There was something to the argument. The Japanese had indeed used radio deception before Pearl Harbor. Nor was radio traffic analysis infallible. A week before the December 7 raid CINCPAC had placed one Japanese carrier division in the South Pacific because the destroyers that usually guarded it were down there—yet, as everyone soon found out, this guess had been all too wrong.
But, Nimitz’s intelligence men argued, this time was different. There were only isolated messages before Pearl Harbor; now there was a mountain of intelligence. And besides, there was the make-up of the Japanese force—it clearly involved a landing. They wouldn’t be bringing all those troops and transports for an air raid on San Francisco.
The argument dragged on. At the bottom, it was really just the old controversy over enemy intentions or capabilities. Sacred to the Naval War College was the doctrine that all decisions must be based on what the enemy could do, rather than what it probably would do. Nimitz knew the risks of outguessing the Japanese as well as anyone, but, as he often told Layton, he felt the Navy’s planning should put more stress on what was most likely to happen, rather than just the worst that could happen.
This time, moreover, he had a source of intelligence never dreamed of by the men who wrote the textbooks. Those intercepts gave him a priceless advantage that must not be wasted. He was sure the Japanese were coming to Midway, and all countermeasures should be based on this assumption. He stood firm—and won.
Just in time too. That key intercept of May 25 was the last message in the JN-25 code that Rochefort’s group managed to unravel. Right afterward the Japanese changed their system, and everything went black. It would be weeks before the Combat Intelligence Unit began “reading” this sort of material again. Meanwhile, they could only fill in some gaps and continue to break ship-to-ship traffic—useful, but it gave no overall picture. That remained blank, but by now it was all decided. Nimitz could place his ships and planes where he wanted.
“Assume 4 CV, each with 36 VF plus 27 VSB (63 planes each) attack Balsa from short range, say 50 to 100 miles, with view of knocking out at once the air defense,” wrote the Admiral in a hasty note to Captain Davis. “Visualize as clearly as possible his method of operating and OUR best countertactics. Give me brief pencil memo on this, and then we will discuss.”*
The harried staff was bombarded with questions, often getting down to hard details, for Nimitz was not just a planner, but a careful, meticulous fighter. What would be the best positions for the 12 additional 3-inch AA guns now being rushed to Midway? Where should the U.S. carriers be placed to give the greatest support? Where should the subs be stationed after the attack began? Should Midway’s planes avoid fighting the Japanese bombers and go all out for the carriers? Should more planes be based on Midway?
“The problem at Midway is one of hitting “before we are hit,” wrote Admiral Bellinger, submitting a search plan worked out with General Tinker of the Seventh Air Force. It called for patrolling 700 miles out every day, covering the whole 180° west of Midway. To do the job, they needed 23 PBYs … eight more than they already had. Endorsing the scheme on May 26, Captain Davis noted an intriguing possibility: “The plan will leave an excellent flanking area northeast of Midway for our carriers.”
And they were coming in now. That same morning on the southwest horizon a single speck appeared … then 2 … 5 … 21 altogether, as Admiral Halsey’s Task Force 16 pounded up from the Solomons. It had been an exciting trip back, full of speculation. Some, like Commander Ed Creehan, the Hornet’s engineering officer, had a good pipe line—his old shipmate Captain Marc Mitscher tipped him off. Others could only guess. On the Enterprise Ensign Lewis Hopkins of Bombing Squadron 6 noted that even the plane radio transmitters were wired off—it must be really big. Seamen on the destroyer Balch wondered why Commander Tiemroth had them working so hard rigging life lines and rescue nets—whatever it was, it looked dangerous.
The man who knew best was in no mood to see anyone. Admiral Halsey had come down with a skin disease, and the itch was driving him crazy. He tried everything—even oatmeal water baths—but nothing helped. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep. Completely exhausted, he now lay in his cabin, a bundle of nerves and temper.
At 11:33 A.M. the Enterprise entered Pearl Harbor channel, and was soon tied up at Ford Island. Dr. Hightower put Halsey on the sick list, but the Admiral—never a good patient—went over to CINCPAC anyhow. Nimitz took one look, ordered him to the hospital immediately. But first he wanted Halsey’s recommendation on who should take over Task Force 16 for the coming battle. Without-a second’s hesitation, the normally ebullient Halsey named the man perhaps least like him in the entire Pacific fleet—the quiet, methodical commander of his cruisers and destroyers, Rear Admiral Raymond Ames Spruance.
Spruance himself had no inkling what was up. After his flagship Northampton made fast, he went around to the Enterprise to report to Halsey as usual. Only then did he find that the Admiral had been taken to the hospital. He joined the rest of the task force commanders as they sat in the flag cabin, restlessly waiting to learn who would take over.
Halsey’s aide Lieutenant William H. Ashford arrived, sent by the Admiral to tip Spruance off. The place seemed a little public, so Ashford took the new commander into Halsey’s bedroom and told him there. Spruance was thoroughly surprised. He was junior to several other possibilities, was a nonaviator, had never even served a day on a carrier. Yet he was used to following Halsey around the Pacific, and he’d have Halsey’s fine staff to back him up.
He hurried to CINCPAC, where Nimitz formally told him of his appointment. A quick briefing followed on the Japanese advance; then the two men sat around planning the U.S. countermove. To Spruance there was only one thing to do: take the carriers and lie in wait northeast of Midway. Normally he might head northwest—straight for the Japanese—and engage them somewhere west of the atoll, but the stakes seemed too high. Even accepting that miraculous intelligence, the Japanese just might change their plans and go for Hawaii or the West Coast. Then he’d find himself caught on the wrong side of them, out of the fight and useless. He could have it both ways by waiting in the northeast: he’d be safe against an end run, and he had a marvelous chance for an ambush.
It was fine with Nimitz.
Back on the Enterprise, Lieutenant Clarence E. Dickinson noticed his old Academy classmate Lieutenant R. J. Oliver coming up the gangway. Oliver was Spruance’s flag lieutenant on the Northampton—what was he doing here? It turned out he was arranging to bring over the Admiral’s personal gear. One way or another the news raced through the task force: Spruance was taking over; Halsey was on the beach.
It was hard to believe. In the past six months Bill Halsey had become a part of them. From the wreckage of Pearl Harbor, he had lifted them—both the frightened recruits and the disillusioned old-timers—and given them new faith in themselves. Gradually he gave them other things too—skills, strength, endurance, spirit. They knew all this, and they loved him for it. Even now they could picture him sitting up by the bow watching take-offs—they said he knew every plane. It was almost impossible to think of being without him.
Not that they disliked Spruance—they hardly knew the man—but that was just the trouble. There were stories that he was from the “gun club”—part of the conservative battleship crowd that looked down on the jaunty aviators and their sporty brown shoes. That sounded like bad news. As one long-time machinist’s mate on the Enterprise later explained, “We had nothing against him, but we knew we had a black-shoe admiral in our midst.”
Well, they’d see. Meanwhile, they were far too busy to brood. A great sense of urgency hung in the air. People were frozen in their jobs; even Captain Marc Mitscher, slated to be an admiral, would stay on as skipper of the Hornet. His replacement, Captain Charles Perry Mason, came aboard as observer and reminded Mitscher, “Take good care of her—this is my ship.”
The harbor was alive with activity. Fuel and ammunition barges tooted impatiently, jockeying
to come alongside the ships. The destroyer Aylwin’s entire crew worked all night, loading and stowing fresh supplies. On the Hornet Machinist’s Mate J. E. Hoy sweated away, shifting provisions to the kitchen. When they were one can of Spam short, the cook refused to sign for anything, and all work stopped amid angry bickering. Word reached the bridge, and Marc Mitscher exploded—unless this was settled by the time he got there, everybody would be court-martialed. The men got the point; the cook signed and the work raced on— “Mitscher was a guy you didn’t fool with.”
Ashore, another member of the Hornet’s company had a different kind of supply problem. Lieutenant Commander John Waldron, skipper of Torpedo Squadron 8, was laying siege to the Aircraft Matériel Office. He heard they had a supply of newly designed twin machine-gun mounts; now he was determined to get some for his slow, highly vulnerable torpedo planes. The guns were really meant for dive bombers, but there was something about this impassioned, almost mystical man—others noticed it too—and in the end Captain Lyon relented and gave him the guns. Waldron rushed off, so elated he forgot his flight gloves.
On the Enterprise, work stopped long enough May 27 for a brief ceremony on the flight deck. In a flurry of ruffles and bosun calls, Admiral Nimitz came aboard to decorate three of the pilots. Pinning the Distinguished Flying Cross on the chest of Lieutenant Roger Mehle, the Admiral paused and looked him straight in the eye: “I think you’ll have a chance to win yourself another medal in the next several days.”
That afternoon a new set of specks appeared on the southwestern horizon. Admiral Fletcher’s Task Force 17 was coming in too. It had been a hard trip, full of suspense as the wounded Yorktown trailed a telltale oil slick for miles behind her. But they were safe at last, and the crew was in high spirits. They certainly didn’t wish the “Old Lady” ill, but the damage from that bomb should keep her in dry dock for a long time; and after 101 days at sea they could use a little liberty. As the big carrier limped up the channel, the men could almost taste the Hotel Street beer.
A special reception committee was waiting at Dry Dock No. 1. Yard worker Cyril Williams and a crew of other hands had spent all the past night getting blocks manufactured and secured, ready to receive the Yorktown. They finished just in time, watching with satisfaction as the big carrier nosed through the gates.
On board, the men learned with dismay that there’d be no liberty after all. Far from it: working parties were already loading fresh supplies of food and ammunition. No one knew what was up; the ship’s Marine Detachment caustically agreed, “The navigator has lost the charts to the American waters.”
Even before the dock had drained, a little group could be seen sloshing around, examining the bent and crumpled plates. The yard manager, Captain Claude Gillette, conferred with his hull repair expert, Lieutenant Commander H. J. Pfingstag, and other technicians. Talking with them—in hip boots like the rest—was Admiral Nimitz himself.
It was clear the damage was very serious. The two near-misses hadn’t done much—the leaks could be quickly patched —but the direct hit was another matter. It had exploded four decks down, spreading havoc for 100 feet—decks blistered, doors and hatches blown off, bulkheads ripped open, frames and stanchions twisted. It should take weeks to fix;
“We must have this ship back in three days,” Nimitz told the group. His voice was quiet, his manner very, very serious. The men hesitated, looked at one another, and finally Pfingstag gulped, “Yes, sir.”
Nimitz was back in his office at the sub base by the time Admiral Fletcher checked in a little later. Perhaps it was because they knew each other so well, but Fletcher immediately sensed that his boss—normally the calmest of people—was deeply disturbed. Nimitz started off by asking Fletcher how he felt. “Pretty tired,” was the answer. Nimitz nodded; yes, he understood and normally he’d send him back to the West Coast, but he couldn’t do it this time. The Japanese were on their way to Midway; Task Force 17 had to go right out again.
Nimitz then poured out the details, ship by ship, of the Japanese operation. “Do you know,” he added with just a touch of irritation, “they’ve even named the officer who is to take over the Naval Station there on August 1?”
Gradually he filled in Fletcher on everything else: Halsey was out … Spruance now had the Enterprise and Hornet … they’d be starting off soon … Fletcher would follow with the Yorktown … the two forces would join up with Fletcher taking over-all command as senior officer … then they’d lie in wait off Midway.
Fletcher understood. He had only one misgiving. The Yorktown had lost a lot of fliers at Coral Sea, and he was worried about the new bombing and torpedo squadrons Nimitz planned to give him. It wasn’t a question of quality—he was sure they were excellent—but they hadn’t worked with the ship before. Couldn’t he keep his regular group, filling it out with replacements? No, said Nimitz; the old fliers needed a rest, and new complete squadrons promised better coordination.
At some point Spruance joined them, and the question arose whether the Yorktown could really make it. “She’ll be joining you,” Nimitz said firmly.
It certainly didn’t look like it. The Yorktown now lay high out of the water. Yard workers swarmed over her, hammers clattering, acetylene torches flaring in the growing dusk. During the evening a courier came aboard, climbing over the wires and cables, and delivered a thick document to Lieutenant (j.g.) John Greenbacker, the ship’s secretary. Greenbacker signed for it and thereby became the first person on board to see CINCPAC Operation Plan no. 29-42, the official blueprint setting forth all the thinking and decisions of the past two weeks.
“The enemy is expected to attempt the capture of Midway in the near future,” it explained. “For this purpose it is believed that the enemy will employ approximately the following: 2-4 fast battleships: 4-5 carriers; 8-9 heavy cruisers; 16-24 destroyers; 8-12 submarines; a landing force with seaplane tenders… .”
This catalogue of chilling details was followed by the American answer: an outline of the tactics CINCPAC proposed to follow. Specific tasks were assigned each of the various U.S. forces. The carriers would “inflict maximum damage on the enemy by employing strong attrition tactics.” As decided, they would operate northeast of Midway, hoping to catch the Japanese by surprise. Submarines would go for the enemy carriers; Midway itself would concentrate on defense and patrols; Hawaii would contribute a long-range striking force. In listing these tasks, the language was usually general (Midway’s first job was simply, “hold Midway”), but there was no doubt that everybody had enough to do.
There were 86 copies of Op Plan 29-42, and as they were distributed throughout the various commands, selected officers studied the details with fascination. To those eligible to see it, the meticulous intelligence on the Japanese movements seemed almost incredible. Not knowing where it came from —and perhaps having read too many spy thrillers—the Enterprise’s navigator, Commander Ruble, could only say to himself, “That man of ours in Tokyo is worth every cent we pay him.”
A bright sun sparkled off the water next morning, May 28, as the destroyers of Task Force 16 slipped their moorings and glided single file down Pearl Harbor Channel toward the open sea. Behind them came a pair of tankers, then the cruisers, and finally the Enterprise and Hornet.
On the bridge of the Enterprise the “black-shoe Admiral” Raymond Spruance thoughtfully watched his first command of carriers move down the harbor. In the words of the master plan, he was on his way “to inflict maximum damage on the enemy.” And to guide him he now had a last-minute Letter of Instructions just issued by Nimitz to his two commanders: “In carrying out the task assigned on Op Plan 29-42, you will be governed by the principle of calculated risk, which you will interpret to mean the avoidance of exposure of your force to attack by superior enemy forces without good prospect of inflicting, as a result of such exposure, greater damage to the enemy.”
To achieve this most delicate of formulas was now up to him. At 11:59 the Enterprise cleared the channel, swung toward B
arbers Point, and headed for those lonely waters northeast of Midway.
Back at Pearl Harbor, a rebellious but helpless patient watched from a lanai at the Naval Hospital. For the utterly frustrated Halsey, seeing them go without him was even worse than the itch.
In contrast to the antiseptic quiet of the hospital was the bedlam at Dry Dock No. 1. Hundreds of men now swarmed over the Yorktown—she seemed even more alive out of the water than afloat. Clouds of smoke poured up from the acetylene torches burning away her damaged plates. The clatter of drills and hammers never stopped.
Deep inside the ship Bill Bennett, the burly supervisor of Shop 11-26, bore down on his gang of 150 shipfitters. One qualification of a Navy yard boss was to be even tougher than his men, and Bennett easily met the test. He was in charge all the way as they sweated to erase the devastating direct hit.
There was no time for plans or sketches. The men worked directly with the steel beams and bars brought on the ship. Coming to a damaged frame, burners would take out the worst of it; fitters would line up a new section, cut it to match the contour of the damage; riggers and welders would move in, “tacking” the new piece in place. Then on to the next job—there seemed no end to the grind.
And it was hell down there besides—120° temperature, little light, lots of smoke. When a man looked really ready to drop, Bennett would send him topside for a sandwich and a breath of air. He himself never bothered with any of that. Occasionally sucking an orange, he worked for 48 hours straight.
All over the ship it was the same story. Ellis Clanton, chief quarterman at Shop 31, didn’t leave the ship for three days, as he struggled to repair the weird assortment of fixtures that are part of a great carrier—elevator shoes, arresting gear rams and so forth. Working on the hull, Ed Sheehan grew so tired he finally fell asleep on the scaffolding.
The World War II Collection Page 66
