The Battle of Midway (Pivotal Moments in American History)

by Craig L. Symonds

  The idea behind dive-bombing was for the pilot to approach his intended target at high altitude, say 20,000 feet, and preferably from out of the sun to avoid detection. To spot the target, the SBD had a small glass window in the floor beneath the pilot’s seat, although it was rarely usable due to oil thrown off by the plane’s engine. After lining up on the target as best he could, the squadron leader deployed perforated “dive brakes” on the trailing edge of his wings and went into a steep dive, around 70 degrees, with the pilots of his squadron following his lead. During the dive, the pilots felt weightless, “like you were floating,” as one put it. The Dauntless did not have shoulder straps, only a seat belt, so it was “like you were hanging out on a string.” Between 2,000 and 1,500 feet, the pilot released his bomb by pulling back on a bomb release lever. When he did that, it was instinctive to pull back on the control stick at the same time, and that often threw the bomb off line. To prevent this, newer SBDs were equipped with an electric trigger that allowed the pilot to release the bomb merely by pushing a button on top of the control stick. Then he pulled out of the dive, usually doing a “snap pullout” that sometimes resulted in his briefly blacking out.13

  Dive bombing an enemy ship that was twisting and turning at 25 or 30 knots was, as one pilot recalled, “similar to dropping a marble from eye height on a scampering cockroach.” It was especially difficult because often during these steep dives, the windscreen would fog up at about 8,000 feet, all but obscuring the target. One pilot said it was “like putting a white sheet in front of you and you have to bomb from memory.” “Believe me,” he recalled, “that’s a helpless feeling when you try to dive bomb and [can] hardly see your target.” All in all, it was both a physical and mental challenge to dive almost three miles straight down at nearly three hundred miles an hour with a fogged windscreen and with the target ship throwing up a wall of antiaircraft fire.14

  It was equally challenging for the enlisted man in the back seat, whose job during the dive was to call out the readings from the altimeter, especially important when the windscreen was fogged and the pilot could not see. The backseat crewman was also the radio operator and gunner. When the pilot released the bomb and pulled out of the dive, the rear-seat gunner was pushed down into his seat with, as one recalled, “a force of one ton at eight G’s,” or eight times the force of gravity. Nonetheless, he had plenty to do. “Then the pilot tells you to go on the air, or switch to the homing frequency, or give hand signals to nearby crews in Morse code. All of this requires securing the guns, reaching forward, changing radio coils, and moving dials accurately and quickly.” Morse-code messages were sent by hand signal in order to maintain radio silence. The radiomen/gunners smacked their palm with their fist for a dot and slapped open handed for a dash. Those in nearby planes had to watch this and translate to their pilots. It required both intense concentration and a strong stomach to perform all these tasks flawlessly.15

  Dauntless dive-bombers made up about half of an American carrier’s complement of sixty to eighty airplanes and were divided into two squadrons: one was officially a “scouting squadron” and the other a “bombing squadron.” Each squadron carried a numerical designation that bound the pilots, gunners, and crew into a unit. Every American air squadron was first designated by the letter V (which simply meant that it involved heaVier-than-air aircraft). The scouting squadron bore the additional designation S and the bombing squadron B, followed by the hull number of the carrier to which it was assigned. Thus the scouting squadron on the Lexington (CV-2) was VS-2, and the bombing squadron was VB-2. Colloquially, these units were known as “Scouting Two” and “Bombing Two.”

  The men in these units developed a bond akin to the men in an infantry company, though the fact that the pilots were mostly officers and the rear-seat gunners were all enlisted men sometimes made for an awkward partnership. While in the air, the junior officer pilots depended heavily on their enlisted gunners, literally trusting them with their lives, yet aboard ship they were all but strangers. The gunners never came into the wardroom and seldom ventured into the squadron ready rooms except for “special sessions.” They never played cards with the pilots or sat around with them to “shoot the shit.” In the air, the relationship was fraternal and interdependent; on the ship, each man went his separate way. The gunners called the pilots “sir” or “mister,” and the pilots referred to the gunners by their last names only. As one pilot put it, “Pilots were treated as one class, gunners were treated as another class.” Another recalled, “We hardly ever got to talk to our gunners until we were ready to climb into the cockpits.” If they accidentally ran into each other aboard ship, there might be a moment of awkwardness. One pilot recalled seeing a group of gunners reloading machine gun ammunition belts and noticed that their conversation became instantly more profane as if “they were trying to impress me with how tough they thought they were.”16

  In addition to the scouting and bombing squadrons, each American carrier also had a torpedo plane squadron (whose designation was VT), though both the planes and the torpedoes they carried were markedly inferior to their Japanese counterparts. The plane was the TBD-1 Douglas Devastator, which like the Japanese Kate could be used either as a level bomber or a torpedo plane, in which role it carried the Mark 13 torpedo, a smaller aerial version of the trouble-plagued Mark 14 used by U.S. submarines. The Devastator had been designed and built in the 1930s for a crew of three: a pilot in front, an enlisted bombardier/navigator in the middle seat, and a radioman/gunner in the back. When carrying a torpedo, however, there was no need for a bombardier, and so the middle seat was often empty. The Devastator was state of the art when it had joined the fleet in 1937, but it was already nearing obsolescence by 1942. Heavy at 10,000 pounds, it was agonizingly slow. Officially, it had a top speed of 206 knots (237 mph), although in practice it seldom exceeded 160 knots (184 mph), and cruised at just over 100 knots (115 mph). One pilot claimed later that when carrying the 2,200-pound Mark 13 torpedo, the Devastator actually cruised at no more than 80 knots (92 mph) or “with the nose down maybe 100.” When climbing, the Devastator was even slower. One pilot joked that while carrying a torpedo in a climb, the Devastator “practically backs up.” Even at such slow speeds, the Devastator had a limited range of a little over 400 miles which meant, accounting for assembly time over the task force and maneuvering over the target, that it could attack only those targets within about 175 miles. That assumed that the pilot did not need to search for the target.17

  To launch their cumbersome weapons, pilots of the Devastator torpedo plane flew to their intended target at a fairly low level, between 1,500 and 4,000 feet, then dropped even lower for the run into the target. At only 100 to 150 feet, they throttled back to near stalling speed to release their torpedo so that it did not break apart when it hit the water. The release was crucial, for if the torpedo hit the water with its nose down, it might dive too deep to have any effect; if it hit with the nose up, it could “porpoise” along the surface. Since the torpedoes ran at 33.5 knots, which was only marginally faster than the ships they targeted, it was essential for the pilot to come in fairly close before dropping his “fish.” Even then he had to lead the target a little, and since the target was also maneuvering, it often took more than one pass to get a satisfactory angle on the bow. It took great concentration and a cool disregard for danger to fly a Devastator into its target, or to man the rear-seat machine gun, sitting backward and fending off swarming enemy fighters while the pilot lined up for a shot.18

  A Douglas TBD Devastator from the Enterprise flies over Wake Island in 1942. The Devastator was both old and slow and therefore an easy target for the swift Japanese Zeros. (U.S. Naval Institute)

  By far the most serious problem with American torpedo bombing, however, was the simple fact that, like the Mark 14 used by American submarines, the warheads on the Mark 13 did not always function as advertised, and the torpedoes themselves were so delicate that when dropped at an elevation above fifty feet or at a s
peed greater than 110 knots they could easily be damaged upon impact with the water, meaning that they would fail to work at all. These facts were overlooked for far too long—for several reasons. One was that, as with submarine skippers, the brass at BuOrd simply refused to believe that the weapon was flawed and attributed failures to bad shooting. A few Devastator pilots contributed to this conclusion by reporting that they had scored a hit with the Mark 13 torpedo when they had not. Pilots who saw the wake of their torpedo lead right into an enemy ship understandably reported a hit, and with bombs sometimes exploding all around the target at the same time, it was easy to conclude that one of the explosions was the result of a torpedo strike. Finally, analysts in Washington who examined the damage reports of American ships in Pearl Harbor knew full well that the Japanese had great success with their aerial torpedoes, and they were simply reluctant to believe that Japanese torpedo technology was superior. Devastator pilots and their gunners would pay a high price for this unwillingness to acknowledge a technical problem.

  As for American fighter planes, they were still a work in progress in early 1942. The U.S. Navy had adopted its first single-seat monoplane fighter only three years earlier. It was the Brewster F2A, named the “Buffalo,” an appropriate designation given its aerodynamic performance. While an improvement over the Grumman F3F biplane that it replaced, it was small (5,000 pounds), stubby (26 feet long), and relatively slow for a fighter (260 knots, or 300 mph). After the Battle of Midway, one veteran pilot wrote in his after-action report that the Buffalo “is not a combat aeroplane…. Any commander that orders pilots out for combat in an F2A-3 should consider the pilot as lost before leaving the ground.” Though quite a few Buffaloes remained on active service when the war began—as did a number of Grumman biplanes—a newer plane, the Grumman F4F, called the “Wildcat,” replaced both models in early 1942. The F4F-3, which was the first version to reach the fleet, was longer (30 feet) and heavier (7,000 pounds) than the Buffalo, and, with a top speed of 287 knots (331 mph), much faster. Though it was still markedly inferior to the Japanese Zero in maneuverability, Navy pilots nevertheless liked the sturdy F4F-3, which had two .50-caliber machine guns in each wing.19

  The designers were still tinkering. Within months, a newer version of the Wildcat, the F4F-4 (which the pilots called the “Dash 4”) came into service. The newer version had folding wings so that more of them could be fitted into the confined spaces on the hangar deck and more could be spotted on the flight deck for an attack. Moreover, instead of four machine guns, the Dash 4 Wildcat had six. As far as the pilots were concerned, however, these changes were a mixed blessing. The folding wings meant that about 50 percent more fighters could be placed on each carrier, thus increasing the size of the VF squadrons from eighteen to twenty-seven, which was good. However, a number of pilots remained suspicious of the whole concept of folding wings. After all, if the wings could be folded up, might they not come off altogether in flight? Furthermore, the folding apparatus and the two additional machine guns added about 1,000 pounds of weight to the Wildcats, which affected their speed and especially their climbing ability. While the lighter, unarmored Zeros could climb at a rate of 3,000 feet per minute, a Dash 4 Wildcat could climb at only about 1,000 feet per minute.* American fighter pilots therefore sought to avoid engagements with Zeros at low altitudes, where the Japanese had a clear advantage, and sought instead to come in high so they could dive on their prey. These factors would play an important role in the confrontation at Midway.20

  The two extra machine guns were even more problematical. American designers added the extra guns to allow European versions of the Wildcat (which the British called the Martlet) to compete with heavier German bombers and fighters and to increase the impact of strafing attacks against ground targets. Yet the extra firepower was overkill against the lighter, and mostly unarmored, Japanese planes. Worse, it severely restricted the length of time a Wildcat pilot could fire. The four guns in the earlier version each had a magazine of 450 rounds, but since those guns fired 700 to 750 rounds per minute, that gave the pilots only about thirty-five seconds of firepower before they expended all their ammo. In the newer Dash 4 version, despite the two extra guns, there was no increase in the size of the total magazine, and as a result pilots in an F4F-4 Wildcat could shoot for only about twenty seconds. Movie depictions of pilots boring in on a foe with guns blazing are pure fiction; the pilots had to hoard their few seconds of firepower for use only under the most ideal circumstances. Even when they fired in short two-second bursts, they risked running out of bullets. Moreover, there was no evidence that having two extra guns made the Wildcats any more lethal. As the commanding officer of VF-3, Lieutenant Commander John S. “Jimmy” Thach, put it, “The pilot who would miss with four .50-caliber guns won’t be able to hit with eight. Increased firepower is not a substitute for marksmanship.” Another problem with the new fighters was that the ammo belts of .50-caliber bullets, loaded into trays in the wings, shifted around violently during the high-speed maneuvers necessary in aerial combat, and as a result the guns occasionally jammed. More than once a Wildcat pilot lined up for a shot and pulled the trigger only to find that nothing happened.21

  The fighter pilots made some adjustments on their own. In late January, Lieutenant Jim Gray urged Wade McClusky, the commander of VF-6 on the Enterprise, to authorize the installation of a sheet of 3/8-inch boilerplate steel behind the pilot’s seat of the squadron’s Wildcats. McClusky agreed. Like the Marines in Iraq sixty years later who had to “up-armor” their Humvees themselves, the pilots of VF-6 installed their own armor. Eventually, armor plate behind the pilot’s seat became official and routine, but initially it was a pilot initiative. Gray soon had reason to be very pleased with his innovation.22

  Like the scouting and torpedo squadrons, the fighting squadrons “belonged” to the carrier they rode, though circumstances could lead to their being transferred from one ship to another. Before the Yorktown left Norfolk to return to the Pacific, her regular fighting squadron (VF-5) had gone ashore for training and was temporarily replaced by a squadron from the USS Ranger (CV-4), a much smaller carrier that would remain in the Atlantic for most of the war.* The replacement was supposed to be temporary but ended up being permanent, and as a result, in addition to Scouting Five (VS-5), Bombing Five (VB-5), and Torpedo Five (VT-5), the Yorktown also carried eighteen Dash 3 Wildcats of VF-42 under Lieutenant Commander Oscar “Pete” Pederson, who later became the commander of all the squadrons on the Yorktown, or CYAG (commander, Yorktown Air Group). Similarly, when the Saratoga headed back to the West Coast for repair in January, her fighter squadron (VF-3) joined the Lexington while the Lexingtons fighter squadron went ashore on Oahu for training. This willingness to treat air squadrons as interchangeable parts contrasted sharply with Japanese doctrine in which air squadrons were inextricably tied to their host carriers. This gave the Americans flexibility that the Japanese did not have and would pay important dividends in the battles to come.23

  The American VF, or fighting squadrons, had a slightly different culture from the bombing or torpedo squadrons. The Wildcat was a single-seat aircraft, so there were no enlisted backseat gunners, and in the air each pilot was on his own. As one pilot put it, “The fighter pilot is a lone shark. He flies by himself, he gets angry by himself, and he talks to himself.” Though all brown shoes had a kind of warrior’s flair due to the inherently dangerous nature of carrier flight operations, fighter pilots had a special swagger. All but seventeen of the 138 fighter pilots in the fleet were officers. A few were lieutenants or lieutenant commanders, including some graduates of the Naval Academy at Annapolis, but most (70 percent) were lieutenants junior grade or ensigns, and most of those were products of the Naval Aviation Cadet (AVCAD) program.24

  The AVCAD program produced pilots for all of the Navy squadrons. To enroll, a candidate had to be between 18 and 26 years old, unmarried, and a high school graduate with two years of college (later in the war the Navy began accepting candidates
right out of high school). In general, they were men of action rather than contemplation. They tended to be athletes—often in several sports—and greeted one another with wisecracks and backslaps. Needless to say, given the era, they were all white. One aviation cadet who went through the program in 1941 recalled “a heavy majority of Anglo-Saxon Protestant heritage,” including a statistically disproportionate number of men with blue eyes. After passing a rigorous physical, they endured a short boot camp that stressed physical training, especially swimming, as well as classroom instruction. After that, they were sent to Pensacola, Florida (the “Annapolis of the Air”) for a three-month course. Some “washed out” fairly quickly; they simply couldn’t handle the disorientation of air maneuvers. On the other hand, nine out of ten who survived that first phase of training completed the program. Unlike the Japanese, who sought to ensure that only the very best got through, the goal of the American program was to qualify as many pilots as possible. While Japanese instructors supervised only four student pilots at a time, American instructors each had ten students. Moreover, while a Japanese flight instructor who failed most of his students might be praised for having high standards, an American instructor who did the same would more likely be called on the carpet as an ineffective instructor.25