by James Young
“That can’t be it,” Patricia continued, her voice strained as she reflexively touched her pistol.
We are lost, Jo thought, looking back towards her pistol on the dresser behind her. Maybe we shouldn’t have come in with Nancy, as I’m suddenly not sure if we’re going to own this place in the morning after all.
Ewa Naval Air Station
1025 Local (1525 Eastern)
Captains Samuel and David Cobb were both patient men. Having a precocious younger sister and two high-spirited younger brothers had that effect on most people.
All thoughts of weddings were far from the two men’s minds now as they sat fuming in the cockpits of their two F4F-3s. VMF-14 had been sitting on the tarmac now for almost five hours, fully armed and ready to roll. Initially, the pilots had believed this to be yet another drill, nothing to be really concerned about. That thought had been dispelled when a badly damaged Wildcat had come in fast and hot to slam down on the tarmac. The injured pilot had quickly hopped out of his smoking fighter and ran for his life, barely making it fifty yards before the plane had exploded. Rushing over with the crash crews, Sam and Eric had gotten on the scene just as the pilot, eyes wide and voice panicked, had finished explaining what had happened.
Whilst one man could have been explained away as a coward or perhaps exaggeration, the arrival of two more damaged fighters, both Wildcats from separate squadrons, confirmed the man’s words almost beyond the shadow of a doubt. The Japanese were in the Hawaiian Islands in force. Moreover, they had roughly handled the fleet’s fighter squadrons and possibly the fleet itself.
Yet still we sit here and wait, Sam thought disgustedly. I’m not saying Major Bowden is yellow, but he’s definitely starting to resemble a ripening banana, no matter what headquarters keeps telling him.
“Here comes Major Bowden!” David said suddenly from up in his cockpit. Sam turned and looked, seeing their squadron commander walking purposefully towards the flightline.
“He doesn’t look happy,” Sam said, raising his hand to his eyes to shade them. “As a matter of fact, he looks downright pissed off.”
“Yep, that he does,” David replied. As they watched, Bowden pointed directly at them, then waved them over with his right hand. In his left he was carrying an object that looked like a small bag. Sam waited for David to hop down beside him, then started running over towards the man down the flight line. Whereas the action would normally have brought forth the catcalls and comments of their fellow pilots, today there was dead silence.
“Sir?” Sam asked after rendering the proper courtesies. Bowden returned their salute, his face still red with anger.
“Gentlemen, by order of Pacific Fleet Headquarters, we are still forbidden to take off without the express order of Admiral Jensen, CINCPAC. I just spent the last hour talking to some idiotic Lieutenant Commander duty officer who fails to appreciate that there is a war on, and judging from the reports we have received the Fleet could use some help. How are you gentlemen on your ship recognition?” Bowden asked, as the squadron executive officer, Captain David Wharram, came up behind them.
The two brothers looked at each other, then back to Bowden.
“Fair, sir,” both of them replied in unison. Bowden took a moment to gather his thoughts, having expected two separate answers.
“I think you’re both full of shit, but you’ve also got the most hours of anyone here except for myself and the flight leaders. More importantly, I know you’ve both trapped on carriers in the last year, whereas most of us have not. I’m not about to take off the entire squadron against the orders of the duty officer, but I am going to take steps to get those orders changed,” Bowden said rapidly, his tempo increasing with his obvious agitation. Thrusting out his left hand towards Sam, he continued.
“Inside this bag is a message for Rear Admiral Fletcher, asking him if he needs us to serve as replacement fighters,” Bowden said. “Then asking him if he will not only overrule that son-of-a-bitch at headquarters, but see that the individual in question is cashiered from the service as soon as possible.”
Sam and David looked at each other, then at Bowden with a slight smile. Bowden did not return it. If anything, his face grew darker.
“I am not joking, gentlemen, I really have asked for that asshole’s relief,” Bowden snapped.
Okay, I’m sorry, you’re not yellow, Sam thought, seeing just how angry Bowden was. Indeed, you look positively murderous.
“If you can, you are to land aboard the carriers and deliver this message to Admiral Fletcher personally . If you are unable to land aboard the carriers, you are to drop this message bag onto the nearest vessel you see in good shape. Do your best not to get shot down. That is all,” Bowden said as Sam took the bag.
The two men looked at each other, then back at Bowden.
“Sir, which direction are our friendly carriers,” Sam asked.
Bowden started at the question, as if suddenly remember something. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.
“This is the bearing to Point Falcon,” Bowden said apologetically. “The pilots advise flying low, as apparently our Japanese friends have us outnumbered.”
Taking the sheet of paper, Sam noticed the blood staining the top of it. Along with everything else that had happened that morning, it brought home the seriousness of what was happening to him.
“Well, sir, let’s hope that things aren’t as bad as they were a few hours ago,” Sam replied. “The Japanese have to go home eventually.”
Wildcat F-19
1030 Local (1540 Eastern)
Things weren’t nearly as bad as they had been that morning for the American Navy fighters. Indeed, with each man present being a survivor in some way or another, things were far better. Thanks to radar and the bloody clash with the Army fighters, the twenty Wildcats actually managed to get the drop on their opposite numbers.
Let’s see how you like being bounced, you assholes! Peter thought with exultation, the Val in front of him swelling in his gunsight. Squeezing the trigger was almost orgasmic with regards to the carthartic release, as the rushing Japanese dive bomber flew directly into the F4F-4’s six .50-caliber streams. One moment the fixed-wing aircraft was huge in Peter’s gunsight. The next its fuel tanks and bomb converted it into a dirty orangeish brown crematorium that Peter unwittingly flew through. Fighting the urge to throw up his hands to protect his face, Peter felt the Wildcat shudder as debris slammed off his fuselage.
Who’s next?! he thought, face darkened in a snarl. Who’s fucking next?! Wrenching the stick over, he brought the Wildcat around to line up on a second, lower chutai of Vals. For a brief moment he realized that the bright lights at the edge of his vision were tracers as the tail gunners tried to draw a bead on him, but then nothing mattered but him and his target. Again the Wildcat shuddered, the four streams of fire shattering his target’s rear canopy in a gout of blood and glass. Pulling the stick back into his stomach, vision darkening, Peter walked his short burst back through the dive bomber’s tail control surfaces. Watching the rudder fly off the airframe, Peter had a brief moment of exultation before rolling down and away.
Like Norse berserkers amongst their enemies, the USN fighters had laid waste all about them as they attacked into the Japanese formation. Two Vals and three Kates in addition to Peter’s two kills were arcing down towards the ocean. Another dive bomber and torpedo bomber struggled on with battle damage or wounded crewmen. In return, four Wildcats had been knocked out of action, two of them permanently, by the bombers’ massed tail gunner fire. As he leveled off below the Vals but above the Kates, Peter took one moment to make sure his wingman was still with him, then lined up on the descending torpedo bombers.
Shit they are fast, he thought, feeling the Wildcat shake as he only slowly gained on the Japanese torpedo bombers. Aiming for a chutai leader near the rear of the formation, Peter was far more aware of the Kate’s tail gunners firing than he had been of the Val’s. A sound like hailstones hitting
a barn roof told him that at least one of the gunners had struck his fighter, but he ignored it as he finally got within range and squeezed the trigger.
Dammit! Peter thought as his fighter slewed to the side, the impromptu maneuver telling him one of his four guns was jammed. The hosed burst still managed to kill the Kate’s rear gunner and start a stream of fuel going backward as Peter skidded away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw another pair of Vals falling out of the sky wrapped in flames. As he worked the charging handle in a desperate attempt to clear his guns, Peter realized that the fight was starting to reach the edge of Lexington’s screen.
I don’t want to get shot down by my own…
Peter never had time to finish the thought, as a flicker of gray and muzzle flashes in his rearview mirror was his only warning that Zeroes had joined the fight. Even as Peter started to throw his stick over, twenty-millimeter shells began tearing apart his fighter. Only the fact the Wildcat had been modified with boiler plate behind the seat kept his death from being instantaneous, as the cockpit became alive with hot engine oil, shell fragments, and canopy glass. Falling off on one wing, the Wildcat fell downwards trailing a dark streamer of smoke. Reaching up to pull the canopy back, Peter cursed as twisted metal sliced through his gloves and into his hand.
Gotta get out, he thought. Wrenching the shattered canopy backward, he felt the rush of air increase. The Pacific seemed to be rushing up towards him as he rolled the fighter onto its back, quickly unclasped his seat straps, and lunged out of the cockpit. The pain of his stitches ripping seemed to be a signal to every other wound to make itself felt, and Peter belatedly realized he was shot through this right arm and leg, with severe burns on his left leg from the engine oil. Ignoring the agony, he wrenched his D-ring to open up his chute, and immediately discovered to his all consuming discomfort that he’d improperly aligned his groin straps. As the white hot agony shot through is testicles, he opened his mouth to scream and slammed hard into the Pacific.
The saltwater did nothing to ease Peter’s pain, but it strangely provided clarity as he quickly struggled back to the surface. Fighting his way free of his chute, the pilot quickly swam away from it in a rush of adrenaline and fear. Belatedly realizing he heard no onrushing engines or other indications that someone might strafe him, Peter stopped and began trying to inflate his Mae West. To his relief, the device still worked. As Peter finished blowing up his life jacket, he suddenly felt light headed.
Dear God, don’t tell me I came this far to bleed to death, he thought.
The shark strike was sudden and violent. One moment Peter was lightly treading water, the next there was a terrible rending of flesh and sinew as a tiger shark seized the young officer’s left leg. Attempting to scream, Peter’s cry ended in a gurgle as the shark began moving forward and downward. Shaking, the twelve foot fish finally rent the leg from Peter’s torso, causing him to bob upward like some macabre top. Peter screamed briefly before the sudden, massive loss of blood sent him into shock. He never felt the second shark, a smaller tiger, bite into his left arm.
Peter and his fellow officers’ sacrifice had not been in vain. Shocked at the ferocity of the American’s fighter defense, with several chutai and squadron leaders dead or limping back towards the Kido Butai, the second strike was nowhere near as coordinated as the first. In addition, the Lexington, Saratoga, and Yorktown had swiftly diverged their courses, gaining separation between their battle groups. Finally, whereas the Pacific Fleet’s battleships would be fortunate to reach twenty-one knots on a good day, the carriers and their escorts were already passing thirty knots as the Japanese finally acquired them. The extra speed greatly increased the time it took for the Japanese aircraft to reach attack position. Erupting in smoke and flame, with the destroyers beginning to belch smoke from generators as well as their funnels, the carrier task forces presented a far more difficult target for the attackers.
Even before reaching their pushover point, Vals began to disappear in explosions from 5-inch shells. Resolutely pressing on, the dive bombers were then subjected to the densest automatic weapons array in the Pacific Fleet. While professionals and combat veterans, none of the dive bomber pilots had ever been faced with fire so thick. Without prior coordination, desperate to get through the hurricane of fire, and cognizant that their bombs would easily pierce the teak wood decks, the Vals and Suiseis ignored the screen and concentrated solely on the Lexington and Saratoga. It was a tribute to the pilots’ bravery that thirty dive-bombers made it to the pushover point without a single aircraft breaking off and fleeing. It was a mark of their skill that of those thirty men, in the face of ferocious anti-aircraft fire, six made successful drops. Through pure luck, only three more of the dive bombers were swatted down on their way out of the carrier escorts’ maelstrom.
Constructed from the hull of a battlecruiser, the Lexington had been the United States Navy’s second flattop. Handled skillfully by her master, she managed to avoid all but two of the deadly missiles dropped by the Japanese dive bombers. The first bomb hit near the bow, piercing the through the flight deck near the forward elevator and passing into the hangar spaces below. Despite having flown off half her strike aircraft to Oahu, the Lady Lex had not had time to complete launching the entire air group. Even worse, in the rush to get the first bunch of aircraft off, the hangar crew had not completely secured an auxiliary fuel cart. Whereas normally the small 500-lb. bomb would have merely bent the elevator shaft and caused minor damage, the resultant secondary explosion caused a large gout of flame to burst upwards from Lexington’s flight deck followed by dense black smoke.
The second weapon dropped on the old Lady Lex hit in the middle of the vessel’s long flight deck. Continuing on through the bottom of the hangar deck, the missile exploded inside one of the ship’s galleys that was also serving as an aid station. The execution among the gathered corpsmen was awful, the blast and fragmentation killing a dozen and injuring twenty-five more. However, other than starting another fire, the hit did not severely damage the Lexington’s structure or affect the ship’s ability to function. Heavily ablaze forward, but with her propulsion plan intact, the Lexington continued her evasive course as torpedo bombers began boring in from either bow.
The Saratoga’s ordeal was far worse than her elder sister’s. Not as ably handled by her captain and the target of the sole Suisei squadron present, Sara suffered five hits down her length. The first bomb came in at an angle through the aft lift, passing down the elevator well to the deck underneath the hangar deck and continuing on to explode in a paint locker. Splashing about, the oil based paint immediately burst into an intense conflagration. The next weapon, hitting almost simultaneously, pierced the top of turret No. 1., and on the starboard 8” gun’s breech. In an instant, the entire turret’s crew and many of the men standing in the catwalks lining the carrier’s flight deck were killed or horribly wounded. Moments later, the ammunition within the turret began burning and exploding, causing further casualties and causing smoke to pour back over the vessel’s island, temporarily blinding the bridge crew.
Bomb hits three and four caught the carrier as she answered her helm to starboard. Slashing at an angle into the vessel’s side, the two weapons exploded one deck above the No. 1 engine room. The detonations forced hot fragments of varying size through the roof of the compartment, starting a large fire and knocking most of the engineers off their feet. Even worse, the shock from the impacts caused the carrier’s turboelectric engines to fail. The final bomb, a large armor-piercing weapon, was dropped just as the Suisei carrying it lost its wing. The strange physics that were imparted were the only reason the weapon hit, but also caused it to angle strangely as it passed through the Saratoga’s hull. As a result, it caused a great deal of additional fragmentary damage before finally exploding in the heart of the carrier’s steering room. On the large carrier’s bridge, the helmsman’s eyes grew large as the man attempted to throw the ship’s helm over and received no response. Choking and gasping in the sm
oke, his voice drowned out in the din of gunfire and the roar of flames from the No. 1 turret, the helmsman unsuccessfully attempted to get his captain’s attention.
As the dive bombers pulled up from their dives, the Kates completed their final runs on the two carriers. In addition to facing the same typhoon of automatic weapons fire the dive bombers had, the Kates had the added benefit of the three heavy and four light cruisers of the screens also firing their full broadsides at the approaching bombers in order to raise water columns in their path. With far longer runs than the dive bombers, faster targets, and the disconcerting effect of water erupting in their faces, the Kates were both not as successful as their dive bombing brethren, yet triumphant beyond their wildest expectations.
The Saratoga, her helm still unresponsive and locked into a tight turn, absorbed four hits to starboard. The first weapon, running deep, failed to function. Its sole accomplishment was to scare the forward fireroom crew almost to death with a sound like a bell clapper. The men present barely had enough time to void bowels or empty bladders before soiled undergarments and their good fortune became almost academic. Impacting in almost perfect formation, the first torpedo a few moments before its two sisters, the three weapons destroyed the carrier’s elevator shaft, started a massive fire in her bunkerage, and most overwhelmingly, exploded her torpedo magazine.
The blast was a massive thing, the bright orange fireball spewing from the Saratoga’s flight deck like a roiling, living mass. The dirty smoke formed a brief, distinctive mushroom cloud that towered over the deck before being dispersed by the carrier’s forward momentum. It was a testimony to the Sara’s robust construction that the vessel did not instantly break in half and sink. Instead, her entire aft end afire, secondary explosions erupting from her stern, and the Pacific rushing into her ruined aft end, the carrier coasted a stop and began settling by the stern.
