by Robb White
It isn't hard to fight when you know that the enemy is in a certain place and you must go to that place and fight him. You, and your buddies, thousands and thousands of them, go there and fight.
In the PT boats you had maybe a dozen buddies in a tiny boat, in the dark. You didn't know where the enemy was or how strong he was or when, in the black of night, he would shoot you. You did know, though, that against the enemy's ships you had to hit him with everything the boat had to kill him, while with one shell, one lucky hit of even a light deck gun, he could wipe you out.
In armies of men, war doesn't seem very personal to any one man. He's just a tiny, invisible, unimportant part of an enormous machine. In the PT boats war is personal, bitter, hard. No PT boat ever fought an even fight; the odds were always hundreds, thousands to one against the men in the PTs. When you sighted the enemy in the darkness he was always immensely bigger and stronger than you were with more and bigger guns … more everything. To survive in PT boats took three things, all at the same time: gunnery, seamanship, guts.
So, in the dark nights, the PT boats would fan out across the sea-lanes between Rabaul, on New Britain, and New Guinea. There they would make their lonely and dangerous patrols, all night long, their radars searching out the enemy as he tried to creep past them.
On Slewfoot the man in the bow called back softly, "Anchor's aweigh." Peter eased the throttles ahead, swinging the boat around Vadang Island and resuming the patrol along the New Britain coast.
The PTs usually cruised as close to the land as they could, for the land was their protection. The enemy's radar signals were reflected from the great mass of the land so that the tiny, moving blip of a PT boat was hard to pick out.
The night was clear now, but very dark, the sky covered with a high layer of solid cumulus. As soon as they were clear of Vadang, Murphy took over the wheel and Peter went back to Jonesy's chair and broke out the big night binoculars.
The only light aboard Slewfoot now was the tiny pool of dim light around the face of the compass and, coming up through the hatch, a faint, dim, green glow from the radarscope. There was actually more light in the phosphorescence of the sea as they slid through it.
There was almost no noise. Mixing with the whine of the superchargers, well muted by Sko, was the lap lap of water against the bow. Occasionally a man would cough, or you could hear a word or two as the watch was changed.
Silence and stealth were Slewfoot's real weapons, plus speed.
Murph turned around and whispered over to Peter, "Moon'll be up in about an hour. Full, too."
"The better to see you with, Goldilocks," Peter said. But he hated moonlight. To him on a moonlit night Slewfoot seemed to stick out like a sore thumb, making a beautiful target for anyone with a gun.
As he sat there, scanning the sea ahead and to both sides and occasionally looking aft, occasionally lowering the glasses to look around what was—for this night anyway—"his" boat, an odd feeling began to grow in him.
This was his boat and, because of that, these were his men.
Peter had never felt exactly this way while Jonesy had been alive and Slewfoot had been Jonesy's boat. He had felt then—and the men must feel this now—that his life was in Jones's hands. The boat and everything in it were the responsibility of Jones.
Sitting in the dark there this feeling got pretty big. Peter looked around at the men resting in dark heaps on the deck and thought about the others below—the motormacs in their inferno, the cook would now be trying to dish up something for the midnight change of the watch. All of their lives depended on the commanding officer now, depended on his making the right decision.
So this, Peter thought, is what it feels like to be captain of a ship. It awed him and made him feel small and ineffective.
The radarman poked his head out of the hatch and said, "Bogeys, three big ones, course two seven zero, range nine thousand, speed fifteen."
Peter jumped out of the chair, almost dropping the big glasses, and dropped down into the radar shack.
As the thin scanning line of the radar swept slowly around to 270° on the scope it was just a thin, greenish line, but as it hit 270, suddenly three large green bulges appeared, glowed strongly for a second, then faded away.
The radarman said, "Big mothers."
Peter just nodded, waiting for the blips to show again.
These were not the enemy's daihatsu or even toku daihatsu barges which he usually used to move troops and supplies at night. Even the big daihatsu could only make 9 knots and these things on the radar were making a good 15.
Peter checked the range and watched the blips come up again.
"They're as big as cruisers," the radarman said. "Maybe carriers."
From behind them Murph said, "Or battle-wagons. Want me to send a contact report, Skipper?"
"No," Peter said, watching the screen. This surprised Murphy. It was essential that the Base know if any PT made a contact because it might be the last thing the Base ever heard from the boat. It said in big print in the book: Radio base immediately ON MAKING CONTACT WITH THE ENEMY.
Then Murphy had a thought he didn't want to think. It just came into his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. If Peter sent no contact report there would be no record of contact. The three enemy ships could slide on through the night, undetected, unmolested. Peter and all the men in the boat could just pretend they had not seen a thing—for those ships were big and fast and tough.
"Ask Mitch to come aft," Peter said, and went out to the bridge. As he stepped up beside Murphy and peered into the darkness, he suddenly felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life. "I'll take it," he told Murph, wanting badly to have something to do.
The enemy ships were on a course due west, heading straight toward New Guinea as they sailed along the curving coast of New Britain. Slewfoot was between them and New Britain so that the landmass of the island made it impossible for the enemy radar to detect the bout. Peter was sure that, now, the enemy had no idea that he was so close. But Peter knew he could not make an attack on them without sailing clear of the land on his beam. At the speed they were making he would have to take Slewfoot out across the Dampier Strait and the instant he did, the enemy radars would light up like Christmas.
Mitchell, the big bosun, appeared out of the darkness. "You want me, Skipper?"
"We've got three bogeys, big as cruisers," Peter said, pointing in the direction of the invisible enemy. "See if you can make 'em out." He handed Mitch the big glasses.
Mitch went aft and climbed up on top of the tank compartments. Murph, with a pair of 7 by 30 glasses, was already up there.
"See anything?" Mitch asked.
"Black as your heart," Murph said.
"Well, why doesn't he close in on 'em?" Mitch asked.
Murph looked at the big bosun in the darkness. Murph was thinking the same thing, but he wasn't going to give the big ape the satisfaction of running down the skipper.
"He's biding his time," Murph said.
"He's letting 'em get away," Mitch said.
"So you want to run over there and get blown out of the water before we even see 'em?"
Mitch looked down at him scornfully. "Jonesy would have been on his way by now. On his ivay."
Then Murph saw them, and it chilled him. The black silhouettes moving across the sea were enormous. Long, and black, and high hulled. Enormous.
Murph climbed down and ran to the bridge, handing Peter the glasses. "They're battleships. Anyway, cruisers."
Peter scanned the sea, stopped, looked. The sight chilled him, too. The huge ships seemed to fill the whole horizon. He handed the glasses back to Murphy. "Transports," he said. "Attack transports."
"Want me to pass the word for battle stations?" Murph asked.
"No," Peter said.
Murph stood in the dark, staring at him. If this man had been Jonesy things would have been different now. Slewfoot would have been on her way toward those enemy ships, her engines wide open. Every man would have
been at his station; the torpedomen would have been setting the fish to go.
Instead, Peter held Slewfoot on a course away from the enemy and half the crew lay asleep on the deck.
"Take it," Peter said, stepping aside for Murphy to take the wheel.
Through the black night Peter stood and looked at the huge ships through the binoculars. Big and black and ominous, not a light showing, not a sound coming from them.
Estimate of the Situation. That's what they called it in the Navy school. Estimate of the Situation: Where was the enemy? How strong was he? What would he probably do? What could he do that you could not expect? What will you do if he does so-and-so? Finally, what can you make him do?
There was no doubt about where the enemy was, and where he was going, and what he would probably do if attacked. And it looked as though his strength was three big, armed, fast transports. This, Peter decided, was the first problem. The enemy sometimes sent their daihatsu barges out on the sea with no other protection than the guns they carried, the darkness and, usually, rain. But would the enemy be so foolish as to send three of his biggest and best and scarcest attack transports with only deck guns and darkness for protection? The enemy knew, by bitter losses, that U. S. PT boats nightly prowled the waters he was now sailing in. Would he send three immensely valuable ships out here with nothing to fight off the PTs? Peter didn't think so. Thore must be destroyers convoying these transports. There had to be, but where were they?
Without knowing the answer to that he could not go on with his estimate of the situation. He leaned down into the radar shack and said, "Take a good look all around, Willie."
In a moment Willie reported, "Three bogeys is all I see."
Where were they? "Hold course," he told Murph and then swung down into the radar shack, motioning Willie off the high stool. As he reached for the controls he noticed that his hands were shaking and wondered why. He didn't feel any more afraid than usual. Frustration at not knowing what he wanted to know, he thought, or just plain excitement.
Mitch, the bosun, went by the shack and looked down and saw Peter's hands shaking.
Jonesy's hands had never shaken like that in a fight, Mitch thought. Never. He stepped up beside Murph and whispered, "The Exec's hands are shaking like a leaf."
"You'd be shaking, too," Murph said. But it bothered him, hurt him. He had thought a lot of Peter. Next to Jones, Peter Brent had been top man. And when Jonesy was alive he had never seen Peter act the way he was acting now—undecided, and shaking. Peter had always seemed just as brave—well, almost as brave—as Jones. Now he was down in the radar shack shaking and letting the enemy get away.
Peter studied the blips the enemy ships made on the screen. He couldn't be sure, but occasionally they seemed to change in size, just a little, getting a little bigger now, and then a little smaller. He couldn't be sure, but it was the only way he could explain it.
The Estimate of the Situation, the professor had said, was simply an educated guess. Now, Peter thought, I've got to go on with the rest of the problem using a pretty wild guess.
He climbed out of the shack to the bridge where Mitch slowly moved aside for him. "Mitch," Peter said, "stand by to make smoke." In the darkness the big bosun stared at Peter with surprise and the disgust. Up to now, Mitch I thought, it had been bad, but this was downright sickening. Mumbling under his breath, he went aft. Stucky, the 43-millimeter Bofors gunner, was lying asleep on the deck; and the sight of him gave Mitch something to pour his anger out. He kicked Stucky in the stern; and as Stucky came up fighting, Mitch shoved him down with one big paw.
"What's up?" Stucky asked.
"We've got three big ships out there we could I run in on and sink—wham wham wham. So what are we doing? We're running away. I'm going to make some smoke now before we even get shot at."
Stucky couldn't believe it. "What's the Skipper doing?"
"The Exec," Mitch said scornfully, "is so scared he's hanging onto the wheel so he won't fall down."
"Mr. Brent? Mr. Brent's scared?"
"And I thought he'd make a good skipper," Mitch said, as he moved on to the smoke generator.
This was a large steel drum on the after end of the boat. The smoke was not true smoke, but at chemical mixture under pressure in the drum, which, when released, poured out over the water and hung thick and heavy and evil smelling—a wall of smoke. Mitch set the valves and made sure the release lanyards were clear and then sat down beside Stucky.
"As soon as we hit the beach I'm putting in for a transfer off this boat," Mitch told him. "It's bad enough in the boats with a guy like Jones, but I'm not riding with a kid so scared he can't stand up."
"Well, this is his first time as skipper," Stucky argued.
"It doesn't take but one time for a man to show what's up his back," Mitch said.
As he did, the engines in the compartment directly below him increased their muffled roar until the whine of the superchargers could no longer be subdued.
"Maybe you're wrong," Stucky said. "Looks like we're going in."
For a moment it did look that way, but Slewfoot kept turning, turning past a course that would have sent her to the enemy, turning almost 180° before she settled back on course.
"That does it," Mitch said. "Now he's only running away, he's running for home."
On the bridge Murph, standing beside Peter, asked, "Are we going home?"
"I hope so," Peter said. "Get all the deckhands up here, Murph."
Murph went forward and woke up the sleeping gunners and torpedomen. "The Skip … Mr. Brent wants to talk to you," he told them. Then he went aft and gathered up Mitch md the gunners back there.
"What do we get now—alibis?" Mitch asked.
Murph was too sick at heart to answer.
The men gathered at the bridge and stood in silence, looking up at Peter on the steering platform. Peter turned the wheel over to Murph and turned to face the men.
"There's more out there than we can handle," he told them in a low voice. "Three big transports with five-inch guns and all the troop machine guns and small arms … "
Mitch interrupted him: "We've got four torpedoes. That's one more than we need for a little job like this."
"Theoretically," Peter agreed. "But I think there's more to it than that, so I'm going to leave the transports for the other boats."
Murphy couldn't believe it. He looked at Peter in the dark, and now Peter seemed to be someone he had never seen before. "You're going to let 'em get away?" Murph asked.
"We're going to have to. Send a contact report to all boats on patrol that three big transports are coming their way."
It made the bosun sick. "If the other boats can take 'em on, why can't we?"
"Because I don't know what's out there," Peter j said. "So go aft and get that generator ready to jettison."
"Jettison?" Mitch almost yelled. "What do you mean, jettison?"
"Just that," Peter told him. "If I pass the word, start making smoke and then be ready to jettison."
Mitch was so close to mutiny that he was afraid to stand there in front of Peter any longer. "Okay," he said. "You're the boss … the book says."
Mitch moved aft and said to Stucky on the Bofors, "Chicken. Pure chicken. And not only that, he lets 'em ride right down on the other boats."
"I don't understand it," Stucky agreed. "The least we could do is make a run on 'em. Shake 'em up a little."
As Mitch moved on to the smoke generator and started unbolting it he said, "I'm never going to -ride in a boat with that guy again. Even if I have to gundeck something I'm never going to ride a boat with Ensign Peter Brent, USN—R."
Estimate of the situation: The enemy was there, a few thousand yards to the starboard of Slewfoot; the enemy's mission was crystal clear: carry troops and supplies to New Guinea; the enemy's strength?
Peter looked over at the dark ships moving on the dark sea with the dark sky behind them.
The enemy's strength?
There was noth
ing Peter could do until he found the answer to that. And there was only one way to do it.
The risk and the danger of what he now had to do appalled him. Once embarked on the maneuver the end result would be simply life or death for Slewfoot and the men in her.
There was one small consolation for Peter. It was in the hands of the enemy whether Slewfoot lived or died, but the enemy's decision would have to be made in a matter of seconds. The enemy would have to think fast and shoot fast in those seconds because Slewfoot was going to be moving when the time came.
Peter put on a pair of goggles with deep-red lenses so the lights below decks would not ruin his night vision when he came back to the bridge. "I'm going below," he told Murph. "Hold her steady."
"Steady as she goes," Murph said.
Peter dropped down the hatch and went through the crew's space to the engine room. On deck you could barely hear the engines—it was really more of a feeling than a sound—but when Peter opened the little door through the fire wall and crawled into Sko's inferno the sound was monstrous.
Sko was sitting in his tractor seat above the center engine with one foot on each of the outboard engines. He was naked to the waist and sweat was pouring from him and dripping in a steady little stream from the end of a big, un-lighted cigar he had clamped in his teeth. That was a bad sign, Peter knew, because Sko never chomped on that cigar unless he was worried.
Peter explained what was going on and then asked, "How they running, Sko?"
"Pretty good, Skipper. But they sure need an overhaul."
"Pretty soon they've got to go from a dead stop to full out," Peter told him. "Will they do it?"
Sko shrugged and scraped the sweat off his elbows. "We can try," he said, "but if they gulp one time we're dead." He patted one of the engines with his foot. "Particularly Betsy, here. She's been cantankerous for a week."
"Talk nice to her," Peter said and went out.
Sko turned to the two motormacs down on the hot steel decking. "Listen, you swab handles!" he yelled at them. "When you see those accelerator rods begin to move, give these girls just a little tickle—just a little. And if I hear a single cylinder gulp so help me I'll shove you out the exhaust pipe."