Chapter 29 Chapter Twenty Eight

In clear and calm weather, the squadrons took off from Oahu to join the departing aircraft carriers. The torpedo bombers led by the "Enterprise" flew close to the mothership, and with a spin, they hit the deck with a bang, and debris rolled into the sea in all directions.Warren hovered high in the sky in a brand new dive bomber that, to him, looked like a toy plane cracking.The escorting destroyer flew towards the wreckage in the sea at high speed, billowing thick smoke like a locomotive, drawing a white mark on the sea surface.After landing on the mothership, he learned that everyone on board had been rescued.Such accidents were not uncommon, but this one struck him as ominous.

Task Force Sixteen would be dispatched to intercept the Japanese landing at Midway. These words flashed on the teletype screens shortly after the pilots landed on the ship, causing joy and excitement in the standby room.But during the long, long, dull week that followed, with the fleet zigzagging northward at regular speed, the excitement died away, and the people grew weary and tense and restless. The Enterprise and the Hornet, escorted by a circle of cruisers and destroyers, plodded from the sun-drenched tropical seas into the gray seas, rolling gray waves, and cold winds under a gray sky.With the Hawaiian patrol fleet as cover, the pilots had little to do.Those novices, cadets who graduated early from the Naval Academy for three years or reserve ensigns, like the red horns who took the lead, were proud of not having to do chores on the ship. The waiting room was full of fragrant smoke, the coffee and lemonade we drank were measured in gallons, we ate sumptuous meals and lots of ice cream, in addition to drills and lectures, we just talked about personal affairs, shore vacations, plane crashes, etc. He kills time by making fun of people clumsily; in general, he's squirming and tender-looking, imitating the first-line pilots in Hollywood movies.

Warren usually appreciates the familiarity and informality of colleagues in the waiting room, but not this time.How many comrades in the squadron who had been with him from the beginning of the war were either dead, missing, or transferred.These high-spirited recruits, most of whom were still unmarried, made him feel old and irritable.This endless day-to-day idleness distressed him.He was the flight operations officer, the third commander of the squadron, so he kept as busy as possible, reviewing tactical instructions, drafting navigation exercises and practical operations on the blackboard, practicing hard on the flight deck, constantly in and out of the plane. On the deck of the warehouse, the squadron's planes were checked and checked.

Leisure breeds gossip.Leisure plus tension does not lead to good results.As the days dragged on, the conversation in the standby room turned to Rear Admiral Spruance.Word from the flagship command room revealed that Halsey's staff did not like him well.Halsey touted his old friend, the former admiral of the Screen Fleet, to them as a brilliant intellectual.The staff thought he was a big weirdo: cold, silent, unapproachable, the exact opposite of the boss.He preferred to sit practically silent while eating.He displeased Halsey's loyal and ebullient subordinates, who had learned their joking style from their boss.Obviously there is John.Why would Halsey promote this taciturn non-pilot to fight an aircraft carrier war when a fiery Air Force man like Towers was available?Is it out of friendship?At lunch on the first day of the expedition, Spruance is said to have spoken, after a long and disturbing silence, to say: "Gentlemen, I want you to understand that I am safe with each of you. If You're no good, Bill. Halsey wouldn't want you." He didn't seem to know that he himself was being watched anxiously.

His behavior was very odd.He wandered around the flight deck by himself for an hour at a time, otherwise he seemed really lazy.He went to bed early and slept long and soundly.One night, when he came into contact with an enemy surface ship and issued an alarm, he didn't get up. He only ordered a change of course to avoid it, and then fell asleep again.The breakfast he ate was the same every day, always toast and canned peaches in syrup, and he only drank a cup of coffee in the morning, which he cooked himself with the special coffee beans brought on board, making a fuss like an old lady.On rainy days or when there was a strong wind on deck, he would sit in the headquarters dining room and read old books in the ship's library.He almost looked like he was out for a drive.Halsey's chief of staff, Captain Browning, commanded the task force, and Spruance merely signed Browning's orders with his initial.

All in all, the staff had little hope for Spruance.Browning will fight this one well, if the repaired Yorktown arrives in time, Frank.Jack.Fletcher will be in charge because he is older than Spruance.Fletcher didn't do too well in the Battle of the Coral Sea, but he at least got his bloodbath in the carrier battle.There was such gossip in the waiting room; it annoyed and disturbed Warren. Task Force Sixteen arrived at station, a spot on the vast sea known as "Lucky Spot," and then swam tediously back and forth for two days, waiting for the Yorktown to arrive.This is the scheduled ambush site.It was about three hundred and twenty-five miles from the atoll; out of range of the aircraft of the enemy carrier, but close enough to the enemy that the Midway aircraft could attack immediately if they spotted the enemy.The dolphins jumping happily among the slowly advancing ships could not find any leftovers to eat; the officers and soldiers on board were not even allowed to throw a paper cup into the sea.

The "Yorktown" was traveling at full speed, and finally came into view, without a trace of severe damage in the Coral Sea on the outside.Like this mothership, the various squadrons on the ship suffered heavy losses in the Battle of the Coral Sea, and are now hastily assembled from those who survived the death and the pilots on the "Saratoga"; but another aircraft carrier, Whether it's tinkering or whatever, it's always a big hit.Now with Fletcher in charge of tactical command, the fleet began to sound the alarm more and more. The "Yorktown" repeatedly reported the discovery of enemy submarines or enemy planes, so it was necessary to engage in the same old and frantic routine operations: all ships made a sharp turn, the flight deck desperately tilted to one side, and the sailors rushed Go to the gun position, aim at the target, the destroyer splashes the spray, and drives back and forth; then there is a tedious wait, the alarm is cleared, the aircraft is recovered, and the daily routine is resumed.The alarms turned out to be false alarms.The two task forces circled and circled the Lucky Point. The Yorktown, with its own screen of cruisers and destroyers, was known as Task Force Seventeen, while Hornet and Enterprise were still designated Task Force Sixteen, by Spruance directed, serving as Fletcher's second-in-command.

Warren placed himself on the first dawn search flight.His brand-new Dreadnought bounced between the two rows of shrouded yellow navigation lights on the deck, rumbling into the cold night sky toward the stars and the Milky Way, and his spirit was one. vibration.When the new pilot was listening to the final briefing in the standby room, his face darkened when he heard the order to absolutely prohibit radio conversations; the aircraft carrier will not send any return signal, and even if it has to make an emergency landing on the sea, it is not allowed to send a call for help. signal.The chilling reality of the enemy's approach came upon them suddenly.Warren, who had never flown an SED-3 on patrol, was uncomfortable with the strict rules.But the new plane puffed two hundred miles in one go; then, against the lavender dawn and the beautiful sunrise, the new electronic homing instrument on board brought him back to his chosen point without error.What a gratifying sight to see the island-shaped superstructures of the two motherships cut two gaps in the horizon!He hooked the third arresting wire cleanly as he landed on board.Yes, a great plane: advanced navigation, decent engines, self-sealing fuel tanks, extra machine guns, thicker armor.Even his machine-gunner, a dour guy from the Kentucky mountains named Cornett who seldom spoke, and who spoke as if in a foreign language, climbed out of the plane with a smile on his face.

"It's not a bad plane," Warren said. Cornett spat out the e-liquid and said something that seemed to be like this: "I don't think it's too bad." "Warren! Warren! Let's do it, they are bombing Dutch Harbor." "My God." Warren sat up on the bunk, rubbed his eyes, and grabbed his trousers. "What do you say! Alaska, huh? Again!" His cabin mate's eyes flashed.Peter.Goff was an ensign in the new squadron, a lad from upstate New York with the same red beard as Byron.He said vigorously, "Maybe we'll head north, cut off their retreat, and smash them to pieces."

"It's three days at sea, brother." Warren jumped onto the cold iron deck with bare feet. When they rushed to the standby room of the Sixth Reconnaissance Aircraft Squadron, the big lounge chairs were all occupied.The pilots stared at the words crawling on the yellow screen of the teletypewriter without saying a word: It is expected that the main direction of the feint attack on Alaska will be aimed at the Midway Island Dutch Harbor. A fat veteran named Orr.Gallagher, hang a map of the Pacific Ocean on the blackboard, and discuss the time and distance in case of a northward assault on the Japanese.The younger pilots listened eagerly.This is the right thing to do.But Warren noticed a new fleet heading just written: 120 degrees, south.This course was away from the Aleutian Islands, away from Midway, and sailed with the wind.Just another routine detour around the Lucky Point; not a combat operation.

In less than an hour, another word slid across the screen: The PBY patrol report quotes the original words. Multiple heavy enemy ships. Bearing 237, 685 miles from Midway Island. !There was a burst of cheers and screams.Everyone was talking at once.The squadron leader jumped to the chart and drew a thick red chalk circle on the spot where the enemy ship was observed. "Well, it's coming at last. About a thousand miles away. In sixteen, seventeen hours, they'll be within striking distance." The pilots were still circling the chart, gesticulating the distance with their fingers, and arguing endlessly. At this moment, the teletypewriter beeped again: The Pacific Fleet Command sent an urgent telegram that this is not an enemy attack fleet but a landing fleet attack fleet. Tomorrow dawn from the Northwest to attack "Good guy!" Pete.Gove said beside Warren. "How do you know this when you are squatting at Pearl Harbor?" it's dark.Midnight was approaching.The pilots of the 6th Reconnaissance Squadron hardly went to bed.Some of them read books, some wrote letters, some talked endlessly about women and flying; the chatter was different from before, it sounded deeper and more tense.The gossip from the staff continued to come in.Spruance was not in the flagship command room when the telegram arrived, but was in the headquarters dining room, where he was sitting on the divan reading a musty George.Biography of Washington, signed only the initials of the notice book.By this time, in the command room of the flagship, which looked like an upturned honeycomb, Colonel Browning was already drawing up the first operational orders. Teletypes rattled news about Dutch Harbor or the impending Japanese landing fleet; Army Air Corps bombers on the atoll claimed to have damaged and sunk battleships, cruisers, and the like in high-altitude horizontal bombing.No one believed this. The dive-bomber pilots had a saying about horizontal bombing at sea: it was like trying to hit a startled mouse with a stone bomb. "What's the matter with those aircraft carriers? Where are their carriers? What's the inside story about those goddamned carriers?" was the restless chatter in the waiting rooms. Warren went on deck to check the weather again.The moon is almost full; the sky is full of stars.Thin clouds, a cold crosswind, and the Big Dipper hanging over the starboard quarter.The ship moved forward at high speed, and there was a splashing sound from a distance below.They are advancing rapidly towards the enemy!Near the stern of the flight deck, moonlight flickered on the closely packed wings of the planes, here and there faintly showing streaks of red from a mechanic's flashlight, as thin as a pencil.The captains squatted in small groups, and they kept chatting about the usual gossip of the crew: about better torpedo bombers coming to the ship in August, religious beliefs, sports, family affairs, Honolulu. the whorehouse; just not talking much about what was on everyone's mind: the battle that came with the dawn. Warren was wide awake, stepping on the smooth deck in the breeze.The moonlight dances on the surrounding sea.Walking through the hangar deck below, he noticed with particular clarity the mass of explosives around him—bombs, planes full of gasoline, full ammunition racks, oil drums, torpedo warheads. The Enterprise was an eight-hundred-foot-long iron eggshell filled with explosives and people.He noticed this with a shudder, more clearly than ever.Japanese iron eggshells like this one, probably only a few hundred miles away, are approaching. Which side will raid which side?Suppose an enemy submarine spotted the fleet, so what?Absolutely not impossible!In this case, Japanese aircraft may strike at sunrise.Even if this fleet did attack before the Japanese, would the attack succeed?Even when fleet maneuvers, a concerted attack by fighters, dive bombers, and torpedo bombers without an enemy confrontation never worked.Some leader missed orders, so-and-so's course was wrong, or bad weather disrupted the formation of the squadron. "Enterprise" looks like Peter.There are too many newly enlisted pilots like Gove.The pilots of the mortally wounded Yorktown were amateurs who had scoured the beach after their casualties in the Coral Sea.Against the battle-hardened Japanese air force that smashed Pearl Harbor and drove the British Navy out of the Indian Ocean, what a motley army can do, but there will be no more drills, no more training .This is where the action comes in. If Chu Fei comes for a successful raid, the Japanese will retaliate swiftly and skillfully, blasting the Enterprise into a majestic fireball.He was either burned to ashes in the ship, or fell in the sea out of fuel, if he was in the air.There's more than a fifty percent chance of that happening. Warren, however, regarded this as a common occurrence that should not cause any fuss.He didn't think he was going to die in the coming battle any more than a traveler who bought a plane ticket from New York to Los Angeles thought.He is a professional pilot.He did not know how many times he flew the plane through enemy fire.He thought he was very good at it, and with a little luck, he could get past this level.He stood behind the last row of black planes at the tail of the flight deck, his trouser legs were flapped by the wind, his eyes were watching the wide flight path of the ship’s stern rushing towards the rear under the moonlight, and he was thinking in his heart that he would rather take off tomorrow To meet the Japanese, and not to go elsewhere, to do anything else. He really wanted to smoke a cigarette.Before going back to the island-shaped superstructure to go below, he raised his eyes to the sky again, couldn't help standing still, raised his head, and recalled a scene that he hadn't thought of for many years.He was seven years old, and one night, under the same sky, on a pier covered with fresh snow, he and his father walked hand in hand, and his father told him about the great distances between the stars and how big they were . "Father, who put the stars in the sky? God?" "Oh, Warren, yes, we believe God did it." "Do you mean that Jesus Christ nailed the stars in the sky?" The child was imagining that the long-haired, amiable man in a white robe hung huge fireballs in the dark space. He recalls his father being silent for a moment, then stammering his answer. "You, Warren, are getting a bit confused here. Jesus is Lord. That's true. But he's also the Son of God, and God made the universe and everything in it. When you're older, You will understand all of this more deeply.” Warren saw this conversation as the beginning of his doubts.Years later, in one of those rare religious arguments, his father would again cite the night sky to prove that God must exist in The Lord's. "Father, I don't want to offend you, but the stars look to me like they've been placed at random. Why bother with their size and the distance between them! What's the big deal in the world? We're Microorganisms on a speck of dust. Life is a boring, meaningless accident, and when it's over, we're nothing but dead flesh." His father never discussed religion with him again. The stars swung magnificently above the spiked radar masts.in Warren.The stars had never been so beautiful in Henry's eyes.But although the pattern of each constellation is very clear, it still seems to be laid randomly. He lay in the cabin, smoking one cigarette after another in the dark.peter.Goff was snoring softly on the other bunk.There is also a cabin companion, the deputy squadron leader, who is writing a letter in the standby room.Warren wished he could sleep for two or three hours.He thought he would try to read some books, so he turned on the small light on the bunk.His eyes usually ignore the black leather-bound Bible his father gave him on the shelf, as if it wasn't on the shelf.To lull him to sleep.This thing is the best!He propped up his upper body, and suddenly, on a whim, he opened the Bible casually as he wanted to make a fortune teller.His eyes fell on this verse in "2 Kings": Thus says the Lord, leave a testament with your house, because you will die and cannot live. This stunned him.He had never quite lost faith in God, though, in his mind, God must have been more like his father, in tolerance and sense of humour, than the bell-sounding, mouthful of the preachers. Preaching God. "Oh, stupid question, huh?" he thought. "I'd better mind my own business and let your God take care of the rest." He read the chapters about God's creation of the world, and then the story about Noah and the Tower of Babel.He hadn't read them since he had learned them in Sunday school as a boy.Strangely enough, these chapters are not dull, but concise and insightful.Adam shirked responsibility, he saw every day in the squadron; Eve was a lovable troublemaker, like many of the women he had been involved with; Cowards in uniform; and what a wonderful depiction of the storm in the chapter on the Flood, so true to life.The passages on the patriarchs had begun to stagger him, and the chapters on the dispute between Jacob and Laban gave him his wish.He fell asleep with his clothes on, the gold wing badge gleaming in the light of the little lamp he had forgotten to turn off. "Battle alert now. Combat alert. Get to combat station now." The dawn battle siren echoed across the windy flight deck.The stars were still twinkling in the black sky, and a cloud in the whitish east was pink.The sailors put on their helmets and life jackets, and they crowded onto the deck in the darkness of night in an endless stream. Some walked up to the gun positions, some rushed to the plane, and some untied the fire hoses and spread them on the deck.Warren sat in the plane, inspecting the canopy, which wasn't very flexible.Most of the pilots were still in the standby room; they had all had breakfast and were just waiting.Warren usually eats sausage and eggs for breakfast, but today he only had toast and a cup of coffee to keep his stomach calm.During the dark hours of the morning, the teletype was silent.There is still no news about the enemy's aircraft carrier. The canopy could be easily opened and closed, but Warren remained in the plane.The stars faded, the sky changed from indigo to blue, and the sea shone.A schematic diagram of what the two sides might do was clearly in Warren's mind.The Japanese aircraft carrier—if Pearl Harbor's intelligence about the dawn raid was correct—was about two hundred miles west of the Enterprise by now.Looking down with God's eyes, the two moving aircraft carrier fleets and the motionless Midway Atoll formed an equilateral triangle on the sea surface, and as both fleets speeded towards the atoll, the triangle became smaller and smaller. Small.Sometime this morning, the two fleets will be within striking distance and this will be the flashpoint of the battle.Of course, the Japanese might not be there at all.They could be as far away as Hawaii, and if so, Admiral Nimitz would have been fooled like never before. The sun poked out a blazing yellow curved halo on the sharp horizon and climbed into the sky.Ah, where did the Japanese attack at dawn; the crisis is over!This is indeed what Warren is looking forward to.He went down to the waiting room, and as he walked in, the loudspeaker blared, "Pilots, board immediately." "Okay... this is coming... let's go..." The pilots jumped up from their chairs, their leather boots rattling on the iron deck, their faces tensed and enthusiastic.This time, with the same impulse, they turned to each other to shake hands, then patted the shoulders and said haha.Almost half of them had squeezed through the door, when suddenly the loudspeaker in the aisle shouted: "The previous order is cancelled. The pilots return to the standby room." Like a racehorse that is suddenly reined in after a bad start, the pilots shuffled back to their chairs angrily and terrified, accusing each other of "those idiots up there."Things are screwed up, Warren thought, and the commanders are jumping nervously. What's happening "up high" is Miles.Colonel Browning gave the order, and Rear Admiral Spruance withdrew it. Spruance was embarrassing Halsey's chief of staff long before dawn.Before the battle alert was sounded, Browning and his operational officer went up to Helsey's shelter on the flagship, a small steel room high above the bridge; for Spruance had no He left a message, but Browning didn't call him.But under the starlight outside the steel chamber, there was a small, vague figure greeting them. "Good morning, both of you." "Ah! Is it the major general?" "Yes. Looks like there's going to be good weather for us to have a fight." Dawn broke, and Spruance leaned against the outdoor bulwarks, watching the aircraft carrier come to life.Colonel Browning was itching to go into battle immediately, contingency plans in his head, but the presence of the placid Spruance early in the morning made him feel uncomfortable.Halsey would now be pacing up and down like a tiger with its head in a cage.But it was the Chief of Staff himself who kept on walking, wearing the same leather windbreaker as Halsey, imitating Halsey's posture, smoking one cigarette after another, losing his temper because of no news , arguing with the combat officer about where the Japanese aircraft carrier would be. He snatched up a microphone and gave the pilots the same order Warren had heard when he walked into the waiting room. Spruance called into the room: "Why do you do that, Colonel?" "Look here, please, General." Spruance walked amiably to the chart table. "Now, sir, the Japanese must have taken off. It's broad daylight. They probably took off before dawn. We know the range of their planes. They must be somewhere along this arc." Twenty miles." He stretched out his index finger and drew a small circle around Midway on the map. "They will be observed by us at any time, and I want to be ready to strike them." "How long does it take our driver to board the plane?" Browning looked at the combat officer, the man said with some pride. "On this ship, General, two minutes." "Then why not let them rest in the standby room right now? They will stay in the cockpit for a long time today." Spruance stepped out onto the sun-drenched deck, whereupon Browning angrily broadcast the revocation order. The shelter on the ship was not big, and it was already crowded with the chart table and two or three settees.A bookshelf for classified material, a coffee pot, microphones, telephone and broadcast microphone, and that's all the equipment.There was a receiver tuned only to the radio frequencies of the Midway patrol planes, and there was a powerline hum and a loud pop of static.About half an hour after sunrise, a cooing sound burst out from the receiver, "Enemy aircraft carrier. Flying Squadron 58 reports." "Okay, here it is!" Browning grabbed the microphone again.Spruance walks in.Three officers stared at the buzzing, buzzing receiver.Browning was furious, and slammed his fist on the chart table, "Huh? Huh, you son of a bitch! What's the latitude and longitude?" He was very angry and embarrassed, and couldn't help but glance at Sprue. Ernes glanced. "Damn it! I thought the kid would give us directions when he opened his mouth this time. What idiot is flying these Catalinas?" "The opposing combat patrol aircraft probably attacked him," Spruance said. "General, we've spotted these yellow-faced bastards. Let's get the pilot on board." "But if the enemy is out of range, we'll have to get close to him, won't we? Maybe an hour or so." As Spruance stepped outside into the sunlight, Browning grimaced and snapped the microphone into its holder. The next pause dragged on for a long time; then the sound overshadowed the irregular pibbling sound, and it became much clearer: "Multiple enemy planes, bearing 320, distance 150. Fifty-eighth flight team report." There was silence again, just a hum. The chief of staff cursed the pilot of the PBY even more because he didn't mention his position.He poured a cup of coffee and let it cool; he smoked, paced, studied the charts, paced a little longer, leafed through an old magazine, and flung it in a corner, while he The combat officer, a stocky, silent pilot, was taking measurements on the chart with bipods and a ruler.Spruance was looking out, his elbows on the bulwarks. "Report from the Ninety-Two Flying Squad." This time a younger, more excited voice yelled into the receiver. "Two aircraft carriers and battleships, bearing 320, 180 from Midway, heading 135, speed 25, dog love." "Aha! God bless this little guy!" Browning threw himself on the chart, on which the combat officer was busy marking the enemy's position. Spruance came in, pulled a rolled ship maneuver diagram he had kept there from a shelf on the wall, and spread it out beside him on the settee. "Again, where is the location? What about the location in front of us?" Browning hastily measured and calculated with a pen, asked some questions aloud to the flagship command room several decks below through the intercom, and then whispered the latitude and longitude to Spruance. "Has this message been authenticated?" asked Spruance. "Authenticity, authenticity? Well, have you identified it?" Browning shouted.Spruance traced distances on his little chart with thumb and forefinger, and the operations officer snapped open a loose-leaf book. "'There's a farmer in the little valley,'" read the operations officer, "'any two alternate letters.' The pilot took 'Dog Love.' That's right." "It's true, General," Browning said over his shoulder. "Take off and strike," Spruance said. Startled, Browning turned his head sharply from the chart to look at Spruance. "Sir, we haven't received orders from Major General Fletcher yet." "It will be received. Do it." The combat officer looked up anxiously from the chart. "General, I measured the distance to the target at 180. At this distance, our torpedo bombers will not be able to return. I suggest at least getting closer to 150." "You're absolutely right. I thought I was close to this distance." The major general turned to Browning. "Let's change course, Colonel Browning, and press on them at full speed. Tell the Hornet, we take off at a distance of one hundred and fifty miles." A sailor in denim overalls, a life jacket, and a steel helmet climbed up the long iron ladder with a telegraph clip.Spruance signed his initial and handed the telegram to Browning. "This is an order from Fletcher." Urgent.From the Seventeenth Special Ship Division to the Sixteenth Special Ship Division.Heading southwest, attack as soon as the whereabouts of the enemy aircraft carrier are clear.I searched for the plane and followed it as soon as it returned to the ship. myles.Browning was a pugnacious man, everyone admitted, and he had spent most of his career looking forward to the day when he would see such a dispatch.His depression was gone.He grinned, revealing a seductive, masculine smile.It made his thin, weather-beaten face look radiant (he was also a famous old man in love).He adjusted his military cap, to Raymond.Spruance gave a military salute. "Okay, General, let's do it." Spruance returned the salute and stepped out into the sunlight. When the news of the discovery of the aircraft carrier appeared on the teletypewriter, the nervousness and irritability of the pilots in the standby room disappeared suddenly.Forgetting the false alarm just now, they cheered, and then began to plot and calculate.Back and forth with each other guessing when to take off.The problem, of course, is that the range of the torpedo bombers is too short.The chances of the pilots surviving themselves were insignificant, and they deserved a fair chance of survival. Warren went to the 6th Torpedo Bomber Squadron's standby room to pass the excruciatingly slow time, and saw his friend, squadron leader Lindsay, wearing a flight suit and life vest, the bandages had been removed, one hand There are some crazy scars on his pale and thin face.He was the one who crashed the landline on the first day at sea. "My God, Gene, did Dr. Holywell let you out?" Squadron Captain Lindsay said without a smile, "I was trained for this, Warren. I'm going to take the squadron into battle." The standby room of the torpedo bomber squadron was eerily quiet.Some pilots are writing letters; some are scribbling on aviation maps; most are smoking cigarettes.Like the dive bomber pilots, they stopped drinking coffee to keep their bladders from swollen on long flights.The impression here is one of tense waiting.It's like the atmosphere outside the operating room door during surgery.In front of the blackboard is a sailor with headphones writing new numbers to the right of the words "Distance from target: 153 miles." Lindsey glanced at his plot board and said to Warren, "The numbers match. We're moving fast. I think we're closing in on a hundred and thirty miles. So we're going to take off in an hour or so. That's For the sake of posterity, we must beat these dwarves, so if we work too hard—" "Pilots, board the plane now." The pilots of the Sixth Torpedo Bomber Squadron looked at each other, at the pale-faced squadron leader, and stood up from their chairs.Their movements were slow and not vigorous, but they moved anyway.The serious and determined expressions on their faces were exactly the same, almost like nineteen brothers.Warren put an arm around Lindsay's shoulder.His past instructor flinched slightly. "Good luck to you, Gene. Make them go round." "Good luck, Warren." The pilots of the Sixth Scout Squadron stomped down the aisle, talking and laughing nervously.Warren joined them.The squadron ran away on the windy flight deck in the sun, and he saw a sight that always thrilled him: the entire task force turning to the wind, the Enterprise. The Hornet, and a great circle of cruisers and destroyers out there, all advancing in parallel; his father's Northampton was over there, to the left, turning the corner, in the blinding sun , to a position that is almost directly ahead.Amid farewell sounds and waves, the pilots climbed onto the plane.Cornett nodded to Warren from the back seat, peacefully chewing tobacco with his wide, lean jaws, his red hair blowing in the wind. "Okay, Cornett, let's go and take out a Japanese aircraft carrier. Ready?" “说得准十拿九稳，”科尼特回答的似乎是这个意思，他然后用清晰的英语加上一句，“座舱罩开关自如了。” 飞行甲板上有三十五架俯冲轰炸机散布在指定地点，发动机叽叽嘎嘎，轰轰作响，喷出浓浓的蓝烟。华伦的座机在舰尾末端的那些飞机中，携带一颗一千磅重的炸弹；身为飞行作战军官，他保证做到这一点。有些其他的飞机起飞滑跑的路程太短，他们带着一颗五百磅重的炸弹，和两枚一百磅的。华伦起飞时，动作很迟缓，轰隆隆地不大顺利。这架SBD －3 型飞机从甲板末端飞出，机身直朝下沉，离海面近极了，然后摇摇晃晃地爬上天空。温暖的海风刮进敞开的座舱，叫人心旷神怡。华伦收起轮子和襟翼，检查了一下仪表上摆动着的指针，同一行直冲云霄的蓝色轰炸机一起爬升，心里笼罩着一阵职业军人特有的宁静。“大黄蜂”上的俯冲轰炸机在约莫一英里外也排成单行陡直地冲上天空。作战巡逻机群象一个个闪亮的小点，在高空中一些云絮上面盘旋。 飞到两千英尺的空中，当中队的飞机平飞、盘旋的时候，华伦的兴奋劲儿消退了。他能够看到在离他很远的下面，在那缩得很小的“企业号”上，起飞工作在拖拖拉拉地进行。甲板上的方井里，升降机上上下下，看上去极小的人和机动车在把飞机拖来拖去，可是时间在慢慢地消逝，七点半过了，七点三刻了。一转眼，已经差不多花掉一小时的汽油啦，可是还没护航的战斗机或鱼雷轰炸机升空！两条航空母舰依旧背朝着环礁和敌人，迎风朝东南破浪前进，在飞机起飞或回收时都得依靠风向，就象旧日的帆船一样。 “企业号”上有个信号灯正笔直地朝高空打信号。华伦一个个字母地读出这份拍发给新任大队长麦克拉斯基中校的电文：立即执行指定任务。 起初是隔着极远的距离起飞，如今又来一桩惊人之举——忽然不搞协同进攻啦！What happened?没有战斗机护航，没有鱼雷轰炸机作最后的致命打击：“企业号”上的俯冲轰炸机受命单枪匹马地去对付日本的截击机！海军少将斯普鲁恩斯一开始就把整个作战方案，连同一年来的操练、多少年来的舰队演习以及整个航空母舰作战教范全都抛到大海里去了——要不，他听任海尔赛的参谋人员这样做。 Why? 在华伦心里的晴雨表上，这次任务的危险性，以及自己阵亡的可能性，一下子直线上升了。他拿不准“这帮在下面海上的笨蛋”在打什么主意。他有个想法：在缺乏经验的斯普鲁恩斯和操之过急的布朗宁——他在老资格的驾驶员心目中，多少是个笑柄——两人手里，由于心慌意乱、鲁莽行事，这三十六架“企业号”上的俯冲轰炸机正被孤注一掷。 拿一个年轻飞行员来说，华伦。亨利对战争史却懂得着实不少。在他看来，这一切真使人不由想起巴拉克拉瓦战役：他们命定不许问个为什么，他们命定只有去送死——他怀着听天由命的心情，向僚机驾驶员们发出手势信号。他们驾机同他轰隆隆地一起飞行，在他下面和后面，隔开几码路，他们咧嘴笑笑，挥手打招呼。他们俩都是新来的海军少尉；其中的一位是彼特。戈夫，嘴里紧咬着一只没点上的玉米穗轴烟斗。麦克拉斯基把机翼上下摇摆，拐弯朝西南猛扎。华伦跟麦克拉斯基不熟，见面不过打个招呼。他过去是战斗机中队队长，但是人们没法预言他当大队长怎么样。其他三十五架飞机姿势优美地跟着麦克拉斯基转向。华伦在屏护舰队上空掉头，从他那侧斜的座舱里看见小小的“诺思安普敦号”就在正下方，在“企业号”前面划出一道长长的尾迹。“唉，老爹，”他想，“你啊，就在下面远远的地方坐着，我呢，出发了。” Pug.亨利站在“诺思安普敦号”舰桥上，挤在一大批头戴灰色钢盔、身穿救生衣的军官和水兵中间。从黎明起，他一直注视着“企业号”。轰炸机越飞越远，缩成一个个小点了，他还是用双筒望远镜盯着它们不放。在巡洋舰舰桥上执勤的每个人都懂得这是为了什么。 风刮得信号旗哗啦啦地响。下面，哗哗的激浪拍打着舰体，象拍岸的浪花。帕格提高嗓门对身边的副舰长说：“解除战斗警报，格里格中校。保持Z 级戒备。高炮人员在炮位上就地休息。水上飞机驾驶员在弹射器边待命出发。对敌机和潜艇的常设监视哨加双岗。全体人员警戒，谨防空袭。给留在战斗岗位上的人员送去咖啡和三明治。” “遵命，长官。” 帕格换了一副口气说下去：“哦，想起来了，那些SBD 型飞机要飞到目标上空后才能使用无线电。我们有收听这些飞机用的频率的晶体检波器，对不对？” “康纳斯军士长说我们有的，上校。” “好。有什么消息，叫我。” "Yes, sir." 在舰桥上的应急舱内，维克多。亨利把钢盔和救生衣挂在铺位上。他眼睛感到刺痛。两腿铅般沉重。他整整一夜没睡着。为什么这些俯冲轰炸机没有护航就飞出去对付一大片密密麻麻的日本截击机呢？他自己那出色的监视哨，特雷纳，芝加哥来的目光敏锐的黑人小伙子，见过一架日本水上飞机在低空云层中飞出飞进。难道是为了这个原因吗？帕格不知道下达给“约克敦号”和“大黄蜂号”上各中队的是什么样的命令；他只能指望，但愿整个战局比他如今能看清的更合乎情理。戏开场了，这是错不了的。 海图桌上那古旧的三联照相框里，一边是梅德琳的相片，一边是拜伦，中间一张是华伦的海军学院毕业照，是个头戴大白军官帽、瘦削而严肃的海军少尉，正严峻地望着他。唉，帕格心想，他如今已是个派派叫的海军上尉，鉴定报告上一连串“优良”，还有扎扎实实的作战经历，正在飞去对付日本人。没问题，他的下一个差使将是担任国内飞行教练。航空兵学员培养计划非常需要有实战经验的老兵。他然后会得到轮换，调回到太平洋一支空军大队，去积累指挥经验并获得奖章。他的前途光明灿烂，这一天正是他命运中的关键时刻。帕格铁了心等待无线电打破沉寂，就拿起一本侦探小说，靠在铺位上，心不在焉地好歹看起书来。 斯普鲁恩斯究竟为什么打发这些俯冲轰炸机出击呢？ . 一个司令官在战斗中的决断是不容易分析的；即使由他自己来分析，即使是事后心平气和地回忆，要作出分析也不容易。不是所有的军人都善于辞令的。事件烟消云散，就此过去了，尤其是一场战役中那些瞬息即逝的片刻。事隔很久才撰写的回忆录常常既不说明问题，又使人误解。有些真正富有自豪感的人不愿多讲，也不大写作。raymond.斯普鲁恩斯关于他在中途岛战役中的作为，简直没留下片言只语。 他在本战役中是遵循一条有案可查的尼米兹的指令行事的：“你该以有计划的冒险的原则为指导，该原则你该理解为：在敌人的优势兵力攻击下，避免暴露自己的兵力，除非这种暴露能造成于敌以重创的良机。”海军对此有个酸溜溜的、用俚语表达的说法：“对敌人猛敲猛打，可别做赔本生意”；这是对一支以弱抵强的兵力的标准告诫。归根结蒂，这无非是说：“用稳健的战术想法打胜仗。”很少有比这更难遵奉的军令啦。他还得到尼米兹的口头指令，不得损失航空母舰，即使这意味着得放弃中途岛。“我们往后能收复它的，”尼米兹说过。“保全舰队。” 在这些得手碍脚的指示的压力下，还有些严峻的事实牵制着斯普鲁恩斯。他对这条航空母舰、海尔赛的参谋人员以及空中作战都是陌生的。他不可能单靠发发少将脾气就能迫使“企业号”或是“大黄蜂号”上慢得骇人听闻的起飞工作快起来。在这方面，他确实是无能为力的。“约克敦号”在回收它的搜索机时，朝后方漂航，没在地平线下，所以他没法找弗莱彻商量。发现了一架日方的水上飞机，那个懂日语的特种情报官说，它拍发过一份方位报告。所以突击的优势象热煎锅上的黄油般化掉了。据悉，中途岛环礁正挨到敌机的空袭。他的俯冲轰炸机呢，却在头顶上空不断地盘旋，白白消耗汽油。 既然这三角形作战区每条边的距离都是已知数，飞机的航程和速率也是知道的，斯普鲁恩斯就可以指望，他的俯冲轰炸机如果现在就出发，就可能在敌机力量薄弱时同它们交锋，因为那时它们从中途岛回来，缺乏弹药和汽油。不过这方面有个严峻的难题。那架PBY 巡逻机只看见两条航空母舰。尼米兹的情报人员料想有四五条。这些没找到的航空母舰在哪儿？它们会从北方、南方，甚至一个包抄从东方来袭击第十六特混舰队吗？它们会乘他的俯冲轰炸机全部出动去袭击那两条母舰的当儿，猛扑过来吗？ 他面临着一个事关重大、迫于眉睫的抉择：不是把轰炸机扣住了等待来一次完全的协同进攻，同时盼望得到关于那两三条不见踪影的航空母舰的消息，就是眼下就出击，冒一下风险，也许它们会在那两条已发现的航空母舰附近露面。 斯普鲁恩斯出击了。这实在也说不上是“有计划的冒险”。这是拿他的海军和他的祖国的前途在这最凶险、最重大的赌局中孤注一掷。这种决断——这种一生中只有一次的个人决断——是对一位司令官的考验。就在这一小时内，他那经验丰富得多、实力强大得多的对手，海军中将南云忠一，也将面临同样艰难的抉择。