"Fly Your Eggs Right Down Their Stacks": A Dauntless Pilot at the Battle of Midway

by Wade Young

The air in the ready room is so tense you can cut chunks of it with a knife. The speech from the flight officer has stretched nerves taut. Now we wait for the whistle. Bulkheads vibrate with activity. Hurrying feet pound the decks. Throbbing pumps flood tanks with 100-octane fuel and the whine of the elevator lifting planes to the flight deck is a continuous high-pitched drone that tightens hands into hard knots of bone and muscle.

The hands on the white clock inch towards 0700. We were here when it read 0330. Two false alarms haven't helped to ease tension, either.

Silence. It comes suddenly. Whispering voices clip off. Heads lift to the square speaker. Is this it? Fighter, bomber and torpedo plane crews shift uneasily in their chairs. Cigarettes are crushed. It's so quiet now you can hear the sound of breathing.

The loudspeaker cracks. A harsh voice blares, "Pilots, man your planes!" A shrill whistle follows. Chairs scrape. Talk crackles as we streak up from the guts of the Enterprise and hit the hot steel deck.

Engines sputter. Crewmen are still snugging up live torpedoes under the Devastators, the first they've ever carried. I climb onto the wing of my Dauntless. The paint's chipped. Oil streaks ooze from under the engine's nacelle. Patches mark the spots where bullets have chewed into her.

The aircraft carrier sways into a four-knot wind from the southeast. Far below the flight deck is the blue Pacific, calm except for the violent wake waves churned up by powerful turbines.

I choke on the slip-stream from the idling engine. I get set, pull the straps tight. My rear seat man clambers up to his cubbyhole and checks his .30 caliber machine gun.

The Wildcats buzz off first. They taxi up to the catapults, dip under the bow and then rise in a sweeping curve.

Now that the long awaited moment is here I don't feel well. The flight officer's speech keeps hammering back. Efforts to conceal emotion had failed and now his words come slamming through my brain:

The Japs have it all their way. Land-based Army, Navy and Marine planes went in to attack and got chewed to pieces. First three hours we lost seventeen Buffalos and Wildcats. Five out of six Avengers splashed. Out of sixteen dive bombers eight returned to Midway. Heavy Army bombers flew in numbers too small to execute good high-level bomb patterns.

I watch the Devastators take off. My hands are sweaty on the stick thinking about the flight officer's sum-up.

The Japs' objective is to wipe us out and take Midway. If they succeed, Hawaii is lost. Then you can figure them steaming into San Francisco Bay.

He ended by saying it was up to our carrier and her two sisters, the Yorktown and Hornet, to stop the whole damn Japanese Fleet.

On top of all that, a lousy bit of scuttlebutt has us chewing nails to our elbows. We're launching two hours too soon. The opposing forces are 240 miles apart, which means there's a damn good chance we'll run out of gas before we get back to the carrier. Spruance's reasoning is simple, but it probably means death for us. He figures Nagumo is ready for a second strike on Midway and that if we stab him now we'll catch him with all his planes on deck rearming.

But we're still beyond normal carrier plane round-trip range and no matter what kind of light you use to examine the thing it adds up to one gut-retching fact:

This is a suicide flight.

The deck crew motions me to the catapult. They hook me on. The landing officer gives me the sign for full throttle and I lay it in. The engine screams. He drops his hands. I dig into the seat and brace myself as the plane surges forward. I buzz off, dip and then climb up fast.

At thirty thousand feet we rendezvous with planes from the Hornet and fly in V's of V's formation. We bank towards Nagumo's last known position. We're almost at ceiling. The air is sharp and filled with white cottony clouds. We can see about 95,000 square miles of water and all of it is empty.

We're a formidable striking force—twenty-nine Devastator torpedo bombers now flying below us at twenty thousand feet and covered by twenty Wildcat fighters. Dauntless dive bombers number sixty-seven. We look good now, but we haven't met any Japs yet. Suddenly, black specks appear on the horizon. We close in fast. The specks take shape and become the Japanese Task Force—four carriers surrounded by Japanese cruisers and tin cans. The carriers are the veterans of the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor six months earlier. The Kaga, Akagi, Soryu and Hiryu. And Spruance is right: There are so many planes topside you can't see the red meatball painted on the flight decks.

The time is 0930. The date, 4 June 1942. The leader of Torpedo Squadron 8 sends fifteen Devastators on a low torpedo run. They'll blast Akagi out of the ocean.

But it doesn't happen that way. Nagumo must have been waiting for us. Dozens of Zeros scream down from high altitudes. Their guns spit death. Below, warships vomit anti-aircraft fire that stretches out eight miles. Our Devastators are caught between murderous fire from above and below at the same time.

The first torpedo bomber skips over the water and drops his fish 450 yards off Akagi's port. It falls wide. The plane takes a hit and spews smoke. His wings are weakened. He takes another hit, and another. The plane erupts into a ball of fire and disintegrates.

The second bomber gets a wing sheared and splashes. The third blows up, splintering the plane into a million pieces. Three Zekes jump the fourth but the pilot shakes them off and continues his dive.

One after the other, the Devastators roll in low to deal the Akagi a knock-out punch and get clobbered out of the sky. All fifteen of them without a single hit!

At about the same time fourteen torpedo bombers take on the Kaga. But it's bloody murder all over again. Zeros flying three times faster swoop down and smother them. The ones they miss are caught in barrages from warships. Most don't even have a chance to get into position to drop their loads. And again there are no hits.

Torpedo Squadron 3 from the Yorktown—twelve Devastators—goes in to kill the Kaga. Gunners are waiting for them. So are the Zeros. Only four of the bombers are able to limp home.

What about our Wildcats? It's sickening to watch the Zeros out-run, out-maneuver them. They dance around our fighters like the Wildcats are dangling from strings. Our pilots fight like hell but they know they don't stand a chance against the better planes. All they can hope to do is to keep the bastards busy until the bombers make their runs.

A ray of hope sparks us when we see six Avengers from the Hornet take up their positions to fly the gantlet on the Akagi. They're here to battle-test the new ship against the obsolete TBD-1 Devastator. Now we'll see the tide turn.

They divide into two groups. The first three glide in on Akagi's starboard. They present as small a target as possible as they make their approach. The torpedoes are dropped. Looks like they'll de-gut the Japanese carrier for sure. It's Nagumo's flagship. He'll be blown to hell with his crew.

He orders a full turn. The ship is veering away from the three deadly streaks in the water. I can almost see the bastard laughing at us.

Anti-aircraft fire blows up and disintegrates the three Avengers. Two in the second group waver. Tracers streak towards them as they fight for altitude. And above at a safe distance are three Zeros, waiting for them.

One Avenger rolls over on his back and splashes upside down, sending a white geyser fifty feet in the air. The other skips like a flat rock over a pond and settles finally without exploding. The pilot climbs out of the cockpit. He's holding onto a seat cushion with one hand. The Zeros bank wide and come in low over his head. Their guns chatter. Slugs mark a white line. The pilot's face disappears. The cushion bobbles alone and the blue water turns a murky scarlet.

The last Avenger is also in trouble. His guns seem to be jammed. The turret is shattered and the tunnel gun looks like it is blanked by a dangling tail wheel. He doesn't seem able to dodge, which means his elevator control is sliced and the hydraulic system smashed. A landing wheel, ripped out of the belly, hangs down. The bomb-bay doors are open. They're cutting his speed, but I guess he can't close them. Zeros are on his tail as he wings back to the Hornet.

Now it's our turn. The squadron leader breaks radio silence, tells us to nose over in a seventy-degree dive and "Damn it, make every one count."

There are no defending Zeros up here to interfere with us. The torpedo bombers have sucked them down to water level. Japanese anti-aircraft is set for low-level defense. They'll have to re-adjust and they don't have the time.

The thought that comes to me is that thirty-five torpedo bombers have sacrificed themselves so that we can complete our bomb run with a minimum of danger.

We start our dive, thirty-two Dauntlesses slashing downward now from twenty thousand feet, our engines screaming. Every pilot's eyes are fixed on the Akagi with forty of her planes on deck. Our orders are to launch at five hundred yards out. The first bomb is a near miss, lands ten yards from the bridge. The second 500-pounder crashes through the elevator amidships and detonates her torpedoes on the hangar deck. The third explodes the planes sitting on the meatball ensign. The Akagi is smoking from stem to stern. Japs are leaping over the sides. Fresh explosions rip out her guts. She's beginning to list.

The Soryu is under attack. Dive bombers are releasing one-thou­sand pounders from an altitude of twenty-five hundred feet. The carrier is hit fore, mid and aft. Squatting planes are hurled from her deck. Sheets of flame sweep across the entire ship, catching Japanese sailors before they can scramble for cover. You can see the fire belch at them as they try to run. You can see their clothes ignite and some leap off, looking like smoking torches as they make their descent to the water.

The Kaga catches her hell from Yorktown bombers just showing up at the scene. Dauntlesses nose over at 14,500 feet and come down screaming like blue streaks of lightning. The first is a direct hit on the Kaga's bridge. Anybody there is chopped meat now. The next three hits chew up the flight deck and everything on it. White hot steel buckles. Men and planes are catapulted into the sea. Fires burn out of control. Great clouds of black smoke rise into the blue sky. Number three is finished. Now for number four, the Hiryu. But she's gone.

The carrier has slipped away during the heat of battle. We climb high for a better look, but see nothing: I have one 500-pounder left. It was for the Hiryu.

My rear seat man lets go with a long burst. I turn around and see two Zeros crawling up my back. More Zeros barrel in and scatter our formation. Planes in Scout Bomber 6 are all over the sky, each with at least two Zeros circling it like angry wasps. They have reason to be angry—we just wrote their death warrant by blasting their carriers. With no place to land they're going to make sure they don't ditch alone.

My gunner trains his sights on the closest Zero and lets him have four long bursts. The Japanese plane falters. The nose dips slightly and the wings are pock-marked with bullet holes. He goes into a spin under us.

The other Zero veers off to attack my wingman on the right. The pilot is nursing a smoking engine. He's got two Japs to worry about, doesn't need a third. My gunner whips his weapon in a ninety-degree turn and lays in slugs. Now I see why our Jap wants my wingman.

The pilot is climbing out of the cockpit. They like nothing better than to make a dog fight a personal thing. They don't want to destroy planes; they want to see Americans bleed and die. So now all three Zeros bear down on the pilot as he stands on the wing ready to bail out. Slugs chop into him. His flying suit is ripped apart. Blood streaks spray from his body.

He twists around, is slammed against the fuselage. In the few seconds he stands there he's cut to pieces. The thing that falls into the water is a chunk of red meat.

The white hot rage I feel is shared by my gunner. His weapon never stops now. The metal must be glowing red. His bullets sweep across the three Zeros on our starboard. I can see them knitting the canopies. The Jap in the first plane slaps his hands over his face. Blood turns his fingers red. He slumps forward.

Before the second one can start a climb, slugs eat into his engine and foul it up. Black smoke smothers the pilot's visibility. The third one is already aloft and out of range. My gunner concentrates on knocking the second one out of the sky. And he'll have to do it before the third one gets back.

A short burst into the black smoke hits a bull's eye. You can almost hear the bastard screaming. When the smoke clears you see his mouth wide open and blood pouring down the left side of his face. The plane loses altitude and then he's standing on his nose. Just as he splashes the engine blows up. The white fountain of water turns orange. When the spray settles all you can see are small pieces of junk.

About two thousand yards off my port a pilot and his rear seat man are floating down under white silk. They'll make it all right. Spruance has promised to send search parties out. The pilot will inflate his life raft as soon as it's safe to do so and our PBYs from Midway will pick them up.

But one vengeful Jap changes all that. White silk attracts him. He drops almost vertically and opens up on the defenseless men. I watch them writhe, their legs kicking frantically. Then they go limp and dangle from their shroud lines.

Bastards! I glance back at the gunner. He's beckoning the Zero closer. He looks at me and shakes his head. Then he points downward. I look. A Japanese tin can is directly under us. He yells, "Drop your egg on it, sir!"

I nod. "Right down their stack!"

A screech from above jerks his head up. He turns white. The third Zero is making his play now and coming down hard. Japanese slugs slam into his face. Blood splatters. The stump of a head sags out of sight.

My hands tremble on the stick. The Zero sweeps by, levels off under me and then goes into a vertical roll. I'm next. But while he's climbing I drop down on the Japanese destroyer. I start my descent at eighteen thousand feet and give her full throttle.

The Jap is already on my tail. His bullets tear into my cockpit and destroy the instrument panel. The crew on the tin can are racing around to get their guns into position. Behind me, the Zero is determined to finish me off before I drop my egg. I bear down hard on the stick. I'm doing two hundred knots, or close to it. The engine is screaming like a Banshee. I'm flying a dead man to hell and maybe two—but I'll be damned if I'll let the Jap bastard splash me before I can unsling my five-hundred-pounder.

Pom-poms splatter the air. Black pock marks erupt all around me. Tracers slice so close I can feel their heat. A jagged hole appears in my left wing, made by shrapnel. The Zero figures it's too hot to tail me now and goes aloft. I'm a dead man, anyway. I can't get through this kind of fire.

A 20-mm shell explodes at my left rudder pedal and takes part of my foot. Blood spurts from my shattered leg. The pain is like a hot poker being rammed up from the sole. A sliver of steel slices across the flesh on my forehead and drains blood into my eyes. A slug comes close enough to rip off my throat microphone. My plane is losing power but I've got her on a steady course for that Jap stack and nothing short of an exploding engine is going to keep me from making a score.

I'm heading into their gun barrels. The crew are in my sights but my .30 calibers are jammed. The Jap captain is jumping up and down on the bridge and shaking his fist at me. Five hundred yards… four hundred… three hundred… at two hundred I press the bomb release. The blast concussion shudders the Dauntless. I jerk back hard on the stick. I know I can't climb. All I want to be able to do is straighten out of the dive. I pull over on the port side and do a flipper turn.

Instead of gaining altitude, I'm losing it. At wave crest level four Zeros pounce on me. My left aileron is broken. A seam of holes is stitched across both wings. A slug destroys my oxygen hose. My engine is smoking furiously. The last Zero finishes off whatever controls I have left.

I pancake on the water. The plane skips and jolts hell out of me until the nose digs into the brine. The hot engine sizzles. Water floods in all around me and I flip back the canopy. The plane sinks from under me. I struggle to the surface and grab a piece of flotsam.

My foot wound feels like a thousand needles are pricking it. Blood is still running into my eyes, giving everything a reddish haze. My life raft goes down with the plane. The blood I'm gushing is certain to attract sharks.

A mighty roar above me starts my heart hammering. For a second I think Zeros are coming down to strafe me. But the sound is actually coming from four Dauntlesses. They're after the tin can. My egg crippled it, now they'll kill it.

"Down the stacks!"

The words are out before I realize how insignificant my voice is in this grinding roar of engines and the answering anti-aircraft fire. All four dive bombers sound like they are gasping for fuel. But they come on strong in a sixty-degree dive. The first one jettisons her egg on the forward deck near the bow. You can hear her guts retching and straining to pull up and she does, just barely missing the Japanese ensign.

The explosion blows the deck off. A solid pillar of fire shoots up. The next bomb strikes the tin can amidships. The next crumples the stem and the last one adds the final touch of misery. The ship is shrouded with black smoke and flames are leaping from deck to deck. Japs are screaming and running around like black bugs. Davits are smashed, so they have to jump in the drink. Debris falls around me. Yellow bodies float by, some with their faces wiped away.

I look up at the bombers. They're headed back to the Enterprise but they won't make it. Their engines are already beginning to sputter. But they'll be picked up by Catalinas… like I am, four hours later.

Lt. Cmdr. Wade McClusky was the right man in the right place at the right time to lead the Enterprise Air Group into battle that morning. He was a 42 year old Annapolis trained career naval officer and pilot. In the early carrier raids by Admiral Halsey against the Japanese held Marshall Islands he flew the Wildcat F4F fighter plane. He was one of the Navy's best fighter pilots. On March 21st he was designated Air Group Commander for the Enterprise. As such for the Battle of Midway he flew the Dauntless SBD dive bomber. The SBD was a more stable platform for command and had greater range than the F4F. After pulling out of his dive on the Kaga, McClusky was attacked by two Japanese Zero fighters. As a skilled fighter pilot himself he was able to dog fight the Zeros for ten minutes until his gunner shot down one and the other quit. His SBD was shot up, the instrument panel smashed, and he suffered seven wounds. Still he landed safely back on the Enterprise. More than any other individual Wade McClusky deserves the major credit for the success at Midway.

 

Right down their stacks! A U.S. Navy Douglas SBD Dauntless releasing a bomb. Note the extended trailing edge dive brakes.

Midway Atoll, with Douglas SBD Dauntless dive bombers in flight over it. (May be a composite picture—certainly retouched.)

SBD Dauntless goes into its dive-bombing run.

Douglas SBD Dauntless dive bomber in a dive with dive brakes deployed.

A U.S. Navy Douglas SBD-3 Dauntless of Bombing Squadron VB-3 pictured in flight with Lt. Harold S. Bottomley, Jr., and AMM2c Daniel F. Johnson aboard. It is the same aircraft they flew during the Battle of Midway in June 1942 from the aircraft carriers USS Yorktown (CV-5) and USS Enterprise (CV-6), although it was then marked "B-10." Bottomley and Johnson participated in the successful attacks on the Japanese carriers Soryu and Hiryu on 4 June 1942, flying "B-10."

Radioman-Gunner of an SBD Dauntless aims his plane's twin .30 caliber machine guns.

SBD in a bombing dive, 1942.

Douglas SBD-3 Dauntless.

U.S. Navy flight deck personnel disengage the tailhook of a bomb-laden Douglas SBD-3 Dauntless of Bombing Squadron Six (VB-6) from an arresting wire aboard the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise (CV-6). Note the diagonal tail stripes to assist the Landing Signals Officer when bringing the planes aboard. A "B15" (BuNo 4542), with Ensign George H. Goldsmith, pilot, and Radioman 1st Class James W. Patterson, Jr. landed on board USS Yorktown (CV-5) on 4 June 1942 during the Battle of Midway. This plane, damaged during the attack on the Japanese aircraft carrier Kaga that morning, landed on Yorktown as it was low on fuel. It was later lost with the carrier.

USS Yorktown (CV-5) at Battle of Midway

USS Yorktown, a 19,800 ton aircraft carrier built at Newport News, Virginia, was commissioned on 30 September 1937. Operating in the Atlantic and Caribbean areas until April 1939, she then spent the next two years in the Pacific. In May 1941 Yorktown returned to the Atlantic, patrolling actively during the troubled months preceding the outbreak of war between the United States and the Axis powers.

Two weeks after the 7 December 1941 Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Yorktown transited the Panama Canal to reinforce the badly damaged Pacific Fleet. The carrier's first combat operation was the Marshalls-Gilberts raid in early February 1942. Yorktown then steamed to the South Pacific, where she participated in a series of raids and other operations that climaxed in the Battle of Coral Sea in early May. In this action, in which she was damaged by enemy bombs, her planes attacked two Japanese aircraft carriers, helping to sink Shoho and damaging Shokaku.

Quick repairs at Pearl Harbor put Yorktown into good enough condition to participate in the Battle of Midway on 4-6 June 1942. During this great turning point of the Pacific War, her air group fatally damaged the Japanese aircraft carrier Soryu and shared in the destruction of the carrier Hiryu and cruiser Mikuma. However, successive strikes by dive bombers and torpedo planes from Hiryu seriously damaged Yorktown, causing her abandonment during the afternoon of 4 June. Two days later, while salvage efforts were underway, the Japanese submarine I-168 torpedoed both the damaged carrier and the destroyer Hammann, sinking the latter immediately and Yorktown shortly after daybreak on 7 June 1942. USS Yorktown's wreck was discovered and examined in May 1998, in surprisingly good condition after fifty-six years beneath more than three miles of sea water.

USS Yorktown Salvage and Torpedoing, 5-6 June 1942

Once the abandoned Yorktown's crewmen were safely recovered, her escorts departed, leaving behind the destroyer Hughes to keep watch. Early the next day, 5 June, a seaplane from the Japanese cruiser Chikuma spotted the drifting carrier. In mid-morning, Hughes discovered two injured men who had been left behind, rescued them and examined the ship. Later, the tug Vireo came on the scene and took Yorktown under tow, while working parties jettisoned boats and an anchor. However, the old tug could do little more than keep the big ship headed into the wind.

Several other destroyers arrived early on 6 June, carrying a salvage party of Yorktown crewmen. Boarding the carrier at daybreak, the men set to work pushing guns, aircraft and other removable weights over the side, counterflooding to reduce the list and performing the many other tasks involved in saving their ship. USS Hammann lay alongside to provide power, water and other assistance, while other destroyers patrolled nearby to protect Yorktown from intruders.

By mid-afternoon, prompted by the previous day's seaplane report, the Japanese submarine I-168 crept undetected into the area. Taking a submerged attack position, she fired four torpedoes, hitting Hammann and Yorktown amidships on their starboard sides. The destroyer went down in a few minutes. Many of her crew killed or badly injured in the water when her depth charges exploded as she sank. Vireo cut the towline, and the salvage party were taken off the now even-more-grievously wounded carrier. But she continued to float, and plans were made to restart work the next morning.

Sinking of USS Yorktown, 7 June 1942

USS Yorktown, now with large torpedo holes on both sides amidships, floated through the night of 6-7 June 1942, while her escorting destroyers unsuccessfully pursued the Japanese submarine I-168, treated injured sailors and kept watch. As dawn approached, it was clear that the carrier was lower in the water with an increasing list. As the sun rose on 7 June, Yorktown rolled over on her port side and sank by the stern.

She was not seen again by human eyes until 19 May 1998, when an expedition led by Dr. Robert Ballard located and photographed her wreck, sitting upright on the sea floor with a approximate 25-degree "list " to starboard. On her starboard side amidships the "mud line" reached to about the hangar deck level, while on her port side her midships underwater hull was visible nearly to the turn of the bilge. Despite fifty-six years under 16,650 feet of salt water, Yorktown was in surprisingly good condition, with all but a little of her structure undistorted and readily recognizable. Measure 12 camouflage paint was still intact, and the white hull number "5" could be clearly seen at her bow and stern. Evidence of Battle of Midway damage and the subsequent salvage efforts was abundant: the bomb hole in her flight deck aft of the midships elevator; fire-damaged paint and metal on her smokestack; a huge torpedo hole in her port side; anti-aircraft guns still pointing skyward and other guns missing where they had been jettisoned by the salvage party on 6 June 1942. Damage incurred as the ship plunged to the sea floor was also apparent: Yorktown's bow was distorted by implosion; her tripod mast and aft flight deck overhang had disappeared; globs of the clay-like sea bottom still adhered to some vertical surfaces, where they had been driven by the force of impact.

Provenance of the USS Yorktown Sinking Photographs

The nineteen photographs in Naval History and Heritage Command collection of the sinking of USS Yorktown (all presented on these pages) were found during processing of previously unexamined and uncataloged images. The first three (Photo #s NH 95575, NH 95576 and NH 95577) were first spotted by Naval Historical Center staff during the later 1970s or early 1980s, and were cataloged in the mid-1980s. The other sixteen were discovered by Christopher P. Cavas (a recognized ship expert and well-known journalist, who has long performed volunteer work for the Naval Historical Center) early in 2008. They were cataloged in August of that year. All of the original prints for these nineteen photos are on paper-based stock, of a type generally used prior to the 1980s.

Despite the relatively late discovery and cataloging of these photographs, some of them had been published earlier. That seen in Photo # NH 106000 appeared in the first (1967) edition of Walter Lord's "Incredible Victory". Three others (Photo #s NH 95575, NH 106006 and NH 106011) were published in the same year in Pat Frank and Joseph D. Harrington's "Rendezvous at Midway". In those books, the photographs are credited to Charles R. Cundiff, who was one of Yorktown's officers at the time of her loss.

Controversy Concerning the Way USS Yorktown Sank

For many years a Navy combat veteran, who witnessed Yorktown's sinking while serving as a signalman in the destroyer Hughes, has vigorously maintained that she sank upright and somewhat down by the bow. He has forcefully rejected all evidence that is at variance with his own memories. To emphasize that the existing historical record provides an accurate account, this page presents documentation and other evidence that Yorktown did, in fact, capsize to port and sink by the stern. It also addresses certain aspects of the claims to the contrary.

Claim: The photographs presented on these pages either show the sinking of another ship or are bogus. [The photos mentioned in this article can be found in the first Battle of Midway article on this blog, "Never a Battle Like Midway".]

Response: the ship structure seen in these photographs exactly matches that of Yorktown, and the images reflect the circumstances of her sinking (early morning lighting, absence of smoke or other evidence of fire, torpedo damage in the same location described in contemporary reports). The ship structure seen does not precisely match that of any other U.S. aircraft carrier sunk during World War II, or at any time, although with some notable differences it resembles that of USS Hornet (CV-8). However, that carrier sank at night, was afire at that time, and the event could only have been photographed from a Japanese destroyer. It is thus impossible that the photographs show any other ship but Yorktown. In addition, nothing about them indicates that they are not genuine. For examples of nicely done "manufactured" photographs, made by experienced professionals using the best techniques available in the pre-digital era, see the Norman Bel Geddes diorama views shown elsewhere in our Battle of Midway presentations. The appearance differences between these extremely well-executed, but "non-genuine" photos, and actual photographs like those showing USS Yorktown sinking, are too obvious to require further comment.

Claim: The condition of Yorktown's wreck, as found and photographed during Dr. Robert Ballard's 1998 Midway expedition, supports the contention that she sank upright.

Response: A member of the Naval Historical Center (now called the Naval History and Heritage Command) staff (Charles R. Haberlein Jr., Head of the Center's Photographic Section, who is the writer of this text) was an active member of that expedition and closely examined all still and video images of Yorktown's wreck that were taken at that time. Nothing about the condition of the wreck supports a claim that Yorktown sank upright, and one element reinforces the considerable contemporary photographic and documentary evidence that she sank by the stern: Yorktown's bow shows a good deal of crushing, a strong indication that she plunged by the stern rapidly enough for the bow to have reached its crush depth before all the air trapped inside had been forced out. Furthermore, her wreck rests some three miles below the surface of the Pacific Ocean, providing more than enough vertical space for her to have returned to, and maintained, an essentially upright aspect during her long fall through the water. All intact deep sea (more than 1000 feet deep) shipwrecks that this writer has examined, either directly or indirectly, rest essentially upright. The only exceptions (the Japanese battleships Kirishima and Yamato, and the British battle cruiser Hood) are not intact, but rather have lost large portions of their hulls. This may have greatly changed their post-sinking stability characteristics, thus preventing them from maintaining an upright aspect.

In addition to the observations provided above, and the photographs on these pages, the following extracts from contemporary official documents (from Navy records now held by the U.S. National Archives) provide extensive eyewitness testimony concerning the facts of Yorktown's sinking:

Extract from Commanding Officer USS Yorktown (Captain Elliott Buckmaster) report to the Secretary of the Navy, 17 June 1942, Paragraph 9: "At about 1530 (GCT) June 7th, the YORKTOWN was observed suddenly to increase her list to port. This increase was steady and progressive and, at 1701 (GCT), YORKTOWN turned over on her port side and sank ...".

Extract from Commander Destroyer Squadron SIX (Captain Edward P. Sauer, embarked in USS Balch) report to Commander Task Force SEVENTEEN, 14 June 1942, Paragraph 11: "As dawn broke on June 7, 1942, the YORKTOWN was observed to have increased her list to port; her flight deck touched the water. It was apparent that she would sink. At 0654 all ships half-masted colors; at 0700-30 attention was ordered, all hands uncovered; and at 0701 the U.S.S. YORKTOWN sank ...".

Extract from transcript of TBS (ship-to-ship voice radio) transmissions for 7 June 1942 (enclosure to Commander Destroyer Squadron SIX report to Commander Task Force SEVENTEEN, 14 June 1942):

"0648 YORKTOWN started turning over.

0650 YORKTOWN now on side, (Port side).

0654 6 Half mast Colors

97 Roger

54 Roger

10 Roger

22 Roger

0700 All hands attention, uncover. YORKTOWN sank stern first."

Note: Numbers in 0654 transmission transcript represent transmitting ships and commands: "6" is Commander Destroyer Squadron SIX, embarked in USS Balch (DD-363); "97" is USS Benham (DD-397); "54" is USS Monaghan (DD-354); "10" is USS Hughes (DD-410); and "22" is Commander Destroyer Division 22, embarked in USS Gwin (DD-433).

Extract from USS Balch Log Book entry for 7 June 1942: "... 0644 YORKTOWN sinking rapidly, closed distance to carrier, circled at 600 yds. 0650 Two PBY's sighted. 0654 YORKTOWN went down stern first. Searched wreckage for survivors. ...".

Extract from USS Monaghan (DD-354) Log Book entry for 7 June 1942: "... 0640 YORKTOWN capsized. ... 0700 YORKTOWN sank ...".

Extract from USS Benham (DD-397) Log Book entry for 7 June 1942: "... 0635 Observed U.S.S. YORKTOWN listing further to port. ... 0651 U.S.S. YORKTOWN sunk. ...".

Extract from Commanding Officer USS Hughes (Lieutenant Commander Donald J. Ramsey) report to Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Pacific Fleet, 11 June 1942, Paragraph 20: "1540 YORKTOWN commenced listing and sinking. At 1659, June 7, 1942, YORKTOWN disappeared from sight. ...".

Extract from USS Hughes (DD-410) hand-written Log Book entry for 7 June 1942: "... 0540 Yorktown has greater list to port. 0630 Yorktown appeared to be sinking. 0650 Lighted Ship, half masted colors. 0659 Yorktown sunk out of sight. Two blocked colors. ...".

Extract from USS Gwin War Diary entry for 7 June 1942 [page headlined "Report for Commanding Officer U.S.S. GWIN (DD433)"]:

"1630 0430 YORKTOWN taking increased list to port. Air bubbling up along her port side.
1643 0443 YORKTOWN on her port side. A large hole observed on her starboard side at turn of bilge directly under island structure.

1646 0446 Two friendly patrol planes bearing 210 (degrees) true.

1700 0500 Yorktown sank stern first.".

Note: In this Gwin entry, the first time given is GCT, the second is LCT.

Extract from USS Vireo (AT-144) War Diary entry for 7 June 1942: "Continued patrolling area southeast of YORKTOWN. 0507, YORKTOWN began listing heavily to port. 0525 YORKTOWN sank down by the stem (sic) and to port. ...".

Extract from USS Vireo Log Book entry for 7 June 1942: "... 0507, Yorktown began to list heavily to port. 0525, U.S.S. Yorktown sank. ...".

I Fought the Americans at Midway: A Japanese Naval Officer on the Carrier Kaga

by Lieutenant Commander Sesu Mitoya, IJN

When first I heard of the planned attack on Midway, I was delighted. Like most Japanese naval officers in early 1942, I was sure of Japan's coming victory over the United States. This operation promised good opportunities to win glory for Dai Nippon, and perhaps a promotion.

I was communications officer on the proud aircraft carrier Kaga. Then a lieutenant commander, I served under the command of Captain Jisaku Okada. One of my best friends, Lieutenant Commander Tadashi Musumi, was commander of all the gun crews on board our big aircraft carrier. It was one of the finest ships in the fleet—a happy ship with a fine, tightly knit complement of crewmen and airmen.

Early in April, planning for the invasion of Midway began. This was to be Japan's longest strike eastward, far across the Pacific, almost to the Hawaiian Islands. Its purpose was to seize a distant outpost, beyond which the American fleet could be held. This would cut off American communications with Australia. More important, it aimed to draw out the American fleet, and force it to give battle. We were sure that we could win that battle. How mistaken we were, I know now.

Our operation plan was gigantic. My group, the First Carrier Striking Force, led by Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, was to strike from the northwest, at Midway. Not far south of us, striking straight out of the west, was the main Battleship Force, led by the revered Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto himself. Further south, and coming in from the southwest, was the Transport-Invasion Group, led by Vice Admiral Nobutake Kondo, with a Close Support Group led by Vice Admiral Kurita.

Two diversionary groups led by Vice Admiral Hosogaya were to invade the Aleutian Islands, far to the north, at the same time. They were to seize Adak, Kiska, and Attu Islands there. At least they were successful—for a while. M-Day was set for 7 June.

After the war ended, we learned that the Americans knew all about our plans. By an incredible feat of military intelligence, they had broken our code. Every message radioed from Tokyo or from our ships was perfectly understood by the Americans. They were waiting for us—had we only known it. American naval, air and ground forces were concentrating at Midway.

Late in May, all our task forces sortied from their bases, and headed east, to the attack. En route, we picked up a coded message sent by an American submarine, apparently warning Midway of our approach.

In our Carrier Striking Force, we were not a bit concerned about it. We could not decode the message. But we nonchalantly reasoned that it served our purpose. After all, we wanted the Americans to come out and fight. We had the foolish vanity of self-delusion.

My group was so powerful that we feared nothing. In it were the carriers Akagi, Kaga (my vessel), Hiryu, and Soryu, the mightiest aircraft carriers afloat. With us were the battleships Haruna and Kirishima, plus the cruisers Chikuma, Tone, and Nagara, eleven destroyers, and several submarines. Not far away, in Admiral Yamamoto's force, were the battleships Yamato, Mutsu, and Nagato, the light carrier Hosho, the cruiser Sendai, the seaplane carriers Chiyoda and Nishin, and nine more destroyers. We outnumbered any possible American fleet then known to be in the Pacific.

In fact, we later learned that the American forces at Midway consisted of about two thousand infantry ashore, plus the carriers Hornet, Enterprise and Yorktown, with seven or eight cruisers, thirteen or fourteen destroyers, and a few submarines. This task force waited to the northeast of our invasion track, ready to hit us on the flank.

Late in the day, on 4 June, as we neared Midway, we received reports of air attacks on the southern transport group. Our high optimism began to fade. It was clear that the enemy knew of our approach. Nevertheless, we steamed on.

Far to the north, the Aleutians attack force was having its troubles, too. Our fliers and planes were not well prepared for the cold and fog there. Their engines were failing, and little damage was done, by bombing in thick fog.

All the signs were ominous. But we were so drunk on victories in the opening battles of the war, that we sadly misjudged the danger. The next day, we were in the attack zone.

Before dawn on 5 June, from over two hundred miles northwest of Midway, our first air attack wave was launched from Admiral Nagumo's carriers. Excitement was in the air, aboard the Kaga.

Loudspeakers barked: "Aviators assemble for the strike!" And soon after, "Launching stations, ready? Start engines!" Shattering uproar bellowed on the flight deck, and livid streaks of engine exhausts flamed in the darkness.

Launching lights illuminated the deck. "Commence launching!" sounded from the bridge. The air officer swung his green signal lamp in a circle. One by one our Zero fighters roared forward, and leaped into the air. Cheers of crewmen echoed above the engines' roars. Then the dive bombers followed. Soon over one hundred planes, from all the carriers, were in the air. Then the second wave planes moved into positions for launching.

Somehow, I was worried, despite the general excitement. We were dangerously near Midway, and with hardly more than a dozen planes left to guard the carrier force.

Fully alerted American defense planes met our planes over the Midway islands. A fierce air battle exploded as our dive bombers dove in to hit installations on Sand Island and Eastern Island. We lost four bombers and two fighters, while little effective bomb damage was done. Our second wave results were much the same.

On board Kaga, about 0500, the alarm bugle suddenly sounded: "Air raid!" Our remaining fighters quickly raced out to intercept. Reports flashed through my Communications Center, confused and uncertain. Enemy planes here, there, all about us. But we could see none.

At 0700 we saw them for the first time. Six came from one side, four from the other. They looked like torpedo planes. Our fighters wheeled to meet them. Our cruisers and destroyers opened up with rocketing anti-aircraft fire.

Black bursts of explosions dotted the sky all around the on-rushing American planes. Still they came on, hardly above the sea's surface. Our Zeros dove through our own anti-aircraft fire, guns blazing at the Americans. One by one, three of the torpedo planes spouted flame and smoke, and then crashed into the sea.

The others kept bravely on. Then they released their torpedoes. As the planes swung away we could plainly see their white star markings. They were B-26s. Only three got away. Not one torpedo hit its target as our ships turned and maneuvered to avoid them.

At 0850 our own planes returned. With furious speed our carrier crews labored to re-arm them. While this went on, I received word from Admiral Kondo's force that an enemy force of a carrier and cruisers and destroyers was approaching. We turned to meet it.

At 0930 we launched planes again. Fifty Zeros sped to meet another American force of fifteen torpedo bombers. We were too many for them. None of the American planes got through to our carriers. We watched one speck after another, high in the sky, spark into flame and plummet down, trailing black smoke.

On board, our men cheered and whistled wildly as our planes scored. Then another group of six planes came in at us, charging in again and again through the anti-aircraft fire. The Americans were brave. Torpedoes streaked the water. But luck was with us. None struck.

Zero after Zero exhausted its ammunition, and returned to our decks to re-arm. While service crews cheered our pilots, the planes were hastily re-armed and launched again and again. At 1020 it happened that most of our planes were on deck, readying to take off again. Bombs were carelessly stacked in piles near the planes. We seemed to be winning steadily.

Suddenly a lookout yelled "Dive bombers!" I looked up. Five black, fat-bellied planes were hurtling down at us. I recognized them at once—American Dauntlesses.

As I looked, tiny black specks detached themselves from the planes. The specks grew larger. Bombs, coming right down on us!

I was standing on the flight deck, near the tower. Quickly I dove flat to the deck. The horrible scream of the dive bombers rose to a shriek. Then a crashing roar shook the Kaga. A bright flash glared, through the sleeve I held over my eyes. Then another blast—and another.

A gush of hot air washed over me. We were hit—hard! The barking of anti-aircraft guns began to be mixed with a rushing, roaring sound. We were afire!

I leaped to my feet. Horrified, I saw gaping holes in the flight deck, near the amidships elevator. The elevator was a twisted mass of metal, half drooped into the hangar. The deck plates were a crazy jumble of torn metal.

On deck, many planes were overturned, in flames. Some stood tilted on their wings, tails up. Orange flame and black smoke boiled up through them, belching out of their tails like chimneys.

I could see, not far off, the Akagi and the Soryu. They too were aflame, with black smoke rolling from their decks. It seemed unbelievable. In seconds our invincible carrier force had become shattered wrecks. Tears welled to my eyes. It was a terrible scene.

On deck, and in the Ready Room, burned and mangled men writhed and groaned. Deep in the big carrier's vitals rending explosions shook her. As fire spread, the heaps of bombs and torpedoes began to explode, with shattering blasts. Spraying steel fragments ripped the bridge. The Kaga was an inferno, with scorched, blackened men staggering about in helpless confusion.

The fire control officer, Lieutenant Fiyuma, came to the bridge. There I was awaiting orders, near Captain Okado. The captain stood and stared, half-dazed, like a man in a dream.

Fiyuma reported that all passages below were afire. Most of the crew were trapped, burning inside the ship. We had to go to the anchor deck quickly, if we wished to escape. The carrier was beginning to list ominously.

Crewmen were laboring valiantly to try to stop the enormous fires—in vain. All power was off. Many men were torn to pieces by the repeated explosions. Surgeons worked like automatons on endless lines of torn bodies. As fire-laden air erupted from the ship, many men collapsed with suffocation.

I spoke to Captain Okada, trying to rouse him from his stupefied reverie. It was now near midday. Our destroyers, Hagikaze and Maikaze, could take off survivors. Unless we abandoned ship soon she would take us all down with her.

The captain shook his head vaguely. "I will remain with my ship," he said. More planes were coming in. I went to the Ready Room, to try again to contact the men below in the Engine Rooms.

While I was below, other bombers struck the Kaga. Where they came from, I do not know. When I rushed back to the bridge—there was no bridge. A direct hit had smashed the ship's nerve center. Captain Okada and Fiyuma were dead. My good friend Musumi was dead, too. Commander Amagay, the air officer, as senior-surviving officer, had assumed command.

About an hour later the Kaga was a blackened hulk half-tilted over. Then, to add to our misery, someone shouted "Torpedo!" A submarine had loosed a torpedo at us.

Holding my breath, I prayed as the deadly tin fish came at us, leaving a white wake behind as it approached. It struck. But by some miracle it did not explode. A dud! It broke in half. Some of our men, swimming nearby, after being blown overboard, swam to the floating section of the torpedo. Ironically, the deadly weapon served them as a life raft.

Finally, at 1600, Commander Amagay ordered "Abandon ship!" We began to send men down ropes to our waiting destroyers. The Kaga was a vast funeral pyre. Over eight hundred men, nearly one-third of her crew, were dead.

We watched with tears in our eyes as our proud Kaga settled deeper and deeper. Boiling smoke and pillars of fire shrouded our beloved ship. At 1800 she seemed to leap in the water as two terrific explosions shook her. Then, still stately in death, she sank forever beneath the waves.

Not far away, Soryu and Akagi went down, too, with black pillars of smoke marking their graves. We turned to follow Hiryu, the only carrier left of our great Striking Force. It was 6 June, a fateful day for Nippon.

Planes from the last carrier reported dire news. The American fleet was closing in for the kill. In it were no less than three carriers—Hornet, Enterprise, and Yorktown.

Huddled aboard the crowded destroyer Hagikaze, we looked at each other in silent wonder. But Admiral Yamaguchi, on the Hiryu, chose to go on fighting. The Hiryu's planes rose to launch another attack. Weak and exhausted as we were, we survivors of Kaga cheered as the Zeros zoomed over us, bound to engage the enemy.

An hour later the planes returned—half of them. They had hit the Yorktown. But while they were gone the sky was full of American planes, attacking the Hiryu and our destroyers. Surely a hundred planes attacked the last of our carriers.

At 1700, torpedo bombers, hidden in the glare of the setting sun, got through the curtain of anti-aircraft fire of all our ships. Thirteen planes hit the gallant Hiryu. Others hit the battleship Haruna and cruiser Tone. As darkness fell, Hiryu was a blazing hulk. Her last planes had no haven when they returned. We were defeated, indeed.

So, as night mercifully hid us, our shattered fleet turned for home. The Hiryu was scuttled by torpedoes from our own destroyers. The long, harried retreat west began.

But we were not yet finished. At dawn, as American planes hovered on the horizon, we turned for a last blow at our invisible pursuers. We had only a few spotter planes and two light carriers to see for us. Of radar we knew nothing.

The rest is history, too. In a wild series of battles, the next day, both sides lost more ships. One of our submarines sank the carrier Yorktown and the destroyer Hamman. Our cruisers Mogami and Mikuma and the destroyer Arashio were crippled. We were harried and driven west, towards home and safety. Fortunately, foul weather hid our withdrawal.

On 7 June all contact with the enemy was broken. Hidden by fog and foul weather, our battered fleet limped for home.

So ended the dream of Japanese empire. The only small prizes we had won were two rocky islands in the Aleutians, Attu and Kiska, neither of which we would be able to hold. The peak of Japanese power had been reached, and passed. From this point forward the road of Nippon was ever downward, into the depths of slow, sure, and bitter defeat.

The catastrophe at Midway had been the turning of the tide—and deep in our hearts, we Japanese knew it. Thenceforth the fatal tide of war drove us inevitably on to final calamity and to the soul-tearing sorrow of capitulation.

It has been said that Midway was an American victory of intelligence. That is true. Not only did the Americans know our every move, but we dismally failed to locate the enemy forces. So it happened that a smaller American fleet destroyed our scattered groups piecemeal, one by one.

In truth, our worst error was caused by our vanity. We underestimated our adversaries, to our chagrin and pain. This was unforgivable, when we well knew the bravery, skill, and boldness of the Americans. We were blind with conceit and overwhelming confidence. Even so, had we had the secrecy and surprise we imagined, the outcome might have been different.

The final accounting, after the battle, told the full story of our defeat. We had lost four major aircraft carriers—Kaga, Akagi, Soryu, and Hiryu, and two cruisers—Mikuma and Mogami; plus damage to the destroyers Asashio and Arashio, the destroyer escort Tanikaze, the transport Haruna, and the oiler Akebono Maru; as well as about 325 planes and thousands of men.

The Americans had lost the carrier Yorktown and the destroyer Hamman, plus over 140 planes. Compared to the loss of our four carriers, the backbone of the Japanese fleet, the American losses were small.

As for me, I was in the depths of despair as we plodded west. Never again was I to sail aboard a carrier. Staff and command officers who lose their ships do not get promotions. I was to spend the rest of the war at dull, stupid paperwork, ashore. For me, the days of battle glory were over for good.

But at least I can say this: When Japan fought the epic battle of Midway, in the bright noon of her glory, I was there, serving the Mikado and Dai Nippon.

Kaga, 1941, shortly after her reconstruction.

 

Diorama by Norman Bel Geddes, depicting the attack by USS Enterprise (CV-6) and USS Yorktown (CV-5) dive bombers on the Japanese aircraft carriers Akagi, Kaga and Soryu in the morning of 4 June 1942. The diorama was created during World War II on the basis of information then available. It is therefore somewhat inaccurate in scope and detail. This angle of view depicts Soryu (attacked by Yorktown aircraft) in the middle distance, with Kaga and Akagi (both attacked by Enterprise aircraft) as the closer two burning ships.

Diorama by Norman Bel Geddes, depicting the attack by USS Yorktown (CV-5) and USS Enterprise (CV-6) dive bombers on the Japanese aircraft carriers Soryu, Akagi and Kaga in the morning of 4 June 1942. The diorama was created during World War II on the basis of information then available. It is therefore somewhat inaccurate in scope and detail. This angle of view is essentially the reciprocal of that shown in the previous photo. It depicts Soryu (attacked by Yorktown aircraft) in the center foreground, with Kaga and Akagi (both attacked by Enterprise aircraft) as the two most distant burning ships. The burning ship at far right is a light cruiser, which had been erroneously reported to have been hit.

Diorama by Norman Bel Geddes, depicting the attack by USS Nautilus (SS-168) on a burning Japanese aircraft carrier during the early afternoon of 4 June 1942, as seen through the submarine's periscope. Nautilus thought she had attacked Soryu, and that her torpedoes had exploded when they hit the target. Most evidence, however, is that the ship attacked was Kaga, and that the torpedoes failed to detonate. The ship shown in this wartime diorama does not closely resemble either of those carriers.