by James Young
Of course, I can’t say the same for her old man, Jacob thought. Especially since we don’t have time for another Sydney trip.
“Well Sir, that’s all I can do for you,” Sharpe said. “I still strongly recommend you take some painkillers, but Lieutenant Commander Frankes told me your response to that suggestion earlier today.”
“Yes, I need to be able to think clearly,” Jacob replied.
“Well, if you change your mind, we’ve got plenty from our Dutch friends,” Sharpe said, pointing to the boxes arranged against the far wall.
“Hopefully we won’t need anymore of those,” Jacob said. “But if we do, save them for people who are hurt worse than I am.”
The distant sound of anti-aircraft guns made Jacob stop before he could reply.
“XO to Battle Two! I say again, XO to Battle Two,” the loudspeaker squealed.
“Well, looks like our Japanese friends are moving a bit quicker than expected!” Jacob observed.
Splitting our force to come from two directions was a masterstroke,, Isoro thought to himself as he led his chutai down from their altitude advantage on the Dutch, Australian, and American fighters struggling to gain altitude. Now we will see how well these men fight on the defense.
Quickly scanning his targets, Isoro selected a twin-engined aircraft that he had not seen before. The machine’s long, narrow fuselage and thin wings seemed dwarfed by its two massive engines, one under each wing. A bubble canopy was set just behind the two engines, while four fairly prominent cannon muzzles projected from the fighter’s nose.
Whatever that is, I think it will burn, Isoro thought. Aiming just in front of the climbing Allied fighter, Isoro depressed both of his triggers. His fire stitched down the center of his prey’s fuselage and out onto its starboard wing as the pilot reacted. It was far too late, as the fighter’s engine burst into flames. Isoro pulled up to avoid a collision, passing over the damaged fighter in a half roll in order to watch it crash.
I must confirm the k…damn you! Isoro thought in shock, the enemy pilot finding enough power to skid his nose. A moment later, the four cannon muzzles fired even as Isoro was finishing his roll. Thankfully Newtonian physics dragged the damaged fighter’s aim off as it stalled, the tracers passing wildly behind Isoro’s Shiden. Even as the plane began falling away, Sawato put another cannon burst into it. The twin-engined Allied fighter staggered in midair, then began falling like a leaf out of the sky, a dead man at the controls and the fire starting to spread across its wings.
Their aircraft are so rugged, Isoro thought, shaken as he looked around the chaotic sky. Seeing a pair of Hurricanes attempting to turn back towards the Japanese fighters, Isoro shoved his throttle to the firewall and snatched a few dozen feet of altitude. Kicking his rudder, he came around into a smooth turn that put the sun at his back, lining up on the trailing fighter. Waiting until he clearly saw the bright orange triangle of the DEI Air Force, Isoro fired his cannon. The stream of tracers walked up from the enemy’s tail, through its cockpit, then to the fuel tank situated just in front of the unfortunate Dutchman.With a bright flash, the Hurricane exploded, killing its pilot instantly.
Continuing blindly on through his turn, the lead Hurricane sighted a Zero heading the other way. As it rolled, Isoro found himself staring at the aircraft’s underside before he fired. The Hurricane pilot never knew what hit him, the storm of cannon and machine gun fire exploding up from the cockpit floor and ripping his port wing off. Amazingly, the fighter did not burn, corkscrewing crazily as it began its arc downward.
Isoro leveled off, once again climbing. Just as suddenly as the combat had begun, it was over, trails of smoke marking the funeral pyres of the vanquished.
The sky always clears so suddenly, Isoro thought. It becomes empty in the same way as the sea.
Looking over his starboard wing, he saw a formation of aircraft turn towards a smoking Surabaya harbor.
The bombers are beginning their runs, he thought. Strike hard, Eiji.
“Okay, here the bastards come,” Jacob muttered, standing on the deck outside of Battle Two as Houston began making her way towards sea.
“It would appear that you were right about them not wanting us,” Lieutenant Foncier observed. “I count twenty-seven bombers, and they’re all heading past us.”
The Houston’s anti-aircraft guns began tracking the approaching aircraft, waiting as the bombers began descending from just above the guns’ maximum altitude on their attack runs. The Houston’s crew watched the aircraft that the intelligence types were calling “Bettys” moving into their attack runs.
Their formations are so damn precise, Jacob thought, feeling a twinge of fear. This must be what the rabbit feels like watching a redtail take its friend. Only as they passed their initial point, incidentally entering the Houston’s range, did the bombers divide into three groups of nine. As if on cue, every Allied gun in Surabaya harbor opened up, the sound a cacophony of noise that pounded into Jacob’s ears. Amazingly, the fire appeared to be reasonably accurate, the barrage good on height and only slightly off in speed.
“Looks like all the practice they’ve been giving us is starting to pay off!” Foncier shouted.
“Yeah, but not good…nevermind!” Jacob shouted back, his voice turning gleeful as two of the enemy bombers suddenly began to smoke. With a bright flash, one suddenly became an expanding fireball, one of its wings turning crazily out of the blast. The second began losing altitude and airspeed, clearly not making it towards the Hermes and Revenge. Putting its nose down, a streamer of flame and smoke flowing behind it, the aircraft continued in a gentle diving turn, the intent of which suddenly became clear.
“Goddammit!” Jacob shouted, feeling his sphincter clinch as the Japanese bomber began to gain in size. The Houston could not increase her speed or maneuver, Surabaya’s channel being notoriously poorly marked.
Every AA gun on the Houston began firing towards the diving, flaming twin-engined Betty. As he watched, Jacob saw pieces of debris beginning to stream behind the aircraft, the heavy cruiser’s guns doing damage that would have made any sane pilot break off his attack so that his crew could try and escape the aircraft. Looking at the bomber’s direct path, it was quite obvious this particular pilot was not sane, or wanted some company when crossing the Styx.
C’mon dammit, hit the bastard! Jacob willed the cruiser’s gunners.
In the end, it was the much-maligned 1.1-inch pom-poms that saved the Houston. One of the automatic weapons’ shells punctured the diving bomber’s all glass nose, passed through the bombardier’s chest, and exploded on the co-pilot’s control column. The resultant blast killed the co-pilot and blinded the pilot, causing the man to flinch backwards. Another 1.1-inch round them ensured the pilot would not make a correction or any other actions in this life.
With a roar, the G4M roared over Battle Two, so close that Jacob felt the rush of heat from the burning wing as he dropped to the deck. The bomber continued into the ocean barely thirty yards off the heavy cruiser’s port side, its bombload exploding as it hit the ocean. Once again, Houston’s decks were swept with fragments, killing several and wounding a couple dozen more exposed crewmen.
I wish I hadn’t made my comment about any more casualties, Jacob thought, pain shooting up his leg.
“Sweet Jesus, would people stop trying to kill us?” Foncier asked, his voice hoarse with emotion. Jacob was about to reply, but was struck silent as he stood up just in time to see the bombers releasing their deadly loads against the Hermes and Revenge.Having been aware of their respective targets due to reconnaissance missions flown the day before, the Japanese had equipped those bombers going after the Hermes with lighter but more numerous 250-kilogram bombs while the Revenge was the target of heavier, 500-kg. armor-piercing weapons.
The two vessels’ immobile states greatly aided the Japanese bombardiers’ aim. To everyone’s horror in the harbor, both ships were struck multiple times. In the case of the Revenge, one of the four bombs that
hit the elderly battleship broke upon hitting her thick belt at an angle. The next exploded atop her previously battered X turret. Once again, the turret’s crew was treated to the sound of an explosion right on top of their heads, the fragments clearing many of the tars manning her aft AA guns and holing both 15-inch guns. The next two bombs both expended their fury on the battleship’s heavily armored main deck, causing many personnel casualties but not significantly affecting the vessel’s fighting ability.
Similarly deluged by falling bombs, the Hermes fared equally in number of hits, taking four bombs and three near misses. Unlike the Revenge, however, the Hermes did not have multiple levels of thick deck armor designed to keep out heavy shells. Having jettisoned those Sea Hurricanes not already aloft at the time of her torpedoing, the old carrier was spared a hangar fire. In the end, this was to be of little consequence, as the first two bombs plunged down into her forward fire room and undid the extensive repair work that had almost been completed in the aftermath of her torpedo hit. Following closely behind, the third weapon wiped out the central damage control station and much of the communication throughout the ship. Last, but far from least, the fourth weapon hit the carrier’s aftmost elevator and exploded in its shaft, blasting the lift device into uselessness and starting a blaze in a paint locker. Hard hit, with her hull once again opened to the sea, the Hermes began to settle, listing to starboard with a good, strong plume of smoke beginning to rise from her aft elevator.
Their mission complete, the remaining bombers rejoined into their formation, seemingly unaffected by the strenuous barrage being thrown up by the vessels in Surabaya Harbor.
Isoro brought his Shiden alongside the lead bomber’s port side, looking across at the battered aircraft. The aircraft’s rear half resembled a sieve, the gunner’s blister on his side blown completely out with the unfortunate man’s torso hanging out in the slipstream. As Isoro watched, he could see a torrent of blood running down the bomber’s side in the slip stream.
It’s a miracle that he did not catch fire, Isoro thought. It was be similarly miraculous if he makes it back to Borneo.
Seeing that the lead aircraft was going to continue on, Isoro manipulated his throttle to drift back, looking for Eiji. Drawing even with the last vic, he saw his friend’s aircraft and heaved a sigh of relief. The G4M looked unscathed, its crew manning their stations and the two pilots easily keeping formation. Rocking his wings to gain Eiji’s attention, Isoro gave his friend a wave.
We have managed to survive another day. Looking across at his friends face, Isoro could see he felt the same way. Looking away from the bomber, he watched as Zeroes and Shidens began to form back up with their charges, the combined group turning back towards Balikpapan.
Far above the gathered group, a solitary twin-engined aircraft identical to Isoro’s first kill that day moved into attack position up sun. One of No. 7 Wing’s Whirlwinds, the aircraft had been constructed in Great Britain shortly before the Treaty of Kent, crated, and then shipped to Australia. Almost as well traveled as his mount, Flight Lieutenant George Buerling quickly surveyed the Japanese formation.
As the escort Zeroes began to slide into position, the Canadian made his final selection. A veteran of both Battles of Britain, the pilot knew there was little to be gained from dispatching one of the small and nimble single-engined fighters in lieu of a far more important bomber. Figuring the laboring, starting to smoke leader was done for, Buerling chose a bomber further back in the formation.
Here goes nothing, he thought, pushing over.
If there was one thing a fighter pilot learned, it was that there was no such thing as uncontested airspace. Whilst his peers obviously believed their jobs to be done, with some of them even going so far as to break into their pre-packed lunches, Isoro continued his scan. As a result, he sighted the Allied fighter diving out of the sun, arms and legs reacting instinctively to turn towards the hurtling aircraft.
In the end, even Isoro’s vigilance did no good, the Shiden’s maneuverability insufficient to allow him to deter the diving enemy fighter. Realizing that he was too late, Isoro screamed at the top of his lungs in frustration as the enemy fighter’s nose began to seemingly strobe in slow motion. To his amazement, the heavy fighter ignored him, literally firing past his climbing fighter. Stomping on his rudder pedals and throwing the stick over to invert the Shiden, Isoro had a momentary impression of Eijii’s bomber converted into a flying crematorium. As he began his dive to chase the Allied fighter, a quick glance told him his initial thoughts were correct, flames shooting from the G4M’s cabin and side windows, the starboard wing peeling back and away in the slipstream. The death of his friend had not even registered as Isoro finished his maneuver, determined to catch and kill the Allied aircraft.
In an instant, Isoro saw that his efforts were useless, his Shiden not able to gain on the fighter quickly enough. Still he pursued, his engine roaring in his ears. It was only the realization that his wingmen were behind him that made Isoro pull up, the taste of bile in his mouth.
I will not sacrifice three fighters for vengeance, he thought angrily. Adding insult to injury, he saw the enemy fighter waggle its wings as Isoro turned away. He felt tears of frustration welling up in his eyes.
I am samurai, not some weeping child, Isoro thought. I will gain my solace in continuing to kill the Emperor’s enemies.
Strangely, that thought did not ease his pain, and he flashed back to his earlier conversation with Eiji. Suddenly, he realized his friend was right…their opponents did not fear something that would kill them one by one, and that was why the enemy had not attacked his Shiden or any of the other Zeroes. With this bitter thought, Isoro continued back towards his formation, ignoring the trail of smoke that led down to the Java Sea below.
Pensacola, Florida
1000 Local
2 May
Adam cursed in frustration as the squadron’s formation disintegrated once more. Pulling up above the chaos, he uttered a quick oath as he narrowly dodged his predecessor’s fate, Yellow Two nearly taking his tailplane off as Red and Yellow flights crossed paths.
“Goddammit! It’s…one…freakin’…plane! Everyone can’t screw the chicken at once!” he roared over the radio. “Yellow One, you lead your flight through mine once again I’ll choke you myself! ”
Bowles had returned to the squadron the evening before, arrogant smugness radiating off of him. Adam had knocked that out of the junior officer very quickly, telling the captain he had to pull duty officer for the air wing. This had prevented him from going out to frequent any familiar haunts, as well as keeping him from having conjugal relations with Mrs. Burke or some other hapless wife.
I guess he must have been more upset than I realized, considering he just tried to kill me, Adam thought angrily.
“All right gentlemen, form back up by flight,” Adam barked. “While you’re pulling your heads out of your asses, let me remind you again that anything less than two aircraft, only one flight bounces…”
“Because there’s always someone else up in the sun!” a familiar Irish voice interrupted. “Tallyho Colonials!”
Down from above them came eight Spitfires, diving out of the sun where not a single Marine was looking. Disgusted, Adam realized that even he had been caught by surprise thanks to Bowles’ near miss.
If that had been a bounce, there’d be at least four or five of us dead, he thought angrily. He recognized the emerald green Seafire of Squadron Leader Connor O’Rourke, one of his former squadronmates from his time with the Royal Air Force. The eight Brits continued their charge after passing through VMF-21’s, drawing away from the Wildcats as if the tubby fighters were dipped in molasses.
“Bastard,” Adam muttered. There was dead silence over the net as he looked at his fuel gauge.
“All right Buccaneers, let’s pack it up,” he barked. “Time and fuel’s awasting.”
A thoroughly cowed VMF-21 formed up behind him, sliding into its usual perfect formation. As they cir
cled over Pensacola Field in preparation for touchdown, Adam keyed his microphone.
“All pilots meet in front of my aircraft immediately after touchdown,” he intoned. “Flight leaders acknowledge.”
“Green, roger.”
“Blue, roger.”
There was silence immediately after Blue. After a few moments, Adam pressed his throat microphone again.
“Yellow One, acknowledge,” Adam said sharply.
“Oh, sorry Red, didn’t monitor your last transmission,” Yellow One said.
You lying bastard, Adam thought. It would appear that Bowles was determined to test him.
I can’t have you have an accident, but we’ll get this settled up most quickly, Adam thought.
“Yellow One, I say again, meet me at my aircraft once we land,” Adam replied. “Did you monitor that time, or are your brain and posterior still inverted from your leave?”
There was at least one audible intake of breath.
“Roger Red One, I understood your last transmission,” Bowles replied in a faux British accent. “Won’t bloody well happen again, I think.”
There were a couple of chuckles over the net. Adam gripped the control stick so hard his knuckles popped from the force, then breathed out in a ragged exhalation. He so desperately wanted to turn his aircraft to starboard, charge his guns, and unleash a long burst of fire into Bowles cockpit.
It would be so damn easy, he thought to himself. Taking another deep breath, he forced himself to calm down.
A time and place for everything, Adam thought. With this many witnesses is neither of those. Bowles’ time would come soon enough, judging from the reports from the Pacific. Comforting himself with that though, Adam keyed his mike.
“All Flight Leaders, we’re starting a new policy effective immediately: For every time we get bounced by our British friends, a different flight will buy the drinks for the squadron and the British when we get back to Mustin Hall,” Adam said. “Yellow One, thank you for volunteering your flight.”
