by Peter Albano
The dragging aileron and the torque of the Sakae forced Yoshi to keep the stick hard to port. And bits of aluminum peeled from the right wing. He would never make it back to Yonaga.
And looking down, he cursed. One Colossus was sinking, but the Independence and the other Colossus were steaming at full speed while more aircraft were brought to the flight decks. Not one B5N survived. But there was a way to disable the flight deck of one of the carriers. A sure way. The way of the samurai. Then Kimio was there, but he pushed her back as he banked cautiously toward the Colossus.
“Dive-bombers! Dive-bombers!” exploded from his earphones. Joyously, he watched as at least a dozen Aichis, diving, flaps down, plummeted. Shouting thanks to Amaterasu, the commander watched as D3As hit each carrier with at least three 400 kilogram bombs.
Exploding bombs, gasoline, and torpedoes made volcanos of the carriers. Great chunks of wreckage rained down, pockmarking the sea with huge splashes. Red fireballs roiled from the ships like incandescent balloons; black smoke spread its pall, and he could see crewmen leaping into the burning sea.
“Banzai! Banzai!” But more metal ripped from the wing in big strips like a reptile shedding skin, and he could not keep his trim. He was finished. He switched on his microphone. “Tenna heiko banzai!” he shouted. And then, with the switch off and his eyes on the sky he said, “I am sorry, Kimio.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Stomach empty and sick, Brent Ross watched the enemy raid roar toward Yonaga, thinned by the CAP, but nevertheless well organized and commanded — “Probably German and Russian led,” Dempster had shouted while staring through his binoculars. At least a dozen JU-87s broke formation; six climbing for dive-bombing attacks while the six remaining torpedo-armed planes broke into two groups of three and raced for both sides of the carrier.
Fujita shouted at Naoyuki, “Bridge to bridge. I will circle to my right at flank speed.” To the voice tube: “All ahead flank, right full rudder!”
Brent, Frank Dempster, and Mark Allen were thrown against the windscreen as the great carrier heeled into her turn. Then it seemed every gun on the ship exploded at precisely the same instant with a concussion that deafened the ensign. Leaving curving white wakes, five of the escorts had pulled in dangerously close to the carrier, firing their guns, pockmarking the sky with drifting shell bursts and ripping it apart with tracers.
Above, a reduced number of CAP fighters dueled with the stubby BF-109s, trying desperately to break through to the bombers. Throttle wide open, a 109 plunged into the sea like a fire arrow. Two more MEs, caught by quicker turning Zeros, spouted flame, leaving signatures of black smoke against the blue sky as they smashed into the sea.
AA tore a wing from a torpedo-armed JU, and it looped to its death. Two more, controls shot away, flipped, tumbled, and flew to pieces on the surface like toys thrown against concrete by a petulant child.
But the dive-bombers, climbing into the fighter melee, were more vulnerable. Two were shot out of the sky almost immediately, but the other four wheeled toward the carrier, dive flaps dropped to the 40° dive angle as Yonaga’s 25 millimeter triple mounts came into range.
With stuttering blasts, 120 guns came to life. Thousands of glowing tracers climbed into the sky in sheets or burned in horizontal streams, slashing long white bullet trails across the ocean swell as gunners on full trigger emptied their thirty round magazines in seconds, loaders working like madmen to keep the streams uninterrupted.
Caught by a cyclone of tracers, a dive-bomber’s wings folded and then flew free like leaves in a storm, the fuselage pulled by the big Jumo engine plunging as if an alchemist had turned it to lead. Bomb ripped by an attacking Zero, a JU vanished into a great yellow-orange ball of flame, the explosion destroying both victim and attacker, smoking pieces of wreckage raining over miles of ocean.
But two JUs were in their dives and three torpedo bombers — two to starboard and one to port — were making their runs through a jungle of brown smears and thickets of splashes.
Gripping the windscreen, Brent waited, heart a mallet against his ribs. The cold liquid of fear had washed away his guts, and ice water coursed through his veins. The old horror of combat — wondering about the men who would try so desperately to kill him — was back. He watched the enemy pilots cleverly curve their approaches, trying to anticipate Yonaga’s position as she turned.
“Left full rudder,” Fujita shouted. Responding to the steering engines like power steering in a sports car, the 45 ton rudder swung on its post 90°, throwing men against bulkheads, gun tubs, and windscreens.
Then Fujita reversed the order, almost running down a Fletcher that passed bow to bow within twenty feet of their port side. There were splashes under the torpedo bombers.
“Gyos!” a lookout shouted from the foretop. “Two to starboard and one to port!”
“We’re clear of the one to port, admiral,” Brent shouted.
“Very well.” The old man pointed to starboard. “But we will eat two.”
Despite the approaching streaks to starboard, the scream of two descending Jumo-211 engines turned every eye upward.
Brent looked up just in time to see two bombs drop from the dive-bombers, which veered to port as they tried to escape low on the water. To the ensign, the two black shiny cylinders were plummeting directly at him. Hypnotized, he watched as they dropped side by side as if tied together. One struck the stern elevator, penetrating at least four decks, blowing the 11 meter square steel platform and all of its hydraulic gear, except the pump, straight up and then over the stern and into the sea like discarded junk. The other bomb penetrated the armor of the flight deck like a knife through butter and exploded in gasoline stores on the hangar deck, hurling tons of flaming wreckage in a vast red, blooming circle of death.
Grabbing Fujita’s shoulders with one hand while grasping a stanchion with the other, Brent, the admiral, and every other man except Dempster dropped to their knees as Yonaga bucked under their feet and chunks of debris ricocheted from the windscreen, concussion bulging the steel plating inward. The CIA man, seemingly fascinated by the bomb, lingered at the screen despite Mark Allen’s frantic grasp and efforts to pull him down. Hearing the sound of metal striking metal and bone, and feeling a spray of blood and small bits of soft gray chunks on the back of his neck, Brent looked up in time to see Dempster turning slowly toward him, glassy-eyed and sinking, the top of his head severed neatly just above the brows, as if a clever surgeon had made a deft stroke with a giant scalpel. Sighing a last breath from his lungs, Frank Dempster twisted and fell, brains and blood spilling across the deck.
Ripped from its bolts, the chart table was hurled across the deck to shatter over the screaming lookout, Seaman Koshiro, whose ankles had been fractured by the heaving grating. The gyro-repeater flew from its gimbals and was smashed to junk against the bulkhead. High above, a lookout on the foretop shrieked as metal splinters ripped his arm and part of his chest from his body. Spraying blood in wide arcs and screaming over the din like a high-pitched steam whistle, he was hurled from his platform next to the forward gun-director into the tub of a 25 millimeter gun. Two searchlights and a half-dozen life rafts were blown from the stack while the after gun-director was jarred from its bearings by the impact of a huge strake of plating, tilting crazily to starboard, its panicked crew tumbling out of its single door.
Holding Fujita down with one arm and gripping the stanchion, Brent, numbed by fear and horror, felt Yonaga tremble and shudder. Just as the ensign and Fujita straightened and the other men peered over the windscreen at the holocaust on the flight deck, the torpedoes struck; one amidships to starboard, the other reopening the old wound at the starboard quarter. Luckily, Brent still circled Fujita’s narrow shoulders with one arm while clutching at the windscreen.
Booming, ringing, sounds of tortured and bursting steel reverberated through the hull, and Yonaga leaped twice like a mortally wounded great blue, her agonized contortions lifting the steel grating from the deck
under Brent’s feet. If he had not kept a tight hold on the windscreen and the old man who was clinging to a loose voice tube that no longer had brackets, Fujita would have been flung across the deck like Allen and Kawamoto and heaped with them against the bulkhead with Dempster’s corpse and the injured lookout. The mast snapped twice like gunshots, stays and signal halyards snapping and flopping helplessly in the wind while a colorful rain of shattered glass sprinkled the flag bridge as recognition lights disintegrated. Adding to Yonaga’s agony, heat rose from the burning hangar deck in waves, oily black smoke choking everyone on the bridge.
Fujita leaned close to Brent’s ear. “Bring her left — west, west, the wind is from the north.”
Pulling himself unsteadily to his feet, Brent called into the voice tube, “Pilot house!” Silence. He shouted, “Pilot house!”
“Pilot house, aye,” a stunned voice responded hoarsely.
“Left full rudder. Steady on two-seven-zero.”
Slowing and listing as thousands of tons of water poured into her, the great carrier turned to her new heading, the breeze from the north blowing the smoke and fumes over the leeward side to port.
“All stop! All stop, Brent-san.”
Brent repeated the order into the voice tube as two orderlies carried the groaning lookout and Dempster’s body from the bridge. The pulsing stopped beneath Brent, and a great empty feeling swallowed his heart as it seemed Yonaga was dying. But he felt a new thump beneath his feet as engineers deep in the bowels of the ship — some perhaps drowning already-started bilge pumps.
The amazing old admiral was on his feet, eyes again bright and shifting analytically over his command. He was faced with fire at sea on a ship badly holed by two torpedoes with astonishing explosive power. The fire first: He turned to Naoyuki who was straightening his oversized helmet. “Damage control, hangar deck. Foam out the fire and jettison all ready fuel, bombs, torpedoes, and combustibles. Command Center, I want a damage report.”
“Commander Atsumi reports red light in starboard fuel tanks three, five, seven, nine, eleven, thirteen; fire rooms nine, eleven, thirteen.”
“Auxiliary five inch magazine?”
“Secure, sir.”
“Engine room three?”
“After bulkhead warped and leaking, and there are red lights now in storage rooms five-seven-one and five-seven-three, the after generator and evaporator rooms.” He paused. “More red lights in the starboard thrust block room, center motor room, and the starboard steering engine room and auxiliary engine room three. The clinometer shows a six degree starboard list.”
“We will counter-flood,” Fujita said to Brent and Mark Allen. To Naoyuki: “Commander Atsumi, flood port blisters two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, and fourteen. Fourth damage control, flood port compartments three-three-two to three-four-four, and does Commander Fukioka answer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Commander Fukioka is to personally command damage control on the hangar deck.”
The talker relayed the orders, and Brent felt the list begin to decrease as thousands of tons of water poured into Yonaga’s port blisters and compartments. For the first time, he noticed that the gunfire had stopped. The sky was empty except for a handful of Zeros climbing and circling. Swinging his body in a full turn, he found all twelve Fletchers close to the wounded, stationary giant, protecting her with their own hulls.
A dazed, dull-eyed Mark Allen clinging to the windscreen managed to say breathlessly, “Admiral. For God’s sake give the order not to ventilate ship.” He pointed down through the hole in the hangar deck and the greasy black smoke rolling in solid black clouds to port. “Gasoline fumes can make a bomb of us. That’s how Lexington and Taiho were last —”
Fujita shouted at the talker. “All hands, do not ventilate ship.” He spoke to his executive officer. “Captain Kawamoto, take charge of damage control on the flight deck.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The old captain hobbled off the bridge.
Looking at the huge hole in the middle of the flight deck, Brent could no longer see flames, and the smoke had diminished as hundreds of men both on the hangar and flight decks poured tons of a new foam supplied by the Self-Defense Force on the conflagration.
Naoyuki turned to the admiral. “Commander Fukioka reports fire under control, combustibles have been jettisoned. Requests permission to go below to the starboard quarter.”
“Lord, that was fast. Less than fifteen minutes,” Mark Allen said. “Great crew!”
Brent knew the crew of engine room three must be shoring the twice weakened bulkhead not only to help save Yonaga, but their own lives as well. But there was an added peril from a hit amidships that had flooded outboard compartments, putting pressure on their starboard bulkhead, too. And Fukioka had requested permission to descend into the hell of ruptured compartments and hideous death.
“Permission granted.” Fujita glanced down at the flight deck where scores of hoses snaking to the hands of crewmen still poured water and foam into the wound. But they were cheering and waving. Aft, there was a great hole in the stern that still smoked but there was no fire. Fujita leaned close to the talker. “Tell the chief engineer that I want to get under way.”
The talker spoke into the headpiece, listened and said to his commanding officer, “Chief Warrant Officer Tanesaki is the senior surviving engineering officer, and he suggests fourteen knots, sir. He can give you eighteen knots even without fire rooms nine, eleven, thirteen, and even if we lose engine room three. But many bulkheads are weakened and leaking.”
“Very well. Come right to three-zero-seven, speed fourteen.”
As the wounded leviathan swung slowly to her new course, stern a foot deeper in the water, shattered hangar deck still streaming wisps of brown and white smoke, the electrifying news came in. “Admiral,” the talker shouted. “Commander Gakki reports one enemy carrier sunk, two carriers burning and sinking!”
“Banzai!” Cheers. The officers pounded each other on the back. Shook hands. Fujita grabbed a microphone from the windscreen. “This is Admiral Fujita. Our avenging eagles have destroyed all three enemy carriers.” There were shouts of “banzai,” a rolling thunder of pounding boots. The admiral’s amplified voice silenced the bedlam. “Yonaga is wounded but still underway and ready to fight. Many of our comrades have journeyed to the Yasakuni Shrine, but we have shown Kadafi how ‘little monkeys’ can fight.” More cheers. “There are still two enemy cruisers at sea. We may engage them. Be alert. Damage control, heal our wounds.” He glanced at the sky and then returned to the microphone. “Remember the Naval Lament — ‘If I go to sea, I shall return a corpse awash. Thus for the sake of the emperor, I shall not die peacefully at home.’”
More cheers.
After replacing the microphone, the old admiral pointed grimly at the flight deck. “We cannot handle aircraft.” He turned to the talker. “Radio room; bombers and fighter frequencies. Airgroups are to land at designated fields or alongside escorts.” He looked upward. “CAP continue patrol until out of fuel then land near an escort.”
“Good decision, admiral,” Mark Allen said.
Fujita spoke to Naoyuki. “Command Center, any more red lights?”
“Commander Atsumi reports no new flooding, admiral.”
“Good. Good. Get me a report from the chief engineer.”
Naoyuki complied and listened. “Chief Warrant Officer Tanesaki reports engine room three bulkheads holding. His men and damage control four are shoring and caulking. They are rigging transverse and longitudinal reinforcing beams, and the pumps have dropped the water level below the floor plates.”
“Fine crew, fine crew,” Mark Allen said, awed.
“The best,” Fujita agreed. Then grimly he said, “Those warheads were unbelievably powerful for aerial torpedoes.”
“Those were big fish — much larger than ours,” Allen agreed.
“Ours weigh seventeen hundred forty-two of your pounds, Admiral Allen.”
“I would guess
we were hit by one ton weapons with warheads yielding in the range of four to five tons of TNT.”
“New Russian-shaped charges,” Bernstein said. “The Arabs began using them against our shipping in the Med last year. One can blow a merchant ship out of the water.”
Every head turned as engines roared to the southwest, and the first of Yonaga’s aircraft began to return from the battle to the south. In forty minutes, Brent counted only seven Zeros, eleven Aichis and no Nakajimas. Silently, the officers stared as plane after plane skimmed the sea and then splashed to bobbing halts next to the escorts. Then the engines of the CAP began to sputter and backfire, and within a half hour, the sky was empty.
However, there was good news from damage control. All fires were out and the bulkheads were holding. In fact, Tanesaki promised Fujita 24 knots in an emergency.
The roll call of death was sobering. The hit aft killed twenty-three men, wounded fourteen, destroyed one five inch gun and two twenty-five millimeter mounts. The bomb amidships killed thirty-seven men, wounded fifty-one and rendered the flight deck useless. The torpedoes had killed at least seventy-seven men, and sixty-three more were missing and presumed dead. But Yonaga was still underway, still bristled with 39 5 inch guns and 180 25 millimeter machine guns.
Naoyuki looked at the admiral. “Sir, the radio room reports our aircraft have been landing on Palawan and airfields on Borneo and Sumatra, and over and over they are broadcasting reports of the sinking of three enemy carriers.”
Rubbing his hands together, the old sailor said, “Thank the gods.”
Brent’s mind dwelled on Yoshi Matsuhara. Had the proud warrior found his destiny? Would he be forced to tell Kimio? “Please, Jesus, spare me that,” he whispered to himself.
