The Apostates

by Lars Teeney

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  Private Burke and Private Jones were busy making pre-battle checks on all components and machinery within their action stations. Even inside the gun deck of the turret Burke could hear the orchestra of the flotilla. He wondered what the ocean-scape looked like currently. Was the Japanese fleet within visual range? Burke anticipated that the Iowa would be involved in a classic “crossing the T” battleship engagement, where one line of battleships would cross the enemy’s line at a perpendicular angle. He imagined if it came to that the carnage would be spectacular. Burke couldn’t help but picture timber framed ships of ages past when he thought of the coming battle. But, he knew it wouldn’t be like that. Most likely it would leave twisted hulks of smoking metal, compartments would be flooded, and sailors would drown. Cities at sea would be pulled under the waves, destined to become man-made reefs.

  “Hey, Burke! We’re gonna really hand them Japs their asses today, aren’t we? Gonna be great!” Jones had yelled from the lower deck over all the racket from outside the ship.

  “Jones, I don’t think it’s gonna be that enjoyable from in here. Shore bombardments are one thing. This battle could go on for days. We might go fuckin’ deaf.” Burke was the realist of the two.

  “Ah! Stop being such a wuss, Burke!” Jones had spouted. He always had thought Burke a killjoy.

  “Action stations, action stations! Enemy contact made! This is not a drill! Anti-aircraft measures!” the emergency announcement had been made, and Jones and Burke sprang into action. Burke had prepped the projectile rammer, and it was ready to load the shells into the breach of each barrel. He was waiting for the Fire Directors command to load the shells. The Fire Directors deck was located just above the turrets and they were responsible for acquiring targets, calculating distance, elevation, aiming, then finally giving the order to load and fire. Burke was tense with anticipation as the minutes ticked by without the order to fire. He could make out the sounds of small arms and anti-aircraft guns blazing. Burke figured that this skirmish would take the form of an air raid.

  Burke and Jones heard the roar and dive of various aircraft and an explosion in the distance. Above deck, there was an intense struggle taking shape where the anti-aircraft screen was attempting to make dents in the number of Japanese fighters and bombers intent on destroying the heart of their fleet, the carriers. It was as if the battleships, destroyers, cruisers and submarines were drone bees, working in unison to protect the center of the hive, and the carriers were the queen bees.

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  Captain Inoguchi was satisfied with the fleet’s forward progress. They still had double digit miles to travel before they would make contact with American surface craft. Reports had reached Inoguchi that an island based attack wing had engaged the American anti-aircraft screen. He had wondered why they had been committed so early in the battle as a combined arms approach was the key to Japanese battle plan.

  Inoguchi had his aides update the tactical battle board that was set up in the middle of his Conn. Every force was represented on the board to the best of their intelligence gathering capabilities would allow. Inoguchi looked at the board. The odds of a surface engagement did not look good. The American force was numerous and spread out for many miles. The one advantage the Japanese had was the sheer power of the battleship spearhead comprised by the Yamato and Musashi. Their momentum could not be allowed to be slowed. They would have to punch through the picket line of seven battleships and head straight for the American capital ships, Hornet, Yorktown, Belleau Wood, and Bataan. This was just Task Group One of the combined force Task Group Fifty-eight. There were three other task force groups spread out on the flanks and rear.

  “Captain Inoguchi, sir! I’ve received a coded message from Admiral Ozawa. I have had it decoded for your eyes,” an ensign reported while handing a piece of paper to Inoguchi.

  Captain Inoguchi’s eyes traced the lines on the page. His eyes grew wider as he progressed through the message. He was being ordered to stop his battle group from moving forward. The attack would consist of air attack wings only and not surface ships. Inoguchi grew furious. He predicted that, if only fighter and bomber wings were allowed to attack unsupported by surface ships, both intercepting American fighter, and anti-aircraft screens would cut them to pieces. They would be sacrificed needlessly. Inoguchi thought that without their remaining fighters the surface ships and carriers would be easy pickings for American aircraft.

  “Ensign! Send an encrypted protest of these orders back to the Admiral. Keep our ships full steam ahead until he responds,” Inoguchi ordered.

  “But, sir, these are the Admiral’s orders,” The ensign hesitated.

  “Damn you, deliver my message. I will not sacrifice our best pilots without protest!” Inoguchi demanded.

  Inoguchi fretted. Everything was about to come apart if the battle plan was changed this late into the action. They would lose all their aircraft. He cursed Admiral Ozawa, who was stationed toward the rear of the formation on the carrier, Taihō. Inoguchi speculated that the Admiral had been commanded by the Admiralty to withhold his surface vessels so that they would not be damaged and thus be used at a later date. The Admiralty was panicked, but without both aircraft and surface ships working in unison, they were dooming the entire navy. Inoguchi paced the Conn, anticipating a response from the Admiral.

  After some time, the ensign came running, “Captain, sir. I have a response from the Admiral.” He handed it to Inoguchi who could barely open the message fast enough.

  “Rear Admiral Inoguchi and Captain of Musashi, Admiral Ozawa has ordered a halt to all surface craft in the Mobile fleet. All vessels are ordered to turn around and rendezvous around the flagship Taihō’s position. Failure to carry out these orders will result in your relief of command and court martial.”

  Inoguchi audibly cursed and crumbled the paper into his fist. There was nothing he could do. He had to comply.

  “Send out the following orders to our battleship picket and support craft. Our orders are to reverse course and rendezvous with the Taihō. Repeat: reverse course,” Inoguchi made the general announcement. Within seconds, messages were being encoded and sent out over the airwaves or signal flags were used to warn nearby vessels. The helmsmen steered the ship hard astern and all other ships in the battle group followed suit. Inoguchi had to get air as he was on the verge of hyperventilation. He stepped out onto the forward observation deck and breathed deep.

  “Those cowards in the leadership will get everyone killed!” he thought to himself, blood pressure throbbing in his skull. He looked up in the blue abyss of the sky. As ships turned back, massive fighter wings flew overhead, consisting of hundreds of Mitsubishi Zeros. Behind them came the fighter-bombers and torpedo planes, with attached fighter escorts. Finally behind them were massive bombers. All were flying in chevron formations, similar to flocks of birds. Inoguchi was remorseful. He thought that the airmen faced slaughter without fleet support. He considered resigning his commission, because he wanted no part of such ignorant decisions, but then figured he would be kept on the ship in custody if he did so. He concluded he would be dead either way, so might as well die in a position of command as oppose to one of submission.

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  Captain McCann was overwhelmed by the size of the aerial attack. The picket line was waiting for the Japanese surface ships in conjunction with the fighter wings. McCann was at a loss, because he couldn’t understand why the Japanese fleet would leave their aircraft unsupported. He thought it must have been part of some grand deception; they would soon be springing their master-stroke. McCann, as Captain of the U.S.S. Iowa, flagship of the Task Group Fifty-eight battle-line, ordered all ships under his command to execute all anti-aircraft measures at their disposal. On top of all anti-aircraft small arms and turrets, he ordered all heavy guns aimed skyward. They would need it all.

  On the horizon appeared the Japanese attack force of at least four hundred aircraft. The air rai
d klaxon sounded. Several hours before they had sounded because the American picket line had come in contact with about thirty Japanese land-based aircraft and had shot down several with anti-aircraft flak. Now they faced the main strike force, who’s aim was hunting down the carriers. Captain McCann looked at the tactical situation table. The position of the Japanese battleship picket was being repositioned on the board, showing them in full retreat. McCann had thought the Japanese had done the Americans a huge service, as they had spared countless American ships with their turnabout.

  The Japanese attack aircraft moved within range of the Iowa’s heavy guns. There were so many planes in the air that the shells were guaranteed to hit something. At that moment Captain McCann felt it was time give the order to open fire. The picket line of battleships, cruisers and destroyers took aim with their heavy guns and opened fire, lobbing tons of high explosive shells, miles into the air, into densely packed aircraft formations. They passed through many aircraft, tearing off wings, igniting fuel tanks, tearing through flesh and bone, and leaving wreckage swirling into nose-dives wrought with black smoke and vapor trails.

  In some cases, one shell would disable multiple planes. But, despite destroying some aircraft, the attack formation spread out and kept advancing. Now the Japanese attack wing was directly overhead of the American picket line, within range of the smaller caliber guns. The sixty-four-millimeter anti-aircraft turrets on the Iowa and other ships opened up, firing flak rounds into the formation, designed to explode in mid-air amidst the aircraft. This barrage of flack was far superior to down aircraft than larger caliber shells. It wreaked havoc among the approaching formation. Puffs of smoke peppered the sky marking where the flack rounds exploded, sending white hot shrapnel into the fuselage of fighters. Countless more fighters and bombers took to flame and fell from the sky to impact into the depths below.

  The fighter and bomber formation numbers had been dented, but the aircraft that survived the screen continued on to their targets. Miles away the American carriers had scrambled their aircraft to intercept the Japanese attack force. The formation was composed of mainly Hellcat fighters, a single engine, versatile, carrier-based aircraft that was a match for the Japanese Zero. Within minutes, a massive dogfight would take shape above the American fleet.

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  Private Burke had just finished feeding shells into the Mark Seven’s barrels at a steady rate. He had no visual reference of what had just occurred outside the ship. Burke had estimated that each barrel had fired off thirty shells within the space of a half hour. Even with his ear protection his head was ringing, and the fumes of spent rounds were urging him outside. The all clear sounded and he rushed to the hatch to get fresh air, Jones followed behind him.

  Burke ran over to the bulwark and peered into the surrounding ocean waters. In the distance, he could make out the floating skeletons of down Japanese planes. American vessels had rescued some of the downed Japanese pilots. Others, instead of being picked up by Americans shot themselves with side arms, and were left floating, wrapped up in their parachutes. He could still see traces of the flak round smoke that hovered in the sky over the ships. Burke tried to count the remains of the Japanese planes in the water. He estimated he could count at least twenty, but the picket line spread out for miles so the total number was well beyond his count.

  Burke could still make out the rumble of masses of plane engines further back in the fleet formation. He looked in the direction of the carriers and spotted faint dots in the sky, flying around each other like a distant swarm of insects. He thought that it must be the American aircraft in a dogfight with the Japanese. He was too far away to discern what was taking place over the carriers. Burke would have to wait for news about the outcome of the air battle.

  “Burke! Would you look at that man—those yellow bastards were sent to the bottom of the sea. How many do you think we got?” Jones was congratulating himself, celebrating prematurely.

  “Hard to say, but it ain’t over. See over there. They’re trying to get the carriers,” Burke gestured toward the four carriers in their battle group. Jones stood, transfixed, trying to make out detail.

  “Well...Shit. They won’t be able to do nothing.” Jones was looking concerned. He put a hand up to shade his eyes.

  “At any rate. We should probably stick close because I have a feeling it ain’t over.” Burke scanned the skies. Nothing else was said between the two among the apocalyptic carnage.

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  The American aviator maneuvered his Hellcat in an attempt to train the elusive Zero in his gun sights. The Japanese pilot was experienced but his wing-mates had been shot down, and he was alone. The Zero was pulled into a climb, then, an abrupt dive. The American pilot followed in the dive and steered his plane so that he was able to place his sights well in front of the descending Zero, “leading the target”, then he fired, sending several machine gun rounds through the sky. The Zero ran into the rounds, which raked the fuselage and set the engine alight. It was the American pilot’s second kill of the day.

  The American doubled back to regroup with his two wingmen, but he found there was only one left. The two rejoined their squadron and the planes traveled into the direction of another wave of Japanese fighters. The fighters were trying to screen a wing of bombers and torpedo planes. The American Hellcats peeled off from their formations to single out enemy targets. The Japanese did the same, but they were outnumbered. The American followed a Zero that was pursuing a Hellcat in turn. The American opened fire, striking the Zero a couple times, but it was not lethal. The Zero then proceeded to open up on his query, however, the Zero’s rounds found their marks resulting in turning the Hellcat to flame and debris. The American tried to stay on his target but as he came out of a roll, he found a more enticing target: a group of unprotected Japanese bombers.

  The American accelerated at top speed toward the bomber wing. He lined up a plane in his sights and let rounds rip. The American flew so close that he could see the first rounds strike, straight into the cockpit, reducing one pilot to a fine, red mist. Subsequent rounds impacted into the right wing engine, causing it to catch flame, sending the bomber into a death spiral. The American found another bomber in almost point blank range and sent fifty caliber rounds right down the core of the bomber that punched holes through the tail section. They were kill shots. The American pulled up at the last second to avoid running into the floundering bomber.

  A trio of Zeros did not fail to notice the American Hellcat making dents in their bomber formation. The three Zeros pursued and fired numerous rounds toward the lone Hellcat. The American pilot felt rounds impact into his plane. One ricocheted off his cockpit canopy, causing a slight crack. The American cursed, as this attack forced him to disengage the bomber group and the rest flew onward unscathed. The American dove then flew low and close to the water. He was traveling back toward the American picket line, in an effort to lure his pursuers into an anti-aircraft barrage from ships.

  The Zeros followed his lead, flying low and matching his trajectory. They fired more shots at the American’s Hellcat, this time striking something vital in the engine, a smoke trail formed out of the hole in the fuselage. Its engine sputtered, as his plane passed between two battleships in the picket-line at near weather deck altitude. The two ships were the Iowa and New Jersey. As the three Zeros passed through the battleship line, the Iowa and New Jersey trained in and fired all available sixty-four caliber guns at the three planes. A crossfire was created and the three planes were shredded and diced into a fiery wreckage, that tumbled on the surface of the ocean. The American’s Hellcat veered around, in an attempt to get closer to the Iowa, then his plane stalled and dropped onto the surface of the water with a huge splash. He popped open the canopy and inflated his life preserver, hoping that the Iowa had seen him.

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  On the weather deck of the Iowa Private Burke had witnessed the whole affair. He had his eye trained on the downed pilot.<
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  “American pilot in the water! He needs rescue!” Burke yelled to other personnel on deck, who relayed the rescue call up to the bridge.

  Burke watched as the pilot floated and bobbed aimlessly. He felt the Iowa turn to port, shifting direction. The Iowa crept closer to the American. A lifeboat was lowered down the side of the hull and put out to sea. The vessel had a small outboard motor, which zipped over to retrieve the downed pilot. The personnel snagged him out of the sea and hauled him aboard. He was shivering from the frigid water. The boat returned to the port side of the Iowa, and it was hoisted back to the weather deck.

  Private Burke ran over to the rescue party and helped with the stretcher that supported the American. He grabbed one side of the stretcher and faced the pilot. The man had brown hair and eyes, had the everyman look of Middle American, Germanic stock.

  “Hey, airman, I saw the whole thing! Hell of a maneuverer. They fell for your trap.” Burke attempted to offer encouragement to the injured and cold pilot.

  “Thank you, sailor. Hell, it was like a turkey shoot back home on the farm. I’d be meat without your ship right now. I just hope I’m not out of action for long,” the American pilot said.

  “Agreed. Hey, what’s your name, sir? I’d like to know for when I tell that story!” Burke inquired.

  “Schrubb. John H.P. Schrubb. Probably not the last time you’ll hear that name! Good hunting, sailor!” With that, John H.P. Schrubb was whisked away on the stretcher to the infirmary. Burke had heard of the Schrubb name before, somewhere. Then it came to him. He remembered reading about some bootlegging operations during Prohibition. Burke placed it: the Schrubb family had been prominent mobsters on the Eastern Seaboard. Apparently since the end of Prohibition they had moved into legitimate business ventures and politics.

  “Well, shit. That’s one way to get the vote, become a decorated war hero,” Burke thought to himself. Burke figured that Schrubb had indeed been telling the truth; he had not heard the last of the name.