From the quayside next to the USS Pennsylvania, which had survived virtually intact, he looked across to Ford Island, where the other battleships had been moored. As the reports had indicated, the capital ships had taken the worst of the pounding. The nearest one, which he had been told was the California, was low in the water and listing. Smoke was rising from some of the more distant ships, moored in three pairs, but although they had all suffered some damage only two were dockyard cases. The other four could sail and fight.
Morgan surveyed the scene with mixed feelings. There had been several hundred American casualties – here, at the airfields and among the fighter pilots – but this was far fewer than he had feared. There had been just enough time for the American defences to mobilise and disrupt the first attack.
The second wave of Japanese planes, arriving an hour later, had been decimated by the raging USAAF fighter pilots before they could reach Pearl Harbor, where the survivors were met by a concentrated barrage of fire. Little damage had been done, and there had been no third wave. The remains of scores of Japanese aircraft littered the island or lay hidden under the harbour waters. They had struck a heavy blow, but had been severely mauled in return.
‘You’re one of the English fliers, right?’
The voice jarred him and he cringed inwardly, bracing himself to confront the naval officer. I’m sorry, he felt like saying, I did what I had to. He stared in confusion as the American’s grim, smoke-blackened face broke into a tired smile.
‘Thanks,’ he said simply. ‘If it weren’t for you guys we’d have been slaughtered in our beds. You did a great job.’
Numbly, Morgan shook the proffered hand and watched as the man walked away. The final irony, he thought. Judas becomes a hero. He walked slowly back to his temporary quarters at Hickham Field in order to complete his report for London. No doubt Churchill would be pleased.
‘Gunner, fire! Reload canister!’ The Captain’s voice was barely audible over the hailstorm of machine-gun fire drumming against the Humber’s armour. With scarcely a pause, the gun jerked backwards in its mounting, blasting hundreds of steel balls into the surrounding jungle. Taylor waited as the spent case was automatically kicked from the breech, then dragged another cartridge from the rack and slammed it into the hot gun. He swayed as the turret swivelled rapidly, co-axial Browning hammering. Another shell. And another.
Taylor was half-deafened, cramped, exhausted. The battle for Singora seemed to have been going on forever, after that reckless dash through the night, tyres slithering on the switchback mudslick that passed for a road. The Humbers had taken the lead, among them some AA versions, the deep roar of their twin Oerlikons occasionally heard as they scythed through the trees.
Following on behind were the six-wheeled APCs, each carrying a section of infantry. Still, as Taylor gathered from the brief reports he heard in his secondary role of Wireless Telegraphy Officer, the British column had hundreds of troops to fight thousands. Reinforcements were on the way as fast as the roads permitted. Meanwhile, the column had to hold on, to prevent the Japanese from securing a bridgehead.
‘Dawn’s breaking.’ The Captain’s voice was hoarse. ‘Now at least we can see the little bastards coming.’ There was a brief lull. ‘My God, there are thousands of them!’ The Captain’s voice had risen sharply. Anything else he might have said was suddenly drowned out by a rippling blast of explosions which rocked the Humber, followed by a whining snarl.
‘Beauforts! You beauties! The Navy’s here!’
But that was only the end of the first phase.
The Captain of HMAS Canberra anxiously scanned the northern sky. The eight-inch gun heavy cruiser, along with her sistership Australia and the six-inch gun Newcastle and Glasgow, the light aircraft carriers Manchester and Frobisher, and a screen of frigates and destroyers, was heading north into dangerous waters.
Their route from Singapore had taken them around the Anamba Islands to avoid a reported minefield and they were now making a steady twenty-five knots to the area to the east of the Singora invasion beach. It was a risky gamble – Japanese submarines were known to be in the area, a naval covering force was lurking somewhere and Singora was within reach of enemy air cover – but risks had to be taken in order to prevent the Japanese from reinforcing their hard-pressed invasion force.
Far ahead, a lone Beaufort scouted for targets or enemy warships. Closer to the small fleet, two more aircraft flew anti-submarine patrol. High overhead, a quartet of Beaufighters provided top cover. Numbers were critical; the two small carriers, converted from cruiser hulls, could only carry a couple of dozen aircraft each, only half of which were fighters.
The Captain lowered his binoculars, feeling a little self-conscious. He was fully aware that the airborne radar of the Beaufort, and then his ship’s on-board systems, would pick up any danger long before the human eye. Furthermore, the low cloud, rain showers and misty conditions that were helping to conceal them from prying eyes also blocked his own vision. But habit was hard to break.
By the route they had taken, Singora was some 600 nautical miles – twenty-four hours steaming – from Singapore. They had left at nightfall on the 8th and it was now midday on the 9th. About six hours to go. The Captain fervently hoped that the RAAF planes at Alor Star and Kota Bharu were ready to support them. He knew that the Eastern Fleet, separated from him by the Malayan Peninsula, had left the area and was steaming rapidly southwards towards Singapore. Reinforcements from that quarter would arrive far too late.
The commander of the Imperial Japanese Navy submarine I-57 counted the ships carefully as they passed by him at extreme range. At their speed they were maintaining, together with their frequent changes of course, he reluctantly estimated that a torpedo attack was unlikely to be favoured with success. However, that was not, in any case, the main reason for his presence. With equal care, he composed his message.
‘Urgent signal from the Beaufort recce plane, sir. A cluster of ships spotted on radar two hundred miles north, heading two-forty degrees. It must be the second wave of transports!’
‘Very well. Steer three-forty degrees and maintain speed. Let’s hope they haven’t spotted the plane. I want to catch this lot napping.’
Assuming that the invasion fleet was travelling at 12 knots, the ships’ courses were converging at a combined true figure of over 30 knots. Less than seven hours to contact; it would be dark when action was joined.
The Aichi E13A seaplane skimmed the surface of the sea at 120 knots, keeping below the clouds and, did the crew but know it, below the searching radar beams. The plane had been out for six hours already and would soon need to turn back to find the parent cruiser, a part of the screening force under Rear-Admiral Kurita.
A shout from the pilot jolted his two crew-members into full alertness, and they spotted the tell-tale wake of a big ship as the floatplane swept past. The pilot banked the Aichi round to follow up the track, while the radio operator prepared to make contact.
The Beaufort’s radar operator cursed as the image in the cathode ray tube flickered and died. They were meant to remain on station a hundred and fifty miles ahead of the British fleet for several more hours, and the shortage of planes was such that a replacement flight would not be ready for some time.
After a brief, agonised discussion among the crew, the reconnaissance plane dropped to a lower altitude and started a visual search pattern.
The mixed force of Mitsubishi G3M and G4M bombers from the Genzan, Kanoya and Mihoro Air Corps Attack Groups had taken off from Saigon and Tu Duam airfields in the cloud and rain of the early afternoon. The message relayed from the floatplane had led to an adjustment in the course but much anxiety as to whether or not they would be able to find the reported British fleet. As evening approached, the skies began to clear and excitement aboard the planes rose sharply. Surely it would not be long before they found their targets!
‘Action Stations – Repel Aircraft.’ The bugle call echoed over the tannoy systems throughout
the fleet as the radar reports came in. The carriers immediately changed course and increased speed, ready to launch aircraft. The first four Beaufighters were already warming up, ready to support the combat air patrol cruising at 15,000 feet, while the sweating deck crews heaved more fighters into position or stood ready to pull them off the lifts as they emerged.
The first attack wave consisted of over thirty of the older G3Ms, lining up a high-level bombing run from 10,000 feet. They never saw the first Beaufighters until they stooped like hawks, cannon hammering. The Mitsubishis had tremendous range, gained in part by savings on armour plate. The Hispanos’ high-explosive and incendiary 20 mm shells glaringly revealed the downside of that particular compromise as the leading bombers exploded and burned.
By now, nearly all of the defending fighters had been launched but most were still climbing at full throttle. The battle that followed was a running one, each flight of Beaufighters attacking in turn as they reached the rapidly disintegrating bomber formation.
Twenty minutes later, the fighters broke off their attack as the remaining handful of bombers reached the fleet. The 4.7 inch guns of the frigates opened fire at 15,000 yards. The Japanese high level bombing attack required aircraft to cluster in close formation, flying straight and level before dropping their bombs simultaneously on a signal of the leader. This also made them beautiful targets for the naval AA gunners. No ships were hit and very few aircraft survived. The Beaufighters were pursuing the remnant of the Japanese force when the fifty low-level torpedo bombers arrived.
The Canberra’s captain watched the Mitsubishis closing in with mounting anxiety. He was well aware that a prewar study had revealed that the success rate for airborne torpedo attacks was only ten percent at 1,250 yards but increased to fifty percent at 750 yards and an alarming eighty-five percent at 600 yards. The aircraft had to be stopped at maximum range.
The cruiser held steady as the Mitsubishis approached at 100 feet, scarcely troubled by the few fighters able to reach them in time. Five thousand yards, four thousand, three.
‘Now we’ll see if it really works,’ the Captain muttered. The big Australian cruisers had just emerged from a controversial refit which had seen all of their old 4 inch secondary armament stripped out and replaced by the new water-cooled 57 mm Bofors guns in eight stabilised twin mountings.
The starboard battery opened fire as one, the combined rate of fire of sixteen rounds per second creating a massive roar of sound. The sky filled with smoke trails as the day-tracers ignited, streaking towards the Japanese planes. The Mitsubishis wobbled perceptibly as the tracers flashed past, then one after another exploded or crashed as the six-pound shells struck home.
‘The Frobisher’s been hit!’
The Captain swung round and cursed as he saw the old carrier swinging, slowing, listing. A column of water rose from the side as a second torpedo struck home. He knew immediately that she would never recover.
‘Tell two of the destroyers to pick up survivors.’ He was scarcely aware of his First Officer translating his command into specific orders. Half of his air cover was sliding beneath the waves. And they were six hundred miles from Singapore.
He became aware of cheers and cat-calls around him and turned to survey the scene. The attack was over, the remaining aircraft escaping into the gathering dusk. Reports came to him. The Newcastle had also been torpedoed but the much newer cruiser would survive, albeit with reduced speed. The returning Beaufighters were crowding the Manchester’s flight deck as they came in to refuel. Launching any aircraft from that ship would take some organising.
‘Radar contact, sir. Several ships, dead ahead, range fifteen miles.’
The Captain swung round in surprise. To have arrived so soon, the Japanese ships must have been travelling much faster than he had assumed. A dreadful possibility grew in his mind.
‘What speed?’
A few minutes silence as his officers calculated the rate of change of distance and bearing.
‘Twenty-four knots, sir.’
The Captain cursed under his breath. Those weren’t transports – they were warships. And they were hunting him.
The atmosphere in the War Room was tense with excitement. Churchill was in his element, poring over maps and charts of the Asian theatre and consulting the latest intelligence reports about naval deployments and military progress.
‘So the rest of the cruiser force made it back to Singapore and has joined the Far East Fleet there. We now have the most powerful naval force in the area. The question is, how to use it to the best effect?’
The Prime Minister’s first sentence had covered a minor epic, Don thought. Realising that there were no invasion ships to attack but only a large and hostile heavy cruiser force bearing down on them, the mixed British and Commonwealth fleet had turned back to Singapore. It would have been a relatively simple exercise if it were not for the torpedo damage sustained by the Newcastle. It would have been easier to have abandoned the vessel, but the fleet commander decided to fight for it.
The night action which followed had been intense and relentless. The Japanese ships were more powerful and numerous and were well trained in night fighting, but the British had the huge advantage of gunnery radar which enabled them to detect and hit their targets at long range. RAF Hampden torpedo bombers had also flown many sorties in support of the Manchester’s radar-equipped Beauforts.
The end result had been a battered but intact fleet which had eventually crawled into Singapore Naval Base on the morning of December 11th. Behind them lay a mauled Japanese cruiser force, of which two or three were believed sunk by aerial torpedoes. Losses among the British aircraft had been heavy.
‘We may have kept the Japs out of Malaya, but the situation elsewhere is difficult.’
Harold Johnson’s judicious words were, as usual, a model of understatement, Don reflected.
‘Taylor’s reports from Singora indicate that the invading force has been pushed further back into Siam, to join up with the smaller forces landed further north at several points on the Isthmus of Kra. A notional front line has been established with the Japanese defence centred on Nakhon, but the jungle means that the line gets a bit fuzzy inland. There are widespread reports of small-unit engagements across the isthmus as each side probes the other’s defences, and there has been unremitting air fighting. There are some concerns about the attrition rate among our aircraft, although more supplies of Brigands are due from Australia.’
Churchill nodded. ‘The Army and the RAF are doing well, although they will be further stretched if the Japanese drive west from northern Siam into Burma, as predicted. But so far the Navy has achieved little apart from the initial air attacks on the Singora invasion fleet, and the Americans are in dire trouble. We must help, especially since we must keep Roosevelt on our side in the hope that sooner or later America will be at war with Germany as well.’
Quite, thought Don. The American side of the Japanese operation was going to plan, apart from the more limited damage inflicted at Pearl Harbor. Japanese landings had already been made on some of the smaller Philippine Islands and air attacks had destroyed many American aircraft. Peter Morgan and his AEW Warwick, en route from Oahu to Singapore, had been on hand as planned to sound the alarm, so the contest had been less one-sided, with the Japanese also suffering heavy losses.
‘What do you think?’
Churchill’s question jolted Don out of his thoughts. ‘There is no doubt that our Eastern Fleet is the biggest piece on the board at the moment. The IJN will be anxious to come to grips with it before the USN can recover from the Pearl Harbor damage. It could be a mistake to go out and fight them until we are ready to coordinate with the Americans. After all, they know exactly where we are and you can bet they’ll have minefields and submarines in position to block any likely routes from Singapore. I think the main need is for aircraft to defend the Philippines and to attack the various Japanese invasion forces heading for it, or around it to Borneo and the Dutch East I
ndies. If the Philippines fall, the East Indies will follow and Malaya will become vulnerable again.’
Churchill gestured in exasperation. ‘Aircraft, aircraft, that’s always the problem. The Soviets are screaming for as many aircraft as possible, so are the Americans, yet we really need all we can make for ourselves.’
‘The key to using our fleet,’ Don mused, ‘is to find an opportunity to strike when the Japanese will be most vulnerable – when they are about to launch another invasion.’
‘Can you recall the sequence of events?’
Don shook his head regretfully. ‘I wrote down all I could remember in the mid-1930s, but South-East Asia wasn’t a particular specialism of mine. In any case, the changes which have already taken place will be bound to affect Japanese planning. The best approach will be to make use of our radar-equipped reconnaissance planes to cover the area and give advance warning of the next attacks. We have a squadron of Sunderlands at Singapore as well as Peter’s Warwick.’
‘Then we’ll send some of the Sunderlands to Manila, with a couple of squadrons of Spitfires to defend the area.’
Don stirred uneasily. He well remembered the bitter arguments with Fighter Command, who had been keen to hang on to their squadrons in England, justifying their retention by sending them on largely pointless and expensive ‘rhubarb’ raids over occupied Europe. Four squadrons for Singapore was all the Spitfires that could be released. ‘That could be leaving Singapore very exposed to daylight attack.’
‘I know, but some risks have to be taken. The loss of the Philippines and the East Indies is a more immediate danger than bombing raids on Singapore. I will inform the Joint Chiefs of my decision.’
THE FORESIGHT WAR Page 26
