“I still don’t have them. I want a job where I shoot bullets instead of count them. Any chance you know where I’m headed?”
“Not a clue. Normally you would have orders by now, but Washington got their fingers into it. Just wait, it’ll take them a few more weeks to figure out the obvious.”
§
January 11, 1943
Tulagi Navy Base
The navy garrisoned the Able’s crew at Tulagi in makeshift tents, but O’Toole got what he wanted: three squares a day and a cot to sleep on. He didn’t have a chance to check in with Captain Shelly since he had been immediately evacuated to a hospital ship. On Tulagi the navy had already begun the Able’s board of inquiry.
To O’Toole, the board of inquiry went better than the Green’s inquiry. The hearing officers maintained a cold, distant air, but he sensed they were treating him with respect, almost being deferential. The board ruled the Able was lost in combat. He had heard the loss of the Green was due to the negligence of the captain. O’Toole believed the negligence was his; he had been the bridge officer.
Two weeks later, a transport officer on Admiral Halsey’s staff located room aboard a troop ship headed stateside to repatriate the crew. The entire evolution was in the best military tradition: hurry up, wait, then panic.
O’Toole looked forward to boarding the troop ship back to Pearl. Every waking moment was now spent thinking about Kate, and the time they would have together during his survivor leave. He missed her more than he had realized, and he felt his mood wouldn’t interfere with their reunion. He just hoped he wouldn’t have any nightmares while they were together; they would scare her.
His upbeat mood driven by anticipation at seeing Kate was destroyed at the last minute. Just before boarding the homebound troop ship, the navy cancelled his survivor’s leave and ordered him to say in theater to await permanent orders.
Permanent orders would come from Fleet in Pearl but would take time. To get him out of the way, the brass assigned O’Toole to PT Boat Flotilla 1, stationed on Tulagi.
After saying goodbye to his shipmates aboard the transport, O’Toole gathered up the meager possessions he had scrounged up on Tulagi: four sets of skivvies, two tropical khaki uniforms, five socks and a garrison hat but no insignia.
He walked the mile separating the main base from the PT boat base. When he entered the thirty-foot square command tent, the sun on the tent raised the temperature to oven levels. Even with the side flaps rolled up, the smell of the baking canvas permeated everything. At least the tent came with wooden floors; this assignment might be a step up in the world.
The tent contained several crude desks, a few crude timber tables, and large chalkboard. He presented himself to a dungaree-clad sailor seated at a table nearest the entrance.
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been temporarily assigned to the flotilla,” O’Toole said, handing the sailor his orders.
“No one told us about you. Temporary? You’re in the wrong place. The skipper will pitch a bitch over this ‘cause we don’t need tourists around here.”
When the sailor glanced at the orders, he added, “Lieutenant O’Toole, welcome to Flotilla 1. The skipper’s went somewhere, but he’s never gone long. I guess I can take you over to the officer’s tent, get you bedded down, and show you where things are. Where’s your stuff, sir? I’ll carry your bag for you.”
O’Toole held up a small canvas ammo bag and said, “I can handle it; this is all I got.”
The sailor led O’Toole to the officer’s tent where O’Toole picked out an empty cot. Next on the tour was the officer’s mess tent and latrine. Back at the command tent, a group of officers stood around one of the makeshift tables looking at a chart.
“There’s the skipper. I’ll introduce you,” the sailor said. He approached an officer with his back turned and said, “Sir, there is a new officer I would like to introduce.”
The officer turned toward O’Toole. It was Ron Durham, and he was wearing lieutenant-commander insignia on his collar.
“Pat!”
“Ron!”
In unison they said, “Damn, how’d you get here?”
“You first, Lieutenant Commander,” O’Toole said.
“The promotion is temporary, but I’m not complaining. When I got my orders back in Pearl, they gave me command of the first PT boat flotilla in the South Pacific.”
“If they scraped the bottom of the barrel hard enough to find you, we must be in real trouble. Congratulations!”
“What about you?”
“I was on the Able when she went down. They garrisoned the survivors up at the main base until they could arrange transport stateside. I was really looking forward to seeing Kate but some damn asshole cancelled my survivor leave. Now I’m waiting on orders. Same as last time.”
“Was that your ship? We heard they had a destroyer crew garrisoned at the main base, but we didn’t know which ship. Damn, I’m sorry, Pat.”
Durham introduced O’Toole to the other officers, mostly ensigns and lieutenants junior grade with a few lieutenants. The lieutenants were squadron commanders, each with six PT boats. They welcomed O’Toole with a coolness that bothered him; he expected at least some camaraderie from the group. Durham dismissed the group and said to O’Toole, “Hey, we got our beer ration last Friday, and I haven’t had a chance to drink it. Got two bottles. You want one?”
“As long as I don’t have to give up my first-born son to get it.”
“No, I’ll only charge you a quart of blood,” Durham said with a smile.
Durham retrieved two bottles of hot beer from a desk drawer, handed O’Toole a 45-caliber pistol, and slung a carbine over his shoulder. They headed to a beach area outside the main gate. After a quarter mile, Durham turned and walked into the jungle several hundred feet. Once in the jungle, the number of insects increased, and they began waving their arms to shoo them away.
At a small clearing, a waterfall cascaded into a twenty-foot pool. Durham placed the beers in the pool under a shade tree. “Won’t make them cold like they are back home, but it’ll be a lot better than drinking them hot.”
As they sat down, O’Toole asked, “What is it with the guys? I could get a warmer reception at the North Pole.”
“Don’t let them worry you. You lost a ship, so they consider you bad luck, and being a destroyer sailor, you’re not one of the club. All the boat captains have a chip on their shoulder, and I want to keep it that way. Don’t worry; they’ll warm up to you after a while.
“Heck, I don’t even know why you’re here. I didn’t ask for any more officers. I’m full up.”
“I’m clueless as well. Like I said, I’m waiting for orders, and I guess they didn’t want me in their way, so they sent me here to be in your way.” O’Toole swatted at a bug on his neck.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find something a dumb Irishman can handle.”
“So what are PT boats like?”
“You’re going to love them; we’re outlaws. Forget everything you learned about tactics at the academy. Throw the book away; it doesn’t apply to what we do. We’re like junkyard dogs fighting over a bone—”
“Dogfights?”
“Close enough. We make the rules as we go. They call us the mosquito fleet that stings like a wasp. We fished a Jap pilot out of the water a few weeks back, and Interrogation told us the Japs call us the devil boats.” Durham was smiling.
“So any idea what you want me to do?”
“Not yet. I’ll get you out on a boat tomorrow or the day after. Most of our time is patrol duty. The Japs are running the Tokyo express down the far side of the slot. They get forty or fifty barges of men and equipment together in Rabaul and send them south to reinforce their troops on Guadalcanal. They travel at night, pull into shore during the day, and camouflage themselves so we can’t locate them. We get our chance when they get ready to unload because they send down three or four destroyers to cover unloading. That’s when things get interestin
g, but Intel says the Japs may be giving up on Guadalcanal, so I don’t know what to expect anymore.”
Durham swatted at the bugs buzzing his face as he walked over to check the beers. Satisfied they were cool enough, he found a rock with a sharp edge and used it to open the bottles. He handed a bottle to O’Toole, who was trying to swat away several bugs flying around his face.
“I take it you don’t like our motorized freckles,” Durham said.
19
That night at dinner, O’Toole couldn’t find Durham. The other officers shunned him, so he ate his Eskimo steak alone and bitched to himself about the navy’s perpetual diet of chicken and salmon. Breakfast the next day was the same: Eskimo steak for one. He needed to get out on the boats and bond with the officers or his stay in Tulagi would be long and lonely.
After breakfast, he asked Durham for a patrol assignment. Durham introduced him to Lieutenant Junior Grade Munroe, captain of the fifteen boat, who was getting ready to go out on patrol.
When they reached the sprawling dock holding the flotilla’s twenty-four PT boats, the inconsistency in their deck guns surprised him. Some were fifty-caliber guns, others were 20 mm, and Munroe’s boat had a 40-mm forward gun. The same was true of the aft guns. Fifty-caliber guns were standard. “Where’d you get the heavier guns?” he asked.
Munroe grinned. “We call ‘em field upgrades. Whenever a landing craft or a bomber gets busted up, we strip them before the jarhead scavengers get there. We bring the guns back here and figure out where to mount them.”
“How do you get ammo for them?”
Munroe’s grin grew wider still. “Any way we can. Usually we persuade the marines to give us the ammo.”
Marines would never share ammunition with the navy. They were using some form of midnight supply ops.
“It’s not stealing, Lieutenant. We’re helping the War Department redistribute ammo to the units who can use it.” Munroe’s deadpan reply to his unasked question was pure bravado. Durham said they were throwing away the rulebook; this was what that looked like.
As they left the dock, O’Toole had to admit he liked this little boat. At seventy feet it was almost twice as long as his grandfather’s fishing schooner.
O’Toole joined Monroe in the open cockpit, and once in open water, Monroe turned to O’Toole. “You want to take the wheel?”
O’Toole couldn’t wait, “You bet.” He moved to take the wheel and climb into the conning chair.
“Don’t do that,” Monroe said. “The boat will throw your ass overboard. Wedge yourself between the chair and the wheel.”
O’Toole complied and scanned the gauges; they were at twenty knots headed into two-foot swells.
Monroe smiled at O’Toole. “Well, go on. Bring her to thirty knots.”
O’Toole pushed the throttles forward, and the boat jumped on plane and crashed through the oncoming swells with jolt after jolt. O’Toole’s heart raced, and he stiffened his legs to push harder against the conning chair. He said, “I like this.”
Monroe tightened his grip on a handhold. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
O’Toole was careful not to turn the boat because he was unsure how she would respond. “How maneuverable is the boat at this speed in these seas?”
“Throw the wheel over about halfway and reverse course,” Monroe said.
O’Toole thought for a second. He could turn the wheel slowly, or jerk it over. The boy in him won, and the response was immediate; the boat tilted forty-five degrees into the bank, and the hull bottomed out on the next swell, almost toppling O’Toole.
“You gotta hang on,” Monroe said.
With their course reversed, the ride smoothed out as the boat bounded into the following sea. “Go ahead and open her up,” Monroe said.
He jammed the throttles full forward. The speed of the boat increased as did the crushing impacts into the swells. Without warning, the boat launched itself off the backside of a swell and went airborne. “You didn’t tell me this baby could fly!”
“Just think: it’s calm today.”
“It’s as fast as a destroyer, but it’s lower so speed seems incredible. What’s your horsepower?”
“We’ve got three 1,200 horse power engines.”
“I think I’m in love!”
“Better than destroyers?”
“I’ll need to think about it for a while. Can I slow her down and do some maneuvering?”
“You bet.”
O’Toole’s mind opened up to a new world. This wasn’t a large ship slugging it out over the horizon on the high seas, it was a mosquito zipping between islands and across shallow water to harass the enemy. This boat was an instrument of chaos.
Rulebook? What rulebook?
During the patrol, he questioned Munroe about tactics. Munroe’s mind was nimble and unencumbered by thoughts of the right or wrong way to do things. Munroe’s confidence bordered on cockiness, making it all the more difficult for O’Toole to find intelligent questions to ask because Munroe laughed at the stupid ones. It was a new world, and O’Toole loved it.
They didn’t return to Tulagi until after 0200. Exhausted, O’Toole crashed into his cot face first. He fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.
§
Under a red sky, the Able listed hard to port, and the heat of fires seared O’Toole’s shirtless body. Two hands reached from the gun mount hatch. He hoisted a five-inch shell to the waiting hands. Inside the mount, sweating men cranked the manual wheels to aim. He turned seaward to see the Japanese destroyer charging past them at five hundred yards. Someone handed him a brass powder casing, which he swung into waiting arms inside the mount. The gun fired. An explosion knocked him into the man behind him. He turned; the ocean burned and vomited black smoke. The explosion had obliterated the Japanese destroyer.
Beyond the destroyer, a Japanese cruiser bore down on them. “Target the cruiser,” he ordered.
Another shell, another casing, they fired. The shell bounced off the cruiser’s armored hull. Again they fired; again the same result. The cruiser drew closer. They fired again and again. The bow of the cruiser loomed, filling the sky. The captain of the Japanese cruiser scowled at him with his one good eye. “I sank your ship again. You’ll never be good enough to defeat me.”
The shirtless lookout stiffened, “Sir, light flashes, port beam.”
O’Toole jerked upright in his cot gasping. His tumbling mind struggled to regain its bearings. He swung his feet to the cool, sandy ground, and his hand touched his sweat-soaked mattress. He swept his matted red hair off his forehead and stumbled outside the tent to collect himself. The navy had made a mistake; he needed survivor’s leave.
The night air was uncharacteristically still, but the PT boat base stirred with life. A jeep roared in the distance, the sound of the engines from a patrolling PT boat off shore rolled in from beach, and a few men walked about.
At least he’d broken the ice with one boat crew today, though Monroe’s confidence and mastery of his boat had intimidated him. O’Toole wanted to be like him, an officer who would never fall short in battle. The war was raging, men were dying, and he wanted to do his part. But how?
“Hey, you. You dressed for the dance tonight?”
O’Toole walked toward a 20-mm anti-aircraft bunker. A marine, helmet cocked back at rakish angle, sat on the sandbags behind his gun, smoking a cigarette. Three other marines, equally relaxed, sat on sandbags circling the gun. Dressed in his skivvies, they couldn’t tell his rank.
“Yeah, they said they there would be some nurses there, so to save time, I figured I’d dress like this.”
They laughed.
“Want a cigarette?” one asked.
O’Toole didn’t smoke. “Yeah, thanks.”
The marine handed O’Toole a Lucky Strike, and struck a match for him. “Been here long?” O’Toole asked.
“‘Bout a month. The grunts we replaced got sent to the island. Poor bastards.”
O’Toole understood �
��the island” meant Guadalcanal.
“Yeah, we’re next. Something to look forward to.”
“How about you? Been here long?” a marine asked O’Toole.
“About the same.”
“What you doing up this time of night? Is this place getting to ya?”
“No, I couldn’t sleep. I lost my ship, the Able, and the brass in their infinite wisdom parked me here.”
“Met a guy from the Able in the mess tent one day. Tough luck. Scuttlebutt is you got three Jap destroyers and almost sank a cruiser before you went down.”
“Actually, it was two destroyers, but the cruiser got pretty banged up.”
“You sure? The guy told me they sank three destroyers. And he said Jap aircraft attacked them for three straight days and they downed almost sixty Jap planes without a scratch.”
“Well that’s not what happened,”
“You sure you’re from the Able?”
O’Toole understood scuttlebutt was far more interesting than the truth. He wouldn’t be able to win this discussion.
After a few seconds another marine piped up, “Me too. I talked with one of the survivors before they shipped ‘em out. Said one of their lieutenants was the worst hard-ass in the fleet. Couple of ‘em told me it took a while for them to figure him out, but in the end they decided he meant his ass-chewing to keep ‘em alive. One guy said the hard-ass lieutenant was shoveling ammo into a flooded gun mount when they hit one of the Jap destroyers.”
O’Toole decided to surrender to the scuttlebutt. Still he felt self-conscious and wanted to redirect the discussion. “It’s not too bad here. What’s the word from the island?”
“It’s bad over there, but we’re winning, and word is the Japs may be pulling out. They’re dug in and fighting hand-to-hand sometimes,” one marine said in a low voice.
O’Toole remembered Hatfield’s comments about the Japanese pilot being like him. He thought about it for a second. “Guess us navy guys got it easy. We usually can’t see the other guy’s eyes before we kill him.”
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 16