Into the Valley of Death

Some were skinny and some were broad, some short, some tall. One of them was turned down twice by the Army because he had been sitting at a desk too long, so he swung a pick for 18 months in a construction gang and got into the Navy. They were just Americans, with a ready wisecrack, an eye for a pretty leg, a nostalgia for the corner drugstore at home and an idea that they wanted to be somebody someday.

Because they were young, they liked to fly. Because they liked to fly, they joined the Navy's air arm. On a carrier in the Pacific, these 15 pilots from different home towns were lined up on deck one day as a team--Navy torpedo Squadron No. 8. Grinning and a little selfconscious, they submitted to the good old American custom of having their team picture taken (see cut).

Their moment came suddenly. On the morning of June 4, the squadron, on its commander's hunch, left the main U.S. forces and flew west from Midway to hunt the enemy. They found him: an overwhelming force of three carriers screened by a fleet of cruisers and destroyers. There was no time to wait for fighter protection. Squadron No. 8 said the formal Navy communique later, "proceeded to attack at once without protection or assistance of any kind."

One by one the boys peeled off and dived, through murderous clouds of Zeroes and anti-aircraft fire. They sank the three Jap carriers. But the squadron never came back from the battle. Only one of the 15 pilots (and none of their gunners) lived to tell the tale-- Ensign Gay and the team picture, released by the Navy last week, remained of Squadron 8.

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