“Where is he, Soapy?” the young pilot asked through clenched teeth.
“Right on the other side of this cloud, last I saw of him,” replied the radioman-gunner. “He’s a big Jap twin-float bomber ... looks like an Aichi T98.”
“Two 20-mm. cannon and four fixed wing guns,” stated Barry, recalling what he had learned of the T98’s armament. “Unless he gets in some lucky shots our .50-calibers ought to be a match for him. We’re going after that baby, and blast him out of the air!”
The broken clouds opened out suddenly, revealing the two planes flying almost abreast, and barely a stone’s throw apart. They opened fire together. Now it was Rosy O’Grady’s full broadside that came into play—nose, tail and side guns, spitting bullets that could chew chunks out of railroad tracks.
Rows of holes like stitching appeared here and there in the Aichi’s fuselage, but the “greenhouse” of the Jap plane appeared bulletproof. Rosy’s slugs struck it and bounced away at right angles. Inside could be seen the Jap gunners, hunched over their weapons, their faces drawn and tense. Smoke drifted from the hot muzzles of their cannon.
Rosy O’Grady was taking punishment. Her fin and rudder looked like a slice of Swiss cheese. Shell holes gaped in her fuselage. Shell fragments were whizzing about her interior—thin, jagged bits of steel with cutting edges. Every gunner was nicked and bleeding, yet all stuck by their guns.
The Jap was catching plenty of trouble, too. His left hand engine was smoking, and his forward cannon appeared to be damaged or jammed. He made a swift, left hand turn, trying to escape Rosy’s broadside.
Barry saw the Aichi’s play, and countered it. The huge Fortress seemed to pivot inside the Jap’s half circle. The strain of that sudden turn would have broken anything but a fighter or a Fortress in two, but Rosy took it. Her deadly broadside kept hammering the now-frightened Jap.
The Aichi nosed up, disappearing behind a long streak of cloud. The shuddering racket of Rosy’s .50-calibers stopped. Barry Blake wiped the blood off his forehead, where a ricocheting shell fragment had cut him. He winked at Hap Newton, who smiled back despite a sliced cheek.
“Ball turret from pilot,” he said into the interphone. “Watch out for a trick. That Jap might try to dive below us and rip at our belly.... There he goes now!.”