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

by Craig DiLouie

  Frequent drills, the firehose treatment for the greenhorns, and a return to old routines and the usual school-of-the-boat were whipping the crew into shape. By the time the Sandtiger got on station, they’d fuse into a well-oiled machine. And they had the latest countermeasures that would protect them if they were detected.

  In the waters off Samar, Charlie planned to raise hell wherever any opportunity presented itself.

  The general alarm bleated, accompanied by a clanging bell. He sprang to his feet.

  Rusty’s voice blared over the 1MC: “Fire in aft torpedo!”

  Japanese sea lanes, September 1944.

  Solid lines indicate major shipping lanes; dashes indicate secondary lanes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  JINXED

  The Sandtiger dieseled southwest by west on choppy seas 2,200 nautical miles from Midway, getting a solid radar fix on landmasses within range. They’d reached the Marianas.

  On the bridge with their legs braced wide against the boat’s pitch, Charlie and Rusty studied Saipan with binoculars.

  Relatively quiet except for some holdouts still fighting in the jungles, the island was a smudge on the horizon. With its capture, America had struck a vital blow against the Japanese Empire. Tokyo was now within distance of B-29 Superfortress bombers, which regularly pounded the Japanese mainland and the Philippines. The disaster had forced Prime Minister Hideki Tojo to resign.

  The beginning of the end.

  The submarine cruised onward until the island’s hazy outline bled into the big blue, taking with it all reminiscence about bayonet charges, Alamo Scouts, Smokey’s sacrifice, and Jane’s comforting touch.

  The war would end soon. As much as Charlie wanted that, he longed to prove himself as captain. As many patrols as he could get.

  “We’ll be on station the morning after tomorrow,” Rusty noted.

  “Then we’ll deep six this jinx,” said Charlie. “You’ll see.”

  Rusty’s superstition had started to infect him. Whether the boat was jinxed or not didn’t matter. Too many things were going wrong.

  From the captain’s log, four days earlier:

  September 22, 1944

  1150:

  … Moored starboard side to MIDWAY fuel dock. Took on fuel, some stores, and spare parts.

  1412:

  … Underway for patrol area.

  1531:

  … Explosion in #8 torpedo tube, producing heavy, white, sulfurous smoke out vent and petcocks. Removed torpedo from the tube and examined it. Smoke necessitated evacuating Aft Torpedo while ventilating at full blower speed.

  1555:

  … Fire in torpedo battery compartment. Heavy smoke necessitated breathing apparatus while fire controlled using CO2 extinguishers. Torpedo disabled and stored for salvage.

  Even now, the boat still stank like sulfur, and headaches were common. Meanwhile, the Sandtiger had one less torpedo to take on patrol. Another sucker punch Charlie hadn’t seen coming.

  Braddock mounted to the bridge, which could only mean further troubles in the boat. “A word, sir?”

  Charlie stifled a groan. “What’s the problem?”

  Braddock glanced at the lookouts perched on the shears and lowered his voice. “You, sir.”

  “Me?”

  “You need to let go of this jinx business. You’re drinking too much coffee and riding the department heads.”

  “If any of these problems happened in combat, we’d have been in big trouble. We need to be ready for anything.”

  Rusty said, “The captain’s right. Every couple of hours, it seems—”

  “And you, Exec! Harrison here is letting the boat’s aches stand in for his doubts about command. You’re supposed to know better. This old girl got herself punched in the face about ten too many times. It’s that simple.”

  It was a fair point. In just her last two war patrols, the Sandtiger had logged 18,000 miles and had survived multiple, brutal depth-charge attacks, not to mention a hot torpedo exploding close aboard.

  “Thank you for speaking up,” Charlie said, remembering he’d risked bringing the man along so he’d always hear it straight. “But I don’t believe in jinxes. I’m just worried about the boat. We’ll be in combat soon.”

  “Great. Fine. It doesn’t matter. The crew looks to you guys to see how to act. Right now, some of them are starting to come down with the heebie-jeebies.”

  Charlie and Rusty exchanged a glance. Braddock was a pain in the ass, but he was an old sea dog. The man had a solid point.

  “We’ll set the right example,” Charlie said.

  Braddock grinned. “I already took care of them, sir. One of my snipes writes his wife every day and even sends love poems. The wives back home keep in touch, see, and they’re none too happy about how often their men write them. I’ve got every married A-ganger writing poetry when they’re off duty.”

  Rusty laughed then groaned. “I’m going to have to read and censor all their letters before posting to mail. Get us into action quick, Skipper. A flattop, a battle group, even the goddamn Yamato. Quick, before they finish writing them.”

  Charlie laughed too. Braddock was turning into one hell of a morale officer. “Thank you, Chief. Carry on.”

  The sailor touched his knuckle to his forehead in a rough salute. “Anytime, sir.” He climbed back down the hatch.

  “As much as I hate him for doing that,” Rusty said, “I have to admit you made the right call bringing him aboard.”

  “Smokey always had the temper of the men,” Charlie explained. “And I could always rely on him to tell it like it is. I expected the same of Braddock. So far, he hasn’t disappointed me.”

  “He’s like a new man.” The exec sighed. “So no more jinx talk.”

  Which meant no talking about it and no fretting either.

  Easier said than done for Charlie, with whom the buck stopped as captain. Cooper had assigned him a patrol area with fair hunting prospects. While the squadron commander would read Charlie’s patrol report and sympathize with his problems, they were his problems. The Navy expected results.

  It triggered his instinct to try to control everything, including the things he couldn’t control. The less he could, the more things went wrong under his command, the more he doubted himself.

  He reminded himself he’d been in this situation before and with much bigger stakes. After his last patrol to the Philippines during which he’d modified his torpedoes, he’d expected never to set foot on a submarine again. In the Sea of Japan, he’d crossed Moreau, the last man you’d ever want to cross, and expected banishment to a desk job for the remainder of the war. During his patrol to Saipan, Saunders had accused him of mutiny and planned to court-martial him.

  Each time, he’d fought as hard as he could until his options ran out. Then he’d decided to take his punch and let the chips fall where they did. He had to do the same now. He had to let go.

  He’d never been good at doing that. He didn’t want to let go, knowing his self-doubt, plus the fact he was wound a bit tight, made him a good officer. But he’d always been a fast learner, and it was time to learn. If he didn’t, he might end up like Saunders, a man worn down until broken by the pressures of command, or Bob Hunter, who blamed himself for his faulty torpedoes.

  The Sandtiger was showing her age and wounds, but she remained a wolf. If any problems surfaced, his capable crew had his back. He had to trust them both and work on being the best commander he could be, and that started with setting the right example in every respect.

  “No more jinx talk,” Charlie agreed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SAMAR

  Samar was the Philippines’ third largest island. To the northwest was Luzon, the largest in the archipelago. To the south, Leyte and Leyte Gulf. To the east, the Philippine Sea, the Sandtiger’s patrol area.

  She ranged fifteen miles off the coast, hunting.

  Plenty of fishing boats, piloted by locals. Frequent Japanese patrol planes. A PT boat hugg
ing the coast. Otherwise, nothing.

  Two more days passed, and still nothing.

  Then two weeks. Then another, without spotting even a single puff of smoke.

  One could say the jinx continued.

  In the conning tower, Charlie raised the observation periscope. He doubted this dry spell had anything to do with bad luck. Instead, it proved the powerful capability of America’s growing submarine fleet.

  There were far fewer Japanese merchantmen than there were just a year ago, while the Navy added a new submarine to the Submarine Force every week.

  The Sandtiger had at last worked out her kinks and appeared ready for a fight. The air conditioning continued to struggle, unable to cool the boat lower than a balmy ninety degrees. Otherwise, her systems performed well, and Charlie was confident about taking her into combat.

  As for her crew, they were getting restless, but he’d taken the opportunity to drill and school them. Almost every sailor aboard was getting extra training, and even the greenhorns, working their way through their notebooks for qualification, looked good. Charlie and Rusty had interviewed many of the department heads and crewmen, searching for even minor modifications that would improve efficiency. To keep them entertained, Charlie had ordered the radioman to play popular records during the dog watch hours when the crew ate their evening meals. While they hadn’t seen action yet, the men were sharp.

  Like the boat, the crew had settled into a solid rhythm. Now he just had to get them a target. Finding ships they could sink was his job and his alone. He visited the radioman daily to remind him to bring any Ultra messages from Pearl straight to him, day or night. Every day, he prayed for one of these burn messages advising of a big, juicy convoy coming his way, but none arrived.

  He swiveled the periscope, taking in the black mass of Samar with its hills and mountainous terrain, their steep slopes bare of trees. Rain ran off these inclines, carrying topsoil that enlarged the coastal planes, mudflats, and mangrove swamps.

  Nothing. Not even a plane.

  “Down scope,” he said. “Let’s look at the chart.”

  Having benefitted more than once from chance, Charlie understood the role of luck in war but didn’t see it as anything that being superstitious could influence. He believed in making your own luck through smart planning.

  Time to find some trouble.

  “One chart, coming right up,” Percy said with genuine cheer.

  The communications officer didn’t seem to mind the heat, and the lack of action suited him just fine. The war would end soon. Everybody felt it. The stronger that feeling, the more they thought about home and making it back alive.

  Percy spread the chart on the plotting table. An American chart, recently updated. Using it, Charlie could conn the boat close to shore without fear of running her aground or into a reef. Still, navigation would be challenging, and there was a greater risk of running into a mine.

  Morrison joined them, glancing from the chart to Charlie’s face with eagerness. Guys like him, they weren’t going back until they’d done something.

  As for Charlie, he wasn’t until he’d done all he could.

  He studied the coastline and settled on a town nestled on the island’s southeastern coast. A small fishing town of no real strategic importance, facing Matarinao Bay. Its name was Hernani, population around 6,000.

  “Percy, give me a course for this town,” he said. “I want to get us close enough for observation and possible action tonight.”

  Percy gave him a curious stare then shrugged. “Aye, Captain.”

  Morrison seethed, knowing he shouldn’t question his captain, but finally unable to stop himself. “Why there, sir?”

  Because Charlie hadn’t seen any Japanese ships in twenty-one days, and he needed to roll the dice. Because the Japanese were likely using coasters, small cargo ships that hugged the shore, to avoid submarines. Because after their occupation of the Philippines, the enemy might have built up Hernani as an anchorage for these vessels.

  “Call it a hunch,” Charlie said with a cryptic smile.

  Morrison grinned. When Hara-kiri had a hunch, it likely meant action was afoot. “Say the word, Captain, and we’ll be ready to play.”

  Frequent drills had made the lieutenant’s gun crew razor sharp, and he’d practiced tactics with his commando assault team. They were another of the boat’s secret weapons.

  Charlie scowled, however, irritated at himself playing it up for the eager officer who idolized him. The truth was he had nothing else to go on, and he was done waiting for the enemy to come to him.

  Meanwhile, time was running out. This morning, the sunrise had been a fiery scarlet. A buildup of water vapor in the atmosphere, scattering short-wavelength light. That meant a big storm was on the way, which would hinder detection of enemy ships and waste time.

  “Very well,” he growled. “Return to your duties.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Percy said, “Recommend a course of two-oh-five.”

  “Helm, come left to new course, two-oh-five,” Charlie ordered.

  Not much to do now but wait, something he’d had plenty of practice doing during his time in the submarines.

  By late morning, the Sandtiger approached the entrance to Matarinao Bay.

  “I’m picking up fast, light screws,” the soundman reported. “Bearing, two-one-oh.”

  Charlie suppressed a sigh of relief, playing it cool. “Very well. Up scope.”

  He crouched as the periscope whirred from its well. He rose with it, yanking the handles down. Face pressed against the rubber eyepiece, he circled several times, carefully scanning the sky for planes. Then he settled on the ship.

  “He’s a DE,” he announced. “Matsu class.”

  A destroyer escort, what the British called a frigate. A recent addition to the Imperial Japanese Navy’s new Grand Escort Fleet. Lighter and smaller than previous designs, cheap and simplified for fast construction, but fitted with enhanced anti-submarine and AA weaponry. A sub killer.

  Charlie’s lips parted in a predatory smile. His hunch was correct. The IJN had designed the Matsu for one purpose, which was protecting merchantmen. A DE on sentry duty at the mouth of a bay? Cargo ships were very likely stopping at Hernani.

  The sleek escort paced, its knuckle bow slicing the water. The water behind it was red like blood, the result of a runaway algal bloom, what sailors called a “red tide.” It killed the fish and could even make the air difficult to breathe.

  “Down scope,” he said.

  The scope withdrew. Morrison stared at him with wide eyes. Charlie looked away, gratified and irritated. He needed to think without having any expectations pressed on him from the Navy, his crew, and least of all Morrison.

  Attack or wait?

  He wanted to get closer to spot the ships this escort guarded but thought better of it. The entrance to the bay was only two and a half miles across, and Anahap Island blocked his view from the sea.

  He approached the plotting table, where Percy tracked the ship’s movements based on sound bearings.

  Back and forth went the warship.

  The submarine’s natural enemy, a destroyer always made a risky target. They were fast, had a shallow draft, and could find you with echo ranging and pound you with depth charges if you missed. Shallow water played hell with sonar. However, there would be no thermals or depths in which to hide, and it allowed the possibility of detection with the naked eye, and depth charging was much more likely to disable or destroy a submarine.

  Right now, the Sandtiger had only 120 feet under her keel. Little room to maneuver.

  On the other hand, if Charlie sank this Matsu, whatever ships it was guarding at Hernani would be sitting ducks for the Sandtiger’s weaponry. He’d wreak havoc. What a statement that would make on his first patrol!

  Charlie thought about it further while Morrison bounced on his heels. Even the rest of his crew shot him inquisitive glances. With the Sandtiger carrying less than half her usua
l complement of torpedoes, he wanted to shoot them at cargo ships, not escorts, which were very low-value targets. It might take only one or two torpedoes to sink the Matsu, but for insurance, he’d have to shoot at least three, ideally four. An alert lookout might spot the torpedo wakes. The speedy Matsu could then evade, and Charlie would have shot his wad for nothing. He could throw his single Mark 18 on a wing and a prayer. Being wakeless, the escort wouldn’t see the torpedo until it blew a hole in the ship’s hull. But Charlie didn’t have faith in it working properly. Back to square one.

  If only he could see what this destroyer was guarding. There might be a particularly tasty target, like an oil tanker, hiding behind Anahap. Or there might be more warships ready to clobber him.

  Captain Moreau, the poker player, would probably attack, betting the pot was worth it. The enemy is there, he’d say, so that’s where we’ll hit him. With a storm on the way, he’d see it as his best bet. Attack now, and go all in.

  Captain Kane, the chess player, would pass on a good move until he’d fully considered whether a better one was in the offing. As commander of an old broken-down sugar boat, Kane had understood how to work with his limitations.

  As a lieutenant, Charlie had wondered what it was like to stand in their shoes. Submarine captains were expected to produce results while streaming a constant calculus of risk and reward. Now he knew. The pressure was enormous, a crushing weight as heavy and real as the sea during a deep dive.

  Attacking would be hard, waiting even harder. Then again, he’d always been better at chess than poker. He knew how to be patient.

  Whatever ships were hiding behind Anahap, they wouldn’t stay long. When they put to sea, he’d be able to pick his target and spend his torpedoes wisely.

  Praying the storm held off a while longer, he decided to wait.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CONTACT