Trial of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Brent choked back his dislike for the man. Williams was obviously trying to mend fences. Brent responded with forced jocularity. “Got lonely down there, Captain. No one to talk to.” They both laughed. Then Brent informed the captain of the jammed torpedo tube muzzle door, the leaking valve, the break in the power cables, the loss of electric drive, and Dante’s detection of John “Slugger” Fite’s radar signal.

  Williams nodded gravely as he digested this information. He pounded the windscreen. “God damn it, I’d like to have those motors on line. But it doesn’t change anything — at least for the moment. No telling what can happen between here and Tokyo Bay, though.” He sniffed and tugged on his broad nose with a thumb and forefinger. “And this Captain Fite is the escort commander?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s the cruising speed of a Fletcher Class can?”

  “Knowing Fite, he’s probably pushing her at twenty-four knots.” The executive officer smiled. “Some of his officers call him, “Full-Ahead Fite.””

  “Guy’s got a lot of nicknames.”

  “He’s very unusual, Captain.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Williams tapped the windscreen. “If he maintains his course and is making twenty-four knots, we should sight him in about four hours, XO — near the end of your watch.”

  “That’s what I figure.”

  The speaker came to life. “ESM to Bridge.”

  Williams keyed the speaker. “Bridge aye.”

  “Target at zero-three-seven has locked on us. Range nine-seven-miles. My library identifies the vessel as Destroyer Number One of carrier Yonaga’s escort. Commanding officer is Captain John Fite.”

  “What is his closing speed?”

  “Closing speed is twenty-four-knots, Captain.”

  “Very well.” Williams turned to Brent with new respect in his eyes. “You know these people pretty well, XO.”

  “I’ve steamed with Captain Fite for six years, Captain.”

  Williams looked off into the distance at a hump of clouds on the northwestern horizon — the only trace of clouds in the great eggshell blue vault of the sky. It was a magnificent day, a light and fickle breeze scratching dark patches on the surface of the rolling deep blue sea. “You know, Brent,” he said almost wistfully, “who could ever believe this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this.” He waved the length of the boat. “A World War Two fleet boat manned by a crew of Japanese and Americans and commanded by a — a black man.”

  “It works, Captain.” Brent was glad Williams had avoided the word nigger. Williams had thrown the word at Brent in the past in a fit of anger. Again Brent’s mind went back to the time when they had first met and shared a small room in New York City. The big black man had been drinking too much, becoming belligerent and argumentative, spicing his polemics with nigger repeatedly as he shouted at Brent, expounding on everything from football to race relations. It was the heated exchange over football that had almost led to violence. It was a childish argument fueled by liquor, Williams contending he could have “fed you gopher shit and dirt and turf,” while Brent was equally vehement, claiming, “I would’ve left cleat marks up your ass.” The evening had left a bad taste in both of their mouths, and the bitter exchange had ripened into a mutual, cordial loathing that was held just beneath the surface on both sides. “And the men work together very well,” Brent added.

  Williams nodded and smiled. “I have the best fuckin’ crew in the world.”

  For a moment, Brent felt the animosity fade. “I agree there, Captain. If they weren”t the best, we’d have been in Davey Jones locker long ago.”

  Abruptly Williams became all business. Staring at Brent with his black, bloodshot eyes, he raced through the usual duty officer’s monologue. Brent was already familiar with most of the facts, but naval tradition and regulations required the formal transfer of information with the change in watch. “Steaming on zero-three-zero, speed sixteen. All four main engines on line, turning at three-two-zero revolutions. Wind Force Two from the northwest, moderate swell running from the same direction. Radios, IFF, and radar are out. Sonar is operable. Recognition lights are rigged.” He gestured to the twenty-four-inch signaling searchlight mounted on a small platform at the rear of the bridge. “’Bridge to bridge” and FM-ten are still out. So Fite will challenge with flashing light. When he challenges with Alpha, Alpha, the response is Zulu, Oscar and then identify the ship.”

  “Zulu, Oscar,” Brent repeated. “Understood, sir.”

  Williams rubbed the bridge of his broad nose in a tired gesture. “I’ll be on the bridge by the time he’s hulled-down, anyway. But keep your signalman on the ball. I don’t want to be blown out of the water by our own escort commander.”

  Brent felt a pang of resentment at the words which were more of a lecture than the usual sing-song phrases of an officer being relieved. However, he managed a respectful, “Aye aye, sir.”

  Williams continued, “We’re shipping maybe seventy tons of seawater in Number One Ballast Tank, but the pumps are holding it even. I won’t counterflood with Number Two Main Ballast Tank because I don’t want to lower our bow anymore. Instead, I’m trimming with Numbers Two and Four trim tanks. Your JOD is Ensign Battle. He’s at the diving station, and he’s on the ball.” He waved aft. “The twenty-millimeters are our ready guns, and the fifties are loaded and set on safe. If we go to GQ (general quarters), the lookouts can man them until relieved. Any questions?”

  “Sunset? Change of course?”

  “I’ll check with Cadenbach and give you time of sunset on the PA. I don’t anticipate a change in course on your watch, but I’ll let you know after the navigator’s evening sights.” He gestured to a small speaker mounted on the front of the wind screen between the helm and annunciators. “The bridge speaker’s working again. Saves a lot of yelling down that hatch.” He stabbed a finger downward. “If we take any seas, close the hatch and latch it.”

  Brent felt more irritation. What had been mentioned was SOP (standard operating procedure). Only in diving or in emergencies were the hatches dogged watertight, and then only by order of the captain or diving officer. The command had been unnecessary, but Brent managed a businesslike “Aye aye, sir. I won’t dog it unless you order it or in extreme emergency.”

  “That is correct, XO.”

  “I relieve the watch, Captain.”

  “Very well.”

  The speaker came to life with Crog’s voice, “Bridge!”

  “Bridge, aye,” Williams said, leaning over the small box.

  “Our IFF is working, sir.”

  “Well done. Four-oh,” Williams said, his voice filled with relief. He turned to Brent, “That’ll help, XO. Our own forces will know us now.”

  “Yes, sir. Good news, Captain.”

  There was a clatter of sea boots on steel rungs, and enlisted men streamed up from the conning tower to relieve the men on duty. In a moment, Williams had vanished down the hatch with his section. As Brent Ross stepped close to the wind screen and stared over the bow, Seaman First Class Jay Overstreet took over the helm and annunciators. Two new lookouts took their positions on the bridge while two more scrambled up the short ladders to their platforms on the periscope shears. Four more men settled behind the pair of Orlikons. Everyone wore heavy foul weather jackets and had binoculars hanging around his neck. Immediately the four lookouts began to search their sectors. Brent warned all hands about the oncoming destroyer, although he knew they were all quite aware of the intruder. The mysterious ship’s “telegraph” was by far the fastest and most efficient communications system on earth.

  He turned to the port lookout, Signalman Second Class Todd Doran, who was the signalman of the watch, and explained the challenge and response. A small, fair youngster with the flaps of his cap hanging loose, Doran appeared almost buried in his foul weather gear. Doran repeated the signals and returned to his sector, his eyes to his binoculars. Brent was quite capable of sending and rec
eiving flashing light. However, as OD (officer of the deck), his was an overall tactical and ship-handling responsibility and he could not lose himself in such small details. Brent brought his binoculars to his eyes.

  With a heavy bow, Blackfin rode sluggishly, her knife-like prow smashing instead of slashing into the small seas, sending spray and green water rippling the length of the superstructure above her pressure hull. Larger swells raced the length of the deck, crashing against the bridge structure, sending water and spray geysering upward in jets and sheets to rain down on the bridge crew. Occasionally quartered, she rolled ponderously, exposing her pressure hull. The rolls sent water pouring through the rows of open ports perforating most of the submarine’s 312-foot length, which allowed quick drainage on the surface and rapid flooding when submerging. When beneath the surface, the exhaust ports rumbled and sent their gases to explode on the surface in great bubbles, while their opposite numbers exposed to the air, barked their power in staccato blasts of blue smoke and white spray. Sluicing along both sides, her bow waves sent water churning through the ports and drains, straining water like a great baleen whale skimming crustaceans and making that hissing, burbling sound peculiar to submarines. Astern, her rolling wake widened in a wedgelike scar all the way to the southern horizon.

  Suddenly a large swell swept the boat, crashing against the conning tower and sending a sheet of water shooting as high as the lookout platforms on the periscope shears. There were shouts of anger and surprise in the conning tower as water poured down the hatch. Brent slammed the heavy bronze hatch down and latched it. He keyed the speaker. “Captain!”

  “Captain, aye,” came back immediately.

  “Permission to rig out bow planes, sir. We just took blue water over the bridge and the swells are increasing.”

  “We’ll lose speed, Mister Ross.”

  “I know, sir. But if we’re forced under, we have no electric power.” The prospect was chilling and every man on the bridge turned toward the executive officer. The force of fear was palpable.

  “Very well, XO. I’ll give the order immediately. You decide on the angle.”

  Within seconds, there were two thumps as the bow planes were rigged out like elephant ears from their flush slots in the hull. Brent studied the bow and shouted into the speaker, “Diving station!”

  The voice of the diving officer, Ensign Herbert Battle came back, “Diving station, aye.”

  “Up four-degrees on the bow planes.”

  “Up four-degrees on the bow planes, Mister Ross.” Immediately the bows were lifted almost to normal steaming depth. At the same time, the beat of the diesels slowed as they felt the additional load.

  Brent sighed with relief as Blackfin lifted herself to a more seaworthy attitude. She was not steaming in a fully surfaced condition and would not with the damaged ballast tank, but her decks were free of all but the largest seas. He snapped open the safety latch of the hatch and stepped aside as the large coiled counterbalancing springs flung the hatch cover open, banging it against the side of the bridge and latching itself open with a loud, clanging thud. There were some grumbles from below as water dripped in.

  Returning to the windscreen, he gripped it with both hands. The small cloud on the horizon had now reared up in an ominous mushroom. A thunderstorm. So quick to strike in these latitudes. He could see flashes of internal lightning and the entire area under the cloud was obscured by rain so thick it appeared like a solid lead sheet.

  Incongruously, the slanting rays of the sun caught the rain and playfully sent colorful rainbows arcing gaily up to the clouds.

  The storm was to their north and to the west, off their track at the moment. But it was a clear and present danger and was responsible for the seas which were now taking the boat on the port bow in endless rows. If they were caught in the heart of the storm, the damaged tank could flood and the boat would be driven beneath the seas. Without electric power, she would be doomed. It would be a slow and horrible death.

  Brent gripped the windscreen with both hands and stared into the distance, scanning the sharp line of demarcation between sea and sky. Despite the storm, despite the damage to the boat, despite his boorish captain, he felt sudden contentment. Captain John “Slugger” Fite was over the horizon. And Yonaga was there, too. Soon he would see his old friends — his comrades-in-arms of so many years and so many bloody battles. And the living anachronism, Admiral Fujita, awaited him. The brilliant tactician, incomparable seaman, the walking encyclopedia of the knowledge of the ages whose inquiring mind had found challenge in all areas of human endeavor. They were all there over the horizon-those who were still alive.

  Nothing can bring the realities of life and death home like the sea. Here a man challenges an element that is forever hostile even when in its most docile moods. Man does not belong here. He must fight a host of elements and sometimes other men and here he often dies with rare violence and horror. Yet, the irresistible fascination has lured men for millennia. Brent Ross was no different.

  For nearly two hours the watch was uneventful. With bridge silence in force, there was no chatter, the only breaks coming when the quartermaster took his hourly readings of the barometer, thermometer, clouds, and sky conditions and entered them on his log sheets. Fortunately, the storm began to break up and move in fragments along the western horizon, its outriders a row of line squalls that paraded like skirmishers to the south, each a complete, tiny storm dropping rain like funnels of pearl dust into the sea while brilliant sunlight streamed all around. With the danger diminishing, Brent felt relaxation begin to creep through his tense muscles, and the last vestige of his depression fled with the wind.

  Dale McIntyre came back — returned with the jarring reality known only to bored men who stand long, lonely watches at sea, week after week, month after month. She had visited him and tortured him many times on this patrol: on watch, in his bunk. They were back on her brass bed in her Manhattan apartment and she was nude as she always was in his fantasies and usually was in his presence. Her magnificent sculpted body was so real he felt he could reach out and touch her; the rounded breasts with areolas like rosebuds, tiny trim waist, hips and buttocks that would have challenged Goya. He could feel her hot flesh like fine silk under his hands, smell the perfume she always wore behind her ears and in other places far more private. Gripping the windscreen fiercely, he closed his eyes as he actually felt her pelvis grind against him, eyes slitted, mouth wide with passion.

  “Range to DD-One three-seven-miles, bearing unchanged at zero-three-seven true,” came through the speaker. Dale fled.

  “Very well,” Brent said, far more curtly than he had intended. He shook his head completely free of his reveries. Fite was very close and on a course of interception. Friends and safety were just over the horizon. For the first time in months, he was aware of the beauty that can be found only by men who travel the seas. The young lieutenant fixed his eyes on the sky above Fite’s bearing. Here the far horizon glared blue as polished aquamarine while below the small ripples serrating the surface of the sea diffused the sun, reflecting it like chips of newly mined mica. Only at sea could a man find such beauty. But it could be misleading, as devious as a diseased harlot.

  The swells rolled past and spray tingled his cheeks. He filled his lungs with pure, clean air and tasted the salt spray on his lips. The cold wind brushed his nose, tingled his cheeks. After the horror of the depth-charging and the prospect of a hideous death that had appeared so imminent, the breath of the cool wind seemed sweet against his face, his neck, his hands and an elixir in his lungs — a tonic that wiped away the smell of vomit, excrement, rancid oil, and fear that had fouled the bowels of the ship. The breeze whispered in his ears soothingly and coiled about his body like a friendly comforter. For an instant it seemed divine, caressing and assuaging, and he stood rooted to the deck in a perfect, timeless joy and harmony. I’m alive, and young and strong, ran through his mind.

  After a battle he always reveled in life, savoring his
own survival made more salient by the deaths of so many of his enemies and so many dear to him. The carnage always left him wondering how many more times he could challenge the black phantom and best him. Inevitably, when the last shots were fired, he would chant to himself, “It’s over and I’m alive.” He knew now that the sea, like nothing else, brought these thoughts home to the men who fought on and beneath her.

  The last hour of the watch seemed far shorter than each of the first three. The storm moved off further to the west, which was its predicted track, and the swells moved with it, gradually diminishing in size. The sun was low on the horizon, and its still strong rays filled the circular vault above with an intense blue glare. Periodically Dante gave reports on the approaching destroyer. Finally, with DD-One only twenty miles to the north, Captain Reginald Williams came to the bridge. “He’s bearing zero-three-seven true, zero-one-zero relative, range nineteen,” he said to Brent Ross, raising his binoculars.

  “Yes, sir. We should sight his mainmast soon.” Brent turned his head upward to the periscope shears, the useless radar antenna, and the lookouts. “Keep a sharp watch, there, men.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the lookouts chorused, leaning into their glasses.

  Williams spoke into the speaker, “ESM! I want a report.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had not shaved for days, and the fingers actually flicked the stiff bristles like a brush.

  Dante’s voice called the bridge. Williams leaned over the speaker, and Brent could hear the tension and confusion in the young technician’s voice, “Target at zero-three-seven has gone to thirty-two-knots, Captain.”