Glenn Beck - Miracles and Massacres - True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

He keyed the mic and looked over to his right. The two planes were close enough that he could see the grim expression on his wingman’s face.

“Duff, you stay clear, now.”

“What the hell are you going to do, Butch?”

“The same thing you’d do, buddy: whatever I can.”

• • •

If Butch had any advantages, they were raw speed and surprise. He rolled hard left and then pitched his Wildcat into a screaming descent, setting his sights on the trailing bomber on the right-hand side of the V formation. He streaked in from the high side and stayed off his guns until the Betty’s starboard engine crept into the crosshairs. When he fired, it was with a rifleman’s precision.

Those first few precious bullets tore through the enemy’s cowling and a cloud of black smoke and flames burst forth as a second careful volley pierced the wing tanks. Target number one dropped out of formation, badly disabled and barely under control.

Butch’s dad had taught him to shoot long ago and, so far, he would have been proud. The score was one down and seven to go, but from here on out it would be different. They knew he was there.

Butch jinked and evaded but held his heading as the Japanese tail-gunners swung their own cannons around and began returning fire. He took three quick shots at the next bomber up the line, and then, as Butch leveled off and rocketed through the crumbling formation, another Betty dropped out and spun downward in flames.

He pulled up and rolled out to set up for another run—this next one surely doomed to fail—and caught a brief glimpse of another lone Wildcat weaving its way through the bright tracers of the enemy defenses. It was Duff, dead guns and all, flying like a man possessed, trying his level best to distract their adversaries and draw their fire.

The second pass began just like the first, but things changed fast. As Butch pulled the trigger on the left-rear bomber he felt several heavy impacts thudding through his airframe. The Wildcat absorbed its punishment without a hitch. Meanwhile, Butch’s latest target had taken critical damage. The big plane banked to flee the fight, one engine afire, and dropped his bombs into the empty ocean below as he made a limping turn away.

Butch was amazed when he came around for his third high-side pass and saw only four bombers left in formation. The Lexington was now clearly in sight down below. Fierce anti-aircraft fire began to fill the air ahead. He dove in again, but this time there was nearly as much danger from the flak of the ship’s response as from the guns of the Japanese.

By the count in his head, his guns were running low. He again fired in metered bursts toward the most vulnerable points on the enemy planes. Through the crosshairs he watched one of the engines on the nearest Betty burst into flames, then he shifted toward the head of the V, scoring yet another direct hit on the leader that sent his port-side radial engine exploding out of its nacelle.

Between Butch’s one-man assault and the anti-aircraft fire from the task force, the remaining planes were bracketed and their formation nearly broken up.

On his fourth and final shooting pass, as those last bombers prepared to let loose their loads, Butch felt his guns finally run dry and silent. He banked and then leveled off with a seat-of-the-pants plan to run his plane into the side of one of the Bettys if need be.

But then, streaking in from behind and overhead, the cavalry arrived.

Led by Lieutenant Commander John “Jimmy” Thach, several fighters had just returned from their pursuit of the survivors of the first wave. The sight of them evidently convinced this tattered second formation of Bettys to give it up and flee. They dropped their bombs well short of the ships of the task force and split off to run for clear air with the Americans closing in for the kill.

• • •

One of the casualties of Butch’s run had been his radio, so he could neither transmit nor receive as he waited his turn for a landing on the Lex . It hadn’t hit him quite yet, what he’d done; all he felt was anxious to get the wheels back on the runway.

But his anxiousness didn’t last long. After rolling to a stop on the deck, Butch pulled back the canopy and stood up in his seat to a ship-wide cheer so loud and long, it sounded like the Cubs had finally won the Series at Wrigley Field.

Aboard the USS Enterprise , Central Pacific,

near the enemy-controlled Gilbert Islands

Twenty-two months later: November 26, 1943

With time and experience he’d grown accustomed to the rigors and chaos of battle. Every engagement was unique, of course, but that evening, as Butch sat in his cockpit—now in command of his own squadron—the scene outside looked strangely familiar. It was almost as though he’d lived this moment before.

Just like that long-ago day aboard the Lexington , the flight deck of the Enterprise was well-controlled mayhem. And, just like that day, a score of Japanese bombers had been detected on radar, heading in for blood. The Allies were preparing to go up to try to bring them down—but, unlike that first dogfight, this would be a rare nighttime engagement, a daring mission planned by Butch himself.

He completed his preflight checks and his eyes soon found the picture of his wife, Rita, that he’d clipped near the altimeter. Right beside it was another photo—his father and mother on one of their happier days, twenty years earlier. It was cracked and fading from time and much thoughtful handling.

In the end, it seemed as though Easy Eddie had been granted his final wish: He was already forgotten by most, but not by those he’d done his best to protect and care for.

Butch thought for a moment about his father and about everything that had brought him to the deck of this carrier. Two months after his incredible mission to save the Lexington , Butch had returned to the States on extended leave. With his wife by his side, he was escorted to the White House, where FDR himself promoted him to lieutenant commander. He was then presented with the first Medal of Honor awarded to a navy man in World War II.

The citation was for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in aerial combat, but later in the text it was stated more simply: In the course of saving his carrier and countless lives, Butch had performed the most daring single action in the history of combat aviation.

When he’d returned to his native St. Louis, sixty thousand people turned out for the parade that was held in his honor. The event was compared to the celebration of Lindbergh’s homecoming after his pioneering solo flight across the Atlantic.

The war effort needed heroes in the conflict’s earlier years, and Butch could very well have parlayed his well-earned fame into a safe, extended stateside public relations tour. But that wasn’t him. Before long he was back on active duty, first as a trainer and then in combat again.

Now, as Butch peered out his cockpit window and watched the busy deck of the USS Enterprise , he realized he’d been right: this was where he belonged. He took a last quiet moment to give thanks for everything and everyone who’d helped him get there, including a flawed man who’d no doubt be the first to admit he’d been far from the perfect dad.

The deck boss gave him the sign, the flag dropped, the engine roared, and Edward Henry “Butch” O’Hare tore down the runway and took off into the sky, never to return again.

• • •

Six years after being killed in combat and four years after the end of the war he’d helped the Allies win, Chicago’s Orchard Depot was renamed in Butch’s honor: O’Hare International Airport.

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