On Seas So Crimson

by James Young

  Six of the bastards, Nick thought, fighting to contain his excitement. Plus two battleships and cruisers to boot.

  “Okay gentlemen, we’re only going to get one shot at this in an hour,” Lt. Commander Freeman said. “This is what we’re going to do.”

  As the Nautilus’ commander quickly outlined his plan of attack, Nick remembered something a Naval Academy professor had drummed into the future officers.

  Never, ever be predictable, he thought. It will get you killed. We’re about to teach some Japanese that little lesson in spades.

  Opana Radar Station

  0910 Local (1410 Eastern)

  “Sir, multiple contacts, altitude unknown, bearing oh two zero, speed one eight zero knots,” Private First Class Justin Carlson intoned, adjusting his scope without having to take his eyes off of it. “Estimate that this raid totals approximately one hundred aircraft.”

  Opana Radar Station had suddenly had its numbers augmented in light of the debacle earlier that morning. As news began to trickle in of an awful fight off the coast of Oahu with explosions and smoke visible from the beaches, General Short had belatedly realized that the Navy was truly needing help. With that realization, as well as the information that the first radar-controlled intercept attempted by Fort Shafter had been about as well executed as Casey Jones’s train trip, Short had directed that a field grade officer be immediately sent to Opana.

  Like all idiotic orders issued by a higher headquarters without further clarification, this one had been followed in letter only. Sitting behind young PFC Carlson and Corporal George Elliott was a large, overweight quartermaster lieutenant colonel who knew as much about radar as he did about leading a bayonet charge. Fortunately for the second attempt at radar interception, Lieutenant Colonel Edsel Daugherty realized that he was the village idiot.

  “What do you need me to tell Fort Shafter, Corporal?” he asked Elliott, reaching for the sound powered phone.

  “That they need to launch interceptors on this bearing, at least twenty thousand feet altitude, sir,” Corporal George Elliott stated, handing the man a piece of paper. A deep, dark anger burned within Elliott’s gut. Unlike everyone at Fort Shafter, to include his own self, Elliott did not blame Corporal Lockard for the failure of the initial intercept. He blamed the stupid captain who even now was back with his pursuit squadron getting ready to launch against this second raid. The man had shit the bed, and judging from reports that were being relayed from Pacific Fleet headquarters by the Army’s liaison officer, the young captain’s error had led to many, many deaths.

  I hope some Japanese fighter rips you to shreds, Captain Graham, he thought to himself.

  “Sir, I have additional contacts heading in the other direction, well spread out,” Carlson intoned. Elliott, for probably the fiftieth time in the last month, was glad that they had inherited Donald Carlson. The man had been formerly assigned to the Washington, D.C. area. Unfortunately, he was far from an excellent soldier, his generally slovenly appearance and carefree attitude making him a great deal of enemies.

  Hell, unless he’s in front of a scope, the man is useless, Elliott thought. In front of one, however, he’s better than even Lockard and me.

  “What was that bearing again, Carlson?” Elliott asked, realizing something. As the young PFC repeated it, Elliott wrote it down and strode to the map, doing some quick calculations in his head. Double-checking himself against the map, he turned to face Lieutenant Colonel Daugherty.

  The man was already on the phone, Elliott’s original scratch paper in his hand. Moving quickly, Elliott wrote down another note, along with some coordinates.

  “This is Lieutenant Colonel Daugherty. Get me General Short immediately. I don’t give a damn if he’s in a meeting, tell him that I have a young man here who just might be able to tell him where the enemy is!” Daugherty shouted, his jowls jiggling. He paused, listening to what was being said on the other end of the phone, his face getting redder.

  “Then give me your name, you idiot, so I can make sure you get shot for being an incompetent moron!” A few minutes passed, then Daugherty’s face broke out in a slight smile.

  General Short, sir, I have a young man who wishes to speak with you,” Daugherty said. “He thinks he knows where the enemy carriers are.”

  There was a pause.

  “No sir, I have no idea, but I’m sure he can explain it.”

  As he took the phone, Elliott realized why Daugherty had made the rank of lieutenant colonel.

  Far out to sea, two groups of warriors passed one another, firing recognition flares as they approached. One group moved in a tight, ordered formation. The other, however, was strung out, with several aircraft showing obvious signs of damage. Even as the two groups approached one another, a Val finally gave up the ghost, its engine dying. The crew, realizing they were far from rescue, rode the dive bomber into the water rather risking capture.

  As he watched the approaching formation, Isoro felt a great weariness run through his body like he had just run a great race. His chutai had somehow survived intact, the only damage being some bullet damage to the rear of his own fighter. The shots had come in from almost full deflection, passing through his tail and out the other side of his control surfaces.

  “Bastards,” he muttered. Looking as the flights of Zeroes passed his fighter he gave a tired wave. Hope you enjoy the decks we cleared for you, he smiled. The Americans had to be out of fighters, as the dive bombers and torpedo bombers of the first wave had been able to attack without any hindrance other than anti-aircraft fire. If several of the Zeroes had not attempted to strafe the destroyers in the outer screen, the losses would have been even fewer.

  Boredom is dangerous to a fighter pilot, Isoro thought, shaking his head and scanning the skies. But I doubt the Americans will be able to launch even ten fighters to oppose the second wave.

  U.S.S. Yorktown

  0930 Local (1430 Eastern)

  Isoro would not have been far off. Low on fuel, his Wildcat leaking fuel from its peppered fuselage, himself leaking fluid from shell fragments in his chest and arm, Peter had headed for the first carrier deck he saw. That the Yorktown’s escorts had nearly blown him out of the sky just rounded out the day he was having.

  Now, as he watched Scarlet Two being pushed over the side of the Yorktown while a corpsman worked to patch his wounds, he hoped that the man was not about to tell him he wasn’t able to fly. The bird in question was currently being brought up from the hangar deck, where it had been quickly brought down from the hangar deck roof storage.

  Looking around, Byrnes realized that there were only five more fighters spotted on the Yorktown’s deck. The carrier was pounding south, headed in the opposite direction from that of the enemy’s approach. Astern of Yorktown to starboard was Saratoga. To that vessel’s starboard side was her sister, the Lexington. The three vessel’s escorts had fallen into an impromptu screen, the expectation being that each carrier would turn to maneuver independently if enemy aircraft were detected.

  Everyone is going to think Fletcher is yellow because we’re heading south, Peter thought, gasping as the corpsman finished stitching his chest. There’s no point in staying near the battleships. The columns of smoke still visible over the horizon were a mute testimony to the Japanese being in Hawaiian waters in obvious force.

  At least they’re getting ready to fly off the torpeckers and dive bombers once we get what fighters we can back airborne, Peter thought, hearing the sound of engines revving on the Yorktown’s hangar deck. No use having the chickens in the nest when we don’t even know where the Japanese are, and I’d imagine Ford Island is actually closer to the enemy.

  As he looked to starboard, Peter saw the San Diego, the Atlanta’s sister ship, suddenly start blinkering furiously.

  That can’t be good, he thought. That can’t be good at all. A moment later, the Yorktown’s loudspeaker confirmed his fears.

  “Pilots, man your planes,” came the tinny report from the island. “En
emy aircraft inbound. I say again, enemy aircraft inbound.”

  “That’s the best I can do, sir,” the corpsman said, adding some final bandages. “I truly don’t think you should be flying.”

  Finishing his cigarette, Peter chuckled. The sky seemed frighteningly blue, the pain from his wounds felt especially sharp, and no cigarette had ever tasted so strongly in his life. He was alive…and he hated every moment of it. Far better men than himself were dead, of that he had no doubt. Men with wives, children, mothers, and fathers. Men who would have gone on to do great things for the Navy and the nation, for mankind. Men who he had sat down to breakfast with just that morning, talking of the idiocy of the alert and of sailing out of Pearl Harbor in the dark of night when it was obvious the Japanese fleet was nowhere near the Hawaiian Islands. As he looked back over the vessel’s stern towards Saratoga, he thought of his brethren, his squadronmates, and thought of how little time anyone was guaranteed.

  Well, Patricia, I hope you find some man who deserves you, he thought disgustedly. I don’t think I’m coming back from this one.

  “I probably shouldn’t,” Peter replied, his voice distant. Reaching inside of his pocket, he pulled out his wallet. Taking out twenty dollars, he handed it to the corpsman.

  “Take this. Where I’m going it doesn’t spend all that well,” Peter said resignedly. With that, he went to mount up on the spotted fighter.

  CHAPTER 9: RESTITUTIONS

  To be defeated is pardonable; to be surprised—NEVER!-Napoleon Bonaparte

  Opana Radar Station

  0955 Local (1455 Eastern)

  26 March 1943

  “Sir, contact should be right about now,” Corporal Elliott intoned. Let’s see how much better this one goes, he thought.

  The Army Air Corps counterattack consisted of all the fighters that could be launched across Oahu. Cobbled together, the fighters had been assembled just south of Oahu, then sent south to sea along the Japanese strike’s course. In an ironic twist of fate that the British had learned during the Second Battle of Britain, such a massive wing was actually counterproductive in terms of conducting an ambush. Whereas a handful of squadrons may have been able to gain superior position and surprised the IJN’s escort or dived through it to the bombers, it was impossible to hide the fifty-six fighters moving like a cloud of hornets towards the Japanese second strike.

  Seeing the approaching enemy aircraft, the Shokaku’s fighter commander waggled his wings to lead forty of his fellows towards the Americans. The resultant engagement was like a clash of medieval knights, over a hundred aircraft hurtling at each other with speeds near six hundred miles per hour. Neither side wanted for malicious intent or effort, machine guns and cannon spitting out tracers at rapidly swelling aircraft. For the Americans, it was a harsh awakening to the skill and expertise that the IJN possessed. On the other hand, the Japanese became quickly cognizant of the fact they were facing far tougher and more heavily armed opponents than poorly-trained Chinese or indifferently led Soviets. More brutally, for eleven pilots it was a basics physics lesson reminding them that two objects could not occupy the same space at the same time, as five Zeroes and six pursuits caromed out of the sky.

  Once more, the inherent toughness of American aircraft made the encounter a lesson that several defenders survived to remember. Although three P-40s and four P-38s were shot down in the initial clash, another five pilots turned smoking, leaking, and battered machines back towards Oahu. The Japanese casualties were far worse, the equation of massed machine gun fire plus unarmored, exposed gasoline tanks yielding eight blazing Zeroes. Two more Zeroes were damaged, in one case badly enough for the fighter to begin losing height with a severely wounded pilot at the controls. The remainder of the escort, although shocked by the incredible volume of fire that they had flown through, whipped their maneuverable fighters into tight turns to regain position to protect their charges. The Americans, determined to get through to the bombers, used their momentary advantage in relative speed to continue closing with the fixed-wing Vals, sleek Suisei’s, and torpedo carrying Kates they saw before them.

  What the unfortunate Americans did not see were the eighteen Shidens that had moved up sun rather than make the initial head on run. For several of the Lightning and Warhawk pilots it was a fatal oversight, as the Shokaku, Zuikaku, and Hiryu fighters fell upon their prey like tigers to their meat. Scattering like quail as four of their number were destroyed outright and another two damaged, the Army pursuits swiftly forgot about attempting to intercept the second wave. In the swirling, turning dogfight that followed, three more Zeroes and two Shiden fell in exchange for five Lightnings and three Warhawks. Unprepared for the Japanese fighters’ maneuverability, and shocked as over half their squadron leaders were killed, first a few, then several more, and finally the majority of the surviving American fighters dived away back towards Oahu.

  For their part, the Shiden pilots turned and began to head for home even as several of their Zero counterparts turned to try and regain coverage on the advancing dive and torpedo bombers. Once more, at heavy cost, the Japanese escorts had achieved their purpose. Despite losing over one-third of their total number, they had managed to protect the majority of their charges. While a diminished strike, the second punch from the Japanese carriers was still a fearsome one with nothing between it and the American fleet.

  Pearl Harbor Hospital

  1015 Local (1515 Eastern)

  “You think you two adventurers can stay out of trouble if I leave you alone for ten minutes?” Nancy Hertling asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Yes Aunt Nancy,” Jo said wearily.

  I am so embarrassed, she thought.

  “Try not to shoot anyone,” Nancy replied with a smile, walking out the door in her nurse’s uniform.

  “Well, that escape plan lasted all of twenty minutes,” Patricia noted from where she sat, cleaning the giant Webley.

  I’m still shocked Nancy managed to talk the guards into letting us keep our weapons, Jo thought. Almost as shocked that Patricia looks more bored than scared now.

  “You know, I wasn’t expecting to run into Aunt Nancy and Uncle K heading out of town, okay?” Jo replied. “They had a point though—we were safer riding onto post with them than running off into the hinterlands where other crazies might have been headed.”

  I’m going to let the other in that sentence slide, Jo thought. I’ll chalk it up to both of us being tired from those planes waking us up this morning. The roar of Army fighters had startled them both out of their borrowed hospital beds twice.

  “Do you think Peter’s okay?” Patricia asked, causing Jo to start and look at her.

  Hmm… Jo thought.

  “Well, either you think your brothers are capable of taking care of themselves or you like Lieutenant Byrnes more than you let on,” Jo observed with a smile.

  Patricia looked up, her eyes wide in shock, then narrowing.

  “Maybe I just know he’s out with the fleet…” Patricia started.

  “You mean like Nick?” Jo shot back with a chuckle.

  Patricia growled in frustration.

  “Fine, I like him, okay?” she replied to Jo’s amusement.

  “I think Peter’s fine,” Jo said. “Actually I think all of your brothers are fine. As Uncle K said this morning, the Japanese are probably on the other side of…”

  The distant roar of an aircraft engine made Jo stop midsentence. There were several shouts from outside the ward they were sitting in, with several medical personnel rushing by the door. Jo and Patricia both swung to their feet, the latter holstering her pistol before they stepped outside to the window where several doctors and nurses were gathered looking into the sky. Rather than gazing where the collective group was peering, Jo watched as the heavy cruiser Chester went sailing by Ford Island at a high rate of speed.

  She’s going a little fast for the channel, Jo thought worriedly. The Chester was the sister ship to her father’s Houston, and the sight made her stomach s
uddenly clench in worry. Following everyone else’s eyes, the growing dots made her suffer fear of a different sort.

  What if those are Japanese? she thought. Apparently she was not the only person with that thought, as several sirens began to wail. Below her second-floor window, she watched as two soldiers jumped into the sandbagged position beneath her. The first soldier in charged the weapon while the second man grabbed the belt of bullets, ensuring a good, clean feed into the weapon. With their tin pot hats, short sleeve khakis, and youthful faces the soldiers made her think of little boys playing war.

  As she looked back up, however, she realized that the men were not playing by any means. Finally succumbing to damage suffered during the clash with the Japanese escort, one of the returning fighters began streaming smoke. Realizing that his fighter was uncontrollable, the pilot attempted to turn away from Hickam Field and Pearl Harbor. Watching the plane drunkenly point its nose to the south, Jo suddenly felt nausea. Unable to take her eyes away, she watched as the fighter began to lose altitude.

  Oh my God, she thought frantically. Oh my God.

  As if defying her prayers, the fighter suddenly exploded in a ball of fire and smoke. The fireball arced down towards the groves of pineapple trees below, its pilot dead at the controls. Jo watched as Patricia, shocked, swept her hand up to her mouth, her eyes wide. Below her, one of the soldiers began cursing, ripping his helmet off in disgust. Unbidden, her thoughts turned to the Cobbs.

  Please Lord, let them be okay, she thought, desperately hoping she was having a nightmare yet knowing that things were all too real.

  “Is that it?” Patricia asked quietly, counting the returning dots as they came into view. Numbly, both women thought back to the formation they had watched arrowing so powerfully out to sea. These bedraggled survivors, arriving in dribs and drabs, seemed to be some sick practical joke.