The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  DeWitt Wood Shumway

  Two months after Midway, as CO of VB-3, Shumway leads his squadron into battle from USS Saratoga off Guadalcanal, and receives two Distinguished Flying Crosses to go with his Navy Cross from Midway. Promoted to commander by war’s end, he remains on active duty. In April 1946, he and eight other officers and men are killed when bombs delivered by planes from the carrier Tarawa mistakenly hit a practice target observation post at the island of Culebra near Puerto Rico. Dave Shumway is buried in Arlington.

  Elmer Glidden

  Awarded the Navy Cross for his Midway actions, in August, Glidden goes ashore and flies with VMSB-231 at Guadalcanal’s Henderson Field, where he earns a second award for his bold combat performance during months of brutal fighting throughout the Solomons chain. During the next two years of the Pacific War, he commands VMSB-231 twice and compiles a record-setting 104 combat dives, earning him the nickname “Iron Man” and acclaim throughout the Marine Corps.

  He stays in the Marines for a career, with combat tours in Korea and Vietnam, and retires as a colonel while serving as chief of staff of Marine Corps Air Bases, Western Area, at MCAS El Toro.

  He found work in South Florida and died at the age of 81 in 1997. Elmer Glidden is buried near his childhood home in Canton, Massachusetts.

  Cleo Dobson

  Awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, and two months later fights from Enterprise off Guadalcanal. Transferring to fighters, he commands VF-86 aboard USS Wasp. On 15 August 1945, the day Japan surrenders, he shoots down a Japanese airplane attempting to attack the Third Fleet.

  Medically retired due to a heart ailment, he settles in San Diego and coaches Pony and Colt League baseball, leading one team to a national championship.

  A two-time California state champion shuffleboard player, Cleo Dobson suffered a fatal heart attack while playing in Balboa Park on April 18, 1967. He was 53.

  Acknowledgements

  The National Naval Aviation Museum staff – and the volunteers of the Emil Buehler Library in particular – were instrumental in helping me research the events and narrative accounts of this battle, one that I had thought I was quite familiar with until I began my research in earnest. Deputy Director Buddy Macon, Historian Hill Goodspeed, and library volunteer Bob Thomas cheerfully provided access to numerous primary source documents and offered invaluable suggestions. Thank you gentlemen and all the helpful staff at NNAM for your kind support and encouragement.

  Thanks also to the Naval History and Heritage Command, who provided answers to specific questions regarding personnel and documents, and to the Battle of Midway Roundtable Internet discussion group which was always quick to lend a hand.

  The body of narrative non-fiction related to Midway is enormous – and daunting. The author and all students of the battle are indebted to the historians and authors who have captured it over seven decades, in particular Barde, Buell, Carlson, Chambers, Cressman, Fisher, Fuchida and Okumiya, Gay, Holmes, Horan, Isom, Kernan, Kleiss, Layton, Lundstrom, Moore, Mracek, Parshall and Tully, Prange with Goldstein and Dillon, Rigby, Rose, Russell, Smith, Stafford, Symonds, Taylor, Tillman, Walsh, and Weisheit. Thank you, gentlemen and lady, for your service.

  I am indebted to those with deep knowledge of the battle – friends and mentors all – who read the unedited manuscript to offer suggestions and question my interpretations. CAPT Will Dossel, CAPT J.R. Stevenson, CAPT T. Lad Webb, LCDR Ed Beakley of Remembered Sky, the late LCDR George Walsh, and Mark Horan. Ronald Russell, author of the essential No Right To Win, was particularly helpful with historic details and readability. Many thanks to each of you.

  Special thanks to noted aviation artist Wade Meyers, who painted the original cover art after collaborating with me, before conducting his own exacting research on the SBD and the conditions at a specific moment in time over a specific latitude and longitude on June 4, 1942.

  My loyal friend and devoted lover of the English language Linda Wasserman delivered another superb performance as copy and content editor. This work is her best ever. Many thanks once again to my Braveship Publisher Jeff Edwards whose suggestions and publishing insights are of immeasurable value to me and all in the Braveship stable.

  Terry’s love and support sustains me as always, as she did during my long absences at sea and today in lonely toil as a teller of sea-going tales. She is indeed the wind beneath my wings.

  About the Author

  Captain Kevin Miller, a 24-year veteran of the U.S. Navy, is a former tactical naval aviator and has flown the A-7E Corsair II and FA-18C Hornet operationally. He is the author of the Raven One trilogy of contemporary carrier aviation fiction, and lectures on the Battle of Midway.

  Contact the author at kevin@kevinmillerauthor.com

  I hope you enjoyed reading The Silver Waterfall as much as I enjoyed writing it. Whether you found it good or “other,” I’d sincerely appreciate your feedback. Please take a moment to leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads.

  Thanks and V/R,

  Kevin

  Order the latest epic in Kevin Miller’s unforgettable Raven One trilogy of contemporary carrier aviation

  FIGHT FIGHT

  Chapter 1

  Waters west of Scarborough Shoal, South China Sea, November, 2018

  Liao Chang stepped to the starboard side of the pilothouse and peered through the binoculars. There they are, he thought. A smile formed on his lips, and his body shivered from excitement.

  Today was the day.

  Finally, exactly 1,400 years since the time of Tang Dynasty, and after more than 100 years of foreign humiliation, China—under the Red Banner of the People’s Republic—was going to once again exert control over what belonged to it. Beginning today, and in these waters, the Han people, weak no longer, would unify all under heaven and return order to her ancient seas. Liao smiled again when he thought of the military history books that would have his name written alongside the names of Sun Tzu, Admiral Zheng He, and Chairman Mao himself.

  The 34-year-old Liao, a peasant fisherman from Hainan, had spent his life on the waters of the South China Sea, on trawlers like the one he now captained. At twenty meters long, She Kou was a seine trawler with a blue hull and the characteristic high spoon prow of Asian vessels. The boat was modest compared to the hundreds of thousands of ocean-going trawlers the PRC sent worldwide in search of protein for its 1.3 billion people. Most mariners would call it a rust bucket, but She Kou, at this moment, was the most powerful warship in the South China Sea.

  A woman. Liao’s eyes were drawn to his sister on the bow. Li Ming was two years younger, but her weathered face and her hands, calloused from a lifetime on the boats, made her look two decades older than she was. Li’s sad eyes were focused on the task before her, one she could do in her sleep. The years ahead would be filled with more drudgery and grime, and the smells of diesel, rotting fish, and salt. She ignored the spray that lashed her, as it had thousands and thousands of times in her lifespan, and continued to work the block and tackle of the nets. Now considered a dried-up old maid, she had no way to rise above her deckhand status. Liao watched her from the bridge, and, as the wind blew her long frizzled hair about her head, he noticed the streaks of gray.

  Liao would be rewarded by the Party with a woman, and not a hag from the Hainan docks like Li Ming. His woman would be a young beauty from Hong Kong or Shanghai, like the girls who read the news on television with their smooth skin and shiny hair. And silk dresses that hugged their curves, adorning a strong body that could bear him a son. For the service he was about to render to the People’s Republic, he would ask for two sons, and he would get them. Liao Chang would ensure they were educated and ready to attain their leadership positions in the Party. His reward would be great for his actions this day.

  Liao lifted his binoculars again to study the wooden banca boats one mile off the starboard bow, six of them in open water northwest of Huangyan Island. They were within hailing distance of each other as they moved northeast dragging li
nes for tuna. Or grouper. These big fish could feed dozens and dozens of hungry mouths on the mainland, and the mouths were insatiable. The mongrel Filipinos were stealing them from Liao and the People’s Republic right before their eyes—in Chinese waters! A frown formed on Liao’s face when he read the message painted in poorly formed characters on the colorful banners flying above the decrepit and dirty bancas: The Western Philippine Sea is Ours!

  We’ll see about that, Liao thought as he turned the wheel left to open the distance a bit. He grunted at the mere thought of the body of water they called the Western Philippine Sea. Even the Western barbarians called this the South China Sea. And the islands were the Zhongsha Islands, not the Filipino name Kulumpol ng Panatag and certainly not the western Scarborough Shoal—whatever a “Scarborough” was. The sea and the territory was Chinese, and the Chinese people, through the ancient construct of yi integrity, named things that belonged to them under heaven.

  A stiff breeze from the north formed whitecaps on the one-meter seas, and visibility had fallen to under two miles in gray mist. Perfect, Liao thought, and he nudged the throttle ahead a hair to ensure this opportunity would not pass if the unpredictable bancas were to turn away. Pinned as they were against the shallow bank of Huangyan a few miles to their right, he knew he had them trapped.

  From his position at the helm, Liao twisted his head right and peered through an aft-facing window. He saw the technician Xia who stood beside the generator in full foul-weather gear and unusual facemask. When their eyes met, Liao showed two fingers, his estimate of when She Kou would be in perfect position. The plan was to engage the generator when they were one mile upwind; at the moment, the winds were out of the north-northeast, holding steady at 15 knots with an occasional gust to 20. A big deck hand they called “Fatso” worked on a fouled net and hovered nearby. He was not briefed, nor was Li Ming. Both were wise enough not to ask about their landlubber passenger as they went about their tasks. Liao hoped they were up forward when the time came—in two minutes.

  The wooden bancas bobbed in the sea, their half-naked deck hands oblivious to the raw conditions as they heaved in lines across gunwales of peeling paint. He saw one of the filthy boats pull in a large fish, and through the binoculars, he could see the Filipinos looking at him from across the water. One sent a gesture of contempt his way before returning to haul in another big fish, one that Liao surmised to be a tuna. Filipinos in their flimsy boats caught the large fish on lines—the barbarians cared about such things! Powerful Chinese boats like She Kou could drag nets and catch fish in the bulk needed to feed the vast multitudes on the mainland that did the People’s work, Western sensitivities be damned.

  With gentle pressure on the wheel, Liao turned into them 10 degrees and steadied on a heading of northeast. The pathetic little flotilla was falling off down his starboard rail, and he craned his neck right to keep them in sight. Spray flew over the port side when the protection of the boats’ high prow was lost. Li Ming now worked in even greater misery on the rolling deck under the bridge.

  Liao whipped his head left and scanned the horizon. The lead seiner Le Peng 4220 was in position two miles off his port quarter, a gray silhouette in the mist, a single light showing from the mast. Good. The militia vessel provided Liao mutual support and would serve as witness to the service She Kou would render to the People’s Republic on this momentous day.

  Liao again checked the winds and with his seaman’s eye assessed the Filipino position as they fell further aft.

  Now.

  With exaggerated movements of his head, Liao pointed at the clueless bancas and signaled to Xia who nodded in return. Xia threw a switch on the generator, and it cranked to life. Fatso was too close and oblivious to the danger. He watched the machine sputter as Xia moved away from it.

  Get back to work, Fatso! Liao thought. Curiosity killed the cat!

  Beyond the generator’s single exhaust tube, Liao saw something cause the sea in the background to appear out of focus. He knew the substance was clear and odorless and was surprised he could detect it. Xia motioned for Fatso to get away, but the big deck hand ignored him.

  Liao grabbed the deck loudspeaker microphone, “Do as he says!” he bellowed.

  Fatso suddenly fell to his knees. Then, on all fours, he gasped for breath. Fatso looked up at the pilothouse in agony, uncomprehending. Why can’t I breathe?

  With a cry, Li Ming appeared from the port side. Liao warned her, “Stay away!”

  It was too late. As soon as Li put her hand on Fatso’s shoulder, she, too, dropped to her knees in agonizing convulsions. With Fatso motionless on deck, Li gasped for air before she then collapsed next to her already dead crewmate.

  The machine sounded like a gasoline-powered grass mower and continued to run as Liao shook his head in regret and double-checked the winds. After several minutes, the machine sputtered and stopped. Taking great care to ensure he was upwind, Xia stepped to it from his position under the pilothouse by stepping over the dead. Xia crouched and grasped the wooden stocks it rested on, and using the strength of his legs and hands, pushed up and out. The machine tumbled over the side and into the South China Sea.

  Xia then looked up at Liao, who nodded to give permission for what must be done. Xia grabbed Fatso’s ankles, and, with all his strength, dragged him to the deck edge. He then pushed him under the rail with his foot. The splash was visible to Liao from the pilothouse as Xia turned to Li Ming’s lifeless body and grabbed her wrists. After he dragged her to the rail, he rolled her thin frame underneath and pushed her over the side without ceremony. Liao shook his head in contempt. She should have listened to me! Xia found a hose and washed off the deck, gunwales, and railings of She Kou before they turned to Hainan and home. As the vessel chugged ahead through the waves, Liao saw Li Ming’s body floating in their wake. Dammit, he thought. Xia should have weighted the body first.

  Keeping his eyes on the banca boats, Liao pulled the throttles back to slow the trawler… He wanted to see this firsthand.

  He saw a crewman move aft on the easternmost boat but did not detect further motion. The boats in the lee appeared normal, and then began to turn in different directions. One collided with another, but Liao saw no signs of fishermen hauling in lines or otherwise trying to avoid further damage. Another boat turned away to the west, and Liao studied it for signs of movement. Seeing none, he scanned the other bancas. The only sign of life he saw was on one of the two boats that hit each other: a man waving a single arm while on his knees. Liao scanned again, dwelling several seconds on each boat, but could not discern any further movement.

  Mission accomplished! They had done it!

  The intruding thieves had been executed for trespassing on the Zhongsha Islands, and Liao had captained the vessel that ensured the rights of the People’s Republic were upheld—even here at this faraway outpost on the very edge of heaven. There would be more crimes to avenge in these waters, and Liao was honored to lead the effort. In payment, he would acquire power and wealth and would rise in the Party hierarchy. And he would soon choose, as a bride, a beauty not unlike the women he saw on television. Any girl he wanted would be his.

  Beyond the drifting bancas, now under no one’s command, he grew concerned when a shadow came into view on the gloomy horizon. He studied it, and saw it was a ship of an unusual shape and standing into potential danger. His first impression was that it was an oilfield servicing vessel, and he hoped it would navigate clear of the invisible cloud that the winds were carrying toward it.

  Get out of there! he thought. Then his eyes widened in alarm, and his heart rate increased.

  It was a warship.

  At her watch station between the two main engine rooms of the guided-missile cruiser, USS Cape Esperance, Ensign Isabel Manning was bored out of her mind.

  After two hours of working on her quals as Engineering Officer of the Watch under instruction in the cruiser’s Central Control Station, Isabel had checked and rechecked all the gauges and readings of the
LM 2500 marine gas turbine, monitored the log entries, conducted a walk-around inspection with the chief, and even helped Fireman Apprentice Williams with his personal qualifications standards. She could trace the gas turbine “steam cycle” in her sleep; air was drawn from the downtakes, compressed, fuel and spark combusted to drive the turbine and auxiliaries and draw in more air for compression.

  It was a never-ending cycle. Suck, squeeze, bang, boom, the snipes called it. And exhaust through the uptakes. Hell, it was a jet engine, an actual airliner engine adapted for a ship! Aboard this cruiser no one could escape the constant background whine of the rotating turbine blades. But here, she was mere feet from it, and all of the watch team wore foam earplugs to protect their hearing from the relentless din.

  However, it wasn’t the noise that drove Isabel up the bulkhead. No, it was the soul-crushing monotony of pipes and pumps and dials and trunks and lagging and fire mains and circuitry that made up the engineering spaces of this, and any, ship. No windows, everything painted white, and only the gentle rolling of the deck to indicate they were on a ship underway. She was the only woman on this watch, and around her the male sailors seemed fascinated as they tended the machinery, took readings, and inspected fittings. Ensign Manning, on the other hand, was dying of boredom, and if she had to spend her whole career down here as Chief Tobin had, she would slit her wrists.

  What was worse, she was missing it, missing the close-aboard passing of Scarborough Shoal on this freedom-of-navigation operation up the South China Sea. She hovered in the background during the navigation brief and saw they were going to transit inside five miles of the shoal. This would be a target-rich environment of surface traffic and probable Chinese Coast Guard, or intelligence collectors, with plenty of fishermen and merchants to add to the problem. Above her, in the ship’s Combat Information Center, analyzing threat emitters and playing electronic warfare cat-and-mouse as the two navies collected intel off one another was another challenge.