Battle Stations

by Roger Jewett

  The cooks had prepared roast beef and roast pork and baked apple and cherry pies. One of the men took it upon himself to be the emcee and another of the men was a good harmonica player. Two others played the guitar. And there was even a stand-up comic who could imitate Hacker’s growly voice to perfection.

  One of the men brought out a windup phonograph, played “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered,” and had just put “Deep in the Heart of Texas” on the turntable when, suddenly, the IMC system came on and Rawlins said, “Now hear this… All hands now hear this… I have taken command of this ship —”

  Hacker and Warren were on their feet.

  “All hands to their duty stations,” Rawlins said. “All hands to their duty stations… Mister Troost and Mister Bradly to the bridge…”

  “You can bet he’s armed,” Warren said.

  Hacker agreed.

  “What the hell are we going to do?” Bradly asked.

  Hacker looked up at the bridge windows. “He can’t see us and we can’t see him,” he said in a low voice. “Keep the party going,” he told the men. “Troost, Bradly, and Berk, come with me.”

  Warren followed Hacker along the passageway to the arms room, where Hacker paused to issue .45s and a clip of ammunition to him, Bradly and Berk.

  “Mister Troost, Mister Bradly,” Rawlins called, “come to the bridge immediately…”

  Warren raced up the steps after Hacker. “Rawlins,” Hacker called out, “you know you can’t finish what you started.”

  A shot exploded on the other side of the door. Warren grabbed hold of Hacker and started to pull, when Hacker uttered a wordless scream and fell across him.

  “Berk, get the skipper down to sick bay,” Warren ordered.

  “Aye, aye,” the chief answered, and lifting Hacker up, he said, “He’s been hit bad, Mister Troost.”

  “Get him down to sick bay,” Warren said. “Bradly, give him a hand, then the two of you get back here on the double.” Then he called out, “Rawlins, you hit the skipper. Put down your gun and come out now.”

  Rawlins didn’t answer.

  “I’ll give you exactly ten seconds to come out,” Warren said, “or I’m coming —”

  Another shot exploded behind the door.

  Warren was on his feet, kicked the door open, and holding the gun with his two hands, swung it in a wide arc. But he didn’t see Rawlins until he looked at the floor near the chart table.

  “Rawlins?” he called, moving closer.

  The XO didn’t answer.

  Finally, Warren stood over him. The top of his head wasn’t there! The food in Warren’s stomach started to come up. He forced himself to swallow. He looked at the wall behind the chart table: it was blotched with blood. So was the ceiling above the table and wall.

  Bradly and Berk rushed into the bridge.

  “Holy Mother of God!” Berk exclaimed, looking down at Rawlins.

  Bradly turned around and vomited.

  “How bad is the skipper?” Warren asked.

  “You’re the skipper now, Mister Troost,” Berk answered.

  CHAPTER 21

  “I’m really sorry about Hank,” Lucy said.

  Glen swallowed hard. He was sitting on the bed in a motel room a few miles from the San Diego navy base. The day after he’d arrived his father had called and told him that his brother Hank was among the 1200 men who were in the Arizona when she went down and rolled over on her side. Every time he thought about Hank, his throat tightened and his eyes became watery.

  Lucy came to the bed and sat down alongside him. “You look tired, honey,” she said, touching his face. “Are you working hard?”

  “Jesus, Lucy, it’s New Year’s Day. I didn’t get back to the barracks until five o’clock in the morning and then the officer of the watch gave me your message. How the hell did you find this place?” he asked, looking around the room. The wallpaper was torn and spotted with dirt; the single window was hidden by a yellowed shade; the rug on the floor was spotted with burn holes.

  “I asked a cab driver to take me to a motel that was close to the base,” she answered. “I didn’t want to stay in the train station all night.”

  “This is a whore’s motel,” Glen said.

  “Glen Lascomb! Since when did you start using words like that!” she cried, leaving the bed.

  “That’s what it is,” he said sullenly. “You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here.”

  Lucy sat down on the bed again and, linking her arm with his, said softly, “We have to talk, Glen.”

  “You came here just to talk to me?” he questioned incredulously. “Lucy —”

  “Glen Lascomb, I had to come. I just had to. I wouldn’t have, if —” She began to sniffle. “Glen, I missed my period. I was supposed to get it on the 10th. I have the date marked on the calendar.” Her sniffles turned to sobs. “I just know I’m pregnant.”

  Pulling away from her, Glen stood up. “How could you be? We only did it once!”

  “I thought you’d be happy,” Lucy sobbed. “I thought you’d want me to have your — our — baby!”

  “Lucy, it’s New Year’s Day. Give me a chance. I didn’t expect you to come here.” He lit a cigarette and began to pace.

  “I don’t care what day it is,” she said, taking time between the words to blow her nose. “I came here full of love for you, and you’re being hateful.”

  Glen stopped pacing and faced her. She was pretty, with blonde hair done up in curls and pert breasts jutting against the front of her dress. But there was nothing about her that made her look pregnant.

  “Why are you staring at me?” she asked.

  Glen shook his head.

  “Yes, you were staring. Do you think you can see if I am pregnant?”

  He flushed.

  “That’s what you were trying to do, wasn’t it?”

  Glen turned to the dresser, found a chipped ashtray, and stubbed out the cigarette in it.

  “You know you were the first and the only one,” Lucy said. “I never let another boy touch me there.”

  Glen faced her.

  “We planned to get married —” she started to say.

  “Maybe that wasn’t such a good plan.”

  Her lips began to tremble.

  Glen stepped away from the dresser. “I might —” Thinking about Hank, he paused before he said, “I might get killed out there; then what will happen to you and the baby?”

  Lucy shook her head. “My prayers will protect you.”

  “It doesn’t happen that way,” Glen said quietly. “My mother prayed for Hank and —”

  “Don’t you still believe in God?”

  He wasn’t sure. But whether he believed or disbelieved wasn’t the problem. “I just don’t think we should get married now.”

  “I can’t go back home,” she cried, “unless I’m married. Don’t you understand, I’ll be carrying your child — your bastard. Everyone will know it’s yours.”

  Glen glanced toward the door. He wanted to run out of the room.

  “I’ll be a fallen woman!” she cried. “Is that what you want to happen to me?”

  Glen lit another cigarette and began to pace again.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” Lucy sobbed. “You’re ruining my life and the life of our child.”

  He wanted to say, that it wasn’t his child, but he knew it was. Lucy was “cherry” when he had her.

  “You said you loved me; you said you’d marry me… I’d have never let you do it, if we —”

  “Do my folks know?” Glen asked.

  “I didn’t come straight out and tell them, but they’re smart enough to read between the lines,” Lucy answered.

  “You tell your folks?”

  “Told my ma,” she said. “My pa’d kill me if he knew. Ma gave me her egg money to buy a train ticket, and I had some saved.”

  Glen knew the Porters. Old man Porter was a hard, God-fearing man who sure as hell w
ould turn Lucy out of the house if he found out she was pregnant.

  “Did my folks say anything special?” Glen asked.

  “Only that God would guide us,” Lucy answered.

  “My dad?”

  “Nothing.”

  Glen stubbed out the cigarette. He suddenly felt drained. “I go on duty in four hours and I need to sleep for a while,” he said.

  She patted the bed. “Sleep here.”

  His eyes met hers.

  “I’m tired too,” Lucy said. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  Glen nodded. He knew what would happen as soon as they were in bed and he also knew that he would agree to marry her.

  “I’ll make it good for you,” Lucy said. “I promise I will.”

  Glen started to unbutton his jacket. Hell, he could have gotten a lot worse. She was really a very pretty woman.

  Lucy stood up, pulled back the blue, threadbare bedspread, smiled at Glen, and began to undress.

  CHAPTER 22

  Tony was OOD. The skipper of the Tarpon, Lieutenant Commander Michael Brisson, was with him on the bridge.

  Brisson had come topside, as he usually did, just before the Tarpon submerged for the day. “We’ll take another half hour before we go down,” Brisson said, scanning the eastern sky, already sufficiently light enough to see the dark mass of Luzon on the horizon. He spoke with a definite “down east” accent, broadening the A sounds and dropping the R’s. “We have only a few hours to get in and out — and the Japs are going to be swarming all over the damn bay.”

  “Maybe we’ll be lucky and they won’t notice us,” Tony answered, trying to conceal a smile. The first time they submerged, just after they cleared Pearl, Brisson got on the horn and told them that they were going to Corregidor to deliver ammunition and pick up a half dozen pilots and several nurses. Two days later they rendezvoused with the submarine tender Orion, loaded 50-caliber rounds, 37mm ammunition, and medical supplies for the “Rock.”

  Brisson chuckled. “I don’t think there’s that much luck in the world,” he said, putting his face against the night glasses and making a 360° sweep with them. “Looks good. I’m going below. You have the conn?”

  Tony nodded and waited until Brisson disappeared into the hatchway, before he stepped forward to the small control console. He liked the skipper and Christopher Bond, the executive officer, whom everyone called “Chris.” The Tarpon was a new fleet-type boat, and her crew was new to it. Other than taking the boat on its sea trials and sailing her from San Diego to Pearl, this was their first combat patrol together. But the crew, thanks to the skipper and Chris, was already a smoothly functioning unit and —

  “Contact bearing zero two eight,” the port-side lookout called from his position behind the periscope shears.

  Tony swung his glasses to the bearing. A feather of black smoke was rising out of the sky. Estimating it to be at least sixteen miles away, he watched it for two minutes; then he picked up the phone. “Bridge here, target on the horizon bearing zero two eight three. Range approximately 10,000 yards.”

  “Skipper is on his way,” the Exec answered.

  Even as Tony put the phone back on the console, Brisson was scrambling up through the hatch. He nodded to Tony, put his eyes to the glasses, took a long look, then shouted, “Dive… Dive… Dive.” He placed his hand on the Klaxon, giving a long continuous blast on it. “Clear the bridge!” Then bending over the open hatchway, he shouted, “Take her down, Chris.”

  The lookouts leapt from their positions and went down the open hatch. Tony and the captain, pulling down the lanyard to bring the hatch cover into place, followed.

  Small spurts of water ran along the side of the hull as the main vents were suddenly opened. The noise made by the diesel exhaust stopped. The air intake valve for the ventilation system and the diesel engines clanked shut. Power was being shifted to the electric motors, and the bow planes were starting to rig out and bite into the water.

  The quartermaster spun the locking wheel. “Hatch secured,” he reported.

  Air began to blow into the boat.

  Tony swallowed to equalize the pressure in his ears.

  Brisson went to the periscope platform and ordered, “Go to one zero zero feet.”

  Tony took his place at the torpedo data computer and turned it on. This wasn’t a drill. They were in enemy waters. That plume of black smoke could have only come from a Japanese ship. He checked the dials. The boat’s course, speed, and depth were indicated. He looked toward Brisson. There was a new kind of tension in the air. Somehow the men knew that they had spotted a Japanese ship.

  The boat was down five degrees at the bow.

  “Secure the air,” Chris ordered in the control room below.

  The roaring of the air stopped. The air pressure remained constant.

  “Air holding steady, skipper,” Chris reported, checking the pressure gage. “Blow negative to the mark,” he ordered.

  Mayer twisted the blow valve open.

  The rush of air into the tank under the pressure hull made a loud hissing noise. Chief Thomas watched the needle move counterclockwise. “Negative blown to the mark,” Thomas reported, after a few seconds.

  “Shut negative flood valve,” Chris said.

  Tony heard the valve thump shut. He was able to identify the specific valve in the various systems by the sound it made when it was opened or closed in response to the skipper’s or exec’s commands.

  “Negative flood valve shut,” the man answered, taking his hand off the lever.

  “Vent negative!”

  More air blew into the control room.

  “Negative tank vented… Vent shut,” was the report.

  “All ahead two thirds,” Brisson ordered.

  “All ahead two thirds answered, sir,” the quartermaster replied.

  “Negative tank is blown and secured, conn,” Chris called out. “Passing through 60 feet… Trim looks good.”

  Brisson silently monitored the depth gages and the inclinometer; then he said, “Level off at zero one zero zero feet, control… Tell me when you have two thirds speed trim.”

  “One zero zero feet… Two thirds trim, aye, aye,” Chris responded. “Passing zero six five feet, conn.”

  Visualizing what was happening below, Tony listened carefully to Brisson’s commands and the exchange between him and Chris.

  “Flood forward trim from the sea, 1000 pounds,” Chris ordered. Moments later, he said, “Conn, forward trim flooded 1000 pounds… Stern planes on zero,” Chris went on. “Pump from forward trim to after trim 500 pounds.” He paused for a few moments; then he added, “Pump 500 pounds from the auxiliary tanks to the sea… Bow planes on zero.” Another few moments passed before Chris called up, “Final trim, conn, one zero zero feet.”

  “Control,” Brisson said, “good work… Bring her slowly up to periscope depth.”

  “Coming to periscope depth,” Chris responded.

  Tony felt the slight rise in the Tarpon’s bow. “Boat’s depth zero six five feet,” he told the yeoman working with him on TDC.

  “Zero six five feet set,” the man answered.

  “Begin your search at two eight zero, true,” Brisson told the sonarman.

  Tony watched the sonarman adjust his headphones and twist the various knobs on the control panel. Then he moved his eyes to the target bearing indicator dials. One would show the sonar indication and the other would be set from the periscope’s sighting. When the two matched, Tony knew they had an exact bearing.

  “Periscope depth, conn,” Chris called out.

  “Hold her level,” Brisson answered, kneeling down to ride the periscope out of its well.

  “Target bearing two nine five,” the sonarman called out, “Range, 12,000 yards… Speed 20 knots.”

  Brisson moved the periscope around, then stopped. “Destroyer… Down periscope,” he snapped the handles up, closing them. “Helmsman, steer one six five.”

  “Coming to one six five,” the h
elmsman answered.

  “Chris, take her to the bottom,” Brisson said. “Pass the word, rig for silent running.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Passing one nine zero feet,” Chris answered.

  “All engines stop,” Brisson ordered.

  “All engines answer stop, sir,” the quartermaster reported.

  Brisson smiled at Tony. “We’ll sit this one out and, if we’re very quiet, that big cat up there won’t know that this mouse is down here.” Then he added, “That’s what luck is all about, isn’t it?”

  Tony nodded. It would be a long, hot, sweaty wait until nightfall.

  CHAPTER 23

  Troost and Kate sat at a table in a small restaurant overlooking Waimanalo Bay. It was late Tuesday afternoon. They had driven across the Pali earlier in the day and would soon be driving back to Pearl.

  “I’ve had such a wonderful day,” Kate said.

  “So have I,” Troost responded, reaching across the table for her hand.

  “But you’re sad, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He kissed the back of her hand. “Not about us. I’m sad because once we’re back in Pearl we have to go our separate ways.”

  “I understand that,” Kate said, nodding, “but there’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “Warren,” he said softly.

  “What about Warren?” she asked, her eyes opening wide. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”

  “I read the reports coming out of ABDAFLOAT, that’s Admiral Hows’s command — what’s left of our Asiatic fleet and a combination of British and Dutch warships.”

  “Warren’s ship is with them?” Kate asked.

  Troost shook his head. “It was ordered to remain in the Philippines.”

  “But why?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know… She’s not going to have much of a chance of making it.”

  “Can’t you at least ask —”

  “No. I might consider asking if the ship came under CinPacFlt,” he said, “but it doesn’t.”