In the chaotic, improvisational world of the Pacific theater in World War II, a new kind of warfare took center stage. Aircraft carriers were not merely ships—they were cities in the air, platforms for power and survival. And in that era of perpetual conflict, few carriers cast as large a shadow in heritage as the USS Yorktown (CV-5) and the USS Enterprise (CV-6). These were not machines of war. They were homes, battlefields, and symbols of resilience. Their stories continue to echo today, not just in textbooks, but on the ocean floor where they currently rest, silently telling their stories.
In June 1942, the tide of the war shifted in an action which has come to be known as the Battle of Midway. Japan aimed at Midway Atoll to encircle the U.S. fleet and to eliminate American naval supremacy in the Pacific. The plan was to force the U.S. to offer peace terms by causing a crushing defeat. But in secret, American cryptanalysts had cracked Japanese codes, learning that “AF” represented their Midway shorthand. With that crucial knowledge, Admiral Chester Nimitz moved quickly, deploying three carriers—Yorktown, Enterprise, and Hornet—in a specially stealthy ambush position. One of the greatest battles of naval history began.
Yorktown’s unannounced arrival at Midway was nothing short of miraculous. She had returned from the Battle of the Coral Sea, battered and weary, put together with wire and string. Pearl Harbor sailors worked around the clock to patch her up—she was out of dry dock for only two days. But somehow, she was ready to battle. Her pilots sent three Japanese carriers to the bottom. But Yorktown herself took heavy enemy fire. The men fought heroically to keep her afloat, pumping out water, plugging holes, doing the best that humans could do. But eventually, a Japanese submarine delivered the coup de grâce. Yorktown and the destroyer Hammann went down on June 7, 1942, with courageous hearts.
Nobody had a clue where she was for decades. Then, in 1998, oceanographer Dr. Robert Ballard, with the help of the U.S. Navy and National Geographic, located her. Follow-up excursions returned, but it wasn’t until April 2025 that remote-operated vehicles finally showed us in. Sent in by NOAA Ocean Exploration, those dives gave the world a rare, haunting view of what’s remaining—and what remains.
One of the strongest discoveries was a massive, hand-painted mural hidden inside an elevator shaft. Entitled “A Chart of the Cruises of the USS Yorktown,” it was 42 feet long, mapping out all the places the ship had been. Her crew had painted it, and it contained more than charts and piers—it contained pride, mission, and memory. Elsewhere in the wreck, divers found many crashed Dauntless dive bombers. Maybe someone had even come from Enterprise, arriving at Yorktown in the middle of battle furor. And then there was the old Woody wagon—a 1940s Ford Super Deluxe, resting quietly on the ocean bottom. Reserved likely for senior officers, it’s a small but powerful reminder of the daily life that once occurred on deck.
Today, Yorktown’s grave is protected, officially designated as a Site of Extraordinary Character. It’s not just a sunken warship—it’s a war grave, a time capsule, and an oasis. The sea has claimed her, and she remains today an icon of sacrifice and service, silently protected by the sea.
Enterprise’s sister ship didn’t fare as well, at least not originally. She survived Midway and earned the most decorations of any American warship in the entire war. Dubbed the “Big E,” Enterprise appeared to be everywhere, ranging from dispatching the daring Doolittle Raid to enduring furious battles at Guadalcanal, Santa Cruz, and Leyte Gulf. She earned more battle stars than any other ship and became a legend in her own time.
Enterprise was not the biggest carrier, nor the most modern. But she was tough. She was hit, rebuilt, and back. Over and over. Before the newer Essex-class carriers came in, it was ships like Yorktown and Enterprise that held the line. The smaller, older Yorktown-class by the end of thwarwa, were incredibly flexible—and in many respects, ahead of their time. They taught the Navy what a carrier is supposed to be during a war like no other.
The latest dives on Yorktown weren’t about history, though they’ve been about that, too. They’ve been talking about what makes us human. These underwater reminders—the mural, the planes, even that battered old truck—tell a very human story about the people who lived and fought and died on those flight decks. It’s not a matter of tactics or strategy; it’s a matter of young sailors charting maps between tours of duty, of pilots searching for the next available patch to land, of officers riding across the flight deck in a battered station wagon as war raged on all sides.
Also, these shipwrecks have created ecosystems. The sea, in a way, has claimed these vessels and turned them into sanctuaries for sea life. Salvaging them’s not about preserving the past so much—it’s about honoring the moment and safeguarding the future. That conflict between recalling and preserving is what makes exploring these wrecks so profound.
Enterprise and Yorktown are not just names on plaques or photos in dusty records. They are chapters in a book that is being written today. Their legacy is not pasted in history—it continues to live on in every dive, every rediscovery, and in the awe of those who hear the stories about them. These ships teach us that courage, sacrifice, and perseverance are something more than words—they’re lived, fought for, and remembered.
And so long as the sea guards their secrets and history raises questions, the ghost of Yorktown and Enterprise will continue to rise from the depths, remembering us for what we once were, and for what we still strive to remain.