Attack of the Greyhounds

by H. Nelson Freeman

  “I’m listening.”

  First, we get the tear flares of the entrance hole beat to ninety degrees of the fish’s body. Then we the Chief engineer to shift fuel and ballast to the port side, giving us a list as much as possible. Then we cut the tail off the fish and let it drop away. After that, a crew of men beat the flares flat against the hull. Our welder said he could weld a patch over the hole and seal it.”

  “Is the welder qualified to weld on STS?”

  “Yes, sir, he is, and he has the equipment available. If we get it sealed, we can have full speed capability, and probably get to Pearl to properly repair the ship.”

  “Let me take it to the Chief Engineer.” Lieutenant Lanner went to the IC box and called Main Control. He filled the Lieutenant DeMar in on the details of the operation.”

  “Well, we’re facing another air attack, I’ll take it to the Captain as soon as this attack is over.”

  “Yes sir, we can have it done well before daylight if we get approval.”

  On the bridge, the OOD reported, “the ship is buttoned up to repel aircraft, sir.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant, let’s cross our fingers.”

  “Sir, the forward lookout reports two flights of aircraft from the southeast are a flight of twelve F4F Wildcats and a flight of P-39-400 Airacobras.”

  “Great, we might just come out of this pretty clean,” the Captain said.

  ****

  “Ramrod to Ramrod two, take your flight to the south as we planned, and we’ll put their escorts into a vice,” said Lieutenant Commander Robin Heller, the F4F commander. The flight split and took up their positions. Each pilot prepared himself and plane for combat. The Wildcats are armed with four-thirty-caliber machine guns in the wings.

  The commander of the P-39s, Major Thomas Birdsall, who was monitoring the Navy frequency called his squadron, “The Navy is getting ready to put the enemy escort in a vise when they start, then we go in after the bombers. Raygun looks like they have their attack aircraft in two flights, take the left flight, we’ll go right.”

  “Roger that, left. Second section, switch channels now.” A series of clicks signaled the section was off the main channel. “Sound off;” “Hammer,” “Lights,” “Cutter,” “Jonsey,” “Nails.” “Second section climb to angels nine and open to attack spread.” The six P-39s climbed up to their height and readied their aircraft for combat. Section one slowly slipped right and prepared their aircraft. The men moved about in their seats, then tightened the belts and straps. They each checked their gun sights and charged the big thirty-seven-millimeter nose-mounted cannon with a thirty-round capacity. The two heavy fifty caliber machine guns in the nose had two-hundred rounds per gun, and the four wing-mounted thirty caliber machine guns had three hundred rounds per gun each.

  Before the enemy aircraft were close enough to attack, the American fighters were upon them. That left the ship to shoot at those enemy planes that broke from the furball.

  The two forces rapidly approached one another over the destroyer below. “Fighters have headed for the ship.” The F4F CO called out. “Ramrod four and five, get ‘em.”

  Two Wildcats fell toward the green painted Zekes, and with their higher weight, they quickly came up behind them. The XO, Charles “Fire” Embers, depressed the left rudders ever so lightly, bringing the stubby fighter into a good firing position. He squeezed the trigger on the control stick, and a two-second burst of thirty caliber bullets screamed toward and into the Zeke. With no protection, the pilot died immediately; then, three rounds tore into the Saki engine, causing it to falter and begin to smoke.

  Tom “Oldman” Elderman, being the oldest flyer in the squadron, was naturally tagged with that call sign. At twenty-eight, he was already a pilot and in the Naval Reserve when the war broke out.

  He pulled up a hundred yards behind the lead Zeke. A one-second burst went over the plane's canopy getting the pilot's attention. He snap rolled the light plane to port and pulled into a climb, hoping to draw an inexperienced pilot into a one-sided chase. Elderman dived to the right, pulling up three miles away and climbed to eight-thousand feet and headed back into the melee.

  The remaining Wildcats rapidly became involved in a rolling, twisting, diving, and climbing furball. They were successful in drawing off the escorts, giving Birdsall’s Airacobras a clear run to take on the bombers. The enemy attack force consisted of G4M Betty’s and several B5N torpedo bombers. Five of the B5Ns began to circle lower and away from the fight. They wanted to get lined up and put their Type 91 torpedoes to work.

  The P-39 XO saw then and sent three of the attackers after them. ‘Heartbreak’ Ryan Heart led the other two planes. “X, you and ‘Newby’ foul the aim of the leaders, then we can nail ‘em.” Heart dove on the last “Kate” and poured four lines of thirty caliber rounds along the length of the plane, taking out the gunner, wounding the radio operator and pilot. Several hits went into the engine, and it began smoking. The pilot pulled up and turned toward the west-southwest and his base at Munda on the southwestern part of New Georgia.

  As Heart headed toward his turnaround point, he felt and heard the impact of bullets hitting his plane. One of the gunners on a B5N got a quick shot at him; Then his leg began burning as one seven-point-seven round bullet punched through the side of his wildcat and stopped after glancing off his left femur. He immediately pulled away and sought a clear sky. He pulled the small first aid kit and took a length of bandage from it. Slipping it under his leg with a scream and curse for the gunner, he then tied it off, stemming the blood loss.

  Now Heart was pissed and ignored the pain as he brought the stubby fighter about. He found the “Kate” ahead and below him, then pushed the stick forward, putting it into a dive toward the bomber. When he was in range, he opened up with a one-second burst, checking the accuracy of his setup. A slight change, of course, and he gave the enemy plane at two-second burst. The shells began hitting home in front of the vertical stabilizer and rapidly marched forward. The gunner died instantly in a hail of bullets, then the radio operator and the pilot last. The dead pilot was thrown forward from the impact of a bullet to the back of his head, his weight putting enough pressure on the stick to force the nose down. She went into a terminal dive, ending with the plane impacting on the surface of the sea. The large plane disintegrated and the three-man crew went down with the debris as it sank into twenty-five-hundred feet of dark water.

  Two Army Airacobras tore past the engaged Wildcats, and each picked a torpedo bomber and tore them apart with their heavy fifties. The fifth B5N broke away from the slaughter and headed southwest.

  High above, the five planes began to foil the attack as the Bettys, and B5Ns prepared to drop their ordinance. The remaining ten Airacobras also bored in on the flight of enemy bombers.

  Lieutenant Junior Grade David Morris, call sign ‘Mory,’ was in a close dog fight with a Zeke. The two were turning in a large circle when the CO, Sam Nevins calmly said on the air, “Mory, Bank hard to starboard and dive. That Zeke can turn inside you, and he’ll blow you right out of the air.”

  Mory, a calm pilot, heard the CO and checked about him, then threw the stick into the forward right corner, causing the plane to flip into a right turn and dive. The Japanese pilot was caught off guard and wisely chose not to try to follow. Mory turned and twisted, making sure the Zeke didn’t turn back on him, then he put the nimble fighter into a turning climb as he headed for the air battle, his shirt soaked in sweat.

  To the northwest, a pair of black trails fell into the sea from two Wildcats piloted by ensigns. They tangled with four Zekes and didn’t have a chance; no parachutes blossomed near the planes.

  Second Lieutenant Trevor St. Johns, known as ‘The Saint,’ was pounding a camouflage-painted Betty with his thirties and fifties when a defensive gunner laced his plane with a dozen seven point seven rounds. One round jammed a fifty-caliber gun, then the next punched through the corner of the canopy and hit The Saint in the left shoulder and exited
out the other side of the canopy. Behind him, blood splashed on his seat and the inside of the canopy and cockpit. No vitals were injured, but the shock from the impact and loss of blood nearly caused him to pass out. He peeled away and dove clear of the melee. “Man, from Saint, I’m hit and heading southeast.”

  “Roger that, ‘Nails,’ escort the Saint in, we’re almost done here.”

  “Roger that.” Second Lieutenant Neil Struthers pulled off a B5N and slipped up alongside the wounded Saint. “Saint, sixteen.” The two planes switched radio frequencies for plane-to-plane communications on pre-determined settings. “How ya doin?”

  “He got me good…shock and a little dizzy.” He stuttered.

  “Saint put on your oxygen; it will help. Can you hear me, put on your oxygen mask.”

  “Roger,”

  Struthers watched as the wounded pilot struggled to get his mask on with one hand. His left arm hung limply at his side. A short time later, the two Airacobras crossed the open water between Guadalcanal and Savo Island. “Home Plate, Hammer twelve, at Northwest door with injured Hammer eleven. Need a clear runway and emergency equipment standing by.”

  “Roger that, come in from the northeast.”

  “Roger.”

  Switching channels Struthers said, “Trevor, you hear me?”

  “I’m here,” a weak voice said.

  “Throttle back, turn off the ignition, booster pump, and fuel selector switches…nose down a little, maintain one-three-zero airspeed. Ok, were over the beach lower gear and flaps and give her a little fuel. Your good buddy, raise the nose a little and reduce your throttle for touchdown. Straight and level you’re about to touchdown.”

  Saint’s main gear hit the steel runway mat, then the nose wheel came down, and Saint kept her straight until she stopped under a little braking pressure. He shut down the engine, and fuel supply then passed out.

  Nails dipped his starboard wing and looked into the cockpit of the now stopped P-39. He saw St. Johns, head against the canopy, apparently unconscious. After a quick check of his fuel, he pulled up into a holding pattern until the runway was open again. After landing and securing his craft, Struthers headed straight for the emergency room just off the landing strip.

  A medical sergeant stopped the young pilot from rushing into the treatment room. “Sir, your friend will be all right. He took a round into his shoulder, and it exited on the right side of his body.”

  “You say he gonna make it?”

  “Yes, the first examination indicated no vital tissue was injured. But he will need to do some time recovering.”

  “Thank God,” Struthers murmured. His shirt was as wet as if he had jumped into the sea. He headed for the Officer’s mess for some water.

  ****

  Aboard the HALLIS, the ship’s guns fell silent when the furball above them dissipated as the enemy and American planes headed for their bases. The damaged destroyer was still limping toward the southeastern bottom section of the sound, now known as Iron Bottom Sound.

  In the after-engine room, the working party had bent the torn flares out to ninety degrees from the torpedo's shiny body. The Captain worked out the listing details with the Chief Engineer, XO, and First Lieutenant.

  “Have all movable gear moved to the port side and secured against rolling. Have the main five-inch guns turned to starboard. LeRoy makes sure the ship’s boats are tightly secured with extra heavy lines and a come along. XO make sure the Division Officers and Chiefs supervise the securing everything inside the ship that can move. We need to keep injuries to a minimum.”

  “Dave, make sure all the bilges are pumped dry, then begin the transfer of fuel, water, and ballast. I want each pump manned by a petty officer and a phone talker. With the air and seas calm, it was time to begin the evolution, and the pumps began transferring the fluids. In a few minutes, the slightest hint of a list began.

  Men were tied to the lifelines directly above the after-engine room and would announce when they could see the tail end of the torpedo. The men in the engine room stood by as the Chief Torpedoman began disassembly of the engine section of the torpedo. There were a large number of high-grade cap screws attaching the tail section to the torpedo body.

  Half an hour later, the clinometer showed a port list of twenty degrees, and the men at the rails reported the tail of the fish was at water level. “How much more list will you need?” came from the IC box.

  “Bridge, Main Control, this ship can easily do another fifteen, but we’re only going to do five more degrees.”

  “Bridge aye,” came a serious voice.

  At twenty-five degrees, the pumps were stopped, and the tail of the torpedo was loose. The men worked another fifteen minutes looking for the elusive holding device that would release the fish’s tail. A sharp-eyed petty officer spotted four-flush screws that lined up with an internal frame. They had to come out with an Allen wrench that could only be turned a half a turn at a time. Two men worked on them until they were nearly out when the tail section suddenly dropped with a heavy thud against the bottom of the hole in the hull.

  Men jumped away from the heavy, thus, some with ghostly white faces. “What’s wrong with you guys?” The Chief said, smiling.

  “One fireman said in a quivering voice, “I thought it was going to explode.”

  “Don’t worry about it, said the Chief, you wouldn’t know it if it did.” Several of the youngsters gave a halfhearted laugh, but with no smile.

  Lieutenant Lanner smiled and said, “The Chief is right; we wouldn’t know it if it did go off. And if that’s my way of going, it’s better than swimming with sharks or burning and then suffering only to die. Come on; let’s get that thing overboard and seal up the hull.’

  After supporting the tail to relieve the pressure on the four screws, they were removed, and the two men next to the hull put a foot on each side of the tail section and shoved it through the hole, and it immediately sunk out of sight. The hammering began.

  Another half-hour passed, and the welder had men hold a twenty-five-inch square plate over the opening while he tacked each corner. Then he began welding in earnest. Twenty minutes later, the hole was watertight.

  Mr. Lanner called up to the throttleman, “Call Main Control and tell them the hole is sealed and to upright the ship.”

  Seconds later, the pumps were pumping the fuel, water, and ballast back to their original location, and the engineering space got ready to get underway.

  Three hours after the ordeal began, the ship was ready. The Captain, showing a big smile, said, “OOD, Thirty knots to Tulagi.”

  With a puff of smoke from the stacks and the shrill scream of the buried forced draft turbines, the screws rapidly came up to flank speed. A rooster tail formed behind the ship, and she began skipping across the quiet surface of the New Georgia Sound.

  The Captain sent a brief message to division outlining what they did. Then he went to his cabin to write up a report that could get him cashed out for endangering his command. At the least, he expected that he would be relieved of command, and the engineering officer would probably have severe reprimands against them and made part of their service records, which would ruin their careers. He headed back to the bridge, for what could be his last time. He looked around at the bridge and the men, then stepped out on the wings of the ship to take in the view, confident they would be his last. He smiled and said to nobody, “It worked, the ship is safe and in fighting trim. If that’s what they’re gonna do, so be it and to hell with them.”

  Two and a half hours later, the OOD ordered full ahead as they entered the lower end of the sound and passed Savo Island on the north side. “Bo’ sun, call away the Special Sea and Anchor detail.” The order galvanized the crew, and the ship was readied to anchor in Purvis Bay.

  Fireman Second Fred Norton asked, “Mr. Lanner, why does the admiral have us anchor way out here in Purvis bay?”

  “I would say because we’re carrying a live torpedo in our engine room, and I suspect he
wants to be cautious if it went off, it wouldn’t endanger any other ships or men that may be near.”

  “That makes sense.”

  On the bridge, a lookout reported two motor whaleboats approaching. The OOD looked at the Captain, “Well, here they come.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Several officers filed aboard, one being the admiral’s staff Material Officer, and another the Squadron Commander. The rest being various staff personnel.

  Following the routine greetings, the Material officer said, “As you would expect, we want to see the after-engine room. By the way, the Admiral sends his condolences at the loss of one of your crew. Was he married?”

  “Fortunately, no sir, there have been too many husbands and fathers killed already in this war.”

  “I agree; let’s see the damage.”

  The Captain led the way, followed by the train of officers, including the XO. When the Captain hit the deck plates, Mr. Lanner called out, “Attention on deck.” Everyone on the upper level snapped to attention.

  Looking about the Admirals staff officer mentioned, “You keep a clean ship, Captain, well done.”

  “Thank you, sir; it’s the senior petty officers and men that deserve the compliment, they’re proud of this ship and give their all, twenty-four-seven.”

  The staff Captain nodded approval. “This way, gentlemen,” as the Captain led the visitors to the starboard side at the rear of the reduction gears. The patch had been cleaned, red lead primer and white paint applied. If they weren’t looking for it, they probably would not have seen the patch.

  The Material Officer said, “That’s a four-oh job on that hole, who did the work?”

  “One of our shipfitters, sir, he is good at his job.”