by Kevin Miller
Kroeger had stepped into the ready room because it was his home, his office. Where he belonged. But the question unsettled him, and he blurted out an answer. “Skipper Best, sir.”
Shumway shook his head. “He’s in sick bay. Coughed up blood last night. Don’t expect he’ll be flying today.”
Kroeger froze, unable to speak. Was he shot? Shumway stood and approached him, hand outstretched.
“I’m Dave Shumway, Bombing Three. Looks like I’m going to be your new CO.”
Still reeling, Kroeger shook his hand. “Edwin Kroeger, sir. Everyone calls me Bud.”
“Nice to meet you, Bud.”
Shumway saw that a troubled Kroeger was still processing the news. “The doc says he’s med down and will be for a while. Dick – Lieutenant Best – thinks he inhaled some bad oxygen yesterday. How high were you guys on the morning strike?”
Kroeger recalled sucking on the hated rubber mask that didn’t fit. Fiddling with the damn straps. Running out of air. The cold.
“About twenty, sir. Toward the end, just before we found them, my gunner and I ran out, and the skipper took us all down to fifteen where he removed his mask. We did, too.”
Shumway nodded his understanding. “Yeah, no one likes being on oxygen. If at all possible, I’ll try to keep us off it.”
Kroeger nodded, his mind elsewhere.
“Looks like we’ll be going after lunch. There’s a report that two Jap battleships got close to Midway, but they’re moving away from it now. That carrier we hit yesterday afternoon may also be trying to escape. Once the weather clears, the scouts are going to find ’em, and we’ll probably go as soon as they do. How did you fare yesterday?”
“Sir?”
“On that carrier yesterday afternoon. I remember you were part of the formation. You get a hit?”
Kroeger thought back. The afternoon strike. Fire, smoke… He just dropped his bomb into it. Who knew if he had scored. Fred. Fred didn’t recover…
“Don’t know, sir. Dropped into the conflagration you and the scouts made.”
Shumway nodded his understanding. “Yep, team effort. Plenty of credit to go around. Hopefully, we can find it today and finish it off. Anyway, can you help me pass the word and get the rest of the guys up here?” Shumway looked at this watch. “Let’s shoot to meet at 0900, Bombing Six and Bombing Three pilots.”
“Yes, sir,” Kroeger answered, then added, “With Commander McClusky wounded, is Commander Gallaher our new group commander?”
Shumway shook his head. “No, he’s in sick bay, too. Wrenched his back on the pull off yesterday, on that last carrier. Regardless, he’s down. Lieutenant Short has stepped in for him.”
Kroeger absorbed yet another shock. His group commander and both SBD squadron COs were out of the fight. In their place he and the others were expected to follow two unfamiliar Yorktowners. Today. He turned to the door, his jaw slack. Stunned.
“Bud?”
Kroeger turned to face Shumway. “Yes, sir?”
Shumway looked down for a moment, then up at Kroeger. “I’m very sorry about your wingman yesterday. I’m told he was a good man.”
Kroeger nodded. “Yes sir. Ensign Weber…Fred Weber. We’ve been together since before December 7th…were together…” Kroeger looked away with lips tight. Fred’s gone.
Shumway nodded. “You’ll get a chance to avenge his death. Probably today.”
Chapter 35
Sick Bay, USS Enterprise, 1030 June 5, 1942
“What?” McClusky snapped. “When?”
“At 1400, sir,” Lieutenant Short replied. He and Shumway stood in front of McClusky, who was clad in a bathrobe and slippers as he sat at a table in the middle of sick bay. Around them privacy curtains were drawn. One suddenly opened, and an incredulous Willie Gallaher grimaced as he propped himself on an elbow to listen.
After yesterday’s debacle, McClusky had had enough from the admiral’s staff. Yesterday, they had caused the loss of good men and valuable planes from fuel exhaustion when the ship was nowhere near Point Option. No coordination with Hornet, no fighter protection for the poor torpeckers who had been all but annihilated. During the night, he learned the task force had run east when the enemy was wounded and retreating west, and now the staff wanted his men to make up the difference by flying at an extreme range of over 240 miles – with 1000-pounders! The only way they wouldn’t run out of fuel was if the Japs were exactly where predicted, and if the ship had an open deck for them inside of Point Option. McClusky and the two pilots before him were skeptical that any of this coordination could be halfway close to the razor-thin fuel margin that required perfect.
“When did you learn this?”
Keeping his voice low, Shumway answered, “Thirty minutes ago, sir. On the Teletype screen. Sir, we’re new here and don’t know how Enterprise does things…but this is too much, and we can’t guarantee most of our guys – and yours – won’t end up in the water. We’d have a better chance of making it back if we carried 500-pounders.”
McClusky nodded. “What are the winds?”
“Southeast, sir, and light, like yesterday,” Short said. McClusky frowned. More range for launch.
Gallaher spoke up. “Commander, we cannot allow this. All we’ll have left is our fighters.”
McClusky agreed. His bandaged arm didn’t allow for him to get into a uniform. Hell, he’d go up there as-is in his pajamas.
“I’m going to the bridge to discuss this with the captain. You two come with me. Willie, can you make it up to the bridge?”
“Yes, sir!” Gallaher said, throwing off his covers and reaching for his trousers.
A Pharmacist’s Mate – alarmed to see two of his patients preparing to leave Sick Bay – stepped forward. “Commander, the Medical Officer hasn’t discharged you two sirs.”
McClusky faced the young man, who was now fearful that he had overstepped. “Are you going to stop me?”
The mate’s lip trembled. “No, sir.”
“Good. We’re going up to the bridge for a bit. We’ll be back.”
Captain Murray turned, surprised to see McClusky on the bridge and out of uniform. Behind him were Gallaher and two of the Yorktown pilots. All looked troubled.
“Wade, what are you doing up here?”
“Captain, this is Lieutenant Shumway and Lieutenant Short of Yorktown’s VB and VS squadrons, and I asked Willie Gallaher to join us. We’ve learned of the plan to launch our SBDs at 1400 on a sighting report over 240 miles away with 1000-pounders.”
“Yes. Report of a burning carrier we can put on the bottom, and possibly another carrier with heavy escorts coming to help.” Murray assessed the men and saw trouble. “That’s a hike. Can your boys make it?”
McClusky shook his head.
“Sir, it’s too far with that heavy weapon load. These guys will get there, but they won’t have fuel to make it back. The tail-enders, the ensigns with the least experience, are most at risk. We’re going to lose many more airplanes if we do this.”
Murray considered the risk. “We can’t wait much longer to close them. We’ve only got about nine hours of daylight to get out there and back. What if they have a carrier and attack here before we get to them?”
“Captain, at that range and with this loadout, we’re not gonna make it back. It’s too far, sir. Recommend we run hard at them for an extra hour and swap out the 1000-pound bombs for 500, and launch at 1500. And, Captain, we’re going to have to demand an accurate Point Option. Sixty miles off doesn’t cut it.”
A chagrined Murray nodded his agreement. “We were tied to Yorktown yesterday and had to maintain a CAP, which kept us into the wind.”
“Sir, we all know that things happen, but, even if the plan you have now goes perfectly, we will still lose ensigns from fuel exhaustion. We can’t bank on perfect.”
Murray noted the Yorktown pilots, waiting. All four of the aviators had fought yesterday, and these two were going back. They would be leading his aviators, most of
whom had been shot at already.
“Captain, with your permission, sir, I’d like to make this case to the admiral’s staff. I’ve flown the SBD-3; flew yesterday when so many of the VB ran out of gas carrying the heavy bombs. These pilots add credibility, and I’d like them to accompany me.”
Murray nodded. “Yes, and I’ll go with you. Let’s go.”
The five aviators crossed the navigation bridge to the starboard side and outside, then aft to a ladder. Murray led as McClusky and the others followed by seniority.
Entering the flag shelter, they were confronted by Browning, who looked up from the chart table. Spruance was not in sight. Murray spoke first.
“Miles, my pilots have some concerns about the strike tasking this afternoon. Wade, go ahead.”
All felt the tension rise as Browning – well aware of his audience – walked around the table, not taking his eyes off McClusky, who held his ground.
“Captain Browning, I’ve learned that my SBD squadrons are tasked to launch at 1400 hours on a sighting report with a contact over 240 miles away carrying thousand-pound weapons.”
“That’s correct,” Browning said. He now stood in front of and glared down at McClusky.
“Sir, we cannot carry that out as planned,” McClusky said, unflinching.
Browning looked at Murray, then back at McClusky. “The group has their orders. I suggest you follow them.”
“This plan is going to run all the bombers out of gas!” McClusky shot back. An impatient Browning shook his head.
“You’re wrong, and it’s because you don’t have experience in dive-bombers! Follow orders! I’ve got work to do,” Browning snarled. All in the shelter froze and waited for McClusky’s response.
“Actually, sir, I’ve got 400 hours in dive-bombers, but how about you? Have you ever flown an SBD?”
“Yes, but that has nothing to do with it!” Browning growled back. He then turned to Murray. “Captain Murray, sir, the admiral has signed the orders. It is imperative we hit as hard as we can as fast as we can.”
McClusky wasn’t buying it. “Have you flown a heavy SBD-3 with armor plating and self-sealing tanks? Twin thirties? Carrying a 1000-pound weapon with topped-off fuel?”
Browning was furious. “No, I haven’t, but again, that’s immaterial. Your pilots can end the war today by putting a heavy weapon on anything they find out there. And they had better make every bomb count instead of spreading them all over the ocean like they did yesterday. Those 500-pounders lack the punch. This is war, McClusky! Fortune favors the bold!”
The men around them naturally inched closer to the heated argument. Shumway thought someone was going to throw a punch. Murray watched them closely. This has been building for a while.
Raising his voice, McClusky responded. “Don’t tell me about fortune favoring the bold! I was out there yesterday, and so were they!” he said, pointing at Gallaher and the Yorktowners.
A devilish smile spread across Browning’s lips and he chuckled. “McClusky, I know all about yesterday! I’ve heard the scuttlebutt from Willie’s own pilots that you took them out there at 180 knots with the tail-end-Charlies barely able to keep up. Then you flew well past the point of no return. Because you don’t know how to fly modern dive-bombers, your people ran out of gas yesterday. That was due to your leadership! Not only that, it was your fighter squadron who didn’t lift a finger to help anybody – allowing your torpedo squadron to get their asses shot off! And you come up here shouting and waving your arms! Clean your own house, mister!”
McClusky looked as if he would explode. “Let’s talk about yesterday, then! Point Option was sixty miles off! Sixty miles! How can anybody lead thirty planes with confidence if they can’t trust the ship to be where it’s supposed to be today when it was barely within two degrees of longitude yesterday?”
Browning’s eyes narrowed. He was through with McClusky and his cocksure arrogance, and would deliver the knockout punch right now.
“Fine then, lieutenant commander, throw that out. Ignore the launch and recovery of the combat air patrol that kept your ass dry when you got back here. Ignore the threat the Japs posed to us all afternoon, and still pose to us, that makes us launch at maximum range. Ignore our depleted squadrons due to your poor performance and the poor performance of your people. Just tell me, and all of us, what would you do, right now, mister, to neutralize the threat to us, the fleet, and Hawaii? Because if we get it wrong, hundreds will die and he pays.”
As Browning pointed toward where Spruance was last seen in the shelter, he saw he was pointing at Spruance, a silent observer to the proceedings.
“What’s the disagreement?” he asked, looking at Browning.
“Sir, the group commander thinks we can’t hit the Japs at the reported position inside a range his planes are capable of, with a weapon his planes are capable of carrying, at the time you directed in writing. Admiral, there’s risk, always is, but the reward of putting the carrier and any other capital ships we find on the bottom or out of action requires the heaviest weapons we can muster! We can close over fifty miles in the time they are out, maybe sixty in these light seas. If our two new shipmates here can manage their navigation and formations, and if the captain can get his planes off in a timely manner, we’ll accomplish the tasking you’ve given us.”
Expressionless, Spruance nodded his understanding. He then turned his head to McClusky, who wasted no time.
“Admiral, with a two-hours-old report at 240 miles, which will be way more, sir, as we steam into the wind for launch, we are beyond the edge of the SBD-3 range with a thousand-pound weapon – and no fuel cushion if things go south. The current plan risks most, and maybe all, of your dive-bombers. Recommend, sir, that we steam toward them another hour at best speed, and, during that time, swap out the heavies for the 500-pounders. We hit them with 500-pound weapons yesterday and put them out of action. Follow-on attacks from us and submarines can put them on the bottom. Sir, this plan lands a crippling blow in minimum time and allows our boys to recover aboard safely to continue the fight.”
As soon as McClusky finished, Murray added, “Concur, sir.”
Spruance considered the two options as Browning and McClusky, now facing their admiral, awaited his decision – like two prizefighters after the final round.
He stepped to McClusky.
“I will do what you pilots want.”
Stunned as if he had been hit in the face, Browning’s jaw fell. He stared at Spruance, who turned to walk away.
“Thank you, Admiral,” McClusky said. He and his aviators exited the shelter without making eye contact.
Embarrassed by the awkward scene, Oliver picked up the message board, and others quickly found things to occupy their attention. In the middle of the shelter, Browning stood and gazed out to sea, at the horizon – at what he had lost.
With a sudden lunge, he bolted to the ladder and flew down the rails.
Chapter 36
Bombing Eight, Northwest of USS Hornet,
1630 June 5, 1942
Clay Fisher couldn’t believe his bad luck.
Here he was again, flying on Sea Hag’s wing over an empty ocean, this time with the sun lowering off his left. Earlier, in the ready room, his heart had fallen when he’d seen the schedule:
Commander Ring
2) Fisher
3) Tappan
What had he done to deserve this? Griping wouldn’t change anything; Skipper Johnson approved it, and at the moment, he was also flying wing as he led his Bombing Eight division off their right.
They’d been airborne an hour, up high in the cold, on oxygen, with nothing but water and clouds below. Like yesterday. Where were the Japs? Radioman Ferguson came up on the interphone.
“Mister Fisher, I see a sheen on the water, ahead of our right wing.”
Fisher studied it as he held position. Ring also saw it, and veered them right.
An oil slick, several miles wide. Nothing else around it.
Fis
her guessed this was from the burning carrier they’d seen yesterday afternoon. Same general area. No escorts anywhere to be seen. Must have gone down. We sank a carrier! he thought, before remembering that it was Enterprise who had done so. He pulled his plotting board out and marked the position and time.
Ring continued ahead, also like yesterday, into the open expanse. The sun was setting, and, with the ship some 200 miles behind them, it would be close to sundown when they got back. Fisher took glances at his mates behind, wishing he could be in their formations instead of up in the lead with Sea Hag.
After twenty minutes had passed, he spied a wake, a single wake. Narrow…probably a small boy. Maybe trailing a carrier. They’d be on it in another five or ten minutes, and Fisher scanned the horizon for fighters.
“What’s that one, sir?” Ferguson asked.
Fisher assessed the ship before it passed under his wing.1 “Light cruiser. Maybe a destroyer. Looks like it’s makin’ better’n 20 knots.” Fisher again plotted the position and time.
As they passed the lone combatant, Ring studied it but made no move to attack. He did make a contact report on the radio as his Dauntlesses continued to the northwest. Fisher did the math in his head. If they went back now, they’d make it aboard before sundown. C’mon, Sea Hag! There’s nothin’ out here!
Approaching 300 miles from Hornet, Fisher’s alarm increased. Ahead was a clear surface, and the sun seemed to accelerate its steady fall to the horizon. He checked over his shoulder, hoping Johnson would come up to take the lead and get them back home. Fisher would leave Ring and join his CO; no more indecision like yesterday. Another minute passed.
“What are we doing, sir?” Ferguson asked. An honest question, and Fisher wouldn’t berate him for asking it. He wished he could ask it. He checked his fuel – never enough! – and tried to formulate an answer for his gunner. He deserved one.
Ring nodded to the right and turned into Fisher. We’re going back! Fisher thought. Another wild goose chase. Regardless, he was happy they’d soon be closing Hornet rather than opening on her. Two hours of transit; the sun would be down, but still dusk. Plenty of light for landing.
