The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  “We’ve got twelve birds up, six and six. My SBD from yesterday is still shot up, so I’m gonna take one of them Wind Indicators.”

  “Mine’s shot up, too. I’ll fly a Vindicator,” Iverson said.

  “No, they need an experienced flight lead, and I don’ mind flyin’ the old sputterin’ hen. Flew one last night… Was like puttin’ on a familiar glove.”

  They wolfed down their meal and gulped the last of their coffee as the sun peeked through the clouds. The day was going to be another hot one.

  “Let’s go see if the Navy has anything for us,” Fleming said.

  At the Operations tent, Colonel Kimes was in conversation with Tyler. Fleming joined them, and Iverson hovered behind. Kimes acknowledged Fleming and motioned him to join them at the chart table, a plywood board on two sawhorses.

  “Dick, glad you’re here. Okay, we’ve loaded you boys with 500-pounders and topped you off. The Army bombers are out searching, as are the flying boats. Looks like four burning carriers still to the north and an indication of battleships west of us about a hun’erd. They’re retreating, but we’re not sure if all the Japs are. Once we get a solid report, you guys are going, so be ready at zero-six for tasking. And if you find that sub that shelled us last night, put it on the bottom.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tyler said as he nodded. “What are the Navy guys doing out there?”

  “Don’t know. Keepin’ their activities secret. I’m not all that sure what the Navy did yesterday. It was the Army guys that hit ’em.”

  “Must be nice,” Fleming said wistfully.

  Kimes left as the other pilots gathered, and Tyler held an impromptu briefing. Weather. Runway condition. SBDs push over from ten in steep dives. Vindicators glide bomb – all they could rightfully do. There would be no fighters; the Japs had savaged them yesterday, especially the old hand-me-down F2As. Maybe the Japs still had fighters from an unknown carrier, but probably not.

  On the flight line, an SB2U started with a bang and the engine coughed to life.

  Iverson studied the chart. A heading of west took them south of Kure, a useful landmark to lead them back. Beyond Kure was emptiness. Trackless water. Oblivion.

  At 0635, a jeep rolled up and Kimes jumped out.

  “Zach! Saddle up! We’ve got two battleships, one apparently damaged, west of us at one twenty-five. Headin’ west at fifteen knots or so. No reports of carriers. Hit ’em hard. Take off ASAP!”

  Kimes handed Tyler the sighting report as the pilots donned their parachutes and cinched down their helmets. Tyler marked the position on the chart as Fleming watched. Iverson and the others stood behind, plotting boards in hand, waiting. Tyler measured the distance, and, with a straight edge, the bearing. His pilots waited, taking nervous glances at their watches.

  “Okay, two battleships, one damaged and trailing an oil slick, two-six-four magnetic and one twenty-five out. Heading west at fifteen knots. From the time of this sighting till when we can get out there they’ll have moved another twenty or thirty west. So, Dick, let’s you and I fly two-six-eight. If we don’t see ’em after a transit of 180 miles, let’s set up a square search. Stay together until we find them, then Dick, you accelerate ahead and push over first, and we’ll be right behind. If you get lost fly east, find Kure, then come home. And don’t forget your damn recognition turns; the gunners are jumpy from last night. Questions?”

  There were none, and the pilots trotted out to their planes where their radiomen waited. Though still low, the reflected sunlight turned the crushed coral brilliant white, and Iverson squinted to see. Reid was on a wing, waiting, and waved as Iverson approached.

  “Reid! Hop in. We’ve got confirmed targets.”

  “Yes, sir. What are they?”

  “Two battleships,” Iverson said as he hoisted himself up on the left wing and slid his plotting board into the instrument panel tray. “West of us for about one-fifty or so. We’re going out at ten-thou.”

  “Yes, sir. Any word about Major Norris?”

  Iverson turned to look at Reid. The gunner was really asking about Norris’s gunner, his friend. Corporal Whittington.

  “No. No word. Bad weather.”

  Reid nodded as he climbed in and lowered himself into the circular seat. Iverson couldn’t tell him what the pilots sensed. Vertigo. He’d had it last night himself. The stated reason Norris hadn’t shown up was bad weather. The unspoken reason was he got disoriented and flew into the water. Almost took the formation with him. It could have happened to any of them. All Iverson had to do was fly form. The major had to lead and search in pitch blackness. Could’ve happened to me.

  Starting charges fired, pistons coughed, and props fluttered. SBDs around them roared to life. Iverson lowered his parachute and himself into the seat bucket, strapped down the lap belt, hooked up his earphone cord, and flicked on the battery.

  “Ready, Reid?” he shouted.

  “Ready, sir!” Reid replied as he slapped the side of the fuselage twice.

  Iverson then looked at the linesman tending the fire bottle and nodded.

  “Clear!” Iverson bellowed, and engaged the starter.

  After an hour, they saw the slick. Tyler veered the formation left to line up south of the oily east-west trail. They would find their quarry at the end. Iverson got his bearings with one last look at Kure over his shoulder. The faint circular feature served as their step-off point as the marines again flew into an abyss of open water.

  Minutes later they came into view: two big ships trailing faint wakes, some thirty miles ahead. In his cockpit, Tyler assessed them with binoculars while Iverson and the others maintained position. They seemed small for battleships, but they were still far away. To jarheads like Iverson, it didn’t make much difference. Except for carriers, one warship looked like another.

  Tyler positioned them to come out of the sun – over their left shoulders and about thirty degrees up – and called for the SBDs to accelerate ahead of the slower Vindicators. The Dauntlesses would dive today – steep – and Iverson glanced down at the outboard lever marked DIVE BRAKES.

  Approaching from the enemy’s port quarter, 24 men in 12 cockpits looked for additional ships and fighters. Iverson scanned to the south and above. If there was a carrier nearby with fighters airborne, they would attack out of the sun, like yesterday.

  “Keep your eyes peeled, Reid. You never know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re divin’ on ’em. Gonna be steep today. Back me up on altitude.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  The two ships drifted down the right side of Iverson’s cowling. He whipped his head back to check the sun; Zach Tyler’s geometry was going to work perfectly. Behind and underneath were Dick Fleming’s Wind Indicators. At this rate, all the SBDs would be in and off before the old SB2Us got to their release points. Perfect.

  The ships turned left. We’ve been spotted, Iverson thought, and warned Reid. Ahead, Tyler maintained his heading, and, using his hands, signaled for everyone to arm up. Out of habit, Iverson checked his fixed guns: charged and ready.

  The ships were big, with turrets forward and aft. One looked queer, but Iverson couldn’t peg the reason.1 Regardless, they were enemy ships caught in the open. With one last scan, he checked the horizon for specks, glints of sun. No CAP anywhere in the cloudless sky. Good. VMSB-241 was livin’ right. Fuel tanks transferring, low blower, low prop pitch. Armed up.

  Black puffs appeared above the ships, steaming a mile apart. From the brief, Tyler would take them to the trailing ship, the queer one. Twisting in his seat, Iverson saw the SB2Us behind his left wing, slightly low, going for the lead ship. Dick Fleming was in his run, his wingmen tight.

  Puffs exploded ahead of them coaltitude. The flak the ships put up was thick, and Iverson wondered if Tyler would fly into it before he pushed. Still fast, Tyler brought them to a slight climb to bleed off airspeed. Iverson tightened up on the others, and, with his throttle closed at idle, kicked the rudder to skid off some
airspeed. Ahead, Tyler opened his dive-brakes and the others matched him. About to overtake Glidden, Iverson lifted his nose up and away for a count as he moved his dive-brake lever down.

  Despite oily smears on the glass, he saw the target through his cockpit floor window. A big ship making a big wake. Along its decks, the steady flashing of AA served as a warning of their preparation.

  Tyler pushed straight over, followed by his two wingmen. Delaying a count, Glidden glanced over at Iverson to check his position and gave him a thumbs-up. He then lifted his own Dauntless up for a moment and pushed over. Once Glidden’s nose broke the horizon, Iverson followed.

  The idling propeller spun and engine noise subsided as the roar of the slipstream outside increased. Using the fixed gunsight, Iverson put the ship inside and peered through the bombsight to track it.

  Maneuvering to place his telescopic crosshairs in front of the bow, he held his dive and adjusted trim with his left hand as he corrected for roll with his right. The ball was off left and he trimmed it out, bringing Elmer’s wingtip into view as he did. Iverson scanned around the sight to assess distance.

  Faint, wispy lights floated up – and then shot past. Like yesterday, Iverson was again in the middle of them. He dove into a funnel of light, the tracers unsettling evidence of only a portion of the barrage of hot lead coming up at him on all sides. No escape. Ahead, the SBDs held steady, red dive-brakes bright, and Iverson noticed the lead planes pull off. Satisfied that he was stabilized clear of Glidden, he came back inside. Bullets ripped the air outside, as did the sharp pops of detonating shells.

  “Four thousand!” Reid called out.

  Iverson concentrated as he reached down to the bomb release handle. A white circle formed next to the ship’s port quarter. Captain Tyler’s bomb. Short. Another white bloom, sudden and close to the bow. Tracers snapped louder…

  “Three thousand!”

  Iverson aimed for a patch of water just ahead of the turning bow and held it as two more white circles of exploding spray appeared next to the battleship. The huge ship broke free of the spray, and, swathed in gray gun smoke, moved into Iverson’s crosshairs. The fiery funnel walls narrowed, and Glidden pulled off right. Holy crap!

  “TWO, sir!”

  With sudden realization, Iverson yanked up on the release handle, having pressed it as much as he dared. The plane jumped as the bomb fell away, and Iverson flicked the flap handle forward, opened up the throttle, and snatched the stick into his lap. As he did, the vise-like force of 9 g’s squeezed them tight.

  Iverson gritted his teeth and strained against the crushing pressure as his vision tunneled. The horizon came into view, and with it, yellow dots of tracers, which zipped past him. He leveled off on the waves, like yesterday – déjà vu – splashes jumping up off his right wing. Ahead were two SBDs. Join on them. Behind him, Reid opened up.

  “Yellow sons o’ bitches!”

  Reid held a long burst, holding it in vain frustration as Iverson turned behind the ship’s fantail. “Reid, enough! Yer gonna overheat!”

  Reid stopped, and the tracers did, too. The last SBD pulled off as a geyser from a near miss lifted water high as the ship ran from under the onslaught. The superstructure and fantail continued to blink and spit yellow flame. Iverson snapped his head between the SBDs ahead and the target receding from view. Smoke? A hit? No, the smokestack. The curtain of mist fell back to the sea. We missed, Iverson thought at he put the plane in front of him next to his canopy frame to join up.

  “Sir! They got one!”

  Looking south, he saw it, a long trail of black smoke that led to the water, irregular at the end, with a puff of smoke short of the second ship. Other Vindicators followed it in their dives, and more geysers and white columns of seawater bloomed next to the Jap battlewagon.

  Who? Who was it? Were any already off? “Reid, which one was it?”

  “Can’t tell for sure, sir. Think it was the lead.”

  Dick? No, can’t be. Not Dick. Crackin’ jokes and keepin’ his cool only this morning. Take another drink o’ Dutch courage, Danny.

  Iverson searched south and counted. The last Vindicator pulled out and off as the ship defended itself with manic gunfire. Another white column alongside…another near miss.

  With the two ships not letting up, the marines cleared to the east as the leads gathered up their respective formations. As he joined on Glidden, Iverson took quick glances south: five dots heading east. In desperation, he searched the sky around them to find a sixth. Not Dick. Please, please, God, not Dick.

  Behind them, the two Japanese ships held their fire and resumed their course to the west.

  * * *

  1 The IJN cruisers Mikuma and Mogami, which had collided during the night. Mogami lost 40 feet of her bow, and over the remainder of the battle many American aviators misidentified Mikuma as a battleship.

  Chapter 34

  USS Enterprise, 0815 June 5, 1942

  “They don’t need us up there,” Spruance said as he waved his hand in front of his face. “You and I had a busy day yesterday, and it won’t hurt us to relax for a while.”

  Lieutenant Oliver did as Spruance suggested and took his seat in the flag mess. Not that he had any choice as Spruance’s aide. In a good mood, the admiral had a slight smile on his lips.

  Spruance motioned to the steward. “More coffee, please.” He absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the linen tablecloth as the Filipino mess man poured for both officers.

  Impatient to get back to the war, Browning and the others had inhaled their eggs – still fresh after some ten days at sea – and gulped their coffee before they extinguished their half-smoked cigarettes in the crystal ashtray. Each requested to be excused to return to the flag shelter and Spruance nodded his consent. He didn’t object; they were Halsey’s men. Aviators. Impatient.

  “How are you adjusting to carrier life?” he asked Oliver.

  “Fine, sir. Figured it out fast enough. Can never get used to the hangar bay – so much open space. She sure rides well. Right now it seems as if we’re in the turning basin and not the high seas.”

  Spruance smiled and took a sip from his cup.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Oliver probed him. “Sir, how did things go yesterday? Are you pleased?”

  With his hand still on the cup and arm resting on the table, Spruance considered the question.

  “Typical battle. You have an idea of enemy strength and objectives, how they will probably behave. Then it starts, and reports are incomplete, off a bit, or even wrong. Thick fog of war. It’s the waiting that’s most difficult. The fliers were gone for over four hours, and we had no idea what was happening.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Even the radio. Oftentimes unclear, disjointed. It is remarkable, though, that we can even get a glimpse of what’s happening over one hundred miles away.”

  Oliver nodded, waiting for Spruance to continue.

  “And that radio direction and ranging antenna spinning over us. We can see into the future, see their attack direction. Paid big dividends for the Brits when the Germans attacked by air across the Channel. Probably what saved them from defeat.”

  Oliver nodded again. “Yes, sir, and it appears Makalapa Hill was right.”

  The admiral nodded as he picked up his cup. “Yes, and another critical factor. Remarkable.” Spruance let it hang in the air, not acknowledging how the intelligence was collected. He took another sip.

  “You know, the coffee is different on this ship from others I’ve served on. Have you noticed it?”

  Oliver took a sip and tasted it.

  “Now that you mention it, sir, it is. Can’t put my finger on it, though.” He took another sip and savored it.

  Spruance lifted the cup to his lips and thought for a moment. “Cinnamon. A dash of cinnamon. Do you concur?”

  Oliver sipped again. “Come to think of it, sir, it does taste like cinnamon,” he said, amused.

  Spruance looked at his cup, satisfie
d at having solved the mystery. “Cinnamon. Something for the flyboy’s sweet tooth. Most of them are boys – not even twenty-five.”

  The mood became pensive as both thought of the fliers, the boys. So many missing. Maybe they’d come across some today. Spruance hoped the flying boats from Midway could search for survivors as well as patrol for the enemy. The volume of missing – and presumed dead – weighed on him.

  “We lost too many yesterday,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. One must admire their bravery,” Oliver said. He finished his coffee with a gulp, hoping the admiral would, too, so they could join the others topside.

  “What do you expect today, sir?”

  Spruance pursed his lips before answering. “Don’t expect they’ll attack Midway now, with the heavy losses such they’ve experienced. That amphibious group to the southwest probably withdrew. We may come across some stragglers as the day unfolds. Much, of course, will depend on the weather.”

  Spruance also sensed it was time to go. He drank deep and returned the cup to its saucer, then took up his napkin and folded it.

  “Do you regret not having the battle line, sir?”

  The admiral shook his head. “No. Those ships would just tie us down. We do have some nice ones on the ’ways, though, with 16-inch rifles: three turrets of three. Fast too, thirty knots at flank, like a cruiser. Amazing. But no…the world is changing.”

  Oliver nodded. And right before our eyes.

  Spruance pushed away from the table. “Thanks for sitting with me, Oliver. Let’s go up and see what they have for us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kroeger stepped into the ready room and found he was alone with one of the Yorktown pilots. He sat in the front row, poring over a list. A roster. It was Lieutenant Shumway who had led their bombers yesterday. Who had jammed the skipper in his dive. Which had caused Fred to pull up – and get shot. Kroeger quelled his feelings of resentment. This is war. Bad stuff happens.

  Shumway looked over his shoulder and saw Kroeger. “Lookin’ for someone?”