By the time that had registered, the bent-wing jabos had passed over Hipper. They left her blazing in their wake. Their course took them through the deadly crossfire from the battleships and over Moltke. The same infernal ripple of rockets swathed her superstructure and her flak guns faltered. Still, four of the bent-wing bastards, Lindemann was surprised at how much venom was in his description, had crashed, their wreckage staining the sea.
It was the Ami torpedo bombers that suffered worst. Slow and lumbering, they were easy prey for German gunners who took the opportunity to exact revenge for the hellish jellygas. They got the bombers in their gunsights early as the torpedo planes closed on Hipper. The cheers grew as the score mounted and redoubled when it reached double figures. Twelve out of thirty plus torpedo planes had been sent into the sea by the time the survivors got to drop on Hipper.
Lindemann recognized the perfectly-executed hammerhead torpedo attack. Even with her decks saturated with fire, Hipper swung hard to port. She was trying to dodge the torpedoes closing on her but it was hopeless. Lindemann knew that and grimly counted the long columns of water shooting up from the ship’s side. Six in all, four to starboard, two to port, far more than a heavy cruiser could be expected to take. One torpedo struck right forward and ripped the bows off. Another struck under Bruno turret, a third under the bridge, two on opposite sides of the ship in the engine rooms, the last right aft in the screws. The effects were almost immediate. She started to roll over, the big cruiser slipped onto her beam ends, exposing the two great holes ripped in her port side. Even if she’d stayed afloat, she wouldn’t have been going anywhere. Her screws and rudders were tangled wreckage, her stern almost severed from the ship.
Lindemann swung his binoculars around, looking for survivors in the water. How men could have saved themselves through decks coated with jellygas he did not know. The he saw something he had missed when he’d been concentrating on the fate of the poor
Hipper, Z-31 and Z-39 were going down fast, their sides ripped open by the big rockets the Ami Douglases carried as a secondary weapon. The torpedo planes that had survived the hammerhead attack had been almost perfectly placed for a rocket attack on the destroyers and they’d done their deed well. It was then that the significance of the second attack overwhelmed him.
The American tactics were brilliant, simply brilliant. Their first wave had focused on the rear of the formation. They’d chewed up the ‘thirty eights’ and damaged the ships. They’d forced them to slow down and hindered their movements with damage. The second wave had been their youngest, least experienced men. They’d been given the easiest attack runs, straight at the head of the fleet, but also the most dangerous. Brilliant and ruthless, the Amis had thrown the pilots they’d miss least into that deathly dangerous run right into the crossfire. By blasting Hipper and her screen, they’d created a mass of sinking ships in front of the battleships. The ‘thirty eights’ were swinging to port and the ‘forties’ to starboard in order to avoid the wrecks. The Americans had sacrificed their youngest pilots but they’d pried apart the German formation. The two lines of battleships were no longer mutually supporting. Now they would have to fight on their own.
Brilliant, simply brilliant tactics. The American Carrier Admiral, was it Halsey or Spruance, was a genius. Time to be encouraging and put on a brave face. “Two waves gone, only two left. And they have only sunk the Hipper. Soon, we’ll have them under our guns.” No need to mention Scheer, her screws smashed, her stern hanging off, limping along behind the formation. Waiting for the Amis to finish her off. Just don’t mention her, hope everybody will forget that she was a dead ship.
The Signals Officer spoke, his voice shaking. “Admiral, Sir, it’s not just four waves. At least three more have joined the plot. There are five waves at least more to come.”
“Sir, Formation Able has reported in. Claiming a heavy cruiser and two battleships hit and seriously damaged. They’ve lost at least 11 aircraft, have 13 more with varying degree of damage.” A signalman rushed up with another message flimsy. “Formation Baker, Sir. They claim a battleship sunk, another one seriously damaged and four destroyers sinking.” The lieutenants voice became grim. “Baker has lost more than 21 aircraft shot down, Sir. We’ll be recovering Able in 40 minutes, Baker in an hour.”
Halsey nodded, absorbing information. The days up here were short. It was already past noon and we are racing against the setting sun. “TG-58.3 launching?”
The Flag Lieutenant nodded. “Message just in, Sir. Formation How is on its way; 58.4 will be launching Formation Ink in 15 minutes. We’ll be recovering Able while 58.5 launches Formation Job.”
“Very good. Take one of our Corsair groups and the remaining Adie squadron, and the CAP Corsairs from Essex, Franklin, Hancock and Bon Homme Richard. That’ll give us a strike of six groups. Formation Key. All Corsairs, they’re to carry Tiny Tims. If anybody’s running low, 1,600 pound APs instead. The other groups are to use the groups they’re holding on deck for CAP when their turn comes up. CVLs as well. We’ll use the surviving Flivvers for CAP. That’ll buy us another two hours to rearm and refuel. Then Able goes in again. Clear?”
“Clear, Sir.”
Wild Bill Halsey looked over the sea again, south to where his prey was lurking. And to the west, the sun was beginning to sink towards the ocean. At dusk the carriers would turn north, away from the German fleet, if it still existed. And, in case it did….
“Admiral Lee is forming the Battle Line?”
“Sir, it’s assembling now. The battlewagons are detaching from the Task Groups as per your orders. Uhh,” the officer was about to risk the legendary wrath of Wild Bill. “The Large Cruisers Sir? Should they go too?”
Halsey shook his head. “They stay with us. They’ve no place in a gunnery duel.” He looked out again. Is it my imagination or has the sun sunk a little more already? Time was the enemy, he realized that, but how little of it he had scared him. The constant stream of fighter-bombers and torpedo planes from his carriers could sink the German fleet. Of that, he was confident. As long as they had enough time.
The Germans had made a catastrophic mistake. In maneuvering to avoid the torpedo planes, their formation had started to break up. Their anti-aircraft fire had lost its cohesion, it was wild, uncoordinated, ineffective. The FV-1s streaked straight through it, unloading rockets and machine gun fire into the lead pair of battleships. Those gray monsters staggered under the blow and their defensive barrage faltered under the rippling wave of rockets. The pilots off the Randolph and Bunker Hill were some of the most experienced in the fleet and their tally of missions over France and England had paid off. None of the jets had been hit. They’d curved away at the end of their runs, leaving their targets nicely softened up for the Corsairs and their napalm.