by James Young
“Cobb, what I’m to tell you stays in this room until you hear otherwise,” Donze said resignedly, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.
“Aye-aye, Sir,” Nick replied, suddenly glad that he knew where all of his brothers were.
“Rear Admiral Graham was just notified by Vice Admiral Halsey that his son’s submarine, the U.S.S. Shark, is overdue and presumed lost,” Captain Donze said. “It is believed that she was lost with all hands.”
“Oh God,” Nick replied, just as shocked as Donze.
“Did you know Lieutenant Graham?” Donze asked, seeing Nick’s ashen expression.
“Yes,” Nick said. “We played baseball together at the Academy. Ted Guinn, another teammate of ours, just reached the Shark before the war started. What happened?” Nick asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Donze said gently. “She was was detached on a special mission to Corregidor,” Donze replied. “They picked up General MacArthur with orders to deliver him directly to ACDA headquarters in Surabaya.”
My God, Nick thought distractedly. How many people that I know are going to die in this war?
“Lieutenant Cobb, did you just hear a word I said?” Donze asked sharply, causing Nick to jump in his chair.
“Yes Sir,” Nick replied, shaking himself out of it. “Just a little shocked is all.”
Donze’s face softened.
“I apologize Lieutenant,” Donze said. “I’ve known Justin since he was ten, so it is a great blow to me also. If you would like me to stop...?”
“No Sir, I want to know what happened,” Jacob replied.
“The Shark apparently ran afoul of a Japanese destroyer near Palawan,” Donze said, his voice suddenly breaking. “The Perch was supposed to rendezvous with her and provide an escort. Stated she heard gunfire, then depth charges. When she went through the area a little later there was a shitload of oil and a couple of bodies, that was all.”
“Holy shit,” Nick breathed.
Just like that, more friends dead, he thought.
“Go ahead and take the rest of the day off, Cobb. We don’t need you here,” the senior officer said.
“Aye aye, Sir,” Nick said numbly. He got to his feet, then went to collect his cap from Agnes’s office. Seeing the look on his face, Agnes stood from behind her desk and handed him a slip of paper.
“Call me, Lieutenant Cobb, if you need someone to talk to,” she said, meeting his eyes. Nick was shocked at the depth of emotion in her eyes.
“I know what it is like to get bad news and not have anyone to speak to it about,” Agnes said. “It is not like you need to worry about letting something slip to me.”
All Nick could do was numbly nod, his mind still in shock from the loss of his friends.
“Good. I will be home around seven o’clock,” she said. With that, she was back to her normal professional self, sitting down to type up some reports. Nick quickly moved to the exit, leaving the building into the bright Hawaiian sunshine. As he left, a flight of Dauntlesses thundered over. The aircraft made him think of his brothers.
They’ll understand, he thought to himself. He knew exactly where to find Sam and David, and set off for Ewa field.
CHAPTER 4: UPON THE SEAS OF JAVA
It is warm work ; and this day may be the last to any of us at a moment.—Lord Horatio Nelson at Copenhagen
Houston
0100 Local (1300 Eastern)
29 April (28 April)
“Sir, the Dutch are entering the harbor,” Wedgewood said quietly, as if he was trying to keep his voice from passing out of Battle Two.
“I think if the enemy is close enough to hear your voice, Wedgewood, they’d probably be shooting by now,” Jacob snapped. “Speak up, dammit.”
“Aye-aye, Sir,” Wedgewood said, the hurt clear in his voice. Jacob suddenly felt like he had kicked a puppy. He fought back the urge to apologize, instead looking back out Battle Two’s starboard portholes.
The Japanese force trying to open a second beachhead on Sumatra had almost pulled it off. Admiral Phillips’ decisiveness in ordering his vessels to the west appeared now to have been the only thing that could prevent a terrible disaster for the ACDA forces on the Dutch island. Reports had begun filtering in shortly after nightfall of landings being conducted near the port of Palembang, the harbinger of which had been at least three enemy cruisers beginning the pre-landing bombardment.
Should have known the idiots wouldn’t keep trying their luck up around Medan, Jacob thought wistfully. The Dutch had been surprisingly fierce in their defense, throwing back several Japanese amphibious attempts from Malaya on the Sumatran port. Judging from the intel report Jacob had quickly reviewed, it appeared as if the Japanese Army, not the Navy, had been in charge of these amateurish attempts.
That’s what you get for allowing your Army to try an amphibious operation, stupid sons of bitches, he thought triumphantly. Need the navy to hold the water before you get ashore.
“I hope those Dutch bastards are as good as they think they are,” someone muttered inside the darkened Battle Two. There was a low response to that comment from Chief Roberts, Jacob recognizing the man’s menacing growl anywhere.
I don’t care how good they are, it would be a very bad idea for us to go that close to Banka Island with our charts, Jacob thought with little mirth. So far the ACDA force had been lucky about grounding on the poorly charted shoals and reefs around the East Indies, with only a couple of Australian corvettes and a gunboat coming to grief.
Stupid bastards have had these islands how long? Jacob thought incredulously. Brave fellows at the lower level, but apparently everyone in charge over there is an idiot.
“It’s dark as hell out there, Sir,” Rogers said, gliding up with a cup of coffee and startling Jacob. “I don’t envy those Dutchmen going into that anchorage, even with good charts.”
To their surprise, the ACDA Striking Force had not faced any more air strikes once separating from the Main Body. Indeed, it had been almost eerie that their only contact had been a lone snooper that United States Army P-38s had dispatched while returning from a beachhead strike.
I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jacob thought. But I’ve got to wonder where in the Hell the Japanese carriers are now.
“We’re coming to course three six zero true,” Wedgewood said, as the Houston turned gently to starboard. Peering to port, Jacob tried to imagine the geometry of the upcoming fight. Commanded by Rear Admiral Karel Doorman aboard the light cruiser Tromp, the flotilla consisted of the other Dutch cruisers Java, De Ruyter, Sumatra and Jacob Van Heemskerck with five destroyers in escort.
‘Bout time their navy joined in the dying, as their ground pounders and airedales have been giving it all they’ve’ got, Jacob thought. I don’t think those divisions on Sumatra are really interested in hearing about ‘fleet in being.’
“I can’t say I disagree with you about going into that harbor, Chief,” Jacob replied aloud. “Those clouds are going to make it hard to use starshells.”
“We’ll have to go with searchlights,” Chief Rogers replied. “Going to be close-in work tonight, I’m afraid.”
“Glad we brought the Phoenix,” Jacob replied, gesturing astern where the light cruiser was trailing the Exeter. “Before the Boise took those torps, she was wrecking those little bastards with her six-inchers.”
“Yeah, well, see what that got her though,” Rogers replied.
We’re lucky that we have ammo that works, Jacob thought. I guess flashless powder was just too much money for Congress to spare.
“We’ll just have to make…” Jacob started.
His retort was cut off by a contact report coming over the Battle Two speakers followed by the Phoenix, Exeter, and Australia all opening fire. With that massive set of sensory input, the Battle of Balikpapan began.
The Japanese destroyer Asakaze, accompanied by the Awikaze, had been pursuing a submarine contact for the previous four hours. Moving along at barely ten knots,
the pair of destroyers had been wholly focused on their task in the gloom. Neither had been aware they had been steaming blithely towards a line of Allied warships. For the Asakaze, cognition came in the form of a half dozen 6 and 8-inch shells hitting the destroyer while the rest of the broadsides hid her in a forest of waterspouts. The hits were more than enough, at least two of them touching off both her forward and aft magazines.
“Enemy destroyer, bearing three four oh, range eight thousand yards!” Wedgewood shouted, sounding like a man being goosed with a cattle prod.
The visual sighting relayed from the lookouts was only possible due to the brilliant flames from the Asakaze’s sudden and violent demise. With her bridge crew’s night vision ruined by the explosions and her captain stunned, the Awikaze’s reaction to her fellow destroyer’s death was far too slow. Even as Houston’s searchlights reached across the eight thousand yards to transfix the destroyer in their beams, Commander Sloan was aligning the heavy cruiser’s main armament.
“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” Jacob muttered urgently. Sloan was already ahead of him, pressing the trigger up in the CA’s director. Houston’s firing gong buzzed, then all three of her turrets spit her broadside towards the slowly accelerating Awikaze. Four out of nine shells hit, knocking out the vessel’s powerplant, setting her bunkerage afire, and blasting her forward guns into wreckage.
“Holy shit!” someone shouted in Battle Two, the destroyer’s extremis visible with the naked eye. Jacob had to agree with the sentiment, shocked that the cruiser’s first salvo had so devastated the intended target. He felt the ship shift underneath him as Captain Wallace ordered a sharp port turn. Looking out past the Houston’s smokestack, Jacob could see the Australia, the lead ship in the formation, also turning towards hard to port.
“What in the Hell is that Aussie bastard doing?” he shouted to one of the talkers, rushing his words to get them in between the firing of the 5-inch secondary.
“[T]hat Aussie bastard” was reacting to the reports from his radar plot of four large contacts at range twelve thousand yards bearing down at thirty knots from the north. Unable to make a visual sighting, Captain Fitzpatrick had ordered the emergency turn to give his main battery time to train to starboard. The Houston had just made her own turn when the Mogami, lead vessel of the IJN’s 7th Cruiser Squadron, became visible to the Australia at just under ten thousand yards. Aboard the Japanese cruiser, the Australia becoming backlit by the two burning destroyers now behind her was the first realization the squadron had they were in true danger. Even as the Mogami’s captain was barking order to put the heavy cruiser’s own helm over to starboard, the Australia opened fire and turned on her searchlights.
In the Houston’s director, Commander Sloan watched as the Australia’s eight gun broadside rolled over the Mogami’s forward half like a typhoon of steel. The American gunnery officer watched as an 8-inch gun barrel flew through the glare of the Australia’s searchlights, the weapon coming from the Mogami’s annihilated No. 2 turret.
“Enemy heavy cruiser, bearing oh seven oh!” one of the Houston’s lookouts shouted. Turning the director to look where the lookout’s report was, Sloan saw the second Japanese cruiser in line, the Mikuma. Having seen her sister hit, the Mikuma’s guns had already been searching for a target. By happenstance, they were already trained most of the way towards the Houston.
“Oh fuck me,” Sloan breathed, even as the Houston’s starboard 5-inch guns began banging away in defiance.
That was when the Exeter belched fire from behind the Houston, her forward guns unmasked from the Houston beginning her turn. The four 8-inch shells straddled the Mikuma, hitting so close that splinters killed several men on her decks. They were shortly followed by a single American 5-inch shell hitting the cruiser’s port catapult and igniting the float plane there.
Neither the Exeter’s intervention nor the belated hit from the Houston’s secondaries delayed the Mikuma’s firing. Ten 8-inch and four 5-inch guns exploded in one massive broadside towards the Houston’s starboard side. In the chaos of the sudden fire, the Mikuma’s gunnery officer had overestimated the range to the Houston by over two hundred yards. Still, six shells, a pair of 5-inch and four 8-inch, hit the American heavy cruiser down her entire length. The remaining eight passed over or through the ship’s superstructure.
The first 8-inch shell destroyed the secondary anti-aircraft director, blasting it completely off the mainmast just above Turret Three. The resultant splinters cleared away many of the men manning the 5-inch guns as well as pelted the roof of Turret Three with debris. The second 8-inch, fired from the same turret, impacted the foreleg of the mainmast without detonating, punching a neat round hole before continuing on to the other side of the cruiser.
One shell of each type slammed into the hangar just forward and below Battle Two. Normally the structure would have been occupied by two fully loaded seaplanes, but Jacob’s earlier decision to jettison the aircraft bore dividends. While the blast and fragments killed several of the air department men nearby, the resultant fire was only a moderate one, not a roaring conflagration that would have resulted from ignited aviation fuel.
The final two shells both impacted the heavy cruiser around her bridge. The 5-inch shell exploded in Houston’s chart room, while its 8-inch counterpart penetrated the conning tower and detonated within. The end result was to send fragments ripping through the heavy cruiser’s control spaces, the hot steel making almost literal mincemeat of the conning tower’s occupants and incapacitating almost every man on the bridge. Her rudder still to port, Houston circled away from the advancing Australia.
One instant Jacob had been looking at the Japanese cruiser and waiting for Houston’s own guns to open fire. The next he found himself crumpled on the aft bulkhead of Battle Two, spots in front of his eyes and shooting pain in his right shoulder. Looking down, he could see that the joint was clearly dislocated. Standing up, he suddenly felt a huge shifting of warmth down his leg. Feeling dizzy, he looked down to see his uniform’s leg soaking through with blood down by his calf.
Oh shit, he thought as he crumpled back to the floor in an undignified heap. Battle Two was chaos all around him, Chief Rogers attempting to regain order. Wedgewood was down, half of his body laid open in a clearly fatal wound. Jacob watched as the young boy’s face, utterly serene, met his.
“Sorry Sir,” the sailor said clearly and quietly, then died.
With a roar, Houston’s main armament replied even as the cruiser continued out of control through her turn to port.
“Damage report!” Jacob barked, forcing his mind to focus.
“We can’t raise the bridge, sir!” Chief Roberts replied. “Sky Two is gone, we’re still trying to figure out where else we got hit.”
“Does the bridge have control?” Jacob asked stupidly, then kicked himself.
“No response, sir!” Foncier reiterated.
“Continue the turn to port, bring us around,” Jacob shouted to the auxiliary helmsman. “Tell the Exeter we’ll be coming back up behind the Phoenix!”
“Look at that bastard burn!” one of the lookouts shouted. Struggling to his feet again, Jacob saw exactly what the man was referring too.
Holy shit we’re hitting her hard, Jacob thought excitedly, looking at the Mikuma with his binoculars.
Through the intense study of Japanese vessels’ pictures, Sloan had trained himself to recognize most of Houston’s likely targets. Noting that the center split of his second salvo was slightly short, Houston’s gunnery officer added two hundred yards. In the gloom, he could not see that Mikuma’s turn to starboard was much sharper than her sister ship’s had been, meaning that the heavy cruiser had actually stared moving back towards his previous range estimate. As a result, the three shells that did hit impacted low on the Mikuma’s hull where her belt was thickest.
In effect, the belt made the damage merely bad as opposed to devastating. In a stroke, the Japanese cruiser was suddenly left with half of her machinery spaces, with
fragments and water killing many of the engineering crew and steam cooking many of the survivors. Staggering from the blow, the Mikuma’s second salvo was off, several shells near missing the burning Houston. Houston’s third salvo, on the other hand, was dead on as Sloan corrected his aim.
Only the main armament’s inherent dispersion prevented all nine 8-inch shells from slamming into Mikuma. As it was, six shells were more than enough devastation to end the Mikuma’s active participation in the night’s festivities. Two hits found stern turrets, blasting the barely armored structures to pieces in a pyrotechnic display that both immolated their inhabitants and caused several members of the crew belowdecks to panic. Another hit the cruiser’s aftmost funnel just below the point where it joined with its foremost twin, exacerbating the damage from Houston’s first salvo even further as smoke and fumes were suddenly forced back into those boiler rooms not already flooding.
The last two shells exploded around the cruiser’s storage torpedoes, splinters splitting the oxygen canisters which gave the Long Lances their phenomenal range. In a chain of events that was becoming all too familiar to Japanese surface warfare personnel, the casks once more became impromptu torches that incinerated the men surrounding them. In Mikuma’s case the carnage was far worse, the flames sweeping through men whom had just begun the torpedo reloading process.
Slowed, and with a brilliant blaze springing from her midsection, the Mikuma heeled over even further into her starboard turn. Belowdecks, the IJN cruiser’s damage control officer, the blood of several sailors upon him from the hurricane of spall that had ripped through his compartment, began screaming for the aft magazines to be flooded. In the confusion and bedlam, the order was misheard to flood all the magazines. Emasculated, with her turrets suddenly down to only a handful of shells, the Mikuma’s night grew even worse as the final two functional boilers snuffed out. Starting to coast, the Japanese cruiser’s sudden drop in speed caused Sloan’s next salvo to miss forward.
