The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  “Here we go!”

  All the ships fired a barrage, and, from amid the cordite smoke of the automatics on the superstructure, more yellow balls floated up toward them. Oblivious, Fisher concentrated on the forward turrets. Lieutenant Lynch was in, and the gaping red maw of Cason’s dive-brakes hung in front of him. In a violent motion he pushed over, and Fisher counted.

  One potato… Two potato…

  Fisher pulled across the horizon and then pushed, knuckling his nose under with rudder as he pulled the throttle aft. The airspeed built at once, and he stabilized vertically. Good dive, a little off the seat. Ship in the gunsight…now switch to the bombsight. Without conscious thought, he rolled to keep the ship aligned, the controls acting as extensions of his being. Dazzling tracers crossed his bombsight view as the ships fired at the descending column of American planes.

  “Six-thousand!”

  The target turned, but not like the tin can yesterday. The red lines of SBD dive-brakes ahead of him moved out of the sight as explosions and concentric rings of white from their near misses bloomed alongside the ship, her rudder hard over.

  “Four thousand!”

  Fisher was committed now, and tracers above and below locked him in his dive. A shock wave of condensation from one of the near misses whipped past his sight. C’mon…c’mon.

  “Three!”

  He tracked the second turret, easing and rolling by reflex to keep his aimpoint on it. Another white ring of churned-up water floated into his view as the ship sped past it.

  “Two!”

  Fisher mashed down on the pickle and, with relief, felt the bomb swing away. Straining hard, he pulled the stick into his lap with both hands as the g-force crushed them. As with his previous dives, he heard the gunfire chatter and the deep booms of the secondary guns. In rapid motions he slapped up the brakes and shoved the throttle to the firewall as the engine roared to life. Ahead was another ship, and he jinked right to follow Cason and Lynch before reversing left to avoid their flight paths. He bunted to the wave tops, not thinking but reacting: running, panting hard, less from physical exertion than from fear.

  Clear of tracer fire, he looked back. The scouts were in on the other ship, bigger. The first one pulled off.

  “Whoa, sir! Look at that!”

  Fisher craned his head back to see. True to his word in the ready room, Gus Widhelm got a hit amidships, and black smoke bloomed above a sheet of flame behind the stack.

  Then, a flash from above, and a black trail behind an SBD in line with the others toward the ship.

  “Pull up!” Fisher shouted. “Pull up!”

  The Dauntless went straight in behind the cruiser, revealing a curtain of white as the ship moved away.

  More geysers erupted next to the target, and another hit registered aft. Fisher could only wonder about who got hit and rode it in. Then another flash, this one above, at tip-over altitude. Another horrible and fiery plunge, the SBD breaking up as a burning wing fluttered free. No!

  Fisher joined on his wingmen to the south as the enemy ships, one burning hard, continued on. Two planes down. No chutes, no chance.

  Planes from Thursday hadn’t returned. Men he knew…they just hadn’t shown up. Yesterday he saw an Enterprise bird get it. But here, Fisher was witness to the death of a friend – two friends and their helpless gunners – friends whose names he did not yet know. It felt different. He wished he knew, now, so he could mourn on the way back. He steeled himself as he went about his cockpit tasks for the return flight, trying to make sense of the loss. Anonymous loss.

  * * *

  1 ENS G.H. Gay, Torpedo Eight

  Chapter 39

  Flag Shelter, USS Enterprise, 0930 June 6, 1942

  In his flying clothes and helmet, Laub followed Captain Murray, Group Commander McClusky, and Lieutenant Short up the ladder to the flag shelter. He’d been summoned to see the admiral himself…but why?

  Outside on the flight deck, the plane handlers spotted his three loaded TBDs aft. They would be the last off. Aboard Enterprise word spread throughout the ship: They’re sendin’ the torpeckers.

  Once at the shelter, Murray took Laub’s arm and had him stand next to him. Browning approached, his eyes on Laub, who held his gaze.

  Murray introduced them.

  “Captain Browning, this is Lieutenant Junior Grade Laub, acting commanding officer of Torpedo Six.”

  Browning extended his hand, and Laub took it. “How do you do, Laub. Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. Are your planes and men up to this task?”

  Laub nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Who’s flying? Anyone from Thursday morning?”

  Laub nodded again. “Just me and my gunner, sir. The others, an ensign and warrant machinist, didn’t fly Thursday.”

  Browning probed deeper. “Do you have confidence in them? We need your best men today.” Browning glanced at Murray, who let Laub answer.

  Laub opened his mouth to answer as he considered the question. Our best men are dead, sir.

  “Yes, sir. Ensign Morris was too junior but he’s a good pilot, quick on the uptake. Same with Warrant Officer Mueller. I have confidence in their abilities. They really want to go.”

  “And you?”

  Laub thought of Skipper Lindsey. He practically had to be helped into his plane. Wasn’t going to miss the big one. Laub wasn’t going to miss it, either.

  “Yes, sir. I’m senior. I’m ready.”

  Spruance walked out from behind the chart table curtain. The men stopped talking and opened a path so he could meet Laub. Laub had never met an admiral before.

  “Admiral, this is Lieutenant Jay Gee Laub, reporting as ordered,” Browning said, motioning to the young pilot.

  Spruance offered his hand and a smile. “Mister Laub, nice to meet you.”

  “You too, sir,” Laub replied. The admiral invited him to stand at ease.

  “What do you go by?”

  “Sir?”

  Spruance smiled. “Your name.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Robert, sir.”

  “Is that what everyone calls you?”

  “Um…Bob, sir.”

  Spruance nodded. “Very well…Bob. Bob, do you know why I’ve called you here?”

  Laub felt the butterflies return. Was he supposed to know this answer? Spruance waited.

  “Um, no sir,” Laub stammered, then blurted out a lame response. “I’ll find out, sir.”

  Spruance smiled. “Annapolis?”

  “No, sir,” Laub answered, his face reddening. Idiot! How’re you gonna ‘find out’ what the admiral is thinking?

  Spruance nodded his understanding. “Well, I want to impress upon you that we do not take sending you and your men into combat lightly. You were hit hard Thursday, and you may not know this, but it was worse for Yorktown and Hornet – much worse. However, we need your ship-killing torpedoes to sink a crippled battleship and cruiser.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hornet planes just hit them, and there are no carriers reported.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Captain Murray and Commander McClusky have assured me that the safety of your planes is paramount, and I’ve asked them to bring the strike leader here to hear this from me.” Next to McClusky, Short nodded his understanding. Laub remained riveted on Spruance.

  “Now, listen carefully. After the bombers and fighters finish with these two capital ships and silence their guns, I want you to deliver your torpedoes, but if, and only if, there are no antiaircraft guns firing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Spruance stepped closer to Laub as he brought the palms of his hands together and touched them to his lips. Laub was taken aback by the length of the gray stubble on Spruance’s unshaven face. When the admiral lifted his eyes to Laub, a charge of electricity shot through his body.

  “Bob, if even one single gun is firing, I do not want you and your planes to expose yourself to that fire. If any guns are firing, I want you to turn around and come
home.” The admiral’s blue eyes bored into Laub. They grabbed him and would not let go.

  “Yes, sir,” Laub said, his head nodding in fear more than understanding.

  “I am not going to lose another torpedo plane if I can help it. Do you understand, Lieutenant? Not one gun.”

  “Yes, sir, Admiral. Not one gun.”

  “The decision is removed from your shoulders,” Spruance added before he turned to Short. “Lieutenant, do you have questions about this guidance?”

  “No, sir. Not one gun, and if we see any, we’ll direct Bob – Lieutenant Laub – away. We won’t lose any more torpedo planes, sir. We’ll watch out for ’em.”

  Spruance nodded. “Very well then. Thanks for coming, and good hunting out there. Dismissed.”

  With another gentle smile, Spruance again extended his hand to Laub and Short. Laub reminded him of his own son Edward, out there on the submarine Tambor. How Spruance wished he knew of his whereabouts and safety.

  The pilots left the shelter. As McClusky and Murray followed, Spruance stopped them.

  “Commander, Captain Murray, a moment please.”

  McClusky and Murray stepped back to him as Browning stood nearby, listening.

  “Was that clear enough?”

  “Yes, sir,” Murray answered. “You left no doubt, and if they don’t go in, no one will accuse them of cowardice.”

  McClusky nodded his concurrence. “Admiral, after what happened Thursday, these boys are displaying courage by simply going back out there.” Next to Spruance, Browning nodded his agreement.

  “What if the Japanese launch a float plane at them?” Spruance asked.

  A slight grin crossed McClusky’s face. “Sir, that would be more of a fair fight, but we’ll have fighters on top of them. No float plane is going to get anywhere close.”

  Spruance nodded. He’d done all he could.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Dismissed.”

  The first Wildcat jumped into the air, Laub’s signal that the launch had started.

  The mechanics had checked the TBD engines yesterday and this morning. As they listened from the catwalk, all three purred their readiness to go. The canvas-covered empennages and aluminum wings had their bullet holes patched with cloth and glue and rivets.

  Another fighter lifted off, then another.

  Next to Laub, Jamie Morris sat in his cockpit, watching the launch progress. In the ready room before takeoff, he had asked to take one of the gunners who was left out Thursday as an observer in his middle seat. The new guy, barely eighteen, was embarrassed he had been left behind. C’mon Bob, he really wants to go. Laub had shaken his head no. Not going to risk anyone for no reason. When Morris pressed him to reconsider, Laub snarled his answer. No! No time for hurt feelings. From what Laub could see, there’d be plenty of war left for the kid. Besides, he was the CO now, and COs made these decisions.

  The SBDs rolled down the deck and disappeared off the end before they lifted back into view and cleared right. The Dauntlesses spotted in front of him belched oily smoke as it idled in wait. Another SBD gunned its engine and taxied into position. Between the jammed-together planes, Laub discerned the launch officer’s flag in wild motion as the bomber revved his engine. When the flag disappeared, the bomber rolled forward, the guttural sound of its pistons at full power building and then fading as it rolled to the end of Enterprise and into the clear Pacific air.

  Laub and Radioman Humphrey waited for their turn. “Humphrey, ready to go?”

  “Yes, sir, Skipper.”

  Laub wasn’t used to that. Commander Lindsey was the CO. But he was dead – Laub had seen him die. Allowing himself to be called Skipper didn’t seem right.

  The pack forward of them opened up as more SBDs lifted off while others taxied into position. Overhead the VF was joined. On the horizon, Hornet recovered her planes, just returned from where Laub was going.

  The director motioned him up as plane pushers scurried clear with the wheel chocks. Taxiing ahead, he noticed them – the gunners in the catwalks and the deck crew along the edge. They watched Laub in somber awareness as he inched his big TBD forward. They all stopped to watch, to give their silent support and hopes and prayers that the old planes and the men in them would return. All were at risk. Every time a plane took off and went over the horizon was a risk. Some didn’t come back. Loss happened…pretty much every time underway. However, with the silent stares of the men, Laub sensed a difference.

  As the last dive-bomber cleared the bow, the director stopped Laub just forward of the aft elevator. What Laub saw on the island amazed him.

  Every gallery was jammed with men, all of them looking aft – at him. Some were witnessing history. Others, human courage. Others, a suicide. Some were just compelled to watch, to see it for themselves. No vulture’s row audience was ever this big, and, after Thursday, the whole ship knew what the torpedo men were risking. Enterprise pitched gently in the swells as her bow lifted above the western horizon for a moment then settled back down to reveal the blue sea in a steady rhythm. Signal flags fluttered stiff from the halyards. Laub contemplated the blue, rubber stained deck ahead of him, the lighter blue sky above, the hundreds of men on the island and in the catwalks, all of their faces focused on him. He’d never forget this moment. Humbling. No, exhilarating.

  When the Launch Officer pointed at him and waved his flag, Laub held the brakes as he pushed the throttle forward, his plane straining and bucking, waiting to be set free. Oil, RPM, manifold pressure – holding in limits.

  Laub focused on the launch officer, who continued to listen to the engine. He glanced up at Laub and nodded.

  As the officer lunged and pointed forward, Laub released the brakes.

  His TBD jumped ahead as it – and the torpedo it carried – rolled across the timbers to gain flying speed. Above and to his right Laub felt the eyes on him, hundreds of them – still – watching and contemplating the two men in the antique bomber going to do battle. For them and every man on the ship, and every man and woman at home.

  Passing by the bridge, Laub fought the urge to look up, but sensed the captain and the Air Officer. They were up there looking down on them as they rolled past, he knew it. Maybe even the kindly admiral. If there is even one gun…

  His tail came off as the bow lifted above the horizon, the deck edge under his cowl. With his left arm locked, Laub held forward pressure in anticipation of his transition to airborne flight. As he approached the end, the last sailor on the port catwalk offered Laub and Humphrey a little wave, the only man who did. His hands full, Laub cocked his head and smiled before he returned his attention to flying.

  He bunted toward the waves as he got the gear up, and his heavy Devastator accelerated slowly. Gaining precious airspeed, he stopped his descent and began a climb to the right.

  Laub reversed left to initiate the rendezvous turn, climbing as he did. Over his shoulder, he found Morris already airborne ahead of the ship and watched Mueller roll along the deck and into the air. Laub went about his post takeoff checks as he held an easy turn abeam Enterprise. The Big E, radiant in the late morning sunlight, dominated the deep blue water that stretched to the horizon in all directions as it rode majestically west toward the enemy. Above her, the fighters and dive-bombers circled overhead, waiting for the torpeckers. They watched and waited for the six bravest men on the ship to join them.

  With his two wingmen aboard, Laub lined up his formation on the ship’s port side so all who watched them off could see the three TBDs of Torpedo Six head out with the others in the group to attack the enemy.

  Hundreds of men in the galleries and on the flight deck paid silent homage as they did.

  Chapter 40

  USS Hornet, 1100 June 6, 1942

  Mitscher paced the bridge wing as the Enterprise planes circled over their ship while his own planes circled over Hornet, waiting to land. He clenched his teeth; George Murray had his TBDs up. Mitscher had none left, and that stark truth grated on him. That the Enterpris
e torpedo bombers could still fly out toward the enemy was a personal failure.

  Yesterday, a flying boat had picked up one of Johnny’s pilots, a wounded ensign who had spent a night on the open ocean in his raft. Maybe more were out there and would be rescued in the coming days. He hoped Waldron was among them. He was told the pilot’s name: Ensign Gay. Soucek said he was a tall fellow, from Texas. Mitscher still couldn’t place the man. Another personal failure. Soucek approached him.

  “Cap’n, we’re ready to bring ’em down now. All the VF are back, but we’re missin’ two bombers.”

  Mitscher shook his head. Another four men dead or missing. “Anything from Stanhope? Why hasn’t he reported? Or is he one of the two?”

  “Sir, we’ll know in a few more minutes.”

  Mitscher nodded. “Yes. Signal Charlie.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Soucek said and turned to return to Pri Fly. In the bridge behind him, Mitscher heard the Officer of the Deck give orders to the helm, which were repeated and then executed at once. I give orders and must wait three damned hours, Mitscher thought.

  Stanhope. If he was in one of the planes overhead, he had some explaining to do, and for more than the two missing SBDs. No updated position course and speed, no amplifying report of ship types. He had a damned radio transmitter, and so did his wingmen. Mitscher had been unable to offer Spruance anything in the past hour. The Enterprise planes went out like his did hours ago, into the unknown.

  Mitscher took his position on the port wing as his planes circled in order, fighters first. The pilots seemed subdued as they taxied over the barrier toward the bow. No clenched fists of victory, no broad smiles. Just another routine patrol.

  The Dauntlesses let down into the circle, and Mitscher watched the first one turn off the abeam and slide toward the LSO, a little slow and wrapped up. C’mon now, easy with the rudder there. The LSO gave the cut signal, and the SBD settled to the deck with a bounce. The hook snagged the cable as the hook runner ran toward it. Free, the pilot gunned the engine as the next plane approached the ramp.