“I think we’re through it, Pat,” he said.
“Good. That’s hard work.” The exec also stretched. “I think we handled it about as well as we could.”
“You did the hard part,” Carsten said. “I just told you where to go.” He grinned. “I’m the only man on this ship who can.”
“You’re the only one who can say it,” Cooley replied. “Everybody else just thinks it.” He turned to the bespectacled, extremely junior J.G. in charge of the Y-range gear. “Isn’t that right, Walters?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Thad Walters replied, deadpan—which, in a perverse way, proved Cooley’s point.
Sam took another look at the lightening sky. He didn’t like what he saw, not even a little bit. “Any sign of those damn Confederate maritime bombers?” he asked, knowing he sounded anxious. Any skipper without air cover of his own—and even skippers with it—had the right to sound anxious in this day and age.
Walters eyed the screen. So did Sam. He didn’t see anything untoward, but would an expert? War was getting to be a business of gadget against gadget, not man against man. Well, that had been true when battleships ruled the seas, too, but the gadgets were a lot subtler these days.
“Looks all right for now,” the young J.G. said.
“Keep an eye peeled,” Sam told him. He spoke into a voice tube: “Anything on the hydrophone, Bevacqua?”
“No, sir,” the petty officer’s voice came back. “Everything’s quiet.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Another gadget, Sam thought. They’d had hydrophones during the Great War, too. Back then, though, you’d had to stop to listen. If a sub was in the neighborhood, stopping wasn’t the best thing you could do. In the last war, also, the hydrophone could give you a bearing on where a submersible prowled, but not a range.
The boys with the thick glasses and the slide rules had fancied up the device in the interwar years. These days, hydrophones could filter out a ship’s own engine noise, though they still worked better in silence. They could also say just where in the water an enemy submarine hid. The way Vince Bevacqua explained it, new-model hydrophones used sound waves as Y-ranging gear used wireless waves: they bounced them off a target and picked up the reflections.
Technical details fascinated Sam. He knew he would never be able to repair, let alone improve, a Y-range set or a hydrophone. That didn’t bother him. The better he understood how the gadgets worked, what they could and couldn’t do, the better he’d be able to use them and the more he could count on what they told him.
“Keep listening,” was all he said now.
“Who, me?” Bevacqua answered. Sam laughed. He knew how hard the petty officer concentrated with the earphones on his head.
Pat Cooley waved at the thick clouds overhead. “We’ve got a nice low ceiling this morning,” he remarked. “We probably don’t have to worry about the maritime bombers too much. Only thing that has any real chance of running across us is a flying boat out snooping.”
“Yeah, those bastards fly low all the time,” Sam agreed. “One of these days before too long, they’ll have Y-range gear, too, and then everything’ll be out to lunch. Makes you wonder what the Navy’s coming to, doesn’t it?” He wasn’t worried, not as far as his own career went. A kid like Cooley would see a lot more change, though.
The exec didn’t seem unduly worried. “If we’re vulnerable to air power, we’ll just have to bring our own air power with us, that’s all. If our airplanes shoot down their airplanes before they can get at us, we win. That was the real lesson of the Pacific War.”
Sam had been in the Pacific War. Cooley hadn’t even been at Annapolis yet. That didn’t mean he was wrong. “Carriers have a hard time operating against land-based air, though,” he said. “Too many attackers can swamp you. We found that out at Charleston.” He’d been there, too, when this war was new.
“Put enough carriers together and you’ll swamp the land-based air.” Cooley might have been right about that. Neither the United States nor Britain, the two major carrier powers in the Atlantic, had been able to prove it yet. Japan was trying its hardest to do so over and around the Sandwich Islands.
Since Sam couldn’t prove anything one way or the other, he said, “Bring us around to course 090, Pat.”
“Changing course to 090—aye aye, sir.” Cooley swung the Josephus Daniels to port till she was steady on her new easterly course. “Steady on 090, sir.”
“Thank you. Now we’ve got a clear track to Providence—except for subs and mines and raiders and those flying boats and other little details like that.”
“Providence?” By the way the exec said it, he might have been talking about the Black Hole of Calcutta. He sighed noisily. “Well, it’s better than staying stuck in Philadelphia would be . . . I suppose. What are we going to do there, deliver the Daniels so she can take over as a training ship for the swabbies there?”
Seamen learning their trade went out on the Lamson, a destroyer of Great War vintage. They learned to fire weapons aboard her. They formed the black gang that served her wheezy engines. They worked in the galleys. They cleaned heads. They learned what it was like to sleep in a hammock with another sailor’s bad breath and backside only inches from their face.
“We’re not quite spavined enough for that,” Sam said. Cooley raised an eyebrow at an evidently unfamiliar word, but he figured out what it had to mean. Sam felt his years showing again. Back when people talked about horses all the time, you heard spavined every week if not every day. But the exec had grown up in an automotive age. If you talked about a spavined motorcar, you were making a joke, not describing anything real. Sam went on, “We’re going to escort a convoy down the coast to New York City and then back to Philly.”
“Should be exciting.” The exec mimed an enormous yawn.
Sam laughed. “If you’re on convoy-escort duty, you hope to Jesus it isn’t exciting. Everything that could make it exciting is bad.”
“I suppose so.” Cooley grudged him a nod, then winked. “One thing, Skipper—all that zigzagging will do wonders for you at the wheel.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam answered seriously, which spoiled Cooley’s joke, but the same thought had already occurred to him. And he wanted his shiphandling to get better. He wanted everything he did to get better. He’d got such a late start at being an officer, and still had so much catching up to do. . . .
****
Fremont Blaine Dalby stared at the ships coming into Pearl Harbor. The CPO shook his head. “If those aren’t two of the ugliest sons of bitches I ever set eyes on, then you two guys are.” He nodded to Fritz Gustafson and George Enos, Jr.
George said, “I dunno, Chief. They look pretty damn good to me.”
“Yeah.” Gustafson added a nod.
“Bullshit,” Dalby said. The boss of the twin-40mm crew was a man of strong opinions. His being a Republican proved that. Some of his opinions were crackpot, too; as far as George was concerned, his being a Republican also proved that. He went on, “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying we don’t need ’em, on account of we do. But they’re still as ugly as the guy sitting next to you on the head.”
George grunted at that. Like any new sailor, he’d had to get used to doing his business in a facility without stalls. He hadn’t thought about it for a while now, and wondered if he’d be stricken with constipation because he did. He admitted to himself—if not to Fremont Dalby—that the senior rating had a point of sorts. The Trenton and the Chapultepec didn’t have the raked grace of a heavy cruiser. But the escort carriers brought something vital to the Sandwich Islands: hope.
They looked like what they were—freighters that had had their superstructures torn off and replaced with a flight deck. A tiny starboard island didn’t begin to make up for what had been amputated. But they carried thirty airplanes apiece. They had dive bombers and torpedo-carriers, and fighters to protect the strike aircraft and the ships themselves. The two of them put together were
worth about as much as one fleet carrier.
“What I want to know is, are there more of them out in the Pacific?” George said. “That’s what really counts. If they can watch the gap where airplanes from the Sandwich Islands can’t stay and the ones from the West Coast can’t, either, then we really might hang on to this place.”
“They didn’t come by themselves, you know,” Dalby reminded him. “Most of the freighters and tankers that came with ’em are unloading in Honolulu, not here. But everybody’ll have enough beans and gasoline for a while longer.”
“Sure, Chief.” Disagreeing with a CPO when you were only an able seaman took diplomacy. Picking his words with care, George went on, “But it’s not waddayacallit—not economical, that’s what I want to say—to send these ugly ducklings back and forth to Frisco or wherever for each new convoy.”
“He’s right,” Gustafson said—another good-sized speech for him. He was a petty officer himself, though not an exalted chief. He could speak somewhat more freely to Dalby, but only somewhat. George was more than halfway convinced that CPOs really ran the Navy. They let officers think they did, but so many officers’ orders were based on what they heard from CPOs. A lieutenant, J.G., who tried to buck one of the senior ratings didn’t have a prayer. Even his own superiors wouldn’t back him, and it wouldn’t have helped if they did.
“Well, yeah,” Fremont Dalby said, “but these babies ought to be good for more than defense. They ought to be able to play sixty minutes. How many of ’em d’you figure we’d need to take Midway back from the Buddhaheads?”
Gustafson eyed the Chapultepec, which was closer. “Damn thing can’t do more’n eighteen knots if you chuck her off a cliff,” he opined—a veritable oration. He didn’t bother to say what he already knew: that Japanese fleet carriers, like most self-respecting warships, could make better than thirty.
Dalby only shrugged. “Doesn’t matter all that much. Airplanes are a hell of a lot faster than ships any which way.”
That held some truth, but only some. Other things went into the mix. “Jap carriers can walk away from subs. These little guys won’t be able to.”
Another shrug from the gun chief. “That’s why the Townsend’s in the Navy. If we can’t keep submersibles off of carriers, what the hell good are we?”
George gave up. He wasn’t about to change Dalby’s mind. That was as plain as the nose on the CPO’s face—which was saying something, because Dalby had a formidable honker. In the end, changing Dalby’s mind didn’t matter a dime’s worth anyhow. Dalby wasn’t the one who’d decide what to do with the escort carriers. He wasn’t the one who’d decide what to do with the Townsend, either, though he often acted as if he were the skipper.
He said, “It’ll be goddamn nice operating with real air cover for a change. Not even the brass’d be dumb enough to send us out naked anymore.”
“Here’s hoping.” Fritz Gustafson packed a world of skepticism into two words.
This time, George thought Dalby had the right of it. There were plenty of land-based airplanes on Oahu. Why send carriers all the way to the Sandwich Islands if not to use them with the rest of the Navy?
When the Townsend put to sea a few days later, she did so without either the Trenton or the Chapultepec. Even though she did, George didn’t flabble about it: she went out on an antisubmersible patrol to the east of Oahu. Japanese carrier-based aircraft were most unlikely to find her there.
After George remarked on that, Dalby looked at him—looked through him, really. “You’d sooner be torpedoed?”
“Got a better chance against a sub than we would against airplanes,” George said stubbornly. Then he wondered if that was true. His father hadn’t had any chance against a submarine. But he got sucker-punched after the war was over. We’d be on our toes.
Whenever George was on deck, he kept an eye peeled for periscopes. He also looked for the thin, pale exhaust from a submersible’s diesel engine. What with the Townsend’s hydrophone gear, all that was probably wasted effort. He didn’t care, not even a little bit. He did it anyhow. He noticed he was far from the only one who did.
He wasn’t on deck when general quarters sounded. He was rinsing off in the shower. He threw on his skivvies and ran for his gun with the rest of his clothes, including his shoes, under his arm.
Nobody laughed, or not very much. Nobody who’d been in the Navy longer than a few weeks hadn’t been caught the same way. He dressed at his post. His hair was still wet. It dripped in his face and down his back. He would have minded that much more in the North Atlantic in December than he did here.
“Now hear this!” The exec’s voice crackled out of the loudspeakers. “We’ve found us a submarine, and we are going to prosecute the son of a bitch.”
An excited buzz ran through the sailors. George looked enviously up toward the depth-charge launchers near the destroyer’s bow. Their crews were the ones who’d have the fun of dropping things on the Japs’ heads.
“Don’t go to sleep, now,” Fremont Dalby warned. “If those bastards surface, we’re the ones who’ll fill ’em full of holes.” He set a hand on one of the 40mm’s twin barrels. The quick-firing gun made an admirable can opener.
The Townsend swung to port. Down under the surface, a submersible was no doubt maneuvering, too. It could have been cat-and-mouse, but the mouse here had almost as good a chance as the cat. The Townsend’s advantage was speed, the sub’s stealth. Where was that boat?
They must have thought they knew, for depth charges flew from the launchers and splashed into the Pacific. George waited, bracing himself. When the ashcans burst, it was like a kick in the ass from an elephant. The Townsend’s bow lifted, then slammed back down.
More charges arced through the air. Some would be set for a depth a little less than the hydrophone operator thought accurate, some for a little more. With luck, the submersible wouldn’t get away. With luck . . .
“Oil! Oil!” somebody yelled. His voice cracked the second time he said it.
“Could be a trick,” Fritz Gustafson said. George nodded. A canny sub skipper would deliberately release oil and air bubbles to try to fool his tormentors into thinking they’d smashed him. Then he could slink away or strike back as he got the chance.
Not this time, though. “Coming up!” screamed somebody near the bow. “Motherfucker’s coming up!”
Like a breaching whale but far bigger, the Japanese submarine surfaced. She might not have been able to stay down anymore, but she still showed fight. Men tumbled out of her conning tower and ran for the deck guns. The odds against them were long—a destroyer vastly outgunned a submersible—but they had a chance. If they could hurt the Townsend badly enough, they might yet get away.
But the destroyer’s guns were already manned and ready. George wasn’t sure if his weapon was the very first to start blazing away, but it was among the first. Tracers walked across the water toward the sub less than a mile away. They were close enough to the target to let him see chunks of metal fly when shells slammed into the side of the boat and the conning tower. One of the shells hit a Japanese sailor amidships. He exploded into red mist. There were worse ways to go; he must have died before he knew it.
The Japs got off a few shots. One of them hit near the Townsend’s bow, just aft of the ashcan launchers. George heard shrieks through the din of gunfire. But the sub was in over its head. Its guns were out in the open and unprotected, and the American 40mms and machine guns picked off the crews in nothing flat. When the destroyer’s main armament started taking bites out of the sub’s hull, it quickly sank. It kept firing as long as it could. The crew had guts—no way around that.
A few men still bobbed in the water after the submersible went down. The Townsend steered toward them and threw lines and life rings into the water. The Japanese sailors stubbornly refused to take them. A couple of sailors deliberately sank when lines came near. Others shook defiant fists at the ship that had sunk their sub. They shouted what had to be insults in their own lang
uage.
“They’re crazy,” George said. “If that was me, I’d be up on this deck and down on my knees thanking God they’d rescued me instead of shooting me or leaving me for shark bait or just to drown.”
“Japs aren’t like that,” Dalby said. “Bunch of crazy monkeys, if you want to know what I think.”
“They figure being a POW is the worst thing in the world,” Fritz Gustafson said. “Far as they’re concerned, dying’s better.”
“Like I said—crazy,” Dalby said.
“Nasty, too.” Gustafson was, for him, in a talky mood. “Don’t let ’em catch you. If you’re a POW, they figure you’re in disgrace. Anything goes, near enough.”
“How do you know that?” George asked.
The loader shrugged. “You hear stuff, is all.”
One of the last Japanese sailors afloat spat seawater up at the Townsend. He made gestures that probably meant the same as giving her the finger. The ship took the perfect revenge: she sailed away. The sailors whooped and cheered. “I think you’re right, Chief,” George said. “They are crazy.”
“Told you so,” Fremont Dalby said smugly. “I just wish they weren’t so goddamn tough, that’s all.”
****
Jefferson Pinkard inspected his dress grays in the mirror. He looked pretty goddamn sharp, if he did say so himself. The three wreathed silver stars on either side of his collar gleamed and sparkled. The way he’d polished them, they couldn’t very well do anything else. His silver belt buckle shone, too. So did the black leather of his belt and boots.
When he got married the first time, back before the Great War, he’d done it in a rented tailcoat. He’d thought he was hot stuff, then. Maybe he’d even been right. His belly hadn’t bulged over his belt in those days, anyhow.
He scowled as the memory came back. Emily’d been hot stuff in those days, too. Too goddamn hot, it turned out. “Little whore,” he growled. She hadn’t wanted to wait till he got back from the trenches. She’d spread it around, starting with his best friend. He remembered walking in after he got a leave he hadn’t told her about ahead of time, walking in and . . .
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