Ingram had to clear this up. "You...you did shoot the other two?"
"Right after you zapped Tojo."
"I see."
"I owe you one, Skipper." With a wink, Sunderland scrambled aft and fiddled in the engine compartment.
Ingram rolled to his back, put his hands under his head and watched the boat roll under the stars. What's going on? Who the hell shot that little turd? He eased to his side trying to gather more fat under his ribs.
Four feet away Beardsley snored. Just beyond was Toliver who was becoming known as 'Rover,' i. e. Beardsley's watchdog. Toliver seemed to be with the pilot all the time--helping him walk, helping him feed himself, even helping Beardsley wash clothes. Using a small syringe from Yardley’s medical kit, Toliver irrigated Beardsley's eyes and changed the dressing each day. Ingram wondered if he should say something; maybe a word of appreciation would help lift Toliver from his malaise.
But now, in darkness, it seemed as if Toliver watched him. Then his eyes flicked to the stars when Ingram looked over.
Ingram rolled close. "Ollie," he rasped. "Was that you?"
Toliver watched the stars. "Skipper?"
"You followed us and shot that Jap, didn't you?"
"Better sleep, Skipper. Long day tomorrow."
Ingram moved to yank Toliver's shirt lapel, but Beardsley stirred and began muttering; and his foot brushed Whittaker's head.
Toliver glanced again at Ingram, then wiggled to search for his own fat. He settled back and stared at the stars.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
12 May, 1942
U.S.S. Wolffish (SS 204)
Bohol Sea
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
The depth charges perfectly bracketed the Wolffish just abeam of her forward engine room, each exploding within milliseconds of one another. Döttmer and Lorca were catapulted into the overhead and fell on the radio-shack deck amidst a howling tangle of sweaty arms and legs. Lorca screamed with the others from sheer, unbearable physical pain, not terror as the Japanese destroyer hurled its hell down upon them.
Unbelievable. Only moments before they were on the surface, loping at an easy pace with two engines on propulsion and two on battery charge. The boat pleasantly rolled under a dark, overcast night and, down below in the crew's mess, Doc Gaspar played Artie Shaw records on the ship's recalcitrant portable record player. They were steaming on course 055 degrees true at fifteen knots. The Surigao Straits lay twenty miles off the bow, with the most narrow part of the transit due in an hour and a half. After that, Ronnie planned to clear Dinagat and Hibuson islands by sunrise and be well into the Pacific at cruising depth, complying with a mysterious message received two nights ago ordering them to proceed to Midway at best speed to refuel. A Fremantle-based submarine refueling at Midway? Why? "Not that we don't mind being closer to the States, but what the hell for?" everyone asked.
Döttmer, of course, thought he knew.
He and Lorca were jammed together in the radio shack. With three fingers of his left hand broken, Lorca couldn't articulate all the equipment, so Döttmer had been assigned as backup. The Corregidor refugee was at the radio copying a FOX broadcast when someone shouted "crash dive."
The Wolffish nosed under and, within seconds, a Japanese destroyer dropped a six-depth charge pattern, a preview of fear and terror Döttmer had never imagined.
And now, his heart raced as people screamed about the boat. His stomach was knotted and he kept swallowing, yet he wanted to vomit all at the same time.
A shout echoed from the control room, "Passing three hundred feet. I can't hold her, Sir."
Ensign Gruber yelled, "I said 'blow negative,' goddamn you!"
Döttmer felt his panic well up. He'd always held a rather clinical outlook that fear was contagious and that all one had to do was simply close his eyes and ears to those so afflicted. But this was all around him in three dimensions. He couldn't stop the smell of ozone and scorched flesh from reaching his nostrils. And incredulously, he couldn't stop the warm flood seeping in his crotch. Disgusted, he knew he'd voided his bladder, and no command existed in his consciousness to make it stop. He couldn't even stop his teeth from chattering. With what rational thought remained, he knew Lil' Adolf's incompetence was what scared him the most. Somebody better do something, quick. Like shoot the little bastard and find a diving officer who knew which side was up.
With depth charges raining overhead, Döttmer thought about the chart taped to the nav table and the soundings he'd seen around their last plotted position: 450 fathoms (2,700 feet). And with all the screaming and yelling, Lil' Adolf had let them slide below test depth. At any moment, the Wolffish could implode like a chicken egg run over by a steam roller.
The lights flickered and went out. From the control room pealed shrieks and groans of men calling to God and mother, while others bellowed "shut up!" or, "Gimme that battle lantern."
Get out.
Döttmer reached up and turned the radioroom doorknob. It wouldn't budge. He tried to rise. Döttmer was on the bottom of the pileup with Lorca's thigh draped over his chest. It was wet also. Amidst the clamor, Döttmer had a quick flash of Lorca's slicked-back hair and Hollywood he-man image. The oaf used to strut around showing off his perfectly defined chest and arms. And those stupid tattoos: "Arrivederci Tojo" and "Mother." He even oiled his skin.
And now, the debonair, ex-violin playing, Radioman Second Class Dominic Federico Lorca had peed his pants, just like anyone else.
Total darkness. Ozone. The temperature was easily up to 115 degrees. Screaming men were convinced they were going to die.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
The Wolffish twisted and worried as if clamped in a shark's jaws. Döttmer heard a loud pop, followed by a high-pitched wail and more screams. But something was different. In darkness he felt around. He was on top of the screaming Lorca this time.
Incredible.
With the last pattern, the two had been tossed in the air and had changed positions. Döttmer's buttocks now pinned the radioman's bandaged left hand to the deck. With an impulsive heave, Döttmer rose, making sure his weight bore directly against Lorca's stitched hand. The desired effect was achieved. Lorca screamed.
Get out.
In darkness, Döttmer found his feet and pulled the narrow door with all his might.
CRACK! The damn thing opened! He was free. Except there was no place to go. Fore and aft, it was entirely dark. He sensed someone close by on the linoleum deck. Just then, the man croaked. Vomit splattered on the deck. Forward, someone else whimpered.
Suddenly the aft hatch flew open and a flashlight flooded the passageway.
"Make a hole!" a figure growled from behind the jiggling beam.
Döttmer recognized the voice which rumbled through darkness. It belonged to Lieutenant Sutcliff, the chief engineer.
"Inside," the officer rumbled to Döttmer.
Döttmer slammed the door as Sutcliff lurched by.
Soon, the emergency lights flickered and came on, illuminating the stygian cell called the radioroom. Döttmer reached over and flipped off power switches, taking everything out of "standby." Not that it mattered, he noted. All the indicator lights were dead anyway.
There was a blast of high-pressure air. From the control room, the chief of the boat yelled over the din, "Number one master vent valve is stuck open."
"Four hundred thirty feet," screeched Lil' Adolf.
"Get out of the way. Secure the blow!" yelled Sutcliff.
Ronnie yelled from the conning tower hatch, "Foggy, maneuvering room still doesn't respond. All ahead flank, damnit!"
Sutcliff grabbed a headset and repeated the order. From aft they heard the motors whine louder. The submarine shook and a loose piece of gear clanked and rattled outside the hull.
Döttmer opened the door a crack, seeing the fourteen men in the control room in various stages of shock. All were bare chested and glistening with sweat. Light bulbs had shattered. Broken glas
s littered the deck. And it smelled; someone had defecated. One man sat on the deck holding his head as blood ran freely over his fingers and dripped on the deck. The electrical panel arced loudly and threw sparks.
"Another can's on her way in," yelled Collins, the sonarman. He twirled his range knob. "Nine hundred yards."
Döttmer stepped out of the radio shack into the passageway. Lorca held his arm tenderly, struggled to his feet, and followed to watch. It didn't take long for everyone to realize a destroyer was making a run on them again. Her steam turbines howled louder and louder, and her sonar pinging jumped to an eerie high-pitched interval.
"Shifted to short scale," shouted Collins.
"Collins," barked Ronnie from the conning tower hatch. "Give me a mark when she's at four hundred."
"Aye, aye, Captain," said Collins, wiping his brow.
Behind Döttmer, Lorca stood on his tiptoes and asked, "We still sinking?"
Döttmer searched for the depth gauge. His teeth chattering was worse. He found it hard to form simple words. "Don't know," was all he could manage.
Collins shouted, "Four-hundred yards, Captain!"
"Right full rudder. Starboard back two thirds. Port ahead standard," shouted Ronnie from the conning tower.
"We're sinking through four hundred seventy feet, Captain," Sutcliff called up the ladder.
"Shit!" gasped Ronnie. "Blow safety!"
Three thousand pounds of air pressure blasted into the safety tank, forcing water out and making it almost impossible to hear. Collins whipped off his headphones and had to scream, "She's dropped."
"Hold on everybody," Ronnie yelled as he darted around his conning tower.
"Stern planes jammed," shouted the stern planesman. "No hydraulic power."
"Shift to manual," shouted Sutcliff.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
The four-charge pattern was perhaps a hundred yards astern. At that range the explosions were terrific; the stern jumped up and the boat whipsawed. It would have been terrifying, but after the previous two patterns, the Wolffish's crew looked at one another relieved the charges weren't closer.
Sutcliff asked, "Sternplanes?"
The stern planesman puffed at his wheel. "I have control now, Sir."
Sutcliff shouted to his talker, "Very well. Tell the aft torpedo room to rig up a set of falls on the stern-plane linkage just in case."
Lil' Adolf pointed at the depth gauge and sobbed almost maniacally, "Look! We're going up."
"What?" shouted Ronnie.
Sutcliff yelled up the hatch. "We're rising. Four hundred twenty feet, Sir."
Ronnie squatted at the hatch and looked down into the control room. A pencil clenched between his teeth muffled his voice, "Good. Come left to zero-four-five. All ahead standard." Lieutenant Chance, the executive officer, hovered behind the captain, taking damage assessment reports and speaking into sound-powered phones.
"Foggy. Level off at three hundred feet. Don't let me broach," said Ronnie.
Wham. Wham. Wham. Wham. Wham. Wham.
Collins said, "Pattern was dead aft, about a thousand yards. They must have dropped on datum."
"Three hundred seventy-five feet, Captain," said Sutcliff.
"Very well. Can you hold me at three hundred?" asked Ronnie.
"...uh." from Sutcliff.
"Foggy, damnit!"
"Do my best, Sir. Everything's all screwed up in here."
"Foggy, you don't sound too--"
Collins's hands cupped over his earphones and he sat up. "Rain squall!"
"Where?" from Ronnie, Chance, and Sutcliff simultaneously.
Collins spun his dials and bent close to his oscilloscope. "...er, zero-one-zero relative."
"Helm. Make your course zero-five-five," said Ronnie. "All ahead flank!"
"Captain! We can't run at flank for long. Battery's about had it," said Sutcliff.
"Screw the battery," Ronnie shot back. "We've about had it. Prepare for battle surface. Collins. Can you tell how far?"
Collins shrugged then held his earphone. "Sounds close and getting louder." It was the best Collins could do.
Helmets were passed up to the conning tower. Ronnie put one on and demanded, "What are the Japs doing?"
Collins said, "Deep starboard quarter, Sir. One-seven-five; fifteen hundred yards."
"Periscope depth, Mr. Sutcliff." called Ronnie.
The chief engineer looked up the hatch. His mouth dropped open. The captain hadn't called him by his last name since he'd first stepped aboard. "Aye, aye, Captain." By working with bowplanes, motors and ballast, Sutcliff coaxed the Wolffish to thirty-five feet.
"Collins!" roared the Captain.
Collins jumped but he knew what Ronnie wanted. "Not much louder, Sir. All I can say is it's steady."
"Very well, up periscope," called Ronnie. Soon he cursed softly, then, "...try the attack scope...shit...Mr. Sutcliff?"
"Sir?"
"Periscopes won't rise."
Sutcliff ran to the pump-room hatch, flipped it up, and shined his flashlight inside. "...I'll be a sonofabitch. Captain! Pump room's flooded; damn near waist deep. Must have shorted the periscope hoist motors."
"Well, turn on the damn bilge pump."
"We did. Strainers must be clogged."
"Alright. We go blind, then." Ronnie checked the pitlog repeater (the speed indicator). It was broken, too. A lot of gauges were broken. "We'll wait two more minutes." He clenched his fist. "Go, baby." After a moment he said, "Foggy. How many turns we making?"
Sutcliff got the answer from his talker and said, "Turns for eight knots, Captain. Just about full power. But the batteries have about had it. We'll burn out, soon."
"Can we start engines?" asked Ronnie.
"Main induction is flooded," said Sutcliff. "Gotta drain before restart. Take a few minutes."
"Contacts, Collins?" said Ronnie.
"Just the two cans, aft. Closest one is at about twenty-five-hundred yards," reported Collins.
"Good enough," shouted Ronnie. "Battle surface!"
Air hissed. The Wolffish slowly, mercifully, crept to the surface. Her conning tower broke into the night shedding the water that had camouflaged her from her enemy. Ronnie popped the hatch and charged topside as the Wolffish, with decks awash, gathered way with a fifteen-degree starboard list.
Döttmer stood back as helmeted sailors carrying ammunition and .50-caliber machine guns, charged past and up the ladder to follow Ronnie out the conning tower hatch. Sutcliff dashed aft to start his diesels. This left Gruber standing in the way of the chief of the boat, who shouted at his Sailors trying to organize his control room from chaos.
Number four main engine thundered into life. Almost immediately, the putrid stench in the boat was exchanged with cool, clean, salt air. Döttmer took a deep breath, feeling the wonderful relief as rich, new oxygen hit his system. He put his hands on a rail, savoring the air when number one main engine barked into action. He looked over at Collins just as the sonarman said, “We’re in the squall, now. Japs are three-thousand-yards aft.”
The exec scrambled down the hatch and got Gruber moving. Soon, the low pressure blowers were going, allowing the Wolffish to rise farther out of the water and make better speed. “...I said where’s Lorca?”
Döttmer looked up to see Mr. Chance standing before him. He straightened up. “Sorry, Sir. I think he went aft, looking for Doc Gaspar. Screwed up his hand.”
Chance looked up the conning tower hatch. “Damn. Hall’s topside.” He ran a hand over his face and said, “Look, Radtke. Can you get this out?” He handed Döttmer a penciled message.
It was addressed to COMSUBPAC in five-digit groups. The exec must have used a one-time pad to set it up so quickly. “Can do, Sir.”
“Go! It’s important. Let me know when Pearl acknowledges receipt.”
“Aye aye, Sir.”
Chance slapped on a helmet and dashed up the ladder.
With a look, Döttmer took in the carnage of the con
trol room. Then it hit him. Yes! Here is my opportunity.
He ran in the radioroom, closed the door, and flipped on power switches as he sat. Quickly, he hit the “antenna up” switch, set the transmitter to 15.775 megacycles, slapped on earphones, and tuned his receiver. Without waiting, he tapped out Abwehr-Berlin’s call sign followed by: HECKLE calling BESSON. HECKLE calling BESSON.
He cupped his hands around the earphones. Nothing. Not even a squeal. Maybe the receiver was damaged. Nothing for it but transmit in the blind. He tried once again. HECKLE calling BESSON. IMPERATIVE YOU WARN—
The door whipped open. Lieutenant Chance’s frame filled the entrance. “Any luck?”
“...er no, Sir. But I’m trying.”
“Didn’t think so. Radio antenna trunk is flooded. All the radio and APR antennae insulators topside are fractured. No way you can get out ‘til we rig a wing antenna. Grab a helmet and go help load the deck gun.”
“But—“
“Now, damnit!”
Chance wasn’t satisfied until he watched Döttmer strap on a helmet and head up the crew’s mess escape hatch. Then he turned to deal with Gruber who sat on the stern planesman’s bench, his head in his hands.
* * * * *
Döttmer was on deck for only two minutes when a round from the Japanese destroyer's 4.7-inch gun hit the forward engine room nearly blowing the Wolffish in half. The submarine sank immediately in 404 fathoms of water, taking with her Lieutenant Commander Roland M. Galloway (Ronnie), her Captain; Lieutenant Gordon E. Chance (who had given Döttmer his life by ordering him topside), her Executive Officer: Lieutenant Junior Grade Raleigh T. Sutcliff (Foggy), her engineering officer; and eighty-six other officers and men, including all those evacuated from Corregidor.
Döttmer flailed in the water for two hours amidst the screams and confusion of men fighting for their lives. After a while, their voices drifted off and he sensed he was alone. But as the new day broke, he saw men around him being tossed among the Wolffish's oil slick and wreckage. He would see someone each time he crested a wave. Some signaled, others simply lay back.
The sunrise was a crisp, red-orange and he watched it heave into a cloudless duck-egg blue sky. Soon it climbed over a mountain range on Mindanao, perhaps ten miles to the east. The destroyer was gone, and Döttmer gaped at the sunrise when something thumped him in the back of the neck.
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 37