ABANDON SHIP!
There was immediate confusion. The ship heeled sharply to port, chairs and men slid down the tilting deck, and those of us in the front tier of seats found our legs pinned to the inboard bulkhead by the weight of the furniture and bodies in back. Again the guns went silent. At first I could hear only the sounds of heavy breathing and squirming bodies in the compartment. Then, the sound of voices and curses in the dark marked the attempts of those nearest the exits to open the hatches.
Above this, a steady voice queried, "Anybody got a flashlight?" The weak beam of a small light revealed the after hatch twisted and hopelessly jammed. Hammering from outside the forward hatch turned the flashlight's beam in its direction. The handles of the hatch's locking dogs were unmoving. The sound of hammering stopped, then started anew. Low "ahs" and the rasp of exhaled breathing sounded through the compartment as one by one the dog handles moved to the open position. As the hatch swung open and light flooded into the compartment, a rapid, yet orderly exit began by those nearest the open doorway. Pressure on our legs lessened as men behind us freed themselves of the jumbled seats and joined the exodus. Pulling our legs free, we followed the others out to the fresh air and low sunlight of the flight deck.
USS
Yorktown receives the second of two aerial torpedo hits, amidships on her port
side. This torpedo attack was
launched from the Japanese carrier Hiryu. The photograph was taken from Yorktown's
escort cruiser USS Pensacola.
The ship was listing steeply to the port side. Looking out across the flight deck, instead of viewing a distant horizon, one gazed directly into the gray-blue sea instead. Walking was difficult. Many an unwary sailor stepping on a slick spot found himself sitting instead of standing. There was an unusual quiet. Men spoke in muted tones, and tensed, startled, as a brass shell casing falling from above rang like a cracked bell when it struck the wooden deck. At long intervals the ship would roll slowly to port, a few degrees at the most, yet each roll to port seemingly increased the angle of list in that direction. Scanning the faces of those around me, it was obvious the thought of capsizing was on everyone's mind. There was no outcry, only a low murmur of voices rippled across the deck when a quavering voice from the ship's speakers commanded, "All hands! Abandon ship!"
We had been under attack by ten torpedo bombers and six fighters from Hiryu. Only half of this group returned to their carrier, and again Yorktown lay dead in the water with two torpedo hits on the port side and in danger of capsizing. Days later, we would learn that Hiryu was attacked by dive bombers from Enterprise at 1705. Four 1,000-pound bomb hits amidships left the Japanese carrier a flaming hulk and not long to remain afloat. The First Carrier Striking Force was no longer an effective force. Also, at the close of the day, twenty-two hundred names would be erased from the muster rolls of the Imperial Japanese Navy.
As the Yorktown's largest Stars and Stripes battle flag broke from the masthead, men on the flight deck began making their way aft to where man-ropes and cargo nets were being lowered over the starboard side. Epplar and I followed. Halfway aft along the island structure, we passed the open hatch to the flight deck head. Turning toward the open hatch, Epplar growled, "To hell with it, I gotta go!"
Near the after end of the island I stopped, looked at the crowd gathering in the area, turned and made my way back toward the bow. The thought in mind was that, if the ship did capsize, I wanted to be clear of the superstructure, or any other entanglement, including the mass of men gathered aft.
Abreast of the forward starboard gun gallery, one deck below the flight deck, I spied a small group of sailors lowering two lines over the side. The lines were not man-ropes as I first thought. They were long gasoline hoses used to fuel planes on the flight deck. I joined them as the first man climbed over the lifeline and started down the hose. Others fell into line to follow the pioneer. Taking off my shoes, dropping my gun belt and holstered forty-five to the deck, and inflating my life vest, I fell in line to await my turn. Slipping into the oily water, I turned to swim away from the dangling gas hose; just in case one of those above lost his grip or in panic let go and fell. The eye-stinging vapors from the fuel oil spreading on the water were quite enough to contend with.
"What are we supposed to do now?" The question came from a teenage sailor wearing the white helmet of a plane handler, floating in a kapok life jacket beside me. Pointing to a camouflage-striped destroyer seventy-five yards away, I answered, "head for that tin can, Mac!" Taking my own advice, I then struck out in that direction with my new-found water buddy splashing along beside me. He appeared to be a strong swimmer, but neither of us would set a record in a hundred-yard freestyle race wearing the bulky life jackets.
Within a few yards, my aviator's life jacket began to ride up on my body; its sharp edges where the vest wrapped around my chest cutting into the pit of my arm. The upper section of the jacket curved around the back of my neck. The bottom section wrapped around my chest. The two sides closing across my back were secured by a short strap on one side snapped to a ring on the opposite side. Rolling onto my back, I reached back, took hold of both the snap and ring, and undid the snap. Pushing the strap down and under the belt of my pants, I had just closed the snap into the ring when the jacket surged up under my neck. Startled, I tugged the jacket down and rolled over.
"I thought you were in trouble. I was going to give you a tow," explained the young sailor. "I'm okay," I answered. I didn't say that, for a moment, when I almost lost hold of the snap and ring, I wasn't so sure.
Rescue
As we neared the destroyer's bow, manila lines, each with a large loop in the end, were being thrown to men in the water who then slipped the loop over their heads and under their arms and were hoisted aboard. One of the lines landed in the water just beyond our grasp. Before either of us could reach it, it was suddenly withdrawn. The ship started moving rapidly astern, and from its PA system we heard the command, "Battle stations, battle stations. Air attack, air attack!"
We were stunned. Motionless, we watched the destroyers and cruisers move out and begin circling around the drifting Yorktown at high speed. Rolling onto his back and looking up at the sky, the youngster beside me questioned, "Good God, haven't they done enough already?"
"Come on Mac," I urged, and began swimming away from the drifting carrier that seemed, each time I glanced back, to be the same distance behind us. No air attack developed, and it seemed an eternity before the cordon of circling ships slowed their pace and the destroyers again approached. Grabbing the first line that splashed into the water near me, I slipped into the loop and was hoisted to the forecastle of the destroyer Balch.
One of the destroyermen shouted, "give us a hand, Mac!" Joining a group on one of the lines, I pulled with the rest of them, hoisting men aboard. I had last seen my swimming partner climbing over the lifeline; he had also made it safely on deck. It was not long before the chill of my wet clothing and the realization that I was tiring brought the decision to clear the area and I headed aft.
As I stepped out onto the main deck just aft of the superstructure, I was met by two sailors. One held a large coffee pot by its bail, while the other one thrust toward me a large, white, general-mess soup bowl filled with hot coffee. "Drink this", he ordered. Holding the bowl in both hands, I raised it toward my mouth. As it touched my lips, my hands began to shake uncontrollably. A few drops of the hot brew entered my mouth as the rest spilled over my chin and down the open neck of my shirt. Damn that feels good flashed across my mind. I can’t remember the flavor of the coffee, but its warmth--unforgettable!
The area in the lee of the superstructure was warm. The steel deck heated by the firerooms below was another matter. It was hot on my stockinged feet, forcing me to shuffle from place to place as I watched the Balch's crew bring more refugees from the Yorktown aboard.
Some came alongside aboard a life-raft or crowded into the Balch's motor whaleboat. The majority arrived at the cargo nets hanging down the port side as I did, by swimming. Some, fatigued or wounded, were towed in by other swimmers. Two of the swimming rescuers were Balch crewmen. This duo, wearing only swimming trunks and towing a lightline, repeatedly swam out and retrieved many who were unable to make it on their own. At one point, I heard a voice from the after deck, calling them to come in and rest; they waved back and continued with their work. Later, I would learn that the rescue efforts I watched were a carefully thought out routine, based upon the Balch's experience with the carrier Lexington in the Coral Sea.
The wounded were quickly lifted aboard in a metal-framed, wire-mesh stretcher that was lowered into the water and then the patient floated into it. One of the wounded brought a bit of mirth to those watching. As he was being floated into position over the metal basket, one of his legs twisted to the side at an odd angle. "Be careful, that man has a broken leg," called a voice from the bridge. A feeble grin showed on the man's pale face as he called back, "never mind my leg, get my ass aboard!"
My watching ended when a corpsman led me forward to the wardroom, where he swabbed the fuel oil from my eyelids and ears. Another crewman then took my clothing to be dried in a boiler room while five others and I tried to clean the remainder of the bunker oil from our faces, hair and hands in a nearby shower. Emerging from the shower, I donned a set of underwear donated by the ship's captain, took the blanket offered me, and returned to the wardroom.
Back to Pearl
The first minutes of June 5, 1942, found me wrapped in a blanket and sitting with five similarly clad figures on a settee in the wardroom. Half awake, foggily, we watched a team of doctors and corpsmen working around the mess table as they cut, sewed and bandaged the wounded as they were rotated by.
At dawn's first light, it was standing room only on the Balch's decks where refugees from the Yorktown waited to learn what the new day had in store. At daybreak the bulk of the Yorktown survivors transferred by high-line, in "coal sacks", to the cruiser Portland without incident.
Aboard the cruiser, I sat down to a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast; my first food in more than thirty hours. I was also issued new clothing; a pair of shoes, three shirts and two pairs of pants. The clothing was Marine issue khaki and the pants had no hip pockets.
Two days later, June 7, we transferred to the submarine tender Fulton, again by high-line and "coal sack", for the trip back to Pearl Harbor, where we docked with flags flying, bands playing, and CINCPAC to greet us.
Then, full realization of what we had accomplished struck home. We had done the seemingly impossible; we had beaten the vaunted First Carrier Striking Force and compelled the mighty Combined Fleet of Japan to turn tail and run.