by James Young
“Fuck you!” Adam screamed, pulling back on the stick. His breathing gradually slowed as the rage began to leave him, the Wildcat vibrating as his arm shook on the stick.
I hope I did not activate the throat mike when I started cursing at Three, he thought.
“Roger Red Three,” he replied, realizing that the Wildcat was still shaking although his tremors had passed. Glancing over at the control panel, Adam could see that his RPMs were fluctuating and that it was not his imagination that the Wildcat was vibrating much worse than normal.
“Two, look me over, I think I took some damage,” Adam stated, stepping on the rudder pedal to bring the Wildcat’s nose on a heading back to Pensacola.
“Roger One,” Teague replied.
Looking around the cockpit, Adam could see no visible signs of damage around his seat. Glancing out over his cowling, however, he could see that a section was clearly holed, the lips of the penetration mushrooming back into the airstream.
“One, this is Two,” Teague said. “You’ve taken some hits in your fuselage and there’s a large hole in your left nose.”
That explains why the engine is shaking like an unbalanced washing machine, Adam thought grimly. Guess I found out one thing the Wildcat can do better than the Spitfire: take a punch.
“Roger Two,” Adam replied.
Shit, he thought. Might want to get off another report to Homeplate. Especially if I’m going to be stepping out over the side.
“Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Buccaneer Leader,” Adam intoned. Leading with his position, Adam quickly summarized the events of the last five minutes as he crossed the Florida coastline. Listening to his engine, he realized the Pratt & Whitney didn’t sound like it was getting worse.
Today might be my lucky day.
“Buccaneer Leader, this is Homeplate,” the controller at the other end replied. “We have your position. Are you going to need assistance?”
“Negative Homeplate,” Adam said, looking down at Pensacola’s outskirts passing underneath his wing. “At this point you’ll just be able to look for the smoke cloud if this doesn’t work.”
There was a long pause.
“Roger, Buccaneer Leader,” Homeplate acknowledged. “You are clear to Runway One, all traffic is out of your way.”
“Roger,” Adam replied. Reaching over, he grabbed the Wildcat’s landing gear handle, then began cranking the fighter’s wings down while cursing Grumman’s designers. With a final turn, the wheels locked down as he entered Pensacola’s pattern.
You didn’t like that, did you? he thought as the Wildcat began skidding from the turbulence.
“One, only your port wheel’s locked down,” Red Two said worriedly. “Your starboard one is flapping back and forth in the wind.”
That explains a lot.
“Roger Two,” Adam said. “I’m going to try and lock it into place.” Grabbing his stick, he violently waggled the Wildcat’s wings. There was a loud thunk! followed immediately by a shudder and the Grumman skidded even more violently across the sky.
“One, you just lost your starboard gear!” Red Two said.
Fuck me, Adam thought, the Wildcat shuddering as it started to head into a stall. Shoving his throttle forward, Adam was rewarded with even more vibration. The engine made a distinctly unhealthy sound as he crossed the last mile towards the runway’s end.
“Going to be a little hot coming in, Homeplate,” Adam snapped. “I just lost my starboard gear and I don’t think this engine’s going to let me go around.” Dimly hearing the controller’s acknowledgement, Adam began concentrating on lining his fighter up with the asphalt ahead and simultaneously preparing for a crash landing.
This makes three times the damn Germans have sent me home with a sick kite, Adam thought grimly. Hopefully what they say about the third time being when the shit hits the fan is a bit misguided.
The port wheel touched down and he immediately cut the throttle. Adam then braced himself as the Wildcat’s starboard wing slammed down into the ground. Miraculously, the fighter did not ground loop as he stomped down on the rudder to try and counteract the imparted spin. Instead, proving his luck was indeed not gone, the port gear snapped back into the fighter’s fuselage in a shower of sparks, the impact throwing Adam up against the back of his seat in a teeth jarring collision. Through his blurred vision, Adam watched as the prop disintegrated, pieces flying sideways and back over his head as the Grumman slid to a stop.
Got to get out! Adam thought, fighting to stop the world from spinning. Fumbling with the canopy, he finally got it to slide back. Stumbling as he stood, Adam flopped onto his starboard wing with as much grace as a newborn foal. Reaching out to steady himself, he felt a stabbing pain in his hand.
Dammit! Adam thought, jerking the hand back as he felt as sharp pain in his palm. Looking down, he realized that a portion of the Wildcat’s wing was peeled back like someone had started into it with a can opener. Not wasting anytime to at the damage, Adam began to stagger away from his fighter. Belatedly, he realized that the crash truck was only four hundred yards away and coming to a stop. Looking back at the Wildcat with a slack jawed expression, Adam realized that despite the rough landing and damage, the Grumman was not even smoking.
Grumman Ironworks indeed, he thought, than sat down heavily.
“Major Haynes! Major Haynes! Are you okay?” he heard someone shout. Looking up, he saw a pair of medics approaching him.
“Just got…some cobwebs,” he replied, waving weakly. As if his words had awoken some crazed gnome inside his skull, his head began throbbing where it had smacked against the canopy. The first of the medics reached him and crouched down, making eye contact.
“How many fingers do you see?” the man asked, holding up his thumb and pinky.
“Two very blurry ones,” Adam responded, blinking.
“C’mon buddy, let’s get you back to the truck,” the man replied. Nodding to his friend, the duo bent down and hauled Adam to his feet.
I hope the mornings get easier than this, Adam thought woozily. I’ve already been on the losing side once in this damn war, don’t feel like doing it again.
George One
No. 625 Squadron, Royal Australian Air Force
25 Miles NW of Brunei Port, Borneo
0130 Local (1130 Eastern)
30 March (29 March Eastern)
It is always concerning when one’s pilot is in a state of high dudgeon, Flight Lieutenant Russell Wolford thought to himself. Doubly so when it’s darker than the inside of a cow outside. Idiot should be paying more attention to where we’re going. There’s a damn war on.
“What makes it worse is that Dutch bastard gives me a look like he is doing me a bloody favor!” Flying Officer Carl Bellingsley snapped, his Welsh accent growing stronger as his anger grew. “Oh, I’m sorry, we’re just busy trying to save your home! Hope we didn’t wake you!”
Dear God, please let the Japanese show up, Russell mentally begged. As the navigator/radar operator for Killer Koala, or “Double K” as her crew chief called her, Wolford was the Beaufighter’s ranking officer. While technically that meant he could have told Bellingsley to shut the hell up, odds were the tall, stocky Welshman might have taken some umbrage to that once they returned.
Last thing I want is him sulking for the next three days now that the festivities have begun, Russell thought grimly. I miss my Mosquito. I miss England. Most of all, I miss Maggie.
“Okay, there’s the Australia’s homing signal,” Bellingsley reported. After a moment, Russell heard the tone in his headset also. Looking forward down the Beaufighter’s fuselage as Bellingsley turned the aircraft to port, Russell felt a touch of vertigo as the stars swung past the narrow cockpit window.
Even the stars are different here than back in Europe, he mused. Oh well, at least we don’t have to worry about night fighters.
“I hate flying over water,” Bellinsgley snapped.
“At least it’s warmer than the Channel,” Russell replie
d grimly.
“Aye, and it’s also got more sharks,” his companion replied. “I’ll take freezing to death over being gnawed apart by giant fish.”
“I’ll pass on both,” Russell chuckled. “I was just thinking I wish I was back in England.”
“I imagine it’s a little inhospitable now that the war’s resumed,” Bellingsley retorted. “The ol’ Usurper would have your head lopped off, more than likely.”
Hopefully not before I told ol’ King Edward what I really thought of him, Russell thought. ‘You had your chance on the throne, you stupid bloke.’
“Wouldn’t change the fact that Her Majesty still has more balls than he does,” Russell replied aloud. “Which will be true in fact and not just theory if she ever gets a hold of him.”
“I do hope she would not truly have the man hanged, drawn, and quartered,” Bellingsley replied, his tone carrying a shiver. “Her Majesty seems like such a proper lady.”
“Why not? The man’s cavorting with the people who killed her father,” Russell snapped, then calmed himself. “Let him go join ol’ Adolph in Hell without his wedding tackle.”
“You are a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Bellingsley replied. “I mean, I am not saying you are wrong, but lopping off a man’s naughty bits seems a bit extreme…”
“Charles One, Charles One, this is Dogcatcher Base,” their radio crackled. “We have trade. I say again, we have trade.”
Looks like the Japanese are actually off Brunei this time, Russell thought, feeling a surge of adrenaline.
“Dogcatcher, Dogcatcher, this is Charles One,” the calm, measured voice of No. 625 Squadron’s commander, Squadron Leader Cairn Spence replied to the Australia’s radio transmission. “Send range and bearing to your trade, over.”
“Range is three five miles, bearing two seven oh, angels nine,” the Australia’s fighter direction officer responded. “Speed is one five oh knots.”
Must be a Jap float plane, Russell thought quickly. Which means there’s likely enemy vessels about. Russell took a swig from his canteen to clear his suddenly dry mouth.
“All right Bellingsley, look sharp,” Russell said, his voice far calmer than he felt. “That bloke is probably coming up from the southwest, so we need to set course for one nine zero true. Charles flight has the snooper, let’s go find where he came from.”
Squadron Leader Spence’s plan to support the American-Commonwealth-Dutch-Australian, or ACDA, task force sweeping north towards Brunei had been quite simple given No. 625’s sixteen available fighters. Since half the Australian unit’s strength consisted of Beaufighters N.F. Mk. IIIs whose radar was only good for finding airborne targets, Pence had decided to organize these into Charles and Michael flights.
The remaining eight Beaufighters carried the most recent radar that allowed both airborne targets and medium-to-large surface ships to be hunted. After several experiments in the last month, Spence had decided that George and Oliver flights would ACDA operations by attacking Japanese vessels out at sea.
Great theory, but I guess now we’ll see if it works, Russell thought as the Beaufighter came around to its new heading.
“Hope those chaps in No. 640 are giving the Japanese hell tonight,” Bellingsley said. “
I hate nervous chatterers, Russell thought, even as he grunted his assent.
“Flying a Blenheim over Singapore, even at night, is not how I’d want to start my war,” Bellingsley continued.
“Were you not just complaining about sharks? I do not remember there being sharks in Singapore before the Germans kicked us out,” Russell snapped, then cursed inwardly.
“Sorry Sir,” Bellingsley said stiffly.
Now is not the time to sulk, you idiot, Russell seethed. He looked down at the radar set, willing a blip to appear as the Beaufighter continued on its southeasterly heading.
“Charles One, this is Charles Two,” Spence’s wingman stated. “I have visual on trade, two contacts, slightly below us, two miles, bearing oh one oh.”
“Righto, you have lead,” Spence barked.
Charitable man, our squadron leader, Russell thought. Of course, he’s got ten kills, is probably tired of staging around up here like we are, and just wants to get this over with.
Before Russell could spend any more time thinking about Charles One’s contacts, a bright green blip on his own radar.
“We’ve got a contact, Bellingsley,” Russell said. “Bearing oh one oh from us!” The three blips were just to the right of the Beaufighter’s current heading, and Russell began fiddling with the set’s knobs to figure out the range to their prey.
“Charles One, this is George One. We have trade also, working up bearing and range now,” Bellingsley intoned into the net.
“All right chaps, it appears that our friends have deigned to join us this evening,” Spence replied. “All aircraft except Charles Two, climb to angels twelve and await developments.”
Aboard Charles Two, the pilot and radar operator were already closing with their prey. Adopting a pursuit curve, the inexperienced pilot did not realize how quickly he was closing until the target’s biplane silhouette was almost filling the windscreen. Reacting quickly, the man mashed the trigger down for a full second before he hauled back on his yoke.
The Beaufighter’s massed firepower of four 20mm cannon and six .303-machine guns had been designed to saw apart German heavy bombers. Against the lightweight Aichi E13A floatplane it was the equivalent of using a battleaxe to chop chicken wings. Exploding in flames underneath the climbing Beaufighter, the biplane’s demise served as a bright indicator that battle had been joined.
“Charles Two, are you all right?!” Charles One asked, his voice concerned.
That’s a valid question, Russell thought. The explosion had been insanely bright even from their location miles away.
“Yes, I’m good. I think that’s a kill,” came the shaken response. “Watch it, these kites are flying slow.”
“Not anymore. His partner’s just taken off like the devil was after him. Tallyho,” Spence replied.
A few moments later another flaming comet fell down from the scattered clouds to be quenched in the waters below. In a little under two minutes Charles Flight reigned supreme over their corner of the night sky.
“Now, George Flight, you are free to deal with your trade,” Spence asserted, his tone somewhat triumphant.
Several thousand feet below the Beaufighters, a pin could have dropped the I.J.N.S. Jintsu, George One’s surface contact.
“I believe that the Nachi’s aircraft have collided,” the Jintsu’s master, Captain Masatori Kimura observed solemnly. He continued more quietly, “I knew it was far too dangerous to fly with these clouds.”
The group of staff officers looking stricken at the rear of the bridge was the reason for Kimura’s drop in volume. The Jintsu was the flagship for Rear Admiral Raizo Tanaka, commander of Destroyer Squadron (Desron) Two of the Imperial Japanese Navy. Behind the Jintsu evenly spaced at four hundred yard intervals were the destroyers Hayashio, Hatsukaze, Kurashio, Yukikaze, Tokitsukaze, and the Amatsukaze.
“Sir, shall we launch our aircraft?” Jintsu’s officer of the deck, a senior lieutenant, bellowed. Captain Kimura favored the man with a deadpan face that spoke wonders to those who knew him. Jintsu’s master watched as the younger officer’s face nearly split into a smug grin before the senior officer turned away to hide his own smirk.
Question my pilot’s courage, will you? Kimura thought savagely, his righteous anger focused on the commander standing stiffly at the hatchway to the light cruiser’s flag plot. Squinting, he studied the six shapes three thousand yards off of Jintsu’s port quarter. Leading the column and clearly visible was the destroyer Natsushio. Behind the small vessel were the hulking, menacing shapes of the heavy cruisers Nachi and Myoko, followed by destroyers Asagiri, Minigumo, and Asagumo.
We do not need aircraft aloft to conduct a shore bombardment, Kimura thought, stepping briefly out onto the port bri
dge wing. The wind from the Jintsu’s movement combined with what appeared to be a rather westerly wind caused him to stagger before catching himself. Turning, he looked aft to where Jintsu’s own plane remained in its catapult, then quickly stepped back onto the bridge.
“Tell Warrant Officer Matsuoka that he will not be launching tonight,” the light cruiser’s master ordered, daring Rear Admiral Tanaka’s staff officer to contradict his order. “I’m reasonably certain he will be safer here than up there.”
“Easy does it Bellingsley,” Russell warned, fighting to keep the worry from his voice as the Beaufighter rapidly descended through increasing turbulence.
I didn’t come all this way to die because you’re sulking, Russell thought worriedly.
Spence and his flight leaders had worked out simple methods for attacking enemy shipping. Aware of vertigo’s dangers, the senior officers had determined they would conduct most of their operations via level bombing at masthead height versus using torpedoes. While the latter were far more effective, a very long and straight run in the dark without a reliable horizon just begged for pilots to start smacking into wavetops. Bombing, on the other hand, allowed the Beaus to stoop on their prey like hawks from any direction, and with slightly less exposure to anti-aircraft fire.
Too bad the low-flash rockets haven’t been quite perfected yet, Russell mused. The squadron had found that flying the standard aerial rockets, while likely to be very effective, was like looking into a series of bright camera flashes. Searchlights and tracers were effective enough in ruining night vision without adding in “own goals.”
“Beginning flare run now,” Bellingsley reported. As the first aircraft to make contact, George One had responsibility of illuminating for the rest of the flight.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s almost relishing the possibility of killing us both, Russell thought, slightly perturbed as he prepared to count down the range.
“Three thousand…two thousand…one thousand…flares, flares, flares!” Russell chanted. There was the rattle of the flare canisters falling out of their aircraft, then a few moments later the night lit up behind them with the bright magnesium orbs falling under their parachutes. As the eighth and last flare fell out of the dispenser tube in the Beaufighter’s belly, Bellingsley threw the fighter into a tight turn to spoil possible gunnery solutions. Russell felt the twin-engined fighter shudder briefly on the edge of a stall, the aircraft’s ordnance making it handle sluggishly. Before the senior officer could call out a word of caution, the pilot leveled the aircraft off and dipped the nose to regain airspeed.