by Stuart Slade
"Make to Ranjit. Attack gun cruiser with torpedoes then engage targets of opportunity with guns. We will hold off counterattack developing from starboard. Message ends." Dasgupta briefly wondered if he actually had the authority to send that message. It really didn't matter, it was the only thing to do. "Break starboard now, intercept course for the enemy destroyers."
Rana swerved in the water. Her designers had made a bad mistake with the American Fletcher class, one that had made those destroyers less agile than an Iowa class battleship. When they'd designed Rana, they hadn't made that mistake again. In fact they'd gone overboard trying to avoid the error. Even at.... Dasgupta glanced at the readout... 38.1 knots, she could turn on a pinhead. He felt her stern shooting out and the ship starting to skid in the water as the helm was put over.
"Center ship is Yahagi Sir. Two other Kawari class with her, I think one is Kisaragi, her mast's different from the rest."
"Target torpedoes on Yahagi." She was armored; Rana's 4.5 inch guns would be less effective against her. "Hold fire until the torpedoes hit, then A and B turrets engage port target, X and Y turrets the starboard."
Normally splitting fire was a mistake but not this time. Rana's 4.5s each threw 45 55 pound shells a minute and she had eight of them. Naval commentators had said she had the firepower of a WW2 Atlanta class cruiser but that wasn't true, she had at least twice that. The Chipanese 3.9 inch gun threw 35 28 pound shells per minute and each ship had only four. Rana outgunned both Chipanese Kawaris put together. Of course if Yahagi survived the torpedoes, that changed things.
Rana straightened out with a dull whine as the quintuple torpedo tubes swung to bear. Dasgupta felt the lurch as the torpedoes fired out in a spread. Hopefully, they'd get one of the Chipanese destroyers, perhaps even two. They were good torpedoes, technically still British Mark 8s but actually a hybrid of the Mark 8 and the American Mark 14. Very good torpedoes, but straight-runners, not homing torpedoes. Would they be good enough? Shooting at fast-moving destroyers, even with a ten-torpedo spread, was a notoriously chancy business
Her torpedoes gone, Rana was snaking, trying to chase the splashes from the Chipanese 3.9 inch guns. In this wild knife-fight, speed was the only thing that kept ships safe and he had to wait until he'd closed the range. The problem with his rapid-fire guns was that they ate ammunition terrifyingly fast. He had a huge supply of ammunition by destroyer standards, 365 rounds per gun. Enough to keep his guns firing for exactly eight minutes. Across the water, Yahagi had seen her peril and was frantically making a turn of her own to try and comb the inbound spread.
"‘Any second now....." Weaps voice was tense. "Any second......" And there they were! A column of white water erupted on Yahagi right forward, between the bow and No. 1 turret. A second later, a second column erupted right aft, astern of the missile launcher. She'd almost made it, almost turned between the torpedoes but not quite. She'd been hit in the screws as well, no doubt about it. "GOT HER! Topped and tailed by God!"
The bridge crew cheered, the sound mixed with slightly forced laughter at the description of the damage. After all, the unsavory habits of Saigon's underworld were well known. Dasgupta swung his binoculars onto the Chipanese destroyer. She was going fast, no doubt about it, bows blown off right up to No.1 turret, stern a crushed wreck. She was already slowing and rolling over, only the fact she was flooding from both ends was stopping her doing a final dive. Not many would get off her, Dasgupta's mind told him grimly, she and her crew were a goner.
"Guns, designated targets, open fire." The bridge shook as the forward guns crashed, Weaps was firing in the forward guns in pairs, less than a second separating the salvoes. The first pair were short but the guns elevated slightly between each shot, the director correcting for elevation and range.
It was a perfect ladder, the last pair of bursts were obscured by the enemy ship, the Kisaragi Number One had said? The gun barrels dropped a tiny amount then both turrets went to full rate of fire, a two-gun salvo every three quarters of a second. An orange ball erupted from the Kisaragi, then two more revealing that the guns had the range. With that rate of fire, as long as the radar tracked the target, they wouldn't lose it. Dasgupta swung his binoculars onto the second destroyer. She hadn't been hit yet, the secondary fire control aft was taking longer to get the range. Then, another bright ball as the first 4.5 inch rounds struck home.
Suddenly Rana lurched, smoke eddying up from below the bridge. A shot had cracked home, just at the base of the foremast. The nav radar up there was probably gone but that was of little import. Another 3.9 inch shell struck home aft of the funnel, demolishing the useless 37mm quad mount there. Then, as Dasgupta was still looking, another shot slammed into the rear of the forward superstructure, sending the glass screens scything across the bridge. Rana wasn't the only ship that had got the range of her opponent.
INS Mysore, Flagship, First Division, The Flying Squadron, South China Sea.
If the torpedo was human, it would have lost hope. It has missed its enemy; the sound of screws had never appeared within its acquisition cone. It had run on, its acoustic sensors straining in the water for something to home in on. Then, when almost all chance had gone, the torpedo picked up the rhythmic beat of screws. Right on the edge of the cone, but there. Almost thankfully, the torpedo turned towards the sound and the faint, steady beat of the screws crept over into the center of the cone. Now, it was more distinct, easier to analyze. Screws, threshing wildly in the water, cavitating madly. The torpedo accelerated to maximum speed and set off into its attack.
"Sir, high speed revolutions to starboard! Inbound."
Dahm cursed. For their sonar to pick up high-revving screws at the speed Mysore was making, the source had to be very, very close. Once again, Mysore's Captain was ready. "Emergency turn NOW, full starboard rudder, starboard screw full reverse, port screw emergency ahead." Mysore started to skid in the water, her starboard side dipping deep, her portside lifting high.
It was that reaction to the forces working on her hull that saved the ship. Not from being hit for the inbound torpedo was far too close for that, but by turning a lethal under-the-keel shot into a side impact explosion. The torpedo itself helped matters in that. Faulty depth-keeping was an inherent fault in the design, and it was running shallow. The torpedo hit only a few feet below what would normally have been Mysore's waterline, directly under the aft funnel.
The explosion tore a hole almost 40 feet long in the ship's side, ripping open the aft boiler room. The lucky boiler-room crewmembers were killed by blast and fragments. The not so lucky drowned in the mass of water flooding into the compartment. The really unlucky were scalded to death as that water hit the boilers and filled the compartment with superheated steam.
Yet, for all that, Mysore was a lucky ship. The flash from the explosion went aft, into the Sagarika missile magazine. Now empty, it took the blast wave and sucked the life from it. Even more fortunately, the path aft was much more attractive to a blast wave than trying to force through the thick, unpierced bulkhead that separated the forward machinery space from the aft boiler room. The Mysore had her machinery arranged on the unit plan and that meant she could have movement again within a few minutes, if she lived that long. That was the rub. If she lived that long, because slowing down in this maelstrom of racing ships and the hammering of rapid-fire guns was death and Mysore hadn't just slowed down, she'd come to a complete halt, broadside on to the Chipanese formation.
INS Nilgiri, First Division, The Flying Squadron, South China Sea.
A few hundred yards away, Captain Simons on the Nilgiri watched his flagship surrounded by the white columns of six-inch shell splashes. White, not the ugly black and red of direct hits. The wide Chipanese salvo spreads had saved Mysore from the first salvo but her luck couldn't, and didn't, last. A few seconds later, another broadside tore in and this time, the twelve shots scored five direct hits. Simons watched helplessly as Mysore's bridge crumpled under the impacts and black smoke boiled up as fires
took hold on the stricken cruiser.
"Weaps, fire our remaining Ikaras at that damned Chimp cruiser. If she's firing at them, it'll give Mysore a breathing space." And bring in her fire on us, Simons thought. In this wild, frantic battle, speed was life and his frigate just didn't have enough of it. Speed or life, take your pick. Didn't matter, Nilgiri didn't have enough of either. Barring a miracle of course.
HIJMS Aoba, Flagship, South China Sea Squadron, South China Sea
If there was a Yasukuni for dead warships, that Indian cruiser would soon be joining Asama there. It had been a gift from the Gods, a totally unexpected torpedo hit that had left the biggest ship in the Indian fleet stationary and helpless. A few second earlier, she had been twisting and tuning between the shells hurled at her. Now, she was disabled, listing, burning, and at Aoba's mercy. As if in contemptuous disregard of the concept, Aoba's twelve guns crashed again, sending more shells into the pyre of smoke that marked the position of the Indian flagship.
"Missiles inbound!" Kurita wanted to cry in despair. Not again. How many of the wretched things did the Indian ships carry? He had to swing his main guns to deal with that threat, still, the Indian cruiser was badly hurt and not going anywhere. Time for her later. The 155mm dual purpose guns blended their roar with the crackle of the 100mms and the two inbound Ikaras were blotted from the sky.
Then, there was a cry of alarm from one of the lookouts. Another Indian destroyer swept out of the smoke drifting across from where Asama had exploded. She was less than 5,000 yards meters away and the old, traditionalist naval officer in Kurita recognized a perfect torpedo attack. He'd been hoodwinked, his guns were pointing the wrong way, it would take precious seconds to bring them to bear on that destroyer and blast her from the water. Only, he didn't have those seconds and she was coming in far too fast. If there had been two destroyers, he'd have been caught in a hammerhead attack and his flagship would have joined Asama but there weren't. The other Indian destroyer had taken on three Japanese ships to buy this attack and the hammerhead had only one side. That gave Aoba a chance. The 18,000 ton cruiser started to swing but cruisers weren't destroyers. They didn't skid and swerve the way the destroyers did. Their movements were more stately and in this frantic engagement, stately didn't cut it.
Bridge, INS Ranjit, First Division, The Flying Squadron, South China Sea.
"Got them!" Captain Gill thumped the bridge rail in triumph. He'd used the smoke and chaos caused by the missile barrage to mask his move until the last minute. Then, he'd burst out of the thick, foul-smelling smoke and made his run, across the bows of the two Chipanese cruisers in the formation.
"Forward tubes, take the gun cruiser, aft tubes take the rocket cruiser."
His crew were expecting that. They had the tubes already trained and the black torpedoes left their launchers almost as the order was given "Guns, prepare to fire on that rocket cruiser. Maximum rate of fire, all eight guns. I want that ship raked." Ranjit could fire 360 rounds a minute, six rounds a second and at this range at least half of them, probably more, would hit. The theorists would say that no unarmored ship could take that kind of punishment. Now was the time to see if they were right.
A cheer on the bridge broke his concentration. Two columns of water had erupted on the Chipanese gun-cruiser's hull, the first directly under her torpedo tubes, the second under her aft 3.9 inch gun mounts. A second later, there was another explosion, a big one that mashed the superstructure aft of the funnel into a tangled mass of metal. Aoba had been reloading her torpedo tubes and the hit had exploded the reloads. Gill had always said those Chipanese oxygen-powered torpedoes were a liability not an asset; the Indian Navy had agreed with him. Across the sea, the gun cruiser was coming to a halt, listing heavily.
"And again Sir!" The rocket cruiser was hit, a single explosion right forward on the bows. That would slow her down, a bit, but it wasn't the crippling damage the gun cruiser had suffered. "Guns opening up now."
HIJMS Yashima, South China Sea Squadron, South China Sea
When he had been a young boy, Captain Fumai had made a wooden model of an American battleship. It hadn't been a very good model. It had been made of soft wood and it was crude; just a block for the hull, another for the superstructure and smaller ones for the turrets. It had been painted gray and had a crude stars-and-stripes painted on it. He'd taken it to school; to the cheers of his schoolmates, he'd pushed it bow-first into an electric fan. His teacher had praised his patriotism, then punished him for damaging the blades on the fan. Now, looking at his cruiser, Fumai remembered how the wood had splintered as the fan blades had chewed it apart.
The destroyer was barely 3,000 meters away and its gun turrets seemed a solid sheet of flame. The first few rounds had been short but the gunners were excellent and they'd walked the fire onto the hull of the cruiser. Now the shells were hitting so fast that there was no way to distinguish between the explosions or count how many had been scored. The old joke about Ainu counting, ‘one, two, many,' ran though his mind as the hull of his cruiser disintegrated under the hammering. Steel was flying into the air, the forward rocket launchers had been mangled into scrap, hurled around by the sheer number of shells pouring into his ship. The damage was marching backwards, just as it had when he'd pushed his wooden battleship into the electric fan. Then, the explosions reached the bridge and Fumai's last thought was that he was being punished again.
HIJMS Aoba, Flagship, South China Sea Squadron, South China Sea
The sirens were going off all over the ship and Kurita could feel the thunder as the damage control crews ran to stem the water flooding in from the torpedo hits. They were insignificant though. beside the sight of what was happening to Yashima. The torpedo hit right forward had come as a disappointment rather than a surprise; any destroyer skipper who got in this close to two big cruisers would spread his salvo between the two, hoping to get both.
In a way, the Japanese cruisers had been lucky. Neither had been critically damaged, although the shambles of Aoba's midship section was a nightmare to look at. Then, he'd thought the Indian destroyer had exploded, the sheet of flame along her length looked that way at least. Only, she hadn't. It was her guns, firing at a phenomenal rate, faster than any main gun the Japanese Navy had. The first few rounds had missed, but the avalanche that followed them had not. Yashima had looked like a tree decorated with twinkling lights as the wave of explosions had washed along her, leaving nothing but tangled and devastated wreckage in its wake. Kurita's CBs gave the performance of the Indian 120mm gun. Simple mathematics told him that the unarmored rocket cruiser had been hit by the equivalent of a full broadside of 45 6 centimeter guns. Yet she was afloat, erect and obviously under power although at whose orders was an interesting question. With the ship's superstructure nothing but tangled wreckage, nobody could be around to con the ship. Not up there at any rate.
"Damage Control Reports Sir. First torpedo hit shallow and exploded our reloads. The damage is spectacular but superficial. Nothing below the armor belt. Second torpedo hit the side, the torpedo protection system almost coped with it. We've lost a boiler room portside and had to counterflood a starboard side boiler room to compensate. We'll be able to make 20 knots as soon as the boilers come back on line in the other rooms. Flooding is limited, the crews are shoring up bulkheads and sealing leaks now. We have a flooding perimeter."
That was a mercy. An established flooding perimeter meant that the ship was safe, the flooding was confined to the already-affected area. With an established perimeter, work could start on dewatering compartments and reclaiming them from the sea. Losing the boiler rooms was a problem, Kurita cursed the designers who'd put a midships longitudinal bulkhead in the engine rooms. It was a recipe for capsizing.
"We've lost our aft guns, Sir." The First Officer was still speaking. "Power failure, we might get them back soon. Forward guns are still operational under local control. Shall we hit that destroyer?"
Kurita shook his head. "She's heading right into our th
ree right flank destroyers. They'll finish her. We'll start taking the two smaller ships out there, by the cruiser we've crippled. Before they can launch any more of those torpedo-missiles."
INS Nilgiri, First Division, The Flying Squadron, South China Sea.
Simons saw the cruiser being hit and lurching to a halt. Hit but not killed was his judgment. And that meant retribution for his pair of Ikaras was still impending. Sure enough, the forward guns on the cruiser fired, but the shell bursts were wild and scattered. Not surprising, considering the battering the cruiser had just taken. Even firing was a fine display of seamanship.
"Hard to starboard, full rudder, emergency speed!" Nilgiri swerved to starboard, her hard-worked engine crews squeezing just a little more power out of her gas turbines. One thing about his gas turbine engines, Simons thought, they are much more responsive than steam.
"We've got two Ikaras left Sir" Weaps was gently prodding his Captain.
"Very good, Weaps. I know how you hate to be left out of things. Shoot them at that damned cruiser before she rapes us."
"Firing now Sir."
The old expression ran though Simons' mind. When rape is inevitable, the best thing is to lie back and enjoy it. Once again, he reflected on just how stupid that saying was. There was no way anybody could enjoy being on the receiving end of six inch gunfire. All he could do was keep chasing splashes
Bridge, INS Ranjit, First Division, The Flying Squadron, South China Sea.
Ranjit cleared the Chipanese cruiser line, leaving behind a six inch cruiser fighting for her life and a rocket cruiser reduced to a floating wreck. The experts had been right, the rapid-fire guns could devastate an opponent. Much more so than fewer bigger guns, Gill thought to himself, they distributed the destruction evenly over the ship, smashing everything and leaving the damage control crews no secure place to start. If everything needed repair immediately, what did one repair first? I doubt if, after today, any Indian ship will be built without its battery of 4.5 inch guns.
