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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Silently Nimitz rose, his crystal blue eyes glimmering, and walked to a large wall-mounted chart. With his fingers he stepped off the distance from Guadalcanal to Bougainville’s southern tip. “About 300 miles, I’d say.”

  “Yes Sir, three hundred twenty, actually.”

  “Yamamoto is very punctual, isn’t he? Insists on being on time everywhere. Right?”

  Layton realized that Nimitz was asking for his personal view of the situation. A Japanese language expert, Layton had spent several years in Japan as a Naval attaché and knew Yamamoto far better. He’d seen Yamamoto many times formally and on occasion, informally. Once was just six years ago during a hunt, when Yamamoto entertained officers from the U.S., British, Dutch and Japanese Navies at the Emperor’s hunting preserve. They’d chased ducks with long-handled nets, with Yamamoto laughing and cheering the men on as they ensnared the terrified, quacking birds. Later, their catch had been cooked and served up amidst odors of ginger and teriyaki sauce, complimented by Asahi Beer and Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch. Yamamoto had been a wonderful host, making sure every guest ate his fill, drank to his heart’s content, and left with a warm handshake and one of the Emperor’s ducks. Layton said, “Yes, Sir. That’s true. On the occasions I met him he was always there at the exact hour. And we were cautioned to prepare by being fifteen minutes early. Tardiness was not tolerated by the Gensui.”

  “Okay, what do we have?”

  “We have F4Us at Henderson Field, but their long-range tanks have been removed and the brackets disabled. So they’re out of the picture. But we also have Army P-38s at Henderson which have the range to reach Bougainville. Already, they’re escorting bombers up there.”

  “But they haven’t done fighter sweeps.”

  “No, not yet. There’s a shortage of long range tanks. Once they get a good supply in there, they’ll do that on a daily occurrence.”

  “So it is feasible?”

  “I believe so Admiral. But we’d need confirmation from the Army boys down there to make sure.”

  “Okay.” Nimitz sat and drummed his fingers for a moment. Then he steepled them and said. “Assassination. Political assassination.”

  “This is war, not politics,” Layton shrugged.

  “Even so, we’d need FDR’s approval.”

  Yes, Sir.”

  Nimitz looked up. “What do you say? Do we try to get him?”

  “He’s unique among their people,” said Layton. “Their officers, their enlisted rank and file, all idolize Yamamoto. Aside from the Emperor, probably no man in Japan is so important to civilian morale. And if he’s shot down, it would demoralize the fighting navy. You know the Japanese psychology; it would stun the nation.”

  Nimitz starred into space. “...he’s done wonders for their Navy. A great leader; a forward thinker, not afraid to take chances, aggressive, not intimidated by politics. And he gets one hundred five percent from his men.

  “But you know, Yamamoto does have one weakness. A small one but noticeable.”

  Layton loved it when Nimitz went off like this. The sessions were terribly one-sided but it always showed the best part of the Admiral. “What’s that, Sir?”

  “It’s the way he plans; in fact, the way they all plan.” Nimitz smacked a palm on his desktop. “Tsushima Straits, 1905. Pearl Harbor, 1941. These massive air-raids in the Solomons just a few days ago.” He looked Layton dead center in the eye. “What do they all mean to you?”

  Layton was hard pressed to keep up. “Knock out punch?”

  “Exactly. What they’re really trying to do is to wipe out everything in one, decisive stroke. Look back at what they did to the Russians at Tsushima. Surprise attack. The war was over for the Czar before it began. A decisive, bold stroke. “ Nimitz threw a hand toward the window and Pearl Harbor beyond. “Same thing there. Sink our battleships in a surprise attack without declaring war. A decisive, bold stroke. And now the business in the Solomons. Close to two hundred planes, right?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Just like at Pearl Harbor. And what were the damages they claimed?”

  Layton opened his manila folder and shuffled among his intercepted dispatches. “Yes, Sir, here it is. The Japanese claimed one cruiser two destroyers, twenty-five transports, sunk and 134 airplanes either shot down or wrecked on the ground.”

  “A decisive bold stroke. See what I mean? They think they really scored big.”

  “Well, yes Sir. But the Japs only sunk the destroyer Pence, a gasoline tanker, the Kanawha, one New Zealand corvette, the Moa, two Dutch merchant ships, and twenty-five airplanes.”

  “All well and good. But my point is Yamamoto’s approach to things. He thinks he sunk all that tonnage, and that’s the way he’ll continue to plan. Just like he did at Midway, I might add. There he was trying to draw out the remainder of the U.S. fleet and sink it in one decisive, bold stroke.”

  Layton nodded, not about to argue with Nimitz’ logic.

  Nimitz stood, walked to the window and looked out, his arms folded. “The one thing that concerns me is whether they could find a more effective fleet commander.”

  “Yamamoto is head and shoulders above them all.” After a pause, Layton continued, “You know, Admiral Nimitz, it would be just as if they shot you down. There isn’t anybody to replace you.”

  “Okay.” The Admiral turned. “It’s down in Halsey’s bailiwick. If there’s a way, he’ll find it. All right, we’ll try it.”

  Layton made to rise, but Nimitz waved him down with a palm. Pointing to the Yamamoto message on his desk, he said, “You know, this ULTRA stuff is getting better and better.”

  “What helped were those code books we salvaged off the I-1 last January. That allowed us crack the latest revision to JN-25.”

  “Interesting. We just lost the Moa. Wasn’t she one of the two New Zealand corvettes that helped sink that Jap? Where was it?”

  “The Moa. That’s right, Sir.” Layton opened a large manila folder. “Off the northwestern tip of Guadalcanal, let’s see,” he ran a finger down a column of dates, “January twenty-ninth.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nimitz pressed his lips. “Well, we have cause for concern, here.”

  “Admiral?”

  “The Japs putting two and two together and figuring out we’ve broken their code, especially if this mission is successful.”

  “We’ll have to keep mum.”

  “More than that.” Nimitz took out a message pad and began writing. “This goes to Halsey. I’m recommending he should leak it afterwards that we got the dope from coastwatchers.” He finished and read the last line aloud, “‘If forces in your command have capability shoot down Yamamoto and staff, you are hereby authorized initiate preliminary planning.’ How does that sound?”

  “That’ll work, Sir.”

  “Okay.” Nimitz tore off the message and handed the draft to Layton. “Send that on to Halsey with one copy to Frank Knox, another to Bill Leahy, suggesting he forward it to the President.”

  “Will do, Sir.”

  “Make sure the message to Leahy stresses the importance of the timing. And God, don’t forget to send a copy to Ernie King.”

  Layton debated in his mind whether or not to tell the admiral that Novak had warned him about an errant lieutenant commander in Tulagi. A loud-mouth insubordinate officer who could tip off the whole operation to the Japanese. Novak had said the problem was being taken care of. But Layton made a mental note to check with Novak before asking the Admiral for the final go-ahead.

  Well, there were several layers here: King, Leahy, Knox and Roosevelt, in that order. Layton could afford to wait while allowing the machinery to get up to speed. He said absently, “Four days, Sir.”

  “The clock is ticking, Ed.” Nimitz lifted a thick, red-stripped folder from his in-basket.

  Layton made a mental note to check with Novak at least twice a day. Once committed, it would be hard to stop Halsey and his crew. “
Yes, Sir.”

  A half hour after sunset, the Imperial Japanese Navy destroyer Matukaze weighed anchor from Rabaul Harbor, cleared the minefield and stood into the St. George Channel. From there, she headed south, shaping a course for the Solomon Sea, Bougainville and Kolombangara. As the Matukaze worked up to speed, Captain Kanji Takano sat alone in her wardroom, the table piled with ordnance data and the latest information on American combatants.

  The wardroom lights clicked to red, as Commander Enomoto, walked through the light lock. He dogged the hatch, and the lights returned to white fluorescent. “Good evening,” said Enomoto, evenly.

  Takano looked up, “How are we doing?”

  Enomoto tossed aside his duffle coat, then sat heavily. “Fifteen knots. Best we can do without the starboard shaft.” They had decided to get under way for Vila and wait there for the specially-made shaft bearing being flown down from the Uraga Shipyards in Japan. Unlike Takano, Enomoto’s reputation hadn’t suffered much, despite the mix-up from his last trip. Indeed, his overweight jowly face belied a keen mind and he was still regarded as one of the best destroyer skippers in the South-East Command. He continued, “Then we must zig-zag, lest a submarine catch us with our pants down. We should be in Vila by noon tomorrow.”

  Takano said, “How long to fix the shaft?”

  “Four hours. If the bearing is there.”

  “Well, if it’s not there, we’ll just continue.”

  “Captain. With respect, Sir.” It had been hard for Enomoto to add the latter. “We’re in a war zone. We got underway against my better judgment with only one shaft. I’ll not take my ship into the New Georgia Sound without her full capabilities -- without both shafts. It would be suicide.”

  “That’s insubordination!”

  “Then relieve me.”

  They glared at one another. A life-long ordnance specialist, Takano had virtually no experience at sea nor in command. As much as he wanted, relieving Enomoto was an impossibility. He offered a meager compromise, “we pray that the bearing is there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  14 April, 1943

  U.S.S. Sands (APD 13)

  Tulagi Harbor, Solomon Islands

  Someone shook Ingram's shoulder. His eyes snapped open.

  A voice resonated in the dark. “Sir. Your wake-up call.”

  “What time is it?”

  “0630, Sir. We embark troops at 0730; underway at 0800.”

  In the dim light, Ingram recognized the face of one of the Sand's third class quartermasters, who was politely reminding him it was time to get off the ship. They needed the space for a contingent of Marines scheduled to arrive in an hour. A half an hour after that, they would be shoving off, for a raid on a Rendova airfield.

  Ingram and the Pence's crew had been rescued the previous Wednesday evening by PT boats, then returned to the destroyer tender Whitney in Tulagi Harbor. Since the Whitney was already full of shipwrecked sailors, the DESRONTWELVE staff officer billeted Ingram, Druckman and two other Pence officers in the embarked officer’s quarters aboard the Sands, an old four-stacker converted to a high speed troop transport now nested alongside the Whitney. She was On the second day, a hollow-eyed Ralph Druckman was ordered to the States to join the CNO's staff; the rest of the Pence's officers and men were quickly distributed to other ships. So Ingram had been by himself, sleeping fitfully between air attacks, writing to Helen, and waiting for orders.

  They'd recovered Seltzer's body the next day, and Ingram had to identify it. And now, the boatswain lay in one of the Whitney’s overcrowded freezers, waiting for the next refrigeration ship to come in to offload food for the living, then carry home the dead.

  There was a bizarre twist to Ingram’s situation. He was not officially viewed as a member of the Pence’s crew, especially since his orders and records hadn’t been validated on the Pence. In fact, he hadn’t even been logged aboard. There hadn’t been time. Worse, his orders, personnel folder and pay records were in his duffle bag, laying on Ralph Druckman’s bunk, which was now at the bottom of Iron Bottom Sound. So, in a matter of speaking, he was a man without a country, or at least a man without a duty station. The only person who could provide new orders was Rocko Myszynski who, until last night, had been at sea with Dexter Sands’ battle group.

  With a sigh, Ingram heaved himself off the bunk and padded down the companionway to take a shower. When he returned, he found a note on his bunk:

  Todd,

  I’m back in town, so let’s talk. Now.

  Rocko

  After dressing, Ingram picked up his ditty bag, containing his only possessions, and left, just as the Marines began stepping aboard. He quickly mounted the Whitney’s gangway and headed for the wardroom for breakfast.

  “Sssst!”

  Ingram looked up to see Myszynski beckoning from the deck above.

  Ingram saluted. “Good morning Commodore. Have you had chow, yet?”

  Rocko said sotto voce, “No. Now get up here, quick.” Then he walked forward and disappeared around a corner.

  Ingram stepped up the ladder and was soon in Myszynski’s office.

  Puffing on a glistening, black stoggie, Myszynski closed the door softly and flipped on a light. He gestured for Ingram to take a chair, then moved around his desk.

  “Something wrong, Sir?” asked Ingram.

  “In a moment. What do you want for breakfast?” Myszynski picked up a phone.

  Ingram sputtered out a breakfast order. Myszynski did the same, calling for a pot of coffee, and hung up. He stared at Ingram for a long moment.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t get it, Commodore.” Ingram held out his palms.

  “Okay, first things first. I’m sorry about the Pence.”

  “Not your fault, Commodore.”

  “You going to be okay?”

  Ingram nodded slowly. Outside of a stilted conversation with Ralph Druckman, he hadn’t talked to anyone since the Pence went down.

  “You’ve been alone, haven’t you?”

  “I’m fine...but...”

  “But what?” Myszynski asked gently.

  “...a lot of people got ripped up.”

  “Who?”

  “Well, aside from the guys who were killed outright, Ralph Druckman, for instance. I’d say he’s a broken man, now. A zombie.” What’s Rocko getting at?

  Myszynski blew smoke at the overhead. “I’d say you’re right. That’s why we sent him back to CNO’s staff. To give him time to get back on his feet.”

  “Pence was a great ship. You should have seen his gunners.”

  “I’ve read the reports.”

  “In fact...”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. Those damned proximity fuses really work.”

  “You noticed.”

  “We shot down two, maybe three Vals. One bomb was a near miss and opened up seams in the engineering spaces. We could have handled that, but it was that damned Betty, low on the water; that’s what did us in.”

  “I see.”

  “And we even splashed that Betty; unfortunately, it was a split second after he released his torpedo.”

  Myszynski looked into space and said, “You know, timing is everything. Arleigh Burke was talking about it the other day at Tulagi -- in that pig-sty we call an ‘O’ Club.” Arleigh Burke was commodore of Destroyer Division Forty-Three.

  “Sir?”

  “Arleigh was talking about decision-making. He said, ‘The difference between a good officer and a poor officer is about ten seconds.’“ Myszynski cocked his head.

  It sunk in; Myszynski was fishing. “If you’re asking about Ralph Druckman Commodore, I don’t think that’s the case. He was decisive and did things right the first time. Well before ten seconds passed.”

  “Okay.”

  “Seeing his people being killed and maimed is what did him in.”

  “I was sorry to hear about Leo Seltzer.”

  “...did Ralph tell you what he did?”

&nbs
p; “Outside of a sketchy battle report, Ralph didn’t have a lot to say.”

  “We were abandoning; you could tell she was going to capsize. This...that crazy Leo ran back up to the signal bridge and started to take down the flag.”

  “Again?”

  “Again. Then, a boiler blew and the ship rolled suddenly and took...took him...I” Ingram ran the back of his hand against his cheek, surprised to find tears running down. He caught his breath and blurted, “I’m not the skipper, but I’d like to nominate him for another medal. The Silver Star this time.”

  “I’ll endorse it.”

  “...posthumously, of course. He never...” Ingram shot to his feet, “Excuse me.” Then he ran out of Myszynski’s office.

  Some primordial guide sent Ingram down, ending up in the engine room, where he sat behind a huge turbo-generator, crying like a baby. But no one heard, he was sure, the thing made so much noise. Until---

  “---Sir?” It was an engineman looking down at him. He wore sweaty, oil stained coveralls, and had a clipboard under his arm.

  “Huh? I’m fine. Just looking the place over.” Ingram rose and ran a hand through his hair.

  The engineman eyes clicked over to a bracketed telephone on the main control board.

  The one hundred plus degree heat and the humidity pressed in on Ingram. “Thanks for the tour, Sailor.” He headed for the ladder and climbed quickly, gaining the main deck. Resigned to returning to Myszynski’s office, Ingram took his time climbing to the 02 level.

  “Todd? Todd Ingram? Is that you?”

  Ingram looked up. “Good God. Tubby. How are you?” He shook hands warmly with Tubby White. “You still pouring steel marbles in vent ducts?”

  White ignored the remark. “Say Todd. You look kind of flushed. Are you okay?”

  “Been down in the engine room. So, tell me, how’s the PT boat business?”

  “PT’s are fine, Todd. Actually, it’s a lot different. I like the work but...” he looked down. “...it gets intense at times.”