by James Young
“Sorry, I was just thinking about my perverse joy at the RAF utterly gelding our Fleet Air Arm between the wars,” he replied. “This far out, this soon, it’s probably Beauforts if it’s our chaps. Tough birds, but not all that maneuverable and not something I’d want to press an attack in given your navy’s habit of bolting anti-aircraft guns to every horizontal surface.”
Have you observed your old friends the Japanese lately? Jacob thought sarcastically.
“In any case, they’ll probably ignore us and go for the battleships,” Farmer said. “They’ll try to fly past us and engage from the bow, makes for a better run. Textbook says you can’t drop a torpedo at over one hundred fifty knots, one hundred is preferred if that helps your gunners any.”
“OOD, pass that last bit of info to Guns,” Jacob said. “Thank you, Commander Farmer.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Farmer said. “May we not kill anyone I know too terribly well.”
“Combat Air Patrol is being vectored to the planes coming from the north.”
Commander Farmer would have been joyful if he’d realized the group attacking from the north was, in fact, Italian. Escorted by ten Folgore fighters operating at the extreme limit of their range, the fifteen Sparviero torpedo bombers had been cobbled together from the survivors of the Allied carrier strike that morning. Despite a lack of familiarity with one another, the Italians managed to maintain a steady formation right up until the radar vectored CAP descended upon them thirty miles short of the surface group.
Looking more at their fuel gauges than their surroundings, the ten Folgores completely missed the mixed bag of F4Fs and Hellcats sent to intercept them. As a result, the twelve Grumman fighters executed a perfect bounce, coming in from upsun and above. Two of the Folgore pilots paid an immediate price for their inattentiveness, their fighters arcing down into the Indian Ocean below. They were joined by two of their charges, the Sparviero leader among them.
The American CAP converted their speed back into altitude, the eight Hellcats separating away from the four Wildcats as they did so. As a result, the Folgores had a brief advantage in numbers as they sought revenge. Unfortunately for the Italians, the flight of VF-3 Wildcats was led by Commander Jimmy Thach himself. In a demonstration of artful deflection shooting followed by excellent teamwork, the four Wildcats managed to avoid loss while picking off the lead Folgore and damaging another. Then the two flights of Bonhomme Richard fighters rejoined the fray, finishing the cripple and downing two more Folgores before the battered Italians broke off.
Gaining local air superiority was relatively pointless however, as it allowed the Sparvieros to continue unmolested towards TF 25. Descending rapidly, the bombers raced down either side of TF 25’s formation at twelve miles range with the two senior surviving officers hurriedly marking targets.
“Well, looks like it’s going to be Italians,” Commander Farmer observed from Houston’s bridge wing. The TF’s destroyers were already making smoke, the black obscuration pouring from their stacks as they surged forward through the placid Indian Ocean swells. Jacob turned to look at Repulse, the battlecruiser now in the van of the advancing formation. Houston’s 8-inch turrets were swung out and at the ready, Lieutenant Commander Willoughby prepared to try and splash the onrushing bombers with salvoes in their path.
You know, now that I think about it, we might need those shells if we catch the surface fleet, Jacob considered. Didn’t work in the Indies, probably not going to work here.
“Tell Guns to hold fire with the main battery,” he ordered. The talker at the bridge’s rear spoke rapidly, and the Houston’s forward turrets returned to the centerline. Jacob watched as the bombers finished swinging wide then turned more or less as one in towards the Allied formation.
There was no overt order to open fire. One moment the only sound was that of the cruiser’s engines pounding along and the rush of the wind. The next first the destroyers, then the cruisers, and finally the capital ships at the formation’s center began blazing away at the incoming Italians. The Houston’s 5-inch guns selected a group of three Sparviero charging in a vee from the port bow. The bomber’s goal was apparently the Massachusetts, their bombardiers not even concerned with attempting to reduce the battleship’s screen.
Come on then, you bastards, Jacob thought, the tri-motored Sparviero’s swelling in size as they crossed the danger zone. Initially the screen’s fire appeared to be behind the big bombers, but quickly corrected as the range closed down to 15,000 yards. At 10,000 yards from Houston, either one of the cruiser’s 5-inch shells or that from the destroyer Guest burst just beneath the starboard bomber in the vee.
Trailing smoke from the damaged engine, the Sparviero lagged behind its brethren. Ten seconds later, the H.M.C.S. Garland hit the bomber with fire from a Bofors 40mm gun just as the U.S.S. Hudson blew the leader’s cockpit in with 20mm fire. Both bombers slapped into the water, their crews dying as the hunchbacked aircraft disintegrated.
Let’s see how brave the last one is. He had his answer a moment later as the approaching bomber skidded to line up on the Tallahassee then hastily dropped its weapon.
Her captain is going to want to comb that track.
“Port thirty degrees,” Jacob said calmly as the weapon splashed into the water.
“Port rudder thirty degrees, aye aye,” the helmsman replied, spinning Houston’s helm. As the heavy cruiser’s bow heeled over, Jacob watched the torpedo start to make its run for the Tallahassee. The light cruiser’s guns continued to fire at both its assailant and a flight of three Sparviero’s streaking from starboard to port on their way out of the Allied formation post-drop. Despite the ferocity of fire, the trio of escaping Italians made it through the formation seemingly without significant damage.
The Italian pilots’ bravery was not matched by accuracy, as their attack yielded no hits. What it did do, however, was remove the American CAP from the equation while the strike from the carriers Dasher and Battler bore in. Rather than slaughtering the incoming Fairey Albacores, the Wildcats and Hellcats either turned for home or chased the departing nine Sparviero’s respectively. All but forgotten, the twelve Fairey Albacore biplanes continued determinedly towards where bursts of flak, smoke screens, and rising smoke columns from destroyed Italian aircraft marked the Allied formation. Their advance was lost in the confusion of the Italian attack.
“Aircraft, bearing two nine oh!”
The lookout’s cry brought Jacob’s head around from where he was trying to regain station behind the Tallahassee. For a moment Jacob thought himself hallucinating, the dozen biplanes approaching online like something out of a matinee movie on World War I.
“Bloody hell, Albacores!” Farmer shouted, recognizing the aircraft. As if his shout spurred cognition throughout the screen, the entire left side of the Allied formation, then all ships that could bear, opened fire.
Where did they come from? Jacob thought, then remembered the earlier report and kicked himself. We lost track of them in all the chaos.
“Hard to port!” he barked.
“Hard to port, aye aye!” the helmsman replied, spinning the wheel rapidly so the Houston could begin to turn her bow onto the approaching torpedo bombers. The range was already at 7,000 yards, the approaching aircraft having made good use of the lingering smoke from the earlier Sparviero attack. Jacob realized two of the Albacores had picked the Houston as a target, with his last minute turn foiling their best angle. Still, the biplanes bore in.
Brave men, he allowed grudgingly, the vessel’s 5-inch guns banging away at the slowly advancing British aircraft. He forced himself to turn and look around Houston, making sure the heavy cruiser wasn’t about to run into an accompanying destroyer or other vessel in the screen. The destroyer Phelps had cut inside the Houston’s turn and was steaming forward, smoke pouring from her stacks and fire shooting from her guns.
It was over in moments. Both Albacores managed to drop, but only one survived the storm of fire thrown at it by Houston, Phe
lps, and several other vessels in range. Jacob was alarmed by several shell splashes that surrounded the Houston as other vessels engaged their own assailants, but fortunately none hit the heavy cruiser. The Hudson was not as fortunate, and Jacob winced when he saw several 40mm shell impacts walk down the destroyer’s side.
Friendly fire is a problem with a formation this size. Then his mind turned back to the torpedoes, and he saw with relief that both tracks were going to miss the Houston.
“Ah hell, they hit the Nashville,” someone muttered. Jacob brought up his binoculars and looked to where a long column of water was falling back from the light cruiser’s bow.
“Dammit,” he muttered, drawing a sympathetic nod from Farmer.
The strike on the Nashville was the only success the British torpedo bombers could claim despite near total surprise. In return, only six Albacores managed to stagger away from the Allied force.
The Nashville was fortunate in where she caught the tin fish. The TORPEX warhead vented its fury on the light cruiser’s narrow bow, blasting a large hole in the structure. The forward bulkheads just managed to hold as the vessel’s bridge crew brought her to a slow stop, two destroyers circling nervously. The remainder of TF 25 began to turn once more into formation, the Repulse leading the way south towards the fleeing Axis fleet.
Jacob read the Massachusetts signal as the big vessel regained station behind the Repulse once the latter had dodged two torpedoes.
ALL VESSELS, CONTINUE TO PURSUE
“Well, I hope our flyboys manage to make that the last strike those carriers launch,” Jacob muttered.
“I do not think that there was much that returned,” Farmer observed. “But yes, hopefully your pilots will land a fortunate hit on our prey.”
Blue One
1130 Local (0430 Eastern)
Too long, Eric fumed. That strike took way too long to spot, way too long to launch, and now we’re going to be lucky if we catch this enemy formation.
The Yorktown and Enterprise had finally joined up with the two Atlantic Fleet carriers. In retrospect, the added efficiency in joining the four carriers under one loose screen had been more than outweighed by the clumsiness of trying to coordinate four different air groups’ Sunday Punch. On one hand, Eric was glad the lull had given Yorktown’s plane handlers a chance to look over his aircraft and repair where a 20mm shell had apparently clipped his rudder. On the other, a hasty repair was not worth the apparent gains the Axis force was making in its movement south.
About three more hours and they’ll be in range of long-range fighters from Mombasa, Eric calculated with disgust as he looked down at his plotting board. VB-11 was fifth in a string of dive bomber squadrons that stretched back for miles like a long daisy chain of woe. He could only imagine what would happen if British, German, or Italian fighters showed up.
If anyone had asked me, I’d think we would be better off with just heading for the target as we were ready like doctrine says. I don’t exactly know how we’re going to coordinate almost fifty dive bombers over the target anyway, but I hope we at least get the anti-aircraft fire reduced for the torpeckers.
“Sir, Ensign Stratmore is slipping back again,” Brown stated contemptuously. Eric looked over to his right and saw that the new Blue Two was, indeed, drifting back in the formation.
“I’ll cut the man some slack,” Eric said. “He hasn’t flown formation in at least a month.”
Brown snorted at that one. Ensign Stratmore, the new Blue Two, had been one of the spare / utility pilots carried by the Yorktown. Normally condemned to flying antisubmarine polls, the spare pilots were expected to man the additional aircraft carried lashed to the roof of the hangar deck in anticipation of losses. In order to keep these men somewhat proficient in their aircraft, they were often assigned antisubmarine patrol duties or messenger aircraft flights.
I also imagine knowing he’s stepped into a dead man’s spot probably isn’t helping any, Eric left unsaid.
“Smoke ahead,” Lieutenant Commander Brigante stated. “Looks like we’ve found our friends.”
Eric immediately raised his eyes and scanned the surrounding area. Somewhat mollified by the two flights of Corsair fighters he found circling over their heads, Eric looked back forward.
A whole lot easier to concentrate on the task at hand when I know that someone will at least occupy the enemy’s fighters, Eric thought as he listened to radio cross chatter between the squadron leaders and Commander Montgomery, Yorktown’s CAG.
“We’re going to keep pushing south,” Eric said over the intercom. “The torpeckers are taking on the battleships.”
“Without dive bombers to split the fire?” Brown asked.
“They’re taking the Atlantic dive bombers with them.”
Brown was silent, and Eric had the feeling the gunner wasn’t a fan of splitting the group. Waggling their wings, the Bonomme Richard and Independence’s air groups turned towards the smoke that had been sighted. Air Group Six and Eleven, for their part, set off further south, finally sighting the carriers just as Eric was beginning to be concerned regarding his fuel state.
“Two escort carriers,” Commander Montgomery stated. “We’ll take the far one, Enterprise and her group have the near one. VB-11, standby to see if you’re going after carriers or double back to hit the BBs.”
I think I’d rather hit the–
“Fighters, fighters inbound one o’clock!”
There’s our welcome committee. Eric listened as Brown cocked the twin machine guns, then watched the American fighters turn to engage.
As Combat Air Patrols went, the dozen Sea Hurricanes launched by H.M.S. Dasher and H.M.S. Battler could easily have qualified as “paltry.” Along with the six of their fellows that had been hastily scrambled to circle over the surface vessels ten miles away, the twelve obsolescent fighters were the best that the two carriers could do. It was far from enough, as there were 14 F4U Corsairs from Bonhomme Richard accompanying the dive bombers alone.
Eric listened as Commander Montgomery smoothly directed targets. The two carriers had a pair of cruisers and four destroyers in attendance, and Montgomery ensured that the four larger vessels would all receive attention.
Those carriers look like that former merchie Sam and David nearly got killed on, Eric realized. I can understand why Montgomery is holding us back, as I don’t think it’s going to take more than one or two bombs apiece to finish them off.
As Eric looked on, VS-6, VS-11, and VB-6 all stooped down from their perches to dive on the small carriers. Facing anti-aircraft fire from the pair of AA cruisers and four destroyers that comprised the vessels’ screen, the three squadrons lost four SBDs. In exchange, the twenty-eight Dauntlesses that had pitched over scored four hits on Dasher, and then three on Battler. The 1,000-lb. bombs, designed for far larger prey, easily penetrated to both carriers' vitals. The small flattops were wracked with secondary explosions from bow to stern as the Dauntlesses egressed at low altitude.
The H.M.S. Dido and H.M.S. Argonaut, sister ships designed to combat the very menace that had befallen their small task force, were fortunate in that only twelve SBDs were allotted to their destruction. Although failing to protect their charges, the Argonaut and Dido managed to claim another pair of the Dauntlesses attacking them before pullout. The remaining bombs were split almost evenly between them, and Argonaut managed to avoid the quintet aimed for her. With only slight flooding from a VS-6 near miss, the light cruiser remained capable of continuing further action even as the escort carriers burned nearby.
Dido was almost as lucky, then terribly unfortunate. The last VB-6 section, led by Lieutenant Richard Best, was able to put one bomb into the adroitly maneuvering vessel. The half-ton bomb slammed into the cruiser’s amidships, knocking out half of her propulsion and starting a major fire. Briefly surrounded by a cloud of steam, the damaged cruiser came to a stop while her crew began damage control procedures.
“Jesus,” Eric said, looking at the burning pair of esco
rt carriers as VB-11 turned back to the north.
“Pretty sure that’s the work of a fallen angel, not the savior, sir,” Brown replied, his voice raspy.
“I can’t argue with you there,” Eric agreed. He could only imagine what it was like aboard both of the doomed vessels, with fire and smoke probably clogging all of the passageways belowdecks.
Not a whole lot of men getting off of either of them. Hell of a way to go.
“Almost wish the torpeckers had been here to make it quicker,” Brown said. He had just barely finished speaking when the Dasher’s own torpedo magazines went in a massive explosion that briefly obscured the vessel’s stern. Eric turned away, stomach churning. What he saw in front of him was not much better.
Some vessel has had a bad day. A black pillar of smoke was rising to the heavens amongst all the flak bursts. He listened as Commander Montgomery had another discussion with his counterparts from Enterprise, Independence, and Bonhomme Richard.
“Damn torpedo planes,” he muttered angrily. It appeared that the only vessels the Avengers had managed to hit was a British heavy cruiser and an Italian destroyer. The dive bombers had scored several punishing hits on the two Italian battleships in turn. However, unless VB-11 got lucky with a hit to something vital, both vessels were likely going to evade TF 25’s clutches.
This is just going to be more grist for the mill that there’s something wrong with the damn tin fish, Eric thought. At this point we might as well ask the British if we can use some of theirs.
“Listen up Haymakers,” Lieutenant Commander Brigante said. “We’re going to hit one of those big bastards so the surface boys can catch her. The Richard’s boys claim they put four into the smaller one, so we’re going to try and see if we can match that.”
