The sailor stepped under the hatch. Wearing slickers, his face was drawn tight, his blue lips stretched over chattering teeth. Water splattered on his cheeks as he looked up, pulling an earphone off his right ear. “Yes, sir?”
“Wake up, you damn fool. I want to know how the fuel transfer is going.”
More water spilled down the hatch. Kusoga’s ankles were awash, but he didn’t seem to realize it.
“Call the control room and tell them to activate the drain pump,” Yukota yelled.
“...Sir.”
Suddenly, the I-57 pitched into a trough and rolled thirty degrees to port in a bizarre, corkscrewing motion. A greenish-black mountain reared above Yukota’s head. It grew and thundered toward him, poised to rip him off the bridge. Yukota kicked the hatch shut and frantically wrapped his hands around the periscope shears. Locking his fingers, he took a deep breath just as the wave hit. Tons of fifty degree seawater pounded Yukota, threatening to tear him off the ship. Angry water penetrated his slickers, two layers of clothes and soaked his skin.
The wave subsided, tugging at his boots in white, seething swirls. Yukota could breathe again and he opened his eyes, finding it a bit lighter.
Everybody still here? Lieutenant (j.g) Koyama, his OOD, hung to the starboard bulwark, watching the U-581 pitch and crash. Aft, three motor machinists were hunkered around the fueling trunk, ensuring the hose connection remained secure. Above, Yukota made out the dim shapes of Watanabe and Kazaki, his two lookouts strapped in their positions. All present.
Yukota reached down and pulled open the hatch. “Kusoga!” he yelled.
Another face filled the void. It was Lieutenant Inichi, his engineering officer in dark, oil-splotched overalls. “Fueling complete, Captain. Ninety six percent on board.” The wind howled so loud, it nearly ripped the words from Inichi’s lips.
Yukota kneeled and shouted back. “About time. We’ll break away the hose and clear the bridge as soon as possible. Secure the diesels now and tell the control room to prepare to dive in two minutes.” He stood and called to his officer of the deck. “Koyama!”
Koyama turned and said something, but it was obliterated by screeching wind. Yukota staggered across the bridge and shouted in Koyama’s ear, “Tanks are full. Shifting to electric propulsion. Signal the U-581 to secure pumping and give them our thanks. Then lets breakaway and get the hell below. I’ll send down the lookouts and fueling crew now.”
“Yes, sir!” Koyama raised his portable signal lamp, braced it on his left forearm, and began clicking his message to the milchow.
Yukota beckoned up to Watanabe and Kazaki. Quickly, they unstrapped themselves, scrambled down the rungs and disappeared through the conning tower hatch.
“U-581 signals pumping secured, Captain,” shouted Koyama. “She adds ‘good luck.’“
“Very well. Breakaway,” yelled Yukota to the men at the trunk.
The engineers unlashed the hose and cast it into the sea, happy that the wildly snaking umbilical was free of the ship and was now the U-581's problem. With that, they secured the fueling trunk, dashed past Yukota and scrambled down the hatch.
“Come on!” Yukota yelled at Koyama. “Clear the bridge. Get down there and take the dive.”
“Sir” Koyama climbed down the hatch.
For a moment Yukota lingered, mesmerized like a deer caught in the headlights. In this lifeless dawn there were only greys, enraged greenish-whites and menacing blackness, deep in the troughs. Yet, there was the sheer power of it all. Howling winds roared and threatened to tear paint off the I-57's hull, as mountainous anthracite-gray waves built to impossibly high peaks, poised to crush anything in their paths.
To starboard, the U-581 rode a wave sluggishly, dug her nose into the next and was gone. Yukota threw a mock salute. Good-bye, Martin. Get well soon. And take care of those greenbacks you have in that briefcase wrapped around your waist. Spend it wisely, and there will be plenty for all of us on the other end. But the German had been nearly delirious with his pain, and he hoped Taubman could keep his mouth shut with all the drugs the doctor would pump into him.
Europe. They were only going to the outer reaches of the Bay of Biscay, meet the fishing trawler, transfer the crew, and scuttle the boat. To bring this off, Yukota and Shimada had to make it look good and do the fueling.
He sensed it first. Then, it grew in his vision: a rising blackness of immense power. He drew in his breath. An enormous wave built before the I-57: at least twenty-five meters high. It quickly became a greenish-white malevolent apparition dominating the entire horizon. Yukota’s whole world seemed to ascend with the wave as it rose and rose. And above the screeching wind, Yukota heard it, coming alive, groaning with tons of water ready to smash anything in its path. Louder it came, blocking the wind creating a bizarre calm.
Yukota hadn’t felt real panic until this. Quickly, he dashed down the hatch. Yanking on the cord, the hatch thumped shut above his head. “Dive! Dive the boat,” he yelled as he twirled the dogging wheel.
“Captain?” Koyama’s voice echoed up from the control room.
“Get her down, damnit! Make your depth forty meters.” Even as he said it, the wave rumbled overhead making the submarine pitch sickeningly.
“...Yes, Sir. Forty meters,” said Koyama, his voice thick with tension. Men cursed in the control room; they were having trouble with the dive.
Hands braced on his hips, Inichi asked, “Everything okay, Captain.”
Yukota dropped to the conning tower deck, pulled off his slicker. Water dribbled on the deck as he said, “You should have seen that wave, Inichi. Why does man insist on going to sea? We must be crazy.”
Inichi grinned. “Most are not after what we are, Captain.” He reached for the slicker. “Here, let me take that to the engine room and dry it out for you.”
“Thank you.” He handed it over.
The I-57 rolled thirty-five degrees to starboard. Yukota and Inichi grabbed overhead pipes and swung with it. When she straightened out, Yukota kneeled over the control-room hatch and roared, “Damnit Koyama, get on with the dive. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Working on it, Captain.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
21 July, 1944
USS Purvis Bay (CVE 88)
South Atlantic
0821.7' S; 16 13.2' W
The Grumman TBF was designed by an advanced team under the lead of Bob Hall, one of Roy Grumman’s best engineers. The mid-wing, single engine torpedo bomber was selected by the Navy over rival designs on April 8, 1941. Hall flew the first of two prototypes on August 7, 1941. The plane featured the new 1,700 horsepower R-2600 Wright-Cyclone, double row, fourteen cylinder, radial engine -- the same engine that powered the twin-engined Army Air Corps B-25 that later raided Tokyo on April 18, 1942. At 14,500 pounds, the TBF proved to be the heaviest carrier-based aircraft in the US Navy. Even so, she had a top speed of 271 miles per hour at 12,000 feet. However, the engine seemed lost in a hulking configuration that some dubbed The Pregnant Beast or the Turkey, neither of which, fortunately, proved true.
She housed a crew of three consisting of a pilot, who sat in a large cockpit close to the wing’s leading edge. Beside flying the airplane, he aimed the torpedo, and fired a fuselage-mounted .30 caliber machine gun through the propeller. In the enclosed rear compartment sat a bombardier-radio-operator who doubled as a ventral gunner. Seated just above him was the rear gunner, his all-glass turret electrically powered by an amplidyne generator that aimed a .50 caliber machine gun with great precision. With a payload of 2,000 pounds, the TBF was initially built to deliver the Mark XIII aerial torpedo. But later on, the Avenger, as she was officially dubbed, was adaptable to many missions including bombing, depth charges for anti-submarine work, rockets for air-to-ground support, and reconnaissance.
In the Atlantic, TBFs were adopted for a purpose well-served by their specifications: anti-submarine warfare. Many were fitted to carry a Westinghouse APS-4 radar mounted in a pod u
nder the right wing. A common pay load were four depth charges or two five hundred pound bombs combined with one of the most innovative weapons developed in World War II: the mark 24 acoustic torpedo. When dropped from a TBF, the seven-foot, 684 pound “FIDO” as it was code-named, had four hydrophones in each quadrant surrounding the nose, allowing it to passively track a submarine at speeds up to twelve knots. When it hit the target, a contact fuse detonated its warhead of ninety-two pounds of HBX, plenty of explosive for inflicting catastrophic damage to a submerged submarine.
The front had blown itself out. It was cold and crisp, with stars glistening in the South Atlantic pre-dawn sky. With an air temperature of fifty-five degrees, the wind had moderated to fifteen knots blowing out of the west. Seven ships steamed in a circular formation at twelve knots on course 270. In the formation’s center was the light carrier USS Purvis Bay. Stationed in a protective screen around the carrier were eight destroyer escorts: USS Cheffer, USS Fisher, USS Wallace, USS Park, USS Snowden, USS Simpson, USS Anslow and the brand new USS Beaulieu.
It was a half hour before dawn when two TBFs rose on the elevator and were spotted in tandem on the Purvis Bay’s deck. Wings still folded, they were gassed, loaded, and ready to go. Their crews had climbed aboard and were strapped in, finishing their check lists, fidgeting with last minute items. After running up the engine for two minutes, Lieutenant (j.g) Ralph Kenrich switched it off and sat back in the cockpit of the aft TBF, the name Big Lug painted on either side of the nose. Brisk ocean air washed his face, whisking way the sharp odor of 100 octane gas and hydraulic oil.
Destroyers abeam of the Purvis Bay blinked at her which usually meant an acknowledgment for a change in formation course and speed. They were already steaming into the wind so this time it was just a change of speed. Sure enough. Kenrich felt the ship vibrate as she worked up to her top speed of eighteen knots, the wind whistling a bit stronger.
Kenrich keyed his intercom mic: “Bishop, you have those recognition codes?”
“Lost ‘em in a crap game.”
“Damnit, Bishop!”
“Yes, sir. I have them. Double checked with Chief Asher just before I came up.”
“That’s better. What’s our call-sign today?”
“Hopscotch four-one, sir.”
“And Lieutenant Boyd?” Lieutenant Tommy Boyd, the group leader, was in the TBF just forward.
“He’s Hopscotch two-six, sir.”
“Okay. Now. No screwing around this time. We have a live one out there.”
“They’ve been saying that for the past four months...sir.”
Bishop’s insolence was not lost on Kenrich. They’d had a lot of dry runs lately. Everybody on the ship was frustrated. But the Air Boss, Commander Tomlinson, sounded pretty convincing at the briefing this morning. Uncharacteristically, he kept looking from side-to-side saying, ‘keep this to yourself.’ He went on to explain exactly where the target was, what it was, and when they could find her on the surface, details that Kenrich wasn’t used to. It gave him an eerie feeling.
But Tomlinson had sworn him to secrecy so Kenrich merely said, “What can I tell you?” Kenrich continued, “This is what we get paid for. If you don’t like sitting in your nice little warm compartment back there, then turn in your wings and I’ll get someone else.”
“Sir...come on.”
Bishop knew Kenrich didn’t mean it. They’d been flying together for the past thirteen months. Radioman Second Class Everett Bishop was one of the best in the bombardier-radio operator business. Plus, he was a wizard on the APS-4 radar. Kenrich was lucky to have him and he didn’t mind cutting a little slack. With a grin, he decided to leave it alone and let Bishop squirm a little.
Again, Kenrich keyed his mic. “Donoho. You okay?” Aviation Ordnanceman third class John Donoho was his rear gunner.
“As long as Bishop remembered the sandwiches and coffee, Sir,” replied Donoho.
“Sorry, Crapper. Just enough for me and the Skipper,” chirped Bishop. Donoho loved to play dice, thus his nickname, ‘Crapper.’
“Where’s my bag? They had it next to yours.” Complained Donoho.
“Couldn’t find it,” replied Bishop. Donoho was well-known for a massive appetite. Bishop enjoyed loved tormenting him.
“Damnit, Bishop. You couldn’t find your ass with both hands,” said Donoho.
Kenrich cut in. “Knock it off you guys.”
Donoho said, “Skipper. He’s saying I’m stuck in this little turret, flying for four hours without anything to eat, while he sits down there on his dead ass slopping up my food. I ought to go down there and pound some sense--”
“--Pound sense into who?” Interrupted Bishop. “You’re that strong?”
“I’m that strong, wise guy.”
“Oh,” said Bishop in a female falsetto. “You’re so strong, you have muscles in your shit. The thing is you’re just too fat. That’s why you don’t get lunch today. Too much weight. We need to save gas. Good for the war effort.”
The PA system screeched with, “Pilots, prepare to start engines.”
“Hey! Enough.” said Kenrich. “Time to get serious.”
“You’re the one with the fat butt, Bishop,” Said Donoho. “Hell, you can’t even climb through the door down there. Hell, you need ten pounds of grease just to--”
“--Start engines,” bleeped the PA.
“Pipe down fellas,” Kenrich growled. He set the fuel mixture to auto-rich and clicked the fuel priming switch a couple of times. “Here we go.” He leaned over and caught his plane captain’s eye. “Clear!” he shouted. When his plane captain gave a thumbs up, he flipped the starter switch. An electric motor whined and the prop began turning. Kenrich counted blades as they whipped by his field of view. He was glad for something to do. Sometimes it was hard to tell when Bishop and Donoho were serious. Trouble was, both were very sharp kids with completely different backgrounds: Bishop with three years of the University of Virginia; Donoho with a well-defined athletic frame and a curiously inquisitive mind seasoned by a youth spent in the ghettos of Detroit. The only times things went wrong was when they had nothing to do.
...six...seven...eight...nine blades rolled past, three complete turns. Kenrich twisted the magneto to BOTH and the R-2600 caught with a mighty roar, belching thick smoke from its twin exhaust stacks. The engine coughed, backfired loudly, and settled into a steady rumble, the smoke finally clearing.
Ahead, Tommy Boyd’s plane, Hopscotch two-six, was started with sailors now at each wingtip, pulling them forward and out, extending them for flight.
Kenrich looked down to his plane captain and gave the sign for wings unfolding. Two airman at each wing grabbed a corner and ran them forward, sliding the wings into place. Kenrich pulled the tee-handle setting a hydraulic locking pin in each wing. With a thumbs-up to his deck crew, he eased in throttle and Hopscotch four-one began waddling to the Purvis Bay’s starboard side.
His earphone clicked: Tommy’s signal to check-in and say hello.
Kenrich clicked back twice. That was all that was needed. He and Tommy knew each other well enough to know that each was ready. And out here, radio silence was important. No telling if their target was d/fing the radio waves.
Two minutes later, Hopscotch two-six roared down the deck and cleared the bow. Kenrich watched her go then put in full flaps, lined up with the bow, stepped on his breaks and locked the tail wheel. “All set fellas?” He called on the intercom while setting the prop to flat pitch.
“Yes, Sir,” they answered in unison.
Barely visible in a white sweater and white canvas cap was the ‘Fly One’ officer who stood off to Kenrich’s right. Soon, Fly One shot his fingertip over his head and twirled it in the air. Wind her up.
“Okay,” Kenrich muttered to no one in particular. Yanking the stick back into his lap, he stomped in right rudder and moved the TBF’s throttle all the way to full power. Pulling forty-eight and a half inches of manifold pressure, the R-2600 engine roared in it
s mount, the whole plane vibrating and protesting; every joint, every fitting shouting, ‘Please, please, let me fly.’
Thirty-eight knots of wind rippled Fly One’s clothes. His finger kept twirling over his cocked head, as he listened to Kenrich’s engine, making sure it sounded all right.
Aboard Hopscotch 41, Kenrich strained against his harness, waiting for the launch signal; anxious to urge his TBF into the air.
Fly One whipped down his hand.
Kenrich popped off the breaks. The TBF lunged forward with Kenrich easing the stick to neutral. The tail wheel rose and from the corner of his eye he saw the deck edge flash past. By that time, Big Lug had flying speed and was already five feet above the flight deck. She dropped a bit and Kenrich pulled back the stick just a little, eased into a shallow right turn and slapped the landing gear handle to the UP position, all at the same time, not really thinking about it. Next, he began milking up the flaps, setting the cowl flaps, and pulling pulled Big Luginto a climbing turn to join up with Tommy Boyd. Datum was a hundred miles out; course 300 magnetic.
“You sure you don’t have my sandwich?” Asked Donoho.
Bishop gave an exaggerated yawn. “Call me later. It’s time for my nap.
“Three more degrees right, Skipper.” There was a captivating timbre to Bishop’s voice. He’d picked up the contact three minutes ago; right on schedule. Aside from the engine’s rumble, it was quiet, level. All three sat straight up.
“Check,” said Kenrich steering the new course. The sun wasn’t quite up but the sky was much lighter. Kenrich flew lead since he had the radar; Boyd, who had sonobuoys and listening equipment, flew wing position. Kenrich had two five-hundred pound bombs and the FIDO, Boyd carried four depth charges.
At one thousand feet. The angle was perfect as they came upon on the target nearly out of the sun. “How’s the echo doing?” asked Kenrich.
“Strong, Sir. Just six miles, now,” said Bishop.
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 24