Charlie said, “I understand.”
“There’s so much to read, so much to say. So many things to do in life, and if we die, we won’t get to do a single one of them. We’ll be gone.”
Charlie thought about Reynolds saying goodbye to his family and coming to terms with his death. Even after his rescue, he never stopped believing he was dead.
The Japanese had a warrior philosophy about that. Bushido, it was called. To be a warrior who fights without fear, he must already accept that he’s dead.
Reynolds was fearless, and he’d paid the price to get that way. Charlie wasn’t fearless, he was, well, foolhardy. The closer he got to the moment of truth, the more he realized that fact.
“Try not to think about it, Rusty,” he said. “Otherwise, you’ll drive yourself crazy.”
“But what if I do die and I never say what I need to say to Lucy and my son? All right. I’m doing it.” He reopened his journal and began to scribble. “I’m writing, ‘I love you. I’m sorry. Be happy.’” Then he tore the page out of the notebook and handed it to Charlie. “If I don’t make it back, you’ll give that to Lucy. You’ll tell her about me.”
“I will, Rusty. But I won’t need to send it.”
“And don’t sugar coat it. I want you to tell her I was crapping my pants. No hero shit. I want you to tell her I was thinking of her and Russell Junior at the very end. Tell her the truth.”
Charlie folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “I’m just glad that your dying thought won’t be, ‘Charlie got me into this mess.’”
Rusty laughed. “If I’m about to die, the last person I’ll be thinking about is you, no offense.” He grew pensive again. “You know, I think you have a death wish. I’m not picking on you. I’m picking on every stupid young lieutenant in this Navy. The sad thing is you don’t even know you have it. And the only way you’ll learn you actually do is by dying. If we get out of this with laurels, you’ll go on calling it something else, and it’ll only get worse.”
“I don’t want to die. I’m scared too. But I want to win. I want to do my part. Life isn’t enough. I want to do something important.”
He didn’t want to be like Reynolds. As much as he admired the man’s strength, he didn’t think the exec could ever go home. Whether alive or dead, Reynolds wouldn’t survive the war.
“The war doesn’t matter,” Rusty said. “Only life does. I hope you survive it, Charlie. Get married and produce another life. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“If I’d known you were going to be such an over-thinking, morbid son of a bitch, I would have roomed with the exec. All he does is scream all night.”
Rusty smiled. He took a deep breath. “Whatever happens, happens. Right?”
“We’re going to be okay.”
“You keep saying that. You know ... Well, just in case, it’s been an honor and all that.”
They shook hands warmly.
“Same here,” Charlie told him. “I don’t think I would have gotten along with Frankie half as much if you hadn’t been here. I’m proud to call you my friend, Rusty. Would you do me one more big favor?”
“Sure. That’s what friends are for.”
Charlie took out his journal and wrote, My dearest Evie, I love you. I’m sorry. Be happy. He read the words aloud and meant them as he said them. Then he tore out the page and handed it over. “If anything happens to me, I want you give this to my Evelyn.”
“I’ll send it,” Rusty said. “And if you survive this patrol, maybe I’ll send it anyway and do you the biggest favor of your life.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE FINAL GAME
The long night brought no action. Ships came and went, mostly destroyers. When a freighter emerged from the harbor with a naval auxiliary escort, Charlie felt sure the S-55 would attack. Kane conned the boat into a firing position but never declared battle stations. The captain, performing his calculations of risk and profit, saw a good move but decided to wait for a better one. By the time the boat returned to Duke of York, Charlie felt anxious enough to chew through the bulkhead.
After two hours of deck watch, he cleared the bridge and headed back below deck. The boat’s battery recharged. At 2200, she dived and began her slow return to Simpson Harbor, gliding across Blanche Bay at a depth of eighty feet.
Charlie was off duty but felt too excited to sleep. He plodded into the wardroom with a cup of coffee and began dealing a game of solitaire.
The captain entered with his pipe and sat. “We’ll attack soon, Harrison.”
“Wait and hurry up,” Charlie said.
“Would you have taken a shot at the freighter?”
He thought about it. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, sir.”
The captain nodded but didn’t explain his decision. Charlie guessed personal reasons were taking a strong role in the man’s decisionmaking. The captain had come to Rabaul. He wasn’t going home without a big win.
“We have time,” the captain said. “In fact, we even have time for another chess game.”
Charlie put away the cards. Kane let him play as white.
“Which is fitting,” the man explained. “A submariner always starts with the initiative. Let’s see if you know how to hold it while I depth charge your offense.”
“Battle stations,” Charlie muttered. He set up the pieces while the captain lit his pipe.
“After a while, you start to develop a strong sense of intuition around this business,” Kane said. “I’ve got a good feeling about our position here. I think we’re going to score big.”
“I hope you’re right,” Charlie said. He still trusted the captain’s instincts and admired the man personally. He certainly hoped Kane was right about what his gut was telling him. He’d served on the S-55 for several weeks now and suffered equipment malfunctions, oppressive conditions, and a horrific depth charging, but he still hadn’t seen a single Jap ship sink.
“I’ve gotten to develop a pretty good instinct about men as well,” Kane added. “Whippersnappers like you, Harrison. I think you’ll go far in the submarines.”
“Thank you, sir.” Charlie waited, hoping to receive detailed feedback on his performance—and craving more praise. But the captain didn’t elaborate. “I think I can do some good here.”
“It’s a young man’s business. The conditions, the new doctrines. Men like me, we’re on our way out. The Navy’s going to need good skippers. Come on, make your move.”
Charlie moved a pawn, too flustered to think straight. The captain countered. Then he put aside his swirling ideas and doubts about his competence as a submarine officer and focused on the game. He wanted to impress the captain by giving him the drubbing of his life. He took his time developing his assault, admiring the potential energy coiled within the array of pieces. It struck him how similar the effort was to conning a boat into an ideal firing position.
The captain traded pieces in an attempt to disrupt his opponent’s initiative, but Charlie maintained the pressure.
“You’ve got your eye on the prize this game,” the captain said. “Fast learner, indeed.”
Charlie moved his queen across the board. “Check.”
“In fact, I am starting to believe that you were just sizing me up during our first game.”
“That would be deceptive, sir.”
The captain guffawed at that. “Next time, I’ll know exactly what to—”
A messenger poked his head in the doorway. “Mr. Reynolds requests you on the bridge, Captain. He’s made contact with a Jap convoy!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BATTLE STATIONS
The captain and Charlie hurried to the control room. Reynolds welcomed them with a rare smile and said, “We’ve got a sound contact on a convoy.”
“The lion’s come out of his den,” the captain said. “Talk to me, Marsh.”
“Six contacts, heavy screws,” the soundman answered. “Bearing, one-one-oh. Range, 3,000 yards.” He
counted screw turns. “Speed, about ten knots.”
“Anything that sounds like an escort?”
“Two sets of fast screws, one to the convoy’s port and the other astern.”
“Very well.” To Reynolds: “What’s our heading?”
“Holding steady at two-seven-oh.”
“Show me.”
The executive officer pointed out the convoy positions and the S-55 on the plot. Rusty was plotting based on Marsh’s sound bearings.
The captain frowned at the plot, performing mental calculations. Charlie recognized the look from their chess games. The sweating men at their stations stared at him, waiting.
“Battle stations, torpedo attack,” Kane said.
The battle stations alarm honked throughout the boat.
“Battle stations, torpedo,” the quartermaster announced over the public address.
All hands rushed to stations. Charlie grinned. This was it.
The captain initiated the attack approach.
“Helm, come left to two-eight-oh,” he ordered.
“Come left to two-eight-oh, aye, sir,” the helmsman answered.
“All compartments report battle stations manned, Captain,” the telephone talker reported.
“Very well.” He added in a loud voice, “This one’s for all the marbles, boys. So let’s do it right. We sink ’em, we get out, and we go home.”
The men let out a ragged cheer.
Kane threw Reynolds a meaningful look and tapped the plot. The captain was maneuvering the S-55 ahead of the convoy and onto their starboard side, where he’d set up a good firing position. The merchant ships would pass broadside, presenting large targets at close range. The destroyer escorts would be on the other side of the merchants.
“That’s where we’ll take them.”
“Roger that,” the exec said.
“We’ll intercept their track using sound bearings. Come up to periscope depth right about here.”
“That doesn’t leave a lot of time to designate the targets. It’s pitch black out there.”
“I want minimal chance of detection. We’ll raise scope at 1,500 yards. You shoot when I say shoot. I’m hoping to put at least two ships in the bag. Two fish at each.”
“Roger.”
“Then we dive, show them Harrison’s trick, and get the hell out.”
The captain turned to watch the plot develop. The targets were moving south through Blanche Bay. The S-55 cruised southwest to swing around and meet them on their starboard side.
“Sometimes, we get lucky,” the captain said. “Eh, Rusty?”
Rusty nodded, looking pale. Sweat dripped off his nose and chin onto the plotting paper. He was trembling. The captain put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
The engineering officer stopped shaking and said, “Yeah. Sometimes, we do.”
“Take over as assistant diving officer, Rusty. Harrison will carry on with the plotting.”
The captain smiled. He didn’t appear to be nervous at all. In fact, he looked downright happier than Charlie had ever seen him. The die had been cast. Whatever happened, happened, and he’d given it his best shot. The man felt free, Charlie realized.
Charlie just hoped his trick worked. He felt certain it would, but that was only his opinion, and one born in his gut and not from experience. In reality, anything could happen, and the boat and the lives of the crew would be in his hands at the crucial moment.
Kane said, “Left full rudder. Come to north.”
“Left full rudder, come to north, aye, sir,” the helmsman acknowledged.
The S-55 began her sweeping arc under the water. The Japanese convoy plowed steadily toward her. The ships weren’t zigzagging. They cruised south, oblivious that the sea’s most dangerous predator was hunting them.
“Fathometer reading.”
The fathometer measured water depth under the keel. The convoy was protected by land on one flank and a destroyer behind and on the other flank. By putting the S-55 between the ships and the coast, the captain risked running aground in shallow waters.
“One hundred forty feet, Captain.”
“Very well. Keep those soundings coming. Helm, left full rudder. Come to east.”
Charlie studied the plot. They were on the enemy’s track now. Like a chess game, though this was no game.
He had to hand it to the captain. The man knew his business. His patience was paying off.
“Reduce speed to one-third.”
“Reduce speed to one-third, aye,” came the reply.
“Fathometer reading?”
“Eighty feet, Captain.”
“Very well. Bisby, we’re going to do this on the fly,” the captain told the helmsman. “Once the scope is raised, I’ll identify the first target and shout out an adjustment in heading.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Range to target was now 1,800 yards and closing.
“It’s show time. Planes, forty-five feet.”
The boat tilted up and leveled off.
“Good trim at forty-five feet,” Rusty reported.
“Torpedo room, make ready the tubes. Order of tubes is one, two, three, four. Set the depth at four feet. Zero gyro angle.”
In the bow torpedo compartment, men loaded the torpedoes into their firing tubes and slammed the hatches shut. The tubes flooded. The outer doors opened.
“All four tubes ready to fire, Captain,” Reynolds said.
The tension in the control room had become palpable.
“Very well. Up scope.”
The periscope rose. Kane gripped the handles and frowned. He slammed the handles back into place with a loud clap. “Down scope.”
The men glanced at each other. Something was wrong.
“Fogged again,” he growled. “I can’t see a goddamn thing up there. Luck comes and goes on this boat. All right, we’re still doing this. Raise the number one scope.”
The S-55 was equipped with two periscopes. The 1.5-inch number two scope, with its smaller profile, was used for attack. The four-inch number one periscope was used for general observation. It was more visible on the surface, but that couldn’t be helped.
Charlie’s gaze took in the old pipes running along the bulkhead, the droning machines, the rows of bright lights on the boards. He prayed, Frankie, don’t do this. Don’t let us down.
The periscope groaned alarmingly as it rose in short, jerky steps. Then it jammed in train.
“DAMN IT!” Kane raged. The men flinched. He barked out a short spiteful laugh. “I can’t believe it. We’re blind.” He added under his breath, “Fuck this fucking boat.”
The men stared at him with frustration and despair. The attack was failing. Marsh called out a sound bearing. The ships were closing. Soon, they would cross the submarine’s bow. Kane could try to fix the periscopes, but that would take time.
By then, the convoy would be gone, and the slow-moving submarine would have no chance of catching them.
Rusty grabbed a screwdriver and went to work. “It’s thoroughly jammed. I need an auxiliaryman.”
Another sound bearing.
Reynolds took the screwdriver and elbowed him aside. He wedged the tool into the faulty bearing and jigged it. His movements became more frantic, his sweating face flushed with rage. He shoved the scope, which shook in its mounting.
“That’ll do,” Kane said.
The exec shoved it again and stepped back panting.
The captain vented his frustration with a sigh. He touched the bulkhead by way of apology to Frankie for swearing at her. “You know, I’m about ready to hang up my hat and let a younger, stupider man do this job.” He glared up at the bulkhead and added fiercely, “But not yet.”
He scratched at his bearded jaw, doing his calculations. His eyes clenched in a blink.
“Helm, come right forty-five degrees,” he said. “All compartments, stand by to surface.”
The men frowned at him, unsure whether they’d heard him correctly.
; Captain Kane said, “We’re going to fight them on the water.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SURFACE ATTACK
Rigged for red and ready to surface on Kane’s order.
He said, “As soon as the first ship in the starboard column passes, we’ll surface and shoot two fish at him. Then we’ll swing to port and shoot the next two fish at the second ship as he approaches. After that, we’ll dive, and we’ll dive fast.”
Reynolds asked, “Should we start the engines while we’re up there?”
The captain thought about it. “There’s going to be a lot of floating metal moving around. We’re boxed in against the coast here. We might need to run before we dive. So yes, fire up the diesels, and give me both mains on propulsion.”
“Very good, sir,” the exec said, satisfied in every respect.
“You’ll carry on as assistant approach officer, Rusty as assistant diving officer. I’ll be on the bridge and will provide firing control and steering directions from there.”
Charlie had listened to the exchange with breathless excitement. A moment of catharsis as he realized they still had a shot at the Japanese ships, however dangerous.
For an S-boat to launch a night surface attack on a defended convoy was unheard of. But it could be done, and it could be successful. They had the element of surprise.
Kane added, “Harrison, you’ll be coming to the bridge with me.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Charlie said, his heart pounding loud enough to compete with the boat’s mechanical hum.
“You’ll maintain a watch of two good men plus yourself. I want eyes on all sides. If they see something, they tell you, you tell me. Understand?”
“Roger that, sir.” He said to the yeoman, “Call Fredericks and Peters to the control room.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The captain said, “Reynolds, if I’m killed or incapacitated, you will take command and dive the boat. Dive the boat and get the hell out of here. Is that clear? Get these men home.”
“Roger, Captain.”
A set of heavy screws churned the water. The first ship was close. Whatever type of ship it was, it was big.
Crash Dive: a novel of the Pacific War Page 10