by James Young
“Damage report!” Lt. Commander Freeman shouted, still holding onto the periscope. His voice instantaneously stopped the panic that was threatening to run rampant through the control room.
“Someone plug these damn leaks!” Chief Pound roared in the darkness. “Start acting like you’re a submarine crew and not a bunch of schoolboys!” Instantly reacting to the Chief’s bellow, the crew jumped to their jobs.
“Sir, we’ve got no response from the rudder or the stern planes!” a voice stated tremulously.
“Flooding in the engine room!” came a cry from astern.
Well destroyer captain number two appears to know his shit, Nick thought angrily. His opinion seemed to be spot on as the damage reports continued to come in. The second string of depth charges had physically bent the submarine’s hull just aft of the crew’s mess. The Nautilus’s stern had similarly been bent, the port propeller shaft banging against the hull before the engineering crew had stopped it. In addition, the blasts had been so violent that multiple leaks had developed and were now rapidly flooding the stern of the boat, making the diving crew fight to keep her on an even keel.
“Lieutenant Cobb, what’s the plot?” Lt. Commander Freeman asked, turning to look at Nick, who in turn looked at the sonar operator. Jenkins put the headphones back over his ears.
“Sir, the situation is too confused,” Jenkins said. “I’ve got screws all over the place and the sound head sounds like it received damage.”
“Understood. We’ll stay down here for another hour, then we’ll see where we stand,” Freeman announced to the control room. Rubbing his arms, Nick could already feel the submarine starting to get chilly inside from the loss of power.
“Sir, I’m not sure if we can stay ahead of the flooding,” Chief Pound stated quietly. “We may need to start the pumps here shortly.”
“If we start the pumps, those Japs will be all over us,” Freeman said. “We’ll take our chances for a little bit longer. Don’t worry, she won’t sink underneath us.”
The Yugumo, captained by Commander Shigeo Semba, was the Nautilus’s second assailant and Akigumo’s sister ship. Signaling her companion, Semba inquired as to whether or not the destroyer had regained contact with the American submarine after their two depth charge runs. When the Akigumo responded in the negative, the Yugumo began pinging for the American vessel on her own. Between the two vessels, the body of the unfortunate petty officer floated, his insides crushed from the underwater explosions.
Aboard the Akagi, Yamaguchi watched the vessels astern through his glasses and quietly felt himself getting ready to explode.
“Why did we not detect the American submarine when we passed over it?” he asked his assembled staff. The men looked back at him impassively, none of them having a good answer to the question. There was a strained silence, broken by Admiral Kusaka.
“Sir, it is likely that the destroyers were focused on their plane guard duties,” Kusaka replied, his face impassive and voice even.
I know what you’re thinking, Yamaguchi thought, having the urge to assault the man.
“Sir, is it still your intention to launch a third strike?” Kusaka asked in that same flat voice.
Clenching his fists, Yamaguchi looked back astern at the two heavily damaged carriers. In moments, his aggressiveness and hubris had been terribly punished.
The most important part of gambling is knowing when to quit, he thought. Now, with Zuikaku clearly in danger of sinking, and Shokaku desperately trying to rig some sort of steering with her engines, most people would have agreed that it was far past time to leave. His nation had just begun a war with a nation more than ten times larger than it in population, resources, and industrial strength. While he had been willing to trade Soryu and Hiryu for success prior to the December ’41 crisis, Shokaku and Zuikaku were a far different matter.
Every vessel we lose, every plane that is destroyed, and every pilot killed in effect gives the Americans double their number, he thought, recalling Admiral Yamamoto’s final orders to him. If the aviators are to be believed, I am looking at a great victory being converted to a narrow defeat.
“Sir?” Rear Admiral Kusaka inquired, his voice somewhat less restrained. Yamaguchi turned to the man, meeting his eyes.
Damn you, I want nothing more than to tell you that we will indeed strike again, Yamaguchi thought. But even more so with two flight decks out of order, we will barely be able to land the aircraft we have airborne unless the second strike took far heavier losses.
“Order the Tone, Akigumo, and Yugumo to stand by the Shokaku. Order the Abukuma to assist the Zuikaku. If the Zuikaku does not regain power within two hours, she is to be scuttled and Abukuma will also aid the Shokaku.”
Yamaguchi turned back to look over the rest of the Kido Butai.
“All other vessels are to come about and follow us. Move this vessel to our second Point Option. Inform Tone to signal all returning aircraft that approach of our new position. All carriers are to cease re-arming their aircraft for a third strike,” Yamaguchi said stolidly.
Taking a deep breath, he looked over the staff. Many of the officers, Captain Genda among them, looked positively despondent.
“We have gained a great victory today, men,” Yamaguchi said. “It is time to keep it from becoming a Pyrrhic one.”
CHAPTER 10: CULMINATIONS
A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Insert U.S.S. Hornet
1115 Local (1615 Eastern)
26 March 1943
Hornet, much like a hive of her namesakes, was abuzz with activity. The news of the attack on the Battleline had reached the carrier a bare thirty minutes after the refueling had been complete. The task force commander, Rear Admiral Aubrey Fitch, had immediately directed anti-aircraft formation to be assumed and a full CAP to be scrambled.
“Still no report from the Battleline,” Lieutenant Commander Couch observed in VB-8’s ready room.
That’s a bad sign, Eric Cobb thought from where he watched several of his squadron mates engaged in an intense acey deucey tournament. Either Admiral Jensen is too busy or he’s forgotten he’s got a carrier floating around out here in the North Pacific.
The sounds of aircraft being moved around the hangar deck were clear in the ready room. Eric felt as if his skin was crawling from nervousness as he attempted to remain impassive.
“Lieutenant Cobb,” Lieutenant Commander Couch said from the front of the ready room. “A word, please.”
What did I do now? Eric thought to himself. The two men stepped out onto the catwalk just outside the ready room.
“Admiral Fitch’s staff fucked up and forgot that we may want to launch a search,” Couch said with disgust. “I want you to lead it.”
What? Eric thought, looking at his commander in shock.
“There’s a method to my madness, Lieutenant,” Couch replied. “Despite my protests, Commander Ring has stated none of the torpeckers will fly any of the sectors, and that I am to make sure I use experienced officers in conjunction with nuggets. Your name was specifically mentioned.”
Of course it was, Eric thought. Hornet’s CAG had made it quite clear that he was not impressed with getting a high profile addition to his air group. The man had seemed further upset that Eric had studiously avoided screwing up.
“If you fly the first mission, odds are you’ll dodge the anti-submarine patrols,” Couch continued. “If you find something, I want you to concentrate on getting a contact report off, then hit the first flight deck you see.”
“Who do you want me to have as my wingman, sir?” Eric asked.
“You’ll take Read,” Couch replied. “They’re arming your birds on the flight deck as we speak. Rear Admiral Fitch was not impressed with the staff or Commander Ring, so you two need to hurry.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Eric said. Couch turned and went back into the ready room, with Eric right behind him.
“Ensign Read,
we’ve been asked to go on a date with some geishas,” Eric said nonchalantly. “Hopefully we get stood up, but grab our gunners and let’s go.”
Read, a fresh-faced teenager from Missouri, looked up at Eric as if the latter had just suggested they go get a full back tattoo of President Roosevelt’s face put on. While not the most inexperienced man in the squadron, that was only because he had precisely one more hour than the most inexperienced man, Ensign Kelly. Tall and dark-haired, Read’s voice had a slight accent that betrayed his Missouri boot heel roots.
“Aye aye, sir,” Read replied.
Five minutes later, both men stood on the Hornet’s flight deck. Eric watched as the flight crew finished climbing all over the aircraft, the wooden surface beneath him vibrating with the sensation of engines being run up for final checks. As their gunners walked past them, Read started to walk. Snaking his hand out, Eric grabbed the young ensign’s Mae West.
“Easy killer, not yet,” Eric said. “Just because there are Japs about doesn’t mean we change our routine. Pilots go on last.”
Read looked sheepish for a moment, but nodded. Eric looked back out at the aircraft to see his tail gunner, Radioman First Class Willie Brown, doing a visual check of his twin machine guns. Brown was a Pacific Fleet regular, having last been aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise before Hornet. Rumor had it that Brown’s critique of one of Air Group Six’s senior dive bomber pilots was the reason he had been “shuffled” to the Pacific Fleet enlisted replacement pool. The man in question had allegedly put his Dauntless, quieter gunner, and himself into the water off Bremerton not three days later making the same mistake Brown had warned him about.
I wonder if it’s true that he said he “wasn’t very sorry for the officer, but sure did feel bad for that gunner’s wife?” Eric thought. Or “painting rocks beats feeding fishes?”
Shaking his head, Eric saw that it was time for Read and him to get to their planes. Checking that he had all the necessary maps and codes one last time, Eric strode out to the Dauntless.
“I hope you don’t have to use those, Brown,” Eric said, climbing up on the wing after doing a quick walkaround and checking the 500-lb. bomb slung underneath the SBD’s belly.
Brown gave him an appraising look.
“Sir, I get the feeling I won’t have to work as hard to keep you alive as my last pilot,” Brown replied with a smile.
“Well I’ll do my damndest not to give you free swimming lessons,” Eric said. “My last gunner said the water was a bit cold.”
Brown gave him a respectful nod as the airplane crew chuckled. Eric found himself glad that he had an older, steadier hand with him this mission. Working quickly, two men from the squadron’s ground crew helped him strap in. Making sure the straps were tight, Eric took the clipboard from the plane’s crew chief and signed for the aircraft.
I wish I had Rawles, but I don’t blame the man for taking Secretary Knox’s offer, Eric thought. Unfortunately some of us really didn’t have that option.
“Good luck, sir,” the man said, taking the clipboard back.
Is good luck finding the enemy or not? Eric thought, nodding his thanks.
The launch of the sixteen Dauntlesses that comprised Hornet’s search was part ballet, part circus act. As a plane was prepared to launch, it was placed under the control of a plane director. This sailor, usually a petty officer signaled directions to the pilot, who did not have a clear view forward due to the plane resting back on its wheels and the length of the nose. This plane director, once he got the aircraft to a certain point on the flight deck, handed it off to another of his compatriots and went back to directing aircraft from the congested area on the vessel’s stern. The second plane director, once he had the pilot’s attention, checked to make sure the flaps and other control surfaces were in proper position for takeoff, then guided the aircraft forward to its launch position. Once present, the pilot made eye contact with the launch officer, who gave him the signal to conduct the final checks of the aircraft, most importantly his engine. Once these were complete, the pilot gave the launch officer the signal he was ready. With that, and giving the aircraft one more once over, the flight officer waved his checkered flag, directing the pilot to immediately launch.
Sitting and hoping that the airplane doesn’t have something go wrong with it is the hardest part of all this, Eric thought grimly. I’m pretty sure getting chummed by my own carrier will make for a rather tragic end.
Eighth in line, Eric did not have long to wait before he was being signaled forward to take his spot in preparation for takeoff. As the seventh Dauntless waddled its way into the sky, Eric pulled up to where the launch officer was waiting for his aircraft. Following the man’s signals, Eric checked all of his control surfaces then advanced the throttle. Satisfied everything was working, he gave the launch officer his thumbs up. Without further ado, the officer waved his checkered flag towards the end of the flight deck.
As Eric lifted his foot off the brakes, the Dauntless seemed to leap forward. As with every launch so far that day, his went without a hitch. Pulling back gently on the stick after retracting his gear, he began a turn to starboard and started to climb. Once he reached ten thousand feet, he kept his aircraft level and waited for Read to catch up with him. Five minutes after his wheels had left the Hornet’s deck, Eric collected his wingman and turned to begin the search into their sector.
“This oughta be a quiet flight,” he muttered to himself.
“Beats the alternative, sir,” Brown replied, continuing to scan the skies around their aircraft.
“True,” Eric replied. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for this war already.”
U.S.S. Yorktown
1125 Local (1625 Eastern)
Both Sam and David felt very, very weak in the knees as they stood aboard Yorktown’s wooden deck. Partially the weakness was delayed shock from having just taken part in the destruction of four aircraft while being shot at themselves. Mostly, however, it was looking at the vessels gathered around the Yorktown and realizing they comprised the majority of what had once been the United States Pacific Fleet. The smoke from Lexington and Saratoga, the latter having just succumbed to her terrible wounds, was still visible on the northern horizon.
I can’t believe how bad this has been, Sam thought, his stomach queasy. Depending on how many fighters made it back to Oahu, the fighter squadrons suffered something like thirty percent losses.
Yorktown, her protective cloak of escorts gathered around her, continued to steam to the south at twenty-five knots, having accelerated after it was clear the sixteen fighters aboard were all that she was going to recover at the present time. The carrier had recovered five more Wildcats, but the wrecks had quickly been shoved over the side. While twenty more Wildcats, VMF-14’s among them, were inbound and another eight were overhead, it was pretty clear that the day had not been a good one for the USN’s fighter pilots.
“Did you ever hear any word about Peter?” David asked somberly.
“Plane boss said that a Lieutenant Byrnes took off in one of their spare fighters when the the second wave was inbound,” Sam replied. “Said he gave some deckhand a $20 bill and didn’t expect to come back.”
David swallowed heavily and looked away for a second.
“What happens now, you think?” David asked once he’d regained his composure, watching the smoke from the burning Saratoga recede on the horizon. “Do you think those bastards are going to invade?”
Sam thought for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip.
“No, they won’t. This is a raid,” Sam stated unequivocally. “There’s still too much of our Navy left, not to mention soldiers on the islands, to make seizing Hawaii worthwhile.”
“How can you be so sure?” David asked, his tone clear that he was wanting Sam to explain rather than challenging his twin.
“The Japs did this same thing right before the war they fought with Russia at the start of the century, and for the same reason—if they’d had caught our f
leet in harbor, they could’ve sunk the whole lot at the moorings,” Sam said.
“Seems like they did a pretty good job of catching it at sea,” David observed disgustedly.
“Not enough, though,” Sam said. “We saw, what, five battlewagons still in one piece? Even if they shot up the Army boys like some of Admiral Fletcher’s staff claimed, they’ve got to have fighters left, and plenty of those big bombers of theirs.”
“For all the good they’ve done today,” David replied bitterly.
“Just like we didn’t know how bad things were out here, we don’t know what the Army boys are up to north of here,” Sam observed. “Either way, the Japanese couldn’t have known they’d do this well, and you don’t send a whole bunch of transports across the Pacific unless you’re damn sure that you’re going to win.”
David looked at his brother, surprised at the calm conviction with which he spoke.
“So what happens now?” he asked, curious to see what else Sam was going to come up with.
“Now, if they’re smart, they cut and run,” Sam said. “This was a big raid, but it had to have cost them. It doesn’t seem like they hit the Army bases at all, and while those guys can’t find their asses with both hands and a map most of the time, today might be their lucky day.” Sam paused for a second to take a long pull of the canteen some sailor had given him after landing.
“You ever seen a good poker player at work? You know, like Captain O’Shea in VMB-21?” Sam continued. “Ever wonder why he always seems to make lots of money? Because when he takes a big pot, he leaves right away. If that Jap admiral has a lick of sense, he’ll do the same.”