Hara-Kiri: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 5)

by Craig DiLouie

  “I don’t see that as ironic in the slightest, Skipper,” Rusty said. “I’m fighting for my wife and kid. So they stay safe. So I can go home to them. After this is over, I’m done.”

  Charlie started in surprise. “You’ll leave the Navy?”

  “I’m going to go to college. I want to learn. Something I always wanted to do. The funny thing is I would have put it off forever if I hadn’t been in combat. Surviving a war makes you think about taking life a little more seriously. Live it in a little more of a hurry.”

  “What’s that Latin saying?” Percy said. “Live for the day.”

  “Carpe diem,” Nixon said.

  The communications officer belched. “That’s it.”

  “Peace,” Rusty said, as if it were some mythical idea. “I want to live in peace. Just spend time with Lucy and Rusty Junior. Make sure he never has to fight a war like his old man did.”

  Percy’s eye twinkled. “And get busy making more kids.”

  Rusty smiled with a faraway gaze, as if he could see the future. “I’ve always wanted a daughter.” He returned to the present with a frown. “Though after spending years in the Navy, I’ll be terrified when she grows up.”

  The men hooted with laughter.

  Rusty added, “I’ll be real thankful to be living in Pittsburgh at that point. No ships or sailors there.”

  “What do you think you’ll study?” Nixon asked him.

  “History. So I can figure out why the human race keeps making the same damn mistakes over and over.”

  Percy picked up the beer in front of Nixon and finished it. Being a teetotaler, the engineering officer didn’t mind.

  “After the war is over,” Nixon said, “I’m going to go into business and get rich.”

  “You know, I believe you could,” Charlie said. The man was scarily smart.

  “I only joined the Navy because my father thought it’d be good for me. I learned a lot about engineering. Otherwise, he was dead wrong. I’ll invent something and start my own company. Then I’ll get to give orders for a change instead of taking them.” His eyes darted to Charlie. “No offense, Captain.”

  “None taken. I think we all know how you feel.”

  “Shit rolls downhill in the Navy,” Rusty agreed. “So what about you, Skipper? You actually gonna stick it out after the war? Get your stars and retire an O-10?”

  Charlie had no interest in working his way up to admiral. In fact, he doubted he cared to stay in the Navy at all after this.

  “I think I’m with you guys,” he said. “At that point, I’ll have served my country. I might want to take some years and look after myself.”

  “And whatever lady you decide on,” Percy said with a leer.

  “Interesting question, that.” Rusty sipped his beer.

  “It is,” Charlie said, not wanting to talk about Evie and Jane. “But nothing I’m going to think too hard about until I get home.”

  He did think about it, though.

  Evie knew the old Charlie, the ambitious boy who’d joined the Navy to find himself, and she wanted to live a full life with him. Jane knew the new Charlie, the man who’d found himself in war, and she wanted him today because only today was real.

  Which of these two wonderful women understood the real Charlie required that Charlie first understand himself. He knew the man he’d been in peace, gotten to know the man he was in war. He didn’t know who he’d eventually become when the war was over.

  After everything, he had a feeling he’d need to find himself all over again. Despite his feelings for Evie and Jane, he might have to go it alone for a while.

  All of which wasn’t his crew’s business. He might tell Rusty but not the others. It was the captain’s prerogative to avoid ribbing and tell his men to mind their business, so he could focus on command.

  “The captain walking away from the boats when this is all over,” Percy said. “Well, that does it. It really will be peace.”

  “I’m not sure I believe it,” Morrison said, apparently startled at the idea anybody in their right mind would give up command of a fleet submarine.

  Percy belched again. “On that note, gents, I’m gonna go find some trouble.”

  A quick exit, but Charlie had expected nothing less.

  “Have fun, but not too much fun,” he said. “We need you bright and early.”

  “Have I ever let you down, Captain?” The communications officer grinned and nudged Nixon. “Come on, let’s make tracks while the night’s young.”

  “But I’m enjoying the conversation,” Nixon said.

  “We’ll be smelling these guys’ farts for weeks. You can talk then until you’re blue in the face. Right now, I need my running buddy.”

  “Okay, I guess.” Nixon’s face reddened at the thought of talking to women tonight.

  “You make me look good around the ladies.” Percy squinted. “What’s that word in literature—?”

  “Foil,” Nixon told him.

  “If you say so. Come on, Nix. Time to hit the road.”

  The engineering officer sighed and rose from his chair. Charlie wondered if leaving the service would be enough to rescue him from taking orders.

  Rusty set down his bottle. “I’ll be moseying along myself, I think.”

  Charlie hid his disappointment. “All right.”

  He’d been all work and no play for weeks, learning the ropes and readying the Sandtiger for her next patrol. He’d hoped to really unwind tonight, let it all go just once before returning to the war.

  “Talking about Lucy and Rusty,” the exec began and stopped to take a breath. “I’m going to write them a letter and turn in.”

  “I understand.” He did. His friend missed them to the point of distraction.

  “I’ll stay if you want,” Morrison said. “We could talk strategy.”

  Rusty stood and tapped Charlie’s shoulder. “See that fella over there? That’s Slade Cutter. Just came back from his fourth successful war patrol. The scuttlebutt is he sank five ships, including a submarine.”

  “Morrison, I think we’ll save it for the wardroom,” Charlie said, his eyes on Cutter. “Percy’s right. We’ll have plenty of time.”

  If he couldn’t let go on his last night in port, he’d try to learn something.

  Excusing himself, he walked over and introduced himself to the captain of the Seahorse.

  CHAPTER SIX

  PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

  Feeling hot and a little boozy after a few drinks with Slade Cutter, Charlie tossed and turned on his hotel mattress.

  Thankfully, the Seahorse’s CO hadn’t heard of him and had plenty of advice to offer. Hours later, Charlie had left the O-Club feeling even more humbled. While he’d accomplished great things, captains like Cutter were scoring spectacular wins. Pursuing a Japanese convoy for a record eight hours, going head to head with an enemy submarine, sinking three trawlers in the East China Sea with his deck gun.

  In 1944, submarining was a whole different ballgame than when Charlie had served under J.R. Kane on the old S-55. In the past few years, the submarine force had learned from its errors, developed new technology and tactics, and gotten very good at killing. Cutter’s patrols exemplified what a boat could accomplish with the right leadership and tenacity.

  Tomorrow, the Sandtiger would sail back into the war, and it’d be Charlie’s turn. He’d joined the submarines to find himself and learn what he was really made of by facing death in combat. He’d met that man and liked him. He was about to meet him again, this time under very different circumstances.

  While he’d borrowed command, he’d never owned it. Each time he’d taken the conn, the boat had been in crisis, requiring big risks. Leading a patrol from start to finish, he imagined, would be a different thing entirely. He’d have to strike and maintain a perfect balance between caution and audacity, push his men and boat hard without breaking them, and never let his guard down.

  These sobering thoughts kept him awake until he jerked out of
bed and pulled on his service khakis. He was too wound up for sleep.

  He took a walk outside. Because of the blackout rules, the Milky Way sparkled across the clear sky. He had no destination in mind, though he found himself making the long walk to the Submarine Base, ending his trek at the attack trainer.

  He chuckled at the feet that had brought him here on their own. Tomorrow, the Sandtiger sailed. He’d told himself he was ready for this, but somehow his feet knew he’d never be ready enough.

  Well, he thought, practice makes perfect. Maybe another night owl, somebody who would help him run a simulation, was awake.

  He went in.

  And halted in his tracks.

  A stunning brunette in an evening dress gaped at him. Her hand flew to her mouth as she let out a little scream.

  “It’s okay, Barb!” Percy said. “Don’t worry, he’s on our side.”

  “Oh.” She composed herself and demurely extended her hand. “Hello.”

  Charlie shook it with a warm smile and said, “What’s she doing here?”

  “Sinking ships, Cap’n,” Percy said.

  Looking sheepish, Nixon crept down the stairs, another woman peering from behind him to give Charlie a studied once-over. The women knew they were all in trouble but still eyed him curiously, as he’d often seen them do to submarine captains whose job carried a certain mystique.

  Judging from the empty bottles dotting the dummy conning tower, Charlie figured they’d had quite a party. One of Percy’s last hurrahs before returning to the war.

  “Sorry, Captain,” Nixon said. “We didn’t mean any harm.”

  “No harm, no foul, right?” Percy said.

  With that, the communications officer offered up his patent insolent smirk, which at times Charlie found endearing and other times made him want to throw a punch. He answered by narrowing his eyes.

  “We can go if we aren’t allowed to be here,” Barb said.

  His attention turned to her. “How does she head?”

  “Oh-one-seven True,” she blurted.

  “Battle stations,” he said.

  “Aye, aye!” the girls shouted.

  The attack trainer had been constructed in the same design as the one he’d cut his teeth on back in Submarine School. He and other submarine captains spent many hours here sharpening their skills. Barb stood near the shortened periscope that piped into the room upstairs. Percy happily shambled to the TDC. Nixon and his date hustled up the stairs to operate the circular discs using control cables. These discs moved model ships along a course they’d set up.

  “Up scope,” Charlie said.

  As Charlie pressed the eyepiece for a look up top, he shook his head. Percy’s luck with women was a wonder. He chased skirts the way Moreau had fought the Japanese—fearless, all in, and with nothing to lose. Nixon’s luck was even odder considering his chronic shyness, though it didn’t hurt that he had a passing resemblance to Cary Grant.

  Charlie swept the horizon and spotted the enemy ships crawling across the metal sea with a series of clicks. A freighter, escorted by a destroyer pacing off the port bow. Nixon had set up an easy problem. He’d show the girls how submarining was done by sinking both ships.

  “Freighter. Bearing, mark!”

  “Um,” Barbara said from the other side of the periscope.

  “Give me a bearing.”

  “Hang on a minute.”

  Moments passed while the woman tried to read the bearing ring on the periscope shaft.

  “Down scope!”

  They all jumped as Nixon and his date stomped the floor upstairs, simulating a good depth charging. The destroyer had spotted them.

  Percy and Barbara doubled over laughing.

  “I thought you knew what you were doing,” Charlie said, a little annoyed.

  “I’m usually the captain,” Barb said.

  Charlie reddened. Of course, Percy would give her the role of captain; it was the most gentlemanly thing to do, not to mention the most fun if you considered the whole thing a game. She had a general idea the bearing ring was there but had no idea how to read it.

  So much for showing off to a couple of attractive Hawaiian girls. He’d impressed them, all right.

  Hang loose, he told himself. Maybe he didn’t need to practice anymore but instead honor his promise to himself to let go for one night. Forget the war, have some fun, and start fresh tomorrow.

  “Tell Nixon to reset the simulation,” he said. “Captain Barb has the conn.”

  They spent the rest of the night not working but playing, with a little more booze and plenty of laughter.

  Meanwhile, Captain Barb took the whole thing quite seriously, sinking an impressive two out of seven ships.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FALSE START

  Charlie bounced along in the jeep next to Captain Squadron Commander Rich Cooper, who puffed a cigar and said, “You ready for this, Harrison?”

  He thought of Quiet Bill asking him the same question back at PXO School and decided to give the same honest answer. “Is anybody really ready?”

  Cooper removed the cigar from his mouth and growled, “Yeah. The men we appoint to command.”

  “You point me at a Jap ship, and I’ll sink it, sir.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” the squadron commander said.

  Half the job of being captain was acting like you knew what you were doing.

  Cooper parked the jeep on the pier. A Navy band played a rousing circus march at the center of a crowd of well-wishers. The Sandtiger lay moored next to the Harder, which Captain Harvey’s relief crew manned and prepared to sail for a shakedown cruise. Dungareed sailors hustled to complete the loadout.

  Charlie braced himself for the usual scathing pep talk about tempering risk with caution, but Cooper only added, “I’ve got a feeling about you, Harrison.”

  What kind of feeling, the squadron commander didn’t elaborate.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Find the bastards and sink them. Understand?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  They’d given him only about half the usual complement of torpedoes. They would likely place him outside the Japanese sea lanes. It didn’t matter. Excuses didn’t matter. Part of the deal in making captain. When he’d taken the conn in previous patrols, he’d had nothing to lose. Now he had everything.

  “Good hunting then,” the squadron commander said.

  Charlie stepped away from the jeep, snapped a salute, and crossed the gangway. He trembled with excitement and anxiety. He’d done this routine act before, but this time, the boat and her crew were under his command.

  On the boats, every crewman carried great responsibility. A submarine was a densely packed and complex machine. Just as the failure of a vital piece of equipment could spell disaster, so too could even a small error by one of her crew. Still, the captain bore the ultimate responsibility.

  It was enough to make him want to do everything himself, but he knew that wasn’t possible. A team sport. He told himself to trust his boat and his crew, one of whom hustled to take his sea bag and stow it in his stateroom.

  He mounted to the bridge, where Rusty greeted him with a salute and said, “Welcome aboard, Captain. We’ll be able to take her out on time.”

  Charlie scanned the activity on the main deck. The loadout appeared to be nearing completion. Sailors on the pier coiled the thick hoses by their fuel and water trucks. The torpedo crane stood idle, the weapons hatches secured. The stench of diesel hung in the air, triggering a swirl of emotions.

  He glanced up at the Sandtiger’s battle flag hanging limp on the jumping wire, a shark in a sailor’s hat beside numerous patches, one for each sunken enemy ship. He not only had a responsibility to the Navy and his boat but to Moreau’s legacy.

  “Torpedoes?” he said.

  “Mark 14s. They only gave us one Mark 18.”

  “Cooper said he expects great things from us.”

  “Of course he does.” Rusty smirked. “You’re H
ara-kiri.”

  “Oh, brother.” The hardest responsibility of all, living up to your own reputation.

  Braddock swaggered across the deck leading a train of sailors hauling boxes, the last stores to go down the hatch. “Top of the morning, sir.”

  “You seem happy to be shoving off, Braddock,” Charlie said, not trusting it.

  The chief swept his arm before the boxes. “Me and the commissary officer did a little trading and got some beer for the boys.”

  Percy served as both communications officer as well as commissary officer. He and Braddock could be trouble on their own. Charlie hadn’t suspected they might team up to pull a stunt like this.

  “And why would you do that?”

  “We hand out depth charge medicine after an attack, but we don’t give the boys anything but a cake and a turkey dinner after a victory. Give them a can of beer for every ship sunk, and they’ll fight like devils. They’ll follow you up the River Styx.”

  Charlie considered it. He glanced at Rusty. “Is it with regulations?”

  The exec laughed. “It actually is. The question is where we’re going to put it. The boat’s packed.”

  “I’m having some of it put in the officers’ shower, sir,” Braddock said. “Give you more incentive to sink Jap ships.”

  Rusty laughed again and shrugged as if to say, You wanted him, you got him.

  Charlie spied several mailbags in Braddock’s train. “And what are those?”

  “Newspapers.”

  A nice morale booster. During idle hours on patrol, the crew would pass the newspapers around and read every word.

  “Very well, Chief,” Charlie said. “Carry on.”

  Braddock saluted with an insolent grin and strutted off.

  Rusty said, “I think you just brought a hot torpedo aboard.”

  “As long as he shoots straight.”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “The men respect him. For all his antics, he respects me. When it matters, he’ll be there, and he’ll do what needs doing. You can take that to the bank.”