by Kevin Miller
Ensign Clay Fisher, Bombing Eight, 1720 June 4, 1942
Aided by the lowering light, Fisher saw the flashes ahead from over twenty miles away. Tiny black puffs dotted the sky, and here and there a flash appeared before it turned into a puff. Some were co-altitude. Holy shit!
Combat. All the big talk at the Royal Hawaiian, in the bunkrooms, even in letters home. Aviators like Fisher were held up as heroes before they had fired a shot. Going off to fight the Japs! Lick ’em good, Clay! Older men – veterans of the Great War – sent boys like Fisher off with their respect. After you see the elephant for the first time, sonny, it’ll make you a man. Their matronly wives hugged his neck, wrung their hands, and said they’d pray. When they looked at him, their eyes welled up with what? Fear? Admiration? Please save us from the Germans, Clayton. Be a good boy and come home soon.
They would gladly offer their daughters to him, but they didn’t have to – the girls did that themselves. All the hotshots had a photo of a girl they carried a torch for, were “pinned to,” a girl, real or imagined, who had “said she’d wait.” Some jumped the gun anyway, and, inside the bunkrooms, they swapped steamy stories of rolls in the hay with a big-breasted farm girl they met on leave or of the good-time floozy who invited home the last guy on her dance card. Deck seamen on liberty in Alameda had a doll on each arm. If you wore a uniform, all you had to do was catch what was thrown at you. Anything for the war effort.
Many of his chums would not reach thirty years of age, some of the gunners not even twenty. With the end of life weeks or days away, there was pressure, urgency. This might be it. My only chance! Then guilt, shame, fear, and forgiveness…if sought. Have mercy on me, Lord, a sinner.
Mortal sin. Eternity. Fisher and the others had already faced it. All had seen death, sudden and fiery. You can die in this business. Like the lieutenant and pom-pom gun crew who had died on the flight deck hours earlier when a wounded VF guy from Yorktown had crash-landed with live guns that went off. Sprayed the island with fifty cal. Killed six in a second, no warning. Poor guy.
Lieutenant Stebbins of Scouting Eight led the reduced formation. Another screwed up cluster! The Enterprise boys were practically rendezvoused when Fisher’s plane was spotted aft, and it took forever to get the rest brought up and pushed back, then warmed up. Everyone was mad at everyone else, and all Fisher could do was grit his teeth as the Enterprise bombers set out to the west without them. The Big E birds were long gone before Hornet got her first SBD off. What were the heavies on the bridge thinking when they sent us off without the COs or Sea Hag to lead?
Fisher’s own Bombing Eight planes were led by Fred Bates, a jay gee, not even a full lieutenant. Everyone else was an ensign! He put it out of his mind. Having flown in the morning’s flubbed attack, Fisher had as much “combat” experience as any commander aboard.
He mashed down on the interphone.
“Ferguson, they’re up ahead. About five minutes to go.”
“Aye, aye, Mister Fisher. All set back here.”
“We got ’em, and I’m lookin’ for CAP. Don’ see any up here,” Fisher added.
“Keepin’ my eyes peeled, sir.”
As they closed the fleet, a carrier was in the middle, on fire the length of it. We missed out, Fisher thought. It was clearly done for, and, though it ran hard, no longer a threat. With the sun in his face, it was difficult to see any CAP fighters over it. Maybe they had all run out of gas. On the surface, escort ships, many of them big, fired AA that exploded high over the task force.
As tail-end Charlie, he needed to stay tight. Alone, he’d be ripe for the picking. Ahead of him the tail-gunners searched the skies behind them for threats, as did Ferguson, their free guns pointed skyward. Waiting. When did the Enterprise guys get here? Twenty, thirty minutes ago? Then a glint, a movement on the surface, in front of his right wing. He opened a bit off Jim Barrett to study it. A Dauntless, alone heading east. Seemed okay. What happened to his wingmen? Fisher searched for them. What happened here?
Fisher triple-checked his switches. He could not screw this up, especially after the morning failures. Too many VT and VF guys lost; he and the others had to come through. Not getting his bomb off was a fear on par with getting jumped by a Zero. A lesser fear was not hitting a Japanese deck. He had to make his bomb count.
The carrier flashed as it raced to the northwest: induced explosions. Near it was a cruiser and two big boys, with the pagoda masts, just like in the recon card deck. Stebbins didn’t seem to be going for them, and ahead, Fisher noted two cruisers, both in hard turns and firing at something. He searched for more Enterprise planes. Nothing.
Stebbins veered them left, and up the line Fisher saw signals exchanged. Bates eased away from Stebbins and signaled for left echelon step-down. At once Fisher deduced the plan: We’ll come out of the sun. What’s left of it. Two cruisers, and Bombing Eight will take the far one. Textbook. And there’s no CAP!
As they set up, Fisher had time to study the carrier. The forward part was smashed in, completely aflame, and gave off heavy smoke. He could see inside it. Fascinated, he noticed it turn and slow a bit behind a cruiser as destroyers stationed on each quarter escorted it. A float plane came into his field of view, heading for the cruiser. It was a Jap, the red dots on the wingtips visible even in the late afternoon. His first enemy plane sighting. The elephant.
With a sudden pitch up, Bates was in, opening his dive-brakes as he went over. Whoa! Fisher thought, not expecting him to go so soon, expecting he’d continue another 30-40 degrees. One by one, his squadronmates followed, and, on the surface, the cruiser opened up. Barrett pushed over, and Fisher was next.
“Ferguson, we’re in!”
Fisher lifted the nose and deployed his own dive-brakes as he overbanked down behind the others. Gunfire along the length of the cruiser, defiant.1 He placed his sight on it and brought the throttle back at idle. Outside, the slipstream roar increased as the prop turned easily in front of him. He was fast, gaining on Jim, and he held the flap switch. Too late – too much airspeed! He tapped the rudder to get out of Jim’s slipstream and gain separation. Huge bomb explosion on the target – dead center! Watery blooms to port. Whoa! The real thing!
Glued to his bombsight, Fisher saw two lights float toward him. Startled, he looked around the tube and saw a row of flaming balls loom up, then rocket past Bates, past Barnett. Toward him. He held his position and saw that they would miss high, ripping the air with rapid pops. They sounded like the snaps of a pajama shirt pulled open fast.
“Four thousand, sir!”
Antiaircraft fire poured out of the cruiser into fountains of flame that Fisher and all his mates were flying inside. He was fast, behind, ball leaning left, and scared shitless. Now hyperventilating, and, with his bombsight on the cruiser’s anchor chain, he’d drop a little high. He fed in a tad of left rudder as he pickled using electrical release.
Nothing. Pickle again! No jolt. Realization and dread gripped him at once. Hung bomb! Seconds from death, the altimeter raced toward zero.
Mother of God!
As the angry ship and the Pacific Ocean rushed up to smack him, a desperate Fisher pulled – hard – snatching back on the stick with two hands in terror. At near redline airspeed, he carried an extra half-ton of unwanted weight. Shoved down and squeezed like a vise by the unseen force of ten g’s, Fisher blacked out. Still conscious and with eyes open, he couldn’t see, but held his pull as he strained and struggled to breathe, guessing when he should ease off and “see” again. Dive-brakes! He closed them as the g continued to crush both men.
His Dauntless jumped ahead once the flaps retracted, and Fisher eased his pull as much as he dared. From a soda-straw-sized tunnel, his vision widened to full view. In that full view was a destroyer, firing furiously at them. At me!
Driven by fear and adrenalin, and still at the redline limit, Fisher opened the throttle all the way and flew over the ship’s fantail. He pushed down to the water, now faster now than he had ever
flown a plane, tracers missing behind while others ripped the surface near him. He was terrified to be carrying the bomb off target and fearing the wings tearing away from the fuselage. And being hit by the flak around him. For a moment he was alone – just running, flying, breathing. Escaping. He picked up SBDs to his right and turned to follow. He hadn’t heard from Ferguson. Is he hit?
“Ferguson, you okay!”
“Geez, Louise, sir! Think I blacked out!”
Fisher nodded. “Me too! And I’m flyin’ this thing! The bomb’s hung. Once we clear, I’ll try to release it.”
“Yes, sir.”
They joined up with Barrett and Friesz and climbed away from the area as the Japanese shot after them in a half-hearted effort. To his left, a Zero fired at two of the scout SBDs who fought back and drove him off. Scared himself, Fisher snapped his head behind and above to pick up any more enemy. They do have a CAP! Satisfied they were unmolested and clear of the last destroyers, Fisher eased away from the others. Over…just like that. Barrett pointed at him and made the hung bomb signal. Fisher nodded his head in vigorous agreement.
“Ferguson, I’m going to slip back and forth and porpoise the nose to kick this thing off.”
“Yes, sir!”
Fisher bunted to increase his airspeed and stepped on each rudder pedal in turn, yawing the dive-bomber back and forth. The bomb remained attached. Then it hit him. Pull the salvo release handle, idiot! Relief flooded over him as the bomb fell away.
On the way back, Friesz found Bates, and, ten minutes later, they all found Stebbins’s flight. Headed for home and all accounted for. They had hit that cruiser! Fisher cursed the fact that he had played no role, but he had been there, part of it. He had seen the elephant.
Before long they saw an occasional yellow raft float by them on the surface, silent reminders of fate he would never understand. Their friends were down there. Poor bastards. Mark? Johnny? Bill Evans from VT-8? Nice guy, that Bill.
Fisher and Ferguson plotted the raft positions, times, and wind/currents as best they could. Hopefully, a PBY could rescue them tomorrow. Maybe a small boy would find them tonight. Hopefully.
Twenty minutes later, the formation came across Yorktown, dead in the water and listing hard – and at an angle Fisher didn’t think possible. He was both fascinated and sickened by the scene. A carrier – like mine! – dark and quiet, bobbing on the sea next to a lone destroyer that stood watch. Given up for dead, it looked as if it could roll over any second. The Hornet aviators inspected her, lost in their own thoughts as they flew past, and powerless to help.
Again waiting for word from his pilots, Spruance wondered if he had sent enough. Wondered what to do next. Fletcher had abandoned Yorktown but she was reported still afloat. Browning seemed to think there were five Japanese carriers, although three were burning and one reported intact, the one his planes were attacking at the moment. Mitscher had sent only half his strength. But why? A comm snafu? Ship casualty? Is it enough? For the moment, Spruance’s carriers could only maintain a defensive CAP, and wait.
Fletcher was in Astoria, steaming his task force east. That sounded like a good idea to Spruance once his planes recovered aboard. Then what? What about the heavy groups approaching Midway? How to deal with Yorktown? Spruance hadn’t heard from him and needed his guidance.
“Admiral, as requested,” Browning said, handing Spruance the draft message.
HORNET AND ENTERPRISE GROUPS NOW ATTACKING FOURTH CARRIER REPORTED BY YOUR SEARCH PLANES X HORNET NOW ABOUT 20 MILES EAST OF ME X HAVE YOU ANY INSTRUCTIONS FOR FURTHER OPERATIONS?
Spruance nodded and handed the paper back to Browning. “Approved. Transmit on the TBS circuit.”
Once Browning handed the message off to Ham Dow, he returned to Spruance.
“Admiral, what are you thinking?”
Spruance was unaccustomed to such a direct question. “I’ll let Admiral Fletcher task us, but I think we need to stay in this vicinity and defend Midway – regardless of the outcome of the attack.”
Browning gave him a pained look. “Admiral, while that reasoning is sound, I expect our boys will put the carrier they find on the bottom, or at least out of action. But there might be another. If the Japs lose the services of four carriers, they’ll likely withdraw tonight and call off the invasion. We must pursue, sir, and be in a position to attack in the morning.”
Spruance withheld judgment. “And leave Midway unguarded?”
“Sir, Midway has plenty of airplanes – they can defend themselves. This is an opportunity, sir, to knock out the Jap striking force. We can end the war in an afternoon.”
Spruance was quick to respond. “I recall an officer who once said he could lose a war in an afternoon.”
“Admiral, this isn’t Jutland. They’re on their heels now, sir, and, if they have a carrier we missed, we can hit it at sunrise. Or, if there is no fifth carrier, we’ll have free rein and can attack them at will.”
Dow returned. “Admiral, response from Admiral Fletcher.”
Spruance read the scrap he was handed.
NEGATIVE X WILL CONFORM TO YOUR MOVEMENTS
A smile formed on his lips. “Well. Admiral Fletcher just handed us tactical command.”
Browning beamed. “Congratulations, sir! Shall I have them join us for the evening’s formation?”
The radio crackled. “Red Base, Red Base… Single carrier on fire. Not – repeat not – operational. Escort consisting of two BBs, four CAs not – repeat not – damaged. Returning to base. Out.”
Browning plotted their position. “Sir, they should be back in an hour. Would be tight to turn them around for a night attack. So, Admiral, my recommendation is to continue west at a 15-knot speed of advance, spot the deck for a 0330 launch, and go after whatever is in retreat.”
Spruance considered it. Browning, after all, was the expert. But what if? What if Nagumo came at him with his own strength of battleships and cruisers, significant even apart from the heavy group spotted west of Midway and running hard to join him? Spruance would lose a night engagement against their Long Lance torpedoes and superior nighttime optics. He was outgunned as it was, and what if he did come upon them at dawn? No, he needed to stay clear.
“I’m inclined to withdraw us east.”
Incredulous, Browning protested. “Sir, they’re…just outside our grasp, only hours away. If we move east, they will certainly escape to fight another day. Admiral, we…you…cannot pass up this opportunity before us.”
“And how do we regain contact without ourselves being ambushed?”
“Sir, we’ll send destroyers. We have more than enough for a squadron to scout ahead. In the wee hours we’ll launch float planes, and again, sir, we have well over ten to search 180 degrees, with more to spare. We’ll have fixes on them and their dispositions, and the VB and scout squadrons will know right where to go from 100 miles, max. We must do this, sir. It’ll shorten the war.”
Spruance didn’t like the thought of being tied to a course of action – and steaming into the unknown was anathema. No way.
“No. I want to be where I can defend Midway and deal with the enemy surface ships, which, I concur, may include another carrier. Once the pilots are back, we need to move east.”
Browning exhaled his disgust, which Spruance detected. Spruance would have brought one of his own staff officers up short, would not stand for such rudeness, but Browning was Halsey’s man, the aviation expert, and Spruance needed his expertise. He had no time for smoothing ruffled feathers – didn’t have the energy. Could be dealt with later.
“Captain, put me someplace where I can deal with them in the morning,” Spruance said, impatient.
“Aye, aye, sir, but I don’t know where they’re going to be. They can go any direction at any speed.” Browning shrugged and turned up his hands. Spruance maintained his composure. I’m not sailing with him again.
Spruance stepped over to the chart table. Fine, then. With his thumb and middle finger Spruance measured o
ff a distance, then took the dividers to measure the distance to Midway. He measured off another distance, then thumped the chart with his finger.
“Once all planes are recovered, take us east at twenty knots. At midnight, turn north for an hour, then back to the west. I’m going to the flag mess for a bite, then to bed. Wake me with a sighting report or anything unusual.”
For a moment, an expressionless Browning said nothing. I can’t believe the Japs are slipping from us. He then spoke.
“Aye, aye, Admiral.”
“Good night,” Spruance said, and went below.
* * *
1 HIJMS Tone
Chapter 31
Midway, Eastern Island, 1740 June 4, 1942
Iverson tossed his C-ration tin into a garbage can and downed his canteen of water. He filled it from the barrel spigot, took another gulp, and refilled it to the brim.
“Danny, you ready to finish off that carrier you winged today?”
Iverson turned to see Dick Fleming step behind him to fill his own canteen.
“Yep…if we can find it out there.”
“Oh, we’ll find it. Moon’ll be up round midnight, but we’ll find it with starlight if need be.”
As the pilots walked over to the makeshift Ops tent, they observed a dramatic sunset, one marred by the black column of smoke from Sand Island’s still-burning fuel tanks. Frigate birds flitted about in the tropical breeze as the marines lugged ammo boxes and manhandled empty fuel drums to the lagoon docks. The men were dirty and sweat-soaked; none of them had let up since dawn. Far to the west, they heard a faint bupbupbupbupbup from a gunner on Sand and instinctively scanned the sky above.
Fleming stopped. “What are those guys shootin’ at? See anything?”
“No, looks clear to me,” Iverson answered. “Trigger happy, I guess.”
Three carriers on fire to the north. The B-17 crews bragged that they had hit them, ducks in a barrel. Stuffed shirt prima donnas. Flying four miles up with five gunners firing twin fifties. Even the Japs were smart enough to not get too close. Marine aviators would get no argument from the Army B-26 boys, who were shell-shocked after losing half their planes. At least they went in and looked ’em in the eye. The Navy fellows had lost all but one of their newest planes, flown back by a dazed ensign who had no idea about what happened out there. Iverson had seen the bird…almost as many holes in it as his.
