Whip (29 page)

Dismissed."

The Fifth Air Force scraped together thirty-seven B-25s, to be led into their targets by the eleven bombers — the gunships — that would fly under the command of Major Whip Russel.

Whip did the briefing. "It's a clean mission," he told the assembled crews. "We go in on the deck. Your attack will be skip-bombing. We go after the transports. I'll take lead with the gunships. If we know what we're doing there won't be many flak positions left by the time you glass-noses get there. One more thing. You're not going to like this but you will do it. Once you've dropped your bombs you do
not
leave the area. You come around again and you run decoy for the people who still have bombs. We're not out to score today, gentlemen. We're out to sink ships and if running decoy is one way of doing it, that's the name of the game."

Twenty-nine Havocs, the light twin-engined bombers, would make their own runs on the deck. None of the pilots had been trained to skip his bombs across the water. But they were experts at low-level strikes. They boasted they'd hit more ships' masts than any other outfit in the air force. They were right.

There were still fourteen B-26 Marauders with the 22nd Bomb Group. They'd make level-bombing runs from four thousand feet. They were veterans and they were good.

No one knew just when the Australian Hudsons would make their move. But six more bombers in the right place at the right time could tip the scales.

Every fighter that could fly would fly. The powerful Bristol Beaufighters, no adversaries for the agile Zeros, would go in on the deck before the A-20s for flak-suppression runs.

All in all the Fifth Air Force assembled a grab bag of twenty-six P-40 Kittyhawks, fourteen P-39 Airacobras and above all else, twenty-two of the twin-boomed P-38

Lightnings. Without the P-38s there'd be no top cover. With those big fighters they could sandwich the Zeros from top and bottom.

Including everything, the entire air armada available in the Fifth Air Force added up to four flying boats, twenty-two heavy bombers, eighty-six twin-engined bombers and a mishmash of seventy-three fighters.

A grand total of one hundred and eighty-five airplanes.

It really wasn't that much.

Whip and his crews were sitting in their bombers waiting to start engines when the first reports began trickling in. The lumbering PBYs had gotten away with their first-light torpedo strike by the grace of God, their audacious flying and running interference by ten P-40s. The fighter pilots, bless 'em, had deliberately drawn the Zeros away so the Catalinas could have at the plump targets waiting for them.

They put one fish into a destroyer, disabling its rudder, and the warship had already fallen well back of the convoy. A transport took a torpedo into its hull but it seemed not to bother the vessel, which was still maintaining full speed with the other ships, although trailing a long oil slick in the water.

The Catalinas confirmed the force at twelve destroyers and fourteen transports and a sky

"thick with Zeros; they're like mosquitoes out there." The dusk strike, however, had kept the aerial score at a stand-off. No one had shot anyone else down.

"But they've got a nasty surprise," radioed back the lead Catalina. "Maybe two dozen PT

boats. Fast, and loaded with flak guns. They'll try to weave in and out of the transports against the low-level attacks."

The B-17s went in with a first wave of thirteen bombers. Flying down at ten thousand feet did wonders for their accuracy. A string of heavy bombs walked across the deck of a troopship and tore it into about four major pieces, all of which fell away from the others and sank quickly. The second wave of nine heavies hit two or three of the transports, one of which was sending flames into the air from its stern.

But the B-17s had paid off in yet another way. A loose swarm of Zeros came down from their high cover to chop up the big bombers, and the low cover went scrambling for altitude. The P-38s made the high bounce, breaking up the enemy formations, and while the Japanese were occupied the first wave of A-20 Havocs, led by the Beaufighters, raced in against the troopships.

Before the low-level raiders were ready to commit, the P-38s had shot down nine Zeros and the B-17s got another four. That meant thirteen less fighters in the air, and the Fortresses were already on their way down to load up again for a second strike.

The initial low-level run was a spectacular success. The Beaufighters led the way, hammering the flak positions on the destroyers and the transports. Four 20mm cannon and six machine guns add up to a massive punch, and the A-20s each had a cluster of four fifties riding with them. Two transports were left broken and burning.

By now the Zero pilots were frantic. Every time they came downstairs the P-38s were all over them, harassing their moves, forcing them to break off their own attacks against the raiders on the deck.

The B-26s timed their runs at four thousand feet with the Hudsons hugging the waves from the opposite direction. The Zeros clawed after them but had to contend with the P-38s on high, as well as all the remaining P-40s and the P-39s. Unable to mix it up to the best advantage, confused by the fighters and bombers coming in from all directions and altitudes, the Zeros proved ineffectual and kept taking heavy losses.

A transport turned into an inferno from the Marauder bomb run. Men hurled themselves into the sea to escape the broiling flames. As the transport erupted, the Hudsons went in all the way and took out one destroyer, damaging a second.

The big punch would come with the thirty-seven B-25s and their skip-bombing runs.

There was no mistaking the target area even from a distance. Smoke towered thousands of feet into the air and milling fighters reflected the morning sun like tinsel.

"This is Blue Goose calling the Beaufighters. Over."

"Right, Yank. We're down here in the middle of them. How far out are you?"

"Three minutes. Can you people work over those torpedo boats?"

"Right-o."

"We'll take care of the big stuff on the way in. Thanks."

"Good hunting, Yank."

It was the best move. The torpedo boat crews had proved fanatical and dangerous, charging off in the direction of any incoming flight. They could mess up the low-level runs and Whip wanted no interference.

New Guinea was on the distant horizon. The transports were making full speed for land.

Any land. The idea was to keep them from getting there.

"Okay, troops, we take them in elements. Looks like the people who got here first did some good work. I see only twelve transports. Forget those that are burning. We'll get to them later." Whip studied the expanding scene. "We'll go in first with the gunships. Fan out in elements, troops. You glass-noses hang in about a mile behind us so you have room to change targets. Anybody got any questions?"

None. Just the way it should be.

They would never have a better opportunity. The destroyers were trying desperately to flank the vulnerable troopships, but it was a losing battle. Of the twelve destroyers that greeted the light of day, one was far behind the others, disabled from the first B-17 strike, another had been sunk by the Hudsons and a third, also victim to the Aussie Lockheeds, was a mess with fires amidships. That left nine still in there fighting, but they had taken a terrible beating from the flak-suppression runs, with broken bodies littering the decks.

Half their guns no longer operated, and as each wave of bombers came in low more and more guns fell silent.

Whip led the way in. On the deck, engines thundering, he went directly for the destroyer making up the outside screen. He saw the slab-winged Beaufighters well ahead of him, chewing up the brave little torpedo boats. Some A-20s were still in the area, using their four nose guns to good advantage by hacking away at flak positions on the ships. It was an incredible job; everybody was in there pitching, helping the new bomber waves coming in.

Whip took heavier fire than he expected, and he saw what he was looking for. The flanking destroyer with three massed gun batteries still operating on the side facing him.

"Watch that tin can in front of Lead," he called out to the other bombers. He rolled the bomber from side to side in his famous weaving approach with tracers sparkling about him. They were taking hits but he ignored the thudding sounds in the airplane. At the last moment he cracked the bomber out of its gyrations, locked everything on the rails and squeezed the gun tit. The fourteen machine guns smashed the first gun tub into wreckage, and he eased in rudder to take out the second. Let the troops behind finish off the bastard.

He pounded low over the destroyer, back in his weave, never holding the airplane steady long enough for gunners to hold the B-25 in their sights. But there was a torpedo boat slicing away from the Japanese destroyer and they opened up with everything they had.

A fusilade of lead ripped into the B-25. They felt and heard the impacts. Holes appeared in the wings.

"How's it going back there?" Whip called on the intercom.

No one answered for the moment. The gunners were busy hosing the destroyer and the torpedo boat as they went by. "We're busy!" Joe Leski sang out. "Would you mind calling back later?"

Whip concentrated on the transports. My God, they had men hanging everywhere. The holds must be packed with men, for the decks were awash with human bodies.

Frightened faces looked up, and three gun tubs with single machine guns were already stitching their tracers toward the onrushing airplane.

"Make it a good one," Alex said quietly.

"It will be," Whip promised.

It was a textbook approach. Right out of the manual Whip had been writing in steel and blood. He rolled out of his wild maneuvers, steadied the airplane for a short, devastating burst into a gun position. Then he was holding steady and true on the bomb run. They had six 500-pound-ers in the bays. "We'll give 'em two bombs," Whip said curtly.

"Roger. Two to go," Alex confirmed.

"Fighters twelve o'clock high! They're diving on us!"

The dorsal turret was hammering. Whip ignored the Zeros after a glance showed him four fighters racing in to them.

"Oh, ho, they've got company," Alex said. "Long noses."

Four P-39s right on the Zeros, cannon and machine guns firing steadily. One Zero fell wildly off on a wing and splashed. The others kept boring in but their aim was off. The P-39 was a dog, but these didn't have to turn. They were diving and that made all the difference in the world. Zeros couldn't hack the bombers while getting shot up.

The swarm of fighters flashed low overhead. Whip's whole world was the troopship before him. He saw the rust streaks on the sides, the anchor hanging, the dirty smoke, hundreds of faces staring at him.

"Drop!"

Alex let them go, and Coombs called it out. "They're dead-on, Major!"

They were. Two 500-pound bombs exploded just above the waterline. Whip was climbing, turning, getting set to come back again. They were rolling out, falling off on one wing, doing their best to ignore the fire from the destroyers, the blurred streak of fighter wings, when the troopship they'd hit went up in an incredible blast. The boilers had been torn apart, the thin plates crumpled like tissue paper and the ship was coming to a dead stop in the water, broken and burning, already starting to sink. It was death rushing in.

Strange; the most important mission they'd ever flown and it was shooting gallery time.

The sea was calm, with long swells, and the big bombs skipped easily across the water, once, twice, and then sheared into the transports. The first wave of eleven gunships took out most of the flak and shattered four transports. Two were already going down, the others had minutes left.

Twenty-six more B-25s bore in
. The flak was only a shadow of what it had been. The pilots took their time, aimed carefully, timed it all exactly. It was a case of thirteen pairs of bombers ganging up on the eight transports waiting for the ax.

Five troopships took the death blow in that long, careful skip-bombing run.

Three were left. The B-25s blasted overhead, started their turns to come back a second time. Everybody still had four bombs left. The Zeros were frantic, but even the P-38s were on the deck, cutting fighters out of the air with their fine, devastating touch.

"This is Blue Goose to the B-25s. You glass-noses concentrate on the transports.

Gunships, form up on me. Let's get those tin cans."

Two B-25s never made the run. The Zeros were all over them, ignoring the American fighters. Three Zeros out of ten went up in flames in seconds, but the others went in close and the bombers were simply taking too much punishment. As far as the ships were concerned it didn't really matter.

Two dozen B-25s hit the three remaining transports in two more passes by each bomber.

Forty-eight bombs bounced and skipped across the water. Sixteen hit. Five in one transport, three in another, eight bombs into the remaining vessel. It didn't sink. It exploded in great burning chunks that fell back into the sea, steamed and disappeared.

Whip went after a destroyer, Hoot Gibson riding to his right and behind. Macintosh and Dusty Rhodes took on another, and the other gunships picked their own targets. They put three bombs into one tin can, breaking its back, and then they went into their climb turns with their bomb bays empty.

"Hoot, Mac, Dusty; let's take this next one line astern."

"Roger that, boss."

"Let's see what all this hardware can do."

"Okay, troops. I'll go for the waterline just ahead of the stack. It's engine room time."

"That old boiler of theirs will never be the same."

"Here comes the Chatanooga Choo-Choo."

Whip led them in, aimed, held down the gun tit. Fourteen heavy machine guns blasted their firepower into the thin plates of the destroyer just above the waterline. Water boiled, metal punched in. He lifted up the nose, creamed a gun crew, arrowed overhead. The other bombers swept in, everybody drilling into the same spot.

When they came around for another run the warship was at half speed, listing badly.