“Open the hatch,” Kane said. “Open the main induction.”
With a rubber mallet, the quartermaster removed the dogs locking the hatch. He spun the wheel and cracked it open. Air pressure had built up inside the boat while it was submerged. It rushed past Charlie with a howl, forcing him to pause. Then he climbed onto the bridge.
After spending part of the day underwater in hot diesel stink, the clean, relatively cool air and fresh smell of the sea revived him. He raised his binoculars and scanned the dark in all directions. The moon hadn’t risen yet; the darkness was complete.
He didn’t see any enemy ships. Frankly, he didn’t see much of anything.
“All clear!” he shouted down the hatch. “Lookouts to the bridge.”
The men climbed out and took their stations.
Then they watched.
It was tedious, and then boring, and then more tedious. But necessary. The sea was a big place, but it had become crowded with warships. If an enemy destroyer caught them by surprise in the dark, they’d be a sitting duck. The same probably went for friendly warships. If an Allied ship found the S-55, the captain might shoot first and wonder whom he sank later.
If the submariners wanted to stay alive, they had to stay vigilant.
Soon, the men got to chatting. Fredericks started ribbing Peters about passing up a date with a pretty Aussie girl who’d done everything to get his attention short of asking him out directly.
“I didn’t like her,” Peters protested. “I liked her sister, Beth.”
“Buddy, you must be the only sailor in the whole goddamn Navy who’s picky about women,” Fredericks laughed. “You had a bird in the hand, so to speak.”
“Worth two in the bush!” Billy Ford crowed.
Fredericks said, “See? Even the new kid knows which end is up in this Navy.”
“You don’t get it,” Peters told them. “I’m going to marry Beth when this is all over.”
“Does she know she’s engaged to you, hotshot?”
“Silence,” Charlie said.
The men clammed up.
He added, “Keep your eyes peeled.”
An hour rolled by while Frankie continued to make way across the Coral Sea. Charlie’s mind wandered. Billy’s talk about a mail buoy made him wonder if he should write Evie a letter. He decided that this was an important thing for him to do. He just didn’t know what to say. Did he want her back? Did he deserve her trust?
If only he could talk to her again, he’d know exactly what to do.
“Sound contact,” a voice said over the intercom. It was Reynolds. “Three thousand yards off the starboard bow, bearing oh-eight-five True.” True was in reference to true north, as opposed to a relative bearing based on the direction of Frankie’s bow.
That was Charlie’s sector. He squinted into the dark, looking for a telltale smudge that might be an enemy ship.
“Starboard clear,” he reported back. “No visual contact.”
“Soundman now says it’s a submarine,” Reynolds told him.
Charlie checked the water for the wake of an incoming torpedo. Microorganisms in the seawater, called dinoflagellates, produced a short burst of light when agitated. For them, it was a self-defense mechanism. It also served to alert surface vessels of incoming torpedoes.
The water remained dark.
The next order came quickly: “Clear the bridge!”
Charlie continued to look while the men went down the hatch. Then he turned.
The hatch slammed shut at his feet.
The boat was already going down, sliding gracefully into the black water.
“Control room,” he said. “Reynolds! Personnel still on the bridge!”
Inside the sub, he knew, the diving alarm was blaring, and the men in the control room were all talking. Did they hear him?
If this was another practical joke, it was going too far. Whoever among his lookouts did it, Charlie was going to bring him before the mast for punishment.
If he survived this.
He pounded on the hatch until his hand ached. The water washed over the deck. Frankie continued her plunge. The boat disappeared around him as she dived. Sixty seconds. That’s all it took for the S-55 to become completely submerged.
“Reynolds!”
This was actually happening. He stood and looked up at the shears. That would be his Alamo. He’d have to climb to gain a precious few seconds. After that, a cold plunge.
The water level rose to the base of the metal sail. The Pacific sprawled at his feet. He felt salt spray in his face. He was about to take a terrifying night swim in the Coral Sea.
No raft, no flare gun, no life jacket.
“Reynolds! Shit. Shit!”
He decided not to climb the shears. He’d gain a few seconds, nothing more.
Wait—the water was going down. He was rising.
The S-55 was coming back up.
The hatch opened. The quartermaster shook his head at him and motioned for him to hurry. Trembling, Charlie got down the ladder as fast as he could. The S-55 resumed her dive.
Down in the control room, the soundman said, “Screws fading to the east.”
Billy Ford stared at Charlie with wide eyes. “Sorry, Mr. Harrison. I got excited and closed the hatch. I thought you were down.” The kid’s eyes began to water. “Honest.”
Just a greenhorn’s dumb mistake. Charlie knew everybody was watching him. Even in his terrified and enraged state, he had enough presence of mind to try to salvage what was left of his dignity. “All right, Billy,” he said. “Carry on.”
The chief of the boat glared at the kid. “Now get out of here, you stupid idiot. I’ll deal with you later.” He touched his hat. “It won’t happen again, Mr. Harrison. You can take that to the bank.”
“Very well, Chief.”
Kane smiled at him. Reynolds frowned.
“Eleven seconds, Harrison,” the captain said. “That’s how long it takes to clear the bridge before we start going down.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“It’s a lesson well learned, I think.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“By now, you may have some regrets for signing up for service on our little pigboat, but there’s no need to commit hara-kiri.”
The enlisted men grinned at that. Charlie lost his cool and scowled. With the captain’s humorous pronouncement, he knew a legend had just been born. The scuttlebutt would take it across the boat and possibly the entire Navy.
Then he smiled at the absurdity of it all. Laughed out loud, much to the captain’s amusement.
He now knew exactly what he’d put in his letter to Evie.
CHAPTER NINE
GUN DRILL
After one of his officers nearly took a nighttime swim in the Coral Sea, Captain Kane mercilessly drilled the entire crew to get them into fighting trim. Reynolds was more discriminating; he considered Charlie a potential failure point, another machine to overhaul.
As a result, Charlie was now assistant-everything officer. He practiced every officer duty, even simulated attack approaches. He observed the enlisted men doing their work, from the helmsman who steered the boat to the auxiliarymen who kept her support systems running. He made detailed sketches of the boat’s systems in his submarine qualification notebook, from electrical to high-pressure air.
Between the grueling heat, longer hours, and having his ass ridden by the brooding and irritable exec, he was exhausted.
He didn’t mind the firehose treatment, though; in fact, he welcomed it. He was learning. Every man on the boat should have been able to perform every other man’s duty during an emergency; Charlie realized Submarine School had taught him only a fraction of what there was to know. His claustrophobia faded until he scarcely noticed it. Reynolds and his heavy-handed methods were turning him from a skimmer puke into a dedicated sewer pipe rat.
The executive officer was a hard, moody man with more ghosts in his head than a haunted house. He screamed in his sleep, no doub
t reliving the horrifying sinking of the 56. But he was experienced and efficient. Charlie admired him.
Meanwhile, the S-55 continued to cruise north toward the Solomons. By the time she reached her patrol station, Charlie would be ready for combat.
He entered the wardroom at dawn, hoping for a hearty breakfast. The captain and Reynolds were already seated. The captain lit his pipe, filling the room with the rich smell of cherry smoke. Charlie noted again that the exec was the only man on the boat who stayed clean-shaven.
As Charlie took his seat, Reynolds said, “What are you doing, Lieutenant?”
His sleep-addled brain couldn’t produce any obvious answer the man would find acceptable. He chose the safe path. “Awaiting orders or instruction, sir.”
Reynolds lit a cigarette. “Do you want to kill Japs, Harrison?”
“That’s why I’m here, sir.”
The captain, much amused, sat back in his chair with his arms crossed.
The exec smiled as well. The smile of a rattlesnake. “How bad do you want to kill Japs, Harrison? So bad you’ll do whatever it takes?”
Kane frowned a little at that but said nothing.
Charlie said, “I’ll do whatever it takes to help us win this war.”
“Good answer, Harrison,” the captain said.
“Whatever it takes, huh?” Reynolds said. “Then you’d better quit dogging it and prepare for action.”
“Sir?”
The exec looked at his watch. “Wait for it.”
Seconds passed while Charlie puzzled over the man’s meaning. He glanced at the captain, but Kane’s face told him nothing. Then he stiffened as the general alarm honked through the boat.
The quartermaster announced over the public address, “Battle stations, gun action. Deck gun only. All compartments, this is a deck gun drill. Repeat. This is a deck gun drill.”
Reynolds blew a long stream of smoke and said, “The 55 is still surfaced.” He looked at his watch again. “It’s 0623. We’ll be diving at 0630. You have until then to fire three shells into the sea. If you’re not down the hatch by that time, this time we’re leaving you up there—”
Charlie was already out of the room. “Make a hole! Coming through!”
He entered the control room and looked at his watch. It was 0624. The gun crew was already assembling and putting on their big steel helmets.
He counted heads. One man missing.
“Where’s Billy Ford?” he asked the gun captain, Gunner’s Mate Bart Kendle, the big man the crew called, “Butch.”
“In the head, sir,” Braddock answered for him, punctuating his statement with a gesture suggesting masturbation. Then he offered Charlie his usual insolent smile.
Of all the luck, to have that man on his gun crew.
Look at you, a big shot officer, Charlie imagined him saying. Naval Academy class of ’40, all that schooling, and you don’t know your ass from an elbow on this boat. You’ll probably crap yourself at the first depth charging.
“Deep six the comedy, Braddock. Butch, get your man.”
“There he is, Mr. Harrison.”
Billy Ford turned up red-faced. “I’m here! I’m here!”
“Listen, men. The exec wants us to go up top, fire three shells, and secure the gun and all ammunition within the next six minutes. And we’re going to do it. Now move.”
Butch led his men up the hatch. Another sailor approached Charlie. “We’ve opened the ammo locker, Mr. Harrison. How many shells should we pass up to the gun crew?”
“Three,” Charlie said and followed the crew up the hatch.
They hustled onto the deck. The sun had broken over the horizon, setting the water alight in a fiery orange glare. The men expertly unlimbered the four-inch gun. Butch removed the plug from the barrel and the hinged cover from the loading breech. He inspected the bore to make sure it wasn’t obstructed. Charlie checked his work. It was good.
He was starting to take a liking to Butch. The big homely man took his duties seriously and had the gun crew running like a clock. Looking at him, it was hard to believe he was a talented artist and painted with watercolors.
The gun hatch opened on the main deck. A sailor passed up the first cartridge. Charlie checked to make sure it was set to SAFE. All it took was one man dropping a live shell to create a catastrophe.
Then he glanced at his watch. Five minutes. He hustled back to the bridge.
The deck gun had a four-inch bore and was seventeen feet long. Pedestal mounted, it could be rotated by the trainer sitting in the gun’s right-hand seat. The pointer, sitting on the other side, controlled the gun barrel’s elevation.
Assuming a relatively calm sea, the gun could hit a target far away with decent accuracy and hit it hard. In rougher seas, the swaying of the boat and the length of the barrel made that job harder. Overall, against a merchant or patrol boat, the four-inch gun was an effective weapon.
Against destroyers, it was a Hail Mary.
Which was the point of the exercise. Speed was survival. If a destroyer forced the boat to surface, Frankie would have to hit first, hit hard, and then make a run for it.
“Where’s the target?” Butch was asking.
“What?” Charlie called back from the bridge.
“What are we shooting at?”
“Target is 800 yards off the starboard bow!”
Using hand wheels, the trainer turned the gun. The pointer elevated it. The sight setter stood behind the pointer and confirmed the elevation. One of the ammunition handlers stood behind the gun, ready to catch the case as it ejected after firing so he could return it to the magazine.
“You, there!” Charlie racked his brain for the sailor’s name. “Borkowski! Where are your gloves?”
The shell case came out hot. The man was supposed to catch it wearing asbestos gloves.
“Forgot them, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Everybody, give him your shirts! Proceed!”
The men removed their T-shirts and handed them over.
The second loader took the first shell from the ammunition train, adjusted it from SAFE to ARMED with a wrench, and handed it to Braddock, the first loader.
“Load,” Butch barked.
Braddock rammed the shell into the breech and slammed the block shut. “Ready!”
“Braddock!” Charlie said. “The next time you operate that gun, remember to set the safety.”
As first loader, the man was supposed to set the safety so the gun didn’t fire accidentally while any crew members were behind the breech. He then removed it before firing.
Braddock waved. “Sorry!” He added quietly in a Japanese accent, “Mr. Hara-kiri-san.”
The men turned away to hide their grins.
Charlie eyed him, stretching out the time. “Butch, please inform the men they now have two minutes to get their heads out of their ass, fire, secure the weapon, and get back down the hatch. If they fail, on the next field day, they’ll be cleaning the boat solo.”
The gun captain glared at Braddock. “Straighten up, you asshole.”
“Commence firing,” Charlie said.
“Fire!” Butch roared.
The boat rocked at the discharge. A wave of smoke shrouded the deck and dissipated in the dawn breeze. Borkowski, his hands wrapped in T-shirts, caught the hot casing.
“Load!”
Braddock accepted the next live shell, shoved it into the breech, and slammed the block. “Ready!”
“Fire!”
The pointer stomped his foot pedal, which fired the gun with another deafening roar. The shell plunged into the Coral Sea with a terrific geyser.
Then the third shot. Another soaring geyser.
“Cease firing!” Charlie ordered. “Secure the gun. Take the casings back to the arsenal.”
The men hustled to put the gun back into position and secure it. Charlie observed their movements carefully to ensure the barrel was plugged and the breech covered properly.
Sixty seconds.
“Clear the topsides! Move it!” As Butch passed, he said, “Good handling.”
“I do my best with ’em, Mr. Harrison.”
They dropped down the hatch and into the control room.
“Butch,” Charlie said.
“Sir?”
“With the captain’s permission, I’d like to do it again tomorrow, and this time without any screw-ups. What’s your best time on the gun?”
“Honestly? I’m pretty sure we beat it today.”
“We’ll do even better tomorrow. I want the first shell fired within twenty seconds of hitting the deck. We’ll drill setting up a few times before we fire the gun.”
Butch smiled at the challenge. He gave Charlie a thumbs up.
Charlie returned to the wardroom, where a hot breakfast sat ready for him.
The captain pulled his pipe from his mouth and guffawed. “Nothing like a little early morning exercise to get the blood pumping, eh, Harrison?”
Reynolds, drinking his coffee, said nothing. Nothing needed saying. Charlie hadn’t done anything special. He’d done his job, as Reynolds had expected.
The exec stood. “I’ll dive the boat. Harrison, when you’re done eating, report to the control room and take periscope watch.”
“Aye, aye,” Charlie answered.
Then he smiled and dug into his bacon and eggs.
CHAPTER TEN
LANDFALL
Charlie sat in a lawn chair in the control room while the S-55 continued to cruise north toward Guadalcanal and Savo Island. More watch duty, this time submerged at a depth of eighty feet, with periodic looks at periscope depth. More tedium, particularly with calm seas.
As the S-55 neared the equator, the boat had grown even hotter. Today, air temperature had risen steadily to ninety degrees. Humidity, nearly 100 percent. Despite the constant effort of high-speed fans, the atmosphere in the boat was stifling.
Charlie looked at the men occupying their stations. After just five days at sea, they looked more like pirates than the Navy’s finest. They’d stripped down to shorts and even skivvies. They wore leather sandals. Their pale torsos glistened with sweat. Some had tied skivvy shirts around their necks to absorb their perspiration, which they wrung out into buckets. Their faces bristled with stubble. A planesman had a small prickly heat rash on his back, which, as with everything else, he endured with his breed’s peculiar fatalism.
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