ENSIGN George Gay was all alone under the mid-Pacific stars. He had been anything but that during most of the afternoon. Once a patrolling destroyer came so close he could see white-clad sailors moving about the decks. (“If there had been anybody on board that I knew I could have recognized them.”) Gay tried to make himself smaller than ever as he hid in the water under his black cushion.
His burned leg hurt dreadfully … his hand was bleeding … he began to think of sharks. Then he had a comforting thought. He had heard somewhere that sharks didn’t like explosions—well, there’d been plenty of those. In the distance he could still see ships, but he didn’t look very often. The salt water hurt his eyes so much he could hardly see anything. He finally kept them shut most of the time, opening them only occasionally for a quick glance around the horizon. He noticed that the Japanese were gradually moving out of the area.
As darkness fell— “maybe a little earlier than was wise”—he broke out his yellow life raft, inflated it and scrambled in. His eyes felt better now, and at last he could rest. He lay back exhausted—sometimes dozing, sometimes watching the glow of’ searchlights far to the north, where the Japanese still struggled to salvage something from their wreck.
COMMANDER Yoshida eased his destroyer Kazagumo alongside the blazing Hiryu. His men worked fast in the night, unloading fire-fighting equipment and a rather grim supper of hardtack and water for the carrier’s crew. The destroyer Yugumo headed over too, bringing extra fire hose picked up from the Chikuma. Two other destroyers hovered nearby, ready to help if needed.
The Hiryu herself lay dead in the water. She had finally lost power around nine o’clock. The phones still worked, though faintly, and down in Engine Room No. 4 Commander Aiso eventually got a call from the bridge. Someone up there wanted to know whether the engineers could get out. Aiso glanced up at the red hot steel overhead and said no. A long pause … then the bridge asked if the men had any last messages.
This infuriated Aiso. He knew the situation was bad, but surely not hopeless. The Hiryu seemed in no danger of sinking, and once the fires were out, he felt they could somehow get her back to Japan. With the passion of a man trapped far below, he urged the bridge not to give up. He never knew whether they heard. The phone faded and went dead.
Whatever the actual situation at the time of this exchange, it became all too clear at 11:58. At this moment something touched off a great blast. The fires—which had begun to die down—flared up again, spreading everywhere out of control.
This new crisis posed an important decision for Ensign Sandanori Kawakami. He was a young paymaster on the Hiryu, but tonight he had a far greater responsibility. He was also custodian of the Emperor’s portrait. Normally it hung in the captain’s cabin, but at Midway certain precautions had been taken. When general quarters sounded, Kawakami placed it in a special wooden box, and a petty officer carried it by rucksack down to the chronometer room below the armored deck. Here it should be safe. But that was as far as planning went. No one dreamed it might have to leave the ship.
Now Kawakami had to act on his own. He couldn’t raise the bridge, and there was no time to lose. The petty officer again buckled on his rucksack, and guarding their treasure, the two men fought their way forward through the flames. They broke out onto the anchor deck, where Kawakami tenderly transferred the portrait to the destroyer Kazagumo.
None too soon. The Hiryu was listing 15°—shipping water constantly—and there was serious question how long she could last. At 2:30 A.M. on June 5 Captain Kaku finally turned to Admiral Yamaguchi and said, “We’re going to have to abandon ship, sir.”
Yamaguchi nodded, sent a message to Admiral Nagumo reporting that he was ordering off the Hiryu’s crew. Then he directed Kaku to summon all hands to the port quarter of the flight deck. Some 800 survivors reported, crowding around their two leaders in the flickering glare of the flames.
The Captain spoke first. “This war is yet to be fought,” Kaku declared, and he urged them to carry on the struggle. They must live and serve as the nucleus of an ever stronger navy.
Now it was Yamaguchi’s turn. He told the men how much he admired their bravery—how proud he was of their achievements in the battles they had fought together. As for this time, “I am fully and solely responsible for the loss of the Hiryu and Soryu. I shall remain on board to the end. I command all of you to leave the ship and continue your loyal service to His Majesty, the Emperor.”
With that, they all faced toward Tokyo, and Yamaguchi led them in three cheers for the Emperor. Then they solemnly lowered the national ensign, followed by the Admiral’s own flag. As the Rising Sun fluttered down from the yardarm, a flourish of bugles rang out in the night. They were playing the national anthem, “Kimigayo.”
As the men began leaving, Captain Kaku turned to Admiral Yamaguchi: “I am going to share the fate of the ship, sir.”
The Admiral understood. He repeated that he too planned to stay till the end. Then they drifted off into a colloquy that meant little outside Japan. “Let us enjoy the beauty of the moon,” Yamaguchi remarked.
“How bright it shines,” Kaku agreed. “It must be in its twenty-first day… .”
Oddly enough, this sort of talk was not unusual between two close Japanese friends. By itself, it had no connotation of death. Rather, it was a traditional, almost ceremonial way of saying that they shared much in common.
But tonight that certainly included going down with the Hiryu; and overhearing their talk, the executive officer Commander Kanoe felt that the principal officers should also remain. He put the matter to them, and all agreed. Captain Kaku couldn’t have been less sympathetic. He said he alone would stay and flatly ordered them, “All of you—leave the ship.”
Then Admiral Yamaguchi’s senior staff officer, Commander Seiroku Ito, proposed the same thing on behalf of the Admiral’s staff. Yamaguchi too rejected the idea.
From time to time, other officers also came up—there were countless details to attend to. “There’s a lot of money in the ship’s safe,” the chief paymaster reported. “What shall I do with it?”
That one was easy. “Leave the money as it is,” Captain Kaku ordered, “we’ll need it to cross the River Styx.”
Yamaguchi joined in the joke: “That’s right. And we’ll need money for a square meal in hell.”
Now it was time for parting. Ito confirmed the Admiral’s decision to stay, then asked if he had any last messages. Yamaguchi said yes, he had two. The first was for Admiral Nagumo: “I have no words to apologize for what has happened. I only wish for a stronger Japanese Navy—and revenge.” The second was for Captain Toshio Abe, commanding Destroyer Division 10 on the nearby flagship Kazagumo. This one was crisp and to the point: “Scuttle the Hiryu with your torpedoes.”
Finally, a farewell toast. Someone noticed a cask sent over earlier by the Kazagumo. Taking the lid, they filled it with water and silently passed it from one to another. That was all, except as Commander Ito left, Yamaguchi handed him his cap as a keepsake for his family.
It was 4:30—the first light of dawn glowed in the east—when the transfer of the Hiryu’s crew was complete. Commander Kanoe was last off, and as the cutter carried him away he could see Yamaguchi and Kaku waving from the bridge.
At 5:10 Captain Abe carried out his final orders. The destroyer Makigumo turned toward the Hiryu and fired two torpedoes. One missed; the other exploded with a roar. Losing no more time, Abe turned his destroyers northwest and hurried off after the fleeing Admiral Nagumo.
It had been a bad night for Nagumo too. It took more than a hearty message from the Commander in Chief to steady his nerves. At 9:30 he radioed Yamamoto the grim news about all those American carriers steaming toward him. He added that he himself was now retiring northwest at 18 knots. No answer, so at 10:50 he sent the report again, in slightly modified form.
This time he got an answer in five minutes. Yamamoto removed him from command, replacing him with the aggressive Admiral Kondo, rushing up fr
om the south with his battleships and cruisers. As Chief of Staff Ugaki put it, Nagumo seemed to have “no stomach” for the work.
Nagumo took it without comment. Not so his staff. In the excitement of battle—even while going down to defeat—there hadn’t been much time to think. Now there was plenty. During the evening the senior staff officer Captain Oishi visited Admiral Kusaka. “Sir, we staff officers have all decided to commit suicide to fulfill our own responsibility for what has happened. Would you please inform Admiral Nagumo?”
The pragmatic Kusaka saw it differently. Summoning the whole staff, he scolded, “How can you do such a thing? You go into raptures over any piece of good news; then say you’re going to commit suicide the first time anything goes wrong. It’s absurd!”
He went immediately to Nagumo and reported the incident. It turned out the Admiral was toying with the same idea himself. “What you say is certainly reasonable,” he remarked, “but things are different when it’s a question of the chief.”
“Not at all,” Kusaka said. And then once again he launched into his lecture: it was nothing but weakness to commit hara-kiri right now. The thing to do was to come back and avenge the defeat.
Nagumo finally agreed, and the First Carrier Striking Force—now bereft of all four of its carriers—raced on through the night, ever farther away from the scene of the day’s disaster.
CHAPTER 12
Winners and Losers
MIDWAY COULDN’T BELIEVE IT was over. The morning raid was just a softener. The Japanese would be back.
Anticipating a heavy surface bombardment by sunset, Captain Simard dispersed his PBYs, evacuated all nonessential staff, warned the FT boats to be ready for a night attack. Colonel Sweeney sent seven of his B-17s back to Hickam; he didn’t want them caught on the ground. On Eastern Island an old Marine took the bankroll he won at craps and hurled it into the surf—he’d rather lose it this way than let the Japs get it.
Actually, by early afternoon the only seaborne “invaders” still heading for Midway were two men in a rubber boat about 10 miles out. Ensign Thomas Wood and his gunner belonged to Bombing 8, the Hornet squadron that came in to refuel, but their own tank went dry just short of the base. Ditching, they launched their boat and began paddling toward the smoke they saw in the distance.
It was dark by the time they reached the Midway reef. Once across they still had a five-mile paddle to solid ground, but at least they’d be in the calm waters of the lagoon. All they had to do was get across the reef.
But that was just the trouble. There was only one easy place to cross, and guarding it was a huge bull sea lion. He refused to budge and ignored all shouts and threats. Finally Wood sloshed up to him and delivered several solid kicks in the rear. Thus persuaded, the sea lion flopped into the water, but he didn’t give up that easily. As the two men rested on the coral after getting their boat across, he swam around the reef, barking at them and generally showing displeasure.
Ultimately they reached shore safely, to find Midway scared and discouraged. The remaining Marine dive bombers had staged an evening attack but couldn’t locate the Japanese. They finally returned minus their new skipper Major Norris—apparently a victim of vertigo. Meanwhile the B-17s were coming in from their afternoon strike … some of them with hair-raising stories of Zeros. These might be orphans (actually the case) or just possibly from a fifth carrier somewhere. Then there were all those ships to the west und southwest—latest reports said they were still advancing.
Around 9:54 a Marine at Battery B saw a submarine cautiously surface about two miles off Eastern Island. Midway held its fire, not knowing what to expect. Colonel Shannon didn’t want to give away his gun positions yet. By the light of a half-hidden moon, the men watched the sub silently glide along the shore, working its way west and south. Then at 10:21 it slipped out of sight in the dark.
The suspense grew. On Sand Island Ensign Leon Grabowsky cleaned up his M-l and .45 for the landings he felt sure to come. On Eastern Island Lieutenant Jim Muri and his B-26 crew loaded themselves with all the weapons they could scavenge. Then they bedded down in the sand by their plane, restlessly watching a cloud-swept sky flecked by occasional stars.
PEARL HARBOR couldn’t believe it was over either. Workers still manned the rooftop guns in the Navy Yard. At Hickam Captain D. E. Ridings, skipper of the 73d Bombardment Squadron, got a hurry call at 10:00 P.M.: Collect all the B-17s available and get over to Midway. He was off before dawn. On Ford Island the pilots of Detached Torpedo 8 manned their planes at 4:00 A.M.—ready for anything.
It was much the same on the West Coast. All radio stations went off the air at 9:00 P.M. on orders from the Fourth Fighter Command. The Seattle waterfront was closed to all but “official and legitimate” traffic. California’s Attorney General Earl Warren warned that the state stood “in imminent danger” of attack.
At sea the destroyer Hughes stood lonely guard on the deserted Yorktown. As Commander Ramsey saw the situation, he could expect the Japs to send one or two surface ships to finish her off during the night. He could also expect submarines, and perhaps an air attack after dawn. He had orders to sink the carrier to prevent capture or if serious fires developed—in any case, sink her before he got sunk.
All through the night he steamed an unpredictable course around the hulk. In the dark the Yorktown was an eerie sight. There were what appeared to be flickering lights, and members of the crew thought they could even hear voices and strange noises when the destroyer was close. Ramsey considered boarding to check—then thought better of it. That would mean stopping, lowering a boat, using lights. He would be just inviting trouble on a night like this. So the Hughes continued her nervous vigil.
It was a restless, worried night on Task Force 16 too. The pilots were too tired to think, but in the Hornet wardroom nobody could overlook those 29 empty chairs. On the Enterprise Ensign Charles Lane, an orphan from the Yorktown, was assigned the room of a Torpedo 6 pilot who didn’t come back. Walking in, the first things Lane saw were the man’s family pictures and a Bible lying on his desk. It was almost too much to bear.
Down in the enlisted men’s quarters Radioman Snowden of Scouting 6 stared at the empty bunks all around. He felt overwhelmingly depressed. He wasn’t questioning why they were there, or the reason for war. He just had a feeling of deep, personal emptiness at the thought of losing so many good friends… .
Topside, the officers on watch searched the night. But not for the Japanese. After recovering the Hiryu strike, Task Force 16 swung east at 7:09 and was now heading away from the enemy.
Many of Halsey’s old staff were dismayed. He would never have done it that way, they said. It seemed such a perfect opportunity to polish off the rest of Nagumo’s fleet. The Japs’ air power was obviously gone—every pilot swore to that. This, then, was the time for all-out pursuit. Perhaps a night torpedo attack; or the dive bombers could deliver the coup de grâce at dawn. That was all it would take. Why couldn’t Spruance see it?
Spruance could. It was a great temptation, but there were other factors too. He was all Nimitz had, and at this point no one knew what the Japanese might do. Yamamoto still had his great collection of battleships and cruisers, maybe even another carrier somewhere out there. Certainly the enemy had strength enough to blast him out of the ocean … enough still to take Midway if the cards fell right. As he later wrote in his report to Nimitz:
I did not feel justified in risking a night encounter with possibly superior enemy forces, but on the other hand, I did not want to be too far away from Midway next morning. I wished to be in a position from which either to follow up retreating enemy forces, or to break up a landing attack on Midway… .
So east it was. Fifteen knots due east until midnight … then north for 45 minutes … then back south … then west again. In this way Spruance cautiously kept his distance. He didn’t want to be trapped; those big Jap battleships and cruisers might be steaming toward him right now.
THE heavy ships of Admiral
Kondo’s Invasion Force raced northeast in the dark. At 11:40 the Admiral radioed his plans: he expected to be in position at 3:00 A.M… . then he would search east, hoping to trap the Americans into a night engagement.
At midnight he was back on the air, handing out specific assignments. Briefly, his force would form a line and sweep northeast at 24 knots, combing the sea for the U.S. fleet. It would be a “comb” with plenty of “teeth”—21 ships spaced less than four miles apart. These would be his cruisers and destroyers. Behind them would come his battleships Kongo and Hiei, ready to rush where needed. It all added up to a line about 75 miles long—certainly enough to turn up something.
Yamamoto couldn’t have asked for more. Trouble was, he finally realized the time had passed for this sort of show. Five hours earlier, yes; but by now he knew all four of Nagumo’s carriers were lost, and Kondo couldn’t even get in position until 3 A.M. That left little more than an hour to find the Americans and fight his night engagement. Once daylight came, those U.S. carrier planes would be at his throat.
Nor could Admiral Kurita’s four sleek cruisers—previously sent to shell Midway—do any good. They had been ordered to open fire at 2 A.M., but here was another miscalculation. They couldn’t arrive until nearly dawn. Then they too would be wide open to air attack.
The staff babbled with alternatives. All were hopelessly hare-brained, and the chief of staff Admiral Ugaki plainly showed his contempt. Yamamoto didn’t even deign to comment. Finally somebody asked a little hysterically, “But how can we apologize to His Majesty for this defeat?”
“Leave that to me,” Yamamoto broke in coldly. “I am the only one who must apologize to His Majesty.”
At 12:15 A.M. on the 5th the Commander in Chief suspended the plans for a night engagement, ordered Kondo, Nagumo and Kurita to rendezvous with himself instead. He would be at a given point some 350 miles northwest of Midway at 9:00 A.M. Five minutes later he followed this up with another message, specifically for Kurita, canceling the 2:00 A.M. bombardment of the base, and again ordering him to rendezvous.
The World War II Collection Page 88
