YORKTOWN UNDER ATTACK
Under Attack
The incoming attack of eighteen dive bombers and six Zeros was from the Hiryu. Hidden by a rain squall, she had escaped detection when our dive bombers attacked the First Carrier Striking Force.
As Yorktown's five-inch guns began to add black puffs of AA in the path of the approaching attack, Thach appeared. "Get back in the ready room!", he ordered. "You cost Uncle Sam too much money to be out here!"
Back in the ready room, we sat tense, listening as the tempo of the anti-aircraft fire outside rose in building waves of sound. The bark of the five-inch guns signaled the approach of each attacker, followed in sequence by the pump-pump of the 1.1s, the chattering 20 millimeters, and finally, the rattle of the .30 and .50 caliber machine guns as the enemy approached his drop point. As the sound of the AA fire became a constant roar, we were suddenly jolted by an explosion in the after part of the ship. It was immediately followed by a second, then a third, this time closer and more severe. I gripped the arm of my chair tighter and settled deeper into the cushioned seat.
USS Yorktown has been hit by
three Japanese bombs and is dead in the water. Crew members
are working frantically to repair the damage and bring their ship back to operational
status.
Suddenly, there was silence. As we waited, choking black fumes flooded into the ready room. The after hatch opening into the interior Island structure had been left open, and sooty black smoke boiled up through the ladder wells from the decks below. Again the ready room rapidly emptied. Gasping and teary eyed, in the fresh air on the open flight deck, we looked around. The ship lay dead in the water while the screening cruisers and destroyers churned the water in a protective circle around her. Within minutes we were joined by coughing, soot blackened engineers from the engine and fire room spaces. The last bomb had penetrated the flight deck at an angle, and then penetrated the stack where it exploded; blasting back down the uptakes, snuffing out the boiler fires, and flooding the spaces with choking smoke and fumes.
On the after flight deck, where a bomb had exploded on contact at deck level, repair crews were rapidly repairing a gaping hole in the deck with sheets of boiler plate. The bomb blast had spewed shrapnel; ripping through the gun crews and other exposed personnel. Around and in the deck-level 1.1 gun battery, first aid teams were removing and checking bodies for signs of life. There were none living. Curiosity drew my feet in that direction. I wandered aft and entered a mind shocking area. Approaching the after end of the island structure, a bloody splotch on the gray painted side of the superstructure caught my eye; it brought to mind a child's drawing of a 'Gingerbread Man.' On the deck below, lay a mass of bloody flesh encased in shredded denim.
"I bent down to pick up another can of ammo. Something knocked me flat. When I stood up, there he was!" The strident voice came from a group gathered near the port edge of the flight deck abreast the point of the bomb's impact. All but the speaker were quietly looking down into the 20 millimeter gun battery on the catwalk below where a headless gunner still manned his gun; held in place by the gunmount shoulder straps.
Second Attack
Only five dive bombers and three Zeros survived the attack to return to the Hiryu. They left Yorktown dead in the water and without power. By 1400, repair parties had the Yorktown again under way. A low cheer sounded through the ship as the first vibration of the churning propellers traveled through the hull and the Yorktown began building up speed to 19 knots.
The respite was not long however; radar had detected a second attack approaching from the west. Again, all hands scrambled to man their battle stations. We had barely settled into our seats in the ready room when a frantic command sounded from the PA system, "Fighter pilots man your planes!"
Fumbling with my flight gear and plotting board, elbowing my way through the crowd blocking the hatch, I found myself one of the last to leave the ready room. On the flight deck, engines were starting as I made my way aft. I found each fighter already had a pilot in it. Finally, just aft of the island structure I spotted a Grumman unoccupied, and scrambled into its cockpit. Buckled in, and with a thumbs up from a mechanic, I flipped the starter switch. The engine coughed twice and died. As the five-inch batteries opened up, I was ready to try to start the engine for a third time when a mechanic climbed up on the wing and yelled, "No gas!" With the 1.1s in the gun tubs just above me joining the blasting five-inch, I decided the ready room was a safer place to be.
The ready room was filling up with flight deck personnel as I made my way to a seat facing the inboard bulkhead and sat down between Evans and Epplar. After viewing the carnage the shrapnel from the bomb blast had worked on the exposed gun crews, flight deck workers now needed little urging to seek shelter. This time with all hatches dogged down tight, we sat tense and listened as the attack developed.
For the first few minutes, it seemed a replay of the bombing attack; the roaring of the AA batteries, the ship rattling as if it was trying to shake itself apart. Then came an explosion that lifted us up out of our seats. Whether I was separated from the chair a mere fraction of an inch, there was the impression that I rose high in the air. The entire ship twisted and whipped in a motion best described, "Like a Terrier shaking a rat!" As I sensed my body descending, the compartment lights went out, but not before I realized that Evans and I had each gripped the other's hand. In the blackness, we had scarcely settled back into our seats when a second explosion again sent us skyward.