Crash Dive: a novel of the Pacific War

by Craig DiLouie

  Kane called a meeting of his officers in the wardroom. The men sat around the small square table, surrounded by dull wood-paneled walls, while Nimuel, the Filipino steward, served coffee. Reynolds pulled a wilted pack of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket and lit one with a match.

  The captain laid out a chart on the table. “The Slot.”

  Charlie studied the map of the Solomon Islands, which ran a thousand miles from New Britain and New Ireland in the northwest down to Guadalcanal and San Cristobal in the southeast. The main Japanese air and naval base was at Rabaul on New Britain. Between Rabaul and Guadalcanal lay a scattering of islands, through which a line of water formed a natural roadway—the Slot.

  “As you know, the Japs run reinforcements down the Slot to Guadalcanal,” Kane went on. “Not to mention give the Marines and Henderson Airfield a real pounding about anytime they feel like it. The Japs are using their fastest destroyers. They can run down to Guadalcanal at night, when our planes can’t see them, and be back in Rabaul in time for sushi.”

  “The Tokyo Express,” Rusty said.

  “Right. So many ships on both sides have been sunk, the skimmers are calling Savo Sound ‘Iron Bottom.’” He shot a glance at Charlie. “No offense, Harrison.”

  “None taken, sir,” Charlie said, suppressing a frown. The “skimmers” remark didn’t sting; the apology did. It reminded him his boatmates didn’t yet consider him a real submariner.

  “Admiral Lockwood is deploying submarines as pickets around the island. We’re going to report enemy movements down the Slot and see if we can bag a few tin cans of our own.”

  “What’s our patrol station?” Rusty asked.

  Kane tapped the map with his finger. “Here. Savo Island. Less than ten miles off the western tip of Guadalcanal. Right in the thick of things. We’ll have tin cans flying at us every night.”

  Reynolds looked like he wanted to spit. “I thought we’d be killing Japs on this patrol.”

  The captain eyed him. “That’s the goddamn idea, Reynolds.”

  “We should be ranging up the channel.” Reynolds blew a stream of smoke and stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray. “Go to Rabaul if we have to. Get at their merchants and transports. Take the fight straight to the yellow sons of bitches.”

  Charlie agreed with the exec. Frankie was an old girl but still dangerous. She had the element of surprise on her side. But in a picket line, with the enemy becoming aware of her presence, that advantage would quickly evaporate.

  The best use of submarines was to attack the enemy’s shipping. Japan’s rapidly growing empire depended on sea transport. Food, metal ores, rubber, and oil to her home islands. Reinforcements and war materiel flowing back out to her conquests. Sinking her merchant fleet would strangle her economy, not to mention tie up destroyers for escort duty, and bring a speedy end to the war.

  “We have our orders,” Kane said.

  “Picket duty with this old boat,” Reynolds snarled. “Taking on destroyers and cruisers. Like bringing a knife to a gunfight.”

  The exec’s face had gone dark with black hatred. He wasn’t just upset about the strategy. Charlie suspected a personal motive. A vendetta against the Japanese.

  “We have our orders,” the captain repeated with quiet menace. He stared at the man, daring him to continue. When Reynolds said nothing, he added, “Now let’s go sink some Jap ships. We’ll surface at dark. Dinner will be at midnight and breakfast just after dawn. The usual schedule.”

  Nimuel had returned with his coffee pot. “We’re having minced beef in tomato sauce,” he announced, oblivious to the tension in the room. He refreshed their coffee mugs.

  Charlie nodded as he drank his coffee.

  The captain added, “Harrison, you’ll be OOD on surfacing and officer of the first watch.”

  Specifically, the second dog watch, from 1800 to 2000.

  Charlie blinked. Watch duty entailed entering the bridge via the conning tower hatch and scanning the darkness for enemy ships. Standard routine.

  As officer of the deck, however, he’d have both authority and responsibility for the safety of the boat and its crew. If he ordered the boat to dive or change course, she would on his say-so.

  He swallowed hard and said, “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The Slot.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHY WE FIGHT

  The S-55 was a small world, a loud and smelly machine inhabited by industrious rats. She was no boat, but the sailors called her one because the first submarines were no bigger than boats. Habits die hard in the Navy. Still, she was a small world.

  From bow to stern, the six major compartments included the torpedo, battery, control, engine, motor, and maneuvering rooms. The crew slept among boxes of food above the battery room next to the wardroom, and the officers in two state rooms aft.

  Charlie studied the crew’s rhythm and did his best to join the flow, but more often than not, he caused pileups in the passageways. The sailors only worsened his rising embarrassment by courteously mumbling, “Excuse me, sir. Careful there, sir.” Then Braddock barked, “Make a hole, sir! Working Navy!” which made him feel strangely happy and try even harder.

  The R-class submarine he’d maneuvered at Submarine School had been even smaller, but he’d only served on it for a few hours at a time. It had been like driving a car. He didn’t live in it. This felt perpetual. Unless he washed out, which was possible, he’d serve on a boat like this until the end of the war. Which, if Rusty was any authority on the subject, promised to be a long one.

  By 1600, any trepidation he’d felt about being officer of the deck on the first watch fled with his growing longing to be topside again. On the U.S.S. Kennedy, he’d seen greenhorns puke over the gunwales as they fought to get their sea legs. Charlie had never suffered seasickness. Now, on a submarine, he felt mounting claustrophobia and cursed himself for it.

  He was sweating buckets. His heart galloped.

  “You got yourself into this mess,” he mumbled to himself.

  He’d begin his watch at 1800, about twenty minutes before sunset. Until then, he decided to lie down in his bunk and rest. He needed to relax before he started clawing at the nearest bulkhead.

  Charlie found Rusty lying on his bunk reading a book. He threw himself into his own bunk, closed his eyes against the nausea, and focused on his breathing.

  “War is hell,” Rusty said.

  Charlie took a deep breath and said, “What are you reading?”

  “An Edgar Allen Poe story about a man who’s buried alive.” Then he laughed. “Just kidding. A lot of guys start banging on the hatch after a few hours on the boat. You’ll get used to it.” He didn’t need to add, “Or you won’t.” Either way, Charlie’s suffering was temporary. “I’m reading Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. The good news is, if the Japanese conquer the world, they’ll grow soft after a few thousand years and collapse.”

  “Sounds like a good one,” Charlie said, sweating. “I’m surprised we’re cruising submerged today. The Jap planes don’t range this far south, right?”

  “The captain wants to get the crew used to the routine well before we reach our patrol station. We only give up a day and half of patrolling in exchange.”

  “The captain’s a cautious man.”

  “Prudent,” Rusty clarified. “He certainly is. He works this boat like he plays chess, very analytical. What do you think of our man, Reynolds? Talk about fire in the belly.”

  Charlie opened his eyes and raised himself onto one elbow. “I like him.”

  “His last command sank in the Banda Sea on the way down from the Philippines. The 56. A Jap destroyer held the boat under until she had to surface. Then the Japs sank her. Reynolds was the only man left to tell the tale. The 44 picked him up. He should have gone home, but somehow, he conned the Navy into putting him on another submarine.”

  “Shit, I didn’t know all that,” Charlie said. What a tale! He was even more curious about the man now. “Anyway, he
seems smart. I think he has some good ideas on how to win the war.”

  “He’s the aggressive sort, I’ll give you that.”

  “He’s right. We should go to Rabaul and sink ships.”

  Japan’s survival depended on the steady flow of raw materials, armies, and war materiel traveling by sea. The day after the surprise attack at Pearl, Admiral Hart declared unrestricted submarine warfare against Japan, a major change in naval doctrine.

  Germany had been widely condemned during the Great War for doing just that. The London Naval Treaty allowed submarines to sink merchants, but they had to abide by prize rules. That is, the boat had to surface and put the crew somewhere safe before sinking it.

  A submarine could barely fit its own crew and couldn’t take many prisoners. Merchants had destroyer escorts that could quickly sink a submarine trying to abide by the rules. As a result, all of the major powers were now disregarding the treaty.

  Sinking Japan’s merchants wasn’t pleasant work, but it could save countless American lives. At this moment, America and Japan were locked in a merciless fight to the death. Total war.

  “Go to Rabaul and sink ships,” Rusty echoed. “Just like that, huh?”

  “Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?”

  “Assuming Frankie makes it there, our broke-dick fire control computer doesn’t automatically set the gyros on the torpedoes. We have to set the gyros by hand. But they’re old, so the spindles stick. They taught you fire control in New London, right? The whole nine yards?”

  “Of course.”

  Fire control entailed fast calculation of angles and distances in combat. In a basic problem, you had two objects—you and your target—at X distance apart and moving at different speeds (Y and Z) and directions (A and B). Given X, Y, Z, A, and B, all of which might suddenly change, how do you get a torpedo across distance X to hit the target?

  It wasn’t nearly as easy as it might seem, so fleet submarines were equipped with torpedo data computers, which automatically fed firing solutions to the torpedo gyros, which in turn controlled the angle of torpedo travel.

  Rusty said, “Here’s how we do it out here in the real world on a broken-down S-boat. We set up a zero gyro angle shot; we have to shoot our fish straight ahead. We estimate the target’s speed, add three to come up with a lead angle, and shoot at that point from between a thousand and 1,500 yards. Sometimes with visual contact, but often going only by sound bearings.”

  In other words, it was all rule of thumb on the S-55. Half-blind bow and arrow shooting.

  Rusty added, “And all that with a target that is zigzagging and flanked by destroyers pinging like crazy with their sonar and dropping random depth charges. With a boat that can only go two and a half knots while underwater, ten if we’re willing to drain the battery fast.”

  “Right,” Charlie said, taking it all in.

  “If we get a shot, we then hope the old torpedo doesn’t go erratic and fly away, or worse, circle back and sink us. No wonder the Navy takes captains off their boats after five patrols. The pressure is incredible. The captain’s smart to play it safe. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Charlie sagged. “What are we doing here then?”

  “Holding the line until more fleet boats show up. Sink a ship if we can with what we have. Tie up as many enemy ships on escort duty that we’re able to. Otherwise, do what we’re told and try not to get killed.” Rusty perked up, inspired. “Want to see why I’m here?” He dug into his breast pocket and handed Charlie a photo.

  Rusty’s wife was a looker. She’d carefully dressed, styled her hair, and put on makeup for the shot. She stood on a beach, the wind threatening to sweep the hat off her head. She held a baby in one arm and blew a kiss at the camera lens.

  Rusty said, “That’s my wife, Lucy. And that’s my son, Russell Junior. He’s two now. Already a smartass, just like his old man.”

  “She’s a doll, Rusty. On the level. Get kid too.” He handed the photo back.

  Rusty smiled at it a few moments before putting it away. “You got a girl, Charlie?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no, not anymore.”

  “Sorry to hear it. What happened with you two?”

  “Nothing,” Charlie said. “I mean, Evelyn and I were good together. We were going to get married. Then Pearl got bombed, and the war started. I broke things off before I went to Submarine School.”

  “You did? Why, man?”

  “I thought she’d distract me. I wanted to focus entirely on the war. On my duty.”

  Feeling self-conscious, he didn’t add the bigger reason. He’d come here to find himself. Specifically, what Charles F. Harrison was made of and how far he could go in the Navy. To survive—no, to win—he knew he’d have to face mortal danger. He didn’t believe he could make the right decisions in the face of death while Evie waited for him back home.

  “You’re a real go-getter, aren’t you,” Rusty said. “Tough, smart, and ambitious. I know that about you already. You could go far in the Navy.”

  Charlie flushed at the compliment. “Jeez, Rusty.”

  “But you’re wrapped a little tight, and it shows. You have to loosen up to make it in the submarines. Take things as they come. A man who fights for an idea is dangerous. A man like Reynolds. He’d send us all to the bottom just to sink a stinking Jap ship.”

  “I want to be at my best. We’re fighting a war.”

  “I hear that, but I’m telling you as a friend, you made a mistake ending things with that girl. A man’s got to have something real to fight for. Something for which you need to live as well as for which you’re willing to die.” He patted his breast pocket. “Me, I’m fighting for them. And I’ll survive for them. I want to win the war, and I want to get home.”

  Charlie didn’t know what to say to that. Rusty turned over and fell fast asleep.

  He lay with his head on his hands and stared up at the harsh metal bulkhead for a while, thinking of Evie and what he was doing here. Was Rusty right? He’d had such clarity of purpose when he told her he needed to end things so he could focus on winning the war. He’d worked so hard to get here that he hadn’t had much time or energy to think about anything else. Now that he was here, in the thick of it, he felt lonely. He began to miss her. Rusty’s speech had stirred him up.

  He daydreamed about a sunny picnic with her on the hill overlooking the Bay. They’d found an ancient native rock carving and guessed at its meaning. The guessing became a game of wild speculation that had them laughing. Men’s Room, she guessed. Women’s Lingerie. Kilroy Was Here. She had a sharp wit; she could always make him laugh and, at the same time, believe in himself. Believe he could do or be anything as long as she was watching him.

  The submarine’s walls stopped closing in. A deep, dreamless sleep overcame him. After what seemed like seconds, a hand shook him awake. He’d fallen asleep on that sunny hillside, and Evie was waking him up so they could go home. He looked around with alarm, unsure where he was. Then he remembered.

  He was back on the S-55, and it was time for the watch.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DOG WATCH

  After Charlie finished his coffee, he reported to the control room, which had been rigged for red. All normal lamps had been extinguished. Dim red lamps, turned on to help the men’s eyes adapt for night vision, cast the room in a menacing glow.

  “Lookouts to the control room,” Charlie instructed the chief petty officer.

  The captain wore a sou’wester hat and was putting on oilskins. “Planes, forty-five feet. Time for a look-see.”

  “Forty-five feet, aye, Captain,” came the response.

  At that depth, he ordered, “Up scope.”

  He crouched, pulled the handles down, and pressed his eyes against the rubber eyepiece, straightening his legs as the periscope rose. Water rained on him from the periscope’s upper bearings. He clapped the handles back into place.

  “Fogged again,” he said sourly. The captain couldn’t see anything through the f
ogged-up scope. “Down scope. All compartments, rig to surface.”

  The telephone talker said into the phone, “Maneuvering room, on surfacing, answer bells on two main engines. Put one main on charge.”

  Once the boat returned to the surface, the batteries would disengage the electric motors. One of the diesel engines would power the motors. The other would dump amps into the battery. After the battery recharged, the second engine would be put on propulsion, as well. Compressors would replenish the air used to blow the ballast tanks and achieve buoyancy.

  Meanwhile, Charlie’s three lookouts had gathered. They wore binoculars around their necks and otherwise seemed ready for their important job. One of them was the greenhorn, Billy Ford.

  “I was told to keep an eye out for the mail buoy, Mr. Harrison,” the kid said in a quiet voice.

  “Mail buoy?”

  “Yeah,” Billy said with surprise that an officer didn’t know about it. “The Navy put our mail on a buoy in these waters. I’ll find it for you. Jeez, I can’t wait to get mail!”

  Another snipe hunt. Braddock’s work, probably. Did the man know there was a war on? Charlie said, “The mail drop was canceled, Billy. Keep your eyes peeled for the enemy.”

  Billy appeared crestfallen. “Aye, aye, Mr. Harrison.”

  “Forward engine room, secure ventilation,” the captain said. “All compartments, shut the bulkhead flappers.”

  The telephone talker reported, “Ready to surface in every respect, Captain.”

  “Very well,” Kane grumbled. “Surface.”

  The surfacing alarm sounded throughout the boat. The manifoldmen blew the main ballast tanks. High-pressure air buoyed the boat. Charlie ascended to the conning tower, followed by the quartermaster and lookouts.

  The two glass portholes revealed inky black nothing. The water foamed as the S-55 broke the surface. Charlie fingered the strap of the binoculars around his neck. By this point, he was more afraid of letting down his boatmates than he was of the Japanese.