Battle Stations: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 3)

by Craig DiLouie

  “You speak English?”

  “A little. He does not.”

  “Why is he afraid of me?”

  “He told Americans torture prisoners. Eat them.”

  A torpedoman grinned. “He thought you wanted to cook him, Mr. Harrison.”

  “I don’t see the humor,” Charlie growled. He held out the papers to the officer. “Give these to him. Tell him we don’t eat people. It’s ridiculous he believes that.”

  The officer spoke rapidly to the sailor. The string of harsh sentences sounded like commands. The sailor wiped his eyes and muttered, “Hai.”

  “The water ruined your letters.”

  “No matter. I remember words. My sword is at sea bottom. Letters all I have left to fight with.”

  “What’s your name and rank?”

  “First Lieutenant Tanaka Akio. Infantry. Army of the Greater Japanese Empire.”

  “Thank you, Tanaka. Smokey, write that down.”

  “If you wish to call me by my given name, it is Akio,” the officer said stiffly. My family name is Tanaka. In Japan, family name come first. To you, however, I am Lieutenant Tanaka.”

  “Good to know, Lieutenant. I’m Lieutenant Charles Harrison, this boat’s executive officer. What about your friend here?”

  Tanaka pulled a cloth field cap with a short peak and neck flap from his jacket and wrung it out over the deck. “I do not know him. I will ask.” More rapid-fire Japanese. “Merchant marine, assistant cook, Ando Eiji.”

  Charlie’s anger receded as the thrill of talking to the enemy asserted itself. That and the burning question: Why?

  Why did they start this war? Why were they fighting? Why did they hate America so much?

  Instead, he asked, “What’s your unit?”

  “One Hundred Eightieth Infantry Division, Twenty-Fifth Regiment.”

  “Why are you out here? Where were you going?”

  “Manchukuo to join Kwantung Defense Army. No more fighting for us.”

  “No,” Charlie said. “No more fighting for you.”

  “No more fighting for my men.” The lieutenant stared at Charlie, his eyes hard black stones. “My platoon is dead in sea.”

  Surprising, how open the Japanese officer was to giving information. But then, Japan had agreed to the Geneva Convention of 1929 but hadn’t ratified it. Lieutenant Tanaka might not know it even existed. The military didn’t expect its soldiers to surrender. It therefore didn’t train them to seek the treaty’s protections.

  “When you say Manchukuo, do you mean Manchuria?”

  “Yes. That is your name for it.”

  “What was the name of the ship you were on?”

  “Roiyaru Maru. Means, ‘royal.’ Like king.”

  “Where were you stationed before posting to Manchuria?”

  “In Philippines,” Tanaka told him.

  Charlie frowned. “Did you serve on Mindanao?”

  On Mindanao, an IJA lieutenant cut off Angela Lopez’s head after his platoon raped her to death. That was how Jane told it.

  “No,” Tanaka said. “Luzon.”

  “Since the beginning of the war?” He remembered Japan had been at war since 1937. “Your war against America, I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Goddamn, sir,” Smokey said. “Ask him if he was at Bataan.”

  After American and Filipino forces defending the Bataan peninsula collapsed, the Japanese force-marched them sixty miles north to a prison camp in Balanga. Eighty thousand men, already depleted by combat, hunger, and disease. The Japanese beat them at will. Drove trucks over those too weak to walk. Bayoneted others who couldn’t keep up. Thousands died.

  Back home, the press called it the Bataan Death March.

  “You and your friend should be terrified, being captured by us,” Charlie snarled. “You have no right to ask for fair treatment, the way you treated us in Bataan.”

  “Senjinkun—Code of Battlefield Conduct—make surrender not allowed,” Tanaka said. “My family will be told I am dead because soldiers not allowed surrendering. Surrender is dishonor. To say goodbye to country and family. To be like dog. Your men surrendered. Some soldiers treated them as dishonorable.”

  He’d made an enemy of the captain, and for what, men like Tanaka? He was angry with the captain, disappointed in himself. “The only dishonor is torturing and murdering prisoners. You dishonored yourselves by doing that.”

  “You do things in war. You carry them around like field pack. They get heavier and heavier. Then they become part of you. You do not plan this. It just happens. It is war. You shot my men in water with your machine guns. You are kaizoku. Sea robber. I am not proud of some things I did. Are you?”

  Charlie stood. “That’s enough for now. Smokey, I want an armed guard detailed to these prisoners at all times. Get them some dry clothes.”

  “Aye, aye, Mr. Harrison.”

  “May I ask question,” Tanaka said.

  “You can ask, Lieutenant.”

  “Why are you here? You are very far from home.”

  “To sink ships,” Charlie told him. “Teach your people there’s no point to fighting. Nowhere is safe. Our navy grows every month. You can’t win this war.”

  “Japanese people will never be told of ships sinking. Nobody can admit you sinking our ships. We not allowed losing. You need understand.”

  “Understand what, exactly?”

  “You cannot win this war. We fight to death, every one of us. If we have ten lives, we give them all to Emperor.”

  “But you don’t,” Charlie said and left the prisoners.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PASSING IN THE NIGHT

  Sandtiger raced north until the burning ships became sparks on the horizon that one by one winked out.

  The world became black again under a sea of stars.

  Northerly winds stirred up swells. The submarine pitched gently on the water.

  At 0230, the captain gave his executive officer the conn and went below for a few hours of sleep. Charlie scanned the darkness with his binoculars.

  Despite his exhaustion, he stayed alert. Now that the battle was over, he had to be sparing with his radar sweeps.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Smokey,” Charlie said. “You never seem to get tired.”

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Mr. Harrison.”

  He lowered the binoculars and eyed the quartermaster. “You all right?”

  After a while, Smokey said, “It’s like the man said, Mr. Harrison. It’s war. Knowing those Japs were at Bataan, I don’t feel much of anything.”

  “We’re not like them.”

  “I heard a story about Japs pretending to surrender at Guadalcanal. Once our guys got close, they started shooting. They leave their wounded behind with a grenade hoping to take out one of our medics. Maybe we should be a little more like them if we want this war to end.”

  Charlie had heard the same. He’d also heard of some Marines taking ears and bones from the Japanese dead and mailing them home as souvenirs. He remembered Quiet Bill’s warning this war would get nastier and bloodier the longer it went on. Charlie refused to play along. War itself may have been dishonorable, but it should be conducted with honor.

  He decided to drop the subject. “Conn, Bridge. Sugar Jig, give me a sweep on the PPI.”

  Nixon acknowledged. A minute later, he said, “Contact.”

  Charlie frowned. “What sort of contact? Report!”

  “Cole picked up a wavering on the PPI. He thinks it’s another radar. Whatever it is, it’s small. Smaller than a DD.”

  “A PT boat?”

  “Maybe. Maybe a submarine. Target bearing one-five-oh, three-five-five relative. Range, two miles. Speed, twenty knots.”

  “One of ours?” Smokey asked. “The Japs don’t have radar, do they?”

  Charlie chewed his lip. They might. If they did have radar, they’d save it for important ships. No PT board would rate it.

  A submarine?

  “Nixon, s
ecure the radar. Come right to oh-three-five. Send a message to Redhorse and Warmouth. Find out if they’re in this area.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  “And Nixon, tell the forward room to stand by.”

  Sandtiger breasted the swells, holding course. The range shrank to three thousand yards. Charlie ordered short radar sweeps at irregular intervals.

  The target maintained its heading of one-nine-five.

  “Conn, Bridge. Any word from Redhorse or Warmouth?”

  “We just got a message. Warmouth. It’s not them.”

  When they’d left the battle, the two destroyers had been hunting Redhorse. She might not have surfaced yet.

  Or that might be her out there in dark.

  “Call battle stations,” Charlie said.

  A short time later, Nixon reported, “Battle stations manned. Captain’s on the way to the conn. He says to shoot the target when you’re in range.”

  “Very well.” Charlie slapped his binoculars into the TBT bracket. “Forward room, make ready the tubes. Order of tubes is one, two. Set depth at four feet. High speed.”

  Range, 2,100 yards. He could shoot at 2,000 yards, but it’d be a long shot. If he got any closer than that, he’d be inviting trouble.

  When submarines fought submarines, the winner was usually the one that spotted the other and fired first. If the enemy detected you during your approach, he could turn the tables in an instant.

  A submarine duel wasn’t quite cat and mouse. It was more like cat hunting cat.

  He could dive, but the fast-moving target would zip away from him before he could get a shot. He decided to tough it out. Try to get as close as possible before shooting his fish. He hoped to confirm the target was Japanese before shooting.

  “I need eyes on him,” Charlie growled. “Smokey, you see him yet?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  The window was closing. The target range would start expanding soon. He’d have to turn the boat around and give chase back to the battle scene. An area that in a short time would be swarming with IJN warships.

  “I’ve got her,” the quartermaster said. “She’s a submarine.” Once confirmed to be a submarine, the target became feminine.

  “One of ours?”

  “I can’t tell yet.”

  “Bridge, Conn! Target has us on radar!”

  At the radar station, the wavering radar waves steadied on the PPI screen.

  “Stand by forward! Control, stand by to dive!”

  “I don’t think she’s one of ours,” Smokey said.

  A light winked in the dark.

  Whoever she was, she’d spotted Sandtiger.

  “Get the blinker gun!” Charlie barked.

  “What do you want me to tell them?”

  “Something. Anything. Those aren’t our recognition signals. We’re shooting.”

  Lights flashed between the submarines as they closed.

  Charlie pressed the TBT transmit button. “Final bearing, mark!”

  The conn replied, “Set below! Shoot anytime!”

  “Shoot!”

  Sandtiger bucked as the torpedo rushed into the sea. Jets of steam and phosphorescent bubbles marked its path across the water.

  “One’s away!”

  Smokey snapped off random signals.

  “Two’s away!”

  No response. The Japanese submarine had gone dark.

  “Clear the bridge,” Charlie shouted. “Dive, dive, dive!”

  The men slid down the hatch. Klaxon wailing, the boat was already angling into the water.

  “Hatch secured!” Smokey called out.

  The captain had the conn. “Take her down, emergency! Left, full rudder! All ahead flank! Rig for silent running!”

  Pressure in the boat, green board. Seawater flooded the ballast tanks. The deck tilted as Sandtiger penetrated the depths at a steep angle.

  The crew rigged for silent running. Compartment doors slammed shut. Blowers and motors turned off. Steering and depth control switched to manual operation. Nonessential crew reported to their bunks.

  Smokey counted seconds on his stopwatch the whole time. Charlie hoped to hear a boom followed by the roar of a ship breaking apart.

  “Depth, forty-five feet,” he said. “Control, close all vents.”

  “Take us to 200 feet,” the captain said.

  At ninety seconds, Charlie gave up hope. The enemy sub had evaded his fish. “Depth, 185 feet. Control, blow negative. Helm, reduce speed to one-third.”

  Sandtiger leveled off at the desired depth. Moreau ordered the sound heads rigged out. “Sound, report!”

  “He went silent, Captain,” the soundman said.

  Fear flickered across the captain’s face. Something Charlie never expected to see. “We just went from hunter to hunted.”

  Hours passed in silent running, but no further contact was made.

  The enemy submarine had disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  OUT FOR BLOOD

  Sandtiger surfaced and transmitted a contact report to Redhorse and Warmouth. Then she continued her northward trek, zigzagging.

  Come morning, she dived.

  Ocean movement. Temperature. Jettisoned garbage. Depleted diesel. Lost torpedoes. All of it affected trim, or how level the boat rested in the depths.

  Charlie ordered seawater pumped from forward to auxiliary, from auxiliary to after trim. Running on only two hours of sleep, he couldn’t put it together.

  “Any time now, Number Two,” Moreau said from his lawn chair.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead as if he were in combat. “Aye, aye, Captain. Control, pump from auxiliary to after trim, five hundred pounds.”

  “We got just two days left to kill Japs.” The captain frowned as the boat shifted in the water. “Mind your bubble, Mister!”

  Percy seemed to sense the change in atmosphere. He looked from Charlie to the captain and back again. He’d seen execs wash out of Sandtiger after getting on the captain’s bad side.

  “Control, pump from after trim to sea, five hundred pounds,” Charlie said.

  “Five hundred out,” Control reported.

  At last. “We’ve got good trim, Captain.”

  “Very well. The men have had enough rest. Call ’em to relaxed battle stations. Two days. We’re gonna make ’em count.”

  Relaxed battle stations allowed the crew their normal rotation of work and leisure time, but required the combat section remain close to stations and ready to fight.

  “What’s our next move, Skipper?” Percy asked.

  “Back to Otaru to sink Japs.” He shouted down the hatch, “Take us up to periscope depth, Chief!”

  Percy nudged Charlie. “What are they like? The prisoners? I’d like to go forward and look at them myself. Prod them with a stick or something.”

  “The lieutenant is quite a man. Intense. He’s seen a lot of the war.”

  “I’ve never even met a Jap before,” the communications officer said. “And here I am killing them. Did the officer have a samurai sword?”

  Charlie rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Apparently so. Lost in the sea.”

  “It’d be a gas to see one.”

  “I’m surprised how open he is about giving information. Intelligence is going to get a lot of good dope out of him.”

  “It’s the Japanese way,” Moreau cut in. “When they surrender, they break all ties with the fatherland. They don’t exist anymore.”

  “Must be nice in a way,” Percy said. “After growing up in a country run like a military boarding school. They’re free men now.”

  “They’re men with nothing to lose,” the captain said. “Keep a close eye on ’em.”

  “The sailor seems friendly enough once he realized we don’t plan to torture and eat him,” Charlie said. “He was an assistant cook on the liner.” He’d put the man to work in the kitchen, which always needed an extra pair of hands.

  Sandtiger leveled off at periscope depth. The captain jerked his
thumbs. He hugged the scope, slowly walking a circle to get a three-sixty view. “Tin can, bearing two-double-oh. A pair of Zekes, far, bearing oh-eight-oh. The Japs are out for blood after what we did to ’em last night. Down scope.”

  Charlie expected the Japanese to respond in force, but the news disappointed him anyway. Shipping would dry up across the Japan Sea for the next few days. By the time things settled down, Sandtiger would be steaming back to Pearl.

  But not right away, he reminded himself. She’d still have time left before she had to return to base. Perhaps the captain would patrol the waters northeast of Honshu. Dangerous territory for submarines, but good hunting grounds.

  He could still do some good in the war before Moreau shit-canned him.

  Over the next two hours, periscope checks revealed nothing but destroyers and patrol boats swarming the surface. Meanwhile, an enemy submarine trolled the waters. As Moreau said, the hunter was now the hunted.

  Their watch ended, Charlie and Percy went to the wardroom for breakfast.

  Liebold sat at one of the chairs, coughing into his fist. “Good morning.”

  “’Morning.” One day, Charlie knew, the chlorine gas would kill him.

  Waldron served breakfast all around. Bacon and eggs, hot coffee.

  “I heard about what you did last night,” Liebold said. “Stopping the men from machine gunning the Japs. You did good, Charlie.”

  “Thanks.” He returned Liebold’s smile. At least he was off the torpedo officer’s shit list. “The captain wants an exec who’s just like him. I’m not that guy.” He turned to Percy. “What happened to the last exec? Where did he end up?”

  “Trains sailors on an S-boat at Mare Island,” the communications officer said, his cheeks bulging with food. “He’ll probably never fire a shot in anger again.”

  Charlie picked at his eggs. “Great.”

  “You could fight it,” Liebold offered.

  “I don’t know.” Moreau was god of this boat. If he wanted Charlie off submarines, that’s all it took. “Maybe I’m done.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Percy said. “You could end up at Mare Island yourself. Marry that girl of yours. Work on those hobbies. Stay alive. I can think of worse fates.”

  “You’re right,” Charlie said, though he knew he’d miss the submarines. In the tedium, terror, cramped living conditions, stink, and cleithrophobia, his restless spirit had somehow found a home. “I was hoping to keep fighting, though.”