by Kevin Miller
Taxiing past him, the pilot lifted his head to the bridge and gave a thumbs-up. It was Ring. Mitscher waved his hand to acknowledge him, but why the thumbs-up? What had happened? Two planes missing. Did they sink the two ships? He looked across the bridge toward Enterprise. Their planes were already headed to the southwest, and he still had nothing to relay.
One after another, the SBDs trapped aboard. Once free of the cable, they quickly taxied ahead to make room for the next. They were clean. Thank goodness. Must have attacked something. Mitscher kept his eye on Ring as he deplaned behind the fighters. Get up here, Stan.
Ring met with his pilots as they deplaned, discussing the flight as they talked with their hands, discussions Mitscher wanted to hear. Ring went from one to the other, shouting to be heard over the loud idling of the radial engines around them. Mitscher exhaled through his nose.
“Apollo, get Ring up here on the double,” Mitscher growled.
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Ring stepped onto the bridge wing. “Commander Ring reporting as ordered, sir.”
Mitscher turned from watching the flight deck activity.
“Stan, how’d it go? I haven’t heard from you.”
Ring expressed surprise. “Sir? I radioed a report, several of them. We found a cruiser and battleship and attacked both. Got a few hits and lots of paint-scrapers.”
“And lost two bombers.”
“Yes, sir. Their ack-ack was good, quite heavy.”
“Who were they?”
“Two ensigns, sir – one was from Enterprise.”
“Names,” Mitscher asked with an edge.
Ring realized the conversation had taken a turn. “Ensign Griswold sir, from Scouting Eight. The name of the Enterprise pilot escapes me for the moment, but I’ll get it and send it up at once.”
“I want to get that information over to Enterprise immediately.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Mitscher looked away toward the horizon, eyes narrowed, jaw set. Ring sensed trouble.
“Captain, I called the ship with reports. I never got a reply, but I figured you were in radio silence.”
“I received no word from you, and our radios have worked fine all morning.”
Ring had no answer. “No excuse, sir, except that maybe my plane’s radio is malfunctioning. I’ll have the men look at it.”
“Yes. Now go below and get that man’s name, and the gunner’s name. Get it to the Comm Officer ASAP. We’re probably going again this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll put ’em on the bottom this time.”
Mitscher faced Ring.
“Stan, sit this one out. Your plane is broken, and you’ve been going hard at it the past three days. Give one of your squadron COs a crack at leading.”
“Cap’n, I’ll get another plane. We can…”
“Stan, no. I said no. Give it to Walt Rodee. All the VB and VS we can muster.”
Stung, a tight-lipped Ring nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.”
“Get that name.”
“Aye, aye, sir. By your leave, sir,” Ring said. He popped a salute.
“Dismissed,” Mitscher said as he returned it. Ring departed through the bridge to the ladder. As he did, Mitscher thought of Waldron’s face at this very spot two days ago.
He practically begged me, and I told him no.
Laub picked up the smoke trailing from a capital ship off to the left, and the low silhouettes of her attending escorts on the horizon. The dive-bombers had ramped down to begin their dives, and a flight of Wildcats made lazy S-turns above to keep Laub’s three TBDs in sight. With unlimited visibility, he scanned the horizon to the west and north. Clear.
Oddly, the SBDs pressed ahead to the west.
Maintaining a healthy distance from the ships, Laub could only follow Short and the other Dauntlesses high above. They appeared as little more than dots in a ragged echelon of vee formations. He scanned the horizon. With good visibility, the ships stood out on it like a man on a ridgeline. No other Jap ships, but Short continued on. Laub kept a wary eye on the little Japanese flotilla, four of them, one wounded, and, if Short returned, helpless.
After ten minutes had passed, the SBDs entered an wide turn to the left. Laub couldn’t catch up to them and stay safe. He reversed back to the right. They would all converge on the enemy ships, still in view, and now coming at them.
Animated radio chatter from the leads directed traffic as the VB set up for their dives. No fighter threat, and only four ships – two of them big but damaged and moving at a moderate speed. At 1,500 feet, Laub rolled out on a heading to keep him a safe distance north.
Guns flashed from the enemy vessels, and black puffs appeared over them. The bombers spotted, Laub noted with pride that his friends didn’t flinch or drift away from one another.
Confusion on the radio. “Wally, this is Dave. I’ll take the cruiser to the northeast.” The bomber pilots bickered over who was supposed to follow who. Laub recognized Short’s voice: “Step on it, dammit! Are we gonna attack or not? C’mon up here…the rear ship.” Behind Laub, Humphrey slapped the side of the TBD with his hand.
“There they go!”
From three miles away, Laub and the others watched the VS and VB dive on the Japanese ships. How do they do it, straight down their throats, Laub wondered. One after another they slid down an imaginary string toward the target. The heavy AA burst behind them. Wrong altitude set. Laub watched in horror as Short continued down. Is he going to make it? Pull up!
When Short began his pull off, a fearful Laub sensed it was too late. As the SBD was about to hit the water, it climbed away from it. A bright mushroom of fire blossomed amidships as it did.
“Whoa-ho!” Humphrey cried.
Another hit. More flame and smoke, and the ship’s giant smokestack lifted off and fell into the water with a huge splash. A massive cloud of black and gray smoke boiled up from the superstructure.
The radio was alive. “Did you see that fuckin’ thing explode? Choke on it, Tojo, you bastard! Look at that son of a bitch burn!”
More bombers dove on the lead ship, more hits. “That battlewagon is finished! Go for the cruiser and the cans!”
Laub could only watch, could only assess the defensive fire. The trailing ship had stopped as flames poured from the superstructure. More bombers dove, and great waterspouts of seawater erupted alongside the lead cruiser. One bomb hit square on the stern. Above, the Wildcats peeled off to strafe what they could. An excited SBD pilot mistakenly transmitted for all to hear. “That scared the hell out of me! I thought we weren’t gonna pull out!”
The six torpedomen waited for the SBDs and F4Fs to finish. Of the two targets, Laub liked their chances with the trailing ship, a battleship by the size of it, with a high prow and three turrets forward. From the bridge aft it was a flaming wreck, dead in the water. The escorting destroyers laid off on the other side, firing in a vain effort to defend it. Laub looped his finger in the air to signal Morris and Mueller. We’re gonna extend, reverse right 180, and look.
The bombers were done, still whooping it up on the radio, pilots wishing they had another bomb and sounding like kids at a carnival. Some of the formations were already joined as they headed east for home. Laub rolled easy right to put the trailing ship on his nose.
“Bob from Wally. How does it look?”
Laub pressed his throat microphone. “Taking us in… You have us in sight?”
“Yep, gotcha. Jim, you have ’em?”
“Got ’em,” the Fighting Six CO answered. “We’re comin’ back and will escort from overhead.”
“Great. Anyone skosh on fuel?” Short asked. No one answered.
The burning battleship crossed over Laub’s cowling as he turned, descending his little formation as he did. Laub held the target on his left canopy bow.
A muzzle flash forward, a small automatic. Seconds later, a stitch of spray off Laub’s left wing, spray that walked toward the TBDs as Laub veered right to avoid it. The destr
oyers to the south were no factor, and the cruiser was now on his nose. The ship burned hard, the fantail a smoking mess. Now inside two miles, Laub approached it, but the angle off was too shallow. As he veered away to increase range, an automatic gun fired from somewhere inside the cloud of smoke on the fantail. As he continued ahead, more guns sent tracers in Laub’s direction.
He reversed to take another look at the trailing ship, this time trying the starboard quarter. The setup took time. Took fuel. Laub had enough for one more look. He signalled to the others and turned away.
“Whaddaya think, Bob?” Short asked on the radio.
“Lemme try one more. Gonna take us a few minutes.” Laub answered. To the east, the SBDs and Wildcats headed back to the ship. Short’s division stayed with the TBDs. Torpedo Six would not be abandoned.
After five minutes, Laub rolled them back to the trailing ship – wallowing and smoking – and again approached it from starboard. It had a list, and Laub noted several turret gun barrels pointed askew in the air. Amidships was a charred hulk, an open pit from which thick smoke trailed above sheets of roiling flame. The smoke was thickest aft, and Laub chose the starboard quarter as an aimpoint. Three fish would finish her for sure. He signaled the others to take trail.
The men sensed this was the last gasp of the TBD as a front-line combat plane. Five years ago, it was what all the cadets wanted to fly. Now it was old and obsolete, unsuitable for this new way of war that emphasized speed. More than for the plane, Laub wanted to release his fish into the side of this Jap for Tom, and XO Ely, and the Skipper.
His heart sank when two automatic guns fired from the spot he had targeted. How could anyone breathe in that inferno, much less fire a gun?
He eased away from the smoking derelict and transmitted. “Wally from Bob. Unable today.”
“Concur, Bob, you guys did yer best. Let’s steer zero-seven-zero. We’ll stay with you. Right now I’m at yer four o-clock high. Jus’ keep yer turn in.”
Laub acknowledged him and set a course for home. They had failed. Their last chance. Gone. Forever.
Once established on course, Laub signalled Mueller to cross under to his left. With a TBD on each wing, he signalled them to prepare to jettison their Mk-13s. Over his shoulder, the Japanese smoked and flashed. It couldn’t be helped. If there is even one gun…
“Humphrey, I’m gonna jettison our fish.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Laub. Too bad.”
Laub clenched his fist and made a motion aft, then yanked up on the jettison lever. His plane lurched up as one ton of weight fell free. He glanced at both wingmen in time to see their torpedoes fall away into the waiting Pacific.
In the landing circle, Laub took interval on an SBD. He wondered if it would be his last carrier landing in the Devastator.
Gear down, flaps down, hook down. Level at sixty feet, he held it just above stall and slid toward the wake. The LSO showed him a roger pass.
Crossing the ramp, he took his cut and trapped. “Nice one, Skipper,” Humphrey said.
And there they were, hundreds of men on vulture’s row and the flight deck catwalks. Smiles and cheers. Applause. They pointed at the empty torpedo stations thinking Laub and his wingmen had scored hits against the Jap ships. Had the spectators even left?
They parked and chocked him abeam the bridge as Morris and Mueller chugged up behind. Busy with post-landing checks, Laub was surprised when the maintenance chief jumped up on the wing and slapped his back.
“Mister Laub, you got ’em, didn’t you!”
Laub wished he could give the chief what he wanted. Validation. Revenge. An answer full of bravado. Hell, yeah, we sent the yellow bastards to the bottom! But he couldn’t.
“We tried, Chief, but the ack-ack was too hot. Had to jettison the fish. We tried.”
The chief’s face fell, but only a little.
“That’s okay, Skipper! We’re just glad you fellas are back safe.”
The chief stepped down the wing and clapped Humphrey on the back. Looking up to his right, Laub caught sight of the admiral on the port gallery.
The admiral smiled at him.
Chapter 41
Bombing Eight, 1430 June 6, 1942
Fisher marveled at the visibility. From 13,000 feet, he could see smoke from the Japanese ahead and his own Task Force Sixteen ships behind him. They were now less than 100 miles apart.
In the lead formation, Skipper Rodee led thirteen of his Scouting Eight SBDs. Trailing them, Fisher and Ferguson were in the first division of XO Tucker’s Bombing Eight.
Holding his place in echelon, Fisher took peeks at the enemy ships. One, attended by destroyers, wallowed dead in the water, smoke trailing for miles. Another large ship was off by itself, giving off some smoke and moving slowly. Fisher took in all of it with confidence. The Americans owned the skies. There was nothing to fear until he and the others opened their dive-brakes and pushed over into that ring of fire.
He desperately wanted to score a hit, even if on a helpless sitting duck that smoked from bow to stern. Skipper Rodee came up on the radio.
“Gus, we’ve got the smoker. You take the other big one to the northwest.”
“Wilco, Walt.”
“Abbie, split up your divisions at your discretion.”
“Got it,” Tucker answered. “We’ll follow you on the battleship. Fred, you’ve got the one to the northwest.”
Rodee transmitted again. “And get the tin cans if able.”
Fisher was confused. Who was going to get the destroyers? He put it out of his mind and flew wing. He wanted a big target, especially after yesterday’s futility.
Rodee led his planes to the smoking battleship, while Tucker circled his squadron around to the west to come out of the sun. They see us, Fisher thought, as water churned behind the destroyers, desperate to escape the coming onslaught near the battleship. He focused on the burning ship. Rafts. Rafts near the stern. They’re abandoning.
The scout undersides turned red as they opened their dive-brakes. Moments later, the first one, Rodee, pushed over.
The burning ship resembled a barge of twisted and blackened junk metal. On its bow and stern, automatics opened up – amazing – and an escaping destroyer also fired. Black puffs of antiaircraft exploded across the circle from Fisher. The first division boys were in their dives on the helpless derelict while Fisher waited.
A hit lifted a massive piece of debris over 1,000 feet into the air. Shouts and whoops on the radio. Nearing the ship, Fisher saw men in the water next to it. Dozens of them. Did they jump when they saw us?
Another 1,000 pounds of explosive tore into the flaming and smoking pit, and another black and gray mushroom cloud climbed high, accompanied by more excited cries. Fisher tried to keep his eyes on Lieutenant Lynch next to him and not the drama two miles below. He couldn’t help it though, the scene held him, and his mind harked back to late summer bonfires in the field. Another explosion wracked the ship and pelted men in the water with steel debris.
The smaller cruiser was getting it from Mister Widhelm’s division. They dove into another funnel of tracers and popping flashbulbs of shells along their flight paths.
The scouts were off west, some making strafing runs on the cans and having a real day of it. Fisher assessed the inferno below. The bow and stern were all that resembled a warship. On Tucker’s signal, they opened their dive-brakes. Holding on to Lynch, Fisher looked under his tail at the dying ship – and the struggling men, hundreds of them, next to it.
I can’t do it.
The XO was in, followed a count later by Don, then Joe. Fisher was armed up, low blower, pitch set. He was ready. In seconds he and Ferguson would be in again on a Jap ship, this one prostrate before them, with Jap sailors jumping from it to take their chances in the sea. What if I’m short?
Lynch pushed over as a geyser erupted along the port side, where the Japs struggled for their lives. The ship’s weak tracer fire swept underneath the diving SBDs, way off the mark. Crossfire f
rom the retreating destroyer arced through their flight paths, over the XO and Don, over the terrified men treading water beneath them. Fisher held his dive for a count, a long count. I have to do this!
Impatient and frustrated, Fisher warned Ferguson as he pushed down, scooping his nose to aim at the ship’s pointed prow. As he did, an explosion covered it; yellow and red flame blossomed from an area forward of the Number 1 turret before it turned to black and brown smoke. More whoops on the radio.
I can’t!
“Ferguson, this one’s done, we’re going for the can!”
“Yes, sir!”
Fisher repositioned his nose on a destroyer that fired at Lynch, who pulled off from his delivery. He had saved Fisher from committing murder, had spoiled his aim point. It was easier now. Fisher wanted to hit a ship – not kill helpless men.
Not yet aware Fisher had selected it, the destroyer increased speed.1 The angle was shallow – glide bombing run. He felt slow and closed his dive-brakes. As the brakes retracted, his Dauntless lunged forward at the tin can, and the ship saw him coming.
Tracers from the stern and port side amidships rose toward Fisher in familiar slow motion. Their streams oscillated, fired by frantic gunners – scared kids like those in the water. Like me! In fear, they watched Fisher’s dark shape grow larger. It was a duel to the death now, with hundreds of tiny projectiles floating toward a single plane with two men carrying one giant projectile that could kill dozens. That could kill a ship.
Fisher would kill them, the Japs, their fire ineffective, his dive angle steady. He was sure of it. Cold blood.
The destroyer turned toward him – not yet fast enough to escape. They didn’t have a chance, but more of a chance than those poor bastards behind him next to a sinking and exploding hulk.
The ship’s bridge wing filled his bombsight. Men stood on it, their faces facing him. Jap officers! Outside, tracers snapped the air among excited words on the radio. Riveted on his target, he ignored them. As if in a trance, he tracked the ship through the water. Oh yes, he would kill.
