“I was flying at 20,000 feet and ran into a wall of flak,” the pilot went on in a daze. “Dove on a target to attack before climbing again. That’s when I found out I’d been hit. I lost power but kept climbing on momentum. After that, I just couldn’t keep altitude.” His eyes flickered and focused on Charlie’s face. “Did you say you got liquor on this ship?”
“Waiting for you below.” Rusty held out his hand. “First, I’ll need to take your sidearm and any ammunition you have on you.”
The pilot handed over his .38. “What happens after that?”
Charlie said, “We’ll get you back to your ship soon enough. Until then, go dry off, grab a drink, learn how to use the head, and then get back here.”
“You want me back? For what?”
“You’re going to help keep us alive, Lieutenant.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE RESCUE
The battleships pounded Leyte while American planes dominated the skies. A handful of Japanese planes broke through and managed to damage a few ships. One of the attacks was a suicide. Otherwise, the contest remained one-sided. The lookouts called out every contact. Charlie grew increasingly tense as the battle raged.
Dressed in blue shirt and dungarees, Lt. Jackson returned with Rusty. The pilot’s rapid exit and sour expression suggested he was grateful to escape the submarine’s heat, stink, and cramped spaces where he was in everybody’s way.
“What am I supposed to call you?” he asked.
“On this ship, I’m addressed as ‘Captain.’”
“Well, Captain, what do you want me to do?”
“Can you tell the enemy’s planes from ours at a distance?”
“My life depends on me doing just that.”
Charlie handed him a pair of binoculars. “You’re hired.”
There wasn’t much to see now. American planes were swarming back to their carriers, and the next wave was still far off. The lull in air cover made him nervous. Then the planes reached the island, and he breathed easier.
“Captain,” a lookout said. “Multiple landing craft, bearing two-eight-oh, range 5,000 yards, approaching!”
Charlie checked his watch: 1000. The battleships and carrier planes had been at it for four hours. Now Seventh Fleet was ready to land the grunts.
Over three hundred feet long and weighing 1,800 tons, more than 150 “landing ship, tank” type craft growled toward shore at twelve knots, each loaded with 150 soldiers. Though slow and clumsy, the LSTs could take a lot of damage and remain afloat. Their large ballast systems could be flooded for a deep draft or blown to allow them to sail very close to beaches.
With large bow waves, the LSTs plodded toward the shoreline, while the battleships’ great guns silenced. Small splashes geysered from the bay as enemy mortars opened up. Charlie winced as a shell struck a crowded LST with a burst of debris and bodies. Then the landing craft reached the beach and yawned open. Columns of soldiers poured forward rifles first and pounded sand.
He gripped the coaming, expecting a slaughterhouse.
In this first wave, more than 20,000 men raced across the beaches and into the jungle, concentrated along a four-mile stretch of beach between Tacloban airfield and the Palo River, and a three-mile stretch to the south between San José and the Daguitan River. Despite sporadic gunfire, resistance seemed to be far lighter than what the Marines encountered on Saipan. Charlie was relieved.
The Navy and the carrier planes’ bombardment had effectively softened up the enemy. The pillboxes within view stood empty. The Japanese had withdrawn.
The LSTs backed from the beach, one of them still smoking from a mortar hit, and lurched to return for more troops. As the GIs pressed inland and established a beachhead, the first vehicles would be offloaded.
And hospital units and equipment.
Charlie wondered if Jane would end up here sewing up GIs. Knowing her, she probably was aboard one of those ships. Like him, Jane always wanted to go where the action was.
“One of our planes is having trouble,” Jackson said.
Charlie grimaced. The fighter pilot was a better lookout than he was, staying focused on observing rather than thinking about a particular tantalizing Army nurse.
The man pointed to a distant speck in the sky, which appeared to be losing altitude to the northwest. “There, see? It’s a turkey.”
Charlie raised his binoculars. “A what?”
“An Avenger. They’re turkeys compared to the Wildcats.”
“Uh-huh. He’s falling fast. Is he going to make it into the bay?”
“He’ll make it, but it’s going to be close.”
“Helm, come right twenty-five degrees,” Charlie ordered. “All ahead emergency.”
Again, the maneuvering and engine rooms responded with quick efficiency, propelling the Sandtiger forward on all four mains.
“He’s going to land in the harbor,” the pilot said.
Charlie didn't like the looks of it. Bad odds out there. “If he does, we’ll be exposed to shore batteries. One good hit, and we’re done.”
“We still have to try.”
“He’s down,” Rusty said. “In the harbor, just like Jackson said. Three crew are getting out and inflating a raft.”
Tacloban Harbor was surrounded by Tacloban City to the west, Burayan to the south, and Cataisan Peninsula and its airfield to the east. Entering it, the Sandtiger would be exposed to guns shooting at her from three sides.
“Please, Captain,” Jackson pleaded.
Charlie knew he had to try. He thought through his options and came to a decision. “We’ve got a powerful radio setup on this boat. Talk to your people and arrange for some air cover, and we’ll go in and get your guys.”
Jackson grinned. “Wilco! Thank you.”
Hooker took the man below. Charlie turned to Rusty, who was staring at him. “I know, I know, I’m a damned fool.”
“Actually, I’m glad we’re doing it,” his friend said. “It’s worth the risk.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“It can’t always be about killing Japs. Sometimes, we have to put ourselves on the line to save Americans.”
“It’s the same thing to me,” Charlie said.
“Then we should do it. This particular job is risk, reward, and responsibility all rolled into one.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, though he still didn’t like it. It was one thing to approach an enemy harbor submerged or while surfaced at night. In broad daylight, with the enemy alert and out for blood, was pure craziness. “Conn, Bridge.”
“Go ahead, Bridge.”
“Battle stations, gun action. Stand by to rig for depth charge.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Morrison and his gun crew piled from the gun hatch and set up the deck gun. “Ready to fire, Captain!”
“Very well. Stand by.”
The Sandtiger rounded Cataisan Point. The Japanese troops at the airfield had their hands full fighting X Corps, too busy to even notice the submarine cruising past. They didn’t fire a single shot at the boat.
The air hummed.
Jackson emerged from the hatch and grinned at the sound. “That’s our escort.”
The planes zoomed overhead, rocking their wings in greeting.
“Good thinking, getting them in the game,” Rusty said. “We’ve got our own air force now.”
“Better than them trying to sink us again,” Charlie said.
“What do you mean?” the pilot said.
Charlie and Rusty exchanged a smile. “Never mind. Long story.”
The pilots were paddling their raft hard toward the bay. Mortar shells splashed around them. The planes dove toward the flashes, dropping ordnance. AA fire arced into the sky.
Charlie watched it all with mounting anxiety. “I hope we don’t have to rescue anybody else.” Mostly, he was hoping his decision to get the carrier planes involved didn’t result in any of them getting killed.
“Don’t worry about them,” Jac
kson said. “They know what they’re doing, and why they’re doing it. They won’t leave a man behind.”
“All compartments, rig for depth charge,” Charlie ordered.
The Sandtiger knifed across the harbor, racing for the airmen. The sea erupted around them as the enemy gunners switched targets. The deck gun banged at a distant shore battery.
“Helm, swing us around so we’re downwind of the raft,” Charlie said. The same maneuver used when a sailor fell overboard.
The Avenger had a crew of three, the pilot, turret gunner, and a radioman/bombardier. The raft bobbed in waters churned up by the shelling. The Sandtiger’s deck rose and fell on the swells.
As submarine and raft began to converge, he yelled, “All stop!”
A shell struck close aboard, rocking the submarine. Lacking the submariners’ sea legs, Jackson tumbled to the deck with a cry.
“Throw them a line!” Charlie said.
The sailors hurled a line at the raft and pulled the airmen aboard.
“They’re aboard! Helm, left full rudder! All ahead emergency! Go, go, go!”
Another shell hurled a wave of water across the deck as the Sandtiger made for the relative safety of the bay. One by one, the planes broke contact and returned to their carriers, rocking their wings in farewell. Morrison fired one last round before securing the gun.
Then the rapid operation was over. The airmen rescued, no casualties. A small success but an important one.
“Thank you, Captain,” Jackson said. “You guys really know your stuff.”
Rusty grinned at the dazed airmen who sat gasping on the deck and turned to Charlie. “You know what, Skipper? That was maybe the most personally worthwhile thing I’ve done in this war.”
It was one of the greatest ironies of war that taking life ultimately saved life, but Charlie had to agree. He was tired of the endless killing, and using his boat to save these men from capture or death at the hands of the Japanese gave him far more satisfaction than he thought it would.
Still, as he leaned against the bridge coaming, his legs trembled with spent adrenaline. Rusty was right, it was unlucky to think about the war being over and going home. Not because he believed in superstitions, but because he’d allowed something he’d forbade himself for three years.
Hope.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
HEY, TARGETS
The Sandtiger patrolled throughout the day until her crew was ordered to stand down and return to station off Samar’s coast. She cruised between hundreds of American ships of all shapes and sizes, finally stopping near a destroyer, the McNair. In so doing, she missed witnessing General MacArthur make his dramatic return through Leyte’s surf to again stand on Philippine soil.
Charlie and Rusty shook hands with the airmen, a happy bunch who would receive a hero’s welcome when they returned to their carriers.
“Thanks again, guys,” Jackson said. “In the future, I’ll be looking twice before I open up on any submarines.”
“You do that,” Rusty said. “We got enough problems.”
“Tell me about it. Based on the stink down there, I might be doing you favor if I did shoot.”
Charlie chuckled. “Good luck, Lieutenant. We still have a ways to go before we can go home.”
The men clambered into a raft. Hooker and another sailor wielded the oars.
“Hey, bubbleheads!” a man called from the McNair. “Thanks for showing up!”
“Hey yourselves, targets!” Rusty called back. “Thanks for taking our riders!”
The sailors on both ships laughed at the good-natured exchange. Even the McNair’s stern patrician captain, standing on his bridge, cracked a smile.
Rusty turned to Charlie. “So what’s next, Skipper?”
“Seven days, and we’re going home. I figured we’d try our luck at Borongan, then head north and see what we see.”
“My bet is the Japs hightailed it.”
A safe bet. In fact, no Japanese skipper in his right mind would bring a merchantman anywhere near Area Twenty now. The Sandtiger carried enough fuel to extend the patrol a few days beyond that, but there likely wouldn’t be any point.
“We’re probably in for a quiet week,” Charlie admitted.
“We earned it.”
“How are we set for beer? I’m wondering if we serve the rest out tonight, whether I’ll finally be able to take a shower.”
“It might be worth a shot,” Rusty said. “Me, I’ll be busy reviewing department reports. Always paperwork to be done for the CO.”
Charlie chuckled. “He’s a real bastard, from what I hear.”
“‘Hara-kiri,’ they call him.”
“The scourge of the seven seas. Sank a coaster.”
Rusty smiled into the wind. “You did just fine, brother.”
“I hope ComSubPac thinks so.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m telling you that you did just fine.”
Charlie wasn’t the type of man to ever believe he did just fine, but he appreciated hearing it from Rusty.
“We did all right this patrol, I guess.”
The Sandtiger had missed the Mamiya, braved a typhoon, and nearly sank after being bombed by her own country’s carrier planes. But she’d sunk several enemy ships and rescued four airmen under fire.
And most important, she and her crew had survived to fight another day.
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” Rusty said. “I’m buying.”
With a final wave to the departing airmen, they went below. Charlie gave the conn to Nixon and passed through the control room, where Spike informed him the boat and her crew were running tip top. Despite her age and scars, the Sandtiger had pulled through time and again on the patrol, as had her able crew. Morale was up. Maybe Rusty was right, and he’d done all right by them.
He led Rusty into the wardroom, where Percy sat on the bench behind the table, tuning his five-string banjo in open G.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” Charlie said.
The communications officer stopped. “What did I do now?”
Charlie removed his harmonica from his breast pocket. “Start us off.”
Percy grinned and did a forward roll to test his instrument’s sound. “Jimmie Davis, ‘You Are My Sunshine.’ One, two, three…”
He dove right into the song. Charlie puckered up and joined in with his harmonica while Rusty took out his fiddle from where he’d stowed it.
Then Percy began to sing in his lonesome voice. Halfway through, Charlie heard the off-duty chiefs sing along in their stateroom aft of the wardroom, and then the forward torpedomen. Waldron brought more coffee and joined in.
Each of Charlie’s former captains had used an activity to pass the time and build camaraderie among his officers. For Kane, it was chess. Hunter, hearts. Moreau, poker. Whether focused more on skill or chance, these games sharpened instincts through competition.
For Charlie, it was music. He bonded with his officers through melodic collaboration. As with a good piece of music, a submarine’s crew had to come together to produce perfect harmony.
This time, however, the song made him feel lonely, a strange thing to feel on a crowded boat. It wasn’t just the loneliness of command. He missed Evie and Jane, wondered when he’d see them again. The ties to home he’d severed when he’d joined the Submarine Force had begun to reassert themselves.
The tune came to a close.
“Goddamn, that song makes me homesick,” Percy said.
“I know what you mean,” Rusty said.
“That’s a good thing for me, Exec.”
“How so?”
The communications officer said, “I’m starting to think I might actually get there.” He glanced down at his ridiculous Aloha shirt. “Moreau…”
Percy didn’t have to voice his deep fears. His lucky shirts, his hard drinking, his nightmares were all born while serving under the highly aggressive Captain Moreau. He’d feared Hara-kiri might be cut in the same bloodthirsty, risk-taking image.
Right now, he was saying he trusted Charlie to balance aggression with the crew’s safety. That he trusted Charlie to get him home.
Sitting in awkward silence, Charlie didn’t know what to say to that. Rusty saved the day by launching into Nat King Cole’s “D-Day,” a song about the Allied invasion of Hitler’s Europe back in June, which had occurred while Charlie had been fighting on Saipan. Before he’d returned to sea for his current patrol, the Allies were steadily advancing toward Germany’s Siegfried Line, and the Soviets had captured Bucharest.
The Sandtiger’s hum changed in pitch, as if she too wished to have a part in playing the patriotic song. Charlie felt her moving. The airmen had been safely delivered to the McNair, and she was heading north back into Area Twenty. She was through with being a lifeguard. Soon, she’d return to the hunt.
Whatever the respite and no matter how long, the war always waited.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A GOOD PATROL
Five days later, on October 24, the weather-beaten Sandtiger cruised on two mains east of the Samar port town of Gamay. Her crew followed their routines and thought about their upcoming liberty in Honolulu. They greased the torpedo tubes, checked gravity in the battery cells, tested for grounds in the electrical circuits, and all the other important but typical activities needed to keep the iron lady on patrol.
Feeling clean for the first time in over a month, Charlie entered the crew’s mess. He’d finally found time to take a shower, if one could call those seconds of frantic soaping and rinsing a real shower, and he’d shaved his beard. He’d put on a fresh khaki uniform for the occasion, which was to mark the end of the patrol. In just two days, the Sandtiger would return to port.
Officers and crew cheered his arrival while Harry James’s “I’ve Heard That Song Before” played over the 1MC. In their view, he’d done all right. He’d found enemy ships, steered them out of trouble, and led them in a surprise surface attack that resulted in sinkings. And he would get them back to base alive.
Hara-Kiri: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 5) Page 11