LIEUTENANT HASHIMOTO KNEW THEY were getting close from an outlying reef he sighted below. Riding as observer in Lieutenant Tomonaga’s lead plane, he pointed it out to the attack commander.
The trip in had been uneventful; one Hiryu bomber turned back with engine trouble, but something like that always happened. The other 107 planes carried on, the bombers in two separate V-of-Vs, the fighters flying cover above them. At 6:16 CPO Juzo Mori, leading his three-bomber division from the Soryu, sighted a dark blot on the glittering horizon —Midway.
Next instant two of the Hiryu’s bombers, flying just ahead of his own, suddenly burst into flames. Mori, Hashimoto—everybody—looked up just in time to see several American fighters swooping down on them, guns blazing.
“TALLYHO! Hawks at angels 12 … supported by fighters.” Captain John Carey was the first to spot them, and in the verbal shorthand of the Marine fliers, his words told the others that he had spotted the Japanese coming in at 12,000 feet. All 25 fighters converged on the scene.
Carey didn’t wait. Leading his three-plane division of F4Fs, he made a wide turn and dove at 90° on the enemy formation. His guns hammered away at a Japanese section leader; it fell out of line burning. Captain Marion Carl and Lieutenant Clayton Canfield followed Carey down; Canfield set his sights on the third plane in the third section; it exploded in flames.
Major Parks piled into the melee with the rest of his group. Most of the Marines got in one good pass; then as they climbed for a second run, the Zeros tore into them. Bullets ripped Captain Carey’s cockpit, smashing both his legs; a 20 mm. cannon shell tore Canfield’s wing flaps to shreds. Parks himself went reeling into the sea.
Captain Armistead, arriving with his division a few minutes later, fared little better. After one pass at the bombers, he saw three fighters climbing toward him, steep and fast. For a second he thought they were Marines, but no such luck. Cannon and machine-gun shells blasted him out of the fight.
Seeing a Zero on his tail, Lieutenant Darrell Irwin tried to escape by diving. He plunged down from 16,500 feet at 300 miles an hour … pulled out at 3,500—the Zero was still there. Down again, this time out at 500 feet—the Zero was still there. He finally crash-landed what was left of the plane—with the Zero still there.
Captain Herbert Merrill caught it from above and behind. At 8,000 feet he lost partial control. Then two more hits, and the gas tank blew up in his face. He bailed out, but his worries weren’t over. He had heard the Japanese often strafed parachutists; so he didn’t pull the ripcord for another 3,000 feet. Finally he hit the water a couple of miles offshore, got rid of his chute and inflated his Mae West. Midway looked a long way off—how could he swim that far? Then he thought of home and his new baby twins, and began to try.
Occasionally a trick worked. When Marion Carl couldn’t shake off a Zero, he suddenly cut the throttle, threw his plane into a skid, and the Jap raced by. Captain William Humberd couldn’t shake his Zero either, finally turned and gave it a burst head on. The Zero staggered and fell into the sea.
Usually the Japanese were much too clever—and sometimes had a trick of their own. When Lieutenant William Brooks saw two planes dogfighting at one point, he went over to help the American. Both planes turned on him—he had been fooled by a sham battle between two enemy pilots. Brooks finally escaped with 72 bullet holes in his plane.
But it wasn’t deception, skill or even numbers that made the big difference. As the Marine fighters fluttered down to the sea, or staggered back toward Midway, it was clear that the greatest Japanese advantage lay in the Zero itself. The Marine pilots were astonished. Like most Americans, they had been taught to think of the Japanese as an imitative people who couldn’t do much on their own. Now here was a fighter that could outclimb, outrun, outmaneuver any plane the U.S. had. If it was also highly vulnerable, they rarely had a good enough shot at it to find out. Even the F4Fs were completely outclassed, and the ancient Buffaloes —as Lieutenant Charles Hughes sadly remarked— “looked like they were tied to a string while the Zeros made passes at them.”
For their part, Nagumo’s pilots also got a surprise. They too had some fixed ideas about their enemy. Like most Japanese, they believed Americans had little heart for fighting and would quickly fold once the going got rough. Yet here the Marines were, hurling themselves into battle with a spirit worthy of the samurais. They also showed better tactics than expected; Hashimoto, for one, was amazed how they dived from overhead so unexpectedly.
Anyhow, Lieutenant Suganami’s Zeros now had everything under control, and the attacking force continued on. Under “Organization No. 5” they would strike in three waves: first a dose of level bombing by the Hiryu’s and Soryu’s units; next the Akagi’s and Kaga’s dive bombers would come; finally the fighters from all four carriers would strafe anything left. The Hiryu and Kaga would concentrate on Sand Island; the Soryu and Akagi on Eastern. Still in two V-of-Vs—with the fighters re-forming above—the whole force curled around the atoll and began its final run from the north.
To PFC Philip Clark at D Battery, they looked like three wisps of clouds far out on the horizon. To Pharmacist’s Mate Miller, up from his dugout for a look, they seemed more stretched out in a single line. But there was no doubt they were coming on fast. At 6:29 the radar fixed them at eight miles … 6:30, Battalion said fire when within range … 6:31, all guns opened up.
A dozen black puffs erupted 200-300 yards behind the advancing planes. At D Battery Sergeant Evitts, who knew more about fire control than all the brass, cranked in an arbitrary adjustment. A single string of bursts left the main group and “walked through” the formation, setting one plane on fire. Then another blazed up, but kept flying in flames, for an interminable period. As it fell a great cheer went up; even the men deep in the Navy command post could hear it. At the entrance Captain Simard watched transfixed, while Logan Ramsey urged him again and again to get under cover: “Skipper, this is no place for you to be.”
At 6:34 the planes were directly overhead. On Sand Island Sergeant Jay Koch studied them through the F Battery telescope as the bomb bay doors opened and the first bombs dropped out. He felt a moment of terror as he wondered where they were going to hit.
High in the powerhouse John Ford didn’t see them unload, but assuming the seaplane hangar would be one of the first Japanese targets, he already had his camera trained on it. He was right. A stick of bombs hit home, spewing fragments in all directions. Ford not only filmed the scene, but perhaps too smart for his own good, he caught a load of shrapnel in his shoulder. Stunned for a moment, he was soon back on the job, shooting pictures and phoning his blow-by-blow account to Captain Simard’s command post.
Another stick of bombs crashed down on D Battery. Captain Jean Buckner didn’t see them coming … never knew what extra sense made him yell over the command phone, “Take cover.” But he did, and his men ducked just in time —except Corporal Osa Currie, hanging on at the exposed height finder. He fell fatally wounded.
Yet war is a matter of wild contrasts. The same moment on Eastern Island found Warrant Officer Lucius dodging a barrage of knives, forks, cigars and cigarettes, as the first bombs there smashed the PX and mess hall. And even before the dust settled, one old-timer ran out from his shelter and gathered in all the cans of beer he could carry.
Now it was 6:40, and the dive bombers’ turn. To Carpenter’s Mate William Schleis, battling a fire on the roof of the seaplane hangar, it looked as though every plane was diving directly for him. Huddling against a heavy beam, he put his hands over his face, but peeked through his fingers and saw how it came out. The bombs just missed.
No such luck at the powerhouse on Eastern. It was a small building, heavily bunkered, but that didn’t help. A perfectly aimed bomb landed squarely on the roof, wiping out the inside completely.
Major Benson’s command post got it next. Seeing it go, Warrant Officer Lucius thought of the Major’s invitation to spend the attack there, where it was “safe.” Now Lucius was untouched in his slit trench, and Benson’s CP was lost in dust and smoke. He rushed over to help, but it was too late—his friend was already dead in the rubble.
In a way it was hardest on the men underground. They could only listen and wonder. In the first-aid dugout on Sand Island, Pharmacist’s Mate Miller tried to concentrate on his Murphy drip, while the light bulb blinked and swayed. Smelling the coffee, Lieutenant Commander A. E. Ady, the doctor in charge, cheerily announced he would like some. It wasn’t fit to drink, but this seemed a brave attempt to keep up morale; so Miller poured them each a cup. They stood up and solemnly toasted each other. Then hanging onto a stanchion as the dugout rocked with explosions, they tried to drink it down. Still going strong, Dr. Ady launched into a series of jokes. Miller—now as sick as he was nervous—vaguely heard him ramble on, “Well, that reminds me of the old fat woman in Arkansas… .”
Outside it was the Zeros’ turn. In they swept—strafing the oil tanks, the gun pits, anything that moved. One fighter came so close to D Battery that Captain Buckner yearned for a full-choke shotgun. Another skimmed by F Battery as Sergeant Carl Fadick ducked low … but not low enough. A bullet smacked into the back of his helmet—then miraculously came out the front without even scratching him.
A man could “be unlucky too. When a Zero swooped down on PT 23 out in the lagoon, a bullet entered the bell of the boat’s bull horn, made a 370° turn, and hit a machine gunner in the back while he was shooting at the plane.
In Colonel Shannon’s command post a phone began ringing. It was some quartermaster who noticed that in the confusion no one had yet raised the American flag—shouldn’t it be up? It was a morning of a million problems, but here was one where the answer was easy. “Yes,” said Captain McGlashan, “run her up!”
Pfc Billecheck, a handful of others raced out to the pole … snapped on the flag … and heedless of the Zeros streaking by, raised the colors for all to see.
The men fought back with everything they had. Not just the regular antiaircraft guns, but small arms too. Anything. “Deacon’“ Arnold used a Browning automatic rifle. A sailor at the Sand Island Fire Station had a Colt .45. At E Battery on Eastern, Pfc Roger Eaton popped away with his 1903 Springfield.
Of course, they usually missed … but not always. A Zero staggered over the southwest tip of Sand Island, fell in a blazing heap 50 yards from H Company. A dive bomber caught another blast, careened wildly down—almost taking out the water tower—and crashed by the entrance to Captain Simard’s command post.
But there was little anyone could do about the Zeros shooting at the few Marine fighters left. They were usually too far away. The men at E Battery watched helplessly as one Buffalo, returning with a badly sputtering engine, went after a circling strafer. The Marine, coming in quite low, tried to climb up under the Japanese. The Zero simply stood on its tail and executed a beautiful loop. A few short bursts, and the Buffalo fell in the ocean.
Two Zeros went after another Marine fighter off the northern edge of Eastern Island. The Buffalo began burning, and the pilot bailed out. The Zeros followed him all the way down, blazing away as he dangled in his chute … then strafing the sea where he landed.
Somehow a few of the Marine fighters limped home. Shot in both legs. Captain Carey “proved the hard way that you could fly an F4F with just the stick and no rudder.” Lieutenant Canfield’s flaps were gone, and when he touched ground his landing gear collapsed. Sliding to a stop, he dived into a trench while a Zero slashed away at the abandoned plane.
A crippled Buffalo came in low, a Zero in hot pursuit. With a last effort the Marine climbed a few feet, forcing the Japanese even lower. Every gun on Eastern Island seemed to open up. The Zero wavered, then slammed down burning on the runway. As it skidded along, Pfc Clester Scotten had a fleeting, indelible glimpse of the pilot throwing his arms over his face. Then he was lost from sight in flames. But the one they remembered best of all was the really “hot” pilot who wasn’t content with bombing and strafing, Sweeping in alone, he turned bottoms-up and stunt-flew the runway upside down. He nearly got away with it. For long seconds the Marines watched in amazement, too surprised even to fire. Then the spell broke, and guns opened up everywhere. The antiaircraft finally, got him, and he spun off into the lagoon.
LIEUTENANT Rokuro Kikuchi knew the end had come. The antiaircraft guns had found the range; now his horizontal bomber was bathed in fire and falling out of line. He pulled back the canopy and waved a last good-bye to his friends from the Hiryu.
The ground fire was far worse than expected. Not especially accurate—it rarely was—but the tremendous volume was enough to throw everyone off a little. Lieutenant Tomonaga’s lead bomber took a near-miss at the moment of release, jarring the plane and hurting its accuracy. More serious, another burst punctured the left-wing gas tank.
Looking down, Lieutenant Hashimoto was fascinated by the activity below—especially the little PT boats that scurried around like water bugs on the ponds back home. But above all he noticed one thing: there were no planes left at Midway. The Japanese had attacked “an empty target.” It reminded him of the way a snake sheds its skin; here the snake had crawled away, leaving only the cast-off skin behind.
Well, they must make the best of it. As planned, the Hiryu and Kaga units concentrated on Sand Island while the Soryu and Akagi took care of Eastern. If one could forget there were no planes, the results were not at all bad. Lieutenant Hashimoto’s own squadron got a good hit among the oil tanks on Sand, and Lieutenant Ogawa’s dive bombers really pasted the seaplane hangar. On Eastern, CPO Mori at first feared his bomb had missed—it seemed to land in some bushes—but a great explosion went up; so maybe he did some good after all.
By 6:48 they’d done all they could and were on their way to their rendezvous point. A few Zeros lingered, perhaps looking for some last easy kill, but by 7:01 they too were gone—disappearing, as they had come, into the northwest.
FOR PFC Morris McCoy at E Battery, the sudden silence was worse than the bombs and the gunfire. Major Warner, the Air Force man, had never known such an eerie quiet. No sound whatsoever, except the occasional wail of a tern, or the mournful honk of a gooney bird.
In the dugouts the men waited … and waited … then cautiously began to emerge, blinking in the bright morning sun. Almost the first thing Ensign Jacoby saw was the wreckage of the Japanese plane that crashed near the entrance of Captain Simard’s command post. The pilot’s body was lying nearby, a symbolic Rising Sun flag tied around his waist. It was the very first “enemy” Jacoby had ever seen, but with the foe right before him, his mood was empty of hate. It was just another man, whose teeth were pushed in the way his would have been, had the tables been somehow reversed.
The all-clear sounded at 7:15, and Midway began to pick up the pieces. On Eastern Island Colonel Kimes radioed his VMF-221 pilots: “Fighters land, refuel by divisions, 5th Division first.”
There was no answer. Kimes tried again. Still no answer. After trying several more times he began to understand, and new orders were sent: “All fighters land and reservice.”
One by one they straggled in—six altogether. Added to the four that crash-landed during the raid, it meant only ten had survived the fight … and only two of these were in shape to fly. VMF-221 was virtually wiped out: of the 25 planes that took on the Japanese, 23 were shot down or put out of action.
“It is my belief,” Captain Philip White observed in his action report, “that any commander that orders pilots out for combat in an F2A-3 [Brewster Buffalo] should consider the pilot as lost before leaving the ground.” Understandably bitter, yet a commander must fight with what his country gives him.
In any case, VMF-221 was gone. Nor was that all. The thick black smoke rolling skyward told the story on Sand Island’s fuel tanks, and the seaplane hangar was burning too. The Navy dispensary was a total loss; other buildings like the parachute loft were badly damaged. In the shell of the laundry, a five-gallon glass water cooler stood majestically intact amid the rubble and shredded shirts.
On Eastern the CP, the powerhouse, the mess hall and PX were all demolished, but what really hurt were the gas lines. True, they were always breaking down, but now some bomber had finished them for good—just when they were needed the most. Colonel Kimes shuddered to think of the bucket brigade he’d have to organize to refuel those thirsty B-17s.
Casualties were a happier story. Colonel Shannon’s reproduction of the western front had paid off well. Thanks to all his sandbags and dugouts, there were only 11 dead and 18 wounded among the islands’ defenders.
Best of all was the way they handled their planes. Only one was caught on the ground—an obsolete biplane used for utility work. The only other aircraft lost was a decoy plane made of packing crates and tin roofing. Dubbed the “JFU” (“Jap Fouler-Upper”), it played its role to perfection.
So they were still in business; But Midway’s biggest fear lay in what was yet to come. When would the Japanese be back? What would they bring next time? Were the battleships and transports just over the horizon, waiting to close in? Even the cheerful Dr. Ady, casting aside his jokes and bad coffee, grabbed a Springfield rifle and headed for the beach.
Two miles offshore a highly interested observer enjoyed the morning’s events—the antiaircraft puffs, the diving planes, the column of smoke rolling up. Commander Tanabe was still watching Midway from the Japanese submarine I-168. He was, of course, at the periscope, and from this vantage point he gave the crew a running account of the whole attack. They were overjoyed, and a great cheer rang out when he described the fuel tanks blowing up.
Leading the air strike, Lieutenant Tomonaga knew better. It didn’t matter that the damage was great; it didn’t matter that the losses were small. What did matter was Midway’s air strength… and that was still intact. Somehow the Americans had suspected something and cleared the field. Well, they couldn’t stay up forever. Soon they’d have to land and refuel… .
At 7:00, as the Japanese planes turned for home, Tomonaga radioed the First Carrier Striking Force: “THERE IS NEED FOR A SECOND ATTACK.”