by Jon Stafford
STAND OFF FOUR HUNDRED YARDS.
Knowing his boss as well as he did, it took only a few seconds for Harry to grasp the meaning. He hit the button and called down to the conning tower. “Bump, come up!”
In ten seconds, Bump was climbing up next to Harry. “Sir?”
“You need to know this in case something happens to me,” Harry began. “I can tell you what Red’s thinking. That Chidori has one forward firing gun, but two others aft. If we stay relatively close together, say four hundred yards apart, she won’t be able to bring either rear weapon to bear, just one gun to our two. Then we’ll have him in a little crossfire. Luckily, both of our deck guns are located aft. If their captain fishtails to bring his other guns to bear, he’ll be able to use them only at the chance of giving us a much better target. Of course, a Chidori is only about six hundred tons, with each of us being more than three times that. None of us can stand much damage.”
“Okay,” Barton acknowledged, and went below as a third shell landed about two hundred yards to port.
The signalman appeared on Bluefin’s deck, which Harry read as an order to open fire. He raised his arm as a signal and Goby’s deck gun fired, jolting the entire ship.
But the signalman sent another message, and Harry read it:
THE TRUMPET BLOWS.
Harry nodded with a wan smile and thought of his family, halfway around the world. The big gun fired again, with a deep BOOM. Harry looked respectfully at it. Bluefin’s gun had saved his life twice. I wonder if it can do it a third time, he thought. I always said I wanted to have one of these things, so here’s my chance.
At the distance between the two subs, he could barely distinguish Phelps on the bridge. So, the trumpet blows, and it’s time to fight it out, Harry thought. Let’s see if this guy continues rushing us when he figures out he’s facing two five-inchers. He does have a higher fire control system, which will make his fire much more accurate. If he puts a shot in Goby, it could sink us, and if he puts a shot into Bluefin, he may have two crippled subs he can finish off anytime he gets around to it. I did this to us. And Red trusted my judgment and bought into it. Harry shook his head as the deck gun fired again.
The enemy ship slowed its advance when the avalanche of more than ten shells a minute showed the Japanese what they were up against. She veered off to the north, and the Americans hurried to make their escape.
The range widened slightly, from seven to seven and a half miles, and for several minutes the enemy seemed content to offer a number of broadsides. None came particularly close. The Americans began assuming that the range would continue opening and that the battle might be over.
Then, just as abruptly, at 1757, the Japanese ship changed course again and turned back toward the subs.
Now the battle commenced in earnest. As though on a millpond, the warships flailed away at each other, the water around them like glass. The American salvoes began to come close to the gunboat, but none hit.
At the same time, the enemy fire came much closer, putting a shell within one hundred yards of Bluefin. Both the Japanese and Bluefin began to weave, while, of course, Goby continued in a straight line to the west as fast as she could.
The Americans remained on average four hundred yards apart, despite the gyrations of Bluefin. The strange contest between the two implacable foes continued on until 1826, when the first shell hit Goby’s bow, destroying the port bow plane, penetrating the deck into the forward Torpedo Room, and killing six men.
Despite the additional damage, the boat continued unimpeded. Unfortunately, at 1841, the sub was rocked again, this time above the after Torpedo Room. Five of the crew were killed, including two in the gun crew, but the shell just missed the engineering spaces. Again the boat continued on at thirteen knots.
By now the sun’s descent was proving a serious problem for the Japanese. Their only other hit, also on Goby, came at 1922, in the extreme aft of the boat. It penetrated the engineering spaces and knocked one of the two remaining diesels completely out of operation but killed no one. The submarine’s forward speed dropped off immediately. It appeared to be only a matter of time before a fourth hit would sink the boat.
On board Bluefin, Phelps called down wearily to Rudy Ferrell. “Listen, Harry’s about finished. One more hit and I’ll give you the word to submerge. I don’t care if you get a Green Board. I want you to take her down fast, so they’ll have as little fix on us as possible. We’ll come around and torpedo this guy when he comes in to make sure of Harry.”
At the same instant, one of the two subs—no one could ever figure out which one—landed a shell on the Chidori’s bridge. There was a terrific explosion, easily visible without binoculars. The Americans on both bridges waited, in shocked silence, to see the result.
The gunboat continued directly toward the Americans for another two minutes, but no more shells were fired. Either the captain had been killed, the communications system destroyed, or the fire control system damaged beyond repair. In another two minutes, the enemy turned off to the northwest toward Tinian and gradually disappeared off Bluefin’s radar. The battle was over.
Later, as they cruised gently toward Midway, it was time to deal with the dead. In all, fourteen bodies, rolled in blankets, were lined up on Goby’s deck. With the men from both subs looking on, Harry conducted the simple service that has been the tradition of the US Navy since the beginnings of the Great Republic:
Unto almighty God we commend the souls
Of our shipmates departed.
And we commit their bodies to the deep,
In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection
Unto eternal life, when the sea shall give up
Her dead
In the life of the world to come.
He looked away as three of the men put their fallen comrades over the side, one by one.
The subs proceeded toward Midway at nine knots, the best speed Goby could make, for the next six days. To everyone’s amazement, not a single Japanese plane or ship was detected. Unfortunately, the complicated and extensive repairs Krolewitz and Osborne attempted improved the vessel’s condition only marginally. The wounded and the log were carefully transferred to Bluefin, just in case.
In the afternoon of the seventh day, Chief Osborne came to the bridge.
“Harry, we’ve come to the end. My guess is we’ve got thirty minutes or so. I doubt she’ll last an hour. Those cells, especially the ones in the forward battery, have just leaked out too much chlorine gas. It’s eaten through the hull somewhere. We can actually hear it sizzle like a steak on a grill. The pumps are at full blast, but as of fifteen minutes ago, they’re losing.”
Harry put his hand up and spoke quietly. “You don’t have to say anything else. I’ve felt her lose headway in the last couple minutes. Signal Red to move in closer. Let’s get some lines across; the sea is coming up. Go to dead slow, just enough speed to maneuver.”
Osborne went below. Harry mashed down on the intercom button and called out to the entire boat. “Men, it’s time to get everyone off. Help bring up the wounded, and then we’ll abandon ship.”
Soon lines were passed and tied to both subs. Goby’s crew came up on the deck to leave their ship, one by one, an
d then in groups. Some made their way across on the lines drooping in the water, and others dove into the sea and swam across. Most paused and looked at Goby, giving a thought or two to their home. A few saluted, teary-eyed.
Everyone but Harry and Osborne were across within thirty minutes. The remaining diesel conked out, the lines were untied, and Harry motioned for Duke to go across.
Now he was the only one left, on a bridge starting to tilt noticeably as Goby sank lower in the water. Harry paused for a moment before he saluted, and then stepped off into the sea, hanging on to a line and striking out for Bluefin.
He climbed aboard, and turned to watch Goby go.The tired sub foundered quickly, surprisingly beginning her plunge completely upright and level, as though she were submerging. Goby’s final location was noted as 169 degrees east longitude and nearly 18 degrees north latitude, or some 180 miles north of Bikini Atoll and some 1,150 miles short of Midway Island.
June 18, 1944, Pearl Harbor
Phelps, Harry, and Admiral Lockwood sat in Bluefin’s wardroom. They had just finished discussing the mission.
“I think you two did a good job,” the admiral said.
“Thank you, sir,” Phelps said. “Do you have any early indications of how the campaign’s going?”
“Well, you and Jimmy Blanchard bottled up the place real well. We have no indication at all from the intelligence people that any enemy shipping got in or out. The Marines hit Saipan three days ago. From what we hear, they’ve made good progress after landing at the southwest corner of the island near the straits. Red, I want to talk to you in a few minutes, but let me talk to Harry first.”
“I’ll be on the dock.” Phelps tipped his cap and left. The admiral turned to Harry.
“Harry, I read your report and it’s a good one. I think you are too hard on yourself.”
“Sir, I got men killed unnecessarily.”
“I don’t see that. You were in a tough spot, a new command with personnel unknown to you. You were completely on your own.”
“Still.” Harry looked into the old man’s eyes. “I feel responsible for the men who died in the battle. I should have scuttled Goby when Osborne came to me with the report on her condition. There would’ve been no battle, and we could’ve ducked the Chidori.”
“Maybe so. But she could just as well have drummed up Bluefin after you scuttled and sank Goby. I’ve done this for a long time, son, and I have learned that nothing much happens in war the way it should.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said.
“Harry, I want to give you a new boat. She’ll be coming in from the Panama Canal in a couple of weeks.”
Harry took a deep breath. “Sir, I would like to resign from the service.”
Admiral Lockwood gaped at him.
“Sir,” Harry continued, “I’ve been home twice in eight years, once sick and once with a broken ankle. My wife is just barely holding on to our farm.”
“Harry, we have to see this one to the end, however long it takes.”
“Sir, I’ve had eight war patrols since ’41.”
“So, you think your number is up, eh?”
Harry looked the admiral straight in the eye. “I’ve almost been killed four times, sir. I’ve been sunk twice, losing almost all of the crew the first time and losing too many this time. Got held down in that depth-charging off the Carolines for thirty hours. But mostly, I think, as we get closer and closer to Japan, I’ve gotten more and more sick of killing innocent people. This time I saw hundreds of people in the water from a ship we torpedoed. Mostly women and children, some old men. Some were already dead and the rest were soon to die. This is closer to murder than war to me, sir.”
The admiral looked down at the pad, thinking. This is the second time I’ve tried to give him his own boat. He’s a good man, but he’s taken all he can take. Every man has a limit and Harry’s reached his. I wonder how we get men like him. I just wonder. I hope the supply doesn’t stop coming.
Finally, he looked up at Harry and shook his head a little.
“You have definitely done your share, maybe more. I’m not debating that. This is what I can do for you. Rusty Clark, a very good man, was killed two weeks ago in a plane crash at sea. I want you to take his place until the war ends, whenever that is. You will get no leave, and I will not allow a transfer once you accept this. You will be one of three officers who meets new boats at the Panama Canal and comes out with them. You will polish those crews, and evaluate their commanding officers in the two weeks it takes to get there.
“Harry, tomorrow you’ll be promoted to commander, so that you will outrank these captains. You will have complete authority over the new boats. You will have complete authority to speak in my name. On your say, I will order the boats to the war zones, hold them for more training, or consider your recommendation to relieve the captain. Will you take the job?”
“Yes, sir, I would love it!”
“You will leave tomorrow at 0400. Come to my office this afternoon at 1300 and work out the details with Bobby Ahern. He’ll bring you up to speed.”
The old man stood and saluted. Harry returned his salute, feeling limp with relief.
“Thank you, sir!”
“Harry, you rate it, so you get it!”
The two men shook hands.
“You’re dismissed, Harry. Send Red back down.”
Harry rose and went up on deck. He saw Red standing on the dock with his wife and waved for him to come back aboard to meet with the admiral. He looked up at the bright sky, feeling glad to be alive, and thought of his family, thousands of miles away.
Then all he could think about was the girl he had seen in the water.
Dell
Let us now praise famous men, and our fathers in their generations . . .
There were those who ruled in their kingdoms, and were men renowned for their power,
Giving counsel by their understanding, and proclaiming prophecies;
Leaders of the people in their deliberations and in understanding of learning . . .
And there are some who have no memorial, who have perished as though they had not lived;
. . . as though they had not been born, and so have their children after them.
But these were men of mercy, whose righteous deeds have not been forgotten.
—Ecclesiasticus 44
The Five Brothers farm near Dorrance, Iowa, June 16, 2006
“Billy” Connors Kraig sat with her computer on her lap looking out the old plate glass window toward the grove of trees on the hill. The Five Brothers, she thought, smiling faintly. On this, the thirteenth anniversary of her father’s death, she and her husband had long lived at the farm. She had thought of the approaching anniversary for some time, and was now prepared to write down what she recalled. I need to do this now, she knew, before I forget.
She had made up her mind that she would tell the story mostly through her mother’s point of view. Papa had his diary of his war experiences published for us, but Mama’s side has been left out. I’ll tell her story.
My mother was Dell Woodson Connors, she began. She was a strong
woman, tall, with an average figure, average face, and average eyes. Everything about her spoke of being a farmer’s wife. Her features were not delicate, she dressed plainly, and her topics of conversation were restricted to farm things: crops, animals, the weather, and the children. She was a good Lutheran woman who never complained, never swore, and mostly said very little. To her, material things were not of much importance. Some said that farming was all she knew. Wasn’t it true, they said, that she had been born on the farm, lived there all of her life, and then died there in the same bed where she had been born?
They didn’t keep in mind that she had been a career naval officer’s wife for a time. That life had not been for her though, as she told us so many times. She had given up that life for the farm she loved. At the end of her life she was a little stoop-shouldered and her features worn, but she was a happy, contented woman with no regrets. She often told me, “I’ve had the best life!”
My great-grandfather, Fallon D. Woodson, purchased this land from the US government in 1868, at the age of twenty-five, as part of the Homestead Act, and built this house in 1899.
At some time in those early years he purchased some pin oak trees that were to become the trademark of his farm. By the time I came to live here, the five trees were huge, large enough that we children could play hide-and-seek among them. But what I recall most about them was the refuge they afforded my mother. I saw her go to the grove hundreds of times. No matter what the weather, winter or summer, one hundred degrees or twenty below, she regularly made her way there. I spoke to her about them many times, and I always marveled at her response.
“Baby,” as she called me until the time I went off to college at Grinnell, “I love this place very much, more than words can express. To see these trees Grandfather planted! And the little graveyard over there with Grandfather and Grandmother, Father and Mother, Mr. Riser. Our farm, which has been the lifeblood of our generations! The fields, full of life! It renews me so when I am here. I am in such awe of this place. It’s like a temple to me!” Without fail, her eyes would moisten.