by Kevin Miller
He glanced up at the shadow of the Type Zero float plane on the catapult above him. An incomplete report from one such as this: tentative, confused, garbled, incorrect, the crew unable to spot an enemy aircraft carrier amid a defensive screen worthy of such a ship. Then a definitive sighting – a carrier on our flank! – and we dithered. I dithered when we should have recovered Tomonaga and run…or launched what we had at once and hoped… But not close the enemy as we loaded planes and warmed up engines in our cocksure preparation for launch. How much time did we think we had? An hour, bah! The force wouldn’t have even sent the first kanbaku aloft in two. Remembering, he gripped the rail and peered into the darkness while wind lashed his face.
Deep down, Genda knew that he, too, suffered from Victory Disease. It was all so easy! The American Navy! The vaunted Royal Navy! The Dutch and Australians. It was almost comical, the way the westerners attacked with obsolete land-based planes, their befuddled pilots outclassed, leaving their mighty big-gun battleships and cruisers to their fate. What had they been doing the past decade while Japan prepared? Watching Hollywood movies and arguing about the World Series?
The image of the admiral taking his place in the boat as Akagi’s burning and explosion-wracked hull bobbed above them was one he would never forget. Expressionless, Nagumo sat in the stern sheets as if on a throne, ignoring the chaos about him. Uncomprehending. Unflinching – despite the anguished shouts of the burned and dying from the anchor deck and deafening explosions aft. He hadn’t seen Nagumo all day…Kusaka relayed his orders. But it was all an act. Only hours ago Genda had learned Nagumo had been relieved by Combined Fleet. Admiral Kondō now commanded the Mobile Force. The force commander – relieved for cause!
Nagara steamed on behind Yamato, its massive hulk visible in the starlight, trailing a wide wake. From the boat deck Minoru Genda contemplated the future of the Imperial Japanese Navy.
If only we had run.
Restless, Bob Laub walked down the passageway past the Officer’s Country staterooms. He couldn’t sleep, and headed to the wardroom. He didn’t want to sleep and dream about that torpedo hovering in mid-air under a burning TBD before both dove into the gunfire-churned sea. He didn’t want to visit the ready room either. Normally full of acey-deucy and bridge players before taps, the thought of seeing it empty repelled him. The wardroom was neutral ground. He heard soft phonograph music from inside a stateroom, a catchy tune from his boyhood. Life could be so sweet, on the sunny side of the street…
Still in shock, Torpedo Six hadn’t flown since yesterday morning. Laub sensed his shipmates ignoring them…easier than dealing with the reality of what happened. Recovered… Would any of them ever recover? With Commander McClusky in sick bay, he wasn’t sure who to report to anyway. The Yorktown SBD pilots seemed to be senior. They said that some of the VT-3 planes escaped but had to ditch when Yorktown was attacked. Nothing from Hornet. Fifteen planes. All of them lost.
The table normally used by VT-6 was empty, but two Scouting Six pilots sat across from one another at their squadron table. Dusty Kleiss and Dick Jaccard. Laub poured himself a glass of bug juice and walked toward them.
“Mind if I join you guys?” he said.
“Hey, Bob, sure. Please do,” Kleiss answered. Laub placed his glass on the linen tablecloth.
He noted the matted-down hair and bloodshot eyes of the SBD pilots.
“Just get back? How was it?”
Kleiss shook his head. “Wasted flight. We were searching for a carrier, found nothing, and just before sundown came over to a little tin can that the Hornet guys were bombing. They missed it, pretty bad, and I thought, you know, they’re just rookies and we’ll sink this guy in no time, but all of us missed, too. That Jap was twisting and turning like I’ve never seen.”
“And he got one of the Yorktown guys,” Jaccard added. “Nice fella. He’s the one who found the carrier yesterday afternoon.”
“Yeah. Sam Adams. He sure was a nice guy. Saw him go in,” Kleiss said. As his words hung in the air he took a drink of water and changed the subject.
“Bob, I’m really sorry about what happened to you guys yesterday. Don’t know what to say other than that. They shouldn’t have sent you.”
Laub nodded. He didn’t know what to say either. Still recovering.
“Thanks, Dusty. We all lost friends yesterday, and hey, they may still be out there.”
“Tom Eversole was my best friend. I mean, is…” Kleiss added, embarrassed.
Laub nodded. That TBD is burning!
“Did you see him?” Kleiss asked.
Laub didn’t answer and stared at his glass. Kleiss and Jaccard said nothing in the uneasy silence.
“Yes,” Laub said softly. “Just before we turned in for our runs. The CO was hit about the same time. Didn’t have a chance.”
No one said a word, each man remembering yesterday.
“Tom was indeed a good man,” Laub said, again breaking the silence. “And you scout bombers lost good men too. Just hope it was worth it.”
“Today sure wasn’t,” Jaccard offered.
After another lull, Laub spoke up.
“What about tomorrow? Heard there’s a crippled battleship or cruiser out there.”
“Don’t know,” Kleiss said. “Still heading west. I’ll bet we go.”
Jaccard searched Laub’s face. “What about you guys? Will you go again?”
“Dick, knock it off. Don’t ask him that.”
Laub waved his hand. “No, it’s okay. Two of our junior guys didn’t go yesterday and they want to take a crack at the Japs real bad. Won’t be able to face anyone if they don’t.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Kleiss muttered.
“That’s what I said. We’ll see. We’ve got three flyable birds.”
Kleiss leaned in and locked his eyes on Laub.
“Bob, I hope you don’t have to fly those crates into battle again. But in a way I do, so you can pay them back for Tom and the CO and the others and tell their families you did. Hope we can work ’em over first so you can put them on the bottom.”
Laub reacted with a faint smile. “Thanks, shipmate.”
“I look up to you, Bob. We all do.”
Laub could only nod his appreciation. He felt unworthy. He felt guilty.
Still keyed up from his night landing, Ken White approached his roommate. “Clay, we took a vote, and you hafta tell Sea Hag how to drop his bomb.”
Fisher looked up from his ready room chair. Around White were two other ensigns who had had it with their group commander. Ring had returned twice with his bombs still attached.
“Why do I have to tell Sea Hag anything? And what vote? I didn’t vote,” Fisher snapped back at him as he eyeballed the others. After three unsatisfying combat flights, he had had it, too. But White wasn’t joking.
“After he landed, Sea Hag yelled at the troops on deck and said the release mechanism didn’t work. But Clay, he tried to drop it with the transmitter switch on the throttle! He doesn’t even know how to drop a bomb, and somebody’s gotta tell him how.”
“Fine, but why me?”
“Because you are his personal teacher’s pet wingman!” White answered, drawing laughs from the others.
Not moving, Fisher made a face. “I ain’t doin’ it,” he muttered, and looked away.
Listening from the front row, Skipper Johnson got up and stepped toward him. “Fisher, go and knock on Sea Hag’s stateroom door, and when he invites you in, instruct him on how to drop a damn bomb. Now.”
A displeased Fisher exhaled his disappointment and slumped his shoulders in acceptance. He rose to his feet. “Yes, sir.”
White and the others suppressed grins as Fisher stepped to the door.
“Don’t forget an apple, Clay. There’s a bowl of fresh ones in the wardroom!”
Fisher heard his squadronmates laugh as he shut the door behind him.
He stepped to the ladder and went below one deck. Sea Hag’s stateroom was just for
ward of the island, outboard. Why me?
Fisher stopped next to his door, and noticed the group commander’s calling card affixed to the bulkhead:
Stanhope Cotton Ring
Fisher ensured his shirt was tucked in before he knocked twice. He heard Ring say, “Enter.”
Fisher opened the door, and Ring looked up from his desk. “Yes, Fisher, what is it?”
“Sir, um. I thought if you’d like to discuss the new bomb release system on the SBD-3 model, I’d be happy to review it, sir.”
“Come in.”
Fisher entered and closed the door behind him. Ring motioned to a chair. “Please be seated.”
Nervous, Fisher took his chair.
“Well, then,” Ring began. “Where shall we start?”
Fisher swallowed. “Sir, the dash three’s we got have a new electrical arming and release capability the older model SBDs don’t have. It makes it nice, too, because with the manual system you hafta reach down to pull the release handle, and that can move your crosshairs off target.”
“Yes, I sure remember that from the SB2U a few years ago.”
“Yes, sir,” Fisher said, offering a smile of understanding.
“Well, this evening I did try the electrical system but the circuit seemed not to have closed. Perhaps it came loose during the run.”
“Perhaps, sir. My technique, well, the way Skipper Johnson taught us, is to have my right thumb on the pickle button on the stick, just resting on it as I’m in the dive tracking. At release altitude, I try to hold the stick as steady as I can while I mash down on the button, hard, so the connection is made. I try to hold it for half a count so the bomb can come off steady and not throw it long.”
Ring nodded in silent understanding.
“And, sir, the emergency release is my backup. If I don’t feel it come off, I can reach down by my left ankle and salvo everything off – the main weapon and two wing stations if we’re carryin’ incendiaries.”
Ring nodded again but seemed unsure. Fisher thought fast.
“It’s right below the throttle, sir. Skipper Johnson says he has his left hand there the whole way down. It’s tough to lean down like that, but I tried it tonight and was able to track the target okay.”
In his chair, Ring went through the motions, imagining himself controlling an imaginary stick while reaching for the emergency release by his ankle.
“Yes, sir, gotta be a contortionist sometimes. Maybe if I had done it yesterday, I might have got my bomb off on the target.”
“You missed yesterday?”
“Sir, the bomb was hung, and I had to pull out with it. Most airspeed I ever saw. Got it to come off before coming back here, using emergency release.”
Ring nodded his understanding and smiled to himself at the modern cockpit gadgetry. “Okay. Electric push-button release from the control stick… What will they think of next?”
Fisher smiled back. “Yes, sir!”
“Thanks for coming by, Fisher.”
“Yes, sir,” Fisher said, taking that as his cue.
“Get some sleep, we’re probably going to go again tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. Good night, sir,” Fisher said as he exited. As he walked down the passageway, he hoped he could fly tomorrow with Skipper Johnson and his buddies.
Chapter 38
USS Enterprise, 0740 June 6, 1942
Spruance grew impatient as he read yet another incomplete sighting report from his own scouting planes.
Two enemy groups to the southwest moving slowly away, one with a battleship and cruiser, and one with a possible carrier and escorts. Almost an hour prior a pilot had reported a carrier. And inside 150 miles! Then, just ten minutes ago, another SBD pilot had overflown the flight deck and tossed out a bean bag. He reported a cruiser and battleship southwest of Enterprise with escorts moving west, slow, and also inside 150. Why hadn’t he radioed? After the previous two days’ mistakes and mix-ups, Spruance demanded more.
“Miles, we need to be sure of what’s out there. Send float planes from the cruisers and have them maintain contact. I’m tired of guesswork.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral. Will ensure relief on station,” Browning replied. Spruance had put aside the theatrics from yesterday. He needed Browning. But he wouldn’t forget – and would no longer blindly follow.
“Thank you. When will the Hornet planes be up?”
“Twenty more minutes, sir. Twenty-six bombers and eight escort fighters.”
Once more, Spruance could only wait. Drained and irritable, he was tired of waiting. Was he in contact with the enemy or not? What units? What strength?
There was good news. During the night, Nimitz had sent a message that yesterday a Midway flying boat had rescued one of the Hornet torpedo plane pilots, an ensign, who had spent the night in his raft…after he had watched the dive-bomber attack from it.1
“Miles, on the basis of CINCPAC’s message, he’s skeptical there’s a carrier out there, and so am I. Concur there are stragglers and cripples. Want to hit them hard today.”
“Concur, sir, and we’ve got a bomb load to put anything we find out of action and enough fighters to defend if there is a carrier with a CAP up. After we recover the scouts we’ll be able to get a strike off around 1030.”
Spruance nodded. Out of habit he went to the chart table. He measured from the 0700 fix: Midway was 300 miles east of them. Wake was to the southwest; the Japs were obviously heading for it and its air cover. His scout bombers had found nothing to the northwest. How far to pursue? Another hundred miles? Two hundred? He couldn’t steam too far from Midway’s air umbrella, and especially from the oilers. No, whatever was to his southwest would be it.
Laub sat in the ready room with an ensign when Group Commander McClusky stepped inside.
“Attention on deck!”
His left arm in a sling, McClusky waved his right hand. “As you were.”
He walked up to Laub. “Lieutenant Laub, I need to speak with you. Let’s go out here.”
Laub followed him into the passageway, and McClusky led them to a vestibule under a ladder.
“Bob, how’re your people doin’?”
“We’re okay, sir…considering. Two of the guys who didn’t go Thursday want to. They feel guilty and ashamed. Everyone else on board is flying and they aren’t.” Laub motioned toward the ready room. “One of them is that ensign inside.”
“How’re you doin’?”
“Okay, sir.”
McClusky nodded his understanding. “How many planes do you have flyable?”
“Three, sir. We have four, but three are flyable.”
McClusky nodded again. Laub knew what was coming.
“We’re launching a strike in a few hours on contacts about 150 miles away. The report is a battleship and cruiser, maybe two cruisers, and some escorts. Hornet is attacking in an hour, then us. Can you go with us? About thirty SBDs and twelve VF. Plenty of cover.”
Laub had given this thought, but McClusky continued before he could answer.
“The VB knocks them out with 1000-pounders, and the fighters strafe ’em. Your fish will put them on the bottom, but nobody wants to risk another TBD. I’m going to have fighters padlocked on you. Nobody in forty airplanes is going to let any harm come to you guys.”
“Sir, we can go. We want to.”
“Can you lead your division?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. I’m going up to tell the captain that Torpedo Six can fight. I’ll let you know, but, for now, muster your people and get with the scouts for the plan. Lieutenant Short from Yorktown will lead.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
McClusky clasped Laub on the arm. “Proud of you, Laub.”
“Stanhope from Robert. Enemy below on port bow.”
Fisher’s eyes scanned in front of his left wing. Skipper Johnson saw something ahead, but Fisher hadn’t yet. He checked his position in the scouting line and scanned again. He saw them then – through the clouds. Four ships.
“Ferguson, we’ve got ships up ahead, fifteen miles. Get ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sea Hag continued on, and Fisher realized they weren’t going at them. Just like yesterday, Ring bypassed the first sighting to look for more. As the Japanese ships drew closer on his left side, Fisher spotted a battleship, cruiser, and two destroyers in escort. Not moving fast. He then noticed a floatplane circling below at a safe distance. Must be one of ours.
On they went. Though they scouted ahead, pilots like Fisher took peeks at the Japanese behind them. Armed up. Engine good. Fuel: plenty. Visibility excellent. From fourteen thousand, the visibility topped forty miles easy, but Sea Hag had to search around the scattered cotton balls below.
Before the Jap ships disappeared from view, Ring entered a left turn. Fisher smiled as the geometry built. Out of the turn they would be south of the enemy track. A left roll in out of the sun.
The formation tightened up, and XO Tucker moved up to lead. Fisher was in the pack – where he wanted to be. He’d be sixth down on a target the XO chose. The Japanese continued west, the capital ships line abreast, seemingly unaware.
Unlike the little devil yesterday, they were big, and not running hard. Fisher’s division slid to Tucker’s right side. They eased into the ships and Fisher noted the sun. Another thirty degrees, he figured, and watched for the dive-brake signal to pass it down the line.
Muzzle flashes from the southern ship, big ones. Seconds later, black puffs appeared – above them. Fisher checked his fuel tank balance, engine blower, prop pitch. Hatch – open. Had been the whole time. He’d get this one – drop it right down the stack. He was due. Three tries and nothing! The whole squadron was due, and Fisher was eager now, no longer fearful of the antiaircraft. Tucker eased them closer and opened his flaps. Fisher and the others matched him and worked to maintain position. Suddenly, the XO dove, dropping his nose as his two wingmen knifed down behind him.
