VISITORS WERE NEVER WELCOME. To see anyone in the Navy’s Combat Intelligence Unit at Pearl Harbor, it was first necessary to buzz a locked door at the top of some cellar steps. Eventually a man would appear and, if credentials were in order, the door would open. At the bottom of the steps was another locked door, and the same procedure would be repeated. When this second door opened, the visitor was finally in.
At first glance, the place seemed a shambles—about two dozen people working on top of each other, wading through a sea of paper. Any trace of a filing system had long since vanished. Stacks of folders simply piled up on the desks and chairs, then flooded out over the floor. Presiding over it all was a tall, thin, humorously caustic man in a red smoking jacket and carpet slippers—Commander Joseph J. Rochefort, Jr.
Joe Rochefort had been breaking codes for a long time now. In the early 1920s he helped another gifted young officer, Laurence F. Safford, set up the Navy’s first center. In the doldrums of the ‘30s he amused himself by breaking the State Department’s “gray” code. (“They were mad as hell.”) In the fall of 1940 he helped crack the top Japanese naval code JN-25—by now he knew the language well.
May 1941, and he was at Pearl Harbor, setting up his Combat Intelligence Unit. Known in the trade as station “Hypo,” it listened to Japanese traffic along with another station at Cavite (“Cash”) and the home base in Washington (“Negat”). Technically Washington was headquarters, but the three stations really operated as a unit. Code-breaking was still a small world; the men in the business had worked together for years, sharing their findings, their theories, their hunches.
None of it did any good December 7, 1941. Japanese naval traffic had petered out, and Tokyo had also changed the key to JN-25, throwing everyone off for a few days. But the circuits soon started up again; the new key was solved by December 10, and once more there was plenty of good listening. Rochefort had spent the fall concentrating on the Japanese flag officers’ system; now his unit joined the other stations in attacking JN-25.
Not that anyone understood much directly. The actual process of code-breaking rarely yielded more than 10%-15% of a message. The rest was all analysis: perhaps the name of a ship suggested another usually with it … or a past operation might help next time when the place names cropped up again … or a familiar operator’s touch might give the source away; call letters could change, but a particular operator’s “fist”—never.
It took a curious combination of talents to fathom all this—ideally a man should be sailor, linguist and puzzle fiend in about equal proportion—so it was not surprising that the Combat Intelligence Unit was known as an outfit of individualists. Nominally under the 14th Naval District, actually they were left on their own to exercise their special brand of genius. They lived for their work, and as the Japanese offensive rolled on, they got plenty of it. Gradually they absorbed a remarkable amount of unique knowledge.
One day toward the middle of April a totally unexpected message arrived from Washington. It was, in fact, the first and only communication Rochefort ever received directly from Admiral Ernest J. King, Commander in Chief of the U.S. Fleet. COMINCH wanted Rochefort to give, based on the current flow of intercepts, his long-range estimate of Japanese naval intentions.
It was unusual, to say the least, for King to dip so far down the line in asking a question; yet it was understandable too at this particular moment. The Japanese had just raided Ceylon. Did this mean a major shift in the war toward India, or would they soon be back in the Pacific? A great deal depended on the answer.
Rochefort came up with a four-point estimate, reflecting the combined opinion of his staff: (1) Japanese operations in the Indian Ocean were over; the fleet was on its way home; (2) they weren’t going to attack Australia; (3) they were planning an operation south of Rabaul, with forces already assigned; (4) there were signs of something else brewing in the Pacific, but he couldn’t say when or where.
By late April the missing pieces were beginning to fall into place. The operation south of Rabaul was definitely aimed at Port Moresby—U.S. units headed for the Coral Sea. The other operation remained something of a mystery, but the Central Pacific seemed a strong possibility, and it was hard to look at the map without noticing Midway. Serving at various times as a coaling station, commercial cable relay point, and Pan American Clipper rest stop, Midway was currently a very useful but highly exposed Navy patrol plane base. It consisted of just two tiny islets, Sand and Eastern, lying side by side in a beautiful blue lagoon. There was nothing else worth anything for a thousand miles around. Midway was out in the Pacific alone—all alone.
Admiral Nimitz made a brief visit there May 2, spending a day with the officers in charge, Navy Commander Cyril T. Simard and Marine Lieutenant Colonel Harold Shannon. Nimitz mentioned no specific threat but did ask what they’d need to defend Midway against an attack. The two men poured out their requirements.
“If I get you all these things you say you need, then can you defend Midway against a major amphibious assault?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another week passed, and at Pearl Harbor Rochefort began to get a better picture. As always, it was a matter of piecing together the scraps gathered by all three stations—Pearl, Washington and a new unit in Australia replacing the one lost with the Philippines. Even so, there was nothing conclusive. It was all spotty … but nonetheless revealing. For instance, it was clear that Admiral Kondo’s Battleship Division 3 was talking a lot to Nagumo’s First Carrier Force … that certain transports were getting orders to Saipan, and BatDiv 3 was talking to them too … that Cruiser Division 7 was also heading for Saipan. Was there any connection between these things?
The traffic never gave any clear-cut answer. Often the pertinent messages were days apart. Yet Joe Rochefort had a knack of remembering them all, and as he pieced the picture together, it pointed to a massive operation involving most of the Imperial Combined Fleet.
But again, where? The Japanese never mentioned any particular spot, but gradually one name began cropping up more and more often—sometimes as a destination, sometimes as a place calling for certain equipment. In a sort of code-within-the-code this place was always called “AF.”
Rochefort’s little group racked their brains. Finally someone remembered that AF had also appeared in messages last March, at the time a couple of Japanese seaplanes made an abortive attack on Pearl Harbor. Papers flew as the whole office dug through the piles of intercepts, trying to track this vague clue down. Finally, there it was. The Japanese had indeed mentioned AF. Those seaplanes had refueled from a submarine at French Frigate Shoals, a tiny atoll lying toward Midway, and one of the messages spoke of passing near AF.
For Rochefort, that settled it. AF must lie in the Midway area … and the only place worth taking around there was Midway itself. From now on, his estimates began stressing Midway as the probable target.
Not everyone saw it that clearly. The intercepts also referred to “AL,” “AO,” “AOB”—all definitely in the Aleutian area—and some high officers, especially in Washington, thought that the real target was Alaska or the West Coast. Admiral King himself leaned for a time toward Hawaii as a possibility, and the Army Air Force was always worried about a raid on San Francisco.
It was hard to change their minds. As usual, Rochefort’s unit rarely managed to “read” more than 15% of an intercept, and to the average professional officer 15% seemed mighty little to go on. It was different in the old days when offices were smaller and the men knew each other better. Now there was tremendous turnover; whole new layers of command moved in, often staffed by men who knew little about radio intelligence. It was too much to expect them to understand the intricacies of cryptoanalysis. Nor did it help that the cryptoanalysts were so secretive. They had to be, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier to sell their wares to the bright new faces at COMINCH.
So the Navy Department had its skeptics … and so did the Army Air Force … and so, for that matter, did the high command in Hawaii.
But Rochefort also had his allies, and one of them was Nimitz’s intelligence officer, Lieutenant Commander Edwin T. Layton. He too knew the Japanese and their language well. He spent two years at the Embassy in Tokyo just before the war, then was Admiral Kimmel’s intelligence chief at the time of the Pearl Harbor disaster. Like the rest of Kimmel’s staff, Layton wondered what would become of himself when Nimitz took over; and like the others, he felt that tremendous surge of morale when Nimitz asked them all to stay with him.
Intelligence, Nimitz told Layton, was something he knew nothing about. He had only this one suggestion: He hoped Layton would approach his job as though he were Admiral Nagano, or Yamamoto, or whoever was calling the tune in Tokyo. With the information at hand, he should put himself in Japanese shoes and come up with his best estimate of their plans and intentions.
With such sailing orders, it was easy to fall under the spell of Joe Rochefort’s shop. Layton was completely sold, did his best to sell Nimitz too. The Admiral himself was half convinced, but no more.
Around May 8 Layton finally begged Nimitz to visit the Combat Intelligence Unit. Then he could see for himself. Layton was sure that once the Admiral watched the place in operation—saw how carefully the information was pieced together—then he too would become a true believer.
Nimitz couldn’t come. Swamped with work on the Coral Sea battle, he was just too busy. But he did send Captain L. D. McCormick, his war plans officer. McCormick said he was busy too, but finally agreed to set aside two hours.
Down the stairs they went, and into the basement room, which for once the staff had made a halfhearted effort to clean up. On a makeshift table of planks and sawhorses Rochefort had spread all his intercepts. He patiently showed how one led to another, and how they all fitted together to form a composite picture.
McCormick was fascinated. In the end, he spent not two but three and a half hours poking around, flipping the material, asking a thousand tough, show-me questions. There were no velvet gloves on either side… .
“How do you know the Kamikawa Maru isn’t just heading for her home port?”
“Well, if she is, that would be doing a tonsillectomy through the rectum.”
In the end, McCormick came away completely convinced, and to sell McCormick was to sell Nimitz. From that day on, the Admiral was the staunchest ally Rochefort and Layton could hope to have.
Washington remained skeptical. For one thing, they still hadn’t pinned down exactly what the Japanese meant by “AF.” Rochefort was always sure it was Midway but he needed proof. Around May 10 he went to Layton with an idea. Could Midway be instructed to radio a fake message in plain English, saying their fresh-water machinery had broken down? Nimitz cheerfully went along with the ruse … Midway followed through … and two days later a Japanese intercept was picked up, reporting that AF was low on fresh water.
May 14, Nimitz filled in Major General Delos Emmons, the local Army commander, and declared a state of “Fleet Opposed Invasion.” On the 15th, he began assembling his meager collection of ships. He had only three carriers and all were thousands of miles away in the South Pacific. Rear Admiral Frank Jack Fletcher’s Task Force 17 was at Tongatabu, licking its wounds from the Coral Sea battle. The carrier Yorktown had not been sunk, as the Japanese claimed, but she was far from healthy. One bomb had ripped out her innards, and two near-misses had opened some seams. Vice Admiral William F. Halsey’s Task Force 16 was marking time off the Solomons; he had arrived with the carriers Enterprise and Hornet just too late for Coral Sea. Nimitz radioed them all to hurry back.
At Tongatabu Fletcher quickly made a few patchwork repairs—then he was on his way. East of the Solomons, Halsey got the message May 16, local time, and immediately began collecting his scattered ships. He was rounding up the last of them on the 18th when a new message arrived from Nimitz. This one was only two words: “EXPEDITE RETURN.”
As they swung northeast for Pearl, the Enterprise’s navigation officer, Commander Richard Ruble, had a satisfying thought. He recalled how, on the 15th, they had discovered an enemy patrol plane snooping about on the western horizon. Visibility was perfect, and it had plenty of time to get off a good contact report to Japanese headquarters firmly placing Task Force 16 deep in the South Pacific.
Back at Pearl Harbor the Combat Intelligence Unit labored on. Rochefort himself concentrated on the translations—so much depended on the nuances of the Japanese language even after a message was broken. He was now putting in 20-21 hours a day, curling up in some corner for occasional naps, going home “only when someone told me I ought to take a bath.” The rest of the staff worked just as hard—Jasper Holmes, slaving over his ship positions; Tommy Dyer gulping keep-awake pills by the fistful; the brilliant Ham Wright buried in paper.
At CINCPAC, staff officers carefully noted the information on their charts. By now the composition of Nagumo’s Striking Force was down pat—CarDivs 1 and 2, CruDiv 8, all the familiar names—but the route was more uncertain. Some clues suggested they’d come straight across; other clues said no, they’d go considerably to the north, then slant down. There was a theory they might even strike from the east. From all this, time was clearly another question mark.
There was less mystery about the Occupation Force coming up from the southwest. The route was clear; the only question was when it would arrive. Well, somebody figured, if the transport Goshu Maru left the Marshalls May 17, it could link up at Saipan on the 22nd, and the whole convoy would be at Midway on the 30th. On the other hand, there was much radio traffic about exercises, and maybe these would push the whole operation back a little… .
Carried away by the mounting excitement, it was hard for the insiders at CINCPAC to realize that some people were still dubious about the whole business. On May 16 or 17 Nimitz received a letter from General Emmons saying he appreciated the intelligence, but felt he ought to point something out. These estimates were based on enemy intentions rather than capabilities. It was safer to plan in terms of capabilities, and the Japanese were certainly capable of attacking Hawaii.
Nimitz called Commander Layton in—the Admiral’s blue eyes twinkling with amusement as Layton exploded with exasperation. Yet Emmons’s misgivings were understandable. Like most others, he knew little about Rochefort’s work. Beyond that, there was the matter of Nimitz’s order directing a state of “Fleet Opposed Invasion.” This put all his Seventh Air Force bombers under CINCPAC control. But if the Navy was wrong and the Japanese did come to Hawaii, it would be Emmons, not Nimitz, who would feel the full blast from the War Department at being caught with no planes on hand.
Nimitz was not about to reverse course, but he did make a move typical of this most careful and conciliatory of men. He assigned one of his staff, Captain J. M. Steele, to the specific job of keeping an eye on the Combat Intelligence Unit’s material. Steele became a sort of “devil’s advocate,” deliberately challenging every estimate, deliberately making Rochefort and Layton back up every point.
Steele really threw himself into the job. Layton rued the day it ever happened, but from Nimitz’s point of view the assignment served two very useful purposes. First, it did something specific about General Emmons’s letter without any real change in course; second, it provided a genuine check just in case they all were wrong, and the Japanese really did have an extra trick or two.
No more time for debating. The latest intercepts indicated that the attack might come as early as May 28. Nimitz warned Midway, and preparations at Pearl moved into high gear. Decisions were made in hours that normally might take days. What to do about the Aleutian side show? Nimitz decided to counter it with a small force that would keep the Japanese occupied and guard his own flank. How to use the submarines? Put them in an arc west of Midway to try and intercept the Japanese fleet coming in. What about the battleships on the West Coast? Keep them there; they only got in the way. How about the Yorktown’s damage? Take a chance on repairing her at Pearl Harbor; an urgent message listed the things they’d need: arresting gear … 50 pneumercator gauges … and so on. In any other navy it might have seemed strange that this priority list also included a new freezer for the soda fountain.
The Army was now in high gear too. On May 18 the entire Seventh Air Force went on special alert for an attack on Midway or (the old fear persisted) an air raid on Hawaii. B-17s began pouring in from the West Coast. At the same time, big new PBYs were arriving for the Navy—these, in turn, hurried on to Midway.
They were all part of a sudden rush to beef up the place—a far cry from the old days when Midway seemed at the bottom of every supply depot’s priority list. For months the Marines just couldn’t get any barbed wire; now they got “hundreds of miles of it.” Sandbags, antiaircraft guns, impregnated clothing, PT boats, reinforcements, all poured out in a steady stream. When the big railroad ferry Kittyhawk left for Midway on May 23, her decks bulged with fighters and dive bombers, even five light tanks.
But how to use this growing strength? And how best to coordinate it with the three precious carriers racing up from the South Pacific? On the 23rd Nimitz asked Admiral Pat Bellinger, his patrol plane chief, and Captain A. C. Davis, his staff aviation officer, to confer with the Army immediately on how to make best use of all the planes available—both Army and Navy, ashore and afloat. They should think in terms of possibly five Japanese carriers, and they must hurry, “TIME IS EVERYTHING.”
The submarines were already moving out. The big Nautilus was lying in dry dock when her skipper Lieutenant Commander Bill Brockman was asked how soon he could get going. Brockman said about 48 hours. Everyone worked around the clock, and at 9:00 A.M. on May 24 she slipped down the channel, bound for her station in the arc west of Midway. Eleven other subs were out there too; seven more patrolled to the east in case Nagumo tried an unexpected dash for Hawaii.
May 25, there was new excitement at Pearl Harbor. This day the Combat Intelligence Unit came through with its hottest item yet—a long Japanese intercept that really laid it on the line. This message ticked off the various units, the ships, the captains, the course, the launching time—everything.
Rochefort was hard at work on the translation when word came that Nimitz wanted to see him personally at a certain time. Completely absorbed and wanting to finish it, he turned up at the Admiral’s office half an hour late. This was too much for even the placid Nimitz, and his manner was chilly, to say the least. But he soon warmed up as Rochefort gave him, point by point, the exact battle order and operating plan of the Japanese Striking Force.
Nimitz rushed a new message to Midway, giving all the details. There were only two bright spots: Nagumo’s Force no longer included the carrier Zuikaku; and the date of the attack would be later than they originally thought—it should fall some time around June 3-5.
Washington still had its skeptics. Now the big fear was a Japanese ruse; the enemy might be just feeding Nimitz these messages to cover up a major raid on Hawaii or the West Coast. After all, they used fake radio signals to fool CINCPAC just before the attack on Pearl Harbor. Maybe this was the same sort of thing. Nimitz should plan his defenses with this threat in mind.
There was something to the argument. The Japanese had indeed used radio deception before Pearl Harbor. Nor was radio traffic analysis infallible. A week before the December 7 raid CINCPAC had placed one Japanese carrier division in the South Pacific because the destroyers that usually guarded it were down there—yet, as everyone soon found out, this guess had been all too wrong.
But, Nimitz’s intelligence men argued, this time was different. There were only isolated messages before Pearl Harbor; now there was a mountain of intelligence. And besides, there was the make-up of the Japanese force—it clearly involved a landing. They wouldn’t be bringing all those troops and transports for an air raid on San Francisco.
The argument dragged on. At the bottom, it was really just the old controversy over enemy intentions or capabilities. Sacred to the Naval War College was the doctrine that all decisions must be based on what the enemy could do, rather than what it probably would do. Nimitz knew the risks of outguessing the Japanese as well as anyone, but, as he often told Layton, he felt the Navy’s planning should put more stress on what was most likely to happen, rather than just the worst that could happen.
This time, moreover, he had a source of intelligence never dreamed of by the men who wrote the textbooks. Those intercepts gave him a priceless advantage that must not be wasted. He was sure the Japanese were coming to Midway, and all countermeasures should be based on this assumption. He stood firm—and won.
Just in time too. That key intercept of May 25 was the last message in the JN-25 code that Rochefort’s group managed to unravel. Right afterward the Japanese changed their system, and everything went black. It would be weeks before the Combat Intelligence Unit began “reading” this sort of material again. Meanwhile, they could only fill in some gaps and continue to break ship-to-ship traffic—useful, but it gave no overall picture. That remained blank, but by now it was all decided. Nimitz could place his ships and planes where he wanted.
“Assume 4 CV, each with 36 VF plus 27 VSB (63 planes each) attack Balsa from short range, say 50 to 100 miles, with view of knocking out at once the air defense,” wrote the Admiral in a hasty note to Captain Davis. “Visualize as clearly as possible his method of operating and OUR best countertactics. Give me brief pencil memo on this, and then we will discuss.”*
The harried staff was bombarded with questions, often getting down to hard details, for Nimitz was not just a planner, but a careful, meticulous fighter. What would be the best positions for the 12 additional 3-inch AA guns now being rushed to Midway? Where should the U.S. carriers be placed to give the greatest support? Where should the subs be stationed after the attack began? Should Midway’s planes avoid fighting the Japanese bombers and go all out for the carriers? Should more planes be based on Midway?
“The problem at Midway is one of hitting “before we are hit,” wrote Admiral Bellinger, submitting a search plan worked out with General Tinker of the Seventh Air Force. It called for patrolling 700 miles out every day, covering the whole 180° west of Midway. To do the job, they needed 23 PBYs … eight more than they already had. Endorsing the scheme on May 26, Captain Davis noted an intriguing possibility: “The plan will leave an excellent flanking area northeast of Midway for our carriers.”
And they were coming in now. That same morning on the southwest horizon a single speck appeared … then 2 … 5 … 21 altogether, as Admiral Halsey’s Task Force 16 pounded up from the Solomons. It had been an exciting trip back, full of speculation. Some, like Commander Ed Creehan, the Hornet’s engineering officer, had a good pipe line—his old shipmate Captain Marc Mitscher tipped him off. Others could only guess. On the Enterprise Ensign Lewis Hopkins of Bombing Squadron 6 noted that even the plane radio transmitters were wired off—it must be really big. Seamen on the destroyer Balch wondered why Commander Tiemroth had them working so hard rigging life lines and rescue nets—whatever it was, it looked dangerous.
The man who knew best was in no mood to see anyone. Admiral Halsey had come down with a skin disease, and the itch was driving him crazy. He tried everything—even oatmeal water baths—but nothing helped. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep. Completely exhausted, he now lay in his cabin, a bundle of nerves and temper.
At 11:33 A.M. the Enterprise entered Pearl Harbor channel, and was soon tied up at Ford Island. Dr. Hightower put Halsey on the sick list, but the Admiral—never a good patient—went over to CINCPAC anyhow. Nimitz took one look, ordered him to the hospital immediately. But first he wanted Halsey’s recommendation on who should take over Task Force 16 for the coming battle. Without-a second’s hesitation, the normally ebullient Halsey named the man perhaps least like him in the entire Pacific fleet—the quiet, methodical commander of his cruisers and destroyers, Rear Admiral Raymond Ames Spruance.
Spruance himself had no inkling what was up. After his flagship Northampton made fast, he went around to the Enterprise to report to Halsey as usual. Only then did he find that the Admiral had been taken to the hospital. He joined the rest of the task force commanders as they sat in the flag cabin, restlessly waiting to learn who would take over.
Halsey’s aide Lieutenant William H. Ashford arrived, sent by the Admiral to tip Spruance off. The place seemed a little public, so Ashford took the new commander into Halsey’s bedroom and told him there. Spruance was thoroughly surprised. He was junior to several other possibilities, was a nonaviator, had never even served a day on a carrier. Yet he was used to following Halsey around the Pacific, and he’d have Halsey’s fine staff to back him up.
He hurried to CINCPAC, where Nimitz formally told him of his appointment. A quick briefing followed on the Japanese advance; then the two men sat around planning the U.S. countermove. To Spruance there was only one thing to do: take the carriers and lie in wait northeast of Midway. Normally he might head northwest—straight for the Japanese—and engage them somewhere west of the atoll, but the stakes seemed too high. Even accepting that miraculous intelligence, the Japanese just might change their plans and go for Hawaii or the West Coast. Then he’d find himself caught on the wrong side of them, out of the fight and useless. He could have it both ways by waiting in the northeast: he’d be safe against an end run, and he had a marvelous chance for an ambush.
It was fine with Nimitz.
Back on the Enterprise, Lieutenant Clarence E. Dickinson noticed his old Academy classmate Lieutenant R. J. Oliver coming up the gangway. Oliver was Spruance’s flag lieutenant on the Northampton—what was he doing here? It turned out he was arranging to bring over the Admiral’s personal gear. One way or another the news raced through the task force: Spruance was taking over; Halsey was on the beach.
It was hard to believe. In the past six months Bill Halsey had become a part of them. From the wreckage of Pearl Harbor, he had lifted them—both the frightened recruits and the disillusioned old-timers—and given them new faith in themselves. Gradually he gave them other things too—skills, strength, endurance, spirit. They knew all this, and they loved him for it. Even now they could picture him sitting up by the bow watching take-offs—they said he knew every plane. It was almost impossible to think of being without him.
Not that they disliked Spruance—they hardly knew the man—but that was just the trouble. There were stories that he was from the “gun club”—part of the conservative battleship crowd that looked down on the jaunty aviators and their sporty brown shoes. That sounded like bad news. As one long-time machinist’s mate on the Enterprise later explained, “We had nothing against him, but we knew we had a black-shoe admiral in our midst.”
Well, they’d see. Meanwhile, they were far too busy to brood. A great sense of urgency hung in the air. People were frozen in their jobs; even Captain Marc Mitscher, slated to be an admiral, would stay on as skipper of the Hornet. His replacement, Captain Charles Perry Mason, came aboard as observer and reminded Mitscher, “Take good care of her—this is my ship.”
The harbor was alive with activity. Fuel and ammunition barges tooted impatiently, jockeying to come alongside the ships. The destroyer Aylwin’s entire crew worked all night, loading and stowing fresh supplies. On the Hornet Machinist’s Mate J. E. Hoy sweated away, shifting provisions to the kitchen. When they were one can of Spam short, the cook refused to sign for anything, and all work stopped amid angry bickering. Word reached the bridge, and Marc Mitscher exploded—unless this was settled by the time he got there, everybody would be court-martialed. The men got the point; the cook signed and the work raced on— “Mitscher was a guy you didn’t fool with.”
Ashore, another member of the Hornet’s company had a different kind of supply problem. Lieutenant Commander John Waldron, skipper of Torpedo Squadron 8, was laying siege to the Aircraft Matériel Office. He heard they had a supply of newly designed twin machine-gun mounts; now he was determined to get some for his slow, highly vulnerable torpedo planes. The guns were really meant for dive bombers, but there was something about this impassioned, almost mystical man—others noticed it too—and in the end Captain Lyon relented and gave him the guns. Waldron rushed off, so elated he forgot his flight gloves.
On the Enterprise, work stopped long enough May 27 for a brief ceremony on the flight deck. In a flurry of ruffles and bosun calls, Admiral Nimitz came aboard to decorate three of the pilots. Pinning the Distinguished Flying Cross on the chest of Lieutenant Roger Mehle, the Admiral paused and looked him straight in the eye: “I think you’ll have a chance to win yourself another medal in the next several days.”
That afternoon a new set of specks appeared on the southwestern horizon. Admiral Fletcher’s Task Force 17 was coming in too. It had been a hard trip, full of suspense as the wounded Yorktown trailed a telltale oil slick for miles behind her. But they were safe at last, and the crew was in high spirits. They certainly didn’t wish the “Old Lady” ill, but the damage from that bomb should keep her in dry dock for a long time; and after 101 days at sea they could use a little liberty. As the big carrier limped up the channel, the men could almost taste the Hotel Street beer.
A special reception committee was waiting at Dry Dock No. 1. Yard worker Cyril Williams and a crew of other hands had spent all the past night getting blocks manufactured and secured, ready to receive the Yorktown. They finished just in time, watching with satisfaction as the big carrier nosed through the gates.
On board, the men learned with dismay that there’d be no liberty after all. Far from it: working parties were already loading fresh supplies of food and ammunition. No one knew what was up; the ship’s Marine Detachment caustically agreed, “The navigator has lost the charts to the American waters.”
Even before the dock had drained, a little group could be seen sloshing around, examining the bent and crumpled plates. The yard manager, Captain Claude Gillette, conferred with his hull repair expert, Lieutenant Commander H. J. Pfingstag, and other technicians. Talking with them—in hip boots like the rest—was Admiral Nimitz himself.
It was clear the damage was very serious. The two near-misses hadn’t done much—the leaks could be quickly patched —but the direct hit was another matter. It had exploded four decks down, spreading havoc for 100 feet—decks blistered, doors and hatches blown off, bulkheads ripped open, frames and stanchions twisted. It should take weeks to fix;
“We must have this ship back in three days,” Nimitz told the group. His voice was quiet, his manner very, very serious. The men hesitated, looked at one another, and finally Pfingstag gulped, “Yes, sir.”
Nimitz was back in his office at the sub base by the time Admiral Fletcher checked in a little later. Perhaps it was because they knew each other so well, but Fletcher immediately sensed that his boss—normally the calmest of people—was deeply disturbed. Nimitz started off by asking Fletcher how he felt. “Pretty tired,” was the answer. Nimitz nodded; yes, he understood and normally he’d send him back to the West Coast, but he couldn’t do it this time. The Japanese were on their way to Midway; Task Force 17 had to go right out again.
Nimitz then poured out the details, ship by ship, of the Japanese operation. “Do you know,” he added with just a touch of irritation, “they’ve even named the officer who is to take over the Naval Station there on August 1?”
Gradually he filled in Fletcher on everything else: Halsey was out … Spruance now had the Enterprise and Hornet … they’d be starting off soon … Fletcher would follow with the Yorktown … the two forces would join up with Fletcher taking over-all command as senior officer … then they’d lie in wait off Midway.
Fletcher understood. He had only one misgiving. The Yorktown had lost a lot of fliers at Coral Sea, and he was worried about the new bombing and torpedo squadrons Nimitz planned to give him. It wasn’t a question of quality—he was sure they were excellent—but they hadn’t worked with the ship before. Couldn’t he keep his regular group, filling it out with replacements? No, said Nimitz; the old fliers needed a rest, and new complete squadrons promised better coordination.
At some point Spruance joined them, and the question arose whether the Yorktown could really make it. “She’ll be joining you,” Nimitz said firmly.
It certainly didn’t look like it. The Yorktown now lay high out of the water. Yard workers swarmed over her, hammers clattering, acetylene torches flaring in the growing dusk. During the evening a courier came aboard, climbing over the wires and cables, and delivered a thick document to Lieutenant (j.g.) John Greenbacker, the ship’s secretary. Greenbacker signed for it and thereby became the first person on board to see CINCPAC Operation Plan no. 29-42, the official blueprint setting forth all the thinking and decisions of the past two weeks.
“The enemy is expected to attempt the capture of Midway in the near future,” it explained. “For this purpose it is believed that the enemy will employ approximately the following: 2-4 fast battleships: 4-5 carriers; 8-9 heavy cruisers; 16-24 destroyers; 8-12 submarines; a landing force with seaplane tenders… .”
This catalogue of chilling details was followed by the American answer: an outline of the tactics CINCPAC proposed to follow. Specific tasks were assigned each of the various U.S. forces. The carriers would “inflict maximum damage on the enemy by employing strong attrition tactics.” As decided, they would operate northeast of Midway, hoping to catch the Japanese by surprise. Submarines would go for the enemy carriers; Midway itself would concentrate on defense and patrols; Hawaii would contribute a long-range striking force. In listing these tasks, the language was usually general (Midway’s first job was simply, “hold Midway”), but there was no doubt that everybody had enough to do.
There were 86 copies of Op Plan 29-42, and as they were distributed throughout the various commands, selected officers studied the details with fascination. To those eligible to see it, the meticulous intelligence on the Japanese movements seemed almost incredible. Not knowing where it came from —and perhaps having read too many spy thrillers—the Enterprise’s navigator, Commander Ruble, could only say to himself, “That man of ours in Tokyo is worth every cent we pay him.”
A bright sun sparkled off the water next morning, May 28, as the destroyers of Task Force 16 slipped their moorings and glided single file down Pearl Harbor Channel toward the open sea. Behind them came a pair of tankers, then the cruisers, and finally the Enterprise and Hornet.
On the bridge of the Enterprise the “black-shoe Admiral” Raymond Spruance thoughtfully watched his first command of carriers move down the harbor. In the words of the master plan, he was on his way “to inflict maximum damage on the enemy.” And to guide him he now had a last-minute Letter of Instructions just issued by Nimitz to his two commanders: “In carrying out the task assigned on Op Plan 29-42, you will be governed by the principle of calculated risk, which you will interpret to mean the avoidance of exposure of your force to attack by superior enemy forces without good prospect of inflicting, as a result of such exposure, greater damage to the enemy.”
To achieve this most delicate of formulas was now up to him. At 11:59 the Enterprise cleared the channel, swung toward Barbers Point, and headed for those lonely waters northeast of Midway.
Back at Pearl Harbor, a rebellious but helpless patient watched from a lanai at the Naval Hospital. For the utterly frustrated Halsey, seeing them go without him was even worse than the itch.
In contrast to the antiseptic quiet of the hospital was the bedlam at Dry Dock No. 1. Hundreds of men now swarmed over the Yorktown—she seemed even more alive out of the water than afloat. Clouds of smoke poured up from the acetylene torches burning away her damaged plates. The clatter of drills and hammers never stopped.
Deep inside the ship Bill Bennett, the burly supervisor of Shop 11-26, bore down on his gang of 150 shipfitters. One qualification of a Navy yard boss was to be even tougher than his men, and Bennett easily met the test. He was in charge all the way as they sweated to erase the devastating direct hit.
There was no time for plans or sketches. The men worked directly with the steel beams and bars brought on the ship. Coming to a damaged frame, burners would take out the worst of it; fitters would line up a new section, cut it to match the contour of the damage; riggers and welders would move in, “tacking” the new piece in place. Then on to the next job—there seemed no end to the grind.
And it was hell down there besides—120° temperature, little light, lots of smoke. When a man looked really ready to drop, Bennett would send him topside for a sandwich and a breath of air. He himself never bothered with any of that. Occasionally sucking an orange, he worked for 48 hours straight.
All over the ship it was the same story. Ellis Clanton, chief quarterman at Shop 31, didn’t leave the ship for three days, as he struggled to repair the weird assortment of fixtures that are part of a great carrier—elevator shoes, arresting gear rams and so forth. Working on the hull, Ed Sheehan grew so tired he finally fell asleep on the scaffolding.
At one point a group of welders seemed about ready to fold. Out of nowhere a naval officer appeared and asked them to gather around. The Japanese, he explained, were on their way to Midway … they thought the Yorktown was sunk … wouldn’t they be surprised if they found her fit and ready to fight? His psychology worked; the men rushed back to their jobs.
All the night of the 28th the pace continued, the Yorktown spouting sparks and blue flashes as the welders worked on. It was a nightmare for the ship’s crew, but few had time to rest anyhow. Gunner’s Mate Jefferson Vick was typical—he spent 48 hours straight hauling bombs aboard, with only one five-hour break.
While the work went on, an odd thing was happening in nearby Honolulu. First the electric power failed in the Kahala district. Then when that was fixed, it failed in the Nuuanu Valley. The same thing happened from time to time in other parts of town. The local citizens were used to the erratic ways of the Hawaiian Electric Company, but this time was no accident. Needing extra power to run the enormous amount of repair equipment, the Navy Yard contacted Leslie Hicks, president of the company, and explained the emergency in confidence. Hicks said he thought he could help, and quietly staged “failures” in one district after another, diverting the desperately needed electricity to the Yard.
By midmorning on the 29th they had run out of time. At 11:00 the cocks were opened, the dry dock flooded, and the Yorktown towed back into the harbor. It was a slow, delicate job getting her out—much too slow for the tower, which kept flashing, “EXPEDITE! EXPEDITE!” Hundreds of men still worked on her; Bill Bennett’s shipfitters were gone, but the electricians and mechanics were everywhere.
In his cabin Captain Elliott Buckmaster labored over a million last details. Commander Dixie Kiefer, the ship’s colorful executive officer, dropped by at one point, urging the Captain to put his own personal belongings ashore. No, said Buckmaster, he was too old a sea dog for that—never get separated from your personal gear.
The work went on, ashore as well as afloat. The Yorktown’s landing signal officer, Lieutenant Norwood Campbell, struggled to get the new squadrons in shape for carrier landings. The pilots were mostly from the Saratoga. She had been torpedoed in January, and since then they had spent a good deal of time kicking around. Lieutenant Commander Max Leslie’s Bombing Squadron 3 was sharp—they had spelled the Enterprise’s bombers on the Doolittle raid. But Lieutenant Commander Lance Massey’s Torpedo 3 was rusty, and Lieutenant Commander John S. Thach’s Fighting 3 was very much a mixed bag: some were Yorktown veterans; some hadn’t seen a carrier for months; some had never served on one.
At the moment all were at Kaneohe on the other side of the island. Most still didn’t know what was up, except that they were suddenly practicing a lot. But that day word began to get around. Commander Leslie took his rear-seat man, Radioman W. E. Gallagher, aside and told him they had a new assignment: they were joining the Yorktown and going out to meet the Japs. He didn’t say where, but Gallagher was to be ready in the morning.
Saturday, May 30, dawned clear at Pearl Harbor. On the Yorktown the shrill call of a bosun’s whistle was the first signal for many that Admiral Nimitz was coming aboard. They had won their fight to get her ready; now it was time to wish them “good luck and good hunting.” Turning to Buckmaster, the Admiral said to announce to all hands that he was sorry they couldn’t go back to the mainland yet. They had a job to do. But when it was over, he’d send the Yorktown to the West Coast for liberty, and he didn’t mean peanuts.
At 9:00 the engines began turning over. Far below, yard hand Fred Rodin and his gang were still wrapping insulation around some newly installed pipes. Suddenly someone yelled down the shaft, “OK, boys, all ashore that’s going ashore—we’re pulling out.” Rodin and his mates bolted topside—this was one trip they didn’t want to make. The Yorktown was already gliding downstream as the last of them dropped down into a launch and bobbed off toward the shore. On she went, picking up speed as she moved down the channel. On the flight deck the ship’s band—with perhaps just a touch of sly humor—lustily blared out, “California, Here I Come.”
That afternoon she picked up her revamped air group—flown out as usual from the base—and by nightfall the whole task force was far beyond the sight of land. They had accomplished wonders—the Yorktown was there—but the odds were still long this brilliant moon-swept night. It would take more than the best intelligence, planning and determination to beat Yamamoto’s huge armada. They knew it at CINCPAC too, and it had a lot to do with naming the rendezvous point where Spruance and Fletcher were slated to meet. This dot on the map—this mythical spot on a trackless ocean—they wishfully called “Point Luck.”
FOR Lieutenant Commander Toshitake Ueno, this same moonlit night brought only bad news. As the darkened U.S. ships pounded north, his submarine I-123 lay idle and useless off French Frigate Shoals, several hundred miles to the west. According to the final version of the Japanese plan, the I-123 was meant to help refuel two seaplanes, up from Kwajalein, for a last-minute look at Pearl Harbor—but there would be no refueling tonight. A big American patrol plane lay anchored in the lagoon.
It was odd. When first tried in March, “Operation K” (as they called it) went off very well. Then the two big seaplanes came up from Kwajalein, refueled from the tanker-submarines, and flew on to Pearl Harbor without any hitch. True, they didn’t accomplish much, but that wasn’t the fault of the arrangements. The rescue sub stood by; the radio beam worked; the refueling went smoothly; and above all nobody bothered them at French Frigate Shoals.
This time was different from the start. When the I-121—first sub to arrive—reached the Shoals on May 26, she found a U.S. seaplane tender already sitting at anchor. Soon the I-122 and I-123 also came up, and the next three days were spent peeking through periscopes, waiting patiently for the tender to go away. But she didn’t, and by the night of May 29 something had to be done. Tomorrow was the big day: the planes would be leaving Kwajalein during the night, planning to arrive and refuel at dusk on the 30th. As senior officer, Commander Ueno took one last look—two ships were there now—and reluctantly radioed the situation to Kwajalein. Vice Admiral Eiji Goto understood; he radioed back that the operation was postponed a day; expect the planes on the 31st.
Now it was the night of the 30th, and pretty much the same story. As Commander Ueno searched the moonlit anchorage, he couldn’t see the tender, but there was no mistaking that PBY—the Americans were still there. Around midnight he again radioed Kwajalein that the place was being watched. This time the answer came from Goto’s boss, Vice Admiral Nishizo Tsukahara commanding the 11th Air Fleet: the planes wouldn’t be coming at all; Operation K was “suspended.”
It meant there would be no reconnaissance of Pearl Harbor, but little matter: Nimitz’s ships were safely at their berths. And there they would stay, until the great attack smashed at Midway and brought them rushing out into Yamamoto’s great trap.
AT PEARL it seemed strangely empty with the fleet gone, but there was still plenty of activity at CINCPAC. Coming to work that evening, Commander Layton brought along his helmet for the first time since December 7. From Rochefort’s intercepts he knew this was the night for Operation K. French Frigate Shoals were under close watch, but if something went amiss there might be a lot of flak flying about. Nothing happened, of course, except that several of Layton’s colleagues kidded him for bringing his helmet to work for no reason at all.
* The official records are naturally full of abbreviations and code words. “CV” is Navy lingo for carriers, “VF’ for fighters, “VSB” for scout-bombers. “Balsa” is a code name for Midway. For simplicity’s sake, this book will usually translate such designations into layman’s terms, but they seemed too much a part of the flavor of the note to do so here.