Max Leslie again risked breaking radio silence, asked Massey in code if he had sighted the enemy. No answer. They flew on, and at 10:05 Leslie found out for himself. First the smoke; then Bill Gallagher pointed out the wakes of ships perhaps 35 miles dead ahead.
About 10:15 Leslie lost track of the torpedo planes. They were somewhat ahead, 14,000 feet below, and between the distance and some scattered clouds, he could no longer see them. But he now could hear them all too well. Massey had opened up on his radio and was frantically calling for fighter support.
Torpedo 3 had almost reached the outer screen—they were 14-18 miles from the carriers—when the first two Zeros hit. They came without warning, from above and to the left, and before CAP Wilhelm Esders knew what was happening, bullets tore through his cockpit, exploding a C02 bottle tucked between his feet.
Gas was everywhere—he couldn’t see—he couldn’t imagine what had happened. For a moment he thought the plane was on fire. Then realizing it was the CO2, he yanked back the canopy and gulped in the fresh air.
Massey nosed down, trying to reap as much advantage as he could from speed and low altitude. Esders was keeping alongside him, while Machinist Harry Corl flew the other wing. Together they made up the lead section of Torpedo 3. The rest of the planes were following, stacked down in sections of three.
They were over the screen now, beginning their approach. At ten miles, two more Zeros hit, then several more. Six to eight were constantly on them, making pass after pass, while the rear-seat men did their best to shoot back. They dropped down to 150 feet, and that was the limit; from here on, Torpedo 3 would just have to take it.
Massey picked out the lead carrier—the one farthest north—and the squadron split into two divisions of six. The first would take the starboard side, the other the port. As they bore in, the ship’s guns opened up too. Generally the antiaircraft fire was wild, but the Zeros were never in better form.
Someone shot away Corl’s elevator controls, and his plane headed for the water. Seeing he was about to crash, he released his torpedo. Free of the weight, he discovered he could get his nose up again by using the tab control. He moved back into position, hoping he could at least help fight off the Zeros.
Then came the moment that overwhelmed all the rest. About a mile from the carrier, Lem Massey’s plane was hit and caught fire. Still flying alongside, Esders watched the skipper climb out on the stub wing as the TBD, now engulfed in flames, headed down for the sea. Massey never had a chance.
Watching him go, it dawned on Esders that he was now the head of the squadron. Things were so critical it just wasn’t possible to turn the lead over, as customary, to the next senior man. Although the junior pilot present, he must lead the attack the rest of the way.
As he took over, he glanced at the scene around him. It was a weird and terrible sight: “Any direction I was able to look, I could see five, six, seven or more aircraft on fire, spinning down, or simply out of control and flying around crazily.”
Seeing Esders begin his final run, Corl turned north to get clear of the fleet. He had done all he could; now even his guns were jammed. His rear-seat man Lloyd Fred Childers, though wounded in both legs, kept popping away with a .45 pistol.
Esders barreled in, as his own rear-seat man Mike Brazier came on the intercom. He had just been hit, Brazier explained, and would no longer be able to help. Nevertheless, he managed for quite a while to call out whenever the Zeros got on their tail.
At 600-800 yards Esders finally dropped his torpedo, turned sharply to the right, cleared the carrier by several hundred yards. Four other TBDs dropped too, one of them crashing just off the ship’s bow. Esders never saw what happened to the rest, but whatever it was, they didn’t escape. By the end of their attack, 10 of Lem Massey’s 12 planes were gone; only Esders and Cod were left, and they still had to get home.
A thousand feet up, there was little that Jimmy Thach could do. He heard Massey’s call for help, all right, but a horde of Zeros hurled themselves on Fighting 3 at the same time. “It was like the inside of a beehive,” he later recalled, and it was all his men could do to stay alive.
“Skipper, there’s a Zero on my tail, get him off,” Thach’s wing man Ram Dibb sang out at one point. Leading the Japanese around to the front, Dibb gave Thach a perfect target. He opened up, and the Zero reeled down toward the sea. But none of this helped Lem Massey below. There just weren’t enough fighters to do the job. Torpedo 3 had to face Nagumo alone.
RAITA OGAWA, flying combat air patrol over the Akagi, felt these last two torpedo attacks were the most troublesome of the morning. The planes maneuvered better than the earlier bombers and it took longer to shoot them down. Also, they had a way of hanging around after delivering their attacks; this was annoying because it meant still more time had to be wasted chasing after them.
This new strike was a good example of Okawa’s problem. Coming in from the southeast around 10:10, there were only 12 TBDs, plus a few fighters, yet they caused no end of trouble. It took the air cover from all four carriers to handle them properly. Meanwhile there was nobody left to patrol up high.
By now the carrier formation was a shambles again. On the Akagi Captain Aoki could no longer even see the Hiryu—she was somewhere in the smoke to the north. The Kaga and Soryu were still around, but the distance had widened from the prescribed 1,300 to 4,500 or 6,000 yards. At 10:10 the Striking Force had been ordered to head east, but within a minute the Akagi was turning hard to the northwest, trying to keep her stern to the 12 TBDs. In the end they passed on north toward the Hiryu, but who could have guessed that? The formation ended up all the more jumbled.
Nor did it help to have an enemy submarine poking around. The destroyer Arashi gave the first warning when she saw some torpedo tracks coming her way around 9:10. She immediately countered with depth charges and stayed behind when the rest of the Striking Force turned northeast. The Arashi was still back there somewhere, hopefully sitting on the sub, but one never knew.
For all that, it had been a good morning. By 10:15 the latest batch of torpedo planes was going the way of the others. This would make eight attacks thrown back in three hours. Meanwhile all that work below deck was about to pay off—93 planes had been rearmed or refueled, and at this very moment were being spotted on the flight decks. The First Carrier Striking Force had suffered enough indignities; the all-out attack on the American fleet would be launched, as scheduled, at 10:30.
At 10:20, even before the enemy torpedo attack had been completely throttled, Admiral Nagumo gave the order to launch when ready. Maybe a little ahead of schedule, but the Akagi’s planes were already in place, a flight of Zeros spotted first. The ship began turning into the wind. The other three carriers caught Nagumo’s signal and did the same.
On the Kaga CWO Morinaga was standing with a group of pilots in the center of the flight deck, just aft of the second elevator. They were all slated to go on the coming strike, and while they waited to man their planes, they had orders from the bridge to stand by as extra lookouts. Now they were scanning the sky—mostly clear, but studded here and there with clouds.
No one can say who spotted them first. All the pilots were shouting at once. But there was no doubt what they saw, pouring down from the blue like tiny black beads falling loose from a string. With one voice, they yelled up to the bridge, “Enemy dive bombers!”
CHAPTER 8
“Don’t Let This Carrier Escape”
TONY SCHNEIDER’S GAS WAS almost gone … Bill Pittman’s tank was getting low … and nearly everyone’s nerves were on edge, but Wade McClusky flew stubbornly on. He was sure the Japanese were up this way, even though he saw nothing so far. Now it was 9:55, and the Enterprise’s, dive bombers were nearing the northern end of their search pattern. If they found nothing within the next five minutes, McClusky would have to lead them back east—or they would never get home at all.
Suddenly, far below, he spied a lone warship going full speed toward the northeast. Anything
kicking up that much wake must be on urgent business. He decided she might be some kind of liaison vessel between the occupation group and Nagumo’s Striking Force. He altered his course to that of the ship; the rest of the dive bombers followed.
Actually, the ship was no courier; she was the destroyer Arashi, part of Nagumo’s screen. Detached to deal with the American submarine, she had dropped a few depth charges and was now trying to catch up with the fleet. But if McClusky’s reasoning was a little off, his hunch was 100% right—her course would take him straight to the carriers.
At 10:05, Ensign Pittman—flying wing with one eye on his gas gauge—saw the skipper motion ahead. There, about 35 miles away and a little to port, he spotted the first wakes. Flying farther to the rear, Lieutenant Bill Roberts saw them too—at first just some “curved white slashes on a blue carpet,” then suddenly ships everywhere—he never saw so many at the same time in his life.
For Ensign Schneider, they were an especially welcome sight. He was just about out of gas, and he assumed they were friendly. Certainly it seemed logical: the Enterprise’s planes had been in the air three hours now; they were flying east; unable to find the enemy, Commander McClusky must be bringing them home.
At this point his engine gave a final gasp and quit. Starting a long glide down toward the fleet below, he was surprised to see a battleship there. The U.S. didn’t have any around. Tony Schneider needed no more hints. He veered sharply south, now hoping to land as far away from these ships as possible.
Ensign John McCarthy was another who first thought the “old man” had brought them all back to the Enterprise. Now his rear-seat man E. E. Howell asked tentatively, “Do you think we’re home?”
McCarthy took a closer look—the squirming wakes, the pagoda masts, the long yellow flight decks. “No,” he told Howell, “that’s not home.”
Wade McClusky could see them pretty well now. They seemed to be in a sort of big circle—the four carriers rather loosely spaced in the center. Two of them were fairly close … another to the east … the fourth, far off on the northern horizon. His binoculars were practically glued to his eyes, but they didn’t explain what impressed him the most: nobody was shooting at him. No fighters; no antiaircraft. Yet most of the ships were frantically turning. Too far down to see, but they must be dodging some torpedo attack going on below. Meanwhile the sky up here was empty, the target wide open.
Not a moment to lose. McClusky now broke radio silence, reporting his contact to the Enterprise and assigning targets to his two squadrons. Earl Gallaher’s Scouting 6 was flying right up with him; Dick Best’s Bombing 6 was a little below and behind.
Approaching from the southwest, McClusky picked the first two carriers in his line of advance. The nearer of these—the one on the left—he gave to Gallaher and himself. The other —farther off to the right—he gave to Dick Best.
Somehow Best never got the word. As the trailing squadron in the formation, he assumed that his group would take the nearer target—the usual practice. In fact, after radio silence was broken he opened up saying he planned to do this. But now it was McClusky’s turn not to get a radio message. The two squadrons roared on toward the attack point—both planning to hit the same carrier.
Best was almost ready now. He carefully strung out the planes in his own division, checked the position of the rest of his squadron. All were in place—a division on either side of him. He opened his flaps, about to push over and lead the way down.
Then without warning a series of blurs streaked down from above. McClusky and Scouting 6 were diving by him. To Best, they were taking his target—but there was nothing he could do about it. He closed his flaps, signaled Bombing 6 to close up again—they’d have to go on to the next carrier, farther to the east.
Dick Best wasn’t the only pilot surprised by McClusky’s dive. The skippers own wing man, Ensign Bill Pittman, was equally taken aback. Pittman had the squadron’s camera, and since he was to take pictures, he assumed that McClusky would be the last to dive, allowing a better chance to photograph the bombing.
Not at all. McClusky wasn’t about to follow anybody else down. At 10:22 he suddenly pushed over, leaving Pittman too astonished to do anything for a moment. As he hesitated, McClusky’s other wing man, Dick Jaccard, took Pittman’s place and also dived. But Jaccard must have been a little nervous himself. Instead of opening his diving flaps, he grabbed the wrong handle and let down his wheels.
Next, Pittman pushed over too. He remembered to switch on his camera, but that was all. He took pictures of nothing but sky and horizon.
Now Scouting 6 pushed over, Earl Gallaher leading the way. Then, unexpectedly, the second and third divisions of Bombing 6 too. Some of Best’s pilots didn’t see that he had moved on to the next carrier; they just dived where originally planned. Others followed Lieutenant Joe Penland, leader of the second division. He wasn’t sure of what Best wanted; he saw a lot of near-misses on the carrier below; so he used his discretion and joined McClusky. In all, some 25 dive bombers were hurtling down.
For incredible seconds the carrier seemed oblivious of them. Earlier she had been turning, but now she was heading into the wind getting ready to launch. Wade McClusky was half-way down before anybody saw him. Then she fired a few antiaircraft bursts, but that was all.
At 1,800 feet he reached for the handle on his left, pulled the bomb release, and cleared out as fast as he could. One after another the 25 planes did the same, as the whole world seemed to erupt beneath them. A ball of fire, flying debris, a brief glimpse of a Zero blown to bits—each pilot came away with his own impression, the way it was when he dropped his particular bomb. By the time the next man reached the same point, another explosion had rearranged the scene completely. Nobody saw the whole thing; no two men even saw it the same way.
Wade McClusky, leading the group, had a picture of a clean hardwood deck, an untouched island on the starboard side, some planes tuning up toward the stern. Earl Gallaher, coming in fourth, saw fountains of water from two near-misses, the blinding flash of his own bomb landing among the parked planes. Dusty Kleiss, seventh to dive, found the after end of the ship a sea of flames, the painted red circle up forward still untouched—then his own bomb changed that. And so it went until Ensign George Goldsmith, the 25th and last man down, had his turn too. By now the carrier was a blazing wreck, swinging hard to the right in a desperate effort to ward off further blows. Goldsmith kept her in his sights.
In the rear seat, Radioman James Patterson called off the altitude as they plunged down. During dive bombing practice they normally released at about 2,200 feet. This time 2,000 spun past the altimeter, and they were still going straight down. Then 1,500 and finally Goldsmith pulled the release. Patterson watched the results with amazement: “He had been the world’s worst dive bomber pilot during the practice hops I’d flown with him previously, but that day Ensign Goldsmith earned every dime invested in him as he put our bomb right through the flight deck, just aft of amidships.”
At 15,000 feet Dick Best turned right and headed for the next carrier farther east. Having missed McClusky’s instructions, he felt the skipper had “pre-empted” his target, but far worse than that, most of Bombing 6 had joined the others. He only had the five planes of his own division left to make his attack. Very well, they would have to do.
“Don’t let this carrier escape,” he called over his radio as they approached the new target. Still farther east, he could see a third flattop, and well north of that a fourth one too. He had a fleeting impression that the third carrier was just coming under attack, but at the moment he was concentrating all his attention on the second one below.
Now they were right over her. Incredibly, McClusky’s attack—well within sight—hadn’t stirred her up at all. There was no antiaircraft, and she too was holding course, heading into the wind, getting ready to launch. Best again strung out his other planes, opened his flaps, and this time he really dived… .
He could hardly believe it. For mont
hs he had pictured this moment, and here it was at last—the yellow flight deck, the big red circle, everything just the way he imagined. He always knew that this was a real war, that out there somewhere was a real enemy, that he would be sent on real missions to hunt and be hunted. Even so, it never seemed truly real until now—this moment—when he was actually doing it.
He coolly examined the Japanese flight deck through his sights, aiming the three-power telescope at a point just ahead of the bridge and in the center of the ship. At 3,000 feet a plane passed across the lens—it was a fighter taking off. Good: it still looked like business as usual down there.
Behind him streaked his other four planes, and it was not an easy job. All the pilots agreed that no one dived more suddenly or more steeply than Dick Best. But on they came, wondering whether the skipper would ever pull out. Apparently deciding that he never would, one of the planes released too soon, but the others hung on. If he could do it, they could. Best himself kept diving until he was good and ready; then at the last second he pulled his bomb release handle.
But even now he wasn’t leaving. He hadn’t trained all these years to miss the sight of his first bomb hit. He pulled back sharply, literally laid his plane on its side and tail, and sat there watching from his improvised front-row seat.
His bomb hit squarely abreast of the bridge. Two others seemed to land back toward the fantail. All three blew the carrier’s planes into a blazing heap; their gas tanks began going off like a string of firecrackers.
It was a fantastic sight. Yet here again no two men saw it quite the same way. In the excitement of the moment the eye played all kinds of tricks, even with respect to the simplest details. Dick Best saw “very clearly and unmistakably” that the carrier’s island was on the starboard side; his extremely capable No. 5 man, Bill Roberts, was equally sure it was to port.
The World War II Collection Page 79
