WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Smoke belched from her stacks. And men were perched at the bow peering down at her anchor chain which stood straight up and down. Ingram muttered, “Damn, they’re hauling in the anchor.” Then, he leaned over and shook Nephron’s hand. “Thanks Neff.”

  “ See you in the next war, Commander.”

  Ingram rose from his seat and pat him on the shoulder, “ Let’s hope not.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  7 April, 1943

  Tulagi Harbor, Solomon Islands

  Ingram jumped into the whale boat, stumbled, and held on.

  “Better hurry up, Commander. They like to write you up for missing movement.” It was Leo Seltzer, standing at the tiller. And he wasn’t wasting time, ringing his bell, backing clear of the PBY.

  “I’ll be damned!” Ingram walked aft and shook the boatswain’s mate’s hand. “Good to see you, Leo.”

  The whaleboat’s engine roared as she gained sternway. Seltzer said, “Welcome to the Pence, Sir.”

  Seltzer’s voice had a sarcastic edge. Ingram asked. “Were you worried?”

  “I knew you’d see the light.” Seltzer shifted his rudder, rang four bells, and headed for the destroyer.

  Seltzer was busy approaching the destroyer’s port side, so Ingram let the remark go. Besides, she looked as if she were underway. The Pence’s anchor had cleared the water and her fo’c’sle crew was hosing the mud off.

  As if reading his mind, Seltzer said. “Another five minutes and we would have been gone, Sir.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Jap raid, so we’ve been told. Coastwatchers say lots of Nips headed down The Slot.”

  A small wave curled at the Pence’s bow. She had headway now, perhaps three or four knots; but Seltzer expertly drove the whaleboat directly under the port boat davits, where the falls were lowered and waiting. The hooks were soon snapped into place and a strain taken. The moment the whale boat was hauled clear of the water, the Pense picked up speed. By the time the boat was even with the maindeck bulwarks, a considerable wake gushed down her sides.

  “Welcome to the S.S. Luriline, Commander Ingram. We offer group rates, Dungeness crab, and our special today will be is a self-guided tour of Iron Bottom Sound, courtesy of the Imperial Japanese Naval Travel Agency,” said Seltzer.

  “Besides all that, how do you like her?”

  “Great ship. She’s been through the mill a couple of times, but the skipper’s brought her through in good shape.”

  “How’s the chow?”

  “Lousy.”

  “Okay, thanks, Leo.” Ingram climbed out and stepped on the main deck,

  Seltzer pitched Ingram’s duffle over. “We do accept tips.” He gave a thumbs up and the deck crew began hoisting the whaleboat all the way to the davit tops. Then he added, “See you on the bridge. I’m GQ helmsman.”

  “Okay.”

  Ingram stood by himself for a moment, taking in his ship. Wind was at his face and the destroyer rolled slightly as she gathered way. Through the forward engineroom hatch, he heard the engine-telegraph clang. Immediately, the uptakes whined, as more air and fuel oil was fed to her hungry boilers, allowing more steam to flow to the turbines for more speed. For all he had been through, it felt good. The Pence was a living, breathing thing of muscle and bone, with over 300 souls bringing her to life. As if someone had turned on a gleaming spotlight, Ingram realized it all made sense. This was where he belonged. He hadn’t felt like this since he’d commanded the minesweeper Pelican. Yes, you made the right decision. Landa was right. So was Helen.

  “Todd!” someone shouted.

  Ingram looked up to see a helmeted figure leaning over the signal bridge. He recognized the silhouette as Commander Ralph Druckman, the man he was relieving. Ingram saluted and shouted back, “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

  “You bet. Now dump your gear in my day cabin and get up here, pronto.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  By now, Ingram reckoned the ship was cutting through the water at twenty knots, heading south into Iron Bottom Sound. Behind him, the boatswains’ mates had gripped in the whaleboat in record time and dashed off to their general quarters stations, Seltzer among them. Quickly, he walked through the midships passageway, found the captain’s day cabin, and changed to working khakis. Then he dashed two flights up to the bridge.

  Ralph Druckman had been a 3.9 student at the Naval Academy. Many were put off by his rather permanent scowl, but Ingram discovered in his sophomore year that Druckman had a great sense of humor. But he never smiled. Never. Thus he acquired the nickname ‘Deadpan Druckman’ which sometimes became ‘Deadman Druckman’ behind his back. Ingram walked up to the thin, sandy-haired full commander. “Good morning, Captain.”

  Binoculars were pressed to Druckman’s eyes. He swept the sky, then looked aside quickly and shook Ingram’s hand. “Welcome aboard, Todd. Heard they pinned a Navy cross on you. Congratulations.”

  “That was a while back, Sir.”

  “Hell of a time for a change of command ceremony.”

  “I guess someone forgot to invite the Japs.”

  “They must have found out somehow.” Druckman’s binoculars went back to his eyes.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “No time to bring you up to speed.” He pointed to the starboard bridge wing. “Stand there and look intelligent.”

  “Okay, but can somebody tell me what’s up?”

  Druckman again searched the sky. “Jap planes. Bunch of them. Coming down The Slot. So many pips the radar looks like it has the measles.”

  “How far out?”

  “Twenty miles was the last range. The information isn’t clear.” He stepped into the pilothouse and said, “Find out from Greenhorn if they want us to form up, damnit.” Then he stepped back outside., “Best you put on a helmet, Todd. It’s gonna be a long day.”

  Ingram found one in a rack in the pilot house. As he buckled it on, he spotted Seltzer at the helm. The sailors on either side of him gazed open-mouthed at Ingram, as if he’d just stepped off another planet.

  The boatswain’s mate winked at Ingram and said from the side of his mouth, “Buck up, you guys. He ain’t no used car salesman.” He grinned. “Some welcoming party, huh, Mr. Ingram?”

  Ingram’s response was cut-off by the TBS screeching, “Greenhorn, this is Socrates...” An unintelligible series of phonetic letters followed.

  Ingram stepped out to the bridgewing and found Druckman, “Who’s Socrates?”

  “DESDIV Eleven.” He pointed to the low outline of four destroyers about five miles ahead, white froth kicking from their transoms.

  “Griffith and Isaacs?”

  AUmm, plus two new ones, the Haake and Lindsay. We were late getting underway because we had to refuel. And then---“

  Suddenly, a great volley rose from the ships of DESDIV Eleven, the sky peppered with black smoke puffs, as twenty or so menacing black dots orbited overhead. To the northwest, Ingram spotted a pair of Lockheed P-38 Lightnings, following a twin-engine Mitsubishi G4M1 “Betty” bomber down to the sea, fire and smoke trailing from one of its engines. The Betty went in with a great splash and the P-38s eased from their dives heading for the Pence. At full throttle, they whined overhead, then pulled up into the sky. The men on the Pence’s bridge shoved their fists in the air, cheering as the P-38 did a victory roll.

  Druckman pointed to the Plexiglas status board. Ingram quickly scanned it finding at least twenty bogies listed. But the data was confusing. No targets were designated. And with the shooting, the noise from all around was deafening; Ingram couldn’t understand what Druckman was saying.

  Atop the pilot house, the gunnery officer shouted and pointed. Ingram squinted as others raised their binoculars, finding five Val dive bombers flying toward them in a tight vee formation at 10,000 feet. They were close, only about three miles away. But it was a perfect fire-control solution because the planes were directly abeam of the ship, unmasking all of the Pence’s guns.<
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  “Bearing clear, batteries released,” barked Druckman.

  The gunboss yelled “Commence fire,” and in unison, the Pence’s five five-inch guns roared at the dive bombers. Soon, black puffs blossomed beside one of the planes. It jiggled for a moment, then drifted off to the left, smoke trailing from its engine. The guns roared, and another plane virtually exploded in a bright, red flash, bringing more cheers from the men on the bridge. But the other three dive bombers plodded on, holding formation. Finally the lead Val pushed over, screaming down at the Pence.

  Guns roared. Cordite laden smoke tore at Ingram’s nostrils. Five-inch brass cartridges spewed out from behind the gun-mounts, clanging on the deck. His gut wrenched and his heart pounded and the sides of his head seemed to close in. In spite of the powerful volley racing skyward, a remote voice urged him to find a hole and crawl in. Through it all, he heard Druckman call for flank speed and left full rudder.

  Another Val, the trailing one, lost a wing and began insanely spinning, parts tumbling through the sky. The remaining two Vals released their bombs, pulled up, and clawed for altitude.

  Druckman shouted over the din, “Shift your rudder!”

  Seltzer spun his wheel clockwise, the ship leaning to port as she whipped in a turn to starboard.

  The bombs straddled the Pence, one going off twenty yards to starboard, the other, thirty yards to port. Twin columns of foaming white water rocketed into the sky, as the explosions ripped at the destroyer with two strident WHACKs! But the Pence kept going, her five-inch guns firing at the Vals as they tried to escape. One shot erupted near the lead Val. A light haze suddenly trailed from her engine. She wobbled a bit, but kept on, disappearing in haze.

  “Cease Fire,” called Druckman. He said to his talker, “Report damage aft.” Then he caught Ingram’s eye, “How about that?”

  Ingram’s ears rang from the gunfire. He shouted, “Damn fine shooting, Captain.”

  Druckman yelled back, “Notice the dead time? Three, maybe four seconds, each gun?”

  “Very rapid. You have great gun crews.”

  “The loaders have arms like tree stumps. And the proximity fuses help a lot.”

  “VTs? You’re using VTs?” Ingram blurted.

  “Of course. Wouldn’t be caught without them.” He waved at a smudge on the ocean where a Val had hit the water. “There’s your proof.”

  Suddenly, Druckman looked over the side. “What the hell? We’re losing speed.”

  The talker turned to Druckman and said, “Captain, the forward fireroom has a split seam ten feet beneath the waterline at frame eighty-six, Sir. Water is pouring in and the snipes have wrapped-up numbers one and two boilers.”

  “Good God!” said Druckman.

  The talker’s face was like chalk.

  “There’s more?”

  The talker gulped. “Split seam in the aft fireroom. Uhhh, frame one-thirty-three, right at the waterline. They had to wrap up boiler number four.”

  “Number four?” Druckman was incredulous.

  “Ye...yes, Sir. And the burners went out on boiler three. But they have it going again. Mr. Lissenger says our best speed is twelve knots.”

  “Jesus!” Druckman looked at Ingram, his mouth working. Then he nodded at the pilot house. “See if you can raise Rocko on the Whitney. Ask him to send a tug.” Then he turned to his talker. Get Mr. Lissinger on the---“

  “--- Captain!” The gunnery officer leaned out and pointed. Another twin-engined “Betty” bomber was about four miles out, no more than thirty feet off the deck; headed right at them.

  Ingram grabbed the bulwark, his hands frozen.

  “Do you have a solution?” Druckman yelled to the gunnery officer.

  “On target and tracking,” shouted the gunboss.

  Druckman roared, “Bearing clear. Batteries released!”

  The Gun Boss’s voice echoed, “All mounts commence fire!”

  Within three seconds, all gun mounts blazed: Five inch, forty millimeter, and twenty millimeter. The smoke was so great that at first that it seemed to envelop the ship. When it cleared, the Betty had halved the distance, her starboard engine trailing smoke. Ingram started to cheer. But it caught in his throat when he saw a long black torpedo slung beneath the Betty’s belly.

  On the Betty flew, straight for the Pence, still trailing smoke, thick and black now. The plane was pretty well ripped up, Ingram reckoned. But he had to admire the man at the controls. Most likely he was terribly wounded and knew he was about to die. Yet he held an iron grip, piloting his plane in with shells bursting all around, great spouts of water kicking up before him from the five-inch guns.

  One thousand yards.

  Suddenly the Betty exploded. Parts and flaming debris splattered over the ocean. Men pounded each other’s back. They yelled. Druckman punched Ingram’s arm.

  But Ingram grabbed the bulwark, his mouth, open, an icy fire raging in his stomach.

  “What is it, Todd?” asked Druckman.

  Ingram pointed. A deadly, white wake trailed from the Betty’s funeral pyre. It gained speed, arrowing straight for the Pence.

  “Torpedo!” Druckman shouted, “Hard right rudder.”

  Seltzer need no urging as he twirled his helm.

  Druckman was trying to “comb the torpedo’s wake.” But the Pence had lost power and was slow to answer her helm.

  The 1,760 pound aerial torpedo smacked into the Pence’s bow, just forward of her five-inch gun. The wallop was terrific, throwing Ingram two feet off the deck. Feeling heat and fire and abject terror, Ingram landed in a jumble of arms and legs of semi-conscious men, some groaning, others cursing. Miraculously, they sorted themselves out and stood, none seriously injured. But they shouted at one another. Ingram realized they had been deafened. After a minute, there was a high-pitched ringing in his ears and he began to hear the bellows and cries of desperation from up forward.

  Ingram found Druckman leaning against the forward bulwark. He shouted in Druckman’s ear. “Are you all right?”

  Druckman shook his head; his eyes unfocused, “...give me a minute.”

  Ingram peered over the bulwark forward to see smoke clearing from the ship’s foredeck. There was no bow. The nose of the ship was blown open like a loaded cigar. It hit Ingram. They still had way on. “All stop!” he shouted. He looked in the pilot house to see the leehelmsman staring at him dumbly, still in shock.

  Ingram ran in the pilothouse and rang up ‘stop’ on both engines, then dashed outside to see if it took affect. But it was too late, as he heard the unmistakable sound of a bulkhead giving way. Then the ship began to yaw, listing to port as she did. Druckman’s hard right rudder was still on. He looked in the pilot house and shouted at Seltzer. The boatswain was on his knees, both hands clutching the helm for support. His helmet had fallen off with blood soaking his hair and running down the side of his face.

  “Leo. Rudder Amidships!” Ingram shouted. “Seltzer! Are you okay?”

  Seltzer blinked and his eyes lit up. “Rudder amidships, aye, aye, Sir.” He pulled himself to his feet and turned the wheel.

  But the ship listed drunkenly to starboard and didn’t recover. At the same time, there was a great hiss of steam followed by a loud crack and a roar as another bulkhead gave way.

  “She’s going, Todd.” It was Druckman. Blood ran from his ears as he grasped Ingram’s arms.

  “How can you be sure?” Ingram yelled.

  “Huh?”

  The Pence slipped another five degrees to starboard. Gear tumbled off the decks into the water. Screams drifted up to him from back aft. Then it hit him. Druckman was right.

  She is going.

  He yelled at the captain. “Do you want to abandon?”

  Druckman stared dumbly.

  “Ralph?”

  Druckman nodded, his lips pressed.

  “Abandon ship!” Ingram shouted. He grabbed Druckman’s talker. “Pass the word.”

  “What?”

  “I said ‘abandon
ship,’ damnit! Now pass the word.”

  “Y--yes, Sir.”

  Ingram dashed in the pilot house, flipped the 1MC switch, and announced “Abandon ship,” three times. He was surprised to hear the metallic echo of his voice ranging about the ship. Strange, he thought. My own voice telling these fine men to get away from something I’ve worked all my life to achieve.

  Seltzer yanked off his headphones and said, “Your abandon ship station is the port whaleboat, Mr. Ingram.”

  “You the cox’n?”

  “Yep.”

  They ran for the signal bridge and zipped down to the 02 deck where a confused Druckman stood aimlessly, having been shoved down the ladder by two of his officers. Men cursed and milled around the boat davits, as the deck force frantically ungripped the whaleboat. But, it was impossible; the ship’s list was nearing thirty degrees to starboard.

  An explosion aft knocked Ingram on the deck. Steam and smoke shot out the deck hatches as scalded men emerged on the weather decks writhing in pain and screaming for mercy.

  “After fireroom,” someone yelled. They struggled to their feet, their faces dazed, minds numbed. It was cold salt water hitting number three or four boilers, maybe both, causing the catastrophic rupture. A crazed realization hit Ingram that one of the boilers in the forward fireroom could go off as well. “Jump!” he shouted. The men about him needed no urging. Two sailors grabbed an incoherent Druckman, steered him to the starboard side and pushed him into the water now awash to the main deck.

  “Not long, now, Leo. Let’s go.” Ingram turned to see a shadow dash back up the bridge companionway. “Seltzer, damnit! Get back here.”

  Seltzer stood a deck above him, undoing a halyard. “Be right there.” Quickly he un-belayed it and began hauling down the U.S. flag.

  “Leo! No time.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll have this thing---“

  Another explosion erupted beneath Ingram, tossing him in the air. A cold shock hit him and he found himself in the water, amongst flaming wreckage and clamoring men. Someone yelled; he looked up to see the main mast coming down on him as the ship began to roll. Ingram frantically swam clear of the mast, as it capsized toward him. Just before it smacked the water, he spotted Seltzer’s form on the signal bridge, tangled in halyards and shrouds.