“We need to refuel,” O’Toole said, sliding out of his chair.
Paxton frowned. “Intel says Jap subs are in the area, and we can’t refuel in this storm.”
“Adversity is opportunity. We’ll refuel tonight to avoid the submarine threat.”
“Darkened ship?”
“Not unless you want to turn the lights on and give the Japs something to shoot at.”
“Turning the lights on may not be a bad idea. A torpedo attack in these seas would be impossible.”
“I told you to never say that word on this ship, XO. That goes for the enemy as well. Signal the oiler Melnore, advise her of our situation, and ask for her assistance.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“And get Doc Strong up here. I need the men with the best night vision.”
At 2200 hours, O’Toole slapped Navarro, the deck officer, on the back and said, “You ready for this?”
“Yes, sir.” Navarro’s eyes betrayed his lie.
To Paxton, O’Toole said, “You’re sure we got the fuel contamination problem fixed?”
“Yes, sir, a defective bolt holding the forward fueling port shut cracked, came loose, and exposed the pipe to the open sea.”
O’Toole grabbed for a handhold as the ship mounted a swell and heeled hard to port. “Cooper, you’re with us,” O’Toole said to the young seaman dressed in an oilcloth poncho identical to ones O’Toole, Paxton, and Navarro wore. The four men headed for the port bridge wing.
Navarro took station next to the pelorus that housed the gyro compass repeater. The black of night was troubled only by faint smears of foam sailing from the wave peaks.
“Cooper, front and center. The doctor says you have the best night vision aboard the ship. The Melnore is somewhere dead ahead. We need you to help us spot it. Navarro, get your speed up, and let’s find the oiler.”
Navarro bent to the voice tube. “All ahead two-thirds, indicate turns for twenty knots.”
A single blip from the Melnore’s flashing light pricked the blackness.
“Come left ten degrees,” Navarro yelled into the voice tube. The Farnley’s bow jerked upward. A mountain of water crushed down on the bridge, and O’Toole clung to the pelorus. When the wave passed, the other three men still clung to the railing.
Paxton grabbed O’Toole’s arm. “Captain, my job is to remind you this is dangerous. I don’t think any ship has refueled under these conditions. Visibility is zero, and Navarro is going to have a hell of a time keeping the ship straight. At twenty knots the approach to the oiler will pound the shit out of us.”
“Thank you, XO. Other than that what do you think?”
“I’m scared shitless, but this will be very interesting.”
Inside the wheelhouse, Skittle’s droning voice rose above the sound of the sea and the howling wind:
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there
wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to
dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave
no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered
word, ‘Melnore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the
name, ‘Melnore!’
Merely this and nothing more.
“Skittle, damn it!” O’Toole yelled.
“Sorry, sir, it seemed appropriate.”
“Sir, I’ve got oiler,” Cooper said, pointing.
“I can’t see it,” Navarro said. “Are we lined up?”
“I think we’re a little too close, sir.”
“Come right five degrees.”
A mountain of ocean swept the bridge wing, throwing Navarro back into O’Toole, who caught him. “Hang on.”
“I see the oiler, Captain,” Navarro said.
O’Toole could too, and the Farnley’s bow was coming even with the oilers stern. They were too close and headed for a collision. Navarro’s reaction was immediate. “Right standard rudder, indicate turns for ten knots.”
The oiler’s stern dropped forty feet into the trough as the Farnley’s swinging bow rose forty feet to crest the oncoming swell. O’Toole could no longer see the oiler beneath the Farnley’s bow. At high speed, and still swinging, the Farnley’s bow ripped through the crest of the swell and began its slow, agonizing fall into the trough. O’Toole held his breath.
The Farnley’s bow fell into the trough as the next swell launched the oiler’s stern high above the Farnley’s bridge. Navarro’s last order had prevented the collision. O’Toole’s eyes were not on the oiler but the next swell building on their port bow; the Farnley would take that swell almost broadside. “Turn back into the sea,” O’Toole ordered Navarro.
Navarro glanced at the gyro repeater. “Shift your rudder,” Navarro ordered.
The swell burst over the bow and scaled the side of the ship, submerging the bridge wing and sending a wall of water through the open wheelhouse door and throwing the Farnley on her side.
O’Toole lost his grip on his wet handhold, and his shoulder smashed into the wheelhouse bulkhead. He lashed out with his arms to find something to grasp and snagged the combing of the watertight door. The water subsided. All the men were down, including those in the wheelhouse. Navarro pulled himself up the side of the pelorus.
The bow was swinging to port, and the oiler was only a hundred feet away. Navarro watched the gyro compass repeater in the pelorus and ordered, “Meet her,” to steady the ship on a course parallel to the oiler.
O’Toole regained his feet, and Navarro asked, “What now, Captain?”
“We need fuel, and I’ll be damned if we’re going around again. Drop to five knots and let the oiler pull ahead, but don’t lose sight of her,” O’Toole said. His only thought was to try again, come in wide, and slowly close the distance between the Farnley and the oiler.
“Captain, I think we can stay well clear of the oiler, get along side of her, then inch in on her,” Navarro said.
“Good idea. Let’s give it a try.”
“By the way, Navarro, have I ever told you you’re a damned adequate conning officer?”
Bent over in defense against the wind and spay, Navarro straightened up and said, “I don’t recall you ever mentioning that, Captain.”
§
The next morning, with the Farnley’s fuel tanks full, the morning watch section relieved the morning battle stations crew, and Ensign Mock assumed the conn.
“New orders, Captain,” Paxton said, handing O’Toole the message form.
O’Toole took it, careful not to disturb Ship Shape napping in his lap. “Busy day,” O’Toole said before reading the message.
“Any idea why they’re diverting us to Tulagi with four ammo ships?” Paxton said.
“Not a clue. Someone at HQ screwed up and sent the ammo in the wrong direction, and HQ is trying to straighten it out. The good news is we’ll be headed north and into nicer weather.”
Even though Mock had assumed the conn only a few minutes ago, his eyes and pale face proclaimed stress born of uncertainty. He needed help.
“The swells are running in sets of six,” O’Toole said to Mock. “Always keep track of your swell count. The seventh one is the swell that sinks ships. It might be missing, it might be a monster, and it can hit you from any direction. Never let it surprise you.”
“I understand, captain. The last swell was number three,” Mock replied.
“It was number four.”
Surprised, Mock glanced at O’Toole, then turned back to the sea.
O’Toole turned his mind back to his new orders. “XO, notify the convoy commander, confirm the orders with the ammo ships, and get a course plotted to Tulagi.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Be careful. The winds are changing,” O’Toole said to Mock. “The wind can be worse than the sea. Keep your eye on the spindrift. It starts out coming right at you, but keep you
r eyes on it as it comes off top of the next swell. There, did you see it? It changed direction.”
A gust of wind hit the Farnley from starboard. She heeled to port, and the bow veered a few degrees off course.
The helmsman threw his rudder over to compensate. “Have you been listening to what the Captain is saying to me?” Mock asked the helmsman.
“Every word, sir,” the helmsman replied.
Ship Shape let out a long, contented sigh.
§
April 8, 1943
Battleship USS Oregon; at anchor, Barawak Atoll
The battleship Oregon lay at anchor abreast Halsey’s flagship, the aircraft carrier Enterprise. Admiral Garrett boarded a boat to meet with Halsey. Aboard the Enterprise, a marine lieutenant escorted Garrett to the flag bridge and into a staff room.
Halsey, seated at a table, stood to shake Garret’s hand. “Welcome to Barawak, Rod. It’s good to see you.”
“I can’t believe this place, Bill. Six weeks ago, Barawak was a deserted atoll, now it’s a full-blown navy base.”
“It is something isn’t it? The guys from Service Squadron 10 built this place in less than two weeks. Nimitz calls them his secret weapon. They haul a bunch of barges in, lash them together with cables, and anchor them to make piers. They use the piers to unload the Seabees, who build fuel tanks and ammo dumps. A week later, six thousand men show up with repair ships, floating dry docks, hospital ships, tankers, ammo ships: the works. Two weeks later, we’ve got a forward operating navy base the size of Pearl. The Japs never planned on us having operating bases in their backyard.”
“So what did you want to talk to me about?”
“I need your help with a top-secret operation, and all of this is need-to-know. There’s an outfit in Melbourne Australia attached to MacArthur’s staff called FRUMEL, Fleet Radio Unit Melbourne. Unlike the Germans, the Japs use a codebook, and FRUMEL has figured it out piece by piece. We’ve been reading their messages for months now.”
“Holy shit.”
“The intelligence we get is not all it’s cracked up to be. We can’t use most of the intelligence or the Japs will figure out we broke their code. Anytime we use the intelligence, we create a cover story to explain how we knew something, and give it to the war correspondents.
“For the past several months FRUMEL has tracked a Japanese project code named Dragon. The folks back at FRUMEL think the Japs are developing an unbreakable cipher machine, and if FRUMEL is right, we’ll lose a lot of valuable intelligence.”
“Are they sure it’s a cipher machine?”
“No. It could be a lot of things, but for now a cipher machine is our best guess.”
“So what do you need me to do?”
“The Japs are putting the device on a bomber and flying it to Truk on April 18th. I’m taking the Enterprise north to put my fighters in range to make an intercept. I need you to get a ship headed to the intercept site at Ubella Atoll and, if possible, start the recovery effort.”
Admiral Garrett returned to the Oregon and briefed his chief of staff, Rear Admiral Collins. Both men stared at the wall-mounted chart covered with colored pins.
“All we’ve got is a few PT boats and a minesweeper. All other ships are committed to their current ops,” Collins said.
Garrett didn’t like the answer. “If the Enterprise’s air group manages the intercept at Ubella, we need to get someone up there in a hurry. We need ships underway now to beat the Japs to the intercept site. What about convoy escorts coming into theater?”
Collins walked to a table and retrieved a clipboard. “There is a small convoy of four ammo ships with one destroyer headed to Tulagi. They’re about a day and a half out, a little over three hundred miles.”
“We can refuel the destroyer at Tulagi. Can we get him to Ubella in time?”
Collins moved to a chart table and worked with a ruler and dividers, making notes on a small pad. After some calculations, he replied, “If we detach him now, he can proceed at flank speed to Tulagi, refuel and then head to Ubella.”
“Good, let’s do it. There are divers at Tulagi, so put a few aboard the destroyer while she’s refueling. For security reasons, don’t tell the divers or the ship why we’re sending them to Ubella. Which destroyer is it?”
“The Farnley.”
Garrett smiled. “We’re in a pinch, and I think the Farnley’s captain is a pretty good pinch hitter.”
§
April 14, 1943
USS Farnley
The general quarters klaxon sounded, and boots pounded the decks as the crew scrambled to morning battle stations. Boilers came to full power, blowers, pumps and motors wound up as every system aboard came to life. Skittle met O’Toole at the top of the ladder to the wheelhouse deck and handed him his life jacket, pistol and helmet. O’Toole headed for the captain’s chair and monitored the bridge chatter. The men on the bridge moved with purpose, relieved the watch crew with low voices, and reported manned and ready. O’Toole visualized this playing out at hundreds of other stations throughout the ship. Paxton’s training program was the best it could be, the crew was the best it could be, and he commanded an adequate ship. He worried he wasn’t the captain they deserved.
“Arrr ruff.”
“What’s up with Ship Shape?” O’Toole asked.
Skittle’s dour voice rose above the bridge sounds. “The dog doesn’t like me, sir.”
“What’s he barking about?”
“Don’t know, sir, maybe he wants his life jacket.”
“Well, put it on him.”
“I would rather throw it overboard, sir. I got enough to do without babysitting a dog, sir.”
“Just put it on him, Skittle.”
“I’m so busy, and now I got to dress the dog. Aye, aye, Captain.”
O’Toole shook his head and wondered what he could do to improve Skittle’s attitude. From the far side of the wheelhouse, Skittle’s voice intoned:
‘E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
‘E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ‘e died:
“I ‘ope you liked your drink,” sez Gunga Din.
“Stuff a sock in it, Skittle,” O’Toole said.
“Captain, we got a message from Admiral Garrett,” Paxton said, handing the message to O’Toole. “It’s a strange one.”
O’Toole took the message. “Break off from the convoy, proceed flank speed Tulagi, refuel, take on divers, then proceed to Ubella Atoll best speed. Further orders to follow?”
Paxton made a face. “Skittle, where’s Ubella Atoll?”
“Just a minute, sir.”
O’Toole and Paxton walked to Skittle shuffling through charts. “Here it is,” Skittle said, pointing.
“Ubella is in Japanese-controlled waters,” Paxton said.
“Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate. So much for easy convoy duty. I knew our bad luck would get worse. Has anyone lost three ships yet?” Skittle said.
“Stow it, Skittle,” Paxton said.
“Why’s everyone down on me today?”
O’Toole ignored Skittle. “At flank speed, we’ll be in Tulagi in ten hours. Let’s get going.”
§
Near Ubella Atoll at 20,000 feet
The drone of his Hellcat engine was doing little to calm “Swede” Wallen. He was nervous about this sortie. Not due to personal risk, but due to the precision it required to shoot down a bomber in the lagoon inside an Atoll. He had never heard of such a thing, but Halsey had briefed him personally, so it had to be important. Wallen would be satisfied if they could just down it in shallow water, any shallow water.
Wallen had designated his group of six Hellcats as Rosebud-one, and they would be the kill-squadron. The remaining six Hellcats, Rosebud-two, would provide top cover and backup. He and his fellow pilots had their heads on swivels looking everywhere in the sky to spot the Japanese pla
nes. They had deliberately tried to come in behind and above the Japanese flight. The bomber didn't have a pressurized cabin so it would have to fly low, probably at five thousand feet. That was a given, but were they on time, and were they on course?
His radio headset came to life, “Five o'clock low.”
Olaf, the four inch painted statue of a Viking glued to a canopy support smiled at Wallen. Wallen didn’t return his good luck charm’s smile, but said, “Gonna need all the luck you can give me today, buddy.” He pressed the transmit button on his stick. “Okay, here we go. Follow me in single file. Ignore the zekes if you can. Our mission is to down the bomber. Try to get him as close to the Atoll as you can.”
§
10/16/43
Ubella Atoll
Fau and Feakes sat back to back under the camouflage net scanning the sky and sea. Feakes hummed Waltzing Matilda and sang the words in his head. He lowered his binoculars to rub his weary eyes, and was ready to continue his scan of the horizon when he saw a speckle of black dots against the sky slightly to his left.
With the binoculars to his eyes, he said, “Fau, we've got something. A bomber and six escorts. Must be some kind of a big cheese flight. They’re going to come right over us.”
Fau turned, then bumped Feakes on the shoulder. “Look above them.”
Feakes looked over his binoculars, and adjusted his sight angle. “Hello, they're coming high and fast. I think there's going to be a bit of a tangle; someone wants a slice of the cheese.”
The planes were close enough to identify. Six Hellcats were diving on six zekes and a Mitsubishi G4M betty. The zekes were in a V-formation about three thousand feet above the betty. There could be pilots to rescue, and prisoners to take. “Fau, get the boats ready. I'll stay here to spot survivors.”
§
Major Thang Saiki casually looked out the window of his Mitsubishi G4M bomber to enjoy the view of Ubella Atoll. The Atoll was the only visual checkpoint on his route, and he was happy their navigation was so precise he hadn't needed to make any course corrections. Altogether, this would be an easy day. As wing commander, he normally wouldn't take such easy assignments, but the importance of his cargo mandated that he pilot the flight.
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 25