Read Online Omnibus.The.Sea.Witch.2012 by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Coonts
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us. Cats weren’t designed to operate in typical Pacific rollers in the open sea.
If we couldn’t make Namoia Bay, we needed a sheltered stretch of water to land on, the lee of an island or a lagoon or bay.
There were islands ahead, some big, some small, all covered with inhospitable jungle.
Then there was Buna, on the northern shore of the New Guinea peninsula.
“What about Buna?” I asked Amme and Pottinger, who was standing behind the seats. “Can we make it?”
“The Japs are still in Buna,” Amme said.
“I heard they left,” Pottinger replied.
“I’d hate to get there and find out you heard wrong,” Amme shot back.
So much for Buna.
I had Pottinger sit in the right seat while I took a break to use the head. The interior of the plane was drafty, and when I saw the hull, I knew why. Damage was extensive, apparently from flak and the bomb blasts. Gaping holes, bent plates and stringers … I could look through the holes and see the sun reflecting on the ocean. The air whistling up through the wounds made the hair on the back of my head stand up. When we landed, we’d be lucky if this thing stayed above water long enough for us to get out of it. Hell, we’d be lucky if it stayed in one piece when it hit the water.
As I stood there looking at the damage, feeling the slipstream coming through the holes, I couldn’t help thinking that this adventure was going to cement my reputation as a Jonah with the dive-bomber guys. They were going to put me in the park for the pigeons. Which pissed me off a little, though there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
Varitek’s and Modahl’s corpses lay in the walkway inthe center compartment. I had to walk gingerly to get around. Just seeing them hit me hard. The way it looked, this plane was going to be their coffin. Somehow that seemed appropriate. I had hopes the rest of us could do better, though I was pretty worried.
When I got back to the cockpit I stood behind Amme and Pottinger, who were doing as good a job of wrestling this flying pig southward as I had. Still, they wanted me to take over, so I climbed back in the right seat. Amme suggested the left, but I was used to using the prop and throttle controls with my left hand and the stick with my right, so figured I would be most comfortable with that arrangement.
Someone opened a box or two of C rations, and we ate ravenously. With two guys dead, you think we’d have lost our appetites, but no.
AMME:
We were in a heap of hurt. We were in a shot-up, crippled, hunk-of-junk airplane in the middle of the South Pacific, the most miserable real estate on the planet, and our pilot had never landed a seaplane in his life. Jesus! The other guys pretended that things were going to work out, but I had done the fuel figures, and I knew. We weren’t going to make it, even if this ensign was God’s other son.
I tried to tell the ensign and Pottinger; those two didn’t seem too worried. Officers! They must get a lobotomy with their commission.
Lieutenant Modahl was the very worst. God-damned idiot. The fucking guy thought he was bulletproof and lived it that way … until the Japs got him. Crazy or brave, dead is dead.
The truth is we were all going to end up dead, even me, and I wasn’t brave or crazy.
POTTINGER:
The crackers in the C rations nauseated me. The only gleam of hope in this whole mess was the right engine, which ran like a champ. Not enough gas, this little redheaded fool ensign for a pilot, a damaged hull …
Funny how a man’s life can lead to a mess like this. Just two years ago I was studying Italian art at Yale …
Searchlights! The Japs rigged up searchlights to kill Black Cats. They probably nailed Snyder with them, and miracle of miracles, here came another victim. Those Americans!
Modahl. A braver man never wore shoe leather. I tried not to look at his face as we laid him out in back and covered him with his flight jacket.
In a few hours or days we’d all be as dead as
If we couldn’t make Namoia Bay, we needed a sheltered stretch of water to land on, the lee of an island or a lagoon or bay.
There were islands ahead, some big, some small, all covered with inhospitable jungle.
Then there was Buna, on the northern shore of the New Guinea peninsula.
“What about Buna?” I asked Amme and Pottinger, who was standing behind the seats. “Can we make it?”
“The Japs are still in Buna,” Amme said.
“I heard they left,” Pottinger replied.
“I’d hate to get there and find out you heard wrong,” Amme shot back.
So much for Buna.
I had Pottinger sit in the right seat while I took a break to use the head. The interior of the plane was drafty, and when I saw the hull, I knew why. Damage was extensive, apparently from flak and the bomb blasts. Gaping holes, bent plates and stringers … I could look through the holes and see the sun reflecting on the ocean. The air whistling up through the wounds made the hair on the back of my head stand up. When we landed, we’d be lucky if this thing stayed above water long enough for us to get out of it. Hell, we’d be lucky if it stayed in one piece when it hit the water.
As I stood there looking at the damage, feeling the slipstream coming through the holes, I couldn’t help thinking that this adventure was going to cement my reputation as a Jonah with the dive-bomber guys. They were going to put me in the park for the pigeons. Which pissed me off a little, though there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
Varitek’s and Modahl’s corpses lay in the walkway inthe center compartment. I had to walk gingerly to get around. Just seeing them hit me hard. The way it looked, this plane was going to be their coffin. Somehow that seemed appropriate. I had hopes the rest of us could do better, though I was pretty worried.
When I got back to the cockpit I stood behind Amme and Pottinger, who were doing as good a job of wrestling this flying pig southward as I had. Still, they wanted me to take over, so I climbed back in the right seat. Amme suggested the left, but I was used to using the prop and throttle controls with my left hand and the stick with my right, so figured I would be most comfortable with that arrangement.
Someone opened a box or two of C rations, and we ate ravenously. With two guys dead, you think we’d have lost our appetites, but no.
AMME:
We were in a heap of hurt. We were in a shot-up, crippled, hunk-of-junk airplane in the middle of the South Pacific, the most miserable real estate on the planet, and our pilot had never landed a seaplane in his life. Jesus! The other guys pretended that things were going to work out, but I had done the fuel figures, and I knew. We weren’t going to make it, even if this ensign was God’s other son.
I tried to tell the ensign and Pottinger; those two didn’t seem too worried. Officers! They must get a lobotomy with their commission.
Lieutenant Modahl was the very worst. God-damned idiot. The fucking guy thought he was bulletproof and lived it that way … until the Japs got him. Crazy or brave, dead is dead.
The truth is we were all going to end up dead, even me, and I wasn’t brave or crazy.
POTTINGER:
The crackers in the C rations nauseated me. The only gleam of hope in this whole mess was the right engine, which ran like a champ. Not enough gas, this little redheaded fool ensign for a pilot, a damaged hull …
Funny how a man’s life can lead to a mess like this. Just two years ago I was studying Italian art at Yale …
Searchlights! The Japs rigged up searchlights to kill Black Cats. They probably nailed Snyder with them, and miracle of miracles, here came another victim. Those Americans!
Modahl. A braver man never wore shoe leather. I tried not to look at his face as we laid him out in back and covered him with his flight jacket.
In a few hours or days we’d all be as dead as