“...who...who,” Helen gasped. She reached down to the coffee table and grabbed a brass ashtray made from a five-inch cannon powder case.
Whoever it was, looked back at the window. Helen could see it was open. But his face was covered by a dark balaclava. He had broad shoulders; it had to be a man. He took a step toward Helen and hesitated.
She found her voice and screamed.
The man turned, and, in two steps, dove cleanly through the guest room window.
A small zephyr rustled the bushes at the window. To Helen it felt like a 150 mile per hour typhoon.
“My God!” Flipping on the living room light, she raced in the guest room, hit the light and slammed down the window. Making sure it was locked, she pulled the blind down and ran back to the living room.
Tears ran as she grabbed the phone and dialed the operator. “Police! My God. Police. Hurry!”
CHAPTER SIX
6 March, 1943
U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)
Tulagi Harbor, Solomon Islands
With no wind, the sea was flat in Tulagi Harbor; almost mirror-smooth. Cruisers, troopships, sea-going tugs, and destroyers, stood brooding over their anchorages, chains slack, wisps of black smoke lazily rising from a stack and curling to the sky. It had rained earlier, and the late morning was thick with humidity, sweat, peeling paint, wilted salt-caked clothing, jungle rot, green slime-coated leather boots, and worst of all, un-predictable electronic equipment.
Lieutenant (j.g.) Elton P. “Tubby” White wiped his brow and stepped back to the quarterdeck, a shady area beneath the 01 level catwalk; a spot occasionally graced by zephyrs. He peered south toward Guadalcanal, where clouds gathered over the mountains, promising yet more rain. Two hours to the next storm, he figured.
WAP! Tubby slapped the back of his neck. One more of at least ten billion Solomon Island-type mosquitoes had landed on his neck. “Damnit!”
The specter of malaria was too horrible to contemplate and he’d smeared repellant everywhere. Tubby was the in-port officer of the deck for the morning watch. He was five nine and a compact two hundred five pounds. Tubby’s uniform consisted of cut-off khaki work trousers, a sweat-soaked sleeveless shirt, and a pith helmet providing shade for his large, oval head. A .45 automatic, dangling from a web belt, completed his ensemble. He’d played guard at USC and his fine blond hair was cut short, emphasizing a round face and oversized lower lip some took for a sign of ignorance. But what Tubby lacked in looks was more than made up for in IQ, which got him into trouble. Like the time he disassembled a Ford model “A” and reassembled it on the second story of USC’s Bovard Hall. Everyone knew it was Tubby yet, somehow, they couldn’t pin it on him. Or the time during Christmas break, at the downtown Broadway Department Store. He’d found a job as a mail clerk in the pneumatic tube dispatching station. On Christmas Eve, Tubby stuffed white mice into the message capsules and sent them squeaking on their way. His satisfaction: muted screams and telephones jangling stridently in the outer office. But Tubby overplayed it. He’d run out of mice and was dumping confetti into the tubes when, an enraged supervisor burst through the door and fired him on the spot. Accordingly, Tubby was almost suspended from USC and had to work hard to achieve the Dean’s amnesty. With great restraint, Tubby concentrated on his studies and earned his B.S. in mechanical engineering, his stunts notwithstanding.
A pair of F4Fs blasted over the Howell and flew on to skim the Issac and Griffith’s mast heads. A couple of Marine hot-dogs, he supposed, but Tubby was glad to see them out and around, waiting to pounce on Japs.
Two more Wildcats rose off Guadalcanal and joined the first pair to fly a slow orbit overhead, a CAP (Combat Air Patrol) pattern. Even with the fighters buzzing overhead, Tubby still felt vulnerable sitting here. And he was sure the others did too. They were in Tulagi to take on fuel and ammunition. Right now, a fuel barge was moored alongside with two thick hoses snaked over fore and aft, pumping NSFO -- Naval standard fuel oil. The humidity-laden day was getting hotter, and the whole atmosphere seemed sticky, almost greasy, as the heavy, fuel oil fumes vented from the Howell’s tanks.
They were sitting ducks, and Admiral Halsey’s standing orders were that all ships were to keep up steam, so they could get underway at a moment’s notice, even if it meant slipping anchor. Halsey also stipulated that all ships be at condition III watches: all guns manned for defense against air attack.
To clearly state his views on the situation, Halsey had ordered a forty-by-sixty foot bill-board erected at the entrance to Tulagi Harbor for all to read:
KILL JAPS. KILL JAPS, KILL THE YELLOW BASTARDS. IF YOU DO YOUR JOB YOU WILL KILL THE SONS OF BITCHES.
Tubby peered at Halsey’s sign, thinking of the first time he’d seen it: incredulity and shock. But later, he’d seen the wrecked ships limp into Tulagi and offload their maimed sailors, some living, others forever muted under canvas tarps. And he’d been in CIC when the Barber went up. He could still hear and feel the WHACK against the Howell’s superstructure. It was like being stuffed into in a fifty-five gallon oil drum with the neighborhood thug hitting it with a baseball bat. And all those guys gone, among them, Luther Dutton, an officer he admired, in spite of his MIT bullshit.
The gravity of the situation really sank in when Tubby learned of Japanese atrocities from old-timers in the crew. Take Mr. Ingram, for example. He was an okay guy, reputed to have survived the worst of what the Japs dished out at Corregidor in the Philippines. For sure, Tubby knew the part about Ingram’s escape from Corregidor was true. The night the ‘Rock’ fell to the Japs, Ingram commandeered a thirty-six foot launch and made it with ten other guys all the way to Darwin, Australia under the cover of night; an amazing voyage of 1,900 miles, most of it through Jap-held territory. That was in May of last year, and he’d been awarded the Navy Cross last August. And then, for some reason, Ingram was reputed to have been given a purple heart, arising from a more recent secret mission in the Philippines.
But Ingram didn’t pin on his medals until a couple of weeks ago. That was when the Howell rejoined the squadron from Brisbane. Rocko Myszynski stepped aboard for a dress inspection. Before the entire wardroom, the exasperated Commodore of DESRON 12 shouted to Ingram that he was out of uniform. Uncharacteristically, the flamboyant Myszynski made everyone stand at attention while Ingram ran below to his stateroom, rummaged around, and returned four minutes later, the Navy Cross and Purple Heart affixed with the rest of his campaign ribbons, which included four battle stars. But getting Ingram to talk about Bataan or Corregidor, or the rest of the Philippines, was like speaking to a blank wall. Ingram would unfocus for a moment, then look right through you. With that, he would change the subject. Sure, he and ‘Boom Boom’ Landa would talk about more recent actions and lessons learned from the Battles of Cape Esperance or the Santa Cruz Islands. The latter inflicted considerable damage to the Howell’s fo’c’sle, killing twenty-two men and seriously wounding Landa, earning him his own Purple Heart.
Tubby checked the clock, 1047, and wondered when his orders would come through. He’d put in for PT boats back in the States, and they’d posted him to the Howell, on a temporary basis, so the San Diego detailer said, until a spot opened up for him in the Solomons. He’d been aboard the Howell since she’d come out of the shipyard in Melbourne. Eight weeks, damnit.
Even with the Wildcats flying overhead, they were sitting ducks. That’s what these cans were. With their weight-saving aluminum superstructures, these damn destroyers were prone to burning like Roman candles when hit with something hot, like burning fuel. He shuddered again when he thought of the Barber. But the fact that the PTs carried 3,000 gallons of 100 octane gasoline somehow didn’t bother him. Fast and maneuverable, the PTs could dodge Jap bullets. They were powered by three V-12 supercharged 4M-2500 Packard engines. Each one produced 2,500 horsepower, more than enough juice to get out of a Jap’s way, and dish some back to him, too.
Tubby shifted his eyes to the crew as they shuffled back and forth. Barel
y speaking, and looking furtively toward the sky, they didn’t act like sailors. They looked more like fugitives: men on the run. Tubby put their morose mood down to the fact that Rocko Myszynski was sending them on another raid tonight to hit the Vila airstrip on Kolombangara Island. He’d already seen three or four of the other ships ease past in the last hour.
As if to validate Tubby’s thoughts, he heard a ‘clunk’ off to port. It was the light cruiser, Sioux Falls, belching black smoke from her forward stack. Having just housed her anchor, white water frothed beneath her screw guards, and she gathered way. The 12,000 ton ship glided past, while men walked her 608 feet length, stowing gear, getting ready. Launched less than three years ago, the Sioux Falls had just joined the fleet, sporting new dazzle camouflage. To Tubby, she seemed a floating porcupine. Guns bristled everywhere: her main battery consisted of twelve six-inch forty-sevens pointing to the sky from four triple mounts; elsewhere, twelve five-inch thirty-eights were housed in six twin mounts; and an untold number of forty and twenty millimeter cannons stuck out from every other corner aboard the ship. Spinning atop her foremast were the secret new air search and surface-search radar antennas. The Sioux Falls’s bow-wave grew larger as she increased speed, heading into Iron Bottom Sound. The scuttlebutt was that the Sioux Falls was to be joined tonight by her sisters King City and Santa Monica, along with the destroyers Armstrong, Fruehauf, Mutz and Lyon. Further inshore, the Hanscom, Dale, W. E. Dunalp, Caldwell, Redmond and Cummings were getting up steam. Tubby raised his binoculars. Sure enough, through the anchored ships, he spotted at least four other ships gathered out on the Sound, radar antennae twirling, guns at the ‘ready air position’ dark, menacing.
Tubby shook his head slowly. Battleships carried over 2,700 officers and men; the light cruisers, 1,200; destroyers, 300 plus. But PT boats carried just two officers and ten men. And that suited Tubby just fine. No oceans of gold braid (and gold bricks) to get in his way. Just step on the gas and stomp Japs.
He checked the clock again,1105, his heart soaring that this could be his last watch aboard the Howell. PTs would be a lot better than hanging around here. Look at these guys! The Barber’s loss had left an indelible impression of anger and revenge, unsatisfied by two subsequent runs back to Kula Gulf. Without targets, the crew hadn’t an opportunity to vent their rage. And now, it seemed to Tubby, they had become distant, withdrawn.
And Landa’s situation wasn’t helping. When they returned to port, the skipper was really down about something. Then Mr. Ingram had told them, quietly, that the old man had received a telegram that his kid brother had been critically injured in the States. The point was that the old man took it out on everyone else. At lunch yesterday, one of the ensigns at the other end of the table had said something offhanded about poor morale. The old man flew into a rage. “There will absolutely be no poor morale,” he yelled. Landa’s face turned red, as pieces of Chicken ala King spewed from his mouth, “I will not tolerate poor morale. We need every one of those sonsabitches to give it their all, and damnit,” the Captain smashed down a fist, “I’ll not put up with backsliders.”
Strange thing about Landa, Tubby thought. His reputation in the Fleet was top-notch. Friends, fellow skippers called him “Boom Boom” because, Tubby supposed, Landa loved to shoot the ship’s guns. (Indeed, there were some peace-time skippers who cowered in the pilot house from the sharp CRACK of the five-inch gun when it went off.) Off watch, Landa’s calling card was a broad, impossibly white Pepsodent grin, unmasking a mouth full of perfect teeth; a grin that disarmed all who stepped within ten yards. Indeed, Landa was known for being a fun loving, hard drinking sailor, the kind Tubby wanted to sail with.
So thought an elated Tubby when he received his orders to join the Howell. As things turned out, the Jerome Landa he served under was a good skipper, all right. But gone was the signature smile. Gone were the backslaps and practical jokes. When not on the bridge, the man spent most of his time in his sea cabin.
Seltzer, the sandy-haired petty officer of the watch, stepped up and sounded six bells over the 1MC: 1100: half hour to chow. Seltzer was a beanpole second class boatswain’s mate who, Tubby understood, knew Ingram pretty well. In fact, he’d heard Seltzer had been on that secret mission with Ingram, but neither spoke of it.
Seltzer caught Tubby’s eye. “Any word from the XO on when we take aboard ammo?”
“Not yet.”
They watched as a dark-blue splotched PBY lifted off from the harbor and headed east. “Daily mail to Espiritu Santu,” Seltzer said.
“Yup.”
Seltzer’s eyes tracked the PBY as it disappeared. “You know, Sir, Tom Crane, the flight engineer on that plane, is a friend of mine.”
Tubby started to move off.
“Tom said they always bring back a case of scotch. Maybe more.”
“No kidding?”
Seltzer looked from side to side. “That stuff goes directly to the Tulagi O Club and disappears. Top brass gets it all.”
“Really?”
Seltzer’s eyebrows went up.
“Yeah, I may know a guy or two over there who might look the other way,” Tubby said quietly. “Maybe on mail call we--”
Redding, a stocky second class boiler tender known as the ‘Oil King’, emerged from the after fire room hatch like a spider crawling from a drain pipe. Sweat dripped down his face as he walked up and said, “All topped off, Sir. You can shove the barge off.”
White took in Redding’s tobacco stained teeth and fuel-oil splotched dungarees. How do those men survive down there when it’s so damned hot up here, he wondered? He’d heard temperatures pushed 115 degrees at times in the boiler and engine rooms, maybe more.” Very well,” he said.
The fuel barge crew was already recovering their hoses. That done, Seltzer and Redding passed their lines over, and the fuel barge chugged off into Tulagi’s humidity-laden haze. White watched it go, breathing a sigh of relief, thankful once more the Japs hadn’t caught them with their pants down.
Redding gave a yellow-toothed grin and reached to his breast pocket. “Okay to light up, Sir?
“Yeah, I don’t see why--- “
“---Sir, looks like an ammo barge is approaching,” Hardy, the messenger of the watch said.
“What? Better hold that cigarette, Redding.” Tubby said.
Redding grumbled as he stuffed Chesterfields back into his pocket.
Seltzer pointed to an LCM plowing its way toward the Howell, a red baker flag at her staff. “We expecting an ammo barge, Mr. White?” he asked.
“I---.” The LCM slowed, and an officer poked his head above her bulwark. Sun glinted off of a silver collar device. The man’s hat bore scrambled eggs. White gasped, “Damnit. A full Captain!”
The LCM backed down, its twin diesels roaring. Black smoke poured from exhaust pipes as her twin screws bit the water. White grabbed the quarterdeck phone and rang the wardroom. No answer. None from the bridge, either. “Hardy, damnit. Get the Exec. Shit; the Captain--Everybody. “ He slapped Hardy on the butt. “On the double. Go!”
“Sir!” The messenger ran forward, keys jangling at his duty belt.
Seltzer quickly moved aft to help the LCM moor alongside. White turned to Redding. “Give Seltzer a hand.”
The LCM’s bowline snaked through the air and landed at Tubby’s feet. He caught it, stooped to pass it under the lifeline, spun it around a cleat and tied it off. When Tubby stood, he was within eighteen inches of the Navy Captain, a broad grin stretched across the man’s face. The captain saluted the flag on the fantail; then saluted Tubby White. “Permission to come aboard, Sir?”
“I...I, of course, Captain. Here, let me.” Tubby offered a hand to help the Captain jump over the life line. “We should part the line first, Sir.”
“No, that’s okay.” The Captain nimbly leaped over the lines and alighted on the deck. He held out a hand. “Hi. Frank Ashton.”
“Tubby White.” He took Ashton’s hand. In his late 40s or early 50s, the capt
ain had close-cropped salt and pepper hair, and a set of teeth that nearly matched Landa’s for brightness and perfect alignment. He wore neither blouse nor tie, but his tailor-made khaki shirt and trousers were neatly pressed making Ashton look as if he’d stepped from a Brooks Brothers ad.
“I’m sorry, Sir. I---we weren’t aware you were coming. If you don’t mind holding on for a moment, I’ll have the Captain or XO. “
“Good morning, Sir. Jerry Landa.” Landa walked up and saluted.
“Hi. Frank Ashton.” Returning the salute, he shook Landa’s hand. “I...I...have you heard about your brother.?”
“As far as I know, he’s critical. Do you have any news?”
Ashton looked down. “Nothing new. I’m sorry. What a terrible thing. He was the best.”
“What the hell do you mean was the best?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“All the doctors can say is that he suffered a brain injury. Then an infection set in.”
Landa jammed his hands on his hips and nodded.
After a long moment, Ashton said, “Your ship is beautiful. These new Fletcher class destroyers are really tops.” He swung around, taking in the Howell. “Say, do they really call you ‘Boom Boom?’”
“We try our best, Sir.”
“Well, she looks brand new to me.”
The crew gathered like onlookers at the scene of a head-on collision. With a glance from Landa, they moved on and he said, “Well, she was little dented. Got into a fracas or two with the Japs. We just got out of the yard.”
“Heard all about that. And well done. That’s why I’m here.”
Ingram broke through a knot of sailors. “All right. Carry on.” He saluted Ashton and introduced himself.
“Did you come in that, Sir?” Landa pointed to the LCM.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 6