Letters to Mrs Hernandez

by C S Gibbs

  “Bogies at eighteen miles. Steer to 070 degrees and climb to four thousand feet.”

  The command from Indefatigable crackled through their headsets and all eight aircraft did as instructed. Ben signed off to Cully with a final zog: a classic, two-fingered salute.

  This sounded like a textbook attack by the Japanese – the Allies had got used to their method, in which a group of barely experienced pilots would fumble their aircraft towards their targets, nursed along by the presence of much more experienced pilots, all flying at as low an altitude as they dared in order to avoid radar detection. Once this group had reached within twenty miles of the Allied ships, the senior pilots would suddenly climb up and allow themselves to be picked up on radar screens to act as a decoy, whilst the younger pilots would stagger on, hopefully undetected, to carry out their kamikaze attacks.

  If they had been detected at eighteen miles' range, then by the time they were engaged by Allied aircraft, there would only be a couple of minutes in which to stop the attack.

  Sure enough, on the horizon, Ben saw the swarm of dots approaching the fleet. A flight of American Corsairs was harrying them and were already scoring significant hits, so by the time the Seafires began to position themselves to make attacking sweeps, only two Japanese aircraft remained. Both were Zero fighters, once the scourge of the Pacific skies but now outclassed by almost all of its rivals. Out of ammunition, the Corsairs left the remaining pair to the Seafires.

  Cully swooped with vigour and let rip with a burst from his guns on the leading aircraft of the pair. He appeared to make a couple of hits, and another burst might well have done the trick, but his guns suddenly jammed. Redundant, he pulled away.

  Now Ben found himself in position for a shot at the following Zero. Moving himself behind, he increased his speed and closed in, trying to get the Zero in to his gun sight for a clear shot, but it was not easy. The Japanese was weaving as he looked for a suitable target, which would almost certainly be a carrier, and the fleet was now very much in sight.

  This had all been so much easier in training, shooting at a fabric windsock that was towed behind a slow biplane.

  Ben fired but his shots were well askew of his target. He tried to stay calm and do his job, just as he had practised so many times before, but when suddenly confronted with having to do this for real, the pressure began to tell on him. He flapped around, trying to get a better position and fired wildly again, spraying his bullets and cannon shells awry.

  Becoming desperate, he tried the trickiest of all measures: a deflection shot, firing to where he thought the target would be moving, so that it would fly in to his oncoming bullets. He clearly had over-reached himself as the Zero darted away from his volley and escaped further punishment.

  With his twelve seconds' worth of ammunition now spent, Ben's first attempt at being a master hunter of the skies had proved a fruitless one.

  Besides, the Zeros had entered the fleet's Gun Defence Zone and the anti-aircraft fire of the Allied ships began to explode before him. He left the Zeros to their fate and headed for home. It was madness to fly in to such an onslaught.

  The leading Zero was now clearly labouring after taking hits from the Corsairs and Cully – perhaps his shots had wounded the pilot? As it limped onward, it dipped ever lower before being dealt a final blow by a particularly good shot from a nearby destroyer. The Zero dropped a wing in to the sea and then cartwheeled across the waves – wings and fuselage buckling as though they were made of paper – coming to a halt in a sensational splash of spray and sinking in a matter of moments.

  Alone, the second Zero ploughed a suicidal furrow through its own valley of death, now fixing its sights on an American cruiser, which turned every available gun on to the tiny aircraft. Like a little metal moth attracted by the deadliest of flames, the Zero moved ever onward, but with nothing else in the sky to draw away the combined fire of the surrounding warships, it was a lost cause. The Zero succumbed to the hailstorm as a shell whacked in to its engine – causing its fuel and high explosive to combine in a bright and deafening blast and the mangled wreckage tumbled to its watery grave. Another life given for the Emperor.

  It was time to land-on to the Indefatigable and Ben made the slow approach to the rear of the huge vessel. Standing on the deck was 'bats' - the signalman armed with two large, wooden paddles that resembled table tennis bats – who was helping him to correct his approach.

  It was all going routinely and Ben should have had little to think about other than making a safe landing, but his mind raced with the thoughts of his first taste of action. Had he really just tried to kill a man? Surely it was no matter – the man was hell-bent on killing himself and taking others with him, anyway – someone had to stop him, right? This is a war, he told himself – we won't get it won and finished unless we see them off. But what if, he suddenly pondered, that was Setsu's friend . . . or even her brother?

  Setsu. He had not had much time to turn his thoughts to her since the Indefatigable had left Sydney and he had sent his last letter. How was she? Where was she? Alive or dead? God forbid, no, that she might be dead. It felt like an age since he had received a letter.

  He dragged his thoughts back to landing-on and slowed his approach speed whilst executing a slow turn to the left. Nearly there – this should be fine. 'Bats' was bringing him in routinely as the stern of the ship grew ever closer. Landing a Seafire was notoriously difficult because the tail of the aircraft needed to be kept low down, so that the hook beneath it could catch one of the arrester wires strung across the deck to bring it to a stand still. However, owing to the aircraft's long nose, much of Ben's view ahead was, therefore, obscured.

  No matter, though, as he dropped the aircraft softly on to the hard, armour plated deck, expecting that sudden heave as it came to an abrupt halt, but one of the wheels gave way and the Seafire tipped forward, its propeller blades thrashing and bending against the deck with a deafening thud-thud-thud before the engine gave out with a cacophonous rasp.

  The instant silence seemed to last an hour, but it was only a matter of seconds before Stilton was clambering on to the wing and peering in to the cockpit.

  “Are yers alright, Sir? Come on, let's get yers out of it!”

  Brought back to his senses, Ben clambered free of his lame Seafire and gave the Devonian an assured nod before heading to the ready room to give a report on the kamikazes and his crash landing.

  “Pranged one at last, eh, Hutchinson? Looks like your landing on is as good as your shooting!” smirked Cully as he hung up his life jacket. Ben was too shaken and embarrassed to say anything. Cully continued to twist the knife. “As for your shooting, you wouldn't have splashed that Jap if you'd had all day. The poor little monkey had to do it for you!”

  “Cully, that's enough,” deadpanned Rydall as he entered the room. “We all know how hard it is to land-on a Seafire. Find me someone who hasn't pranged one!”

  Cully looked at his feet and Rydall turned to Ben and grinned.

  “Welcome to the pancake club, Hutch. You really are one of us, now! We've all had something like that happen to us, out here. Just get some rest and don't worry about it. We need you to be back in the air, tomorrow.”

  On the deck, Archie gave the stricken fighter an inspection and shook his head. Five minutes earlier, it had been a highly expensive piece of military hardware, incorporating cutting edge aerodynamics and engineering. Now, it was deemed beyond repair, so the deck crews massed and pushed what had suddenly become a pile of scrap metal over the edge of the deck and in to the depths of the Pacific Ocean. A new Seafire would be flown over from a supply carrier at the first opportunity.

   

  ***

   

  The hangar deck was crammed from wall to wall and ceiling to floor with men, machinery and aircraft. The room did not ring to the sound of electrical tools – it pounded.

  Sweltering in this giant metal cauldron, men sweated and toiled, swarming like worker ants in the g
aps between the aircraft, heads and torsos buried in cavities as engines were overhauled, undercarriages were strengthened, weapons were cleaned and radios checked.

  Wiping the grime from their brows as they checked the fuel pump on Ben's replacement Seafire stood Archie and Stilton. There seemed to be nothing wrong with the engine, but one thing was amiss between the two men.

  “Look, Stilton, if you say you've finished, then why do I need to look at it?” asked a frustrated Archie.

  “Well, I needs you to have a look so I can rest easy.”

  “But if it's okay, then I don't need to, do I? If you've done what it says in the manual, then it should be fine . . . ah . . . the manual. I get it. That's the problem, isn't it?”

  Stilton went silent.

  “You can't bloody well read what's in the book, can yer?”

  The words hurt.

  “I've done me best with it. It should be fine.”

  “Should be? Should be?” Archie raised his voice above the din of machinery, “That's no good to Mr Hutchinson when he's halfway up in the blue yonder and his bloody fuel pump gives out! He'll be shark food in no time!”

  “Don't you think Oi knows that? That's why I needs yer help with this!”

  “You need more help than I can give yer! How am I supposed to teach you to read when there's a bloody war on? How did you even get through training?”

  “Oh, now you're gonna teach me how to read, eh? Since when did you become a bloody teacher? I tell yer what, can you lip read?”

  “Yeah!”

  The noise of the tools drowned out the words, but Stilton's lips formed the short syllables which directed Archie to 'go forth and multiply', whilst also questioning his parentage. The distraught Stilton then made off for the toilet.

  As Stilton made his exit, he was called at from the hatchway by Cully.

  “Ah, you'll do. I need someone to help me with a presentation I'm doing on the new drop tanks for the squadron. I need you to join me at thirteen hundred hours to give me a briefing on how they are fitted.”

  Amid the noise, his words failed to register with their target and the frustrated Stilton ploughed onward in search of solace and a place in which to empty his bladder. This would not do for Cully, who shuffled toward the vanishing engineer and accosted him.

  “You, man! Are you ignoring me? I just gave you an order! Drop tanks at thirteen hundred! Know your place!”

  Stilton was jolted from his thoughts. He turned to the round-faced man whose hand was on his arm and his first instinct was to brush him aside, but then he noticed the epaulettes on the man's shoulders and realised that it was Cully. He was not in the mood, but tried to gather himself. Appropriately, there was a sudden cessation of workshop noise.

  “Er, Oi'm sorry, sir, but Oi didn't hear you, sir.”

  “You didn't hear me? Listen, man, you were given an order by an officer of the King's navy and you will obey that order whether you heard it or not!”

  The silence continued, as the engineer tried to digest Cully's words. Stilton was the first to admit that he was a simple man, not one for Shakespeare or any of that fancy stuff, but he did credit himself with a modicum of common sense. However, even an honest farmer's son could find no logic in what had just been said and so he felt justified in offering the bluntest of responses.

  The high decibel clatter of machinery suddenly erupted again, which masked the sound of his words, but even the most hopeless student of lip reading could have interpreted Stilton's guttural repost.

   

  ***

   

  “Mr Hutchinson, sir? It's about Stilton.”

  Archie entered Ben's office and began to explain. “He's in the glass house for swearing at Mister Cully. Can you go and speak with him, please, Sir?”

  Having just been appointed the squadron's diarist, in lieu of the departed Bradley, Ben had been making another entry in the book – documenting the missions flown that day and all those involved. He placed the book back on the shelf, picked up a notebook and followed Archie out of the office.

  It had been less than a couple of weeks since he had joined the ship and much of this small, floating city was still a mystery to him. The pair trudged through one grey, steel corridor after another, ducking through doorways. Everywhere, from every available fixing, seamen were strung up in their hammocks, all trying to get some precious sleep before their next shift. Descending deck after deck, he finally reached the cell in which Stilton was incarcerated.

  A rating was on hand to open the door. On entering the tiny cell, Ben saw Stilton sitting on a bunk, looking forlorn. He looked up, sighed and then looked down again at a piece of paper that he had in front of him.

  “They've told me that Oi've got to write a statement, but Oi can't seem to find the words.”

  “Let me have a look,” offered Ben and Stilton meekly handed over the paper.

  “Hmm. I like your choice of words towards Cully. Mind you, the spelling needs a bit of work, eh? This one, here, needs a 'c' in between the 'u' and the 'k', and as for where Cully can stick his drop tank, you need to put an 'e' on the end.”

  The two men laughed.

  “Oi'm just not that good at all that readin' and writin', sir. Oi never had the time fer schooling.”

  “When did you leave school?”

  “Well, Oi left, official, like, when Oi was about fourteen, but Oi'd never really been at school that much in the first place. Y'see, sir, Oi'm the eldest one of eight in the family – we're all farmers, we are, from Devonshire. Our dad, 'e was in the Great War and ‘e was gassed, 'e was, so 'e was never that strong once he comes back from France. That means that as soon as Oi was old enough, Oi had to work on the farm with him, y'see? Oi couldn't be goin' t'school when we had to get the cows milked, could Oi?”

  Ben had seen this in his home town, too, with families who needed to send their boys to work at the first opportunity, rather than let them make their own choices with their lives.

  “So, when the war comes, Oi gets me papers for the navy and goes off to Plymouth for basic training. Now, Oi didn't know what they was going to do with me, 'cause I sure ain't no doctor or nuthin', but on my first day there, we's all bein' driven in this truck, all us new recruits, and the truck only breaks down, don't it? Now, I steps up and fixes the engine, don't Oi, 'cause even though Oi don't read and write that much, Oi knows how to fix a tractor! So, somebody tells the brass hats about this, and Oi gets myself sent to work on the engines.”

  “That's amazing, Stilton, but how did you pass the written exams?”

  “Ah, well that's when you finds out how things really works in high places, see? 'Cause every time an exam comes up, Oi only gets sent home fer a bit of 'compassionate leave', don't Oi? Mind you, the CO always gives us express orders to come back from the farm with two dozen eggs and some king sized cheeses! And what d'yer know – every time Oi comes back with the eggs and the cheese, Oi seems to have passed me exams!”

  So this is how we beat the Germans, though Ben. Will it be enough to beat the Japanese, too, he thought? He turned back to the matter in hand.

  “Look, Stilton, you'd better let me write this.”

   

   

  Chapter Thirty-five - Points of View

  “I'll tell you what, chaps, I can't believe that my bloody guns jammed today! You know, I haven't splashed a Jap in weeks and can't wait to get over to Tokyo and do a few more in.”

  There was a moment's silence in the bar. Cully had expected this opening line to be the start of a gripping conversation, but Jacky and Ben simply stared in to their whiskeys. Their own lively banter on what they both missed about New Zealand had been cut short by Cully's ham-fisted interjection. Both men were tempted to give him the cold shoulder, but Jacky tried to make the best of the situation.

  “So, you think we're going over, tomorrow? Over the mainland?”

  “Must be!” replied Cully with zeal. He seemed unaware that his aloofness caused him any unpopul
arity amongst his peers and would cheerily expect those who had only recently been belittled by him to then join him in lively chit chat as if nothing had ever happened.

  “I saw the chaps fitting the long range drop tanks, this evening, whilst I heard from up top that we've moved closer to the Jap mainland. I wonder what we're going to hit?” He continued, eagerly.

  “I expect,” mused Ben, “That it'll be anything that the Yanks can't be bothered with, just to keep us out of the way!”

  “It doesn't matter what we're given,” blurted Cully, “We've got to get in there and do our bit to finish them off. Look at what the Japs took from us: Hong Kong, Malaya, Burma, Singapore. We're taking it all back, now and the final push isn't far off. The more of those little yellow monkeys that we do for now, the less of them there'll be when we put our boys on the ground in Tokyo.”

  Ben knew that he could not show any sign of compassion for the Japanese. Everyone on board had heard stories of the brutality meted out by their military to prisoners of war and civilians, alike. He knew that, had he not met Setsu, his own views on the Japanese would be similarly tainted.

  Any talk along the lines of the Japanese not all being so bad would be seen as treasonous amongst the rest of the crew, but he felt an almost perverse need to test the waters of Cully's bigotry.

  “So, how many Japs have you splashed, then?”

  Cully could not resist the chance to boast.

  “Three, so far – all verified kills, too. None of this shared, half-kill rot for me! You can see them all marked off on the side of my kite!

  “Two of them were Zeros and the other was a Judy bomber – easy meat, those. The Zeros were on suicide runs, so I was really just putting them out of their misery. Letting the little buggers fly on was just delaying the inevitable. They were dead men, anyway.”

  “Did you get up close to them – see their faces?” asked Ben.

  “On the Judy, yes. I swept down out of the sun on that one and gave it a good blast – took out the pilot and she started going down slowly. I came about and could see the gunner trying to bail out, so I got up close so I could see his little yellow face and finished him off.”