As the Yokaze began to turn, the gunnery officer saw that the turn would place the enemy on the opposite side of the ship. So he ordered the gun mounts to cease firing while the long barrels rotated through one hundred and eighty degrees, from starboard to port. The change in course also freed the anti-aircraft mounts of the choking smoke, and Nagata could see the crews scrambling back into the perches to man them.
The squall would move on, and when it cleared, they would be ready – to either gaze with triumph at the floating remains of a sunken submarine, or to deliver the final death blow.
CHAPTER XXIII
The explosions came in rapid succession, like the angry clap of thunder, jolting the after torpedo room and throwing every man there off his feet or into the bulkhead. Trott had been standing beside Greenberg’s rack when the tumult came, and found himself narrowly avoiding the brunt end of a torpedo rack as he fell backward amongst the other men. Most of the lightbulbs burst instantly, leaving the room in near darkness, while the sound of crashing metal and a faint shriek signaled that a steel locker had jolted free of its bolts and had collapsed to the deck. By the time the battle lanterns began to click on, men were already checking the other lockers, and the other equipment. Several moved to help the torpedoman who had cried out. The hundred-pound locker had landed squarely on the man’s leg, crushing it, and now he lay unconscious on the deck, passed out from the shock of the pain.
“What the hell just hit us?” one man asked.
“That was naval gunfire!” a chief said. “Now, bear a hand and help secure that locker.” The chief strolled down the center of the room, eyeing the state of both the men and the equipment. When he came to the phone man, who had only just managed to get to his feet and replace his fallen headset, he said, “When they call for damage reports, tell them no damage back here. One injured.”
“They’re not asking for damage reports, Chief,” the sailor said after listening to the activity on the circuit for a few seconds. “The control room is trying to call the bridge, but no one’s answering. The conning tower’s not responding either.”
“Shit! They’re probably all dead up there!” the chief said. “The Japs must have hit us. Any reports of flooding?”
The sailor shook his head as another set of explosions rumbled through the water, these much further away than the last, and too far to shake the hull considerably.
A few feet away, Trott listened bleakly, trying to come to terms with the idea that Keane and the rest of the men on the bridge might have been killed. It had happened so suddenly, and without warning. One moment the men around him were cheering as the news that the deck gun had scored a hit on the freighter made its way through the compartments. The next, the world had turned upside down, and now the submarine, all of them, might be without a captain.
Suddenly, Trott realized that he had forgotten about Greenberg, and he began groping his way through the scant lighting back to the injured sailor’s rack, but when he got there, his hand felt into a dark void. The bed was empty. That was not entirely unexpected, since it was very likely the shaking that had thrown Trott nearly halfway down the compartment had likely catapulted the unrestrained Greenberg from his rack. But even after examining the nearby deck plates, crawling on his hands and knees to feel into the dark voids in the outboards, the radioman-gunner was nowhere to be found.
“Greenberg!” he called out to the shadowy shapes that were crowded around the loose locker. “Has anyone seen Greenberg?”
A few heads turned in his direction, but none responded. None registered any knowledge of the missing man’s whereabouts.
“Where the hell is he?” Trott said in frustration. But the words had hardly escaped his mouth when he suddenly realized that he knew the answer. Or, at least he knew Greenberg was not in the after torpedo room. He remembered now, in the confused moments after the explosions, when the room went black, and only the light emanating from the open door at the extreme forward end of the compartment had yielded any visibility. He had seen the figure of a man duck through the doorway into the compartment beyond. Trott had not thought anything of it at that moment. He had been too concerned with determining if the ship was still in one piece, but now as he reflected on that dark outline, he recalled the distinct unnaturally disheveled hair, as if held that way by a bandage wrapped around the temples.
It had been Greenberg! There could be no doubt. He was up and on his feet, and moving about the ship, probably in a confused daze. To wake up from his coma in a darkened compartment with the hull shaking around him must have jumbled his mind beyond comprehension.
Trott stepped over the men in his path, ignoring the curse of those he brushed past in his rush to pursue the man whom he was responsible for. There was no telling what Greenberg might do to himself or to others in his confused state.
“If you’re heading to the control room, Mister Trott,” the chief called after him. “Tell them tube seven is ready to fire!”
Trott nodded, but hardly heard him, too distracted by the thought of where Greenberg was headed, and what the sailor’s baffled state might lead him to do, and he only hoped he could find him before it was too late.
CHAPTER XXIV
Clark opened his eyes to see a trickle of blood running down the rust-stained metal hull. The oozing red liquid mingled with the foaming water below and was washed away with each wave rolled down the side of the ship.
As he lay there, he tried to remember exactly where he was. Moments before, he had been standing behind the five-inch gun, loading one armor-piercing shell after another, setting the safety latch, bracing for each thunderous report, and then standing clear of the recoil. He remembered a spent casing clanging to the deck, and the spray sizzling on the shiny brass, and then stepping up to thrust another shell into the breach. It was at that moment that the sky and sea ripped apart around him, like the mouth of hell opening for the briefest instant. The ensuing pressure wave had pushed him down to the deck with a force that felt like a pallet of bricks had been dropped on him. And there he had lain, face down with his head hanging over the side for who knows how long, with cresting waves periodically slapping him in the face with cold salty water, and it was one of these that had finally revived him.
A shooting pain ran up his left leg whenever he tried to move it, and so he stopped trying. He could tell that he was drenched from head to foot, and a quick lick of his lips told him that at least some of the fluid was blood, though whether it was his or someone else’s, he did not know. Aside from the pain in his leg, and the ringing in his ears, he did not feel that he was seriously injured. He was not light-headed, and his senses seemed to be returning rapidly.
Slowly, he rolled over, and then instantly regretted it. His leg hurt like hell, and he could not tell if it was badly bruised, broken, or worse. After much more pain, he managed to sit up, and he instantly regretted that, too, because it allowed him to see the carnage on the deck all around him.
Moments before, six other men had been working the gun with him. Now, only he remained. A few feet away, near a spot where the wooden deck had been ripped into splinters, two bodies lay mangled, bloody, and unrecognizable. Beyond them, on the cigarette deck, a disfigured body hung upside down, grotesquely impaled on a shaft of broken railing. Clark could not see anyone on the bridge, further forward, but much of it was hidden from where he sat. He imagined they were all dead. The conning tower had been punctured in many places, one large jagged hole clearly marking the spot where an enemy shell had exited before exploding outside the hull.
The damage was bad, by Clark’s reckoning, but, as bad as it was, it did not seem to have affected the Wolffish’s propulsion. The submarine continued on at the same speed as before. The white wake stretching out astern clearly showed that she now veered to the right. Clark was not certain that anyone was at the helm. For all he knew, he was the only one alive aboard a ship full of the dead.
Looking across the wind-swept sea to starboard, he saw the Japanese destroy
er, still burning, still dead in the water, but obviously still a formidable opponent. Flashes rippled along her stern. She had fired again, but this time the shots were not quite as accurate. The shells screamed overhead and Clark saw a cluster of fountains two hundred yards to port, close enough to be alarming, but not close enough to cause any damage. He wondered if the enemy’s aim was being thrown off by the Wolffish’s continuous turn. Regardless, the Japanese gunners would only need to make a minor correction, and then their aim would be deadly once again.
Anticipating the next salvo at any moment, Clark thought about scrambling as fast as his leg would allow for the cover of the conning tower, but then, as he watched, the destroyer began to dissolve into a gray haze. A squall had moved in between the two vessels and was quickly overtaking the Wolffish. Within moments, the destroyer disappeared completely. The rain fell with a sudden ferocity, pattering the wooden deck, rattling against the steel skin, washing away the streaks of blood.
The next salvo passed overhead, but the visibility was too poor for Clark to see where it landed. He prayed the squall would last forever, or at least long enough for the Wolffish to submerge to safety. But, could she dive? Was anyone in control? This moment of reprieve would not last. The squall would soon clear, and the destroyer would see the Wolffish, and like a hungry shark eyes its injured prey, it would train every gun onto the submarine, and blast her into flotsam.
Clark considered that if he went below now, only to find out that the Wolffish was too badly damaged to dive, he would have abandoned the one item in her arsenal that might make a difference. There was no one coming topside to help him, and there was no one on the bridge to give him orders. He was alone, and the decision was his to make.
Then, he remembered the countless training sessions in which his friend and mentor, Martinez, had taught him everything about the five-inch deck gun, how to take care of it, and how to operate it. Martinez had ended every lesson with the same statement. Remember, shipmate, if things ever get hot up here, and you don’t know what to do, just point this thing at the Japs and keep her dancing, and you can’t go wrong.
Mustering some internal resolve that he did not know he had, Clark pulled himself onto his knees. The pain was excruciating, but he did his best to ignore it. He crawled compulsively toward the gun, using his hands on the slippery planks to pull himself along.
Was the gun primed? Yes, it was. He could see that the safety latch was in the armed position. There were no reloads around, and the hatch to the ammunition scuttle was now shut, but that did not matter. He did not have the time nor the strength to carry another fifty-pound shell to the breach. The one shell already loaded would have to do.
Glancing over the gun for signs of damage, he noticed that the hydraulic line leading from the foot pedal trigger was severed. Normally, the gun was fired from the pointer’s seat on the left side of the gun, using that foot pedal. But that was not a major hurdle. He could fire the gun using the manual trigger. His biggest problem was how to aim the weapon, which was still pointed forward for engaging the freighter. Normally, the gun was manned by seven or eight men. At a minimum, it required two – a trainer to rotate the gun, and a pointer to elevate and fire it. These operations were performed from two seats on either side of the weapon that rotated with the entire mount. A crude solution would be to dash back and forth between the two stations, making minute corrections to perfect the aim, but this was not feasible in his present condition, and he knew he did not have that much time. The rain was already starting to slacken.
Faced with few other choices, he began crawling toward the trainer’s seat. At least he could manage to rotate the gun a hundred degrees or so to the right, so that it would be pointing off the starboard quarter, where he expected the destroyer to appear when the rain cleared.
But before he reached the mount, he glimpsed movement near the conning tower. At first, he thought someone had finally come up to help him, but when he turned to look, he was shocked to see a dark figure stumbling out of the rain. The man was thin and appeared disoriented. He looked about the slickened deck as if he had lost something. Then Clark saw the bandage around his head.
Greenberg! What the hell was he doing?
Greenberg seemed to see him at the same moment, and the confused man’s eyes locked onto his with a fervency that indicated he had found what he was looking for. Greenberg raised a lazy arm to point at Clark, and then lurched forward like something that had risen from the grave, wearing the same haunting, open-jawed expression he had worn in his comatose state. But now, those eyes, that had looked so distant and vacant for so long, focused squarely on Clark, as if to bore a hole through him, as if Greenberg had come from the depths of Hell and intended to take Clark back there with him. Clark prepared to defend himself, but he could scarcely manage to turn around before Greenberg was there, kneeling and grasping him by the shoulders.
“Where is Martinez?” Greenberg demanded in a tone that was more sorrowful than threatening. “Where is Martinez?” He said again, like a man swept up in a night terror, unable to see the physical world around him. “Where is he? Did I kill him?”
The question was disturbing, not just from the manner in which it was asked, but because Greenberg had never known Martinez. He had never met him. The two had only crossed paths in the water as Greenberg was rescued and as Martinez swam out to the sinking plane. After a moment of confusion, Clark realized that Greenberg’s delusional state was of his own making. Over the past days, Greenberg’s subconscious mind had heard every one of his endless ramblings about Martinez, and now the brain-damaged man was living out the nightmare that Clark had planted in his head. Clark suddenly felt pity for the poor man – and guilt for what he had done.
“Greenberg!” he said, prying the man’s hands from his shoulder. “Listen to me! Martinez is gone! He’s gone, but we have a job to do!”
“For Martinez?” Greenberg asked confused.
“Yeah,” Clark said, playing along with Greenberg’s perception of reality. “That’s right. For Martinez. We’ve got to turn this gun for Martinez! Can you help me?”
There was bewilderment in Greenberg’s eyes at first, but then something seemed to register, as if the shroud cloaking his troubled mind had lifted for the briefest moment, and he nodded his assent. Clark wasted no time in directing him to the trainer’s seat on the right side of the gun.
“Sit down there,” he said, “and put your hands on the wheels. That’s it. Just like that. Now just wait, and when I give the word, turn those things the way I tell you, right or left. Got it?”
Greenberg looked at the handles absently, but nodded.
Clark quickly groped his way back to the pointer’s station. He tried to ignore a blood-stained boot he discovered on the deck beneath it. In a jolt of screaming pain, he hefted himself into the metal seat and began spinning the elevation mechanism.
“Okay, Greenberg! To the right! To the right! Let’s go!”
It took a few seconds for Greenberg to respond, but soon the gun was moving, painfully slowly it seemed, but it was moving.
“Go, go, go! Keep going, Greenberg!” Clark felt like a cheering section as he shouted encouragement. “Keep going! Don’t stop!”
The barrel steadied on the starboard quarter just as the squall cleared, and the dark shape of the Japanese destroyer materialized four thousand yards away. As Clark centered the destroyer in his sights, he saw that the enemy warship had turned. He was now looking at its port side. The damaged vessel still gushed smoke, but he could clearly see the gray barrels of her rear gun mounts swinging to point in the Wolffish’s direction.
There would only be one chance. One shot.
“A little to the left, Greenberg!” he said. “A little to the left. Good. That’s it! Hold it there!”
Just like Martinez had taught him in dozens of drills, Clark spun the pointer handles to adjust the elevation. It was now or never.
“This one’s for you, Martinez!” Clark then reache
d back behind his shoulder and slammed his hand onto the firing trigger.
CHAPTER XXV
Trott reached the control room to find chaos and stunned crewmen all around. A pall of smoke hung in the air carrying the aroma of burnt insulation. One man lay on the deck, apparently injured, all but his unmoving legs hidden by the backs of the two men attending him. There were no officers in the room, but then Trott heard Alexander’s voice call down from the conning tower hatch.
“Balukaui Point, two six five point five! Berrugosa Point, one eight three point zero!…”
Alexander rattled off two more bearings, and these were quickly plotted on the chart by the quartermaster, working feverishly with protractor and divider while somehow ignoring the conditions around him. After making a few measurements, the quartermaster called up a recommended course change, which Alexander ordered without hesitation.
Trott did not understand why Alexander was now up in the conning tower. Nor did he understand why a sailor now stood at the auxiliary helm station in the control room responding to everyone of Alexander’s rudder orders. Since coming aboard, Trott had only seen the helm controlled from the main steering station up in the conning tower.
A cold chill crept over him as he realized these things could mean only one thing. The conning tower and bridge had been hit.
At that moment, Chief Hicks appeared from the forward hatch, flashlight in hand, his face a mixture of apprehension and determination. He glanced once at Trott before shouting up to the conning tower.
“All secure up forward, Mister Alexander! I’m checking the other compartments now.”
“Very well!” came the weak reply from above. “As fast as you can, Chief.”
“Right, sir.”
As the chief moved on to continue with the damage assessment, Trott felt a foreboding curiosity overcome him, and the next thing he knew, he was climbing the ladder up to the conning tower. The droplets of blood on the steel rungs were a meager forewarning of the ghastly sight presented to him when he reached the top of the ladder. Death hung in the air of the small compartment. Four men lay unmoving – men he had seen smiling and laughing as recently as a few hours ago, now dead at their stations. The bulkheads were scarred with blood. Dull gray beams of light emanated from more than a dozen holes in the hull, ominous traces of the slicing shrapnel that had made the space unlivable. Trott had to stop when he saw the open-mouthed, frozen face of Ficarelli lying flat against the plot table. The XO had been killed instantly, his compass and parallel ruler still clutched between his fingers, his eyes staring blankly at the opposite bulkhead, as if he had been speaking to one of the others in that final moment.
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