“Very well. Rudder amidships,” said Ingram.
“My rudder is amidships, Captain.” answered the helmsman.
“Very well. Single up all lines,” called Ingram. Looking rapidly from the fo’c’sle to the fantail he willed his men to hurry. Come on, come on, time to get the hell out of here.
Admiral Myszynski walked out on the Dixie’s main deck and stood eye-to-eye with Ingram, just twenty feet away.
Damnit. He had hoped to get his ship underway before the old man came out. Ingram saluted, “Afternoon, Admiral.”
Myszynski returned the salute. “Afternoon, Todd.”
“All lines singled up, sir,” said Ingram’s talker, a thin, sallow face, blond storekeeper first class named Vincent.
“Very well. Take in lines one, three, four, five and six.”
Vincent repeated the order in a deep baritone voice...
Ingram caught Myszynski’ s eye. “Any news yet, Admiral?”
Myszynski shook his head. “Last I heard the quacks had Toliver in surgery. It sounds like he’ll be all right. But the two SPs are dead.”
Ingram shook his head. “Anything on Taubman?”
“Lines, one, three, four, five, and six, on deck, sir,” reported Vincent.
“--Very well.”
“--Just that he stole a truck and was last seen driving north.” Myszynski shook his head. “Hell, how far can he go on an island 200 miles long?”
Kelly walked up behind Ingram and said quietly, “Captain, what the hell are we doing?”
Ingram checked aft to see the wind pushing the fantail out nicely. He wouldn’t need an ahead bell after all. But he flushed a bit, knowing Kelly had caught him off guard. “Take in line two. All engines back one-third.”
Maxwell’s screws bit. She shuddered and gathered sternway. “Sound one long blast,” called Ingram.
The leehelmsman pulled the lever over his head, the mournful whistle-blast echoing over the harbor for five long seconds.
“Line two on deck,” reported Vincent.
“Very well.”
Ingram turned and again saluted Myszynski as the distance between the ships grew.
Myszynski returned the salute as Ingram called, “Sound three short blasts.”
After the three blasts, they were a half a shiplength away when Myszynski called, “Todd?”
“Sir?” Ingram’s voice echoed across the widening chasm.
“Welcome back, Sailor.”
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
29 September, 1944
USS Maxwell (DD 525)
1955.2' South; 164 23.9' East
Coral Sea
Ingham walked into his sea cabin and, fully clothed, tumbled into his bunk. But it was his first night back at sea and he was too keyed up for sleep. Tossing and turning, the covers scrunched him beneath as he watched moonlight stream through the porthole. It meandered up and down the opposite bulkhead like a single spot on a darkened stage. The Maxwell rolled easily in troughs. He dared not take a sleeping pill lest he was called to the bridge for an emergency, so he lay there blinking at the overhead. Occasionally, he heard a voice out on the bridge, the Coral Sea slapping against the hull, a hatch thumping, or laughter welling up from the main deck.
Unlike his larger day-cabin on the main deck, the sea cabin was up on the third deck just behind the pilot house where one felt the motion of the ship more acutely. Normally, mild seas like this would rock him off to dreamland like a baby. But tonight, things popped into his mind unchecked: Were they going fast enough? Should they zig-zag? He clenched his fists with, maybe there’s a Japanese submarine out there right now, down moon, waiting for a perfect setup. But he’d talked it over with Landa just before he shoved off in the Thomas. Together, they sketched a crude map of New Caledonia on the back of a plan-of-the-day. Upon clearing Noumea’ s minefield and the barrier reef, Maxwell, would steam northwest at twenty-five knots until she reached the island’s northern extremity, Recif de l’Arch d’Alliance, a fancy name for a mile-long reef. At that point, Maxwell would then head due north to rendezvous with the Franklin and Task Group 58.38 at about noon on the 29th.
But Landa was in one of his moods: Business-like. None of the old ‘Boom Boom’ Landa. It didn’t help when Dexter ran squealing down the main deck, waving a hotdog in the air. Two dark-overalled Sailors ran after Dexter, one growling, “Bring that back you little”.” He stopped when he saw Landa. “Er, excuse me, Sir.”
Landa looked up from his sketch, “I thought I told you to get rid of that damned monkey.”
Impervious to Ingham and Landa, Dexter, with great alacrity, braked his forward motion, and disappeared down the hatch to the after engine room, the hot dog clutched high in the air.
Ingham flopped his hands to his sides. “We’re trying to catch him. See?”
The two Sailors drew up at the hatch and peered down. One said, “Sanders, we got him trapped. Go close up the portside hatch. Then you and me are going in for some monkey stew.” The Sailors rubbed his hands together.
Ingham pointed at the two Sailors, “Okay, Captain?”
“Let me know when the stew is served,” Landa said dryly
Dozens of questions ran through Ingram’s mind as the ship rolled back and forth. Did Myszynski still intend to sack him? And what about Ollie? Would he pull through? Damn! There was so little information on the shooting. Only that Ollie was in guarded condition and two American Sailors died on the spot. And that damned Taubman. Ingram clenched his fists realizing he should have held his temper in check. He should have just collared the German and turned him over to authorities rather than trying to kill him. But he’d been so outraged when he saw Taubman sitting there as if he belonged.
Someone knocked
“Enter.” croaked Ingram. The bulkhead clock read 0356.
Lt. (j.g) Duquette walked in. “Sorry, sir.”
“Go ahead, Tony.”
Duquette cleared his throat. “Midwatch relieved, Captain. Boilers one and four, superheated, are on the line as are generators one and two. Surface and air search radars operating normally as is the sonar. No contacts, no IFF, no sonar, no squat. We’re at condition III with a fuel load of ninety-five percent. Condition Yoke is set throughout the ship. Course three-zero-five; speed twenty-five. Paum Summit bears zero-four five, range fifteen miles. Mr. Wilson has the deck and the conn, sir.”
“Stable element?”
“Running like a Swiss watch, sir.”
“Very well. Good night.” Ingram rolled to his side.
“Captain?”
“Hmm?”
“Quartermaster has a wake-up call in for you at 0615. In the meantime, try to get some sleep, sir.”
“Good night, Mr. Duquette.”
“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.” Duquette walked out and closed the door softly.
...and what about Landa? It had taken a lot of self-control for Ingram to shake the man’s hand. Once done, it didn’t seem so bad. And yet, something still lingered between them. Would they get over it? The uncertainty tugged at him...
He felt more than heard the door open and close. A flashlight clicked on. “Captain? Sir?”
The voice was unfamiliar. Ingram sat up and turned on the light. He rubbed his eyes feeling ridiculous fully dressed. But he was damned if he was going to be blown over the side again without shoes. They had saved him on the I-57. He wondered if...
“...Captain?”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly four-twenty, sir.” It was Gibson, a third class radio man of nineteen years. He had a full beard and in this lighting looked like Captain Hook. “Message, sir. Mr. Wilson told me to bring it in.” He handed over a clipboard.
SECRET
DTG: 09290337L
TO: COMDESFORSOPAC
FM: COMTF 58.38
SUBJ: CASREP
INFO: DESDIV11
MAXWELL (DD 525)
1. CASUALTY STB HI PRESSURE TURBINE. COMPLETE LOSS OF OIL PRESSURE.
&nb
sp; 2. ONLY 20 KTS AVAILABLE.
3. THOMAS DETACHED TF 58.38. AT 0323L.
4. CLUSTER ASSUMES COMTF 58.38.
5. ETA NOUMEA 09291930.
6. REQUEST AVAILABILITY DIXIE ASAP.
BT
Ingram signed the message and handed back the clipboard to Gibson who walked out. Landa’s ship had broken down and was headed back to Noumea for repairs. Landa had turned over command of Destroyer Division Eleven to Al Peyton aboard the Cluster. Double duty. Ingram didn’t envy Peyton, who would not only have to command his ship, but would have to be the screen commander until Landa could somehow get back into the act. Talk about no sleep.
He yanked the phone from the bulkhead bracket and punched the button for CIC.
“Combat, Hanley speaking, sir.”
“Mr. Hanley, have you read the message about the Thomas?”
“Captain? Yes, sir. Gibson just laid it on the DRT.”
“I have a feeling we’ll see the Thomas coming down our track on a reciprocal course. Let me know if you pick her up on radar.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Ingram snapped off the light and closed his eyes. Two minutes later he was staring at the overhead, counting seconds between a full roll from starboard to port. Between six and ten seconds, depending how the helmsman threaded the swell. Sometimes he could--
“--Damnit.” Ingram stood and snapped on the light. The bulkhead chronograph read: 0422. He was reaching for his light jacket when the phone buzzed. “Captain.”
It was Hanley. “We have a radar contact, Captain, bearing three-four-seven, seventeen miles. Course appears to be one two zero, speed twenty.”
“Very well. Please notify the bridge.”
Ingram bracketed the phone, splashed water on his face, jammed on his garrison cap and walked out.
It was a three quarter moon, bright enough to see a half dozen figures on the bridge. But he hadn’t taken more than three steps when the bosun’s mate of the watch called, “Captain’s on the bridge.” He took his chair on the starboard bridgewing, grabbed binoculars and stared at the spot where the Thomas should be.
“Evening, Captain.” Jack Wilson stepped up and handed a cup of coffee to Ingram.
“Thanks Jack. How you feeling?”
“Arm’s fine, sir.” He pointed. We have the Thomas out there on radar about ten miles.”
“Visual?”
“Intermittent. She’s in the shadow of the land.” Wilson pointed off toward the Paum Peninsula which was near the northern end of New Caledonia.
Ingram was taking his first sip when, from the horizon, a signal light stabbed the night.
Wilson barked to the signal bridge. “Santorini?”
“It’s the Thomas, sir.” Santorini peered through his bulwark mounted high-powered binoculars. “‘To Maxwell. From, Comdesdiv11. Proceed on duty assigned.’”
It was Landa telling them to stick to their original orders and rendezvous with the Franklin. Ingram heaved a sigh of relief. He’d been worried Landa would find a reason to order the Maxwell to reverse course and accompany the Thomas back to Noumea.
“Okay, Jack,” said Ingram.
Wilson spun and said, “Santorini, give ‘em a roger.”
“...yes, sir.” The signal lantern clacked a reply.
Ingram took another sip, settled in his chair and looked up. With the ship’s easy rolls, the mast swept across the vastness of space occasionally touching the three-quarter moon. But, in spite of the moon’s brilliance, the sky was still studded with thousands of stars. Often, he’d wondered about the heavens. They looked so cold, so stark, yet so dazzling. The stars gave him a great sense of order in spite of their randomness. In another sense, the skies were mocking him with their unfathomable distances which were measured in light years. In the end, he knew, it was an order arranged by God: beautiful, never fully understood, but there for him to look at and admire, and to take comfort. And he realized that the last time he looked up to a sky like this was when he was alone in the water, with nobody but a monkey adrift on a piece of flotsam. He’d survived. The Maker of the Heavens had watched over him and brought him through. Miraculous. He wondered if—
“--Captain, excuse me.”
“What?” Ingram checked his watch. 0431.
“Another signal from Thomas, sir,” said Jack Wilson.
The Thomas was well aft and Ingram had to peer around the stacks to see a small, blinking pinprick of light, nearly over the horizon. “What’s he say?”
Wilson urged the signalman, “Come on, Santorini.”
Santorini clacked his light a couple more times. “It says, ‘Follow me’, sir.”
“What?” Ingram stood, and with the rest of the men on the bridge, watched the dim little light on the horizon blinking.
Santorini stood high on a pedestal and responded. “Here we go. Repeat, follow me. Sonar contact, zero nine two, range four thousand yards, classified possible sugar sugar.”
Ingram said, “Jack, do it! And sound general quarters, one ASW.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Wilson leaned in the pilot house and called, “Right ten degrees rudder. Steady up on course, one-two-zero. Boatswain mate of the watch, sound general quarters one ASW.”
The boatswain’s pipe blew, the 1MC gonged; men tumbled grousing from their bunks. Tugging on pants, shoes, shirts and lifejackets, they ran to their general quarters stations.
Lieutenant Eric Gunderson, the ship’s operations officer walked up and reported. “I’ve relieved Mr. Wilson as OOD, sir. All stations manned and ready, Captain.”
Ingram checked his watch. Three minutes and ten seconds. “We’re kind of rusty aren’t we, Mr. Gunderson?”
Gunderson, a tall, lanky Midwestern farming boy whistled, “I’ll say, Captain. It’s been a while.”
Just then, the 21 MC went off with, “Bridge, combat.”
Ingram walked over and pressed the lever, “Bridge.”
It was Kelly. “ We have First Edition on the TBS.” First Edition was the TBS (talk between ships) radio call-sign for the Thomas.
“Well, patch it up here,” said Ingram.
“Combat, aye,” said Kelly.
The speaker squeaked with “...goblin able now bearing zero-eight-four, range two-two-zero-zero. Classified submarine. We hear machinery noise, including a shaft wobble.”
“All right!” Gunderson thumped a fist on the bulwark. “They got the bastard.”
Ingram held the plotting desk in a death-grip. Impossible.
“You okay, Captain?”
Ingram reached past Gunderson, yanked the phone from the bracket and punched up Hank Kelly.
“Combat.”
“Hank. Did First Edition say ‘shaft wobble’?
“I heard it that way, Captain.”
Ingram muttered, “They don’t know what they’re fooling with.”
“Captain?”
Ingram measured his words, “Mr. Kelly, please confirm that with First Edition. If they say yes, then I want you to advise extreme caution. Especially, if the target turns back toward them with a positive up doppler.”
“Sir?” Kelly didn’t sound like he was buying it.
“Do it, Mr. Kelly. And tell them to stand by to evade a torpedo if the doppler goes up. I’ll explain later.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Ingram knew Kelly was rolling his eyes as he hung up the phone.
Ingram turned to Gunderson, “Eric, tell main control I want turns for thirty-two knots as soon as possible.”
“But Captain, we don’t have superheat on boilers two and three”
““Do it! Now!”
“Yes, Sir.” Gunderson leaned in the pilot house. “Tell main control we want thirty-two knots as soon as possible. Give us an estimated time.”
There would be a lot of grumbling in the boiler rooms, Ingram knew. Number two and three boilers were on standby. It would take precious minutes to cut in the superheaters and generate the speed Ingram wanted.
The Leehelmsma
n rogered into his sound-powered phones and announced, “Main control reports they’ll be ready for thirty-two knots in fifteen minutes, Sir.”
Gunderson said, “very w--”
“--tell main control,” Ingram interrupted, “I expect full superheat in five minutes.”
The bridge phone buzzed. It was Kelly. In a dry tone, he announced, “First Edition sends, ‘One: Request Crackerjack join up as soon as possible. Two: In the meantime advise Crackerjack stick to fundamentals.’”
“Fundamentals? Is that it?” demanded Ingram.
“Afraid so, sir. Ahhh, Skipper, if you don’t mind me asking, what do you have in mind?”
Just then, there was a great flash on the horizon from the Thomas’ direction.
“Jeepers,” said an open-mouthed Gunderson.
Five seconds later, a great ‘boom’ echoed across the water.
“Todd, what the hell is it? Captain? Captain?” demanded Kelly.
With Gunderson, Ingram gawked at the horizon, the phone held loosely at his side. “Shimada,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
29 September, 1944
USS Maxwell (DD 525)
2017.5' South; 163 57.1' East
Coral Sea
The engineers cut in superheat to boilers two and three, and seven minutes later, all four of the Maxwell’s boilers delivered 60,000 horsepower to her screws, driving her at thirty-three knots through dead-calm seas. With the new dawn, Poum summit, a cone-shaped peak of 1500 feet, stood before them in stark contrast against the anthracite sky. But it brightened with each minute, details of Noumea becoming more apparent in the new dawn. It seemed the fifteen men on the Maxwell’s bridge were rooted in place. Binoculars jammed to their eyes, they peered forward, searching, praying for a sign of the Thomas. The only sound was that of the Maxwell’s bow wave cascading higher and higher as the destroyer galloped toward the Thomas’ last known position.
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 37