little closer, just a little… Then he punched the release, dropping his centerline torpedo first followed by the two under his wings. They were heading for the target now, in a tight group with his first fish following the others. Now, if it went just right, that really would hurt.
As Yellow Rose cleared the German ship, the 20mm gun got the range. Its shells, explosive and armor-piercing incendiaries lashed at the aircraft’s wings and belly. They tore out large lumps, slashing into her systems and ripped open fuel and hydraulic lines. Yellow Rose staggered in the air, mortally injured by the long, raking burst. As the crippled Skyraider turned away, her torpedoes crashed into the battleship’s side.
The anti-aircraft gun had shot Yellow Rose to shreds but the three torpedoes did damage that far outweighed the shells. The leading pair of torpedoes hit directly under the bridge, barely 30 feet apart. They blew a hole more than 150 feet long in the ship’s side. The torpedo defense system had already been compromised by the earlier hits and failed completely under the stress of the twin explosions. A split second later, the third torpedo exploded in the middle of the failing structure. It turned the torpedo bulkhead into shards of razor-sharp steel that slashed inwards, raking the engine room behind with fire and fragments. The concussion from the three hits blasted open the internal bulkheads separating the diesel machinery rooms. That opened the way for the floodwaters that followed.
Limping away from the ruptured battleship, Bush had no way of telling just how much damage he had caused. He’d seen the explosion. From his viewpoint it looked like one massive blast. He was too busy keeping Yellow Rose airborne to worry about it anymore. His engine was banging and coughing. The front of his canopy was coated with oil and the only gauges that weren’t registering far into the red danger zones were the ones that didn’t work at all. The rear section of his canopy was clear of oil. That let him see the wings, their control surfaces ripped up and hanging loose. Objectively, Lieutenant Bush realized there was no reason why his aircraft should still be flying.
Yet, Yellow Rose was still flying. Even more impressively, she was heading home. Bush did the calculations in his head; he was losing altitude very slowly and could do nothing to stop it. He was losing fuel as well and couldn’t do much to stop that either. He didn’t think he was losing oil; by his estimates it had already gone. Why his R-3350 was still working was beyond him. But, if things didn’t get any worse, he’d just about make it back to his carrier. What he’d do when he got there was another matter. Still, it was time to concentrate on flying, what happened later could wait for later.
“Hey, Shrub. What’s with that German ship? How did it get you that mad at it? Blow up one of your pappy’s oil wells or something?”
Bush looked around. Two Skyraiders from his squadron were forming on him, escorting his crippled bird. He waved at them and one pilot waved back.
“Damage report, Shrub. You know the panel, square one on the side, just above the tailhook? It hasn’t got a bullet hole in it. All the rest have. You’re streaming black and white smoke, I think the white is fuel, and there are bits falling off now and then. Guess Pappy’s going to have to buy you a new bird after this.”
Bush waved again. His family was rich enough to buy him a new aircraft but he suddenly found he had an intense desire to keep Yellow Rose. Almost as if she was responding to the thought, the engine surged a little and he was able to regain a little altitude. Then the surge died away and the temperature gauge was climbing up again. The aircraft staggered onwards as the minutes ticked by; as if she was grimly determined to get her pilot back home.
“Yellow Rose, this is Kearsarge. You’re around ten miles out. You’re clear for landing straight in, come to course oh-one-five.”
“Negative Kearsarge. If I put this bird on the deck, she’ll pile up. Too many other birds coming in for that. Permission to ditch her?”
There was a long pause and the voice on the radio came back, loaded with quiet respect. “Granted Yellow Rose. Be advised there is a plane guard destroyer bearing oh-three-oh, four miles out. Ditch close to her. She’s getting a boat out for you.”
Bush reached up and opened his canopy. Light from the afternoon sun flooded in, telling him just how blackened his canopy had been. He tightened his straps, then tightened them again. Finally, he exhaled as far as he could, the yanked the straps another notch tighter. Ahead of him he could see a Gearing class destroyer had slowed right down to pick him up. Lose the little altitude I have left, then drop the plane onto a wave. There was a brutal slam as the crippled Skyraider plunged into the waves. Then, another series of blows as it bounded along, spinning as one wing dipped and grabbed a wave. Then, there was a dull wump noise as the flotation bags in the wings inflated. Bush knew they wouldn’t last long; they must be full of holes as well. He looked around and saw a ship’s boat closing in on him.
Yellow Rose was sinking slowly. Bush felt that somehow he’d let her down. She’d fought hard to bring him back and now she was going to die out here. Well, he could do something about that, he took his kneepad and started to write out the story of what she had done to get him home. That way, his Pappy would buy him a new bird to carry on the name. He was so involved in writing it, that he didn’t feel the bump as the rescue boat hit the sinking Skyraider.
“Jeez, look at that, guys.” One of the seamen in the crash boat was incredulous. “Sits there, as cold as ice, writing up his reports. Damn.”
Captain’s Bridge, KMS Lutzow, High Seas Fleet, North Atlantic It was unbelievable, incredible. All around him, ships were writhing. They burned from bomb hits and the infernal jellygas, listed from the relentless waves of torpedoes that ripped their sides. Captain Martin Becker couldn’t believe his old cruiser was still afloat. Already, according to the raid count, more than a thousand of the dark blue Jabos had raked the fleet with rockets, torpedoes and bombs. The radar showed still more enemy formations coming in, at least five. Possibly six. As soon as one wave cleared, the next had arrived; a perfect conveyor belt of death and destruction. The last wave raked the two surviving ‘forties’ with bombs, rockets and torpedoes. Both were now dead in the water, von der Tann was settling fast. She’d taken eight torpedo hits all along one side and six of those lethal rocket bombs. One had smashed the bridge, burst it open with the same casual ease as an over-ripe tomato thrown at an unsuspecting victim. Admiral Lindemann had transferred his flag to Von Der Tann only a few minutes before. He’d managed the dangerous task of transferring his flag under fire, only to put himself directly under an Ami 2,000 pound bomb. All went to prove that one couldn’t trick the Grim Reaper.
The wave overhead was different. The previous groups of Ami jabos had come in low, slashing at the formation from only a few dozen feet above sea level. This group were higher; five or six thousand feet at least, probably more. Were the Amis getting tired of the casualties from the flak? Or did they have a new trick in their book?
It was a new trick, and it was being used on a new target. Previous waves of jabos had concentrated on the big ships. Now they were helpless and could be finished off almost at leisure. High overhead, the aircraft in this latest wave were peeling off in the traditional curve of the dive bomber, heading down in chains at the destroyers underneath. It was a familiar enough sight. The German crews had seen it often enough during newsreels of the glory days of 1940 and 1941 when nothing seemed able to stop the German steamroller. Obviously, the Amis had decided it was their turn to suffer. Not that the destroyer men hadn’t paid a grim price already. Seven of the sixteen had been bombed and rocketed. Five had already sunk, the other two wouldn’t last much longer. Those attacks though had been afterthoughts, incidental to the main weight of attack that had been hurled at the battleships. Now the Amis were targeting the destroyers for destruction.
Far away, at the head of the formation, Z-30 vanished under a hail of bombs. The Ami Voughts had gone for her, firing their rockets in the dive; then releasing bombs. Not jellygas, the destroyer men had been spared that horror. It was a grim comment on this battle that the prospect of freezing to death in the icy seas was a mercy compared with burning in Ami jellygas. Would Z-30 make it out of the pattern of bombs that had been hurled at her? She did, but she was burning and losing way. How many bombs had hit her? Three? Four? According to the books the Ami Voughts could carry two 500 kilo bombs each in addition to their rockets. They would make short work of an unarmored destroyer.
A realization hit Becker. Lutzow was the only capital ship left in the formation that was even partly operational. She’d tried to make the break north with Seydlitz and
