NAIADS Command Headquarters, Potsdam, Germany
“Sir, we have a message from the North Rhine-Westphalia Regional Control Center. They are reporting their long range search radars are detecting a very large formation of enemy aircraft approaching from the west. Very high altitude
sir.
Herrick frowned, reports were supposed to be accurate and detailed, giving numbers, exact courses and proper altitude data. “Tell them to report in full. Numbers, course, they know the drill.” Then he thought for a second. It was probably more American carrier strikes; it was possible that atmospheric anomalies were causing the contacts. “And check out with the visual observation stations in France.”
“North Rhine-Westphalia RCC says they can't get accurate raid data sir, it’s as if the radars can't get a lock on the formation. However, they say it’s a huge formation, the returns are like a shadow covering most of Western France. The edge isn't precise sir, the RCC say the returns are flickering. They are estimating altitude in excess of 10,000 meters sir. They say it’s moving slowly sir, about 350 kilometers per hour.”
A B-29 raid, Herrick thought, the Americans are being stupid enough to try another B-29 raid. They must be basing out of the Azores in an effort to hit a target in the Ruhr. Then it clicked. They were hoping the carrier raids would have flattened the opposition so their bombers could get in. That was a bad mistake for them. They'd done terrible damage in France as usual but NAIADS was untouched and unharmed. Herrick started issuing orders, bring the RCCs up to full alert. They would bring the LCCs into the picture. At last, NAIADS was going to face the challenge it had been designed for. And his belief in the system would be vindicated at last.
“Alert all the fighter squadrons under NCC command. Order the RCCs to ready theirs as well and to instruct the LCCs appropriately.”
Hangar Deck Forward, USS Shiloh, CVB-41 Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West
Triage, Surgeon-Commander Stennis thought, an ugly name for an ugly business. Dividing the casualties up into three categories. First, the minor wounds, those that could be treated by the Corpsmen and volunteers. Quietly, Stennis blessed Admiral Newman. The Admiral had insisted that every member of the task group should have at least rudimentary training in first aid and had personally made certain that his instructions were carried out. As a result, they had the minor wound situation well under control. Men were pouring sulfa powder into wounds, applying tourniquets and tending the lightly wounded with the care of real experts. Then there was the third group, those who were too badly injured to survive, they would be sedated and placed to one side. In other words, left to die. Chaplain Westover was over with them, administering last rites when needed, comforting, taking messages for families, whatever brought comfort to the dying men. The second group were the ones who needed surgery now to survive. Meatball surgery, patching them up so that they'd live for a better job later. Yet the division between those who were in the second and third groups wasn't so clear. This one could be saved but in the time taken to do it, those three would die. So this one was left to die so those would get a chance to live.
Despite the bomb hits in the flight deck, the butcher's bill here wasn't as bad as it could be, Stennis thought. So far 120 dead, 198 injured. Plus the ones nobody could find. “'Don't waste morphine on me Doc, Just hit me over the head.” The crewman was one of the hangar deck casualties, severe intestinal wounds from fragments. Not survivable. Stennis looked at him with mock severity. “You'll make do with morphine. We keep the strong stuff for the ones who really need it. You'll do just fine son.” The last words were a code for the corpsmen, telling them the casualty was for Group Three. Out of the corner of his eye, Stennis saw Chaplain Westover pay sudden attention and move over to the stricken sailor. He'd know the right words, it didn't seem to matter whether the kid was Catholic or Protestant, Jewish or whatever, the Chaplain knew the right words. Sometimes Stennis thought that even if an Outer Mongolian Orthodox Pantheist turned up in the ship's complement, Chaplain Westover would know the right words.
That sailor made the death toll 121 and the casualties were starting to come up from the firefighting efforts down below. Thankfully, all minor so far, mostly heat exhaustion, dehydration, sprained muscles and pulled ligaments. Some minor burns but none of the dreadful ones that had been expected. Stennis gave thanks for the American expertise in fighting fires. He'd come over the Atlantic on Nelson during the Great Escape. Rodney had made it undamaged but Nelson had taken three torpedoes from a U-boat. She'd made it into New York with her bows nearly underwater. Her band had been playing “When The Saints Come Marching In” as they slipped down the Narrows and the firetugs had been escorting her. Stennis remembered what the newsreels hadn't shown, the long line of dead. Short sleeved shirts, short trousers and fires had made a bad combination.
“Don't bother with me Doc, I'm fine. Joe over there needs help real bad.” Stennis looked at the speaker. Not fine but not critical. “Corpsman, Look after this sailor please.” Code phrase for First Group. It had taken Brooklyn Navy Yard two years to fix Nelson, she was with the Canadian Navy now, escorting the convoys to Murmansk along with Rodney and the three surviving Queen Elizabeths. How long would it take to fix some of these kids?
Treatment of shock and serious hemorrhage was the first priority. Getting difficult bandaging done so the victims would get a chance at surgery. Corpsmen were splinting fractures. Shattered bones were treated with more sulfa powder and thick battle dressings. They'd broken the back of that job so now they could move to next priority. Perforated abdominal wounds had to be treated next. Stennis had commandeered a compartment close at hand for surgery, the open hangar deck wasn't the place for such things. There was a problem developing though. The explosion aft had start fires at the back end of the hangar deck, a long way aft but still a problem. Then there was air quality, it was getting hard to breath. Further aft, black smoke from the fires below had made the aft part of the ship untenable but the forward movement had swept it away from the casualty area. Now, the ship was slowing causing the smoke and toxic fumes to creep forward. They were quickly making the forward hangar area extremely unpleasant.
So that meant they had to prepare for evacuation. Stennis had been ordered to move his patients and casualty clearance station to Samoa but that wasn't going to happen. Samoa was heavily involved in fighting the fires amidships and aft and her decks were a tangled maze of hoses and lines. So that plan had gone pear-shaped before it had even started. And Stennis knew he couldn't move many of his patients without killing them So there was a new plan being put together.
The fires were mostly on the starboard side of the ship and Samoa was needed there. So, the cruiser Fargo was to come in from portside and take station off the port bow. As soon as practical, the casualty station was going to be moved to her quarter-deck, Stennis mentally kicked himself and corrected his thoughts, to her fantail. As soon as Kittyhawk arrived, she was due in very soon now, she could take over treating the most seriously wounded. Kittyhawk, like the other search-and-rescue carrier Wright, had medical facilities that were the equivalent of a small hospital ship. And she had the helicopters that could lift the casualties straight from Shiloh there.