“You know sir, it’s ironic. We've practiced fighting fires on the hangar deck, on the flight deck, everywhere we can have an airgroup related fire. But nobody ever asked us about a major fire below the hangar deck. The three bombs that hit the hangar deck? They didn't do squat. But those other two, they've hurt us. Hurt us bad.”
Howarth paused to collect his thoughts. “We need to get water pressure and electrical power back up. That means diverting all the electrical power from the forward ships service turbogenerator room into the circuit again. So we have to shut down all non-essential systems. We have to get the aft evaporators up, the water system purged and running. We must have water pressure. In the meantime we need help. We need Samoa or Puerto Rico to come alongside and start pouring water into the burning area. Has to be one of those two, we're too big for the smaller ships to reach. But most of all we must contain that fire amidships. We need to establish a fire perimeter and start to drive it back. One other thing sir. Conflagration Station? We've lost it. It was right in the middle of the fire area.”
Madrick returned to his command station and relayed the news to the Admiral. Samoa would be closing with maximum urgency and her fire-fighting crews were being readied. Shiloh's machinery spaces were still unaffected so she could hold her course. That had the advantage that it would keep the smoke and heat away from the casualty station forward. Other than that it was up to the Damage Control teams.
Third Deck Amidships, USS Shiloh, CVB-41. Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West.
“GET OUT OF THE WAY GODDAMMIT. WHATS THE MATTER ARE YOU A BUNCH OF GODDAM DEMOCRATS OR SOMETHING?”
The voice boomed down through the compartment, reverberating off the bulkheads and overheads. The recipients flattened themselves or otherwise got out of the way. Very quickly. It wasn't as if they had been doing any good. Without water pressure to operate hoses or fog nozzles and with the sprinkler system disabled, they'd tried to establish a fire perimeter by sealing and dogging hatches. But the fire beyond was burning hot and hard now. It was heating the bulkheads to the point where they ignited the contents of the next compartment by thermal radiation. Sealing the hatches was slowing the spread of the fire but not that much. Without pumps and water, there was no way the fire could be stopped.
The Senior Chief and four enlisted burst into the threatened compartment. They'd manhandled one of the portable Handy-Billy pumps down from the hangar, down two decks and back along a quarter of the ship's length. Through hatches and anything else (and anybody else) that had got in their way. Accompanied by some fairly choice language and a number of ringing condemnations of the Democrat Party, the Damage Control team now had a pump. And that meant they had hoses and water and fog. And they had a Senior Chief. Even while the team scattered out of the way then reformed, the pump was being set up and started. The first step was to cool the bulkhead before they lost this compartment as well. The area was already filling with steam as the water drenched the heated metal. One portable pump, so many things to cool. But it was a start.
Ensign Pickering was in nominal charge of the Damage Control Team. With the bulkhead cooled and the threat to this compartment abated, it was time to enter the burning area beyond and put it out. So, he reached for the wheel releasing the dogs on the hatch. And was seized around the waist and physically hurled to one side. Looking up he saw a pair of heavy Navy fire-resistant pants surrounding the Senior Chief.
“Sir, are you trying to kill us all? Are you some sort of DEMOCRAT or something? That hatch dogging system is white hot. You'll touch it and you burn your hands to the bone. Then you let air into the compartment and we get a flash fire that'll incinerate us, everything else in this compartment and several beyond it. This is what we'll do. The men with fire-resistant coveralls will go first. They've got asbestos gloves. They'll spin the wheel, open the hatch. There'll be a fireball coming out. It'll burn every damned thing it touches BUT it'll also burn the oxygen out of the air. For a few seconds the fire will fall back. Then fresh air will rush in and this whole area will burn. But, if we do this right and if there are no DEMOCRATS here to screw things up. we can get in when the fire falls back and start to cool everything down before we get the second fireball. So the guys with protected suites go first then them as has breathing gear but no special suites. Then, when we've got the compartment under control, we start on the next and the rest of you follow us up to make sure the fire doesn't close in around us.
“Senior, you're talking as if that fire is alive.”
“It is son. You think of it that way. It's a monster that's waiting for us to make a mistake so it can eat us. It's a lying dishonest bastard of a monster almost as bad as a DEMOCRAT. But President Dewey beat the DEMOCRATS so we can beat this one. Now, go around the men, make sure they have their sleeves down and no flesh exposed. The Brits with those short pants and short sleeved shirts suffer mightily from burns. Even a layer of cloth will stop a flash burn. So you get that done and we're ready to go.”
The Handy Billy was chugging away, the hoses playing on the hatchway. Two men grabbed the dogs, spun the wheel and flung the hatch open. Sure enough a fireball burst out but those it could reach it were protected against it and those it could hurt were out of reach, then it shrank back and the Damage Control Teams swarmed forward to damp down the inferno before it could reflare as fresh oxygen reached it.
The Battle for the fire perimeter had started.
Dijon, France. Primary base of JG-26 Schlageter
Major Schumann stopped by the last of the long line of fresh graves and saluted. As Sergeant Dick had suggested, Hilda had been buried with the pilots. That gave her a lot of company. JG-26 was finished as a fighting group until it could absorb replacements and get fresh aircraft. I/JG-26 and II/JG-26 could scratch up perhaps six Heinkel 162s between them. Given time, they could add a Go-229 to that. Sergeant Dick had said they could salvage enough parts from the wrecked aircraft to repair Green Eight. III/JG-26 had exactly one Ta-152C left. Only IV/JG-26 at its dispersal field at Pontailler had a reasonable force left. Nine BV-155Cs. Only thirty of the long-winged high altitude interceptors had ever been built and the force had been whittled away by accidents and losses. And, speak of the Vossies....
Colonel Harmann, commander of IV/JG-26 was standing in front of him. “Major Schumann, I understand that your Fledermaus will be flyable again soon. I have orders for you to join us. The rest of the group is being split up and it will reform in Germany. As a new unit. We have heard of you Major and we will be proud to have you fly with us.”
Harmann looked around the shattered airfield, still clouded with smoke. Stinking of jellygas and explosive and roasted. Better not to think of that. “If it is any consolation Major, there are rumors already that K.G-40 raped an American carrier this morning. Join us with as many ground crew as your aircraft requires. As soon as it can be flown.”
Admiral's Ready Room, USS Kittyhawk CVL-48, Bay of Biscay
Admiral Theodore stared at the three young officers in front of him with, what he fondly hoped, was a terrifying glare of incandescent rage. In truth, it was indeed a terrifying countenance he presented. Although he didn't know it, Admiral Theodore bore a strange physical resemblance to the notorious Captain Robert “Flogger” Corbett, the terror of the West Indies Station in the 18th Century. Had he been suddenly translated into 1947, the dreaded Captain Corbett would have been entirely at home in this situation.