Clash of The Carriers

Those who survived fighters and flak over the target now faced an even greater ordeal. With the sun on the horizon behind them, pilots leaned on their fuel mixtures for maximum efficiency. Many realized that they would not reach a flight deck. Fuel problems were especially acute among the Helldivers: fifty-one launched on the “mission beyond darkness.” Of forty-three that departed the Mobile Fleet, thirty-two splashed or crashed. Meanwhile, the older Dauntlesses limped along, milking every gallon of gas for maximum efficiency.

Most gas-shy pilots decided to ditch while they still had power for a controlled landing. Some splashed in small groups for mutual support and better prospects of rescue. The others pushed their fuel and their luck to the limit, straining for the first tentative glimpse of the task force.

Nearing the expected position of “point option,” some pilots began receiving the task force’s electronic homing beacons. From about seventy miles out the YE-ZB homers indicated a plane’s position relative to the emitter by broadcasting a Morse code letter. Pilots refined their headings, tuning the homer for maximum clarity and the straightest course home.

Fifteen minutes later the carriers reversed helm and turned into the easterly breeze. Captains called for more “turns” of the screws, accelerating to twenty-two knots in order to provide the required thirty over the deck.

As luck had it, June 20 was the first night of a new moon, and the first phase provided no illumination at all. Much of the return trip was “on the gauges,” as pilots relied on their red-lit instruments to remain in level flight. If the artificial horizon failed, it was back to basics: needle, ball, and airspeed, or “needle, beedle, speedle,” cross-checking compass for course, turn and bank indicator for wings level, and airspeed indicator to show climb or dive. Even so, the constant threat of vertigo seemed perched on a pilot’s shoulder, his inner ear often belying what his instruments told him. Undoubtedly a few aviators succumbed to the siren song—pull up or level your wings—when nothing was wrong. Sometimes it helped to maintain position on another aircraft’s lights, but whoever was out front had nothing but his mechanical references and his potentially fatal instincts.

Before long, idle radio chatter began cracking the normal discipline of carrier aviators. It increased as darkness descended and some pilots became disoriented. Others called for their squadron mates; a few broke down and began sobbing. Some pilots heard enough and turned off their radios.

The sun set shortly before 1900, and minutes later the first returning aircraft arrived over the task force. In the four hours and twenty minutes between launch and start of recovery, the task force had made good ninety miles, with two course changes to launch or land patrols. That distance was crucial: For some fliers it meant perhaps forty minutes of lifesaving air time. For others it was inadequate.

At least from the day before, Mitscher’s staff contemplated the potential of a mass recovery after dark. Whether the admiral himself had laid plans or Arleigh Burke discussed it with Gus Widhelm, the contingency was anticipated. With advance notice of the air groups’ return via radio relay aircraft and radar, the word went down from Lex’s flag bridge: Prepare to illuminate the fleet. The hazard posed by Japanese submarines and land-based aircraft was acknowledged, accepted, and filed.

The expected procedure was fairly routine: Carriers would show their running lights, masthead truck lights, and deck-edge glow lights. As an extra measure, Mitscher directed each task group flagship to shine its largest searchlight vertically as a visual beacon.

On Hornet’s flag bridge, Jocko Clark listened to the aviators’ chatter. The high-pitched voices told him that nerves were getting ragged. A calamity was brewing, but he could help alleviate some of the concern. At 2030, without word from Mitscher, he ordered his carriers to turn on their brightest beams: the carbon arcs, big searchlights with lenses two feet across. He also had his cruisers shoot star shells. Whether by direction or enthusiasm, screening destroyers aimed their searchlights on the four flattops. From there, things quickly got out of hand. The night over Task Group 58.1 erupted into man-made illumination that blasted garish blotches against the black, moonless sky.

Nearing the briefed position of “point option,” astonished pilots gawked at the task force, lit up like a carnival. After Jocko Clark’s premature action, Pete Mitscher had given the word: “Turn on the lights.”

That was the good news. The bad news: the illumination plan reflected more zeal than coordination. Pilots found chaos in all four task groups: Every ship was burning lights, including destroyers and cruisers. It was not always possible to distinguish carriers amid the chaos. Mitscher had overdone it: Pilots didn’t need to see every ship in the task force—just those with flight decks. Air discipline began breaking down.

Many planes were flying on fumes. Desperately, pilots sought any carrier with a clear deck, seldom knowing whether they were approaching their ship—nor did they care. Landing signal officers with illuminated wands repeatedly had to wave off planes when two or even three crowded the final approach in “the groove.”

Still, fuel shortage and deck crashes far exceeded the efforts of the Japanese, as some seventy carrier planes went into the water that night. Of all the air groups flying the mission, probably none was shorter on fuel than Wasp’s.

After hitting the oilers, Air Group 14 was keenly aware that it was not night-qualified. Jack Blitch had problems of his own, reporting: “The last thing I remember was being about twenty-five miles from the nearest searchlight. Apparently I passed out and crashed. I came to underwater with the cockpit closed. I do not remember getting out . . . but remember being on the wing and then getting in the rear cockpit to look for my gunner. He was not there, and, as the plane sank, I reached for the life raft, which was not in its holder, so I was only able to get out of the plane just as it was sinking.”

Blitch spent a trying forty hours afloat before rescue by a floatplane from cruiser Canberra. One of Blitch’s eleven other dive-bomber pilots who snagged a wire that night was the junior aviator, Ensign K. P. Fulton. His landing aboard Enterprise was the first time he attempted a night trap.

“Now began the most dramatic part of the entire action as our planes commenced their long homeward trip, for by this time it was already beginning to get dark. Fighters, bombers, and torpedo planes joined up as best they could. . . . To those who remained aboard, that night will forever remain unforgettable as the planes came straggling back one by one to land aboard whichever carrier they could pick out of the darkness. Many of the bombers were forced to make water landings as they ran out of gas, some of them within sight of the fleet. . . . A number of planes crashed and burned within sight of the ships, and of course there were many barrier crashes and accidents aboard the carriers.

“Five of our fighter pilots made it safely back to the Wasp; four landed on the Bunker Hill; two each on the Cabot and San Jacinto; and one each on the Enterprise and Monterey. One of our pilots landed aboard the San Jacinto without the compass or generator operating in his plane, and with no signal officer, barrier or landing lights on the ship—and only three gallons of gas left!”

“I particularly remember the two hours of night landings. Those of us in CIC were finding and trying to guide the planes in while keeping track of the approaching planes. I was on the dead-reckoning tracer. We plotted the approach of a plane through its IFF until it disappeared from the scope. Then we circled the spot, noted the latitude and longitude, and sent the information to the flag staff. Fortunately, they did not need it. The destroyers in the screen had the info on their radars and initiated rescue procedures. . . . With the floatplanes and PBMs that came in after daylight they did a remarkable job in rescuing the pilots. They deserve all the credit in the world.”

Radar played another role in guiding aircraft home. Lieutenant Commander Richard E. Harmer commanded Enterprise’s night-fighter detachment. At 2050 he launched in his radar-equipped Corsair (which still was not cleared for daytime operations) and intercepted some errant fliers who otherwise may have died in the ocean. Searching through the moonless sky, Harmer found three groups of aircraft on his AIA radar set. In succession he led each formation to the task force, where the pilots were able to take their place in the churning confusion of each ship’s traffic pattern. With ample fuel, Harmer remained airborne until most of the homing planes were back. He considered the two hours airborne that night more satisfying than the three times he downed Japanese aircraft.

Another night-flying shepherd was Pete Aurand, aloft in his Bunker Hill Hellcat. He had splashed a Jill for his third victory the previous afternoon, but, like Chick Harmer, he did more good in the frantic, horizonless sky over his own force. Following radio vectors, he used his AIA aerial intercept radar to locate small groups and singles, then led them home.

One of those saved was Torpedo 24’s Warren Omark. Upon reaching what he considered point option, Omark found “nothing but pitch-black sky.” With fuel running out, he needed a direct course to the task force, pronto. Deciding “to hell with radio silence,” he called Belleau Wood, asking for a steer. He was surprised to get a reply from Lieutenant Jim Alston, CO of TorpRon 24, who was monitoring the proceedings in radar plot. Alston told Omark to hold on—a night fighter was being vectored to lead him back.

In a few minutes a dark silhouette appeared off Omark’s wingtip, running lights aglow. The “VF(N)” pilot indicated by hand signals to follow him, and took the errant Avenger to Task Group 58.3, perhaps fifty miles away. Within sight of the spectacular light show, the fighter waggled its wings and the pilot gave the “kiss-off” signal.

Omark made a straight-in approach to the closest carrier. He dropped hook, wheels, and flaps, and motored up the big ship’s wake, hoping that he still had a few gallons. His fuel gauge had long since registered empty. Settling in the groove, Omark was aware of another plane beside him: a hazardous situation and completely against regulations. He thought, “We may have a midair collision but I’m not giving up.” The other pilot veered away, leaving the Avenger to attempt its chance at the deck.

The LSO gave Warren Omark the one cut he needed to have, and the TBF snagged a wire. When Omark climbed out he learned he was aboard Lexington. His two crewmen didn’t care what ship they were on: They bent down and kissed the deck. The big Grumman had two gallons remaining.

Among the other homing Belleau Wood planes were the survivors of George Brown’s division. Ben Tate and Bill Luton both successfully ditched their shot-up Avengers near the task force; Tate was rescued by the destroyer Knapp.

For those who did reach the task force, the peril was even greater. Tired, frightened aviators made mistakes. They landed with gun switches on; they failed to watch their altimeters and flew into the water. Others were greedy: They flew nonstandard patterns or crowded other planes out of the groove. Bringing off a water landing was trouble enough in daylight; nobody relished ditching on a moonless night.

Several pilots nursed damaged aircraft while others, like “Hal” Buell of VB-2, were wounded as well. One such was Lieutenant Clifford Fanning, a Bataan fighter pilot who had good cause to adore the “Grumman Iron Works.” In two dogfights over Zuikaku he had gunned a Zeke, but another hit him solidly, sending splinters into his forehead and shoulder. Additionally, the F6F had lost partial use of its rudder and right aileron; a portion of the port flap was gone; and most of the starboard stabilizer had failed. Nevertheless, without an operable radio or compass, Fanning continued boring east at 140 knots, tacking on to a straggling formation. He was all right for the moment, but wondered how he could get aboard with his shot-up fighter when the controls grew lax at ninety-eight knots.

Anticipating the nocturnal recovery, task force LSOs made preparations. They traded their daytime attire (sometimes floral swim trunks or skivvy shorts) for night operations: flight suits with fluorescent stripes. The paddles already had fluorescent panels, but some LSOs preferred lighted wands. They were heavier than paddles but much more visible to pilots slanting down the groove toward the ramp.

The two-hour recovery resembled nothing before or since. One of the best descriptions came from Pete Aurand, who likened it to “a combined Hollywood premiere, Chinese New Year, and Fourth of July.”

In addition to the man-made light show, nature provided one as well. About sixty miles south a well-developed thunderstorm strobed the sky with lightning flashes. Some pilots wandered in that direction, prompting Harmer and Aurand to overtake them and fetch them home.

Landings began at 2045 and continued until about 2252. By that time, everybody was home who was coming home. Destroyers turned their biggest searchlights on the water, relentlessly scanning for the source of blinkered messages and whistles. The impetus was urgent: Scores of men were in peril of being drowned, lost, or worse.