Ashton threw his hands in the air and walked aft to the LCM, where he gave a short whistle and twirled a finger over his head. Saluting curtly, Ashton stepped through a break in the lifelines as Foreman saluted back. The LCM’s twin engines cranked, as Ashton dropped to the LCM’s well deck. The crew quickly took in her lines, and with a roar, the LCM quickly backed away and was lost to sight, as another cloudburst swooped in.
Landa turned and walked forward, shaking his head as he passed Ingram.
Ingram had to yell against the pounding rain. “What is it, Jerry?”
Landa swept on, yelling as he went. “...it’s all hocus-pocus. Bunch of butterfly catchers in white lab coats running around setting off firecrackers. Damned if I’ll let them use the things on my ship.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What?”
“Look. All I can say is that they’re unreliable. And that other radars can set them off in our gun-barrels. They just haven’t been tested enough.” Landa walked faster waving his hands in the air. “Imagine that. Trying to shoot down a Jap when another ship lights you up with his radar. Boom! No thanks, Buster.”
Ingram walked fast to keep up. “But what if it’s true? What if the VT fuses do have a fifty percent reliability factor? That’s far better than the Mark 18s.”
“Bullshit.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
6 March, 1943
U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)
Tulagi Harbor, Solomon Islands
Rain pummeled the Howell’s main deck as sailors lined up for the evening meal. But many took comfort in the downpour because the storms drove away the mosquitoes; the drawback was the insects’ furious return when the weather turned fair. But this storm lingered. Lightning crashed, bringing the caustic scent of ozone. Thirty knot winds blew through sunset and into twilight.
Tom Kilpatrick, the division commodore riding in Griffith, signaled underway time for 1900. So they hurried chow and set anchor detail at 1830. On the bridge Landa paced athwartships from one wing to the other to the other, snorting and shoving his way past watch-standers, glancing at the radar repeater as he passed through the pilot house. Wearing slickers, Ingram was crouched in the port bridge wing, staying out of Landa’s path. As custom dictated, the port wing was Ingram’s fiefdom when the Howell weighed anchor. The starboard bridge wing was reserved for the Officer of the Deck (OOD), Carl Offenbach, and the captain. Tonight, when the anchor was raised, Offenbach would conn the ship, and Landa would be perched in his skipper’s chair, keeping a sharp eye until they were well into Iron Bottom Sound and clear of other ships.
Always at Landa’s elbow was Early, his talker, a balding, rather officious, bespectacled second class yeoman. Plunging after his Captain with sound-powered phones mounted on his ears and chest, Early played it to the hilt, bumping into senior ratings and officers, elbowing them aside. Curses ranged behind him as his long telephone cord trailed on the deck, inevitably snagging a foot or curling around a hatch dog.
A particularly heavy burst of rain exploded over Ingram, drawing him into his own world of sound and water and oblivion, the visibility dropping to a few yards. At least, Ingram thought, anyone ashore working for the Japs wouldn’t see them go. Water leaked down his back, and for a moment or two, the half dozen men gathered on the fo’c’sle were lost to view. Young Edgerton, the hot soup-drinking boot Ensign, stood among them, as newly appointed First Lieutenant.
Landa stomped out onto the bridgewing, just as the cloudburst storm eased, the visibility lifting to a hundred yards. With a nod toward the fo’c’sle he said, “How’s Hot Lips holding up?” In the six or so hours that had passed since the noon meal, Ensign Edgerton had acquired his nickname, an honorific often bestowed on small ships. Like ‘Boom Boom’ Landa, ‘Hot Lips’ was a name that would, in all likelihood, stick for the rest of Edgerton’s life.
“Hasn’t floated away yet. Chief Murphy will take good care of him.”
“What do you think, Todd? We ready for war?” It was a frayed joke that had gone over well in earlier times.
“All night long, Captain.” Ingram raised his binoculars, peering into blackness.
Someone shouted in the pilot house. Landa ran in. Ingram followed right behind, finding ten or so men in a group.
Ingram peered over Landa’s shoulder at the deck mounted, waist-high, radar repeater, red and green indicating lights blinking merrily. But now, the cathode ray tube (CRT) a gigantic, black glass eye, was dead. No green cursor swept a 360º path around the scope.
“What do we have, Carl?” Landa asked quietly.
Carl Offenbach was the Operations Officer whose department was responsible for the radars. He grabbed a phone handset and punched a button to CIC. After a terse exchange, he bracketed the phone and said, “Pretty sure it’s the magnetron, Captain. Edwards is on his way down to the radar room with a new one. Should be on-line in ten minutes, tops.”
“Hmmm.” Landa didn’t want to get underway in this muck. Picking their way among ships in Tulagi Harbor in zero visibility could end in disaster. Ingram thought about tonight’s Munda bombardment group anchored nearby: the Andrew Hanscom, Dale, W. E. Dunlap, and Caldwell, all due to get underway at 1730. He sure didn’t want to plow into one of them.
“How was your shore leave, Carl?” Landa asked.
Offenbach looked up, water dripping from his cap. “Sir?”
“What? You didn’t go ashore?”
The question, of course, was absurd. While in a war zone, no one was granted shore leave. But then Offenbach was one of the new ones aboard; not used to Landa’s 180 mood swings. “I’m not sure that---“
“How about you, Todd? Have a good time”?
The Captain’s eyes sparkled and Ingram realized Boom Boom Landa had somehow put aside his anxiety over his brother and re-joined the Howell. “Actually, no shore leave for me, Captain. Too much paperwork.”
“I see.” Landa’s eyes darted around the pilothouse. “Anybody else go ashore?”
One or two shook their heads, ‘o.’
“Well, that’s good. You men are lucky, you know.”
Offenbach’s face said, What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Except for the occasional crackle of a loud speaker, a macabre silence descended. “Yes, very lucky, I’d say.”
Ingram rolled his eyes.
“Think of it as pure hygiene,” Landa said,
“What?” said Offenbach.
“Thank God none of you did go ashore. I’m proud of you. Excellent. Excellent. This is good for the war effort.” He looked at Early, his yeoman-talker. “Remind me to write a memo to Admiral Ernest J. King. In it, I’ll say what a great job you are all doing. And thank God you’re not Germans, like Leutnant Offenbach here. You’d be in terrible trouble.”
Offenbach straightened and absently whipped off his hat, while the others stood about with stunned faces.
“You see, if you were among Mr. Offenbach’s kinsmen now serving with the Kriegsmarine in the European theater, you’d be flat on your backs, thermometers in your mouths with temperatures of one hundred and two degrees. Maybe more. Yes siree. The South Pacific is the proper place for the likes of Commander Jerry Landa, mosquitoes, rain, Japs, everything. The hell with Europe.”
Ingram looked at his watch and gave Landa a look: Damnit Jerry. It’s almost 1900.
“You see, the Frogs have got the German’s number. Right, Mr. Offenbach?”
“...I don’t--”
“What the Frogs have done in places like Le Havre, La Rochelle, or Marseille, is to stock their whorehouses with hookers infected with crabs, gonorrhea, and syph. This is great stuff. Imagine some U-boat skipper when, in the middle of the Atlantic, he hears,” Landa faked a German accent, “Herr Kapitaine. Leutnant Dumkopf cannot relieve the watch because he is versmitten mit der krabs und der klapp. Sieg Heil!
“Mr. Offenbach.” Landa twirled a finger in the air. “Until I read that fleet intelligence brie
fing a few days ago, I always thought the Germans were smarter than the French. But now we learn the Frogs have dreamed up a new deadly biological weapon. Kill Germans with the clap!”
Snickers ranged in the pilothouse. Even the corners of Offenbach’s mouth turned up.
“See? We’re just damned lucky here. No whorehouses, nothing to infect the ship. No crabs, no oozing sores, no raging temperatures. No shanker mechanics telling you to bend over. Just 314 healthy fighting men.” Landa squared his shoulders. “Right, Mr. Offenbach?”
Just then the radar flicked on; the cursor marched around the scope, making Offenbach’s face glow green. “You bet, Captain,” he said.
Landa clapped Offenbach’s shoulder. “Nice to have our little secret gadget back.”
Ingram smirked at the irony. Whether Landa liked it or not, he was the morale officer. And now, he seemed his old self. “Time is now 1854, Captain,” he said.
“Early, please call the fo’c’sle and tell Mr. Edgerton to heave the anchor to short stay.” Landa stepped through the hatchway and disappeared into the rain.
Ingram was dreaming of tomato soup when the phone over his bunk buzzed. He yawned and checked his little wind-up alarm: 1036. They were in a moderate seaway with long, rolling groundswells giving a delicious, mind-numbing motion to the Howell, beckoning him to sleep, back to...
The buzzing became strident. Ingram ripped the phone from the bracket and growled, “XO.”
“Mr. Ingram?” It was Landa, yelling.
“Captain?”
“Get your ass up here.”
“Sir?”
“Now, damnit.”
“Give me a min—“
“Don’t bother to dress. I said now!” The phone crashed down, breaking the connection.
Already in a tee shirt, Ingram quickly steeped into trousers, shoes, threw on a light raincoat and ran for the companionway where he “…oof,” bumped into Hank Kelly, obviously on the same expedition.
“What’s up, XO?” asked Kelly.
“Damned if I know.” A tight-lipped Ingram charged up the ladder, with Kelly following.
In thirty seconds, they climbed three decks to the bridge level, emerging in a vestibule that forward, gave to the pilothouse and aft, to the Captain’s sea-cabin. Before stepping to Landa’s door, Ingram ducked outside. The storm was gone, and stars glittered overhead in a stygian, moonless brilliance. Dead ahead were the silhouettes of Griffith and Issac as they plowed west in a column through the Solomon Sea.
Landa’s door was closed. Ingram walked up and knocked, while Kelly stood behind.
“Enter!”
Ingram opened the door. Unlike his stateroom on the main deck, the Captain’s sea cabin was small, functional, set up so the captain could step to the bridge at a moment’s notice. The room was furnished with a bunk, a small functional desk, a stainless steel washbasin, and a stainless steel toilet. The tiny bulkhead light was on, with Landa sitting at the edge of his bunk, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting in his hands.
“Captain?”
“That sonofabitch. Nobody does that to me and gets away with it.” Landa’s eyes were dark and malevolent.
“Sir?”
“Hear that? You nincompoops. How the hell am I supposed to sleep?”
“Captain. I don’t---“
“Shut up and listen, damnit!”
A rattle, then another. Then a whole cascade sounded overhead, as the ship rolled.
“Well?” growled Landa.
“Sir, I don’t understand.”
“Come here. Damnit.”
Ingram walked toward Landa.
“There.” Landa peered at the overhead.
Ingram looked up, hearing a clanking sound, metal glancing off metal. He looked at Kelly, who covered his mouth with a hand, knowing exactly what it was.
“Ball bearings,” said Landa. “That fat little bastard stuffed ball bearings in my ventilation duct. Look here. See the chipped paint where he unscrewed the inspection plate?” He pointed.
“Who?”
“Lieutenant junior grade White. That’s who!” roared Landa, slamming a fist against the bulkhead. Even as he yelled, the ship took a pronounced roll to port and a group of ball bearings rattled and clanked though the air duct.
Kelly’s hand was still clamped over his mouth, his eyes betraying the broad grin stretching under his palm.
Landa growled, “Where did that son of a bitch get the ball bearings, Mr. Kelly?”
Kelly gave a muffled, “No idea, Sir.”
“Well, listen to those sonsabitches. Pretty big bastards, I’d say.” As if to emphasize his point, more bearings clanked and rattled as the ship heeled to starboard.
“Yessir.”
“You’ll take an inventory immediately, Mr. Kelly.”
“Yessir.” Kelly looked at Ingram. Both knew the task was impossible. In a little more than three hours, they would be at general quarters, poised to enter Ferguson Passage.
Landa pointed. “Mr. Kelly, get a ship fitter up here on the double. He’s got just ten minutes to get rid of these frigging bearings.”
The Howell rolled gracefully to port: ball-bearings obediently plinked their way through the ventilation duct.
“Move!” yelled Landa.
Kelly dashed out of the sea cabin, his feet clanking furiously as he descended the ladder.
From the pilothouse, the lee helm clanged with an engine order, and the ship’s motion seemed less pronounced. Landa and Ingram locked eyes, knowing they had slowed. As in confirmation, the telephone over Landa’s bunk buzzed. He yanked it from the bracket. “Captain.”
He listened, then said, “Very well, I’ll be out.” Landa replaced the phone and muttered while pulling on his pants, “Griffith thinks she has a sonar contact. Tom Kilpatrick wants to talk to me.”
Then Landa bent to tie his shoes and smirked, his head pitching from side to side. “Tubby White, huh? Great hot-dog practical joker, huh? Do you still have his file?”
“No, Sir. It’s gone.” Ingram stood at parade rest realizing Landa was putting on a great show. Tubby’s stunt was fantastic and the word would get around quickly. The best thing Landa could do was to harness his famous temper and show indignation against a cause that would soon blow over. Yet, Ingram dared not acknowledge to Landa that he knew of the ploy. Play it out.
“Just as well. Two can play that game.” Landa swore softly.
The Howell rolled drunkenly to port in a large swell; the ball bearings obediently ricocheting on their journey across the Captain’s sea cabin.
CHAPTER NINE
6 March, 1943
Fourteenth Naval District Headquarters,
Pearl Harbor Naval Station
Territory Of Hawaii
Mike Novak nearly rolled the jeep because he had to wash his hands. Caroming around a corner, he spotted his destination: the Detention Center at the end of the block. Novak tromped it, pulling a churning dust-cloud through a platoon of marching Marines.
Novak had just left Captain Howard O’Grady, Chief of staff to Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, Commander Submarines Pacific (COMSUBPAC). The O’Grady meetings had become a ritual, with Lockwood often present. And O’Grady treated him like a submariner, because Novak once was. Proudly, he wore his dolphins, even though he would never again put to sea in a submarine. Novak had been at the top of his game in 1938 as Lieutenant Commander Michael T. Novak, captain of the submarine S-42, stationed in Pearl Harbor. But one day, while body surfing, he’d had an argument with a ten foot wave and the hard, sandy bottom won. A broken back laid him up for six months, giving Novak a medical discharge. Now, after recall, the six-two, sandy-haired Novak was a full commander in charge of the Combat Intelligence Unit (CIU) of the Intelligence Center, for the Pacific Ocean Area (ICPOA). In essence, it was Novak’s job to give O’Grady the CIU’s findings, so Lockwood’s submarines could do their job, which, formally stated, was:
DESTROY ENEMY SHIPS AND SHIPPING BY OFFENSIVE PATROLS A
T FOCAL POINTS.
It was the FOCAL POINTS part of the mission statement where Novak came into play. Novak told O’Grady of the latest Japanese naval and maritime ship movements. O’Grady and Lockwood would then lay out plots and signal their submarines where to intercept the enemy.
Novak’s input was from the Fleet Radio Unit Pacific (FRUPac), housed in the same dingy cellar as his group. Side by side, they lay beneath the Fourteenth Naval District Headquarters Administration Building. It was a high security area called “The Basement,” which featured the most recalcitrant air-conditioning system ever attempted by man. Those who spent any time in the Basement invariably came out with arthritis or whooping cough. For just six hours, one’s reward could be uncontrollable wheezing.
FRUPac, lead by Commander Joseph J. Rochefort, was a group of highly skilled radio operators, cryptographers and linguists responsible for breaking and translating Japanese codes. Using new and sophisticated devices such as key punch machines, (they used from two to three million punch cards per month) sorters, collators and high speed printers, FRUPac employed every trick to accomplish the task. Last June, Rochefort caused a stir after cracking key elements of the Japanese Navy’s five-digit code labeled JN 25. Thus Rochefort predicted with devastating accuracy, the disposition of Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto’s forces when he attacked Midway Island, just 1,200 miles northwest of Honolulu. The architect of the Peal Harbor sneak attack, Yamamoto’s Combined Fleet vastly outnumbered the U.S. Navy at Midway three to one. But Rear Admiral Ray Spruance, armed with Rochefort’s predictions, surprised Yamamoto and sank all four of his attack carriers. This not only denied Yamamoto the ability to attack Midway, but nullified his capacity to conduct offensive operations in the future.
Today’s meeting had gone well. FRUPac had recently cracked the Japanese “Maru Code,” a special code exclusively used for Japanese merchant ships. Last night, Novak had plotted some radio intercepts and learned the exact track, including course and speed, of the Jamaica Maru, a tanker of 27,500 tons. Fully loaded, she had just left Soerabaja, bound for Yokohama via the Makassar Strait. Thus, Makassar Strait became the Focal Point where O’Grady and Lockwood would tell their submarines to take care of business.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 8