by Ken Follett
Tensely listening to the crackling wireless traffic from Midway and the Japanese ships, the officers and men in the radio room of the Yorktown had no doubt that there was a terrific air battle going on over the tiny atoll; but they did not know who was winning.
Soon afterwards, American planes from Midway took the fight to the enemy and attacked the Japanese aircraft carriers.
In both battles, as far as Chuck could make out, the anti-aircraft guns had the best of it. Only moderate damage was done to the base at Midway, and almost all the bombs and torpedoes aimed at the Japanese fleet missed; but in both encounters a lot of aircraft were shot down.
The score seemed even – but that bothered Chuck, for the Japanese had more in reserve.
Just before seven the Yorktown, the Enterprise and the Hornet swung around to the southeast. It was a course that unfortunately took them away from the enemy, but their planes had to take off into the southeasterly wind.
Every corner of the mighty Yorktown trembled to the thunder of the aircraft as their engines rose to full throttle and they powered along the deck, one after another, and shot up into the air. Chuck noticed the tendency of the Wildcat to lift its right wing and wander left as it accelerated along the deck, a characteristic much complained of by pilots.
By half past eight the three carriers had sent 155 American planes to attack the enemy strike force.
The first planes arrived in the target area, with perfect timing, when the Japanese were busy refuelling and rearming their own planes returning from Midway. The flight decks were littered with ammunition cases scattered in a snakes’ nest of fuel hoses, all ready to blow up in an instant. There should have been carnage.
But it did not happen.
Almost all the American aircraft in the first wave were destroyed.
The Devastators were obsolete. The Wildcats that escorted them were better, but no match for the fast, manoeuvrable Japanese Zeroes. Those planes that survived to deliver their ordnance were decimated by devastating anti-aircraft fire from the carriers.
Dropping a bomb from a moving aircraft on to a moving ship, or dropping a torpedo where it would hit a ship, was extraordinarily difficult, especially for a pilot who was under fire from above and below.
Most of the airmen gave their lives in the attempt.
And not one of them scored a hit.
No American bomb or torpedo found its target. The first three waves of attacking planes, one from each American carrier, did no damage at all to the Japanese strike force. The ammunition on their decks did not explode, and their fuel lines did not catch fire. They were unharmed.
Listening to the radio chatter, Chuck despaired.
He saw with new vividness the genius of the attack on Pearl Harbor seven months earlier. The American ships had been at anchor, static targets crowded together, relatively easy to hit. The fighter planes that might have protected them were destroyed on their airstrips. And by the time the Americans had armed and deployed their anti-aircraft guns, the attack was almost over.
However, this battle was still going on, and not all the American planes had yet reached the target area. He heard an air officer on the Enterprise radio shout: ‘Attack! Attack!’ and the laconic response from a pilot: ‘Wilco, as soon as I can find the bastards.’
The good news was that the Japanese commander had not yet sent aircraft to attack the American ships. He was sticking to his plan and concentrating on Midway. He might by now have figured out that he must be under attack from carrier-borne planes, but perhaps he was not sure where the American ships were located.
Despite this advantage, the Americans were not winning.
Then the picture changed. A flight of thirty-seven Dauntless dive bombers from the Enterprise sighted the Japanese. The Zeroes protecting the ships had come down almost to sea level in their dog-fights with previous attackers, so the bombers found themselves fortunately above the fighters, and able to come down at them out of the sun. Just minutes later another eighteen Dauntlesses from the Yorktown reached the target area. One of the pilots was Trixie.
The radio exploded with excited chatter. Chuck closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to make sense of the distorted sounds. He could not identify Trixie’s voice.
Then, behind the talk, he began to hear the characteristic scream of bombers diving. The attack had begun.
Suddenly, for the first time, there were cries of triumph from the pilots.
‘Got you, you bastard!’
‘Shit, I felt that go up!’
‘Eat that, you sons of bitches!’
‘Bullseye!’
‘Look at her burn!’
The men in the radio room cheered wildly, but they were not sure what was happening.
It was over in a few minutes, but it took a long time to get a clear report. The pilots were incoherent with the joy of victory. Gradually, as they calmed down and headed back towards their ships, the picture emerged.
Trixie Paxman was among the survivors.
Most of their bombs had missed, as previously, but about ten had scored direct hits, and those few had done tremendous damage. Three mighty Japanese aircraft carriers were burning out of control: Kaga, Soryu and the flagship Akagi. The enemy had only one left, the Hiryu.
‘Three out of the four!’ Chuck said elatedly. ‘And they still haven’t come anywhere near our ships!’
That soon changed.
Admiral Fletcher sent out ten Dauntlesses to scout for the surviving Japanese carrier. But it was the Yorktown’s radar that picked up a flight of planes, presumably from the Hiryu, fifty miles away and approaching. At noon, Fletcher sent up twelve Wildcats to meet the attackers. The rest of the planes were also ordered up so they would not be on deck and vulnerable when the attack came. Meanwhile the Yorktown’s fuel lines were flooded with carbon dioxide as a fire precaution.
The attacking flight included fourteen ‘Vals’, Aichi D3A dive bombers, plus escorting Zeroes.
Here it comes, Chuck thought; my first action. He wanted to throw up. He swallowed hard.
Before the attackers could be seen, the Yorktown’s gunners opened up. The ship had four pairs of large anti-aircraft guns with five-inch-diameter barrels that could send their shells several miles. Plotting the enemy’s position with the aid of radar, gunnery officers sent a salvo of giant fifty-four-pound shells towards the approaching aircraft, setting the timers to explode when they reached their target.
The Wildcats got above the attackers and, according to the pilots’ radio reports, shot down six bombers and three fighters.
Chuck ran to the flag bridge with a signal to say the remainder of the attack force were diving in. Admiral Fletcher said coolly: ‘Well, I’ve got my tin hat on – I can’t do anything else.’
Chuck looked out of the window and saw the dive bombers screaming out of the sky towards him at an angle so steep they seemed to be falling straight down. He resisted the impulse to throw himself to the floor.
The ship made a sudden full-rudder turn to port. Anything that might throw the attacking aircraft off course was worth a try.
The Yorktown deck also had four Chicago pianos – smaller, short-range anti-aircraft guns with four barrels each. Now these opened up, and so did the guns of Yorktown’s escort of cruisers.
As Chuck stared forward from the bridge, terrified and helpless to do anything to defend himself, a deck gunner found his range and hit a Val. The plane seemed to break into three pieces. Two fell into the sea and one crashed into the side of the ship. Then another Val blew up. Chuck cheered.
But that left six.
The Yorktown made a sudden turn to starboard.
The Vals braved the hail of death from the deck guns to chase after the ship.
As they got closer, the machine guns on the catwalks either side of the flight deck also opened up. Now the Yorktown’s guns played a lethal symphony, with deep booms from the five-inch barrels, mid-range sounds from the Chicago pianos, and the urgent rattle of machine guns.
Chuck saw the first bomb.
Many Japanese bombs had a delayed fuse. Instead of exploding on impact, they went off a second or so later; the idea being that they would crash through the deck and explode deep in the interior, causing maximum devastation.
But this bomb rolled along the Yorktown’s deck.
Chuck watched in mesmerized horror. For a moment it looked as if it might do no harm. Then it went off with a boom and a flash of flame. The two Chicago pianos aft were destroyed in an instant. Small fires appeared on deck and in the towers.
To Chuck’s amazement the men around him remained as cool as if they were attending a war game in a conference room. Admiral Fletcher issued orders even as he staggered across the shuddering deck of the flag bridge. Moments later, damage control teams were dashing across the flight deck with fire hoses, and stretcher parties were picking up the wounded and carrying them down steep companionways to dressing stations below.
There were no major fires: the carbon dioxide in the fuel lines had prevented that. And there were no bomb-loaded planes on deck to blow up.
A moment later another Val screamed down at the Yorktown and a bomb hit the smokestack. The explosion rocked the mighty ship. A huge pall of oily black smoke gouted from the funnels. The bomb must have damaged the engines, Chuck realized, because the ship lost speed immediately.
More bombs missed their targets, landing in the sea, sending up geysers that splashed on to the deck, where sea water mingled with the blood of the wounded.
The Yorktown slowed to a halt. When the crippled ship was dead in the water, the Japanese scored a third hit, and a bomb crashed through the forward elevator and exploded somewhere below.
Then, suddenly, it was over, and the surviving Vals climbed into the clear blue Pacific sky.
I’m still alive, Chuck thought.
The ship was not lost. Fire-control parties were at work before the Japanese were out of sight. Down below, the engineers said they could get the boilers going within an hour. Repair crews patched the hole in the flight deck with six-by-four planks of Douglas fir.
But the radio gear had been destroyed, so Admiral Fletcher was deaf and blind. With his personal staff he transferred to the cruiser Astoria, and he handed over tactical command to Spruance on the Enterprise.
Under his breath, Chuck said: ‘Fuck you, Vandermeier – I survived.’
He spoke too soon.
The engines throbbed back to life. Now under the command of Captain Buckmaster, the Yorktown began once again to cut through the Pacific waves. Some of her planes had already taken refuge on the Enterprise, but others were still in the air, so she turned into the wind, and they began to touch down and refuel. As she had no working radio, Chuck and his colleagues became a semaphore team to communicate with other ships using old-fashioned flags.
At half past two, the radar of a cruiser escorting the Yorktown revealed planes coming in low from the west – an attack flight from the Hiryu, presumably. The cruiser signalled the news to the carrier. Buckmaster sent up twelve Wildcats to intercept.
The Wildcats must have been unable to stop the attack, for ten torpedo bombers appeared, skimming the waves, heading straight for the Yorktown.
Chuck could see the planes clearly. They were Nakajima B5Ns, called Kates by the Americans. Each carried a torpedo slung under its fuselage, the weapon almost half the length of the entire plane.
The four heavy cruisers escorting the carrier shelled the sea around her, throwing up a screen of foamy water, but the Japanese pilots were not so easily deterred, and they flew straight through the spray.
Chuck saw the first plane drop its torpedo. The long bomb splashed into the water, pointed at the Yorktown.
The plane flashed past the ship so close that Chuck saw the pilot’s face. He was wearing a white-and-red headband as well as his flight helmet. He shook a triumphant fist at the crew on deck. Then he was gone.
More planes roared by. Torpedoes were slow, and ships could sometimes dodge them, but the crippled Yorktown was too cumbersome to zigzag. There was a tremendous bang, shaking the ship: torpedoes were several times more powerful than regular bombs. It felt to Chuck as if she had been struck on the port stern. Another explosion followed close behind, and this one actually lifted the ship, throwing half the crew to the deck. Immediately afterwards, the mighty engines faltered.
Once again the damage parties were at work before the attacking planes were out of sight. But this time the men could not cope. Chuck joined the teams manning the pumps, and saw that the steel hull of the great ship was ripped like a tin can. A Niagara of sea water poured through the gash. Within minutes Chuck could feel that the deck had tilted. The Yorktown was listing to port.
The pumps could not cope with the inward rush of water, especially as the ship’s watertight compartments had been damaged at the Battle of the Coral Sea and not fixed during her rush repairs.
How long could it be before she capsized?
At three o’clock Chuck heard the order: ‘Abandon Ship!’
Sailors dropped ropes over the high edge of the sloping deck. On the hangar deck, by jerking a few strings crewmen released thousands of life jackets from overhead stowage to fall like rain. The escort vessels moved closer and launched their boats. The crew of the Yorktown took off their shoes and swarmed over the side. For some reason, they put their shoes on the deck in neat lines, hundreds of pairs, like some ritual sacrifice. Wounded men were lowered on stretchers to waiting whaleboats. Chuck found himself in the water, swimming as fast as he could to get away from the Yorktown before she turned over. A wave took him by surprise and washed away his cap. He was glad he was in the warm Pacific: the Atlantic might have killed him with cold while he was waiting to be rescued.
He was picked up by a lifeboat, which continued to retrieve men from the sea. Dozens of other boats were doing the same. Many crew climbed down from the main deck, which was lower than the flight deck. The Yorktown somehow managed to stay afloat.
When all the crew were safe they were taken aboard the escorting vessels.
Chuck stood on deck, looking across the water as the sun went down behind the slowly sinking Yorktown. It occurred to him that during the whole day he had not seen a Japanese ship. The entire battle had been fought by aircraft. He wondered if this was the first of a new kind of naval battle. If so, aircraft carriers would be the key vessels in future. Nothing else would count for much.
Trixie Paxman appeared beside him. Chuck was so pleased to see him alive that he hugged him.
Trixie told Chuck that the last flight of Dauntless dive bombers, from the Enterprise and the Yorktown, had set alight the Hiryu, the surviving Japanese carrier, and destroyed her.
‘So all four Japanese carriers are out of action,’ Chuck said.
‘That’s right. We got them all, and lost only one of our own.’
‘So,’ said Chuck, ‘does that mean we won?’
‘Yes,’ said Trixie. ‘I guess it does.’
(v)
After the Battle of Midway it was clear that the Pacific war would be won by planes launched from ships. Both Japan and the United States began crash programmes to build aircraft carriers as fast as possible.
During 1943 and 1944, Japan produced seven of these huge, costly vessels.
In the same period, the United States produced ninety.
13
1942 (II)
Nursing Sister Carla von Ulrich wheeled a cart into the supply room and closed the door behind her.
She had to work quickly. What she was about to do would get her sent to a concentration camp if she were caught.
She took a selection of wound dressings from a cupboard, plus a roll of bandage and a jar of antiseptic cream. Then she unlocked the drugs cabinet. She took morphine for pain relief, sulphonamide for infections, and aspirin for fever. She added a new hypodermic syringe, still in its box.
She had already falsified the register, over a period of weeks, to look as if what she
was stealing had been used legitimately. She had rigged the register before taking the stuff, rather than afterwards, so that any spot check would reveal a surplus, suggesting mere carelessness, instead of a deficit, which indicated theft.
She had done all this twice before, but she felt no less frightened.
As she wheeled the cart out of the store, she hoped she looked innocent: a nurse bringing medical necessities to a patient’s bedside.
She walked into the ward. To her dismay she saw Dr Ernst there, sitting beside a bed, taking a patient’s pulse.
All the doctors should have been at lunch.
It was now too late to change her mind. Trying to assume an air of confidence that was the opposite of what she felt, she held her head high and walked through the ward, pushing her cart.
Dr Ernst glanced up at her and smiled.
Berthold Ernst was the nurses’ dreamboat. A talented surgeon with a warm bedside manner, he was tall, handsome and single. He had romanced most of the attractive nurses, and had slept with many of them, if hospital gossip could be credited.
She nodded to him and went briskly past.
She pushed the trolley out of the ward then suddenly turned into the nurses’ cloakroom.
Her outdoor coat was on a hook. Beneath it was a basketwork shopping bag containing an old silk scarf, a cabbage and a box of sanitary towels in a brown paper bag. Carla removed the contents, then swiftly transferred the medical supplies from the trolley to the bag. She covered the supplies with the scarf, a blue and gold geometric design that her mother must have bought in the twenties. Then she put the cabbage and the sanitary towels on top, hung the bag on a hook, and arranged her coat to cover it.
I got away with it, she thought. She realized she was trembling a little. She took a deep breath, got herself under control, opened the door – and saw Dr Ernst standing just outside.
Had he been following her? Was he about to accuse her of stealing? His manner was not hostile; in fact, he looked friendly. Perhaps she had got away with it.
