Over the Hill: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 6)

by Craig DiLouie

  “Until one of our crummy torpedoes circled back and sank us.” That part wasn’t so romantic.

  “Stay with me here,” the PR officer said. “Then after the Sandtiger goes down, you brought most of her crew back to the surface right in full view of the Japs. You paddled out with the raft and rescued a man from the gun crew.”

  “Who told me the Japs captured Captain Harrison and three other officers, while Admiral Halsey was off who knows where.”

  Lockwood cleared his throat in warning.

  Copeland kept going. “And then when the Japs turned tail, you all yelled at them to come back and fight! You gave them the bird! Holy Joe!”

  Whether Uncle Charlie was there or not, Braddock could only take so much of this nonsense before he showed his true colors. “So what do you want from me, sir? Life doing an article or something?”

  The captain grinned, and his blue eyes shined. “I want you to tell your story to America on the Sixth War Loan Drive.”

  Braddock scoffed. “You’re kidding me.”

  “We’re rotating you home, son,” Lockwood said. “For a very important service to your country.”

  “The Sandtiger went down in battle, but her crew survived, and so does her fighting spirit!” Copeland raved. “You’ll go to the Big Apple and help rally public support so we can finish the fight. Put the axe to the Axis.”

  War bonds were loans given the government to finance the war, and they removed money from circulation, which held down inflation. Americans could buy baby bonds for as cheap as $18.75 and redeem them ten years later for $25.

  In Braddock’s view, the rationing back home was bad enough. He thought the fat cats who were getting fatter off the war should be the ones paying. But that wasn’t the reason he hated it.

  “You got the wrong guy,” he growled.

  “I know you’d rather be out there killing Japs—”

  “I figure I’ve done my fair share making dead Japs, sir. Me, I’d be all too happy to go home and let the heroes finish the job. That’s the thing. I ain’t a hero. The real heroes of the Sandtiger are either dead or rotting in a Jap prison.”

  Lockwood cleared his throat again. “This is no time for an excess of modesty, Chief. The home front is as important as the battle front. There are 130 million Americans fighting this war, not just the men and women in uniform. The war loan drives not only help us carry on the fight, they’re good for morale.”

  “FDR just said on the radio the war is costing us $250 million a day,” Copeland said. “Our goal is to raise $14 billion in a single month. Selling shares in freedom.” Copeland’s eyes flashed with excitement. “We’ve got Bob Hope, Kay Kyser and his orchestra, and Dinah Shore lined up. And now you. You’ll put on your dress blues, tell your story, and march in a parade. Get your picture taken with politicians and Hollywood starlets and receive the keys to New York. Great stuff, huh?”

  “Christ,” Braddock said. Man, did they pick the wrong guy for this.

  “We’ve got the Japs and the Krauts on the run. We’re winning, but we haven’t won yet. This is how we finish the job.”

  “You need a hero to sell bonds? Do something real, and get the captain out of Japan.” He raised his hand before the PR officer could gush anymore. He turned to Lockwood. “He survived, sir. The Japs captured him. Right now, they’re torturing him, and knowing him, he’s taking it for his country. We owe him.”

  Lockwood squashed his cigarette butt into the overflowing ashtray on his desk. “I goddamn know all that already. What am I supposed to do?”

  “I know you know where the camps are and that one of them specializes in submariners. Launch a commando raid, and get him out. Get them all out.”

  Uncle Charlie glowered as he lit another cigarette. “The only thing I know with absolute, dead certainty is you’re going to follow your goddamn orders. Congratulations, Chief. You’re going stateside. I expect you to represent the submarines with your utmost charm and grace.”

  It was a forgivable error. The man simply did not know John Braddock. Charm? Grace? The chief was capable of neither.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ARMY VS NAVY

  On December 2, Braddock found himself yanked from the tropics and dropped into the freezing wind at Baltimore Municipal Stadium, waiting for the Army and Navy to go to war.

  Today, the battle would be fought on the gridiron.

  Huddled under blankets on the bleachers, thousands braved the sub-zero temperatures to witness the event everybody was calling the football game of the century. The forty-fifth annual contest between the services.

  Army Chief of Staff General Marshall was here. So were Air Forces Chief General Arnold and Commander of the Fleet Admiral King.

  “I’m not doing this,” Braddock said.

  “You’ll be great,” Copeland told him.

  “There are what, 30,000 people out there?”

  The PR officer snorted. “Are you kidding? More like 65,000.”

  “I’m not doing this.”

  “You fought in an underwater boat, assaulted a coastal gun on Saipan, and led your men off a sinking submarine. I’m sure you’ll survive talking to a crowd. Just stick to the prepared remarks this time. Think you can do that, Chief?”

  Two weeks ago, he’d landed in the Big Apple sore and rattled from flying halfway around the world on cargo planes. Captain Copeland whisked him to Times Square to give his first speech in front of a six-story Statue of Liberty replica, surrounded by dancing girls, movie starlets, and a giant cash register that rang up total war bond sales. Braddock, who regarded this kind of tinsel patriotism as a giant con, felt like Alice in Wonderland.

  Constantly on the move to belt out more speeches, meet self-important celebrities, give interviews to reporters, and shake mitts with fat cats getting rich off the war, he’d barely slept since. The Sandtiger’s attack on the Yamato was national news. Everywhere he went, girls batted their eyelashes and wanted his autograph, a frustrating thing for a sailor with no time or social skills to capitalize on the attraction. Thanksgiving came and went in a blur. Braddock felt like a traveling roadshow. He’d thought the whole thing would be a cakewalk, but this kind of work was every bit as much wage slavery as submarine service was.

  Now this. A few remarks to tens of thousands of people to kick off the most anticipated football game of the year.

  Braddock said, “If you have to give such a hard sell to something that’s supposed to be great, maybe it ain’t that great. Ever think of that?”

  Copeland ignored him. His eyes flashed again with that manic light Braddock found both mesmerizing and grating. “Here come the cadets!”

  West Point’s gray-coated cadets had arrived on troopships escorted by destroyers. Following a massive band, they marched onto the field and formed up in perfect squares. “BOOM, ahhh!” they yelled in unison under the clear, frigid sky. “USMA, rah, rah! USMA, rah, rah! Hoo-rah, hoorah! AR-MAY!”

  After finishing their famous “rocket cheer,” the gray ranks broke and clambered up into their section of the bleachers.

  Having arrived on boats sailed across the Chesapeake Bay, Annapolis’ blue-coated midshipmen took the field next.

  “Oh, and it’s more than 65,000 people,” Copeland said. “The game is being broadcasted on the radio. Millions will be listening. Great stuff, huh?”

  “Killer diller, sir,” Braddock offered in sarcastic agreement.

  A GI limousine drove along the field’s edge. Men wearing business suits and toting tommy guns rode on the hood. Three heralds in medieval livery raised trumpets and blasted a fanfare. The door opened to reveal Navy’s mascot, a goat wearing a little coat.

  Sailors dragged the reluctant animal by its leash over to Army’s mascot, a mule, to “shake hands.” Braddock empathized with the poor little bastard.

  Uniformed men raised massive signs for the crowd to see. ARMY-NAVY GAME WAR BOND SALES. $58,637,000. Anybody who bought a war bond could get a ticket to the big game. Uncle Sam was ra
king in the dough.

  “You’re up,” Copeland said. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  Braddock stood in his dress blues and walked across the field to the microphone, which was set up in the end zone. “Um. Hello.”

  His voice boomed throughout the stadium. The crowd quieted to listen.

  He took a deep breath and said, “I’m John Braddock, formerly chief machinist’s mate for the Sandtiger. You didn’t come here to see me, so I’ll keep it short and sweet. By now, if you read the papers, you know all about Captain Harrison’s heroic stand against the Yamato in the Philippine Sea. It was a hell of a thing, but that kind of heroics goes on all the time in this war. Everybody’s giving their all and then some. The job ain’t nearly done, so I’m glad you bought war bonds so you could enjoy this great American game. And keep America fighting.”

  He glanced at Copeland, who gave him a thumbs up. Braddock’s eyes narrowed as he jumped script. “There are men from my boat in a Japanese prison right now. I didn’t especially like them all that much. I mean, they’re okay. You get to know guys when you live with them in close quarters. You’d like them a lot, though. They were the kind of guys who did heroic things like charge the Yamato to save American lives. Incredible movie stuff, only it was real. They had wives and kids and sweethearts waiting for them back home, and they went and did it anyway because it was the right thing to do. I don’t know if I would have, but Captain Harrison, that’s the kind of guy he is. Him, you’d like the most. So let me give it to you short and straight. I need you slobs to buck up so we can finish this war and get him home. He gave everything, now you can hand over twenty bucks. We’re not giving up until the job is done, and it ain’t just victory that’s on the line. It’s making sure this…”

  He grit his teeth, biting back a choice word that popped into his sailor’s brain. “It’s making sure this war, this darn war, is finally over so we can bring all the boys home for good.”

  The crowd went wild.

  In a daze, Braddock returned to his seat. “Go ahead and let me have it. I ain’t selling your bullshit.”

  Copeland grinned. “I hate to break it to you, Chief, but you just did.”

  “The war’s just a goddamn product to you, ain’t it? Like selling dish soap.”

  “The home front is as important as the front line. These people need something to believe in. A story, if you want to call it that. Good versus evil. The $58 million this game brought Uncle Sam will put a hundred B-29 bombers in the skies over Japan.”

  “So we’re all good, and they’re all evil. You really think that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re moralizing about our moralizing. Our moralizing has a useful purpose. Yours doesn’t.”

  “Fine. I’m done arguing with you, sir.”

  “Good.” The captain checked his watch. “Come on, we have to beat it. We’re due back in New York tonight for another event on the war bond express.”

  “Captain, with all due respect, I sold your soap. Now I’m gonna watch this game.”

  Copeland ordered, threatened, pleaded, and then finally gave up.

  The Army Cadets and Navy Midshipmen jogged onto the gridiron to deafening cheers. The Cadets won the coin toss and decided to kick off. The ball sailed toward the end zone, and the Midshipmen took it forward to the thirty-yard-line before the Cadets hurled the Middie out of bounds. For the entire first quarter, the ball turned over time after time, neither team making any real yardage, while the captain babbled about their upcoming soap-selling schedule.

  “Can you quit your yapping?” Braddock growled. “There’s a game on.”

  Copeland had almost made him miss the Middies executing a Statue of Liberty trick play in which the quarterback hides the ball and pretends to throw it while handing it off to a running back. Navy got a first down out of it.

  “I don’t really enjoy football,” the captain said.

  Braddock gave him the fish-eye. “What do you think we’re fighting for over there, sir? You hate apple pie too?”

  “I’m a big baseball fan—”

  “I already know you don’t give a crap about liberty, the way I’m pushed around. Maybe you’re a Nazi spy.”

  “My admiration for Captain Harrison goes up every day,” the PR officer muttered. “Because you’re impossible to manage. I don’t know how he did it.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, sir.”

  “I’m just doing my job. Without me, there is no war.”

  “That’d be a shame,” the sailor said.

  Copeland punished him with the silent treatment. Another big, fat shame.

  In the second quarter, Army advanced sixty-six yards in six plays, and then Dale Hall ran the ball twenty-four yards for a touchdown. A successful kick between the uprights delivered the extra point, putting Army in the lead 7–0.

  At half time, the midshipmen in the stands performed their traditional serenade of the Army mule while Braddock fumed. Army hadn’t won since 1938, but it wasn’t looking good. Navy had lost some good players to injuries in the first half.

  Army blocked a Navy punt in the third quarter, resulting in a two-point safety for the Cadets. Now it was 9–0. The Middie defense strengthened after that, and then their offense poured it on, driving 73 yards for a touchdown. Army 9, Navy 7.

  “We got this now,” Braddock said. “Watch and learn, Captain.”

  “You think so?” Copeland was suddenly interested. “You up for a wager?”

  Another fish-eyed stare. “You want to bet against Navy? Seriously?”

  “You’re a submariner, and I don’t even like this game, but I still understand the probabilities better than you. How about twenty bucks?”

  “You’re on. Sir.”

  “It’s just nice to see you get worked up with patriotic feelings about something. Enough to put your money where your mouth is.”

  “Army hasn’t won since 1938. Last year, we crushed them, 13–0. Just get that money ready to hand—aw, come on!”

  Army intercepted a pass that would have given Navy the lead, taking possession at midfield. The Cadets’ quarterback handed off the ball eight times to some big bastard who covered the fifty-two yards and scored.

  Army 16, Navy 7.

  “I’ve got the money right here,” the captain assured him.

  As the clock ran out, Army rubbed Navy’s face in it by bolting fifty yards through a snow flurry to score yet another touchdown.

  “Son of a—” Braddock bit back a stream of choice words. “Mother!”

  “Chief, you just bought yourself a bond to aid the war effort,” Copeland said. “You’ll thank me later.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  FAT CATS

  In New York City, Christmas decorations already adorned building facades, lampposts, and storefronts as the nation yearned for the holidays. Chief Braddock and Captain Copeland made it to Grand Central Station just in time for the next item on the grinding schedule, a big formal dinner.

  They rushed up Park Avenue to the Waldorf Astoria, which had donated a suite in the Towers with a personal bar, grand piano, and glittering uptown view. None of which Braddock would actually get to enjoy, his gilded cage being of a different sort.

  The moment he dropped his sea bag on his plush four-post bed, the captain checked his watch. “No time for a shower. We’re already late.”

  “Who are we fleecing this time?”

  “The Big Apple’s Illuminati. Corporations, banks, media, politicians.”

  “All right.”

  Copeland eyeballed him. “All right? That’s it? You’re not going to bitch about it?”

  “Why would I mind fleecing rich people? Now let’s get it over with so I can get some sleep.”

  “Good idea,” the PR officer said. “We’ve got a packed schedule tomorrow.”

  We’ll see about that, Braddock thought.

  In the mirrored elevator, he inspected his appearance. His face was stubbled with five o’clock shadow, and his dress blues
were a bit wrinkled, but he doubted anybody would care. They wanted a piece of the man who led the Sandtiger’s crew back to the surface, like he was some aquatic Moses.

  He wore his Silver Star, Purple Heart, and brand-new Navy Cross pinned to his dark blue blouse. The award ceremony had been a perfunctory affair. Uncle Charlie stuck the Navy’s highest award on his chest and shook his hand. Then the admiral’s chief of staff showed him out.

  Lockwood didn’t seem to like him very much. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad judge of character after all.

  Staring at his ugly mug in the mirror, Braddock practiced smiling.

  “No need to scare people,” Copeland said.

  When the elevator doors opened, they walked into the great entrance hall, which led to the Grand Ballroom. Gold benches rested against silver art deco columns reaching to an arched ceiling, from which sparkling chandeliers dangled. The green carpet hushed their footfalls.

  So this was how the other half lived.

  He sniffed. “What’s for supper?”

  “Whatever it is, you can bank on it being amazing. This hotel has the best banquet department in the world.”

  “Great. I’m starving.”

  “We don’t have time to eat, courtesy of your obsession with football,” the PR officer told him. “You’re on as soon as we get there. We’ll have the kitchen rustle up something for us later.”

  Catering staff pushed the doors open for them, revealing another world that was even more opulent. Across the vast red-carpeted space, hundreds of fat cats in tuxedoes and evening dresses stuffed their faces at round tables. Interior balconies overlooked the floor. A cluster of massive chandeliers shimmered just below the high ceiling. Wait staff swarmed among the tables, serving dishes and pouring wine amid a deafening babble of gossip and business deals.

  “Wow,” Braddock said.

  Forget Roosevelt and Congress. Forget the military. These were the people who ruled America, and this was where they met to talk about the ruling. You could cut the atmosphere of power in this place with a knife.