One day, Charlie Harrison would join the ranks of these great men. Perhaps soon. He hoped he would live up to their successes and avoid their mistakes. And he prayed he’d be as good as Captain Kane.
Sandtiger’s hum at last lulled him toward sleep.
He awoke with a start.
“The O3!” a man was shouting in the dark.
“What?” Rusty cried. “Why are you shaking me?”
“We’ve got an emergency,” the sailor said. “The depth-charging damaged the compressed air tanks. I was told I had to blow the O3 or we’ll run out of air.”
“Wait. What?”
Charlie suppressed laughter. Just like old times.
“I have to blow the O3, sir!”
O3 was the pay grade designation for lieutenant. Another snipe hunt for one of the greenhorns, courtesy of the boat’s biggest asshole.
“Tell Braddock the O3 already drained his ballast tanks in the head,” Rusty growled. “Now get lost before I throw you and him overboard for a float test!”
Charlie shook with laughter as the bewildered greenhorn fled the cabin.
“You’d think after almost getting blown up, he’d give it a rest,” his friend said.
“You were right about one more thing,” Charlie chuckled. “It’s the little things that get you through a war.”
He closed his eyes and instantly returned to sleep. A hand shook him what felt like minutes later.
Charlie growled, “Damn it, if this is another snipe hunt—”
“We’ve got a situation, Mr. Harrison,” Smokey said.
He rubbed his face. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s the Scouts. They called us. They want off the island.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MUTINY
Charlie sat up with a groan and checked the time: 0800. “You should be resting, Smokey.”
“When I’m dead, Exec.”
“You feeling all right?”
The man rubbed his shoulder. “I feel like I was shot out that tube. I’m getting too old for this.”
Rusty hopped down from his bunk. “What happened to the Scouts?”
“They requested immediate evac, Mr. Grady.”
Charlie put on fresh service khakis and followed Smokey to the conning tower, where the officers convened at the plotting table.
“What’s our status?” Charlie said.
Percy pointed to the chart laid out on the table. “I surfaced the boat here off the west coast of Tinian to start repairs, which are still in progress. All mains on propulsion. The battery is fully charged. We’re now here, bearing oh-one-five.”
Off the east coast of Tinian, heading north by northeast back to Magicienne Bay. Sandtiger would reach it within the hour.
“We’re still leaking?”
“Yeah, but the pumps can handle it. If we have to run silent again, we’ll have a problem, though.”
Percy had everything well in hand here.
“Carry on to the rendezvous.” Charlie glanced at Rusty. “I’d better go fill in the captain.”
And find out if the man was still fit to command. He hoped Saunders had recovered from his mistake and was learning from it. Then he remembered how Captain Harvey reacted after he’d lost his nerve during Sandtiger’s test run.
Rusty nodded past Charlie’s shoulder. “You can fill him in here.”
Captain Saunders didn’t look well. Sweat poured down his face and formed large black stains across his uniform’s chest and under his armpits.
Charlie laid everything out before the man could speak. Heading, engines on propulsion, state of battery charge, condition of the boat, and the Scouts’ radio message. “We don’t know if the Scouts succeeded or failed,” he finished. “We’re heading to the rendezvous coordinates so we can pull them out at sundown.”
“And who decided that, Mr. Harrison? You and Mr. Grady?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“That’s right. I’m the goddamn captain! And I make the goddamn decisions on this boat! Such as whether to fool around with a hot torpedo while in combat!”
Across the conning tower, the crew goggled at them before returning to their duties.
There was only one response Charlie could give: “Yes, Captain.”
Saunders stabbed his finger at Rusty. “You, Judas. Taking control of the boat behind my back while I was focused on evading that Jap destroyer. And you, Mr. Harrison! Going along with it!”
Rusty wilted under the assault. “We had no choice, sir.”
“Mutiny!” the captain bellowed, making the crewmen flinch at their stations.
Charlie fought to contain his anger. “Captain, it was my—”
“Silence!”
He shut up. The captain had gone from wanting to relive his history to actively rewriting it. He’d proven himself unfit for duty. In the rocks and shoals, the words were, “culpably inefficient in the performance of duty,” a court-martial offense.
But so was saying a single seditious or mutinous word, creating a Catch-22.
Saunders was captain of this boat, king of this kingdom. Period. He’d made a colossal mistake. He’d broken under stress. Another man might have learned from it and moved on, done better. But that would require forgiveness. He’d have to forgive himself. Saunders wasn’t the type. And so he blamed his officers.
“I could have you both arrested and confined to quarters on bread and water,” the captain snarled. “I could bust you to Seamen, Second Class! But I won’t.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The captain grinned. “But I will see you both tried by court-martial when we get back to Pearl.”
Charlie stepped back, eyes wide in disbelief. Rusty had turned gray. Nixon inched away from the table until his back met the TDC. Percy glanced from the captain to Charlie in amazement.
Captain Saunders’ eyes swept the conning tower as if daring anybody to challenge his authority, which remained absolute. “I have the conn,” he said. “Helm, steady as you go. We’ve got to rescue some Scouts.”
The helmsman nodded, his face pained. “Aye, aye.”
“Mr. Ellis,” he barked. “Tell the Scouts to be ready to disembark. We’ll make contact as soon as we reach the bay.”
The radioman stared at him in surprise. “Aye, aye,” he stammered.
“Mr. Nixon! Quit your hiding and give me a damage report.”
“Captain,” Charlie said. “It’s daylight.”
“And I say we’re going to get those Scouts out now, Mr. Harrison. While you and Mr. Grady practice staying out of my sight.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
He and Rusty retreated down to the control room. Charlie moved without awareness of his body, as if in a nightmare. Then he bumped his elbow against a protruding lever, and the jolt of pain snapped him out of it.
Rusty was still pale. From fear or rage, Charlie couldn’t tell.
“The captain—”
Charlie held his finger to his lips. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
“Don’t be sorry for saving our lives. And don’t forget I was the one who got you into all this.”
A headache bloomed in his skull. “I need a cup of coffee.”
“I’m buying,” Rusty said.
In the wardroom, they poured mugs of hot coffee and sat at the small table bolted to the deck. If Saunders pressed his claim, they were in deep trouble. The captain’s word against theirs. In a trial like this, a captain, especially one with Saunders’ reputation, would have the stronger say.
Charlie doubted a court comprised of senior officers would publicly agree one of their own had shown dereliction of duty because of a mental breakdown.
After this patrol, Charlie might be stripped of rank and pay, thrown off the submarines, or worse. He might be imprisoned. He might even be shot.
Regardless of the outcome, he’d never make captain. He was finished in the submarines.
They sat quietly. There was nothing to talk about other than th
e captain’s erratic behavior and their doom, and they weren’t allowed to talk about either. Rusty stared at the dull wood wall paneling while his coffee cooled. Charlie drained his own mug and refilled it before returning to his seat.
Percy entered the room and said, “Christ! The Old Man’s a maniac.”
Charlie swept his finger across his throat. In a submarine, the bulkheads had ears. Percy shrugged and dropped onto one of the chairs.
“Who cares?” the torpedo officer said. “We’re about to surface a leaking submarine in shallow Japanese waters in broad daylight. He’s trying to kill us.”
“Percy,” Charlie warned.
“What about you? You guys all right?”
He thought about it. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“It’s better if we don’t talk for a while,” Rusty said.
“I knew things were going to hell when I wasn’t allowed to wear my Aloha shirts,” Percy said. “Well, if you can’t say it, play it.”
The officer reached behind him and pulled out his banjo case. He removed the banjo and tuned it. He strummed some chords, which settled into “Blue Moon.”
After a while, he said, “Join in anytime, fellas.”
Charlie sat fuming. Then he said, “Screw it.”
He took out his harmonica, puckered his lips around the tin, and blew through the number six hole, using his tongue to block the five. From there he entered the melody, drawing out the long notes with a wah-wah produced by waving his hand. Percy laughed and played a countermelody.
“Shit,” Rusty said, taking out his fiddle and joining in.
The result was beautiful as it always was, and Charlie lost himself and his cares in the music.
Smokey walked into the wardroom livid with fury. “I’ll testify—”
The officers ignored him. Charlie appreciated his support but knew, even if the whole crew testified, they’d only hurt their careers and very likely wouldn’t affect the outcome. He blanked out his mind again and kept playing.
Waldron, the wardroom steward, came in next and crooned the words to the song in his deep, gravelly voice. Spike arrived sputtering, followed by the rest of the chiefs. By the end of the song, a crowd had gathered. Members of the crew who’d come to offer their support and stayed to listen.
This was the part of the service Charlie would miss most of all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘THE ONLY GOOD JAP…’
Back in Magicienne Bay. Charlie scrutinized the approaching raft from the Sandtiger’s bridge.
“It’s Cotten,” he said. “He’s alone. I don’t see the rest of his guys.”
Charlie hoped the man hurried it up. They were completely exposed in bright tropical sunlight.
“What happened?” Smokey said.
“I don’t know.”
Charlie found it hard to think about anything other than getting the Scout aboard and going deep before the Japanese spotted them.
Heaving at the oars, the Scout came close enough for Charlie and Smokey to haul him aboard. Gasping, the man collapsed on the bridge. Smokey stabbed the rubber raft with a knife and let it sink. Charlie crouched next to the lieutenant.
“Where are your men, Jonas?”
“Get out of here,” Cotten said. “Dive the boat.”
Charlie didn’t need to be told twice. “Give me a hand with him, Smokey.”
They dragged him to the hatch and passed him inside before dropping down to the conning tower. The quartermaster called out the hatch was secured.
“Planes, take us to periscope depth!” Captain Saunders snapped. “Lt. Cotten! Where’s the rest of your team?”
“Dead,” the Scout said. “Or good as dead. I think they grabbed Moretti.”
The Japanese could already guess a submarine had brought the Scouts to the island. If the Japanese captured one of Cotten’s men, eventually they’d make him talk. Then they’d know exactly where the submarine was.
Charlie stared at the captain, hoping the man understood the even greater danger they were now in. Saunders blinked in comprehension.
“Helm, turn us about,” the captain ordered. “Come to oh-nine-oh.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Planes, stand by to go deep once we clear the bay!”
Charlie blew a relieved sigh. They were submerged and moving. It was time to put as much distance as they could between Sandtiger and the Japanese.
“What about the gun?” Captain Saunders asked the Scout. “The Meteor? You didn’t have time to destroy it.”
Cotten hung his head. “We never even got a look at it.”
They’d failed.
In a short time, tens of thousands of Marines would stream toward the beaches in tracked landing vehicles. All under aimed fire, including the Meteor’s devastating barrage. Each shot striking earth and sea like the hand of God.
“Mr. Harrison!” Saunders said. “Get him below.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Charlie got Cotten into the wardroom and sat him in one of the chairs. Rusty handed him a cup of coffee, which he held untasted.
“What happened?” Rusty said.
“There was a boy.”
“Go ahead,” Charlie encouraged.
The Scout’s glazed eyes flickered and focused. “They’re dead because of me. Like it was me pulling the trigger.”
Rusty produced a battered notepad from his breast pocket. “Start at the beginning.”
“They’re dead. There’s nothing else.”
“He’s been through hell,” Charlie said. “Maybe we should let up on him. Give him a chance to rest and collect himself.”
His friend shot him a sharp look. “I’m debriefing him now.”
Doing his job. His operation had failed, and he wanted to know why.
“We landed and climbed up the bluff,” Cotten said. His eyes blazed as they gazed inward. “Got ourselves oriented and pushed inland. Jungle, sugarcane fields, a stream that wasn’t on the maps. We circled around Tsutsurran, sticking to the jungle.”
The Scouts came upon a wide patch of open ground. Two miles of dense grass dotted with brush and low scrub trees. Stars winking overhead. Wearing civilian clothes to blend with the locals, Moretti and Parks blazed a trail ahead. Tropical birds squeaked and screeched in a never-ending chorus from the pandanu trees.
The men signaled all clear. The rest of the squad moved out.
“We made it halfway across when we heard the patrol,” Cotten said, his eyes glazing over again as if reliving a dream. “Our luck just got worse from there.”
A line of Japanese soldiers hoofed it along a trail that cut through the tall grass. The lieutenant at the front of the column marched smartly, as if on parade. His men followed carrying Arisaka rifles. A full-strength platoon, about fifty men.
The Scouts hunkered down in the grass until invisible. The Japanese tramped past with a clatter of gear. Despite the air raids and meager rations, the soldiers looked fit and ready to fight.
More important to the Scouts, they didn’t appear to be searching for the enemy. They seemed bored. Going through the motions. Patrolling friendly ground because somebody higher up told them to.
At last, the platoon faded west into the darkness. Cotten gazed at the sky. Dawn soon. Waiting out the patrol had eaten up a lot of precious time. They had to get under cover and quick.
The lieutenant started to rise when Singer threw him hand signals that said, Trouble coming, stay down, stay quiet.
“We heard voices,” he said. “Getting louder by the second. Soon, they’d be right on top of us. We hugged the ground and waited.”
Cotten expected stragglers, but it was a group of locals. Not Chamorros native to the island; the Japanese government had forcibly relocated most of them years ago. These people were Japanese civilians who’d settled here to grow sugarcane.
The civilians trudged past wearily, carrying machetes and shovels. A work detail, most likely building bunkers for the island’s defenders.
They’d been working all night and were going home to Tsutsurran.
They too passed. Only a few minutes of darkness left. Singer rose first and gave the all-clear. Then Cotten stood and saw a boy.
“Just some stupid Jap boy,” he said. “He was looking right at Ahuli, and he was standing rock still and looking right back. We all just stood there frozen.”
Gripping a K-bar in his hand, Cotten worked his way around. He’d taken the lives of a dozen men with this knife during his missions around the Pacific. Each time, he knew if he didn’t eliminate them, he and his men would have been killed.
Guided by the same simple calculus, he crept up behind the boy.
Ahuli smiled at the kid. Waved and said hello in Japanese.
“That was my cue,” Cotten said. “The only good Jap is a dead Jap, right? But I didn’t move. I couldn’t do it. I got three kids of my own. One a little girl about that boy’s age. He didn’t deserve it.”
The kid screamed for help.
Gaijin! Gaijin! Gaijin—
Cotten dove and knocked him to the ground. Clamped his hand over the boy’s mouth. The Scouts materialized from the tall grass around him.
What now, Singer had whispered.
Wait, he’d answered. Nobody might have heard. Fan out, and stay low.
The kid gaped up at him, tears pouring from his eyes.
Voices. The rattle of gear. The Japanese soldiers were returning.
“They had us cut off from retreat,” Cotten intoned. “Ahead lay the village the platoon had come out of, crawling with enemy troops. Any minute, fifty Japs were going to be right on top of us. We had to go north.”
A man shouted in Japanese. A rifle cracked.
Then the ground jumped as a deafening boom split the air. In the flash of light, Cotten glimpsed a legless soldier cartwheeling through the air. Ahuli opened fire with his Thompson from the north. Muzzle flashes in the grass. The soldiers fell back in confusion, shooting wildly in the dark.
A bugle call rang out. A flare burst overhead.
“I heard some of you guys talk about depth-charging and how it messes with your mind. For most Army guys, it’s shelling. For me, it’s that goddamn bugle. Freezes the blood in my veins no matter how hot it is. It means slaughter.”
Contact!: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 4) Page 8