Midway—The Waiting Is Over
As Wednesday turned into Thursday, 4 June, Fletcher’s Striking Force steamed southward at an economical 13.5 knots, the two carrier task forces remaining about 10 miles apart. First light (around 0430) was to see Striking Force at a point bearing 013 degrees, 202 miles from Midway. This constituted the famous flank ambush position planned by Nimitz, Fletcher, and Spruance. They expected the Japanese carriers to roar down on Midway from the northwest and launch a massive air strike at dawn to pummel the island’s defenses. At least they hoped their intelligence actually forecast what the Japanese would do! While the enemy busied himself with Midway, Fletcher planned to seek out the enemy carriers and crush them with a powerful counterstrike of his own. That morning his three carriers had a total of 221 operational planes: 79 fighters, 101 dive bombers, and 41 torpedo planes (see table).1
Reveille came early on board the three American flattops. Roused at 0130, the pilots and aircrewmen shuffled off to their squadron ready rooms to lounge there in the soft reclining chairs. Assembled and ready they were, but there was no need yet to prevent them from dozing off. Between 0300 and 0400, the pilots went down to breakfast in relays. Some later remembered the wardrooms as especially quiet and subdued; others thought the breakfast chatter was normal.
On board the Yorktown flight quarters sounded well before dawn. Fletcher thought it best to send ten SBD dive bombers to search the northern semicircle to a radius of 100 miles. This was a precautionary scouting effort designed to detect the enemy carriers should they approach Midway from the north or northeast. The short search radius of 100 miles was sufficient because Fletcher’s carriers at launch time would be over 200 miles north of Midway. If the Japanese, as expected, planned to hit Midway at dawn, perforce they would have to be well within 300 miles of the target. The Yorktown’s Fighting Three readied a combat air patrol for launch at the same time. Dick Crommelin’s 2nd Division drew the predawn assignment.
In the quiet darkness, the air department prepared the seventeen planes on the flight deck—six Grummans and ten SBDs from Wally Short’s “Scouting” Five. Night takeoff conditions proved to be ideal, with excellent visibility and a tranquil sea. The wind blew out of the southeast at a gentle five knots. This southeasterly breeze was to prevail throughout the day, troublesome for the Americans. In order to conduct flight operations, the flattops had to steam at high speed southeasterly into the wind, which under the circumstances led them away from the enemy. This increased the distance the strike planes would have to fly. At 0431, the Yorktown’s flight deck officer flagged the first fighter down the deck. The remaining aircraft followed in short intervals, and as they climbed, their wing lights and blue exhaust flames shone in the darkness. Soon first light creased the eastern horizon, the beginning of the day that would see the end of Japan’s supremacy in the Pacific.
American Carrier Air Groups, Dawn, 4 June 1942
At Midway other aircrews also took to the skies before dawn. Fully anticipating an air strike later that morning, the island commander despatched his PBY Catalina flying boats to search for the enemy and likewise sent the Army B-17 Flying Fortresses to attack the Japanese transport convoy located the previous day. His other attack planes and fighters he readied for departure at a moment’s notice. Midway was as prepared as it could be to face the enemy’s onslaught.
The object of all this careful concern on the part of the Americans appeared on schedule. Vice Admiral Nagumo Chūichi’s Kidō Butai (Mobile or Striking Force) lurked in the darkness 240 miles northwest of Midway. It was a superb fighting force with four fleet carriers (the Akagi, Kaga, Sōryū, and Hiryū), two battleships, two heavy cruisers, and eleven destroyers. The Shōkaku and the Zuikaku were originally supposed to participate, but Fletcher’s flyers had knocked them out at Coral Sea. The four flattops present mustered a total of about 228 operational aircraft: 73 Zero fighters, 74 carrier bombers, and 81 carrier attack planes (not counting 21 Zero fighters of the 6th Air Group intended for Midway), all flown by what the Imperial Navy considered its best aviators.2 On the flight decks of the four carriers, a total of 108 aircraft (36 fighters, 36 carrier bombers, and 36 carrier attack planes) under Lieut. Tomonaga Jōichi, hikōtaichō and commander of the Hiryū Air Group, prepared to take off and attack Midway.
The Japanese operational plan was complex, replete with many separate task forces. Its ultimate aim was to bring the U.S. Pacific Fleet’s carriers into decisive battle and crush them. Opening the offensive was a diversionary sweep by the light carriers Ryūjō and Junyō into the Aleutians; they attacked Dutch Harbor on 3 June. Following that and other air strikes, Japanese troops were to occupy Attu and Kiska. The northern attacks were meant to confuse the Americans and set them up for the main assault in the Central Pacific. Nagumo’s Kidō Butai, acting as an advanced guard, had the task of smashing Midway’s air defenses and supporting landings first on little Kure Island (60 miles northwest of Midway) on 5 June and then backing up the main amphibious attack on Midway to take place on N-Day, 6 June. The Japanese hoped the American fleet would sortie in strength and attempt to recover Midway. Operating behind Nagumo’s carrier force and the Midway Invasion Force was Main Force under Admiral Yamamoto himself. Divided into two groups, Main Force comprised seven battleships along with escort forces. To the Midway–Aleutians operations the Japanese committed by far the vast majority of the Combined Fleet.
At 0430, Nagumo’s carriers started launching the 108 aircraft of the Midway strike force. They hoped to attack the island by surprise and overwhelm defending aircraft before most could get off the ground. Around this time Nagumo also sent off a tardy, somewhat halfhearted search by seven aircraft, mostly from his battleships and cruisers. They were to look for enemy warships in the Midway area—believed by the Japanese to be a rather unlikely presence. Covering the eastern semicircle, six aircraft were to go out 300 miles, the seventh only 150 miles. Several search planes were late getting off. Nagumo did not suspect it, but Fletcher’s carriers waited just 215 miles east of him.
On board the American carriers, things settled down after the Yorktown completed flight operations. Both task forces turned to the northeast and marked time awaiting developments. Around 0440, Air Plot set the teletypes in the squadron ready rooms clattering with the first report of the day, a message relayed by Midway noting that four PBY flying boats had earlier that morning executed a successful night torpedo strike on the enemy transport force. Silence once more descended, as anticipation grew more intense. The pilots knew that search planes from Midway busily sought the Japanese carriers, but they themselves could do nothing until the Midway flyers had pinpointed the enemy for them.
Suddenly at 0534 the carriers heard on voice radio the electrifying words, “Enemy carriers.”3 Maddeningly, there was no further clarification. Eleven minutes later, another PBY reported, “Many planes heading Midway.”4 This presumably referred to the expected Japanese air strike on the island. Things at this murky stage appeared to be going according to the situation estimates. Spruance at 0600 ordered Task Force 16 to come around to 330 degrees to remain within its designated area. Fletcher’s Task Force 17 continued northeast to close Point Option, where her search planes expected to find her on their return. Three minutes later came the long hoped-for word. Fletcher and Spruance simultaneously received the text of a message sent at 0552 by a PBY: “Two carriers and battleships, bearing 320 degrees, distance 180, course 135, speed 25.”5 A quick glance at the charts placed the enemy bearing 247 degrees, distance 175 miles from the American carriers. This position report sent by the PBY was in error. The enemy striking force was actually a good 200 miles southwest of Fletcher’s carriers.
There they were, at least two of the four or five carriers the Japanese were supposed to have. Their reported location was a good one from which to conduct an air strike on Midway. Fletcher made his decision. At 0607, he signaled Spruance:
Proceed southwesterly and attack enemy carriers as soon as definitely located. I will follow as soon as planes recovered.6
Spruance swiftly brought Task Force 16 around to head southwest toward the enemy at 25 knots. Consulting his air staff, he reviewed the options open to him. He desired to launch his attack at the earliest possible moment, subject to limitations of the range of his fighters and torpedo planes, as well as the direction of the wind. The light southeasterly wind would compel Task Force 16 to steam away from the target at high speed while launching planes. Browning, the chief of staff, suggested a launch time of 0700, to which Spruance immediately agreed. If the Japanese continued on the reported course and speed, at 0700 they would bear 239 degrees, 155 miles from Task Force 16.
Fletcher’s Task Force 17 held its northeasterly heading in order to close its Point Option and recover the morning search. These SBDs had vouchsafed no sighting reports, so Fletcher could reasonably assume his northern quadrant was secure. What bothered him was that Midway’s search had uncovered only two enemy carriers. CinCPac intelligence estimates had warned that the Japanese carriers could conceivably operate in two separate groups. For the time being Fletcher thought it best to wait and see whether Midway’s PBYs and B-17s turned up the other flattops. This was in line with the role assigned to the Yorktown: search and reserve. Shortly before 0630, the ten VS-5 SBDs converged overhead as scheduled. The Yorktown sent aloft six VF-3 fighters of Brassfield’s 4th Division as relief CAP, then landed Crommelin’s six Wildcats and VS-5’s ten dive bombers. Flight operations completed, Fletcher came around to 240 degrees and bent on 25 knots to follow after Spruance.
The Launch of Task Force 16’s Strike Groups
Intercepted on radio, the news of the PBY’s sighting report of two enemy carriers sent Spruance’s Task Force 16 racing southwestward (course 240 degrees). Both the Enterprise and the Hornet were cocked like loaded pistols—aircraft on deck ready to launch and pilots, garbed and gloved, waiting restlessly in the ready rooms scribbling down navigational information and listening for orders to man planes. Spruance did not immediately transmit his intention for an 0700 launch to the Hornet, and Mitscher did not know quite what was happening. At 0615, the Hornet Air Plot sent the ready room teletypes clattering orders for the combat air patrol fighters to man planes, and shortly came the word for the escort pilots to head out on deck as well. On the loudspeaker, Mitscher warned his people:
The enemy main body is now attempting to take Midway. We are heading toward Midway to intercept and destroy them.7
Then came orders for all strike pilots, except for Ring and the four squadron commanders, to man planes, but Air Plot soon called them back to their ready rooms. The Enterprise showed no indication she was about to swing into the wind for launch, so the Hornet backed down and waited tensely.
At 0638, the Enterprise by blinker light began transmitting the go-ahead to launch at 0700. The air groups were to use deferred departure; that is, all aircraft within a group were to rendezvous into their base formations and leave together. En route they were to employ search–attack procedure to seek out the enemy, logical since the sighting reports might be inaccurate. Once the target was located, each group leader was to select one enemy carrier and attack. No specific Point Option course was provided, but the message gave Spruance’s intention to steam to within 100 miles of the enemy. Given the enemy’s plotted position, that meant a return to the base course of 240 degrees after launching was completed. The orders to the Hornet also provided no definite course for the aircraft to fly in order to find the Japanese carriers.
On the Hornet’s bridge, Mitscher convened a quick conference with Ring and the four squadron commanders, while the SBD and TBD crews manned planes (the VF-8 pilots were already on deck). Cdr. Soucek, the air officer, and a few others probably were also present. The Hornet brass discussed what course to fly in searching for the enemy, based on the latest information from Air Plot. The evidence strongly indicates that they decided to send the Hornet strike group west on a heading of 265 degrees, instead of to the southwest (240 degrees), Task Force 16’s base course.8 What reasoning this followed is not apparent in the fragmentary sources on that conference, but a few suggestions can be made. Spruance’s orders called for search–attack procedure by the strike planes, indicating he was not certain all of the Japanese carriers were located where the PBY had found two of them. Mitscher and his people may have wanted to cover the area north of where the Enterprise thought the target area was in order to find the Japanese if they were a little farther away from Midway. It would have been highly unlikely that the enemy carriers were significantly closer to Midway than where the Enterprise planes were to search. Waldron differed with the proposed heading of 265 degrees, evidently thinking that both the Hornet and the Enterprise plans were incorrect. He had his own ideas about where he would go.
A few minutes before the scheduled launch, the ships of Task Force 16 split into two groups, each centered around one of the two carriers. That permitted each flattop to maneuver independently to conduct flight operations. At 0656, the ships swung to port and steadied up at 28 knots into the gentle southeasterly wind. On her flight deck, the Enterprise arrayed her first deckload, comprising ten F4Fs from Fighting Six (including two spares) for CAP and thirty-three SBDs for the strike. The Hornet’s deckload was larger: twenty VF-8 F4Fs (ten including spares for CAP, ten for escort), thirty-four dive bombers, and, crowding the stern, six TBDs. Both flight decks buzzed with purposeful activity, as crews swarmed around the blue aircraft, now much less colorful with their red dots and striped tails painted over. Puffs of smoke and flashing propellor blades signaled starting of engines, and pilots waited anxiously in their cockpits. It was 0700, and the enemy carriers (at least two of them) were thought to bear 239 to 240 degrees, distance 155 miles.
Promptly at 0700, plane handlers guided the Hornet’s lead fighter into launch position. Carefully assessing the sound of its Pratt & Whitney run up to full power, the Fly I officer waved his flag and sent the Wildcat “clattering” down the deck and into the air. The Enterprise responded with a fighter of her own. Thereafter every twenty to thirty seconds another F4F followed and scurried to join division leaders orbiting the task force. First off were the sixteen F4F-4s making up the combat air patrol. Fighting Eight flew in two divisions led by the XO, Eddie O’Neill, and Lieut. Warren W. Ford. The Hornet CAP was to fly high cover (“hi cap”) over the ships; so her F4Fs formed up quickly for a steady climb toward 18,000 feet. The Enterprise’s contribution comprised two four-plane divisions under VF-6’s XO, Roger Mehle, and Lieut. (jg) Frank Quady. Mehle’s F4Fs flew “lo cap” near the task force and carefully avoided the strike planes in the process of taking off and forming up.
Right on the tail of the Hornet CAP came the ten VF-8 escort fighters led by the skipper, Pat Mitchell. His force consisted of:
|
1st Division |
F-18 |
Lt. Cdr. Samuel G. Mitchell, USN Ens. Johnny A. Talbot, A-V(N) Ens. John Magda, A-V(N) Ens. John E. McInerny, Jr., A-V(N) |
|
2nd Division |
F-5 |
Lieut. (jg) Richard Gray, USN |
F-9 |
Ens. C. Markland Kelly, Jr., A-V(N) Lieut. (jg) Minuard F. Jennings, USN Ens. Humphrey L. Tallman, A-V(N) |
|
CHAG Escort Section |
F-19 |
Lieut. Stanley E. Ruehlow, USN |
F-13 |
Ens. George R. Hill, A-V(N) |
The ten F4Fs got off without trouble, except for the one flown by John McInerny. His Grumman failed to start. Only when the flight deck officer was about to strike it below did the balky engine finally catch, as the plane captain desperately jammed in a last starter cartridge. McInerny firewalled the throttle without going through even a normal magneto check and made it aloft. In accordance with departure orders, Mitchell led the escort into a gentle climb to try to conserve fuel while circling to await the launch of the dive bombers. Then the F4Fs were to join the SBDs and both wait for the torpedo planes to get off before departing. Even so, the long climb toward high altitude used considerable fuel, and while the short-legged fighters orbited, the Hornet steamed southeastward into the wind, adding up to 15 miles to VF-8’s mission.
The Hornet’s dive bombing force comprised thirty-four SBD-3 Dauntlesses, apparently half of them armed with 500-lb. bombs and the rest with thousand-pounders. First to take off were fifteen SBDs from Scouting Eight led by Lt. Cdr. Walter F. Rodee. Next came the “Sea Hag,” Cdr. Ring, and two wingmen from Bombing Eight, and finally the sixteen SBDs of Bombing Eight proper under Lt. Cdr. Robert R. Johnson. At Ring’s direction, the SBDs assumed “group parade formation,” with Ring’s command section at the apex of a giant Vee of Vees and the two squadrons deployed abreast of one another, VS-8 on the right and VB-8 on the left. Above and behind them the fighter escort took station with Mitchell’s division on the left, Ruehlow’s section in the center to guard Ring, and Dick Gray’s division on the right. The SBDs and escorts continued the long ascent to the assigned altitudes—19,000 feet for the bombers and 2,000 to 3,000 feet more for the fighters.
After the dive bombers took off, the Hornet air department brought up on deck the remaining nine TBD Devastators of Waldron’s Torpedo Eight. The squadron got off in short order, and by 0742, the carrier’s deck was empty. At 300 feet Torpedo Eight effected its rendezvous without delay. Well above them, Ring at 0746 signaled for the group to depart. The Hornet aircraft headed west on the briefed heading of 265 degrees and continued climbing toward the specified altitudes. Waldron’s TBDs were to cruise at 1,500 feet. After departure, SBD crews and fighter pilots saw them far below and following behind, keeping in contact because the rate of advance of the still-climbing SBDs was slow. It was fortunate that the Hornet’s flight deck was clear. Steve Groves, flying one of the CAP F4Fs, ran into mechanical difficulties and signaled the ship for permission to make an emergency “deferred forced landing.” She recovered him at 0754 and scrambled a spare to restore VF-8’s CAP to eight.
The Enterprise’s launch did not proceed as smoothly as that of her sister Hornet. At 0706, the fifteen SBDs of Earl Gallaher’s Scouting Six began taking off. The initial six carried only a single 500-lb. bomb apiece, but the last nine added one 100-lb. bomb under each wing. Then came the group leader, Wade McClusky, and his pair of VS-6 wingmen. Finally Dick Best’s fifteen VB-6 SBDs took off, laden by the far more potent thousand-pounders. In accordance with the procedures for deferred departure, the thirty-three SBDs circled the task group and formed up during the long, slow climb to 20,000 feet. McClusky waited for his escort fighters and torpedo planes to appear before he, too, departed for the target.
On board the Enterprise, plane handlers respotted the flight deck with ten F4F Wildcats and fourteen TBDs. Inexplicably this became a time-consuming process. To McClusky overhead, “action seemed to come to a standstill.”9 In flag plot, Spruance grew increasingly impatient at the slow progress of the launch. It should not have taken so long. The Hornet had almost all of her planes aloft, while the Enterprise’s second deckload sat on board. The admiral felt the strike had to proceed now even if it meant separating the group. At 0745, the Enterprise began signaling McClusky by blinker: “Proceed on mission assigned.”10 The group commander had carefully plotted on his board his estimate of the enemy’s course and position, computing the likely point of interception by his planes as bearing 231 degrees, distance 142 miles. He rounded up his SBDs and at 0752 departed on 231 degrees.
Even as Spruance ordered McClusky to depart, the Enterprise began launching VF-6’s escort force, organized as follows:
1st Division F-l Lieut. James S. Gray, Jr., USN F-2 Ens. Joseph R. Daly, A-V(N) F-3 Ens. Walter J. Hiebert, A-V(N) F-4 Mach. Julius A. Achten, USN F-5 Ens. Ralph M. Rich, A-V(N) F-6 Ens. Wayne C. Presley, A-V(N) |
2nd Division F-7 Lieut. (jg) John C. Kelley, USN F-8 Ens. Norman D. Hodson, A-V(N) F-9 Lieut. (jg) Harold N. Heisel, USN F-10 Mach. Clayton Allard, USN |
Gray’s fighters were aloft by 0749, but no one had time to tell him of the change in plans. By the time he formed up the ten F4Fs and headed out in the direction of the enemy, the SBDs (his primary responsibility for escort) had flown out of sight to the southwest. Gray spotted below a torpedo squadron starting out in purposeful fashion without fighter escort in sight, and moved overhead to cover them while still climbing toward his assigned altitude. As Gray later related in “Decision at Midway,” his F4Fs even outpaced the TBDs while in a climb and had to make S-turns to cut down their rate of advance. He apparently hoped to rejoin the SBDs in the target area. Gray’s new charges were the TBDs from Torpedo Eight, making up the tail end of the Hornet Air Group heading out on 265 degrees.
The last element of the Enterprise’s strike group to leave her deck was Torpedo Six. The battered Gene Lindsey refused to be left behind and had to be helped into his cockpit. Along with him, the other thirteen VT-6 TBDs took to the air around 0800 and made a running rendezvous while departing. “The Big E’s” launch had taken nearly an hour to complete! Evidence indicates that Lindsey took a heading of 240 degrees for his flight to the target area. Like Waldron, he would stay relatively low and cruise at 2,000 feet.
Circumstances seemed to preclude that Spruance’s two strike groups would be able to attack in any coordinated fashion. Indeed, the aircraft had separated into three different groupings during departure. First to leave (at 0746) was the Hornet Air Group, flying westward on 265 degrees. Ring’s forty-four dive bombers and fighters, in the process of climbing to high altitude, were in the lead. Following along behind them at low level was Waldron’s Torpedo Eight, the fifteen TBDs able to keep up for the time being while Ring’s planes completed their climb. Overtaking VT-8, but unseen by them, were Gray’s ten VF-6 F4Fs. As will be shown, Waldron had no intention of remaining on Ring’s course, but would soon find his own way to the enemy. McClusky’s thirty-three Enterprise SBDs flew a much more southwesterly course than the others, 231 degrees, and departed at 0752. Last of all came VT-6’s fourteen TBDs on course 240 degrees. Gray for a time saw a second torpedo squadron a good distance behind him, but they headed away to his left—Lindsey branching off to the southwest on 240 degrees. Thus by 0800 or so, all planes were on their way, an air armada of 116 aircraft: 20 fighters, 67 dive bombers, and 29 torpedo planes. Upon this strike rested American hopes for victory in the Battle of Midway. Its results would be stranger than anyone could have thought.
The Japanese Find Task Force 16
In the growing daylight with the departure of the Midway strike group, Nagumo’s Kidō Butai settled down to await the results of the attack and the dawn search. Precautionary plans called for the four carriers to ready a second strike force in the event the search turned up American warships within range. On board the Akagi and the Kaga, thirty-six carrier attack planes armed with torpedoes made ready for launch, while the Sōryū and the Hiryū made preparations to send thirty-six carrier bombers if necessary. The Japanese combat air patrol had already absorbed nearly a dozen Zeros, and others waited in reserve to replace them. Apparently the Japanese counted on perhaps a dozen Zeros to escort the second strike should it have to go. Meanwhile, the carriers at 0542 scrambled an additional six Zeros for CAP when lookouts noticed Midway–based PBY Catalina flying boats snooping the carrier force.
Warned by PBYs and radar, Midway had every serviceable aircraft aloft well before the Japanese approach. Sent to attack the Japanese carriers were six Grumman TBF-1 Avenger torpedo planes (Torpedo Eight detachment), four Army Martin B-26 medium bombers armed with torpedoes, fourteen Army B-17 Flying Fortresses (diverted from striking the enemy transports), and from Marine Scouting Squadron 241: sixteen SBD-2 Dauntless dive bombers and eleven Vought SB2U-3 Vindicator dive bombers. Divided into four separate groups, the bombers had to attack alone without fighter escort. Ready to defend Midway were eighteen F2A-3 Buffaloes and six F4F-3 Wildcats from Marine Fighting Squadron 221 (VMF-221), old friends from the Wake relief attempt.
Thirty miles out from Midway, the lead marine fighters tore into the Japanese around 0620. The F2As and the few F4F-3s started with altitude advantage, but the more numerous Zeros were deadly. In a wild succession of small air battles fought all the way back to Midway, the Zeros slaughtered the leatherneck interceptors. For the loss of one or two fighters and a couple of carrier attack planes, the Japanese shot down thirteen F2As and two F4F-3s. Most surviving marine fighters bore scars from the fight, and immediately after the raid, Midway’s effective fighter strength stood at only two aircraft. The Japanese lost three or four more planes to the intense ground fire. Thus seven Japanese carrier aircraft (two fighters, one dive bomber, and four torpedo planes) failed to return from the fight, although others were badly shot up. Lieut. Tomonaga’s level and dive bombers methodically pounded Midway’s defenses. By 0700, they had done what they could, but Tomonaga felt more had to be done to neutralize the island. At 0700 he radioed the flagship, “There is need for a second attack wave.”11
Tomonaga’s message reached Nagumo just ahead of the first wave of attackers from Midway. Shortly after 0700, the Japanese CAP of around twenty-nine Zeros battled the six VT-8 TBFs and four Army B-26 Marauders trying to hit the Akagi. The carrier went unscathed, and for the loss of two Zeros, the Japanese shot down five TBFs and two B-26s. Even so, Midway’s prompt air counterstrike came as a distinct surprise to the Japanese. Nagumo decided to hit Midway again with the aircraft waiting in reserve. The morning search had proved negative so far, and it appeared likely no American ships lurked close by. At 0715, Nagumo ordered the Akagi and the Kaga carrier attack planes reequipped with 800-kilogram land bombs in place of aerial torpedoes, while the carrier bombers on board the Sōryū and the Hiryū would substitute the high explosive (land) bombs for armor-piercing weapons. Kidō Butai’s carriers would have to have cleared flight decks anyway, for in ninety minutes they would have to recover planes returning from the first Midway strike. The air officers of the four carriers had to see that some CAP Zeros were recovered and refueled in time to escort the second Midway strike. The Japanese flattops were having a busy time.
While the Japanese rearmed their planes and Task Force 16 suffered the labor pains of its massive launch, a Japanese floatplane on its return search leg made an interesting discovery. The aircraft was the Tone No. 4 plane, an Aichi E13A1 Type O reconnaissance floatplane [JAKE], which had departed at 0500 (thirty minutes late) to search 300 miles along a heading of 100 degrees before turning north 60 miles and returning to base. At 0728, Number Four radioed the Tone:
Sight what appears to be ten enemy surface ships, in position bearing 010 degrees distance 240 miles from Midway. Course 150 degrees, speed over 20 knots.12
Significantly, the report failed to mention the presence of American carriers. The crew proceeded deliberately and thoroughly to check out the area. As yet the Americans knew nothing of their presence.
News of American ships in range caught Nagumo with his hands full orchestrating the second Midway strike. Realizing the American task force rated top priority, at 0745 he suspended rearming the strike planes with land bombs. (Those armed with the high explosive weapons would be left that way.) The staff proceeded to organize the strike, but with little sense of urgency because they thought no enemy carriers were near. Meanwhile, Midway’s air force offered three more diversions for the Japanese. Shortly before 0800, the first group of marine dive bombers, sixteen SBD-2s from VMSB-241, appeared on the horizon. Fearing the inexperience of his pilots, their leader opted for a glide-bombing attack on the Hiryū. Unlike Bill Ault’s similar ploy at Coral Sea, this maneuver fooled no one. The thirteen Zeros aloft on CAP and six scrambled soon after, together shot down eight SBDs for the loss of one Hiryū Zero. That carrier herself suffered no damage. As the SBD survivors departed, fourteen Army B-17 Fortresses attacked the Sōryū and the Kaga. Sparring with the giant bombers were nine Sōryū Zeros newly returned from the Midway strike and three Kaga CAP Zeros. Neither side took any losses, nor were the carriers hit. The Army attack ebbed around 0820, and as the B-17s drew away, the second marine dive bombing force, eleven Vindicators, bombed the battleship Haruna in the screen. They scored no hits, but lost three SB2Us to a dozen defending Zeros. Midway’s brave counterattacks inflicted no damage to the enemy ships, but they helped keep the Japanese off balance.
Forty-five minutes elapsed before Task Force 16 realized it was being snooped by the wily Tone No. 4 crew. At 0806, after departure of his strike groups, Spruance brought his ships around to course 240 degrees, speed 25 knots to charge toward the enemy. Nine minutes later, the Enterprise’s radar detected a bogey bearing 170 degrees, distance 30 miles. Almost simultaneously, lookouts on board the heavy cruiser Northampton, screening the Enterprise, eyeballed the intruder bearing 185 degrees, 30 miles out. Lt. Cdr. Dow, “The Big E’s” FDO, broke radio silence on the fighter circuit and instructed VF-6 section “Red 17” (Ens. Thomas Provost) to “arrow” 170 degrees for 30 miles for a low-flying bogey. (In early fighter direction terminology, “arrow” meant for the fighters to proceed along a true as opposed to a magnetic compass bearing. Its use compelled the pilots to convert their bearings from magnetic to true and could cause confusion. The difference between magnetic and true directions in the Midway area could lead to discrepancies of 20 or so degrees. The Yorktown FDO policy eschewed the use of “arrow” and based orders instead on magnetic bearings or “vectors.”)
As ordered, Provost and his wingman hurried out in hopes of ambushing the snooper, but scattered cloud cover at low altitude made that task difficult. At 0820, ship lookouts again spotted the enemy, most likely from sunlight glinting off the aircraft. The two VF-6 pilots were not so fortunate. Simultaneously, the Japanese crew finally obtained a closer look at the American task force. At 0820, the Tone No. 4 radioed to base that the enemy force apparently included a carrier. Fuel beginning to run low, the floatplane warned it would soon start home.
Consternation! Nagumo and his staff on board the Akagi hurriedly conferred at the news of the American carrier, while their CAP Zeros beat off the last of the Midway-based dive bombers. The Japanese found themselves in a fix. The Akagi and Kaga carrier attack planes, only partially rearmed with torpedoes, waited in the hangar decks of the two flattops. On board the Sōryū and the Hiryū, Rear Admiral Yamaguchi Tamon (commanding the 2nd Carrier Division) had thirty-six carrier bombers ready for action, but only a few of them armed with the ship-killing 250-kilogram semi-armor-piercing bombs. The main problem, however, concerned fighter escorts, for only about a half dozen Zeros were ready to go. Most of the rest were on CAP and would have to land for fuel and ammunition before they could serve as escorts. Overhead, aircraft from the first Midway strike group had returned, and they were low on fuel—having been aloft for about four hours.
Rear Admiral Yamaguchi on board the Hiryū urged an immediate attack by all available bombers, even without fighter escort if necessary. Perceptively, he desperately wanted to land the first blow in the impending carrier duel. Nagumo was loath to send his bomb-armed carrier attack planes as level bombers against enemy carriers, as they would be most vulnerable to fighter attack. At the prompting of his staff, Nagumo rejected Yamaguchi’s advice and adopted the cautious course of delaying the strike until after the recovery of his Midway strike group. He planned to swing northeast to regroup, then at 1030 launch a massive strike of thirty-six carrier bombers, forty-five torpedo-armed carrier attack planes, and twelve Zeros to deal with the American carrier force. All he needed was two hours. At 0837, the four Japanese carriers turned into the wind and began recovering gasoline-hungry CAP Zeros and the Midway strike planes.
While Nagumo made his fateful decision (the one that ultimately lost the Battle of Midway), “Ham” Dow on board the Enterprise spent several minutes trying to coach Provost into an intercept of the Tone’s cagey No. 4. At 0836, Dow sent reinforcements in the form of Provost’s division leader, Quady, and a four-plane division from Fighting Eight. Already, however, the Tone No. 4 was opening the range, and it soon disappeared from the radar screen. At 0844, Dow called his fighters back on station. There was a flurry a little later when Dow discovered a bogey to the north. He turned to the Yorktown’s Fighting Three and used Brassfield’s “Scarlet 19” section to check out the contact. By 0904, Brassfield had found the contact to be friendly and returned to station. Meanwhile, his carrier had made her contribution to the attack on the Japanese carriers.
The Yorktown’s Strike Group Departs
While Task Force 17 steamed southwestward at 25 knots, Fletcher on board the Yorktown worried about the two enemy carriers that had apparently eluded the Midway search. He delayed launch of the Yorktown strike in hopes that further reports would reveal the location of all the Japanese carriers, and in order to close within effective range of his fighters and torpedo planes. Spotted on the Yorktown’s flight deck were VF-3 Wildcats ready to reinforce the CAP, as well as the first deckload of strike planes: Massey’s twelve VT-3 TBD Devastators and seventeen SBD-3 Dauntlesses from Leslie’s Bombing Three. Still in the hangar was Short’s “Scouting Five.”13
Conferring with air advisers Buckmaster, Arnold, and Pederson, Fletcher around 0820 resolved to send part of his strike force to follow up Task Force 16’s attack. He was especially concerned not to be caught with his own strike planes on deck should enemy aircraft appear. From monitoring the fighter director circuit, he knew the Japanese had just spotted Spruance’s ships. Thus the Yorktown would launch the twelve TBDs, VB-3’s seventeen SBDs, and six VF-3 fighters as escort, a total of thirty-five aircraft. They had orders to attack one of the two enemy carriers, which Spruance’s planes now sought. Held in reserve for a possible second strike was Short’s Scouting Five with seventeen SBDs and the six F4Fs of Crommelin’s 2nd Division to escort them.
Thach learned of the new arrangement about forty minutes before his scheduled takeoff, and he was irate. Instead of the eight F4Fs (his 1st Division and McCuskey’s section from the 2nd Division) that he had counted on taking, he would now have only the 1st Division. Racing to the bridge to speak with Murr Arnold, Thach explained that his experimental defensive tactics (later known as the “Thach Weave”—see appendix) required multiples of four planes to function effectively. The air officer was sympathetic, but told him that the orders came from above, meaning the captain, and would not be changed. Unfortunately, Thach had not found the time to huddle with his VF-42 pilots to outline his special tactics. He had originally intended for Don Lovelace to instruct them, but after his tragic death, the subject must have slipped Thach’s mind. Now he had only a few minutes to work out a new escort plan. He instructed Tom Cheek and wingman Dan Sheedy to take station near the torpedo planes as “close escort.” Originally Cheek would have had McCuskey’s section as well, but that could not be helped. With the remaining four F4Fs, Thach would fly a few thousand feet above to run interference as the “high escort.”
Meanwhile, Arnold and Pederson poured over their charts and studied the fragmentary contact reports. In an effort to permit the strike group to attack in concert without recourse to “deferred departure,” which was wasteful of fuel, the two staggered departure times by the three squadrons according to their normal cruising speeds. The slowest would leave first, then the next, and finally the speediest (the fighters), in order to make a running rendezvous on the way to the target. The two also devised a useful means to search for the enemy carrier force. Realizing the original sighting reports were several hours old, they allowed for the time elapsed since then by plotting a direct line along the reported enemy course, which headed into the wind. They marked the farthest point the enemy was likely to reach, considering his need to conduct flight operations and the fact that he would not approach Midway too closely in their estimation. That point proved to be Lat. 30° 00′ North, Long. 179° 00′ West, which would bear 240 degrees and 150 miles from Task Force 17’s 0900 position. The strike group received orders to fly to that point, and if they did not spot the enemy, then turn to the northwest to head back along the reciprocal bearing of the enemy course before turning for home. That way they had an excellent chance of finding the enemy carriers no matter what they did.
Shortly after 0830, the Yorktown came left to a southeasterly course into the wind to launch aircraft. First to take off were the twelve TBDs of Torpedo Three. Without much ado, Massey rounded them up and set out directly for the target. Behind Massey came Leslie’s seventeen SBDs of Bombing Three, each armed with one 1,000-lb. bomb. Leslie’s instructions were to form up his squadron and orbit the ship for twelve minutes after Massey’s departure. Because the SBDs cruised at 130 knots in contrast to the TBDs’ 100 knots, they could easily overtake the lumbering Devastators before they reached the target area.
Finally at 0905, the carrier depatched the escort, six F4Fs (see list). Happy finally to get into action after their long wait in the ready room, the fighter pilots set their throttles at the F4F-4’s most economical cruise for maximum range, giving an airspeed of 140 knots. The target was thought to be perhaps 150 miles away, but the enemy could be much farther. Thach felt confident he could take his short-legged Wildcats out 175 miles, fight, and return. Even so, Leslie acknowledged gratefully that Thach was “really giving a lot.”14 Yorktowners had no illusions as to the combat radius of the F4F-4.
Thus, following the well-ordered launch of the Yorktown’s strike, her fighters chased the dive bombers, which in turn overtook the TBDs. Arnold and Pederson figured that the fighters would catch up to the torpedo planes around 0945, and that the group could complete rendezvous before encountering the Japanese. A calculated risk to be sure, but the main consideration for this type of departure was the short range of both the F4F-4s and the TBDs. The Yorktown had utilized this novel type of en-route rendezvous both on 10 March during the Lae–Salamaua raid and on 7 May at Coral Sea. On those occasions it had gone without a hitch. Thach himself was not pleased with the prospect of perhaps missing the TBDs, but fortunately visibility was improving.
VF-3’s Bill Leonard in F-13 (BuNo. 5244) departs on CAP from the Yorktown, 0920, 4 June. (NA 80-G-312016.)
Taking off at 0920 as relief CAP were the six F4Fs of Leonard’s 3rd Division. He had scheduled himself in that time slot, fully expecting the enemy counterattack to come then. Five minutes later Brassfield brought on board the six F4Fs of his 4th Division for fuel and a little rest. Fletcher changed course to 225 degrees, speed 25 knots to head for Task Force 16 about 15 miles to the southwest. On the Yorktown’s flight deck, plane handlers spotted for launch VS-5’s seventeen SBDs armed with 1,000-lb. bombs. Ready to go along with them were Crommelin’s six F4Fs. With Task Force 16 not in contact, the deckbound group commander Pederson assumed control of the Yorktown’s CAP. He would much rather have led the strike. In flag plot, Fletcher waited tensely for news of the other Japanese carriers.
THE ATTACK ON NAGUMO’S CARRIERS
The Sacrifice of Torpedo Eight and Torpedo Six
Better than anyone else in Spruance’s air groups, it seems, John Waldron knew where to track down the Japanese flattops. For a time he flew west on 265 degrees behind the rest of the Hornet Air Group, glimpsed from time to time by the other Hornet planes forging ahead, but finally Waldron swung in a gradual turn to the left to take up a more southwesterly heading.1 Visibility was somewhat questionable, and that in Waldron’s mind might have prevented any kind of coordination with the group even if he had thought they were headed in the right direction—which he did not believe. Now Torpedo Eight was on its own, fifteen TBDs droning along at 100 knots and 1,500 feet above the waves. There was company on high, however, in the form of Jim Gray’s ten VF-6 fighters at 22,000 feet. Cruising at 140 knots, his F4Fs swung in wide S-turns to stay along with the much slower torpedo planes. Conditions were such that Gray did not have much trouble keeping the TBDs in sight. He assumed they knew where they were going and devoted most of his attention to watching for the dive bombers or enemy fighters. Waldron had his fighter support, but—irony of ironies—he never knew it was there.
For about an hour VT-8’s flight was uneventful. Then an unwelcome visitor happened along. Waldron’s flight path had cut across that of the Tone No. 4 floatplane on its way back home after shadowing Task Force 16. At 0855 its crew warned Nagumo by radio: “Sight ten enemy attack planes heading toward you.”2 As if prompted by the enemy floatplane seen snooping near the squadron, Waldron deployed the eight planes of his 1st Division abreast into a scouting line to permit them to scan a larger expanse of ocean. Gray and his people at 22,000 feet never eyeballed the enemy seaplane far below. Soon Gray noticed ahead of the TBDs a low-lying cloud bank and later watched them disappear under the whitish mass. It was the last time he ever saw the TBDs. He held Waldron’s course, conscious that the enemy ships must be near and Zeros could be above. Suddenly at 0910 Jack Kelley, leader of Gray’s 2nd Division, radioed, “There they are at one o’clock down, skipper.” Almost dead ahead across the expanse of the cloud bank, Gray spotted ship wakes far off. He continued to head for them and later related, “Our necks were working overtime as our eyes searched every sector for McClusky and Co. and for the highly respected Zeros.”3
Waldron’s chosen course to the enemy had been uncannily accurate, but he could not yet see the enemy ships. Torpedo Eight’s scouting line began to drift apart. Concerned, Waldron ordered his formation to close up. He never heard Jack Kelley’s report, as the Hornet and Enterprise planes guarded different radio frequencies. Shortly after 0915, the VT-8 pilots observed smoke ahead on the horizon, and soon Waldron discerned three Japanese carriers. He sent a contact report that never made it back to the Hornet, then took his squadron in. Tragically, he never knew of the presence of the ten Grummans overhead. Likewise, far above, Gray thought the TBDs would be able to use the cloud cover to screen their approach, as in the Coral Sea.
Nagumo’s Kidō Butai at 0918 completed landing the Midway strike planes and a portion of its CAP, then executed a change of course left to a new heading of 070 degrees, speed 30 knots. The Japanese planned to regroup and prepare for the 1030 launch which would smash the American carrier force. Total plane losses up to this point were fourteen: from the Midway strike two fighters, one dive bomber, and eight carrier attack planes missing or ditched, and three fighters lost on CAP.4 Evidently while the strike force was making its turn, lookouts on board the heavy cruiser Chikuma reported enemy torpedo planes to the northeast, distance 35 kilometers. Spruance’s first attack was about to commence.
Torpedo Eight went gallantly to its doom. Waldron took his fifteen TBDs down to the wave tops to make a “low approach” in order to keep some of the fighters off. The Japanese were heading toward him, making the deployment of the torpedo planes necessarily swift. Waldron first thought to execute a split attack and motioned Lieut. James C. Owens’s 2nd Division to move out to the right. The Zeros responded so fiercely that Waldron recalled Owens and formed his planes tightly in an echelon of divisions—a spearhead aimed at the nearest enemy flattop, which proved to be the Sōryū. The Japanese CAP aloft was eighteen Zeros; the Akagi and the Kaga scrambled an additional eleven. Soon the Zeros had splashed a TBD from the 1st Division. Over the radio Waldron inquired whether a TBD or a Zero had gone in. He was told it was one of his. Again he tried to contact Ring, but there was no answer.
Lt. Cdr. Itaya Shigeru’s fighters (the Akagi’s for the most part) methodically tore into Torpedo Eight with a succession of shattering attacks from above and behind—wolves ripping into a herd of deer. The TBDs, “flying freight cars bearing the white star,”5 could only go low and slow. Two more Devastators smacked the water; then a Zero punctured Waldron’s left wing tank, flaming the aircraft. The skipper flew into the waves. Finally fighters and antiaircraft fire whittled the formation down to one, the TBD flown by Ens. George H. (“Tex”) Gay. He turned slightly to take the nearest carrier (the Sōryū) from her starboard side and pulled the torpedo release at 800 yards. Torpedo Eight scored no hits on enemy ships. Five Zeros just scrambled from the Akagi jumped Gay not far from his target and sent him into the water. All fifteen TBDs had splashed, and only one man survived—Tex Gay.
During VT-8’s attack but totally unaware of it, Gray led his ten fighters toward the Japanese fleet in order to guard the pushover point for the SBDs when they appeared. Strangely it seemed, no Mitsubishis prowled the skies at high altitude, and this puzzled Gray. The fighters arrived in the air space ahead and just out of antiaircraft range of the ships below. He led the Grummans into a lazy circle to the left. This seemed to provoke a few halfhearted antiaircraft shell bursts from the ships that could see them. Because of cloud cover, Gray never did see the whole enemy task force. He tried contacting McClusky, but heard only static in his earphones. To him it seemed best to take station over the enemy fleet for the time being and keep the skies clear for the SBDs he knew had to be coming.
While Torpedo Eight had gone almost straight to the enemy and attacked, Gene Lindsey’s Torpedo Six flew southwest along the heading of 240 degrees. Visibility had improved somewhat since McClusky’s Enterprise SBDs had passed south of VT-6’s flight path. Not long after 0930, Torpedo Six observed smoke about 30 miles to the northwest, and Lindsey turned right to investigate. Soon he came upon Kidō Butai and discerned three flattops loosely surrounded by heavy cruisers, all of the enemy ships steaming away at high speed to the northeast. Because of the Japanese course change at 0918, they had nearly slipped past Torpedo Six, which was now south of them. Lindsey aimed for the nearest flattop (the Kaga), but the rate of closure was agonizingly slow—TBDs at 100 or so knots chasing ships making 30 knots. He decided on a split attack and sent Art Ely’s 2nd Division farther to the north to circle around the target’s port side.6 Aloft the CAP comprised twenty-seven Zeros, some about to land. Lookouts spotted the oncoming TBDs at 0938, and two minutes later the Tone opened fire with her main battery to direct the Zeros after them. The Akagi and the Sōryū at 0945 launched seven fighters to reinforce the CAP. During Lindsey’s run in, however, his main tormentors would be Itaya’s Akagi Zeros.
With his ten Grummans, VF-6’s Gray continued circling at 22,000 feet over the eastern portion of the enemy striking force, which was hidden sporadically by cloud cover. Neither he nor his pilots had any indication Torpedo Six was even in the area, let alone in a death struggle. They never heard the distress call “Come on down, Jim.” Conditions were such that they did not see any attacks on the scattered enemy carriers, spread across many miles of ocean. By 0950, Gray’s troops had orbited the target for about a half hour. Glancing at his fuel gauge, Gray was startled to see he had less gasoline than he thought. The F4F-4s, as he had feared, sucked fuel at a higher rate than the old F4F-3As. Yet there was no sign of the SBDs. At 0956, Gray radioed base:
This is Gray. We are over six destroyers, two battleships, two carriers.7
That was the first semblance of a contact that Task Force 16 was able to copy.
Four minutes later, Gray transmitted again:
This is Gray. We are returning to the ship due to lack of gas. We have been flying over the enemy fleet. They have no combat patrol. There are six destroyers, two battleships, and two carriers. Course about north.8
Gray had carefully pondered heading back without attacking. He considered making a strafing run, but thought his machine guns would not be able to do much serious damage. More important was getting his airplanes home so they could be refueled and fight. At 22,000 feet he had the height to copy the Enterprise’s YE homing signal on his Zed Baker, but would lose it by diving in. Like fighter pilots at Coral Sea, he had let the strike planes do the navigating while he and his cohorts watched for Zeros. Now he needed that homing signal to get home and did not have the fuel to spare to search for the task force. Also, he was disturbed by the failure of the SBDs to turn up; the skies over the Japanese ships were clear. Feeling he could do nothing else of value, Gray turned for home. Ironically, as the F4Fs departed, the Japanese finally reacted to their presence far above. At 1000, the Sōryū launched three Zeros for the express purpose of intercepting the American “horizontal bombing unit” of ten planes, which for so long had lazily circled overhead. These Japanese ended up tackling Torpedo Three when that squadron made contact about ten minutes later.
While the VF-6 pilots had circled unknowingly not far away, Torpedo Six had braved the fierce enemy fighter defense. Both Lindsey and Ely radioed for fighter support, but Gray and his pilots never heard them. As they had with VT-8’s attack, the Japanese fighter pilots demonstrated skill and determination in working over the hapless TBDs. One after another the clumsy Devastators took mortal damage and plunged into the sea. Both Lindsey and Ely went down at the head of their men. After 0958, the surviving TBDs finally got close enough to threaten the Akagi and the Kaga, having traversed the center of the Japanese formation from west to east. Five or six of VT-6’s planes launched their fish, but the attack angles were poor because of adroit enemy shiphandling. That and the unreliable American torpedoes assured no hits. The Akagi and Sōryū Zeros harried VT-6’s withdrawal, so the getaway took almost as long as the approach. Five TBDs cleared the hell of Kidō Butai; the other nine had splashed. One of the five survivors later ditched, but its crew was eventually rescued.
Drawing away from the slashing fighter attacks and antiaircraft fire, the remaining aircrews of Torpedo Six felt betrayed. They had lacked fighter support, although they definitely had expected an escort. Gray was already heading home, a victim of inexperience and an overly complex plan rendered ineffective when the Enterprise Air Group had split. Later escort doctrine eschewed assigning responsibility for two groups of strike planes to the same batch of escorts. As one analyst later wrote:
Gray stuck to the faulty plan but had every reason to believe it would work out. With experience, we avoided rigid planning and counted on close escort as the only escort.9
Where Are the Dive Bombers?
It was painfully obvious to both the torpedo crews and the bemused VF-6 escort pilots that Task Force 16’s dive bombers had yet to find the Japanese fleet. Torpedo Eight and later Torpedo Six both had encountered enemy carriers seemingly untouched by other strike planes. Yet the Hornet and Enterprise SBDs had departed along with or ahead of the TBDs and cruised at a faster speed. What had happened to them?
Ring’s powerful Hornet strike group with thirty-four SBDs, ten F4Fs, and fifteen TBDs had been the first to leave Task Force 16.10 They flew west (heading 265 degrees), and the SBDs and F4Fs completed the laborious climb to 19,000 feet. Mitchell took his ten protesting Grummans even higher to take station 3,000 feet above and behind the massive SBD formation. The VF-8 pilots had throttled way back to plod along with the SBDs at about 110 knots. Waldron with Torpedo Eight followed for about a half hour, before he turned off to the southwest to find his destiny. Some in the rear of the dive-bomber and fighter formations saw the fifteen TBDs, behind and far below, swing left and head away. At high altitude the Hornet flyers found visibility none too good for a look ahead at the ocean. Under the circumstances, Ring felt it wise to deploy his bombers into a scouting line abreast. By sections the SBDs formed into a long line as they spread out laterally—Scouting Eight on the right (north) and Bombing Eight to the south. All kept pace with Ring in the center serving as the guide, but the maneuver exacted a high fuel cost, as the SBD pilots tried—in accordance with peacetime polish—to hold a straight line abreast. Mitchell’s fighters remained above and behind out of the way, keeping one eye on the SBDs and the other open for Zeros lurking above.
For the Hornet flyers the miles slipped by as they anxiously scanned the horizon and tried keeping good formation. It is not known precisely where Ring expected to encounter the Japanese fleet, but the navigational leg of the outbound flight was very likely 175 miles. Mitchell’s VF-8 troops, alert for possible hostiles, counted on the dive bombers to keep track and handle the navigating chores. Having manned planes so early, the escort pilots (with the possible exception of the CO) lacked full navigational dope anyway, even as to the Hornet’s Point Option course. Under normal circumstances they expected to accompany the Dauntlesses all the way to the target and back. In the unlikely event they should have to separate, the fighter pilots would have recourse to their Zed Baker receivers to home in the Hornet’s YE signals.
Between glances at the SBDs and the skies ahead, most of the VF-8 pilots kept a worried eye on their fuel gauges (now much more reliable in F4F-4s because of factory-fitted fuel tanks). They had never before experienced such fuel consumption in their fighters. By circling more than a half hour before departure (and being drawn miles to the southeast in the process!), the F4Fs had begun the mission with one strike against them. The gas-guzzling climb to 22,000 feet constituted strike two. Now after nearly two hours aloft, their fuel gauge pointers had gone below the halfway mark and started the slide toward empty. Still no enemy ships were in sight, and the SBDs droned on, seemingly oblivious to the plight confronting the shorter-ranged F4F-4s. Strike three loomed as Fighting Eight neared the point of no return, beyond which there would not be sufficient fuel to return home.
In the CO’s division, Ens. McInerny kept a close watch on his fuel gauge. Not long after 0900 (as VF-8’s flight neared two hours), he concluded that if nothing happened soon, the fighters would be drawn past hope of ever reaching base. Then he did something highly unprecedented for a junior pilot. Easing past his section leader, John Magda, McInerny flew up alongside Mitchell and definitely got the skipper’s immediate attention! Pointing animatedly to his fuel gauge, McInerny tried to get Mitchell to understand there was a big problem there. No doubt shaken by the ensign’s nerve, if nothing else, the CO waved him back toward his proper slot in the formation and held course. McInerny dropped back, but only for a few minutes. Soon he was again next to the skipper. Mitchell violently gestured for him to get back, but the headstrong McInerny had had enough. He swung round in a wide turn (most likely to the left) to head away to the east. Magda followed close behind. In his turn, McInerny happened to see smoke well off to the southwest. He thought it might be enemy ships, but he lacked the fuel to investigate. The inexorable logic of dwindling fuel dictated curtailment of the escort mission just short of the end of the navigational leg of 175 miles. Mitchell turned right to gather the other eight F4Fs and followed through in a right turn to come around to the east behind McInerny and Magda. When they left the SBDs, the F4Fs had flown between 150 and 160 miles from their point of departure.
The Hornet Air Group attack, 4 June; map by Boween P. Weisheit.
Some SBD people evidently saw the fighters leave and noted roughly when and where they broke off. After the dive bombers made it back to the Hornet and reported, it was surmised that the missing escorts might have tried for Midway. The Hornet action report, compiled before the surviving VF-8 pilots could be questioned, noted that VF-8 likely ditched along a bearing of 320 degrees from Midway. That is almost a direct line from Midway to where the fighters were seen to leave the SBDs. Actually the VF-8 escorts ended up far northeast of Midway rather than northwest of there. As for the validity of VF-8’s fuel worries, it is interesting to note that when McInerny turned the formation, the F4Fs had been aloft just about two hours. That was almost exactly the amount of time Gray’s VF-6 Grummans would fly before he, too, grew aware of his critical fuel situation and thought of starting back immediately. The VF-8 escorts, however, were in worse shape than Gray would be 45 minutes later. At 160 miles out, they were farther from home than Gray would find himself.
The impetuous McInerny got the escort going in the proper direction—eastward—but the next step was to refine the heading by use of the Zed Baker homers. Given the fickle nature of that device, doing so was not easy. Mitchell tried, but could not tune in the Hornet’s YE transmission. Using hand signals, he polled the seven pilots with him, learned that Stan Ruehlow had his Zed Baker working, and motioned him into the lead of the main body. Ahead in sight and off to the right (south) were McInerny and Magda on a parallel course, as they, too, had the homing signal. The F4Fs lost altitude only very gradually as they went downhill. Free from the need of staying with the slower SBDs, the pilots set the throttle for maximum range. What with their shallow descent, their ground speed increased to perhaps 160 knots. So far so good, but the trick was to find the Hornet before their fuel ran out. Although they had her direction, they were uncertain as to distance and time to fly.
After VF-8’s strange turn-around, the Hornet dive bombers with Stan Ring in the lead held the westerly heading of 265 degrees. They neared the intercept area where they expected to find enemy carriers, but no ships appeared. Ring decided to keep going. Unwittingly his flight path carried the group well north of Nagumo’s Striking Force. Apparently Ring never heard Waldron’s contact report sent around 0920, although at least one of the VB-8 SBDs listened to snippets of VT-8’s radio chatter. The group commander faced his moment of truth two hours after departure and some 225 miles out. Anxious observers in the SBDs saw no evidence of the Japanese fleet, and Ring finally led the thirty-four SBDs into a wide left turn in order to head south. A few minutes later, it appears (nothing is certain, because the whole flight of the Hornet SBDs remains mysterious) that the group split up.
Ring evidently ended up alone, as his wingmen somehow became separated and probably rejoined Bombing Eight. There may have been considerable confusion trying to close up formations from the scouting line the SBDs had assumed a long time before. Ring set course east directly for Task Force 16. Never having dived, the SBDs had the height to use their Zed Bakers even at that distance. Walter Rodee’s fifteen VS-8 SBDs also turned east after only a few minutes on the southerly heading. “Ruff” Johnson with Bombing Eight continued south far longer than the others and searched in the direction of little Kure Island about 60 miles west of Midway. Whatever happened, Spruance’s single most powerful strike element—thirty-four SBDs and ten F4Fs—did not attack the enemy! Ring ironically had made the proper decision to turn left at the end of his long westward flight, but he did not fly a long-enough dogleg to the south before turning left again (east) for home. Neither did Rodee. Johnson, however, flew too far south before he thought of swinging east and heading back! The Hornet SBDs had the enemy between them but never knew.
The Enterprise Air Group attack, 4 June.
For “old” fighter pilot Wade McClusky, the mission so far had not gone smoothly either. First thing that exasperated VF-6’s former skipper was the inexplicable delay in completing the Enterprise’s launch. Then came Spruance’s abrupt orders for the SBDs to depart, leaving them without fighter escort and ruining any chance, it appeared, for a coordinated group attack. Heading southwest on course 231 degrees (and evidently at about 110 knots), his thirty-three SBDs (soon reduced to thirty-two when a VS-6 pilot had to abort) completed the arduous climb to 20,000 feet. McClusky hoped to sight the enemy ships before 0920 (140 or so miles out), but found nothing. He knew he had gone far enough south to account for any Japanese advance; so he altered course slightly to the right (north) to fly west for 15 minutes. At that point if the enemy had still not appeared, he planned to turn northwest until 1000, then fly northeast for a short while before heading straight home. The enemy, he thought, had to be within range of these excursions.
At 0935, McClusky came round to the heading of 315 degrees to fly along the reciprocal bearing of the original Japanese course for 50 miles, before turning northeast at 1000 for the last segment of his search. Fuel was starting to be a problem. Then at 0955, he had the lucky break his careful reasoning deserved. Below, pinpointed by a long white wake, was a Japanese destroyer steaming north–northeast at high speed. McClusky felt certain the tincan was bound for the enemy carrier force. She was the Arashi, rushing to rejoin Nagumo after attacking the U.S. submarine Nautilus with depth charges. McClusky turned right to parallel the Arashi’s track.
The aviators engaged in this deadly drama over the Japanese striking force were not its only uncertain participants. On board Spruance’s flagship, the suspense was agonizing, particularly as the hands of the clock swept past 0920 (estimated time of arrival over the target) and neared 1000. Those strike planes were beginning to run out of time! Finally between 0952 and 1000 came Gray’s two messages indicating that he, for one, had found the Japanese flattops but was returning home. McClusky himself piped up around 1002 with the most important report of all. With his binoculars he had sighted the Japanese carrier forces about 35 miles to the northeast and radioed the Enterprise. Browning, the impulsive chief of staff, grabbed a microphone and at 1008 shouted: “McClusky attack, attack immediately!”11 But the Enterprise dive bombers had to overtake the target, and in the meantime, the Yorktown Air Group would fight.
The Yorktown Strike Group Fights
Along the flight path to the southwest, visibility had greatly increased in the hour since Task Force 16 airplanes had traversed the area. Bombing Three climbed out of view of Jimmy Thach’s VF-3 fighters, which remained closer to the water to be in good position to spot their charges, the TBDs. Leslie’s SBDs headed for 15,000 feet and likewise kept a lookout for the TBDs out in front. About a half hour into the flight, Leslie threw the switch electrically arming his 1000-lb. bomb. To his great consternation the bomb dropped free with a lurch of his SBD. Three other VB-3 pilots also unwittingly jettisoned their bombs before the dismayed skipper could tell them to arm bombs manually. Now weaponless, Leslie continued with the mission. Far below, Thach glimpsed a large splash to starboard. Bemused by the strange geyser, Thach thought it might have something to do with submarines.
Almost exactly according to plan, the Grummans overtook Lem Massey’s Torpedo Three, and at 0945 Thach had no difficulty making visual contact. Neither did Bombing Three overhead. Thach motioned Cheek to take position close astern and a thousand feet above the torpedo planes.12 Torpedo Three cruised at 1,500 feet, thereby putting the close escort at around 2,500 feet. Cheek’s own cruise of 140 knots was too swift for him to hold station over the 100-knot Devastators. With Sheedy tucked in close formation behind him, Cheek started slow, drifting S-turns back and forth out from the base course in order to cut his actual rate of advance. Himself a former TBD pilot, Cheek noted with professional interest the formation Massey had adopted: a right echelon with Lieut. Patrick J. Hart’s 2nd Division of six TBDs stepped down behind the six of Massey’s 1st Division to give all twelve rear gunners a free field of fire above and astern. Individual wingmen flew stepped up on their section leaders.
The Yorktown Air Group attack, 4 June.
Three thousand feet above Cheek, at around 5,500 feet, Thach took station with his four Grummans, keeping the division deployed in cruise formation to the left, each plane stepped down from the one ahead:
Thach remained in the standard cruise disposition because that was what Macomber and Bassett were used to flying. Neither VF-42 pilot knew about the “beam defense” tactics developed by Thach, which deployed fighter sections split out abreast of each other; but Thach’s own wingman, “Ram” Dibb, had some acquaintance with them. Like Cheek, Thach led his division in leisurely S-turns to hold proper position behind the slow TBDs.
As events transpired, the Yorktown attackers would not even fly to the end of their navigational leg, where they had been slated to swing northwest had the enemy not turned up. At 1003, Lloyd F. Childers, ARM3c, rearseat man in Mach. Harry Corl’s TBD, saw off to his right (the northwest) what he thought was a column of smoke. Corl signaled Massey, on whom he flew wing in the lead section, and VT-3’s skipper brought the squadron around to a heading of 345 degrees to approach the enemy. The ships looked as if they were 20 to 25 miles away. Thach noticed the TBDs change course and glanced in the direction they pointed. Sure enough, there were the Japanese. Far above, Leslie with Bombing Three likewise spotted the target.
The enemy ships growing slowly in his windshield, Massey led his twelve TBDs up to 2,600 feet to secure altitude for the so-called high-level torpedo approach. This would permit Torpedo Three to dive in and accumulate more speed than they would have if they stayed “on the deck” the whole way. Cheek also climbed in order to preserve his interval of a thousand feet over the TBDs. At 1010 with the TBDs about 14 miles from the nearest enemy carrier, the heavy cruiser Chikuma in the outer screen let loose a salvo from her main battery eight-inchers. The shells bursting near the torpedo planes would help alert the Japanese CAP to their presence and pinpoint their location. Meanwhile, the Japanese carriers began turning northwest away from the new wave of Americans closing from the southeast.
When the Yorktowners first made contact, Nagumo’s ships were still maneuvering to avoid the final stage of VT-6’s gallant attack. Some Zeros had landed for lack of fuel or ammunition, and others had scrambled; so by 1010, the Japanese CAP comprised thirty-five fighters.13 Stacked relatively close to the carriers were fourteen Zeros (two from the Akagi and twelve, including six just launched, from the Kaga), while on board the Sōryū and the Hiryū, flight deck crews made ready to launch three additional Zeros from each ship. In direct pursuit of Torpedo Six were eight Akagi Zeros led by Lieut. Shirane Ayao, buntaichō, and three Sōryū Zeros under the unit’s junior buntaichō, Lieut. Fujita Iyōzō. Also ranging out to the southeast, but not engaged with Torpedo Six, were another ten Zeros (four from the Hiryū led by the unit commander, Lieut. Mori Shigeru, buntaichō; three from the Kaga, under PO1c Suzuki Kiyonobu; and the recently launched shōtai of three Sōryū Zeros that had set out after Gray’s fighters). Thus the Yorktown Air Group’s reception committee numbered no fewer than forty-one Zeros, including six now taking off.
At the sight of the Chikuma’s bursting shells, Zeros chasing the remnants of Torpedo Six broke off their pursuit and sought fresh prey. Evidently Lieut. Fujita was the first to eyeball the new wave of intruders. He reported twenty enemy torpedo planes escorted by four Grummans. Zeros converged from several directions to intercept the Yorktown group. Most initially took after Thach’s four F4Fs at 5,500 feet, while others attacked Torpedo Three and Cheek’s close escort near 3,000 feet. None of the Japanese spotted Bombing Three at 15,000 feet, or history might have been different. The survivors of Torpedo Six gratefully withdrew eastward, one of the pilots, Lieut. (jg) Robert Laub, catching sight of two Yorktown F4Fs charging in as he headed out. The Yorktown torpedo crews and fighter pilots faced the fiercest fight of their lives, one that at great sacrifice would clear the skies for the approach of the dive bombers.
The Ordeal of Thach’s Division
The Chikuma’s shell bursts seemed almost to materialize Mitsubishis out of thin air. Looking ahead, Thach suddenly discovered he faced desperate odds. By chance he had encountered the majority of the Japanese who had pursued the handful of VT-6 survivors. So many Zeros charged in his direction that they had to take turns in order to attack. Above and ready to pounce, Thach estimated there were fifteen to twenty enemy fighters, which deployed into a “string formation” in anticipation of making successive individual firing passes.
Unbeknownst to Thach and his troops, danger lurked even closer. A couple of Zeros closed in from below and behind, selecting Edgar Bassett’s trailing F4F as their target. The lead Zero took aim and scored swiftly. Bullets ripped into F-9’s engine and fuselage. Brainard Macomber, Bassett’s section leader, glanced back and was startled to see his wingman had dropped out of formation. As the F4F passed below and to one side of him, Macomber noticed a trail of smoke emanating from its engine. Bassett did not bail out of his aircraft, and Thach saw F-9 erupt in flames just before it struck the water. A veteran of all VF-42’s campaigns and with two confirmed kills at Coral Sea, “Red Dog” Bassett had been one of the squadron’s most colorful individuals. Joining the Navy in February 1940, he completed flight training and was promoted to ensign in February 1941. His nickname came from his prowess as a “red dog” player. No one ever saw his attacker, who likely was an Akagi pilot who had just completed a run on Torpedo Six.
The first Zero to scream in from above singled out Macomber’s Wildcat as its target in a high-rear attack. Its gunnery was excellent. From behind his seat, Macomber heard loud noises as 7.7 rounds zipped through his plane’s empennage and bounced off the armor plate back of the cockpit. Bullets knocked out his radio and penetrated his aluminum emergency fuel tank, but fortunately F-6’s control wires remained intact, and the tank was empty, purged with carbon dioxide.
Confronted with overwhelming fighter opposition, Thach at first thought to nose down, gain speed, and support the torpedo planes. The swifter Zeros never gave him the chance. By the time the F4Fs had descended to 3,000 feet, the Japanese brought them to bay by means of relentless individual high-speed, hit-and-run firing passes. Thach had to break off and maneuver defensively or be shot down. The combat quickly assumed a deadly pattern. Diving in one at a time, each Japanese closed within firing range, opened up with intermittent bursts, then roared past the F4Fs in order to recover below and ahead. A swift zoom climb then put the Zero out of reach and back up above in position to make another run when its turn came. Thach was most impressed with the skill and coordination on the part of his opponents. Essentially, there was a Zero making its run on him at all times. Thach later estimated the interval between successive Zeros to be twenty or thirty seconds. Only very rarely did the Japanese attempt any kind of attack other than above-rear, and this combat refutes criticisms that the Japanese were only tail-chasing dogfighters.
Under pressure, the three VF-3 pilots quickly slid into a near line-astern formation with the trailing planes stepped down behind the leader:
Thach’s first countermove.
Thach instinctively knew the best chance for survival lay in maintaining formation and countering each attack. He was too low to dive away and escape, and the pack of Mitsubishis above wanted nothing more than to see the F4Fs split up and run.
Thach’s first defensive maneuver was to lead the division into a sharp turn away from the attacker, after he saw the Zero coming in at that moment committed to its run. The turnaway presented the attacker only a full-deflection shot, and for a Zero in a high-speed dive it was difficult to draw sufficient lead. Thach’s timing had to be just right to disrupt his opponent’s aim. As the trailer, Macomber most often was the target. He watched as each Zero successively slid into its run, moving with deadly grace. Then he called Thach on his dead radio, not realizing it was not functioning. As the Japanese flashed into shooting range, Macomber would jink up and down and from side to side. The line-astern formation permitted some independent maneuvering without risk of collision. Macomber soon discovered that a “short sharp pushover seemed to disconcert [the Japanese] the most since they were all holding positive gee in making their runs and could not easily and smoothly adjust their point of aim downward.”14 Thach timed his turn away about the same time Macomber would begin jinking, all of this depending on where the Zero was in its run. Dibb and Macomber stuck behind Thach in his turns and let him direct all countering moves.
In the beginning Thach hoped to contact Macomber by radio and direct him to split out to the left so the division could deploy abreast and use Thach’s “beam defense” tactics. Macomber’s radio failure scotched any chance of that. The only formation defensive tactics Macomber knew were what he was taught in VF-42: close line-astern with individual jinking or the Lufbery Circle. Before departure, all Thach had had time to tell Bassett and Macomber was to stay together. (“None of that lone wolf stuff.”) Not ever having heard of Thach’s tactics, Macomber could not be expected to perceive them intuitively. Under the circumstances, Thach realized that the close formation the F4Fs now flew was a handicap. Being apart so little, the three fighters essentially comprised one target. Thach wanted elbow room to be able to reverse his turn and set up a shot on Macomber’s attackers.
Thach’s second countermove.
Each Zero, however, flashed past so rapidly that there was no way he could turn quickly enough to shoot at it. Thach tried loosening the formation, waving Macomber back, but could not establish communication with him. To open the necessary interval between Macomber and himself, Thach even resorted to pulling away while Macomber was preoccupied with a Zero. Just as doggedly, Macomber faithfully obeyed his original instructions and scrambled to regain formation.
After a few excruciating minutes, Thach refined his countermoves to take aim at Zeros when they recovered from their runs. He kept close watch astern and waited until a Mitsubishi had committed itself to the usual rear approach. Just as the enemy was about to loose a burst, Thach led the F4Fs in a sharp turn away from the attacker, ruining the pilot’s aim at the last second. Then Thach swiftly reversed his turn, often to find himself with a long-range (400 yards or more) deflection shot on the Zero as it zoomed through the formation with excess speed and climbed straight away. Such shots were snap bursts only, but enough to keep the enemy thinking. One time after Thach had opened the interval between Macomber and himself, a Zero screamed into the inevitable above-rear approach and missed because of the target’s quick turn away to the right. Thach then banked left and was surprised to see the Nipponese slow up, evidently as the pilot tried too abrupt a pull out from his dive. This gave Thach a close-range, low-deflection shot from the right rear of the target. He made the most of this rare opportunity and riddled the Zero with a healthy burst as it tried to climb away. Jerking into a stall, the Mitsubishi then fell away toward the water. Thach calmly put a check mark on his knee pad, recording the first of three kills he would score on that mission.
It became obvious rather quickly that Thach could not raise Macomber by radio. Instead, he decided to send Ram Dibb out to the right to take position abreast of him. He radioed Dibb: “Pretend you’re a section leader and move out abeam, way out.”15 Dibb dropped out of formation and took station several hundred yards to the right and even with Thach’s F4F. Seeing him break away, the Japanese waiting above must have assumed the troublesome Grummans had finally broken under the pressure. The next Zero to dive screamed in after Dibb’s lone fighter, seemingly isolated. Dibb saw the Japanese charge in and radioed, “Skipper, there’s a Zero on my tail! Get him off!”16 This was the watchword agreed upon during VF-3’s brief introduction to the weave at Kaneohe. Thach told him to swing sharply left, while he turned right to scissor Dibb and his attacker.
The first test of the weave in combat.
Unlike the previous assailants, this Japanese was intent on riding the tail of his quarry. When Dibb turned, the Zero maneuvered to stay behind him, following the F4F in its turn. Thach was ready for this. He came at Dibb head-on in a harrowing approach, dipped underneath his teammate, who just missed him, and lined up for a swift underneath-opposite attack on the Zero. Lines of angry red tracers streaked between the F4F and the Zero. Thach later remarked with a laugh, “I was so mad that I was determined that I was going to run into this bastard because he jumped on my poor, little inexperienced wingman.”17
Thach had secured the favored position underneath the flight path of his opponent, which let him keep firing longer as the two fighters roared directly at each other. After a certain point the Japanese could not shoot unless he dipped his nose and risked collision. Thach held his run as long as he dared. He walked his .50-caliber bullets up into the Mitsubishi’s belly and engine, knocking pieces out of its cowling. The Japanese pulled up his nose as soon as Thach’s shells started hitting. Suddenly the engine ignited, then bright flames and thick smoke streamed along the smooth underside of the aircraft. The Zero passed over the F4F, giving Thach a false sensation of great heat as the enemy barely cleared his cockpit. Wrapped in flames, the Zero dived away, and a second check mark appeared on the victor’s knee pad.
Dibb was not certain whether Thach wanted him to remain out to the side, so he slipped into line-astern a few times. Thach later explained that his rookie wingman evidently felt “a little lonesome out there.”18 After a couple of swings in and out of line, it dawned upon Dibb that he was supposed to stay split out and that the skipper would support him. Macomber had no idea what Dibb was trying to do, never having learned of Thach’s tactics. Primarily the VF-42 veteran had to concentrate on evading each Zero as it came in, and secondarily on remaining in formation. He never was able to see Thach make any of his shots. When Dibb pulled out of line-astern, a bemused Macomber tried at first to split the difference, holding below and between the other two F4Fs. He was highly irritated at Dibb for breaking formation and not following the leader.
The head-on episode with Dibb’s attacker assured Thach of the validity of his own tactics. He kept Dibb abreast of him and gradually allowed Macomber to close up behind as his wingman. Thus the roles of Macomber and Dibb were reversed, with Dibb acting the part of the second section leader only because of his earlier knowledge of the weave and his ability to communicate with Thach. The young ensign learned very quickly in his first combat. Thach was not certain whether Dibb knew the proper lookout doctrine for the beam defense formation, that is, to have one section watch the tail of the other. Therefore he kept a gook look on his own tail as well as Dibb’s. When he noticed a Zero start a run on Dibb, he waited until the Japanese had committed himself. Then he executed a sharp turn toward his teammate to alert him that an enemy was attacking. In response, Dibb turned toward Thach, and the two scissored. Often the F4F pilots did not have a shot, as the Zero usually did not follow the turn. However, Thach and Dibb brushed Zeros off each other’s tail. Sometimes they kept weaving continuously; in other instances they remained split out abreast until a Japanese came in. Dibb absorbed the lookout doctrine very quickly and scissored whenever he saw a Zero nosing up behind Thach and Macomber. When Thach discovered him turning, he would glance back, and, without fail, a Mitsubishi would be charging in from above and behind.
With the weave, both Thach and Dibb had opportunities for good shots at their opponents. On one occasion a Zero executed the usual attack on Dibb, who responded correctly by turning toward Thach as Thach swung toward him. The Japanese held a straight course and did not follow Dibb around. Apparently this Zero pilot also tried too radical a recovery and slowed dramatically. Thach zipped past Dibb, then discovered himself in excellent position to pop the Zero with a good side shot before it could regain momentum and climb out of range. He poured bullets into its fuselage, but this time no flame erupted. Instead the Zero rolled uncertainly over onto its back and spun away crazily for the water, likely with a dead man at the controls. It was Thach’s third victory over the Zeros. Dibb hit a Mitsubishi swooping in on Thach and Macomber, firing into the Japanese while it was still astern of the two F4Fs. Thach saw the enemy fighter head for the water. As the trailing plane, Macomber had only one opportunity to shoot. Once after a Zero peppered his tail, Macomber became so furious that he pulled out of formation to fire on his assailant as he climbed away. It was a long shot, but the results were such that Macomber could claim a probable at least.
The Zeros kept Thach and company fully occupied during the approach and attack of Torpedo Three. Thach tried to stay over the TBDs, but the clouds effectively hid them from view, and his opponents had a stranglehold on him. Thach’s fight was one of the classic encounters of the Pacific air war. Flown by pilots who kept their cool, Thach’s tactics passed the hardest possible test in battle against skilled and determined opponents. Never before had fighters cooperated better in a sustained defensive struggle.
The Fight of the Close Escort
Tom Cheek and Dan Sheedy, the two fighters making up VF-3’s close escort, continued making S-turns in a weaving fashion above and behind Torpedo Three as it approached the enemy fleet. Suddenly a number of large, black shell bursts below and to the left dramatically raised the curtain on another fierce struggle with the CAP Zeros. Quickly looking up, Cheek was startled to see a Japanese fighter emerge from a cloud bank not far ahead of the torpedo planes. Lloyd Childers heard his pilot Harry Corl shout excitedly, “Up ahead! Up ahead!”19 With a flat-opposite attack, the sleek Zero roared in and fired a snap burst at the lead Devastators. Then the Japanese had to pull up slightly to pass between Massey and Corl on the skipper’s right. Evidently planning to make his second run against the right trailing section, the Japanese pulled into a steep, climbing turn to his left.
Tom Cheek, 19 Dec. 1941, with VF-2 F2A-3 Buffalo. (Cdr. T. F. Cheek, USN.)
The impetuous Zero pilot, PO3c Kawamata Teruo, Fujita’s No. 3 wingman, did not spot the fighter escort and paid the full price for his negligence. Cheek hauled his F4F into a quick climb and caught the Zero from below and ahead. He walked his tracer’s into the Mitsubishi’s engine and tender belly, causing it to slow abruptly and stream heavy smoke. Nosing down, the Japanese fell on past Cheek and headed for the water. Two Zeros then appeared poised over the left of VT-3’s formation and jumped the lead section. Cheek could not maneuver into a favorable countering position, so he cut loose with a burst ahead of them. Seeing a band of red tracers arc unexpectedly in front of them, the two aborted their attack by a steep climb in order to dive in from another direction.
After the first two encounters, more Zeros happened onto the scene, drawn away from their carriers by the action just as blood attracts bands of marauding sharks. Still ten miles from the release point, Massey responded with what little speed increase he could manage, and by jinking the formation up and down to evade bullets. Cheek swung back over to the right of the TBDs, where he came upon a Zero making a beam attack on the right trailing section (2nd Section, 2nd Division) and brushed the Japanese away. Once again weaving to the left side of the formation, Cheek had occasion to glance back in the direction whence the TBDs had come. He saw a flaming Zero strike the water some distance back, the victim of his first attack. Fujita, his hands full attacking Thach, also observed his No. 3 wingman splash, but he did not know why. Cheek then saw an F4F plunge into the water and sink immediately. He had not seen his wingman since the shooting began and worried that it might have been Sheedy’s plane. Sheedy was still flying, however, summoning all his efforts to stay with his wildly twisting section leader. Sheedy hoped he would start the beam defense maneuver taught by Thach at Kaneohe, but Cheek was busy working out shots against the interceptors.
When Cheek turned to look at the torpedo planes, he was surprised to see that his charges had pulled away from him. Massey had nosed down for speed and dipped under the low cloud bank in order to initiate his approach on the nearest flattop. Two Zeros recovering from a firing pass on the right of Torpedo Three next attracted Cheek’s interest, and he turned to go after them. Suddenly another Japanese, intent on making a high-astern approach on the trailing TBD section, cut directly in front of his Grumman. Rolling out onto the Zero’s tail, Cheek lined up his sights for a low-deflection shot from astern. Just as he was about to press the trigger, the TBD rear gunners converged their fire on the intruder and shot it down. The stepped-down formation permitted all of the rearseat men to take aim on an attacker diving in from straight astern.
His erstwhile victim falling in flames, Cheek tucked into a chandelle to the right. Tracers zipped past his right wing. Cheek turned rapidly left, but the red bands beat him to it, forcing him to reverse course sharply. As he contemplated his course, his opponent charged up close on his tail and peppered the Wildcat’s empennage with 7.7-mm bullets. A few seconds later the Zero pilot cut in with his 20-mm cannons. Cheek later recounted:
I violently kicked the F4F into a vertical left turn and found a Zero tucked in under my tail. My turn had caught him off balance and he was drifting rapidly to the right as I again snapped the Grumman, this time to the right hoping to catch the Zero in a position where I could bring my guns to bear on him.20
Cheek definitely was in a jam.
Now Sheedy, scrambling wildly to keep Cheek in sight and start some sort of weave, was surprised to see a Zero pop in between himself and his leader. It was Cheek’s tormentor moving in for the kill. Maneuvering to fire, Sheedy found Cheek’s F4F also dancing through his sights. He radioed Cheek that there was one on his tail, hoping in this way to get him to turn quickly as Thach had instructed back at Kaneohe. Cheek did roll out of the way, then saw heavy, broad streaks of tracer pass overhead. Looking around, he spotted neither the Zero nor another F4F. But, no matter—for Sheedy had driven the Zero away.
By this time the TBDs had descended almost completely out of view beneath the cloud bank. Cheek noticed that the formation, or at least the 2nd Division, appeared intact except for the No. 12 aircraft—the right wingman in the last section. That TBD spiraled in, while the parachute of one crewman blossomed out in its wake. As a Zero followed the stricken Devastator down, other Japanese fighters were visible above and to Cheek’s right. He entered the cloud, hoping to regain visual contact with Torpedo Three when he emerged on the other side. He never saw the TBDs again, and he also wondered how Sheedy was doing.
Cheek’s young wingman was behind him, but after driving away the Zero shooting up his leader’s tail, Sheedy found himself in deep trouble. One of the seemingly ubiquitous Mitsubishis proceeded to riddle F-24. Bullets punctured the cockpit, wounding Sheedy in his right ankle and shoulder. One 7.7-mm round even cut between him and his seat back, tearing his flight jacket all the way across his back! Most of his instrument panel was shot out as well. Suddenly big holes appeared in the Grumman’s wings, as tracers the size of “oranges” whipped past the cockpit. Enemy fire also broke a chain attached to the right front landing gear, causing the wheel to dangle a short way out of the fuselage wheel well. Sheedy’s one thought was to follow Cheek into the cloud, there to shake his pursuer and hopefully rejoin his section leader.
Exiting the clouds, Cheek flew into a swarm of Zeros. There was one ahead and to the left on a parallel course; others were off to the right and above him. Of immediate concern, however, was a Zero already well into an opposite attack from ahead of the Grumman. Cheek directed his bullets into his opponent’s engine with satisfyingly quick results, as the heavy slugs tore chunks of cowling and penetrated the powerplant. Seeing his fire score so effectively, Cheek broke off the run, rolled out to the left to avoid the smoking Zero as it flashed by, then charged after the second Zero with a side attack. Carefully allowing for proper deflection, Cheek aimed his burst so that the Japanese flying through it was raked from stem to stern. Cutting astern of the target, Cheek sought concealment in a cloud just ahead of him. Then as a precaution to evade pursuit, he changed course and slowly descended through the whiteness, hoping to break into the clear within sight of Torpedo Three. Instead, he discovered himself close to the enemy carrier force. The Kaga and the Akagi were ahead and to his left, while a third flattop, the Sōryū, lay to the north off to his right. Potshots from a screening vessel forced Cheek low over the water while he searched the skies for other aircraft.
Some distance behind Cheek, Sheedy had also entered the first cloud bank, but when he emerged, his leader was nowhere in sight. Looking around, Sheedy saw two Japanese hot on his tail and two others farther back but with the same intentions. He nosed down for speed, aiming to retreat into the clouds. A lone Zero cut around in front of him as if to block his escape. Descending to low altitude, Sheedy turned into a near head-on run with his opponent and at around 400 yards opened fire at the Zero, now barely skimming the waves. After shooting at each other, both fighter pilots turned to avoid a collision—the Zero digging a wingtip into the water and cartwheeling with a violent splash that Sheedy very nearly flew through. Sheedy pulled out very low and moved off as fast as he could. When he had a chance to climb and look around, he found no aircraft in sight. The Japanese ships were a few miles off to his right.
The escort fighters did an excellent job trying to fend off the unexpectedly numerous Zeros until the violence of combat maneuvers separated them from their charges. The closer the aircraft came to the enemy ships, the more intense the action, as more Zeros were drawn into the fight. Soon virtually all the Mitsubishis became embroiled in combat, some pinning down Thach’s escorts, but most screaming after Torpedo Three. The F4Fs did as well as they could under the circumstances, and their efforts were appreciated by the hard-pressed VT-3 crews. Childers, one of the three survivors, later wrote:
I observed the F4F’s above us mixing it up with the Zeroes. At one point, when I was not shooting at a Zero, I saw a Zero coming almost straight down, not smoking, smacking the water within a hundred yards of us. So, I knew the F4F’s were not losing every encounter, even tho’ badly outnumbered.21
It appears that the Japanese accounted for one TBD before Torpedo Three broke into the clear under the cloud base and leveled off at 150 feet. Enemy pressure had compelled Massey to dive before he wanted; he had to go lower to protect his squadron from steep high-side attacks. The Devastators soon dissipated the speed accumulated by diving and crawled along at about 110 knots. Zeros quickly found them again. Within a short time, six to eight Mitsubishis at once were slashing in from abeam and ahead, not merely with high-sides and above-rear runs as at Coral Sea. Massey tried to coordinate his approach with Leslie far above, but Leslie could not see him through the cloud cover. At 1020, Massey radioed frantically for additional fighter support, but neither Thach nor Cheek could respond.
Ahead of Torpedo Three, the Japanese carrier captains maneuvered to avoid attack, turning away to the northwest to present their sterns to the oncoming TBDs. This would have given Torpedo Three an extremely poor angle of approach, had Massey pressed his attack. Therefore, he felt compelled to continue northward to take on the fourth carrier (the Hiryū), operating several miles north of the main body. This long run to the north roughly paralleled Kidō Butai’s base course and gave the Zeros full opportunity to concentrate on the slow, hapless TBDs. Torpedo Three’s death ride and Thach’s battling F4Fs drew the enemy combat air patrol away from the main force and set the stage for a most dramatic reversal of fortune!
Midway—The Decisive Moment
From the southwest flew the Enterprise dive bombers, giving truth to the old saying, “Better late than never.” McClusky had thirty-two SBDs, although two from Bombing Six would drop out of formation before the actual dives. Drawing closer to the target, McClusky discerned four carriers and radioed base. He hoped the Hornet strike group was nearby to help feast on such a rich crop of targets. His SBDs could handle only two flattops effectively, so he decided to lead Scouting Six against the nearest one and send Dick Best’s Bombing Six against another farther east. Still miles to the east, another dive bomber leader took the measure of Kidō Butai. Leslie with Bombing Three worked to coordinate his attack with Massey’s TBDs, but he could not see what they were doing. Instead, Leslie went after the carrier closest to him, which happened to be the Sōryū, and lined up his seventeen SBDs (four minus bombs) for the dives.22
On board the Japanese carriers, preparations for the great launch had proceeded apace. The captains only awaited repulse of the latest torpedo attack before commencing the takeoffs of their strike groups. When Massey swung north to chase the Hiryū, the flagship Akagi at 1020 gave the signal to launch planes. Ten minutes or so later the four flight decks would be cleared of strike planes. Almost simultaneously with her message, her lookouts spotted American dive bombers poised over the Kaga! The CAP was totally unprepared for a dive bombing attack. In contrast to the two previous torpedo attacks (VT-8 and VT-6), there were now no fighters held in reserve. All had swarmed eagerly after Torpedo Three or Thach’s Wildcats.
McClusky at 1022 pushed over on the Kaga, the westernmost of the four carriers. The flattop heeled into a sharp evasive turn, but she could not evade the onslaught of twenty-five SBDs. Gallaher’s Scouting Six followed McClusky down, and, by mistake, most of Bombing Six piled on as well. The Akagi commenced launching Zeros, holding course into the wind to launch aircraft. Best went after her with five SBDs from Bombing Six. Meanwhile, the first of four bombs slammed into the Kaga, preventing the launch of her strike group of three Zeros and twenty-seven carrier attack planes. Flaming aircraft and explosions soon turned the Kaga’s flight deck into an inferno and doomed the vessel. The Akagi’s time had also come. At 1025, the first Zero started down her flight deck, but Best’s five SBDs already hurtled toward her. His pilots secured two 1,000-lb. bomb hits, one detonating in the midst of the eighteen carrier attack planes spotted aft on deck for launch. Like the Kaga, the fleet flagship had taken mortal damage.
Carrier operations, Midway, 4 June.
Leslie with the seventeen SBDs of Bombing Three (only thirteen with bombs) started his dive shortly after McClusky pushed over. The Sōryū tried to evade by turning north, but Leslie’s pilots smothered her with three 1,000-lb. bomb hits. Four SBDs broke off to attack screening vessels, but without success. The Sōryū’s flight deck was destroyed as the gasoline and bombs from her eighteen carrier bombers exploded in the flames. In the hangar, nine armed carrier attack planes helped to torch her vitals. In five minutes the Japanese lost the Battle of Midway.
The SBDs found no interceptors at high altitude, but many Zeros closer to sea level contested their withdrawal. McClusky, after his dive on the Kaga, dodged screening vessels as he flew north, then swung east. Outside the screen he picked up an unwanted pair of Zeros that had first tackled Torpedo Three. They chased him for five minutes, enthusiastically shooting up his aircraft and wounding him. His gunner claimed one Zero shot down. Two other VS-6 crews also reported downing one Zero apiece. Lieut. Joe Penland of Bombing Six had helped destroy the Kaga, then encountered two Zeros during his retirement. After holing his SBD, the Japanese broke off to go after Torpedo Three, still in the process of attacking the Hiryū. Four other VB-6 pilots who had plastered the Kaga likewise received attention from Zeros. After flaming the Akagi, VB-6’s skipper Best spotted four enemy fighters at low level streaking after torpedo planes, but he and his pilots were not molested. It appears that the Japanese CAP intercepted only about one third of the Enterprise dive bombers, with the loss of perhaps two SBDs to Zeros or antiaircraft fire in the target area. The Yorktown’s Bombing Three was not even bothered by fighters, either during or after its attack.
Nearing the Hiryū at about the same time the SBDs rained destruction on the other three enemy flattops, Torpedo Three followed through in its brave, slow attack. Fighters slashed at the little formation, and antiaircraft burst around it, but the squadron was still in relatively good shape. Massey’s 1st Division was intact, but Pat Hart’s 2nd Division had lost a few aircraft. Massey moved to catch his target in a split attack, sending Hart’s division around to hit the carrier from the opposite flank, while he took his division straight in. Fighters swarmed around both groups of TBDs, and one of Hart’s planes spun in. Perhaps a mile short of the release point, Massey’s aircraft flared up, fell out of formation, and struck the sea in flames. Rad. Elec. Wilhelm G. Esders, Massey’s wingman, moved into the vacant lead slot and guided the division toward the target. The five TBDs aimed for the Hiryū’s starboard side and launched their torpedoes between 600 and 800 yards out, the actual releases taking place not long after 1030. Esders swung quickly to the right to head away to the east, but most of the other TBD pilots passed ahead of the carrier. The Zeros were relentless, and Esders saw a second TBD from the 1st Division fly into the water. Another 1st Division pilot, Harry Corl, also turned right and sought escape to the east. The others were last seen heading north with a pack of Zeros at their heels. Of Hart’s 2nd Division, little is known. The enemy fighters probably annihilated it either before or shortly after the Devastators released torpedoes. Because of the poorly designed aerial torpedoes, Torpedo Three scored no hits on the Hiryū.
Throughout the air action, Thach kept glancing toward the Japanese carriers. As the fight progressed, his division worked its way fairly close to one of the flattops. Then shortly after 1022, the first SBDs pushed over, and Thach had a ringside seat at the destruction of three proud enemy carriers, as flames from repeated bomb hits engulfed their flight decks. Only after the Japanese fighter pilots noticed the damage wreaked on their carriers did the attacks on Thach’s troops slacken. Nevertheless some Zeros always lurked overhead, even though they did not attack as close together as before. Around 1030, the enemy pulled off entirely, ending the twenty-minute fighter engagement. Searching the sky, the three F4F pilots spotted a lone Zero milling around below them, seemingly an easy mark. Wary of Japanese tricks, Thach carefully looked about. Sure enough, two Zeros waited above screened by the sun, ready to jump the Americans if they took the bait. There were no takers.
Congratulating themselves on still being alive, Thach and his two companions set course for home. Macomber’s F-6 had taken heavy damage, but was still flyable. Dibb’s aircraft was in good shape, but Thach discovered oil leaking into his cockpit from the engine compartment. F-23’s Pratt & Whitney droned smoothly, however. On the way out of the target area, Thach happened upon one of the VT-3 TBDs withdrawing and took station overhead to protect it. A few minutes later he overtook another TBD. The aircraft were those of Esders and Corl. Both TBDs were in pretty bad shape, with numerous bullet holes, oil stains, and tattered fabric. Enemy fighters had wounded both rearseat men. Zeros trailed each more than 20 miles from the drop point, and the TBD pilots had used low altitude and evasive maneuvers to spoil their aim. Childers, Corl’s rear gunner, had several times been hit by Japanese bullets. After his .30-caliber machine gun failed to function, he pulled out his .45 Colt pistol and twice blazed away at Zeros as they flashed past. The Zeros had withdrawn before Thach’s arrival. Thach stayed with the TBDs until he felt they were safe from wide-ranging enemy fighters. Esders and Corl had throttled back to 85 knots to conserve fuel, and that was just too slow for the Grummans. During the flight back, Corl leaned out his mixture even more to preserve his engine, but Esders forged ahead hoping to reach a friendly flight deck to obtain medical help for his badly wounded rear gunner, Robert B. Brazier, ARM2c. No other VT-3 aircraft survived.
Cheek and Sheedy both were still flying, but alone. Each had to find his own way back home. For Sheedy this was disquieting, as he was on his first flight away from land or out of sight of a carrier. He had only a rudimentary idea where he was. With his instruments shot up and his compass gone, he used the sun to determine approximate direction. It shone over his shoulder on the way out, so he headed toward it on the flight back. His F-24 limped along at 125 knots or so, one wheel dangling and causing considerable drag, but the powerplant soothed his spirit with a reassuring purr.
Japanese records are tantalizingly fragmentary concerning the great CAP action lasting from 1010 to 1045.23 It was a fast and furious struggle of lone individuals or small groups trying to head off the hard-driving Yorktowners. The defenders had little time to concentrate greater numbers and coordinate interceptions. Yet it is possible in a general way to sketch the strength and losses of the defending fighters. To recapitulate: at 1010, thirty-five Zeros were aloft—fourteen deployed close to the four carriers and twenty-one either directly pursuing Torpedo Six in its withdrawal to the southeast or prowling out in that direction. From 1013 to 1015, the Sōryū and the Hiryū each launched three fighters, bringing the total engaged to forty-one. Like a magnet attracting iron filings, Torpedo Three and Fighting Three drew the Zeros onto themselves.
The Japanese combat air patrol paid a stiff price for its efforts (not to mention mortal damage to three carriers!). Of the forty-one Zeros, eleven were shot down and three ditched. Of those shot down, two pilots parachuted to safety, but nine others died in battle:
Akagi Fighter Unit |
Sea1c Sano Shinpei |
Kaga Fighter Unit |
Ens.* Yamaguchi Hiroyuki |
Sōryū Fighter Unit |
PO3c Kawamata Teruo |
Hiryū Fighter Unit |
PO1c Hino Masato |
*Special service (promoted enlisted man).
Of the three Zeros that ditched (two Akagi, one Hiryū) it appears that one ran out of fuel, and the other two splashed because of battle damage. By all odds it had been a terrific fight, with more Zeros lost at one time than in any other action in the war so far.
It is impossible now to assess with any degree of certainty how the losses were inflicted on the Japanese combat air patrol. In at least one case, that of Lieut. Fujita of the Sōryū Fighter Unit, Japanese ship antiaircraft fire laced into the low-flying Zero. After a few quick passes against Thach’s F4Fs, Fujita had taken after Torpedo Three and ultimately claimed the destruction of three Devastators (including one probable). While returning to his carrier, he encountered SBDs at low level and chased them. At 1025, “friendly” fire ignited the Zero’s fuel tanks, and from 200 meters he had to bail out. He survived his fall and was later rescued by the destroyer Nowaki. American SBDs and TBDs were definitely another hazard, but it seems unreasonable to assume that they accounted for most of the Zeros. At Coral Sea, the strike planes almost certainly destroyed no intercepting fighters, and it is difficult to see how their record could have changed radically at Midway. Earlier attacks on 4 June by all the Midway land-based bombers and the two carrier-based torpedo squadrons (VT-8 and VT-6) had accounted for the loss of three Zeros to all causes. Regarding the SBDs from 1020 to 1045, fewer than a third of the Enterprise’s dive bombers were intercepted, while Bombing Three was left alone. Torpedo Three rear gunners fought hard all the way and shot down at least one Zero. Thus the TBDs and SBDs might have downed a couple of Zeros.
Thach and his pilots were credited with six Zeros shot down and two damaged: Lt. Cdr. Thach, three; Lieut. (jg) Macomber, one damaged; Ens. Dibb, one; Ens. Sheedy, one; and Mach. Cheek, one shot down and one damaged. The magnitude of Japanese losses suggests that VF-3’s claims were pretty close to the mark. The Hiryū Fighter Unit reported engaging and shooting down nine Grumman fighters as well as torpedo planes and bombers. Lieut. Mori’s rump chūtai of four Zeros lost one highly experienced shōtai leader (PO1c Hino) shot down, while the leader of the Hiryū shōtai launched at 1013 (PO1c Tokuda) was also killed. From the number (nine) attributed to the Grummans, it seems likely that the Hiryū pilots alternately engaged the F4Fs and the strike planes, assuming that when they repeatedly stumbled on Thach’s three F4Fs, they were attacking new opponents. The only other fighter unit claiming Grummans was that of the Akagi: two Grummans confirmed destroyed and another probable. The most numerous contingent aloft—and the most dispersed—was that of the Kaga. None of the surviving Kaga pilots reported fighting Grummans, but four others failed to return. It seems likely that some of these lone Zeros joined battle with either Thach or Cheek and suffered for it. As for the Sōryū, Lieut. Fujita’s No. 3 (PO3c Kawamata) almost certainly fell to Cheek’s guns, and another pilot was killed who might have run afoul of the escorts. Whatever the VF-3 pilots scored, they certainly held their own among far more numerous enemy fighters. Tragically, there were too few F4Fs to protect the torpedo planes.
The Strike Groups Come Back
As the later morning dragged on, those waiting on board the ships of Task Forces 16 and 17 grew increasingly apprehensive. Obviously the Japanese had spotted them, yet no counterattack had come. The American strike planes had departed long before, but vouchsafed so far no definite results. For the CAP it was business as usual, as the F4Fs repeatedly checked out bogeys that proved to be, in most instances, friendly cruiser floatplanes flying inner air patrol. The Tone’s No. 4 plane sneaked in and out of the area until finally heading for home around 1000, but the fighters never caught sight of it.
Between 0932 and 0950, Spruance’s two flattops rotated their CAP fighters. The Enterprise sent aloft four-plane VF-6 divisions led by Hoyle and Rawie, then recovered Mehle’s and Quady’s eight F4Fs. The Hornet contributed four-plane divisions under Bruce Harwood and Lieut. (jg) John Sutherland, but for some reason only landed one of the two original CAP divisions. Thus for the time being, Task Force 16’s CAP amounted to twenty F4Fs. To conduct flight operations, the carriers had to break away from the base course (240 degrees) and steam southeast at 27 knots into the slight wind. These high-speed excursions greatly slowed the overall rate of advance to the southwest. Simply put, the carriers would not be where their strike planes expected to find them after returning from the morning’s mission. This would prove disastrous for the Enterprise SBDs.
There had already been disasters that morning for the ten VF-8 escort pilots flying the balance of their ill-starred strike mission.24 The first to take off, they were also the first to start back, victims of a critical fuel shortage. In two separate formations the VF-8 pilots headed southeast. McInerny and Magda were out ahead. Trailing a short distance off their port quarter was the main body of eight with Ruehlow in front. The F4Fs no longer bothered to maintain any order or proper distances, and their intervals loosened. Each pilot tried to set his fuel mixture for maximum range and still stay along with the rest. Losing altitude only very slowly, the escorts nevertheless made a fast, downhill return, swifter than they realized. Their Zed Bakers provided only an approximate direction to fly, and in reading the homing beacon, they made a series of gentle turns to the right that curved their flight path more southeast than east the longer they flew. Trouble was, they were not very familiar with the Zed Bakers and had no idea how far they had to fly.
A few minutes past 1000, or about an hour after they left the Hornet SBDs, the eight pilots in the main body chanced to sight some ship wakes far off to their left (north). They identified the ships as the Japanese carrier force, their original objective! Not eager to risk capture even though nearly out of fuel, they held their east–southeasterly heading. Tragically, they did not realize they had actually come home or close to it. The ships they glimpsed were not the enemy, but rather Task Force 16. McInerny could have told them differently, but since his track was a little farther to the south than the others, he never saw the ships off to the north. He had thought he spotted the enemy striking force’s smoke a whole hour earlier, while he made his turn away from the Hornet SBDs. Fighting Eight missed its last chance to reach home plate. Now ahead of the F4Fs lay only desolate ocean and certain ditching. It was another cruel trick of fate on that unhappy mission, and more evil awaited the VF-8 escort.
Not long after leaving the strange ships astern, the escort suffered its first casualty when an F4F finally exhausted its fuel. The pilots all had tried to stretch their gasoline supply, but not all of them had the experience to do that effectively. Neither did all of the airplanes perform identically—some were more economical than others. Flying tail-end Charlie in the ragged line of F4Fs, Ens. Humphrey L. Tallman watched one Grumman ahead of him slow, then nose down in a stall after its engine stopped. He believed its pilot to be his close friend Mark Kelly, and watched with sorrow the F4F’s inexorable descent toward the water. Tallman was still too high to see what happened when the aircraft splashed. Instead of Kelly, evidence points to Ruehlow’s wingman, Ens. George R. Hill, as the first to go. He was never found. Appointed an aviation cadet in March 1941, Hill received his golden wings and promotion to ensign the following September. Fighting Eight was his only squadron. Leading the pack of eight F4Fs, Ruehlow had seen Hill straggle a few times, only to catch up again. Glancing back a little later, Ruehlow noticed he was gone for good.
Ahead and just off to the south of the main body, McInerny and Magda were next to face their fate, when fuel gauges made it evident both pilots had only a few minutes of flight time left. Conferring by hand signals, the two determined they would ditch, together while they still enjoyed engine power. Circling in, they carefully judged wind and wave conditions (light southeasterly breeze and a mild sea), then set down not far apart. Springing from their cockpits, both secured their liferafts from the little compartments on the dorsal fairings. McInerny inflated his raft without difficulty and stepped in, only to find he had forgotten to cut the lanyard which secured it to the sinking F4F. Both the raft and he were underwater before he managed to break it free. Popping back to the surface, McInerny paddled over to join Magda’s raft. What a mission it had been for the exuberant Irishman!
Of the rest of the hapless VF-8 pilots, the next to go as they headed away from the ship contact was Tallman’s own section leader, Frank Jennings. His F4F commenced to pop ominously; then the engine quit altogether. Jennings stalled and started down, but Tallman was determined to stay with him in accordance with flight doctrine drilled into him since flight school. A former old line aviation cadet and floatplane driver with VCS-7 on board the cruiser Tuscaloosa, Jennings neatly deadsticked into the sea. Tallman made a powered ditching right alongside him. Again, both had time to pop their rubber boats and bring them together—two more dots on a vast and lonely sea. Furious at the whole situation, Tallman spent the next two hours scribbling his report on the rough fabric of his raft.
Fighting Eight’s shrinking escort force flew on: the three senior pilots Mitchell, Ruehlow, and fellow “trade school” alumnus Dick Gray, and the two reservist wingmen Kelly and Talbot. Kelly was the first of this group to run out of fuel. He dropped out of formation and was seen to reverse course, as if to get as close to the previously sighted ships as he could. His own F4F down to gasoline vapor too, Talbot followed. Gliding northwest back along the former flight path, Kelly descended close to the water. Talbot tried to radio his friend that he was ditching down wind, but it was too late. Kelly’s F-9 plowed into the waves and sank immediately. One of the most promising young pilots in the squadron, Mark Kelly had proudly pinned on his wings in June 1941. Along with Steve Groves (himself fated to die that day), he had spent ten days in May on board the Monssen after ditching on takeoff. His was the second life lost on the escort mission. Likewise setting down without power, Talbot splashed about 1030 not far away, but he escaped the cockpit and launched his raft. He was fortunate—he would survive his ordeal.
After their wingmen had fallen away, Mitchell, Ruehlow, and Gray held their southeasterly course for perhaps another quarter hour. Finally one of them ran out of fuel and started down. The other two decided enough was enough and circled to ditch nearby. Stalling his Grumman into the water, Mitchell discovered F-18 sinking out from under him so quickly that he was lucky to escape. Raftless, he bobbed on the sea, supported by his yellow Mae West. When he went in, Ruehlow was jarred by the impact and gashed his head painfully on the gunsight mount. Despite his injury, he scrambled free in time to secure his liferaft before F-19 disappeared into the depths. Dick Gray tried a new tack. Still having engine power, he cranked down F-5’s landing gear and eased the Grumman neatly into the sea. He not only grabbed his liferaft, but had the foresight to save his emergency rations as well. Ruehlow and Gray brought their rafts together, picked up the skipper, and worked out a rotation scheme that put a single man in one of the rafts, who then alternated its occupation with one of the two in the second rubber boat.
Thus before 1100, VF-8’s ill-fated escort mission had ended with all ten pilots in the water. The mission was doomed by inexperience and errors at many levels of command. First came the horrendous decision to launch the fighters in advance of the other Hornet strike planes, compelling the F4Fs to circle and waste fuel. Then the escorts flew close to the extreme limit of their radius of action before turning back. George Hill ran out of fuel only a few minutes after the VF-8 pilots sighted off to the north what they thought was the Japanese carrier force, but which was later determined to be Task Force 16. He might not have made it back to the Hornet even if the pilots had turned in that direction. Naval flight doctrine called for the leader to ditch all his aircraft together unless he was certain he could reach base, notify his superiors of the position where the others ditched, and send help. Searchers faced a much easier task locating a group of downed aviators rather than hunting for scattered individuals strewn over a wide area. In this case, patrol planes at Midway had no reason to assume VF-8 was anywhere but northwest of Midway. Once down together, the castaways themselves could team up and help each other, as did happen with the three groups of pilots who managed to ditch simultaneously. The best that can be said about the Hornet strike mission in general is that decisive leadership was lacking.
Excitement in Task Force 16 mounted after 1020, when snatches of radio transmission from the strike planes gave hints of the disaster overtaking the Japanese. For the CAP, work beckoned closer to home. The Enterprise radar detected another bogey, so Ham Dow alerted his fighters. At 1034, he told Hoyle’s VF-6 division to “arrow” 295 degrees, distance 20 miles. Evidently someone eyeballed the contact, for seven minutes later Dow sang out, “Bogey a bandit in cloud, step on it!”25 Hoyle and his second section under Rad. Elec. Bayers hunted through the overcast, while Dow mustered reinforcements in the form of Rawie’s section. The chase was fruitless. The Japanese indeed had found Task Force 16 again. At 1045, the radioman of the Chikuma’s No. 5 plane (an Aichi E13A1 Type 0 reconnaissance floatplane [JAKE]) tapped out a sighting report. This aircraft had departed Striking Force at 0855 to amplify the contact originally made by the Tone No. 4 plane. Flown by PO3c Hara Hisashi, the Chikuma No. 5 would skillfully shadow Spruance for three hours until “Buster” Hoyle took his revenge.
While the VF-6 fighters hunted for the snooper, Task Force 16 swung into the wind to conduct flight operations. The Hornet finally landed the four F4Fs from her first CAP launched nearly four hours before. They were almost out of fuel. No Hornet strike planes had yet appeared, so Mitscher spotted his reserve CAP of eight VF-8 Grummans for launch to clear the flight deck when Ring’s troops returned. The Enterprise at 1045 freed up her deck by despatching her relief CAP of eight fighters led by Mehle and Quady. Descending into the landing circle five minutes later were Jim Gray’s ten VF-6 escorts—the first planes to return safely from the great mission. Descending gradually from 22,000 feet, Gray zeroed in on the Enterprise’s homing signal for a swift and uneventful hop back to the ship. Debriefed by an eager air staff, Gray could offer little information other than the enemy position an hour before. He had not fought, but had to depart before the dive bombers found the target. Spruance had to await the return of his SBDs to learn further of what had happened, but their flight back would be perilous because Task Force 16 would not be where they expected to find it. The ships’ rate of advance on the Point Option course (240 degrees) was greatly retarded by the need to head southeast into the wind to conduct flight operations and countermarch back again to the base course. On 4 June the wind gods did not cooperate with the Americans.
Like VF-6s Gray, the Hornet SBDs that had elected to try for the ships had the height, never having dived, to use their Zed Bakers to provide a course in the proper direction toward the task force.26 Rodee and evidently Ring had no trouble coming back. As they passed north of the Japanese carrier force, they spotted towering columns of smoke off to their right (south). The source of the smoke was the three flattops burning, but the SBDs never got close enough to see what caused it. Others later interpreted their sightings as smoke rising from the oil tank fires on Midway, but these airplanes were much too far from the island to see anything happening there. Ring himself flew pretty much a straight course back to the Hornet. Not far behind, but not in contact with CHAG, were Rodee’s fifteen VS-8 SBDs. The Hornet’s radar at 1100 detected these aircraft bearing 260 degrees, distance 59 miles, the range at which they were picked up indicating they still flew relatively high. The Hornet cleared her flight deck by launching the relief CAP of eight VF-8 F4Fs under O’Neill and Ford, then made ready to land SBDs. The first to touch down was Ring at around 1118, and within a few minutes Rodee and his troops likewise were on board. Ring and the VS-8 pilots could offer little information, as they had not even seen the enemy. About 1145, four SBDs from Bombing Eight turned up and landed on board the Hornet. During the flight back they had somehow separated from the rest of their squadron. For a short while, it appeared that most of Bombing Eight was missing along with all of Torpedo Eight and ten F4Fs from Fighting Eight. This was a staggering loss of thirty-nine planes!
Around 1200 good news reached the Hornet from Midway: the naval air station reported that eleven VB-8 dive bombers had made it there safely. As related earlier, Johnson’s squadron had searched far to the south after the Hornet strike group had split. Finally, when it came time to turn for home, most of the SBDs had trouble tuning in to the Hornet’s YE signal. Four of them flew on through to the task force and landed at 1145. Johnson with the other fourteen VB-8 SBDs had to head south for Midway. Fuel was a major problem. Well north of the island, one SBD ran its tanks dry and ditched. Another splashed ten miles northwest of Midway. Johnson’s unexpected appearance put the island on alert at 1121, and though he tried to demonstrate his friendly status by jettisoning bombs on the reef, Midway interpreted the gesture as an attack. One SBD ditched in the lagoon, and three were damaged by antiaircraft fire, but Johnson’s eleven landed around 1135. Bombing Eight would have to wait there until the hard-pressed Midway ground crews could refuel and rearm the planes for the flight back to the Hornet.
The Hornet’s entire morning strike mission had been a disaster, distinguished only by the great valor shown by Torpedo Eight. It had cost thirty-one lives, ten F4Fs, three SBDs, and all fifteen torpedo planes, with no measurable loss inflicted upon the enemy.
After smashing two Japanese carriers, the Enterprise SBDs individually or in small groups flew eastward toward the briefed Point Option course. They cruised at low altitude, well under the carrier’s line-of-sight (VHF) YE homing signal. Perhaps only two or three SBDs had splashed in the actual attack, although at least one or two more ditched shortly afterward. That left perhaps twenty-five SBDs heading for home, low on fuel, some battered. Well behind them, returning at a slower speed, were the five surviving TBDs from Torpedo Six, but one soon went down. As previously related, the Enterprise was not at the expected location on her Point Option course. At 1100 she was 44 miles northeast of where her aviators thought she would be. With her flight deck open for business, she awaited her strike planes, but all they saw was vacant ocean.
The Yorktown had conducted no flight operations after recovering Brassfield’s VF-3 fighters at 0925. Consequently she was right where her planes hoped to find her when the first of them sighted her around 1100. For two hours Fletcher had held his second SBD squadron in reserve awaiting new reports on the enemy flattops. He knew the Enterprise and Yorktown groups, at least, had attacked a Japanese force of two or more carriers, but he was far from certain whether all of the enemy carriers operated together. As he saw it, he had two options. One was to send Scouting Five and escort to the target previously attacked in order to mop up. The second was to use the SBDs to search the crucial northwest quadrant to locate without question all of the enemy carriers and ensure sinking them all. At 1106, he advised Spruance of these two options and requested the latest information on the enemy.
The first Yorktowners to make it back from the strike were the seventeen SBDs of Bombing Three. Leslie and his warriors were none the worse for their plastering of the Sōryū. At 1115, he received instructions to orbit Task Force 17. The “cool heads” on board the Yorktown did not want to break the deck spot of F4Fs and SBDs until absolutely necessary. The air advisors knew VB-3 retained plenty of fuel. One of the SBDs signaled by Aldis light that the squadron had sunk one Japanese carrier—splendid news! Fletcher still lacked the definitive report he so badly wanted. Spruance at 1115 forwarded a position report on the enemy flattops, but that came from old information provided by Gray. Prodded by fresh news of enemy snoopers, Fletcher concluded that it was wisest to launch ten VS-5 SBDs to search the northwest quadrant out to 200 miles. The other seven Dauntlesses, fueled and armed, would be held in ready reserve in the hangar. They could reinforce Bombing Three or the Task Force 16 strike planes for a second attack. On board the Yorktown, Murr Arnold’s air department rapidly effected the change in plan.
The Hiryū Alone
Before the horrified eyes of the mighty Kidō Butai, American dive bombers had transformed three of four magnificent aircraft carriers into flaming hulks. Gone was Japanese carrier air supremacy in the Battle of Midway. Only the carrier Hiryū, flagship of Rear Admiral Yamaguchi’s 2nd Carrier Division, remained unscathed. Assuming temporary command of the striking force was Rear Admiral Abe Hiroaki, commanding 8th Cruiser division (flag on the Tone). He detached the light cruiser Nagara and six destroyers to tend the stricken flattops, while the rest of Kidō Butai (two battleships, two heavy cruisers, and five destroyers) hastened to take station round the precious Hiryū.
Both Yamaguchi and his superior Abe determined to carry on with the planned air strike against the American carrier force, located fully three hours before by the morning search. All four carriers had readied strike planes; now only the Hiryū could continue the fight. As Yamaguchi and the Hiryū’s Captain Kaku Tomeo surveyed their resources, plane strengths appeared meager indeed. On board the Hiryū were only thirty-seven operational aircraft: ten Zero fighters (including three of the 6th Air Group), eighteen carrier bombers, and nine carrier attack planes. Scattered aloft were another twenty-seven Zeros from all four carrier air groups, but they could not land for fuel and ammunition until the Hiryū’s deck was clear. When the SBD thunderbolt descended on the other flattops, the Hiryū had prepared the eighteen carrier bombers and three Zeros for launch. In the hangar, mechanics readied the nine torpedo planes for a possible 1100 launch.
Lieut. Kobayashi Michio, Hiryū strike leader on the first Yorktown attack. (NH 81560.)
Yamaguchi resolved to commit his dive bombers immediately as originally scheduled, then follow in an hour or so with a second wave of nine torpedo planes. With more Zeros available overhead, Kaku beefed up the fighter escort for the first strike from three to six. For this initial attack, the burden of command fell upon Lieut. Kobayashi Michio, buntaichō, the leader of the Hiryū Carrier Bomber Unit. His eighteen Aichi D3A1 Type 99 carrier bombers carried the usual payloads of one 250-kilogram bomb apiece. Kobayashi’s flyers enjoyed the reputation of being among the best dive bombers in the Imperial Navy. He personally led the nine kanbaku making up his unit’s 1st Chūtai, while the 2nd Chūtai’s nine came under the second buntaichō, Lieut. Yamashita Michiji (see unit roster).1
Like the Yorktown’s Fighting Three, the Hiryū Fighter Unit seemed fated by circumstances to bear the brunt of fighter combat in the carrier exchanges in the Battle of Midway. Nine Zeros of the 2nd Chūtai had flown as escort on the dawn Midway strike, where their pilots claimed no fewer than eighteen Grumman Wildcats shot down (including four probables) in return for two Mitsubishis damaged. In the various CAP actions up to 1045, the unit submitted claims for forty-three American planes destroyed (!), for the loss of four Zeros shot down (including two veteran shōtai leaders) and one plane ditched. The CO, Lieut. Mori, had made close acquaintance with Jimmy Thach’s VF-3 division over the Japanese carriers. Now from those pilots on deck, the Hiryū’s air officer culled out the following six to comprise the escort or “fighter striking unit” for the first wave:
|
1st Shōtai |
No 1 |
Lieut. Shigematsu Yasuhiro (B) |
No. 2 |
PO2c Todaka Noboru |
No. 3 |
Sea1c Yoshimoto Suekichi |
|
2nd Shōtai |
No. 1 |
W.O. Minegishi Yoshijirō |
No. 2 |
PO1c Sasaki Hitoshi |
No. 3 |
PO3c Chiyoshima Yutaka |
Roster for First Attack on American Carriers, Hiryū Carrier Bomber Unit
Leading the escort was the unit’s junior buntaichō, Lieut. Shigematsu, another representative of that small batch of Naval Academy men upon whom so much depended. A 1938 Eta Jima graduate, Shigematsu had completed flight training (34th Officer Class) in April 1941 and that September had reported to the Hiryū. In January 1942 he qualified as a buntaichō. His 2nd Chūtai had made the Midway strike, and now he was ready to attack the American carrier force with a mixed bag of 1st and 2nd Chūtai pilots.2
Tight-lipped and grim, arrayed in their bulky kapok life vests, the carrier bomber and fighter aircrews assembled near the Hiryū’s island to hear their captain speak before they manned planes. Kaku needed no impassioned rhetoric to stress how vital this mission would be. These men and the torpedo crews who would follow were all that Combined Fleet could now employ against the American carrier force. He cautioned them not to act rashly. The American position was not known precisely, as the last reports were several hours old. Search planes, however, were now combing the critical area, and he expected new information before long. The first aircraft rolled down the flight deck around 1050, and by 1058 the small strike force of twenty-four planes formed up for the flight eastward. Although they did not know it, the Japanese at 1100 were only 91 miles west of Task Force 16 and 95 miles west of Task Force 17.
Kobayashi proceeded out at low level and only gradually gained height. Visibility seemed better close to the water. About a half hour after departure, the Japanese stumbled upon a formation of six American planes which they thought were torpedo planes involved in the strike on the Kidō Butai. Shigematsu’s six Zeros peeled off to ambush the enemy cruising low over the water. The Americans proved tougher than they looked. In an extended fight, the Japanese shot down no bombers outright, but the American gunners pared the little escort to four Zeros. Both W.O. Minegishi Yoshijirō (2nd Shōtai leader) and wingman PO1c Sasaki Hitoshi had their fighters badly shot up, so badly that they had to abort the mission and head back. When they made it home around 1230, Minegishi landed safely on board the Hiryū, but Sasaki had to ditch. No doubt highly irritated, the tough Shigematsu gathered his three Zeros and set off after the kanbaku, hopefully to catch up before Kobayashi spotted the enemy.
Shigematsu’s fight is unsung from the American point of view, although his opponents had to be Enterprise dive bombers looking for their carrier. No surviving SBD crews reported fighting Zeros under these circumstances, and it appears none of Shigematsu’s tormentors were rescued. Lieut. Charles R. Ware, VS-6 flight officer, had led most of his 3rd Division back to Point Option where the SBDs were seen by other pilots. Thereafter Ware’s little group disappeared. It seems likely that Ware’s division, perhaps reinforced by a few other SBDs gathered on the way, encountered the Japanese strike group and put up a stout defense against the six Zeros. Then from battle damage or fuel starvation, the SBDs ditched, and their crews were not recovered.
By the time Kobayashi departed on the mission, two Japanese search planes had latched onto the American carrier force. The Chikuma No. 5 floatplane continued to transmit accurate reports. At 1100, Abe told its crew to guide the attack unit to the target. Ten minutes later, the Chikuma flyers responded that the American force bore 070 degrees and 90 miles from the Kidō Butai. Putting in an appearance shortly after 1100 was the Sōryū No. 201 aircraft, an experimental Yokosuka D4Y1 Type 2 carrier bomber utilized as a high-speed reconnaissance plane. The Sōryū bomber had first checked out an erroneous position report, then was vectored into the proper area. Carefully scouting the vicinity, the speedy recon plane determined that three American carriers lurked in the area. At 1130, the crew attempted to radio their findings, but only garbled messages filtered back to Yamaguchi. At 1132, the Chikuma No. 5 aircraft radioed the strike leader: “I will lead you to the target by radio.”3 Nine minutes later, the Hiryū rebroadcast for Kobayashi’s benefit the report that the American carrier force lay 070 degrees and 90 miles from the Kidō Butai. After some anxious searching, Kobayashi had little difficulty in taking up a direct course to the target, which in that case happened to be Task Force 17. The Japanese search planes had done their job well.
By 1130, the Yorktown had completed preparations for despatching ten VS-5 SBDs to search in pairs 200 miles to the north and northwest. Fletcher was anxious to locate the remaining enemy flattops or at least clarify the situation. Deck crews struck below the other seven SBDs. Fueled and armed, they constituted a ready reserve. Spotted on the flight deck along with the ten search SBDs were the twelve F4F Wildcats of Crommelin’s and Brassfield’s divisions. Now that the strike mission had been canceled, all of them could be used as relief CAP for Leonard’s six F4Fs presently aloft. Circling overhead were the seventeen SBDs of Bombing Three, recently returned from attacking the Japanese carriers. Still retaining adequate fuel, they orbited patiently, awaiting a clear deck upon which to land. The Yorktowners watched anxiously for the rest of the strike group to appear—the Wildcat fighters and Devastator torpedo planes that would be low on fuel and require swift recovery. At 1133, Task Force 17 turned eastward into the wind, and the Yorktown began launching the ten SBDs.
About the time the carrier initiated flight operations, Thach and his two companions Macomber and Dibb made eyeball contact with Task Force 17. Seeing the rest of the strike group begin straggling back, Captain Buckmaster thought it wise to launch all twelve Wildcats on deck to take over the CAP. The Yorktown signaled Leonard to bring his F4Fs in for immediate recovery, so they could be refueled and held on standby. The VF-3 pilots waiting on deck and in their ready room received orders to man planes, and the air department had to get them aloft in a hurry. For the fighter pilots, it became a rapid, rather confused launch. Several thought it was a scramble, and they had trouble sorting themselves into proper organization. By 1150, the deck was clear as the last of the twelve F4Fs had taken to the air.
With the Yorktown open for business, a number of aircraft queued up taking turns to land. First to come in were two Enterprise SBDs returning from the attack on the Japanese carriers. They had wandered into the area while searching for “The Big E” and found the Yorktown instead. Lieut. (jg) Wilbur E. Roberts and Ens. George H. Goldsmith of Bombing Six landed on board with very little fuel remaining, and Goldsmith’s B-15 was badly shot up. The Yorktown almost had another guest in Wade McClusky, but he recognized the Enterprise’s sister and headed off for his own carrier miles to the southeast. Following the SBDs were Leonard’s six CAP F4Fs, which the plane handlers parked forward, anticipating more landings.
Meanwhile, Thach’s little contingent in the landing circle encountered a friend in Cheek, who had made his way back alone. He joined up as number four on Macomber’s wing, as the pilots checked each other over to see that their landing gear and tailhooks functioned. First to touch down was Thach, and as soon as his F4F had been parked up deck, he raced up to flag plot to inform Fletcher of the good progress of the battle. Frank Jack learned with pleasure that Thach had positively seen three enemy flattops put out of commission, flames and all. Of the fourth thought to be present, Thach could offer no word. While the two conferred, Spruance suggested by radio that the Yorktown locate the targets already attacked and search to the northwest to seek undamaged carriers. Spruance added that he would strike again. From his own returning aviators, he discovered that “The Big E’s” planes on their own had knocked out two carriers. Fletcher, of course, had already launched his own search.
While Thach made his way to the admiral, Dibb and Macomber landed safely. Last of the VT escort to come in was Cheek. Alighting on deck, he immediately sensed something was wrong. His tail hook was bouncing over wires rather than engaging one. He was headed for a “crunching contact” with the crash barrier. Uppermost in his mind was avoiding another bounce over the barrier into planes parked forward such as had happened on 30 May when Don Lovelace was killed. Cheek quickly decided what he must do:
Just feet away from the barrier cables, I jammed the control stick full forward and followed it trying to tuck myself into a ball, my head as close to the cockpit deck as possible. The propellor grabbed one of the snaring wires and the F4F cartwheeled forward to a crashing stop on its back.
I was unhurt but afraid of fire and yelled at the flight deck crew, who I could hear surrounding the plane, “Get this thing to hell off of me!” I was out in a few seconds.4
After his bone-shaking stop, Cheek was hurried to the flight surgeon, and told him he was okay. Air department personnel swarmed over the inverted F4F, hoisted it onto dollies, and carted old F-16 off to an elevator to be lowered to the hangar deck. Cheek had ripped into numbers four and five wire barriers, rendering the arresting gear inoperable. This forced a temporary halt to landing operations, while crews rerigged the barriers. The ship signaled Leslie’s Bombing Three to orbit, but the SBDs still had plenty of fuel. Meanwhile Cheek repaired to the ready room to make his combat report to Thach.
Tom Cheek’s battered F-16 (BuNo. 5143) struck below in the Yorktown’s hangar, afternoon 4 June. (NA 80-G-23979.)
Within a minute or so of when the last CAP F4F lifted off the flight deck, the Yorktown’s radar operator, Rad. Elec. Vane M. Bennett, detected unidentified planes bearing 255 degrees, distance 32 miles and closing. Pederson, the FDO, immediately called an alert. The sudden approach of what might be an enemy strike group caught Fletcher in an awkward position. No defending fighters waited at high altitude, as the newly launched CAP worked to sort itself out close to the ships. Thach and Leonard were in the process of landing their F4Fs. At 1152, Pederson ordered Brassfield’s division to investigate the contact bearing 255 degrees (M.), distance 32 miles. Himself circling in the proper rendezvous sector, Brassfield established contact neither with his wingman Harry Gibbs nor his other two section leaders, Duran Mattson and Bill Woollen. Two minutes later his pilots still had not appeared, so an exasperated Brassfield had to inform Pederson that his division had not joined up.
Pederson had no recourse but to vector out the individual sections. At 1156 orders went to Brassfield, Mattson, and Woollen to proceed out along the 255-degree heading (M.) to a distance of 20 to 25 miles to intercept enemy aircraft. One of the best in the business, Bennett had warned that the bogeys were climbing, something no friendlies would ordinarily do within sight of their own task force. As mentioned above, the launch had been a strange one for the twelve VF-3 pilots, more in the nature of a scramble than a normal departure because Buckmaster wanted the Yorktown’s deck clear to land the strike planes. Then, just after they had become airborne came the urgent steer from the FDO. The two divisions never had a chance to form up. It soon became every section or every man for himself!
Woollen and his wingman Bill Barnes forged ahead, followed by Scott McCuskey (from Crommelin’s division) minus his own wingman, Ens. Mark K. Bright, who had not shown up in the rendezvous area when the vector came in. Behind McCuskey and frantically trying to catch up was Gibbs, while division leader Brassfield trailed the four F4Fs from about a mile behind Woollen. Following beneath all of them were Mattson and his wingman, Ens. Horace Bass. These seven pilots faced a furious effort to gain altitude in their fully loaded Wildcats. They did not have much time.
Organization of the Combat Air Patrol Defending Task Force 17, First Attack
(I) Fighting Three |
|
|
2nd Division |
F-11 |
Lieut. (jg) Richard G. Crommelin, USN |
F-3 |
Ens. Richard L. Wright, A-V(N) |
F-25 |
*Ens. George F. Markham, Jr., A-V(N) |
F-21 |
Lieut. (jg) E. Scott McCuskey, A-V(N) |
|
4th Division |
F-10 |
Lieut. (jg) Arthur J. Brassfield, USN |
F-8 |
Ens. Harry B. Gibbs, A-V(N) |
F-15 |
Lieut. (jg) E. Duran Mattson, USN |
F-22 |
Ens. Horace A. Bass, Jr., A-V(N) |
F-2 |
Lieut. (jg) William S. Woollen, A-V(N) |
(II) Fighting Six |
|
|
3rd Division |
F-13 |
Lieut. Roger W. Mehle, USN |
F-14 |
Ens. Howard L. Grimmell, Jr., A-V(N) |
F-17 |
Ens. Thomas C. Provost III, A-V(N) |
F-18 |
Ens. James A. Halford, Jr., A-V(N) |
(III) Fighting Eight |
|
|
Ford’s Division |
|
Lieut. Warren W. Ford, USN |
F-17† |
Ens. Stephen W. Groves, A-V(N) |
*Not engaged.
†Missing in action.
Pederson called in additional help. At 1158, he instructed Crommelin’s division to intercept fifty bogeys at “Angels 10” (10,000 feet), bearing 255 degrees (M.) from the Yorktown. The 2nd Division was in disarray as well. Crommelin himself was well aware of how poorly the CAP had performed the month before at Coral Sea because the F4Fs had lacked initial altitude advantage over the enemy dive bombers. He and wingman John Bain started climbing steeply in order to get that height advantage over the attackers. Consequently, the two remained closer to the task force than Brassfield’s pilots. One of Crommelin’s section leaders, McCuskey, already was charging hard toward the enemy, while Dick Wright, the other, headed out after unsuccessfully trying to locate his own wingman. The two errant wingmen, Mark Bright and George Markham, were among the last of the twelve to take off. By the time they got their bearings, everyone else had disappeared. In desperation they joined together south of the task force and started climbing. Mainly they watched for enemy torpedo planes; they failed to spot the dive bombers coming in, and did not participate in the fight. Thus did the two VF-3 divisions make their entrances piecemeal, but their performance was spectacular all the same.
Handling Task Force 16’s CAP, Ham Dow tracked the Japanese raiders on radar as they neared Task Force 17, situated about 30 miles northwest of Spruance’s ships. On CAP he had available nineteen F4Fs from both carriers, but for the time being he could count on no reinforcements. Both the Enterprise and the Hornet were committed to landing the strike planes, which filtered back one or two at a time. Between them the two flattops had twenty-five Wildcats on deck, but they would not be able to launch for thirty minutes. The Enterprise ultimately recovered only fourteen of the thirty-two SBDs that had reached the target area (one other had aborted), and most were missing due to the Point Option fiasco. The Hornet at first landed only twenty of thirty-four SBDs despatched, but eleven others had taken refuge on Midway.
Dow mustered what troops he could to assist Task Force 17. He made a practice of deploying his CAP at roughly two levels: eight VF-8 fighters at 20,000 feet and the eight VF-6 fighters patrolling under 10,000 feet. Three other VF-8 Wildcats were also aloft, but they ran low on juice and could not be sent. At first Dow thought it best to send the fresh VF-8 contingent to the Yorktown’s assistance and retain the Enterprise troops in direct defense of his Own ships. At 1158, he instructed the “Blue” patrol to proceed out along a heading of 305 degrees to a distance of 30 miles to intercept enemy planes thought to be at 10,000 feet. This would give the VF-8 pilots at 20,000 feet a healthy altitude superiority. Warren Ford acknowledged the transmission and hustled off to the north. At the time his four F4Fs operated west of Task Force 16, significantly closer to the Yorktown than the rest of Dow’s CAP. O’Neill, VF-8’s XO, never answered the vector, and his second section leader, Lieut. (jg) Lawrence C. French, also had a bum radio receiver. O’Neill’s wingman, Ens. Carlton B. Starkes, heard the orders clearly and tried to take the lead according to naval flight doctrine. The pilot with the working radio was to take the lead in response to the FDO’s orders if the flight leader’s radio was not working. O’Neill, however, refused to relinquish the lead to a junior pilot, possibly because French did not appear to have heard anything either. Starkes knew the division was needed somewhere in a hurry, so he contacted French’s wingman, Ens. James C. Smith, and the two raced in the direction of the Yorktown. Somewhat bewildered, O’Neill and French remained on station over Task Force 16.
In the event the Japanese should turn southeastward toward Task Force 16, Dow deployed his VF-6 fighters in a blocking position between the enemy planes and his ships. At 1158, he warned Mehle and Quady about the bogeys bearing 305 degrees, distance 20 miles, then told Mehle to take station at a point bearing 315 degrees, 20 miles from the Enterprise. At 1205, he amplified his instructions, telling them to go only 15 miles out rather than 20. The Yorktown’s ordeal was about to begin.
“Come on you SCARLET boys, get them!”5
Oscar Pederson, Yorktown FDO, 1202, 4 June
Keen eyes among the Japanese strike group discerned at 1155 the wakes of an American task force cutting the seas about 25 miles ahead. To attain proper altitude for his bombing attack, Kobayashi led his eighteen Hiryū carrier bombers into a shallow climb as they closed the target. His squadron had deployed as two separate Vee-of-Vees formations, with Kobayashi’s 1st Chūtai leading and Yamashita’s 2nd Chūtai in echelon to the right. Shigematsu’s four Zeros, still smarting from their chastisement by the Enterprise SBDs, trailed a few miles back, evidently still trying to catch up. As the Japanese pilots neared the ships, they picked out one enemy carrier surrounded closely by a ring of cruisers and destroyers. Even then, they saw Grummans climbing out to meet them. The survivors noted in their report, “Did not engage these [fighters], but approached the enemy position.”6 This was not a true statement, as the Type 99 kanbaku and the Grumman Wildcats soon tangled in one of the strangest dogfights of the war. Kobayashi at 1200 broke radio silence with his first message, to the Hiryū:
We are attacking the enemy carrier. 0900. [0900, 5 June, Tokyo time]7
Brassfield’s contingent of VF-3 pilots soon caught sight of the neat formation of enemy planes approaching from ahead and above the fighters. At 1200, he reported to Pederson that eighteen enemy aircraft were heading his way. He estimated he was about 15 miles out and that the Japanese flew two or three thousand feet above him. Brassfield, remembering his 8 May fight at the Coral Sea, had a sense of déjà vu, except that here no Zeros seemed to be around. He thought it best to gain more altitude and let the Japanese come to him. While climbing ahead of the oncoming dive bombers, he moved to take favorable position opposite the enemy’s right, presaging an effective high-side run when the Japanese passed underneath.
As Brassfield passed 10,000 feet—nearly level with the approaching bombers—he saw the lead Grummans, flown by Woollen and Barnes, attack them from below. The two discovered themselves on an opposite heading and beneath the enemy planes, and by the time they had closed the gap, they were still below the kanbaku. To avoid overrunning the target and possibly missing a shot, Woollen pulled up sharply into a low-opposite run and fired from around 300 yards below the 1st Chūtai. His tracers and those of Barnes sprayed through the lead formation, causing Kobayashi’s bombers to bob up and down individually to evade the bullets from below. For the two F4F pilots it was an awkward angle of attack, so Woollen led Barnes into a climbing turn to the left to recover over the right rear of the enemy formation.
Following some distance behind Woollen’s section, McCuskey had just made it to the enemy’s altitude when suddenly the oncoming bombers were there! The lead formation of nine bombers appeared to his left, with the second nine beyond and flying at a slightly higher altitude. McCuskey judged there was barely enough space for him to squeeze between the first and second groups of nine. Swinging sharply to his left, McCuskey eased into position for a flat-side run on the lead nine. As his initial target, he singled out the outside bomber in the left Vee. Coming at the Japanese from slightly abaft the beam, he adjusted for deflection and cut loose with a satisfying burst at short range. Under the impact of multiple hits, the kanbaku shuddered and flamed up swiftly. The burning bomber filling his view, McCuskey maneuvered slightly to rake the left and center Vees as his momentum drew the F4F behind them. Because of his flat angle of approach, his broad red lines of tracers zipped through the lead enemy formation, certainly disconcerting the crews.
Committed in his plan to cross behind the 1st Chūtai, McCuskey rapidly shifted his point of aim in order to walk his bullets into the inside plane of the right Vee. That aircraft’s forward motion brought it directly into his sights. He had to hold his run tightly behind the first nine to avoid flying into the second not far beyond. Closing to pointblank range, McCuskey found he had to drop his left wing radically to keep his firing position. This upset his shooting because he was too close to the target to take advantage of the convergence pattern of his guns. Thus he had little more than a snap burst at the inside bomber in the right Vee. Heading out, McCuskey roared within 50 yards of the rear of the right Vee.
Immediately after he cleared the 3rd Shōtai, McCuskey was startled to encounter only a few hundred feet ahead two dive bombers making a tight climbing turn to the right. He undertook to match their turn and brought them under fire as they twisted nearly 180 degrees from their original heading. Exactly who of the first nine they were and what exactly they planned to do remains a mystery, but the evidence is very strong the two Japanese pilots were Kobayashi and a wingman breaking out of the lead Vee. At that moment cohesion in the 1st Chūtai disappeared; that much is certain from witnesses. The squadron commander might have essayed a right turn to evade the hot tracers McCuskey had tossed in his midst, or possibly he feared the wild Grumman might try to ram. Perhaps he thought he could set up a shot by the 2nd Chūtai. Whatever his reason, Kobayashi must have felt the surprisingly aggressive Grummans would have picked off his men one by one if they held neat formation.
McCuskey cut inside the turn of the two carrier bombers and set up a shot. Suddenly he found himself heading directly into the entire 2nd Chūtai. As he later put it, “All hell broke loose!”8 Yamashita’s pilots had to break formation or risk collision with the Grumman charging straight at them. Like pins hit by a bowling ball, kanbaku peeled off in every direction trying to miss each other and the F4F in their midst. For McCuskey it was a case of “shooting from the hip,” as he traded intense, short-range, head-on shots with as many as four bombers before his machine guns quit functioning. After a few seconds of furious flying and shooting, McCuskey fought clear. Still continuing his right turn, he broke into level flight and contemplated the prospect that he had run out of ammunition. It was the vexing problem of reduced ammunition supply in the F4F-4.
Pondering his situation, McCuskey was startled to hear a “ping” as something struck his left wing. Glancing back, he spotted two dive bombers in echelon formation behind him, and they were maneuvering onto his tail! The leader’s guns winked tracers at him. His own guns not functioning, McCuskey was in no position to argue. He extended his right turn into a steep spiral, using his superior diving speed to pull away from the two aggressive kanbaku shooting up his tail. McCuskey thought his opponents to be the two birds he had followed around into the second group of nine. Perhaps Kobayashi was trying to take revenge on the Grumman that had reduced his formation to a shambles. Recovering near the water, McCuskey looked back to find his tail clear. Also evident was what he called “debris” littering the water beneath the melee. Geysers of water indicated to him that some bomber pilots had dumped their bomb loads. Anxious to rearm, McCuskey tore over to the Yorktown well ahead of the actual attack and tried to come on board. The LSO waved him off just as he had done with Bombing Three. Leslie’s SBDs retired at low altitude to a point about halfway between the two American task forces. Forced to become an unwilling spectator, McCuskey sheered off out of antiaircraft range to await the results of the strike.
Following not far beind McCuskey was Gibbs. Beginning at 1202, he saw McCuskey “plow right through the middle”9 of the enemy formation, scattering the dive bombers like tenpins. Gibbs swiftly singled out a target of his own, eased onto its tail, and ripped off a long burst. His .50-caliber slugs soon ignited the Type 99’s fuel tanks, and the Japanese spun away in flames. In his first victory, Gibbs could not resist the temptation to follow his victim toward the water. He waited until the bomber splashed before turning back into the fight. Woollen and Barnes also took advantage of the confusion below them and dived after individual Japanese. Each later submitted a claim for one bomber, and Barnes reported damaging two others. Apparently they separated and fought until their ammunition ran low—which did not take long in an F4F-4.
At 1202 as the Japanese formation astonishingly shredded right before his eyes, Brassfield—flying a thousand yards to the right of the Japanese—saw a dive bomber turn toward him. Amazingly the kanbaku, still lugging its bomb, initiated a run on the F4F. Shaking off his surprise, Brassfield pitted his six heavy .50-caliber Brownings against the bomber’s pair of 7.7-mm guns. The Hiryū pilot lost. Reaching out at long range, Brassfield’s slugs tore into the bomber. His ardor dampened, the Japanese jettisoned his bomb and dived away to escape almost certain destruction. Brassfield decided not to pursue. He knew the dive bomber was now harmless to the carrier, and he sought Japanese who retained their power to cripple the Yorktown. Pulling out, he took station above and between the melee and the task force.
Very soon after, fate gave Brassfield the opportunity to deal a terrible blow to the Hiryū Carrier Bomber Unit. At 1203, he saw three dive bombers wring themselves out of the confusion, form up in loose line-astern, and head in purposeful fashion toward the carrier. Apparently one of the Japanese shōtai leaders (whose aircraft were distinctively marked with at least one blue stripe on the vertical tail surfaces) had found a couple of wingmen and set off in the direction of the target. Reporting this to the FDO, Brassfield tried to coordinate his attack with another F4F he saw not far away. That pilot concentrated on targets of his own and flew off in another direction. Unperturbed, Brassfield rolled into a high-side run on the lead bomber, coming at the kanbaku from the left. The Japanese saw him close in and snapped into a tight climbing left turn to scissor his attacker. This maneuver startled Brassfield for two reasons: first, that he saw an armed dive bomber deflected from its run to counter a fighter, and second, that both wingmen turned to follow the leader in his countermove.
At 300 yards, Brassfield cut loose against his climbing opponent. His long, well-aimed burst tore into the kanbaku’s, engine and flamed it. Trailing oily black smoke and fire, the Type 99 stalled, then nosed down toward the water. Avoiding his first victim, Brassfield executed a violent wing-over to the left and with a beam attack confronted the second dive bomber in the string. Within 150 yards of the target, he touched his trigger and concentrated his bullets in the fuselage and wingroot—with immediate results, as the kanbaku disintegrated in midair. The blast concussion rocked the Grumman with great force. By this time the third Japanese pilot thought it best to find another route to the carrier. He dived at high speed toward the safety of a cloud bank 3,000 feet below. Using his swifter diving speed, Brassfield slipped easily onto the tail of the hapless Type 99 for a good shooting position. A short burst set the bomber ablaze and kept it diving until it splashed. In less than a minute, Brassfield had downed three aircraft by means of his excellent gunnery! Putting his F4F into a zoom climb, he reached 7,000 feet only to find another bomber stalking him from above. As before, Brassfield turned into his assailant’s approach for a head-on duel. Opening at 400 yards, the F4F’s firepower again proved too much for the Japanese, who broke off the fight by rolling out to one side. Brassfield noticed this opponent no longer carried a bomb.
Art Brassfield about 8 June on board the Hornet. (From Cdr. John Ford’s The Battle of Midway.)
