Trial of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  The Nakajima hit Al Kufra squarely on the bridge. There was a huge, roiling red fireball that mushroomed skyward, followed by a stem of black smoke. Chunks of the bomber and flaming gasoline rained down on the flight deck. Then the torpedo hit amidships, sending a great column of water cascading into the sky. Immediately flames engulfed most of her bridge and superstructure, but the carrier did not slow.

  Then it was Ramli al Kabir’s turn. She fairly leaped from the sea as two torpedoes caught her on the starboard side. Billowing huge clouds of smoke and steam from two gaping holes, she slowed and turned Immediately began to list. She had been gravely wounded.

  Brent felt the Aichi vibrate and slow as Iwata set the variable pitch propeller to full coarse pitch, and then there were two thumps as the air brakes dropped below the outer wings.

  “Grab your handgrips, gunner,” Iwata said. “Here we go — banzai!”

  Followed by the other dive bombers, which had split into two groups, the Aichi dropped off into its dive. The line of the horizon rose, the sky disappeared, and Brent’s vision was filled with the sea and enemy ships. Iwata had selected the staggering Ramli al Kabir for his section. Quickly the D3A steepened its dive. Commander Iwata kept glancing at the red lines on his side windows, which were designed to help him set up the correct dive angle, until the plane finally fell into the ideal 85-degree dive angle.

  Turning his head, Brent could count only five more dive bombers behind them while six more swerved off to attack Al Kufra. Only 12 left out of 45. Brent screamed in anguish and pounded the padded combing. Then, looking down, he could see only the great rectangular flight deck growing in his vision. The big carrier had almost stopped and was turning sharply to starboard, smoke and steam pouring out of her entire starboard side from amidships aft. But her rows of flaming AA guns were concentrated on Brent Ross — Brent Ross alone. Hordes of white streaks hailed upward, climbing slowly and then whipping past as if they had suddenly accelerated. Sheer horror gripped his guts with a frozen hand. The Aichi bounced and staggered as proximity fuses detonated five-inch shells, but the plane’s great speed left most of the shrapnel behind. And the Arabs’ six remaining fighters of the CAP were busy chasing the surviving torpedo bombers. At least they would be free of fighters, thanks to the sacrifice of the torpedo bombers. Then a macabre thought swirled into the turmoil of his mind: Midway. This was Midway again.

  Midway in reverse. He laughed wildly into the howling slipstream.

  Brent could see Iwata hunched forward, staring through his sight, but Brent knew the bomb release was still a matter of pilot judgment. The bomber was vibrating, bounced around by AA bursts, and yawing slightly from the force of the wind drag off the big airfoils of the air brakes. Now they were close to drop altitude and the rectangular target had become the entire world. Finally, with the huge deck looming only two thousand feet below, Brent felt a bump and he knew Iwata had released all of their bombs: a single 250-kilogram bomb and two 30-kilogram bombs.

  Immediately the pilot pulled back hard on the stick, and the carrier dropped beneath their wings. Brent felt himself pushed down hard in his seat, and his stomach was driven into his groin. The prop went to fine pitch, and the dive brakes retracted with two thumps and for a moment the world whirled around his head. Flattening in the dive, the pilot horsed the stick to the left and kicked rudder, turning the nose of the aircraft to the north. Shaking the dizziness from his head, Brent could see the horizon and the blue sky stretching overhead. Passing between two of the Gearings, Iwata actually lost more altitude until the bomber skimmed the water, not giving a lurking enemy fighter a shot from below. A few surprised gunners on the outboard AA batteries of the destroyers fired, but the rounds were wide.

  Staring over the tail, Brent saw an awesome sight. All their bombs hit the Ramli al Kabir squarely amidships on the flight deck. A Vesuvian eruption of flames, plate, and shattered aircraft shot into the sky. Two of the five bombers following were shot down, but the other three scored with two more hits and a near miss. The entire flight deck burst open like an overripe melon as the tungsten-uranium-tipped AP bombs penetrated to the hangar deck, gouts of flame and black smoke leaping into the deep blue sky. The great carrier was dying — dying with theatrical pyrotechnics as her own fuel and ammunition stores immolated her. She slowed even more and listed to starboard while enormous luminescent balls of red and yellow flames ballooned skyward from stem to stem, heavy, greasy black smoke billowing into the sky and spreading like a black shroud across the sea.

  Waving his fist over his head, Brent shouted “Banzai! Banzai!” He was joined by Iwata, who watched the cataclysm in his rearview mirror and pivoted his head around eagerly.

  But Al Kufra fared much better. Three of the six D3As diving on her were shot to pieces. Only one of the survivors managed to hit her. But the one hit was devastating, a 250-kilogram bomb penetrating the aft elevator and blowing the entire lift high into the sky, complete with the hydraulic pump and shaft. Trailing clouds of smoke and listing slightly, the big Essex carrier turned to the south.

  Flying so low, their prop wash left ripples in the sea, the Aichi headed north toward Yonaga and home. Now the entire southern horizon was smeared with the black pall pouring from the dying carrier. Only six more D3As trailed them. The price had been enormous. Many of the best had died this beautiful day. Brent looked high into the sky. Yoshi Matsuhara was up there somewhere. Or was he dead already? He saw vapor trails. Fighters. Still fighting it out. Brent said a silent prayer for his friend.

  *

  When still well out of range, the four enemy fighters split, the two black MEs banking to Yoshi’s port side, Rosencrance and Vatz pulling up to starboard. The commander shouted into his microphone, “Edo Two and Three, take the two black fighters, I have the others.”

  Now the red fighter and the zebra-striped aircraft were climbing at full throttle. They were much faster than Yoshi had expected. In fact, all the enemy Messer-schmitts had shown great speed. They must have upgraded the new Daimler Benz Valkyrie and Rosencrance was using his greater power to claim the fighter pilot’s most valuable commodity — altitude.

  Yoshi felt his lips peel back and he grinned, exposing his straight white teeth like a death’s head. “Get a taste of this engine,” he said, jamming the throttle to the fire wall and pulling the stick back.

  The engine roared with the full fury of all 3200 horsepower. With the stick back, the Japanese pilot felt himself pushed back and then down into his seat as if an invisible giant had both hands on his chest and was pounding with all his power. The horizon dropped precipitously, his windshield filling with the glare of the perfect sky. He was climbing almost vertically at an incredible 340 knots and with his speed slowing only slightly. Light pressure on the stick rotated the fighter so that the MEs were visible to his left side. He centered his controls and watched the startled enemy drop off beneath him, losing speed, mushing into stalls. Yoshi laughed like a madman, pulled the stick back, and whipped into a tight, wing-bending loop.

  The two MEs had dropped off into dives and were at least two kilometers ahead of him, trying to streak away from this unreal Zero. Glancing at his engine temperature, Yoshi was satisfied he was still in a safe range. He screamed after the enemy like a vengeful demon from hell, airspeed indicator zooming past 450 knots and climbing toward the last calibration at 540. Cleverly, the the MEs split, Vatz rolling up and away, clawing for altitude, Rosencrance continuing his dive, which should have put distance between him and the Zero. But not this time.

  The enemy was thinking. If Yoshi got a shot at Rosencrance, Vatz would have his opportunity for a shot at the Zero. Yoshi ignored Vatz and brought his range finder to the blood-red machine. His cylinder head temperature began to creep upward. He looked around. York and Willard-Smith were brawling with the two black Messerschmitts far out on the northeastern horizon. In fact, in the strange, almost eerie way of dogfights, most of the fighters had vanished. The fighter frequency was ominously silent. Either
most of his pilots were dead, or the fight had moved so far over the horizon, he could not pick up the transmissions. He punched the instrument panel.

  He heard York shout, “Got the bugger.”

  Then Willard-Smith’s horrifying reply, “And he got me.”

  “Hang on. Be there in two shakes, guv’nor.”

  The red ME filled all three rings. Yoshi could see Rosencrance’s startled white face staring back at him. With a good killing angle of one-quarter deflection and slightly above, he pressed the red button. The fighter bucked and vibrated, 20-millimeter and 7.7-millimeter shells and bullets hosing down on the ME. But Rosencrance had jinked savagely to the left, causing most of the burst to miss. The Japanese pilot cursed. Then a little left rudder brought the stream back to the enemy’s right wing. Small blooms of red marked the hits. Yoshi screamed with joy. Abruptly the Zero began to vibrate and a hammer was pounding his fuselage. Joy turned to horror. Vatz! Slashing in with his own great diving speed, making an incredible full deflection shot from the right as the Zero bolted past. And the rounds crept forward.

  Yoshi had no choice. It was turn or die. He was fighting two of the best fighter pilots in the world. One slip and he was a dead man. He kicked left rudder and jammed the stick to the left and down, increasing his dive and banking away from Rosencrance’s tail. At the same time, Rosencrance turned sharply to the right with Vatz covering him close behind. Yoshi plunged down to the left and began to pull back on the stick. A glance at his instruments changed his mind. The cylinder head temperature was crowding 280, and the tachometer was at the red line. His speed indicator showed an impossible 540 knots. There was a good chance he would break up if he pulled out at this speed. Most certainly he would lose consciousness, and control of his bladder and his bowels.

  He eased the throttle until the needle dropped below 500 and pulled back on the stick. The cowling came up, the horizon dropped, and so did Yoshi’s guts. He would be punished by six or seven g’s. With the airspeed indicator now below 500, the fighter began to flatten its dive. Then the vibrations began. The wings shook so much, he thought they would tear themselves free. They were actually flapping, as if the aircraft had suddenly become a bird and was trying to fly on its own. But the sturdy new wing spars held. Yoshi felt all the effects of a high-speed pullout, only this time much greater than he had ever known before; dizziness, loss of peripheral vision to the point he thought he was staring down a tunnel, pain in his groin, sharp, stabbing pains in his neck and spine as his head became lead, urine staining his flight suit, and tears streaming down his cheeks. He squeezed down hard to keep his bowels in check. But this time something new was added. He wiped his upper lip with his glove and came away with blood. A nosebleed. He ignored it, the salty liquid trickling down to his upper lip, where he dabbed at it with the tip of his tongue. Then a shroud covered the sun and he was in a world of blackness. Groggily, he shook his head to clear it. The Zero was bounding up and down like a wild stallion with a first-time rider and threatening to stall. Blinking like a man who had been drugged, he gripped the stick, worked the rudder pedals clumsily, finally regaining control. He looked around and tried to focus his eyes. It took him priceless seconds to find his enemy.

  They were far to the south, pouncing on a crippled Seafire while another Seafire engaged them both in desperation. A black ME 109 was spinning into the sea. But Willard-Smith was hit, streaming brown-white smoke and diving while Elwyn York slashed into the two attackers, firing. Yoshi ignored his instruments and punched the throttle to the last stop again and whipped the fighter into a turn until the Sakae 43 was pointed at the fight. The Cockney was giving a good account of himself, brilliantly turning, rolling, and diving, never giving his enemies a good shot. Finally, York turned, got off a quick burst at Vatz that hit the German’s engine and then fell off into a high-speed stall.

  Yoshi screamed, “No!” as Rosencrance knifed in, firing a long burst that raked the Seafire, blowing off the air scoop and an exhaust manifold fairing strip. Shells punched into the engine, severing gas lines and spraying the hot Rolls Royce with petrol. Immediately, flames streamed and the fighter dropped off into its last dive. Rosencrance banked sharply, and smelling blood, raced after the burning British fighter.

  “Bail out, Elwyn!” he heard Willard-Smith scream into his earphones. But the warning came too late or York was already wounded or dead. The red Messersch-mitt’s next burst hit the cockpit squarely, Plexiglas and bits of combing, aluminum bracing, and shattered instruments streaming into the slipstream. The Seafire dropped off into a vertical dive with its burning engine still at full throttle and streaked toward the sea, twisting slowly in its plunge.

  Sobbing and punching his instrument panel, Yoshi ruddered his range finder to the red Messerschmitt. Vatz was limping off to the south, streaming coolant and a white haze of smoke. Yoshi glanced at his instruments. His engine temperature was out of hand. But death filled his mind; nothing else mattered. He was above Rosencrance and was in a shallow dive that brought his airspeed to over 470 knots. Not designed for this high speed, his airfoils were overwhelmed by the turbulence, and his airframe began to vibrate. His range finder was jumping. He throttled back. The vibrations diminished. Rosencrance was turning. But Yoshi had the American killer in his sights. Directly astern and at 150 meters, he pressed the red button and held it down.

  A ferocious maelstrom of explosions raged along the ME’s wing and then smashed into the Daimler Benz. The cowling fasteners were blown loose and the cowling and hood peeled away, caromed off the windscreen, and flew off into the slipstream. Two 20-millimeter shells blew out the entire supercharger assembly, the heavy compressor unit flying loose and taking the left horizontal tailplane with it. Flame sprang to life with the intensity of a blowtorch. Black smoke ribboned back from the fighter’s engine. Yoshi cried out with joy, his face covered with saliva, tears, mucus, and blood streaming from his still bleeding nose.

  The red machine rolled onto its back, and a black figure plummeted from the cockpit. Then, like a beautiful blossoming lily, the parachute opened. Yoshi looked around. With the exception of Willard-Smith’s smoking Seafire, which was disappearing over the northern horizon, the sky was empty. He owned the sky and had one small matter to settle with the American who oscillated slowly beneath his white umbrella far below.

  Yoshi laughed hysterically. He remembered how Rosencrance had murdered the young Lieutenant Todoa Shigamitsu in his chute. Now the wheel had come full circle, as it always does, and priceless revenge was in his grasp. “Just you and I, renegade dog,” he whispered to himself.

  He throttled back to only 200 knots and pushed over into a leisurely dive. Eagerly he ran his thumb over the red button. He would savor every second of this delicious moment. Rosencrance saw him coming and knew exactly what the Japanese intended. He freed his pistol and raised it. Yoshi laughed and brought the figure precisely into focus where his cross hairs intersected. At a hundred meters, he squeezed the trigger. There was a hiss of compressed air. He screamed with agony and fury. He was out of ammunition. Rosencrance was laughing and firing. Yoshi banked away.

  For a long moment the Japanese pilot had an urge to ram the figure, and then a glance to the north showed a limping Willard-Smith dropping toward the sea. One last look at the American who was drifting down into the sea where a slow death awaited him and the air group commander banked after the Seafire. He put Rosencrance out of his mind and glanced at the clipboard strapped to his knee to check Yonaga’s point option data. He was steering 010, which should have put him on a course of interception. Obviously, Willard-Smith had checked his own data.

  His groups had lost terribly. Truly, it was a victory, but it was Pyrrhic. Crellin and perhaps half of his pilots dead. York gone. Maybe most of his Zero pilots had joined their ancestors; he could only guess. The bomber groups had almost ceased to exist. Brent Ross was probably dead. He pounded the combing, cried out in agony from deep in his heart. He lifted his head to the heavens and screamed t
he question men who go to war have cried for millennia, “Why? Why are the gods so cruel — so hungry for young blood?” But the heavens stared back silently... there were no answers there, never had been. Now Yoshi knew there were no answers anywhere.

  The commander edged the throttle forward a notch and gained rapidly on the Seafire. The British fighter was holding its altitude at a thousand meters and the smoke had diminished. Apparently, the automatic extinguishers had been able to control the fire, at least for a time. He heard Willard-Smith’s voice, “Welcome to the soiree, old boy. Good to have some company.”

  Yoshi edged above the wounded fighter and spoke into his microphone, “I will give you an umbrella.” He did not mention the fact that he was out of ammunition.

  “Thanks awfully, old man.”

  Yoshi shook his head, not believing the Englishman’s unflappable decorum. Their losses had been hideous, including the Britisher’s best friend, yet the man spoke as if he had just left a soccer match. Good men. Such good men from all over the world. He glanced at his watch. Maybe Yonaga was under attack at this moment. Maybe she had already been sunk. Certainly the enemy attack force should have made their runs. And what of Blackfin? If Williams failed and the Arabs reinforced the air groups in the Marianas by submarine, their terrible sacrifices could have been made for nothing. He prayed for Yonaga and then for Blackfin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jammed with the entire attack team, the conning tower was almost unbearably hot and stuffy. Now, to the ubiquitous smell of diesel oil and unwashed bodies, was added the insidious aroma of fear. The crew had been at battle stations since sonar had first picked up cavitations eight miles to the south and west thirty minutes earlier. The sounds were unmistakable: the two pairs of small high-speed screws of destroyers and the ponderous flailing of the single huge bronze screw of a tanker.