“She does,” Rusty cut in. “They just don’t always shoot straight.”
“You served on a destroyer,” the captain noted.
“That’s right,” Charlie said. “The Kennedy, stationed in the Atlantic.”
“Then the Japs bomb Pearl, and you up for a transfer to a pigboat in the Pacific. Just wondering what you were thinking, making such a big change.”
“The Japs attacked us, sir. I wanted to pay them back. Take the fight straight to ’em.”
“I figured as much. But why a submarine?”
“The Japs made a big mistake at Pearl,” Charlie explained. “They didn’t bomb the submarine piers. They didn’t hit the fuel dumps, torpedo plant, or machine shops. The boats at Pearl and Cavite were still in the game, and I knew they’d be on offense.”
“Interesting line of thought. Very logical.” Kane gave Charlie an appraising look then added, “So where are you from, Harrison?”
“Tiburon. A coastal town north of San Francisco. Across the bay.”
“San Fran, eh? You must have spent some time on boats.”
“I grew up on boats, sir. Fishing and crabbing.”
“We’ll have to compare notes. I’m a bit of a fisherman myself.”
“I’d like that, sir,” Charlie said warmly, but he chafed at the small talk. “Any word on the mission, sir? Are we going to Guadalcanal?”
In August, the Marines landed on Guadalcanal and two other islands. They captured the Japanese airfield and renamed it Henderson Field. This served two strategic aims. First, to prevent the Japanese from using the islands to threaten supply and communication lines between America and Australia. Second, to provide bases from which the Allies could neutralize or capture Rabaul.
The Americans and Japanese had been fighting over it by land, sea, and air ever since. A fight to the death in which neither side showed mercy. Guadalcanal had become a meat grinder.
The captain smiled. “Enough talk about work. Let’s blow off some steam. I see you haven’t gotten a drink yet. Rusty will help you rectify that.”
Charlie was being dismissed. He let Rusty drag him to the other side of the room.
“I’m a stupid idiot,” Charlie said. It had been dumb to ask the captain about the mission in front of civilians. He’d played it cool but then revealed himself as an overeager beaver.
Rusty smiled as he poured them both a glass of Emu Bitter beer. “It’s called the ‘Silent Service’ for a reason, brother.”
“I guess I’m still learning.”
“Drink up.” Rusty raised his glass and said gravely, “To all ships in the Navy. To all ladies of our land. May the former be well rigged and the latter be well manned.”
CHAPTER FOUR
RIG FOR SEA
Under a hot sun, the S-55 buzzed with activity. Dusty men in blue shirts and dirty dungarees swarmed across her deck. Trucks pumped fresh water and fuel through thick hoses into the submarine’s tanks. The air reeked with thick diesel stench. She lay low in the water, with a draft of sixteen feet between the waterline and the keel. Surfaced as she was, she displaced 900 tons of water. Sailors passed boxes of frozen meat, coffee, and canned fruit and vegetables down the hatch, where they were stowed in every nook and cranny. The quartermaster raced about with a clipboard and marked it all down in his ledger.
Shore patrol pulled up and dumped two half-conscious men on the dock. The sailors jeered at their comrades and called them skates—loafers. One stood, grinned, and waved—and then promptly fell over, still drunk from his last night of shore leave. Charlie shook his head and got back to work. The chief of the boat, a big, burly man named Dobbs, would see to those men.
Charlie’s responsibilities included gunnery officer. If the S-55 ever needed to surface to sink a merchant or, God forbid, trade punches with a destroyer, it was his job to make sure the gun and its crew were ready to fire and do so with effect. As for himself, he’d be on the bridge during the action, spotting for the gun crew while exposed to enemy fire—though, in a gun action, nowhere was safe.
For now, it was his duty to double-check the equipment. He made sure the barrel was plugged tight and the hinged cover over the breech properly secured. The plug and cover ensured the firing mechanisms didn’t get wet after submerging, which would render the gun useless when their lives depended on it.
Nearby, a group of sailors guided a new torpedo, hanging from a crane, down the weapons hatch. The men glanced at Charlie and turned away. “Skimmer puke,” he heard. A derogatory term submariners used for guys in surface ships. He frowned at the insult.
On the whole, submariners were shaping up as a clannish breed. They alone fought under the surface; anything on it was a potential enemy.
A sailor approached Charlie. “Mr. Harrison?”
“Yeah?”
“I was told to get the keys to the boat from you.”
“The keys?”
“Yes, sir. Captain can’t put to sea without ’em.”
Charlie noticed the men continuing their duties while suppressing laughter. He returned his gaze to the sailor, whom he now knew was a greenhorn, and asked his name.
“Billy. Billy Ford,” said the blond-haired kid.
With as much gravity as he could muster, Charlie said, “Thank you, Billy. The captain entrusted the keys to me. I’ll pass them on to him. Carry on.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The recruit ran off on some other fool’s errand.
Rusty appeared at Charlie’s side and grinned. “The snipe hunt never gets old. You know, you might have kept it going for a laugh. Sent him on to me, maybe.”
“On another day, I might have. Today—I’m new here too, Rusty. I guess I sympathized.”
“Anybody looking for sympathy in this navy can find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis. Next time, think about playing along. It would go a long way with the crew.”
Charlie said, “They’ll either warm up to me, or they won’t.”
“They’re a tight-knit bunch. You might think about how you’re going to earn their respect.”
“In the Navy I come from, the rank is respected.”
“It is,” Rusty said. “But on a submarine, it helps if the man is too. The thing is, every one of these guys, from the captain down to the idiot electrician mates, is vital to our survival. Every man on the boat is a specialist. And one of them is going to keep his head during the next heavy attack and stop a leak or do something else that’ll save us all.”
He added, “Take that joker over there, for example.” He pointed to the large, tattooed sailor who’d called Charlie a skimmer puke. “Machinist’s Mate John Braddock. We took a hell of a pounding by a destroyer on the retreat from the Philippines and came close to losing the boat. He stood in hellish heat and smoke in the motor room for hours and kept an overheating bearing lubed with an oil gun until we completed repairs. Simple as that, he saved us.”
If the boat had lost the starboard motor, she wouldn’t have been able to control depth and maintain speed. It’s very possible she would have gone to the bottom. On the S-55, heroes didn’t charge singlehanded against enemy machine gun nests. They turned wrenches.
Charlie nodded, appreciating the perspective. “Good man.”
“If you say so. The guy may be a hero, but he’s also a grade-A asshole.”
“I get it, Rusty. Tell me one thing. I keep hearing the guys talking about some difficult crewman called Frankie. A real heavyweight. Who is he?”
Rusty laughed. “A heavyweight, yeah. Frankie can be a real bitch.”
“You mean Frankie’s a woman? Who is she?”
“Frankie’s the boat, Charlie. See all the work done on her? Bride of Frankenstein.”
Reynolds approached. “Hey, you guys!” He appeared to be bursting with good news. “Did you hear the Japs surrendered?”
Charlie started. “What? No!”
The exec’s smile disappeared. “Then get back to work, you jerks. There’s a war on.”
Rusty t
urned to Charlie and shrugged. “Duty calls. ‘Ours is not to reason why.’”
Charlie got back to it. He smiled to himself. Hazing and berating. Welcome to the Navy. Aside from maybe Rusty, nobody here was going to be his friend. The realization freed him. He didn’t have to make anybody like him.
But Rusty was right about one thing. It was important they respect him.
First the rank, then the man. And not by playing along with their jokes. Instead, he’d do his duty to the letter, and they’d never see him flinch.
CHAPTER FIVE
ANGLES AND DANGLES
At 1300, the last crew members boarded the submarine, which went through a battery of final equipment checks. Charlie climbed the metal sail that housed the conning tower and joined the captain on the bridge. All compartments reported they were manned. The S-55 was ready to get underway.
The captain acknowledged each report with an offhand, “Very well.” Then he ordered the control room to make way, “Back one-third.”
“Back one-third, aye,” came the reply through the intercom.
The S-55’s big diesel engines pulled the boat away from the pier and tender with a puff of smoke. Her whistle pierced the air. The repair ship’s sailors leaned on the rails and called out, “Give ’em hell, boys! Good hunting!”
The captain snorted at that. “Knowing this old boat, we’ll be back in an hour.”
Charlie suppressed a grin. This was it. His war had officially begun.
The New Farm Wharf fell away. Frankie blew her whistle again and entered the current of the Brisbane River. Aussies walking to work in the city waved as the submarine returned to the war. An old cobber cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Good-o! Sink one for me, Yanks!”
The captain asked, “What’s the most effective tactic the U-boats use, Harrison?”
“Wolf packs, sir. One boat draws off the escorts while the rest move in to sink the merchants. The Nazi skippers are good at coordinating their attacks.”
“We could use that,” Kane said. “First, we need to build more boats, don’t we?”
He was right. There were only about a hundred submarines in the whole Navy, and many of them were old and slow like the S-55.
“Time to buy more war bonds, sir,” Charlie said.
The captain smirked at that.
Water foaming at her bow, the submarine entered Moreton Bay. Charlie scanned the brilliant blue waters and pristine beaches. He whistled at the view.
“All right,” said the captain. “Let’s give the old girl a good shakedown and see if she leaks.” He raised his voice. “Clear the topsides.”
Charlie followed the men down the ladder into the conning tower and then into the control room. The quartermaster closed the hatch behind them and spun the wheel to secure it.
“Hatch secured!” the quartermaster called down.
The crowded control room reeked of diesel. Charlie scanned the men:
The planesmen with their hands on brass wheels for controlling the planes, plates that angled to control the bow and stern and either tilt the boat or keep her level—
The manifoldmen at the valves that pushed high-pressure air into the ballast tanks to provide buoyancy and make the boat rise, or flooded them with seawater to make the boat heavy for a dive—
The helmsman with his hands on the wheel that steered the boat—
The telephone talker who relayed messages across the boat by sound-powered phone—
The soundman peering around the corner from the radio shack in the corner of the control room, where he listened for enemy contacts—
The chief of the boat, the senior enlisted man aboard, his thick arms folded across his barrel chest, watching over his sailors—
The officers who watched the captain—
And the Old Man who watched over them all.
Whatever fears Charlie felt about combat disappeared. He felt safe with this captain and these men, each competent and experienced in his specialty.
“Rig for dive,” Kane said.
The diving alarm klaxon blasted three times. The main induction valve, which fed air into the boat for the crew and the engines, clanged shut. The diesel engines cut out. The electric motors were engaged by the batteries, which powered the boat while it was submerged.
All departments reported being ready to dive.
“Air in the banks, shit in the tanks,” Reynolds told the captain.
“Very well. Dive. Three degrees down bubble. Forty-five feet.”
The manifoldmen opened the vents to flood the ballast tanks with seawater and make the boat heavy. The planesmen turned their wheels in opposite directions to angle the boat down. Charlie enjoyed watching them work. From a purely technical standpoint, a submarine, even an old boat like this, was a marvel. A vessel able to move in three dimensions through water.
At Submarine School, he’d had the opportunity to work the planes on an even older, even smaller R-class sub. Being in control of a sub was fun. A toy for grownups playing at war; except out here, they weren’t playing.
In sixty seconds flat, the S-55 disappeared into Moreton Bay. They were underwater.
The submarine dived to periscope depth.
“Report leaks,” the captain said.
“Motor room reports a minor leak,” the telephone talker reported.
“I’ll take a look,” Rusty said and left the room.
“Very well.” Kane added, “How’s our final trim?”
“We’ve got good trim,” Reynolds answered. The boat held neutral buoyancy with an even keel, well balanced in the water.
Charlie heard hammering somewhere in the sub. That was Rusty, checking the integrity of plates that had been welded over hull pitting.
The engineering officer returned to the control room and nodded to the captain.
“So far, so good,” Kane said. He rubbed his chin and smiled at Rusty. “Moment of truth.”
“Neptune, hear our prayer,” Rusty said.
“Take her down. One hundred fifty feet.”
The crew glanced at each other. Charlie realized they were apprehensive. It confused him. The first generation of S-class submarines were tested to a depth of more than 200 feet. What was the problem?
It didn’t take him long to come up with the answer. Frankie was old. She just couldn’t go that deep anymore without major flooding.
Reynolds read the depth gauge. “Passing eighty feet.”
Planes rigged, the boat tilted as she glided into the depths.
“Passing 100 feet,” the XO said.
The deeper she went, the more pressure the water outside exerted on the hull.
A major leak, and they’d have to return to the tender for more refitting. Charlie fidgeted. They were only a few miles from Moreton Island and, around it, a path to the open sea!
“Passing 130 feet.”
The old boat’s hull creaked, sounding like she might burst at the seams. The men tensed. Charlie sensed the change in atmosphere and tensed as well.
The boat leveled off.
“Final trim, 150 feet,” Reynolds said.
Kane raised his eyebrows at Rusty.
Rusty grinned ear to ear. “We’re dry, Captain.”
Charlie sighed quietly. The S-55 was ready to head out to her patrol station.
“Looks like we’re in business,” Kane said. “This old sea wolf is itching for a fight.”
Around the control room, the men smiled.
He gave orders to return to the surface.
On the surface, the soundman radioed back to the tender at New Farm Wharf that the S-55 was ready. Less than an hour later, the boat was released for patrol.
Kane set a course for the open sea. Then he keyed the 1MC box and said, “Attention. This is the captain.”
His voice reverberated throughout the boat on the public-address loudspeakers.
“As you know, the Jap Navy has set up a defensive wall around their empire. When we took Guadalcanal, we stuck our foo
t in their door. The Japs are doing everything they can to slam it shut. The Marines are hanging on by a thread. Now it’s time for Frankie to do her part.”
He cleared his throat and went on, “Our patrol orders are to proceed to Guadalcanal, alert the fleet of enemy movements, and sink Jap ships. Everything the Japs throw at our boys on Guadalcanal—every soldier, every bomb, every gallon of gas—must go by sea. It’s our job to make sure they never make it to their destination. It’s our duty to send every Jap ship we find, and every Jap on it, to the bottom.”
S-class submarine side detail showing major compartments.
Overhead view of S-class submarine with terms used for orientation.
CHAPTER SIX
THE SLOT
The captain ordered the sailors of section one to man their stations. The submarine crew was divided into three sections. Each was able to run all of the boat’s systems for a four-hour watch; if it came to a fight, the most experienced hands reported to duty. Charlie was assigned to section two.
The S-55 carefully threaded the minefields guarding the entrance to Moreton Bay while lookouts kept a sharp eye for enemy submarines that hoped to catch somebody napping. Then the boat reached the Coral Sea and submerged into the deep. The helmsman set a course for 005º True. North by east to the Solomon Islands.
Two 600-HP diesel engines propelled the boat while she was surfaced. On a calm sea, Frankie cruised at a maximum speed of 14.5 knots, or over sixteen land miles per hour. With a full bunkerage of 170 tons of fuel, she could range up to 5,000 miles.
But only at night. During daylight hours, Japanese seaplanes easily spotted submarines on the surface and, in the brightly lit Pacific, even at periscope depth. Lacking air-detection radar, the S-55 patrolled deep on battery power during daylight hours. During this time, two big electric motors, powered by a 120-cell battery, drove the boat at a speed of a sluggish 2.5 knots.
With limited speed, fuel, and provisions, Frankie had endurance for a thirty-day patrol.
Crash Dive: a novel of the Pacific War Page 2