The captain said, “Not this time, Walt, though I see his hand in this mission. We’re going to deliver supplies to the Filipino Army.”
The executive officer frowned. “I thought they’d surrendered.”
The defenders at Bataan, weakened by hunger, sickness, and constant combat, surrendered a month after MacArthur left. Nearby Corregidor, the island commanding the entrance to Manila Bay, held out another month. The American forces there also surrendered along with all other American and Filipino forces in the Philippines.
Hunter said, “They’re still fighting.”
Charlie struggled to maintain his professional cool as he studied the map of the country and surrounding waters. Seven thousand islands, 23,000 miles of coastline. He’d been hoping to get back to the Solomons, where the battle for Guadalcanal was entering its sixth month.
But the Philippines! That presented interesting possibilities.
Hunter added, “A Filipino colonel on the island of Panay recently made radio contact with USAFFE in Australia. He said the guerillas have been giving the Japs hell all over the islands.”
The men grinned at that cheerful news.
“Our mission is to deliver the supplies and bring back any useful intelligence.”
“They turned us into a ferry,” Bryant said, grinding his cigarette out with disgust. “Wasting our time. We should be sinking ships.”
“We’ll be a ferry on this patrol, but we’ll also be making a big difference in the war effort. On sea or land, our job is to make the Japs bleed.”
Charlie nodded. He had no way to know the destination, but he’d already guessed the nature of their mission.
Hauling supplies wasn’t exactly a plum job. The journey, however, would take them deep into Imperial waters dense with shipping. Regardless of how the orders read, the captain always had discretion. “Sink Japanese shipping” was a standing order in the submarines.
Remembering the exec’s warning, Charlie kept his mouth shut.
Bryant spoke up for him. “That’ll put us right smack in the middle of a lot of shipping. If we see a good target on the way there, we can shoot it, can’t we?”
The captain sat back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Hard to say. Thoughts?”
Isko, the Filipino steward, refilled their coffee cups.
Lewis said, “If we sink a merchant, the Japs will know we’re there.”
“That’s a risk we take every time we go out there,” Bryant said.
“But this time, the mission is to get these supplies to the guerillas. The mission comes above all other priorities.”
“I’d sure like to see us sink something,” Liebold contributed.
Hunter eyed Charlie. “Feel free to chime in, Harrison. I’m inviting opinions.”
Charlie considered his answer. He remembered something Captain Kane told him back on the 55. In submarine warfare as in chess, never jump on the first good move you see, because there might be a better one.
“We can’t shoot,” he said. “But some opportunities, you just can’t pass up.”
Bryant’s lips tightened into a scowl. “Which means what?”
Hunter said, “It means whether we shoot depends on what we’re shooting at. Exactly my thinking. We’re running very quietly on this one, gentlemen. But if something juicy comes along, we’ll send it to the bottom.”
Bryant: “So what if, say, we find a—”
Lewis smiled through a cloud of smoke. “I think the captain’s made himself quite clear on this point, gentlemen. He’ll be acting on his discretion.”
Charlie nodded and said nothing. It was the best they could hope for, given the mission parameters. Captain Kane had also taught him restraint.
Bryant wouldn’t give it up. “Well, at least after we dump the supplies, we’ll be free to patrol those waters and sink some ships.”
“Ah, no,” Hunter said. “Delivering the supplies was item one. Now to item two. The Japanese have said any Americans who don’t surrender will be killed if they’re caught. Which means we may have some riders on the way home. Refugees. This isn’t just a supply run. It’s also a rescue mission.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
FIREHOSE
Just after sunrise on the second day, Sabertooth banged across the swells 800 miles out from Pearl. There’d be no stopping at Midway to top up fuel and provisions; the mission was too secret, and besides, they weren’t doing an extended patrol. They were going to get the refugees and bring them to Brisbane.
Staying awake by sheer will alone, Charlie stood on the bridge and swept the sea with his binoculars. He saw nothing in the squall. Behind him, the sky lightened over the Pacific as the sun rose, obscured by heavy cloud cover.
A year ago, the Empire of Japan attacked Pearl, the Philippines, and other U.S. territories. Captain Hunter read the crew a short prayer over the 1MC and led a moment of silence to honor the dead.
Right now, back home, people sat in easy chairs, read newspapers, listened to the radio. They were all connected to the war effort, but out here, on the front lines of the Pacific, it was a different world.
Charlie felt very far away from home. The country he was fighting for already seemed a distant memory. So did Evie. However distant America felt, she was worth fighting for. He wanted to think the same of Evie, but he wasn’t sure. It still stung him that she’d moved on so quickly. He knew he was being petulant, but he was a young man still learning to temper himself.
A light cold rain added to his discomfort. Despite his sou’wester hat and oilskins, he was soaked and shivering. At least he was getting something like a bath. The five officers shared a single shower, which they could use just long enough to get wet, though they had it better than the enlisted men, whose shower was stuffed with food. With refugees coming aboard soon, Hunter had banned any showers at all. The water the distillery produced went to the thirsty batteries; the crew drank the water they’d brought with them. If they wanted a bath, they could stand in the rain or throw a bucket overboard and haul up seawater.
Sixty-five men crammed inside a machine … Body odor wasn’t a problem, not with the diesel stink, the reason submariners called their boats “sewer pipes.” After just two days, diesel fumes had gotten into Charlie’s hair, clothes, and pores. Surrounded by foul-mouthed and filthy men with stubbled faces, he was starting to feel like a pirate again.
This was his home now.
The boat changed heading. Charlie checked the time. Right on schedule, Sabertooth zigged to reduce the risk of attack by an enemy submarine.
The time also indicated his watch had finally ended.
Bryant appeared in the hatch and hauled himself out. “Permission to relieve you, Harrison.”
“Permission granted.”
The engineering officer looked around at the weather. “Look at this shit.”
“All sectors clear. No sightings.”
“Yeah, no kidding. See you later.” Bryant grinned. “By the way, when you get down there, report to the exec. He requests the pleasure of your company.”
Charlie bit back a sarcastic reply. The engineering officer was enjoying seeing him get schooled a bit too much. He suspected the big man had a high opinion of himself and could be a bully. Bryant’s barely concealed animosity didn’t amount to much, though. Charlie had bigger problems—namely, how to stay awake as waves of exhaustion passed over him.
He grabbed the ladder rungs, slid past the conning tower, and dropped to the control room deck. Tired and wet, his lookouts followed.
The control room was a small space crowded with wheels, dials, gauges, levers, and labyrinthine piping. Gyro compass, hydraulic manifold, the Christmas tree board with its red and green lights, fathometer, and other systems. The helmsman maneuvered the ship with an annunciator that communicated direction and speed to Maneuvering. Two planesmen manned the big wheels that angled the boat up or down for diving. The manifoldmen controlled the valves that allowed the diving officer to move water into and o
ut of tanks and bilges to maintain the boat’s trim, keeping her level in the water. Beyond them, the number two periscope, radar station, radio shack, and blow and vent manifolds.
Lewis was already there, wearing a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile.
Charlie removed his hat and oilskins and stood dripping. “Reporting to the exec as ordered.”
He’d once thought of the S-55’s crew as industrious rats living inside the guts of a giant machine. A society of more than sixty men living in a space as small as three train boxcars and crammed all around with projecting pipes, valves, and gauges. Sabertooth proved no different. It was a tiny little society in which every man was a specialist. Electricians, machinists, torpedomen, quartermasters, cooks, radiomen, gunners. They had nicknames like Red, Ace, Dollar, Guts, Shorty, Doc. One guy, affectionately called Lazarus, probably had one hell of a story to tell.
To qualify in the submarines, a man had to learn every job on the boat well enough to do it himself. Charlie had done that on the 55, but Sabertooth was no sugar boat. Ever since they’d put to sea, he’d gotten the firehose treatment. Lewis had told him he was requalifying, drawings and notebook and all. When he wasn’t performing his duties, he was learning. As the posters back in Submarine School said, you trained like you fought, and you fought like you trained.
Charlie was bone tired, but he was learning the boat well. And what a boat! Compared to the old 55, Sabertooth was a precision killing machine. She had SD radar, which detected airplanes. The latest SJ radar, which detected surface ships, land masses, and low-flying aircraft up to 10,000 yards. And a topnotch torpedo data computer (TDC), which calculated a firing solution based on bearings and transmitted angles to reliable torpedo gyros.
In short, Sabertooth could detect a surface ship at significant range and fire the latest torpedoes at it with a fair amount of precision. In comparison, fighting on the 55 had been like half-blind bow-and-arrow shooting.
For a guy like Charlie, he felt like the proverbial kid in a candy store. Even so, he prayed the exec would let up on him for a few hours so he could get some sleep. The work had exhausted him beyond the point of endurance.
“Charles, we’re getting close to hostile waters,” Lewis said. “From here on out, we’re going to patrol submerged during the day.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Think you can handle taking her down?”
Charlie grinned. A second wind filled his sails. “I sure can!”
Lewis returned a dry smile. “You sure? You’re not too tired?”
“I’m fit for duty.”
“Then take over as diving officer.” Lewis keyed the 1MC call box. “Rig for dive.” The words blared through the boat. “Clear the bridge.”
Bryant and his lookouts slammed down the ladder. He frowned at the sight of Charlie. The last man called out the hatch was secure.
The exec said into the 1MC, “Dive, dive, dive!”
The klaxon blasted twice.
“Maneuvering, Control,” Charlie said. “Stop the main engines. Switch to battery power.” Then he glanced at the exec.
Lewis said, “Focus on the dive, Charles.”
The generator, which powered the electric motors that turned Sabertooth’s four screws, switched from the diesel engines to the batteries.
“Rig out the bow planes.”
The blades extended into the sea, ready to angle the boat.
“Manifold, close the main induction.”
The main induction valve, which fed air into the boat, clanged shut. Charlie checked the Christmas tree, which showed green lights across the board; all hull openings were secured. “Pressure in the boat, green board, Exec.”
The telephone talker said, “All compartments report being ready to dive.”
“Air in the banks, shit in the tanks,” Charlie said. They were ready to dive.
Lewis shot him a sharp glance. “Very well. Planes, 200 feet.”
The planesmen turned their wheels in opposite directions. The bow planes rigged to dive, the stern planes angling the boat.
Charlie said, “Manifold, open all main vents.”
The manifoldmen opened the vents to flood the ballast tanks with seawater. The water made the boat heavy, which brought her down in a controlled descent.
Sabertooth slid into the sea with a fifteen-degree downward angle. Charlie’s gut leaped with exhilaration at feeling the boat respond to his command. They were underwater now. He’d dived the 55, but that was nothing compared to the thrill of diving this fleet boat.
“Close all vents,” he said as Sabertooth neared her target depth. “Blow negative.”
The manifoldmen forced air into the flooded negative tank to restore buoyancy.
He said, “Two hundred feet. Manifold, two-degree up bubble. Planes, twenty-degree rise on the bow planes. Open bulkhead flappers, and start the ventilation.”
“How’s our trim?” Lewis asked.
“We’ve got good trim. Speed, three knots.”
The boat held neutral buoyancy with an even keel.
The executive offer nodded. “You did well, young Charles. You’ll make a fine diving officer by the time I’m done with you.”
A kid in a candy store.
Before Charlie could stop himself, he turned to Lewis and said, “God, I want one of these.”
Tambor-class submarine Sabertooth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A DANGEROUS GAME
The game was Hearts.
Lewis shuffled the cards. Bryant smoked. Hunter studied his opponents, looking for weakness. The Old Man took his game seriously. Charlie sensed that, for the captain, the game served as a pressure valve. Otherwise, they played for pennies but mostly to pass the time. Sabertooth still had 800 miles before she reached the Philippines.
Charlie played because the captain wanted him to play. He’d interpreted the captain’s invitation as an order. It also distracted him from his claustrophobia, which never really went away. On the Kennedy, he’d never gone green around the gills from the sea’s motion like some sailors. On the 55, however, he learned he hated being underwater. A strange phobia for a submariner, but he endured it.
The radio played music and propaganda from Tokyo. Tokyo Rose nattered:
“Hello, you fighting orphans in the Pacific. How’s tricks? This is after-her-weekend Annie back on the air strictly on the Zero Hour. Reception okay? Well, it had better be, because this is all-requests night, and I’ve got a pretty nice program for my little family, the wandering boneheads of the Pacific Islands. The first request is made by none other than the boss. And guess what? He wants Bonnie Baker in, ‘My Resistance is Low.’ ‘My, what taste you have, sir,’ she said.”
Bryant wistfully eyed the radio. “She’s feisty tonight.”
Lewis started dealing, thirteen cards per player. “Ante up, gentlemen.”
Charlie passed three high cards to the captain and in return got three stinkers from Bryant.
The captain led with the Two of Clubs. Following suit, Bryant played the King of Clubs, Charlie the Ten of Clubs. Lewis put down the Ace of Clubs and took the trick. In Hearts, everybody tried to dump their high cards early.
The idea was to avoid being forced to take Hearts. Each card was a penalty point. The Queen of Spades was the real villain, however, worth thirteen points.
Hand after hand, the players went at it until the total score for any individual player reached a hundred points. The player with the lowest score won the game.
In Spades, Charlie was down to the Ace, which Bryant had passed to him. When Lewis put down the Three of Spades, he had to play it. Bryant grinned and slapped down the Queen of Spades. Lewis chuckled.
“Sorry about that, buddy,” the engineering officer gloated.
The captain chuckled. “Bad luck, Harrison.”
Charlie was starting to think more than luck was involved. The other officers slammed him with the Queen of Spades every chance they got. When the captain had invited him into their game, Charlie had
seen it as a sign of acceptance. Instead, it appeared to be just more hazing. It made him long for the firehose treatment and the endless boat drills, both of which ended once the boat entered hostile waters.
It served as a useful reminder these men weren’t his friends, not really. When he’d boarded the 55, he and Rusty had become fast friends. Now Rusty was at PXO School, and Charlie missed him. He bunked with Liebold, who put up with Charlie’s claustrophobia and didn’t gossip about it. But Liebold still didn’t trust him enough to voice his concerns about Sabertooth.
Lewis dealt again. He passed Charlie the Queen of Spades and guffawed. The others led with Spades until they forced Charlie’s Queen into the open and made him eat the points. Charlie sighed.
Bryant laughed. “No need to commit hara-kiri, Harrison.”
Charlie grit his teeth and put down his next card. He found it strange that his life depended on this man and vice versa, yet they couldn’t stand each other.
The engineering officer said, “Funny story. Turns out one of our auxiliarymen is from the S-55. A big ape named Braddock. He said the lieutenant here got left topside during a dive and almost had to swim home.”
Lewis guffawed, though it was with sympathy. Hunter shook his head.
“Do you know what the captain said? He said, ‘You may be sorry you signed up for the submarines, son, but there’s no need to commit hara-kiri.’”
The men had a good laugh at that.
Bryant said, “That’s what they called him on the 55. Hara-kiri. Ironic the captain called you that, seeing how he ended up.” He shook his head with disbelief. “Attacking Rabaul with an old beat-up S-boat.”
Silent Running: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 2) Page 3