Throughout the submarine, the crew secured and dogged the watertight doors between compartments, shut down ventilation blowers and refrigerator motors, and put the helm and planes on manual operation. The air conditioning gasped to a halt.
The telephone talker said, “All compartments report rigged for silent running. Sonar decoys are running straight and normal.”
Charlie’s response came out a stage whisper. “Very well.”
Now he’d see how good the countermeasures were. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but wait. The ten sailors packed into the conning tower sweated as the temperature immediately climbed even higher.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
The sailors grinned at their stations. The depth charges were exploding off the port quarter. The escort had taken the bait and was pounding the sonar beacons.
Charlie leaned toward the helmsman. “Come to oh-eight-oh.”
Another round of depth charges banged in the waters astern.
The Sandtiger glided silently between the other two destroyers until she reached the open sea.
CHAPTER TWENTY
LICKING WOUNDS
Cruising at periscope depth north of Third Fleet, the Sandtiger secured from battle stations and silent running. Battered and waterlogged, her bow slightly raised, she struggled to maintain speed.
Nonetheless, Charlie planned to take her into action by nightfall.
Standing in the forward engine room’s foot-deep, oily, brackish water, Braddock swept his arms in front of the pulsing machinery. “The water’s coming in faster than we can pump it out, sir. We can’t repair it until we surface.”
Behind him, seawater cascaded from a ruptured gasket, the hatch warped by the force of the bomb’s detonation. A line of sailors had formed a bucket brigade leading to Aft Torpedo. They bailed hard to keep the water level from reaching the propulsion motors and reduction gears. Many of them wore their skivvy shirts tied around their necks and heads to soak up their perspiration. The foul air had grown so humid that sweat didn’t dry, and condensation streamed down the bulkheads.
Charlie scratched his itchy stubble. “If we surface, we might have to go through all that again, so give it to me straight.”
The chief thought about it. “You got one hour, sir.”
Charlie glanced at Nixon for his opinion.
“It depends,” the engineering officer said then launched into a detailed description of the variables involved.
Charlie waited until he came up for air then said, “So an hour?”
Nixon thought about it some more, then said, “That should work.”
“Great,” growled Braddock, who lacked his captain’s patience. “We got other problems too. The number four engine was wrenched right off its mount. The port engine compressor is damaged. The starboard main motor bearing is running so hot it’s smoking and has to be constantly oiled—”
Charlie had already heard the chief go through the engine and motor rooms’ litany of wounds. Braddock was showing off for his engine snipes by upstaging Nixon, who again seemed oblivious to their rivalry.
“Very well,” he said at last. “What about the men, Chief? What’s their temper?”
“Pissed off and itching to shoot something.”
“I’m working on that.”
“I figured you were. Me, I’d be happy if you could work out a brilliant plan where we don’t get bombed again. That would be terrific.” Putting aside his usual charm, Braddock raised his chin in pride. “You should know not a single man lost their shit. They did their jobs.”
“Thank you, Chief. Carry on. We need all repairs completed by sundown.”
Nixon tilted his head. “What happens at sundown?”
“I’m hoping we’ll be doing some shooting.”
The snipes stopped their work and stared, hoping to hear more. Let them wonder, Charlie decided.
The boat was in bad shape. He had little time to act, and he might not even find any targets where he wanted to go. Oh, and Third Fleet might try to sink him along the way. So no promises.
Still, he wanted the crew to know their captain was working on getting them into the kind of action where they could shoot back. He didn’t feel self-conscious anymore about putting on a show. Right now, they needed to believe.
Braddock crossed his arms. “What happens at sundown is the captain expects a miracle to happen. You heard my list of—”
“You do your part, Chief, and I’ll do mine,” Charlie said. “Then we can break out that beer you stowed.”
“You think beer will get all these repairs done in a matter of hours.”
“I’m willing to bet on it.”
The chief snorted and turned to his snipes. “All right, you knuckleheads. You heard the captain! We got a miracle to pull off.”
“I’ll stay here and pitch in, Captain,” Nixon said.
“What about me? You need an extra hand, Chief?”
“You do your part, Captain, and I’ll do mine. Mr. Nixon, on the other hand, I can use, as long as he follows our department’s no-talking rule. The air conditioning needs fixing again.”
“Very well,” Charlie said. “Nix, come find me later. I’ve got a special job for you.”
“Aye, Captain.” Nixon rolled up his sleeves to work.
Charlie left them to it and checked in with the departments. He learned what he could about the repair work and got out of their hair as quickly as possible. This was when all the training really showed. The boat was in good hands.
The radio transmitter tubes were blown and had to be replaced so the Sandtiger could radio their situation to Pearl. After ensuring the radio would be operational, he exited the control room and headed to the wardroom for coffee. Along the way, he passed a cheerful Percy who was handing out shots of medicinal brandy. For the communications officer, getting bombed was almost worth it to splice the mainbrace and get his depth charge medicine.
In the wardroom, Rusty was slumped over the table sound asleep, a full mug of lukewarm coffee set before him. Large sweat stains blackened his chest and armpits. The exec stirred and rubbed his face as Charlie took a seat.
“Well,” Rusty said. “That was something.”
“It was good practice for the real thing.”
He scoffed. “The practice nearly killed us. I’m glad those tin cans are on our side.”
Charlie dropped the pretense. “Yeah, no kidding.”
“Now that we’ve had our exercise, I imagine we’ll go north and see what turns up.”
Charlie sipped his coffee, which as always for him was strong and black. “South. We’re going back to Hernani tonight.”
The exec glanced around to ensure nobody was in earshot. “What the hell are you thinking?”
“If you’re right about an invasion of the Philippines, Third Fleet is here to stay. By now, the Japs know the Navy is here, and any ship in port is going to get out of Dodge. They’ll do it tonight.”
“What do you expect to find?”
“We already know Hernani is being used as a pickup or refueling station. I don’t expect to find any more big prizes, but we might get lucky and run into some coasters bolting for Manila. I need to give the men something to shoot at.”
“Or we’ll be taking a big risk getting there only to find nothing.”
Charlie shrugged. “One thing I’ve learned, Rusty, is this game is a mix of chess and poker. Everything is risk. Risk and reward.”
“Responsibility too. You aren’t just betting chips, you know.”
“Either way, if you want zero risk, you aren’t in the game. If we find nothing at Hernani, we’ll go north and try Borongan and every other port town this side of Samar.”
“We’ve been out here over three weeks,” the exec said. “It would be nice to shoot our fish at a target, or this Rusty is gonna get rusty.”
Charlie took another swig from his mug. “I’m ready to start throwing rocks at sampans.” He smirked. “So, do you still see me as good luck?”
“After seeing how you evaded those tin cans, brother, I’m glad you’re on our side too.”
He checked his watch. “Time to surface, or we might be swimming to Hernani. I want the boat in good trim and fighting shape by sundown.”
Nixon toted a bucket of water into the wardroom and set it on the deck. Seawater, which he’d heat up later and use to wash his clothes. “AC is fixed, Captain. It should start feeling cooler in here soon.”
“Good work,” Charlie said.
“You missed your calling as an A-ganger, Nix,” Rusty said.
“No, thanks. I like being an officer. But today, I’m going to be an auxiliaryman. I’m going to fix everything needing fixing.” The engineering officer smiled. “Just to see the look on Chief Braddock’s face.”
Rusty chuckled. “I’d like to see that look myself.”
So Nixon wasn’t as oblivious to Braddock’s attitude as Charlie had thought. He couldn’t beat the chief in an asshole contest, so he’d show him up at his own game, which was fixing broke-dick equipment.
Charlie said, “How’d you like to really stick it to the engine rooms?”
Nixon’s face lit up. “You said you had a special job for me.”
“Remember that machine you rigged up in the control room that makes ice cream?”
“Captain Saunders made me get rid of it.”
“I want you to rebuild it. If all goes well tonight, we’ll be celebrating with beer courtesy of Mr. Percy and Chief Braddock.”
“I don’t like beer,” said Nixon.
Rusty picked up on it. “They’re celebrating. Then a few days later, here’s the crew eating ice cream, courtesy of Mr. Nixon.”
The engineering officer’s face stretched into a rare grin. “It’ll drive Braddock crazy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RETURN
Braddock pulled off a miracle, aided in no small part by his competition with Nixon’s mechanical genius and the promise of beer. At 1300, the Sandtiger surfaced to repair the leaks and expel the rest of the water in her pump room and bilges. By 1930, she’d radioed Pearl and completed a trim dive. By 2030, she was still heavy but on the move at last, cruising west by southwest on sixty percent power and ninety percent of the four engines’ maximum speed.
On the bridge, legs braced against the boat’s roll, Charlie drank in the pure, sweet air as he scanned the dark for ships, enemy or friendly. Both navies, it seemed, wanted to sink the Sandtiger right now. But the seas were empty. Third Fleet had disappeared as mysteriously as it had come.
Maybe Rusty was wrong, and they were headed to Taiwan instead.
He lowered his binoculars and studied his torpedo officer, who leaned against the bridge coaming with his own glasses pressed to his eyes. “How are you, Morrison?”
The man turned to him grinning. “Honestly? It’s like a movie, but I’m in it.”
Charlie smirked. “I remember that feeling well.”
For as long as he could remember, submariners had given him advice, all of it ponderable, most of it useful, some of it life-saving. As captain, he was now expected to give some of his own, based on what he’d learned.
He added, “Then when things go really bad, you realize it isn’t a movie. You aren’t the star. You’re just a man, and men die, often for no reason.”
“Yes, sir,” Morrison said soberly. “I won’t go off half-cocked. I’ll be careful.”
Charlie sighed. The man had completely missed his point, but no matter. Words couldn’t change the minds of young warriors. That craving to be tested, which Rusty had once so colorfully called a death wish. The only thing that cured it was the test itself. The horror of real combat. For Charlie, the turning point had been his midnight battle with the Mizukaze.
He decided to let Morrison have his dreams. The young man didn’t need a jaded officer telling him what was what. Until he’d experienced it for himself, he couldn’t understand it no matter how it was phrased.
“You do that,” Charlie said. “You be careful. You clear on the plan?”
“My men are ready. They’re chomping at the bit.”
“Don’t get your hopes too high. We may find only a few fishing boats.”
“Your last hunch worked out.”
“It wasn’t a hunch. Captains don’t have a sixth sense. It’s just good submarining. The ability to read probabilities, to be exact.”
“Whatever you call it, I trust it, Captain.”
Charlie grimaced and went back to staring at the dark. The torpedo officer reminded Charlie of himself so strongly it was equal measures irritating and flattering. Right now, Morrison regarded him the way he had regarded Captain Kane. More of that responsibility Rusty was talking about.
And not just Morrison. Every one of his officers could command their own boats. It was his job to help them along, mentor them, cultivate their abilities.
“I could be wrong,” he said.
“If you are, then we’ll try again.”
Charlie smiled. Good answer. “Do you play chess, Morrison?”
“Some, but I’m not too good at it.”
“It’s about time you got good. We’ll play soon.”
“Aye, sir. And what about you, sir?”
“What about me, Morrison?”
“How are you doing?”
Charlie remembered how Braddock put it. “Pissed off and wanting to shoot something.”
“Bridge, Conn,” the bridge speaker blatted.
“Go ahead, Conn.”
“We’re two miles from the harbor, still bearing two-six-oh.”
“Very well.”
The cloudy and moonless sky was ideal for his purposes. The black mass of Samar sprawled ahead. The Sandtiger followed roughly the same path into Matarinao Bay the Mamiya used to leave it.
The surrounding land was dark. Was there an alert coastal watcher out there, maybe on Anahap Island, peering back at him?
Unless Hernani was somehow hiding more destroyers, it didn’t matter. Any ships anchored there would have to pass by him to get out.
“Conn, Bridge. Stand by to dive.”
Charlie cleared the topsides and shimmied down to the conning tower. The diving alarm sounded as the Sandtiger plunged to periscope depth and changed course again, now heading north toward the small town nestled along the coast.
Percy called out soundings, which matched the charts. There wasn’t much water under their keel, but they still had room to maneuver. Charlie reduced speed.
“Up scope.” He crouched and rose with the periscope, sweeping Hernani and its docks. “Gentlemen, we are back in business.”
“Twenty-three feet under the keel,” Percy called out.
Shaving it close. “All stop.”
Morrison eyed him hopefully. “Captain? What do you see?”
Charlie studied the targets. “I’m looking at a coaster, heavily camouflaged with tree branches, around 250 tons… A big two-mast schooner, probably used to carry rice, around 150 tons… A fifty-ton sea truck, wooden-hulled… And a gunboat, 250 tons. They’re all loading. They’re getting ready to leave. Down scope.”
Morrison said, “Thank you, Captain.”
None of the targets were worth a torpedo.
“Think you could take them with the deck gun and your commandos?”
“Just say the word, sir.”
Charlie regarded his crew. “What about the rest of you? Ready for a fight?”
The grimy, bearded sailors roared at their stations, pissed off and ready to shoot.
“Battle stations,” Charlie said. “Stand by to surface! Stand by for gun action!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
GIVE ’EM THE WORKS
The Sandtiger hovered at periscope depth just 500 yards from Hernani’s docks. With the ballast tanks filled with enough air to surface, the planesmen strained at the wheels to keep the submarine submerged.
The five-inch-gun crew stood ready in the wardroom under the gun tower hatch while a supply party s
tacked shells from the magazine. Armed to the teeth, Morrison’s commandos and the AA gun crews filled the conning tower ladder leading up to the main hatch. They wore red goggles to better adapt to night vision when they reached the topsides.
Beneath the hatch, Charlie waited with Hooker, who held a rubber mallet.
“Surface anytime, Skipper!” Rusty called up.
“Commence the attack,” Charlie told him. “Give ‘em the works, men!”
The grimy, bearded sailors howled a bloodthirsty cheer.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Rusty said. “Blow ballast! Surface! Gun action!”
The klaxon honked. Down in the control room, the air manifoldman blasted high-pressure air into the ballast tanks. The planesmen fought to keep the boat from surfacing, then let go and reversed the planes.
The Sandtiger shot straight up like an elevator and broke the surface on an even keel.
Hooker undogged the hatch and shoved it open. Morrison blew a whistle. The gun crews poured onto the deck to man the five-inch deck gun and AA cannons. Charlie climbed up and took in the scene. The gunboat, coaster, schooner, and sea truck, all anchored, some of the ships still loading.
He’d caught them with their pants down.
Morrison had drilled his crew until they could ready the five-inch gun in fifty seconds. While this gun, being the same carried by destroyers, struck with an awful punch, the AA cannons were similarly fierce against small targets. The Sandtiger had been modified in dry dock, the plating around her periscope shears removed, which produced good gun positions. The Navy had given her a forty-millimeter Bofors and a twin twenty-millimeter Oerlikon AA cannon.
Morrison cried: “FIRE!”
The gun boomed with a blinding flash and puff of smoke that washed into the bay. The round struck the dock next to the ironclad, hurling a cloud of dust and splinters in the air. The empty shell clanged from the breech. Japanese sailors screamed the alarm and scrambled to raise anchors.
They were sitting ducks, and they knew it.
The Bofors pounded and sent hot metal into the coaster’s wheelhouse, and the Oerlikon chattered at the sea truck. Tracer rounds arced toward their targets. The AA guns kept them pinned until Morrison finished with the gunboat.
Hara-Kiri_a novel of the Pacific War Page 9