Dive Beneath the Sun

by R. Cameron Cooke

  “Go on.”

  “I just saw a sailor roughing up Greenberg back in the after torpedo room. The poor man’s got a severe head wound – he’s not even conscious, for crying out loud – and this bastard is slapping him around. I put a stop to it, of course, but what more does Greenberg have to suffer before he gets back home? I mean, the guy bails out of a burning plane only to get his skull caved in on a sub, and now he’s got members of the crew knocking him around when he can’t fight back.”

  “Bailed out?” Keane said somewhat perplexedly, then shook his head and demanded. “Who was it? Who was the sailor abusing Greenberg?”

  “I didn’t get his name, sir,” Trott lied, not wishing to get a reputation on board for being one of those officers.

  “I see.” Keane’s tone indicated he was fully aware of Trott’s dishonesty. “Was Greenberg injured?”

  “No more than he was before, as near as I could tell, sir. But that’s not the point. The point is…” Trott hesitated, then continued more affably. “Now don’t get me wrong here, Captain, I really appreciate what you’ve done for Greenberg and me and all the other airdales you’ve picked up before. But the point is, there are some folks in the crew that seem to resent our being here. No, it’s more than that. It’s downright hatred. It’s hostility. Obviously, you and the officers and chiefs and most of the crew have been swell, nothing but accommodating since the moment I stepped aboard, sir. But, I’ve run across a few sailors who look at me like I’m something they threw in the trash last Thursday, like I’m some filthy piece of –”

  “Was it Clark?” Keane interrupted. “Was that who harassed Greenberg?”

  Trott sat up straight, but did not reply. He still did not wish to rat on the radioman, but a nod from Keane told him his reaction had already given it away.

  “It’s not just Clark, Captain. It’s several others, too. They’ve treated me with a blatant disrespect that goes beyond the usual rivalry between submariners and pilots. I wasn’t going to say anything. I mean, it’s only a couple weeks to Midway, and I can handle anything for a couple of weeks, right? But, when I see one of our rear-seaters getting worked over like I just did, I figure I’ve got to say something. Somebody’s got to put a stop to it. There’s a bad culture, or something, running through this boat. There’s got to be a reason for it. Am I right, sir?”

  Keane stared at him for a few long seconds as if he were contemplating whether or not to respond.

  “There is a reason for it, Frank,” Keane finally answered, his face suddenly grave. “It’s not a good reason.”

  Keane then stood and pushed aside the curtain door. After checking the passage in both directions, he drew it shut again.

  “Listen, Frank,” Keane said in a lower tone. “I didn’t plan on telling you any of this, but I’m afraid this bad behavior by a few of my men is forcing my hand. There’s something you need to know.”

  Trott was surprised at Keane’s sudden seriousness. He had thought this was simply a case of a few bad eggs running amok on an undisciplined ship, but on second consideration he should have known better. He had seen how Keane and his men behaved in combat, with water pouring in and depth charges falling like hail. If the experiences of the past forty-eight hours had not been enough to convince him that this crew was above par, the arrangement of two dozen ship silhouettes embroidered on a flag prominently displayed in the crew’s mess certainly should have. They had faced death to save him. This submarine was not a boatful of misfits. It was a crack unit, the crème de le crème of the submarine fleet.

  “I’m not sure what other members of the crew may have told you,” Keane continued. “So I’m just going to tell you the whole thing. But let me start off by saying that Radioman Clark is one of my best sailors. I would trust him, or any other member of this crew with my life. Heaven knows, I have, on many occasions. Right now, Clark and several of the others are going through a process that I’m sure you as a bomber pilot have experienced many times. You see, we lost a shipmate on this patrol, about three weeks back. The loss is still too fresh for many of them.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Trott said in the most sympathetic way he could, still not convinced that excused Clark’s behavior. This was war. Lots of commands suffered losses. In the last year alone, Trott’s own squadron had lost nine men to enemy action, and five more to accidents.

  “Martinez – that was his name,” Keane said. “He was especially well-liked among the crew. One of those indispensable types, a good sailor who would volunteer for anything and was always reliable. When the chips were down, Martinez picked up the others, always had a smile on his face, no matter what we faced, whether in port or on the eighth week of patrol. When Clark was new on board, having a tough time adjusting to submarine life, Martinez stepped up and took him under his wing, like a big brother of sorts. Helped him cope.”

  While Keane’s story was very enlightening, Trott could not imagine why he was telling him all of this. It certainly was no excuse for Clark’s behavior or that of the others. “Don’t take this in the wrong way, sir. I mean, I’m sorry about Martinez and all. But what has this got to do with – “

  “I’m getting to that,” Keane interrupted, a tinge of irritation in his tone. “Three weeks ago, when we pulled Greenberg out of the water off Palau, the whole rescue transpired very much like yours did. The plane was going to sink at any moment, but a Jap shore battery started lobbing shells at it. They were trying to sink it before we could get to it. We could see both Greenberg and the pilot still in the cockpit, and both were still moving, so I made the decision to go in. I ordered the deck gun manned to exchange fire with the shore battery and hopefully distract them while the air crew got out of the plane.”

  “Wait a minute, Captain,” Trott said in bewilderment. “Greenberg’s plane didn’t ditch. He bailed out. That’s what he told me.”

  “Well, that’s not what happened,” Keane said bluntly. “They ditched, and both were still in the plane when we got there.”

  “But, why would he lie to me?”

  “I think you’ll understand why, once you know what happened,” Keane said. “We were under fire the whole time, but we managed to reach the plane without taking any hits. The pilot had done a good job of putting her down. She was, for the most part, intact. As we got closer, it became clear that Greenberg was in a panic. He threw open the canopy and jumped into the water, ranting and raving as he swam to us. He was so frantic that we had a tough time pulling him aboard.

  Trott was almost afraid to ask, but he did anyway. “What about the pilot?”

  Keane shook his head solemnly. “He didn’t make it. The canopy must have been jammed, or he was too badly injured to open it. We could see him struggling, but he never made it out. The plane sank with him still in it.”

  “And Greenberg never tried to help him?”

  “No.”

  “Damn.” The reason for Greenberg’s lie was now clear to Trott, though there was no excusing it. Undoubtedly, Greenberg had been trying to change the real story to cover up the fact that he had left Lieutenant Jacoby to drown in a sinking plane. “The son of a bitch panicked!” Trott exclaimed.

  “Yeah, probably.” Keane concurred. “But, there’s more, Frank. I mentioned Martinez was a first rate guy. Well, Martinez was part of the deck gun crew – a loader, just like Clark. Both were up on deck that day when all of this happened. What does Martinez do when he sees the pilot in trouble? He jumps overboard and swims out to the plane to try to help the pilot. No one ordered him to do it. He did it all on his own initiative, completely ignoring my calls and those of the gun crew for him to return to the ship. Anyway, he made it to the plane, and tried working the canopy loose, but he couldn’t seem to get it open. He was still fighting with it when the plane sank out of sight. He went down with it. Either, he never gave up trying, or he got caught up in the suction forces and couldn’t get back to the surface. Either way, we never saw him again. The ship was in danger, and I couldn’t
risk searching for him further, so I turned her around and got out of there. I could hear Clark very audibly protesting that order before the Cob quickly silenced him and sent him below.”

  “So, he blames Greenberg for Martinez’s death?” Trott concluded out loud. “Clark blames Greenberg.”

  Keane nodded. “I would put my bets on that. I don’t know why he and the others are taking it out on you, too. I don’t know, maybe they associate you with Greenberg just because you’re an airdale. I’ve even overheard some grumbling about me not searching longer for Martinez, but that’s normal. I expect that kind of thing, especially this late in the patrol. This animosity towards Greenberg and you, on the other hand, is in another category. It’s completely unacceptable, and you have my word, Frank, it will not happen again.”

  Trott did not know what to say. Now, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted Clark and the others to be disciplined. He could understand the anger, and the hostility. In Clark’s shoes, he might have done the same thing. Even he felt like punching Greenberg for lying to him, not to mention losing his head when he could have potentially saved Jacoby.

  “Go easy on him,” Keane said, as if reading his thoughts. “We ask these kids to deal with situations, on a daily basis, that most people never have to face in a lifetime.”

  Trott said nothing. He had never had any patience for dead weight or shirkers. Those picked to fly in naval aircraft had to undergo extensive training. They were trained not to panic as Greenberg had.

  “I’ll have to put the whole story in my report when I get back to my squadron,” Trott said. “I’m guessing you hadn’t planned on including that information in your own report?”

  Keane shrugged. “Probably not. We lost a man attempting to save a plane crew. One air crewman was rescued, the other perished at sea. Something like that. I’m not sure the rest of the story matters.”

  “It matters, Captain,” Trott said sharply. “It matters to the next pilot who takes Greenberg up with him. Who knows when the bastard might panic again? Maybe someday when it counts. Maybe when there’s a Zeke on their tail and it’s up to him to fight it off? It matters alright.”

  “Every situation is different,” Keane ventured. “Judging from his current state, Greenberg probably won’t ever climb into another aircraft. Hell, by the time he comes around, he probably won’t even remember anything, assuming he ever does come around. Is it worth running a man’s life through the wringer? What purpose does it serve to burden him with guilt for the rest of his life? Can any one of us say we called it right every time? Maybe I shouldn’t have risked my boat and her eighty-man crew to save you and Greenberg. If one of those Jap shells had sunk us, ComSubPac would have disowned me and labeled me as reckless. Now, when we get back to Midway, I’ll get a hero’s welcome with cameras flashing and the press corps stepping over one another to get a statement. I wasn’t in that plane. I don’t know what Greenberg was thinking, so I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I assume you’ve flown a lot of missions, Frank. Am I right? Can you say you flew every one of them and never made a bad call?”

  The thought of Louie, his own rear-gunner, dying because Trott had decided to make a risky second run on the target came to the forefront of Trott’s thoughts. The squadron’s flight plan had not accommodated a second pass over the target. Trott had decided to take that risk all on his own, and that decision had sealed Louie’s fate, and might have sealed the fates of the Wolffish’s crew as well.

  At that moment there was a knock on the passage bulkhead and a sailor poked his head into the room bearing a clipboard.

  “Pardon the intrusion, Captain,” the sailor said.

  “What is it, Lutz?”

  “This just came down off the Fox broadcast. Lieutenant Nash decoded it.” Lutz paused before adding, “Is has our number, sir. Top priority.”

  Keane took the clipboard and sat up in his chair to scan the message. His expression changed many times as he read it. When he finished, he let out a long sigh. “Tell Mister Nash to go up and relieve Mister Ficarelli, will you, Lutz? I need to see the XO in the wardroom as soon as possible.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Lutz replied before heading off down the passage.

  Keane looked at Trott. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Frank, but your reunion with your squadron is going to have to wait just a little while longer. We have new tasking. And I’ve got a feeling, the boys aren’t going to be happy about this one.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  “Battle stations manned, Captain!”

  “Very well. Up scope!” Keane met the periscope at the deck it rose out of the dark well. Slapping down the handles, he pressed his face to the eyepiece. In the few moments that he waited for the water to stream off the lens, he thought of what he expected to see in the stormy world above – a single freighter and an escort, the same two ships the Wolffish had been tracking on the surface all morning and into the afternoon. Only the stacks and masts of the two Japanese ships had been visible for most of that time, tiny sticks poking above the indigo horizon, distinct against the backdrop of gray cloud. The day’s chase had not been easy, with drifting squalls periodically obscuring the enemy from view, and swells threatening to expose the Wolffish’s hull to a diligent enemy lookout. Keane and the tracking party had struggled longer than usual to ascertain the enemy’s true course and speed. But, after some effort, they had managed to feed the torpedo data computer enough information to come up with a rough estimation. The Wolffish had then sprinted ahead to a spot along the enemy convoy’s future path, where she now lurked submerged, waiting for her prey.

  The lens began to clear, the blurry shadows beginning to resolve into long gray shapes before another wave slapped the periscope and obscured them from view again. As the lens cleared the second time, the ships materialized into their full forms, and Keane got a good look at their hulls for the first time. He saw exactly what he had expected to see – a small Japanese escort, probably of the Mikura class, followed by a large freighter. They moved slowly from left to right in his field of vision, on a northerly course, driving through the white-capped seas, unknowingly presenting their broad, rust-streaked sides to the Wolffish’s forward torpedo tubes.

  “Watch your depth, diving officer,” he called down the hatch as his eye detected the periscope rising much higher above the waves. The submarine’s long hull was being pulled up by the suction forces near the surface of the agitated seas.

  He heard Alexander’s voice in the control room below issuing sharp orders to the planesmen, and a nail-biting sixty seconds passed before depth control was regained, a full minute that might have proven deadly had an enemy lookout seen the six feet of exposed mast protruding from the waves. It was an understandable mistake, made by even the most experienced diving control parties. Maintaining depth control on a three hundred-foot-long submarine, as she hovered just beneath the surface in a rough sea, was like balancing spinning a basketball on one’s finger in a high wind. There was very little margin between complete control and a total loss of control.

  “Flood two thousand,” Alexander ordered, evidently concluding that the submarine was too light, and that bringing more seawater into the ballast tanks might prevent another such excursion.

  After closely watching the enemy escort for any sign of a reaction, Keane was satisfied that it had not detected the Wolffish, and he swung the periscope back to the merchant vessel. The freighter matched the one described in the tasking order from ComSubPac – a large freighter displaying a distinct red band around its smokestack. The message stated the freighter was to be sunk at all hazards, though no reason was given. Such messages seldom ever contained a reason. The news had not been welcomed by the crew. It had been a long and trying patrol, and the men were more than eager to end it. But Keane and Ficarelli had quickly reverted to their hunter-killer mindsets, more to serve as an example to the others than for any other reason. They had pored over the charts most of the night, contemplating the most likely r
outes the enemy convoy might have taken after departing from Davao. They had quickly narrowed it down to two options. Either the convoy would head out across the vast Philippine Sea, taking the shortest and most direct route to Japan, or it would hug the coast of Mindanao, following the shoreline as it curved westward into the intricate waterways and channels of the Philippine Islands, and, from there, take the South China Sea route, west of the Philippines. The second route was much longer than the first, but it was better protected and would add the prospect of assistance from nearby Japanese airfields.

  Keane and Ficarelli had settled on the former route for two reasons. One, the weather nullified the advantage of the latter route. And two, the former route was much closer to the Wolffish’s own position. Her return course to Midway Island had already placed her northeast of Mindanao, and a quick study of the chart showed that she was in a perfect position to intercept a convoy taking the direct path to Japan. Keane had ordered the lookout doubled, and the submarine had begun searching the tossing seas along the suspected route, every eye straining to pierce the periodic downpours, and both periscopes constantly peering over the horizon.

  And luck had been with them.

  The masts of the Japanese ships had appeared above the southern horizon after only a few hours of searching, and the Wolffish had been tracking them ever since.

  It had almost been too easy, Keane now contemplated, as he studied the unsuspecting enemy ships moving across his field of view, but it was a welcome break. The fortunate encounter had put smiles back on the faces of the crew, who now seemed eager to get this attack over and done with so that they could resume their voyage home.

  “Observation on the freighter!” Keane announced.

  “Ready, Captain,” McCarty reported from the TDC.

  Keane centered the reticle on the freighter’s forward smoke stack. “Bearing, mark.”

  “Three three five.”