Thus, with their speed advantage cut by two knots, Ronnie was unable to complete his "end around" and intercept the Yucatan Maru at sunset. Instead, he had to settle for an eight-thirty attack. Fine, he muttered to himself, while scanning ahead into the Sulu Sea. Down to seventeen knots. Lousy two-knot differential. Instead we chow down at sunset. Spaghetti tonight; everybody with full bellies, hopefully on the ball. Sound GQ at 2015; surface attack with a four-torpedo spread at 2030; scratch eight-thousand tons and start the movie at 2045. Take a light shower at 2230 and into the sack. It's been a long day.
* * * * *
Ronnie was good at informing the crew on the 1MC loudspeaker system, so Döttmer knew the tactical situation by eight-twenty that evening and, although Ronnie hadn't yet sounded GQ, he stood resolutely in the passage way waiting for the general quarters alarm. His vision into the control room was again blocked by Lorca, who stood in the passageway softly talking to Chief Hall in the radio shack.
With the Wolffish still reeling in the quartering sea, men hung on to anything convenient. Döttmer was braced against the galley bulkhead and Lorca, he noticed, held his balance by wrapping his fingers around hatch's "knife edges"; the hatch itself was clipped open by a long, screen window-type hooking device. Tonight, they ran the surface attack from the bridge so the control room crew missed out hearing their captain set up the problem, normally heard from inside the conning tower when submerged.
Kimble, an overweight, redheaded storekeeper, stepped beside Döttmer. "Hey Radtke," the man said.
"Yeah?"
"Unclip the hatch?"
"Yeah." Döttmer had done it before, allowing Kimble, who sometimes tidied up after chow, to hang up dish towels and stow a broom and dust pan. Döttmer flipped up the latch-hook and the hatch sprang out a bit, with Kimble swinging it farther away from the bulkhead. Just then, they heard commotion in the control room and looked up to see a man being handed down from the conning tower. The sailor was semiconscious and blood ran down his face.
Ensign Gruber, acting as diving officer, turned to Döttmer and Lorca, saying, "You two. Bear a hand."
Döttmer rushed forward, and with three other men, helped to ease the man down the hatch and onto the deck.
Chief Hall bellowed, "Take him aft and lay him on a table. Call the doc."
"What happened?" groaned Lorca, lifting the man's shoulders.
"Easy with him. He slipped off the periscope platform when they changed lookouts," said Lil' Adolf, dabbing away blood from the sailor's scalp. "May have a busted arm, too. His left."
Döttmer grabbed the man's feet and, with a nod from Lorca, carried the groaning sailor aft through the hatch. They laid him on a table in the mess compartment just as Doc Gaspar, the ship's second class pharmacist's mate, came from back aft and opened his medical bag. He bent over, thumbing away the sailor's hair, examined the scalp wound, and said, "Not too bad. Ten stitches, maybe twelve. Now for the arm."
Lorca drifted back to his place at the radio shack, while Döttmer watched Gaspar gently probe the man's arm. "May have to set this," Gaspar muttered.
Döttmer said, "Is he going to be--"
"Radtke, damnit. I'm talking to you." It was Lil' Adolph, yelling through the hatch.
"Huh?" Döttmer looked up.
"Off and on." Lil' Adolph's moustache bounced up and down as he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "You're posted topside as a replacement."
Döttmer looked at Gaspar who said, "Go on. I got it."
"On my way, Mr. Gruber." Döttmer plunged through the hatch. Lorca stepped aside, with Döttmer zipping past and up the control room ladder. As he did, he noticed the rolling sensation increased as he climbed higher in the submarine. But something nagged at his mind as he sprinted through the conning tower. It was forgotten as he dashed up the ladder and stepped onto the bridge into cool, clear night air.
The rich, fertile odor of Asia told him they were close to land. Two lookouts were perched in the shears and Lieutenant Sampson was on the starboard side of the bridge. Döttmer stepped before Ronnie to report. Realizing he'd forgotten a hat, he didn't salute. "Radtke, Sir."
An agitated Ronnie stood at his Target-Bearing Transmitter. Grabbing a handful of Döttmer's shirt, he pulled him close and pointed to a spot aft on the starboard side of the bridge. "Right there, son. I want you to stand right there and keep constant watch on that Jap reefer as she approaches. You can barely see her masts now. Got it?" He handed over a pair of binoculars.
Döttmer accepted them like they were plated with gold. "Yessir!"
Ronnie leaned over the gyro repeater to check their course. The compass card's red illumination combined with pointed teeth, gave his face a demonic cast. "Let me know if you see anything unusual. Anything at all."
"Yessir!" Radtke walked over, braced himself on the bulwarks, and adjusted his binoculars. He found a clear, sharp horizon and almost immediately spotted the ship's masts, even though she ran without lights. What was it that nagged? What--there. "I have him, Captain," said Döttmer.
"Angle on the bow?" barked Ronnie.
Döttmer remembered what that meant from his Kriegsmarine basic training. But he first had to juggle the translation.
"Damnit. Target angle--you! What's your name?" yelled Ronnie.
"Port zero--" That's it! Kimble hadn't reclipped the hatch! And Lorca had resumed his position stooping at the radioroom door with his fingers wrapped around the hatch "knife edges" to hang on in this seaway. Perfect!
"What the hell was that Sailor?" demanded Ronnie.
"Sorry, Sir. A sneeze, Sir. Angle on the bow; port, zero-one-zero. Opening slightly." And Lorca would deserve it, Döttmer decided. The Italian with the Tojo tattoo was a shitty violin player. And he was from New York. They were about the same age. Maybe he really was one of those who slammed his hand in the door.
Ronnie and Mr. Sampson muttered to one another setting up the attack.
A long, rolling wave pitched the Wolfish to port. Döttmer had to hang on. And yes, Lorca, too, had to hang on. He was left-handed; the one he used in the hatchway now, and the one he used for his typing and deadly accurate telegraphic work. When the seventy-five-pound hatch slammed on Lorca's hand he wouldn't be able to do either and, sadly, he wouldn't be able to finger violin strings for a long time. Maybe never again.
Not even Mahler's 'Fifth.'
* * * * *
Döttmer couldn't believe his luck. After sounding GQ, Ronnie had let him stay on the bridge for the surface attack. He tightened the binoculars’ focus as the dark, glistening Yucatan Maru filled his lenses. She was about a half-mile away, steaming on a course that would take her directly across the Wolffish's bow.
"Range?" snapped Ronnie.
Chance's voice gurgled on the bridge's speaker-microphone, "You won't believe this, Captain. The Squatter has the radar working."
"You're kidding!"
"Range, one-three-two-five." The distance was thirteen hundred and twenty-five yards, a little over a half-mile.
"Sonofabitch," muttered Ronnie as he hunched over his Target Bearing Transmitter. "Wonders never cease. Alright now, stand by for constant observations." He spread his feet a bit for a more comfortable stance and sighted the Maru. "Bearing...Mark!"
"Bearing three-five-zero," said Sampson.
Squeezing his eye tight to the cold rubber eyepiece, Ronnie said, "Range...Mark!"
"Range one-two-five-zero," called Sampson. "One-five seconds to target."
Ronnie's voice was tense as he talked into the speaker-microphone. "Angle on the bow...port nine-zero!"
"Set," said Sampson.
"Fire one!" Ronnie paused two seconds, then shouted, "Fire two!"
Döttmer felt slight thumps, as the Captain fired four torpedoes at two second intervals.
Sampson studied a stopwatch in the pale half-moon, "Perfect setup, Ronnie. Got his ass."
"Damn right." Ronnie checked his own watch in the pale light of a half moon. After thirty seconds, his face turn
ed from gleeful anticipation to abject disappointment.
Sampson reset the timer and pocketed the timepiece. "Shit."
"They couldn't have all missed," gasped Ronnie.
Gott! Döttmer's heart froze. He was surprised when his voice came out in a squeal, "He's turning, Captain. Right toward us!"
They saw a slight flash on the Yucatan Maru's bow and heard a crack. Something whistled overhead and exploded, raising a water column two hundred yards off the port quarter. Another shell zipped from the ship's well deck. Then another from amidships.
Ronnie bellowed, "Reefer my ass. The thing's a damned Q-ship." A Q-ship was a heavily armed ship disguised as a freighter. The Japanese had fitted some with sonar and depth charges. The captain roared, "All ahead flank! Right full rudder! Dive! Dive!"
Ronnie hit the diving klaxon and waited while the bridge crew dove down the hatch, Döttmer first. Air hissed, water gurgled, and more shells screamed overhead, as men plummeted down ladders. Over shouts in the conning tower, Ronnie screamed about his torpedoes--all duds.
The bedlam masked another scream in the control room near the aft bulkhead. The sudden right turn coincided with a pooping wave to cause a twenty-degree port list -- enough to slam the hatch shut and crush four fingers of Radioman Second Class Dominic Federico Lorca's left hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
9 May, 1942
Marinduque Island
Philippines
Ingram stumbled almost losing his balance on the embankment. He took deep breaths, fighting for equilibrium and, in the darkness, barely discerned formless shapes. Blinking several times, it came to him the shapes were his men crouched beneath enormous vines and towering hardwoods. Closest was Bartholomew, outlined against a backdrop of near-equatorial jungle, where dappled blacks and grays clashed with brilliant spikes of yellow sunlight and infinite shades of early morning greens and oranges.
The chief held a finger to his lips.
"Pheww. Rocky!" rasped Ingram.
"Shhh. Down, Skipper," whispered Bartholomew.
The chief was naked except for his crumpled, salt encrusted hat, kneeling beside the man with the Thompson. Ingram, feeling stupid with his own nakedness, crouched next to Bartholomew. He squinted. Damn! Here were all of his men; and naked, yet. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Shhh!" With irritation, Bartholomew jerked his head toward his right. Through a small space in the jungle's clutter, he saw four Japanese soldiers ghost by, balancing their rifles over their shoulder in the relaxed, careless way a ten-year-old carries a fishing pole to his favorite summer watering hole. One of the Japanese spoke. Their laughter, thirty feet away, echoed through the jungle, making it seem as if they were within steps.
Soon, they were gone. Ingram's eyes darted for two minutes hoping his eyes would adjust. But he couldn't discern the features of those around him.
Someone whistled. Suddenly, the Thompson jerked upright and the man next to Ingram stood. A planter's hat shaded his face as he held out a hand and bowed, "Augustine Vega, Meester Ingram." Vega was a thin mestizo: half Chinese, half Filipino.
Ingram extended a hand, realizing he still grasped the bar of Ivory soap. Shifting the soap, he gave Vega a slimy right. "Todd Ingram, lieutenant, U.S. Navy. Thanks for pulling us out of hot water."
Vega hissed a gold-toothed smile and bowed again, as the other shapes rose from the mottled background.
Holloway crunched through dead leaves and said, "Before we knew it, these guys had the drop on us. They grabbed our stuff and shoved us in the jungle, I swear, in fifteen seconds. And that was two seconds before the Japs showed up. We thought everybody was present and accounted for, not realizing you were auditioning for a Tarzan movie."
Ingram shook Vega's hand harder. "Thanks very much. There'll be no trouble from us. We'll be quiet and shove off at sunset."
Vega grinned and led them to a small clearing where three other armed Filipinos stood before a pile of soggy clothes, canteens, and water tins. Silently the men separated their garments and wiggled into them. The Filipinos were dressed in threadbare khakis long ago washed white and so riddled with holes, they looked as if they had stood before a firing squad. Shoeless, their feet were wide and nimble as bear's paws.
Ingram one-legged it into wet trousers, saying, "Actually, Augustine, er, Mr. Vega, we'd like to stay overnight, maybe two, so we can overhaul our engine. Uh, fresh water is all we need. Maybe a few coconuts to tide us over."
Vega smiled and hissed and bowed. "Welcome to Marinduque, Meester Ingram."
Ingram cocked his head and said, "Thanks again. Er...can you understand me?"
"Welcome to Marinduque, Meester Ingram." Vega nodded several times, as the gold tooth gleamed under his planter's hat, his eyes invisible.
Ingram hadn't thought to ask anyone before they left Corregidor, "Who knows Tagalog?" Tagalog, a Malay-based tongue interlaced with Spanish, was the language on Marinduque.
He received blank stares. "Ilocano, anybody? Jeez, Bikol?" Ingram asked.
They looked at one another and dully shook their heads.
"What intellect, what international citizens," Ingram said. "You guys impress the hell out of me. Look. Does anybody know--" He stopped in mid-sentence. "Whittaker!" His heart raced and he looked back to Vega. "Augustine. We come in boat. My man guard boat."
The brim of Vega's hat dipped as he smiled and bowed with another ceremonious sweep of his hand.
"Banca!" Ingram waved frantically toward the beach. "Our banca. Is okay? My man okay?"
Vega bowed deeply. "Welcome, Meester Ingram. My mans okay, too. Hate the Hapon just like you. We ready fight, you betcha." He patted his Thompson.
"Whittaker." In frustration, Ingram turned to Holloway and DeWitt, the only one armed. "Grab Sunderland and go down there. Watch out for--"
Another man, a Filipino, stepped forward saying with almost no accent, "Your engineer is fine, Lieutenant." Also wearing a simple planter's hat, he was taller than the rest, with broad cheeks, thin lips, a pencil-thin moustache, and dark skin. He wore the ordinary clothing of the others but oddly, was not armed. "We gave him a half chicken and some bananas. I think it was too much. He looked ill after four bites."
"Too rich, probably. He hasn't had a decent meal since last December," said Ingram. "What about the Japs?"
"Oh, Alberto and Fernando disguised your boat." He extended a hand. "My name is Emilio Aguilar, lieutenant. As Augustine said, you are welcome here."
They shook. Ingram said, "Is Whittaker still down there?"
Aguilar whipped off his hat, shaking a mane of thick blue-black hair. "He was busy with the motor. If he stays right there, he'll be fine."
Ingram thought there was hesitation is Aguilar's tone. "Is there something we should know?"
Aguilar pointed. "From that hill, we watched your approach. By the sheerest quirk of fate you missed the Hapon's garrison by just one cove. Another small miracle is that the Hapons are gone for a few days except the ones who evicted you just now."
Bartholomew, Holloway, Dewitt, Toliver, and Beardsley stepped up. Ingram nodded to them and said, "You're kidding."
Aguilar said, "Your bathtub is very popular. The garrison swims there every morning. Sometimes, Hapons travel here from the mainland and stay for the day. They lay down mats and picnic."
"Where's the garrison?" asked DeWitt.
Aguilar nodded over his shoulder, "About three hundred meters that way."
"How big?" shot Bartholomew.
"About ninety, plus a few girls."
"Whores?" asked Holloway.
"They bring their comforts."
"Kempetai?"
"Yes. We are privileged to have the Kempetai. Lieutenant Tuga and Lieutenant Watanabe."
"How many are left over?" asked Ingram.
"An officer and three enlisted, I think. Would you like to see the compound?"
"Please," said Ingram.
With Aguilar leading the way, they walked through the jungle single fi
le. Soon, they trudged up a small hill that rose above the beach. Ingram was out of breath and dizzy by the time they neared the one-hundred-fifty-foot peak. Gasping, he followed Aguilar to a precipice and peered out through thick brush.
Stretched before them were the slate gray waters of Tayabas Bay, with Luzon's mainland fifteen miles to the northeast. Directly east lay Mompog Passage and Santa Cruz Point where Maniuayan and Mompog islands guarded the northern entrance to the Sibuyan Sea.
To Ingram's right was a cove much larger than the one they had ducked into. There was a long pier and motorized patrol-launch. Peaks of thatched Nipa huts rose over the jungle, and the Japanese ensign fluttered in the breeze. A tall radio antennae protruded from another hut. Ingram shuddered, thinking, if it hadn't been for the Zeros they would have cruised within full sight of the men stationed here. "We were very lucky." Ingram said. "How long have they been here?"
"Four months. It used to be a fishing village: San José. The Hapons threw everyone out and took their belongings, including the food."
A breeze rattled through the jungle and curled through Ingram's hair. In the cove the wind was stronger, making the flag stand straight out and the radio antennae bend slightly. Ingram looked up, seeing haze temper the morning's brilliance. "Monsoons here early?"
"Maybe," shrugged Aguilar.
Below shimmered the pool and waterfall, its cascading waters a distant rumble. In the pond's center--the deepest part--the water was an intense green, giving way to sparkling clarity at the edges where it met white, glistening sands. Beyond was the lagoon and the ocean. Ingram picked out a large stack of palm fronds near tall glistening rocks at the water's edge. "Is that our boat?"
Aguilar nodded. "Your engineer is under there with his chicken dish keeping cool."
Ingram waved DeWitt and Holloway over and pointed out the garrison and the launch. The two grimly nodded.
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 31