Good way to die, idiot, he thought. Connor’s hands continued to move around the cockpit as he armed his guns, adjusted his fuel mixture, turned on the gunsight, and then punched off the external tanks. Hearing the pair of Allison engines mounted abreast of his cockpit change their sound as they were fed more fuel, Connor advanced his throttle firmly but only with moderate speed.
Last thing I need is to pop a damn engine right now. The Lightning’s twin powerplants gave the large fighter a tremendous rate of climb and speed higher than anything the Japanese had fielded to date. They were also extremely temperamental, especially at his current altitude. Pulling back on the stick, Connor glanced backwards through the P-38’s canopy to check his squadron’s status. Eleven Lightnings were with his fighter; the red, white, and blue top hats in a red ring standing out against their olive drab paint jobs. Two aircraft, the No. 4 fighters in Blue and White flights, were both falling out of formation with one of their props starting to falter as they lost an engine.
Goddammit, Connor thought, I knew Price and Hardison were idiots. The two neophytes had likely, in their haste, forgotten one of the steps towards getting their P-38s ready for combat. Now both would be limping into Guadalcanal with their fighters, which hopefully the 94th’s ground personnel would be able to fix.
“Red One, Blue One, looks like the escort’s going hunting,” Captain David McIntyre, Blue Flight’s lead, observed. A few seconds later, Connor too could make out the gaggle of single-engine fighters accelerating away from the rapidly growing Japanese bombers. Doing a quick count, Connor tallied twenty-six of the cigar-shaped Japanese Betty bombers and a similar number of Zero fighters. The latter were diving towards Guadalcanal.
They don’t see us, Connor realized, blood rushing in his ears. Of course, why would they think to look in this direction when Guadalcanal is in front of them? The Navy liaison officer at Espiritu Santo had briefed Connor and his flight leaders that the Japanese tended to strike around noon, from the north. This group had apparently circled around wide, as they were approaching the island from almost due east.
Those Japanese fighters are going to be running on fumes, Connor thought, glancing nervously at his own gauges. Even though the P-38s had left Espiritu Santo with ostensibly enough fuel to fly to Guadalcanal and back, combat had a way of rapidly draining the tanks.
Which is why we have to keep these bastards from hitting the runway, he thought as his P-38 reached 25,000 feet. Bringing his nose level, Connor advanced his throttles to the firewall. Both Allison engines puffed smoke and vibrated, the Lightning gaining speed. In far too little time, he drew slightly ahead of the enemy bombers. Turning one last time to look over his twin-boomed aircraft at his squadron, Connor waggled his wings, then put the yoke over to port and began his dive towards the enemy bombers.
* * *
Connor had been incorrect in his assumption—the Bettys had seen his fighters. Inexplicably, having never seen P-38s before, many of the Japanese turret gunners either assumed that the Lightnings were either friendly aircraft or Allied bombers that were swinging out to give the Bettys a wide berth. It was only when the ten fighters pushed over in what could only be an attack profile that cries of alarm were raised in several of the Japanese aircraft.
* * *
The rapidly swelling green bomber began to fill Connor’s gunsight. Swallowing, he fought the urge to open fire as its wings began to fill the inner first ring.
Closer…closer…he thought, time seeming to slow. His stomach clenched, his pulse raced, and he felt a strange sensation that was a mix between the most violent nausea and terrific arousal. Without realizing it, Connor began to bite down on his tongue as he skidded the Lightning into a turn to apply deflection.
Oh shit! he thought, seeing the dorsal turret swing towards him. The weapon’s bright flash startled him, causing him to inadvertently jerk the Lightning’s control column as the stream of tracers flew past his P-38. With the Betty’s wings extending completely past his gunsight, Connor guessed he was at about two hundred yards. Biting harder on his tongue, Connor simultaneously began pulling the Lightning’s nose up and squeezing both triggers on his control stick.
Unlike most of its contemporaries, the P-38 armament of four .50-caliber machine guns and solitary 20-millimeter cannon were mounted in its nose. Whereas the other fighter pilots guessed the range at which to converge their wing-mounted guns into a single area, the P-38’s firepower arrived in a single murderous torrent regardless. Thus, even though he actually opened fire at three hundred yards, Connor’s initial burst was devastating to the lightly built Betty. In under three seconds, the storm of armor-piercing ball and explosive cannon shells cleaved the bomber’s rudder in two, decapitated the tail gunner, then found the bomber’s unarmored fuel tanks. The resultant fireball detonated the Betty’s bombload in an orange-centered brown ball of smoke and debris that flashed outwards into the rest of the formation.
Connor’s arms shook as he hauled back on the stick, debris pounding off the Lightning’s frame as his vision narrowed. Fighting down his panic as his engines roared, Connor quickly eased forward on the yoke and brought the throttles back. Glancing quickly left and right, he saw that there were several gouges and dents across his fuselage, but no obvious major damage. It was only when the immediate threat was gone that the squadron radio net burst into his consciousness.
“Green Two get back in formation!”
“Watch those fighters coming up!”
“Red Four, break off, you’re losing coolant!”
Connor pressed himself up and looked back behind him at the last report. He saw Lieutenant McKnight, Red Two, behind him, but had lost sight of his second section. A pair of rapidly dissipating brown smoke balls told him at least two other pilots had managed to explode one of the Japanese bombers, and he sincerely hoped all three blazing comets falling towards the Pacific below were additional Bettys.
Well, the old hands weren’t lying, he thought. Their crates come apart really easy.
As several pilots called out a warning on the squadron net, Connor saw the angry Japanese escorts clawing back to altitude. The Japanese fighters were a mix of olive green and dark gray single-engine Zeros, and Connor noted that their rate of climb was nothing to sneeze at.
“Don’t stay and turn with them,” Connor recalled the advice of the old hands he’d met en route to the South Pacific. People who try to turn with the Japanese end up dead.
“White Flight, break right!” Connor barked, not able to see the fuselage markings but recognizing the white spinners of a P-38 swinging back around to attack a Betty. The Lightning was at his ten o’clock and lower, with three approaching Zeros slashing in towards the turning P-38. Even as Connor was diving towards the Japanese fighter, it cut inside the White Flight Lightning’s turn. In a flash, first with its nose machine guns, then the twin cannons in its wings, the lead Zero stitched the P-38 through its center nacelle.
Dammit, Connor thought as the other P-38 staggered, then fell away in a stall. The Zero continued in its turn, and Connor was presented with a perfect plan view of the opposing aircraft. He kicked his rudder to try and track the Japanese fighter, but the nimble Japanese aircraft turned far too tightly. The two aircraft hurtled past each other cockpit to cockpit, with one of the Japanese wingmen attempting to fire a burst at Connor’s aircraft. Shoving his throttles to the firewall, Connor turned and looked behind him just in time to see the third Zero’s wing hurtling off.
“Good shot Red Two!” Connor shouted. He saw the two remaining Zeros reversing in his rearview mirror…and watched as the leader exploded from a burst of fire coming from its port side. A moment later, a dark blue, stubby fighter flashed across Connor’s field of view, white stars sticking out on its wings.
Looks like the damn Marines finally made it to altitude, Connor thought, turning his view back forwards. The sky, full of aircraft before, suddenly seemed empty except for descending smoke trails and a couple of parachutes. Puffs of flak in
the distance towards Guadalcanal told Connor that the bombers had passed close enough to the island to be engaged.
I hope we have a runway to land on, he thought.
“Army fighters, Army fighters, this is Cactus Base,” a voice broke in over the 94th squadron’s frequency. “All Army fighters, this is Cactus Base.”
“Cactus Base, this is Hatter Leader,” Connor replied after a couple of moments.
“Be advised you are to land on the main runway, not Fighter One,” the voice stated. “I say again, land on Cactus Main.”
“This is Hatter Leader, roger,” Connor replied. “Hatters, check in.”
Connor winced as the calls came in. He had started the day with sixteen Lightnings. It looked like he was ending it with eight, with several of those damaged. In exchange, his men claimed that they had knocked down eight bombers and six Zeros. Connor was somewhat skeptical about that one but resolved to sort it out on the ground.
“All right you yahoos, let’s get down to our new home.” Connor sighed in resignation. “Flight leaders, meet at my fighter when we get down.”
* * *
The Pagoda
1900 Local
Squadron Leader Ian Montgomery swatted the mosquito on the back of his neck with a muttered curse, then swung and caught the one on his left arm without breaking stride. The squish of Ian’s boots and the oppressive humidity spoke to the reason for such a high number of the buzzing insects as the night grew darker. The whump! of an artillery shell landing at the far end of the runway made him jump, and the Australian officer shook his head angrily.
Damn Yanks, he thought angrily. Not quite sure how my bloody squadron drew the short straw. Oh, wait, that idiot Curtin has the spine of a jellyfish. Looking at the looming structure, Ian took a deep breath and fought to control his temper.
“What’s done is done, and it’s only for a fortnight,” Ian muttered to himself. No. 305 Squadron (Provisional), RAAF, had been cobbled together from veterans recently returned from Europe and men who had been based at Port Moresby in response to an urgent request from Admiral Nimitz, the Theater Commander. Most of the European veterans, Ian included, had been looking forward to several months of rest after spending literally years fighting the Germans. To stave off a munity, General Eichelberger, the American area commander, had personally promised the men they would only be on Guadalcanal for no more than fourteen days.
Of course, those of us who end up dead will still technically meet his agreement, Ian thought grimly, as another shell landed further away from the runway. Unless, of course, that idiot shooting the harassing artillery lands a lucky shot.
“Halt! Who goes there!” a nervous Marine sentry barked, struggling to stand up from his post behind some sandbags. Like most of the men Ian had seen, the Marine’s eyes were sunken, his face gaunt. From his shivering frame, Ian suspected the man was standing guard on the headquarters rather than on the front lines due to his being malarial.
“Squadron Leader Montgomery for General Geiger,” Ian replied crisply. He felt the American look him over with a skeptical air.
“Look, you can bloody well go get your sergeant of the guard,” Ian snapped. “If the goddamn Japanese have created a race of shape shifters who can look like a goddamn Australian, we’re all more fu…”
“I’ll vouch for him, sergeant,” a voice said from the doorway. Turning, Ian recognized the P-38 squadron leader whom he had met in Espiritu Santos the day before. The tall, lanky man’s frame was a marked contrast to Ian’s own rugby prop build, but his voice held a calm assurance that immediately put the nervous Marine at ease.
“Yes, Sir,” the Marine said. The noncom’s voice made it clear that he had been more than willing to use the bayonet attached to his rifle to teach Ian some respect.
“Major Copeland,” Ian said with a nod. “I am told you’ve already made your presence known.”
The American shrugged.
“Bastards were about to plaster the runway, and I didn’t feel like trying to fly back to Espiritu Santo,” Copeland replied. “Let’s get inside, the Marine generals are kind of impatient about something.”
Ian followed his compatriot back into the pagoda, passing through two blackout curtains into a large map room. Ten men, six of them Marines, two Navy, and two other Army majors were gathered around a map of the Solomon Islands. To his amusement, Ian noted that the pilots were all separated by their service.
Glad to see we’re not the only armed services with grudges for one another, Ian thought. Although, to be fair, the Fleet Air Arm pilots have a legitimate gripe with the RAF.
“Squadron Leader Montgomery, how good of you to join us,” an American naval officer said snidely. Before Copeland could say anything, the flag officer at the front of the table fixed the man with a glare.
“Until you’ve actually put a torpedo into something other than some whore in Waikiki, you’ll shut the fuck up, Lieutenant Commander Saints,” Brigadier General Geiger snapped. “I think our Australian friends have earned some leeway on time.”
Well, that’s refreshing, a Yank who actually sounds happy to see us, Ian thought, giving the general a slight nod. Maybe three dead cruisers actually buys some goodwill with this lot. Montgomery’s brother had been assigned to the Perth, his cousin aboard the Australia. The former was still missing in the Dutch East Indies, the latter had come back horribly burned from the Australia’s sinking during the First Battle of Savo Island.
At least the recce boys sighted that Japanese task force before they could come down here and catch the entire landing by surprise, Montgomery recalled, gazing at the map. Not that it probably would have gone much worse for either side if they had—
“Squadron Leader Montgomery?”
Ian jerked in surprise.
“Sorry sir,” he said. “Just thinking my family has some bad luck about these parts.”
Geiger gave him a momentary look of puzzlement, then began resuming his introduction.
“The submarine Tambor reported a heavy Japanese force coming down from the Truk yesterday evening,” Geiger stated. “Additional sightings confirm that at least two battleships and a carrier are heading our direction.”
There were murmurs around the map board as the gathered men looked at one another.
“Catalinas are out searching for our friends as we speak,” Geiger continued.
Not a job I’d want, flying around in the dark hoping not to blunder into the enemy, Ian thought. He’d flown on several night attacks in Europe. The sea had a way of trying to fool a man in the darkness. Vertigo was as deadly, if not deadlier, than most enemy defenses.
“It is not all bad news, men,” Geiger said, with a slight smile. “The carriers Wasp, Hornet, and Enterprise are all in the area.”
That brought large smiles from the Marine and Navy aviators. Ian noted the Army men were just as puzzled as he was.
I suppose the Wasp is allegedly lucky, even if her consorts weren’t necessarily. He’d heard rumors about the carrier having a seemingly untimely deck crash that had caused her to turn out of the path of a Japanese submarine’s torpedo spread. Unfortunately, that turn had drawn two of her escorts into the fatal fan.
“Sir, are we coordinating with the carriers?” one of the American Army pilots, a major, asked. “Because I don’t think we have the right radios for it.”
Geiger sighed.
“Trust me, I am well aware of the difficulties between Army and Navy radios,” Geiger stated, pointedly looking at an Army major standing to Ian’s right.
“I know that we certainly don’t have the correct radios,” Ian interjected, drawing all eyes towards him. “Sir.”
“Squadron Leader Montgomery, that’s why you’re here,” Geiger noted. “I’m going to let you, Major Copeland, and Major Leopold work out the details of your strike.”
Ian raised an eyebrow at that. The Army major who had mentioned radios had an even more expressive look of surprise.
“The Japanese have no idea
that, with your and Major Copeland’s arrival, we can reach out almost twice as far as they’re used to,” Geiger stated.
“Sir, don’t carriers have fighters?” Major Leopold asked, his shock slowly becoming obvious fear.
“I thought they called your planes the Flying Fortress?” one of the Marine fighter pilots teased. Leopold was not amused.
“Listen asshole, I’ve been flying halfway to Rabaul every other day just to say hello to our yellow friends,” Leopold snapped. “It’s one thing to take a Fort up and deal with maybe a half dozen fighters that aren’t all that interested in dealing with twenty machine guns. It’s another when you’ve got two dozen of them very angry you’re trying to blow up their home.”
“I’m well aware of how ‘angry’ Japanese fighters can get,” the Marine replied. “I’ve shot down twelve of them.”
“Major Bauer, Major Leopold, as entertaining as this is, I’d prefer we save our anger for the enemy,” General Geiger interrupted. “Major Copeland’s Lightnings will provide escort for both you and Squadron Leader Montgomery’s Beaufighters. In return, you’ll provide navigation, just like you did for them to get here.”
“Sir, I only have ten effective fighters,” Copeland reported.
“I thought you brought sixteen up here,” Geiger replied.
“We did. Unless you happen to have some Allison engine parts lying around, some of my pilots were a little too eager to start trying to catch Major Bauer.”
There was a long silence around the table.
“We have some Allison parts,” the third Army major stated. Copeland turned to the man in surprise.
“Major Bannon…” he started.
“Look, my damn planes can’t even fly above 10,000 feet and we have to run every time the Japanese come to bomb us,” Major Bannon replied. “If you have a chance to go out and surprise those fuckers, I’m going to do everything in my power to help you.”
To Slip the Surly Bonds Page 19
