Midway Under Attack
By David H. Lippman
March 2008

After the initial air battle over Midway, the Japanese have little time for analysis. The attackers regroup into “Organization No. 5,” and set up in three waves for attack: Hiryu and Soryu planes will start off with level bombing. Akagi and Kaga planes will follow with dive-bombing, and the fighters will wrap up with strafing attacks.

At 6:29 a.m., Midway’s new radar — probably an SG set, which can give height as well as range and bearing — picks out the Japanese planes at eight miles out. A minute later, battalion headquarters signals all guns, “Open fire when targets are within range.” A minute later the guns speak. Black clouds fill the sky, downing at least two planes. Lt. Elmer Thompson sees one shell hit a bomber and set it on fire. The plane drops straight into the sea, just missing American PT boats.

	American PT boat gunners knock down a Japanese Zero. Griffith Baily Coale, charcoal, 1942.

Another shell hits the bomber flown by Lt. Rokure Kikuchi. He opens his plane’s canopy, waves farewell to his buddies, closes the canopy, and crashes. Tomonaga, watching this, is impressed by Kikuchi’s sang-froid.

Amazingly, the plane does not catch fire when it hits the sand. A black Navy steward races out to the wreck, and hauls Kikuchi’s body out of the cockpit. The aviator is dead, but his pockets are intact. The steward rifles through them for important papers, and runs back to headquarters, handing them over to intelligence officers. The intelligence officers are less impressed by Kikuchi’s samurai spirit than his paperwork. The Japanese are sloppy about operational security, and low-level officers and men often carry detailed diaries and important documents.

Atop the power station, John Ford, wielding his camera, notes that the defenders’ attitude is almost “lackadaisical . . . as though they had been living through this sort of thing all their lives.”

The Japanese remain calm, too, maintaining tight formation as they rumble over the island on their bomb runs, attacking the AA guns first to neutralize them. Hiryu hits Sand Island along with one squadron from Soryu, while the remaining Soryu planes attack Eastern Island, starting at 6:34 a.m. Sgt. Jay Koch, of F Battery on Sand Island, watches the bomb bay doors open and the bombs come out.

One watcher doesn’t see the bombs fall: John Ford. His camera is aimed on the seaplane hanger. The director presumes the large building will be an early target, and he is right. The resulting explosions send shrapnel into his elbow and shoulder blade. He flops down on the ground, “knocked goofy,” but clambers back up to continue filming the battle. A Marine bandages Ford’s wounds and warns the director, “Don’t go near that navy doctor; we will take care of you.”

Hiryu’s Squadron One punches out the fuel tanks and Soryu’s Squadron One blasts an AA position, probably D Battery, where Capt. Jean Buckner yells “Take cover” without seeing the bombs fall. His order comes just in time, but Cpl. Osa Currie is killed.

Bombs also fall on the Eastern Island PX and mess hall, sending silverware, meatloaf, and tables flying. The Marines will spend the rest of the battle eating gummy bully beef from their ration packs. At the PX, cans of beer also shoot around like projectiles. Crates of cigarettes leap into the air. Concussion shreds the packs of Lucky Strikes, Camels, and Chesterfields. Despite the noise and explosions, a Marine leaps out of his shelter to the strewn supplies, and scoops up cans of beer. Another beer can smacks a Marine in the solar plexus, knocking him unconscious. When the Leatherneck comes to, he says, “I never could take beer on an empty stomach!” However, the flying cigarettes prove a bonanza to the Marines, who find them scattering down on their positions. The Leathernecks leap out of their trenches and make the most of the rain of cigarettes.

At 6:38, a bomb hits the Eastern Island powerhouse, shredding the island’s electricity and water distillation plant. AF will now have to report to Hawaii that it really is short of fresh water. Another bomb slices up the fuel lines, to the dismay of American fueling crews. Now they will have to refuel aircraft by hand round the clock, using more than 3,000 drums from Sand Island.

Another bomb pastes Major Benson’s command post. Warrant Officer Lucius, remembering Major Benson’s offer to stay there during the attack, leaps out of his slit trench untouched, to save his major. Unfortunately, Benson lies dead in the wreckage.

PT boats defend Midway from attack. Griffith Baily Coale, oil, 1942.

The dive-bombers arrive at 6:40, but by now the battle has become too confused and busy for anyone to assess damage claims. Nonetheless, the dive-bombers attack the aircraft hangars. Planes and bombs rain down on Eastern Island, most of them north of Number Two runway. One bomb puts a crater near the eastern end of Number One Runway, at its center, and another bomb hits a VMF-22 rearming pit, cooking off eight 100-lb. bombs and 10,000 rounds of .50 caliber ammunition. This impressive blast also kills four crewmen.

Amid the noise, explosions, and chaos, a Japanese pilot swoops down 100 feet from the ground and flies upside-down over the runway, stunning the defenders with his bravado. The Americans, amazed, hold their fire for a few moments, then open up. The cascade of gunfire leaves the Japanese pilot unable to explain his gesture, as bullets rip up his engine and send the plane crashing into the sea.

At Sand Island, the Japanese level bombers destroy three fuel oil storage tanks, creating a fire that blazes for two days, interfering with the AA gunners. Another bomb flattens the brig, which is unoccupied at the time. Presumably the prisoners are all manning the defenses. Two direct hits also smash the Navy Dispensary, which is clearly marked with a large Red Cross. Another building that suffers a direct hit is the Navy laundry, burning the dirty dungarees.

Next and last up is the fighters group, to wrap up the strike with strafing. The Zeroes streak down to 100 feet and stitch up the runways. They are too fast for most AA guns, but one AA shell hits a Zero’s non-armored fuel tank, and it balloons with a mighty explosion. One Zero’s bullet hits the back of Sgt. Carl Fadick’s helmet and goes right on through, without touching him. The Americans shoot back with whatever weaponry they have. Gunner “Deacon” Arnold uses his Browning automatic rifle, and Pfc. Roger Eaton fires his 1903 Springfield rifle. Neither score any hits.

As the Zeroes strafe the field, the survivors of VMF-221 come lumbering back. A Zero pounces on Maj. Parks’ plane. The major jumps out and hits the silk. A Zero fires on the descending parachute and keeps strafing Parks after he lands on a reef. PT boats race over, but cannot get past the strafing. Another Marine aviator, Capt. Merrill, is luckier — he ditches near the reef. Seaman Third Class E.J. Steward dives overboard from his boat and swims through surf and coral to save Merrill. One smoking Buffalo staggers back and sees a Zero above him. The Buffalo pilot tries to attack the Zero from below. The Zero pilot does a perfect loop, comes behind the Buffalo, and splashes it. Another Zero chases a Buffalo down on the deck. American guns rip into the Zero and it crashes into the runway, skidding down the tarmac. Pfc. Clester Scotten sees the pilot throw his arms over his face just before fire consumes the cockpit.

Amid the strafing, someone phones Col. Shannon to tell him that nobody has observed morning colors. Shouldn’t the flag be hoisted? The question seems fatuous, but Shannon quickly realizes the morale-boosting importance of Old Glory. “Run her up!” he shouts. A group of Marines dashes out to the flagpole, and raise the Stars and Stripes without ceremony.

The battle has an interested observer — I-168, offshore, under Lt. Cdr. Yahachi Tanabe, scouting the scene. Tanabe, glued to his periscope, gives his crew a blow-by-blow description of the attack. The crewmen cheer the hits.

At 6:43 a.m., Tomonaga radios Nagumo: “We have completed our attack and are homeward bound.” Five minutes later, Midway radar — which has somehow survived the bombardment — reports, “Many enemy planes leaving on bearing 300 degrees.” By 7:01 the last Japanese planes are gone.

On Midway, the roar of bombing and strafing is replaced by silence, punctuated by smoldering fires and screeching terns and gooney birds. For 15 minutes, Simard and Shannon keep their men at action stations, then sound the All Clear at 7:15 a.m.

Ensign Ed Jacoby, who was on the battleship West Virginia at Pearl Harbor, walks out of Simard’s command post to find a crashed Japanese plane in front of the building. The pilot lies near it, dead, wearing a Rising Sun flag around his waist — likely the one given to Japanese warriors by friends and family for good luck. Jacoby, studying his first enemy warrior, notices that the pilot’s teeth are pushed in, and reflects that he would be in the same condition if their positions were reversed.

However, the defenders have little time for reflection. Col. Kimes breaks radio silence and orders VMF-221: “Fighters land, refuel by divisions, 5th Division first.” No answer. Kimes tries the order several times again. Then he gets the idea, and orders, “All fighters land and re-service.”

Six fighters struggle in out of the sky and flop down on the runway. With the four that crash-landed during the raid, only 10 fighters are left — and only two can ever fly again.

The mathematics are grim: 25 planes sortied, 14 pilots killed. They claim 40 to 50 Japanese kills, but Nagumo’s report lists five lost in air battle (three level bombers and two Zeros) and four to flak (two level bombers, a dive-bomber, and one Zero). Sixteen Japanese level bombers are reported damaged, four dive-bombers, and four Zeros, two of them write-offs. Amazingly, his pilots claim to have been met by 50 fighters, of which they claim 40 downed.

The American pilots have harsh words for their steeds. “It is my belief that any commander that orders pilots out for combat in an F2A-3 Brewster Buffalo should consider the pilot as lost before leaving the ground,” writes one Marine after-action report. As a practical matter, the Battle of Midway is indeed the last major engagement in American colors for the stubby little plane.

	A Marine improved position on Sand Island. Griffith Baily Coale, oil, 1942.

The other damage to Midway is the death of 11 defenders and the wounding of 18. Dugouts and sand have helped muffle explosions and protect men. Only one aircraft has been caught on the ground, an antique utility biplane. But Sand Island’s fuel tanks are burning, as is the seaplane hangar. The Navy dispensary is a wreck, as is the laundry. Incredibly, a five-gallon water cooler stands untouched in the rubble.

On Eastern Island, the powerhouse, galley, and PX are all wrecked, as are the gas lines. But camouflage has protected everything else. Japanese bombs have done little to the runways, and Simard wonders if the Japanese have left it intact for their own use. Another target that has done its job is a decoy plane made of packing crates and tin roofing. The “Jap Fouler-Upper” is a wreck.

As the Japanese retreat, Tomonaga keys his radio transmitter again to find that it’s broken. Angrily, he scribbles out a message on a blackboard for his wingman to radio to Nagumo: “There is need for a second attack wave.” The message goes off at 7 a.m. Tomonaga’s reasoning is never given, but it is assumed by tacticians and historians that he noted that neither the fighters nor the Midway flak have been suppressed, so the island must be pasted again before Col. Ichiki’s troops storm ashore.

Next: The Carriers Strike

See these planes in action! Click here to order
Midway: Turning Point in the Pacific TODAY!