May 8, 1942

Part 2

by David H. Lippman

May 8th, 1942 - continued... Moments later, Yorktown suffers her only hit, an 800-lb. bomb, most likely a converted 12-inch shell, that hits the flight deck 15 feet inboard of the island superstructure, crushing through the third deck’s Compartment C-301-L, past Repair Party No. 5, to the fourth deck, leaving holes 15 inches in diameter as it smacks through the steel. The resulting explosion rips a hole about 15 feet wide in the third deck, sending steel fragments flying and flame roaring about the ship, killing sailors. Fragments cut through electrical wires, which set them off sparking and frying.

The blast kills and injures members of Repair No. 5, mortally wounding Ricketts. His Medal of Honor citation reads, in part, “Despite his ebbing strength, Lt. Ricketts promptly opened the valve of a near-by fireplug, partially led out the fire house and directed a heavy stream of water into the fire before dropping dead beside the hose. His courageous action, which undoubtedly prevented the rapid spread of fire to serious proportions, and his unflinching devotion to duty were in keeping with the highest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service.” Both he and Powers are members of the Annapolis Class of 1935.

Nearby, Bill Kowalczewski hears the blast, feels the smoke, and charges into the blasted compartment, equipped with gas mask and flashlight. There he finds his brother Victor’s body. “There wasn’t a mark on him,” Bill says later. “He must have been killed by the concussion.”

There is no time to mourn, even for a brother. Bill rejoins Repair Team No. 5, picks up Victor’s body, and drags it down to the mess hall, being used as a casualty station, leaves him there for the medics to cover, then runs back to Compartment C-301-L to get another wounded man from his party. There aren’t many. Steiniger and Hunt are dead. Raciopi is wounded. So is Sid Flum, who later says that the heat and dust of the blast feels “like somebody had hit me in the face with a big potato scraper or something. It was the feeling of something rough hitting you.” Flum doesn’t know it, but he and his uniform are on fire. Someone beats out the flames covering Flum’s clothes, and Flum passes out, unconscious for three days.

The blast is felt in the massive hangar deck and tiny compartments. Lt. Edward Kearney, the carrier’s junior doctor, is in main sickbay with Musician Frank Baldino, a saxophonist out of battle and a medical assistant in battle. When the two men feel the blast, Kearney snaps, “Okay, let’s go.”

Baldino is unable to move. “I looked at him and I was scared,” Baldino says later. “I’m telling you. I was shaking like a leaf. I wanted to go but I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t move.” Kearney looks into Baldino’s eyes, and sees his bandsman-medic is paralyzed with fear. Kearney goes to a cabinet, produces a bottle full of liquid, and pours Baldino a glass. “Drink this,” the doctor orders.

Baldino drinks the liquid. It’s Ten-High Bourbon. Fueled with liquid courage, Baldino followed Kearney out of the sickbay…through a passageway by the scullery…past the bakery…undog a jammed hatch…and into Compartment C-301-L. They find devastation, including the unconscious Flum.

Kearney and Baldino get straight to work, with Baldino holding the burned men by the ankle while Kearny puts in the IVs. Baldino breaks out his tannic acid and distilled water for burns, and his bundle of plywood splints for setting broken bones.

After that, Kearney and Baldino move on to the next compartment, and find Victor Fazzi of Cranston, Rhode Island, a friend of Baldino. “He was lying on his back, looking at me,” says Baldino later. “His eyes were still bright and kind of glistening. I said, ‘Hey, Doc, can we do something for my buddy, here?’” Kearny looks straight into Baldino’s eyes, and shakes his head.

The bomb kills and seriously injures 66 men, mostly by burns. Yorktown’s surgeon chafes at how his shipmates wear short-sleeved shirts and rolled-up trousers – which leaves skin opens to burns from the resulting fires. Capt. Elliott Buckmaster smoothly handles his carrier to avoid further hits, and Yorktown can continue flight operations despite the wound.

The Japanese start pulling out of their attacks, and by 11:45 a.m., the carrier struggle is over. Amazingly, despite the immense damage done, the attack is a poor job for the Japanese. Only three hits out of 33 bombs dropped, a miserable percentage. By comparison, in the Indian Ocean in April, the Soryu’s dive-bombers achieved 40 percent hits. The poor performance is attributed to the Fifth Carrier Division’s rookie status. On the way back, the bombers face more Wildcat fighters and SBDs acting as fighters. Th Japanese lose three more Kates and a Val to American guns, and three more Vals crash at sea, due to battle damage, their crews lost. Among the Vals shot down is that of Lt. Cdr. Kakuichi Takahashi, who led the dive-bombers of the first attack wave that hammered the American bases at Pearl Harbor.

The Japanese pilots report to Adm. Hara that they have sunk one “large” enemy carrier, which they identify as Saratoga. The Japanese believe that their submarine attack that damaged Saratoga earlier in the war sank the Lexington. They also report sinking a “medium” carrier, either Enterprise or Yorktown, and that they have left burning a battleship or cruiser. Neither side is doing well with their ship identification cards and battle reports. Japanese total aviation losses are 30 planes due to combat and 13 more operationally. The Americans have lost 43 planes from all causes.

At this moment, the Americans have won a considerable tactical and strategic victory. The Japanese invasion of Port Moresby has been blunted, and the temporary postponement will soon be made permanent. The Japanese have lost a light carrier, a destroyer, and several mine craft. One of their heavy carriers has been sent home for repairs, and the Americans have only lost a destroyer and an oiler, while two carriers have been damaged.

But while the shooting has stopped, the battle is far from over. As the Japanese planes form up and head home, Lexington lies listing seven degrees to starboard, three boiler rooms partially flooded. Her plane elevators are inoperative and three fires burn below. Yet incredibly, the carrier’s crew works to ready Lexington to recover her aircraft. The black gang in the engine room (a term for all engine and fire room personnel that dates back to coal-burning days) gets Lexington on an even keel by shifting oil ballast. Firefighters battle blazes, and discover that the peacetime wood and fabric furniture in the admiral’s cabin burns too easily for wartime conditions. Paint all over the ship is oil-based, which sets bulkheads ablaze. The firefighters themselves find that their hoses and nozzles are inadequate – they should send out fog rather than solid water.

Yet American determination keeps Lexington in the game. Despite two bombs and four torpedoes, she cracks on 24 knots, recovering aircraft. After an hour, the carrier seems to be heading for Brisbane and safety.

Meanwhile, Yorktown is recovering her planes and repairing her damage. Christie and Forshee enter the landing circle, and come aboard. Both are puzzled to see so many men with white, taut faces. The plane taxis to the forward elevator and is lowered into the hangar deck. When Forshee climbs out, he comes upon a pile of bodies, “stacked like cordwood.” He goes back topside and has a frightening view of the blazing Lexington. There’s more bad news for Forshee – his pal Kasselman hasn’t made it back. Another rear-seater gives Forshee the word: Kasselman shot down two Zeroes, but his plane was in turn shot down, and went in burning.

Forshee goes to the only place he can find privacy, his bunk, cries for his friend, and then volunteers for a combat air patrol flight, just to take his mind and body away from the loss.

At 12: 47, Cdr. H.R. Pop Healy, Lexington’s damage control officer, says to the skipper, Capt. Ted Sherman, “We’ve got the torpedo damage temporarily shored up, the fires out, and soon will have the ship back on an even keel. But I would suggest, sir, that if you have to take any more torpedoes, you keep ‘em on the starboard side.”

Just as Healy finishes the sentence, an immense internal explosion racks Lexington. Someone has left a motor generator running, and gasoline vapors released by a torpedo hit are set off by that generator. More fires begin and a major detonation occurs at 2:45. The explosions rip open Damage Control Central, killing and wounding Sailors charged with saving the ship, including Cdr. Healy. Incredibly, the ship is still doing 25 knots and recovering aircraft – the last one touches down at 2:14 p.m.

But another aviator is not making it home, Lt. Cdr. William B. Ault, commander of the Lexington’s air group, is struggling home wounded, asking for directions. Lexington tries to help, but she is about to have a bigger problem.

At 2:45, another major internal explosion blasts the Lexington’s fire and engine rooms, and Sherman has to ask his escort ships for firefighting help and halt flight operations. Remaining airborne planes are told to land on Yorktown, and destroyer Morris steams up to Lexington, passing fire hoses. But they do little good.

“By this time the fire was beyond control. Additional explosions were occurring; it was reported that the warheads on the hangar deck had been at a temperature of 140 degrees; ready bomb storage was in the vicinity of the fire and I considered there was danger of the ship blowing up at any minute. I had previously directed sick and wounded to be disembarked in our whaleboats and excess squadron personnel had gone on lines to the destroyer alongside,” Sherman reports later.

Up above, William Ault is still trying to come home. At 2:49 he reports having gas for only 20 minutes. Yorktown, taking over, tells Ault he is not on radar. At 2:52, Yorktown tells Ault to head for the nearest land. Ault answers that the “nearest land is 200 miles away.” He doesn’t have the gas. Yorktown radios back at 2:52, “You are on your own. Good luck.” Ault answers at 2:54, “Please relay to Lexington. We got one 1,000-pound bomb hit on a flat top. Am changing course to the north. Let me know if you pick me up.” Ault is never heard from again.

With the engine rooms in danger and communications out, Lexington’s black gang is ordered to secure engines and boilers at 4 p.m. The engine men lift the steam safety valves, and troop topside. Lexington slows to a halt at 4:30. Up above, crewmen prepare to abandon ship. In sick bay at 4:52 p.m., Cdr. A.J. White, the senior surgeon, orders his doctors and medics to evacuate wounded sailors to Captain Sherman’s cabin prior to moving them to escort ships. There the doctors and medics tend the men, covering burns with tannic acid before lowering more than 150 wounded men in basket stretchers to whaleboats. But the fires can’t be stopped – on the hangar deck, they’re getting worse, and ammunition is cooking off. Stroop hears the sound of a freight train rumbling up the flight deck, but it’s actually a rushing wall of flame erupting around the perimeter of the aft elevator.

At 5:07 p.m., Rear Adm. Fitch calls down from his flag bridge to Sherman and says, “Well, Ted, let’s get the men off.” Sadly, Sherman takes the hint and orders his crew to abandon the Lexington. For many Lexington sailors, it is indeed losing a home – the carrier’s crew consists mostly of long-service men, pre-war enlistees, who have served on the ship for their entire careers, in a Navy that could not afford in peacetime to rotate crewmen between ships. The Lexington’s crew carefully and methodically abandons ship. In ship offices, sailors file documents and clean their desks. Radiomen dust off their instruments. Sailors line up on the flight deck to climb down lifelines, placing their shoes in an orderly line on the deck. Some enterprising sailors raid the ship’s stores and bring up all the remaining ice cream, and the crewmen consume it while awaiting their turn. Nobody who goes over the side drowns – even Sherman’s dog “Wags” is saved.

Meanwhile, at 6 p.m., the Japanese do their calculations. With Shokaku heading home and Task Force 17 presumably sunk, Inouye orders his ships to withdraw, and postpones the Port Moresby invasion to July 3. The casualty bill is fierce for the Japanese: Takahashi, dependable and phlegmatic, cannot be easily replaced. Neither can the 40 planes lost during the day, nor the 40 aviators lost. The Japanese no longer have enough aviators to fully man their six fleet carriers. Shokaku’s damage will keep her out of the next battle, as will Zuikaku’s lack of pilots. If the Americans cannot afford to trade Yamamoto carrier for carrier at this point, the Japanese cannot trade the Americans aviator for aviator. The Japanese are losing aviators faster than they can replace them.

Fitch remains up on Lexington’s bridge with his staff as long as possible, then he, Stroop, and the flag staff head port side, forward, to climb down the lifelines. Stroop rips out the longhand pages of his war diary from their ledger, folds them up in a square, and stuffs them in his pocket, making life easier for historians later.

He strides across the flight deck, feeling its heat, realizing the ship will sink soon. At portside forward, Fitch and Stroop find large mooring lines hanging down, making it easy for the senior staff to haul themselves down to the water. Fitch’s Marine orderly walks across the flight deck in absolutely correct position, one step to the left and one to the rear, carrying Fitch’s coat over his arm. Fitch is the only officer who arrives on a rescue ship with a jacket. The Marine also carries, more importantly, all of the dispatches handed to the admiral during the battle. Fitch and his staff find lines but no boats available. Stroop tries sending semaphore messages to the nearest cruiser, Minneapolis, “Send a boat for the admiral,” and the cruiser does, sending a motor launch right to the spot.

The admiral’s orderly urges that Fitch go first, but Fitch is determined to be last, and orders his Marine aide down. Nobody argues over protocol. Stroop is a former Annapolis rope-climber, so he times his descent to arrive at the bottom of the line just as the launch arrives. But Lt. Bowen, the communications officer, behind Stroop on the line, is heavier and longer, and can’t hang on. He says, “Pardon me, sir, while I pass you.” Bowen drops off the line and into the water. Fitch and his orderly continue to argue about who shall get in the water first until the launch gets under the line, and both step onto the launch dry-shod, as does Stroop.

The launch motors alongside the carrier, picking up sailors still in the water, then heads for Minneapolis. As Fitch and his team reach the cruiser’s bridge, there is a tremendous explosion, and everyone turns to watch Lexington’s No. 2 elevator fly out of the ship, followed by a sheet of flame that rises as high as the mast of the ship, and the whole bridge area erupts in flames, an incredible silhouette in the night sky. Realizing that waiting longer to abandon ship would have only led to more casualties, Fitch feels a sense of relief.

Meanwhile, Sherman and his XO, Cdr. M.T. Seligman make that last grim inspection to ensure that nobody has been left behind. They have to dodge flying debris as explosions continue to wrack the ship. Finally, preceded by a Marine orderly, Seligman and Sherman (the captain last), become the final Lexington crewmen to leave the smoldering carrier, reaching the destroyer Hammann.

From the surrounding rescue ships, all eyes are on the wrecked Lexington, whose hull is turning red and white from internal fires. The blazes cook off 30 aircraft parked on the flight deck, loaded with ammunition, sending tracers zooming in all directions. The task force moves away while the destroyer Phelps (one of the first to sail out of Pearl Harbor on December 7) moves in to end the carrier’s agony with five torpedoes. Stroop, weary, heads down to an officer’s stateroom to clean up, and feels but does not see the coup de grace. At about 8 p.m., Phelps performs the unpleasant task, firing eight torpedoes at the carrier. Four explode, setting off an explosion so fierce that Phelps’ skipper, Lt. Cdr. Edward L. Beck, thinks his ship has been hit by a torpedo. On a rescue ship, Lt. Jack Smith can’t watch the carrier explode and start to sink. Shipmates who have been with Lexington since commissioning in 1927 stand crying. As Seaman Herbert of West Virginia says later, “All the fellows were crying and weeping like young girls, so was I.”

Lexington’s last recorded position is Latitude 15º12’S, Longitude 155º27E. She heads to the bottom with the bodies of 216 men and the remains of 36 aircraft aboard. Some 19 of her planes land on Yorktown. 2,735 members of Lexington’s crew survive to fight another day – and many of them become the nucleus crews of escort carriers sent to defeat Hitler’s U-Boats in the Atlantic.

While the carriers trade battles, the men of Neosho and Sims struggle to keep the blazing tanker afloat. Rescue ships are looking in the wrong place, survivors are floating helplessly in the water, but those aboard Neosho work to care for the wounded, properly bury the dead at sea, and keep their eyes skinned for patrol planes, as Neosho drifts slowly westward on the trade winds.

On Yorktown, sailors assemble piles of bodies and body parts, covering them under canvas sheets. One pile is placed in the main mess hall on the third deck. When Buckmaster releases men to get some chow, they unknowingly troop down to that mess hall, and turn back, unable to eat. Worried about crew morale, Buckmaster orders burial-at-sea ceremonies that night.

Over Yorktown’s fantail, carpenters build a see-saw-like device to slide the wrapped bodies. Chaplain Hamilton breaks out a decent uniform and the appropriate prayers for the dead. Medics prepare the bodies for burial in the parachute locker on the hangar deck. With only flashlights to illuminate the scene, the medics snap off the dog tags, wrap the bodies in bed sheets, and weight them down with spare firebricks. Yeomen obediently jot down the dead men’s serial numbers for the record. Howard Stein, normally a drummer and violinist with the ship’s band (Navy musicians train on two instruments: one for entertainment and one for ceremonies), having spent the day assisting medics, volunteers for the burial detail. “I was 20,” Stein says later. “A couple of years earlier, I had tasted some booze, but I couldn’t take it. One sip and that was it. I didn’t like the taste. The corpsman came by with this bottle of Ten-High whisky and poured a shot for each of us before we went up to the parachute locker. It went down like water.”

Stein prepares the body of Lt. Milton Ricketts, who has a large piece of shrapnel jammed in his leg. Stein asks what he should do about the piece of metal. A medic peers at it with his flashlight, and pronounces at last, “Just wrap him up.”

As the lugubrious work continues into the night, Fletcher’s task force withdraws – per Adm. Chester Nimitz’s orders – from the Coral Sea, heading east. A near-miss near Yorktown’s bow severs pipes leading from an airplane gasoline storage tank, which leaves an oil slick behind the carrier. Yorktown appears to be bleeding. Her escort destroyers zigzag through the carrier’s wake to disperse the gasoline.

While some maneuvering remains, for all intents and purposes the Battle of the Coral Sea is over. The Japanese are down to 39 planes, the Americans to 49. With the sinking of Lexington, the Japanese have won a tactical victory, but the “temporary postponement” of the invasion of Port Moresby will become permanent, and Japan’s plans to encircle Australia crushed. The anniversary of the battle will become a public holiday in Australia, as the nation continues to recognize the American achievement in saving Australia, and show their gratitude for that achievement by celebrating Coral Sea Week annually with marches by servicemen from both countries in Australia, port visits by American warships (for many years often the carrier USS Coral Sea) and social functions to welcome American dignitaries.

But most importantly, for the first time in history, a full-scale naval battle has been fought in which neither side’s ships sight each other – all the damage was accomplished by aircraft.

Back on Yamato, Yamamoto and his staff learn that Inouye has cancelled the Port Moresby invasion, but that the Americans have taken a beating. Yamamoto’s staff officers demand that a strongly worded telegram be sent to Inouye and Fourth Fleet for their “defeatism.” Ugaki suggests that a “request” be sent, but an order to resume the attack is finally fired off. But given the lack of air cover, it seems rational that the Port Moresby invasion be postponed to July.

Imperial General Headquarters reports the inflated toll of American sinkings to the public, and calls them a “most significant gift to the nation,” and an Imperial Rescript is put out. Ugaki writes more accurately, “The people will be very pleased, but I could not help feeling somewhat dissatisfied.”

In Burma, the Japanese advance continues, with their troops seizing the city of Myitkyina. This grubby Burmese city will be no stranger to bloody battles.

“May 8. Start ordered for 5 a.m.,” diaries Joseph Stilwell, also in Burma. “Off at 5:45. Delay in kitchen. Made Dorn mess officer. No guard on foot. No check. Did four marches to Saingkyu. Limeys’ feet all shot. Our people tired. Damn poor show of physique. Chattering monkeys in jungle. Bombers over, reminder that we are not yet out.”

Showtime in the Crimea as the German 11th Army heats up the siege of Sevastopol, by launching Operation Bustard. 11th Army has 13 infantry, one panzer, and one cavalry divisions. Luftwaffe support is Fliegerkorps 8, and naval support comes from E-boats and Italian midget submarines, which attack Soviet supply ships reinforcing Sebastopol.
The Germans hit Gen. D.T. Kozlov's Crimean Front along Feodosiya Bay, and crash through the 44th Army's two divisions, relying on Ju 87 Stukas to do the damage. Once again, the Germans are on the offensive in Russia, and once again, the Russians crumble under the weight of German firepower.

Vice President Henry Wallace tells American radio listeners that “I am convinced the Summer and Fall of 1942 will be a time of supreme crisis for us all.” He warns that Japan may attack Alaska and the northwest US and Germany may create an uprising in South America. The same day, Manuel Quezon, the Philippine President-in-Exile, racked by tuberculosis, arrives in San Francisco with his family and staff. He will die in Saranac Lake, NY, in 1943.