The admiral probably stopped to draw a breath, but it would not be an invitation to respond. “Get word to Cactus—we’ll send a strike from Henderson as well. This time, he’s not getting away!”
Thus, Frank was not surprised when his signalman reported the message on the flags flying from the Enterprise’s masts: “Prepare to launch aircraft.” As he thought about the target, and the operation, Chadwick could think of a whole host of risks. The Japanese carriers were on the other side of the Solomon chain, more than 150 miles away—and that was close enough to maximum range that it didn’t leave a lot of room for error. The planes of Halsey’s three carriers would have to fly right over enemy territory and might even get jumped before they reached the target. Certainly their approach would be spotted and reported. And if they made it there and back, it would be past sunset and very nearly dark by the time they returned to their carriers.
Chadwick had cut his teeth in naval aviation, flying the old Grumman biplanes in the thirties, and he knew that landing a plane on a carrier was one of the greatest challenges any pilot could face. Doing so on a dark night was damned near impossible; yet those men, when they returned to the fleet, would be flying on nearly empty gas tanks, and their planes would be coming down one way or another.
The latter was the key issue in Chadwick’s mind. No one was going to talk Admiral Halsey out of the attack. And every minute they spent arguing about it meant another minute later before those pilots would be bringing their thirsty planes back to their carriers. But how could they get the planes back safely?
Frank went out on deck with his binoculars. The fleet, trying to remain undetected for as long as possible, was sailing under radio silence, so signal flags did the communicating. While the Portland’s signal floozies would read the flag hoists and put the same flags up in reply, Frank liked to watch the signals. From the Portland, he had to look in two directions, toward the Enterprise and toward the Minneapolis.
The first hoist went up from the Enterprise. The flags read, “Turning into the wind. Aircraft standing by.” His own hoist went up with identical flags, confirming the message was received and understood accurately.
“Prepare to turn into the wind,” Frank shouted at the helmsman. He saw immediately that his ship would be on the outside of the turn. “And call down to the engine room—we’re going to need flank speed to keep up.”
“Prepare to turn into the wind, aye, Captain,” the helsman answered, while a lieutenant (j.g.) rang the engine room to pass along the order for maximum steam.
As the Enterprise began its turn, Frank yelled, “Bring her around, and go to flank speed!”
“Turning into the wind, aye, Captain,” came the answer. He felt the welcome surge of power as the big, fast ship fairly leaped forward, churning through the azure sea as she raced to resume her proper station off the carrier’s port beam.
More flags from the Enterprise: “Launching aircraft.” The Portland, back in position, kept pace with the great vessel and stayed in formation a thousand yards astern of the Minneapolis.
His glasses pressed to his eyes, the cruiser’s captain watched the great flattop as, one by one, the torpedo bombers, the dive-bombers, and the fighters took off. Given the long distance to the target, he was not surprised to see each squadron setting forth independently—but he worried for the bomber pilots, who would not have fighter cover close at hand.
Chadwick stood on the bridge of the Portland, watching them fly away and praying to God that most of them would make it back home.
MUNDA, NEW GEORGIA, SOLOMON ISLANDS, 1820 HOURS
Lieutenant Takagawa Junichi was used to the sounds of aircraft passing over his island. Ever since the Americans had landed on Guadalcanal in August, Japanese bombers and fighters from the great base at Rabaul, northwest of Munda, had flown either directly over this island or very close to it on their missions against the tenuous but stubbornly held position of the U.S. Marines around Henderson Field, directly southeast of him. Takagawa would dutifully take his binoculars and observe the flights, privately wishing the pilots good luck on their dangerous missions. He would often see them return late in the day, and even from his casual observation point had noticed that, typically, far fewer planes flew back to Rabaul at night than had flown out in the morning.
The flyovers had actually become the high point in his rather mundane existence here. Like all of the Solomons, Munda was a malaria-infested, rotting jungle of a place. It was a big island, and Takagawa knew that there were Australian Coastwatchers hidden in the interior forests. Drawn from the ranks of the planters and missionaries who had lived here before the war, they lurked in the jungle, spying, making radio transmissions that were too brief for accurate homing. Takagawa himself had led several infantry patrols in search of the Coastwatchers, but they were almost impossible to find. And they, too, watched the airplanes and reported their numbers and bearing to their masters in Australia who, presumably, alerted the Americans on Guadalcanal.
But now as the lieutenant stared through his binoculars from the top of his spindly watchtower, awed at the streams of aircraft over his island, he also felt a cold chill of alarm. This was a larger flight than he had ever seen before, and these planes were making their way from the southwest toward the northeast, flying from the Solomon Sea toward some target on the other side of the chain of islands. He didn’t know where they came from, or where they were going, but in the sun-drenched late afternoon Takagawa had no difficulty making out the white stars on the wings of the planes. Obviously this was a strike launched from American carriers. How far away were those ships? Takagawa had no way of knowing.
But at least he could report what he was seeing right now.
“Broadcast a message!” he barked to the private who was his radio operator. “An American air attack is under way. Bearing zero six zero. I count at least three squadrons of torpedo bombers—and there, those are dive-bombers as well…”
AKAGI, 200 MILES EAST OF RABAUL, 1830 HOURS
“The enemy carriers must be in the Solomon Sea,” reported Admiral Taguchi, Nagumo’s operations officer. “Their course is leading them on a bearing directly toward us.”
“Order a reciprocal attack immediately!” Nagumo’s voice almost cracked, but with a glower at his attendant staff officers he brought his external emotions under control. “Plot the American fleet’s position based on the course of these attacking squadrons.”
His commands were precise, and—after his initial tautness—his voice was admirably controlled. He knew that he was doing the right thing, really the only thing he could do. But inside, hidden from all others, he was wracked by the most profound terror he had ever experienced.
All he had was a bearing to the American fleet—the direction from which the enemy planes were coming. The wind blew from the northeast, so at least he could turn his tail to the attackers as he launched his own planes.
Yet already he had lost so much precious time. The attack would arrive in less than an hour.
And the minutes ticked past with agonizing slowness as the Aichi Type 99 dive-bombers, with their elegant fixed landing gear, roared into the sky. They were followed by the Nakajima B5N torpedo bombers, each armed with one of those weapons that had proved so deadly against American ships. Finally came the Mitsubishi A6M Zero-sens, many winging off to escort the bombers, while others remained behind, circling over the fleet in the combat air patrol.
He had made his choice, taken his gamble. There was nothing else the admiral could do but wait until the dice stopped rolling.
THE PAGODA, HENDERSON FIELD, GUADALCANAL, 1831 HOURS
“We got a good position report from a PBY patrolling north of Santa Isabel,” announced Colonel Thaddeus, commander of the 22nd Bomb Group. “The Jap carriers are too far away from here for the marine dive-bombers, so it will be up to the Forts. The marines will stand by and launch if it turns out that Nagumo is continuing to steam south.”
“Fat chance of that,” someone muttered
to a round of dry chuckles. The Japanese admiral’s reputation for caution had become something of a joke among the flyers on Guadalcanal.
This was the second time in the last five days that they had been ordered to scramble; and the first mission had proved to be a wild-goose chase.
“Even if he turns tail and runs like hell, your bombers will be able to catch up to him,” Thaddeus continued. “Halsey launched a strike in late afternoon, and they should be working the bastards over pretty soon. It will be up to you fellows to pick off any targets the navy overlooks. First and foremost, that includes the enemy carriers.”
“How many does he have, sir?” Ellis asked.
“The observers counted five, which is what intelligence has been reporting for the last few weeks. So it looks like they’ve concentrated their fleet all in one nice big bull’s eye. We have Pathfinders going ahead of you—their instructions are to drop a couple of dozen flares over the fleet and keep them burning, so you should be able to see your targets.”
He didn’t add the corollary—that the targets would be able to see the planes, as well—but the knowledge was present in every pilot’s mind.
“This will be a skip bomb attack—the first time we’ve tried it against warships instead of transports. I know the risks as well as you men do. But keep in mind that this is the big prize: if we sink those flattops, everything about this war changes in our favor.
“Major Willis will get you information on course to target as you head out to your planes. All three squadrons have been armed and fueled; I want you in the air as soon as you can take off. Good luck, and good hunting!”
There was little talking as the pilots filed past Willis and collected the mimeographed sheets detailing their bearing, formation, and altitude instructions. The men had become used to skip bombing, and all three squadrons had racked up impressive scores against the transports, and even the destroyers, of the Tokyo Express. But they’d never gone after anything as big and well armed as a carrier before.
“First time for everything, I guess,” Grisham remarked as he and Ellis ran through the preflight check on the flight deck. A few minutes later they rumbled down the newly extended Henderson runway and were climbing through the evening sky over the still waters of Ironbottom Sound.
Thirty Flying Fortresses, every one that could fly, formed up in their three squadrons. Ellis thought of the four seven-second-delay fuse bombs in the Skylark II’s bay. Would they find a worthwhile target? And would they survive the furious antiaircraft? His gut rumbled, and he realized he hadn’t taken time to grab a bite of supper.
He didn’t mind dying as much as he hated the idea of dying on an empty stomach.
AKAGI, 200 MILES EAST OF RABAUL, 1835 HOURS
The last of the bombers of Nagumo’s air strike were still climbing to cruising elevation when the Zeros of the combat air patrol pounced on the incoming Americans. Soon the gunners on the screening vessels were popping away with antiaircraft, puffs of black smoke appearing in the sky. American and Japanese fighters mixed it up in a snarling dogfight, and in the first two minutes at least a dozen planes, spewing flames and smoke, spiraled down to crash onto the flat surface of the sea.
Still the tenacious Americans came on. The Akagi twisted and turned. Zeros plunged through their own antiaircraft to press home the attack. More enemy planes fell from the sky, even as additional numbers of Nagumo’s defending Zeros were also shot down. The Japanese fighters pressed home their attacks with fearlessness, exacting a high cost from both the enemy dive and torpedo bombers. An aide pointed out the most immediate threat, and the admiral watched the torpedo bombers zoom along above the surface of the ocean. He was pleased when most of the planes were shot down. Those that launched their torpedoes failed to score a hit on the frantically maneuvering carrier.
An aide approached him. “Another American attack inbound, Admiral. Dive-bombers, almost directly overhead.”
He felt a qualm at the news. Dive-bombers were dangerous opponents, capable of plunging an armor-piercing bomb onto even a small, nimble target. They had struck three of his ships at Midway, sinking the venerable Kaga. Even so, he reminded himself, his fleet had defenses against this kind of attack. Kido Butai could be expected to decimate these squadrons as it had every other during this long and violent war.
“Thank you,” replied Nagumo. “I think I’ll watch from outside.” He stepped through the hatch. Two aides followed.
He focused his binoculars to get a good look at the battle. There were a dozen or more dive-bombers over the Akagi, and another, somewhat larger squadron, in the direction of the Shokaku.
“These American pilots seem to know what they’re doing,” Nagumo said, surprising himself with his own equanimity. “They’ve selected their targets in two waves, some toward the Shokaku, others toward us in the Akagi.” He felt a little more concern. “They are starting their dives—where are the Zeros?”
“Unfortunately, Admiral,” one of his aides explained, “the fighters of the combat air patrol are scattered. The American fighters have attacked tenaciously, and our losses have been surprisingly high.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” It was a truth of war: the longer you fought against a foe, the better that foe became at countering your tactics. Still, the carrier group was not without defenses. Already, puffs of black smoke erupted in the air as the full antiaircraft weaponry of the Akagi and her escorts blasted skyward. One American dive-bomber, an SBD Dauntless, fell out of the formation, plummeting seaward as it trailed a plume of smoke.
“The guns will have to get them, then—look, one is hit!” Even as he pointed out the kill in triumph, Nagumo was acutely aware that very many—most—of the enemy dive-bombers were plunging resolutely toward their target. He trained his binoculars on the approaching Dauntlesses and watched the unusual perforated flaps of the air brakes open along the wings of the attacking planes. They looked like lacy women’s underwear, he thought irrelevantly.
Nagumo’s eyes fastened upon one of the bombs, horrible and black, hanging from the pale belly of an American plane. The SBD continued its dive, through a cloud of AA that did nothing to throw it off course. Just when it seemed as though the American intended to fly straight down into the Japanese carrier, the plane dropped its load and pulled up. Nagumo’s binoculars remained fixed upon the bomb that looked as if it had been aimed at him personally.
“Admiral, perhaps you should go inside,” suggested an aide.
He could feel doubts and anxieties rushing back in.
Nagumo was frozen in place, unable to move as the bomb continued straight toward him. He dropped the binoculars, saw the weapon with his naked eye. Other bombs plunged in the direction of the Akagi as well, but only the one loomed so large in his vision.
It struck the empty flight deck near the bow and its explosion rocked the ship. Nagumo almost fell and braced himself with both hands on the armored rail. Flame and smoke shot high into the air, billowing from the hole in the flight deck. Planks and sections of metal, and the bodies of crewmen, tumbled lazily through the air, tossed by the powerful blast. The admiral could feel the heat from the blast against his face, an uncomfortable, burning presence.
Several bombs splashed to the sides—misses—but two more plunged through the flight deck aft. The explosions sent the ship lurching like she had been punched, convulsing so hard the concussion threw him off his feet. He scrambled to stand again, looked across the deck. His first thought was that fires were raging everywhere, but already damage control parties were scrambling toward the crater left by the first hit, playing powerful streams of water into the smoking hole.
Alarms sounded throughout the ship as crewmen raced to put out the myriad fires. Nagumo allowed his aides to help him back inside. He touched his forehead and saw blood on his fingers, not surprised that he cut himself there when he fell. Still, he shrugged off the arms of concerned staff officers who sought to assist him.
“Reports! What is the situation here, and in the r
est of the fleet?”
News trickled in, from the Akagi first. The grand old dame of UN aircraft carriers had taken four hits through the flight deck. She could not land or launch planes, but already the fires were being brought under control. In short order came word that the carriers Shokaku and Soryu had also taken hits from the American dive-bombers. The damaged Soryu was able to make way, though her flight deck—like the Akagi—was too badly damaged for aircraft operations. The Shokaku was on fire, and the blazes were reported to be growing. She had also taken at least one hit from a torpedo and was dead in the water.
And still more of these deadly aircraft survived, and they came in a wave. Now came word that the Hiryu was hit by bombs. Then her sister ship the Soryu took a bomb through her recently repaired flight deck. As a final insult, the Hiryu took a torpedo near the bow—it seemed that even those flawed American weapons exploded occasionally—and was forced to slow to half speed.
At last the American attack was over, and Nagumo allowed himself a measure of content. That was the worst the enemy could offer, he knew, and he still had one intact carrier—the Zuikaku—and real hopes that all the other ships could be saved. His air groups, as they had at Midway, were attacking the enemy ships even as their own fleet was bombed. And unlike at Midway, here they had bases in the Solomons—on Bougainville, Buka, and Munda—where the aircraft could safely land before they ran out of fuel.
All told, things could have been much worse.
PORTLAND, SOLOMON SEA, 2001 HOURS
“Captain! We’re getting a lot of bogies on the screen!”
Frank Chadwick looked over his radar operator’s shoulder, watching the green blip on the gray screen as it morphed into a large disturbance to the northeast. Like most U.S. Navy officers, he had become quite confident in the new technology, developed and employed by the British to such good effect during the Battle of Britain.
MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan Page 15
