Wallen glanced at Olaf. “What the hell are you smiling about? Damn it, Olaf, we missed, and there’s nothing else we can do.”
§
The sound of battle in Kukuta’s ears changed. The Kamikawa was abeam the cruiser Atago about five hundred yards to port. Her anti-aircraft guns pummeled the sky away from the Kamikawa. Four planes below the clouds screamed toward the Atago, and she heeled hard into a torpedo evasive turn toward the attacking planes and away from the Kamikawa.
§
O’Toole leaned over the railing and turned his head aft toward the pursuing cruisers. Four Hellcats dropped out of the clouds.
§
Still at full power, Wallen lowered the nose of his Hellcat and strafed the second cruiser. No tracers flamed back at him. Their attack surprised the Japanese ships. Into his radio, Wallen called to his three Hellcats, “In the clouds, clear right, make a strafing run.”
§
The four Hellcats screamed over the Kamikawa and disappeared into the clouds. None of them carried bombs or torpedoes, so Kukuta knew if they returned, they would be no more than a nuisance.
Kukuta turned toward three loud explosions to port. Only the Atago’s stern was visible. A cloud of smoke blanketed the rest of the ship. He thought she had successfully evaded the Hellcat’s torpedoes, but she had taken three torpedo hits amidships.
How did that happen?
§
O’Toole held his breath as the second cruiser continued her torpedo evasion turn, exposing her starboard side to the Farnley’s last torpedo salvo. A wall of black and white water shot skyward, obscuring the second cruiser’s midsection. O’Toole waited for the sound. Three thuds in the distance; three torpedo hits.
O’Toole yelled, “We got her!” In the distance, the Japanese destroyer, down heavy by the stern, slipped beneath the surface. They had put three torpedoes into the cruiser’s gut; she would be gone in ten minutes.
Mission accomplished. Escape.
§
A torpedo wake streaked into the side of the Kamikawa. A sheet of water blasted skyward, obscuring her aft section. A boiling fireball erupted from her side, reducing the sheet of water to steam, mist, and spray.
Clinging to the bridge railing, Kukuta wondered if he had lost his ship.
§
Wallen and his three Hellcats dove below the cloud cover for their strafing run. A confused battle theater greeted the pilots. Pillars of black smoke rose from the two Japanese cruisers, and the list on one cruiser was about to capsize her.
“Damn, I thought we missed. Good shooting, guys, let’s go home,” he said into his radio. To Olaf he said, “Sorry I doubted you.”
§
Dazed, Kukuta couldn’t fathom how the battle had gone so bad so fast or how the Kamikawa had been hit by a torpedo near the stern. The damage was serious, but not fatal. At least the American hadn’t gotten the box. He had accomplished his mission.
§
Thirty minutes later, Paxton stared at the horizon astern, trying to recall the battle and figure out how they had survived. His first real surface combat left his nerves buzzing. O’Toole joined him on the bridge wing to find out what held Paxton’s interest. After scanning the empty sea, O’Toole nodded and turned back to the wheelhouse.
“Were we good or lucky?” Paxton asked.
“Both,” O’Toole said before pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. “Just got the butcher bill from Doc Strong. Fourteen good men weren’t lucky.”
Paxton hung his head. O’Toole walked into the wheelhouse.
§
Four hours later a weary O’Toole climbed into his captain’s chair. The crypto machine was safe in the wardroom. They had pulled it off. He expected he would never know whether he had made the right decision or wasted the lives of his men. The navy would whisk the machine away and would never mention it again.
Mission accomplished. He lost fourteen good men and had fourteen letters to write.
He steeled himself against his personal aftermath of battle and managed to staunch the feelings of grief and guilt. Emotionally he was at a stalemate or in some kind of limbo. He wondered if he was in shock; he only felt sadness.
He took the brass balls from his pocket. As he read each name from Strong’s casualty report, he turned the brass balls in his hand like worry beads and remembered each man. Later they would bury the dead at sea. The families would not get to say goodbye. Fourteen dead, twenty-two wounded.
Better than Kogeri, better than Savo, but still fourteen good men and fourteen families too many.
He retrieved the green notebook from his hip pocket and began writing. When he finished, he thanked God for the strength to make the right decision and for the air support.
Lord, tell my men I’m sorry and that I’ll find a way to be a better captain next time.
32
April 28, 1943
USS Enterprise; US Navy Forward Operating Base, Barawak Atoll
Admiral Halsey dropped a folder on the table between him and Admiral Garrett. “I was going to send the Oregon and your task force to the Solomons, but I decided to give you an easy job. You will head up the invasion of Mujatto for me.” Halsey walked toward a large map on the bulkhead.
“Mujatto’s airstrip is strategic for the Japanese. They aren’t going to hand it to us.”
“What’s so easy about that?” Garrett asked.
“It’s lightly defended, which is strange. Nimitz, MacArthur, and I want it for the same reason the Japs do. Whoever controls that airstrip controls the sea around New Guinea, New Britain, and the entire Bismarck Archipelago. We got aerial photographs of their installation about a week ago. Their garrison is a bit more than a thousand men, and it’s not well defended. It just doesn’t figure, but we won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. That’s why we need you to take it. Hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em quick.”
“What can you give me?”
“Haven’t worked out all the details yet, but I will give you two marine brigades, about six thousand men.”
“I’m not complaining, but that’s a lot for the size of their force,” Garrett said.
“Remember, I said hit ‘em hard. But the real reason is that I don’t want to reinforce the island once we take it. The Japs aren’t going to take kindly to this, and I expect them to counterattack within a week or two. I want us to be ready when that happens.”
“How much planning work do you have for me?”
“None. You’ve got three weeks to plan it out. You go in June sixth.”
§
April 28, 1943
USS Farnley; Auckland, New Zealand
At the first sight of land, Ship Shape perked up, barked once, and danced in O’Toole’s lap.
Lieutenant Paxton scratched Ship Shape’s head and said to O’Toole, “Do you think dogs can catch channel fever? Looks like he wants some shore leave.”
“Probably right. He hasn’t been on grass for three months. I’ll do something about that.”
“I thought you were nuts about bringing a dog aboard,” Paxton said. “But Ship Shape is helping the crew bounce back from our losses at Ubella. He can find the humanity in the most calloused sailor.”
“Or captain,” O’Toole said.
When they reached the first channel buoy, O’Toole got out of his chair and headed to the bridge wing. O’Toole expected the flashing light message from the harbormaster, but he didn’t expect instructions or a pier-side berth. The harbormaster ordered O’Toole to report to the yard office and informed him yard workers would board the Farnley upon arrival to survey the damage.
That’s adequate, they’re wasting no time to start the repairs.
Once at the pier, O’Toole went ashore and followed the signs to the yard office. There he met Derk Periman, the yard foreman overseeing the repair and refit of the Farnley.
Periman, a wiry man in his forties with wire-rimmed glasses, wore grease-stained khaki work clothes with boots, not shoes. He was all business and
allowed no time for chitchat.
“Captain, my survey crew is now on board your ship. This afternoon, we will put together a punch list and a schedule. Be here tomorrow morning at eight, and I will give you a rundown on the schedule.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, but understand in a few hours crews will come aboard to cut away steel that needs to be replaced. Your crew needs to be ready to empty compartments or move gear.”
O’Toole liked Periman. “See you at eight tomorrow morning.”
§
O’Toole returned to the Farnley, and when he boarded, the quarterdeck officer said, “We just finished loading provisions and got a load of fresh meat; we’re going to eat real cow tonight for dinner, and we got a ton of mail. They put yours in your cabin.”
Their last mail call was a month ago, and his last letter from Kate was dated in February. He wasted no time heading to his cabin. He sorted the stack of twenty letters by date and began reading. Halfway through the stack he found a letter that began:
Dearest Paddy,
I have something I need to tell you, but first I want you to know that I love you more than life itself. You are going to be a father. I’m pregnant.
He went numb for a second before a complete warmth swirled through his body. The emotions continued to swirl for the next hour as he sat reading and rereading the letter. The responsibilities of being a captain paled to those of being a father. He pushed the fear of the responsibility aside and vowed he wouldn’t fall short.
§
Later O’Toole updated the officers on what Periman had said and started a tour of his ship. Cutting torches cracked and hissed, flensing dead metal from the superstructure.
He roamed the ship the entire day, talking with crewmen, workers, and survey team members. The general scuttlebutt said they would be underway in four weeks. Not bad, considering the punishment the Farnley had taken.
Dinnertime came, and the wardroom filled with laughter and happy conversation.
It’s amazing how mail and fresh cow can change the mood aboard a ship.
That afternoon the dinner menu—country fried steak, beans, mashed potatoes and gravy—became the number-one topic of discussion aboard ship.
Strong loaded his plate with a mountain of mashed potatoes. He took a ladle of gravy and pushed it into the top of his mashed potato mountain to make a gravy volcano.
“When was the last time they served country fried steak?” Navarro asked.
O’Toole leaned back and gazed at the overhead trying to remember. To Navarro he said, “Two months at least,” but O’Toole’s attention centered on a cockroach crawling across the overhead to his right and above Strong’s plate. He didn’t want to spoil anyone’s dinner, so he chose not to say anything.
Strong took aim at his mashed potatoes, and his fork sailed through the air just as the cockroach fell into the center of his gravy volcano.
“Roaches!” Strong screamed.
With the dexterity of a surgeon, he decapitated his gravy volcano with his fork and slung the mashed mass and roach into the center of his napkin. He flipped the napkin closed, threw it to the floor and stomped on it. “I hate cockroaches. Die vermin!”
O’Toole slid back from the table and pulled his legs under his chair to avoid the mashed potato and gravy lava squirting in all directions. The cockroach hitched a ride on the potato lava that squirted all the way under Strong’s chair. It came to rest against the bulkhead, and the cockroach dismounted and scrambled toward the far corner.
“He’s getting away,” O’Toole said, pointing behind Strong.
Strong jumped up, toppling his chair. In hot pursuit, he tripped over the chair legs and fell spread-eagled on the floor. Strong’s face was beet-red by the time he regained his feet, and he danced in a circle in a frantic effort to locate the roach.
“You got him, Doc,” O’Toole said, pointing to Strong’s chest. Below his right shirt pocket and to the left of a gravy stain rested the carcass of a very juicy squashed cockroach.
Strong jumped back, swiped the roach off his shirt, and yelled, “I hate cockroaches.”
“I believe you,” O’Toole began, “and since you’re responsible for ship sanitation, they’re your problem.”
Strong glared at O’Toole, then at his shirt. “I’ve lost my appetite,” he said and stormed out the door.
Before turning in, a messenger brought O’Toole a message assigning the Farnley to convoy duty to Tulagi starting June ninth, five weeks away. If Periman completed the repairs in four weeks, that would give him a week for crew training. For once, the navy was working the way it should. Happy, O’Toole wrote a letter to Kate, he and Ship Shape turned in.
The next morning, O’Toole and Paxton headed to the yard office. On the way, O’Toole said, “I need you to dust off the training program you put together after we left the States. We’ll get a week of training time after we leave the yard. It’ll be important for the new men and a good refresher for the rest of the crew.”
“Aye, aye, Captain, one week of guns, alarms, and running feet, coming right up, sir.”
At 0800 hours, they stepped into the yard office, and Periman motioned O’Toole and Paxton to a card table set in a corner. As soon as he sat down, O’Toole asked Periman, “So how long is this four-week repair job going to take?”
Periman didn’t flinch. “Six weeks.”
The answer surprised O’Toole, and for a second he couldn’t think of a way to respond. Unwilling to give in, he said, “You didn’t understand my question about the four-week repair job.”
Nonplussed, Periman replied, “I understood your question completely, but I will not lie to you. We can repair everything in four weeks except for your four damaged 40-mm Bofors. No replacements are available for them for six weeks. They are coming in from the States.”
“In five weeks, my ship is scheduled for convoy duty to Tulagi. Over ten percent of my crew will be new and will require training. A six-week schedule is unacceptable. The work will be done in four weeks.”
Experienced in dealing with irascible captains, Periman maintained his calm voice. “If replacement guns come available earlier, we will use those, but as of today, all the guns coming in are spoken for. Captain, you can leave anytime you want, but you can’t return to duty short four Bofors.”
“I won’t return to duty short any guns or short on training. Mr. Periman, my orders are to sail in five weeks. Your job is to get me my guns,” O’Toole said.
“We will finish all repairs in four weeks. As soon as the guns become available, we will get them installed. I can’t make guns appear out of thin air, and I am not go to lie to you and say I can. There’s a war going on, you know.”
O’Toole stood and said, “One way or the other, I’m sailing for training in four weeks. Mr. Periman, I expect you to find us our Bofors in time.”
Fuming, O’Toole left the office and turned to Paxton. “I misjudged Periman. I thought he was better than that.”
“He’s in a box, Captain. There aren’t any replacement guns.”
“He’s in a box of his own making.”
“How so?”
“Lots of ships go through here for repair, and everyone is equipped with 40-mm Bofors. In three weeks a ship will come in that will need four weeks to repair, and he could transfer her guns to us and give them our guns. He can do it, but he doesn’t want to be bothered.”
When O’Toole returned to the Farnley, he drafted a message to Admiral Garrett informing him they would be ready to sail in four weeks and requesting a week of training time before they picked up the convoy to Tulagi. Afterward, he headed topside to check on repairs to the wheelhouse and bridge.
Doc Strong’s voice boomed from the flying bridge. “Spray around the flag bags. I saw some cracker crumbs there the other day. Make sure you spray the scuppers good, and don’t forget to spray under the Mark-15 director and around the 1MC.”
Strong’s use of proper navy terminology caught O’T
oole’s attention. As they rattled down the ladder to the bridge level, O’Toole took a few steps aft so no one could see him from the wheelhouse.
Strong, in his best command voice, resumed his instructions to his pharmacist mates. “Spray the overhead and around the helm and lee-helm. Take the binnacle off and spray down and around the magnetic compass. Then do the watertight door combings and deck.”
O’Toole stepped into the wheelhouse. Strong stood in front of him, facing the other way. O’Toole mustered his own command voice, wanting to make it sound as threatening and ominous as possible. “Lieutenant Leroy Strong, front and center,” he bellowed.
Strong spun around with eyes the size of silver dollars.
“You are at attention, Lieutenant.”
Strong did his best to mold his body into an upright and rigid stance. “Lieutenant, did you know that I was working on your fitness report?”
“Yes, sir. You mentioned that to me.”
“Did you know I was going to make a negative comment about your inability to master the basics of naval terminology?”
“No, sir.”
“I think you are being coy. Do you know why I think that?”
“No, sir.”
“Because one of two things happened. Either you have been misleading your captain about your grasp of naval terminology—you wouldn’t do that, would you, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s good because that could get you in a lot of trouble, couldn’t it, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s comforting, Lieutenant, and that leads me to the only other conclusion: you knew I was going to make a negative comment concerning your inability to master naval terminology, and you stayed up all night studying. Is that what happened?”
“Well, a—ah—”
“Speak up, Lieutenant, I can’t hear you. Either you studied last night or you are in deep trouble for misleading your captain. Did you study: yes or no?”
“Yes, sir.”
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 28