The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  “He left?”

  Rodee’s perspiration was from more than the midday heat. A feeling of foreboding then came over Mitscher.

  “Sir, we were pretty much leveled off at altitude, and it was hard to see him with the cloud cover, but he told the group commander he was goin’ to the Japs.”

  Mitscher was stunned. A squadron commanding officer just up and left the group formation. On his own. Unheard of. What the hell?

  “Did Commander Ring approve?” Mitscher asked, his face frozen in disbelief.

  Rodee struggled to answer. “No, sir…”

  His patience spent, Mitscher sensed there was more and stepped toward Rodee, whose lip quivered.

  “Lieutenant Commander, tell me, now.”

  Rodee looked from Mitscher to Soucek, who listened from behind Mitscher’s shoulder. The old aviator’s eyes narrowed.

  “Now!” Mitscher barked.

  “Sir, Johnny said he knew where the Japs were.”

  “On the radio?”

  “Yes, sir. Sea Hag told him to pipe down and fly form, but Johnny kept at it. Pretty much told Sea Hag to jump in the lake.”

  Mitscher was incredulous. Waldron was aggressive, but this? Public insubordination? Open defiance?

  “What did he say exactly?”

  “Commander Ring or Johnny, sir?”

  Mitscher exploded. “Waldron!”

  Rodee braced up, eyes locked on his fuming captain.

  “Sir, Johnny told Sea Hag to go to hell, that he knew where they were. He veered off right, about thirty degrees I’d say – pretty much west. I followed him for about five minutes before I lost him.”

  “What did Commander Ring do?”

  “Nothing, sir. He and the rest of us continued on our heading for about another hour and a half. Actually, the fighters didn’t stay that long.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “Sir, they left in singles and small formations before Pat finally turned to catch up with them. They were all low on fuel, and I thought they’d be here, sir.”

  Mitscher tried to comprehend it all. At this point, if his planes weren’t on a flight deck, they were in the water – or Midway. And where the hell was Ring? He had recovered over ten minutes ago, then scampered below. Enough with the petrified scout CO.

  “You wait here,” Mitscher said, sent his orderly to summon Sea Hag to the bridge at once.

  As Rodee waited in the sun, Ring arrived on the bridge. Mitscher sat in his chair, weighing several explanations for Spruance and Fletcher. At the moment, only Waldron, by leaving the formation, may have found the enemy. Did he get hits like he’d said he would?

  Behind him, Ring cleared his throat. “Cap’n? Reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Mitscher turned and scowled at Ring, noting his combed hair under his fore-and-aft cap and his fresh khaki shirt. After several seconds, Mitscher finally answered.

  “Come with me.”

  Mitscher led them outside onto the bridge wing gallery, where Rodee waited, with Soucek as witness.

  “Stanhope, we’ve been waiting to hear. What happened?”

  Ring nodded with a nervous look in his eyes. “Sir, we couldn’t find them. We flew down the assigned bearing, but they weren’t there.”

  “Navigation error?”

  “No, sir, I watched it like a hawk, and the winds were light on the surface. We had okay visibility, but it was tough to see between the broken layer below us.”

  Mitscher held Ring’s gaze.

  “Where is VF-8?”

  “Sir, I don’t know. I was leading us on course, and when I checked behind me, they were gone.”

  Mitscher nodded. He said nothing, his annoyance evident.

  “Where is Torpedo Eight?”

  “Sir, Johnny Waldron just took ’em someplace without my direction. We had left the ship about thirty minutes earlier. I don’t know where he went.”

  Mitscher nodded again. Ring was holding back.

  “Your scout CO here says you had an argument with Waldron on the radio.” Rodee looked ashen.

  “Sir, Johnny said we were going the wrong way but, Captain, I stayed on the course you gave us that we all agreed on. Waldron didn’t agree, but once you gave your order that was it, and I wasn’t about to hash it out on the radio with a squadron CO. I told him to stay in formation, and the next thing I knew he was gone. He’s a wild card, sir. I’ve tried to work with him, but I must recommend disciplinary action when he returns.”

  Mitscher felt as if he were transported in time back to Annapolis, a Firstie bracing up two plebes discovered out of their room at lights out.

  “So that leaves Ruff. Did you argue with him, too?”

  Ring shook his head in vigorous motion. “No, sir. Bombing Eight was with me until I turned back. I think they went to Midway.” Mitscher noticed Rodee was unable to maintain eye contact. Who to believe?

  At that moment Soucek was handed a dispatch. As he scanned it, the others waited for his report.

  “You’re right, Sea Hag. Just got a message from Midway; Ruff took his boys there. Once the Marines fuel ’em, they’re comin’ back here.”

  Mitscher breathed a sigh of relief, but that still left his fighters and torpedo bombers unaccounted for. And unless Waldron found the Japs and sank them single-handedly, Hornet’s entire strike had been a failure. No, a disaster! Ring had taken 59 planes out with him, and only these 17 bombers had returned! Seventeen! No reports of hits, not even a damned sighting! Insubordination? More like mutiny. Whole squadrons just leaving. Unheard of. Mitscher needed time to think. He needed a warrior like John Waldron – the confident flight leader Waldron, not the high-strung hotheaded Waldron whom he couldn’t trust. Whom could he trust? He had little in the two aviators facing him. Were the Japs stirred up and coming? Defending from that was the priority; the accounting could wait. What really happened out there?

  “You two are dismissed. But get ready to go again this afternoon.”

  “Where’s the damn ship?”

  Wade McClusky’s shoulder burned in pain, and, while his fuel needle wasn’t touching E, it was close. He was wounded but could fly. The SBD was holding up. Between his VF experience and Chock’s marksmanship, they had held off the two Zeros that jumped them once clear of the enemy screen.

  His thought back to the attack. There was an intact carrier out there – that he had missed. Too many dive-bombers hit one, planes that could have been diverted to attack that fourth carrier. Hornet or Yorktown got the ship far to the northeast; he had seen dive-bombers recover from their dives on the hopeless ship. Some TBDs were in the mix. Gene? Or some other squadron? He couldn’t tell.

  He had taken too long to find the Japs, and that one remaining flattop could retaliate. His airplanes had fallen out of formation all morning. Way too many losses. As flight lead and group commander, the attack was his responsibility.

  Failure.

  He called for help. The ship was 60 miles east. Sixty miles! Thirty minutes at best, and into the wind. He’d have one chance or make a water landing in The Big E’s wake.

  A carrier came into view, on a recovery heading. He turned toward it and made a recognition turn. Something was strange… Darn it, Yorktown. Wasted time and wasted fuel. To his right, he noted a splash on the surface. Someone had ditched short of the task force. Failure.

  Five miles east were two more slabs, and, recognizing Enterprise, McClusky pressed on. His boys circled for landing. The fuel needle was holding, and he wasn’t sure he could trust his landing ability with his wounds. He’d let the young guys recover first. He had to report to the admiral, the captain: the Japs would come, gotta regroup, set the CAP, and rearm the bombers. As he circled in wait, he felt weak and dejected. He took too long to find them…found them too late.

  With most of his chicks aboard, McClusky lined up on the flight deck. One of his SBDs was still in the pattern, and McClusky cut him out. He hadn’t seen him. Too bad. The LSO rogered his group commander, then waved him off.
At the signal. McClusky shook his head. Sorry, pal. Can’t do this again.

  After almost five hours airborne, an exhausted and bleeding Wade McClusky took his own cut and slammed down hard aboard Enterprise at 1150 with three gallons remaining.

  Taxiing forward, he noted Dick Best, heading toward the island. After the director inched him ahead to a spot and they chocked him, he cut the throttle and the engine sputtered to a stop. Painfully, McClusky pulled himself out, retrieved his plotting board, and eased down the wing to the flight deck. Home. But no time. They’ll be coming.

  Driven, he ignored the men staring at his bloody sleeve as another straggler dive-bomber taxied forward out of the landing area. With tunnel vision he strode to the island hatch to climb the steps to the bridge and report to Captain Murray and Admiral Spruance. He didn’t see any TBDs on the bow. What happened to them? Only a handful of Best’s SBDs were aboard, and many of the Sails from Scouting Six were absent. He scanned the western horizon – clear. Did I screw up? McClusky asked himself. Hornet was recovering planes. Maybe they went there, or found Yorktown. Any port in a storm.

  Inside the island, Best climbed one ladder and turned to the next when he encountered Captain Browning, waiting to intercept him. Pompous ass.

  “Best, what happened?”

  “Sir, I’m coming up to tell the captain and admiral.”

  “I know, dammit! Tell me what happened!”

  Exasperated, the lieutenant bit his tongue before answering. “We hit two carriers, and somebody hit one to the northeast.”

  “You hit two?”

  “Yeah, and they were burning hard.”

  “Sunk?”

  “No, sir…burning. Like hell.”

  Browning was impatient. “Dammit, man! Are they out of action?”

  “Yes, sir, far as I can tell.”

  “Best, are you sure?”

  “Sir, I’m tellin’ ya, there wasn’t an inch of flight deck that wasn’t burning when I left. Huge explosions. They aren’t gonna fly any more today.”

  “Which one did you hit?”

  “Akagi. Positive. Three hits, two amidships and one aft.”

  “Only three hits?”

  “Yes, sir, three for three,” Best answered, arrogant condescension spilling out. Browning studied him, suspicious.

  “You attacked with only three planes? Why the hell only three?”

  “Because the group commander took my carrier! I led my guys to the far one, which was Kaga, I swear, according to doctrine. And just when I’m pushing over, the Sails shoot past me in their dives. Almost hit me, and most of my guys were already committed. So I took my two wingmen a few miles away over to Akagi. Three for three.”

  “You’re sure? How many hits on Kaga?”

  Frustrated and exhausted, Best answered. “Sir, I don’t know, but it looked like newsreel film of Pearl Harbor: black smoke, everything blowing up. Kaga and Akagi are done for today, and there was a third carrier to the northeast on fire from stem to stern. Best bombing I ever saw.”

  “The torpeckers?”

  “Sir, I don’t know if they were involved, but I saw SBDs dive on that one to the northeast, and I do know that when I left there were three ships on fire and one carrier undamaged, up to the north. Recommend we rearm and hit it ASAP.”

  When Commander Walter Boone joined the impromptu intelligence debriefing on the ladder well, McClusky struggled up. His left arm hung limp as he pulled himself using the handrail with his right, plotting board wedged against his elbow. Boone was shocked at the sight of his blood-soaked left side.

  “My God, Mac, you’ve been shot!” he exclaimed. Best helped Boone steady McClusky against a bulkhead. Browning stepped forward.

  “McClusky, how many carriers did you hit? Where are the TBDs?” he demanded. Because McClusky was obviously ambulatory, Browning ignored his wounds.

  Panting from his exertion, McClusky took a breath. “Three are burning, sir. I hit one… Dick, you got that one to the right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Best said.

  “And somebody got one to the northeast. Is Gene Lindsey back yet?”

  “No, none of the VTs yet,” Browning answered, then added, “Are you positive the carriers you hit are out of action?”

  Winded, McClusky nodded. He looked as if he were about to collapse. Boone had seen enough.

  “Mac, we gotta get you below.” He grabbed a sailor who was held up by the officers crowding the ladder well. “You, help me get the commander down to sick bay.”

  McClusky didn’t argue as Boone and the sailor helped him below. Browning focused again on Best.

  “Did you see any Hornet planes? Could you have just seen stack gas from the carriers?”

  Best was at his limit. “Sir, the only other planes I saw out there were the ones shooting me after I pulled off, and the SBDs that hit the carrier to the northeast. And, sir, I know the difference between stack gas and black smoke from a fuel-fed fire the length of a ship. Three ships are out of action – and I’ll bet sunk by now – but one escaped. Recommend we go back at once, sir.”

  Browning scowled at the cocky lieutenant. Before ripping him, he needed him to go out and kill again.

  “Message received; go below and stand by for orders. Wait, who’s the senior squadron commander?”

  Best tried to be respectful. He should know the answer to this.

  “Willie Gallaher, Scouting Six.”

  “Okay, go below. Go.”

  Disgusted, Best did as he was told, wondering what Browning would convey to the captain and the admiral.

  Chapter 22

  Flag Bridge, USS Yorktown, 1150 June 4, 1942

  Fletcher watched the last of the scout bombers clear the bow and fan out on their assigned search tracks. Reports from Spruance and his own dive-bombers indicated three carriers hit. A fourth was reported undamaged. The Japanese would retaliate, and twenty minutes earlier Fletcher had learned that he had been spotted. Spruance had sent him an updated sighting report, but attacking with only one scout squadron of SBDs was risky. He and Spruance would recover and regroup while his scouts found and maintained contact. In a few hours both task forces could launch the hammer blow.

  The deck now ready, two SBDs entered the landing pattern while others circled. Spence Lewis squinted as he scanned the sky.

  “Admiral, I count fifteen bombers overhead, plus these two. All of Max Leslie’s planes are back. Looks like the VF lost one.”

  Fletcher nodded. Losing just one plane, and the man inside it, passed for good news in carrier combat. But what about the TBD planes? Spence would have the answer.

  “Don’t see any of the VTs,” Fletcher said. “What do you think?”

  “Sir, they’re slow on a good day, so I’m not too surprised. They’ll probably show up in the next twenty minutes or so.”

  Fletcher nodded again as the first plane caught a wire. As it rolled out in the gear, the engine sputtered and stopped.1

  “Whoa! That’s an Enterprise bird!” a surprised Lewis informed him.

  As plane pushers manhandled the fuel-starved SBD over the barrier, the two officers noted the damage to the tail. Big chunks missing due to cannon fire. The right wing was peppered with bullet holes. The second one down also belonged to Spruance, his ships barely visible to the south. It, too, was shot up, the wounded gunner bleeding from the mouth.2

  “Guess these guys went to the first carrier they found,” Lewis surmised. “That means all of Max’s planes aren’t back yet.” From his station above, Murr Arnold shouted orders to strike the refugees below and bring the pilots to the bridge at once.

  While the Wildcats took their turns at landing, General Quarters sounded.

  “Uh-oh. Let me find out why, sir,” Lewis said. Fletcher waited for him to return with a report. A nervous lookout or a real attack? He suspected the latter.

  High above Fletcher, the giant radar antenna turned, sending and receiving invisible energy that could detect planes farther than any lookout cou
ld see. The fall-of-shot tower masts on his carrier, and on the old battlewagons at Pearl, were anachronisms, useful for the last war but not this one, where flying machines and “circling bedspring” antennas determined the next move. If you could wait for it. At least he could know when something came at him from over the horizon.

  In furious haste, gunners loaded their catwalk guns and snapped closed their kapok jackets as the last F4F recovered aboard. Fletcher recognized the kids, initiated to combat only last month. Bloodied and tried, yet still fearful, knowing better than those on Hornet to the south what was coming. The bogeys were at twenty miles, and the group commander vectored fighters to meet them. Lewis and Buckmaster directed the ships in screen and their air defenses to prepare for the onslaught. How many? What kind of planes? He stepped to the chart table and retrieved his tin helmet. Wash basin with a chinstrap. He could do nothing more than consider the next move while all around him defended TF-17 and its vital carrier. I have nothing to do.

  He studied the chart. Nothing but black latitude and longitude lines on a cream background, with two black dots to signify Midway on the bottom. Penciled-in fixes of sighting reports. Who knew how accurate they were? Fletcher thought about Nagumo far to the west – both were fighting with paper and pencil and fragmented information. He wondered if Nagumo’s carrier was the intact one, if he, too, was hostage to his fliers, those advising him on his staff and the farm boys in the airplanes. The fighting farm boys.

  Thach arrived on the bridge, and Lewis motioned him over.

  “Admiral, Commander Thach has a report.”

  Fletcher turned to face Thach, his sweaty face lined by combat.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Commander Thach, CO of Fighting Three,” Thach said.

  Fletcher extended his hand, and Thach took it. “Welcome back, son. What happened? Spence, can we get this man a cup of water?”

  Thach nodded, impatient to report. “Sir, three carriers are burning. We found them pretty much where we expected. Max Leslie’s boys plastered one, and two more were burning to the west. Not sure who got them.”

  “Was it the VT?”

  “No sir, not ours anyway,” Thach answered. Fletcher saw he was troubled as Lewis handed Thach a paper cup filled with water. The exhausted fighter pilot downed it in one gulp.