Voyages of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  But they were too close. Just as the last plane disappeared to the southwest and Yonaga’s course was changed to zero-four-five, Cryptographer Pierson picked up the first ominous pulse. He spoke into his headpiece, and on the bridge the talker turned to Admiral Fujita. “ESM reports strong incoming pulses on S-band air search.”

  “Ranging.”

  “Yes, admiral, he has us.”

  “Sacred Buddha. Range to intruder?”

  “Four hundred kilometers, bearing two-six-three true.”

  “Break radio silence. One ‘three’ of the CAP to intercept. CIC to vector their interception on our fighter frequency. Inform the escorts on bridge to bridge.” He moved to the voice tube. “All ahead full!”

  As Brent stared upward and saw three Mitsubishis of the CAP streak to the southwest, he felt the rhythm of the engines accelerate, and a voice came from the tube. “Thirty-two knots, one hundred seventy revolutions, admiral.”

  “Very well.”

  Obviously confused by the proceedings, Frank Dempster turned to Mark Allen. “We have more planes — why not put them up?”

  Allen waved at the sky. “We have nine fighters in the air, nine more in the hangar deck along with nine dive-bombers and nine torpedo bombers. They must be kept in reserve to give us striking power in the event we are attacked.”

  “The cruisers!”

  “No, Frank. They’re over a thousand miles away.”

  “But we have been spotted.”

  “True. But no raid has been —”

  Before Allen could complete his sentence, Seaman Naoyuki shouted, “Admiral, radio reports many aircraft bearing two-two-zero, range three hundred twenty kilometers, closing at a SOA of one hundred forty knots.”

  “CAP engage! Bring up the reserve fighters. Ready fighter pilots man your planes.” To the voice tube: “Right to zero-nine-zero, speed twenty-four.” Back to Naoyuki: “Signal bridge hoist ‘pennant one.’ AA stand by to engage raid approaching from the port quarter.” He pounded the rail, glaring at Kawamoto. “Where are our scouts?” Then pointing at the horizon he said, “That sector should have been covered.”

  “It was, sir. But we received no reports. They must have killed him quickly.”

  Every man stared down at the flight deck anxiously as the Zeros were wrestled from the elevators and pushed to the flight line. Quickly, pilots tumbled into their cockpits and engines coughed to life. But now anxious glasses were turned astern and the talker shouted, “Range to raid two hundred kilometers.”

  “Their SOA is greater than one hundred forty.” Fujita mumbled.

  Although Brent knew the enemy was still over 100 miles away, he searched the horizon and found comfort in the glistening white wings of nine Zeros high in the sky, streaking toward the attackers.

  Then, with a roar, the first ready fighter leaped from the flight deck. In less than three minutes all nine aircraft were in the air. But the ready fighters remained close to Yonaga, circling high around the task force.

  Fujita shouted orders at Naoyuki and put his lips to the voice tube. Heeling in a sharp turn, the carrier resumed course zero-four-five, speed thirty-two.

  Seaman Naoyuki spoke to Admiral Fujita. “Sir. CAP reports twenty-eight JU-eighty-sevens and twenty-four Messerschmitts closing at one hundred fifty knots, range eighty. Am engaging.”

  “They kept one carrier’s airgroups in reserve,” Fujita noted. “Smart.”

  “Probably a Colossus,” Allen added.

  Each man raised his glasses. Brent saw nothing for several minutes until a flash caught his eye. And then black smoke trailing into the sea. “Aircraft — many aircraft approaching from two-two-zero true, elevation angle thirty degrees.”

  “Radar confirm.”

  “Radar confirms, admiral.”

  “Very well.”

  Now Brent could see the approaching aircraft clearly: sleek Messerschmitts engaging the outnumbered Zeros in a tumbling, twisting dogfight high above the echelons of single-engined Junkers, some armed with bombs, others with torpedoes. The numbers had been reduced. Brent counted twenty-one JU-87s banking toward the carrier.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  From 6,000 meters, Commander Matsuhara had a panoramic view of thousands of square kilometers of the South China Sea. However, with the straits at least 100 kilometers to the south, the airgroups were still at least thirty minutes from the target. He knew his force must have been picked up by enemy radar and tracked for at least the last half hour. The enemy had excellent radar; even airborne radar. The Japanese had none on their aircraft. He disliked playing decoy — being bait. Wryly he recalled an old Japanese adage: “No one ever armor-plated a worm before putting it on a hook.”

  Below his fighters he could see the bombers led by old Commander Sako Gakki lumbering, engines straining with the weight of the 400 kilogram bomb each carried slung under its fuselage.

  To the west he could see the humpbacked spine of the Malay Peninsula, while Borneo was far to the east, and the low ridges of Sumatra and its outlying islands crouched low on the southern horizon like predators lying in ambush. Looking down, he was unable to see the torpedo bombers, but from this altitude their camouflage paint would make them almost invisible. But the white wings of Ariga’s nine escorting Zeros flashed far below, and Yoshi knew the torpedo bombers must be nearby.

  Restlessly, he turned his head, looking into the sun. Nothing up-sun. Where were the Libyan fighters? Then down and ahead. Still nothing. Where was the enemy? He had three carriers, over 130 aircraft. Were they asleep?

  Cursing, he freed himself from his parachute straps. Turned with new freedom. “The pilot who rests his neck soon rests with his ancestors,” his old instructor at Tsushiura had warned.

  His tachometer read 2,000 rpms. He pulled back slightly on the throttle, dropping the needle to 1,800 while boosting manifold pressure. The big new engine coughed its objections, backfired and then settled down to a slower but steady roar.

  He looked at his watch, glanced at the small chart attached to the clipboard strapped to his left knee. Twenty minutes to target. A cough, spurting flame, and black smoke fired from his exhaust. A look at his fuel gauges told him it was time to drop his auxiliary tank. Leading the fighters in a broad, sweeping turn to the left away from the Aichis, he pulled a lever, sending the aluminum tank tumbling and fluttering with twenty-six others. Then a little right rudder and he led the protective umbrella of fighters back over the bombers.

  A fearsome streak of orange flame attracted his eye down and ahead. A Nakajima was burning close on the water. And now he could see them. The stream of torpedo bombers lumbering to the south. But two dozen low-flying Messerschmitts were racing in with the Malay Peninsula at their backs, while Ariga’s hopelessly outnumbered force of nine Zeros whipped through hard turns to meet them.

  Then Kojima’s voice in his earphones. “Many fighters — high at three-one-zero. Up-sun! Up-sun!”

  So that was it. An ambush from above and below. On the anvil. His mind raced as he threw a switch and barked into the microphone in his oxygen mask. “This is Edo Leader. Edo Leader will engage fighters attacking our torpedo bombers. Blue and Green sections intercept fighters at three-one-zero high. Individual combat! Break!”

  A kick of left rudder, a push of the stick to the left and down, and he split-essed into a power dive, overboosted Sakae thundering. Thumbing the safety ring on the trigger to Fire, he felt the torque of the big Sakae pull hard to the right, corrected with left rudder. Without looking, he knew Takamura and Kojima were hard on his elevators with two more threes trailing.

  A panorama of battle was beneath him. Ariga’s Gold Section was engaging at least twenty ME BF-109s — a stubbier shipboard version of the ME-109s he had fought over Africa. Far below two MEs trailing flame and smoke arced toward the sea. A Zero exploded, flinging pieces of smoking wreckage in every direction. A dozen MEs had broken through Ariga’s cover and were shooting the slow bombers out of the sky like clay pigeons. Within secon
ds, three Nakajimas crashed into the sea. Then two more flamed and climbed wildly out of control.

  Yoshi punched his instrument panel in fury. Ignored a vibrating airframe that shook and bounced the pilot up and down as the big new engine pulled the fighter past limits never intended by its designer, Jiro Horikoshi. The altimeter’s white needle was spinning backward, tachometer at the red line, and airspeed indicator at 410 knots. Yet, Yoshi did not ease his throttle. Instead, he vised his teeth together and spat epithets as two more Nakajimas disintegrated into the sea.

  Closing the range fast, he pulled back on the stick and finally reduced throttle as an ME, hard on the tail of a B5N, bounced into his range finder. Just as the bomber exploded, Yoshi fingered the red button, sending a ragged two second burst into and around the Libyan fighter. As he flashed past, the ME dropped off on its port wing and dove for the sea.

  “Missed! Missed!” A diving Zero was a terrible gun platform.

  At that instant, Takamura and Kojima both scored, one enemy fighter losing a wing at its root where the ME BF-109 was the weakest. The other flamed straight up like a rocket before turning into its final dive.

  Now alerted to the new danger, the Arab fighters wheeled and turned to face their attackers, and the complete mad melee of the dogfight filled the sky with snarling aircraft spitting flame.

  Pulling back hard on his stick, Yoshi screamed to relieve the pressure as g-forces pushed him down hard onto his parachute pack, and he could feel the wicker seat sag as his weight was multiplied by five. Despite clouding vision, he pulled the stick back between his legs with all his strength, filling all three rings of his range finder with the bottom of an ME. A one second burst shattered the air-scoop, sending glycol spraying. Yoshi rolled off the top of his loop into an Immelmann turn, found Takamura with a 109 close on his tail.

  Making a difficult full deflection shot at 100 meters, Yoshi gave the ME a three second burst that marched up the fuselage. Aluminum chunks flashed in the slipstream like storm-blown paper, and the hammer blows of 20 millimeter shells smashed through the cockpit, shattering Plexiglas and exploding the pilot’s head like a bursting melon.

  “Banzai!”

  A Zero with no tail whipped crazily into a loop and then spun like a top until it smashed into the sea. Still another Japanese fighter with a dead engine glided to the sea, pancaking in a great splash and spray of seawater. Banking, Yoshi could see the pilot tumbling into his yellow life raft.

  A hammer pounding on his fuselage stabbed him with fear, a horrible paralyzing fright that turned his stomach to a block of ice, and his eyes caught the red spinner of a Messerschmitt in his mirror. Instinctively, and taking advantage of the enormous torque of his engine, he snap-rolled to the right and whipped into a spin. But the sea was close and he kicked hard left rudder, pushed the stick forward and then back, centering the rudder pedals. Holding his breath, he watched the hard blue sea fill his windshield. “Come up! Come up! Sacred Buddha, come up!”

  With agonizing slowness, the horizon dropped into his vision and crept down to the top of his black cowl, the Mitsubishi skimming so low its propeller kicked up a plume of spray.

  He looked around. No red spinner behind. Furious with himself for having been frightened, he pulled back on the stick and shot skyward where fighters continued to shoot each other to pieces.

  A Zero with two MEs close on his tail flashed from left to right, and then the trio streamed skyward as the Japanese tried to escape with his superior climb. But the Libyans were close on his tail. Firing. But they were too intent on their kill. Neglected their own tails. With the 1,200 horsepower engine in overboost, Yoshi closed on the left-hand ME quickly, forming a murderous four-plane daisy chain.

  The Zero was streaming smoke when the commander fired a two second burst from 200 yards. Twenty millimeter shells blew the cowl from the ME’s Daimler-Benz, and instantly black smoke and orange flame streaked from the engine, enveloping the fuselage.

  The cowl popped back.

  The other ME broke to the right, rolling into a power dive while the smoking Zero banked toward a small cloud hanging to the south. Leveling off protectively above the Japanese fighter, Yoshi watched the burning ME as it reached the top of its climb, stalled, and then fell off on one wing. A figure fell from the cockpit, and a parachute opened instantly. But too soon. The canopy was caught by the flames and blazed up, shriveling to nothingness like the tip of a match. Trailing cords like tattered banners, the man plunged toward the sea like a dropped stone, turning and twisting, arms and legs flailing.

  “Banzai,” snarled Yoshi. “Think about it all the way to Mecca, Arab dog.”

  Miraculously, the sky was suddenly empty of enemy fighters. Then he saw them: a half-dozen MEs fleeing low on the water to the southwest. Easing himself alongside the damaged Zero, Yoshi recognized one of the new pilots, Lt. Hatsuhashi Omura. There were holes in the wings and cowl. Omura’s windshield had been shattered, and smoke trailed like a black ribbon. Nevertheless, the pilot appeared uninjured and saluted as he stared back at Matsuhara. Answering the salute, Yoshi glanced at his map and clicked on his microphone. “This is Edo Leader. Lieutenant Omura, make for the island of Bintan and the airfield at Tanjungpinang — course two-six-five, range one hundred twenty kilometers.”

  Repeating the command, Omura glanced at his own chart and then banked the Mitsubishi carefully to the right and headed for the western horizon where banks of clouds marked the nearby island.

  Looking around, Matsuhara counted twelve bombers and ten Zeros. The Nakajimas were forming up on Commander Kenzo Yamabushi, who still led despite a dozen holes in wings and rudder. Then, searching overhead, he found an air battle spread over the entire southwest quadrant. At least 5,000 meters above them and 70 kilometers away, the commander could see only vapor trails and the black streaks of burning aircraft descending. Reaching for his microphone switch, he mouthed a quick prayer to Amaterasu first and then threw the switch. “This is Edo Leader. Form up on me. We will escort the bombers into their runs.”

  Gracefully, the white fighters formed their sections and layered themselves 300 meters over the bombers.

  Then Yoshi heard a scout’s excited voice on his earphones. “This is Scout Four. Carriers! Carriers! Three carriers exiting the straits. Longitude —” An explosion, a scream, and the circuit went dead. All that training, Yoshi thought, for an eight-word transmission. But the man’s life had been worth it. ‘

  Within minutes, they were approaching the eastern end of the Straits of Malacca and the island of Kapulanan Lingya, which should be between them and the enemy force. He brought his fighters down low with the bombers, using the island as a radar shield. Now beneath him, the coastline, surf breaking on white sand, the black strip of a coastal road, cars, bicyclists, and people staring up with white faces and pointing. Then there were farms, cattle, and they passed over a hamlet not more than 50 meters high, shaking every building with their thunder. Ahead was a ridge. But they hung low, almost scraping their fuselages with brush and scrubby trees as they roared over.

  “They should be over that ridge! Please, let the enemy be over that ridge,” Yoshi prayed, pulling back gently on the control as he cleared a rocky spine.

  And suddenly they were there in the channel about 7 kilometers directly ahead. Two Colossus class carriers and the Independence. Steaming in a column, they were surrounded by seven Gearing class destroyers. The force was steaming at a high speed on a sea as flat as a blue mirror. And the channel was narrow with little room for maneuvering. A quick upward look assured Yoshi that the enemy’s CAP had been drawn into the great air battle to the northeast — just as Admiral Fujita had predicted.

  Immediately, the bombers broke, forming three groups of four, and began their runs.

  The force reacted quickly to the threat. Yoshi had never flown into the teeth of AA like this. The destroyer cannons fired so fast they seemed to be burning. Then the carriers added their own cannon fire, brown puffs smearing the sky, shorts
sending columns of water leaping. Then storms of 40 millimeter and 20 millimeter shells glowed toward them like firebrands. At the same time, all three carriers began launching ready fighters.

  “The fighters,” Yoshi shouted into his microphone. He pulled back on the stick.

  A torpedo bomber exploded. Another lost a wing, flipped over and tossed its torpedo high in the air in a tumbling arc, and then crashed into the sea. A burning Zero slowly pulled up and exploded in a ball of flame. Two more torpedo bombers plunged into the sea, disintegrating as their 140 knot speed impacted the water like concrete.

  Now the Zeros were above the storm that met the Nakajimas, which had passed the screen and veered toward the carriers. Desperately, the big ships turned toward the Japanese bombers. There were six bombers left, and swerving in pairs toward the carriers, they dropped their torpedoes.

  But Yoshi had no time to watch. Two MEs were in the air. It was easy. Climbing slowly, he put a short burst into the leader’s cockpit, sending it into the sea with a dead man at the controls before he could even retract his gear. A short burst from Takamura silenced the engine of the second. Slowly, the fighter descended for a dead stick landing.

  But Matsuhara was over the leading Colossus and, looking down, he found the jaws of hell spouting flames. A trip-hammer pounded the airframe and as he pulled back on the stick, the right wing dropped awkwardly, and he pushed the stick hard to port to keep level. Then the smoke — reeking, choking smoke — filled the cockpit.

  The carrier seemed to leap from the sea as two torpedoes struck her port side. But Yoshi was too busy to rejoice. As he banked cautiously, stomach tied into a frozen lump, he jerked the canopy back with its twin handles, mind numbed with every carrier pilot’s horror of drowning trapped in his cockpit. The plane lurched to the right again and he jammed the stick to port.

  The air cleared the cockpit, and Matsuhara realized he was not on fire. The smoke must have been cordite from exploding shells. Then with a shock, his eyes found his right aileron. Shot full of holes, it had been ripped from its mounts and hung from the wing, flopping in the slipstream. And there were holes in the right side of the cockpit. His instruments had been shattered, and there was a long rip across the front of his flying suit. But the Sakae roared as steadily as ever, and as he climbed and throttled back, the faithful Takamura and Kojima took position behind and above his elevators.