All were captivated by the scen
e that had caught the attention of flight deck crew. They looked off to the east as Akagi heeled to starboard, unable to help themselves. The planes appeared stationary on the horizon as sunlight glinted off their wings. With increasing frequency, black marks appeared among them, trailing down to the sea as the fighters swooped about in their grisly ballet.
Fuchida stood behind Genda and murmured, “Again, no fighter protection.” Genda nodded as he continued to scan the horizon. Over the American formation, Zeros dove and climbed like eagles on a millpond. Cruisers and destroyers laid smoke and above the enemy – who kept boring in – black AA bursts dotted the sky. None on Akagi’s bridge had witnessed such slaughter as they had for the past two hours, and still not one hit.
“Looks like they’re running on Sōryū. Are they brave or just desperate fools?” Fuchida asked, not expecting an answer.
Genda had no answer to offer. Unease grew inside him; they must be from the carrier that Tone’s scout had spotted. The carrier everyone thought was far outside the range of these obsolete Douglas torpedo planes. A carrier that was supposed to be riding at anchor in Pearl Harbor.
They aren’t supposed to be here yet.
Evans twisted in his seat to track his assailants, now coming from all sides. Bullets stitched the water near a smoking TBD behind him, and, across from the CO, a Devastator climbed away from the formation as it rolled left. The burning plane continued in a slow and graceful roll on its back as the fiery nose fell through. Horrified, Evans watched the gunner fall – or jump – from the bomber and follow it as the TBD dove headlong into the waves, sending up a high spray that caused those in the formation behind to veer out of the way.
“Is that a Zero or one of our planes?” Skipper asked on the radio, to anyone who would answer.
“Devastator,” Tex answered him.
They continued ahead, the high RPM roar of the Zeros growing in volume then fading just as fast, again and again. Bibb continued his fire, but, even between the rapid pops of the .30s behind him, Evans heard the chattering machine guns and slow booming cannons as the Zeros worked them over.
Skipper Waldron continued toward the carrier, just a flat slab, but Evans, now panting in a fear beyond terror, didn’t think that at this rate any of them would make it there and back. To his right a TBD exploded, and frag sprayed the plane next to it and set it on fire. He fought the human instinct to flee, to leave the formation, to run in scared retreat as an infantryman could. But he could not, afraid to leave what meager support the shrinking formation could provide, to remain stable for Bibb to shoot, to follow the CO as he had trained them. If there is only one man left…
Surrounded by the cacophony of deafening fire, Evans gripped the stick and throttle harder than he ever had, gritting his teeth with shoulders hunched and squinting his eyes. He didn’t look back anymore…too terrible. Ahead was terrible enough with fields of froth from missed rounds, Zeros darting about like bats, ships on the horizon with yellow blooms from the heavy stuff and small caliber winking from the lighter. Some of the fighters attacked head-on with rhythmic flashes from their wings. The sea around him was now white with spray and sudden geysers that looked like full-grown oak trees jumping out of the sea. In his peripheral vision he detected flashes – his friends.
“I’d give a million!” the skipper transmitted. Evans was unable to decipher the rest through the combined and desperate sounds of 45 inches of manifold pressure ahead of him, Bibb firing behind him, screams on the radio, Jap rounds snapping past the canopy, and his jackhammer heartbeat.
“My two wingmen are going in!”
Waldron’s engine exploded and fire cascaded over his windscreen. In back, the chief wasn’t moving, and as the plane nosed down, Waldron threw the canopy open and bolted himself out on the right wing. Evans watched in horror as his commanding officer stood next to his burning cockpit, no longer able to fly, but still leading the way to the enemy. Waldron stood resolute as the North Pacific rose up to meet him, and disappeared in a shower of spray and debris.
“Skipper!” Evans shouted.
Beyond where Waldron went in was empty water. To Evans’s right…more empty water. He saw a few TBDs behind him, tail-gunners blazing away against the incessant fighters.
Ensign Bill Evans was alone and in front, heading to the carrier now turning to port. By the geometry, if he could overtake it in the next five minutes, he would attack it from starboard, as the CO had drilled into him. Go in and get a hit.
“Ow!” he shouted as a round thudded into the armor plate against his back. Another exploded against the instrument panel above the throttle quadrant. “I’m hit!” Bibb cried, and Evans turned to see the guns pointed up with Bibb’s head moving.
“Mistah Evans, I’m hit!”
“Hang on, Bibb!” Evans yelled back while oil smeared the left windshield. Pressure and RPM were holding, but his airspeed and altitude instruments were out. He would have to best-guess 80 feet and 80 knots.
Zeros pulled abeam for another attack in an approach run that seemed to take an hour. At least two TBDs were in trail, and, with Bibb wounded, he could skid his plane to throw off the Japanese aim. The Mk 13 made the Devastator fly like an ox cart, but he had to keep it, had to drop it on the carrier ahead amid smoke, spray, and tracers that filled his view.
“Mother? Mommy!” Bibb shouted, loud enough for Evans to hear.
“Hang on, Bibb! We’re approaching the target!” Evans cried, fighting back tears of fear and frustration, of panic and shock. Please, God! And realization. We don’t have a chance!
Bullets slammed into T-3 with metallic punches to the corrugated metal skin of the wings – and to the engine. Evans’s windscreen shattered in front of him as the antenna mast was shot off – Oh please, God! – and the slipstream buffeted his face with gray smoke. The engine bucked in its housing, and Evans instinctively retracted his throttle.
Except that he couldn’t. His left arm wouldn’t move, and when he looked down another round exploded through the glass canopy. He pushed on the left rudder to maintain balanced flight – but his leg wouldn’t move. He reached over with his right hand to reduce the RPM, but the engine would not respond. Frantic, he firewalled it back, but nothing.
More staccato aluminum punctures, more spray kicked up ahead, and, without warning, the vibrating engine belched black smoke from the left cowl flaps. Evans was losing consciousness, but a calm spread over him. It was quieter now, the sounds of combat muffled in the background as images appeared in his mind: that fun day on the Wabash, tackle football in the front yard, standing next to pretty Doris Smith for the 8th grade class photo, cranking the neighbor’s Model T and jumping back from the…
Bang!
Sparks and flame gushed from the smoking engine that then sputtered and seized. Evans felt tired but no longer afraid. Beyond the motionless propeller blade, the water approached. It is like they say, he thought, comprehending, accepting, beyond fear, his eyes now focused on the swells ahead. Flying fish jumped out of one swell and dove back into another. Enthralled, he wanted to see more, and drew closer.
* * *
1 HIJMS Sōryū
Chapter 14
LCDR Wade McClusky, Northwest of Midway,
0930 June 4, 1942
McClusky felt the tension in his gut.
The air group commander had a decision to make. His SBD was below half fuel, and the 31 Dauntlesses of VB-6 and VS-6 probably had less. He had already passed where he thought he would sight the Japanese carriers, and, at 19,000 feet, should have been able to see for dozens of miles.
Except for the damn clouds! Cotton balls scattered or broken over the water as far as he could see. To the south was a black column that rose skyward until it was carried away to the west by the high-altitude winds: Midway. Little over 100 miles, he figured.
The rubber oxygen mask, brittle from the cold, added to his discomfort. He couldn’t remember the last time he had used one. Hard to talk. Behind him, Radioman Chocalousek said no
thing. Like the other gunners, he tried to stay warm as he too searched down through the clouds. Conversing on the interphone wasn’t something McClusky did as a single-seat fighter pilot. No one to talk to. And the current situation didn’t lend itself to a conversation with an enlisted man he didn’t know, whose job was to operate the radio and free guns. Chocalousek and the rest of the pilots and gunners in the Dauntless formation depended on one man, their group commander, to lead them.
McClusky sensed the resentment. Dick Best and especially Earl Gallaher were experienced SBD pilots. McClusky knew dive-bombing, but he was VF, not VB like them. They had to get hits, but first they had to find the Jap carrier force. Earl was the scout CO. Who better to lead this gaggle? To McClusky, however, leading was never a question. He was senior – and responsible. He had to lead, and could not delegate it.
He was comfortable leading, had led long open-water navigation legs, but had never led such a large formation of SBDs, certainly not two squadrons worth. He liked the Douglas: decent climb, honest handling, rock stable in a dive. With little experience in the newer SBD-3, he welcomed the help from a radioman-gunner. The SBD was no darting falcon, but it was tough, and if need be McClusky could maneuver it for a high-deflection shot with his fixed guns. If some Zero pilot got slow in front of his wing line, McClusky would flame him.
Most of his planes had been airborne for two-and-a-half hours. Together they had departed Enterprise over 90 minutes ago, the aviators sucking rubber in freezing cockpits. McClusky checked the position of the sun: high to his left. A fighter-pilot habit. Zeros could get up there, above him, but he didn’t consider it likely. The rays warmed him. Thank God for the sun.
Five more minutes. About twelve more miles. That would put him 36 miles beyond the planned intercept point directed by Captain Murray on the bridge. There must be planes out here somewhere: a PBY, Army bombers from Midway. McClusky had never wanted to see a Zero so bad in his life. Even if it came out of the sun…his home must be nearby. McClusky was already beyond the point of no return, and the 63 men behind him knew it, too.
