History Of Midway

The tiny atoll of Midway was the most westerly of U.S. bases in the Central Pacific. Only 1,500 miles from Oahu, it was a perfect starting point for aconquest of Hawaii. If the base was threatened by Japan, Yamamoto reasoned, the U.S. Fleet would have to meet the challenge and could be lured into a hopeless battle with superior Japanese forces.

Yamamoto planned the mother of naval battles. Some 200 ships would participate, burning more oil in this mission than the entire peacetime navy used in a year. First, an invasion of the Aleutian Islands, 1,200 miles north of Midway. Next, planes from Admiral Nagumo's four carriers would strike Midway. Japanese marines would rush ashore and capture Midway's triangular airstrip. When the U.S. Fleet rushed out in defense, it would be crushed by the most powerful armada in history. For more than five months, the Japanese Navy had triumphed. It had staged lightning strikes from Hawaii to Ceylon, losing no vessel larger than a destroyer. Smug with success, naval officers planned for Midway with a confidence that bordered on recklessness. They suffered, they would later admit, from "victory disease." At naval tabletop exercises held in May, the rules were bent to ensure victory, including the miraculous and unrealistic resurrection of sunken Japanese ships. Objections were swept aside. "It's pointless and impossible," said a Hiryu officer. "But Yamamoto's set on it, so there's nothing more to say."

What Yamamoto still didn't know was that Admiral Nimitz was reading his thoughts. For weeks, U.S. Intelligence had known the Japanese were planning something big. Only the target, whose code letters were "AF", was unclear. Following a hunch, the Navy had Midway broadcast a fake message, complaining about the breakdown of its distillation plant. The Japanese bit the bait. Two days later, U.S. Intelligence picked up a message that "AF" had a water shortage. Nimitz rapidly mustered his vastly outnumbered forces. The carriers Enterprise and Hornet sailed out of Pearl Harbor. The Yorktown, back from the Coral Sea for an estimated three months of repairs, was patched together in 48 hours. Miles of barbed wire were strung on Midway. Additional anti-aircraft guns were installed. Demolition charges were set in case of Japanese capture, until one of them accidentally set off a gasoline dump. "They were fool-proof," said one Marine, "but not sailor-proof."
On June 3, Japanese planes attacked Dutch Harbor in the Aleutians. Torpedo bombers, dive bombers and Zeroes from the carriers Ryujo and Junyo raided the island, shooting up an army barracks, radio station, and gas tank complex.
Although only a minor incident in the Battle of Midway, the raid had dire long term consequences for Japan. Shortly before sunrise the next morning, 108 planes from the Akagi and Hiryu set off for Midway. It was a beautiful sight, observers said, as the flashing red and green navigation lights vanished into the moonlit night.
Approaching Midway in V-formations, high-level bombers dropped their lethal loads on the Marine defenses. U.S. Brewster Buffaloes and Wildcats rose to meet them, but were no match for the Zero escort. Seventeen out of 25 U.S. fighters were shot dawn, the worst Marine air loss of the entire war. "Pilots of the Buffaloes should be considered lost before leavinig the ground", snarled one survivor.

Unfortunately for the Japanese, the raid did little serious damage. As most American bombers had already left the graund, strafing runs on the airfield had little impact. The Marine defenses, though roughed-up, remained intact.

Nagumo was considering a second strike on Midway when U.S. bombers found his carriers. U.S. Navy torpedo planes from Midway were the first to brave the fury of Zeroes and anti-aircraft fire from the Akagi. Only one of the torpedo planes survived and the Akagi easily dodged the few slow-running U.S. torpedoes.
Army B-26 "Marauder" twin-engine bombers came next, skimming the waves and weaving madly to throw off the aim of the dogged Zeroes.

Technical Sergeant Gogoj in the top turret of one B-26 watched his Plexiglas caver burst into his eyes. Flying shards fragged his face at 300 mph. He fell to the floor, slammed back and forth by the evasive maneuvers of his pilot. Screaming at the Zeroes, he struggled back up and pressed his bloody hands back around his guns' triggers. A cannon shell exploded almost in his face. His guns went dead. Still he held on, trying to bluff the Zeroes away. A machine gun bullet ricocheted into his forehead like a hot poker and knocked him down again. Again he forced himself back up to the gun, where he remained for the rest of the attack.
Incredibly, Gogoj was one of the lucky ones. He was a survivor. Of the four waves of Midway-based planes that struck the Japanese fleet in quick succession, more than half went down. Thirty-three U.S. planes and crews were lost and not one Japanese ship was hit. Nonetheless, the Japanese net had begun to unravel. The assaults by Midway's bombers convinced Nagumo of the need for a second strike on the island. However, that meant the planes on his carriers' decks, armed with torpedoes, had to be lowered to hangars, rearmed with bombs for a land attack, and raised again, a process that took about an hour. The task was half done when Nagumo received untimely news: a Japanese search plane had spotted U.S. ships nearby.

The admiral was faced with an agonizing dilemma. If he didn't order an immediate strike, he risked being caught by American bombs while his flight decks were jammed. But the first Midway strike planes would soon be returning, without enough fuel to circle while the planes launched from the carrier. If Nagumo ordered an immediate strike, some 200 experienced pilots would have to ditch in the sea. The strike would have to wait. Elevator warning bells clanged as the aircraft were lowered to clear the decks. "Here we go again", cried the Akagi's flight officer. "This is getting to be like a quick-change contest". Crews hurried to replace the planes' bombs with torpedoes. There wasn't time to stow the off-loaded bombs safely in the magazines, so they were stacked in the hangars, many still fused. In 30 minutes, all the returning planes had landed. Refueling hoses snaked across the deck and trolleys of explosives were wheeled out to rearm the planes. The carriers turned into the wind in preparation for launch. In 15 minutes, the planes would all be in the air again. But the opposition had other plans. Lt. Commander John Waldron of VT-8 from the Hornet followed his hunches and led his planes to Nagumo's fleet. From a distance of eight miles, he spotted the four carriers arranged in a square. Flying at 1,500 feet, Waldron led his 15 TBD torpedo bombers into battle. Zeroes ripped into the bombers like wolves on deer. One by one the TBDs-"flying freight cars", the airmen called them-caught fire and fell.

Only one U.S. pilot, Ensign George Gay, survived the raid, crashing into the sea and clinging to his seat cushion in the cool water. He watched as VT-6, a squadron of 14 unescorted torpedo planes from the Enterprise, made their run. This time, four of the planes made it past the Zeroes and anti-aircraft guns, dropping torpedoes that the carriers deftly avoided. Moments later, the 12 torpedo bombers of VT-3 from the Yorktown arrived. Their luck was little better. Five torpedoes were released. None found their marks. Three successive attacks had cost the U.S. 41 planes and the lives of 80 airmen. The Japanese ships had not been touched. But the sacrifice was not in vain. The Zeroes were still low, guarding against torpedo planes, when U.S. dive bombers approached from high. Seventeen Douglas Dauntlesses from the Yorktown, led by Lt. Commander Maxwell Leslie, descended from 20,000 feet through an opening in the clouds. Almost simultaneously, Lt. Wade McClusky also arrived, leading a squadron of 36 Dauntlesses from the Enterprise. The Zeroes couldn't climb quickly enough to stop the Dauntlesses. The American pilots dove sharply at the carriers, aiming for the big rising suns painted on the flight decks. The first bombing attempts missed their marks. Then, four struck the Kaga in quick succession. One exploded in the midst of planes readied for takeoff.
Another bomb struck a small gasoline truck, propelling burning debris that killed everyone on the bridge. The Kaga suddenly was engulfed in flames. Three hits ignited the Soryu's ammunition rooms and gas tanks. Flames burst from the deck and black smoke billowed skyward. The hangar deck was turned into an impromptu hospital where doctors treated those who might survive. Captain Ryusaku Yanagimoto ordered his men to abandon ship, but personally refused to leave. The last man off the ship saw him holding a sword, singing the Japanese national anthem.

At least three bombs hit planes waiting to take off from the Akagi. Fires spread from the planes to the bombs carelessly stacked on deck. "There was a blinding flash," recalled a Japanese airman. "Then a second explosion, and a weird blast of warm air...I was horrified by the destruction wrought in a matter of seconds. There was a huge hole in the flight deck, the elevator was twisted like molten glass, and planes stood tail up belching livid flames and jet-black smoke". In 10 minutes, 53 U.S. planes had turned the tide of the Pacific war, leaving three Japanese carriers dead in the water. Only the Hiryu remained. The Hiryu's skipper, Rear Admiral Tamon Yamaguchi, a Princeton-educated officer who was often mentioned as an heir to Yamamoto, launched an immediate counterstrike. Within an hour his planes were over the Yorktown.

U.S. Navy Wildcats met the Japanese formation while it was 15 miles away from the carrier. In the ensuing dogfight, over half the Japanese bombers were shot down; but the remainder reached their target. The Yorktown's gunners opened fire, blowing apart the first bomber. Its three sections fell into the water, but its bomb hit the ship, punched a hole in the flight deck, and exploded below. Two more bombs hit the flattop. One with a delayed action fuse exploded in the stack, rupturing uptakes from three boilers. The Yorktown ground to a halt.
The fast-working crew had the Yorktown moving again in less than an hour. Its survival looked likely when a second Hiryu strike came. Six Zeroes busied the Yorktown's fighters, while ten Nakajima torpedo planes slipped in to make their runs. Two torpedoes opened the hull. The carrier began to list and Captain Elliott Buckmaster gave the order to abandon ship. Two days later, the carrier was sunk by a Japanese submarine. While the Yorktown was being attacked, the Hiryu itself was pounced on by dive bombers from the Enterprise. Approaching out of the setting sun, the American planes pounded the Hiryu with four quick bomb hits. Admiral Yamaguchi went down with his ship, despite the pleas of his fellow officers. He obeyed the traditional values that would inadvertently contribute to the U.S. war effort by sacrificing the best and the brightest of Japanese officers to a code of honor.

The worst naval defeat in Japanese history was over. In one day, almost half of the Japanese Navy's carriers had been destroyed. Lost with them were 332 planes and 2,155 men, including many of Japan's prized pilots. Never again would Yamamoto have the naval strength to engage the enemy far from home. Never again would Japan move so aggressively.

"Pearl Harbor has now been partially avenged," wrote Nimitz in his communique on the battle. "Vengeance will not be complete until Japanese sea power is reduced to impotence. Perhaps we will be forgiven if we claim that we are about midway to that objective."