by Stuart Slade
Brinkmann drummed his fingers. It wasn’t too bad he told himself. The key factor was the state of the Oswald Boelcke. He picked up the short-range radio, called over and demanded to speak to the damage control officer. Zipstein answered, and called down to the damage control teams forward for the latest reports. As Brinkmann listened to the call being made he had a strange mental picture, a ship’s internal telephone system making the connection, and emitting few minor sparks as it did. In an atmosphere that contained a lethal percentage of gasoline vapor.
Brinkmann didn’t hear the explosion. He saw the shock wave of the fuel-air explosion form into a ball and race outwards. Pieces of steel were hurled hundreds of feet into the air. Others scythed out laterally, lashing at the other German ships. He heard the dreadful hammering as some of those pieces sprayed Graf Zeppelin and decimated her gun crews more thoroughly than the Ami strafing. By the time his senses had recovered from the awesome blast, the shock wave had gone. It had left the Oswald Boelcke no longer recognizable. Above the waterline, she had been reduced to a pitiful shambles of tortured steel. Her plating had been thrown around so that they resembled the scrambled remains of a destroyed city. The damage below the waterline must have been equally bad. Brinkmann guessed that the blast had ripped huge holes in her bottom. She was going fast, rolling over so quickly that even the fires weren’t getting a chance to take hold. It took less than a couple of minutes for what was left of the 13,000 ton carrier to slip beneath the waves. Al that remained was just three figures struggling in the water.
“Another wave of American aircraft approaching fast Admiral.”
Admiral’s Bridge, USS Gettysburg CVB-43, Flagship Task Force 58
The Admiral’s Bridge was crowded for Gettysburg was the Flagship of Task Force 58 as well as Task Group 58.1. She was also the flagship of the Fifth Fleet but, today, that was just an added inconvenience. This was the fast carrier’s battle. Even so, in addition to Admiral Halsey and his staff, Admiral Marc Mitscher and his personnel were vying for the facilities of the bridge. It was fortunate Gettysburg was a big carrier. In fact, the two staffs worked very well together, a legacy of prewar service and more recently the first carrier raids on France and the UK. When Spruance had the Fast Carrier Force, it became part of Third Fleet as Task Force 38. He preferred to command from a battleship. Halsey preferred to be with his carriers.
“First wave report in, Admiral. The pilots are claiming seven destroyers, four cruisers and two carriers sunk; five more destroyers, two more cruisers and two carriers damaged. Eighty enemy aircraft shot down.”
Halsey grunted. “That’s more ships that the Krauts started with. We’ll wait to the camera gun film’s ready. Losses?”
“Twenty Flivvers shot down in the air battle with the CAP Admiral, they’re recovering at 58.5 now. Four more were too damaged to make it home. Knudsen says eight Flivvers are on the hangar decks, too damaged for immediate use. Corsairs, eight down; we don’t know yet how many won’t make it back to the carriers or how many are damaged. Adies, nine down, same comment. Total 41 lost; probably closer to fifty by the time the cripples ditch. Out of Halsey winced. That is getting close to fifty percent casualties. The redeeming feature was that the bulk of the losses were due to the German fighters and they‘d gone. The butcher’s bill should be less from now on.
Or would it be? The plot showed the German attack on Hunter-Killer Group Sitka was getting close and the fighters he’d sent down to reinforce the jeep carriers were still heading down. There was potential there for another bloody bill.
“Admiral, 58.5’s heavy strike should be hitting the German carriers any minute now.” Halsey nodded absently; his mind still with the two CVEs to the south.
East of Hunter-Killer Group “Sitka” in the North Atlantic, north of the UK.
The 12 Ta-152F fighter escorts and the 16 Bearcats hit almost head-on in what was almost the traditional opening to an air battle. The Bearcat pilots were at a distinct disadvantage. They’d spent their careers hunting submarines and lumbering maritime reconnaissance. Aircraft. The pilots in the Ta-152s had always been fighter pilots who had some experience, even if it was very little by fighter standards. Half the Bearcat force was already fighting for survival, skidding all over the sky in an effort to avoid the heavy guns of the German fighters. Four of them didn’t make it. They’d left their evasions too late; the five cannon on the Ta-152s took them out. The odds were evened though, One section of four Ta-152s was so intent on hunting the Bearcats that they failed to notice a second section slotting in behind them. Within the first few second of the battle starting, eight fighters had gone from the fight.
This was the sort of war that only a white man could come up with. Formations of fighters hurled head on at each other with no regard for subtlety or finesse. Given his choice Lieutenant Simon Darkshade would be out on his own, hunting the enemy through stealth and ambush as his nation had always done, not this wild, furball where collision was as much a danger as anything else. He’d only just escaped the hammering of the German guns a few seconds earlier. Now he pulled the stick back and pulled a vertical bunt, leaving the Ta-152F behind. The Ta-152 was fast and agile when its boost was running. Even then, it couldn’t outclimb a Bearcat.
Darkshade rolled at the top of his climb, pushed the nose down and dropped. He plummeted in the way the eagles and buzzards on the reservation had shown him. The Ta-152 was still below him, he hadn’t reacted fast enough to the bunt. Darkshade swept his gunsight along the enemy fuselage. When it coincided with the enemy cockpit, he squeezed the trigger. His gunfire ripped the enemy pilot apart. The Ta-152 spun out of control and headed down.
Across from his kill, four more Bearcats pulled the same ambush on the last remaining Ta-152s. Four stubby little F8Fs had climbed out, positioning themselves over the battlefield. Four more had stayed down below. They engaged the German fighters, then extending so the Ta-152s followed them. That was the cue for the Bearcats above to plummet down and rake their enemy with bullets. A few seconds of slaughter and the fight between CAP and escort was finished. The Bearcats called in. Six of the original 16 were gone. The rest set off after the Ju-87s. Would they would catch up in time? It was debatable, the dogfight with the Ta-152s had caused them to drop far behind.
The Ju-87s closed up for mutual protection. The aft gunner’s twin 7.92mm machine guns might not be that effective individually, but the close formation allowed the gunners to mass their fire. That did the trick. The second group of Bearcats swept in to meet massed machine gun fire that sprayed their ranks. Two of the gray and white fighters spun out of control, and headed for the seas below. Two more broke off, their engines belching black smoke. The twelve survivors relearned the infuriating experience Lieutenant Pace had suffered before. The ability of the Ju-87 to slip sideways made it a difficult target to kill. With their first pass, the twelve Bearcats scored only four kills. One was Pace’s. He’d learned his lesson, he’d come up from underneath where the Ju-87 crew couldn’t see him, and killed them before they could dodge. The other pilots watched and noted. In their second pass at the formation, most of them tried the same trick. Eight more of the accursedly-evasive dive-bombers spun out or exploded as the .50 caliber machine guns picked them off.
Pace knew that the problem was; they were running out of time. There were still 14 dive-bombers left and they were approaching the anti-aircraft zone of Hunter-Killer Group Sitka. He also knew there was another formation of around twenty Ju-87s approached from the North. They were the survivors of the scouting line and they converged on the target they obviously thought was the American carrier group. Even while the thought ran through his mind, Pace swung around, hunting another Ju-87. Again, a pass from underneath. An eruption of black smoke signaled another Ju-87 dying. His third for this battle. Added to the one I shot down earlier that gives me four kills. Just one more and I’m an ace. Over the radio, orders called the Bearcats off, sending them to intercept the new formation that was coming in from the north
.
Pace’s formation joined up with the survivors of the dogfight with the Ta-152s. He hit full throttle to try and engage the second formation of bombers. On paper, it was a one-to-one match but the Bearcats were running low on ammunition. Two passes, Pace guessed, that’s all. The accursed defensive fire from the bombers didn’t help. The gunners sent two more fighters out of the battle before it was even joined. The first pass was a complete bust. The two formations of Bearcats got in each other’s way, causing near collisions and lost sight pictures. Pace cursed. He’d had a beautiful shot at a Ju-87 but a Bearcat had lurched in front of him and blocked his line of fire. Chastened, the Bearcat pilots sorted themselves out and tried again. This time they got it right. The Ju-87 formation shattered. Twelve of the dive-bombers went down, either exploding, burning or just falling apart in mid air.
Pace wasn’t concerned with that. He’d got his fifth kill. He was officially an ace with the gun camera footage to prove it. He’d exploited the blind spot under the tail again and killed his man with style and finesse. The problem was that his burst had ended early as his guns ran out of ammunition. By the way the other Bearcats were behaving, he wasn’t the only one. Eight of the twenty dive bombers had got through. Pace guessed that wasn’t good. Then he looked up and saw a formation of 16 Corsairs diving out of the sun on the remaining Ju-87s. That would do it. Then Pace looked again. One group is behaving oddly; it’s as if they are coming straight at me.
Lieutenant Commander Frederick Kellen brought his 16 Corsairs down at maximum speed. That had burned inordinate amounts of fuel to get to the battle and his fighters were in critical condition. He took a glance at the formation below him. A small group of Ju-87s, eight by the look at it, surrounded by fighters. Straight wings, gray paint, radial engines, bubble canopy, Ta-152s. The strike must have had a heavier escort than we thought and they‘d beaten off the defending fighters. He did a wingover and lead the long dive that hit the unsuspecting fighters, achieving almost complete tactical surprise. The targets didn’t even try and evade as the Corsairs screamed down on them and the concentrated blasts of .50 caliber machinegun fire shredded them in mid air. Six spun out and started the long fall towards the sea. Amongst them was Eleanor, her pilot dead at the controls. Lieutenant Pace had been an ace for less than 15 seconds.
Ju-87R-5 Blue-Six, Over Hunter-Killer Group “Sitka” in the North Atlantic, north of the UK.
The American blunder had been a miracle. Captain Joseph Brandt believed the game was up when the wave of dark blue Corsairs had arrived. He had watched in incredulous amazement as they attacked the Bearcats. By the time the Americans had got themselves sorted out, the Stukas were approaching their target and about to go into their dives. Below them, the two carriers were clearly visible, surrounded by a ring of eight destroyers. For a moment he’d thought the ships were already on fire. They seemed ringed with orange flame, then he realized they were firing. Photographs that had escaped censorship showed the sides of the carriers were lined with anti-aircraft guns and it was rumored the battleships were even worse.
The Ami anti-aircraft fire wasn’t just intense. It was deadly accurate. Somehow, their shells always seem to explode at just the right time. Soon the approach of the dive bombers was marked by the trails of smoke as the bombers had been hit. Three aircraft in Brandt’s formation went down before they even got into position for their runs. Four more had gone down from the other group. The way the Stukas had approached the formation meant that they split naturally into two groups, one taking each carrier. Two carriers? He’d thought there were supposed to be five in an Ami carrier task group. Mentally Brandt shook his head and blessed the fact that the reports were wrong. If two ships could put up this hailstorm of flak, what would five do?
The anti-aircraft fire was deadly. Of the five surviving dive bombers that attacked the carrier below, only Brandt’s survived. The others all died; hit by the heavy and medium anti-aircraft guns that poured fire at him. Brandt saw the deck of the carrier getting larger and larger. It was painted light gray, with the number 107 painted in darker gray. Brandt had only a 250 kilogram bomb on board. It had never been intended to turn a recon mission into a part of a strike but this battle was escalating out of all control. He had to place that bomb exactly where it would do the most damage. The forward lift that filled his bombsight looked good. Brandt squeezed the release, then jerked the stick back in the savage pull-out that ruined a dive bomber pilot’s health. Behind him, he saw the ball of fire rise from the deck of the carrier.
The formation attacking the other carrier had better luck. Two of the eight aircraft survived to release their 1,000 kilogram bombs.
Perhaps because of the anti-aircraft fire, perhaps it was the evasive maneuvers of the ships that caused both bombs to go wide. They straddling the carrier but not actually hitting her. The carriers point defense guns opened up. The rows of 20mm weapons sawed both of the Ju-87s out of the sky. In point of fact, they’d have done better if they hadn’t bothered. One Ju-87 was hit as it pulled out. The blazing aircraft cleared the deck by feet before crashing in the sea just over the side of the carrier. The second was hit earlier, before it had started its pull-out. It crashed into the carrier dead amidships.
Out to sea and running clear, Brandt started to climb so he could radio a report. It was succinct and to-the-point. The American carrier task force had been heavily defended by fighters and his was the only aircraft to have survived. But, the critical part of the message was that the rising clouds of black smoke showed that both carriers had been hit hard.
USS Stalingrad, Hunter-Killer Group “Sitka” in the North Atlantic, north of the UK.
The sirens were blasting. Damage control crews poured across the decks to the scene of the hit. The 550 pound bomb had scored a direct hit on the forward elevator. It had penetrated through it and exploded in the elevator well. The elevator itself had been blown into the air by the blast leaving the well itself as an inferno. The accumulated of oil and grease fed the flames but the rest of the hangar deck was sealed down and the fuel lines inerted. The Avengers were all unloaded and had been parked aft. It was never good to be hit by a bomb but this one had done less damage than it could have done; less damage by far.
Across the way, Moskva was in a different situation. Stalingrad’s fires were subsiding as the damage control teams isolated the blaze and poured foam and water fog onto it. Captain Alameda saw the ball of fire rise where the dive bomber had plowed into Moskva. She was still burning. Three of the destroyers came alongside to pour water from their own pumps into her. Her damage control crews faced a nightmare; a crashed aircraft on the hangar deck with the fuel from the tanks feeding the blaze. Thinking about it, Alameda came to the nasty conclusion that the aircraft was actually a more dangerous weapon than the bomb it carried. He shuddered at the thought. That way lay madness.
“Damage control here, Captain. Fire in the forward lift well is contained and controlled. We’re dumping foam to smother it and the crews are pouring water on the bulkheads around it to cool them off. We’ve got teams up to, patching the hole where the lift was, the flight deck will be operational, sort of, in thirty minutes.”
Alameda nodded. “Can we land planes now? We’ve got crippled birds need to come in, four Bearcats at least, and the orphans from Moskva. She won’t be landing anybody soon.”
Below Lieutenant Holcombe looked across at Moskva, belching black smoke from her amidships section. She most certainly wouldn’t be landing anybody any time soon. “We can land them, Sir. Make sure the pilots know they have to catch a wire the first time or they’ll be on the hangar deck faster than they expected.”
Alameda made up his mind. “CAG, how many birds to come in?”
“Eighteen, Sir. Eight of them damaged, two very badly.”
“Right, get the intact birds down first, then the less damaged ones. If the shot-up aircraft can’t wait to last, they’re to ditch by the plane guard destroyer. She’ll pickup the pilot.” If he survives
was the unspoken add-on.
“Sir?” The question mark was very audible.
Technically as Captain, Alameda’s word was law. In reality, on a carrier, Captain and CAG were a partnership. “We must get the intact birds down first, Joe. If anybody is going to crash and block the deck, it’ll be one of the cripples. So they have to wait.” It was a hard decision and Alameda didn’t like it. He made it anyway.
The two men stood and watched as the Bearcats started landing. They had the net stretched across the deck to stop any that lost the wires but the fighters managed their landing neatly. The fifth of the damaged birds didn’t. The pilot either lost it at the last second or his controls failed. Whatever the reason, he touched down on one wheel, cartwheeled and lodged firmly in the gallery that ran alongside the deck. There was a dull whump noise as the fuel left in the Bearcat’s tanks ignited. They could see the pilot in his seat struggling to get free as the aircraft started to burn, but his harness had jammed or something.
Then, a man ran out from the gallery. He passed the tail that stuck out of the fire, and jumped onto the burning wing. Oblivious to the flames, he reached through the shattered bubble canopy and slashed at the harness. Whatever he did, it must have worked because he dragged the pilot out, through the flames licking around the wings and onto the deck. Other crewmen were waiting with extinguishers and fire-fighting kit. The two men staggered clear of the fire, their flight suits and coveralls already burning. The deck crew sprayed them both with foam. Then, the medics carried them down to the sickbay. If they were lucky, their suits would have protected them; they’d get away with minor burns. If they weren’t….
