by James Young
Going to have a word with that lad. At some point things go from being a mistake to a habit.
Once more, Russell gazed out the window, fighting down the sense of being in over his head. He wasn’t exactly new to squadron command. It was just that the last time he’d been in charge of one it was because his predecessor had died, they were neck-deep in Japanese, and range had not really been a problem in the Dutch East Indies. Having his own squadron, especially straddling the uneasy division between being at war without actual regular contact, had been hard to adjust to over the last month and half.
“Baron Flight, let’s head back to home,” Russell said, trying to keep his voice level.
“Wasn’t that the third submarine contact the flying boats have had in the last week?” Bellingsley asked out of the blue.
Fine, he’s not only a good stick, he sometimes observes things that apparently escape my notice.
“We’ll have to check with the intelligence section when we get back,” Russell said. “It does seem like there are quite a few submarines around these days.”
“Likely wanting to get a lick at any convoys up from Sydney,” Bellingsley replied. The Mosquito went through a lurching series of ups and downs, and Russell was suddenly glad they were climbing back up to cruising altitude.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Bellingsley grunted. “It’s not like our blokes aren’t trying to do the same to theirs over in the Indies. Difference is, I doubt the Japanese are going to put up with food riots if a convoy doesn’t make it.
Yes, but it seems like we’re barely keeping the lid on things on Ceylon. The natives, as they say, are getting restless. Her Majesty’s government, in order to still the Usurper’s influence, had been shipping massive amounts of grain from North America to Ceylon, then from there to India in order to pay for the lease. Of course, the colonial government had believed it was a great idea to husband the grain in Triconmalee rather than distribute it to the countryside. For safety reasons that certainly had nothing to do with attempting to suppress the incipient nationalist rebellion that had grown bolder with India’s independence.
Good thing we got two extra divisions of Australian troops with tanks in the convoy that brought us up as reinforcements. Otherwise, I’m not sure this would still be a friendly base.
“So how long until the Japanese show up?” Bellingsley asked after almost a half hour of silence.
“You sure it won’t be the Italians?” Russell half-joked.
“You’re the brass, you tell me,” Bellingsley replied. “I half hope it is the Italians, especially as our side was winning quite handily in the desert until Jerry stepped in.”
“I don’t think the Italian Fleet would make it all the way out here without getting chewed up by our carriers,” Russell replied. “Ol’ Mussolini’s boys would be smart to continue haunting the Med.”
“You know that,” Bellingsley stated. “Our fleet knows that. But the question is, do they acknowledge that?”
“Well if what happened to the Yanks is any indication, it is generally a bad idea to chase carriers with battleships,” Russell said.
“So it will be quite amusing if the Italians come out into the Indian Ocean to challenge?”
Russell pursed his lips.
“I’m not sure if amusing is the word I’d use for it,” he replied. “Perhaps shocking is a better adjective.”
“I don’t care what adjective we use, as long as it’s the other side doing the dying.”
Russell considered admonishing his pilot, then let it go.
Kind of strange how a few months of combat changes a man. Russell recalled Bellingsley being shocked at his hoping the Queen would give the Usurper the traditional traitor’s fate upon regaining her throne. Burying many of his friends and standing up a whole new squadron appeared to have profoundly changed his pilot.
Or maybe it’s talking to some of the Australians who just managed to get out ahead of the war restarting. Although ‘escaping’ might be too strong a word for the individuals’ repatriation, the dozen or so Army men he’d met on Ceylon had opened his eyes to others’ viewpoint. While the men following the Usurper were certainly misguided, if not foolish, the blokes on the other side were still former comrades-in-arms.
Lots of bitterness in this war. Way too much time spent far away from home for most of us.
I.J.N.S. Akagi
1200 Local (0030 Eastern)
Singapore
28 July (28 July)
Thank the heavens, it feels good to be back, Lieutenant Isoro Honda thought as he stepped onto the the Akagi’s hangar deck. It was brutally hot and humid in the structure, the stiff ocean breeze keeping things just on the positive side of hellish. Slinging his sea bag over his shoulder, Isoro headed towards the Akagi fighter squadron’s ready room. He was almost to it when he came upon two of the fighter squadron’s pilots standing near their Shiden fighters. Seeing him, both men came over.
It’s almost like they were waiting for me. Honda tried to hide his concern as he studied the two men. To his relief, he saw that one was a warrant officer, the other a petty officer.
“Welcome back aboard, sir,” Warrant Officer Taisei Oda said, saluting Honda. Isoro returned the gesture, giving Oda a clearly measuring glance. Nodding once at the man, Isoro then turned to the NCO on Oda’s right. Petty Officer Airi Takahashi came to attention and also saluted Isoro.
New wingmen, Isoro thought with slight disdain as he once more returned the gesture. Breaking in new wingmen is exactly what I want to be doing when we go to Ceylon. His previous wingmen, Warrant Officers Sawato and Watanabe, had been detached from Akagi to serve as leavening for the Taiho’s new air group.
We are having trouble keeping bodies in airplanes. The current batch of pilots who had come down from Japan aboard Taiho consisted of the third wartime class of fighter pilots. While each was highly trained, Isoro could not shake the feeling that another three months of losses like they’d suffered in the Indies would completely disrupt the training pipeline.
We lost the equivalent of four graduating classes in fighter pilots alone. Who knows how many bomber pilots died.
“Where is…” Isoro began to ask, only to be interrupted.
“Honda!” Commander Mitsuo Fuchida, Akagi’s commander air group, shouted happily from across the hangar. Isoro came to attention as the man strode over, two of his squadron commanders in tow. Isoro did not recognize either man as he saluted.
So much change.
“Lieutenant Commander Maki, Lieutenant Commander Ogawa, this is Lieutenant Honda,” Fuchida said. “Honda was our leading ace during the Dutch East Indies campaign and is rejoining us after some time with the Raiden project.”
Both men gave Honda a respectful nod.
“Lieutenant Commander Maki will be taking over the Suisei squadron, while Lieutenant Commander Ogawa will be leading the new Tenzans.”
So, those were the new bombers I saw on the airfield when we landed!
“How is the new fighter?” Maki asked, referring to Mitsubishi’s A7M. “I have heard a great deal about it, but have not actually seen it. When will it be fielded?”
“I do not know, sir,” Isoro said. “It is supposed to be replacing the Zero with the land-based units soon, but there were still problems with the prototype.”
Namely the engine had a tendency of deciding to quit working if you put it through too tough of paces, Isoro thought. But, like the Shiden, they’ll figure it out.
“Everything has teething problems,” Ogawa said. “The Tenzans have had their issues, but those are minor given the improvement over the B5N.”
They are far braver men than I. No matter what the improvement, I would not fly straight and level into the teeth of anti-aircraft fire for anyone.
“We will have a chance to test everything soon enough,” Fuchida said. “Vice Admiral Yamaguchi has asked permission for us to leave earlier so that he may attempt to find the Allied carriers as they return from Madagascar.”
Isoro looked at Commander Fuchida in confusion, causing the latter man to realize that Honda had not been briefed before leaving Japan.
“We are departing for the Indian Ocean,” Fuchida said. “Operation C, the seizure of Ceylon, will begin in four days. Submarines have already been dispatched to establish a scouting line.”
“Understood, sir,” Isoro stated. “However, I do not understand the reference to Madagascar.”
“At least four Allied carriers are attacking our Vichy and Italian allies along Africa’s east coast,” Fuchida stated. “The intention is to raid Ceylon, then go to find them once they respond.”
Raiding land bases when they are expecting us is always dangerous. He was certain that their opponents would have reinforced Ceylon with whatever assets they possessed. After his experiences in the Indies, he did not relish dealing with well-prepared defenses. Especially when those defenses were probably manned by enemy who would realize retreat was impossible.
“You look as if you are thinking about something, Lieutenant Honda,” Fuchida said, startling Isoro.
“The enemy, sir,” Isoro replied. “Do we know what forces are on Ceylon?”
“We are not certain,” Fuchida said. “In any case, it will be only a brief attack in passing.”
Isoro nodded.
“The Fifth and Sixth Carrier Divisions will be accompanying the transports,” Fuchida said. “They will get to deal with anything we leave.”
“Hopefully that will not be much,” Maki stated. “I would hate to fight four enemy carriers while still having to worry about what is behind us.”
I think we can all agree on that. There are limits to how many aircraft we can handle. Once again, his mind turned to the Dutch East Indies. By the end of the campaign, the Kido Butai’s squadrons had begun to be ground down despite their victories. Although he expected any carrier battle to be more episodic than drawn out, once more considering attrition gave him pause.
I am not a coward, just cautious.
“The good thing is that there are two British and two Americans,” Fuchida observed. “I doubt that they have established procedures between themselves.”
Honda wished he could share his CAG’s confidence.
Established procedures or not, that is still a great number of aircraft. Although at least the majority of our pilots are experienced, while the Americans will have had to replace their losses from Hawaii.
H.M.C.S. Victorious
1320 Local (0620 Eastern)
Western Indian Oceans
29 July
The flight deck was noticeably warm beneath Eric’s feet, the armored metal absorbing sunlight far quicker than its wooden American counterparts.
“Welcome aboard, Leftenant Cobb,” Commander Abraham Martin stated, extending his hand. Eric shook it, reminding himself that the Royal Navy had designated their flight decks to all be no salute zones. The restriction made sense and was something he wished the USN would adopt.
The flight deck should be a place people are less concerned about rendering the proper greetings than making sure no one walks into a propeller.
“Thank you, sir,” he replied. “I understand that you have message traffic for Vice Admiral Fletcher?”
“Yes, yes we do,” Martin replied. “Vice Admiral Cunningham had some questions regarding tactical procedures during a fleet action.”
Find the enemy, bomb the shit out of him. Not that hard.
“This vessel had previously worked those out with Vice Admiral Halsey during our exercises off British Columbia, but it appears that Vice Admiral Fletcher has some differing views on things,” Martin continued.
Namely Fletcher seems to believe every fourth day is a tanking day, whereas Cunningham appears to want to get on with jabbing the shit out of his former countrymen at every turn?
“I would say that Vice Admirals Fletcher and Halsey have always been two very different people, sir,” Eric allowed. “As soon as you get us refueled, I’ll be happy to take the message traffic back to Yorktown.”
“Of course,” Martin replied warmly. “Until then, would you care to join a few of our officers for a drink?”
“Certainly, sir,” Eric replied. “Would it be possible to get my gunner one as well?”
“I’m certain a ‘medicinal ration’ can be obtained for him from the surgeon,” Martin replied with a smile. “Follow me, we’ll go to eight oh four’s wardroom.”
Eric could understand both sides. The last thing he wanted to happen was an enemy fleet show up unexpectedly with most of the task force lacking any fuel. However, Fletcher took things to an extreme, rotating either the Yorktown or Enterprise out on a regular basis. While the tankers were only a couple hundred miles behind the task force, refueling was still a time-consuming process when Vice Admiral Cunningham clearly wanted to surge ahead and strike Mombasa after basically razing Madagascar.
I think the French are going to be loathe to send anything back to that island anytime soon, Eric thought, smirking. Between the surface sweep by the Repulse and carrier strikes, the fleet had bagged the Suffren and Trento, hunted down the Arethusa just as that vessel was reaching South African territorial waters, then doubled back and sank another Italian convoy.
“I understand it was your squadron that found the Arethusa?” Martin asked.
“No sir,” Eric said. Martin looked at him with a puzzled expression, so the American explained. “I’m from Bombing, or VB-11. It was Scouting, i.e., VS-11 that found her.”
Lieutenant (j.g.) Charles Read, one each, as a matter of fact, Eric thought, feeling a bit of pride at his future brother-in-law. Charles had sent off a textbook sighting report, got it acknowledged, then proceeded to put his 500-lb. bomb right beside the Usurper cruiser.
Too bad I missed the strike thanks to flying antisubmarine patrol. Although I got to make up for it on the convoy.
“Ahhh,” Martin said. “Squadron nomenclature is always a funny thing.”
“I freely admit I can’t keep track of your squadrons, sir,” Eric said as they moved down a passageway.
“Eight hundred series are operational carrier squadrons,” Martin said. “The Air Ministry reassigned numbers back in June, so now even squadrons are fighters, odd are bombers.”
“Ah,” Eric said. “In any case, our squadron was the one that attacked the convoy, not the cruiser.”
“Ahh,” Martin said. “Good work on that, really made a mess of that escort before the torpedo bombers went in.”
“That we did,” Eric stated. “Although I think those destroyers thought we were friendly before we started diving. Makes it a lot easier to put a bomb on target when someone’s not firing at you.”
“Indeed,” Martin said. “Bad week for Italian destroyers. I don’t know how many they started this week with, but they’ve got seven less thanks to you Yanks and Vice Admiral Godfrey’s force.”
Eric smiled at the gallows humor as they stepped into No. 804 squadron’s wardroom. Unlike the lighter, haze gray of the Victorious’s passageways, the 804 wardroom’s bulkheads were painted a sky blue, with the squadron’s crest on the far wall.
Swift to Kill. Apt motto for a fighter squadron, although I’m not sure about the tiger clutching a sword as the emblem.
“All right you lot, we’ve got a Yank among us for about a half hour,” Martin said. “Some of you may have heard of the famous Leftenant Eric Cobb…”
To Eric’s surprise, there was a round of cheers, with several of the men standing up to come clap him on the back. He shook hands with several of the officers in a whirlwind of introductions, then had a shot of whiskey shoved in his hand.
I guess people like you when you’ve allegedly saved part of their fleet from defeat, Eric assumed. I still say that they would have sighted the Germans before they were able to bag the Royal family, but if it keeps getting me drinks I’m not going to argue.
“To Her Majesty!” someone shouted. Eric lifted his glass, then tossed it back with his compan
ions.
Now I understand why I got tagged for this.
“Gentlemen, Vice Admiral Cunningham!” someone shouted. The room quickly came to attention as a tall, balding man entered the room. Seeing Eric, he quickly extended his hand.
“Leftenant Eric Cobb, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Cunningham said, his accent holding a slight trace of his Scottish origins.
“Thank you, sir,” Eric said.
“I am glad that Vice Admiral Fletcher finally sent you over,” Cunningham said, gesturing for his aide. The man pulled out an envelope, and Eric was surprised to see that it was affixed with an official wax seal. His astonishment turned to awe as he realized that the seal was not just any one, but the actual royal seal of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. There were a couple of gasps behind him as others made the same recognition.
“Now I can finally tell Admiral Tovey to stop sending me dispatches regarding mail not addressed to me,” Vice Admiral Cunningham said with a smile. There was a wave of laughs around the small compartment.
“I am always glad to reduce message traffic,” Eric stated with a slight smile. “Although I am not sure what Her Majesty’s return address is.”
“Well, seems that there’s an ill-mannered gentleman occupying her regular residence,” Cunningham replied with a wry smile, reaching inside his jacket. “However, I am certain if you send it to our embassy in Washington it will get to her.”
“Thank you, sir,” Eric replied with a slight neck bow. Cunningham was about to reply when there was the sound of running feet and a male voice asking for individuals to make way. Moments later, a young Royal Navy officer stood in front of the British flag officer.
“Sir, message from Admiral Tovey,” the ensign said, face red from running downstairs. Vice Admiral Cunningham took the message flimsy, his expression indicating it had better be an important one. Peering at it, his face paled. The British admiral looked up at the ensign, then down at the flimsy, and read it again.
“Who else has seen the particulars of this message?”
