WILDCAT VERSUS ZERO
Crowded Flight Decks
While fending off his persistent attackers, the Commander of the First Carrier Striking Force, Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, had been advised that a second attack against Midway defenses was needed. In response, he had ordered his reserve aircraft, which had been armed with torpedoes and armor-piercing bombs for a strike against naval forces, rearmed with land bombs for a second attack on Midway. Then, notified of the discovery of the U. S. task forces by one of his scout planes, he had countermanded his first order and directed all aircraft be rearmed for action against ships. As a result of the crews’ haste to carry out the last order, unsecured ordnance, bombs and torpedoes, littered the carrier decks. Bomb stowage and magazines were left open, and planes returning from Midway were being refueled.
The stubby Grumman
F4F "Wildcat" lacked the speed and agility of the Japanese Zero,
but its rugged construction and superior armament made it a dangerous opponent.
We were approaching an area of tall cumulus clouds, rising from fifteen-hundred feet bases in towering, grayish-white columns across our course, when Yorktown's torpedo formation made an abrupt change of course to the right. I followed, penciling the time and new compass heading on the left sleeve of my flight jacket. Adrenaline began to flow. Something was about to happen!
I also had a decision to make. My TBD formation was now on course between two of the large cumulus build-ups that were joined at their bases by a shelf of cloud. The shelf extended from the cloud base to at least five hundred feet above my altitude. Should I climb over the shelf or drop down to the formation’s level and go under the cloud deck as it appeared they would do.
Moments later the question was of no consequence as black puffs of anti-aircraft fire blossomed below and ahead. Then an object I thought to be a belly tank whirled down in the path of the TBD formation. Looking up, I saw my first enemy aircraft, a Zero fighter. Silhouetted against the cloud shelf, the Zero was in a shallow dive and making a head-on run at the lead TBD. Puffs of white spouted from the Zero’s engine cowling as, at extreme range, the pilot tripped off a short burst from his 7.7mm guns. Without hesitating, the Zero rolled into a steep climbing left turn, then leveled off in a wide, sweeping flat turn to the right.
Dangerous in a Dog-fight
The sleekand agile Japanese Zero was the best fighter aircraft in the Pacific in 1942. Unlike their American opponents in the early stage of the Pacific War, many Zero pilots had extensive combat experience gained in Japan's unprovokedand brutal war against China which began in 1937.
Not a Target Sleeve
I was momentarily spellbound watching the fighter's clean, seemingly effortless maneuvers. Within seconds, the Zero was in position to make a firing run on the last plane on the TBD formation's right flank. Nosing down slightly, the pilot continued his curving approach, five hundred feet above and slightly to my right, as though I had not yet been seen. I moved my engine controls into combat power range, and pushed the throttle to the forward stop. Easing back on the control stick until the F4F was hanging on the prop, I brought the gunsight pip to an almost full deflection lead on the Zero's nose. The index finger of my right hand squeezed down on the gun trigger set in the molded grip of the control stick. The six .50 caliber wing guns rumbled. I held the trigger down just long enough to see the red stream of tracers converge into the Zero's engine and start to drift back into the fuselage. The thought flashed through my mind, right down the target sleeve's throat. But this was no target sleeve!
The Zero's nose bucked up momentarily, dropped back, then the plane came diving down in my direction. At the moment, my guns were firing and the tracers were curving up and into their target. I was literally hanging in air. The muzzle blast and recoil of the six fifties was all that was needed to push my overloaded, underpowered F4F over the edge into a control sloppy stall. As I let my fighter's nose drop, and started a recovery rolling to the left, the Zero swept past on my right with black smoke and flames spewing from the engine, and a river of fire trailing back along its belly. Clearly visible, the pilot sat rigidly facing straight ahead. "He is dead!" flashed across my mind. Alive, he would have been watching me, looking for any movement of my control surfaces, anticipating my next move. Teruo Kawamata, PO3c, Imperial Japanese Navy, would be listed as missing in action that night.
Rolling into level flight, the throttle still firewalled, I tried to bring my guns to bear on two Zeros diving in on the TBD formation's left quarter. The Wildcat's straining engine could not build up maneuvering speed fast enough. With the pipper of the gunsight at a point well ahead of the pair, I snapped off a short burst. As the tracers crossed their diving path, the Zeros abruptly zoomed skyward. Their climbing ability was stunning to watch. They were out of sight and mind in seconds as I rolled to the right, reversing course.
With airspeed increasing, the Grumman began to respond to my mind’s commands rather than my deliberate moves. Time ceased to be measured, hands and feet moved automatically evoking control responses, moving the plane as one with my body as I turned and twisted to face each new situation.
I moved to intercept a lone Zero diving in on the last TBD on the right. Just short of coming into firing range, it too zoomed up and out of my sight. Reversing course to the left, I scanned the sky for more attackers and saw none. Looking to the left, back across our course, I watched as a Zero trailing black smoke and flame crashed into the sea. A mile beyond, an F4F made a last spinning turn as it too disappeared nose first into the ocean. Only rippling rings in the water marked the F4F’s impact, while a puffball of black smoke hovered over the spot where the Zero had disappeared. Several other such puffs of black marked similar ruffled spots of water. Grumman or Zero, I wondered, turning my attention back to my own line of flight.
The lack of Zero attackers had only been momentary. Diving in on the last section of TBDs on the left came a pair of Zeros. As before, I was not in position to intercept and without hesitation snapped a burst of tracer in their direction. The results were the same as before, an exhibition of the climbing ability of this nimble fighter. The thought struck home, this was not one to tangle with in a dogfight, at least not with an overweight F4F-4.
Again reversing course to the right, I was startled and alarmed to see that the TBDs had increased speed, the distance between us had doubled. A duo of Zeros were just pulling up from a run on the trailing plane on the right flank of the formation. At that moment a Zero dove in front of me, aiming at the center rear of the group. I rolled after him, sliding into his trail, aiming for a no-deflection shot. All the while, so sure of my target, I was mentally painting a Rising Sun on my Grumman's fuselage. As my finger tensed to squeeze down on the trigger, the Zero seemed to shudder, then pitched forward into a near vertical dive into the sea as I pulled up in a climbing turn to the right. The TBD gunners had beaten me to the punch, but the inning was far from over.
In the Enemy’s Gunsights
I was snapped out of a momentary trance as a burst of tracers, shoulder high, swept past on the right side of the cockpit. Nosing down and twisting left, glancing back I could see no one. A burst of tracers brushed across my left wing, and I snapped the fighter tightly to the right. Again I could see nothing tailing me. Hesitating (a mistake), I allowed the F4F to level off. Immediately 7.7 tracers zipped past on both sides of the canopy and I heard or felt the thud of hits on the armor plate behind my seat. The 7.7s abruptly stopped, replaced by 20mm cannon tracers, seemingly the size of oranges, floating past in slow motion on both sides of the canopy. I violently kicked the F4F into a vertical turn to the left and found a Zero tucked in under my tail.
The turn had caught him off balance; he was drifting rapidly to the right. I snapped the Grumman back to the right, hoping to catch him in a scissors facing my guns. As my Wildcat rolled past the horizontal, a fiery stream of red tracers flashed over the canopy, seemingly just inches above my head. It was like a broad stream of fire, leaving a mental impression of heat. The Zero was not in sight as I completed the turn, and I immediately swung the fighter back in the direction of my torpedo squadron. The last TBDs in the formation were just passing from view under the cloud shelf.
To the right of the formation, the plane that had last been under attack was now in a curving glide down to the right. A parachute blossomed behind the TBD and from the side a Zero knifed down toward it. I felt helpless--hogtied--there was nothing I could do to stop what I thought was going to happen. The TBD, then the chute, hit the water. Dangerously close to the water, and without firing, the Zero pulled up to the right, climbing in my direction. I glimpsed other Zeros above and to my right. Shifting my gaze to the instrument panel and steadying the fighter on course, I flew into the cloud deck. Passage through the murky cloud was brief in time, but as the seconds ticked by, questions raced through my mind. Where was Jimmy and his high cover? Where were the puffballs of AA coming from? Where was Dan Sheedy? I had not seen Dan since we came under fire! Was that Dan's F4F I saw go in? All questions remained without answers as I burst from the cloud cover into a clear narrow avenue between two towering cumulus. I fully expected to see my torpedo group ahead as I came into the open. They were not in sight, but others were.
A thousand feet above my right shoulder flew four or more Zeros. Three hundred yards off my left wing, on course and at my level paced another Zero. I snapped to rigid attention as I realized the speck in the middle of my gunsight was a Zero coming straight at me. Wait for him to close was a momentary thought instantly overruled by a reaction that closed my finger down on the trigger. Tracers spewed out. Pieces of metal from the Zero's engine and cowling flashed as I released the trigger, pulled up, and rolled to the left. Still in the turn, I began firing as the nose of the plane on my left appeared in the outer ring of my gunsight. Tracers raked through its engine and the length of the fuselage before I released the trigger and passed astern.
Rolling into level flight, I flew straight for the billowing cloud that had been to the left as I broke into the open leaving the first cloud deck. With my attention riveted on my flight instruments, the dim gray light of the cloud closing around me was a welcome feeling. Once in the cloud, I made a brief adjustment to flying on the gauges, then made a 90 degree turn to the right, reduced power, and began a slow descent. There were two reasons for this action. First, the turn should shake off any Zero that had followed me into the cloud. The one I had last fired on evidently flew through the first cloud deck with me. Secondly, and hopefully, when I again broke into the open I would be in the vicinity of my torpedo squadron. It was not to be.