by James Young
God help us that we’re at the point we don’t feel comfortable telling our own allies what vessels the Navy is bringing to a fight, His sealed orders had been delivered by breeches buoy from one of the destroyers that had accompanied the Massachusetts. The young lieutenant carrying them had indicated the Office of Naval Intelligence had some concerns regarding the upper levels of the Royal Navy in the Battle of Iceland’s aftermath.
Some folks are categorically unable to accept that maybe, just maybe, the Krauts might know what they’re doing.
Unlike some of his comrades, Jacob could accept the possibility that, yes, the Nazis had somehow turned a senior officer or perhaps an aide in the Commonwealth fleet. However, having had to increase his own respect of the Japanese despite prewar misconceptions, Jacob was willing to accept that the Germans might have become quick learners with regards to modern naval warfare.
“Sir, the Massachusetts is vectoring fighters towards the enemy aircraft,” one of his talkers reported.
Jacob nodded, still sweeping his eyes around the formation to make sure the Houston was not going to collide with anyone. Satisfied the Officer of the Deck was keeping suitable station, Jacob brought up his own binoculars and again swept the sky in the bearing of the reported aircraft.
There it is. The distant dot was swelling rapidly through the binoculars. It took a full thirty seconds before one of the lookouts also sighted the aircraft, and Jacob made a note to have a word with Commander Sloan about their training.
“Looks like one of the Italians’ flying boats,” Farmer observed, then narrowed his eyes. “Or actually, one of ours.”
Jacob couldn’t resist throwing a jab.
“One of ‘yours?’” he asked, raising an eyebrow and dropping his binoculars slightly. Commander Farmer dropped his binoculars and gave the Houston’s captain a brief, unhappy glare before recovering his military bearing.
“A Sunderland, sir,” the man said, voice clipped. Jacob nodded, then brought his binoculars up again.
That was cheap, but so is bitching about Vice Admiral Fletcher not dropping everything to run off and defend a colonial possession, Jacob justified.
“Hmm, he appears to be coming closer,” Farmer observed. “Awfully brave of him; he must have different orders than the Mediterranean Fleet always did.”
“Which were?”
“Simply to make and maintain contact,” Farmer replied. “Let the next aircraft up get closer, then set about trying to figure out the force’s composition.”
“He might be trying to make a good report so they can figure out whether they should give battle or just run,” Jacob noted. “Then again, I can’t imagine not coming out to fight given all the damage we’ve been doing to convoys.”
“There are limits to most navies’ aggressiveness, Captain Morton,” Farmer observed. “I seem to recall not even yours ventured out that much in the face of a massive blockade during our nations’ most recent disagreement.”
Jacob grunted at that point as the Sunderland banked just outside of anti-aircraft range. It made one complete circle before suddenly straightening out its turn and heading west. The reason for the pilot’s change of course was easy to ascertain as smaller, faster dots closed with the Sunderland as it ducked into a cloud bank.
The ensuing combat’s outcome was certain, even if not as one-sided as Jacob would have expected. Judging from the one missing and one smoking fighter out of the flight of four that flew back over Houston, the Sunderland had died hard. The black finger reaching towards the sky on the western horizon, however, indicated the Sunderland had indeed died.
“What’s the report from the Massachusetts?” Jacob asked, stepping back onto the bridge with Commander Farmer.
“Splash one flying boat, sir,” Lieutenant Ness, the Officer of the Deck, reported. “However, it appears one of our fighters crashed.”
“Do we need to ready to launch our seaplane for rescue?” Jacob asked.
I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I want to see if the good lieutenant thought to ask. Seeing the look on the young officer’s face, he could tell Ness had not.
“See that we inquire at your convenience,” Jacob said. “Tell the XO I’d like to see him in my day cabin, please.”
Ness visibly swallowed at the last statement, and Jacob’s expression softened.
“Lieutenant Ness, I assure you, we didn’t even have aircraft when I was in your billet. So I’d be slightly hypocritical for expecting you to inherently remember to ask, no?”
Lieutenant Ness looked at Jacob nervously as he considered his options.
The problem with Ness is he’s not instinctual enough, Jacob thought. Which reminds me, I also need to tell Commander Sloan fitness reports are apparently due.
“Yes, sir,” Ness replied finally. Jacob nodded.
“File it away for next time,” he said, then nodded at Commander Farmer and headed for his day cabin.
I do love the fact that BuPers was kind enough to send along my naughty note for not doing fitness reports with the Massachusetts, yet somehow no one back in Australia can get our mail forwarded. Maybe I’ll write Josephine a letter before lunch.
As he sat down at his desk, he glanced at his daughter’s picture.
“I do wonder what in the heck you’re up to right now, young lady,” he muttered aloud. “With apparently half the Japanese Navy here in the Indian Ocean, I guess I don’t have to worry about Hawaii getting invaded.”
Jacob paused to look down at the half-finished letter to one Lieutenant Eric Cobb also sitting on his desk.
“Or, for that matter, that fly boy of yours being less than a gentlemen.”
U.S.S. Yorktown
0615 Local (2315 Eastern)
Indian Ocean
“Pilots man your planes,” the loudspeaker crackled above Eric’s head, jerking him from a cat nap. Shaking the cobwebs away, he grabbed his plotting board.
“Little early, isn’t it?” Lieutenant Ramage stated, looking at the clock. “I didn’t think we were launching for another hour.”
“We weren’t,” Lieutenant Commander Brigante said as he stepped into the ready room. “Plans changed once the surface folks got themselves sighted by a flying boat. I think Vice Admiral Fletcher wants to try to catch the Italians as they’re preparing a strike.”
If he wanted to do that, we probably should have done a predawn launch. Oh well, I’m not a staff officer.
“I need to see section leaders when we get topside,” Brigante called behind him.
The noise of an aircraft rolling down the flight deck briefly filled the ready room.
That sounds like we’re getting some of our fighters launched, Eric thought. Which means they’re strengthening the CAP either in anticipation of something getting flown back at us or sending more fighters out towards the surface folks.
It was a short walk up and out onto the Yorktown’s flight deck. The carrier’s strike was arrayed aft, engines starting to turn over as crews made the final pre-flight checks. A Wildcat trundled down the flight deck, then soared off to join the other three stubby fighters in its flight.
“Helluva way to earn our pay, ain’t it?” Lieutenant Ramage shouted, the wind over the Yorktown’s bow causing his Mae West to flap in the wind.
The big carrier’s deck vibrated underneath them as she steamed at near full speed, her wake broad and white behind her. As he walked over towards the island where Lieutenant Commander Brigante knelt with a mapboard in front of him, Eric turned to look over the rest of the formation. With just a pair of light cruisers and four destroyers around her, the Yorktown was sailing along with the smallest escort she’d had since the start of the war.
I’d feel a little exposed if I didn’t know there was a surface group less than three hours away. Less than that if we steam towards one another.
“Okay guys, here’s the dope,” Lieutenant Brigante began in his strong Brooklyn accent. “The wind’s being cooperative for operations, so Yorktown’s goin
g to continue to steam towards the Italian port until we return. CAG believes as long as we keep behind the surface bubbas, no need to worry about the Italian bombers flying all the way out here to hit us.”
Well that seems a bit optimistic, Eric thought.
“We’re going with Plan Able from last night,” Brigante said. “Vice Admiral Fletcher figures even if the battleship and carriers come out to fight, they’re going to need fuel afterwards to go anywhere. Our job is to make sure the tankers that are allegedly in harbor don’t make it back out.”
Gotta wonder how many tankers the Italians are going to have after this, Eric mused. We’ve sank quite a few.
“The torpeckers are going to go plaster what intelligence indicates is one of only two airfields capable of handling bombers,” Brigante went on. “That’s the only change from Plan Able.”
Eric wasn’t the only one who looked back in surprise at the Avengers.
“Yeah, I guess that’s a wrinkle that got slipped in while we were sleeping, and the ordnance boys had a long night of it swapping stuff out,” Brigante observed.
Wonder if Vice Admiral Fletcher is trying to conserve torpedoes? It was a long, long way to an American depot, and scuttlebutt from the replenishment was that the Lassen had been long on bombs, short on torpedoes.
I wonder if the rumors are true about BuOrd recalling a bunch of tin fish for testing? Eric thought. Nick had told him about the submariners’ problems. Several of VT-8’s survivors had also sworn they should have gotten at least one hit on the damaged Japanese carrier that had escaped during the Battle of Hawaii. Other incidents from the Dutch East Indies and the Battle of Iceland had increased the tension between BuOrd and the active fleet.
“Now, there’s a possibility that we might run into some British aircraft,” Brigante said, consulting his notes. “Besides the birds carried on the escort carriers intel says are in port, apparently our black shoe brethren were sighted by a British flying boat.”
You know, for all the complaining people were making about not doing this with the Royal Navy carriers as well, I think I’m glad to know any British aircraft I see are enemy.
“Rendezvous points are as follows,” Brigante said, then began rattling off the respective latitudes and longitudes. Consulting his notes one last time and seemingly satisfied, Brigante tucked the piece of paper away.
“Let’s go make our mothers proud, gentlemen,” he said. “See you guys back here in a couple of hours.”
The flight towards Mogadishu seemed longer than it actually was. With VB-11 and VS-11 both flying the strike at almost full strength while the Enterprise acted as the duty carrier, the Yorktown’s “Sunday Punch” was almost fifty aircraft strong. Puttering along behind and below the twenty-four dive bombers, the carrier’s twelve Avenger torpedo bombers each lugged a 2,000-lb bomb while twelve F4Fs weaved protectively overhead.
“Isn’t it kind of strange that the torpecker pilots aren’t carrying any of their tin fish?” Radioman 1c Brown asked.
“Vice Admiral Fletcher wants to make sure we wreck the harbor,” Eric replied. “If we destroy the facilities, the ships can’t come across the Indian Ocean after us while we’re fighting the Japanese.”
There was a long pause.
“I’m no admiral, but doesn’t putting a hole in their side keep the vessels from chasing us just as well?” Brown asked.
Yes, but you’re assuming their torpedoes would work.
“A whole lot easier to hit a building than a ship, Brown,” he said aloud. “Plus if the British are right, this harbor has horrible defenses.”
“Pardon me if I’m not all that eager to take the opinion of a bunch of people whose carriers are rushing east,” Brown replied, disgusted.
“Careful Brown, you’ll get both of us banned from their rum if you keep up that attitude,” Eric said with a smile.
“Sir, I don’t get to eat all the…bogeys, four o’clock high!”
Eric had just enough time to look up and to his left before the flight of Spitfires dove on the combined dive bomber flight. The rattle of machine guns and cannon fire came even as Eric sideslipped his Dauntless. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three Wildcats falling, their pilots dead before the fighters had a chance to jettison their wing fuel tanks.
Dammit, looks like they were expecting us!
Brown fired away with his twin guns as another flight of Spitfires slanted in. This group made the mistake of swinging in slow and directly astern, the two leaders each picking a VB-11 Dauntless as their prey. Unfortunately for the two RAF pilots, the twenty-four .30-caliber guns were more than enough to see one Spitfire off and severely maul the other. In exchange, one Dauntless spiraled away in flames and another was forced to jettison its bomb into Mogadishu below.
“What in the hell are the Wildcats doing?” Brown asked, taking a snapshot as a Spitfire flashed by on a beam run.
“Dying,” Eric snapped back as he watched two of the F4Fs plummet as flaming comets. Just as the victorious Spitfire began to circle around to try and draw a beam on the bombers, it exploded as four dark blue and grey shapes hurtled down on it from altitude. Two more Spitfires, similarly focused on the Avengers, also paid the price for failing to maintain eternal vigilance as they also were shot down by a group of gull-winged aircraft.
Those are friendly planes! Eric realized belatedly as defending aircraft were engaged by more of the newcomers. Turning to look south, Eric saw a large gaggle of aircraft approaching from that direction. Bringing up his binoculars, he saw all of these aircraft were also a uniform dark blue.
Where did they come from? The sharp crack! of exploding anti-aircraft fire and the Dauntless jostling brought him back to the task at hand.
“Cobb, take your boys after that tanker there by the pier!” Lieutenant Commander Brigante ordered.
Eric saw the ship in question, realizing there was a reason the squadron commander was pointing the target out. The large vessel was just starting to back away from the oil refueling terminal, froth underneath its stern indicative of full power.
“Red One, Blue One, roger!” Eric replied, looking left and right to see that his two wingmen had heard the conversation. Both young officers were staring at him, with Ensign Strange’s eyes seemingly as wide as dinner plates. As the rest of VB- and VS-11 opened their dive flaps and dove towards the fuel tanks below, Eric circled to his left above the long ship. Another volley of flak shook his bomber, the bursts far too close for comfort.
Those are some damn accurate gunners, Eric noted, lining up from the tanker’s stern. Reaching forward he grabbed the dive brake lever and pulled, feeling the Dauntless’s drag immediately increase. The subsequent movements were by rote, Eric feeling a grim familiarity with the process.
It was only when they nosed over that the routine was suddenly, irrevocably changed. Brown’s cry and the rattle of machine guns was something Eric forced himself to ignore. What broke his concentration, albeit briefly, was the bright flash and sudden fireball of Ensign Strange’s Dauntless exploding as a hurtling Spitfire shot it down.
Fucking asshole!
Rage burned through Eric’s chest, and his eyes briefly burned before he regained control of his emotions.
Lacking dive brakes of its own, the British fighter kept going at high speed after killing Strange and his gunner. Blue Two fired his machine guns after the Spit more in anger and frustration than any hopes of getting a hit. The utterly futile burst came nowhere near hitting the Spitfire, but the trigger-happy 20mm gun crew on the tanker’s bow had a much better angle. Eric whooped without shame as the British fighter was hit just as it started pulling out, its port wing fluttering away just before the remaining wreckage smashed into the water of Mogadishu harbor.
“Five thousand!” Brown shouted.
Shit, might want to actually aim this thing, Eric thought, putting his eyes to the sight. The tanker was not stationary, but was certainly just a bare step above helpless. As tracers flashed into this field of vi
ew, Eric depressed the button on his twin machine guns. Not sure if returning fire did any good, he concentrated on the task at hand.
“Three thousand!”
The Dauntless shook violently as something exploded with a thunderous roar roughly a half mile away.
“Holy shit, someone must have hit an ammo dump!” Brown shouted.
“Altitude!” Eric screamed, the tanker’s deck incredibly large in his sight.
“Two thousand!” Brown replied, panicked at having been distracted. “Nineteen hundred!”
Dear Lord, please do not be full of avgas. Despite the terror that suddenly gripped him at that possibility, Eric pulled the release without hesitation. There was the familiar vibration as the trapeze swung into the airstream, then the Dauntless shifting upwards as the half-ton bomb left from underneath. Eric braced himself and pulled back on the stick, the dirty brown water of Mogadishu harbor receding away from his field of view as darkness rushed in.
“Hit!” Brown grunted, just before the Dauntless was struck by metal debris from their bomb exploding.
Looking back, Eric could see flames shooting up from the tanker’s forward hold just as Blue Two’s bomb landed close alongside alongside. Scanning for his wingman, Eric saw the dark blue Dauntless at his eleven o’clock. Blue Two suddenly skidded, at which point Eric belatedly noted the long-nosed Italian that had elicited the maneuver. For his part, the Italian pilot barely managed to avoid smacking into the harbor, the tip of its wing dragging a briefly.
You son-of-a-bitch, Eric thought, cursing his inability to remember what the long-nosed Italian aircraft were called. Then it came to him: Folgore.
“Hold on,” Eric snapped, then put his own Dauntless into a tight turn to intersect the circling Italian’s. Smoke was pouring from the Folgore’s nose as its pilot added power to avoid stalling as he stalked Blue Two.
“Uh, si–” Brown started to say, then grunted as he was thrown into his belt.
He doesn’t even see us, Eric thought, dismissing Brown’s concerns.
As if to prove his point, the Italian fighter half-rolled to draw a bead on Blue Two, exposing his belly towards Eric. Gritting his teeth, Eric squeezed the trigger as he applied lead.
