The US declares war on Hungary, Bulgaria and Rumania, in a unanimous Senate vote.

Japanese forces attack Chushien in China, part of the massive offensives the Japanese launch in the wake of the Doolittle Raid.

At 4:30 in the afternoon, the summer heat and monotony in the small Czech village of Lidice, 10 miles from Prague, is broken when two columns of SS troops and Gestapo men arrive in trucks and staff cars, their vehicles preceded by a cloud of dust. The Nazis form a cordon around the town and herd the village’s entire population of 364 into the main street and check identity cards. Gestapo men question the citizens curtly, identifying the people from lists. Troops ransack every house from top to bottom, turning furniture and belongings upside down, leaving chaos.

After this work, the Germans haul away Mrs. Stribrny, her brother and the entire Horak family—eight men and seven women, one nine months pregnant. None are ever seen again. The Germans then leave. The German interest in Lidice comes from the shooting of Heydrich in May. SS files show that two residents of Lidice, Josef Horak and Josef Stribrny, both fled Czechoslovakia in 1939 and joined the RAF. With little more evidence and logic than this, the SS believe that the two carried out the assault on Heydrich. Hence the incarceration and disappearance of the two pilots’ families. However, the deaths of nine men and eight women are the least of the horrors in store for Lidice.

In Scapa Flow, Scotland, the destroyer USS Wainwright sails in from Invergordon, bearing Adm. Harold “Betty” Stark, who glories in the title of Commander, US Naval Forces, Europe. COMNAVEUR arrives at 6pm and boards USS Washington amid boatswain’s pipes, 17-gun salutes and ruffles. As he steps on the battleship’s quarterdeck, his four-star flag shoots up the main. Stark is impressed, then heads below for dinner in the wardroom.

In the Aleutians, the day begins rainy and overcast, but the Battle for Dutch Harbor continues. American aircrews cook up meals amid mud and oozing tundra and fill their own aircraft from heavy 55-gallon drums. All morning American aircraft search for the Japanese and find the two carriers, Ryujo and Junyo, at 9 a.m.

Inter-service communications snarls delay the American attack until noon, when Lt. Charles E. Perkins’ PBY Catalina swoops in with a torpedo. Japanese flak knocks out his starboard engine. Disgusted, Perkins jettisons his bombs and torpedo and half his fuel, struggling home on one engine, to win a Navy Cross. The Americans try again with B-26 bombers flying in on the deck armed with torpedoes, to no luck. One B-26 launches its torpedo on Ryujo dead amidships, but the carrier pitches into a wave trough. The flight deck heaves down and the sizzling torpedo slips over the dropping deck and plunges into the sea. The Americans send in two B-17s and more B-26s to no avail.

Meanwhile, the Japanese are delayed by American attacks and the need to refuel, and can’t launch an attack on Dutch Harbor until 3 p.m. Rear Adm. Kakuji Kakuta hurls 17 bombers and 15 fighters at the enemy. The planes hurtle in at 4 p.m. and attack the grounded liner Northwestern, driven up on the beach by a williwaw, her 16th grounding. Japanese bombs do heavy damage but the ship’s crew floods the engine room to stop the fire. The grounded liner’s engines provide heat, steam and power to Dutch Harbor. Japanese bombers rake Dutch Harbor’s oil tanks and installations, demolishing one wing of the base hospital. Four big fuel tanks explode with a roar heard 40 miles away, incinerating 750,000 gallons of 100 octane. Only 18 men are killed, 25 injured, but the Japanese take no casualties.

However, en route back, eight American P-40 fighters attack the enemy. Both sides lose two aircraft. As the Zeroes rumble home, one, piloted by Flight Petty Officer Tadayoshi Koga, spots a PBY flying low in the water. He streaks down to finish off the seaplane and splashes the PBY. But the PBY’s blister gunner, Aviation Machinist’s Mate W.H. Rawls, helps turn the tide of World War II by putting a bullet through Koga’s oil pressure line. Pressure goes down to zero. Convinced his engine will pack up, he turns his crippled plane to land on Akutan Island, putting out a voice distress message. Koga lands with his wheels down, a mistake on the boggy tundra. The wheels get caught in the tundra, flip the Zero on its back and break Koga’s neck, killing the pilot.

The Zero lies undisturbed for a month when a US Navy PBY’s crew spots it. A Navy team is sent to retrieve this prize. Koga’s Zero is damaged, but mostly intact. American crews quickly ship the Zero back to the States, the first Zero captured intact by the Americans. In California the Zero is re-assembled and test-flown before a team of engineers from Grumman, which is designing a new fighter called the F6F Hellcat. Most of the design is nearly completed, and test models have been flown. But by studying the Zero and its principles, the Grumman team is able to make a few more changes to a design that is already capable of driving the Zero from the skies and giving the Allies supremacy in the air. After the war, a myth will develop that Koga’s Zero enabled the Americans to change the Hellcat’s design, which is not true.

The greatest battle in naval history commences off the unremarkable island of Midway, a small piece of sand, coral, palm trees, whose main features are an airstrip and an albatross colony. One of the more confusing aspects of the engagement for historians and combatants is that the Japanese force is on one side of the International Dateline, while the Americans are on the other. Patrol planes leave Midway late on June 3, fly into a battle just after midnight on June 5, and return to Midway on June 4. In addition, the Japanese Navy uses Tokyo time wherever it goes.

The battle of Midway begins before dawn when four PBY Catalinas from the island attack the Midway Occupation Force. Despite exhaustion and greenness, Ensign Dagwood Propst scores a minor hit on an oiler, Akebono Maru, killing 13 men and wounding 11. Propst regards the barrage of flak, with its noise and pyrotechnics, as being like “Coney Island on the 4th of July.”

On Midway, everyone knows the attack is coming. Officers remove their insignia to keep Japanese snipers from identifying them. An Army officer tries to buy the full $10,000 GI life insurance – but no forms are left. Marines burn their remaining classified documents and swap frightening scuttlebutt. Lt. Col. Ira E. Kimes tells his Marine Air Group 22 personnel, “This is it, boys. Give it all you’ve got, and good luck to you.” VT-8 Detachment Ensign Bert Earnest finds a $2 bill on the Eastern Island runway, and pockets it, believing it will bring him good luck.

Out at sea, the American ships continue to steam “as before,” awaiting the enemy. Admirals Fletcher and Spruance try to piece out the fragmentary intelligence from their scout planes. Fletcher later says, “After a battle is over, people talk a lot about how the decisions were methodically reached, but actually there’s always a hell of a lot of groping around.”

At dawn the two enemy carrier task forces are 400 miles apart. The Japanese have no idea where the Americans are, or even if they’re at sea. The Americans know the Japanese are out there, but are not sure precisely where. The burden of attack rides upon the dour, casual Vice Adm. Chuichi Nagumo, a veteran sea dog and expert in destroyer tactics who has led his carriers to Pearl Harbor and victory after victory. Nagumo in turn relies on his chief of staff, Rear. Adm. Kusaka, and air officer, Cdr. Minoru Genda.

The latter comes staggering onto the bridge at 3 a.m., weak from pneumonia but ready to plan the fleet’s reconnaissance flights. “I am very sorry, sir, to have been absent so long,” Genda says. “I have a slight temperature but am feeling much better now.” Actually, he looks pale and wobbly, but nobody argues with his determination. Nagumo throws a fatherly arm around Genda and has the air officer prepare the reconnaissance plan.

Genda orders up a one-stage plan, cutting the recce slice thin, theorizing that every plane wasted on reconnaissance is unavailable for attack. His views echo Japanese naval doctrine.

On the Japanese carriers, crewmen ready the planes for attack, and pilots eat breakfast – rice, soybean soup, pickles, dry chestnuts, and cold sake – the latter two being traditional foods for Japanese warriors entering battle. On Soryu, a pilot, as usual, tells CPO Juzo Mori, “You’re going to get it today.” “No, you’re the one,” Mori retorts, also as usual.

On USS Enterprise, the supply officer orders breakfast served before morning GQ and supper after evening GQ is secured, so that only one meal has to be taken to men at battle stations. In the galleys, cooks prepare thousands of sandwiches, fresh fruit, and coffee, which is put into three-gallon cans. Reveille is blared at 3:30 a.m. over the 1MC. Everyone heads for breakfast.

In the Torpedo 6 wardroom, Pablo Riley sees that Cdr. Gene Lindsey is still wearing tape and bandages from a recent accident. Riley says: “You look pretty beat up, skipper. You really feel well enough to fly today?”

Lindsey answers: “This is the real thing today, Pablo, the thing we’ve been training for. I’ll take the squadron in.”

At 4:30 a.m., Yorktown launches 10 scout planes. At that precise moment, the Japanese launch their scouts, except for one plane from the cruiser Tone, whose balky seaplane catapults delay her launch until 5 a.m. While Tone’s crew fusses (the ship was configured to carry several seaplanes and enjoyed a spacious hangar deck that doubled as comfy crew accommodations), the carriers ready their initial strike on Midway.

Conforming to “Organization No. 5,” 36 Kate torpedo bombers (armed with 1,770lb contact bombs) from Hiryu and Soryu, 36 Val dive bombers on Akagi and Kaga (each with a 550lb armor-piercing bomb) and 36 Zero fighters as escort rise up the elevators of all four carriers. Veteran China pilot Lt. Joichi Tomonaga from Hiryu leads the strike.

On Akagi, Cdr. Mitsuo Fuchida, weak, faint, and grounded by his appendix operation, crawls through watertight doors and through 10 manholes to reach his cabin. He washes, shaves, dons his uniform and struggles to air ops, where Lt. Izumi Furukawa helps him to a seat. Furukawa briefs Fuchida on the search plan. Fuchida isn’t happy. Not enough planes. However, Fuchida is up against Japanese naval doctrine, which calls for no more than 10 percent of total strength to be used on reconnaissance, preferably on a one-phase search system. More importantly, the Japanese have no carrier-borne search aircraft. Most of the reconnaissance birds are seaplanes from the cruisers Tone and Chikuma. A reason they accompany Nagumo’s task force is the fact that they are configured to carry a number of seaplanes. But most importantly, the Japanese smugly don’t expect to even find the American fleet. Nagumo’s Estimate of the Situation reads, Sentence D: “The enemy is not aware of our plans.”

Fuchida crawls down onto the flight deck to watch the pre-dawn launch. Akagi turns into the wind, creating a 19.2 mph headwind. The temperature is 70F. Pilots and bombardiers climb into cockpits in the dawn, and start engines on signal. Floodlights illuminate the teakwood decks, engines cough to life, spewing exhaust, and Cdr. Shogo Masuda swings his green signal lamp over his head on Akagi, giving the order to launch.

On all ships’ decks, crewmen cheer as fighters and bombers claw into the air, form up, and head southeast in three-plane V formations at 4:45 a.m. As soon as Nagumo’s first strike is airborne, a second wave of planes is rushed onto the flight deck, ready to attack any enemy naval forces the scouts may discover. This force consists of 36 dive-bombers from Hiryu and Soryu, 36 torpedo bombers from Akagi and Kaga, and 36 fighters from all carriers. With the planes fueled and armed, all hands wait for new orders.

Meanwhile, Tone finally sorts out her defective catapult at 5 a.m., and launches Scout No. 4 – half an hour late, headed northeast…directly toward the American fleet. Amazingly, nobody on Nagumo’s staff chastises Tone for the delays, nor does Nagumo launch one of his own planes as a replacement. Another sign of sloppy, cocksure command. Also, Nagumo’s combat air patrol for 21 ships consists of only 18 Zeroes.

200 miles north and slightly east of Midway, American aviators eat breakfast – scrambled eggs for Cdr. Wade McClusky on Enterprise – and wait in their ready rooms for orders. The ready rooms look like classrooms, rows of seats with writing arms, all facing a blackboard. On that, the information of the day is written – position, wind, course, target and “Point Option,” the carriers’ location after the strike. Like their enemies on Nagumo’s carriers, the American aviators must hurry up and wait. McClusky doesn’t go to the ready room. He has an office on Enterprise, where he learns that his regular gunner has just broken his glasses. McClusky calls for a replacement, and he gets ARM1 W.G. Chochalousek, fresh out of aviation gunnery school. Just what he needed.

At 5:10, Lt. Howard Ady flies his PBY Catalina along the 315-degree segment, near the end of his search arc. He sees a small seaplane race past from the West, intent on its business, which seems to be straight for Midway. Ady fires off the single word “aircraft,” and then gives position, course and speed. Ady’s Catalina bucks through squalls for another 20 minutes, and then sees, “like a curtain going up at a theater,” two aircraft carriers 20 miles away, headed straight for him. Just south of Ady, Lt. William Chase, spots a huge formation of fighters and bombers heading for Midway at 5:40 a.m. Chase doesn’t waste time trying to encode his contact report, but instead signals in plain English, “Many planes heading Midway. Bearing 320, distance 150.”

At 5:34, Ady finally starts sending his messages: “Enemy carriers,” followed at 5:40 by distance, course, and speed. The Japanese fleet is 200 miles west-southwest of Yorktown. Fletcher spots an airstrike on his flight deck. ["Spotting" is the term for setting planes on a flight deck for a strike.]

At 5:53, Enterprise intercepts the “Many planes heading Midway” message, and Spruance orders his chief of staff, the irascible Captain Miles Browning, to “launch everything you have at the earliest possible moment and strike the enemy carriers.” Spruance will hold nothing back. Neither will Fletcher, who studies the mathematics and the map to determine that Spruance is closer to the enemy than Yorktown. At 6:07 Fletcher orders Spruance to “proceed southwesterly and attack enemy carriers when definitely located.” Fletcher holds his planes back, remembering how his all-out strike at Coral Sea, based on slim intelligence, missed the large enemy carriers completely. He recalls his scout planes, intending to launch a complete strike.

At 5:53 Midway’s radar picks out the incoming Japanese strike and reports, “Many bogey aircraft bearing 310, distance 93.” The air raid siren goes off two minutes later. The B-17s are already airborne, heading for the transports, but they are rerouted to hit the reported enemy carriers. Next, the Midway defenders start launching aircraft…first the 26 fighters at 6 a.m. Six F4F Wildcats and 20 outdated F2A Brewster Buffalos, under Marine Maj. Floyd “Red” Parks, take off. One, Lt. Charles S. Hughes, returns to base when his engine starts coughing badly. The fighters are followed by the six detached TBFs of Torpedo 8, the four Army B-26s configured as torpedo bombers, and finally the Marine dive-bombers, 12 SBU Vindicators and 16 Dauntlesses, at 6:15.

At that precise moment, USS Enterprise sounds general quarters with its buzzer, a new innovation. USS Hornet goes to GQ at 6:26 a.m., using her older gong. Nobody blows bugles into public address systems any more. As Paul Fussell observes in a later book, the war is moving “from light to heavy duty.” Regardless of the alarm system, the impact is the same: Sailors vault out of racks or from offices and mess decks, buckle on helmets and anti-flash gear, and race up narrow ladders to their battle stations.

As the last Dauntless departs Midway, the noise of revving engines, jeeps, and air-raid sirens is replaced by an ominous silence. Everyone is staring northwest, awaiting the Japanese attack. Capt. James O’Halloran reminds his E Battery lookouts to watch other directions – the Japanese have already pulled a few surprises. However, Captain Simard is busy looking northwest, as is famed movie director Lt. Cdr. John Ford, atop the powerhouse, festooned with cameras, binoculars, and field telephone. He has been sent to Midway to boost morale with his Hollywood tales and also make a documentary of the battle. A one-man camera crew, Ford has a perfect position to shoot the action.

Warrant Officer Bill Lucius trots toward his slit trench, and hears Major William Benson call out, “Bill, I have the best dugout on the island, as well as the best communications equipment. Why don’t you stay with me?” Lucius looks back at Benson and his command post, and answers, “I was so scared at Pearl Harbor that I hardly saw the Japanese planes. I don’t want to miss them now.”

The American fighters claw into the sky. The stubby little F2As are pleasant to fly, and answer to three names: “Buffalo” to the Navy, “Brewster” to the Marines, and “Flying Coffin” to both services. Yet prewar aviation magazines have touted the Buffalo as being superior to all Japanese aircraft. The experiences of Malaya, Burma, and Philippines have left the Buffalo’s reputation – and many of its pilots – in the dust. Amazingly, one nation is getting sterling service out of this aircraft, racking up several aces in the plane: Finland. However, a nation can only fight with what weapons it has, and on this morning, the U.S. Marines must use the Buffalo.

However, it is the Marine Wildcats that get the first punch. At 6:12 a.m., Capt. John Carey shouts into his radio, “Tallyho! Hawks at Angels 12! Supported by bombers!” This message is an adaptation of the highly successful communications system developed by the Royal Air Force Fighter Command for and in the Battle of Britain. Simply put, it means, “Enemy sighted. Fighters at 12,000 feet.” Carey and his two wingmen, Capt. Marion Carl and Lt. Clayton Canfield, dive in to attack, as the other aircraft swing in. Carey sees V-formations of Vals flying ahead of Zeros, decides to hit the bombers before the Zeros hit him.

At 6:16 a.m., CPO Juzo Mori, flying a Val from Soryu, spots Midway dead ahead. Seconds later, the two Vals in front of him explode. One is Carey’s victim, the other is Canfield’s. Mori looks up to see Wildcats swooping down on and past him. The Wildcats swing back for a second pass and come smack into Mori’s escorting Zeros and 20mm fire from the Vals. Bullets and steel fragments rip into Carey’s legs. Agonized, Carey cannot work his plane’s rudders, and he flies home, with Canfield leading. Despite nearly passing out twice in the cockpit, Carey is able to follow Canfield home to Midway.

Meanwhile, Carl finds several Zeros behind him. He streaks down on the deck, and the enemy gives up at 3,000 feet. Carl flies back up to 20,000 to find the battle has moved on southeast to Midway. He races back to find three Zeros circling at low altitude. Carl swoops in, and splashes one. The other two attack Carl. He tries hiding in the clouds, which loses one pursuer. The other is more determined. Carl deliberately throws his F4F into a skid, and the attacker shoots by and ahead. Carl pulls the trigger, but his weapons don’t answer. He pulls out to 10,000 feet to stay out of the battle until he can land and re-arm.

As Carl turns out of the battle, Maj. Floyd “Red” Parks and his Buffaloes charge in. Parks’ division leads the attack, smacking into Soryu’s level bombers, downing one. However, Zeros pounce on all five Buffaloes and send them into the drink. Hughes is the only survivor, landing his aborted plane at 6:25.

The six Buffaloes of the second division do slightly better. Zeros make repeated passes at Lt. Darrell Irwin’s slow-moving Buffalo, yet he manages to fly home, bullets lining his backseat armor plate – which is only shoulder high. Capt. Phillip White, on the other hand, catches a group of eight bombers, and shoots one down. He sees another Val heading home, and White stitches it with bullets, slowing it down. White moves in for the kill, squeezes the trigger…and he’s out of ammunition. Annoyed, he turns for home. White doesn’t know it, but he may have hit strike leader Joichi Tomonaga, holing one of the Val’s fuel tanks.

White and Capt. Herbert Merrill lumber home in battered Buffaloes, Merrill having to parachute into the lagoon, unable to fly further with his burned face, neck, and hands.

Meanwhile the third division, under Capt. Kirk Armistead, tries to climb into the sun to attack the enemy. His division attacks a group of five planes, and flames two of them. Japanese Zeros swoop in and shred his plane. Armistead pulls out of his spiral and manages to wobble home to Midway. Next is Capt. William Humberd’s third division’s second section, which splashes a bomber and again finds Zeros on its tails. Humberd himself dives down to water level, a Zero chasing, at full speed. Amazingly, he gains speed and distance on the Zero, and claws round to bring his guns to bear. Humberd opens fire, and demonstrates the disadvantages of the Zero’s lack of armor – the Zero bursts into flame and crashes into the sea.

Humberd climbs back up to 10,000 feet to find ammo and fuel low. He turns back to Midway, and gets permission to land. To make the landing interesting, his hydraulic fluid is gone and the landing gear won’t lower. Humberd lands on his emergency brakes. Ground crews repair the holes in the hydraulics and pour new fluid in. Humberd takes off to resume the battle. Humberd’s wingman also has a busy morning, his plane’s wing scratching that of a Japanese bomber. When two Zeros attack him, Humberd leads them over Midway Island and its flak guns, which drives the enemy off. As the Zeros pull out, Lt. William Brooks spots two planes dogfighting, and he flies in to help his buddy. The two planes are Japanese Zeros, staging a sham battle to attract the Americans. Brooks throws his plane into a curve to flee, and collects 72 bullet holes. He lumbers back over Midway, and sees two Zeros attacking a Buffalo. Brooks attacks, but has only one of four guns working. He’s too late, though – the attacked Buffalo spirals into the sea, and Brooks heads back to land.

Meanwhile, Lt. Charles M. Kunz attacks another Japanese bomber group, shooting down an enemy plane. With no Zeros around, he swings round for another attack, and blasts another bomber. Now he has the Zeros’ attention and their bullets, and one strikes him in the head. Others rip up the wings. Dizzy and dazed, Kunz circles the field, staying out of battle until he can land.

The last two F4Fs are caught by eight Zeros, who shoot down one, flown by Capt. Francis P. McCarthy, and riddle the second, flown by Lt. Roy A. Corry, Jr. Faced by four Zeros, Corry splashes one and avoids the other three, catching a Val returning from its attack. Corry shoots down the bomber, but his Wildcat is leaking fuel. He swoops down on the deck to return to Midway. Only nine of the 26 attacking Americans survive the encounter.

Both sides emerge surprised. The Marines are astonished by the maneuverability, speed, and firepower of the Zero. Many Allied pilots have already learned this about the Zero, but few are left alive after these encounters to report their conclusions. Ironically, the Army Air Force has pigeonholed a pre-war report from Col. Claire Chennault about the efficiency of the Zero and its Army knock-off, the Oscar, over China.

The Japanese, however, are surprised by the American tenacity in battle. Until now, Nagumo’s aviators have enjoyed one easy success after another – at Pearl Harbor, Port Darwin, in the Indian Ocean, rarely meeting an enemy whose tactics or technology were the equal of their own. Here the American aircraft are still outclassed – Lt. Hughes says the Buffaloes “looked like they were tied to a string while the Zeros made passes at them,” but their tactics of using the sun and altitude show adaptability and understanding. “I believe that our men with planes even half as good as the Zeroes would have stopped the raid completely,” Hughes says later.

But 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 the 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 the American PT boats.

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.

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 USS 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, wearing a Rising Sun flag around his waist – likely the one given to Japanese warriors by friends and family for good luck – dead. 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 is grim: 25 planes sortied, 25 shot down, 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). 16 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.

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.

At the precise time that Tomonaga's message goes into the ether, USS Hornet starts launching its planes for the strike on Nagumo. The carrier launches 10 F4F fighters, 34 SBD Dauntless dive-bombers, and then 15 TBD Devastator torpedo bombers. Cdr. John C. Waldron, leading VT-8 from Hornet, tells his fliers not to worry about navigation - just follow him. Waldron, one-eighth Sioux, believes the Japanese carriers will not be at the point given during the briefing, but will turn. Before climbing into his Devastator, Waldron promises Hornet Capt. Marc Mitscher that he will "get hits." It is the first battle for the Hornet's air group. Hornet and Enterprise are using the "Deferred Departure" launch system, in which all planes in a given strike will orbit the carrier until the last has launched. Then all three squadrons will make a coordinated attack on Nagumo. However, there is no coordination with the groups from Enterprise or Yorktown. In addition, the "Deferred Departure" means that the first planes launched are those with the least fuel, and have to orbit their carrier the longest. The planes fly off into overcast skies, and the dive-bombers and torpedo bombers lose touch with each other. Hornet finishes launching at 7:55.

Enterprise starts launching at 7:06. Spruance launches his fighters first, then his SBDs, and they circle impatiently over the carrier for half an hour, gulping fuel, waiting for the fighters and torpedo bombers to join them. But Enterprise runs into trouble. Bombloads have to be changed at the last minute. A torpedo plane breaks down. The bombers continue to circle, awaiting developments. Lt. Earl Gallaher's Scouting 6, having launched first, carries 500-lb. bombs. Bombing 6, which launches off an emptier deck (meaning a longer launch run), carries 1,000 lb. bombs.

The Enterprise bombers are led by a short, stocky man with little experience in the subject of bombing. Cdr. Wade McClusky is a fighter pilot. Formerly boss of VF-6, he became Enterprise Air Group Commander on March 15, 1942. Since then, he has squeezed in time to fly the SBD whenever he can. By now, he knows the machine well. He can take it off and land it on a carrier deck, but has never dropped a bomb from an SBD. Despite this, McClusky has a gift for command, leadership, and personal fearlessness. Spruance’s evaluation of McClusky is the rare “terrific.” Now he will become one of the key men in the battle, and perhaps all of US military history.

Flying out of Midway, the mixed bag of land-based American planes chases the enemy. As the American planes come from different branches (Army, Navy, and Marines), different types (TBF, B-26, SBU Vindicator, and B-17), and follow different procedures, there is neither coordination nor communication between the scattered groups. Many of the pilots and crews are flying into their first battle, and are facing a highly experienced Japanese task force that has enjoyed nothing but victory since Pearl Harbor. Some of the Japanese pilots have racked up hundreds of hours of combat experience over China. They are the antithesis of the green Americans.

The tip of the flawed American spear is the detachment from VT-8, later known as the "other survivors" of that doomed squadron. Six brand-new TBF Avengers, carrying a 33-knot torpedo inside the plane face their first test of battle. It is a most fearful initiation. Lt. Langdon K. Fieberling's aviators are six months out of flight school. Ensign Albert K. Earnest has only dropped one torpedo in his career. There will be no fighter protection, nor any communication or coordination with any of the other land, or carrier-based squadrons in the air. Just after 7 a.m., Earnest spots two carriers beneath him. Fieberling orders the TBFs to attack. As Earnest pushes over, his gunner, Jay Manning, calls out that Zeros are attacking. Chased by Zeros, the TBFs descend on the enemy.

On Akagi, Tomonaga’s message puts Nagumo’s staff in a quandary. Genda proposes to follow Tomonaga’s recommendation. Kusaka agrees – assuming the US Navy isn’t around. Kusaka later says he feels like “a hunter chasing two hares at once.” The flag officers discuss the situation while the First Carrier Striking Force races to a “Point Option” 140 miles northwest of Midway, to recover aircraft. Akagi leads the four carriers on the starboard column, Kaga behind, with Hiryu leading the Soryu to port.

At precisely 7:05, a Japanese destroyer hoists a flag signal, and Tone’s AA batteries bark at Fieberling’s closing TBFs. Combat Air Patrol Zeros swing in on the American planes. Lt. Raita Ogawa swoops down on the TBFs, guns blazing.

One Zero shoots up Earnest’s plane, killing turret gunner Manning. The plane’s radioman, Harry Ferrier, aged 18, sees Manning’s body, and confronts death for the first time. Scared, he turns back to his machine gun, to find its field of fire is blocked. The Zero has also wrecked the hydraulic system, and the tail wheel blocks Ferrier’s gun. More gunfire tears up the plane, creasing Ferrier’s scalp, leaving him dazed. The Zero’s bullets shred Earnest’s radio, compass, controls, wing, and right jaw. Then the elevator cables. The bleeding Earnest is flying a dying plane. He kicks over his rudder, and the TBF angles toward the cruiser Nagara. Earnest punches the torpedo release button, and drops down to 30 feet. He puts his hand on the wing tab, ready to hit the water – and the TBF jumps upward. Earnest realizes he can still fly his plane, and limps away. His $2 bill is apparently working.

Down below, Japanese deck crews applaud every time a TBF hurtles into the sea.

Earnest’s plane staggers away from the Japanese fleet. He has no electrical system, no compass, open bomb bay doors, and his gas gauge and speed indicator are busted. He flutters south and east, and then sees smoke rising – Midway.

As Earnest pulls out, Army Capt. James F. Collins Jr.’s four B-26s of the 69th Bombardment Squadron roar in to attack. The B-26s are making history – the first Army squadron to launch a torpedo attack, doing so ahead of their colleagues in the Aleutians later that day. Each plane carries one fish, hanging from its belly. Lt. Jim Muri sees Japanese destroyers ahead and below. He takes a Chesterfield cigarette (“Not a cough in a carload” runs a period advertisement) from a can beneath his feet, and puts it in his mouth. Before he can light his match, Zeros swoop in to attack.

Collins’ force heads for Akagi, swinging through flak to the left, then to the right, and finally in at 200 feet. Someone yells “Boy, if mother could see me now!” Muri follows Collins in, through the tracers. Japanese guns rip up the other two B-26s. One falls into the sea. A Japanese machine-gun on Hiryu stitches up an incoming torpedo, and it explodes harmlessly.

Collins releases his fish at 800 yards and pulls out to the right. Muri races in right behind. After Muri comes a Zero, flown by Lt. Iyozo Fujita of Soryu, a Pearl Harbor veteran assigned to combat air patrol. Fujita stitches Muri’s B-26 with bullets, smashing the plexiglas turret, ripping open the gas tank. The rear gunner, Pfc. Ashley, tries to shoot back, but one .30-caliber machine gun jams. The other’s motor breaks down, so it won’t pull the ammunition tracks. Fujita swoops away.

Muri orders co-pilot Lt. Pete Moore to launch his torpedo at 450 yards, slightly ahead of Akagi. Moore squeezes the trigger, which is connected to a cable and plug with many prongs. “Is it away?” Muri shouts.

“How the hell do I know?” Moore retorts. Muri tries the complex switch himself, but doesn’t feel the torpedo drop. He streaks over the middle of Akagi’s deck. Bombardier Lt. Russ Johnson fires the nose gun as the carrier’s flight deck team, in white, sprints for cover. As Muri flies down, he feels too close to the enemy to be shot at. But he goggles at Akagi’s battle flag, snapping from her mast. He has seen the blazing Rising Sun flag in newsreels, but never in real life. Now it’s the biggest thing he’s ever seen.

Muri pulls his plane out, surrounded by Zeros. The Japanese tear up the B-26, wounding Ashley and side gunner Cpl. Mello. The latter staggers into the cockpit, and says “The plane’s on fire and everybody’s hit back there.” Moore rushes back with a fire extinguisher to douse the blaze. Then he gives Ashley sulfa powder, and mans a gun.

Alone in the cockpit, Muri realizes that his plane is in terrible shape, and considers splashing into the drink. Then he decides not to. The Zeroes fly away. Muri flies on. He remembers the unlit Chesterfield in his mouth, and reaches to light it. However, in the battle, he has bitten it in two and swallowed half of it.

The last B-26, flown by Lt. Herbie Mayes, shot up by AA and Zero fire, streaks towards Akagi’s bridge. The flag group watches the Marauder fill their windows, and then miss the bridge by inches, cartwheeling into the sea off the port side. Everyone yells out, “Wow!” Kusaka, shaken, is moved by Mayes’ determination. He did not expect it such bravery from an American. Kusaka silently says a prayer for Mayes.

Lt. Ogawa, up above, is less impressed. The two groups of torpedo bombers – B-26s and TBFs – have shown no coordination. The torpedoes were all dropped from too far out, and all the planes approached from one side. Not a very professional attack. Genda is equally unimpressed. “Their attack was a complete failure,” he says later.

Nonetheless, the American strikes have an impact on Nagumo’s planning. Clearly a second attack on Midway is a necessity, to eliminate the American land-based air threat. Since none of the scout planes have reported an American naval presence, the threat of one can be discarded for the moment. Genda agrees. The first order of business must be to eliminate the American planes, and finish softening up Midway for the amphibious assault.

At 7:15, Nagumo and Genda signal the fleet, “Planes in second wave stand by to carry out attack today. Re-equip yourselves with bombs.” Nagumo orders the second attack wave to swap its torpedoes with contact bombs, while the dive-bombers replace their armor-piercing ordnance with high explosive missiles. This order means Hiryu and Soryu deckhands have a fairly simple chore – those two carriers have their dive-bombers spotted, but on Akagi and Kaga, the Kates are spotted. Each plane has to be lowered to the hangar deck, where mechanics remove the torpedoes, roll them to the armored magazines, and roll out bombs – an exhausting and time-consuming evolution – about an hour, in fact. It has to be accomplished before Tomonaga gets back, so they can launch the second wave and have decks empty to recover the first.

Viewed years later, Nagumo’s decision to “break the spot” on his four flight decks is an error of the first order. But at the time he makes the decision, it is based on the information he has – there is no sign of the American fleet. Tokyo has assured him (the previous day) that “There is no sign that our intention has been suspected by the enemy.” The two groups of land-based American planes have just attacked Nagumo, and his first wave strike leader is requesting a second attack on AF. In the context of the moment, Nagumo is making a correct decision. In the context of the complete situation, he is making an uninformed one.

At 7:28, Scout Plane No. 4, the Tone bird that got off late, is finally wrapping up its outward leg, and swinging back on its 300-mile northeastern search arc. The pilot achieves his moment in history, by spotting what he reports as “Sight what appears to be 10 enemy surface ships, in position 10 degrees distance 240 miles from Midway. Course 150 degrees, speed over 20 knots.”

Scout No. 4 has done his job. At 7:28, Spruance’s radar picks up the approaching recce bird, and Enterprise’s forward gun director’s range finder identifies the bogey as a Japanese seaplane on the southern horizon. Surprise is lost. However, Capt. Miles Browning, the acerbic air staff officer, points out that the Japanese are still locked into their present course until they recover the Midway strike. If the Americans move fast, they can catch the Japanese with half their planes away. Spruance sees the point – and his planes circling, gulping fuel.

Scout No. 4’s message takes several minutes to be decoded on Tone, digested, and then flashed to Akagi (presumably by blinker light), but when it arrives at about 7:40, it is an incredible shock. “Like a bolt from the blue,” Fuchida describes it. “There they are!” thinks Kusaka. Nagumo and Genda are “at a loss how to make an accurate judgment of the situation.” Cdr. Kenjiro Ono, the staff intelligence officer, reaches for his chinagraph pencil, and locates the American position on the big map. The American force is 200 miles away – within strike range for carrier aircraft.

However, the report of “10 enemy surface ships” is not a masterpiece of accuracy. Nagumo and Kusaka peer down their map and ponder the situation. There is an irony that the report has come from a plane that launched half an hour late. Had it launched on time, Nagumo would have had this information before Tomonaga requested his second attack – and Nagumo would have a powerful strike force spotted on his flight deck, armed with torpedoes and armor-piercing bombs, ready to attack. Now he has his planes below, being loaded with contact bombs and high explosives.

Kusaka notes that “there couldn’t be an enemy force without carriers in the area reported and there must be carriers somewhere.” But he doesn’t believe that Nagumo can cancel the second attack on Midway. The island’s aircraft still pose an immediate menace to Nagumo’s force, and the island is the primary target of the entire operation.

Nagumo has not reached flag rank by passing the buck. At 7:45 he signals his force: “Prepare to carry out attacks on enemy fleet units. Leave torpedoes on those attack planes which have not as yet been changed to bombs.” Two minutes later, he orders Tone plane No. 4, “Ascertain ship types and maintain contact.”

At the precise time Nagumo changes his orders, Spruance does the same. Giving up the plan for the coordinated strike, he blinkers his squadrons to “Proceed on mission assigned.” McClusky and his Enterprise bombers head southwest. Then Jim Gray and Fighting 6, followed by Torpedo 6, which gets airborne at 8:06. At the same time, USS Hornet’s Torpedo 8 is the last group to leave its carrier – but the first to head in. The delays and inexperience result in the Americans sending in an uncoordinated attack, led by Torpedo 8 and Torpedo 6. Meticulous Torpedo 6 Lt. Cdr. Gene Lindsey follows Course 240 as ordered, while the flamboyant Torpedo 8 Lt. Cdr. John Waldron tells his men to simply follow him.

Down below Akagi and Kaga’s flight decks the “airedales” are about halfway through the original swap-out procedure, and the Kates are going back up the lifts to the flight deck. The hangar deck bosses stop the evolution in its tracks, and haul the Kates back down to the hangar deck again. The Japanese need more information and a little time to prepare and plan. They get neither. At 7:48, Soryu’s fighters report “about 15” single-engine dive-bombers heading in from the southeast – Midway.

The attackers are the leading edge of VMSB-241, some 16 SBD Dauntless dive-bombers led by Maj. Lofton R. “Joe” Henderson. They are followed by 11 SB2U Vindicators in a second wave. Of the 16 American pilots swinging in on the Japanese, 10 have been with the squadron for a week, fresh out of training. Gasoline shortages have not given them only an hour of air time each, seven of them in the Vindicators. Only three pilots are familiar with the navy’s “hell-diving” technique. So Henderson has to use the more dangerous “glide-bombing” technique, a slower approach to 500 feet or less, and an angle of 45 degrees instead of the normal 70.

The Dauntlesses roar in at 9,000 feet in tight formation, with Henderson weaving amid them, herding them along. At 7:50, Lt. Daniel Iverson flies by Capt. Richard Fleming’s SBD, and points down to the left. Fleming’s gunner, Cpl. Eugene Card, doesn’t see anything below. Fleming says, “We’ve made contact. There’s a ship at 10 o’clock.” Card glances over, and sees a Japanese ship cutting through the water, heading for Midway.