Fuller was there in an instant and began fiddling with the panel. “Everything’s dead. Must be a circuit breaker.”
“Go!” yelled Tubby. “Damn jinx boat,” he yelled as Fuller dashed down the hatch.
Another shell splashed astern.
“How ‘bout firing manually?” Ingram shouted.
“Right---awww shit!” Tubby pointed.
On deck, Kramer his torpedoman, lay in a crumpled heap by number one torpedo tube. Ingram figured he was a casualty of the fire fight exiting Lingutu Passage,
Tubby looked at Ingram.
I don’t want to go out there. Ingram gulped, “How do I do it?”
Tubby pointed. “Impulse charge on top of the tube. Smack the firing pin with this.” He reached in a cabinet and handed over a claw hammer.
Ingram looked around wildly for a moment, trying to find Fuller. But the Ensign was absorbed in the chart house with his circuit breakers.
“Todd?” said Tubby.
Cursing under his breath, Ingram grabbed the hammer and ran forward just as another 4.7 inch round hit, raising a fifty foot plume of white gleaming water right off the port bow. The concussion drove him against the pilot house. He caromed off and nearly tumbled overboard, only keeping himself on the boat with a frantic grab at a life ring-mount.
He was still shaking his head when another shell landed before them with PT-72 jumping though the water column and out the other side. Ingram looked up, wiping water from his eyes. They were close to the destroyer. No more than fifteen hundred yards: three-quarters of a nautical mile; a fair distance to a man in peacetime; but here, it looked as if they were right on top of the death-spitting silhouette.
He found himself on the deck beside the torpedo tube. The torpedoman beside him groaning, holding his shoulder and rolling on the deck.
Suddenly, Ingram was caught in a hoary brilliance. The destroyer’s search light had found them, locking them in a stygian light no matter how hard Little Lulu’s 50 caliber machine gunners tried to smash it.
“Todd!” Tubby bellowed.
Ingram looked up to see Tubby’s silhouetted outline.
“The firing pin!”
Looking down, Ingram saw the glint of the impulse canister’s brass firing pin mechanism atop the torpedo tube. “Got it.”
Sitting up, he swung the hammer at it -- and missed! Worse, his hand hit the tube. Blue-white bolts of pain quick-pulsed up his arm and he let go. Incredulously, he watched the hammer fly overboard as if it were in slow motion. “Son-of-a-bitch!”
Another shell screeched overhead and landed fifty yards on the starboard quarter. The explosion rang so loud that Ingram couldn’t hear. He looked aft, watching Tubby’s mouth open with, “Todd!”
His face contorted with pain, Landa crawled to Ingram’s feet and extended something. “Here! Damnit. Take it!” Landa screamed, his teeth glittering.
“What?” Then it hit Ingram. Landa was holding out...his shoe! Of course. A wheezing, desperate Ingram reached down and grabbed Landa’s dirt-encrusted shoe. With a savage swing, he smacked the firing pin housing with the heel. The tube coughed. Smoke wisped past his face. Something flashed into the searchlight’s beam.
PT-72 then whipped into a violent left turn to head back toward the beach, another shell exploding in their track. Ingram rose and stumbled back to the cockpit, expecting at any moment, for a white-hot 4.7 inch shell to cut him in half.
But then suddenly, the searchlight went out and they were plunged into complete darkness. But something had flashed and it wasn’t a Japanese shell.
Ingram stood and took stock. I’m alive.
“Look at that,” Tubby whooped.
“What?” said Ingram, peering into the gloom, his night vision razed by the searchlight’s brightness. “What the hell is it?”
Tubby said, “They put their damned rudder over hard when they saw the torpedo. So they’re in a tight turn and the torpedo misses but, for some reason, it prematured right alongside him. It must have really scared the Jap, because he’s heading in the opposite direction.”
“You’re kidding.” Ingram fumbled for binoculars. His hands shook so much that he couldn’t focus. Finally, he jammed his body against the bulwark to steady his hands and gradually, the image swam into view. With a final twist of the knob, he made out the destroyer’s stern silhouette, her wake churning a blue-white phosphorescence as she boiled away at high speed. “Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know, but he had us cold,” said Tubby. He kicked in a bit of rudder to hug the shoreline.
“Lousy shot.” Ingram shook his head.
“I’ll say.”
Ingram’s right hand began to shake. In fact, it shook so much he had to lower his binoculars. “Tubby?”
“What?”
“See? I told you. You’re not going to eat it.”
“I’ve used up so many lives, I’ve lost count. I just don’t give a damn, anymore.”
“I admire your optimism.” Ingram’s teeth began to chatter.
“You okay, Skipper?”
“Just tired, that’s all.” Ingram clamped his right wrist with his left hand, willing the shaking to stop. Fortunately, Tubby didn’t see it, for his attention was distracted by Fuller, passing up a mug of coffee.
But Tubby’s mug shook when he raised it to his lips. Coffee splattered on the deck grate and he said with a sidelong glance, “You know what? I thought I peed in my pants back there.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you,” said Ingram. Now his left hand shook.
“Actually, Bollinger’s coffee hit my crotch when the Howell went up.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” Both hands were shaking. Ingram grabbed the bulwark and held on as if he were being tugged by a 100 mile an hour typhoon. Noticing Tubby watching, he asked, “How’s your coffee?”
Tubby looked away for a moment, then said, “Too hot right now. Say, you want some?”
“I’ll wait for a while, thanks.” They locked eyes for a moment then looked away.
“By the way, you’re not going to put me on report, are you?”
“For what?” Ingram had to bite his lip keep his teeth from chattering.
“For disobeying orders. You know… waiting after 0100?” Tubby’s hands were around the helm in a death-grip so tight, his knuckles were white.
“I’ll think about it.”
The IJN Matukaze steamed northwest at thirty-three knots, her brilliant wake trailing into the night. On the bridge, a fuming Commander Tyozo Enomoto faced aft, watching the flames of the beached American destroyer recede over the horizon.
“I only have one of these.” Takano was trying to explain. With clothes blackened by grenade smoke, soot was smeared over a face bloodied by a number of cuts. Takano dug the fuse from his bag and held it out. “Just one,” he nearly sobbed. “The rest went up with,” he nodded aft. “I must get to Vila.”
“Why?”
“To catch a plane for Rabaul.”
“Why?”
“I must report to the Gensui!” Takano nearly yelled.
Ass kisser. Summoning reserves to control his rage, Enomoto said, “we had him in our sights, Captain. Thirty more seconds and he would have been blown to pieces.”
“But that torpedo---“
“---doesn’t matter which direction we were going. We had already dodged torpedoes from the boat to seaward and were combing the wake of this one. We,” Enomoto repeated this for the third time so his sailors could hear, “didn’t have to reverse course, Captain Takano.” Enomoto was worried his crew would blame him for the cowardly about-face before the little PT Boats.
“I don’t care about those boats, you fool. Just get me to the Vila airfield,” said Takano.
Enomoto became rigid. He didn’t like being called a fool before his men. Getting a grip on himself, he decided to play it by the book. Vila was only two hours away. Then he’d be rid of this piece of dog shit. “Yes, Sir. We’re bending on our best speed.”
<
br /> “As fast as you can. It’s extremely important.”
Enomoto counted to five. “Yes, Sir.”
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
18 April, 1943
PT-72
New Georgia Sound, (The SLOT)
PT-88 trailed in Little Lulu’s wake as they hugged New Georgia’s coast, the water far calmer than what they endured on the trip up. A woozy and bandaged Oscar Bollinger was below with his crew, some eating ravenously, others curled up, asleep in bunks
Ingram leaned against the cockpit drinking a cup of coffee, his hands calm now. The quarter moon was descending over New Georgia as Fuller called from the charthouse, “Tommy, er Lieutenant Madison for you, Tubby.”
“What’s he want now?” muttered Tubby. They’d already talked for five minutes, updating one another on the night’s action. Both boats had miraculously come out in good shape. “Patch it to the bridge,” he said, picking up a microphone.
‘Seven-two, this is eight-eight.”
Tubby adjusted the squelch knob. “Seven-two, over,” he replied.
“Interrogative, Marine major. Over.”
“What Marine major? Over.” asked Tubby.
Ingram was nearly asleep, the cup slipping from his hand. Now he snapped to full consciousness. How the hell could I have forgotten?
The speaker squealed with, “Er, we carried a Major that launched over the side about the same time as your man. He was supposed to join up with him and return with you. Over.”
“No idea, Tommy. Where didBA
“Tubby, do you mind?” Ingram reached for the mic.
“Not at all.” He handed it over.
“Eighty-eight. Where did you pick up this Major and what was his name. Over?”
With a new voice on the line, Madison’s tone became formal “Ah, roger seven-two. His name is Major Rivera with orders to recon the Jap garrison aboard the Howell. We picked him up from Fishbait. Over.” Fishbait was the radio code name for Whitney.
“He didn’t make it. Over,” said Ingram
Tubby’s eyebrows went up.
“No?” A surprised Madison forgot radio procedure.
“Eight-eight. Be advised the Japs got him. We’ll amend our SITREP. Seven-two, out.” Ingram hung up the mic.
“What the hell?” asked Tubby.
Ingram explained. Then he called into the chartroom telling Fuller to incorporate the change into the situation report about to be broadcast to Rocko Myszynski That done, he knelt beside Landa. “How’s it going?”
Little Lulu jumped the top of the crest and plowed into the next wave, making them surge forward. Landa groaned, “It’s okay. Tell Tubby to punch it up. The sooner we make Tulagi the better.”
“Tubby says this is our most economical speed, “ Ingram lied. They were holding down the speed to keep the boat from bouncing. “How ‘bout some coffee?”
“Stomach’s upset.”
Fuller walked up, grinning.
“Send your SITREP, Ensign?” asked Ingram.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, what the hell are you smiling about?” demanded Landa.
“I just remembered there was some morphine in the aft-liferaft emergency pack,” said Fuller, beaming like a tail-wagging golden retriever trotting up to its master with a pheasant in its mouth. “Here.”
“I’ll be damned.” Landa displayed a long row of even white teeth.
“I’ll do it,” said Ingram, taking the kit from Fuller. He tore open the cellophane wrapper, then pulled out a syringe and ampoule. “Get you higher than a kite.”
“Try me.”
Ingram stuck the needle in the ampoule, drew ten milligrams then jabbed it into Landa’s thigh. Soon, Landa sighed and closed his eyes.
“How’s that?”
“Great. Ready for a beer.”
The boat smacked a wave, but Landa didn’t flinch. Ingram looked at Tubby and pumped his fist up and down. With a nod, Tubby fed in more throttle until they were going full speed, the wind blowing harder, spray whipping back, PT-88 steadfast in their wake..
Landa didn’t seem to mind as Little Lulu bounced and jiggled. In fact, it looked as if he were drifting off.
Ingram rose.
“Todd?” Landa’s voice was surprisingly calm.
“Yeah?” Ingram dropped back to his knees.
“Sorry to hear about the Pence. She was a good ship.”
“Yeah...one of these days, maybe.”
“You’ll do fine. And Rocko will give you another can.”
“That’s what he said.”
“How did Ralph do?” Landa smacked his lips.
“It really ripped him up.” Ingram explained about Druckman. ”They’ve parked him Stateside for a while.”
“And Leo?”
“Leo was trying to haul down the flag when the boiler blew. She capsized and dragged him down with her.”
“...one flag too many.” Landa ran a hand over his face. His eyes blinked. “What happened?”
“Jap air attack. But I have to tell you, those proximity fuses really did work. We took out two Vals, and damaged another before a low-flying Betty launched her torpedo. And we got that one, too.”
Landa’s eyes unfocused for a moment. Then he looked at Ingram. “...I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“My fault. That damned proximity fuse mess.”
“Come on, Jerry.”
Landa opened his eyes. Absent the creases of pain, he again looked like the old barroom hound, Jerry Boom Boom Landa, shouting for beer and singing rotten songs.
Tubby gave the helm to Fuller and walked over. “How you doin,’ Commander?”
“Better.” He looked at Tubby. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say. My apologies for giving you a rough time aboard the Howell.”
“Water under the bridge, Commander. Don’t worry about it,” Said Tubby. “Er, while we’re at it, Sir, sorry about the marbles.”
“Shit, that was a great stunt. You were smart to clear out. I would have killed you.”
“I’m not that dumb, Commander,” said Tubby.
“No, I suppose you’re not.” Landa scrunched around, rearranging himself and flashing his Pepsodent smile. “Now, I’m feeling great.”
“And now you’re soused,” said Ingram.
Landa flashed a grin. “That I may be, but I have Mr. Fuller to thank for an hour or so of bliss. Then it’s back into the pit.”
“You’ll be home soon. The doctors will give you all the morphine you want,” said Tubby. He rose and looked at his watch. “I have to check in with headquarters.” He walked away.
“I want to explain my problem with the VT fuses,” said Landa.
“You don’t need to.”
“Yes, I do. Now listen,” Landa hissed, “before the pain comes back. It’s about my kid brother.”
Ingram’s eyebrows went up.
“Josh and I were very close. We grew up in Brooklyn. Hell, I beat up on kids who beat on him. Then those kids sent their older brothers to beat up on me.”
“Ummm.”
“One happy family. Then I joined the Navy, and Josh grew up to become a hell of a scientist. An MIT Ph.D. whiz-kid. Here’s my point. He helped develop proximity fuses in a secret lab in Washington D.C.”
“No fooling?”
“And guess who his boss was?”
Ingram shook his head.
“Frank Ashton.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I thought the damned fuses were bad, because my brother had been mortally injured by one. I saw red, couldn’t think straight. I condemned the program because of what happened to him. His problem was that he thought the fuses were defective. That they could blow up if hit by another radar beam.”
“Can that happen?”
“No.”
“So what did happen?”
“One blew up in his face. That put him into a coma for several months. Then he got that infection and died.”
“Why did
the fuse blow up in his face?”
“I got there just before Josh died. He came out of his coma but he was rambling, almost deranged. He recognized me enough to say that it wasn’t the proximity fuse that was screwed up. It was Frank Ashton who prescribed the wrong test procedures. Josh said he followed Ashton’s procedures to the letter and that made the damned thing blew up.”
“No!”
“Yeah. But keep in mind, this is all top secret stuff. I mean you and I haven’t talked. Got it?”
“Sure.”
Landa laid his head back. “I just wanted you to know why I acted like I did. That’s all.” His eyelids fluttered.
“It’s okay, Jerry. Say, do you think you should tell Rocko about this?”
“Rocko doesn’t trust my opinion about Ashton, and he’ll think I’m being sour grapes, so I’m going to sit on it for a while. But I do have proof.”
“You do?”
“...yeah. In your house. That damned crate in the guest room...Josh’s journal...so he told me anyway...” Landa’s eyes closed and he drifted off.
Ingram pat him on the shoulder, then stood to join Tubby and Winston Fuller in the cockpit.
Rocko Myszynski had been up since midnight, drinking brackish coffee and pacing the deck of the Whitney’s commodious radio-room. Her third-deck radio-central compartment was an area of about twenty by forty, where the temperature hovered at a blessed, air-conditioned, sixty-eight degrees. Many tried sneaking in to cool off, but were eventually kicked out by Marine sentries. There were twelve radio operators on duty, with twice as many messengers, technicians and cryptanalysts moving about to the sound of bleeping radio-receivers and clacking teletypes.
“All done, Sir.” Bailey a radio operator yanked a message from the typewriter, its platen buzzing furiously.
“Thanks, sailor.” Myszynski walked over to a stool and sat. He smiled at the irony of message’s beginning:
FINAL: NOTRE DAME 21; JAPS 0
Great news! He was surprised to see the Howell was destroyed and that PT-96's crew had been rescued. Damn, a full sweep. And without the Marines.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 39