Not Dying Today
When consciousness returned to him the first sense that came online was that of smell; what it "reported" was not good. Acrid smoke that smelled of burnt paint, hot metal, and something else; burnt clothing and fur…and worse. Taste followed and with it the biting tang of everything that went with the smoke. His hearing picked up a cacophony of sounds; the faint rush sound of a fire somewhere off to his left. The rattle of loose metal items rolling around on the deck, the pounding paw falls of mammals running this way and that, shouts and cries, and the booms of 40 mm and rattle of 20 mm gunfire. And, knowing the situation, not enough of the last two. He moved and that's when the aches and pains made themselves plainly known to him.
"Uh, that torpedo hit hurt in more ways than one," he thought.
The sailor vaguely remembered the thunderous explosion of the 1080-pound warhead and the sickening feeling of being thrown both up into the air and to one side to hit against a steel bulkhead. He noted that the yells were getting louder, and more frantic. The word "Incoming!" got his full attention and he commanded his heavy eyelids to open.
"I've got too much waiting for me back at Pearl to just lay here and die!" he murmured to himself.
The sight that greeted him, his head was turned to the left, was as bad as he thought; smoke from a small fire about 30 feet away rose into the air and the deck was indeed littered with all manner of junk…and at least four forms of unmoving mammals lying there as well. Sitting up, his body protesting mightily, he looked about and things didn't get any better. Another fire burned from a part of the superstructure above and to his left.
"Yeah, that's right, damned plane crashing into us didn't help any, either," he recalled.
As he rolled to get to his hands and knees the sailor saw other bodies with bloods spots (spots, that was an understatement) on many of them.
"Strafing attack," he concluded as he started to stand.
The sound of an aircraft engine roaring in made him flatten face down on the deck and 7.7 mm machinegun bullets rattled, banged, and bounced off the metal walls and deck.
"Yeah, this is not good!"
That attack put a shot of adrenalin in his blood that made getting up easier, though no less painful. He was close to one of the port side 20 mm Oerlikon gun galleries, forward of the dual 5-inch gun turret, which was not moving or firing, on the main deck level. Ignoring the two crewless guns there, he went behind the 5-inch turret and climbed up a 12-foot ladder to the higher gun position. From here, he commanded a greater field of view. As with the previous 20 mm's, there was no one alive to work them.
He reached over to turn a wheel and a crescent shaped flat surface rose out of the floor to stop when it reached a height of 8 inches. Due to his smaller than most other crew mammal height, he would need every bit of it.
"Hope like hell the ammo drums are full, or close to it," he thought as he fitted himself into the shoulder rests then pulled the gunner's belt round his back and tightened it up.
Already he saw his first target, an enemy fighter coming out of its turn and heading in for another gun pass.
"Not going to be so easy this time, friend," the now gunner growled as his paws rested on the holding bar, the fingers of his left hand on the firing trigger lever and his eye to the rear sighting ring.
The plane came straight in and when he estimated it was about 600 yards away those fingers squeezed backwards and the gun rumbled to life. The barrel recoiled backwards, the fired shell casing ejected, then, as it sprung forward again, a fresh round was stripped out of the ammo drum to replace the fired one and then fired in its own turn. The fire rate was about five rounds per second with each fifth one being a tracer. Having had unopposed passes the previous times, the enemy pilot was caught by surprise. In about two seconds, the gunner had his weapon homed in and several rounds ripped into the attacking plane, two of them hitting the engine. Too late, the pilot fired his machineguns and cannon just before another hit chopped into his right side wing root and tore that wing off. The plane slammed into the water to do a couple of cartwheel flips then stopped.
"One!" the gunner yelled, savagely.
He didn't wait long for his next "customer"; a fixed landing gear dive bomber low down and heading straight in. A dive bomber coming in this low meant only one thing.
"Suicider," the seaman thought as he lined up his gun.
This time he began firing when the plane reached 900 yards away. Once more, the gun recoiled and shook as it spat out its stream of 3.5 ounce HEI (High Explosive Incendiary) projectiles. The tracers lit the path of fire and he lowered the elevation just a little. Past training told him that the non-tracers flew a little higher than the tracers did. Though the enemy pilot saw the rounds coming at him he did nothing to evade.
"Not going to make me work for my pay, are you."
One wing was hit and a thin stream of fire trailed from it. Then, the incredible happened; one round hit the front windshield and took the pilot's head off. The bomber, 550-pound bomb slung under its belly, slammed into the water where the already armed bomb, then, exploded.
"Two!"
Suspecting that the ammo drum was close to being used up, he quickly switched to the other gun. There was no time to switch in a fresh drum as he could already see at least two more approaching aircraft. After raising the platform there, he set himself in place. At 1000 yards range, he selected the nearer one and his left hand digits pulled the trigger lever. This one played it cagy, once they knew they were under fire he jinked and jerked about, making it difficult to get a real bead on him.
"Going to make me work, huh," growled a voice that he hardly recognized as his own.
The second plane put some distance between itself and his brethren. Unlike his friend he was not doing any maneuvering. A couple of seconds later, the gunner suddenly switched to the other plane. Now in close, the target change took the second flyer by surprise. Three or four rounds shredded his left wing and put the plane into a spin that ended with it hitting the water so hard that it shattered as if it were made of glass. Switching back to the other attacker, the sailor knew there wasn't anything he could do. The plane smashed itself into the port side bow. The whole ship shuddered a little and that was it.
"The enemy planes, especially their fighters, don't have the mass, weight, plus structural strength, to do as much damage to a vessel as a bomb will," came a remembered briefing.
No time for anything more, there was a twin engine plane coming in high, looking to dive down on the decks. Elevating his gun, the crewman fired, and the gun went silent after punching out a few rounds.
"DAMN!" he literally screamed in frustration.
By the time he got the drum changed…
Hands, with their accompanying arms, appeared, grabbed the empty drum, and removed it. A new drum came in and was set in place.
"Gun it!" yelled his new companion.
A yank of the trigger, the open bolt slammed shut, and the gun roared to life again. As predicted, the Diyna went into a dive. Seeing the path, the gun mammal placed his line of fire at a point where the plane would fly through the bullet stream. One or more hits tore into the right side engine and it, and the wing, flamed up immediately. The pilot wasn't up to compensating for the sudden added drag induced on that side and rather than hitting the ship, he went down in the water on the starboard side. Eyes scanning from horizon to sky spotted a couple of possible threats but they weren't coming in…yet.
"Other gun is loaded!" yells his helper as he switched out the partly used drum for a full one.
"Thanks!"
A quick look to the right and he saw that his loader was a deer stag. He was a petty officer and the symbol in his rank patch drew an ironic grin.
"Shoot, ain't we a pair!" he said aloud.
"Shut up and shoot, deadeye!" said the stag as he pointed outwards.
Two more planes. Torpedo bombers.
"That ain't happenin' again!" he literally snarled.
The stag was on the talker, relaying the info on the incoming planes. Then, the sound of a couple of the 40 mm dual Bofors guns firing. Black puffs appeared behind the pair of planes.
"About damned time!"
Still, whomever was handling them was having trouble getting the lead right.
"Guys doing what they can. Not much but a lot better than nothing!" thought the gunner as he watched the torp. planes' approach.
Figuring they were at 1200 yards, he began firing. It would take the rounds a little over a second to get to the 1000-yard mark and by that time the planes would be in the trajectory envelope. From forward of his position, he heard other Oerlikons open up. The attacking planes had the unfortunate need to fly straight and level until they made their drops. While the Lance torpedos had ranges up to 3000 yards, the drops needed to be made at 1000 to 800 yards to have any real chance of hitting a ship under way. Closer than 600 yards and the weapon wouldn't have time to arm itself.
"You poor, brave bastards," he thought as he followed the one that had the less fire on it.
He "walked" the bullet stream up and down some and was, at last, rewarded with smoke belching from the engine. Losing power, the pilot made his drop, then crashed into the sea. As he shifted to the second plane one of the Bofors got in a solid hit and the plane exploded into aluminum confetti. He heard his loader call in the torpedo drop and felt the ship already surging as flank speed was laid on and a turn to port executed. The "fish" passed somewhere aft, then there was a thunderous explosion as the warhead was detonated by the turbulence of the ship's wake.
"Forty degrees high!" called the stag as he switched out the drum.
He'd already seen that one, brought the gun up and waited for the range to be right. This one was going for speed. The gallery's other gun opened up; someone was on it, at last. Their stream of fire was passing behind the plane.
"Lead him, dammit! Lead him!" he heard himself screaming as he commenced firing.
Unlike the torpedo planes, this pilot had room to do some maneuvering and jinking about. Still, in order to hit his intended target, he had some limits. The gunner began doing something odd; he moved his line of fire around in a circular spiral. As the plane neared, he saw a bomb under its belly. Then, the fighter shifted his angle some and it looked like it was coming straight for the gallery. Flashes winked from the upper engine cowling and from places on each wing. There was the sound of high velocity metal banging on the metal all around him. The other gun went silent and there was a sudden sharp pain, a series of them, actually, along his right side. Grimly, he ignored it, sight locked onto his prey. Pieces flew off the aircraft as the 20 mm's found their marks. At some 300 yards a great gush of flame erupted from the left wing that was immediately followed by that wing tearing off and the plane plunged into the sea a scant 50 to 60 yards away. The bomb exploded in the water. The resulting pressure wave rattled the cruiser but that was all. A sweeping scan of the skies showed no other threats.
"For now," he mumbled.
A strange weakness took hold and, if not for the belt, he would have dropped to the deck. Then, that belt was loosened and removed and he did just that. The stag appeared in view. His hands opened up the gunner's life jacket and shirt and then the deer cut away the under shirt.
"You're done for the day, friend. For a second there, I thought we both were," he said in a tone of awed respect as he taped medical sponges along the gunner's bloody right side then wrapped yards of gauze around the wounded shooter's torso.
Four weeks later at Pearl Cove, Havvaii:
Everyone was dressed in their best for the awards ceremony. All but two of those had already been presented. Then, it was time for them as well.
"Petty Officer Third Class Gregory H. Williams, step forward!"
A deer stag marched forward to stop in front of the presenting admiral and brought up his right hand in salute. It was returned and then both dropped their hands back to their sides. The admiral was a hard looking cape buffalo. He held out his hand to a yeoman who then handed him a paper. He brought it up and began reading.
"Citation to accompany the award of the Silver Star for conspicuous gallantry in the face of enemy fire. On Nov. 16, 1944, Petty Officer Williams rendered assistance to a number of personnel injured in an enemy air attack on the USS Quincy. In doing so, he exposed himself to enemy machinegun and cannon fire during a number of strafing attacks done on the ship. He, then, went to one of the ship's gun galleries and acted as loader and pointer for the seaman working that gun. Also, he passed information on incoming enemy aircraft. His call in of an incoming torpedo enabled the ship to maneuver out of its path. After the battle, he continued to render medical assistance even though he had sustained injury during the last attack on the ship. Corpman Williams' actions reflect credit upon himself, the Navy, and the Federated States."
The admiral handed to award sheet back to the yeoman, then picked up the medal from the felt bed it rested on. Turning back to the stag, he then pinned it onto his uniform blouse.
"Congratulations, Corpman!" said the buffalo.
"Thank you, Sir!"
Again, the pair traded salutes and Williams was dismissed and he returned to the line of other awardees.
"Petty Officer Third Class Nicholas P. Wilde, step forward!"
A red fox, barely four feet tall, broke out of the line, marched briskly to the place before the admiral, and halted. At attention, he and his superior traded salutes.
"Citation to accompany the award of the Navy Cross for extraordinary heroism in the face of enemy fire. On Nov. 16, 1944, Petty Officer Wilde, already injured from a torpedo hit on his ship, took control of a 20 mm gun and, in the continuance of the battle, singlehandedly shot down six attacking enemy aircraft. In so doing, he was exposed repeatedly to enemy fire and refused to take cover while firing on an enemy Kamikaze confirmed to be armed with a 550-pound bomb until he destroyed it. Thus, did he save his ship and shipmates from further terrible damage. In that last action, he sustained additional shrapnel injuries from enemy 20 mm cannon fire. Petty Officer Wilde's actions in the face of the enemy reflect credit upon himself, the Navy, and the Federated States!"
After returning the paper to the yeoman, the Admiral picked up the last medal from its place on the velvet bed and pinned it to the fox's blouse.
"Congratulations, Gunner's Mate Wilde," he said.
"Thank you, sir!"
Salutes were traded and the fox was dismissed to resume his place in the line.
"Ladies and gentlemammals, this concludes the ceremony. All hands are dismissed!" the Admiral stated.
The line of awardees broke up and many went to meet family and mates. Nick was met by a grey furred purpled eyed rabbit doe and a black fleeced blue eyed sheep ewe. Both hugged and nuzzled their beloved tod. Gregory waited for the trio to finish with their happy greetings and then went up to them. There was no need for Nick to make any introductions as his mates had already met the stag and gotten to know him during the two weeks between the ship's docking and this ceremony. They had invited him into their home and, tired of both ship's quarters and the barracks (he was a bachelor) the accommodations were a sight better there, though he did know when to make himself scarce so the three could have their private, intimate time together. To be frank, he was more than a little envious of the tod's relationship with his prey mates.
"How the hell did you get so lucky to mate up with those two?" he had asked once during some beer time.
"That's something best left to them to explain," the fox had said with a soft, almost goofy, look on his face. "What I will say is that, once they set their hats for me, I never had a chance."
"Your new rank and classification look good on you, Nick," Greg said. "Not to mention the 'fluff' you have on both of your arms."
"If you're that envious, I'm sure Judy and Sharla can match make you to someone," Nick suggested.
"I'll pass on that, for now," the stag replied.
The four moved off, heading out to celebrate. A memory kicked up and a smile came to the deer's face.
"What are you thinking?" asked Nick.
"Oh, about what you said back at the gun gallery."
The fox thought for a second, then…
"My 'ain't we a pair!' comment?"
"That's the one; me a medic and you a storeskeeper, working a gun mount," said the stag. "Heck, you had the training, the knack, and the 'eye', why didn't they have you on the guns already?"
"I think you can figure that one out," the fox replied.
"Yeah, I can. Still, the Captain pretty much bent over backwards to get you reclassified. Understandable, considering we're going to run into stiffer opposition as we get closer to the enemy's homeland."
"Enough war talk, you two. Today we have time together and we suggest that we enjoy the lighter, happier side of things for the time being," Judy said.
And they went off to do just that.