by C T Glatte
Jimmy grinned, “No promises.”
The armored car rumbled toward the front and soon they lost sight of the alien. Hank looked sideways at Jimmy. “What the hell we gonna do, Jimmy? I mean it doesn’t make sense to join a fight we’re gonna lose. Maybe we should head down the gully and find somewhere to hole up until the main force is gone. Then we could go to the coast and find a friendly ship, or some locals.”
Jimmy tore his eyes from the armored procession and stared at the ground, considering Hank’s proposal. “I don’t think I can do that while we’re still fighting. I mean I understand what you’re saying, but I can’t abandon my unit. Hell, that’s desertion. We’d be shot.”
“Desertion?” Hank looked at his friend and shook his head. “Dammit, that’s not what I meant. I meant we fight another day, become guerrillas. Quick strikes to their supply routes.”
Jimmy shook his head, “That’s not our mission. I’m gonna hook back up with our unit.” He returned Hank’s gaze. “You can do whatever you…”
They both heard it at the same time. Someone was directly behind them, close and speaking in Russian to them. Hank’s eyes became saucers, but Jimmy’s went cool and he smiled and rolled onto his back bringing his submachine up with him, but not pointing it at the Russian. He stood up and waved and smiled and took a step toward the two soldiers. They held submachine guns too, but they were slung over their shoulders and they were out of breath.
Jimmy looked behind the two, making sure there were no more and took another step closer. The Russian on the left said something, obviously a question. Jimmy nodded and continued smiling. He pulled the safety off as casually as he could. The Russians looked at one another and Jimmy knew they’d recognized his uniform as he got closer. He brought the muzzle up at the same time the other two unslung their weapons. In the instant before he had his weapon up, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to get both before they opened fire. He dove sideways. The Russians were seconds from firing when there was a hammering of full automatic machine gun fire behind him. He rolled and came up into a crouch expecting to take the full brunt of the Russian’s fire, but instead he saw them toppling backwards with their chest’s peppered and the air behind a red mist. They both dropped without getting a single shot off.
Jimmy looked behind him and saw Hank in a crouch with the PPSH-41 pressed into his shoulder. The muzzle was smoking from the side vents. Hank stood and stepped toward Jimmy. “You okay? I had to shoot right over you.”
Jimmy composed himself and nodded. He looked at the weapon and smiled, “Wow, that thing shoots a mile a minute.”
Hank nodded, “I barely squeezed and it feels almost empty. Feels like you’re firing a firehose or something. Super steady too.”
Jimmy walked to the Russians and kicked their weapons away, but they were both dead, or very near. He reached down and pulled a canteen off the nearest soldier’s waist and held it up. “These guys have water.” He unscrewed the cap and tilted it up, but before he could get a sip, it suddenly was ripped from his hand and an instant later he heard the shot. He fell onto his face. “Shit! Sniper.”
Hank put his machine gun to his shoulder again and fired down the gully. The automatic fire was so fast it sounded like one continuous shot. He stopped firing and yelled, “They’re coming up the gully. I saw at least two.”
Jimmy cursed to himself and started low crawling back up the hill. He smacked a rock with his shin and he bit his lip to squelch the pain and pushed on. Return fire snapped over his head and he watched Hank dive flat onto his stomach. Bullets sent up mini-geysers of dirt all around him and he tried to become one with the ground. Jimmy needed to divert their attention. He rolled onto his back and did a partial sit up, aiming the machine gun down the gully. He squeezed the trigger and held it down, feeling the firepower pour towards the enemy. If that doesn’t keep their heads down nothing will.
He rolled back to his stomach and resumed pushing toward Hank, who’d moved behind a solid rock formation and was bringing his muzzle up. He yelled. “I’ll cover you. Get your ass up here!”
Jimmy yelled, “Coming now!”
He shot to his feet and sprinted. He heard and felt Hank sending lead down the gully. He ran straight and hard, pumping his legs, feeling he’d be shot in the back any second. He dashed behind the rocks and Hank pulled back with him. “We’ve gotta get outta here before more of ‘em come.”
Jimmy nodded and pulled a grenade off Hank’s belt. “Let ‘em come up a bit, then I’ll throw it and we run along the ridge till we find cover.”
Hank nodded, “Let me reload. I must be close to empty.” Hank pulled the backpack off his back and reached down for another drum. The old one came away easily. It felt light and empty. He dropped it and slammed the full one into the slot. Breathless, he said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
Jimmy peeked over the top of the rocks then ducked immediately. Bullets zinged off the rocks. “Shit,” he muttered and pulled the pin. He reared back and hurled the grenade like a throw from third base to first. “Go!” He barked and pulled Hank from his perch. They sprinted straight away, using the rock cover for as long as possible. There was yelling then the explosion. They kept running, not daring to look back.
They ran along the top of the ridge exposed to the convoy below, but there was nothing they could do. Going off the top of the ridge, even a few feet would put them into shrubs and would slow them down too much. They needed distance. They could worry about stealth once they’d evaded the immediate threat.
The ridge ran into a thick copse of trees and once inside a few yards they stopped. They both gasped for breath, but the run had invigorated them and their eyes sparkled with endorphins and life. They watched the ridge, but after five minutes nothing followed, so they continued deeper into the woods.
They moved carefully but they felt an urgency to continue moving quickly. They couldn’t help the occasional snapping branch or kicked loose rock. They didn’t know where they were headed, just away from the ridge.
Jimmy was in the lead. He slowed and held up his hand. Hank stopped and crouched. He looked around the forest but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Jimmy looked back and held his finger to his lips. Suddenly from both sides there was movement and green clad men emerged leveling M1s and Thompson submachine guns at them. Jimmy and Hank both immediately dropped their weapons and stood, holding their hands overhead.
“Is that you Jimmy? Hank? Well I’ll be damned, thought sure you guys bought it.”
From the front Private Jantz stepped forward showing off his sideways grin. “It’s okay boys. They’re from fourth squad.”
The men on either side dropped their muzzles to the ground but kept vigilant watch the way they’d come. Jimmy grinned and stepped forward. He wanted to hug Jantz but instead thrust his hand out and they shook. “Never thought I’d be so glad to see your ugly mug.” He looked around at the other men emerging from the woods. He recognized some, but most he didn’t. “Anyone else from our unit? Where’s Cugle?”
Jantz’s smile faded to dust. “He didn’t make it. Crushed under a tank tread, I couldn’t… well I couldn’t get him out of there.” Jimmy and Hank lowered their eyes. Jantz continued. “You, Hank and me’s all that’s left of our squad and our platoon as far as I know.” He spit a stream of dark tobacco juice onto the ground. “Figure some others from the company made it out, but I haven’t seen any.” He indicated the twenty men standing around him. “This is a mixed crew, some from Alpha, Bravo, even a few tankers.”
Hank explained, “We had a tank roll over the top of us, keeping us from leaving. Had to lay low until the main force passed over us. We, we hid under bodies.” He looked down realizing it sounded like cowardice.
Jantz shook his head, “Doesn’t matter how you got out as long as you did. Lot of these guys have similar stories.”
Jimmy asked, “So who’s in charge? What’s the plan?”
A big staff sergeant stepped forward. They both recognized him ins
tantly. The sergeant grinned, “Well, well, look what the Scalps dragged in.”
They hadn’t seen him since bootcamp. “Sergeant Campbell?”
He scowled at them. “Why you carrying commie weapons?” Jimmy explained his reasoning and Campbell nodded and barked. “We’re gonna form up with our troops at the pass. Lets get a move on. Patrol spacing.” He looked hard at them. “You two stay in the middle til you figure this crap out.”
They both nearly yelled out in unison, but remembered where they were. They whispered, “Yes, sergeant.”
Twenty-One
Captain Elizabeth Viper Perkins led the 4th Squadron from their home base toward the Russian fleet, deep in the Pacific. It was still dark and despite the warm air from the engine heating the cockpit, she couldn’t keep from shivering.
Over the past week her Fighting 4th had been whittled down by half. As pilots and planes failed to return from tangling with the Russian fighters, raw, untested pilots filled the gaps. With each loss, their numbers stayed the same, but their effectiveness withered.
The last mission had been the most devastating. She’d lost six fighters and some of her most experienced pilots. As she passed ten-thousand feet, the image of the smiling MaryAnn Larkin flashed in her mind and she felt the ache of the loss. Tigress. By all accounts she’d made the Russians pay, but she and her wingman, Lieutenant Powalski, hadn’t returned. The loss effected her second flight lead, Lieutenant Withers even more since both pilots were her responsibility. She shook her head, my responsibility.
She swiveled, searching for the rest of the squadron. Flying at night always raised the potential for accidents, more so with the inexperienced pilots, but so far they were staying tight and visible. Just hope we don’t run into any turbulence.
She leveled out at fifteen-thousand feet and slowed to three-hundred-twenty miles per hour, to keep from overtaking the heavily loaded P-47s somewhere up ahead.
As she raced through the night, she thought about the squadron of P-47 Thunderbolts they’d be attacking with. She’d been there when the squadron commander was told that he and his thunderbolts would be fitted for ground attack. He’d argued vehemently that the women in the 4th should be tasked with attacking the ships while he and his men fought off the fighters; the more glorified role. She smiled, remembering the reply from General Diggins, ‘the fact is, the 4th has twice as many air victories as your men.’ He quickly added, ‘and your men have more ground attack training.’
Lt. Perkins looked over her instruments and scanned the dark sky out of habit. I’m just grateful we’re not using those Dauntless boys. The first few attacks by the traditional dive bombers showed the aircraft’s many inadequacies, at the expense of nearly an entire squadron of experienced pilots. The image of flaming SBD Dauntless aircraft still troubled her dreams. They were far too slow and were easy targets for the Russian fighters and bristling guns of the carrier fleet. The P-47s were fast, well armored and effective ground attack aircraft. They’d never been used to attack surface vessels in the open ocean, but the brass figured it would be similar to attacking a heavily armed, moving train, which they’d spent many hours training for over the years. The added bonus was the fact that once they’d expended their two five-hundred pound bombs and their racks of rockets, they were deadly fighters and could tangle with the Russians without being slaughtered.
The sky was lightening in the east. Perkins looked at her watch and nodded in satisfaction, they’d be over the target in a few minutes and it would be light enough to see. She figured they would’ve seen fighters by now, the Russian ship-borne radar made if difficult to approach the fleet without a welcoming committee. She wondered if they were lurking somewhere above her, waiting for their chance to pounce.
The radio coming to life with the unmistakable high pitched voice of Lt. Snake Withers made Perkins flinch. She gritted her teeth at the breaking of radio silence, but quickly forgot it. “P-47s at ten o’clock low. Enemy fleet spotted at eleven o’clock.”
Perkins squinted and could barely see the line of silver P-47s streaking toward the white wakes of fifteen ships. Dazzling spots of light erupted all around the P-47s and from here it looked beautiful, but she knew it was enemy flak. She scanned the sky for enemy fighters, nothing. “I see them, combat spread and keep your eyes peeled for fighters. They’ve gotta be out here somewhere. Snake, take your group to twenty thousand feet and orbit the fleet.”
“Roger,” came the reply.
Perkins watched the twelve fighters gently lift away. “Group one, stay with your wingman and call out any targets.”
A voice she didn’t recognize came over the intercom, a newbie. “The carrier’s on fire.”
Perkins squinted and noticed the flaring light coming from the carrier. At first she thought it was the winking of anti-aircraft fire, but now she recognized it for what it was, a burning ship. That’s why there aren’t any fighters. They’re too damaged to launch.
She flew over the carrier group keeping close tabs on the airspace around her, but there were no enemy fighters. She watched the first group of P-47s tilt their wings over and take steep dives toward the crippled carrier. Flak blossomed like black roses all around, but they flew through unscathed. Then she saw one take a direct hit. The heavily armored Thunderbolt blew up in a huge blossoming explosion, leaving only an oily mark in the sky. Undeterred the first Thunderbolt released both it’s five-hundred pound bombs and pulled up sharply. She couldn’t see the bombs, but the resulting explosions alongside the carriers port bow were unmistakable. A near miss. The second plane was only seconds behind and she watched it pull up, trailing enemy tracer fire. Both bombs scored hits and the carrier deck heaved with the impacts.
Another Thunderbolt took a hit, a victim of a nearby cruiser’s guns. The plane tipped sideways, missing half a wing and it sliced into the cold Pacific, tumbling. She didn’t see a parachute. No time. Poor bastard.
She felt the need to help. She felt useless sitting up here safe, while the thunderbolt pilots battled through anti-aircraft fire. She performed another sweep of the airspace and made her decision. “Snake, come down to fifteen-thousand and keep a close eye for surprises.” She didn’t wait for an acknowledgement. “Group one, lets get in the war. Target the cruisers and destroyers. Lets take some heat off our boys.”
She winged over, knowing her group was following suit. She dropped quickly, glancing at her altimeter as it spun smoothly around the dial. She lined her reticle up on the quickly growing shape of the cruiser that had just scored the hit on the P-47. She caressed the red firing button on the stick, and when the ship filled her entire windscreen she mashed the button and watched her tracer fire rip into the ship. After five seconds she released and pulled the stick back, immediately feeling heavy in her seat as her weight increased to five-times normal.
When she was level she streaked away and swiveled in time to see the next P-51 unleashing hell on the ship. Chunks of the ship flew into the air and flames erupted from a piece of ordnance on the starboard side. She cringed as she watched how close her wingman, Lt. James came to slamming into the ship. “Pull up!” She yelled. She breathed a sigh of relief when she was safely away. She keyed her mic for the entire group to hear, “Don’t get mesmerized, pull up earlier.”
The third attacker was already unleashing her own withering fire, but the cruiser had adjusted to this new threat, and tracer rounds as big as beach balls reached up toward her. She continued firing then leveled off but instead of streaking away low and fast, pulled up into a steep climb, slowing herself dangerously.
Perkins watched in horror as 20mm tracer rounds followed her ascent and plowed into the fuselage. Fire erupted and the Mustang shuddered, then dropped straight through it’s own smoke and went into a flat spin, disintegrating upon impact with the ocean swells.
Perkins slapped her hand against her thigh and cursed, feeling tears threatening to emerge. She tried to picture the pilot, a new girl. A replacement who showed promise, but was now
dead.
Undeterred, the rest of the group made their attacks and soon the cruiser was on fire and slewed over, taking on water. Perkins pulled up, her group following her lead until they were perched at eight-thousand feet. A few bursts of flak erupted, but it was mostly directed to the bigger threat of the P-47s who were now attacking the doomed carrier with rockets. She watched the rockets streak broadside into the carrier. She wondered how much more abuse the huge ship could take.
There were plenty of ships left to attack. Perkins keyed her mike, “See that destroyer, off the carrier’s stern? That’s our new target.” She arced her plane over and saw something shoot from the back of the destroyer and splash into the water. Soon there was a great explosion of white water, and she knew what was happening. “It’s attacking one of our subs with depth charges.”
The ship was turning hard to port. She didn’t know if it was maneuvering to throw off her aim, or to stay on top of the submarine. Then she noticed a mass emerging from the depths of the ocean. At first she thought it was an enormous whale, but soon realized it was the submarine. “Careful, the sub’s on the surface. Lets give him a hand.”
MaryAnn’s fear reached new heights when the Russian destroyer started dropping depth charges. After the Sea Serpent surfaced and fired point blank into the carrier with the deck gun, they’d submerged and MaryAnn thought they’d be safe, but she was wrong. For hours the destroyer searched for them.
She’d grown terrified of the grating ping, the sub hunter used to find them. Captain Willis had taken the ship to nearly crushing depths to evade the destroyer and many times the hunter would move off in the wrong direction. But every time they tried to silently leave the area, another damning ping would find them and they’d be cornered like rats.
They’d run out of tricks. “We’re down to fifteen percent on the batteries, Captain. We’ll be dead in the water and sitting ducks in a half an hour.”