Initiative (The Red Gambit Series Book 6) (8 page)

Reactions differed.

Some men screamed.

Some men wept silently.

Some took oaths of vengeance.

A single Aichi aircraft had been airborne nearby, and the two shocked crewmen had born witness to the moment when L-9 had destroyed Kokura.

News would have been patchy and slowly distributed, had the aircrew not witnessed the attack, and reported it within minutes.

The Japanese communications were badly damaged and not every station received word or orders, but Kanoya was an important base, and efforts to restore her links were constant.

And so it was that word of the attack reached the pilots of the Kogekitai, the Tokkôtai Special Attack Squadrons, and the men of the 301st Fighter Squadron, part of the 343rd Naval Air Group, all based at Kanoya, Kyūshū.

With clarity of thought, Chief Petty Officer Kenzo Nobunaga worked out that he and Ashara had failed to stop the aircraft responsible, the Yankee silver machines that had evaded their attacks had to be the ones who had destroyed Kokura.

He was sure of it.

Ashara was in the hospital, such as it was after many air attacks, being fussed over as befitted a naval air ace of his standing.

He had sustained a minor wound in the air battle, but his attempts to pass it off had fallen on stony ground, and unequivocal orders were given.

Nobunaga’s aircraft was receiving attention, the defensive fire having damaged his ailerons.

He suddenly filled with a resolve to act, one he concealed with an outward calm as he surveyed the Intelligence Officer’s maps, whilst the IO himself wailed inconsolably in the next room, believing his family slain in the awful attack.

Nobunaga studied the return routes of Yankee aircraft, seeking some pattern that would allow him to act.

He found none.

The tracks were drawn, reflecting previous missions and interceptions on the bomber’s return.

He closed his eyes and beseeched his ancestors to intercede, to give him sign, some clue, a way of understanding the plethora of lines that confused the map in front of him.

“Mount Tara, Kenzo.”

He opened his eyes and stiffened immediately.

Captain Sunyo stood before him.

“Sir?”

“There’s a report they were seen from the observation post on Mount Tara, likely heading to Okinawa.”

Nobunaga looked again and, in his mind, most of the lines fell away, leaving only two, one that ran over Mount Tara and another to the east, both of which headed towards Okinawa.

He nodded, acknowledging the precious gifts his ancestors had granted him.

“With your permission, Captain.”

The Air Group commander nodded sorrowfully.

“You will not return, Nobunaga.”

“Hai.”

He bent his waist into a deep formal bow, acknowledging his superior’s unspoken permission, agreeing with his summation, and in deep respect for the veteran pilot.

Chief Petty Officer Nobunaga strode from the IO’s office and headed towards Ashara’s silent Ki-87.

Four minutes later, the Nakajima rose into the morning, heading towards the Uji Islands.

They had all long since settled down, with no open expressions of their feelings and fears, the standard intercom banter flowing, albeit not as barbed and punchy as normal.

The return flight pattern took them through the Hayatonoseto Straits, between Uji and Ujimukae Islands.

A handful of ancient Japanese craft rose up in challenge, and none of them got close as the escort fell upon them and sent every single one into the sea below, the majority of the aircraft prescribing fiery trails, as unprotected aviation spirit tanks discharged their contents, fuelling the smallest blaze and ensuring an awful end to both aircraft and pilot.

Jubilant Mustang pilots filled the airwaves with their celebrations.

Relaxed bomber crews exchanged jibes and banter.

Nobunaga dived.

Hanebury yawned, oblivious to the approaching killer.

Nobunaga made a slight adjustment to starboard.

It was enough.

Hanebury yelled, “Fighter attacking! Turn to port, turn to port!”, and thumbed his firing triggers.

Nobunaga yelled “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”, and lined up on the centre point of the B-29.

Bullets from the other Superfortress rattled his tail section, knocking pieces off, but none prevented his inexorable rendezvous.

Hanebury shifted his aim as ‘Miss Merlene’ swung rapidly in line with his warning.

The Ki-87 drove in hard, even as Mustangs desperately tried to get a deflection shot in before the bombers made shooting impossible.

Hanebury’s bullets struck the cowling, the wing root, the tail plane, and the cockpit, missing anything of importance.

Inside the Nakajima, fuel vapours started to make Nobunaga’s eyes sting, and the narcotic effect of the leaking spirit started to numb his mind.

‘No matter, Tennouheika Banzai!’

Hanebury fired a last burst as the heavy Nakajima fighter closed, two rounds of which smashed into the engine, two in Nobunaga’s left leg and knee, and one that merely clipped a gauge on the way through the instrument panel and into the Japanese CPO’s chest.

There was an instant fiery ignition, but Nobunaga’s pain was momentary.

Ki-87 Number 343-A-05 struck ‘Miss Merlene’ amidships, although Hanebury’s burst had altered the suicide aircraft’s path sufficiently that the heavy engine clipped the underneath of the Superfortress, its propeller chewing up the aluminium skin and into the airframe beneath, before its momentum carried it out and below the fuselage and on a descent to the Hayatonoseto Strait below.

The port wing momentarily slapped the underside before fluttering away like a shiny Sycamore seed.

The Ki-87’s fuselage and right wing explored the damaged skin and penetrated inside, tossing a modest amount of burning fuel forward and into the crew compartment.

The weight of the aircraft hammered into the airframe and, although much lessened by the absence of the engine, was sufficient to create havoc with ‘Miss Merlene’s’ integrity and ability to stay airborne.

Apart from Hanebury’s earlier shout, there had been no warning, and so Crail and Nelleson were taken unawares as the controls first lightened with the impact and then went very tight, all in the briefest of moments.

Something was wrong, big time.

“Crew, call in. What’s happened?”

As he sought information, Crail was already taking ‘Miss Merlene’ lower, suspecting that the pressurised rear position might have been compromised.

Hanebury was first, and his voice betrayed the urgency of the situation as much as the heavy controls.

“He crashed into us, just rammed us.”

Crail inwardly had two opposed thoughts.

Firstly, if Hanebury’s intercom still worked then it can’t be too bad.

Secondly, if an aircraft had crashed into them, then it had to be bad.

“Pilot, radar, report.”

Nothing.

“Pilot, radar…Pick… Al… come in?”

There was no reply and Crail acted swiftly.

“Art, I need a sitrep. Get up there and have a look.”

“Roger.”

Arthur Hanebury quickly grabbed at a portable oxygen cylinder and made his way towards the pressurised compartment door.

As he moved forward from his tail gunner’s post, Crail and Nelleson struggled to level the ailing B-29 out, the starboard side inexplicably and constantly fighting to rise.

Smoke and fumes greeted Arthur Hanebury as he opened up his pressurised door. He grabbed one of the fire extinguishers by his hatch and moved towards the radar operator’s position.

The bomb bay emergency exit door, that should have protected their compartment, was open and bent by the force of impact.

The first thing he really noted was the hole, wide enough for him to spread his arms and still fall out, a tall enough for him to stand in, almost perpendicular to the damaged floor.

The remains of a man lay amongst the carnage, destroyed by the passage of metal through the crew space, and then swiftly flash burnt as the brief fire swelled and virtually died.

There was no sign of the second man, the one whose position lay at the point of impact.

Using the extinguisher to knock down the last few flames, he became aware of the noise created by the wind rushing through the compartment. The passing air stream created a Venturi effect and was sucking loose matter out of the hole.

Papers momentarily hung in the air and then rushed out into the atmosphere.

Hanebury plugged his intercom in and drew a deep breath before speaking.

“Tail, pilot.”

Crail responded, anxiously awaiting the news.

“JP, all depressurised here. I don’t think the Nip hit us square, just a glancing blow. We’ve a big hole in the starboard size, six foot across easy, and just as high, with damage to the air frame extending beyond and above that… can’t see below impact point yet, over.”

“Roger, Any more? How are the boys, over?”

“Both gone, JP. They’d no chance. No fire present… knocked out the little bit that remained… checking for further damage, over.”

“Roger, Art. Help’s on its way, out.”

Nelleson and Blockridge were already in the tube, moving back to the rear compartment, Loveless having assumed the second pilot’s seat, purely to have another set of hands on the controls.

As Nelleson emerged into the rear crew space, Hanebury’s voice summoned Crail’s attention away from his instruments.

“Pilot, tail. I’ve found trouble. Some damaged cables here, stand by.”

Suddenly, colour became all-important.

It was Nelleson’s voice that announced the bad news.

“Pilot, co-pilot. Yellow and black are slightly damaged, but should be fine. We can do something with them. Green are partially cut through. Repeat, green are partially cut through, over.”

Crail digested the information.

It didn’t explain the inability to level the airplane, but it might explain why certain movements seemed to catch and hang up.

Green was the right rudder cable.

‘Shit!’

He swallowed before thumbing the mike.

“Can you rig it, over?”

Nelleson answered hesitantly.

“We can try, JP, we can try.”

‘Shit!’

Crail elected for a calmer spoken response.

“Do what you can. I’ll keep her level and steady, and no rudder commands without warning. Out.”

Crail exchanged looks with Loveless.

“Pilot, navigator, plot the shortest course to the nearest strip that can handle us, over.”

1st Lieutenant Chris Fletcher was not considered a wizard navigator for nothing, and his response was instant.

“Okinawa, Pilot. Kadena airfield, with seven thousand, five hundred feet of runway, is closest…range five hundred and eight miles. Futenma field is nine thousand feet of metalled if you want more distance, but is five miles more, over.”

Crail made a quick decision.

“Futenma. We’ll go for the extra feet, over.”

“Roger, Pilot. Course 187, over.”

“Roger.”

The work party in the radar compartment received the manoeuvre warning and warily observed the damaged cable as the B-29 adjusted the few degrees to starboard to assume the right course for Futenma Airbase, Okinawa.

[Author’s note – It is without a doubt that Chief Petty Officer Kenzo Nobunaga took off in Ashara’s aircraft, in the full knowledge that it had virtually no ammunition on board, such was the effect of US bombing missions on Japan’s munitions and distribution network. I have therefore written of his death and ramming of ‘Miss Merlene’ as a deliberate suicidal act.

His body was recovered two days later and, despite the attention of ravenous sea dwellers, revealed the three wounds I have written of.]

In the wrecked radar section, Nelleson and Hanebury moved some pieces of twisted metal aside, metal that extended into the space better occupied by control cables.

The co-pilot thought out loud.

“This is a major problem. It’s catching on this piece of frame.”

He turned to Blockridge, who had remained within the communications tube.

“Go and grab the tool kit, Austin.”

Blockridge disappeared and Nelleson made his report.

“Co-pilot, pilot, over.”

“Talk to me, Nellie.”

“Surface lock cable isn’t in the run. Must have been severed. We need to work on the area round the damaged cable, and try and reinforce it. Austin’s on his way back for tools. Recommend no heavy manoeuvres at any time, over.”

“Roger, Nellie, tools on the way back to you right now, out.”

“Art, open the cable panel down by your station. Find the red/black coupling… undo it… it’s fucked anyway… recover the wire so we can rig something here. OK?”

Hanebury nodded and set off towards the tail as the tube hatch opened and Blockridge returned with the small toolbox.

The two men set to work with a small prise bar and a screwdriver, working the damaged metal away from the cable run.

“Oh fuck, Nellie, look at that!”

Nelleson looked at where Blockridge’s eyes were fixed.

“Oh God.”

The area above the hole and across the top of the radar station had a small but very discernible defect in the metal skin.

Staff Sergeant Austin Blockridge looked around him, checking things out, one side, then the other, then back up above his head.

“Compression. The frame’s bending upwards!”

Nelleson repeated the assessment exercise and saw angles where there should be straight lines.

“Shit! You’re right.”

Blockridge grabbed the measure and took a few moments to compare the frame distances on either side of the fuselage.

“Three inches out on starboard side.”

Now that the numbers were available, the eye could make out the lean on two of the frames.

“Rig something quick. Stop them shifting.”

The NCO grabbed the body and dragged it to one side, laying the unidentifiable corpse on one of the crew berths, just to give himself some room in which to work.

The small table had taken a hit, but the metal and wood top surface looked a hell of a lot like it was of a size for part of the job.

Blockridge grabbed it and worked in between the most forward problem frame and the rigid part.

Grabbing the hammer from the kit, a few hefty taps jammed it in place.

Hanebury returned, carefully avoiding the grisly lump of meat now laid on a crew bed, a looped piece of cable held tightly in his hand.

He passed the cable across to Nelleson as Blockridge grabbed his shoulder.

“We need to fill in between these two frames here. The fuselage is bending,” his hand pointed out the compression fold in the upper fuselage, which Hanebury studied in horror, whilst the assistant flight engineer noted the obvious deterioration.