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

by Craig DiLouie

  “What?”

  “I can barely walk. You’re going to have to do it.”

  Morrison squinted into the gloom and didn’t move, no doubt wondering how he was supposed to accomplish his captain’s order.

  Charlie said, “You’re captain now.” The rank had become tribal, something passed down to the worthy. “You have to lead the men.”

  They were lucky only a single torpedo had struck them. The freighter was taking on water and sinking, but they still had time. They all had a chance to survive if they worked together.

  Soon, however, the American submarine would come back to finish the job.

  “Aye, aye.” Morrison hollered, “I’m going up the ladder to force the hatch open! We’re getting out! Who’s with me?”

  Dozens cheered their approval. A surprising number didn’t, choosing to give up and remain where they sat on the deck. After everything they’d endured, they welcomed the relief of death.

  “You.” Morrison pointed to a giant Marine. “This is my captain. The beriberi’s got into his legs. Can you carry him?”

  The Marine hauled Charlie into a fireman’s carry. “Let’s go, sir.”

  The prisoners surged up the ladder and heaved at the hatch until it broke. Charlie held on as the Marine grunted up the rungs. The brute lugged him topside and spilled him onto the deck before rushing off.

  Charlie sat where he’d fallen, drinking in air and bright sunshine glittering on a bejeweled sea. Men were running in all directions. The Japanese were piling into lifeboats. One of the camp guards was there, shouting at the Americans. He fired his rifle at a man in the crowd, who went down in a bloody mist.

  Spotting Charlie, he chambered another bullet and raised his rifle.

  The prisoners swarmed over him in a frenzied pile. More shots rang out. Men screamed in rage and pain. The remaining Japanese leaped overboard to take their chances in the water.

  Charlie struggled to his feet. Half the convoy was burning on the sea, whistles blasting in panic. One of the destroyers was almost vertical, its stern pointed to heaven, going down quickly in boiling foam. A distant ship exploded in a blinding flash, the shockwave nearly knocking Charlie to the deck.

  The prisoners cheered and capered like lunatics, surreal against a vista of broken and burning ships. The general alarm continued to shriek its call to quarters. Two men held a sagging Japanese sailor between them while another bashed him to a pulp with a length of steel pipe. Others passed bottles of sake between them. An American pilot wearing the Japanese captain’s peaked cap staggered past laughing.

  Morrison emerged from the chaos. “The ship is ours! I’ll get us some food from the galley.”

  “No time for that! Get life preservers. Anything that’ll float. I’ll meet you at the bow.”

  “Aye, aye!”

  The lieutenant entered the mad throng. Charlie limped to the gunwale in time to see a torpedo wake streak toward the hull.

  “MORRISON! We’re about to be—”

  BOOM

  A massive fireball consumed the stern and mushroomed into the sky. The ship jumped in the water. The jolt flung Charlie into the air. Too terrified to scream or even think, he plunged toward the sea and landed in utter darkness. Chunks of the ship struck the water around him in angry splashes.

  It was like the dream he’d had the night before he lost the Sandtiger. Floundering in a vast sea while Evie paddled toward him in a raft. He could see her now, smiling at him. She swept her hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear, a simple gesture that always made his heart race. She beckoned. He couldn’t reach. He was going down. Something dark and vast and primal lived in the sea, and it wanted him.

  He stretched for her hand but missed. He couldn’t do it.

  Charlie lunged and gripped.

  He coughed thick liquid. Evie was gone. He was blind. Whatever he’d grabbed onto felt slippery but solid in his hands, and it kept him afloat. He wiped at his eyes. They stung, but he could now see a painful blur.

  Oil. He was covered in oil.

  He was clinging to a plank at the edge of an oil slick. Flames roared from the dying freighter in waves of steam and black smoke. Men screamed for help. The dead littered the slick, a floating carpet of bodies.

  He paddled away as quickly as his weakened legs would take him. It was only a matter of time before the sea caught fire and consumed him with it.

  Another freighter chugged close by to pick up Japanese sailors. Hoping for rescue, some of the surviving prisoners swam toward the boat. Rifles cracked as Japanese sailors shot at them. Others used poles to push the prisoners underwater.

  A torpedo wake raced past him. Charlie kicked as hard as he could, struggling to distance himself from the inevitable—

  BOOM

  The torpedo struck the freighter’s bow.

  BOOM

  A second torpedo struck it amidships. Charlie’s eardrums popped in the hot shockwave. Metal shards tore through the air with high-pitched whirs, thrashing the water around him like skipping stones.

  The heat intensified as the oil slick caught fire.

  “No,” Charlie groaned.

  He kicked through bobbing debris, willing his decrepit legs to move. Panting, he turned to see a lake of fire spread across the sea. Bodies, wreckage, floundering survivors, rowboats crammed with Japanese sailors. All of it went up in flames like a vision of hell.

  Morrison had been right; there was no end to the horror and suffering. No end except death. The fire raced toward him.

  And stopped. He’d made it out of the oil slick. He kept pumping his legs to escape the blistering heat.

  When he had put enough distance between himself and the flames, he allowed himself to rest in the quiet aftermath. Charlie drifted alone on an empty sea. One by one, the convoy’s great ships tumbled to the bottom.

  Hopeless. Best to let the plank go and be done with it.

  He couldn’t. He didn’t.

  Not while there was still any chance at survival.

  The sea in front of him exploded.

  A gray submarine lunged from the water and leveled with a mighty splash.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  HOMECOMING

  Bloodied by its kills, the submarine appeared to stretch in the sun. Sailors rushed to stations on the deck.

  Behind it, another submarine burst from the sea. Then another.

  Charlie prayed they spotted him. With the world still a dim gray blur, he could barely see them.

  So close to rescue now.

  He shouted at the top of his lungs. It sounded weak and tinny in his oil-clogged ears. The sea wind swept his calls away.

  One by one, the wolf pack started their engines with puffs of smoke.

  “Help,” he croaked.

  Nobody heard him. They were leaving him here to die, karma’s final spite.

  No. The nearest submarine was turning toward him. The sleek gray shape grew larger by the moment. A security detail lined the deck with rifles and Thompsons. The captain stood on the bridge.

  So close now he heard them talking about him.

  “Why bother,” somebody said. “He’ll just drown himself like the other Nips.”

  “The captain wants us to try and get a prisoner. Throw him the line.”

  The line splashed nearby. Charlie grabbed on, but with his oil-slickened hands, he could barely hold it. They pulled him foot by agonizing foot through the water and hauled him aboard.

  He landed on the deck in a black puddle. Two sailors aimed rifles at him.

  “Christ, look at him,” one said. “Skin and bones.”

  “Can’t even feed their ship crews anymore.”

  Charlie gasped, “American.”

  “That’s right, asshole. We’re Americans.”

  “American,” Charlie said. “Submariner.”

  The sailors glanced at each other.

  A distant voice: “What did he say?”

  “I think he’s saying he’s an American submari
ner, Captain!”

  The other sailor: “They taught him to say that. Okay, Nip, you’re American. Who won the Army-Navy game this year?”

  “Shut it, Blackie,” the captain said. “He doesn’t even look Japanese.” He crouched beside Charlie. “I’m Captain Boyer. You’re aboard the Thornfish. You’re safe now.”

  Charlie nodded. “Good.”

  “Who are you, sailor?”

  “Harrison. Lt. Commander. Sandtiger.”

  “What’d he say, Skipper?”

  After a moment of stunned silence, the captain took a ragged breath. “Jesus Christ, it’s Hara-kiri.” He jumped to his feet and bellowed, “Get this man below now! And get Doc!”

  “Aye, aye, Captain!” Sailors rushed to pick him up.

  “You treat him like royalty, you hear?” Boyer said. “As far as you’re concerned, he’s Uncle Charlie, your mama, and the King of England all rolled into one.” Then he shouted, “Wait! Commander, how did you end up here?”

  “Prison ship,” Charlie said.

  The captain paled. “Ricci, tell Bryant to radio the other boats. We just torpedoed a goddamn prison ship. We need to look for survivors.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Godspeed, Captain Harrison. Doc will take good care of you.”

  They wrapped him in blankets and lowered him through the weapons hatch into the wardroom. Word had raced through the Thornfish their prisoner was a submarine skipper. Sailors came from across the boat to help. They propped him in a chair and crowded around.

  “Christ, look at him.”

  “What’d they do to him?”

  “He’s been missing in action since last October.”

  “Isn’t he the guy who went toe to toe with the Yamato at Samar?”

  “Where’d he even come from? Is it true we sank a ship full of prisoners?”

  “Make a hole!” A hulking officer in service khakis leaned in to inspect Charlie’s face. “Yup, it’s him.” He smiled. “Welcome aboard, hotshot.”

  It was Bryant, with whom he’d served on the Sabertooth.

  Charlie opened his mouth to speak. “Good…” He choked on the words as the crew babbled around him.

  “Shut it, everybody,” a chief growled. “He wants to say something.”

  “Good to see you, Bryant,” Charlie said.

  He gazed at his oil-covered hands and let out a wracking sob. He’d lost everything, Morrison was dead, and Rusty and Percy remained imprisoned. He’d suffered unimaginable horrors. He’d stared death in the face. But he’d survived, and he was here, among family, and he was finally safe.

  At long last, Charlie was home.

  Bryant swallowed hard, fighting tears, and rested his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “You’re all right now. Where’s the steward? Somebody get him some hot coffee and chow!”

  “Doc’s coming, Exec,” a sailor called from the passage.

  The pharmacist’s mate pushed through the crowd and kneeled beside Bryant. “Commander, my name’s Manning. You can call me Doc. I’m going to take care of you. First, we have to get you cleaned up.”

  “We got food on the way,” Bryant said.

  “Cancel it,” said Manning.

  “To hell with you, Doc! Look at him!”

  “He’s starving. I know you want to feed him, but if you do, you could kill him. He can have a cup of water, a cup of tomato soup, and some crackers, that’s it.”

  “Hungry,” Charlie said.

  The sailors clamored to produce a feast. Steak, bacon and eggs, coffee. Whatever the commander wanted, he should get.

  Manning pursed his lips at Bryant, who said, “Doc says no, and that’s final.” He glared at the confused steward. “Go get some tomato soup!”

  “Aye, aye!” the man cried and hurried toward the galley.

  “The next step is to give Commander Harrison some space and dignity,” the pharmacist’s mate said. “Everybody, clear out and let me fix him. Exec, did I hear right that he knows you?”

  “We served together on the Sabertooth.”

  “Then you can stay if you want to assist.”

  “Tell me what to do,” Bryant said.

  Wanting to help but having no way to do it, the sailors dispersed grumbling. With the room cleared, the pharmacist’s mate went to work. He swabbed oil from Charlie’s eyes, nose, ears, and mouth.

  “See better now?” he asked.

  Charlie nodded, so exhausted and bewildered he wondered if he was dreaming and he’d wake up clutching a board in an empty sea.

  “You’re lucky the oil didn’t scratch your corneas.” Manning gave him a shot, which he said was glucose. “Captain, just at a glance I can see you’ve got beriberi, scurvy, and the beginnings of jaundice because of the scurvy. I can help you, but you need hospital care. You also have serious injuries that may not be properly healed.”

  Bryant eyed Charlie with worry. “He’s gonna make it, though, right, Doc?”

  “Unless he’s got even bigger problems I don’t know about yet, I’d say yeah, he should survive long enough to get to a hospital.”

  Working together, they cut away Charlie’s rags and washed the oil from his body with “pink lady,” which was rubbing alcohol and other ingredients, careful to avoid his open scurvy sores, which Manning treated with lotion.

  Bryant stared at his scars in awe, some he’d gotten in combat and others he’d gained during his captivity. “What the hell did they do to you?”

  Manning threw him a warning glare. “You don’t want to know, and he doesn’t have to talk about it until he’s good and ready.”

  After cleaning the oil off, they washed him with soap and precious clean water. Then they helped him put on spare service khakis, which hung limply on his rail-thin frame.

  The steward poked his head into the room. “Okay to bring in his supper?”

  “Bring it,” Manning said.

  Charlie gaped in wonder at the bowl of hot soup and crackers set before him. He shoved a spoonful into his mouth. It burned his tongue, but he didn’t care.

  It was the most wonderful thing he’d ever tasted.

  “He’s got a smile on his face,” Bryant said. “That’s a good sign.”

  Manning touched Charlie’s arm. “Take your time. Understand?”

  Charlie nodded. Returning to the world had to be done slowly. One step at a time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE THORNFISH

  After Charlie’s small supper, Manning gave him a bunk and a mild shot of morphine. He slept for two days.

  When he woke, he was ravenous, but that was nothing new.

  The pharmacist’s mate allowed him some buttered toast and water. Even this simple fare struck Charlie as a marvel, but it wasn’t enough. All he could think about was fat and sugar. Cheeseburgers and apple pie.

  “You’re a submariner,” Manning told him. “You know how to be patient.”

  Bryant brought him books and snuck him a doughnut, which Charlie tore apart in wolfish bites.

  The captain didn’t visit.

  “He’s still looking for more survivors from the prison ship,” the exec said.

  “He find any?”

  “Nope. You’re the lucky one.”

  “I’m the lucky one,” Charlie echoed. He had to wonder about that.

  Karma had a weird way of doing business.

  As a result of having to adjust to a diet that was essentially new for his body, stomach cramps arrived soon after Bryant’s visit. Charlie lurched to the officers’ head to empty his bowels. Afterward, he wandered the submarine silent as a ghost while the crew eyed him. He guessed they’d been warned not to mug him until he’d properly recovered. No doubt, they were trying to reconcile the man who’d sunk the Yosai and taken on the Yamato with the hollow matchstick figure haunting their boat. In a way, Charlie was too.

  It was strange being back on a submarine. Familiar yet alien. The Thornfish was a Balao-class boat, which were built with stronger frames and hull than the Gato-cl
ass submarines, enabling dives as deep as 400 feet. A step up from the old Sandtiger, a real beauty.

  While its hum and diesel stench sounded and smelled like home, he didn’t belong here. It wasn’t his boat. He wasn’t captain or even an officer here. Just a rider.

  His home was at the bottom of the Philippine Sea.

  By the fourth day, the trips to the head became less frequent and urgent, and Manning allowed him to eat bigger meals. His sores were healing. The pain in his joints abated a little. His decrepit legs gained strength. He had his first cup of hot black coffee, which he sipped like nectar.

  A short time later, Boyer visited him in the wardroom. The two commanders regarded each other over burning cigarettes and coffee mugs. “I’ve called off the search. We’ve got new orders.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “You can eat supper with the rest of us officers tonight for starters. You seem to be back on your feet, more or less.”

  “And after that?”

  He was tired of being in everybody’s way, useless and taking up space. He needed something to do, even if Manning wouldn’t approve.

  “You’re not ready for duty,” Boyer said. “You’re still sick as hell, and the way you yell in your sleep, you got some things to work out. Get better.”

  Charlie sipped his coffee, closing his eyes and savoring it. “If you have time, I’d appreciate you catching me up on the war.”

  “Since last October? Let’s see, we took the Philippines. After that, Iwo Jima and Okinawa, the last military barrier to us invading Nippon proper. We bombed the hell out of Tokyo, flattened half the city with 700,000 incendiary bombs. Hitler’s dead, Germany surrendered. Roosevelt died. Truman’s president now, he’s okay. And we finally sank your old friend the Yamato.”

  “Sounds like we’ll be invading soon,” Charlie said.

  “Our heavy bombers are hitting their cities around the clock. Third Fleet is off the coast shelling them. More than sixty-five big cities have been firebombed. The next step is invasion, probably Kyushu first.”

  He finished his coffee. “I missed a lot in that camp.”

  Boyer winced as his imagination went to work. “You mind telling me what they did to you?”

  “You don’t want to know.” It already felt unreal to him. “The Japs still have two of my men. Lieutenant Rusty Grady, my exec, and Lieutenant Jerry Percy. Lieutenant Les Morrison was also captured, but he was … killed. Can you pass it up?”