Crash Dive: a novel of the Pacific War

by Craig DiLouie

  With three destroyers up top, the captain was expecting swift and severe retaliation after Frankie sent the Furutaka to the bottom.

  “All compartments report rigged for depth charge,” the telephone talker said.

  “Very well.”

  Rusty murmured to Charlie, “Having fun?”

  Charlie wasn’t sure how a professional should answer that one. He decided to be honest. “Hell, yeah.”

  “This part always is.”

  “Helm, steer oh-oh-five,” the captain said, nudging their course. He brought the boat back up for forty-five feet again. “Up scope. We’re getting close.”

  The excitement in the room was almost palpable now.

  Charlie spared a moment of reflection for their strangely methodical and deadly work. The men turned wheels, pushed buttons, pulled levers, studied instrumentation. At the end of this highly technical process, a hole would be blown in a big ship, and it would sink into the sound.

  Possibly hundreds of men would be killed.

  He wondered about those men out there. The Japanese remained an alien race to him, but they weren’t evil or inhuman. They loved their children. They toiled on the same types of ships. They laughed. They dreamed. They suffered, and they died, just like any man.

  In the end, none of it mattered. The Japanese slaughtered thousands at Pearl. More than a thousand at Cavite. While the individual Japanese wasn’t so different from Charlie, he served a brutal regime that enslaved millions and threatened America.

  Rusty was fighting for his wife and son. Charlie fought for Evie, but more than Evie, he was fighting for his country. The people in it and, just as important, the very idea of it.

  The captain read the periscope’s stadimeter. “Range, 1,500 yards. It’s show time. Torpedo room, make ready the tubes. Order of tubes is one, two, three, four. Set depth at four feet.”

  In the torpedo compartment, the sailors loaded the torpedoes. The tubes flooded. The outer doors opened.

  “All four tubes ready, Captain,” Reynolds confirmed.

  “Torpedo room, stand by.”

  The seconds ticked by. Charlie gaped at the captain, pencil clenched in his hand. Kane stared into the scope for another minute while water splashed on his bare shoulders.

  “He’s coming on. Easy does it. Fire one!”

  Reynolds punched the firing button. “Firing one.”

  Frankie shuddered as the torpedo ejected from its tube, a ton of metal and explosives suddenly exiting the boat.

  Reynolds counted eight seconds on his stopwatch and pressed the plunger for the second tube. “Firing two!”

  Another eight seconds: “Firing three!”

  Then: “Firing four! Secure all tubes.”

  Four torpedoes in a longitudinal spread. If all went according to plan, the first torpedo would hit the cruiser close to the bow. The ship’s momentum would carry it forward, allowing the other fish to nail her both amidships and near the stern. As the cruiser was nearly six football fields in length, the odds looked good.

  The torpedoes streamed in a single line toward the cruiser. At this range, nearly two minutes would pass before the contact-exploders struck the hull and detonated.

  This was it. Charlie’s heart pounded. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

  “Hell,” Kane said, his eyes glued to the scope. His hands tightened their grip on the handles. “Our first fish is going erratic. Doing a crazy sine wave to port.”

  The defective torpedo was leaving a luminescent wake and heading directly at the destroyers. By making a pattern, it practically screamed for attention.

  The captain said, “They’re breaking formation. They spotted the torpedo. They’re scattering. Furutaka is turning toward us. Our other three fish are going to miss along her port side.” He vented his frustration with a sigh. “Now they’re—”

  He turned from the scope. “Dive, dive, dive! Take her deep, emergency!”

  The S-55’s failed attack on the Japanese heavy cruiser Furutaka.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  COUNTERATTACK

  Crash dive. The diving alarm sounding.

  The S-55 plunged into the depths. The deck tilted steeply. Charlie grabbed a handhold as the pencils rolled off the plotting table.

  “Take her down,” the captain said. “Right full rudder! All ahead flank!”

  “Passing eighty feet,” Rusty reported. The electric motors gave everything they had to deliver maximum speed.

  “The lead destroyer was coming on fast with a bone in his teeth,” Kane said. In other words, showing a pronounced bow wake. “That Jap skipper was trying to ram us.”

  Charlie already heard the warship approaching on fast screws.

  Rusty, paling, looked at Charlie. “We’re in for it now.”

  whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh

  The destroyer was passing overhead. The men shot anxious looks at the overhead bulkhead and grabbed the nearest handholds.

  WHAAAMMM

  The explosion shook the boat. A light bulb burst, spraying glass. Dust drifted down from cork insulation on the bulkheads. The big machines vibrated in their mountings.

  The depth charges were drums packed with 200 pounds of explosives more powerful than TNT. Within fifty feet, the submarine took a beating. Within twenty-five feet, an explosion was likely to sink her. Water hammer cracked the hull like an egg.

  The clicking sound was the detonator. Charlie knew that when you heard the click, the depth charge was close aboard.

  “Knife to a gunfight,” Reynolds said with disgust.

  *click*

  WHAAAMMM, WHAAAMMM, WHAAAMMM

  Charlie’s feet left the floor. Men were tossed to the deck. Gauge glasses and light bulbs shattered. Cork insulation burst into the air, and Charlie felt something strike his face. He touched his stinging cheek. His fingers came away bloody.

  “That’s a Purple Heart,” Rusty said. His face was white as a sheet. “I told you you’d go far in the Navy.”

  The planesmen fought to keep control of the boat. Across the sealed compartment, men coughed on the dust. The dust and feeble lighting shrouded Charlie’s vision in red. Marsh threw up in a bucket.

  Rusty reported, “Final trim, 150 feet.”

  “All compartments, rig for silent running and report leaks.” The captain glanced up and frowned as the ghostly ring of short-scale pinging filled the boat. “That was a good ass whipping, but they’re not done with us yet.”

  The telephone talker passed on the message to all compartments. The ventilation blowers and refrigerator motors were turned off. The helm and bow and stern planes switched to manual control. All nonessential personnel hurried to their bunks.

  From now on, Frankie would make very little noise for the enemy sonar to find.

  “We’re trimmed heavy,” Reynolds said. “We’re taking water.”

  The telephone talker said, “Engine compartment reports a blown hatch gasket.”

  Charlie glanced at the Christmas Tree, a row of indicator lights that should have all been green, indicating the boat’s hatches were sealed up tight. One glared bright red.

  That was bad, Charlie knew. Water was gushing into the sealed room, and nobody could do a damned thing about it until they got back to the surface. If they got back.

  He gaped up at the bulkhead, waiting.

  The destroyers’ screws speeded up as the ships straddled the suspected location of the S-55.

  whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh

  Then he laughed quietly at the absurdity of it all.

  “Are you nuts?” Rusty asked him.

  “I was just thinking—”

  click-WHAAAMMM

  The thunder of multiple explosions slammed the boat. The world’s biggest hammer pounded the S-55’s hull like a gong. The destroyers had dropped two patterns of seven depth charges on the submariners’ heads.

  The boat tilted. She was sinking by the bow.

  “Put a bubble in the number one main ballast tank,” Kane o
rdered.

  The manifoldman injected a shot of high-pressure air into the main ballast tank, which should have checked their slide. But the boat continued to sink.

  Charlie gripped his handhold. How close was the S-55 to her test depth?

  WHAAAMMM

  WHAAAMMM

  WHAAAMMM

  The concussions shook the piping. Instruments shattered. Chunks of cork whirled across the compartment in fresh clouds of dust. A tiny high-pressure stream of seawater shot from a break in a weld in the conning tower. Then another.

  “Put another bubble in the tank!”

  The boat should have responded. Something was wrong. The hull might have been cracked in one of the forward compartments, flooding it and dragging the boat down.

  If that was true, they were all in big trouble.

  “Passing 160 feet, Captain!” Rusty said.

  Above the S-55’s test depth, but lower than she was typically expected to handle.

  Charlie scanned the diving board. A red indicator light caught his eye. The number one main ballast tank’s vent had been left open during the preparations for the depth charging. Every time the manifoldman shot more air into the tank, it passed straight through.

  The air then shot up to the surface as a big popping bubble, a beacon alerting the Japanese destroyers to their exact position.

  “Captain, the vent’s open!” he said.

  “Shut the vent on the tank and give me another bubble,” Kane told the manifoldman.

  The air entered the tank and checked the boat’s descent.

  It took Charlie another moment to realize the worst of the attack was over, leaving a loud ringing in his ears. The last booms of the depth charges sounded astern. The speeding-train churn of the destroyers’ screws faded to the southeast. Then a set of heavier screws thrashed overhead as the cruiser passed.

  “Lucky for us they have a schedule to keep,” Rusty gasped. “Giving somebody else hell.”

  A light rain fell in the control room. Broken glass littered the deck. Filthy water puddled at their feet. The place was a disaster.

  “Secure from depth charge,” the captain said. “Secure from battle stations.”

  “No power, sir,” the stern planesman grunted. “We’re barely keeping her afloat on an even keel.” After fifteen minutes of working the helm and planes manually, they were exhausted.

  “Get me replacements to relieve these men,” Kane said. “Ten-minute shifts. Rig to surface. And inform all compartments I expect a detailed damage report. Reynolds, on surfacing, you’ll be OOD. I’m going with Rusty to evaluate the damage and prioritize repairs.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” the exec said. He had a bruise on his face and a cut on his forehead.

  “Orders, Captain?” Charlie said.

  “After we surface, radio Perth so they can warn Guadalcanal that they’ve got some heavy-hitting tin cans headed their way. Then you’ll help Reynolds with running the boat and us with repairs as needed. But before you do that, I have a small but important job for you.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Splice the mainbrace,” Rusty cut in. He smiled a grim smile. In the harsh emergency lighting, he looked like an old man again. “Starting with me, if you don’t mind.”

  The Navy had been dry since 1912, but submarines carried medicinal brandy in small bottles to hand out after severe depth charging. His task was to brace the crew, assuming the bottles survived the attack. Charlie decided he could stand a little bracing himself. Once the attack started, he’d stopped being scared. The thought he might die never crossed his mind.

  Now that it was over, he tingled with shock. He leaned against the table, unsure whether he could stand on legs that had turned to rubber.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “So what were you thinking?” Rusty asked him. “When you laughed like a madman? Emperor Hirohito’s A-team rudely cut you off before you could tell me.”

  “What? Oh, it’s not important. I was just thinking, ‘Evie’s going to be furious with me.’”

  Rusty barked a short laugh. “If I were you, I’d leave this little incident out of your next letter. Now let’s see if we can make it back to the surface so you can send it.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DAMAGE REPORT

  Back on the surface, the men toiled on the S-55 to keep her seaworthy.

  They were out of danger, but not out of trouble. They had to submerge before daylight, when the sky would become dotted with enemy planes.

  First, they had a lot of repairs to perform.

  Charlie wrote a message by the light of a shielded flashlight and handed it to Marsh. When the S-55 was submerged, he was a soundman. On the surface, he acted as radioman.

  “My ears are still ringing,” Marsh said, wiggling his pinkie in his ear.

  Charlie’s were as well. “Send this to Perth immediately.”

  “Aye, aye, Mr. Harrison.” Marsh retreated to the radio room.

  The telephone talker said, “Bridge, stay clear of the antennae. We’re transmitting.”

  Time to distribute the “depth charge medicine” to the crew.

  All compartments abaft of the control room had gone dark except for emergency lighting and hand lanterns, the result of a failed lighting circuit. Two electrician’s mates in the aft repair party directed their flashlights at an auxiliary power board.

  “Try it now,” the shorter one said.

  The circuit breaker hissed and spit sparks. They turned it off.

  The man said, “You disconnected the wrong one, Mac. That’s the one. The one that’s wet. Good. Now throw the switch.”

  Much to Charlie’s relief, the lights came back on as he passed them.

  He was still processing the night’s events. Overall, the S-55 and her crew had performed commendably, particularly the captain, who’d conned the boat into an ideal firing position and kept his head during the battle. But one of the Great War-vintage torpedoes had blown the attack.

  It would have been something to sink a cruiser on his first patrol. Instead, he came close to becoming a permanent resident of the bottom, one of the war’s many footnotes.

  Charlie took stock of his reactions to the battle. Strange how he hadn’t felt much fear until after it was all over. He’d been too busy, too focused. And he’d kept his head the entire time. He was able to not only endure the depth charging but think and act coolly and rationally during it. It was only afterward that his mind blanked out and his legs turned to jelly.

  Splice the mainbrace, aye. He needed a shot of the old medicine himself.

  He unlocked the pharmacy locker and filled three buckets with the little bottles of medicinal brandy, which he handed out to the crew as he worked his way forward. Being the bearer of a stiff drink, he enjoyed a taste of being the most popular man on the boat.

  Working his way forward, he visited the crew berths, where he knew he’d find casualties. A torpedoman had the shakes bad. A messmate lay on his bunk in wide-eyed shock. A third man grimaced over splints hastily applied to three fingers on his left hand.

  He helped the first two take a drink and gave the third a double ration.

  In the passageway, a gruff voice: “Hey, you forgot about me.”

  Charlie turned as Braddock approached, his muscular torso splattered with oil.

  “I don’t see how I could have missed you, Braddock. Your presence calls attention to itself.”

  The machinist twisted off the cap and downed the liquor. He winked. “Thank you, sir.”

  Then he tramped off to repair his machines and save the boat again.

  The man had winked. A peace offering? Whatever it was, it was a start. Rusty was right about one thing. These guys were jerks and heroes.

  Returning aft, he found the lieutenant ankle deep in brackish water in the engine compartment. He handed him his bottle.

  “Buddy, you’re a dream,” Rusty said. He tossed back the brandy and sighed at the empty bottle. “Now I can face this shit.
”

  “How bad is it?”

  “We got that gasket repaired and patched the worst breaks in the welds, so at least we’re not taking water faster than the pumps can push it out of the boat. We’re soap-testing the main induction for a leak. We’ve got grounds in the battery to clear out and a sluggish air compressor to troubleshoot. After that, we can look forward to an hour or two splicing and wrapping new wiring in the starboard main motor after a grounded wire caused a fire.”

  Charlie couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that it?”

  Rusty smiled back. “Give me a chance. I’ve only had time for a quick look at everything. This is the kind of boat where, the more you look, the more you find.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Yeah. Get that cut on your face squared away.”

  “I will.”

  Rusty gave him a knowing stare. “You might need stitches, Charlie. Some women adore ugly scars, but most don’t. And you don’t need a nasty infection keeping you from duty. Clean it, and if it’s deep, put some tape over it until I can stitch you up. I’m serious.”

  Rusty, being serious? “All right,” he said, meaning it this time.

  “Then go see if Reynolds needs you. If he doesn’t, I’ve got plenty of work for you and every other swinging dick on this boat. Remember, we may be sailors on this sugar boat, but we’re mechanics first.”

  Charlie went to the mess room, where the cook and his mates laid out trays of sandwiches for the crew. He handed out the rest of the liquor and inspected his face in the reflection of a cooking pot. It was a mess. He cleaned up with a wet rag. Thankfully, he didn’t need stitches. He admired his shaggy appearance. With his unkempt hair and budding beard, he was starting to look like a mountain man. If only Evie could see him now!

  He poured some hydrogen peroxide over his cuts, which stung and sizzled. He taped a bandage over them. He pocketed the last bottle of brandy, which he was keeping for himself.

  On his return to the control room, Reynolds fixed him with a burning glare, no doubt missing his nicotine. It didn’t take him long to figure out the real reason the exec was smoldering.