by Kevin Miller
Bright flame from the bow turret of a cruiser on the right surprised Maruyama as Hashimoto leveled his formation at 50 meters. Nakao hung on in position, fighting to ignore the sudden water columns created by big American shells that erupted to their left and right, blasting water into the air like giant fish nets placed in front of the kankōs to snare them. Ahead of the carrier, another cruiser did the same from her after turret. “Watch out!” Hamada cried as an arc of American lead shot over them from behind.
Maruyama crouched into the tunnel and picked up the gray carrier. The ship filled his computer’s aim sight. Crossing 2,000 yards of range, he shouted “Take us lower!” Nakao descended to release altitude amid the rumble of gunfire. Maruyama felt more than heard the punches and plinks from small caliber hits as he lay prone. With a whoop Hamada fired at something – A Grumman? – but Maruyama could not see, could not assist. His station was here, under Nakao, his loins exposed, only a thin sheet of aluminum for protection between him and the enemy bullets and the 300 kilograms of high explosive their kankō carried. He watched the range count down, slow and agonizing. His subconscious wanted him to get up and run over the wave tops to safety, but it was overruled by his conscious mind. For now he was trapped inside this delicate aluminum insect.
“Banzai! Hashimoto-san! Banzai!” Nakao yelled out from above him.
Glued to the target computer, Maruyama concentrated on the aim point. Hashimoto must have dropped, and soon the others would release as they came into range. Maruyama had to wait, but he could not wait too long, lest they be blown out of the sky. Three hundred yards; he’d pull the release handle at 300. Point blank. Now a veteran, Maruyama would make the call. They couldn’t afford a miss.
“Nakao, fly the plane! Left two degrees! Level fifteen meters!” he barked, and the bomber twitched left under Nakao’s obedient control. “Whoa!” Hamada cried as an eruption of water jumped up behind them.
Through the viewfinder Maruyama could see the gallery automatics, and bigger crew-served guns on the bow, muzzle flashes and wisps of tracers. Splashes on the surface stitched a line and others suddenly appeared like fat raindrops from no known source. Concussions, more plinks on the kankō’s skin, a thunder of gunfire from someplace ahead over the steady roar of Nakao’s firewalled Hakari radial engine. Seven hundred yards…
“You bastard!” Nakao shouted as Hamada bellowed banzai from behind. Maruyama fought to assess the range and angle-off while surrounded by the chaos inside and outside his Type 97 bomber. He lined up on the bow, the port anchor his aiming point. The carrier ran hard, but Maruyama had seen His Majesty’s ships run faster in training runs. He sensed the great carrier turn away from them. Hold it…hold it…Now!
Maruyama yanked on the release, and, with a familiar jolt, the torpedo fell away. Nakao whooped in joy as Maruyama extricated himself and lifted his head above the rail. A childlike Hamada again shouted, “Banzai!”
They were alone with the American carrier, nothing but a cliff of steel in front of them, the flight deck now above them. Through an opening in the hangar bay, a man stood, frozen, and, along the catwalks, the Americans delivered their murderous fire. Maruyama could see them, like those Americans on the moored battleships who had run confused, to something, anything, unsure of what was happening. But these Americans had the high ground, a wall of black shadowed by the afternoon sun, and every gun that could poured a broadside into Maruyama and his mates.
Nakao veered left and ahead of ship as tracer rounds hurtled toward them. Sharp punctures to the empennage and Hamada cried out. “I’m hit!”
Maruyama turned to see Hamada writhing in pain, clutching his bloody hand as lightning flashes of tracers snapped past. He couldn’t fire the gun, and Maruyama craned his neck to search for any Grummans on their tail. As they crossed the carrier’s bow he saw the red faces of the frantic American gunners trying to get their weapons turned around on them as they roared past. Ahead, the Akagi bird was still carrying its torpedo and falling behind. Why didn’t they drop? Nevertheless, it was now every man for himself, and Nakao took a heading between a destroyer and a cruiser as the carrier’s starboard gallery opened up with sheets of tracers.
“Banzai! We did it! A hit! BANZAI!” Hamada cried, ignoring his wound and overcome with joyful, savage emotion.
Maruyama twisted in his chair in time to see a giant geyser lift high above the carrier next to a rain of falling mist from a previous hit.
As Nakao and the rest of Hashimoto’s kankōs fought their way out of the cauldron, Maruyama sensed they had done it. Once clear of the anti-aircraft, and with no Grummans visible, he looked back.
The carrier no longer made a wake, and it appeared to have a list.
Fletcher and Lewis looked aft from the bridge wing as Astoria heeled to port, her batteries firing at the small group of planes attacking Yorktown.
“C’mon! C’mon!” Lewis shouted over the deafening roar.
Fletcher grimaced as the last five Japanese torpedo planes approached the carrier. They dropped – Dang it! Now it was up to Elliot to avoid them. With dread, Fletcher and Lewis saw he could not, despite the furious and confused crossfire that converged on the little line of Japanese planes.
The swift Nakajimas scurried west and away, but Fletcher ignored them, waiting and hoping.
“Oh, hell!” Lewis cursed as the first torpedo found its mark, sending a plume of spray hundreds of feet into the air.
“Hit her amidships. Dammit!” he added, and by instinct he looked south to assess TF-16. Fletcher kept his eyes on his flagship, still in a starboard turn.
Fletcher groaned when a second plume shot as high as the first, and also on Yorktown’s port side amidships. “Shoot!” Lewis barked, and again he scanned the skies for threats – and for salvation.
For the second time that afternoon, Yorktown coasted to a stop. No flames, but she had already developed a list. Lewis gripped the rail and watched her before he exploded in frustration.
“The last two planes! Of all the damned luck!”
Spruance and Oliver watched the action to the north, another dome of black spots and flashing lights over Yorktown and her escorts. A sudden black line led to the water, marking a downed plane that both prayed was Japanese. Along the flight deck, gunners in helmets and kapok jackets stood at their guns, also watching their mates fight for their lives on the distant horizon.
On the other side of the shelter, Browning agonized. For two hours, this timid admiral had dithered, waiting for direction instead of actively seeking it. Content to let others find the Japs. Best and the other fliers said there was another ship out there, intact. Can’t always believe them…no, we got four carriers. Browning was convinced there was a fifth or sixth Jap carrier remaining, and after they were done pounding Yorktown they’d be down after TF-16. We should have launched at least an hour ago; Bill Halsey would have launched the damn float planes. Would’ve ignored Fletcher and sunk the Japs singlehanded.
“Yorktown’s net just went dead, sir.”
Browning nodded. “Figures,” he muttered, not acknowledging the radioman. She got hit again, and if this bookworm doesn’t get off his ass and take action, we’re next.
Spruance turned as Lieutenant Commander Ham Dow approached him. “Sighting report, sir, from Yorktown’s planes.”
Browning appeared from the other side of the shelter, irate that he didn’t intercept it. “Where away?” he barked at the Communications Officer. “Range, bearing, and time?”
Spruance read from the sheet Dow had handed him, somewhat amused to receive it direct. He hadn’t received a direct sighting report since he’d been a ship captain. Halsey ran a loose operation, and the chain of command was fluid. Spruance tried to fit in and not make too much of it. Absentmindedly, he felt the stubble on his face, proud that he’d adopted this brown-shoe “combat” practice. After two days without shaving his whiskers were longer than they had ever been.
Buracker stepped forward. “Admiral, one of Yorktow
n’s scouts found another carrier, undamaged. This could be the fifth one.”
Spruance read the dispatch and handed it to Browning, who devoured it like a starving man.
“Okay, sir…two groups, one with a carrier in it…two-seven-nine at one-ten from us. Admiral, recommend we attack as soon as practicable.”
Spruance nodded. “How many can you send?”
“Sir, we’ve got fifteen of Yorktown’s dive-bombers and about ten of our guys. Hornet’s planes from Midway should be back aboard or close, but she should be able to put up about twenty-five with what she has on hand. Then there’s our remaining torpedo planes…”
“No,” Spruance said, shaking his head.
Browning remained silent. He’d let it pass. Live to fight another day.
“Then, sir, that’s about fifty planes. We can easily hit two carriers, and there’s gotta be another one in that second group the pilots missed. I’ll give them orders to go off on the battleships and cruisers if the carriers are sinking.”
“When can you launch?” Spruance asked.
Browning looked at his watch. “I’ll coordinate with the captain sir, but we could go at…1530, in forty-five minutes.”
“Very well, attack with your dive-bombers. Keep fighters here to defend this task force and TF-17 to the maximum extent.”
“Concur, sir,” Browning said before wheeling to call the bridge on the direct circuit. Finally!
Doctor Sam Osterlough stepped onto the bridge to find Mitscher on the starboard bridge wing. Mitscher watched the silent activity over Yorktown in the distance, lost in his thoughts.
“Captain?”
Mitscher turned to his senior medical officer. Osterlough noticed his captain’s bloodshot eyes under the shaded bill of his cap. Mitscher knew why the Doc was here.
“Sam, what’s the butcher’s bill?”
“Five dead, sir. Twenty wounded.” Osterlough then swallowed and added, “And sir, one of the dead is Lieutenant Ingersoll.”
Mitscher recoiled inwardly, as if squeezed by a giant hand. Admiral Ingersoll’s son. Of all…
Nobody could be blamed for such a freak accident. The wounded Yorktown F4F pilot had found refuge on Hornet when his own ship had been damaged during the attack two hours ago. The gear collapsed on landing, and, as the fighter skidded toward the island, it let loose with its .50s, spraying the personnel standing on deck near the island hatchways. By reflex Mitscher had ducked below the bridge wing gallery rail. He then peered down and saw the carnage underneath him, not knowing the boys, but knowing them. His boys. Responsible.
“Did he live?” Mitscher asked, afraid to learn the answer.
“No, sir. Killed instantly.”
Mitscher nodded. He remembered an encounter with young Ingersoll at a Mare Island reception when Ingersoll was a midshipman home on leave from Annapolis. His father was a cruiser captain then. Almost ten years ago. Ingersoll was one of his wardroom lieutenants, a comer whom his father had helped steer to this ship. My ship. Gone now, no warning. Responsible.
“Captain, two will lose use of their arms, and one man his leg. We’ll probably amputate once we come out of GQ. Some men inside were hit with splinters…afraid for one of the sailor’s eyes.”
Mitscher could only absorb the news as he strode across the bridge to the port wing as Osterlough followed. Casualties – from self-inflicted fire. Still no word from Waldron’s squadron, nothing from Midway, nothing from Mitchell’s escort fighters, no word of water landings or rescues. It was still early. Maybe they’d spot them later in the afternoon. With any luck.
Three burning Jap carriers evened the odds, and word of a fourth from a scout plane meant Enterprise would send orders soon. Mitscher readied his bombers anyway and thought of Ring as he watched his plane handlers push his available SBDs aft. Ordies with bomb dollies followed. Could Sea Hag handle this? Soucek stepped beside him.
“Captain, just got word that Bombing Eight took off from Midway an hour ago. Knowing Ruff, they’ll be here in another ten or fifteen.”
Mitscher closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as Soucek let him vent his frustration. When he opened his eyes, Hornet’s flight deck was still a jumble of airplanes, most of them wedged aft and spotted for takeoff.
“How many?” Mitscher asked. Even keel!
“Unclear, sir…we got word that about twelve landed there…I’d expect ten or twelve.”
The time was almost 1500.
Mitscher squinted and lifted his head to the sun as he worked a kink in his neck.
“Okay, Apollo. Let’s hold this spot until Ruff shows up and we get definite contact with him. Then we’ll break it to recover them and respot for launch. I expect Enterprise to launch in an hour, and we should make that, but no orders yet. Meanwhile, get Stanhope up here and keep loading the bombers.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Captain, when we recover the bombers, can we swap out the CAP?”
“Good idea. Proceed,” Mitscher said, confident that he’d be ready in time.
Chapter 27
Scouting Six Ready Room, USS Enterprise,
1505 June 4, 1942
“All right, listen up!”
The dive-bomber pilots stood among the high-back chairs and crouched around Skipper Gallaher in the jammed ready room as he briefed them on the afternoon’s plan. Best stood next to him, assessing the junior aviators’ attention, while Kroeger leaned against the forward bulkhead and listened.
“Okay, we’ve got a pickup team this afternoon to go against that one ship that escaped this morning. It’s identified as a Sōryū-class carrier and its last reported posit was two-seven-nine at one-ten. Once we man up and launch, we’ll rendezvous overhead. Enterprise planes at two thousand, and you Yorktowners at three.”
Kroeger glanced at the faces next to him, many unfamiliar. Practically all of Yorktown’s VB were here, and, like him, veterans of the morning strike. Many stood close together in their sweaty khakis, goggles perched on their heads, helmet straps dangling.
Kroeger wanted to go back and finish it – and he had never seen Best so fixated. But the VS boys were mad and wanted revenge, their dark and angry eyes not leaving their CO. They were no longer afraid, none of the pilots were, and Lieutenant Gallaher would now lead the whole gaggle back to the Japs.
“Once we all get aboard, we’re going. Don’t know what Hornet’s going to do, but we’re going. No fighter escort – just us. I’m going to take us up to fourteen, and we’re going to get right after them at 180 knots. So, hang on.”
Next to Kroeger, Fred nodded his understanding. So did Best, who stood next to Gallaher, a public acknowledgment of his intent. Once they departed the ship, they’d find the Japs within the hour – and even the bridge couldn’t screw up Point Option as much as they had this morning. Chalk dust flew as Gallaher drew on the blackboard.
“Once we find ’em we’re gonna come south and up sun and come at ’em like this in a right-hand turn, or left if the geometry dictates. Dick, you stay with me on the outside of my turn and follow us down. Watch for fighters and stay tight. Dave – where’s Dave? Lieutenant Shumway?”
From the middle of his pilots, Shumway raised his hand.
“Okay, Dave, you float your turn about ten degrees off us before you guys push over. Everyone, solid dives like this morning, steep and balanced, and on the pull out we’ll be headin’ east for home.”
Best interrupted. “Yeah, Dave, on my egress I was watching you guys hit that carrier to the east – best dive-bombing I ever saw.” Shumway acknowledged him with a humble nod. Kroeger felt a twinge of envy; his fellows had never received such a compliment from Best.
Gallaher resumed.
“If there’s two carriers, then Dave, I’ll direct you. If near-far, expect the near ship, and if left-right, I’ll make a radio call and back it up with hand signals down the line. Watch me, and take the other one – the one I’m not going on. We had some confusion this morning and want to avoid that. If we plaster one or both and it
becomes overkill, go for a battlewagon or cruiser. Saw a few of those this morning. Go home in squadrons, and Dick, you can stick with us if you’d like.”
“Thanks Willie, we just might,” Best answered.
“Yeah, expect Point Option to be east southeast, and it’s gonna be gettin’ dark, so buster back here if you can and heads on a swivel. You may or may not see the Hornet guys, and again, I think they’re comin’ but don’ know their plan. Any questions?”
Kroeger had none. At this range, 1000- or 500-pound bombs made little difference. He presumed the VS would carry their customary 500-pounders. The Yorktowners, like him, were VB pilots and carried heavies.
The speaker crackled. “Pilots, man your planes!”
With an explosion of activity, the aviators undogged the hatch and burst through it onto the flight deck. “Go get ’em, boys!” Gallaher yelled as they whooped and hollered like a football team rushing from the locker room to the field.
Inside their battered Type 97, an exhausted Maruyama reached for his canteen. It felt light as he lifted it out of its housing. Did the plane captain not fill it? Inspecting it further, he saw it was holed in the middle, by bullet or shrapnel, he wasn’t sure. He had never sensed being shot…actually hit. He turned the canteen carefully to swallow the water that remained. He examined it again. An American bullet forged by an American smelter had ripped open his canteen. His Majesty’s canteen.
The cockpit seemed draftier than normal, and at his feet was a small patch of sunlight. He found two holes, metal shards facing into the cockpit, evidence of bullet entry. On the left side of the cockpit he found an opening with the shards facing out, into the slipstream. Fascinated, he realized a bullet must have entered and exited while he was on the floor aiming their torpedo. Blessed by the Gods of War.
Deep down, he and the others knew they would fly in the service of His Majesty until they died. Nobody got shore duty, certainly not lowly petty officers. But if Lieutenant Tomonaga and Mori and Miyauchi-kun could give their lives for the Emperor, Maruyama would gladly join them.
