Lieutenant Commander Stuart J. Collins, United States Navy, Cryptographic Officer, Headquarters, CINCPAC, was aware that the lieutenant commander in the crisp white uniform in the outer office of CINCPAC was looking askance at his uniform. Commander Collins’s khaki uniform was mussed and wilted, and there were sweat stains under the armpits.
The cryptographic section, in the basement of the neatly white-painted, red-tile-roofed headquarters office building, was of course air-conditioned. But it had been air-conditioned in 1937, when no one could have guessed how many people and how much equipment it would be necessary to stuff into the three small rooms. It was hot down there, and people sweated.
If the commander in the crisp white uniform in the admiral’s cool and spacious office didn’t like his sweaty, shapeless uniform, fuck her. Goddamn women in the Navy, anyway.
“The Admiral will see you, Commander,” the WAVE Lieutenant Commander said, quite unnecessarily. Commander Collins was not deaf; he had heard the Admiral tell her, over the intercom, to send him in.
Commander Collins walked into the CINCPAC’s office.
“Good afternoon, Sir,” he said, and extended a clipboard to the Admiral, who scrawled his name on the form, acknowledging receipt of Top Secret Incoming Message 43- 2-1009. Commander Collins then handed him the message, hidden beneath a TOP SECRET cover sheet.
CINCPAC read it:
URGENT
TOP SECRET
FROM CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS WASHINGTON DC
TO [EYES ONLY] COMMANDER IN CHIEF PACIFIC, PEARL
HARBOR TERR HAWAII
DP YOU WILL MAKE AVAILABLE GATO CLASS SUBMARINE FOR SUCH TIME AND FOR SUCH MISSION AS SPECIFIED BY C. J. CHENOWITH OF THE OFFICE OF STRATEGIC SERVICES. CHENOWITH AND PARTY OF THREE [3] EN ROUTE BARBERS POINT NAS ABOARD NATS FLIGHT 232 ETA 1530 HOURS 14 FEBRUARY. CARGO ACCOMPANYING CHENOWITH PARTY OF APPROXIMATELY TWO [2] TONS GROSS WEIGHT IN THIRTY TWO [32] WOODEN CRATES WILL REQUIRE TREATMENT AS TOP SECRET MATERIAL. OCNO DOES NOT DESIRE TO DISCUSS THIS ORDER. OCNO WILL BE ADVISED IN DETAIL BY MOST EXPEDITIOUS MEANS OF REASONS FOR INABILITY TO COMPLY WITH THIS ORDER. BY DIRECTION: SOLOMON VICE ADMIRAL.
CINCPAC looked up at Lt. Commander Collins.
“No reply, Commander,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” Collins said, and started to do an about-face.
“Collins?” CINCPAC said.
Collins faced CINCPAC again.
“Hot in the basement?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You talk to the engineer about it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said that the ambient temperature is within the operating range of the equipment, Admiral, and there’s no way he can authorize more air-conditioning.”
“Collins,” CINCPAC said. “There’s a Chief Kellerman over in Civil Engineering. We were aboard the old Des Moines together. You go see him, tell him I sent you, and ask him to cool your shop down.”
“Yes, Sir,” Commander Collins said. “Thank you, Admiral. ”
“And on your way out, ask Commander Oster to get COMSUBFORPAC in here just as soon as possible.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
COMSUBFORPAC, Rear Admiral (Upper Half) Geoffrey H. Keene, USN, a ruddy-faced, freckled man of forty-three, who looked much younger, was a professional officer, and thus accustomed to carrying out any order given with cheerful, willing obedience.
“Gerry, what boat, or boats, Gato class, have you got here ready for sea?”
“None this minute, Sir,” Admiral Keene said. “But the Drum’s just about through with her sea trials. She’s off Kahoolawe Island right now, and she’s scheduled to go on patrol in three or four days, as soon as they correct what needs fixing.”
“There will be a mission for her,” CINCPAC said. “Apparently, a people-carrying mission.”
“Yes, Sir?” Admiral Keene said. His tone made it clear he wanted more information.
“If the Drum is all that’s available, it’ll have to be the Drum,” CINCPAC said.
“Admiral, may I suggest that the Narwhal will shortly be available? She’s about to leave Diego.”
“It’ll have to be the Drum, Admiral,” CINCPAC said. “And if you had anything special planned for her, it will have to be put on the back burner.”
COMSUBFORPAC could not help but question the wisdom of using a multimillion-dollar naval vessel and its highly trained crew as a kind of seagoing taxicab. Transporting people somewhere was something that submariners did from time to time—but at the pleasure of the submariners, if and when that could be reasonably fitted into the normal duty of submariners: That, first, last, and always, was the destruction of enemy men-of-war and the interdiction and destruction of enemy shipping.
But CINCPAC had addressed Keene as “Admiral,” rather than by his Christian name, a subtle reminder that he was giving an order.
“Aye, aye, Sir,” COMSUBFORPAC said.
CINCPAC handed him the Top Secret folder.
“If you can find the time, Gerry,” CINCPAC said, “it might be a good idea if you met this Mr. Chenowith at the airfield. Present my compliments, and as tactfully as possible, let him know that I would be grateful to learn what the hell this is all about.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Admiral Keene said.
2
WAIKAHALULU BAY, KAHOOLAWE ISLAND TERRITORY OF THE HAWAIIAN ISLANDS 0945 HOURS 13 FEBRUARY 1943
The Alenuihaha Channel (depths of at least 1,000 fathoms) runs between the Hawaiian Islands of Hawaii, Maui, and Kahoolawe.
There is a shelf approximately forty miles off the southern coast of Kahoolawe Island, where the depth changes abruptly from about 1,400 fathoms to 650. Then, five miles off the Kahoolawe shore, the depth changes again abruptly to approximately forty fathoms.
The final sea trial after refitting of the USS Drum—SS- 228, a 311-foot-long submarine of the Gato class—required her to approach the Alenuihaha Channel from the open Pacific, on the surface, in the hours of darkness, navigating by celestial navigation.
She would remain on the surface, crossing the channel until she reached the shelf, whereupon she would submerge to maximum operating depth on a course that would bring her off Waikahalulu Bay. She would then rise to near periscope depth and maintain that depth and course in the forty-odd-fathom water until visual contact with their assigned target was established, by periscope, in daylight.
She missed Waikahalulu Bay by five miles. Her skipper, Lieutenant Commander Edwin R. Lennox, USN, a stocky, round-faced, sandy-haired officer who had three days before celebrated his thirtieth birthday, was disappointed, but not surprised. There was really no good way to read the currents of the Alenuihaha Channel or the offshore waters of the island.
When his periscope picked up the targets, without taking his eyes from the rubber eyepieces of the periscope, Commander Lennox softly ordered, “Battle stations, Mr. Rutherford. Gun crews to stand by.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Lieutenant William G. Rutherford, USNR, the Drum’s twenty-seven-year-old executive officer, a tall, black-haired, skinny man, said. He pushed the heel of his hand against a round brass knob. A bell clanged throughout the submarine, and there was frenzied activity everywhere but around the periscope itself.
“Steer zero eight five,” Commander Lennox ordered.
“Coming to zero eight five, it is, Sir,” the helmsman said. And a moment later, “Sir, the course is zero eight five.”
“Periscope down,” Commander Lennox said. “Take her to one hundred feet.”
Commander Lennox slapped the handles of the periscope in the up position.
“Down periscope,” he ordered, and the periscope moved downward.
“One hundred feet, Sir,” the chief of the boat reported.
“Hold her so,” Commander Lennox ordered. He crossed the crowded area and pushed down on the lever that activated the public address system.
“This is the captain speaking,” he said. “If I have to say it again,
and I think I do, the way to achieve speed is to be sure of what you’re doing, and then to do it carefully. We will lose time if somebody falls down a ladder or over the side.”
There was a murmur of chuckles throughout the boat.
“Gun crews standing by, Sir,” the chief of the boat said.
“Very well,” Commander Lennox said. “Bring her around to two sixty-five.”
“Coming to two six five it is, Sir,” the helmsman replied. The Drum banked like an airplane as she changed course. And then she straightened up.
“Up periscope,” the captain ordered, and the periscope rose.
“Sir, the course is two six five,” the helmsman reported.
“Keep her so,” Commander Lennox said, and turned to the executive officer. “Got your watch, Bill?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Punch it,” Commander Lennox said, then: “Surface, surface!”
Twenty seconds later, in boiling water, the bow of the Drum emerged from the sea.
There was a burst of black smoke as she went from battery to diesel power.
Commander Lennox, Lt. Rutherford, and a talker came onto the conning tower.
“Make turns for ten knots,” Commander Lennox ordered. “Gun crews man your guns, report when ready.”
The talker repeated his orders into his microphone.
Bluejackets in steel helmets and life vests poured from hatches in the conning tower. Some made their way to the five-inch cannon mounted forward of the conning tower, and began to prepare it for firing. Others went to a rapid-firing 40mm cannon mounted on a platform just below where the skipper, the exec, and the talker stood. A third group went to the 20mm rapid-firing cannon mounted on the rear of the conning tower.
Other sailors formed a human chain, passing ammunition from the submarine to the guns.
One by one, the guns signaled (the gun chiefs raising a hand overhead) their readiness to open fire.
“The guns are ready to fire, Sir,” the exec reported, and then added, “one hundred eighteen seconds.”
“Commence firing,” Commander Lennox ordered.
“Commence firing,” the talker repeated.
Commander Lennox and the exec put binoculars to their eyes and trained them on the shore of Waikahalulu Bay. There were targets in place, wooden frameworks covered with canvas, fairly credible replicas of oil storage tanks.
The five-inch fired five rounds; one fell nowhere near the targets, but the other four went where they were supposed to go. Meanwhile, the 40mm and 20mm rapid-firing cannon fired continuously, the 20mm in a rapid staccato, the 40mm in a slower, more measured cadence. The targets were obscured by dust and smoke.
Commander Lennox counted the five-inch rounds. The moment he saw the muzzle flash of the fifth round, without taking his eyes from his binoculars, he ordered, “Cease fire, secure the guns, clear the decks.”
The talker repeated the orders. The sailors at the guns now prepared them for submersion. The crews of the rapid-firing cannon began to pass unfired ammunition back into the hull, and then they all went below.
“Sir,” the talker said, “chief of the boat reports gun crews secure from firing.”
“Dive!” the captain ordered.
“Dive!” the talker said. “Dive!”
A Klaxon sounded. The exec, the talker, and finally the captain went through the hatch and secured it after them. By then, the decks were already awash.
“Take her to a hundred and fifty feet,” Commander Lennox ordered.
“One fifty feet, aye,” Lt. Rutherford repeated.
“What have we got, Helmsman?” Commander Lennox asked a minute later.
“Sir, we are steering two six five degrees. . . .” The helmsman paused and waited until the needle on the depth gauge was where it was supposed to be, and then went on, “at one five zero feet, sir.”
“Keep her so,” Commander Lennox ordered, and then he stepped to the public address system again.
“This is the captain speaking,” he said formally. “For a bunch of Kansas hayseeds and Brooklyn thugs, that wasn’t half bad. And the chief of the boat would have told me by now if somebody had gone over the side.”
Chuckles and laughter ran through the boat.
Leaving the microphone open, Commander Lennox said, “Take her up, make turns for sixteen knots, and set us on a course for Pearl Harbor.”
He let the spring-loaded microphone switch go and motioned for the chief of the boat to come to him.
“Chief,” Commander Lennox said, “I would not be too upset, when you check the guns, if you were to find something that would take, say, thirty-six hours to fix.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the chief of the boat said.
“And, of course, if the men aren’t needed to help with the repair, there’s no reason I can see why they shouldn’t be given liberty.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the chief of the boat said.
“Surface, surface!” Lt. Rutherford ordered.
3
HEADQUARTERS, U.S. FORCES IN THE PHILIPPINES MISAMIS OCCIDENTAL PROVINCE, MINDANAO 14 FEBRUARY 1943
They had worked out a cipher:
On the fifth of February KSF had sent a message, as opposed to responding to one of Fertig’s messages. So far, all that establishing a radio link with the United States had done was to enable Fertig to get word to his wife that he was alive and not in a Japanese POW camp.
KSF FOR MFS NAMES OF TOWN AND STATE WHERE PATRICIA LIVES WILL BE USED AS CODE PHRASES FOR DOUBLE TRANSPOSITION STOP SEND TEST MESSAGE IMMEDIATELY KSF BY
Patricia, Fertig’s daughter, was living with her mother in Golden, Colorado.
Using that as the basis for a rudimentary double transposition code, Fertig’s homemade transmitter sent a meaningless phrase to KSF. Receipt of the message was acknowledged, but the reply, in the new code was only:
KSF FOR MFS NO TRAFFIC FOR YOU AT THIS TIME KSF OUT
Two days later, on February 11, 1943, there had been another message for MFS:
YOUR STATION DESIGNATED WYZB REPEAT WYZB STOP ALL REPEAT ALL FUTURE TRAFFIC WILL BE WITH KAZ REPEAT KAZ STOP KAZ HAS FILE OF ALL PAST TRAFFIC KSF OUT
KAZ was the call sign of General Douglas MacArthur’s General Headquarters, Southwest Pacific Command, in Australia. They heard KAZ on the air all the time, but had been unable to get KAZ to respond to their calls.
Now things might be different. But several hours of calls to KAZ had produced no response whatever. There were several possible explanations for that, the most likely that radiations from Gerardo Almendres’s homemade transmitter were for some reason unable to reach Australia. Fertig did not permit himself to dwell on the possibility that MacArthur did not want to talk to him.
While Fertig did not personally know MacArthur, he had a number of friends who did. To a man, they reported that Douglas MacArthur, onetime Army Chief of Staff, later Marshal of the Philippine Army, and now once again in U.S. Army uniform, had an ego on a par with, say, Charlemagne’s.
While Fertig did not believe that the fall of the Philippines was MacArthur’s fault—indeed, he had acquired a deep respect for MacArthur’s military ability; MacArthur’s delaying actions with his limited resources had been undeniably brilliant—he suspected that MacArthur was personally shamed by his defeat.
If that were the case, that shame might be deepened by proof that not all American officers and Philippine forces had hoisted the white flag and marched docilely into Japanese captivity.
During his brief service as an officer, Fertig had quickly learned an old soldier’s requisitioning trick. If you need something for one hundred men, and you want to be sure you get it, you requisition a quantity sufficient for two hundred. Or four hundred. Then, when the supply authorities cut your requisition by fifty percent, or seventy-five percent, you still wind up with what you really need.
Fertig had been “generous” in his communications with KSF with regard to his estimated strength report for the troop strength of the U.S. force in
the Philippines. Not dishonest, just generous. He had elected to take the word of Philippine army officers who had not elected to surrender (putting his own serious doubts aside), when they told him how many men they had at their disposal, and how anxious—providing he could supply and pay them—they were to put themselves and their men under the command of Brigadier General Wendell W. Fertig and the U.S. forces in the Philippines.
If they told him, for example, that they had five hundred troops just waiting for the arms and food that would permit them to engage the Japanese, he took them at their word, even if it looked to him as if the five-hundred-man force consisted of a couple of officers and maybe sixty Philippine Scouts.
He had added up all the Philippine forces he was told were anxious to place themselves under his command and come up with a figure just in excess of six thousand officers and men.
His “requisitions” for arms and food and gold coins had been based on this strength figure.
MacArthur, according to the radio message from San Francisco, had been made aware of this troop strength.
Fertig wondered how Douglas MacArthur was going to react to learning that, after he had reported his forces had fought to the last man and the last bullet, there were six thousand troops under a brigadier general still fighting on Mindanao.
When Second Lieutenant (formerly Private) Robert Ball of USFIP came to report that MacArthur (or at least KAZ, his radio station) was finally being heard from, Brigadier General Fertig, a Thompson submachine gun beside him, was drinking a cup of tea on the shaded veranda of his combined headquarters and quarters. The tea was Lipton’s. It had been grown in the Far East, sent to the United States, blended, put in tea bags, and then sent back to the Far East. How it had passed into the hands of the Moro tribal chief who had given it to Fertig, Fertig didn’t know.
All he knew was that Lipton was putting out a better product than he had previously suspected. The tea bag that had produced the tea he was now drinking was on its fourth brewing cycle. (Brew, dry, brew again, dry, et cetera.) He knew this because he was a methodical man, and each time he drenched the tea bag in boiling water, he tore one of the corners of the tea-bag-tag off. The tea-bag-tag drying on the bamboo railing beside him was cornerless.
The Fighting Agents Page 20