Lindsey signaled, and the 14 planes made a wide swing right so that they approached the target from about due south. The Japanese were heading west at the moment, and their formation was extremely loose—they were apparently under, or had just been under, a heavy torpedo plane attack by somebody.
But where were all the Enterprise’s own planes? Jim Gray’s fighters were meant to be on hand, yet no one had seen them all the way out. And the disappearance of Wade McClusky’s dive bombers was even more baffling. They left first, were faster, should be here waiting. But they too were nowhere in sight. Gene Lindsey just didn’t have the gas to wait around. He would have to go it alone. Picking the closest carrier, he began his approach about 9:40. He was off his target’s port bow—an excellent position—and at 20 miles he split his planes, seven and seven, hoping to come in on both sides.
There was only one thing wrong with his theory: the planes were TBDs. The manual might say they went 134 knots, but 100 was closer to the mark these days. With the carriers going 25-30 knots, it took a long, long while to close the gap. All the more so, since the Japanese skipper cleverly kept his stern to the planes, forcing them into an ever wider arc to get in a bow shot. And this was necessary because a 30-knot ship could easily dodge a 33-knot torpedo at any other angle. It all added up to a 20-minute approach.
The Zeros made good use of the time. Starting about 15 miles out, 25 of them swept down, making pass after pass at Torpedo 6.The rear-seat men fired back as best they could; the pilots just hunched low and hoped. They couldn’t dodge; they couldn’t maneuver; everything depended on keeping course. Pablo Riley … Tom Eversole … Gene Lindsey himself went down one after another in flaming cartwheels. Others went too, but the rest kept coming—slowly, ever so slowly, edging around toward the bow of the turning carrier.
The antiaircraft was there too; they had a 15-minute dose of it. As usual, it caused little actual damage, but it did have a jarring effect. It forced the planes out a little more, making that long circuitous journey that much longer.
They never did reach a decent launching position, but that didn’t keep them from trying. At 9:58 the remaining TBDs finally turned in and began a desperate run on the carrier’s port quarter. The big ship—so far away for so long—suddenly seemed overwhelmingly near. Lieutenant Ed Laub found he could make out the planes on her flight deck … next instant he could even see their propellers turning.
And that was close enough. At 500-800 yards he released, felt that lift to his plane, and raced to get clear. Three other TBDs did the same; the remaining ten were gone.
It was all over soon after 10:00 A.M. For more than 20 minutes the men of Torpedo 6 had pitted themselves against the entire First Carrier Striking Force. They had, of course, their prearranged signal for help— “Come on down, Jim”— but there’s no sign it was ever used. Perhaps it was sent but never received; perhaps Art Ely was shot down too soon; perhaps Gene Lindsey didn’t know about it; or perhaps, having seen no sign of Fighting 6 all the way out, he just assumed there was nobody up there.
High above the broken clouds, Fighting 6 restlessly orbited at 20,000 feet. Still no sign of the torpedo planes, but if they needed help, they’d call. Meanwhile Jim Gray was more and more worried about McClusky’s dive bombers. Where were they anyhow? He circled, looking to the south; no luck. He tried a few radio calls; no answer.
He glanced at his gas gauge—and got a shock. It stood about half where it normally did after two hours’ flying. This meant Fighting 6 couldn’t do much even if the dive bombers came. They no longer had the gas to mix it up with the Zeros!
At 9:52 Gray again tried to contact McClusky. He reported he was over the target, but running short of fuel and would soon have to go back to the ship. No answer. At 10:00 he tried again, this time summing up the situation as far as he could see it: the enemy fleet had eight destroyers, two battleships, two carriers … course north … no combat patrol. Still no answer.
By now he had little gas left for anything at all. Maybe he should strafe the Japanese carrier he could see clear of the clouds. On the other hand, that would take him down too low to use the Enterprise’s homing device to return to the ship. All things considered, the gains from a strafing run just didn’t seem worth the risk of running out of gas. As Admiral Halsey once said, the fighters’ first job was to protect the fleet.
Gray decided the sensible thing to do was go back for more fuel. A few minutes after 10:00—just about the time Torpedo 6 was making its final, lonely dash at the First Carrier Striking Fleet—Fighting 6 headed for home.
IT TOOK all Captain Okada’s skill to keep the Kaga’s stern to this new group of American planes. At one point he had to use hard-left rudder to avoid some torpedoes on his starboard quarter, then go immediately to hard-right rudder to dodge another set to port.
But the job was done. By 10:00 everything seemed under control, and the Striking Force hurried northeast at 24 knots. Admiral Nagumo still planned to strike the American carrier at 10:30, and the time had come to close the enemy.
Nagumo also sent a new message to Admiral Yamamoto, reviewing the morning’s events. He briefly reported his attack on Midway, the futile attacks on him by shore-based planes. He again told how a U.S. task force, complete with carrier, had been found. “After destroying this,” he reported, “we plan to resume our AF attack.”
He didn’t mention the two TBD strikes he had just received, or perhaps he assumed they were shore-based too: After all, what did it matter? He had hurled back seven separate American attacks. Admiral Nagumo was more than satisfied.
ENSIGN Thomas Wood was beginning to realize he might have to eat his words. Back in the wardroom he had boasted that he, personally, would sink the Akagi, but the Hornet’s 35 dive bombers and 10 fighters had been searching for an hour now, and it looked more and more as if they might not find the Japanese fleet at all, much less sink the flagship.
It was all very baffling. Commander Stan Ring had led his planes exactly as directed—239°, 155 miles—but nothing had gone quite right. First, they didn’t link up with Torpedo 8 on the way out. Topping that, when they reached the interception point around 9:30, there were no ships in sight.
Yet they must be somewhere. Were they to the right, off to the north? This would be the case if they had unexpectedly changed course—and carriers had a way of doing that. Or were they to the left? Had they already passed by the interception point and were now between the Hornet’s planes and Midway? Maybe not as likely, but a far more harrowing thought. The whole point of the battle was to defend the base. Stan Ring swung left and headed south. Scouting 8, Bombing 8, Fighting 8 all followed along.
By the time they reached Kure—the tiny atoll 60 miles west of Midway—it was clear there were no Japs in this direction. But they had made their choice, and now they were stuck with it. They milled around, hoping for some helpful word over their silent radios, while their gas dropped ever lower.
Finally Ring decided it was useless. They would have to return to the Hornet. There they could refuel and start all over again. The group broke up, and each squadron headed back on its own. It would be up to others to stop Nagumo this morning.
ENSIGN Bill Pitman was getting more and more worried. The Enterprise dive bombers had been out more than two hours—and still no sign of the Japs. By now his gas gauge was touching the halfway point, yet here was Wade McClusky continuing to lead them “all over the Pacific.”
Pitman, a young pilot in Scouting 6, was flying wing on McClusky. Across the way Dick Jaccard was flying the other wing, and behind these three, stepped at various levels, followed the other 28 SBDs of Scouting 6 and Bombing 6. They were all still there with two exceptions—both forced to drop out with engine trouble. Tony Schneider looked as if he might be the next to go—his engine was smoking badly, eating up gas. Yet he kept perfect formation, as though he had all the fuel in the world.
Ensign Pittman figured they were almost at the end of their rope. He glanced across at Dick
Jaccard, who was also wondering when—or if—the “old man” would ever turn back.
Wade McClusky flew on, sure he had made all the right decisions, yet understandably wondering why nothing better had come of them. Just as instructed, they flew out on 240°, distance 155 miles—yet when they reached the interception point at 9:20 the sea was empty. Not a ship in sight. He checked his navigation; no mistake there.
Nor could it have been the weather. The day was beautiful. Just a few puffy clouds below—certainly nothing that could hide the whole Japanese fleet. And all the way out he used his binoculars; he couldn’t have passed them unsighted.
Yet they must be somewhere. To the left, between himself and Midway? No: allowing for a maximum advance at 25 knots, McClusky felt certain they hadn’t already passed. Then they must be to his right—gone off to the east or west, or most likely, turned around.
He decided to fly a “box” search, covering as much of this area to the right as he could. First he kept on to the southwest for another 15 minutes. The other pilots dutifully followed, wondering what the skipper was up to. Radio silence made it all a guessing game.
At 35 miles there were still no signs of the Japanese. McClusky was convinced they couldn’t be any farther down this way. So he turned right, to the northwest, and began flying the reverse of Nagumo’s course. The rest of the planes turned too, the pilots still wondering.
Now McClusky’s big problem was how far he could go. The planes had been in the air a long time. They had climbed, heavily loaded, to 20,000 feet. The less experienced pilots were probably using more gas than himself—and he was using plenty. He decided to keep flying northwest until 10:00, then turn northeast before making the final, dreary decision to give up the hunt and go back to the Enterprise.
The 31 planes flew on. No sign of anything, left or right. The gas gauge in Tony Schneider’s plane dropped toward empty.
WHILE the dive bombers from the Hornet and Enterprise searched in vain, Admiral Fletcher on the Yorktown was by no means idle. He had sent Task Force 16 on ahead, while he picked up his planes scouting to the north. But by 6:45 they were recovered and the Yorktown was pounding after the Enterprise and Hornet.
Fletcher’s problem was how best to support the other two carriers. Should he throw everything at the same target they were attacking? Or should he hold something back? He was still bothered by the fact that the PBYs had reported only two enemy carriers. There should be four; that meant two others were somewhere. The Yorktown’s planes were all he had left to get them. He decided to hold back for a while, hoping time might throw a little more light on the situation.
But time revealed nothing. There was no further news from the PBYs, and if anyone else was sending reports, the information was not getting through. Around 7:00 word came that the Enterprise and Hornet were launching; the Yorktown’s pilots grew more and more restless.
The squadron leaders got together for a final conference. They quickly reviewed how they could carry out their attack, whenever and wherever it happened. It would be a coordinated job, with Fighting 3 going in first to strafe; then Bombing 3 and Scouting 5; and finally Torpedo 3. Hopefully the early planes would cripple the target enough for the slow-moving torpedoes to do their job. As for when they could start, the key decision lay in Commander Thach’s lap—his fighters had the shortest range. Thach said he was willing to go at 175 miles, which Leslie felt was “really giving a lot.” It left practically no safety margin at all.
To save as much fuel as possible, the Yorktown Air Group commander, Oscar Pederson, suggested an arrangement somewhat like that on the Hornet. He proposed that the squadrons rendezvous along the way. The torpedo planes would go first; the rest would catch up.
The discussion turned to the interception point. According to the last contact report, Nagumo was heading straight into the wind for Midway. This was ideal for air operations, and he’d probably stick to this course as long as possible. At the same time, the contact report was now very stale, and the Yorktown’s air officer, Commander Murr Arnold, felt the Japanese wouldn’t get too close on their first strike. He and Pederson decided to allow for a maximum enemy advance; then if the planes found nothing at the interception point, they’d turn northwest and fly the reverse of the Japanese course.
Meanwhile Admiral Fletcher fretted on the bridge, hoping in vain for some new report pinpointing those missing enemy carriers. Finally at 8:38 he decided he could wait no longer. After all, he was a target too. The Japanese now knew the Americans were around, and any moment their dive bombers might come screaming down from the sky. He certainly didn’t want to get caught with all his own planes on deck.
Yet the missing carriers still bothered him. Only a month ago at Coral Sea he had been fooled in a situation like this. Acting on a bad contact report, he had thrown his whole Air Group at the little escort carrier Shoho, while the big Zuikaku and Shokaku lay undiscovered within range. It was just luck they hadn’t clobbered him. He didn’t want to run that risk again. As always, a battle remained this eternal business of groping.
In the end he decided he could have it both ways. He’d send off Bombing 3, Torpedo 3 and six planes from Fighting 3. But as an ace in the hole, he’d hang on to Scouting 5 and the rest of the fighters. The stay-at-homes didn’t take it easily, but Fletcher was firm.
While the brass debated—and the pilots fidgeted—the rear seat men once more checked the planes spotted on the flight deck. This was now an old story to Radioman Bill Gallagher, who rode with Max Leslie, skipper of Bombing 3. When the time came, the “old man” would tell him everything he needed to know, and sometimes a little bit more.
This morning he went to the plane as usual when general quarters sounded. He knew the Yorktown was out here on serious business, but he didn’t know of any plans for attack this particular day. That wasn’t his job. But he checked and rechecked everything (that was his job) and stood by while the plane captain warmed up the motor. Then more waiting. Sooner or later they’d either secure, or Mr. Leslie would come up from the ready room. This time they didn’t secure. At 8:40 the loudspeakers blared the familiar call, “Pilots, man your planes.”
As the pilots poured out on deck, Gallagher climbed into the plane, and in a few seconds Leslie joined him. Swinging aboard, the skipper said something about a “Jap contact.” But he didn’t mention carriers, and Gallagher still had no idea exactly what they were gunning for. Yet after years of service, a man could smell out situations, and he certainly sensed that this was “it.”
At 8:45 Lem Massey’s 12 torpedo planes roared into the sky. Then Max Leslie led his 17 dive bombers off. Lieutenant (j.g.) Paul Holmberg, following right behind the skipper, caught his slipstream and almost spun into the water. An added difficulty was the big 1,000-pound bomb, he carried— it was the first time he had ever taken off with such a load.
For 12 minutes the bombers climbed and circled high above the Yorktown, then started off after the torpedo planes. Finally at 9:05 Jimmy Thach’s six fighters followed. As they pulled out, the men on the ships of Task Force 17 waved them on, and the cruiser Astoria’s blinker signaled a parting salute: “Good hunting, and a safe return.”
Less than five minutes out, Jimmy Thach was startled by an enormous explosion erupting in the water just ahead of Fighting 3. There were no ships around; it could only come from a bomb accidentally released by somebody “upstairs.”
High above, Commander Max Leslie shook his fist in wild frustration. He had just signaled the squadron to arm their bombs, but when he threw the new electric arming switch in his own cockpit, some faulty connection released the bomb instead.
He banged on the side of the plane—his standard method of signaling Bill Gallagher in the rear seat—and wondered aloud whether they had time to go back and reload. Gallagher, with an enlisted man’s healthy distrust of brass, said they’d probably be kept on the ship if they did. Leslie said he certainly didn’t want that, so on they flew.
A few minutes later a sec
ond bomb went, as another pilot tried to throw the electric switch. This was too much. Leslie now committed the dangerous sin of breaking radio silence long enough to warn all pilots not to use the new device—go back to the old manual way instead. For his own peace of mind, happily he didn’t know at the time that two more pilots had lost their bombs the same way. Bombing 3 still boasted 17 planes, but only 13 of them now had anything to drop on the enemy.
For Leslie, the leader, it seemed especially ironic. The others were mostly young reservists, but he had studied and practiced for twenty years for just this climactic moment—and now this: he was en route to the enemy without a bomb.
Yet it never occurred to him to drop out. A dive bombing squadron is an intricate mechanism, requiring split-second timing to do its job properly. Bombing 3 was used to Leslie and his way of operating. No matter how skillful, another man taking over now might upset their coordination just enough to throw everything off. So Leslie was determined to lead his squadron anyhow; he would be the first to dive, just as though he still had his 1,000-pound bomb.
Far below, Jimmy Thach flew on—his aplomb mildly upset by those four explosions that rocked the sea around him. About 9:30 he caught the reassuring sight of Lem Massey’s torpedo planes flying directly ahead. Fifteen minutes later Leslie’s SBDs caught up with them too.
They flew on together, in a sort of vertical formation. At the bottom, of course, were the torpedo planes sticking to 1,500 feet … next the fighters, keeping low enough to cover them … and finally the dive bombers—a wedge of tiny specks at 16,000 feet. Except for some cumulus along the horizon, most of the clouds had now disappeared. Just occasional white tufts in a world of sparkling blue.
At 10:00 the sharp eyes of Lem Massey picked up three columns of smoke rising from beyond the northwest horizon, some 30-40 miles away. Torpedo 3 immediately turned right, climbing a little to get a better look. Fighting 3 and Bombing 3 swung too, although neither yet knew what Massey had seen.
The World War II Collection Page 78
