The Battle of Midway (Pivotal Moments in American History)
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The problem was that, as King readily admitted, “Such a line of operations will be offensive rather than passive,” and this ran up against the Army’s determination to remain strictly on the defensive in the Pacific until Germany was beaten. George Marshall, the soft-spoken but strong-minded Army chief of staff, noted that the strategic principle of Germany First was still in place, and that even though an invasion of occupied Europe now seemed unlikely for 1942, it was essential to continue the buildup of forces for the invasion when it did come, presumably in 1943. Marshall was backed up by the head of the Army Air Forces, General Henry “Hap” Arnold, who had earned his nickname for his perennially cheerful expression. Despite these basic disagreements about strategy, however, when Low and Duncan went to see Arnold to propose a raid on Tokyo that combined Army bombers with Navy carriers, Arnold was immediately enthusiastic. In fact, Arnold had been thinking about how to hit back at Japan with his bombers, and only weeks before had confided in his diary, “We will have to try bomber take-offs from carriers.” He told Low and Duncan to go down the hall to talk to his plans officer, Lieutenant Colonel James Doolittle.14
Jimmy Doolittle was already something of a national celebrity in 1942. During the 1930s he had earned a reputation within the flying community by winning virtually every speed racing trophy there was. He shared a number of personal qualities with Pete Mitscher. Born in Alameda, California, Doolittle had grown up in Nome, Alaska. Like Mitscher, he had been the smallest boy in his class at school and the object of bullying. (Even as an adult he stood only five foot four.) He was regularly involved in fights, many of which he started. He even boxed professionally as a bantamweight, mauling enough of his opponents to earn a modest reputation and some spending money. He was an indifferent student, earning mostly C’s until he entered junior college, where his grades improved. He attended the California School of Mines, but he did not graduate because he enlisted in the Signal Corps when America went to war in 1917. The Army taught him to fly. He discovered that he was a natural pilot and was soon made an instructor. Like many pilots of his era (including Pete Mitscher), he was also a daredevil and was regularly grounded for dangerous stunts such as buzzing civilians or flying under bridges, wrecking several airplanes in the process.15
Like Mitscher, Doolittle missed seeing active service in World War I because the Army kept him stateside as an instructor. But in 1922, three years after Mitscher won the Navy Cross for participating in the world’s first transatlantic flight, Doolittle won the Distinguished Flying Cross for setting a transcontinental speed record, crossing the country (with one stop) in less than twenty-four hours. A few years later he broke his own record, crossing the country (with no stops) in twelve hours. Though officially a test pilot, Doolittle was in effect a public relations exhibit for the Army, part of a team that put on flight demonstrations in order to enhance the Army’s image. He was being paid to perform the kind of stunts that had got him grounded ten years earlier, and his utter fearlessness encouraged him to take personal risks. Like Yamamoto, he was willing to perform dangerous feats on a bet, and he once broke both of his ankles after falling from a second-story balcony, trying to perform a handstand on the railing while drunk. Despite the broken ankles, he flew in an air show the next day with his feet in heavy casts, strapped to the pedals. But he was more than a daredevil. The California School of Mines decided to give him academic credit for his flight time and awarded him a degree, and that allowed him to apply to graduate school. He went to MIT, where in two years he earned both a master’s and a Ph.D. in aeronautical science. Doolittle left the Army and spent the 1930s as a stunt pilot for the Shell Oil Company demonstration team, earning three times the money the Army had paid him for doing essentially the same job. In the process he won a reputation as the country’s fastest pilot, winning race after race and becoming nearly as well known as NASCAR drivers such Jeff Gordon or Dale Earnhardt, Jr. became several generations later. Doolittle reentered the Army in 1940 as war loomed and by 1942 was on the staff of General Hap Arnold. His office was just down the hall from Arnold’s, and he was there in February 1942 when Low and Duncan came to see him with their idea of flying B-25s off Navy carriers. He of course loved the idea.16
Initially, Doolittle was supposed to be the administrator of the program, coordinating the logistics from the Army side. But from the beginning he worked to ensure that he would lead the flight personally, though he had never flown a B-25. He first checked to see which B-25 squadron had the most experience, found that it was the 17th Bomb Group at Pendleton Field near Columbia, South Carolina, and ordered the planes of that squadron to fly to Eglin Field in Florida. Then he flew down to Florida himself to address the pilots and their crews. He told them he was looking for men for an important mission—volunteers only. He couldn’t tell them what the mission was, he said, only that it was important, and probably dangerous. Everyone volunteered. Doolittle picked out twenty-four crews—in case of accidents or washouts—and began training.17
For this training, he called on the Navy at Pensacola, asking for a flight instructor who was familiar with carrier operations. The Navy sent him Lieutenant Henry Miller. Miller flew to Eglin Field with no idea why. When he presented his orders to the commanding officer there, Miller asked him why he had been summoned. Saying nothing in reply, the CO drove him over to the isolated hangar Doolittle was using as a temporary headquarters. Doolittle and Miller hit it off immediately. Both were from Alaska, both loved to fly, and both had been boxers.18
At Eglin Field, Miller showed the Army pilots how to lift off with only about 65 to 70 knots of airspeed. They understood the concept, though it violated everything they had learned in flight school, where the rule was to build up to about 110 knots before attempting to lift off. Taking off from a carrier would mean getting off the deck at near stalling speed and building up speed only after they were in the air. The Army pilots had to fight their instincts at every step. Nonetheless Miller soon had them lifting off within as little as 250 feet of runway.19
Doolittle trained with them, delighted to be flying again. He called the other pilots by their first names and joked around with them between flights. “He was very congenial,” one of the other pilots recalled. The experience confirmed his determination to lead the flight personally, a notion he put to Hap Arnold. Arnold replied that he needed Doolittle in Washington to plan future operations. Doolittle protested vociferously, claiming that he had been in charge of the training, and that “the boys” deserved to have their leader with them. Eventually Arnold relented, though he told Doolittle that he would need approval from Millard F. Harmon, Arnold’s chief of staff.20
Doolittle saluted and sprinted down the hall to Harmon’s office. “Miff, I’ve just been to see Hap about that project I’ve been working on and said I wanted to lead the mission. Hap said it was okay with him if it’s okay with you.” Harmon replied that as long as Arnold approved, it was all right with him. As Doolittle was leaving, he heard Harmon’s intercom buzz and then, after a moment, Harmon’s voice. “But Hap, I just told him he could go.”21
As the pilots trained in Florida and the Hornet proceeded from Norfolk to San Diego via the Panama Canal, Wu Duncan was putting together the other pieces of the puzzle. He flew to Pearl Harbor to brief Nimitz on the project. Nimitz was dubious. To him, the commitment of two carriers to what amounted to a public relations stunt was a misuse of scarce resources. The Lexington was in dry dock, which meant that if both the Enterprise and Hornet were sent off to Tokyo, the Yorktown would be the only available carrier left. On the other hand, Nimitz knew better than to get in the way of a project that emanated from Washington, especially since he suspected that he was no longer held in great favor there. To his wife, Nimitz wrote, “Am afraid he [Knox] is not so keen for me now as he was when I left,” and speculated that he would be “lucky to last six months.” He called Halsey into the meeting. After Duncan again explained the objective, Nimitz turned to Halsey, asking him if thought it would work. H
alsey replied that it would take considerable luck. Nimitz then asked if he would be willing to take them there. He was. “Good,” Nimitz responded. “It’s all yours!”22
Halsey expressed a desire to talk to Doolittle face to face and arranged to fly to San Francisco. There he and his chief of staff Miles Browning met with Doolittle and Wu Duncan in a downtown restaurant. All four wore civilian clothes and took a table toward the back. Leaning forward and keeping their voices low, they discussed the forthcoming raid, later moving to Halsey’s hotel room for greater privacy. They agreed that the carriers would try to get the bombers to within five hundred miles of Japan—four hundred if possible. If they were discovered while still within range of Midway, the B-25s would take off and fly there so that the Hornet could bring up its air wing to defend herself. If they were already within range of Japan—even extreme range—the bombers would take off and conduct the raid, flying back out over the Pacific afterward to ditch in the water where there was at least a chance (albeit a slight one) that an American sub might rescue them. If they were discovered in that long stretch of ocean that was out of range of both friendly fields and enemy targets, the ship’s crew would simply push the bombers over the side. In any event, the Hornet must not be caught by enemy planes with the B-25s still lashed to her deck.23
Prior to that, Duncan had flown to San Diego to inform Mitscher of the mission. On this, his second visit to the Hornet, Duncan told Mitscher that he was going to be taking Jimmy Doolittle and fifteen Army bombers “to hit Tokyo,” to which the laconic Mitscher replied, “That’s fine.” Soon afterward, the Hornet proceeded north to San Francisco Bay, tying up at the pier in Alameda on March 20. Doolittle’s bombers flew cross-country from Florida to Sacramento, and then to Alameda, where they taxied from the runway right down onto the pier. There, fifteen of them were hoisted one by one onto the deck of the Hornet. By now, most of the pilots had figured out why they had been practicing short takeoffs.24
To make room for the B-25s on the flight deck, the planes of the Hornet’s air group had to be lowered into the hangar deck. Those with folding wings were squeezed into the available space. The crew removed the wings of the big Devastator torpedo bombers; the lighter Wildcat fighters were actually suspended from the overhead. It was the only way that the entire air group could be placed inside the hangar deck at one time.25
Lieutenant Miller had accompanied Doolittle’s squadron out to California and was loath to say good-bye. As he and Doolittle discussed which of the crews should be used in the operation, Miller suggested that he might perform one more service by flying an extra B-25, a sixteenth, off the Hornet as a demonstration to the Army pilots that it could be done. He would take off one hundred miles out of San Francisco and fly back to South Carolina, then return to his duty post at Pensacola. Doolittle approved the idea immediately. Once all sixteen planes were on board, however, they seemed to fit without any difficulty. Doolittle then suggested to Mitscher that perhaps they could use all sixteen planes in the bombing mission, since there were several extra crews available. Mitscher concluded, “The advantage of having an extra plane for attack outweighed the desirability of demonstrating a proper take-off.” Of course, it also meant that Miller lost his chance to fly a B-25 off a carrier.26
Lieutenant Miller had instructed the Army pilots about Navy protocol, and he watched with pride as they marched up the gangway of the Hornet one by one, saluted the flag on the fantail as well as the officer of the deck, and requested permission to come aboard. Despite that, there was a palpable coolness between the Army men and the crew of the Hornet. Much of it derived from the fact that the Army flyers, who had been constantly enjoined to keep quiet about their mission, were not particularly communicative. They had a “defensive aloofness,” in the words of one Navy officer. They kept to themselves, messing together privately, and deflecting all of the crew’s questions about them and their mission. Beyond that, however, some on the Hornet thought they were “undisciplined.” Unlike the Navy pilots, who routinely wore neckties with their long-sleeved khaki shirts, the Army pilots wore open collars, short-sleeved shirts, and scuffed shoes. They were casual not only about their appearance but also about shipboard routine. “A briefing would be set for 8:30,” one Navy pilot recalled, and “they would saunter in” around 9:00 or 9:15, and sometimes the meeting couldn’t start until 9:30. Even then, “their attention span was very short, half an hour at the most.” Matters improved after the Hornet passed under the Golden Gate Bridge and Mitscher got on the 1MC. the loudspeaker system. Though many on board had suspected what was coming, the announcement that they were off to bomb Tokyo warmed up relations between the two services. “From then on there was complete rapport,” Doolittle reported.27
The Hornet and her escorts left San Francisco just after 10:00 a.m. on April 2. It was a foggy day, with visibility limited to one thousand yards, but anyone who cared to look could see the Hornet steaming under the Golden Gate Bridge with sixteen Army bombers strapped to her flight deck in a herringbone pattern. Most of those who thought about it, if anyone thought about it at all, probably assumed that she was on her way to deliver those planes to Hawaii or some other American outpost. The Hornet had an escort of one heavy and one light cruiser, four destroyers, and the essential oiler. It was designated as Task Force 16.2, because as soon as it rendezvoused with Halsey’s Enterprise group it would become part of Task Force 16. That same day, 5,133 miles to the west, Commander Watanabe was traveling by seaplane to Tokyo to present Yamamoto’s Midway plan to the Naval General Staff.28
Halsey was among those who watched the Hornet depart. He was to fly from San Francisco to Honolulu in a few days to reboard the Enterprise and take her out to the predetermined rendezvous point northwest of Hawaii. He almost didn’t make it. Struck down by the flu, he was woozy from medication as he finally boarded the plane on April 6. Nonetheless, he arrived in time to take the Enterprise group out of Pearl Harbor on April 8. Four days later, the two American carrier groups were approaching the rendezvous coordinates along the international date line. Halsey informed his pilots that there was another American carrier in the vicinity to ensure that they did not bomb her. One of the pilots flying CAP that day was Lieutenant Richard Best. He spotted the approaching Hornet, and it seemed to him as if there was something wrong with her. Her deck was encumbered by what looked like “construction equipment … odd shapes, maybe tractors.” As he got closer he was astonished to see that “she had two-engine bombers on board.”
The now united Task Force 16 steamed westward for four more days without incident. On April 17 (Tokyo time)—the day after Nagano presented the Midway plan to Emperor Hirohito—the two carriers and four cruisers of the united Task Force 16 topped off their fuel tanks and, leaving the slower oilers and fuel-guzzling destroyers behind, began a high-speed run in toward the launch point.29
That night, at ten minutes past 3:00 a.m., the radar on the Enterprise picked up a surface contact. In these waters it could only be hostile. The task force maneuvered to avoid it, and the contact soon faded from the screen of the CXAM radar set. The radar could be temperamental, and as soon as there was enough light Halsey ordered an air search, sending out three scout bombers and eight Wildcats from the Enterprise. Rain squalls and wind gusts made the launch more precarious than usual, but all eleven planes got off safely. Less than an hour later, at two minutes before 6:00 a.m., Lieutenant Junior Grade Osbourne B. Wiseman flew over the Enterprise and dropped a beanbag onto the deck—this was how pilots sent messages back to the ship when the need to maintain radio silence was imperative. The beanbag was rushed up to the bridge, and Halsey read the attached note: “Enemy surface ship—latitude 36–04 N, Long. 153–10 E, bearing 276 [degrees] true—42 miles. Believed seen by enemy.” Should the observers on the contact recognize a carrier plane, they would know an American carrier was nearby. Halsey sent the cruiser Nashville to sink the surface craft, which proved to be the Nitto Maru, one of the picket boats Yamamoto had ordered out to pr
ovide early warning. It took the Nashville almost a full hour and nearly a thousand rounds of 6-inch ammunition to send it and another small picket boat to the bottom. By that time, radio operators on the Enterprise had intercepted several radio messages coming from them. A Japanese-speaking officer on board had been able to translate the unencrypted message: “Three enemy aircraft carriers sighted at our position, 650 nautical miles east of Inubo Saki at 0630.” On board the Hornet, Mitscher turned to Doolittle and said: “They know we’re here.”30
Brigadier General James Doolitt le (left) and Pete Mitscher with the Army pilots and crews on board the USS Hornet in April, 1942. Several American officers had medals they had been given by the Japanese government before the war, and this photo depicts them att aching those medals to the bombs to “return” them. (U.S. Naval Institute)