Winter of the World

by Ken Follett

  Despite this advantage, the Americans were not winning.

  Then the picture changed. A flight of thirty-seven Dauntless dive-bombers from the Enterprise sighted the Japanese. The Zeroes protecting the ships had come down almost to sea level in their dogfights with previous attackers, so the bombers found themselves fortunately above the fighters, and able to come down at them out of the sun. Just minutes later another eighteen Dauntlesses from the Yorktown reached the target area. One of the pilots was Trixie.

  The radio exploded with excited chatter. Chuck closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to make sense of the distorted sounds. He could not identify Trixie's voice.

  Then, behind the talk, he began to hear the characteristic scream of bombers diving. The attack had begun.

  Suddenly, for the first time, there were cries of triumph from the pilots.

  "Got you, you bastard!"

  "Shit, I felt that go up!"

  "Eat that, you sons of bitches!"

  "Bull's-eye!"

  "Look at her burn!"

  The men in the radio room cheered wildly, but they were not sure what was happening.

  It was over in a few minutes, but it took a long time to get a clear report. The pilots were incoherent with the joy of victory. Gradually, as they calmed down and headed back toward their ships, the picture emerged.

  Trixie Paxman was among the survivors.

  Most of their bombs had missed, as previously, but about ten had scored direct hits, and those few had done tremendous damage. Three mighty Japanese aircraft carriers were burning out of control: Kaga, Soryu, and the flagship Akagi. The enemy had only one left, the Hiryu.

  "Three out of the four!" Chuck said elatedly. "And they still haven't come anywhere near our ships!"

  That soon changed.

  Admiral Fletcher sent out ten Dauntlesses to scout for the surviving Japanese carrier. But it was the Yorktown's radar that picked up a flight of planes, presumably from the Hiryu, fifty miles away and approaching. At noon Fletcher sent up twelve Wildcats to meet the attackers. The rest of the planes were also ordered up so they would not be on deck and vulnerable when the attack came. Meanwhile the Yorktown's fuel lines were flooded with carbon dioxide as a fire precaution.

  The attacking flight included fourteen "Vals," Aichi D3A dive-bombers, plus escorting Zeroes.

  Here it comes, Chuck thought, my first action. He wanted to throw up. He swallowed hard.

  Before the attackers could be seen, the Yorktown's gunners opened up. The ship had four pairs of large antiaircraft guns with five-inch-diameter barrels that could send their shells several miles. Plotting the enemy's position with the aid of radar, gunnery officers sent a salvo of giant fifty-four-pound shells toward the approaching aircraft, setting the timers to explode when they reached their target.

  The Wildcats got above the attackers and, according to the pilots' radio reports, shot down six bombers and three fighters.

  Chuck ran to the flag bridge with a signal to say the remainder of the attack force were diving in. Admiral Fletcher said coolly: "Well, I've got my tin hat on--I can't do anything else."

  Chuck looked out of the window and saw the dive-bombers screaming out of the sky toward him at an angle so steep they seemed to be falling straight down. He resisted the impulse to throw himself to the floor.

  The ship made a sudden full-rudder turn to port. Anything that might throw the attacking aircraft off course was worth a try.

  The Yorktown deck also had four "Chicago pianos"--smaller, short-range antiaircraft guns with four barrels each. Now these opened up, and so did the guns of Yorktown's escort of cruisers.

  As Chuck stared forward from the bridge, terrified and helpless to do anything to defend himself, a deck gunner found his range and hit a Val. The plane seemed to break into three pieces. Two fell into the sea and one crashed into the side of the ship. Then another Val blew up. Chuck cheered.

  But that left six.

  The Yorktown made a sudden turn to starboard.

  The Vals braved the hail of death from the deck guns to chase after the ship.

  As they got closer, the machine guns on the catwalks either side of the flight deck also opened up. Now the Yorktown's guns played a lethal symphony, with deep booms from the five-inch barrels, midrange sounds from the Chicago pianos, and the urgent rattle of machine guns.

  Chuck saw the first bomb.

  Many Japanese bombs had a delayed fuse. Instead of exploding on impact, they went off a second or so later, the idea being that they would crash through the deck and explode deep in the interior, causing maximum devastation.

  But this bomb rolled along the Yorktown's deck.

  Chuck watched in mesmerized horror. For a moment it looked as if it might do no harm. Then it went off with a boom and a flash of flame. The two Chicago pianos aft were destroyed in an instant. Small fires appeared on deck and in the towers.

  To Chuck's amazement the men around him remained as cool as if they were attending a war game in a conference room. Admiral Fletcher issued orders even as he staggered across the shuddering deck of the flag bridge. Moments later, damage control teams were dashing across the flight deck with fire hoses, and stretcher parties were picking up the wounded and carrying them down steep companionways to dressing stations below.

  There were no major fires: the carbon dioxide in the fuel lines had prevented that. And there were no bomb-loaded planes on deck to blow up.

  A moment later another Val screamed down at the Yorktown and a bomb hit the smokestack. The explosion rocked the mighty ship. A huge pall of oily black smoke gouted from the funnels. The bomb must have damaged the engines, Chuck realized, because the ship lost speed immediately.

  More bombs missed their targets, landing in the sea, sending up geysers that splashed onto the deck, where seawater mingled with the blood of the wounded.

  The Yorktown slowed to a halt. When the crippled ship was dead in the water, the Japanese scored a third hit, and a bomb crashed through the forward elevator and exploded somewhere below.

  Then, suddenly, it was over, and the surviving Vals climbed into the clear blue Pacific sky.

  I'm still alive, Chuck thought.

  The ship was not lost. Fire-control parties were at work before the Japanese were out of sight. Down below, the engineers said they could get the boilers going within an hour. Repair crews patched the hole in the flight deck with six-by-four planks of Douglas fir.

  But the radio gear had been destroyed, so Admiral Fletcher was deaf and blind. With his personal staff he transferred to the cruiser Astoria, and he handed over tactical command to Spruance on the Enterprise.

  Under his breath, Chuck said: "Fuck you, Vandermeier--I survived."

  He spoke too soon.

  The engines throbbed back to life. Now under the command of Captain Buckmaster, the Yorktown began once again to cut through the Pacific waves. Some of her planes had already taken refuge on the Enterprise, but others were still in the air, so she turned into the wind, and they began to touch down and refuel. As she had no working radio, Chuck and his colleagues became a semaphore team to communicate with other ships using old-fashioned flags.

  At half past two, the radar of a cruiser escorting the Yorktown revealed planes coming in low from the west--an attack flight from the Hiryu, presumably. The cruiser signaled the news to the carrier. Buckmaster sent up twelve Wildcats to intercept.

  The Wildcats must have been unable to stop the attack, for ten torpedo bombers appeared, skimming the waves, heading straight for the Yorktown.

  Chuck could see the planes clearly. They were Nakajima B5Ns, called Kates by the Americans. Each carried a torpedo slung under its fuselage, the weapon almost half the length of the entire plane.

  The four heavy cruisers escorting the carrier shelled the sea around her, throwing up a screen of foamy water, but the Japanese pilots were not so easily deterred, and they flew straight through the spray.

  Chuck saw the first plane drop its torpedo.
The long bomb splashed into the water, pointed at the Yorktown.

  The plane flashed past the ship so close that Chuck saw the pilot's face. He was wearing a white-and-red headband as well as his flight helmet. He shook a triumphant fist at the crew on deck. Then he was gone.

  More planes roared by. Torpedoes were slow, and ships could sometimes dodge them, but the crippled Yorktown was too cumbersome to zigzag. There was a tremendous bang, shaking the ship: torpedoes were several times more powerful than regular bombs. It felt to Chuck as if she had been struck on the port stern. Another explosion followed close behind, and this one actually lifted the ship, throwing half the crew to the deck. Immediately afterward, the mighty engines faltered.

  Once again the damage parties were at work before the attacking planes were out of sight. But this time the men could not cope. Chuck joined the teams manning the pumps, and saw that the steel hull of the great ship was ripped like a tin can. A Niagara of seawater poured through the gash. Within minutes Chuck could feel that the deck had tilted. The Yorktown was listing to port.

  The pumps could not cope with the inward rush of water, especially as the ship's watertight compartments had been damaged at the Coral Sea and not fixed during her rush repairs.

  How long could it be before she capsized?

  At three o'clock Chuck heard the order: "Abandon ship!"

  Sailors dropped ropes over the high edge of the sloping deck. On the hangar deck, by jerking a few strings crewmen released thousands of life jackets from overhead stowage to fall like rain. The escort vessels moved closer and launched their boats. The crew of the Yorktown took off their shoes and swarmed over the side. For some reason, they put their shoes on the deck in neat lines, hundreds of pairs, like some ritual sacrifice. Wounded men were lowered on stretchers to waiting whaleboats. Chuck found himself in the water, swimming as fast as he could to get away from the Yorktown before she turned over. A wave took him by surprise and washed away his cap. He was glad he was in the warm Pacific: the Atlantic might have killed him with cold while he was waiting to be rescued.

  He was picked up by a lifeboat. The boat continued to retrieve men from the sea. Dozens of other boats were doing the same. Many of the crew climbed down from the main deck, which was lower than the flight deck. The Yorktown somehow managed to stay afloat.

  When all the crew were safe they were taken aboard the escorting vessels.

  Chuck stood on deck, looking across the water as the sun went down behind the slowly sinking Yorktown. It occurred to him that during the whole day he had not seen a Japanese ship. The entire battle had been fought by aircraft. He wondered if this was the first of a new kind of naval battle. If so, aircraft carriers would be the key vessels in the future. Nothing else would count for much.

  Trixie Paxman appeared beside him. Chuck was so pleased to see him alive that he hugged him.

  Trixie told Chuck that the last flight of Dauntless dive-bombers, from the Enterprise and the Yorktown, had set alight the Hiryu, the surviving Japanese carrier, and destroyed her.

  "So all four Japanese carriers are out of action," Chuck said.

  "That's right. We got them all, and lost only one of our own."

  "So," said Chuck, "does that mean we won?"

  "Yes," said Trixie. "I guess it does."

  v

  After the Battle of Midway it was clear that the Pacific war would be won by planes launched from ships. Both Japan and the United States began crash programs to build aircraft carriers as fast as possible.

  During 1943 and 1944, Japan produced seven of these huge, costly vessels.

  In the same period, the United States produced ninety.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  1942 ( II )

  Nursing Sister Carla von Ulrich wheeled a cart into the supply room and closed the door behind her.

  She had to work quickly. What she was about to do would get her sent to a concentration camp if she were caught.

  She took a selection of wound dressings from a cupboard, plus a roll of bandage and a jar of antiseptic cream. Then she unlocked the drug cabinet. She took morphine for pain relief, sulfonamide for infections, and aspirin for fever. She added a new hypodermic syringe, still in its box.

  She had already falsified the register, over a period of weeks, to look as if what she was stealing had been used legitimately. She had rigged the register before taking the stuff, rather than afterward, so that any spot check would reveal a surplus, suggesting mere carelessness, instead of a deficit, which indicated theft.

  She had done all this twice before, but she felt no less frightened.

  As she wheeled the cart out of the store, she hoped she looked innocent: a nurse bringing medical necessities to a patient's bedside.

  She walked into the ward. To her dismay she saw Dr. Ernst there, sitting beside a bed, taking a patient's pulse.

  All the doctors should have been at lunch.

  It was now too late to change her mind. Trying to assume an air of confidence that was the opposite of what she felt, she held her head high and walked through the ward, pushing her cart.

  Dr. Ernst glanced up at her and smiled.

  Berthold Ernst was the nurses' dreamboat. A talented surgeon with a warm bedside manner, he was tall, handsome, and single. He had romanced most of the attractive nurses, and had slept with many of them, if hospital gossip could be credited.

  She nodded to him and went briskly past.

  She pushed the trolley out of the ward, then suddenly turned into the nurses' cloakroom.

  Her outdoor coat was on a hook. Beneath it was a basketwork shopping bag containing an old silk scarf, a cabbage, and a box of sanitary towels in a brown paper bag. Carla removed the contents, then swiftly transferred the medical supplies from the trolley to the bag. She covered the supplies with the scarf, a blue-and-gold geometric design that her mother must have bought in the twenties. Then she put the cabbage and the sanitary towels on top, hung the bag on a hook, and arranged her coat to cover it.

  I got away with it, she thought. She realized she was trembling a little. She took a deep breath, got herself under control, opened the door--and saw Dr. Ernst standing just outside.

  Had he been following her? Was he about to accuse her of stealing? His manner was not hostile; in fact he looked friendly. Perhaps she had got away with it.

  She said: "Good afternoon, Doctor. Can I help you with something?"

  He smiled. "How are you, Sister? Is everything going well?"

  "Perfectly, I think." Guilt made her add ingratiatingly: "But it is you, Doctor, who must say whether things are going well."

  "Oh, I have no complaints," he said dismissively.

  Carla thought: So what is this about? Is he toying with me, sadistically delaying the moment when he makes his accusation?

  She said nothing, but stood waiting, trying not to shake with anxiety.

  He looked down at the cart. "Why did you take that into the cloakroom?"

  "I wanted something," she said, improvising desperately. "Something from my raincoat." She tried to suppress the frightened tremor in her voice. "A handkerchief, from my pocket." Stop gabbling, she told herself. He's a doctor, not a Gestapo agent. But he scared her all the same.

  He looked amused, as if he enjoyed her nervousness. "And the trolley?"

  "I'm returning it to its place."

  "Tidiness is essential. You're a very good nurse . . . Fraulein von Ulrich . . . or is it Frau?"

  "Fraulein."

  "We should talk some more."

  The way he smiled told her this was not about stealing medical supplies. He was about to ask her to go out with him. She would be the envy of dozens of nurses if she said yes.

  But she had no interest in him. Perhaps it was because she had loved one dashing Lothario, Werner Franck, and he had turned out to be a self-centered coward. She guessed that Berthold Ernst was similar.

  However, she did not want to risk annoying him, so she just smiled and said nothing.

&nbs
p; "Do you like Wagner?" he said.

  She could see where this was going. "I have no time for music," she said firmly. "I take care of my elderly mother." In fact Maud was fifty-one and enjoyed robust good health.

  "I have two tickets for a recital tomorrow evening. They're playing the Siegfried Idyll."

  "A chamber piece!" she said. "Unusual." Most of Wagner's work was on a grand scale.

  He looked pleased. "You know about music, I see."

  She wished she had not said it. She had just encouraged him. "My family is musical--my mother gives piano lessons."

  "Then you must come. I'm sure someone else could take care of your mother for an evening."

  "It's really not possible," Carla said. "But thank you very much for the invitation." She saw anger in his eyes: he was not used to rejection. She turned and started to push the cart away.

  "Another time, perhaps?" he called after her.

  "You're very kind," she replied, without slowing her pace.

  She was afraid he would come after her, but her ambiguous reply to his last question seemed to have mollified him. When she looked back over her shoulder he had gone.

  She stowed the trolley and breathed easier.

  She returned to her duties. She checked on all the patients in her ward and wrote her reports. Then it was time to hand over to the evening shift.

  She put on her raincoat and slung her bag over her arm. Now she had to walk out of the building with stolen property, and her fear mounted again.

  Frieda Franck was going at the same time, and they left together. Frieda had no idea Carla was carrying contraband. They walked in June sunshine to the tram stop. Carla wore a coat mainly to keep her uniform clean.

  She thought she was giving a convincing impression of normality until Frieda said: "Are you worried about something?"

  "No, why?"

  "You seem nervous."

  "I'm fine." To change the subject, she pointed at a poster. "Look at that."

  The government had opened an exhibition in Berlin's Lustgarten, the park in front of the cathedral. "The Soviet Paradise" was the ironic title of a show about life under Communism, portraying Bolshevism as a Jewish trick and the Russians as subhuman Slavs. But even today the Nazis did not have everything their own way, and someone had gone around Berlin pasting up a spoof poster that read: