On Seas So Crimson

by James Young

  Jacob could detect the tone of weariness in Captain Wallace’s voice.

  “Let me guess—he’s blaming the Navy,” Jacob replied.

  “To everyone that will listen,” Captain Wallace replied. “There’s some kook even claiming that MacArthur was set up by President Roosevelt to eliminate a political competitor.”

  “I don’t know why he didn’t just fly out,” Jacob observed.

  “That was the plan when he got down to the East Indies,” Captain Wallace stated. “They didn’t have anything with the necessary legs left after trying to bomb the invasion beaches, plus everyone is still jittery after Darwin and Perth. Thought it’d be a crying shame if the senior general in the United States Army got blown out of the sky flying to Australia.”

  “That would be a bit of a problem,” Jacob allowed. “Fitting given how badly the Army’s apparently bungled the war, but still a problem.”

  “Yeah, well, still feel sorry for that damn boat skipper,” Captain Wallace allowed.

  “True.” Suddenly Jacob felt every bit of fatigue that had been accumulating for the last twenty-four hours. He turned to face Captain Wallace.

  “Get to bed XO,” Captain Wallace said, seeing Jacob’s eyes. “I don’t want to see you awake before 1630, or you won’t be my executive officer anymore. Clear?”

  “As crystal, Sir,” Jacob replied, already heading for the passageway off of the bridge.

  Clark Field

  1000 Local (2200 Eastern)

  23 April (22 April)

  The roar of several dozen radial engines in close orbit around Clark Field was a familiar one for the residents of Manila. However, the nationality of the circling aircraft was a sight that scared even the most stalwart Filipinos’ hearts.

  Lieutenant Isoro Honda, formerly of the carrier Akagi but now of the Tinian Wing, Imperial Japanese Navy Air Force (IJNAF), kept his head swiveling around as he applied rudder to bring his Shiden into alignment with the asphalt field below.

  It has been an eventful month, he thought, still shocked to find himself getting ready to land on what had been one of the largest American base in the Pacific. From Hawaii to the Philippines, with kills in both places.

  The Kido Butai’s supplements to the Tinian Wing had been well received, especially when an amphibious assault had allowed them to be shuttled into the Philippines by the light carrier Chiyoda.

  She is not the Akagi, but she seems to make a very good taxi, Isoro thought. I can only imagine how surprised the Americans were when they were returning to this very field to find us waiting for them.

  Honda made one last check of the area around the landing pattern, his movement demonstrating why his comrades called him “Sea Snake.” Satisfied that his two wingmen, Warrant Officers Watanabe and Sawato, were in proper position with no American fighters about to attack, Isoro made his final approach.

  Twenty minutes later, Isoro and the other nineteen Shiden pilots present were gathered around Commander Fuchida to find out what was coming next. With his tall and gangly frame, Isoro found himself once more standing in the back row

  “In five days, we will begin our attack against the Dutch East Indies,” Fuchida began. “The fate of the Empire and our entire war plan rests on all of your shoulders.”

  There was a slight shuffling in the Philippine heat at that statement, several of the newer pilots looking at one another. For his part, Isoro’s face remained expressionless.

  If you were not prepared to have to do heroic things, you probably should not have joined the IJNAF, Isoro thought. Japan needs us now mor than ever.

  “Honda-san,” Fuchida said, startling Isoro out of his thoughts.

  “Yes sir?” Isoro asked.

  “We are a long way from Hawaii, no?” Fuchida asked with a slight smile.

  “Yes, sir, we really are,” Isoro said, grinning momentarily himself.

  “Tell me, how has the hunting been for you fighter pilots?” Fuchida asked. “It seems forever since I have helped bag a battleship.”

  Isoro smiled at that last part.

  “The hunting has been excellent, sir,” Isoro said.

  “Are you ready to try your luck with the Dutch?”

  “Commander, as always we are your sword,” Isoro replied with a broad smile.

  “Isoro-san, I am glad to see my faith in you is completely justified,” Fuchida replied.

  As if I truly had a choice, Isoro thought without any trace of rancor. In this time of need for Japan, a warrior must be prepared to make sacrifices.

  CHAPTER 3: CENTER RING

  The first blow is half the battle—Oliver Goldsmith

  Makassar Strait

  0345 Local (1545 Eastern)

  26 April (25 April)

  “Apparently these chaps have never understood the concept of concentration of force,” Flying Officer Bellingsley observed dryly.

  “Or they realize that we can’t stop them everywhere,” Russell replied, looking at his radar screen. He was desperately tired, especially of looking at the green screen in front of him.

  We’ve been busy since the Japanese started probing out of Singapore two nights ago, Russell thought, rubbing his eyes.

  “Damn moon is far too bright for my liking,” Bellingsley stated nervously.

  “It’s only because the sky is bloody clear for once,” Russell stated, scanning the sky.

  “George Flight, Charles One,” Squadron Leader Pence’s voice echoed in Russell’s ear.

  Glad he survived that bloody cock up a few days ago, Russell thought. Damn wing commander ordering us out to help the Canberra ought to have been shot. Gee, who could have foreseen there’d be damn Nip fighters escorting the bombers? Anyone with a bloody brain, that’s who.

  “This is George One,” Russell replied.

  “When was the last time you heard from Black Cat Six?” Pence asked.

  I have no idea, Russell thought, looking at his wristwatch. The bloke is staging around in a Lancaster near a Japanese task force. He might be slightly busy.

  “Charles One, this is Black Cat Six,” the Lancaster pilot replied, his New Zealand accent deepening with annoyance. “Be advised there’s at least one cats eye fighter about. He was bloody persistent, so I thought that might be more important than answering the telly.”

  Seems that Black Cat Six has not been having a good night, Russell thought. Still, good thing they decided to send a Lancaster up there rather than a Catalina.

  “What is your report, Black Cat?” Pence replied, his voice clipped.

  “There’s at least one carrier, probably two,” Black Cat Six replied. “Radar operator counted four more large contacts before the…look out!”

  There was the brief sound of gunfire over the radio before Black Cat Six ceased transmission. Russell spotted a stream of tracers a dozen miles or more ahead of them, followed by a bright fireball that quickly winked out.

  Hope that wasn’t Black Cat Six, Russell thought.

  “Persistent bugger,” Black Cat Six said. “Let’s see what that bloody Beau…”

  The Lancaster pilot stopped once he realized he was talking over the open radio.

  “What I want is you to finish your report, Black Cat Six,” Pence stated, sounding positively perturbed.

  “Five large blips, at least one carrier,” Black Cat Six snapped. “Enemy fighters about, just splashed one. Take a course of three four oh true, fly for about five more minutes, and I doubt you’ll miss them!”

  “George, Michael Flights, did you copy?” Pence asked.

  “Roger,” Russell said.

  “Roger,” Michael One replied.

  Well here’s to hoping those blokes in the Bostons know what they’re about, Russell thought.

  “Charles Flight, let’s try and clear the way,” Pence stated. Peering out of the Beaufighter’s observation dome, Russell watched as Charles Flight began to accelerate away from the bomb-laden George Flight and Michael Flight’s A-20s.

  “Let’s start letting d
own,” Russell said, looking back at his scope.

  “Going down,” Bellingsley replied, his voice nervous.

  George flight began to spiral down from ten thousand feet, the circles moving gradually north. As they passed seven thousand feet, the sky to their north suddenly became alive with shell bursts.

  “Well looks like we’re not the only people out here with radar,” Pence stated. “Tallyho, multiple ships, bearing three five five true, four…AAAAAHHHHH!”

  Russell had seen the burst of tracers a split second before the screams began. Charles One’s demise as as impressive as it was sudden, the Beaufighter spinning out of the sky like a macabre Catherine wheel. Russell felt his stomach in his throat as he watched the falling fighter.

  “Gotcha you bastard!” Charles Three cried. A moment later there was another bright explosion as the Zero fighter that had shot down Charles One met a less spectacular if just as incendiary death.

  Blimey, was all Russell thought. He snapped out of it as George One leveled off just above the dark waters of the Makassar Strait.

  “Charles Three, keep your eye up there for any more of those bastards,” he barked, smoothly assuming control of the squadron. “Michael Flight, orbit east and stand by. George Flight, we’re going to try alternate attack pattern three tonight.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Roger,” Charles Three replied, followed quickly by Michael One and George Three.

  Well the 500-pounders we’ve got won’t even dent a battleship, but they should hurt a carrier, Russell thought. Here’s to hoping we and the Bostons guess right on who is who.

  Attack Pattern Three required all four of George Flight to attack simultaneously, with each pilot picking out his target.

  “Bellingsley, we’re taking a target at oh three oh relative, range twenty one thousand…CHRIST!”

  The entire Japanese formation had suddenly erupted in small arms, medium caliber and, in at least two cases, main gun fire. In an instant, the sky had gone from relatively placid to one of the largest anti-aircraft displays that Russell had ever seen. Directly ahead of their aircraft, a pair of destroyers switched on their searchlights and began to wildly sweep the surrounding skies. As George One passed five thousand yards, two of the searchlights locked onto the approaching Beaufighter. The simultaneous sharp crack! of anti-aircraft explosions above and behind their fighter caused Russell’s bowels to loosen, and he had to concentrate to keep from losing his bladder.

  Oh bloody hell, Russell thought, the Beaufighter’s cabin lit up from the intersecting beams. To Bellingsley’s credit, he quickly sideslipped, but not before there were several thumps back along the fuselage that told them the destroyers had managed to find the range with their automatic cannons. Russell felt the Beaufighter slew sickeningly to the left before Bellingsley corrected, their target growing ever larger in front of them. To Russell’s relief he saw the distinctive flat top outline as the vessel put her helm hard over to port and away from them.

  “Port engine’s losing power!” Bellingsley shouted.

  The next twenty seconds were the longest of Russell’s life. Behind him, he watched as George Three lost both of its wings, the fuselage and surfaces all spinning down into a huge splash of spray.

  “Charles Three, break!” his headphones crackled.

  “Michael One, Michael One, you’re on fire!” came another voice. Russell didn’t spare a glance backwards, his focus forward as he stood up in the observation dome. The carrier’s entire starboard side was seemingly aflame from her anti-aircraft battery, the tracers reaching out towards their fighter in the darkness. Just as Russell was about to scream at Bellingsley to release, he saw a stream of tracers lazily arcing towards them.

  Oh Lord, he thought, just before a 25mm shell smashed into the fuselage just in front of the dome. In a flash of light, rush of air, plexiglass, and fragments, Russell felt several sharp stings on his face and across his upper torso and a sharp blow as a particularly large piece of observation dome caromed off of his goggles.

  Shit! he thought, falling back into the fuselage. Stunned, he heard Bellingsley shouting oaths at the top of his lungs and the Beaufighter’s armament roaring as they approached a Japanese destroyer. To Russell’s surprise, the strafing attack silenced several of the vessel’s smaller guns, and he had a momentary image of the main battery trying to depress from where it had been firing at high altitude.

  “Hit! George One, you got a bloody hit!” he heard George Four’s exuberant voice.

  “Are you hurt?” Russell asked, feeling blood pouring down his own face.

  “Yes, Sir, I am,” Bellingsley choked out as they passed out of small arms range. “We’re losing oil pressure in the port engine, I’m going to have to feather it.”

  “Bloody bastards got me in the face,” Russell said, shouting over the roar of wind above his head. “Let’s see to you first.”

  “George One, Charles Four! I’m getting the bloody hell out of here! Charles Three has been rammed, and Charles Two was shot down by flak,” came another report.

  “Roger Charles,” Russell said, suddenly feeling weary.

  Oh God, am I hurt worse than I thought? he wondered.

  “Bloody hell,” Bellingsley said. “Starboard engine is starting to overheat as well. We’re likely going to have to ditch.”

  Russell looked up from where he was digging into the first aid kit. As he did so, he realized blood was running down the side of his goggles.

  “Dammit! There’s a submarine supposedly out here on the surface,” he said, making his way up to where Bellingsley was flying one handed. Turning to look back through the starboard windows as they headed south, he saw a large blaze on the water.

  “Charles Three, this is George One,” Bellingsley said into his microphone. “We’re going to have to put her in the water.”

  “Roger George One,” Charles Three replied.

  “George One, this is Four,” George Four broke in. “I have you in sight. Do you want us to drop flares?”

  Yes you idiot, I want the people we just bombed to totally know where we are, Russell thought uncharitably.

  “Negative Four,” Russell replied.

  “George One, this is Black Cat Six,” the Lancaster pilot broke back in. “State your position.”

  Oh shit, I do not know where we are, Russell thought.

  “About four minutes southwest of that damn task force, mate,” Bellingsley barked over the radio. Maybe about to be six minutes. Speed about two hundred knots!”

  “Roger George One,” Black Cat Six replied. “Standby.”

  “Oh take your time, lad,” Bellingsley snapped. “We’ll just have a spot of tea from my damn engine.”

  “Easy Bellingsley, he is trying to help,” Russell barked, unconsciously going to wipe his face with his flight jacket collar. He immediately regretted that decision, the sharp pain of glass splinters and cloth across cuts causing him to grunt.

  “Sir, how bad are you hit?” Bellingsley asked, worried.

  “I’m okay, just got glass and part of the damn fuselage in my face,” Russell replied, checking over the Beaufighter’s life raft. To his relief, he saw that the package had not taken any damage.

  “All right then, I’m going to put her down,” Russell said, as the starboard engine began vibrating. “Rather make a powered ditch. Brace yourself, sir.”

  Russell was pleasantly surprised at how smoothly Bellingsley put the big fighter down on the smooth waters of the Makassar Strait. In a mad scramble, both men hustled out of the aircraft as water began flooding into the numerous holes in their fuselage. Barely three minutes later, the drenched aviators watched from their dinghy as George One put its nose down and slipped under the waves.

  “I guess now is a terrible time to mention it, but my uncle runs an aquarium,” Bellingsley said nervously. “He said something about the Dutch East Indies has some of the most aggressive sharks in the world.”

  Russell looked over at his c
ompanion.

  “You’re bloody fucking right, Bellingsley,” he snapped. “That was the worst time to mention it!”

  Before Bellingsley could say anything, there was another round of firing to their north.

  “Looks like they scared someone else up to take a swing at our friends,” Bellingsley observed.

  “Yes, yes they did,” Russell replied. He suddenly started to shake, his stomach rotating without warning. Moving swiftly, he nearly upset the dinghy as he vomited over the side. Wiping the back of his mouth, he suddenly wished he had not been sick as a large, sinuous shape swished by the side of their craft.

  “You just had to mention the bloody sharks,” Russell seethed.

  Bellingsley’s response was drowned out by a low throbbing sound and their low horizon suddenly sprouting another shape.

  “Bloody hell, I hope that’s friendly,” Bellingsley said. Russell reached up and unlatched his holster, leading to a snort from his pilot.

  “Laugh if you want,” Russell snapped. “I heard what those blokes were doing in the Philippines from one of those American pilots that passed through a couple days ago. No thank you, I’d rather die fighting.”

  The dinghy suddenly jerked to the side as something bumped it from underneath.

  “You still might die fighting, just not how you think!” Bellingsley observed.

  Russell realized why they had not seen the submarine sooner: its decks were awash as it came towards them. In a daring feat of seamanship, the vessel eased underneath their dinghy, then lifted them out of the water.

  “If you blokes are quite done riling up the local tourists and wildlife, could you move lively and get aboard?” a distinct English accent asked.

  Guess that answers that question, Russell thought, springing to his feet. It just might be our lucky night.