“Very well,” Esders replied, writing that hope off. But ten minutes later Brazier called and said he had managed to change the coils after all. By now Corl had drifted off (he later splashed safely near the Enterprise), but thanks to Brazier’s supreme effort, Esders eventually caught the Yorktown’s signal and came on in. Ten miles short of the carrier, he finally ran out of gas and glided down to a water landing.
It was only then that he saw how badly off Brazier really was. Both legs were terribly wounded, and he had been shot seven times in the back. Helped into their rubber raft, Brazier knew very well this was the end. Still, he conversed intelligently, saying he was sorry that he couldn’t do more, He also said he was sorry that he would never see his family again. He finally drifted into a coma, as Wilhelm Esders did the only thing left to do: “I said a prayer to the Almighty, requesting that He receive such brave and gallant men into the Kingdom, and that He bless those that he left behind.”
LIEUTENANT Raita Ogawa aimlessly circled the blazing Akagi. Flying air cover, he was running out of gas with no place to land. The three carriers below were wrecks, and the Hiryu was now too far north to reach.
He looked at his gas gauge. He was down to five gallons. A few minutes more, and he’d be in the ocean. He headed for the cruiser Chikuma, hurrying north after the Hiryu. The other two planes in his section followed along; they were in the same fix.
Circling low, he signaled the Chikuma that he was about to come down by waggling his wings. It turned out that her business was too urgent; she semaphored back, “Can’t pick you up.” But she did hoist her wind-sock and turned briefly into the wind to make a smooth wake to land on.
At 11:50 Raita Ogawa splashed down, sustained by the thought that he was originally trained as a seaplane pilot. He made it easily, and so did the two pilots with him. They scrambled out of their sinking planes—three more swimmers in the ever-growing number that dotted the ocean.
Dozens of men struggled in the water alongside the burning Soryu. Some had been blown there by internal explosions; others jumped when trapped by the fire. Far above them Captain Yanagimoto suddenly appeared, limping onto the semaphore platform off the starboard side of the bridge. He yelled encouragement to the men below, and cried “Long live the Emperor!” About 30 men, swimming directly beneath the bridge, took up the cheer as Yanagimoto disappeared in the flames and smoke.
A crowd of survivors jammed the anchor deck forward, still free of the fire. Some were tossing lines to the men in the water, hauling them back on board to this small corner of safety. Among those brought back was Executive Officer Ohara, faint from his burns. Now he lay on deck, little caring what happened. Dimly he heard the gunnery officer order a signalman to wigwag the Akagi: say the captain was dead, the exec unconscious, what should they do?
The Akagi never answered. She had too many troubles of her own. After Nagumo left, Captain Aoki and several of his officers stuck it out on the bridge as long as they could, but by 11:20 the heat was too much. They lowered themselves to the flight deck and went all the way forward on the windward side. Here they stood in a little group, uncertain what to do next.
They longed to smoke, but had only two cigarettes between them. In the end, they passed these back and forth, and it reminded Commander Miura of the popular song “Senyu” (“War Comrades”), which had a mawkish line about “sharing a cigarette in harmony.” He quoted it, and it was good for a brief, grim laugh.
About 11:35 the torpedo and bomb storage rooms went up, and the fire surged forward. It soon forced Captain Aoki’s group to retreat to the anchor deck, where they found a crowd of survivors already gathered. They were standing around together, when at 12:03 the engines unexpectedly started up and the Akagi began turning to starboard. It was hard to imagine what made this happen, and Ensign Akiyama was sent to try and find out. But no one would ever know what did it. The remaining engineers had all suffocated and were dead at their posts.
Captain Aoki still hoped to save his ship—he sent Nagumo an optimistic message around noon—but certainly the fire was spreading. By 1:38 the situation was bad enough to take a very grave step. He had the Emperor’s portrait transferred to the destroyer Nowaki.
The same step had just been taken on the Kaga, where it had been a losing fight against the fires all morning. For a while the assistant damage control officer, Lieutenant Commander Yoshio Kunisada, felt he was making some progress on the hangar deck; but then the paint began to burn, spreading a thick, oily smoke that nearly suffocated his men. He had the portholes opened, but that was no answer. The draft only fanned the flames. The ports were slammed shut again, but soon Kunisada was back where he started—his men in more danger than ever.
There was nothing to do but leave. The exits were all blocked, so once again the portholes were opened, and about seven of the men, including Kunisada, squeezed through. They found themselves on a narrow bulge that ran along the side of the ship, perhaps 20 feet above the water. It had been built into the Kaga as a stabilizing device when she was originally laid down as a battleship; now it served as a ledge that just might spell safety. It was only a foot and a half wide and slanted down slightly, but they could stand up on it, bracing their backs against the side of the ship.
Still, they felt anything but safe. It was easy to slip off into the water, and stray shots were flying about as the antiaircraft guns on the destroyer screen occasionally opened up on some imaginary target. Soon there were about 20 men out there, all thoroughly frightened. On the way out Kunisada had grabbed a carton of cigarettes from the chief warrant officers’ room, and now he handed the packs around, hoping to cheer the group up. He suggested a smoke might calm their nerves, and he made a great show of his own composure by lighting up in the most casual manner. Hardly anybody followed suit.
“Torpedo, right quarter!” somebody suddenly yelled, and there sure enough, was a white torpedo wake streaking toward the Kaga about 1,000 yards away. It passed just forward of the ship. A brief interval, then another white wake; this one passed just astern. Another interval, then a third wake … and Kunisada saw right away that this one would hit.
BILL BROCKMAN ordered Lieutenant Hogan to take her down. It was 2:05 P.M., and the U.S. submarine Nautilus had just fired her third torpedo at the shattered Japanese carrier 2,700 yards away. For Brockman and the 92 men on the Nautilus it was the climax of six hours and 55 minutes of infinitely careful stalking.
The hunt really began much earlier, on May 28, when the Nautilus took her place in the fan-shaped screen of submarines west of Midway. She was there, of course, in plenty of time; so she just loafed the first few days, while her crew got the feel of things. It was the first war cruise for them all, and for Brockman it was his first command. He was more than up to it. A big burly man, he had a great zest for combat.
On the morning of the 4th the Nautilus submerged at her station just before dawn. She was tuned in on the PBY circuit, and at 5:44, Lieutenant Chase’s plain-English flash came through loud and clear: “Many planes heading Midway.” The position was on the edge of the Nautilus’s sector; she started there right away.
At 7:10 Brockman—glued to the periscope—saw smoke and antiaircraft bursts beyond the horizon. He adjusted his course, and the Nautilus went to battle stations. At 7:55 he saw the tops of masts dead ahead. Soon he was in the enemy screen—strafed by Zeros, depth-bombed by a cruiser. He lay low for five minutes, then popped back to periscope depth for another look around.
He was right in the middle of the Japanese fleet. Ships were on all sides, moving by at high speed, circling violently to avoid him. Flag hoists were up; a battleship was firing her whole starboard broadside battery at him.
At 8:25 he fired two torpedoes at the battleship. Or rather, he thought he did, but almost immediately he discovered his No. 1 tube hadn’t fired. The battleship dodged the other torpedo, a cruiser came racing over, and the Nautilus plopped down to 150 feet.
Now the depth bombing began in earnest. The charges th
is morning were the first anyone in the Nautilus had ever heard from inside a submarine, and the experience was anything but soothing. Mixed with the hammer blows and thunderclaps were occasional shrill whistles and an odd sound that reminded Radioman I. E. Wetmore of a boy dragging a stick along a picket fence.
To make matters worse, one of the Nautilus’s deck tube torpedoes was leaking air. A thin trail of bubbles rose to the surface, neatly marking the sub’s position. More thunderclaps, then the explosions gradually died away. Brockman began sneaking looks again. Around 9:00 he saw a carrier for the first time. She was dodging and firing her antiaircraft guns, but he had only a glimpse, for his old friend the cruiser saw the periscope and came charging back.
Down again. More depth bombing. Closer than ever before. The sonarman tracking the cruiser’s movements kept up a running patter, like Graham McNamee calling a horse race. A mess attendant promised Brockman that if the Nautilus ever got out of this, he’d write a sermon every day. Then this attack, too, slowly died away.
At 10:29 Brockman was up again, poking around with his periscope. The ships had now vanished, except for some distant masts, but clouds of gray smoke poured up from the horizon. He headed for the scene, and by 11:45 could clearly make out a burning carrier about eight miles away.
The approach was a long, slow business. Even cranked up to two-thirds speed (the most Brockman dared with his batteries running down), the Nautilus only moved at four knots—about as fast as a man might walk. And it was a hot eight-mile “walk” too. To cut noise, all ventilating machinery was off. The sweat dripped into Lieutenant Dick Lynch’s shoes, and his feet “sort of scrunched” as he moved about.
By 12:53 they were near enough to make out some details. Two “cruisers” were hovering near the carrier; her fires seemed to have died down; men could be seen working on the foredeck; it looked as if they might be planning to pass a towing hawser. On the Nautilus Brockman and his exec, Lieutenant Roy Benson, thumbed through their recognition books trying to identify her. There was always the dread of torpedoing a friendly carrier by mistake. No, this one was Japanese, all right; they believed it was the Soryu.
Brockman now faced a classic command decision: try for the undamaged escorts first, or go all-out for the damaged but “high-priority” carrier. He decided to make sure of the carrier.
At 1:59, he fired his first torpedo … then a second … then at 2:05 a third. Brockman—in fact all five officers in the conning tower—felt sure of hits. Fires were again breaking out all over the ship. Satisfied, he dived to 300 feet to sit out the new round of depth bombs that was sure to come.
“JUMP in the water!” Lieutenant Commander Kunisada shouted, as that third torpedo streaked toward the Kaga. But the men standing with him on the bulge wouldn’t move. So he jumped himself, and called the others to join him. They finally did, and all frantically swam to get clear of the ship. Somebody called out that the torpedo was a hit, and Kunisada steeled himself for the concussion—but nothing happened.
Miraculously, it was a dud. Slamming into the Kaga at an oblique angle, the warhead broke off and sank. The buoyant air flask bobbed to the surface not far from Kunisada. Some of the Kaga’s crew paddled over. One or two tried using it as a raft, but most were wild with rage. It was at least a symbol of their troubles, and they rained blows upon it with their fists. “Konchkusho!” they cursed, “Konchkusho! Konchkusho!”
Their best hope of revenge lay some miles to the north. The Hiryu was still very much in the fight. Her dive bombers had struck at noon; by 12:45 her ten torpedo planes were ready too. They would go in two five-plane sections—the first led by Lieutenant Tomonaga, the second by Lieutenant Hashimoto. Normally they flew together—Hashimoto as observer—but they were the only two Academy men left. They might get more mileage if each led a section.
The stocky, taciturn Tomonaga would lead the attack. Hashimoto, still flying observer, would go with Petty Officer Toshio Takahashi. All this settled, they headed for the flight deck.
It was then they discovered Lieutenant Tomonaga’s plane wasn’t ready. The mechanics hadn’t yet repaired the left-wing gas tank, damaged while they were bombing Midway. Tomonaga shrugged it off: “All right, don’t worry. Leave the left tank as it is and fill up the other.”
Hashimoto urged him to take a different plane. No, said Tomonaga, at this stage of the game they needed everything that would fly. To leave even one plane behind would seriously weaken the attack. As for swapping with someone else, he wouldn’t think of it. Everything would work out; the enemy was near; he could get by on one tank.
This didn’t fool anyone. One tank could never get him home again. But it was useless to argue; he had made up his mind. Tomonaga now went to the bridge with Hashimoto and Lieutenant Shigeru Mori, who would lead the fighters. Here they had a final briefing from Admiral Yamaguchi.
The Admiral had some astounding news. A special reconnaissance plane, sent out by the Soryu earlier in the morning, had just returned to report there were not one, or even two, but three U.S. carriers. In addition to the one just bombed, two others were lurking nearby. The Soryu’s pilot discovered them at 11:30, but his radio was out. Hurrying back, he found his own ship in flames and reached the Hiryu at 12:50. He had just made a message drop.
If any confirmation was needed, it came at 1:00. The captured Yorktown pilot was talking. Captain Ariga, commanding Destroyer Division 4, radioed the gist: the carriers involved were the Yorktown, Enterprise and Hornet … they had six cruisers and about ten destroyers with them … the Yorktown was operating independently with two cruisers and three destroyers.
This changed everything. Until now Admiral Yamaguchi assumed that, with one American carrier knocked out, the Hiryu was at least fighting on even terms. But it was two to one against her. Worse, the Hiryu was down to her last planes. Go for the carriers that hadn’t been hit, he stressed, go for the ones that hadn’t been hit.
Again the pilots were assembled on the flight deck right under the bridge. Again Yamaguchi addressed them. They were the very last hope, he said, they must do their utmost for Japan. Then he noticed Tomonaga among the crowd and came down for a last good-bye. Like everyone else, he knew the Lieutenant was flying a plane that could never come back. Shaking Tomonaga’s hand, he thanked him for all he’d done and said, “I’ll gladly follow you.”
The pilots were in their cockpits—the engines warming up—when fresh excitement rippled through the ship. The first planes were coming back from the dive-bombing attack on the U.S. carrier. They couldn’t land until the torpedo strike took off, but Petty Officer Satsuo Tange swooped low over the flight deck, dropping a message in a weighted tube.
It was a new position for the U.S. force—more to the south than given at the briefing. Knowing that Hashimoto was usually Tomonaga’s navigator—and forgetting they were in separate planes this time—Lieutenant Commander Kawaguchi rushed the information to Hashimoto. Before the mix-up could be straightened out, the planes began thundering off the Hiryu’s flight deck.
They left at 1:31—Tomonaga leading the way, Hashimoto trailing with the latest U.S. position in his pocket. As they turned and headed east, a silent Admiral Yamaguchi—alone with his thoughts—stood motionless, watching them go.
CHAPTER 10
Abandon Ship
SRGNALMAN PETER KARETKA LET out a loud, long cheer. Stationed on the signal bridge of the destroyer Hughes, he was watching the motionless Yorktown when at 2:02 her yellow breakdown flag came down; up instead went a new hoist — “My speed 5.”
On the Yorktown it meant that the battle of the boiler rooms had been won. Lieutenant Cundiff’s diagnosis was correct. By cutting No. 1 down to a bare minimum, Lieutenant Commander Jack Delaney was able to get Nos. 4, 5 and 6 going again by 1:40, and 20 minutes later the ship was under way. With a little time Delaney thought he could work her up to 20 knots—enough to launch planes and get back into action.
Meanwhile there were other welcome developments. The cruisers Pei
sacola and Vincennes, the destroyers Batch and Benham, had appeared from the southeast—sent over by Spruance to beef up the screen. On the Yorktown, Commander Aldrich had the fires under control; by 1:50 it was safe enough to start refueling the fighters then on deck.
Solid evidence of recovery, but what gave the men their biggest lift was something less tangible. Captain Buckmaster—as good a psychologist as he was a sailor—chose this moment to break out a huge new American flag from the Yorktown’s foremast. No man who saw it will ever forget. To Ensign John d’Arc Lorenz, who had just been through the carnage at the 1.1 guns, it was an incalculable inspiration: “I shall always remember seeing it flutter in the breeze and what it meant to me at this critical time. It was new … bright colors, beautiful in the sunlight. For the first time I realized what the flag meant: all of us—a million faces—all our effort—a whisper of encouragement.”
They needed it at 2:10 when the radar first picked up a new wave of bogeys to the northwest. “Stand by to repel air attack,” the TBS intership radio blared. The screen moved in close, forming “disposition Victor” in a tight, protective circle. The Yorktown strained to build up her speed; by 2:18 she was making eight knots.
Then 10 knots … 12 knots … 15 knots by 2:28. But the Balch radar reported the bogeys were now only 37 miles away. Once again Worth Hare felt fear burning inside, and Signalman Donat Houle wondered what the hell he was doing out here. On the Benham an Ivy League ensign nervously chattered about debutantes he had known in better times.
LIEUTENANT Hashimoto knew they must be getting close. It was 2:28—about an hour since they left the Hiryu—the American ships should be coming into sight. He picked up his seven-power binoculars and scanned the sea to his right. That’s where they would be according to the new position handed him just before they left.
The World War II Collection Page 84
