The telephone talker blanched at his station. “Captain! Forward Torpedo says one of our fish is jammed in the number two tube. It’s running hot.”
Charlie moved to the telephone talker’s station and grabbed the 7MC headset. “This is the exec.” Voices from different compartments shouted in his ear. “Clear the line! Forward, give me a damage report.”
He got the story straight from the chief. The torpedo had started to fishtail as it left the tube, jamming itself partway out. As a result, they couldn’t secure the outer tube door. Soon, the torpedo’s propulsion would fail, leaving it unable to move on its own. Worse, the torpedo’s arming element was outside the submarine and had likely armed itself in the time since the shot fired.
At any moment, the torpedo might explode and take the bow with it.
Charlie threw the headset down. “Captain, I’m going forward.”
“Report when you get there, Number Two.”
“Aye, aye. Nixon, I’ll need you with me.”
Pale faced, the engineering officer nodded meekly and followed. They slid down the ladder to the control room and hunched to pass through the compartment’s watertight door.
“Right behind you, Mr. Harrison,” Smokey said.
Charlie was glad to have him along. He bent again to enter the smoky torpedo room. Manned by six sailors who also bunked there, Forward Torpedo was the largest compartment in the submarine. Twelve massive stacked torpedoes crowded the room. Empty skids marked the fish fired at the freighter. Pipes, valves, and gauges filled most of the rest of the space.
In combat, Chief Petty Officer Randall oversaw operations. Two sailors manned the tubes and manifold. Another checked the angle set on each torpedo’s gyroscope, and another worked a manual firing key in case the torpedo didn’t respond to the electrical firing command from Control. The remaining two sailors served as the reload crew, delivering fresh torpedoes using a chain hoist.
Chief Randall ran a good shop here. The torpedomen worked together like a well-oiled machine. Charlie never saw anything out of place during his inspections, not even a piece of litter on the deck.
Rusty said over the 1MC, “All compartments, rig for collision.”
Smoke from the jammed torpedo’s burning engine permeated the air. A pencil-thin wisp of smoke streamed from the number three tube’s closed vent. Then it abruptly stopped. The torpedo’s engine had burned out.
“Chief, get your people out of here and dog the door,” Charlie said. “We’ve got to figure this out.”
“Aye, aye, Mr. Harrison,” Randall said. “You heard the exec! Move your asses aft!”
The sailors hustled from the room. The heavy watertight door slammed and locked. The steady pinging quickened and intensified. The destroyer had switched to short scale, its skipper confident he was closing on his quarry.
“Any ideas, Chief?” Charlie asked him.
“We can’t close the outer door,” Randall said. “We can’t open the tube door to pull it back in, or the compartment will flood. And if that tin can up there starts dropping depth charges, it’ll go off and blow us to hell!”
“Even if the tin can doesn’t,” Smokey said. “We hit a patch of rough water, and sooner or later our goose is cooked.”
Charlie stared at the men as the horror sank in. They might already be dead and simply not know it yet.
He swallowed and said, “Any ideas on how to get out of this?”
Randall and Smokey glanced at each other. Neither said a word.
“Nixon?”
The engineering officer was shaking. “This is bad. Really bad.”
“Hey.” Charlie grabbed the skinny officer’s shoulders. “Look at me, Nixon. We’re going to be all right, but we need to figure this out. Any ideas?”
The man’s glazed eyes flickered. “Only one way out.”
“What is it?”
“We shoot it out with a blast of high-pressure air while we reverse. Then we pray it doesn’t explode until we get far enough away from it.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NO CHOICE
They stared at Nixon in disbelief.
“Jesus,” Randall said. “With all due respect, Mr. Nixon, you’re off your nut.”
“You got a better idea?” Smokey said.
The stocky chief opened his mouth then closed it. Shook his head.
“Then we have no choice,” Charlie said.
The men gazed up as the Japanese destroyer’s screws thrashed the water overhead. Loud pinging filled the room, grating their already raw nerves.
“Rig for silent running,” Rusty said over the 1MC.
The boat had reached a depth of 400 feet.
He keyed the 7MC. “Conn, Forward Torpedo.”
Rusty answered. “Go, Charlie.”
He explained the problem and its only solution, keeping his voice as low as possible. The destroyer’s constant, ghostly pinging reverberated throughout the hull.
“You’re kidding,” Rusty said.
“Let me talk to the captain.”
“Wait.”
“Hurry!” Charlie hissed, but Rusty was gone. “Chief, how many men will we need to shoot out the torpedo?”
“Just one,” the man said sulkily. “I suppose that’s me.”
“We’ll also need to secure the outer door afterwards. We’ll need three men altogether.”
Whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh
PING-PING
Randall flinched. “He’s got us.”
“He’ll drop depth charges on his next run,” Smokey said.
Charlie punched the 7MC. “Conn, we need an answer!”
“Wait,” Rusty said.
“We can’t wait,” he exploded. No answer. “What the hell!”
“Oh God,” Nixon said. “This is not good. I don’t want to be here, please.”
“If the bow blows off, the boat’s going down,” Smokey told him. “Me, I’d rather die in a flash than slowly, gasping for air in the dark.”
“Oh God,” Nixon said.
Charlie gripped the man’s shoulders again. “Nixon, I want you to go aft and bring back helmets and flak jackets. Can you do that?”
The engineering officer swallowed and nodded. “Aye, aye.”
They undogged the door. Gawking torpedomen crowded the next compartment. Nixon barreled into them.
“Make a hole for him!” Charlie said. “And hurry up!”
The thrashing overhead grew louder. The destroyer was making his run.
Whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh
Charlie grabbed a handhold. Sweat poured into his eyes. He clenched them shut as he struggled to control his breathing.
Ker-choon! Ker-choon!
Splashes.
Charlie’s eyes flashed open.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
Water hammer punched the thick steel hull and shook the submarine. Light bulbs popped, plunging the compartment into near darkness. Cork insulation splintered along the bulkhead and filled the air with swirling shards and dust.
By some miracle, the torpedo didn’t explode.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
The boat heeled over with an alarming list. Slick with sweat, Charlie’s grip failed, and he crashed to the deck. Randall fell and tumbled against a torpedo skid. Smokey held on, roaring as the boat managed to right itself.
Again, the torpedo held and didn’t blow them all into the sea.
The thrashing faded as the destroyer completed its run.
Soon, it would be back.
Smokey helped Charlie to his feet. “Time to start praying, sir. You all right?”
He responded with a weak nod, hands on his knees and coughing on the dust. Randall sat on the deck moaning, his fingers probing a deep cut along his scalp that poured blood. Smokey pulled off his skivvy shirt, balled it up, and pressed it against the wound as Charlie staggered to the 7MC.
“Conn, Forward Torpedo!”
Rusty’s voice: “Charlie? Charlie!”
“We need to get this h
ot fish out now. Our luck can’t keep holding.”
“The captain’s not responding.”
“What?”
“He’s sitting with his back against the TDC.”
Charlie’s breath caught. “He’s wounded?”
“No,” Rusty said. “His mouth keeps moving, but he’s not really saying anything. I think he’s praying. We’re not even taking evasive action.”
“Order all back full. Make your trim as good as you can. After we build up enough speed, we’ll shoot the bad fish out with high-pressure air.”
“You want me to take the conn?”
“You’re going to have to.”
A pause, then: “That’s mutiny.”
The compartment door opened. Nixon and two sailors handed big steel helmets and flak jackets to Smokey.
Charlie put his back to them. “No choice, Rusty. This is our only chance.”
The heavy steel door closed behind him.
Another pause. “All right.”
Charlie turned. “Get ready—”
Braddock handed him his helmet and flak jacket. “Here we go again, sir.”
Charlie cinched the strap on his bulky steel helmet with trembling hands. Rusty was as good as his word. The compartment shook as the boat’s momentum reversed. Maneuvering had switched from standard to all back full.
“The chief’s had it,” Smokey said. “Braddock volunteered to take his place.”
“Good man,” Charlie said.
“I’d rather die quick than suffocate slow,” the sailor said.
“That’s just what I said,” Smokey said. “We need to build up the air pressure feeding the tube as high as it’ll go.”
“I can do that,” Braddock said and went to the manifold.
Sandtiger lurched faster as the Japanese destroyer closed in for another run.
“Come on,” Charlie growled at the engines, willing them to work harder to bring the boat to full speed.
Braddock finished building up the air pressure and sat on the deck. He grabbed hold of the empty skid. “Better hold on, sir.”
Rusty said over the 7MC: “We’re at full speed astern.”
Whoosh whoosh whoosh
Smokey’s hand hovered over the firing key. His eyes met Charlie’s.
Charlie gritted his teeth against the surge of bile rising from his stomach. “Do it, and God help us.”
The quartermaster punched the firing key and wrapped his hands around the nearest piping. Charlie grabbed a handhold as well, bracing himself for one hell of a shock.
Sandtiger bucked as a thousand pounds of air pressure slammed into the dead torpedo and hurled it from the tube.
Overhead, the enemy destroyer closed in.
WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH
One, Charlie thought. Two. He didn’t want to count anymore, but he forced himself to concentrate. And three. And four, four, four—
BOOM
The shockwave smashed Sandtiger’s bow. The deck plates buckled. The remaining light bulbs shattered. Charlie’s vision went searing white, and for a moment, he became bodiless. Heaven, he thought, was beautiful, made entirely of light.
He was flying, tumbling through space.
And came to in several inches of cold seawater.
The white light was gone, nothing more than an afterimage superimposed over black and gray. His vision blurry and stinging. He blinked to clear water from his eyes. The room came into focus. The torpedo compartment lit by emergency lights.
Water shot across the room from cracks in the number two tube door.
Braddock was already on his feet and working the crank to secure the outer door manually. Charlie tried to stand but fell to his hands and knees. The deck remained tilted as Sandtiger drifted with a pronounced up angle.
He made it to his feet and clambered up the incline, dodging jets of water powerful enough to hurl him back to the other end of the compartment. Smokey sprawled groaning on an empty torpedo skid.
And the water continued to rise.
“Give me a hand,” Braddock said. “Somehow the bow held, but I ain’t gonna fucking drown in here!”
Charlie made it up the incline, gripped the crank, and pulled as hard as he could. Slowly, it turned. The two men grunted at the strain.
The water pressure faded with each turn. The outer door had escaped damage and was closing.
“Almost got it,” Braddock gasped.
The leaks went slack and sputtered out, leaving them exhausted and dripping in the misty air.
Rusty’s voice from the 7MC: “Charlie? Charlie? Answer me!”
Charlie limped to the speaker and picked up the handset. “We secured the torpedo door, but we’ve got smaller leaks. Send a repair party on the double. And send the pharmacist’s mate. Smokey’s hurt.”
“You got it, brother,” Rusty said. “Hang tight.”
He slumped to the deck next to Braddock and rested his back against the bulkhead. “I don’t hear screws.”
“Or depth charges going off,” the machinist said. “The Jap thinks he sank us.”
“We got very lucky.”
“No kidding. What does it take to kill you, sir? You got the luck of the Irish.”
“You did good,” Charlie said. “Now you know why I brought you.”
The compartment door swung open. Sailors splashed inside.
Braddock glared back at him. “Maybe you’re starting to figure out why I didn’t want to come along.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ROCKS AND SHOALS
A shot of medicinal brandy warming his chest, Charlie peeled off his uniform and collapsed on his rack. Every part of him ached. Rusty trudged in and sighed as he climbed into the overhead bunk. Percy had taken over as officer of the deck.
They lay in silence, unable to sleep. Still processing what had happened.
“How’s the captain?” Charlie asked.
The overhead mattress rustled. “He went to his cabin and hasn’t come out.”
“You were right. About him.”
“He’s a good man pushed too far,” Rusty said.
Charlie had seen many good men crack in combat. Men screaming, crying, pissing themselves, losing all reason.
Being depth-charged was a long, bumpy ride along the edge of death by instant drowning or slow asphyxiation. Ships thrashing like trains overhead. The constant pinging that sped up as the enemy closed in. The strings of explosions that battered the helpless boat and its sailors, rattling them like peanuts in a can.
And being depth-charged with a hot torpedo in one of the tubes — well, he’d never experienced terror like that before. Every second of survival a dice roll. He still had the shakes from it.
“Do you think,” Charlie said, “what happened to him could happen to us?”
“Everybody has a breaking point. Constant pressure makes you break more easily. We’ve got a more urgent problem. What are we gonna do?”
“Nothing. We go on like it didn’t happen. If it happens again, we deal with it.”
“I don’t know if the captain is going to bounce back to his old self,” Rusty said. “His decision-making might become erratic from here on out. If it happens, we might have to deal with that too.”
“If it happens.” Charlie had no interest in taking on the captain, who imposed a godlike will upon the submarine and its crew. In any case, the “rocks and shoals” — the Articles for the Government of the United States Navy — contained no specific provisions for removing a captain at sea.
He added, “We could be court-martialed for even talking about it.”
“He’s tired. We’re all tired. But we have to keep at it. One more big push.” Rusty sighed. “I just wish Cooper had given you command.”
“It’s easy to judge. It’s the toughest job on the boat. You know…”
“What?”
“When Cooper said he’d given it to Howard Saunders, I felt relief.”
Rusty said, “You’re scared of the job. Everybody is. The trut
h is you’re ready for it.”
“You think so?”
“Half the job is knowing what you’re doing. The other half is acting at all times like you know what you’re doing. You’ve already proven you’re a fast learner, you’re aggressive, and you can keep your head in a crisis.”
“Well,” Charlie said. He never was any good at taking a compliment and didn’t know what to say. “When I make captain, maybe you’ll be my XO.”
Rusty yawned. “Maybe I will, brother.”
“What do you think the best quality is for a captain?”
His friend didn’t answer. A moment later, he was snoring.
Charlie rolled onto his side and stared at the bulkhead in the gloom. Every submarine captain had his own unique personality and style. He wondered what kind of commander he would be. How well he would handle the pressure. Captain Saunders’ successes marked him as a submarine ace. The man once had nerves of steel, but even steel grew fragile if worn down enough. He’d warred so long he was now at war with himself, just like his acey-deucey game.
In one way, Saunders reminded Charlie of Gilbert Moreau. Like all submarine aces, they were both part bulldog. Once they smelled blood, they bit down and never let go. Like Captain Mush Morton had said, stay with the bastard until he’s on the bottom. But instead of a desire to see an ultimate end to the war, hatred motivated Moreau. That hatred drove him to take bigger and bigger risks with his boat and crew, which he considered chips in a deadly high-stakes poker game.
In another way, the captain reminded him of Bob Hunter, commander of the Sabertooth. Hunter had a competent mind and a good heart, and his crew loved him. He believed a commander optimized his chances by grabbing every advantage from the luck of the draw. But his torpedoes didn’t work, and his resulting failures broke him. Similarly, the loss of the Flagfin had broken Saunders.
Charlie had learned a lot from all of them. His greatest mentor, however, remained his first commander. Captain J.R. Kane, the chess player. Kane was patient, decisive, cool in combat, and even-handed with his crew. He performed a miracle with an old, broken-down sugar boat. A bold technician, a rare combination. He didn’t fight from hate but from a deep sense of duty, and nothing ever broke him.
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.
Contact!: a novel of the Pacific War Page 7