Then the fourth Wildcat joined its partners, making strafing runs on the other side of Mondo Mondo Island.
“Got ‘em, Captain,” called Offenbach. He leaned over and spoke into the handset. “Jubilee two-six, this is Ricochet, I hear you weak, but clear, over.”
Static ranged, then the speaker rattled with, “Ricochet, this is Jubilee two-six; we’ve taken a barge under fire and I think we destroyed it. But he’d already ducked into a mangrove swamp opposite you and is burning under the trees.”
Landa grabbed the phone, “Jubilee two-six, this is Ricochet, How far away is he? Over?”
“Jubilee two-six. Looks like a hundred yards or so of thick wood and overgrowth between you and them. Probably thirty to forty Japs in there. Over.”
“Roger Jubilee two-six. Any word on relief? Over.”
“Jubilee two-six. Word is Peter Tares enroute. You should be home for breakfast. How do you like your eggs? Over.”
“Over easy. Over.”
“Roger Ricochet. We’ll stick around until our gas runs low.”
“Roger, Jubilee two-six. Thanks for beating up the barge. And good job on splashing that Rufe. We’ll guard this circuit. Out.” Landa walked out on the bridgewing and said to Ingram. “Looks like were going yachting tonight.”
“We should plan how to transfer the wounded,” Ingram said. “I wonder how they’ll stand the pounding in PT Boats.”
“You and Monaghan figure that one out,” Landa said.
Just then, someone screamed in the jungle. A khaki-clad figure ran from the tree line right up to the ship and threw a...
“Grenade! Hit the deck!” yelled Ingram.
The grenade bounced on the fo’c’sle, rolled down toward Mount 51, and exploded.
Ingram yelled into his phone. “Mounts twenty one and forty one. Take that treeline under fire!” As the forty and twenty millimeter pumped shells into the trees, Ingram yelled up to Wilson, “Jack. Casualties?”
Wilson nodded and held up a finger, his other hand clamped over an earphone. Finally, he said, “Two men in mount fifty-one. Pointer and trainer injured by shrapnel. None serious.”
Ingram leaned over the rail. “Captain? We might as well abandon the five inch mounts. Two men were injured in that blast. Grenades can punch holes in them.”
“Make it so.”
After relaying the order to Wilson, Ingram said, “Okay, Jack. Get those dammed small arms passed out. Set up your BARs in the forty millimeter gun tubs where they can see into the jungle.”
“Got it!” Wilson disappeared down his hatch.
A sudden quiet descended. Landa called up, “Todd, since the starboard side is the engaged side, let’s move all unarmed personnel or those not on gunmounts to the port side, out of the Jap’s line of fire. No telling when they may start trying to pick us off with snipers.”
As if in answer, a rifle shot rang out, and a bullet ricocheted off the director, a foot from Ingram’s head. Two more shots plinked close by.
“Damn.” Ingram turned to Vogel. “Come on!” Quickly, they ran down the ladder, taking the protection of the port side of the pilot house where they huddled beside Landa.
“What’s taking Wilson so long?” Landa demanded. Just then, the forward forty-millimeters cranked out three clips of four rounds each. A scream ranged from deep in the forest.
Early and Offenbach ran in the pilothouse, dogged the starboard hatch, then the portholes. Soon, a shot rang out: a porthole shattered. Then another. Then a third. But when the shooting subsided, Offenbach quickly taped dark magazine pages over the shattered portholes.
The forty millimeters roared for another thirty seconds, then Landa yelled, “Cease fire.” Turning to Offenbach, he said, “Call those jarheads and see if they can strafe the trees.”
“Yes, Sir.” Offenbach grabbed the phone and said, “Jubilee two-six. Japs are sniping at us from close range. Can you strafe the trees without hitting us?”
“Without hitting you?”
“Affirmative.” Offenbach rolled his eyes.
“Ricochet, this is Jubilee two-six. Please be advised that we are United States Marines. Out.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind, Carl,” A smirk ranged across Landa’s face.
They crawled outside and peeked around the corner of the pilot house.
The Wildcats formed up in line astern and headed for the Howell. At a thousand yards, the first one opened up with its six-fifty caliber machine guns. The pilot kicked a bit of rudder back and forth, walking a devastating line of fire just fifty yards before them. Giant divots, shot in the air, tree limbs cracked and tumbled, dirt and rocks flew everywhere. Smoke lingered as the plane flashed overhead, only to be replaced by the second Wildcat, then the third. Something exploded nearby as the forth Wildcat started shooting. A column of rich, black-red smoke roiled in the air. Then the last Wildcat swooped overhead and was gone. After a moment, the smoke cleared and one could see patches where trees had fallen.
“What do you think?” Landa swept the area with his binoculars.
“Japs had a damned flamethrower.” Ingram nodded to where a fire flickered in the forest.
“Wouldn’t want to be the guy with that rig strapped to my back,” said Landa.
“No.”
The radio crackled, “Ricochet, this is Jubilee Two-Six. Everybody okay?”
Offenbach swallowed a couple of times and looked at Landa, his eyes wide.
Landa grinned. “He’s just screwing with you, Carl. Tell him that’s all for now and thanks.”
“Yes, Sir.” Offenbach ducked into the pilot house.
Again, it was quiet. Absently, Ingram slapped at a mosquito on his ear. Then another on his forearm. He was almost glad to fuss with the mosquitoes, the absence of gunfire seeming delicious. He stepped in the pilot house and checked the bulkhead Seth Thomas chronometer. 1644. “What time is sunset?” he asked Offenbach.
“1819.
ZING! A bullet punched through the paper missing Offenbach’s head by inches.
“Shit!” said Offenbach, dropping to the deck.
Landa, Ingram and Early scrunched down beside him, their backs braced to the bulkhead. “Looks like the Marines didn’t get them all. We’ll just have to do business from here,” said Landa.
The phone buzzed. Offenbach reached up and pulled it from its bracket. “Bridge.” Then, “Wait one.” Covering the mouthpiece he whispered, “Radio has a message from Commodore Myszynski.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Go ahead.” Offenbach nodded several times. “Very well, acknowledge, then sign off.” Replacing the phone, he said, “Four boats of PT Squadron Nine enroute to pick us up. ETA 2330.”
“So we hold out ‘till then,” Landa rubbed stubble on his chin, then said, “Todd, I have a feeling these guys are going to hit before that.”
“When’s moonrise, Carl?” Ingram asked.
Offenbach reached up to the chart table, pulled down the Nautical Almanac and looked it up. “2246, half moon.”
“That’s it, Skipper. They hit at 2246. That is if it’s clear.”
“So far, not a cloud in the sky. What if it’s overcast?” Landa asked.
“I’d say, expect a parachute flare anytime after dark. But if it’s clear, expect a 2246 assault.”
“Okay. Carl, I want you to start burning every piece of paper on board. Begin with the code books and crypto stuff. I’ll keep the decklog. Shove everything in boiler number one. Hank is ready for you. Todd, you and Monaghan get the wounded aft and on the port side and make ‘em ready for transfer. Tell Delmonico to prepare to spike the guns as we pull off. I’ve already told Hank to open the seacocks and break the flanges.” Landa looked at Ingram, his eyebrows up. “What else?”
“Small arms defense,” Ingram said. “We should have pyrotechnics ready to go after sunset. And make sure all the boats and rafts are launched on the port side.”
“Okay,” said Landa.
“
Oh, yeah,” said Ingram. “Demolition charges. How about setting them for fifteen minutes after we shove off?”
“Makes sense to me. Carl, I want you to get the code machine, now. Take it to the fantail, or what’s left of it. Have someone standby with a sledge to smash it if we’re boarded. Otherwise, we take it with us and dump it over the side in deep water when we put to sea.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Ingram was wrong. The Japanese attacked in a furious, screaming, raid at 2130, beginning with a white-phosphorous parachute flare. Then another. The Howell’s forties and twenty’s spit death into the trees, as yet another flare lighted the sky.
Suddenly, three men ran down the beach, throwing grenades. Two soldiers fell, the third lobbed his grenade on the foredeck just before he was cut down by BARs. The grenades exploded harmlessly, near the foredeck hatch. Then another screaming trio ran from the trees, throwing grenades. Two men made it back to the trees, the third soldier severed in half by a twenty-millimeter round. After the rippling explosions, a fire started on the fo’c’sle and a sailor ran out to douse it with a fire extinguisher. As he did, a shot rang out from the woods and the man fell, writhing.
“Sonsabitches picking us off, one by one.” Landa banged a fist on the bulwark.
“How the hell can twenty or thirty Japs make so much noise and create so much fire?” Delmonico said. “You’d think a whole division was after us. You sure we can’t use the five-inch, Skipper?” Both five inch mounts had been evacuated since they weren’t effective at short range. The shells couldn’t explode, since the fuses were set to enable after traveling 500 yards, far more than the fifty to seventy-five feet to the trees. And they didn’t want any more casualties after the grenades had penetrated the relatively thin .25 inch steel plate.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. How ‘bout you, Todd?”
Something went ‘THUNK’ in the forest.
“We may have to,” said Ingram.
The mortar round landed fifty yards beyond the ship.
“Jeez. Two more rounds and he has our range,” said Landa
“Fire a flare, quick,” ordered Ingram.
Delmonico gave the order then soon, a white phosphorous parachute flare rocketed up into the sky then popped open to light the landscape in a hoary brilliance.
‘THUNK.’
Ingram pointed off to his right, where a wisp of smoke dissipated from the trees. He clamped Delmonico on the shoulder. “See over there. Hose that area down with all you got.”
The mortar round landed twenty-five yards beyond the ship, raising a great white column of hissing water.
“Keep that area under fire.” Ingram fastened his helmet strap and rose.
“Where you going? Todd.” Landa shouted.
Ingram sat on his haunches and told him.
Landa finally said, “Okay. Go!”
Ingram ran down the ladder and forward on the port side, where the shapeless figures of mount 52's gun crew sat in the darkness, smoking cigarettes. He called quietly. “Leo?”
A figure stood.
Ingram moved close and said. “Find some volunteers. I want to get in your mount and crank out some rounds and hit that mortar.”
Seltzer’s eyebrows went up.
“Besides the muzzle blast and the racket, it’s gotta kick up a hell of a lot of dirt somewhere. Maybe scare the crap out of them. We pop off four or five rounds then secure and run like hell,” Ingram shrugged.
“Worth a try,” said Seltzer. “We’ll have to hand carry the rounds up from the magazine.”
“They don’t know that, Four, maybe five rounds ought to do the trick. We pass them up first, fire them off, before they start shooting back.”
“Okay.”
“I’d like to be trainer,” Ingram said.
Seltzer cocked his head as if saying, ‘you’re crazy.’
“Nothing better to do.” Ingram spread his palms.
“Your funeral.” Seltzer walked forward.
‘THUNK.’
“Hurry,” said Ingram.
The mortar round exploded close aboard the starboard side, as they scrambled through the gun mount hatch. As Howell’s twenty and forty millimeters fired back, Ingram called down the shell hoist to the handling room crew, “Hurry. We can’t hold ‘em down forever.”
It took five precious minutes for the makeshift lower handling room crew to pass up five projectiles and five powder cases from the magazine. Finally, Seltzer eased into the pointer’s chair saying, “Okay, where is he?”
Ingram put his head down to the gunsight’s rubber eyepiece and spun the handwheels, training the mount to the right. One of Delmonico’s flares lit up the night and he spotted the area. “On target!”
Seltzer cranked his wheels raising the barrel a few degrees, just as another mortar round shot out. “Ah, got the bastardBA
There was an explosion aft. The ship rocked as a shark worries its prey.
“Come on, Leo!” shouted Ingram.
“On target, load one round!” yelled Seltzer.
The powderman plunked his round on the tray. Then the projectileman followed with his fifty four-pound round. Together, they hand-rammed it. Then another man slammed the breach-block home. “Set!”
Seltzer peered in his sight, rolled in a bit of elevation and hit the foot treadle.
‘CRACK.’ Even without exploding, a great column of dirt, trees and bush rose in the pale light.
“Load and shoot.” Ingram yelled, giving his training wheels a slight adjustment.
‘CRACK!’ Out went another round. They walked the fire back and forth as they cranked out the third forth and fifth rounds.
Again, quiet descended. Then, they heard something bounce on the maindeck. All Ingram could do was cover his ears. Even with that, it seemed a giant had hit the gunmount with a baseball bat. A piece of shrapnel ripped through the top right corner.
Ingram’s ears rang as he crawled off his seat. Not knowing if he could be heard, he yelled, “Clear the mount!”
It seemed they understood for everyone scrambled out and ran aft, gaining the safety of the forward deckhouse. Ingram walked among them shaking hands and patting shoulders. He was surprised he was able to hear when Hardy, a third class gunners mate shook Ingram’s hand and said to Seltzer, “Hey, Leo, we making Mr. Ingram an honorary gunner?”
“Hell, no. He’s an officer,” Seltzer said.
Ingram walked up to the bridge, finding several men huddled behind the bulwarks. Among them were a set of bright, shining teeth. Ingram sat and nodded toward Mondo Mondo, “If that damn mortar opens up again, I’m using both mounts.”
Landa said, “Seems to have worked.” He crossed his fingers. “No more mortar rounds.”
Just then, the moon rose in the east, painting the Howell in an ashen, metallic sheen. Even with a half moon, everyone’s features were ghost-like and surreal. Landa said, “May not need them. We’re in voice contact with the PTs. They’re about ten minutes away. I think we should start getting---“
Ingram held up a hand and rose to his knees.
“What?” Landa rose beside him.
A laboring diesel engine echoed over Mondo Mondo Island. Then it throttled down into silence.
“Bastards,” hissed Delmonico. “Not again.”
Landa sank down and put his head in his hand. “We gotta buy some time.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
7 March, 1943
IJN Musashi
Truk Atoll, Caroline Islands
The Caroline archipelago lays approximately 3,000 miles southwest of Hawaii and 1,500 miles north of Australia, having a land area equaling two thirds of the state of Rhode Island. Stretching across an east-west axis of about 1,500 miles, the archipelago is as long as the distance from Baltimore to Denver.
Discovered by the Portuguese in 1527, the Caroline Islands were first named the New Philippines. Later, in 1685, they were taken over by Spain and renamed The Caroline Islands after Charles II of Spain.
In 1899, Germany bought the Carolines after the Spanish-American war. A scant eighteen years later, Germany lost World War I, with the Islands going to Japan via a mandate from the League of Nations. A major provision of the mandate was that the islands were for peaceful uses only and were not to be fortified. But almost immediately, the Japanese closed the Carolines to foreigners and fortified them, the League of Nations mandate notwithstanding.
The Japanese' centerpiece was the Truk Atoll, laying toward the eastern end of the archipelago. Truk was actually a circular-shaped lagoon approximately thirty miles in diameter. Protected by barrier reefs, the pristine anchorage safeguarded six major islands: Tol, Udot, Moen, Dublon, Fefan and Uman. During the years before World War II, Japan constructed extensive fortifications making Truk Atoll Japan's Gibraltar Of The Pacific.
She was a monster.
Swinging lazily at anchor in Truk Atoll's Eton Anchorage, the 863 foot, 72,000 deadweight ton battleship was a monster. Easily the largest warship the world had ever seen, the Musashi was built by Mitsubishi Heavy Industries in the Nagasaki Naval Shipyard. Yamato, the lead ship of the class, was built in a gigantic graving dock at the Kure shipyard. Two more Yamato class battleships had been laid down, but only one, the Shinano was commissioned in Yokosuka, having later been converted to an aircraft carrier. The last battleship, simply called hull number 111, was scrapped in her Kure dock to make room for more urgently needed ships.
In 1933, during the early design phase, Imperial Japanese Navy staff admirals decided the Yamato class battleships would engage in only a Pacific war; that Japan needn't be concerned over a Two-Ocean war, as was required for U.S. Navy ships. Thus, the Yamato class wasn't limited to size by the Panama Canal, an advantage the admiralty saw over the U.S. Navy. Therefore, Hiraga Yuzuru and Fukuda Keiji, the ships designers, were able to expand the beam to 127 feet, giving the Yamato class excellent seakeeping capabilities
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 14