Tanner didn’t know what to say. He decided on the partial truth. “I’m doing a little research on the war. I was hoping you could help me.”
“You military?”
“Not anymore.”
“Navy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’d you do?” Tanner told him, and Myers smiled. “Back then we called them UDT. Always thought those fellas were a different sort.”
Tanner laughed. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“Come on, I’ll see if Peg has some lemonade around.”
Myers’s den was a museum of World War II submarine history. The walls were covered with prints depicting the various battles of the Pacific war: Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Bella LaVella. He handed Tanner a glass of lemonade and pointed him to a chair. “Haunting aren’t they?” Myers asked.
“That they are.”
“Submarines played a part in all those. We were there. The silent service, y’know. It wasn’t just because we were sneaky. We did what we had to do and didn’t talk about it. So, how can I help you?”
Again Tanner hesitated. How do you tell a man you suspect the story behind his boat’s fate is a lie? Briggs decided the direct approach was best. “I’m looking into the disappearance of Stonefish.”
Myers pursed his lips, nodded, but said nothing.
“You were her XO when she was lost?”
“Yep.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“Did you read the report?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you know what happened.”
“There’s a few things I don’t understand,” Tanner said.
“Such as?”
“Such as why she was reported sunk near the Bonins.”
Myers took a sip of lemonade.
Tanner pulled a sheet of paper from his file and handed it across. “According to Fairbanks-Morse, Stonefish’s engines were installed in July of 1942. According to the Navy, she kept those engines until her sinking.”
“What’s your point?”
“A few weeks ago, I pulled that same serial number off the engine of a sub I found four hundred yards off the coast of Honshu.”
Myers stared at Tanner for ten seconds, “You were there?” he whispered. “You were aboard her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’d she look?”
“A little beat up.”
“You’re being generous. Were they still there? The bodies, I mean?”
“One in the wardroom, the other in forward torpedo.”
Myers smiled sadly and nodded.
“Can you tell me about it?” Briggs said.
“It was a long time ago. I’m the only one left. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“I think it does. I’m betting you think so, too.”
Myers went silent, studying the pictures and memorabilia around the study. Tanner guessed for his entire life Myers had been haunted by Stonefish and the secret he kept about her.
Finally Myers said, “You want the whole story or the abridged version?”
As soon as he started talking, Tanner realized Myers hadn’t lived a day in fifty years without thinking about Stonefish. His recollection was vivid, as though he were watching it on a movie screen.
“We were docked at the Volcano Islands to resupply. The skipper pulled me aside and gave me a couple orders: First, he wanted me to offload sixteen of our fish. It was an odd request, but I was the new guy, so I did it. Second thing he said was he wanted everybody off the boat at sixteen hundred. Everybody, he said, including me and the brow watch. Well, I gave him an ‘Aye, sir,’ and got to work.
“Two hours later, the torpedoes were off and everyone was ashore. I was in the wardroom trying to catch up on paperwork and lost track of time. It was sixteen-fifteen, so I hurried on deck and headed for the brow. Carpen was standing on the pier. He gave me a hard stare and barked at me to get moving.
“Just then a couple trucks—two army deuce and a halfs—were pulling alongside. About a dozen GIs jumped out and posted themselves around the boat. The last thing I saw was a civilian shaking hands with the skipper. I remember that clearly. This guy was tall, ramrod straight, almost bald. He might’ve been dressed as a civvie, but he was military for sure. I heard his name, too, but it didn’t ring any bells: John Staples. Funny kind of name, I thought.
“Later that night when everybody was back aboard, we sailed. Right away the crew knew something was up. I didn’t see the guy until later, but scuttlebutt said there was a civilian holed up in the forward torpedo room. I figured it was the fella I saw on the dock. I found out later it wasn’t.
“The next morning, the skipper called me to his state-room. He told me to spread the word: Forward torp was off limits. Then he showed me the chart. Green as I was, even I could see where our course was gonna take us. Even that late in the war anything north of Nanpo was still bad news for submarines … and we were going way up north. I asked him why, but he didn’t answer.
“Two days later, he sprang it on the rest of the ward-room. Up till then, nobody else knew where we were. I tell you, it was damned funny looking at their faces. I mean, three days before we’re drinking beer in the Volcanos and now we’re twenty miles off the Jap mainland and fixin’ to get a whole lot closer.
“Round about midnight, we started out.
“Those next ten hours were the longest of my life. We slipped through a hole in the coastal net that couldn’t have been much bigger than the boat, then picked our way through the minefield inside.
“Once we got through, we turned east, parallel to the shoreline. About a quarter mile from the beach, the skipper took a peek through the scope and spotted a Jap destroyer—a Naichi class—about four miles out. We took a fix, then ducked back under. Sonar got contact on four tin cans in the main channel between Honshu and Skikoku … sitting right in our path. We had four miles to go, and five destroyers blocking us.
“We were creeping along at three knots, quiet as a ghost, when we got a break. The Naichi turned away from us, so we dashed ahead and got in behind his baffles. The idea was to use his screw noise to mask us. We would slip into the channel, do whatever we came to do, maybe torpedo one of the tin cans, then sneak out in the confusion. Well, it didn’t work out that way.
“The Naichi found us and started dropping depth charges. We must have taken a dozen near hits. Rivets were popping, steam pipes bursting, glass all over the deck … Seemed like it lasted hours, but it was probably only three or four minutes. The Naichi came around for another run at us. But the skipper had other ideas. That man was good … the best sub driver I’ve ever known.
“While the Naichi was circling, we kicked it into flank and slipped beneath ’em. If I hadn’t been so damned scared, I would’ve laughed; here they were looking ahead, and we were behind them and heading for the channel.
“We would’ve made it, too, except one of the depth charges had landed a bit too close. A god-awful grinding sound shook the boat. Our propeller shaft was bent. It wasn’t much, maybe half an inch, but that’s all it takes. From then on, any speed above three knots would be like ringing the dinner bell. Problem was, the current coming out of the channel was a good four knots. We just didn’t have the horsepower. The skipper decided to call it quits.
“That’s when the civilian flipped his wig. Nobody had seen him come into the control room, but there he was.
“Two things about him hit me right off: One was that briefcase he was carrying. The damn thing was chained to his wrist. Second thing was those leg braces. He got around pretty good, but you could see the brace poking out his pant leg.
“Anyway, he started shouting that we couldn’t turn around, that we had to reach the ‘drop-off point,’ is what he called it. He looked like a ferret, the way his eyes kept darting around. Depth charge attacks have a way of doing that to your brain, I guess.
“The skipper ordered him
back to forward torp, but he wouldn’t go, kept saying how we had to make it, we had to. A couple of men tried to calm him down, but he backed away, swinging that briefcase like a wild man. Finally, me and a bunch of guys tackled him to the deck. Carpen ordered him handcuffed in forward torpedo.
“As shaken up as we were, we were damned glad to be getting out of there. From the start, the whole patrol had been odd, and it was getting worse by the minute. I mean, here we were in Tojo’s front yard, Jap warships all around us, our propeller shaft bent to hell, and this guy looses his marbles right in front of us.
“So, with the four tin cans north of us and the Naichi to the west, we turned south along the coast of Honshu. By then we’d been submerged for six hours; the air was getting thick. We needed to ventilate. We went to periscope depth and took a peek. We couldn’t have been more than a couple hundred yards offshore. I scanned the beach and saw a bunch of huts and a couple cooking fires. That’s how close we were. Tanabe Point—our exit—was nine miles. At three knots, it would take us a few hours, so the skipper decided to come up and get some air. A fog bank had rolled in, so we figured it was okay.
“We took her up until the deck was awash, then me and Carpen climbed the bridge ladder and popped the hatch. I still remember that smell: Air. Just plain, clean air. It was the best smell in the world.
“Astern of us I could just see the running lights of the Japs doing racetracks in the channel. I started thinking we were gonna make it. I guess I jinxed us, because that’s when it started.
“The only thing I can figure is a coast-watcher spotted us. All of a sudden, three parachute flares exploded over the beach. It was almost like daylight, they were so bright. Bullets started smacking into the hull. The bastards were taking pot shots at us from the beach … shooting at us with goddamned rifles.
“The skipper ordered emergency dive and shoved me toward that hatch. I looked back, and there she was … the Naichi. She was maybe two miles behind us and blasting away with her five-incher. I was almost down the hatch when the first shell hit. It sheared off the tops of both periscopes and dropped into the water ahead of us. I heard a scream and looked up. The skipper was gone. I ran to the railing.
“He was lying on the foredeck, half underwater. His whole left arm was gone. It was just a stump. I heard another shell hit, this time just off the port side. The skipper was crawling toward the ladder, yelling, ‘Take her down, Billy! Take her down!’ and I just stared at him. I was frozen. Blood was gushing from his shoulder. He yelled again, ‘Take her down! That’s an order!’
“So I did it. I left him. God help me, I left him.
“By the time I got the hatch closed, we were angling down sharp. Just then I heard the shots, three of them—pop, pop, pop—right in a row. They sounded like caps. I could tell they came from the forward part of the boat, and I had a pretty good idea who was doing the shooting, but there was too much going on to worry about it
“I ordered full dive and hard right rudder. Above us, I could hear the shells dropping. I don’t remember much of what happened next, except knowing we’d taken a hit. I figured out later a shell had clipped our bow and taken off one of the planes. The boat tipped forward … must’ve been seventy degrees. We were dropping fast Everybody was looking at me. I remember thinking, ‘Christ, I’m in charge. They’re waiting for me to do something.’
“I ordered ‘blow all ballast,’ hoping it would either level us off or bring us to the surface. I figured we’d have better luck there than sitting on the bottom, suffocating to death. We slowed a bit but kept heading down.
“It got real quiet in the tower. Nobody was saying a word. Nobody looked at anybody else. I felt helpless. There was nothing else I could do. I ordered ‘all hands brace for shock.’
“It wasn’t a bad landing, all things considered. After we hit, I remember hearing the hull grinding on the sand. It reminded me of fingernails on a chalkboard. We’d almost settled when she rolled hard to port and started sliding again. I thought we were going off the shelf, but after a few seconds, we stopped. It got quiet again. I could hear creaking and bubbling, but aside from that, silence.
“First thing I did was check for injuries. There were some, but nothing too serious. The sound-powered phones were out, so I sent out runners, one forward to find out about the shooting and another to the engine room to get a damage report.
“The second one came back ten minutes later. Not including the bow, we had at least two leaks: One around the shaft, and one in after battery. That got my attention. When the seawater hit the batteries, the boat was gonna fill with gas. I ordered the Momsen Lungs broken out and everybody to the escape trunks.
“The second runner came back and said the master-at-arms had been shot. He was dead, lying outside forward torp. The way I figure it, he went to check on the civilian, and the guy had a gun we didn’t know about. We carried the body back to the wardroom, then I sent the runner to his escape station and went to forward torp.
“I could hear him in there, screaming, banging his handcuff against the stanchion. I pounded on the door and told him we were sinking, that we had to get out. He just kept hollering, so I undogged the hatch and peeked through. He was sitting on the floor cradling that briefcase like it was a baby. There was a watermelon-sized hole in the hull and about three feet of water on the deck.
“I called to him, and he took a shot at me. Bullet whizzed right past my ear. I slammed the hatch shut. I must’ve stood there for another five minutes, trying to talk to him, but it was no use.
“The boat was filling up with gas—I could smell it—so I gave up and ran to the escape trunk. Everybody else was already gone. I was so scared I could hardly work my Momsen, but I got it on, got into the trunk, flooded it, and punched out.”
Tanner realized he was clenching the chair’s armrests. “So what happened,” he whispered. “How many made it to the surface?”
“Out of seventy-eight of us, forty died before we were fished out by the Japs. Some drowned, some were washed out to sea, some got the bends because they’d held their breath on the way up.
“After they collected us, we were shipped off to a camp outside this village called Kawanoe, I think it was. This close to the end of the war, the Japs were scared and pissed off. They were sure we were about to invade, so when we popped up—a submarine within a stone’s throw of the mainland—they figured we were part of an advance landing force. They started in on us right away.” Myers paused and took off his glasses; his eyes were glistening. “The things they did …” He took a deep breath.
“Anyway, the second day they rousted us before dawn and lined us up. This officer—I think he was military intelligence—marched down the line, tapping every fourth man until he had ten of us, including Balsted, our sonar chief, and Ensign Michaels, the weapons officer. He had them step forward and kneel on the ground.” Again Myers paused; he stared at his hands. “One by one, he went down the line and shot them in the back of the head. He never said a word. Just shot ’em and left them lying in the dirt. Then they marched us back into the barracks. We were numb. I mean, we had heard stories, but you just never …
“They worked on us for the next five days. No food, no sleep, lying in your own mess … I knew we were in big trouble. If it came at all, the invasion wouldn’t be for another six months at least.
“Turned out I was wrong,” Myers said. “It ended a lot quicker than that.
“On the sixth day we were lined up for morning muster when it happened. I’d lost track of the date, and they’d taken my watch, but I later found out it was eight-fifteen, August sixth.
“We were standing with the sun at our backs. Then all the sudden there was another sun. That’s exactly what it looked like: A giant sun that had popped up over the horizon. About twenty seconds passed, then the mushroom cloud began forming. It was red and black and boiling, and it just kept climbing into the sky, higher and higher. The two things that struck me was how slowly it was
moving and that there was no sound. It was spooky.
“So we just stood there, all of us—the Japs, too—staring, until about ten minutes later when the wave hit us. It was like a strong wind, so strong you had to lean into it to stay upright. And the sound … God almighty, it was like a freight train.”
Myers paused. “It’s strange. I’ve always felt like what happened at Hiroshima that day happened to me, too. I know what they went through was awful … Hell, I’m not sure what I’m trying to say.
“I read somewhere the bomb we dropped was twenty kilotons,” Myers said. “That’s enough TNT to fill a couple dozen railroad cars. A lot of people have trouble imagining that. I don’t. I’ve seen it. A hundred thirty thousand people died outright. Seeing it from ninety miles away … well, there’s no imagining what it must’ve been like at ground zero. It must’ve been hell on earth.”
46
Rappahannock River
Tanner lay awake and listened to the rain patter against the window. In the distance, a foghorn wailed and faded. He lay in bed for a few more minutes, then threw on his robe and went downstairs to make some coffee. Cup in hand, he poked at the logs in the fireplace until they glowed back to life, then sat down.
He knew the source of his insomnia. After weeks of following the twisted trail left by Ohira, Hiromasa Takagi, and now, unexpectedly, a Jordanian terrorist, an ex-KGB colonel, and a mysterious Arab who was at this minute sailing Tsumago to God knew where carrying God knew what, his brain was screaming, Enough!
His visit to Myers and his retelling of the story to his father had been the proverbial last straw. “That’s amazing,” Henry said as he finished. “Myers sounds like a heck of a guy.”
“He is. In the space of a minute he went from being a nugget XO, to the captain. Hard way to grow up.”
“Tell me again about their stop at the Volcano Islands,” Henry said.
Tanner did so.
“And Myers didn’t know the name of the civilian that came along?”
End of Enemies Page 35