“I can field twelve fighters,” Copeland said, extending his hand. “Thanks to the Fighting Cocks’ generosity.”
“We don’t need much of an escort,” Ian stated. “Once we’re rid of our torps, there’s not a whole lot that’s going to catch a Beau at low level. It’s the anti-aircraft fire that I’m worried about.”
He felt all the Americans’ eyes on him as he continued.
“Truth be told, I’ll go out with twelve, I’ll probably bring back eight, maybe six,” Ian continued, his tone bitter. “But my men will do our job.”
“Thank you, Squadron Leader Montgomery,” Geiger stated. “We know that your nation has already done a great deal for us on this island.”
“Keeps the little yellow bastards from having a go at my sisters, Sir,” Ian replied with dark humor. He gestured in the general direction of the beach. “Besides, half our navy’s out in that sound. Be good to have some Australian bodies on the other side. Fish will certainly appreciate the new flavors, I’m sure.”
The silence in the room told him that his gallows humor had fallen quite flat.
“Right then, let’s talk about how we’re going to shear this sheep.”
* * *
Two hours later, after Brigadier General Geiger had cleared out the Navy and Marine pilots, Ian and the two Army officers had finished their planning. The oppressive humidity had made Ian’s shirt collar start to chafe, and he had unbuttoned it to try and ease the suffering. Reaching into the pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and passed it around.
“I think the best bet is that we let Major Copeland’s boys go in and have a go at that…what did you lot call it? Oh, CAP.”
“It’s what I’d prefer, yes,” Copeland replied. “It will give us a chance to get the drop on them, climb out, and then come back before you guys arrive.”
“Why climb out?” Major Leopold asked nervously.
“Because having seen what those assholes can do if we stick around, I’d rather use the Lightnings’ strengths,” Copeland replied, his voice without rancor. “They climb fast, but the -38 goes up like a homesick angel. If they’re busy trying to chase me, you and your bombers can come right in while Squadron Leader Copeland’s boys are setting up for their torpedo runs.”
“I do wonder what your navy lads are going to be up to while all this is going on?” Ian observed.
“I suspect they’ve got plans of their own,” Leopold said. “But judging from the way those other guys were talking, the Japanese have a range advantage. At least, that’s what happened at that carrier battle last month.”
“Whole lot of fighting over an island,” Copeland muttered. “There’s been, what, two fights out in that sound, a carrier battle, and a few of our ships blasted between here and Espiritu?”
“People react rather strongly when you try to steal their airfield,” Ian noted drily. “I will say I’m surprised at how much support your Army Air Corps seems to be providing.”
“Army Air Force,” Leopold corrected, then smiled self-consciously. “Sorry.”
“Well, with General MacArthur dead, Admiral Nimitz is the only four star in theater,” Copeland said sourly. “Bad war for four stars. Or at least four stars that say dumb shit like ‘I shall return…” or ‘They’ll send Lightnings out there over my dead body…’”
“What?” Leopold asked, even as Ian grinned around taking a drag from his cigarette.
“Yeah, allegedly that’s what General Arnold said the night before his heart attack,” Copeland continued. “At least, that’s what the lieutenant colonel who handed me orders at the airfield in Oklahoma told me.”
“Oklahoma?” Leopold asked.
“Yeah, we were flying cross country to New York,” Copeland explained. “I should be in England by now.”
“You wouldn’t like it much,” Ian stated. “Place has a bit of a German problem.”
Copeland exclaimed and smacked his leg. Ian saw the blood smear where the offending mosquito had apparently been well into starting its meal.
“Then again, at least most of the Mosquitoes there are friendly.”
“Damn things have always had a taste for me,” Copeland said angrily. “Makes my wife happy as can be when we’re out together.”
“She’s going to be a lot less happy when you have malaria,” Ian remarked, drawing a concerned look from the Army major.
“We all have to survive tomorrow for that to be a problem,” Leopold observed.
“Your odds are much better than mine,” Ian said. “Usually we had a flak suppression flight go in if there were enemy escorts about. But at least now I’m in a Beaufighter rather than a Beaufort.”
Copeland looked like he was about to ask the difference, but they were interrupted by rapid footfalls coming down the hall. A Marine first lieutenant poked his head around the corner.
“Gentlemen, Brigadier General Geiger instructed me to inform you that the Catalinas have made contact,” the young man said. “He intends to launch before dawn.”
“Well, it would appear we’re being told to go to bed,” Ian said, stubbing out his cigarette. “Let’s see what havoc we can wreak on the ‘morrow.”
* * * * *
Chapter 2: A Surprise All Around
Red One
0845 Local
13 October 1942
The two radio calls were almost simultaneous.
“Bogeys! Many bogeys! Three o’clock low!”
“This is Basher One! I’ve got smoke on the horizon, eleven o’clock!”
Smoke is not my problem, Connor thought, whipping his head to his right. Enemy aircraft are. He scanned and did not see any aircraft, much less many of them.
“Blue One, I don’t see anything,” he said.
“Red One, Blue One, permission to engage!” came the response. To his surprise, Connor saw Blue Flight punch off their drop tanks.
Well that’s called begging for forgiveness after the fact, Connor thought bitterly. They’d already passed the Catalina’s last reported sighting forty-five minutes before. While he wasn’t sure how far away the smoke was, Blue Flight punching off their tanks meant the Lightnings weren’t going much further.
“Green, stay with the bombers, Blue engage, Red follow me,” Connor barked beginning the complicated dance of readying his P-38 for combat. Blue Flight banked almost as one, following Captain McIntyre into a turn to starboard. Connor reefed his own fighter around and began climbing up-sun in the direction that McIntyre had indicated.
“Well shit,” Connor muttered, suddenly seeing the large gaggle of aircraft roughly eight thousand feet below. There were at least forty to fifty aircraft, with what appeared to be a motley crew of olive and grey fighters weaving above light-painted dive bombers and olive drab single-engine aircraft. Connor dimly recalled that the Navy called the fixed-gear dive bombers Vals and the torpedo bombers Kates.
This plan just went to hell, Connor thought, his throat going dry as Blue Flight dived in. McIntyre would surely die if he attacked at 10:1 odds. Five to one wasn’t much better, but at least it would keep the enemy fighters divided. With that decision made, Connor punched off his tanks.
“Everyone pick a target, preferably a leader,” he said quickly. Then the squadron net became bedlam as Blue Flight engaged. To his pleasant surprise, Connor watched as McIntyre’s flight got in a bounce, the lead Zero and one other bursting into flames. As Connor had hammered into the pilots one last time before takeoff, McIntyre continued his slashing attack through the Japanese formation to the far side, winging one of the fixed-gear dive bombers on his way through. The craft did not burn, but it lurched out of formation with fuel streaming from its wings.
Well here we go, Connor thought, Red Flight coming into line abreast formation as the escorts all turned to pursue Blue Flight. Quickly trying to figure out which was the best target, Connor picked out the lead torpedo bomber, waggled his wings, and began his attack dive from the formation’s starboard rear.
Red Flight�
�s surprise was almost total. A sharp-eyed tail gunner in a lead dive bomber saw the Lightnings just as they were two hundred yards from the dive bombers, but his initial burst was far behind Connor’s slashing fighter. The man didn’t have time to correct, as Red Two’s fire sawed him, and the Val’s fuselage, in half.
Connor saw the front half of the dive bomber’s fuselage start to tumble out of the corner of his eye, his own attention focusing on the Kate swelling in front of him. As his prey’s tail gunner unlimbered his machine gun and started to swing it, Connor squeezed the trigger on what he intended to be a three-second burst. Instead, his spray of fire turned the tail gunner into a rag doll of savaged meat before traveling forward to detonate the underslung torpedo beneath the Kate’s fuselage.
Fuck! Connor thought, as debris slammed back over his fuselage in a series of loud thumps. He passed through the smoke cloud, a flailing torso passing just over his canopy as he continued his dive. Taking several deep breaths, he began pulling up on the stick as the Lightning shuddered from the strain. Taking a quick check over his craft, he saw a large black smear and several gouges on his starboard wing.
Must have gotten hit by the engine, he had time to think, putting the P-38’s nose skyward to convert his excess speed into altitude. A quick check showed Red Two staying with him, while Red Three and Four were turning after the Zeroes pursuing Blue Flight.
Goddammit, he thought, standing on his own rudder to begin side slipping his nose around. The Lightnings realized the error of their ways when two chutai of Zeroes reversed course back towards the bombers they had abandoned. Even as Connor got his own nose around, the agile Japanese fighters set upon his second section like hyenas on a pair of lions. Red Three managed to saw one assailant’s wing off in a head on run, but swiftly had two more on the Lightning’s tail. Red Four’s starboard engine was hit, smoke streaming back from the Allison as a chutai leader latched onto the P-38.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Connor shouted as he lined up on the Zero. As if he heard him, the Japanese leader broke up into a chandelle. Connor did not take the bait, instead thundering past and snapping a burst at one of the Zeroes attacking Red Three. The stream of fire was wide, but it was enough to make the Japanese fighter break off its pass. An explosion in his rear-view mirror made Connor’s heart stop, whipping around to find Red Two. Seeing his wingman, Connor realized McKnight had smoked the chutai leader at the apex of his maneuver.
That kid is going to get a promotion, he thought, watching as the other Lightning stayed tucked in on his tail. Having gained separation, Connor brought his fighter back around just in time to see Red Four going down in flames, the victorious Zero looping around to try and chase Red Three. He frantically searched for Blue Flight, not seeing any of their P-38s but noticing another two smoke trails descending towards the sea in the general direction the bombers had been heading.
“Blue Flight, check in!” Connor barked. “Red Three, dive out and head south!”
“This is Blue One, we’ve splashed another four bombers but are low on fuel!” McIntyre replied.
Connor checked his own fuel gauge and realized it was getting towards time for him to disengage also.
If only they’d been at the last sighting position, he fumed. Shit. Green Flight and the bombers.
* * *
Wallaby Leader
0915 Local
Jerry had better flak, but these bloody fighters are persistent, Ian thought. He watched as a P-38 slashed over his Beaufighter, charging the Zero pursuing him as he led his squadron on a parallel course to the smoking Japanese carrier off his port wing. Someone, most likely an American scout, had managed to hit the vessel with at least one bomb. If Ian had to guess, the damage was far from fatal, even on what appeared to be a light carrier, but it had been helpful in pointing the path towards the ship.
“What the hell?!” his observer, Flight Officer Derek Davenport, shouted. A forest of waterspouts had suddenly erupted all around the Japanese carrier, her form largely hidden by the sudden explosions. The heavy cruiser following the carrier in her turn had one bright explosion on her forward bow, the impact only slightly lessening the intense fire she was putting out towards Ian’s Beaufighter.
“Perth Flight in position, Wallaby Leader! Starting my attack run now!”
Ian had split his squadron of twelve Beaufighters into two. Perth Flight, headed by an energetic lad from its namesake city, was coming in on the Japanese carrier’s port side. Ian’s six aircraft had been working their way up towards the starboard bow, the one with a heavy cruiser on it.
Not going to ask a bloke to take the harder shot, Ian thought.
“Let’s get on with it, Wallaby,” he said. Bringing the Beaufighter around, he began descending and retarding his throttle.
The problem with torpedoes is that they are so bloody sensitive, he thought angrily as his strike fighter slowed. The 18-inch torpedo under his fuselage had to be delivered at roughly 150 knots or less, from a height no more than one hundred feet. As tracers from the heavy cruiser and destroyer began reaching out towards his fighter, he felt the aircraft began to grow sluggish as he dumped speed. A flak burst jostled the Beaufighter, fragments pinging off the fuselage as the water grew closer below.
“Blimey, Parsons just augered in!” Davenport bit out. The man’s next comment was drowned out by a hailstorm of fragments slamming into the Beaufighter. The big aircraft lurched, and for a moment Ian was certain they were going to smash into the waves below. Ahead of him, he saw smoke billowing from a destroyer’s stack as she began steaming to try and cut across Wallaby’s path. The vessel’s gunners began shooting at the Beaufighter, their initial bursts high.
Well two can play that game, Ian thought, realizing the destroyer was indeed going to get in their way. He squeezed his trigger just as two streams of fire began to converge towards him. There was an explosion and faint cry behind him, hot steel lashing into the back of his flight suit even as his and the rest of Wallaby Flight’s own cannon fire danced across the destroyer in a strobe light of explosions. As he pulled back on the stick to arc over the vessel, Ian noted the fire suddenly diminish. As the Beaufighter flashed over the destroyer, just barely clearing its mast, he saw bodies slumped over guns and on the vessel’s bridge.
“Davenport, are you all right?!” Ian asked, shouting to be heard over a rush of wind stream that was suddenly loud in the Beaufighter’s nose. There was no response, and Ian quickly looked over his shoulder, pain telling him that he still had fragments of some sort in his back. It took only a glance to see that Davenport was dead, his observer’s chest a ruin from some cannon round that had probably killed him instantly.
Bloody hell, Ian thought, glancing left then right to note only four of the six Beaufighters remained. Before him, he saw that the Japanese carrier captain had made his choice, the vessel’s silhouette growing longer beyond the heavy cruiser.
Almost there…CHRIST!
The Japanese cruiser’s broadside was a spectacle to behold as it erupted towards Wallaby flight. Ian swore he felt the 8-inch shells’ passage as they roared just past the Beaufighters to erupt roughly two hundred yards behind them. As futile as the display was, the heavy cruiser’s light batteries managed to claim one more Beaufighter, bursting Wallaby Five’s starboard engine into flame. The dying Australian released his weapon as a final act, the big fighter smashing into the water and cartwheeling forward in a massive spray.
Ian cursed, angry tears running down his face as he lined the Beaufighter’s stubby nose up and pressed his torpedo release. The heavy weapon dropped away, and he immediately added throttle and skidded his nose to pass astern of the carrier. The Beaufighter skimmed just astern, and Ian saw three wakes arrowing towards the Japanese flattop from Perth Flight’s drop.
Either way you go, you bitch, he thought. Then it was time to pay attention to his flying again, as he saw a Zero turning after one of the Perth Beaufighters. The Japanese pilot never knew what hit him as Ian came in with alm
ost full deflection, his four cannon and four machine guns ripping the lighter Zero to shreds.
“Wallaby Leader! That’s a hit! That’s a hit!” he heard Major Leopold’s voice over the radio. “Two hits!”
Glad to see our fix worked, Ian thought. They’d taken the radio out of one of his Beaufighters and placed it in Major Leopold’s B-17. It required the Flying Fortress’s flight engineer to turn off his own squadron’s radios, but clearly Leopold had seen fit to take the risk.
“Roger Bomber One,” Ian said, having forgotten Leopold’s actual call sign. His shoulder throbbed even more, and he felt lightheaded. “Give my regards to Green One, his lads did a good job. We’re going home.”
* * * * *
Chapter 3: A Lightning Cross
Red One
1400 Local
17 October 1942
“I’m starting to think that our friends are going to concede this island,” General Geiger observed.
It had been two days since the last Japanese air raid on Guadalcanal, and three days since the conclusion of what the Navy had dubbed the Battle of Santa Cruz. As Connor looked at the Marine general who had seemingly just materialized in the shade under the Lightning’s wing, he thought the man looked positively jubilant.
Wish I could be as chipper, Connor thought, a shiver running through him. But funny thing about malaria; it pretty much performs as advertised.
“Well, I can’t say I blame them,” he stuttered out. Geiger gave him an appraising look.
“I think you need to go see the flight surgeon, Major,” the man said, his tone making it clear that it wasn’t really a suggestion.
“Just as soon as we’re sure none of our friends will be coming to visit, sir,” Connor replied.
I hate this place, he thought. At least I don’t have the shits like McIntyre. His Blue Flight leader had made the mistake of attempting to share some of the Marine rations rather than sticking with the Army packs that had come up on one of the C-47s. While Connor was all about showing solidarity with their brethren, he’d had the feeling there would be plenty of time for that once they ran out of Army chow.
To Slip the Surly Bonds Page 20
