Rising Sun

by Robert Conroy

  “That’s about as close as we can get, Lieutenant,” said the corporal in charge.

  A searchlight arced out from the shore and now they could see the enemy boat. The deck gun fired again and another explosion chewed up the American base.

  “We need more range,” Farris shouted. He took a sandbag and shoved it under one side of the base plate. This would lower the angle and maybe increase the range.

  The mortar fired again and the shell landed over the sub. They were within range. The second mortar was similarly fixed and Farris gave the order to fire at will.

  The corporal grimaced. “Just so you know, sir, we’ve only got twenty shells apiece. They’ll all be gone in a couple of minutes.”

  “No point saving them, is there?” Farris said harshly. The corporal agreed.

  The sub located its tormenters and the deck gun fired toward them, the shell exploding just inside the beach line. Farris realized it would take a miracle to hit the sub.

  But miracles do happen and one of the last rounds they fired slammed into the conning tower. The explosion threw one of the deck gunners into the ocean and Farris’s gunners cheered their unlikely achievement. The sub’s skipper had had enough. She turned and headed out to sea but, curiously, wasn’t attempting to dive. Was the water too shallow or—Sweet Jesus, he thought—had they actually done some damage to the bastard?

  A moment later, a dark shape flew low over Farris’s position. Machine-gun bullets and rockets streaked over the water to where they could still see the dark shape of the fleeing Japanese sub. They cheered as a second and a third plane raced in for the kill. The sub was doomed. She had to be too hurt to dive. The planes were shredding her hull with rockets. A bomb landed in the water near her. Then, suddenly, she rolled over on her side and bobbed lifelessly.

  Farris shook himself. It was over. He was shaking and drenched with sweat. He checked his watch. The fight had lasted less than ten minutes. “Stecher, you stay here. I’m going to see what happened at HQ.”

  He grabbed a jeep and raced over. By the time he got there, the fires were out and medics were treating the wounded, who were laid out on the ground. Some of the wounds were horrible and a few men were missing limbs. A trio of ambulances pulled up and men hopped out and started putting the wounded on stretchers. A couple of the wounded were moaning and one man screamed until some hastily injected morphine took over. A row of blanket-covered bodies lay a few yards away.

  He found a wounded Lieutenant Sawyer trying to direct things. Sawyer’s head and left arm were wrapped in bandages. Sawyer looked grateful to see Steve arrive.

  “How bad are things?” Farris asked.

  “Six dead and fourteen wounded. One of the dead is Captain Lytle. I think he caught a Jap shell with his chest. Jesus, what a mess. You were right. He should never have built here.”

  Steve agreed quietly. There was no changing what had been done. Lytle had paid with his life for his stupidity, and killed five others. More than a dozen men were wounded thanks to him. It was a helluva mess.

  Sawyer sat down on a white rock. “You okay?” Farris asked, wondering if the young lieutenant counted himself as one of the fourteen wounded.

  “I’ll be fine. It’s just starting to sink in, that’s all. These wounds are bloody cuts, nothing serious. Medic says I won’t even get stitches to go with my Purple Heart. By the way, Steve, you realize you’re the senior lieutenant. That means you command this fucked-up company until somebody else is assigned.”

  “Aw, shit,” Steve said and sat down on a rock beside him. Sawyer was correct. If by only a few weeks, he was the senior lieutenant. And as to somebody else being assigned, that could take quite a while.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Farris smiled grimly. “Act like I belong, I guess. First, we continue to take care of the wounded, then we arrange to bury the dead. I guess the Thirty-Second Infantry has a cemetery, but I have to admit I never gave it a thought. And right after that, I want what remains of the headquarters moved to a much better, less obvious spot. We will not repeat Lytle’s mistake.”

  * * *

  Sixth Fleet headquarters was in a state of confusion as frantic reports flowed in. So far, at least twenty attacks on American towns and military bases along the coast of California had been reported.

  Once again, Japanese cruisers, destroyers, and submarines had darted in, fired a number of shells at mainly civilian targets and raced away into the night, leaving hundreds dead and wounded and multitudes of fires burning up and down the Pacific shore. The coast of California was in panic and there were reports of several large-scale exoduses from the coastal cities. It appeared that several hundred thousand people were moving inland. Where the people would go, nobody seemed to know.

  It was another reminder of what skillful warriors the Japanese were. At least no battleships or carriers had been involved. These were pinprick raids, although the towns and cities hit were in an understandable state of panic. Dane could just visualize the recriminations, the newspaper headlines, and the angry citizens. Where’s the navy? Where’s the army? Didn’t we have some planes? What the hell are our tax dollars going for?

  Just as important, everyone wanted to know just how the Japanese had managed to get at them with literally hundreds of American planes in the air at all time looking for them. Someone suggested that our patrol patterns had become predictable, which meant the enemy could time them and slip through unnoticed. Another suggestion was that the Jap ships were pretending to be American escorts shepherding dummy convoys.

  However, the Japanese had not gotten away unscathed. At least three destroyers and one cruiser had been sunk, along with a pair of submarines. Sub kills were harder to confirm, but the one just off where Tim’s nephew was stationed was definite. The smoking hulk was still somewhat afloat and experts were trying to tow the thing ashore where it could be examined. A numbers count showed that the Japs had lost the actual battle but won the public relations war.

  A quick phone call had confirmed that Steve had indeed been involved in the fighting, but was safe and that he now commanded the company following the death of his CO.

  Steve had then cheekily invited his uncle and Amanda over for a cookout on the condition that Amanda bring a friend for him. Tim sighed. Didn’t Steve know there was a war on? He replied that he thought it would be a little while before things calmed down enough for him to take another day off. He didn’t tell his nephew that he’d been meeting Amanda each evening, going for walks and dinner, although he was quickly running out of money.

  As predicted, physical contact between them had been minimal. A few kisses were about it. The more he thought about it, the more Tim thought the idea of another cookout on the beach was a splendid idea. Maybe in a week or so things would calm down a little bit.

  * * *

  Wilhelm Braun cheered the news of the Japanese attacks and the subsequent panic that was causing thousands of civilians to head for the hills and perceived safety. However, he was convinced that in a few weeks the panic would wear off and most of the refugees would sheepishly return to their homes. After all, it wasn’t as if the Japanese had won a great victory. They hadn’t, but it was a slap in the face for the arrogant Americans, and Braun loved it.

  He and Krause celebrated the news by getting a little drunk on some cheap American whisky bought in a shabby bar filled with sailors. They couldn’t afford better. They were painfully aware that what had seemed like so much money a while back was proving inadequate for their current and future needs. Their communications with comrades in Mexico had become even more terse and infrequent. Braun and Krause were of the opinion that his superiors in Berlin were disappointed with their results so far, and that they were on their own, at least until they actually accomplished something.

  Braun had begun to think that either getting jobs in a defense plant or actually doing something with Swenson Engineering might become necessary. Working in a plant had its merits. They might have access
to areas that might otherwise be restricted, which could put them in a position to cause damage.

  That lovely thought was quickly crushed when they watched how packages, even mundane items like lunchboxes, were checked by guards admitting workers to their job sites.

  They had discussed assassinating prominent Americans but found the ones they’d like to kill, like Nimitz or DeWitt, too well protected, while civilian targets like Governor Olson or his probable replacement, Earl Warren, were not important enough. The deaths of politicians would not affect the American war effort. There was also the uncomfortable truth that, in order to murder someone with a rifle, the killer had to be within two hundred yards of his target and even closer if he wanted to use a pistol. Using a gun meant a high chance of discovery, capture, and subsequent death, which neither man wanted. Nor could they figure out a way to get a bomb anywhere near a human target.

  Reluctantly they considered robbery as a means of funding their operations, but that carried its own inherent dangers. They might be recognized, or they might leave clues that local and federal police might follow. They were soldiers, not professional criminals, and might easily make mistakes.

  A final alternative was gradually becoming the most attractive, at least to Krause. They would do as much damage as they could with the resources that remained. When these ran out, they would simply abandon their base in San Diego and head into the American heartland where, they hoped, they could disappear, picking up new identities and living quietly until Germany won the war. Braun balked at the thought. He admitted it might someday become necessary, but was convinced that they still a duty to perform and orders to obey.

  They returned to the apartment above the phony engineering company, pleased that they had made a decision.

  Krause sat down heavily on a tattered overstuffed chair in their living room above the shop. “So, what will our target be this time?”

  Braun smiled knowingly. “With the chaos caused by the Japanese bombardments, I believe the Americans will be looking outward, not inward. Thus, I am comfortable with another attempt on their trains. Perhaps this time we’ll get lucky and hit one loaded with people. That will get their attention.”

  Krause nodded agreement and raised his arm in salute. “Heil Hitler,” he said and then added sarcastically, “Heil Japan.”

  Braun shook his head. “Fuck Japan.”

  * * *

  Farris and the other company commanders snapped to attention when the grim little major entered the room. They were in a small office in what had been their battalion’s headquarters. Farris thought in the past tense because he’d heard rumors of big changes afoot.

  The major nodded. “At ease and be seated, gentlemen. I am Major George Baylor and I’m fresh from the Thirty-Second Infantry. I will be this battalion’s commanding officer. Major Harmer is being reassigned back east.”

  This was said with a half smirk. Harmer had been a good buddy of Captain Lytle’s all the way back in Pennsylvania. When Lytle didn’t feel like drinking alone, he drank with Harmer. In the opinion of many in the unit, Lytle completely dominated the older Harmer. There were other rumors that Harmer owed Lytle money from back in civilian life. Farris felt that many complaints against their late and unlamented company commander were backstopped by his good buddy from back home. At least this Baylor character looked like an officer. Despite a lack of height, he looked fit and trim, and carried himself with what some called a command presence. Farris smiled to himself and wished he could do that. Maybe command presence was something that grew on you.

  Baylor continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors that the battalion is moving; well, they are correct. In a few days we will commence packing up and heading north. The powers that be have decided that the campaign in Alaska is moving in dangerously slow motion and needs to be goosed along. They are also seriously concerned that the Japs in Anchorage may be getting desperate and are going to attack what few troops we have in Fairbanks. They’ve already made a small move part of the way up the road in that direction.”

  Baylor paused to let his comment sink in. “Gentlemen, that means at least six thousand Japs are headed toward an American force that is much smaller and in large part consists of civilian volunteers, along with Negro construction troops. You may not be aware, but there are no roads to Alaska, although one is being built. The engineers have been told to cut out the niceties and just plow through the trees as fast as they can so a line of vehicles, or even troops on foot, can get through before winter shuts everything down. Also, there is no rail line up there, and sending troops by ship is an obvious no-no what with the Japs controlling the ocean. And while there is an airfield up there, it is small and jammed with planes bringing in supplies for the troops who are already there, along with other support personnel who can expand the little base.

  “That means we go by truck as far as we can and then we walk. Maybe that will give us a chance to improve on our recon skills which I understand are nonexistent. That doesn’t matter to the army. We are listed as recon and as recon we will go and as recon we will fight. Any question?”

  Farris raised his hand. “Yeah, Major, when do we leave?”

  “Two to three weeks, which will give you some time to get your men in shape and learn some basic combat skills.”

  “What about our current tasks, like patrolling the beaches and walking the tracks?” inquired another company commander.

  “If you can work it into your training schedule, do it. Otherwise I don’t think we can get too worked up about Japanese invaders. Saboteurs are another problem, and I’m not pleased that we’re cutting back on those patrols. Try to find some way to combine the two if you can. Smaller patrols works well for me. Any further questions? Good. Go back and give your units the good word. Farris, stay here. I want to talk to you.”

  Steve waited impatiently while the other two company commanders, both first lieutenants, walked out. One glanced at him with what looked like pity. When they were gone, Baylor invited him to sit down.

  “You’ve done better than well, Lieutenant, which is why I’m keeping you on as commander of A Company. We’ll get you a bump to first lieutenant to give you some credibility with the others, but I am impressed with the way you handled that burning tanker, and the shelling of Lytle’s HQ. I’ve read your reports and memos. Lytle forwarded them on to the division, probably hoping we’d use them to replace you because he thought you were such a pain in the ass. Fact was, we were going to replace him. We knew he was an incompetent lush, but we had other more important things on our plate. Sadly, we didn’t do it soon enough and good men died because of that decision.

  “By the way, you were the only officer in the battalion who tried to do anything about this miserable state of affairs. All the others were quite happy to let things slide along. I will be riding a few people’s asses real hard to see who’s good and who isn’t, but I don’t think I’ll have to worry about you. Now, who do you want for a first sergeant, since that person was wounded?”

  “Easy, sir, Stecher.”

  Baylor made a note. “No surprise. Stecher’s short a stripe but we can take care of that, and it’s going to strip your old platoon of leaders, but I’ll juggle some bodies and make it work. Got any questions?”

  Farris grinned. “No, sir.”

  Baylor smiled grimly and held out his hand. “Oh, but you will, Lieutenant, you will.”

  * * *

  Once more unto the breach, thought Braun. Once again they were lying in wait for a train to come rolling by. Nor did it bother him that he was quoting Shakespeare. Even though he was English, the Bard was one of Braun’s favorite writers. Also, he wasn’t Jewish like so many so-called artists were, even the long dead ones.

  According to the schedule, a passenger train from the town of Riverside would be along in half an hour. It was getting dark, which made their chances of success good in Braun’s opinion. Also helping them was the obvious fact that fewer Americans were patrolling the rails since
the Japanese attack on the coast. If he saw someone, he would make a short piercing whistle, which would freeze Krause in place. Two and everything was all clear. Three meant run like hell.

  Braun kept a careful watch as Krause crawled along the embankment with the explosives and detonator. He smiled. It was good to have Krause around to do the shit work. He was getting too old for that nonsense.

  Since he knew where to look, he was able to follow Krause in the dark as he laid the explosives. Done, and the sergeant began to crawl back to Braun. In the distance they heard the sound of a train.

  Once he got back, Krause grinned, his teeth white in the dark. “Damned thing is early. Less time to be discovered, eh?”

  Braun agreed. They waited expectantly as the sound of the train drew closer. A few moments later, they could see the single bright eye of the light on the locomotive. Sooner than expected, the train, obviously speeding, was on them. Braun counted twelve passenger cars and he hoped they were all crammed with people and not running empty.

  The train was going so fast that the locomotive had almost made it across the detonator before it went off, separating the locomotive from the coal car. The locomotive miraculously stayed on the tracks, while all the cars behind flew down the embankment and landed in a screeching, dusty, smoking jumble. The sound of tearing metal and breaking wood was quickly punctuated by the screams of injured and dying passengers.

  All of the cars had toppled on their sides and one had flown on top of another in a ghastly pileup. People were scrambling out of doors and windows. The unhurt dragged the injured and laid them on the ground. Some were attempting first aid.

  A success, thought Braun. “Time to go.”

  He and Krause ran to the Ford wagon. As they approached, they saw motion. “Damn,” snarled Krause. Both men drew their weapons.

  Three men were hunched over the back of the car. One had a jack and another held a length of hose. They were going to steal the tires and siphon his gas, leaving them stranded by the scene of a train wreck that they had caused.