Battle Stations

by Roger Jewett

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Berk answered.

  Warren moved inside and reported what he had just seen to Lieutenant Edward Rawlins, the watch officer. “I believe we should notify the captain,” Warren said.

  “Did the chief see it also?” Rawlins asked. He was a small wiry man with 10 years’ service.

  “No, but —”

  “Are you sure it was a flare?” Rawlins asked.

  “Positive.”

  Rawlins took a deep breath and, after he slowly exhaled, he said in a low voice, “He’s riding you hard now. Don’t give him something else to hold over you.”

  “It was a flare,” Warren said steadfastly.

  Rawlins nodded. “All right, call him,” he said.

  Warren went over to the bank of intercom phones and, picking up the one that linked the bridge directly with Hacker’s cabin, pushed the call button and waited until he heard Hacker’s voice before he said, “Sir, this is Lieutenant Troost.”

  “Have you finally got an accurate fix?” Hacker asked.

  Warren felt the heat creep into his cheeks. “Sir,” he said, “I spotted a distress signal.”

  “What?” Hacker shouted.

  “A white flare,” Warren answered.

  “I’m coming to the bridge,” Hacker said.

  “Yes, sir,” Warren answered and, putting down the phone, he looked at Rawlins. “He’s coming.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Rawlins said. “You still have the chance to tell him you made a mistake.”

  “But I didn’t,” Warren said, stepping into the chart house at the rear of the bridge where Berk was working on the sights just taken and preparing to plot the lines to fix the ship’s position. “Any better, Chief?”

  “Shit, sir, we’re still out of the money,” Berk said, bending away from the table, after he penciled in the lines.

  Warren looked down at the chart. Three crossed. They described an area of ocean as large as a half dollar. “Christ,” he muttered, “it’s even worse than the last one.”

  “We — you were lucky the first couple of days,” Berk said. “Now I don’t know what the hell is going wrong. Maybe you’re not reading the sextant right… You’ll get better.”

  “Tell that to Hacker,” Warren answered.

  “Tell what to Hacker?” Hacker asked.

  Warren looked toward the door. Hacker was framed in it. He was big, broad-shouldered man, with blond hair graying at the temples, and a deceptively boyish face.

  In three strides, Hacker went from the door to the chart table, looked at the position lines, and pointing his finger at them, said in a loud voice, “Most people get better, but you, Mister Troost, are not most people, are you?”

  Warren remained silent.

  “Maybe by the time we get to Cavite, you’ll be able to tell me exactly where the fuck this ship is,” Hacker said.

  “Yes, sir,” Warren answered, coming to attention.

  “All right, now tell me about the flare you saw,” Hacker said.

  “Abaft the port beam, maybe one point — ten degrees or so above the horizon.”

  “Flare, eh!” Hacker exclaimed. “You would have done the ship a better service to get a good fix than to look at your so-called flare.”

  “Sir —”

  “On the port side,” Hacker said, turning and walking out onto the wing of the bridge.

  Warren followed him.

  After a few moments, Hacker said, “There’s nothing out there.”

  “Sir, I saw it,” Warren answered. “I’m sure there’s a ship out there, back there.” He pointed in the general direction where he saw the light.

  “Did you take a bearing? No! I’d expect a more professional reaction from an Annapolis graduate. Certainly there’s a ship out there, and no doubt one to our stern, port, and starboard sides, and goddamn it, all of them, I’d be willing to bet, have a navigator who produces fixes and doesn’t go around seeing spooks, which is more than this ship has.”

  “It was a flare,” Warren said tightly, trying hard to suppress his anger, but knowing the tone of his voice and the look on his face betrayed his feelings.

  Hacker smiled.

  “Mister Rawlins,” Hacker called.

  “Yes, sir,” Rawlins said, coming to the opening between the bridge and the flying bridge. “No doubt Mister Troost has told you about the flare he saw.”

  “Yes, sir, he did.”

  “What is your considered opinion on the nature of our navigator’s sighting?” Hacker asked.

  Rawlins looked at Warren. “It is easy to confuse a sudden falling star at sea for a flare,” he said gently.

  Obviously enjoying himself, Hacker turned to Warren. “You still think you saw a flare, Mister Troost.”

  Before Warren could answer, one of the telephones on the bridge rang.

  All conversation ceased while the duty quartermaster answered it, listened a moment, and then said, “Mister Rawlins, it’s the radio shack. They’re picking up an SOS from the Australian ship Chessy.”

  Rawlins immediately went to the phone. “Have you got her position?”

  Warren and Hacker moved to the chart table.

  “She’s 08 north latitude,” Rawlins said, repeating what the radio officer was telling him. “The rest is garbled. There’s a great deal of interference.” Then he asked the RO, “Can she receive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try to raise her. Tell her, if she can give us her exact longitude, we’ll be on our way to assist.”

  “Belay that last statement,” Hacker ordered.

  “Belay my last,” Rawlins said and put down the phone.

  “All right, Mister Troost,” Hacker began, “where do you put that ship with respect to us?”

  Warren bent over the chart. If he didn’t know exactly where the Dee and the Chessy were, how could he tell Hacker how far they were from the distressed ship? The Dee’s last known position was marked in pencil on the chart. Given her subsequent speed and headings, Warren walked the dividers to where he guessed it should now be and marked it with a small x; from there he walked the dividers to where the Chessy might be. “Not more than 20 miles from us,” he said with bravado; then looking up at Hacker, he added, “Of course it could be more.”

  “Maybe an hour from here if we go to flank,” Rawlins said.

  The phone rang again.

  Rawlins went to it. “Mister Rawlins here.” Then looking toward Warren and Hacker, he said, “The RO can’t raise her and she’s stopped sending.” He put the phone down.

  “That doesn’t mean she sank,” Warren said. “Even if she has, there might be survivors.” His father’s recent experience aboard the Broadwater suddenly became more meaningful.

  Hacker looked down at the chart. “We don’t know where the hell she is and we don’t know where the hell we are,” he growled.

  “She has to be relatively close,” Warren said. “All we have to do is go —”

  “We’re staying on our course, such as it is,” Hacker said. “We still have 3000 miles to go before we reach Pearl. I have to be there at a specific time and I’m not going to backtrack and go on any wild-goose chase.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say this is a wild-goose chase,” Warren challenged.

  Hacker glared at him.

  “I told you I saw a distress flare —”

  “Mister Troost,” Hacker said, “you can hardly blame me for doubting what you say you saw, given your lack of ability to perform the task assigned you.”

  Warren ignored the gibe. “As I see it, the customs of the sea require us to try to help,” he answered.

  “My duty is to this ship,” Hacker shot back, his face now flushed. “There are other ships in the area who are close and who will go to her aid.”

  “Are you refusing —”

  Rawlins came to Warren’s side and took hold of his arm. “Easy, Warren — easy,” he whispered.

  “This ship remains on its course,” Hacker said.
>
  “You really don’t care about those people out there,” Warren responded.

  “I care about this ship and her crew,” Hacker said.

  Warren was about to tell Hacker that when they reached Pearl, he intended to bring the entire matter before the proper authorities, when the phone from the radio room rang for a third time.

  Rawlins answered it. “The RO picked up a message from CinPac Fleet,” he said, “Australian freighter Chessy was torpedoed by a German submarine. And the Bristol has been sent into the area to assist.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying… Hold our present course, Mister Rawlins,” Hacker said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Rawlins answered.

  “Mister Troost, in the morning you’d better give me an accurate fix for this ship,” Hacker said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Warren answered.

  CHAPTER 5

  Rear Admiral Andrew Troost, chief of staff to Admiral Donald Sprat, Commander Cruisers and Destroyers, Pacific Fleet, was junior to the other admirals at the conference table. The two principals were Admiral Harry E. Kirst, Commander and Chief of the Pacific Fleet, and Vice Admiral William (Bull) Gower, Commander Aircraft, Battle force.

  Kirst sat at the head of the table. Gower was on his right and Troost on his left. Kirst, a tall, dignified man in his dress whites, looked the part of a naval officer. But even in his whites, Gower didn’t. He was an elfin man, with crinkled skin and mischievous blue eyes.

  “Well, Andy,” Gower asked, before Kirst spoke, “have you settled in yet?”

  “Getting there, sir,” Troost answered.

  “When you say, you’re ‘getting there,’” Gower said, with a twinkle in his eye, “means one of two things: either you’re so fouled up, you’ll never get there, or we’re so fouled up, you wonder how we managed to get there, wherever there is… Which is it, Andy?”

  Troost laughed. “Not much of a choice there,” he said.

  “Not much,” Gower answered.

  Kirst cleared his throat.

  Gower gestured with a thumb toward the head of the table. “That was meant for us.”

  Troost looked toward Kirst, who nodded and said, “Bill, it’s very close to zero hour. The Commander-in-Chief says it could come any time. We know the Japanese fleet is already on the move.”

  Gower helped himself to a cigarette and, as he lit it, he asked, “How much time do the boys in Washington figure we have?”

  “They won’t crystal-ball it,” Kirst answered. “But as things stand now, it’s absolutely imperative to get more fighting aircraft to the marines on Wake.”

  “I’m listening,” Gower said, suddenly becoming more serious.

  “We’re almost sure the Japanese are going to attack somewhere,” Kirst said. “Everything points to it. Wake would be a high-priority target for them.”

  “Pearl would be a more likely target,” Troost offered, instantly realizing he’d said the wrong thing.

  Kirst snapped his eyes to Troost. His brow furrowed. “Wake is where the planes are needed now,” he said curtly. “They’d be crazy to attack Pearl, or Singapore, or even our bases in the Philippines. They’ll go for an easier mark.”

  Troost nodded. He understood that Pearl, as far as Kirst was concerned, was not a likely target. Besides, Kirst’s temper was legendary. He was not above throwing whatever was handy at the person who angered him.

  “Let’s get back to you, Bill,” Kirst said.

  “You want to use one or more of my carriers to make the delivery, is that it?” Gower asked, blowing smoke off to his left.

  “One Carrier Task Group, and I want you to take overall command,” Kirst said.

  “When?”

  “The day after tomorrow, on the 27th,” Kirst answered; then he looked at Troost. “You and Bill work out how many destroyers and maybe a cruiser or two will be needed to provide escort and screen. We know the Japanese have deployed several submarines in the area around Wake.”

  Troost nodded.

  “This is a secret mission,” Kirst said. “I don’t want the marine fighter squadron to be aboard the carrier when it sorties. Its own air group can be, if you like. But take the marine aircraft on board when you’re out of sight of land.”

  “It’ll be a tight fit, but we’ve done it before,” Gower responded.

  “Radio silence must be maintained going and coming,” Kirst said; then he asked, “Do you want to take a battleship with you?”

  “Hell, no,” Gower answered. “If I have to run I don’t want anything to interfere with my running.” Then he asked, “Do I have complete operational authority?”

  Kirst nodded.

  “How far do I go?”

  “Goddamn it, use your common sense!”

  Troost was aware of the significance of the silent exchange between the two men. Kirst implicitly had given Gower authority to fight a shooting battle if it became necessary.

  Gower nodded, and turning his attention to Troost, he asked, as if joking, “Andy, do you think your ships can keep up with my carrier?”

  “They won’t have much choice, will they?”

  “None,” Gower said. “Not if you or their skippers want to run with me.”

  “Better start the wheels turning, Bill,” Kirst said. “I want that marine fighter squadron on Wake Island as soon as possible.”

  Gower made a few notations on the yellow pad of paper in front of him; then he said, “If we’re not to come in empty, we’ll have to refuel on December fourth.”

  “There’ll be an oiler at sea wherever and whenever you say,” Kirst responded.

  “We’ll refuel on the way back… Troost, work it out with my staff so the operation order provides for replenishment.”

  Troost nodded.

  “I figure we should be back in Pearl no later than noon on Sunday, the seventh,” Gower said.

  “I don’t see any problem with that,” Kirst answered. Then he said, “Just to make it look like an ordinary exercise, take a couple of battleships with you.”

  “Not all the way,” Gower responded.

  “What you do with them once you’re over the horizon is your business,” Kirst said, and standing up, he looked at Troost. “It will take time, but you’ll get used to Bill.”

  “I don’t think he’ll give me any other choice,” Troost said with a straight face.

  Gower exploded into laughter. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he swore, pointing his finger at Troost, “he has me tagged.”

  CHAPTER 6

  At 0800 on the 22nd of November, Troost was on the flag bridge of the heavy cruiser Albany. The morning was bright with sunshine, and on the way out of the harbor, they passed Battleship Row, where Arizona, West Virginia, and California were tied up; and beyond them, to the port side, several destroyers were nested alongside destroyer tender.

  Troost paid close attention to the activity of his staff on the bridge. They were involved in making sure that the screening destroyers and supporting cruisers took their proper stations around the carrier Endeavor and responded promptly to all course and speed changes coming from Admiral Gower in the carrier.

  As soon as they had lost sight of land, Gower signaled the force to divide according to a prearranged plan that created Task Group Eight, consisting of the Endeavor, two heavy cruisers, and six destroyers, and Task Force Two, under the tactical command of Rear Admiral Drewel, which was made up of two battleships and several destroyers.

  Task Group Eight began to assemble and swung toward Wake, while Task Force Two continued to steam to the designated exercise area.

  On the Albany’s flag bridge, Troost raised the glasses to survey the formation. Suddenly the phone connecting Troost to the signal bridge rang. “Troost here,” he answered.

  “Sir, message coming in from Admiral Gower to you,” the signal officer said.

  “Standing by,” Troost said. “Give it to my orderly when you have it copied.” But he could read Morse code too and trained his glasses on the Endeavor’s signal br
idge.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the SO answered.

  Troost could plainly see the carrier. A light directed at the Albany began to flash Morse code. “Battle Order Number One… Task Group Eight is now operating under full wartime conditions. Install active warheads in all destroyer torpedoes. Bring service ammunition to all gun mounts and turrets. Regard any submarine sighted as hostile until positive identification is made. Arm all aircraft with full loads of ammunition and bombs. Destroy any Japanese surface ship or aircraft encountered. Observe strict radio silence.”

  “The message is on its way to your bridge, sir,” the SO said.

  “Roger, I too have copied. Acknowledge receipt and relay the same message to all ships under my command,” Troost said, suddenly remembering the silent exchange between Kirst and Gower.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the SO responded.

  Troost put the phone down, called down to the ship’s captain, Captain Peter Hasse, on the intercom, and said, “Admiral Gower has just signaled a number one readiness.”

  “Goddamn,” Hasse exclaimed in his western drawl, “that sure as hell means he’s about to start a shooting war!”

  Troost nodded. “That it does,” he said. “That it does.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Dressed in civvies, Lieutenant (JG) Jacob Miller was at the table with his family for the traditional Friday night dinner in their fourth-floor apartment on Chester Street in Brooklyn. Newly winged, after successfully completing flight training at the Pensacola Naval Air Station, Jacob was on a 30-day leave before proceeding to the West Coast for assignment to a carrier fighter group. He’d arrived home, two days before, on Wednesday, December third.

  Jacob’s father, Sam, sat at one end of the kitchen table; his mother, Hanna, at the other. He was to his father’s right and his sister, Miriam, to the left. A year had passed since he’d last seen them. His father, a dealer in the diamond exchange on the Bowery, was perceptibly older looking. There were more wrinkles at the corners of his eyes than Jacob remembered, and a weariness on his face that was new. But his sister, who had turned 18 the previous month, was a blonde, green-eyed beauty resembling their mother, who had been, from what the photographs in the family album showed, a beautiful woman when she was younger. Even today, with her finely wrought features and long gray hair, gathered into a huge bun on the back of her head, she was beautiful. But Jacob, taller than his father by a full head, didn’t resemble him at all, nor did he possess any of the features of his mother. He was broader, with a square jaw, steel gray eyes, and a swarthy complexion.