by James Young
“You know, I was trying to think of a metaphor that would aptly describe that statement earlier,” Jo said. “I think you hit the nail right on the head.”
“Well, they say realizing you’re crazy is the first step to getting better,” Eric said lightly. Seeing Jo trying to do several things at once, he stood up to help her. With a sharp pain, he felt his wounds remind him not to move so quickly.
I know I’m getting better, but sometimes I wonder if there’s still something broke loose back there, he thought.
“Sit down, Eric,” Jo said, seeing the look on his face. “The day I need help in a kitchen is the day that I need to think about being put down like a lame horse.”
Eric raised an eyebrow.
“Well, never heard a woman that vehement about not needing help,” he said. “My Mom used to always like it when us boys helped her in the kitchen.”
“Having seen Sam, David, and Nick eat, I can definitely understand that,” Jo replied, a comment that elicited a sharp bark of laughter from Eric. “Speaking of which, I prepared enough spaghetti for all of them, so you might as well take a dish for those three lunkheads.”
“As good as that smells, it might not make it,” Eric replied, taking a sniff. Jo gave a mock sniff of disbelief.
“You sure you weren’t abandoned on your parents’ doorstep?” Jo inquired playfully.
“No, I’d dare say I look the most like my father out of all of us,” Eric replied.
“You know, Sam says the same thing,” Jo pointed out.
“Yeah, if you crossed Dad with a gorilla,” Eric snorted. “That big lug may have the same name, but he does not look anything like him.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Jo said with a shrug, “given that Patricia has no pictures of your family.”
“Funny thing about that when you leave in the middle of your wedding planning,” Eric observed.
“You know, he never formally asked me,” Patricia said petulantly as Charles and her came back into the room. Her arrival made Jo jump, nearly causing her to spill the pot of spaghetti sauce she was stirring.
Eric realized with a start his sister had completely changed her outfit, probably at Jo’s insistence. While the cream blouse and black skirt she had been wearing before had looked very attractive, the black formal dress she had changed into made her absolutely stunning. Looking at Charles’s face, Eric could see his wingman thought the same.
I’m not even sure Read heard me mention her prior engagement, he’s so busy looking at her rear, Eric thought.
“Yeah, that’s what you said in your letter too,” Eric replied. “Or at least that’s what I gathered once Mom was able to form coherent sentences again.”
“I notice that you are not wearing a wedding band, Eric,” Patricia shot back. “Why is it that you get to call of your engagement without repercussion yet I cannot break off a courtship that was basically forced upon me by Mom and Dad?”
Jo’s neck nearly snapped she looked at Eric, clearly waiting on an answer.
“Well I guess we might as well have this discussion,” Eric snapped at his sister. “You know da…darn good and well that I dumped Joyce because she tried to make me into a man I am not.”
“She was scared, Eric,” Patricia sighed.
“At the time of our engagement,” Eric bit out, “Joyce made it seem like she understood the rigors involved in being a Navy wife. Specifically the part about I may have to give my life in the service of the Republic.”
“Yes, and you don’t think her brother being in the service hasn’t helped her to rethink things?” Patricia asked plaintively. “Beau nearly got killed by a submarine a couple days after the war started.”
Eric’s eyes narrowed.
“She’s written you, hasn’t she?” Eric asked.
Patricia started to speak, then stopped.
“Out with it, Toots!” Eric demanded.
“Yes, Eric, she has,” Patricia said heavily. “The poor thing’s had her life made a living hell by Mom and the Duchess. She asked me for help with at least one of them.”
Eric snorted.
“Yes, having you intercede on her behalf with Mom would be the very definition of…” Eric started, only to be interrupted by Josephine.
“I don’t want to speak for Charles, but I for one don’t want to sit through another broadcast of ‘Cobb Family Follies,’” the smaller woman said.
Whoa, she does not look happy, Eric thought.
“There wouldn’t be any ‘Follies’ if my brother had been just a tad bit more compassionate,” Patricia observed archly.
“Not my fault that Joyce wasn’t paying attention to the job description until I ended up swimming in the Atlantic,” Eric snapped back. “Maybe that’s something any woman intending to marry a military man should think about.”
Patricia met her brother’s icy gaze with a look that was as heated as his was cool.
“Do you think I have not learned what the worst thing that can happen to a Navy wife is, Eric?” Patricia began. “Or did you forget Mrs. Hertling living with us for a week before moving out?”
“Patricia…” Jo started, realizing the argument was about to spiral out of control. Fortunately Eric, being used to his sister’s strong will, was willing to concede the round.
“No, Patricia, I didn’t. If any of us thought you were that stupid, we wouldn’t have brought Charles with us tonight,” Eric said, causing Charles to turn beet red and Jo to laugh. Standing up, he went over towards the stove to help serve up.
“But Joyce had a dream she wanted, and was willing to do just about anything to achieve it,” Eric said simply. “At least you can tell yourself that Beau was an idiot even if it’s not true.”
“If she dated you for three years and wasn’t ready to get married to the Navy, this Joyce person obviously wasn’t that bright either,” Jo said firmly, touching his arm. Eric looked up in surprise.
“Sorry, you’re just not the first Navy man I’ve seen that happen to,” Jo said quietly as their eyes met. Embarrassed, they both looked away, Jo flushing slightly.
Okay, I am not going to try to hit on the daughter of Jacob Morton, Eric thought. He watched as his sister came to stand by Charles, her hand brushing his. Eric saw his former wingman take her hand, squeezing it when he thought Eric wasn’t looking.
Well, glad to see they finally broke the mutual ice, Eric thought.
“So, garlic bread?” Patricia asked, the sudden silence awkward.
“Good plan,” Jo exhaled in a rush.
I hope her Dad keeps himself in one piece, Eric thought. I think I want to ask his permission to court his daughter.
CHAPTER 5: TO RULE THE HEAVENS
In the development of airpower one has to look ahead and not backwards and figure out what is going to happen, not too much what has happened—Brigadier General Billy Mitchell
No. 7 Group Headquarters
Darwin, Australia
0900 Local (1800 Eastern)
1 May (30 April) 1943
Russell Wolford adjusted his uniform cap as he approached the squat, single story building that currently housed No. 7 Group, Royal Australian Air Force. Located on Darwin’s northern outskirts, the wooden structure looked utterly non-descript—which was probably why it had survived the Japanese carrier raid a little over thirty days before.
I’m guessing that’s why they don’t have any defensive emplacements surrounding it either, Russell thought. A tall, lanky soldier with a bayoneted rifle separated himself from the post he’d been leaning upon.
“G’day Flight Officer,” he stated. “Can I help you find something?”
I’m sure I look quite suspicious in this borrowed uniform and bandages, Russell thought. Unfortunately there wasn’t any time to stop in Surabaya and grab my gear That is, if what’s left of the squadron hadn’t already boxed it up or stolen it.
“It’s actually Flight Lieutenant,” Russell replied evenly. “I’m here to see Wing Commander Stokely. My passwo
rd is Birmingham.”
The man gave Russell a long, hard look.
“Well, Sir, if you’re some German commando or a very well disguised Japanese officer then I’m making a dog’s breakfast of it,” the soldier said. “We changed pass codes three days ago, but given what you’re wearing I doubt you got the word.”
“I’ve been trapped in a submarine, then in transport, sergeant,” Russell observed. “So, no.”
“I hope you gave them hell, sir,” the digger replied.
“I think we gave as good as we got,” Russell stated, surprised that he actually believed what he was saying.
Too bad it wasn’t nearly enough, he thought. No. 625 Squadron had been officially withdrawn for refitting after the madness of the Ryujo.
Good thing they’re giving that Boston bloke a Victoria Cross, Russell thought. Too bad he had to earn it crashing into the carrier’s deck. We’ll never know if he did it on purpose, but either way that carrier’s not going to be back for awhile.
Walking through the staff sections arranged in a single common room, Russell hoped he didn’t look as foolish as he felt in the uniform. His time in the DEI had shaved twelve pounds off his frame, and the flight officer whose shirt he was wearing had been heavyset before getting shot down defending the Canberra.
Poor Meadows, he thought. Bloke was always a little unlucky.
“Russell!” Wing Commander Stokely said, standing up from behind his desk before Russell could knock. “Glad to see the Royal Navy didn’t press you into service.” Tall, with a boxer’s build, Stokely had the onsetting paunch and balding hair that was the lot of most men who saw middle age. Still, his blue eyes shone with alertness, and the decorations on his uniform jacket spoke to his service in the previous war.
I’m sure he was looking forward to a long retirement when he agreed to join the RAAF, Russell mused. Oh well, so far I have no complaints.
“I think it was due to my frightful appearance,” Russell replied drily, gesturing to his bandages.
“My good man, I believe your appearance was frightful before some bastard shot you to pieces,” Stokely replied. “I had a chance to talk to some of your blokes after the mission while you were catching your water taxi. Still, I’d like to get your view of it, and Leftenant Collins should be arriving shortly to take notes.”
I’m pretty sure the captain of the Thrasher would have sharp words without you for talking about his ship that way, Russell thought with an inner smile.
There was a soft knock at the door, and Russell turned to see a bright, cheerful looking brunette in a WAAF uniform standing by the door. Her brown eyes looked over Russell, briefly lingering on his rank before she nodded to Wing Commander Stokely.
“Sir, you sent for me?” she asked, her accent telling Russell that she was not from around Darwin.
“Yes Deborah,” Stokely replied. “We need to take down Flight Lieutenant Woolford’s account of the Makassar Action. Russell, I want you to tell us everything. Leftenant Collins is cleared for anything you would know…as well as things she’d probably have to kill you for finding out.”
Well that’s interesting, Russell thought, seeing the woman blush at that comment. As soon as she gave her indication that she was ready for his notes, he began. Forty-five minutes later, including questions from Stokely, Russell realized he was sweating profusely and had a tic in his left hand.
Get a grip on yourself, he admonished himself mentally. Seeing Russell’s state, Stokely stopped mid-question, reached down into his desk, and withdrew a bottle with three shot glasses.
“Leftenant Collins, I assume I will not offend your Auckland sensibilities if I offer you some schnapps?” Stokely asked.
“Most certainly not, sir,” Deborah replied, working a cramp out of her right hand.
“Russell I’m not giving you a choice,” Stokely continued, pouring the first glass.
“Sorry sir,” Russell said, managing to stop his left hand’s palsey finally.
“Nonsense!” Stokely guffawed, his laughter gallows. “I’d be more worried if you weren’t affected telling me that account! Trust me lad, I lived through Bloody April. If you were totally calm, it’d mean you were either about to get the chop or blow your brains out.”
“I assure you, sir, I have no intentions of catching a beer with Death after cheating the bastard,” Russell replied. “The rest depends on when we get replacement aircraft.”
Stokely shook his head at that.
“No, it doesn’t,” the Wing Commander said. “I have it on good authority that Vice Admiral Phillips is about to inform our Dutch friends the gig is up. We’re losing too many ships.”
“How bad is it?” Russell asked. “I understand there were a couple of scuffles last week.”
“‘Scuffles’ is one way of putting it,” Stokely snorted. “Massacre is another. Apparently the Dutch lost over half their fleet in ten minutes on one end of the Java Sea, and one of our task forces lost some ships on the other. The Japs will probably have Sumatra in under two weeks, and the Army refuses to commit any more soldiers to try and stop it.”
“Well that’s awfully sporting of them,” Russell spat, then stopped himself. Stokely shrugged.
“Prime Minister Curtin has publicly stated it is time for Australia to see to our own defense,” the senior officer replied. “The raid on Perth and that midget submarine business in Sydney a couple nights ago has everyone on edge.”
“Midget submarine business, sir?” Russell asked.
“Couple of Japanese midget submarines snuck into Sydney Harbor and put two fish in the Eagle,” Stokely replied. “Nearly hit some Yank cruiser while they were at it. Neither of them made it back out of the harbor, and there was another one that a couple of corvettes put paid to.”
“What happened to the Eagle?” Russell asked, his face shocked.
“Apparently her captain was a lunatic and had had most of her hatches shut,” Stokely responded. “Plus the Japanese midget skipper was a poor shot and hit her forward. Either way, she won’t be going north to help provide air cover.”
Probably lucky for her from what I saw, Russell said.
“Speaking of which, you’ll be pleased to know that we’re reequipping your squadron with Mosquitoes,” Stokely continued. “The boffins figured out why the tails were coming off: the glue doesn’t like the tropics.”
Well that’s problematic for a bloody wooden plane, Russell thought.
“Either way, I think that things will be over with before you have to worry about that,” Stokely said. “The three squadrons of Whirlwinds and two of Typhoons we sent north will be the last help our friends the Dutch get from us.”
Surabaya
1015 Local (2315 Eastern)
1 May (30 April)
The sound of air raid sirens was audible even deep within Houston’s hull. A few moments later, the ship’s own intercom crackled than began blaring the bugle call for air attack.
“Don’t even think about it, sir,” Lieutenant Ethan Sharpe, ship’s assistant surgeon, muttered as he continued to work. “I’d really hate to leave a scar.”
Jacob let out an exasperated snort, truly angry that he was being forced to remain laying on his left side in only his undershorts while Sharpe continued sewing shut the gash in his calf.
“Leave it to the Japanese to attack when I’m stuck with my pants on the damn deck,” Jacob muttered.
“Oh, we’ve probably got a good thirty to forty minutes before they get here,” Sharpe replied. “So far the Dutch have been pretty good about getting the word out early.”
“Probably some poor bastard sitting with a pair of binoculars looking over the Jap airbase,” Jacob muttered. “I’d hate to have that job.”
“Well, it’s not like ours is exactly risk free as of late, Sir,” Sharpe said. He rubbed his eyes with his forearm.
“When was the last time you got some sleep, Sharpe?” Jacob asked worriedly. While the wound was far, far away from the Morton family jewels,
he wasn’t a big fan of getting jabbed anywhere with a needle.
“Sir, I’ll sleep right after you, since you were quite adamant about being our last case,” Sharpe replied. “I’m glad Captain Wallace wasn’t given a chance to protest.”
Well our good master did have a helmet that’d been almost cut in half, Jacob thought fearfully. I don’t think Chief Roberts will have to ever tell me to put mine on again.
“You and me both agree on Captain Wallace not getting asked,” Jacob replied. “Hopefully our Japanese friends won’t get close enough to give you any new ones.”
“I’m not too worried if they do,” Sharpe replied. “With the Revenge and Hermes on the other side of the harbor, we’re positively little fish.”
“Don’t envy those bastards,” Jacob gasped out. “At least Australia and Phoenix aren’t sitting here also.”
“Is it wrong of me to hope the bombers see them at sea and decided to take their chances?” Sharpe asked tiredly, finishing the last stitch.
“Probably, but I won’t deny that wasn’t the first thing that ran through my mind,” Jacob said, watching as the medical officer grabbed a tin of sulfa and began applying it liberally to the wound area.
Strange, I’m almost glad the shoulder is distracting me from the damn leg, Jacob thought. While Houston’s XO had insisted on waiting until the ship’s surgeon had taken care of the other wounded before stitching his leg, Sharpe had thought it wise to readjust the shoulder immediately. It had not been one of Jacob’s finest moments, the event bringing home to him the difference between a man in his early twenties and one who was old enough to have a daughter that age.
Said daughter that is probably trapped in Hawaii now, Jacob thought. I don’t think they’ll be lifting the non-essential shipping restriction anytime soon after losing those two baby carriers and the California. As horrible as Japan’s ability to strike across the breadth of the Pacific was, in a way it was a relief to know that he probably didn’t have to worry about Jo getting a vessel blown out from under her.
