“True,” Kaz said, nodding his head as we walked. “Although the man described by the PT-109 crew is quite a different character. Intrepid, loyal, even inspiring.”
“What does that tell us?”
“That Jack Kennedy is a complex man, capable of pettiness as well as sacrifice,” Kaz answered. “His actions involving you in the automobile accident demonstrate a disregard for others, and perhaps a fear of disappointing his powerful father. After all, who else would care, or be in a position to chastise him? But his resourcefulness here, in keeping his crew together after the sinking of his boat, demonstrates the complete opposite. From all accounts, he went far beyond what could be expected of any captain.”
“That may be why I’m having a hard time understanding him,” I said. “He’s not the guy I knew. I think maybe that guy went down with the 109. Did he say he was sorry at all? About the car?”
“No, he did not,” Kaz said.
“Well, maybe not all of him went down with the ship.”
“Boyle!” Cotter yelled from the bridge of PT-169. “Hustle up! We’re pulling out. Aircraft headed our way!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“There’s a large force of enemy aircraft headed our way from airfields on Bougainville,” Cotter said as he eased PT-169 out of the harbor and into Ironbottom Sound. “They could be going for Rendova, Henderson Field, or Sesapi. No reason to hang around and find out.”
“The trip will be more dangerous in daylight, won’t it?” I asked.
“Yes, if we run into patrol aircraft. But this is a big raid. They won’t break formation to go after one PT boat.” That sounded good, as long as the Japanese remembered to play by the rules.
“What can we do?” I asked.
“Take these,” he said, handing Kaz and me binoculars. “Go forward and watch for aircraft.”
We’d seen Archer and Gordie positioned aft, scanning the skies as we pulled out. We went toward the bow, behind the twenty-millimeter gun, which was manned by a kid in a big helmet, life jacket, skivvies, and shoes; enough clothing for a hot run in the Solomons.
We each took a side, bracing ourselves between the bridge superstructure and a forward torpedo tube. As Cotter opened up the engines, the ride smoothed out into a steady thump thump against the rolling waves, fooling you into thinking you didn’t have to hang on. I realized Kaz and I were the only ones without life jackets, and that nobody had taken time to toss a couple our way. On the one hand, if we got hit, we were all going up in a giant fireball anyway, but it wouldn’t take much work to get tossed overboard either. I could swim pretty well, but not all the way back to Tulagi.
It wasn’t long before a shout went up from the stern, Gordie and Archer having sighted fighters coming from behind. Cotter announced they were ours, flying up from Guadalcanal to intercept the Japs. Even so, every gun swiveled to target them as they flew high overhead.
“Hold your fire,” Cotter yelled, knowing how trigger-happy his men could be. Out here, there was nowhere to hide, and dozens of swarming, snarling fighters were downright intimidating. Then I began to worry. Would they mistake us for Japs, and open fire?
They passed over without incident, and I let out a heavy sigh, not realizing how nervous I’d been. I watched the fighters, figuring they were being vectored in by radar, or perhaps Coastwatchers. Soon I lost them, and gave the horizon a quick check. Dead ahead I saw an island, too far away to make out anything but a smudge of green.
“Is that Rendova?” I asked the sailor manning the twenty-millimeter.
“Naw, that’s Russell Island. We ain’t even close yet, Lieutenant.”
Cotter kept on course for the island. I strained to see anything at all in the sky, alternating between the binoculars and my eyesight, trying to take in the full arc of the blazingly bright heavens in front of us. It was all azure blue, nothing but foaming water rising into a robin’s egg sky; so much to watch, and it all looked exactly the same.
“There!” Kaz shouted, pointing up off the starboard side. Contrails swirled in all directions, evidence of a high-altitude dogfight. I trained my binoculars on the telltale vapor trails, but all I got was the occasional flash of sunlight off a fighter.
“Keep a sharp lookout,” Cotter bellowed from the bridge. “If they’re making contrails, they’re too high to bother us. Watch for fighters breaking away.” I waved back, signaling my understanding, and returned to scanning the horizon, sweeping back and forth, dividing the sky into quadrants.
Then I saw it. Black smoke instead of white contrails. Heading for us and losing altitude fast. I picked up the aircraft in my binoculars, but the billowing smoke and dead-on view obscured any markings. It was obvious he was in trouble.
“It’s got to be one of ours,” I said to the gunner. “Probably headed back to Henderson Field.”
“I don’t like the way he’s heading for us,” he said, training his weapon on the incoming fighter.
“Don’t fire, wait!” I yelled, focusing on the smoke, glimpsing a brief image of another airplane, then another. “Behind him, two Zeroes!”
“Yes!” Kaz screamed. “He’s coming to us for cover!”
The gunner acknowledged a second later, saying he had the two Zeroes targeted. Cotter shouted to hold fire, and then suddenly the first plane was close enough to see, white stars clear against the blue paint job. Smoke poured from under the engine cowling as the Wildcat pilot went into a steep dive, bringing the Zeroes closer to our guns.
The Zeroes were now unmistakable, their bubble canopies and red Rising Sun insignias stark against a light grey background as they closed in on the Wildcat, guns chattering, bursts of tracer rounds bracketing their quarry. The American fighter drew closer, no more than a couple of hundred yards above the water. As he banked to our right, giving the PT boat a clear shot at his pursuers, he lost even more altitude. I could make out oil streaks across his canopy and bullet holes along the fuselage, and I hoped he’d make it back if our fire could manage to distract the Zeroes.
Then all hell broke loose and I wondered if the Zeroes were glad to trade targets.
Great spouts of seawater rose up around us, the machine gun and cannon fire from the Jap planes creating a maelstrom as the two twin fifty-calibers behind me opened up, their rapid fire a counterpoint to the steady, slower hammering of the twenty-millimeter cannon. I ducked, shielding my ears from the clamoring of the weapons, the raging screams of men firing at the enemy, the snarl of engines, and the blood pounding in my head.
Rounds thumped into the wooden deck, sending splinters flying past my face. I hung on as Cotter took evasive action and watched as the Zeroes pulled away, each arcing off in a different direction to divide our fire. One of them spat out a couple of white puffs of smoke as his engine sputtered and he continued on away from us. The crew cheered at the evidence of their marksmanship. The Wildcat was now a good distance to our rear, flying low and steady. If he didn’t make it all the way to Guadalcanal, he could probably ditch with a good chance of rescue.
“Look!” Kaz shouted. “Twelve o’clock low!” The other Zero wasn’t escorting his pal home. He was coming back for us. This time he was flying close to the wavetops, perhaps hoping we couldn’t lower our guns enough, or maybe to maximize his own flame. Whatever the reason, the Zero looked like a demon breathing fire as it bore down on us. Cotter zigged and zagged, which I figured was to throw the Jap’s aim off, but it did the same for our gunners. Tracers zipped back and forth, filling the air between the plane and the boat with lines of burning phosphorous, deadly stitches of yellow-white seeking to destroy, to eliminate the enemy threat.
It all happened at once. We were hit again, this time the gunner by my side taking a round in the head. His body dropped like a heavy sack just as the Zero blossomed into flames, parts blowing off as the plane stayed on course, inertia and momentum carrying it forward, straight for the splintered and bloody bow of our ship.