Crash Dive: a novel of the Pacific War

by Craig DiLouie

  “Surface,” Kane said.

  The surfacing alarm sounded. The manifoldmen blew high-pressure air into the main ballast tanks. The boat rose gently like an elevator with the planes set at a zero angle.

  The lookouts hung binoculars around their necks and climbed up the access trunk ladder into the cramped conning tower. The glass ports showed nothing but inky darkness. The view began to swirl with bioluminescent foam as the S-55 broke the surface.

  Charlie didn’t have time to judge whether the captain’s plan was audacious or suicidal. It would be the final irony that they all died because of a broke-dick periscope.

  “Open the hatch,” Kane ordered.

  The quartermaster cracked the hatch to allow the boat’s built-up air pressure to vent into the atmosphere.

  The captain regarded Charlie. “This is it, Harrison. Let’s get it done.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Lookouts to the bridge.”

  Charlie thought of Evie. I love you. I’m sorry. Be happy.

  Then he went up the hatch and out into the night.

  “Stand by, torpedo room,” Kane said once they’d reached the bridge.

  “I’ve got him, sir.” Charlie pointed. “There. That’s his wake. Eight hundred yards.”

  He raised his binoculars and scanned the darkness for the next ship in line. He caught a glimmer of the ship’s bow wake and called it out.

  Right now, Charlie was looking at the starboard column of a Japanese convoy.

  The captain grinned. “Amazing. They haven’t spotted us. We’re sitting pretty, Harrison.”

  Charlie estimated the angle on the bow to starboard for the first ship and to port for the second ship. The captain corrected his estimates like a patient schoolteacher.

  He said into the intercom, “Ready ... Fire one.”

  “Firing one!” came the reply.

  The boat shuddered as a ton of metal rushed out of its tube and streaked toward the empty waters in front of the receding black shape.

  Charlie counted eight seconds.

  “Fire two,” the captain said.

  “Firing two!”

  “Swing to port,” Kane ordered. “Shifting targets. Stand by, torpedo room.”

  “Swinging to port. Torpedo room, standing by.”

  “Meet her, meet her. Steady!”

  Charlie scanned the dark. No sign of the escorts.

  “Ready ... Fire three.”

  “Firing three!”

  After six seconds: “Fire four.”

  The boat shuddered again as her last torpedo swished from its tube.

  Charlie checked their wakes. “Torpedoes running true, Captain.”

  He turned, ready to clear the bridge, but Kane ordered, “Torpedo, reload tubes one and two. Helm, come right to east.”

  Charlie counted the seconds. At this range, the first torpedo should have hit by now. He’d lost sight of its wake as it sped off into the distant dark.

  From across the water, he heard a man shout something in Japanese. Raising an alarm.

  “Captain—”

  A colossal boom shook the night. The entire sky flared white. Charlie blinked in the aftermath of the flash and trained his binoculars on the impact.

  The ship was on fire. The torpedo had blown its stern off. Charlie caught sight of its profile and roiling clouds of black smoke. Tiny figures, some of them on fire, jumped into the water.

  “Jesus Christ,” Charlie said. It was a spectacular sight, both cathartic and sickening.

  “Solid hit on the starboard target,” Kane told the control room. “Helm, steady on this course.” Then he said to his lookouts, “Eyes peeled, gentlemen. We’re still in the game.”

  The next ship in line tooted his whistle to warn the convoy of a submarine attack. The merchant fired wildly into the dark. Within moments, tracer rounds burst from every ship in view. Searchlights frantically swept the water.

  The submarine shook. A geyser erupted from the water 500 yards to port. He scanned the view for the destroyer escorts.

  “That was a premature,” the captain said. The defective torpedo had exploded in the water before it reached its target. Meanwhile, the other torpedo fired at the starboard target appeared to have missed.

  The last torpedo streaked toward the second ship.

  The ship turned hard to port to evade. The torpedo caught him amidships with a powerful detonation that flung a cloud of debris into the sky.

  “Solid hit on the port-side target,” Kane grinned.

  The torpedo had broken his back, a mortal blow.

  Debris splashed into the water. A smoking chunk of metal banged across Frankie’s main deck and splashed in the water.

  “Reload completed on number one tube,” Reynolds reported from the control room.

  “Where are those escorts, Harrison?”

  “I can’t get eyes on them, sir. They must be caught up in the tangle.”

  “All ahead full,” the captain said.

  The boat accelerated on both mains, taking her directly into the gap between the columns. The first ship they’d torpedoed groaned as it began to sink by the stern. The bow of the second was sinking rapidly under a massive fountain of spraying water, dragging the stern down with it.

  “Jesus,” Charlie breathed. He went back to looking for the escorts.

  Another jolt. A flash of light to starboard.

  “I think we just hit the jackpot, Harrison.”

  The first fish fired at the starboard target had missed but had traveled on and struck the lead ship in the convoy’s port-side column. The ship listed heavily, smoking.

  A searchlight glared across the length of the S-55.

  “They’ve spotted us, sir.”

  Small arms fire crackled from a nearby ship. A machine gun rattled.

  Charlie gulped. “They’re directing aimed fire at us.”

  “Helm, swing to northeast.”

  The S-55 turned, slow, too slow, as falling rounds stitched the water around them. The air buzzed with flying metal. Tracers popped as the machine gun zeroed in.

  Figures lined the rails. Dozens of flashes of small arms fire.

  Charlie flinched as it registered they were shooting at him.

  He swallowed hard and said, “He’s a troopship.”

  The troop transport began to cross Frankie’s bow. The S-55 glided past floating bodies and pieces of burning wreckage. Men tread water, screaming.

  Charlie looked down at them in horror, helpless to do anything to save them from the destruction he’d taken part in.

  “Harrison! Eyes forward!”

  He tore his eyes away and focused on the deadly landscape. The first target was gone now, swallowed by the sea. The second was sinking fast with a grating sound of chewing metal. With the exception of the troopship, the other ships were scattering and still firing wildly.

  A series of heart-stopping detonations rocked the night as the third target exploded.

  “Holy shit,” Fredericks said from the shears.

  A bullet ricocheted off the deck gun. Another thudded into the metal sail. A third cracked by Charlie’s ear. Too close.

  He gasped, “Sir, it’s getting pretty hot up here.”

  “Wait for it,” Kane said.

  “Reload completed on number two tube,” Reynolds said. “Reload completed forward.”

  “Fire one!”

  “Firing one!”

  Charlie said, “The fish has gone erratic, sir.” Then he caught sight of the rear escort coming fast with a bone in his teeth. “Destroyer, bearing oh-seven-five relative, 2,000 yards!”

  In seconds, the ship would fire a salvo from his bow gun.

  Tracers streaked between two of the fleeing merchant ships and the incoming destroyer weaving between them. In the confusion, the panicking sailors were firing at their own escort.

  The destroyers bow gun roared. The shell punched the water near the S-55 and exploded.

  “Fire two!” Kane roared. “Clea
r the bridge! Take her down!”

  The lookouts spilled down the trunk as the boat began to slide back into the water. She went under in sixty seconds, leaving behind a swirl of foam.

  “Left full rudder! Come to south by east! Balls to the wall!”

  The first depth charge explosions rattled the boat, but they sounded far abeam on the port side. The boat tilted steeply as she plunged into the depths. The officers nodded to each other, the only celebrating they had time to do.

  “Passing eighty feet,” Rusty said. “Fathometer reading, 130 feet.”

  “Very well. Rig for depth charge.”

  Another explosion. Seconds later, another.

  Marsh gripped his headphones. “Two hits on target, now astern. Screws stopped. He’s sinking fast, Captain.”

  That was the troopship. Charlie grinned at the captain. They’d hit four ships! Even the erratic torpedo had somehow found its target.

  Kane winked at him. “Sometimes, you get lucky.”

  Charlie shook his head in wonder. The man wasn’t kidding.

  “Passing 100 feet,” Rusty said.

  They heard distant thunder as the Japanese ships broke apart during their tumble to the bottom. Steel plates tore and buckled as the sea crushed them in her embrace. Then another boom and shake. Charlie guessed the troopship’s boiler had gone up.

  More crashing depth charges, but far away. When the lead ship in the port-side column had been hit, the destroyer’s skipper must have believed two submarines were attacking the convoy. He was now attacking a ghost contact. Sometimes you got very lucky.

  Charlie’s elation turned to nausea. They’d just killed a lot of people. Hundreds, possibly thousands—that troopship had been packed with soldiers and had gone down fast. His mind flashed to tiny flaming figures tumbling into the foam. Men screaming in the oily water.

  The stress of the attack caught up to him and turned his legs to jelly. He gripped the jammed periscope for support.

  “Final trim, 150 feet,” Rusty reported. “Fathometer reading, ninety.”

  “Ships, bearing one-eight-oh, 1,500 yards,” Marsh called. “Fast screws.”

  The escorts were coming hard and fast. Charlie looked at Rusty, who stared back at him blankly, his face pale. He pictured his friend saying, It’s all fun and games until somebody gets hit in the face with a depth charge. But for once, Rusty’s humor had reached its limit.

  “Helm, come to south-southeast,” the captain said.

  “They’re speeding up,” the soundman said. “They’re coming right at us.”

  Charlie toughened his nerve. The game was still in progress. Frankie’s achievement wasn’t just a story; it was legend. Now he had to survive to tell it.

  Battle of Blanche Bay, October 21, 1942.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHARLIE’S TRICK

  By now, Kane should have rigged the boat for silent running and taken his chances on straight flight, but he hadn’t given the order. He had something else in mind.

  “Reduce speed to one-third,” he said.

  Frankie had drained much of her battery power during the approach and flight. She’d need the rest to escape. She’d scored big in the IJN’s backyard. The Japanese were out for blood.

  The Japanese were notorious for abandoning a sub chase after a good thrashing, making survival a waiting game. This time would be different. Right now, Charlie knew, more destroyers were coming out of Rabaul to join the attack. Patrol boats and fighter planes.

  This time, they intended to hunt the submarine until they destroyed it.

  “Stand by to rig for silent running,” Kane said.

  Charlie studied the captain who’d just sunk four ships in a daring night surface attack. The man looked as drained as Charlie felt.

  He and his crew had just achieved a major victory in the war. It proved that when it came to a boat’s battle effectiveness, the crew mattered most. Even with a broke-dick old boat like Frankie, men could still accomplish great things—with the right amount of luck.

  Yes, the captain had pushed his luck to the edge. The Japanese hadn’t detected the presence of an enemy submarine until the first torpedo hit them. The first fish shot at the starboard target had missed but hit another ship. The first three ships each sank after being struck by a single Mark 10 torpedo. One of the escorts pulled away to chase a ghost sonar contact. And the second escort had gotten caught up in the tangle and ended up being fired upon by his own ships.

  In the end, though, the captain had made his own luck with skill and daring. Charlie regarded Kane’s example as a submarine skipper’s formula for success: temper aggression with reason and patience, and act decisively and tenaciously when the best move presented itself.

  Rusty said, “You know what, Charlie? I think Lucy and Evie might be more proud than furious right now.”

  Charlie started in surprise as his brain experienced a sudden turn from combat to his personal life. The man was right. He’d thought of Evie as a woman who didn’t understand war and, if she had her way, would hold him back from his duty. He’d been wrong.

  Evie understood war. She’d cried when he’d told her he was going to the Pacific to fight in the submarines, but she’d supported his decision. She hadn’t been selfish. He had.

  She’d stood by him while he chased his dreams, knowing full well he’d be gone for a long time, possibly never to return.

  He’d let a woman like that slip through his fingers.

  “Rusty,” he said. “I’m the biggest fool there is.”

  His friend smiled at him. “After we get through this, you can send that letter yourself.”

  It was a crazy conversation to have moments before a depth charging, but Charlie felt better having it. Talking about the future, and thinking about Evie, calmed him a little.

  The captain said, “Now let’s see if that trick of yours works, Harrison. Manifold, put a bubble in the number one main ballast tank but leave the vent open.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  The manifoldman adjusted the valve. High-pressure air shot into the tank and vented into the surrounding sea.

  The air pocket floated to the surface and popped.

  The last time they’d been depth charged, the vent being left open had been an oversight, and the large bubble bursting on the surface had marked their position. Charlie remembered that and had suggested doing it intentionally—to lure the Japanese where they wanted them.

  “Rig for silent running,” Kane ordered. “Helm, right full rudder. All ahead full.”

  The fans cut out. The planes went into manual operation. The planesmen pulled on the wheels to keep the boat on an even keel, the muscles bulging along their arms and backs.

  Just ten minutes of such hard work was enough to drain a man’s energy. Two hands stood ready to take over once they’d exhausted themselves.

  Short-scale pinging filled the boat. The destroyers were closing in.

  “All compartments rigged for silent running,” the telephone talker whispered.

  The boat shuddered. Booms in the water.

  “Depth charges astern,” Marsh said.

  The Japanese had taken the bait, attacking the area the S-55 had just vacated.

  “Steady as she goes,” Kane said.

  The thrashing of the enemy screws became louder.

  “Ship, 100 yards and closing,” the soundman reported. “He’s got us on sonar.”

  The captain frowned. “Ah, hell.”

  whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh

  “Splashes,” Marsh reported.

  The decoy had failed.

  The men looked up, waiting. Seconds passed.

  WHAAAMMM

  WHAAAMMM

  WHAAAMMM

  The men hung on as the explosions shook the boat. A light bulb shattered. Dust drifted from the bulkheads.

  Close, but not too close. The depth charging stopped.

  The destroyer’s screws speeded up as it made another run at its invisible foe.
>
  whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh

  WHAAAMMM

  WHAAAMMM

  click-WHAAAMMM

  The close-aboard concussion struck the S-55’s hull like a giant hammer.

  Everything flared white. Charlie had a vision of fire roaring through the control room, consuming everything in its path.

  Then it was gone, and he was hanging on for dear life as the shock of more concussions violently shook the boat and everything in it.

  “Left full rudder!” Kane cried. “All ahead, emergency!”

  Charlie heard a second set of screws churn the water overhead. Smelling blood, the other destroyer had joined the attack. Short-scale pinging.

  ping

  The sonar emitted a sound pulse and listened for its echoes. If the sound struck Frankie’s metal hull, it would reflect back to the receiver and give away their position.

  ping

  Rusty looked up and whispered, “That sound. I really, really hate that sound.”

  ping

  The pinging grew louder. It began to increase in frequency.

  ping ... ping ... ping ... ping-ping ... ping-ping

  “Helm, right full rudder,” Kane said.

  “Right full rudder, aye, Captain,” the helmsman answered.

  The screws speeded up overhead. The next ping reverberated through the boat, ringing it like a gong. Creating a bulls-eye.

  PING-PING

  “They’ve got us now,” Rusty said.

  “Splashes!” Marsh hissed.

  Above them, large drums full of explosives tumbled through the water.

  The men tensed and waited for the next hammer to drop.

  click-WHAAAMMM

  click-WHAAAMMM

  The impact hurled Charlie against the plotting table and then to the floor. A wrench flew through the air and shattered a gauge. Glass rained on him from broken bulbs, followed by a light spray of water. He couldn’t breathe. Trimmed heavy and with the pumps turned off, the S-55 began to tilt with her bow higher than her stern.

  She was sinking.

  WHAAAMMM

  WHAAAMMM

  He struggled to his feet, fighting for air. His bruised diaphragm finally allowed a deep breath. He coughed on the dust that swirled crazily in the red light.

  He caught sight of Rusty huddled with his back against the corner, gripping the machinery at his sides, his eyes clenched shut as he mumbled something.