Winter Warriors

the unsuspecting fighters, achieving almost complete tactical surprise. The targets didn’t even try and evade as the Corsairs screamed down on them and the concentrated blasts of .50 caliber machinegun fire shredded them in mid air. Six spun out and started the long fall towards the sea. Amongst them was Eleanor, her pilot dead at the controls. Lieutenant Pace had been an ace for less than 15 seconds.

Ju-87R-5 Blue-Six, Over Hunter-Killer Group “Sitka” in the North Atlantic, north of the UK.

The American blunder had been a miracle. Captain Joseph Brandt believed the game was up when the wave of dark blue Corsairs had arrived. He had watched in incredulous amazement as they attacked the Bearcats. By the time the Americans had got themselves sorted out, the Stukas were approaching their target and about to go into their dives. Below them, the two carriers were clearly visible, surrounded by a ring of eight destroyers. For a moment he’d thought the ships were already on fire. They seemed ringed with orange flame, then he realized they were firing. Photographs that had escaped censorship showed the sides of the carriers were lined with anti-aircraft guns and it was rumored the battleships were even worse.

The Ami anti-aircraft fire wasn’t just intense. It was deadly accurate. Somehow, their shells always seem to explode at just the right time. Soon the approach of the dive bombers was marked by the trails of smoke as the bombers had been hit. Three aircraft in Brandt’s formation went down before they even got into position for their runs. Four more had gone down from the other group. The way the Stukas had approached the formation meant that they split naturally into two groups, one taking each carrier. Two carriers? He’d thought there were supposed to be five in an Ami carrier task group. Mentally Brandt shook his head and blessed the fact that the reports were wrong. If two ships could put up this hailstorm of flak, what would five do?

The anti-aircraft fire was deadly. Of the five surviving dive bombers that attacked the carrier below, only Brandt’s survived. The others all died; hit by the heavy and medium anti-aircraft guns that poured fire at him. Brandt saw the deck of the carrier getting larger and larger. It was painted light gray, with the number 107 painted in darker gray. Brandt had only a 250 kilogram bomb on board. It had never been intended to turn a recon mission into a part of a strike but this battle was escalating out of all control. He had to place that bomb exactly where it would do the most damage. The forward lift that filled his bombsight looked good. Brandt squeezed the release, then jerked the stick back in the savage pull-out that ruined a dive bomber pilot’s health. Behind him, he saw the ball of fire rise from the deck of the carrier.

The formation attacking the other carrier had better luck. Two of the eight aircraft survived to release their 1,000 kilogram bombs.

Perhaps because of the anti-aircraft fire, perhaps it was the evasive maneuvers of the ships that caused both bombs to go wide. They straddling the carrier but not actually hitting her. The carriers point defense guns opened up. The rows of 20mm weapons sawed both of the Ju-87s out of the sky. In point of fact, they’d have done better if they hadn’t bothered. One Ju-87 was hit as it pulled out. The blazing aircraft cleared the deck by feet before crashing in the sea just over the side of the carrier. The second was hit earlier, before it had started its pull-out. It crashed into the carrier dead amidships.

Out to sea and running clear, Brandt started to climb so he could radio a report. It was succinct and to-the- point. The American carrier task force had been heavily defended by fighters and his was the only aircraft to have survived. But, the critical part of the message was that the rising clouds of black smoke showed that both carriers had been hit hard.

USS Stalingrad, Hunter-Killer Group “Sitka” in the North Atlantic, north of the UK.

The sirens were blasting. Damage control crews poured across the decks to the scene of the hit. The 550 pound bomb had scored a direct hit on the forward elevator. It had penetrated through it and exploded in the elevator well. The elevator itself had been blown into the air by the blast leaving the well itself as an inferno. The accumulated of oil and grease fed the flames but the rest of the hangar deck was sealed down and the fuel lines inerted. The Avengers were all unloaded and had been parked aft. It was never good to be hit by a bomb but this one had done less damage than it could have done; less damage by far.

Across the way, Moskva was in a different situation. Stalingrad’s fires were subsiding as the damage control teams isolated the blaze and poured foam and water fog onto it. Captain Alameda saw the ball of fire rise where the dive bomber had plowed into Moskva. She was still burning. Three of the destroyers came alongside to pour water from their own pumps into her. Her damage control crews faced a nightmare; a crashed aircraft on the hangar deck with the fuel from the tanks feeding the blaze. Thinking about it, Alameda came to the nasty conclusion that the aircraft was actually a more dangerous weapon than the bomb it carried. He shuddered at the thought. That way lay madness.

“Damage control here, Captain. Fire in the forward lift well is contained and controlled. We’re dumping foam to smother it and the crews are pouring water on the bulkheads around it to cool them off. We’ve got teams up to, patching the hole where the lift was, the flight deck will be operational, sort of, in thirty minutes.”

Alameda nodded. “Can we land planes now? We’ve got crippled birds need to come in, four Bearcats at least, and the orphans from Moskva. She won’t be landing anybody soon.”

Below Lieutenant Holcombe looked across at Moskva, belching black smoke from her amidships section. She most certainly wouldn’t be landing anybody any time soon. “We can land them, Sir. Make sure the pilots know they have to catch a wire the first time or they’ll be on the hangar deck faster than they expected.”

Alameda made up his mind. “CAG, how many birds to come in?”

“Eighteen, Sir. Eight of them damaged, two very badly.”

“Right, get the intact birds down first, then the less damaged ones. If the shot-up aircraft can’t wait to last, they’re to ditch by the plane guard destroyer. She’ll pickup the pilot.” If he survives was the unspoken add-on.

“Sir?” The question mark was very audible.

Technically as Captain, Alameda’s word was law. In reality, on a carrier, Captain and CAG were a partnership. “We must get the intact birds down first, Joe. If anybody is going to crash and block the deck, it’ll be one of the cripples. So they have to wait.” It was a hard decision and Alameda didn’t like it. He made it anyway.

The two men stood and watched as the Bearcats started landing. They had the net stretched across the deck to stop any that lost the wires but the fighters managed their landing neatly. The fifth of the damaged birds didn’t. The pilot either lost it at the last second or his controls failed. Whatever the reason, he touched down on one wheel, cartwheeled and lodged firmly in the gallery that ran alongside the deck. There was a dull whump noise as the fuel left in the Bearcat’s tanks ignited. They could see the pilot in his seat struggling to get free as the aircraft started to burn, but his harness had jammed or something.

Then, a man ran out from the gallery. He passed the tail that stuck out of the fire, and jumped onto the burning wing. Oblivious to the flames, he reached through the shattered bubble canopy and slashed at the harness. Whatever he did, it must have worked because he dragged the pilot out, through the flames licking around the wings and onto the deck. Other crewmen were waiting with extinguishers and fire-fighting kit. The two men staggered clear of the fire, their flight suits and coveralls already burning. The deck crew sprayed them both with foam. Then, the medics carried them down to the sickbay. If they were lucky, their suits would have protected them; they’d get away with minor burns. If they weren’t….

“CAG, get me that crewman’s name.” Alameda’s voice had a catch in it. “If he doesn’t get a Bronze Star for that, I’ll order a strike on the Navy Department.” Below them, a jeep rammed the burning Bearcat and tipped it over the side.

“A Bronze Star, Captain?” In CAG’s mind, a higher decoration was merited. The thought was interrupted by an orphaned cripple from Moskva landing. He recognized it; the Indian Chief nose art was very distinctive. “That’s Darkshade’s aircraft. One of the planes shot up by the F4Us. You know, I wouldn’t care to be a Corsair pilot on an Apache reservation any time in the next twenty years.”

Hangar Deck, USS Moskva, Hunter-Killer Group “Sitka “ in the North Atlantic, north of the UK.

There was a gaping hole overhead, ripped clean through the flight deck. That wasn’t altogether a bad thing.