Black Cat in the Night, Part 5 - Night on Cactus

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Humidity, decay, mold, and rot were constant companions.

A night off was good, we wouldn’t be flying through the darkness looking for people who shoot at you. We’d only have to put up with the nightly harassment and interdiction (H&I) fire, both incoming and outgoing.

If we were “lucky” we’d get a visit from “Washing Machine Charlie,” an older torpedo plane or dive bomber who, on his several passes over the airfield, dropping small bombs and noisemakers, would retard and advance the engine timing to make it even more annoying, as he sputtered and popped through the night.

For the first few “Charlies,” the Marines would send up night fighters and use anti-aircraft fire to shoot them down, Then the Japs sent a good pilot, who actually was causing real damage. Took a month before they finally got him. Once another pilot showed up that couldn’t hit anything, they let him fly unmolested, lest they get a good one again.

Screeches, buzzes and whines, insects all over. Flies and tiny wasps drinking from the sweat on his forehead and even the tears from his eyes … flies … how many were newly hatched out of some corpse in the jungle?

Take a swig of “shine,” retch-gag and try not to think about it. Clank the Zippo shut after lighting the Lucky.

Flashes of light on the horizon through the coconut trees, storm? Heat lightning like back home? They did get some pretty good rain squalls blow through with thunder. Pretty, lighting up the clouds. He leaned back against the side of his tent trying to coax any cooling breeze. Deep drag on the cigarette, fan himself with a tropical leaf, slight sip of alcohol, shut his eyes …

There …

Was that?

"INCOMING!!!"

Down the beach about a mile, screams of naval gunfire incoming!

SHREEK-KRUMP!

Flash in the distance, others follow in quick succession, walking up the beach toward the runway. Now the reports from the cruiser’s guns reached them, rolling over the distance like actual thunder.

Steve takes off at a sprint to Officer’s country.

“Pink! Pink!”

He bursts into his pilot’s tent to find him putting on his gear. (Bright pink scarf already in place.)

“Sven, we’re getting our Cat off this beach and see if we can give the Japs something else to think about. Get everyone down to the “Kitty” we have to get as much fuel and ordnance on her as we can, beg, borrow, or steal! I’m not losing my plane tonight!”

The IJN¹ guns were working their way to the end of the runway, then walking the fire south along the length of the strip. They had to have spotters in the hills above Henderson. Sea Bees would be out there as soon as the explosions stopped, though they were already stumbling out to fire up their heavy construction vehicles. Some fighters were coughing to life and struggled to get airborne through the barrage.

Word had been passed. All PBY crews make ready. Only two were in a flyable condition right now (another two were out on night patrol). All crews teamed up to arm and fuel the ready Cats, “Pink Kitty" and "Bobcat.” (Their pilot's name was Robert).

Krumps and flashes working south toward them, getting closer.

Tie-down lines removed and stowed, other Cat crews throwing ammo cans onboard and strong-arming bombs into place, no time for anything heavy, managed two 500 pounders the rest 250s. Lucky hit with a 500 they might get through some armor. The 250s, well, they might start a fire, these weren’t soft merchants or transports.

A crusty old Marine armorer lugs over a crate of pineapple grenades and hands it up through the bubble.

“For Luck!” … gotta’ love Marines.

“Hey Gunny! If we get close enough to throw grenades at a Jap Cruiser … I’m going to need more than luck!”

“That’s what the grenades are for!”

“Roger that!”

Other sailors from the other PBY crews asked and begged to come along, we didn’t have unauthorized crew-members, we had extra lookouts and ammunition carriers. (They were drinking buddies.)

The flight mechanic starts the auxiliary power unit to bring the electrical systems online in prep for main engine start. Pull-start like an Evinrude. Everyone checking all around, clear for engine start. Main engines coming online, fire extinguishers stowed for flight.

Krumps on the airstrip getting closer, too much damage for any more fighters tonight. What was up was all they’d get, and pray they got the runway ready for returning damaged fighters. 

Throttles down to idle for a slow warmup. The plane-spotting jeep is pushing the Cat down the ramp to water's edge. Pink greases the throttles forward and they bob into the dark to takeoff position. The big radials growl down an octave as the throttle balls were pushed forward. Salt water spray hitting the bubble.

The only light he sees is the lightening of the cruisers' guns and the resulting bursts and fires on the airfield.

They bounce into the air and head for the cruiser storm. Ready guns.

Pink isn’t messing around, “balls to the wall” full throttle, right at the flashes north of Florida Island. If we only had torpedoes …

My God! We’re low …

We bank around to the backside of the ships targeting Henderson and line up on the muzzle flashes. Nothing coming at us yet. The plane lurches up, one 500 pounder and two 250s pickled off. Physics does the rest.

Sven is searching with his .50 for a target. The 500 pounder slams into the aft 2/3 of the hull in a crew berthing compartment, starting fires. Followed by a 250 pounder clear miss aft with a column of white water visible in the dark. The other 250 pounder might have hit, there was no splash.

One of the Marine Fighters makes a pass … pink .50 cal tracers pounding down and some bouncing wobbly into the sky.

Squeeze the butterfly triggers at the dark shapes on the water.

BOOM—FLASH!

Full broadside below them. Tracers bouncing into the sky off hard surfaces. Bank away, tracers reaching up for them, they can’t see us.

Over the intercom Pink tells us “Tiger,” one of the night patrol Cats was lining up torpedoes, and to watch our shots. We thumbed off another couple dozen rounds for good luck. Damn, forgot about the grenades.

Long slow bank around watching for the targets. Moon glow behind them! Two cruisers, four destroyers (DDs) making for the beach. The IJN often used DDs as transports. One cruiser is rocked by a torpedo, flash of light and a white column of water. Sven thought he saw the silhouette of a PBY in the fire glow.

Concentrate on anything that doesn’t look like water (or a friendly) and shoot it.

Hard bank …

“The hell with those cruisers, we can cause more damage to the destroyers.”

“Take a good look lads!”

Lining roughly up, Pink flashed his landing lights to give his gunners a sight picture, then doused them, and pulled up. The AA flashes from the Destroyers gave his guys what they needed to put lead on target. .30 cal was terrible for bare flesh on the weather decks (slight material damage) while the .50 could penetrate a lot of DD armor.

Two more 250s dropped, one high column splash, the other, possible hit. Sweep by with guns pounding.

Klang! Klang! Klang! Incoming, somebody hit us!

“You good?"

"I’m good!”

Pink flies us out of range and lingers like on an airfield attack, make them think, get in their heads, wait. They’ll tire.

Line up in the moonlight again, another DD, .30’s forward firing, lurch of a 500 and another two 250s dropped. Pink kicks the rudder around to bring the Swede’s deadly .50 to bear. He burns through a full belt, gonna get his ass chewed by the head armorer.

A column of water and flame erupts around the Jap DD. A secondary ammunition or steam explosion, split the destroyer in half, bow and stern lifting, then speeding on, darkness.

They watch another F4F make a pass with just guns, where do we get these men?

“Last pass with bombs, your guns after this.”

Lined up, plane lurches up four 250 pounders riding gravity and luck.

One … maybe two hits … two clear misses.

The .30’s and .50’s open up at anything … Spot fires on the ocean and … wouldn’t you know, the eastern horizon was starting to turn color.

Another pass, more downward tracers ...

“We got nothing left, back to base, breakfast’s on me”

“I hope it’s better than what they’re serving in the chow hall …”

Chuckles …

¹ Imperial Japanese Navy

Nightmare …¹

A Japanese destroyer burns and sinks off Leyte, Philippine Islands after being attacked by U.S. aircraft, 11 November 1944.
(U.S. Navy Photograph)

The boilers were rumbling, the turbines whining, you could hear and “feel” the steam coursing through the pipes. Forced draft blower screaming and feed pumps humming, catch a stuffy whiff of depleted live steam. The petrol smell of bunker oil.

“Action Stations!”

Alarm bells sound, claxons blare, men running, watches change out to their battlestations. Experienced watchstanders in place, and extra men on duty at the critical watchstations. “Action stations … air …”

Aircraft sighted inbound, followed shortly by the main battery lighting up a continuous thump that could be felt through the ship, up through the deckplates into his shins.

127mm guns blasting away … The rapid "Bang, Bang" of the 40mm guns start, followed a short time later by the 25mm, then the staccato bark of the 13.2mm guns.

Deckplates shifting with hard rudder turns, seasoned sailor riding the rolls and shifts. Engine order telegraph orders up “Back Full,” He adjusts his boiler fires to account for the plant load change. Then the triple ring indicating Ahead Flank! Scramble to adjust the fires again. Rolling hard to port. Ride the roll again and prepare two fresh burner nozzles.

Swap out the burners. Fresh filters.

Large, medium, and small, AA fire still ripping out. Close underwater explosions reverberate through the plant.

These “old” burners had a fuel “glaze “on them and would need to be cleaned.

Hard roll to starboard.

THUD!! The whole ship shudders, dust in the ventilation system shaken loose, clouding the machinery spaces with a nasty dry cloud of dust and rust. Check his pressures, temps, and flows, looking good …

Another heavy "Thud-Bang" forward, lights flicker, steam pressure dropping fast.

Engineering all stations calls out “Steam rupture number one plant, split steam plants.”

He had berthing-mates dying up there.

Another thud felt, roar of something below … the main guns have stopped.

The normally hot humid machinery spaces suddenly took on a fresh smell and a sudden drop in temperature … FLOODING!!!

Lights are flickering, the electricians are locking breakers shut to critical loads, letting non-essential breakers trip open.

The 40 mm guns stop firing too.

The lower level watches were scrambling up the ladders, “Flooding!”

“We have the bilge pumps and the eductor lined up … water level is rising.”

He can hear see and smell the inrushing seawater. The lower level condensate and feed pumps would shortly be swamped. Hiss of steam as the seawater reaches the turbines for the feed and fuel pumps. Both fuel and feed pressure are dropping. He won’t be able to maintain fire, or steam pressure.

There is a rumbling, boiling sound rippling up from below as cold seawater envelopes steam pipes. Oh, the smell of seawater steam …

His steam plant is dead … and from the sounds of things … the rest of the ship too.

Secure his boiler front, shut the valves, shutoff steam to the forced draft blower … He slaps the gage board affectionately, saying a final goodbye. Water rising, can’t see lower level deckplates, they’re underwater.

25 mm guns stop banging …

Not panicked yet, he maintains the engineering principals he’d learned. Shutting down his watchstation, methodically. Making things safe. Plant sounds fading, except for the odd steam bubble collapse or water hammer.

Ears just popped, pressure in the space.

Blackness!

No more guns …

The deck slowly, then suddenly rolls to a 45 degree angle.

Can’t see, all he hears are the shouts of the other sailors, trapped below with him.

Some battle lanterns are working, He wished he couldn’t see the panicked fear in the eyes of the younger sailors. The hull is creaking and groaning in a way he’s never heard …

Ears pop again and he hears it … bulkheads collapsing forward from the pressure.

Strange rush-whistle then thud as the water fills the space.

Deck tilts again, now he is standing on the boiler front. Some men are screaming and trying desperately to get out. Too late, we’re trapped underwater. He only hoped the water would reach the boilers soon enough he wouldn’t have to drown.

Deck tilting more forward, complete darkness, his shipmates wailing and calling out.

Cool, no … cold water rushing up his thighs, can’t see. Cold rushing his balls ... strange to think about now. Seawater invading the boilers, rumbling and shaking …

“Please blow and end this.”

Saltwater steam hisses off the boiler.

The refractory was getting slowly cooled, water flashing to steam but not enough to cause a steam explosion. Water was coming in through the air intakes. The rumbling, boiling sound increased to where he could feel the pulses of the water flashing to steam and the collapse of the steam bubble.

"Just blow up already!!"

Screams, cries … the sounds of men dying, suffocating … drowning. Pleading for one more breath.

Flood lifting him up, the boilers almost completely engulfed. Hot water, cold water, as it swirled around the flooding equipment. Pitch black. Ears popping again and a few more compartments collapsed forward. He found himself up against the ribs of the ship, water pushing him up. The rest of the plant was below him, underwater, he couldn’t hear voices anymore …

His head hit the side of the ship that was now the overhead. Water surging and rushing, driving out the air.

He called out for any human contact. Water level rising, no answer … Again, a call to his shipmates … Nothing.

Alone.

Water rushing.

We all die alone.

The hull movement changes, now bobbing as if riding waves, a whole gurgling bubbling influx of water as the air is forced out of compartments.

He panics …

Neck tilted up, water filling his ears, gasping for more air. Nose and mouth pressed into the angle of the ship’s ribs, sucking in the last gulps of precious air. Tasting like salt water and stale paint. Suck in as water reaches his mouth.

Hull groaning, creaking, WOOSH, his small bit of air was gone forever, bubbling to the surface not to be breathed. Holding his breath, lungs burning, ears and sinuses popping from the pressure, swimming, fighting in the darkness, he gives up and inhales … 

He didn’t suffer long after that. But those final seconds were Hell.

The hull plunged to the bottom.

¹ This is part of the "Black Cat in the Night" series, Part 4 to be precise. The events above describe a Japanese destroyer under air attack by the PBY "Pink Kitty" and the aftermath of that attack.

Black Cat in the Night, Part 3

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“Up, Wake the F--K Up!” the chief line mechanic was barging through the tents …

“Rescue mission, we got planes down!”

Black Cat crews rolled out and trotted to their planes. They shouldn’t be up for another six hours.

Strap on his belt, knife, hatchet, and .45.

Pink Kitty was being given the “spin it up” signal from the ground crew, starters whining, engines coughing to a full throated roar. Steve dashes into the armorers bunker and throws 2 belts of .50 cal over his shoulders and grabs a box of belted .30 cal ammo in each hand.

He’s throwing the ammo into the plane and spies the ground chief … yelling through the prop noise, “Chief, get us another couple life rafts just in case, and it might be good to dig up a Doc to come along”.

Another Cat crew was turned away. One whole engine was torn down for a ring replacement; she’d be down for a few more hours. Their crew brought over some survival equipment and ammo. They wished Pink Kitty luck.

Good, the portside gunner brought extra ammo too, we were learning. The plane was being turned and spotted at the top of the ramp to the shore.

Here comes the eager beaver corpsman looking straight out of bootcamp, young, grinning, giddy for an adventure. He has his bag of Doc stuff and an inflatable life vest (he had to be shown how to use).

Load him up, “Sit there and stay out of the way till were airborne”

Damn, the kid was barely 18 …

Look to his gun, add a bit of lube to the usual parts, cycle the action, then brace as the engines growled louder and they slid, bobbing into the ocean.

Powering up, turn to parallel the beach, slight chop, bouncing a bit … smooth, airborne.

Pull up, higher than their normal night attack wave height. This was search and hopefully rescue. About 20 minutes out from the reported crash. Load up a belt into the .50, charge and fire, all good.

Doc is looking around wildly trying to see everything at once, bet he hasn’t flown more than twice in his life, if that. Steve gestures to the young corpsman to come over, and lets him have the whole starboard waist bubble all to himself for awhile. Steve delivered the cans of .30 cal to the bow gunner, exchanged an unimportant conversation with the flight mechanic and returned to the waist.

Doc was staring transfixed at the beauty, white fluffy clouds, deep blue sea, dark green jungles, tan beaches. “Sorry to interrupt.” The search area was near, time to pick up visual scanning.

Supposedly there were two F4F’s down, and more than a couple Jap planes in the area, down as well. Cactus was re-arming the dawn patrol to get them back out here for top cover. No idea what kind of fighter patrol the Japs might have out. Scan the sky, scan the ocean.

Can’t see anything in the sky, yet. Ocean is empty too. The pilot starts a search grid pattern, mile long legs back and forth over the reported crash area. He pulls his eyes up out of the blue of the ocean to the light and white of the sky … A flash of light, a dark dot … then nothing, what the heck did he just see?

“Uh, I hate to call this out but there might be something flying 10 o’ clock level, from my position, just under the starboard wing. Just a glimpse.”

“Roger”

Straining to see the dot again, the bow turret calls out life raft and dye, 1 o’clock low. The pilot circles around, eyeing the conditions and flies out to line up into the wind to land near the raft.

Sven is focused on the sky where that dark dot was, and where it could have gone. Putting this big Cat down on the surface left it very vulnerable to attack. He didn’t feel like going for a swim just now.

Lower, lower, trailing flaps on the wings adjusting via controls for landing. “Almost there Lads!” bump, splash, lurch forward as the water slows the boat much more than the air could. Engine speeds cut for landing, revved up again as we taxi to the raft. Rolling with the waves, rocking ungently, they pull the soaking Marine out of his raft and into the plane.

Steve lights a Lucky strike and passes it to the wet pilot. Then lights another for himself. Doesn’t appear to be injured, Doc gives him a quick once over, thumbs up.

The Marine aviator says he saw one of his squadron-mates go down a few miles northeast. They bounce their way to a takeoff … Where was that dot?

“Any air contacts?”

“Negative.”

“Keep looking.”

“Surface contact! Raft!” The plane rolls to port, as the pilot works out a landing. Lined up, bounce to a stop a swell picks up their tail and the whole plane surfs forward to the raft.

NOT. GOOD … the bottom of the raft looks like someone threw 5 gal. of red paint in it and over the struggling man in the raft. His eyes were rolling as he struggles to breathe through the blood. We drag him aboard and the doc takes over, engines spinning up for takeoff.

A Marine lieutenant, hit in the left armpit, exit just below the left nipple. Pale, loss of so much blood. One lung collapsed, the other being squeezed to nonfunction by the buildup of air in the chest, every breath draws in air to the chest cavity preventing the good lung from taking in air, he was suffocating by breathing.

Doc poured sulfa powder on the wounds, after cutting the uniform shirt free. Then he worked quickly to make those chest wounds air tight. Now … this 18 year old corpsman had to do something he’d only read about, use a scalpel to cut an incision between two ribs and let the air out of the chest cavity.

The smooth slide of the scalpel through the chest wall was unexpected, slight hiss of air, the copper smell of blood. The trick was to let the air out but not back in, cover on the inhale let the exhale work.

While the Doc worked, Steve kept scanning the sky for whatever he saw out there.

“Oh, God help!... he stopped breathing!”

The other rescued pilot, the mechanic and the radio operator were all working on the dying Marine, with the Doc directing them. Too much blood loss, not enough blood to carry the depleted oxygen to the vital organs. The soaked pilot's body was shutting down.

That young Corpsman begged, pleaded and cursed that lieutenant to live as he pounded on his chest to keep the heart going … In the end … Doc was exhausted and sobbing, the lieutenant was dead.

Tears, hard to see clearly, knock it off! There’s something out there. Look.

Nothing, nothing but beauty, and all he was looking for was ugliness and horror.

Glance back at the Doc, slumped over his dead patient, shoulders and head bobbing, the engines drown out the cries and screams of “WHY!”

Steve walks over and puts his head right next to the Doc’s.

“He was dead the instant that round hit him. If he had parachuted onto the deck of one of our fleet carriers with a full operating room, even they couldn’t have saved him.”

“You did good, look me up on the beach, and we’d welcome you on any missions you’d like.”

Steve got a teary eyed grin for that and an enthusiastic head nod.

Back to the gun bubble, scanning, what had he seen?, And were “they” still watching?

Engines thrumming along, one rescue, one recovery as it were. Back south to Cactus, one good thing, they wouldn’t be going out on a night raid tonight.

Lowering down to lineup to the beach, gently lower down to a smooth choppy landing. Taxi up to the dock, ground crew wants us to haul out of the water, push away and gun the engines, wheels rolling us up the ramp to the maintenance area. Spin around and shut down. Weapons and unexpended ordnance (ammo belts) need to be turned in.

The ground crew is already crawling all through the plane. Steve shuffles off to the chow hall, Spam and … No … New York strip and rice, beef like leather, wish for a baked potato, rice was getting old.

Off to his tent, sitting on a coconut log outside Steve’s tent was the Doc.

“I said look me up but I didn’t think so soon.”

The kid was in pain, “kid” what? 3-5 years younger, they were all young. His tentmate had tuned in Tokyo Rose as she spun Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” They passed that jar of moonshine around until the mood passed, then they passed it around a few more times until they passed out.

Black Cat in the Night, Part 2

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Looking out, the moonglow off the ocean, the stars were so different than the sky back home … What was the line from that movie? “We’re not in Kansas anymore”… Warm humid wind, with a dank jungle smell, and sea salt. Closing on Cactus. Slight glow of the sunrise in the east, pink clouds, good omen for Pink, the pilot, and by association, the crew of “Pink Kitty”.

Flaps down, floats out … grease the landing, taxi to the maintenance dock. Guns to be cleaned, engines to be serviced … Haul out, let the ground crew take over. Chow, Spam and rice as usual … Back to his tent and hit the cot that is his rack …

Base activity all around. Try to sleep. Fighter engines coughing on startup, revving to taxi then away down the strip. Krumps in the distance, ground attacks close. Roll over and pull the wool blanket over your head tighter … Can’t sleep, open the jar of “shine” those good ol’ southern boys made, take a couple deep swigs, fight off the natural reaction to retch at a sudden influx of pure alcohol.

Krump, Boom! … the daily harassment artillery fire has started for the day.

Won’t get much sleep (they never do). Tossing and turning for hours, half the “shine“ jar empty, would need to trade for some more. Sweating, hot blasts of humid air, and the stench of thousands of humans, their activity, their waste … and their dead.

The air was stifling, it took an effort to breathe in and out … humid stench.

He got up early and visited the “redneck shiners,” procured another jar, stashed it and grabbed some chow. Back to his tent and load up his gear, K-Bar, 1911, hatchet, extra mags for the pistol, med kit, survival pouch, basic gunsmithing tools in a roll … He wandered down to the docks. “Pink Kitty” was pulled up and getting loaded with ordnance.

No torpedoes, only bombs, and as usual the ground crews found a bunch of interesting items to drop on the Jap airfields. Beer bottles were the most common; some had noise makers such as razor blades to make a whistle on the way down. Anything to unnerve the enemy, whistling things thudding into the ground nearby, enough to keep them up at night. A different tactic was to wrap toilet paper tightly around the “spoon” of a grenade (toilet paper was a valuable commodity so this was uncommon) pull the pin and drop it. Either the impact would break the bond and release the “spoon”… or it sits there in the brush until moisture weakens the paper and … BANG!, random explosion out of nowhere.

If we were low enough we could drop grenades on their own, and they’d explode whenever, air or ground burst, didn’t matter. Anything to mess with the Japs' heads. We’d keep a box or bucket with “harassment noisemakers” at our feet to randomly chuck out on our 20-30 minute fly-bys.

Sun sliding lower, he goes over to the armory and draws 4 belts of ammo and loads them onto the plane. Thinking about it, he draws 4 more belts of .30 cal and 2 more of .50 cal. He loads them and secures them for flight. He puts on his life vest and slumps to the deck, wanting a nap before takeoff. Dozing off, waking to sweat tickling down his nose. Clumps and clatter, voices, the crew is coming aboard. As an afterthought, he checks and locks his 1911, all good.

He then goes through the check of the .50 cal Browning, lube, fit, function. Load and fire later.

Pilot briefs us on the mission, rough coordinates to land along our route etc. Standard harassment mission, we’d fly over the airfield and drop a couple bombs to get their attention. Wake them up, so to speak. Then slow lazy turn back 20 minutes later throw out a few “screaming” beer bottles, to keep them thinking. Then a slow turn back 20 minutes later and drop a couple real 250 lb. bombs. Rinse repeat. Various combinations of live ordnance and inert harassment objects were dropped throughout the night. After the fourth pass, fires were burning illuminating possible targets.

“Light them up lads!”

He already had his Browning aimed toward some interesting things illuminated in the firelight. Round tank or truck? Squeeze, Boomboomboomboomboom! … tracers slightly off … Now, tracers and armor piercing incendiaries zero in on the “tanks”… flashes of light as the rounds pierce the tank wall, followed by a brilliant flash of a fireball when the fuel ignites.

That woke them up … made them mad more likely.

Fighters starting and taxiing, in the dark! Tracers and searchlights frantically sweep the sky, reaching out for us dark intruders. Tracer patterns were an indicator of how squared away the gunners were. Nice tight patterns of tracers reaching up meant a well-trained crew. Huge gaps in the tracers frantically sweeping the sky … they were spraying and praying.

The pilot, Pink, roared down the taxiway giving the bow and port side gunners a shot. Then wheeling to the left, he lined up the starboard side guns. Plane! In the smoke and flickering firelight… making a run down the runway. Lead, reverse lead, squeeze. Walk the tracers up. Nothing … On Target? The fighter never lifts up. It continues on in a straight line to tumble-crash at the end of the runway. Was that a kill?

No time, another pass, 250 lb. bombs dropped, no secondary explosions.

“I’m going to pull a figure eight over this airfield, drop all our ordnance, and I want to make sure you gunners come back empty.”

Steve lugs the ammo cans of .30 cal up to the bow gunner in the nose, “Merry Christmas!”

Then back to his waist gun position.

He locks a new belt in place and slides an ammo can with a belt over to the port side gunner, “Here ya’ go pal!”

Pink banked to one side, the bubble gunner emptied his gun into the Jap base, then he reversed course and lined up the other side … .50’s empty, bombs expended. Time to return to base. It was a beautiful night … Actually morning with the sun coming up.

A black column of smoke rising behind them, pink glow to the east, all ordnance expended, guns empty (save for leftover partially expended belts) for defense if they get froggy enough to send up a couple Zeros out of spite.

Steve gets busy with his dustpan, scooping brass and belt links out the bubble. A few more scoops and he is done, exhausted, just glad he’s not flying. They were far enough away that any pursuit would have been seen. He slumped to the deck, pulled a wool blanket over him and drifted off to sleep.

Pink greased the landing again, and it was two hours later when Steve woke up, he’d missed the de-brief. Oh well, all he’d been able to contribute was “I shot stuff till it blew up or I couldn’t shoot it anymore.”

There was that one fighter that crashed on takeoff. Pink was fighting for one of his crew to get credit for a kill. There would be a review board.

Meanwhile, guns cleaned and stowed, excess ammo turned in to be re-belted. Stumble up to chow, Spam and re-constituted powdered eggs. A piece of toast that he could have used to scrape paint off the Black Cat. Crack open the ½ jar of “shine” gulp and gag … His tentmate calls out “pussy” as he retches against the pure alcohol. Sip … sip … crack open a book by Hemingway, sip some more.

Lucky Strike, to the lips, clank of the Zippo, deep inhale … slight buzz, clouding his head. Another sip, then gulp, gag, inhale another lungful of sweet smoke. Fighter engines sputtering to life on the flight line for the morning sorties. Dawn patrol was already up, they’d passed them on the way in. Outgoing artillery fire for now. They’d expect incoming harassment fire shortly.

Reading about an ambulance driver in WW1 wounded in the hospital … Sip, deep inhale, sip, buzzzz.

Some things made more sense, others only brought more questions. Sweat dripping, humid heat growing with every degree the sun rises. Bugs, rats, the stench …

Eight hours, they’d be at it again.

Black Cat in the Night, Part 1

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The matte black skin of the plane positively radiated heat in the dank, humid, setting of the sun. Av-gas, cigarette smoke, decaying plants, Spam and rice? open slit trenches, and a not so faint whiff of death, all assaulted the nose.

One at a time the two big radial engines coughed, whined, and sputtered their way into a powerful roar, decisively drowning out all other noise on the Marston matted parking area. The sun was below the horizon and as usual in the tropics, darkness came on quickly. They taxied down the ramp and to the water’s edge, some “pilot stuff” was going on up forward, and the mechanic was adjusting fuel pressure and timing on those big radials. They sounded a bit better. He was an aviation gunners mate (reserve), but wanted to “strike” for an active duty Mechanic position.

Stephen, “Steve, Sven, The Swede (he wasn’t Swedish)”, just a big strawberry blonde country boy... wouldn’t have anything to do until they got airborne, (and hopefully a few hours after that). Once up, he’d ready his .50cal waist bubble gun, test fire it and start scanning the moon glow off the water for dark shapes that shouldn’t be there.

Almost no wind, sea just off the beach smooth as glass, loaded as they were, the takeoff would be a long one. It was almost better to have a bit of chop on the water to help break the surface tension of the water “hanging on-to the hull”. They’d waste some fuel turning the “boat” into an aircraft.

“Gosh, let’s get going, air flow!, it’s an oven in here” He said out loud, nobody could hear.

Comms checks with the cockpit and each other, called out, those experienced talk in a normal voice, younger guys tended to yell a bit more until they figured things out. Still it was jarring, quiet, BLAST of static and a voice yelling in your ears.

Moving … nose pushes into the water, down farther then, that familiar feeling of buoyant floating, slight bob. The engines come to full power as she turns to parallel the beach for takeoff. Beautiful, almost full moon, it would be good hunting the next few nights weather permitting. Nightmare missions.

Steve had taken to squatting down flexing his legs and bracing against the bulkhead during takeoff and landing. That was more for rough takeoffs, this one would prove very smooth (and yes it took awhile to break free of the ocean).

.50 cal Browning loaded, charging handle racked back twice, “Starboard waist testing gun” squeeze the butterfly paddles … BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM. Okay, good to go. The other gun positions call out their tests, satisfactorily. He hears the twin .30’s chattering in the bow, the single .30 aft, and his other waist gunner’s .50 on the port side. Matter of habit, he gathers loose spent brass and belt links, off the deck and tosses them out, footing got slippery with a bunch of round brass and steel links all over.

Slight shiver as the couple hundred feet altitude change and the airflow in the open gunports, doubled to evaporate the sweat out of his dungaree shirt. The pilot was good and cared for “His Lads”, he had pulled up higher than “mission Normal” of wave-top height to cool down the boys in back … They loved him for those little gestures.

Pilot’s voice “You lads good?”

“Yessir, were all cooled down here Pink!”

Pink was our affectionate nickname for our pilot, and he was head over heels over a Georgia debutante who just loved the color pink, She sent him letters on pink stationary, He wore a shockingly bright pink silk scarf she sent him, and he named our Black Cat PBY … “Pink Kitty.” We forgive him, he is that good.

He dropped us back down to wave height for safety.

Scanning the surface and shorelines for anything out of place, surface with the moon behind, might as well be a searchlight. Shorelines were more difficult especially at night, things like straight lines stood out. Other than that just dark blobs.

The co-pilot and bow turret gunner call out “contact” at almost the same time, “Two … wait, three cargo ships.”

“What do you see?”

“I might have five?”

The plane banks, lining up, one torpedo, a couple 500 lb. bombs, and a handful of 250 pounders, alone, five or more ships … IJN running the “Slot.”

Steve swings his .50 to fire as far forward to centerline as he can and waits …

Moon on the other side of the plane ocean black, can’t see a thing. Plane level and steady, then the upward lurch, "Torpedo away!" The port side gunner starts banging away at something.

Then the deck tilts to port and the twin bow .30’s light off, “pocka-pocka-pocka.” Ahead he can see outgoing tracers, swinging to his side … Incoming tracers claw their way up to them, Sven sees the source and locks onto where the tracers are coming from … The Swede goes to work.

Hard to see the sights but with short bursts he’s able to get tracers on target. The short bursts get longer as he is rewarded with secondary fires and adrenaline. The torpedo must have hit some ship to port. As the sea lit up from the fireball he could see two ships on his side, one showing some small fires from damage, the other dark except for AA fire.

As they swept past the ships Swede swung the Browning around for a fleeing tail shot, armor piercing incendiaries, and saw a couple tracers ricochet into the sky … Still getting hits. Now he can’t see anything. Plane banking on another run, oh wow, that torpedo hit ship is burning so bright … There are so many more ships out here than we could see. The whole area is lit up.

We start another run lining up, the officers up front doing their thing. Browning forward (fresh belt in), looking for anything. The ship they’d damaged with gunfire was covered in more fires, he gave them a couple more bursts and concentrated on the undamaged ship, firing a much longer burst than taught, tracers hitting, flying left, right, and up … no secondaries yet.

The plane lurches again, a 500 lb. and two 250 lb’ers ride Newton’s physics (and a bit of luck) to the surface. The bombardier released at mast height just as the ship filled the forward windshield. The starboard side bomb went long and bounced off the port bow without exploding (which it did a couple heartbeats later in the water). The 500 lb'er was a perfect midship centerline hit, boilers out … dead in the water. The starboard bomb hit the side if the ship a couple feet above the waterline, tore through a berthing compartment and exploded in the aft steering space. The ship was dead.

Steve swings the gun aft again as they break away for their last run, hopefully. Fresh belt, get the foxtail and dustpan busy on clearing the footing. Bank done, leveling, engines powering up, he hasn’t heard any hits yet, yes they were painted flat black and hard to see, but they’d usually get hit a few times. Enough lead and enough luck. Then, with the onboard guns blasting away, you might not hear a small incoming hit.

Steve wasn’t sure what they were lining up in front, but they had more ordnance to expend, by his reckoning another 500 and twin 250‘s left.

Cockpit calls out we have four burning, two dead in the water, two fighting fires, and returning fire at us.

“I’m lining up on the biggest thing I see and we’ll pickle everything we got."

The Swede looked for anything to target, light, fire, tracers … Target to starboard, most likely one he’s hit before and sends a couple long bursts into the burning ship. Swing to stern as we fly past. The deck drops and slams back up banging a knee, unexpectedly. In pain, no target, he strains to see anything.

They did whatever they were doing up forward, and the plane lurched up again after losing 1000 pounds. Two 250 lb. bombs and a 500 pounder screamed down into whatever target they’d picked. We turned back to “Cactus,” Steve saw fireballs, but no details, just flame.

Keep scanning , though rare, there were sometimes night fighters about. Not tonight … Return to base.

Dakota Viking Sends: Cargo, Out of Africa

HMS Nymphe and Cleopatra
Donald MacLeod
Source

Orders for the Nora  … "Bring the cargo of lead and iron pigs, powder, and muskets to the port of Algiers."

Easier said than done, someone had stirred up the Brits. One of their frigates was grappling with our own escort. Not going well. They were our escort, but  …

Mainmast down, glows of fires, they were done. The merchant captain ran out his guns and gave a spiteful broadside to the Brits taking his protectors.

Make speed! The Anglo ship wouldn’t be occupied in battle forever. They would soon be pursued. They had to make Algiers or sunset soon. Sun below the horizon, still plenty of light.

Low thuds echoing, rumbling in the distance  … the fight is still going on.

Suddenly one or the other made a lucky shot (or fires reached a magazine) … Bright Flash … A deafening roar and a fiery column of light … As the first column starts drifting back to the water, the second ship detonates with the same intensity.

“Mother of God!”

Both Men o’ War disappeared into low scudding fires on the sea’s surface … Beautiful … Horrible … Terrifying.

One ship appears to be on her beam ends, broken amidships, burning. The other, bow and stern up … split in two … Impossibly burning “flying” poles above the wrecks … masts blown free …

Faint shouts, barely more than squeaks at distance … Survivors?

“Luff the sails, rudder come about … Men Overboard!

"Lower whaleboats!”

“Ready guns, ready rescue!”

“Pikes and axes!”

“Lookouts to bow, stern, and peaks.”

“Ready for survivors!”

Pitiful sounds came with the boats clouded in darkness, Noblemen, women , children!? Sailors. All injured. Huddled together , some scalded, some deaf, all were wet.

Pierre looked …? Now there was only one fire on the water.

Calls to get boats to the last wreck, spurred a bit more action … Six, maybe ten, that was all. One woman in a boat is screeching frantically for a child … missing … gone.

Heartbreaking.

The last wreck sizzled beneath the waves. It was Dark.

“Lanterns!”

“Two, bow ,stern, amidships …”

The rescue boats vectored in on the lights, bringing very few back, but these were all Brits.

“Should have let them drown!”

“You, Francis, are a pig!”

The first few boats they rescued were obviously noble by dress. They were silent, subdued and soaking wet.

Scalded, dazed, and mostly deaf, the survivors made their way up the side out of the whaleboats. Some had to be hauled up and over the rail. Blankets and boat cloaks were passed out along with mugs of warmed wine.

“Bless you … Thank you”

One of the Brit common sailors was on the receiving end of some passionate violence, pushed and shoved around. The third mate strode forward and full on slapped the abusing French sailor across the face.

“Enough!”

“He is a prisoner and will be treated with respect, more importantly, he is a fellow sailor we rescued and you will treat him with compassion.”

The offending sailor decided he had somewhere better to be right now. And went there.

The women and children were the families of the new ambassador and his staff to Algiers from England, The Brit Frigate was their transport. Now, the French merchant Nora was their transport, headed to the same port.

The ship surgeon did what little he could for the injured. When the sun rose, there were three bodies to commit to the deep. That done they made their way into the harbor, on the early morning breeze. Whaleboats were lowered with towing hawsers, the sails reefed up, sailors bending their backs on the oars to pull Nora up to the quay.

Moored, a squad of Algerian troops, muskets shouldered, forms up near where the brow is going over the side, a few “fancy” looking locals in bright pantaloons and flowing robes step to the front. Pleasantries are exchanged, the French Captain invites the dignitaries aboard. Some polite small talk, then down to business.

The Dey has a problem with the French ambassador …

“You see, the Americans have been sinking our ships, and raiding our ports, like pirates!. Your Ambassador refuses to do anything to stop it!. You are allied with the Americans. Your Ambassador must leave, the Englanders have promised to help us. We will still honor your contract for the cargo, and you may purchase whatever cargo you wish to take back from here. Just know this … You will be taking all the French diplomats and their families back to France when you leave.”

Later, the new English ambassador thanked Captain Phillipe for their rescue and safe delivery to Algiers. Contact information exchanged, The ambassador promised to get word to the French Admiralty of his gallantry. With that, the Brit took his party ashore.

The French diplomat was piped aboard so he could arrange for his household to be packed as cargo. The unload of the ships cargo started just after the noon bell sounded. Block and tackle for the lead and pig Iron, sailor and shore porter power for the guns and powder.

Hours dragged on, Wagons full of sacks of wheat, barrels of dates and olive oil, exotic animal hides, all started showing up on the Quay, waiting to be loaded. A couple Beeves and a dozen goats were readied to be herded aboard for fresh meat. Drums of Sulfur and salt added to the cargo, along with a wagon of feed for the “herd”. Fresh water and food were loaded, with everything else.

Three days later they were ready to get underway.

Turns out the ambassador is a distant "favored" cousin of the King, court courtesies to be observed. Wife and four beautiful daughters with a spirited 10 year old boy.

Diplomats and families loaded, cast off the lines, let the offshore breeze nudge the Nora out into the bay. Unfurl the sails in the stiffening breeze.

“Set course North by Nor’west.”

Beautiful deep blue sea. Fresh air and a steady wind wipe away the foul stench of a North African port. Sunshine, white clouds, a beautiful day for sailing.

Editor's Note: This post explains why the French crew in this post fought so hard.

Dakota Viking Sends: This is No ... (A DV Twofer)

Students in the Damage Control "A" School of the Naval Technical Training Center, Treasure Island,
fight a fire on a simulated flight deck during a training session.
(US Navy Photo)

So there I was … 

GQ called away …  Form up, lock down …  Trainers milling about …  “Missile hit in repair 5, JP-5 rupture(JP-5 is jet fuel!) Look through the “bullseye” in the door shows the “trainers” have covered the glass with a rag …  “Guess we have smoke” … 

Instructor on my side of the door says “Repair 5 is flooded with burning JP-5 …  They’re gone …  Watch’ya gonna do? “

I dig deep for my “voice”  …  “Get me A triple F (Aqueous film forming foam, for fighting class Bravo fires) (Liquid fuel) lined up to all nozzles!”

The trainer is writing notes …  I flake out a hose and thread it into a sounding tube fitting in the bulkhead above the water tight door to Repair 5. “A triple F on this hose Right Now!” We’re simulating flooding AFFF into the aft salad bar, (repair 5)

“Now We’re going to flood our area with Foam” up to our waists at least. Trainer scribbling more notes.

We go through the motions of “spraying” AFFF into our space, all under the quizzical eye of the trainer

Request goes out to Damage Control Central(DCC) to breach a Water Tight Door (WTD)  to attack the fire …  granted.

The waist high AFFF was to extinguish any burning fuel flowing into our space. I made that known to the trainer. The foam we were pumping into the space through the sounding connection would knock down some of the flames.

Two hose teams line up, “Get a 4’ applicator on Greg!” (He’d be opening the door to the burning compartment) #2 nozzle pushed his hose with applicator forward to create a water barrier between the breach man and the flames.

Clank … door open, press forward into the space (exactly like the picture, same door). Advance …  the training team finally notices us (un-expected again) “Fire & smoke” waving red and gray rags at us. “our trainer” still scribbling notes. “Fight” our way forward to the far corners of the space “covering “everything with foam. Fires out, secure from GQ … 

Next day was the “Mass Conflagration event.”

General Quarters! Get to the locker and set condition zebra, start to gear up … 

The trainers showed up in our locker area and passed out red and gray rags …  “Ok, you guys are good, today you are Fire and smoke. The main missile hit will wipe you out. We’ll direct you” With that we got to burn down half the ship … 

While “fun” I’d rather have been fighting the fire.

I had my name read over the 1MC (all stations) 3(?) times. My performance as an E-5 locker Chief was one of those times. Must have made an impression on someone.

1987, Naval Firefighting school, Treasure Island, San Francisco Bay.

So there I was …

We’d just watched “Fire on the Forrestal … learn or burn” “Trial by Fire” -

We went through the aircraft firefighting, burning vats of JP-5 under a “jet” mockup …  Wheee! Spray some foam, move on.

Now on to the Berthing fire …  fuel soaked pallets in a low roofed building, some how I was #1 nozzle, pushing into the flames, not really sure what was going on. Ok we knocked this down.

Now the briefing for the Boiler room fire.

Everyone on board ship is a firefighter … 

The Marine Detachment Lt. was joining the ship, and going through the firefighting training like everyone else. Short little Fireplug of a Marine, everything about him “Hard Core”. Poster Boy. No doubt he could have taken out half the class before the other half knew what was going on. The Instructors gave him some deference. Offered him #1 nozzle for the boiler room fire. Told him he could pick his #1 hoseman, He turned and surveyed the crowd of squids, his eyes were at my nipple height …  he looked up and saw my “High and Tight” nodded, pointed, and said “I want him” So there I was … 

We gear up, charge our OBA’s, climb up then down into the Boiler room dragging live hoses. I’m gripping the hose just behind the #1 nozzle (Marine Lt.) My job was to make it easier for him to maneuver the nozzle, like a dance, I had to feel and anticipate his movements. Can't. See. A. Thing. Vats of JP-5 burning real fire and real smoke …  they weren’t kidding …  this was a deadly environment.

Lt. is sweeping the nozzle, I’m helping him swing.

Suddenly he stops and jerks back on the hose a couple times, and closes the bail, shutting off the water!. The hose jumps in my hands. He turns, wide eyes lock onto mine! …  he pushes the nozzle into my hands. Exaggerated blink, slight nod, two slaps on my shoulder, and boom,  he’s gone out the side safety tunnel.

Shit!, I’m it …  I still have a hoseteam baking on the ladder above me. I have to advance and get them out of the furnace, or I start losing hosemen.

BRACE! Slam the bail back: hose blasts and jumps, hang on, that’s real fire! Spraying back and forth, step, step, sweep. The heat is REAL! Damn!

Trainer yelling in my ear, where to direct the water, I can’t see a thing. So much smoke,  can’t see anything … Swing the nozzle in the “right?” direction? So much confusion, just focus on what is in front, even if you can’t see it. Honestly, I never saw the last of the fires. The instructors had to tell me to stop, the fire was out … 

The post-training de-brief, The Marine Lt. had an OBA failure (He couldn’t breathe) Many possibilities for this, I’ve experienced it, you can panic. He didn’t. Breathing is good.

That’s why we train for this, he got to safety and passed the “fight” to the backup. Glad I never had to do it for real, you really don’t know what’s going on.

Dakota Viking Sends: Air Attack!

Watercolor painting by Dwight Shepler of the USS South Dakota in action with Japanese planes during the Battle of Santa Cruz which took place October 11-26, 1942.
Source

General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations! Air Attack!

Trotting (you couldn’t really run) pulling on his dungaree shirt, making his way down the passageway to the plant. Thud-booom … the 5” guns were starting up, God already? How close were those planes?

Down into the plant do a quick turnover with the junior watchstander and he scrambles off to his battlestation. Take an assessment of his watchstation … the Boiler fronts, He is now responsible for keeping the fires lit and steam pouring out to the main turbines , and the ships turbine generators for electrical power.

Check the stack periscope… still burning clean… the trick will be keeping a clear stack while changing burner sizes and forced draft blower speeds.

5” guns keep up a steady bass riff, the turbines whining out their one note song. Then the 40mm quad mounts open up like a snare drum.

They are close.

The deck shifts hard to starboard, the engine order telegraph rings out Back Full from ahead full… CRAP! things just went sideways… The basic version of what happens is a highly efficient high speed steam turbine has just been reversed into a much less efficient “backing engine”

“Torpedoes in the water!”… hence the breaks and turn …

The abrupt change from ahead to astern caused a dynamic change in temperatures and pressures in the steam system. The deaerating feed tank, hit with a slug of hot condensate and lower Aux steam pressure … Reached that point that all the water feeding the main feed booster pumps flashed to steam. Loss of feed!

The Main feed pumps tripped on low pressure, they had seconds …

Secure the Burners, stop the fire, without water the boiler tubes will melt, if water is returned to a hot empty boiler it’s a bomb …

Machinist Mates scramble to get feed restored, Pumps up, Pressure, slow, slow … His boilers are down, 20mm AA is now ripping out its staccato sound.

He might have heard the torpedoes whirr by but he was busy.

Engine order telegraph rings up “ahead flank” … Steam pressure is dropping fast.

Quick, like a bunny, pull a heavy burner out and grab a light spray starter nozzle…Slide in, lock in place, one quick look into the bullseye on the boiler and sees the back wall refractory is still glowing red … maybe … He slams open the fuel valve and the atomized fuel oil hits the hot refractory “THROOOM!” and blooms into a beautiful yellow flame. He’d just saved the time of a full lightoff procedure.

Cut in burner after burner, Pressure coming up nicely … Hard roll to port, speed up, Still calling Flank.

Pull the starter nozzle and start replacing “full” nozzles with “med” nozzles. Pressure good steady state steaming … except for the AA gunfire and crazy turns. He watches the color of the fire, temps. &press, and the smokestack periscope, to adjust combustion to optimal… at least until the load on the plant changed.

The .50 cals are firing now, they’re so close.

You can hear and “feel” bombs hitting farther away at other targeted ships. Our AA is firing nonstop, it’s even hard to pick out individual 5” gun shots, the noise is constant, a ripple of percussion. Hard to starboard! Deck tilting, Engine order telegraph rings “all stop” Quick! shutoff 2 burners and throttle back on the forced draft blower.

The two Med. Nozzles he just secured he replaced with full spray nozzles because he knew it was coming… He thought he heard high speed screws but wasn’t sure … “clang, clang” Ahead Flank!”

He cut in the full nozzles and watched his pressure. Down… steady… slow rise, swap a med for a full, crank up the blower, and ready the mediums again. Back to pressure … KRUMP! Shudder. Somewhere forward we got hit … Calls over the all stations of damage reports.

Hard starboard roll, AA never slowing down, “What was going on up there?!?”

He makes his way to the much needed coffee pot, fills his chipped and stained mug, takes a beautiful deep sip … and BOOOM shudder … another hit. Scan the boilers all’s well, another sip.

Chief comes by, they exchange basic info, (neither knows much of what’s going on) Chief wanders off to a watchstation that might need a little help.

Orders go out to start #11 turbine driven fire pump, we hardly ever run her, this might be serious.

The rumor mill kicks in, all sorts of terrible calamities were befalling us … boarded by IJN marines, IJN battleships in gun range, 4 IJN carriers attacking with all planes. The last one was the most plausible as our AA fire was insane.

The .50’s and 20’s slowed and stopped. We’re ahead flank no maneuvering. I shout out to the lower level watch to start the eductor and let’s get every bit of water out of the bilge … good for him he had started that right after we restored feed.

The 20mm AA started up again, another hard starboard, there go the .50’s … Close concussions and shockwaves. Lights flicker then go out. Battle lanterns are turned on. Duty Electricians swarm the switchgear readying a return of power. Adjust the burners and blowers for the sudden loss of load and get ready to bring the turbine generators up.

MM’s reset the turbine generators bring them up to speed and the electricians parallel the generator to the rest of the electrical system, online …

Slow roll to port, still Flank, Still every caliber AA gun is firing. Thuds, crumps, and thuds were heard and felt all over, from near misses to farther targets.

BOOM … shudder … we just took another hit.

Cut out a burner, watch the pressure … Cut the burner back in. Still slow rolling to port, still firing every AA gun. .50’s stop … 20’s stop …

Rudder midships, drop to ahead full. 40mm stop. 5” gunfire slows to a final ,spiteful twin burst … then the guns are silent. The plant is humming along nicely … Secure from General Quarters! Ahead standard … The junior watchstander returns and resumes his watch, The “senior” (by what 2 years?) goes back to berthing and crawls into his rack. He wrings the sweat out of his socks, and tries to find his cleanest dry t-shirt. He has a 6 hour watch coming  up two hours from now.