by Roger Jewett
“Besides Peter, you’re the only other person I ever told,” she whispered.
She put her hand on his chest. “Will you spend the night?” Kate asked.
Troost shook his head. “I need to see Lillian,” he said.
“I understand,” she answered.
He kissed her passionately. “I need you,” he whispered.
“Take me.”
CHAPTER 30
The Tarpon was five days out of Pearl, where she had delivered the nurses and Army Air Force pilots she had taken off the “Rock,” and was once again headed west. It was just turning dark when Brisson gave the order to surface. Tony, the officer of the watch, scrambled up through the hatch behind Brisson as the conning tower broke the surface and made sure the four lookouts were in position.
“All ahead, standard,” Brisson ordered.
Tony relayed the order to the engine room.
“All ahead standard,” came the reply.
The diesels cut in for surface cruising and throbbed reassuringly.
Brisson checked the compass. “Steady as she goes,” he said.
“Aye, aye, skipper,” Tony answered, his eye catching the bow planes being folded against the hull.
“You have the conn, Tony,” Brisson said, then turned and dropped gingerly down the hatch.
Tony made a quick sweep with his glasses. There was nothing that broke the constant seam of sea and sky.
The navigator requested permission for himself and the chief quartermaster to come topside to shoot the position of several stars.
“Permission granted,” Tony answered, allowing himself to enjoy the beauty of the twilight and to think about Miriam. There were a dozen letters waiting for him from her when he returned to Pearl, and in one of them she enclosed a picture of herself in a green bathing suit. Just as he looked up at the sky, two shooting stars flashed across it from east to west and he wished that Miriam would fall in love with him.
“Leaving the bridge,” the navigator said.
Tony nodded and started to make another sweep with his glasses. He moved them past port beam, when he saw a quick flash of light off the port bow. “Lookout, port side three points off the bow,” he said.
A few moments, then he saw it again. “Now!” Tony exclaimed.
“Got it,” the lookout answered. “Looks like a blinker signal on the horizon — could be 15 miles away.”
Tony notified Brisson, who clambered up to the bridge in less than two minutes.
“Another light, to the right of the first,” the lookout called.
Brisson said, “I have the conn. Everybody keep a close lookout between relative bearings two nine zero and three four zero.”
After a few moments the radar watch reported, “Conn, several contacts — bearing zero two nine five to three zero five. Range 10,000 yards.”
Tony checked the sector with his glasses. Nothing.
“All ahead, flank,” Brisson ordered.
“All ahead, flank,” the signalman engine room responded.
“Radar, can you give me their course and speed?” Brisson asked; then looking at Tony, he called down to the helmsman, “Come to course two seven five.”
“Coming to course two seven five,” the steersman answered.
“We’ll run in closer on the surface,” Brisson said.
Tony nodded. This was going to be it: his first taste of action. There were at least three ships out there. Maybe more. Undoubtedly Japanese. His lips and throat suddenly became dry.
“Range 8000 yards. Bearing three zero zero true. Course one two zero degrees, true. Speed one two knots,” Radar reported.
Brisson said, after speaking to the sonar officer, “Their sound signature indicates they’re enemy ships and they’re large.”
Despite the cool breeze caused by the 15-knot speed of the Tarpon through the water, Tony was sweating. Several times he ran his arm across his forehead. The next few minutes seemed like hours to him.
“5000 yards,” Brisson announced. “All right, now we dive.” He gave one long blast on the Klaxon and then shouted, “Dive… Dive… Dive.”
The lookouts swung down from their perches between the periscopes and scrambled into the open hatch. Tony and the captain followed. The access hatch was dogged down.
“Bridge cleared — hatch secured,” Tony reported.
The bow planes were already rigged out and the Tarpon was bow down.
Tony immediately took his place at the TDC.
The throbbing noise of the diesels was replaced by the hum of the electric motors. The air vents were being shut and the ballast tanks were being flooded.
Brisson was at the periscope. “Level off at six zero feet,” he said.
“Level off at six zero feet,” the diving officer answered from the control room.
“All ahead, two thirds,” Brisson said.
“All ahead two thirds,” the engine order telegraph watch answered.
Even as Tony watched the needle of the depth gage reach 40 feet, the sounds of the Japanese ship’s screws rumbled through the water.
The DO ordered the bow plane watch to ease up on the bow planes. The boat responded. Her bow began to lift.
“Passing through four five feet,” the DO reported.
The boat’s rate of descent was slowed.
“Trim her,” Brisson said.
The DO ordered ballast to be pumped from the forward trim tank to the after tank.
“Zero six zero feet,” the DO reported.
Brisson stood very still, looked at his watch and said something in a very low voice to Chris, the XO. Then suddenly he said, “Dive control, come to periscope depth.”
The boat responded.
“Periscope depth,” the DO said.
“Up periscope,” Brisson ordered, snapping out the handles and riding them up. He made a 360° sweep before he said, “Targets bearing zero one eight… Range 4000 yards… Three ships… Target angle, zero five four… Down scope.”
Tony cranked the data into the torpedo data computer and read out the results to Brisson.
“We’ll shoot from the bow,” Brisson said; “then turn and shoot from the stern.”
Chris gave the order to load the four bow torpedo tubes and “stand by to fire.”
“Up periscope,” Brisson said, squatting down to meet it and again riding it up. This time he immediately focused on the targets first. “Bearing three zero zero, true… I make out three ships close together… Down scope.” He snapped the handles closed and stepped away.
Tony called out the information generated by the TDC.
“Three minutes, skipper,” Chris said.
“Up periscope,” Brisson ordered. “Tell the SO to ping once on the targets.”
Tony could hear his heart beating.
“Bearing two nine five… Target angle zero four zero,” Brisson said.
“Range 2200,” the sonar man reported.
Tony felt the tension in the conning tower stretch to rubber-band thinness.
“Stand by to fire,” Brisson said.
Chris relayed the order.
“Sonar, ping once,” Brisson said.
“Range 2000,” the sonar watch called out, as the sonar echo returned to the boat.
“Bearing, two eight five,” Brisson said, peering through the periscope.
“Fire one,” Brisson ordered. “Fire two!”
Tony felt the Tarpon shudder ever so slightly as the torpedoes left their tubes.
“Fire three and four,” Brisson ordered.
More seconds passed.
“All fish running on course,” sonar reported.
Tony watched the clock on the TDC — ten seconds.
An explosion rumbled down on the Tarpon. A second explosion came five seconds after the first.
“The big one is on fire and listing to her port side,” Brisson said, with his eyes against the periscope.
The third explosion and the fourth came within two seconds of each other.
“Target bearing two zero,” the SO said. “Destroyer type… Moving very fast… Closing.”
The Tarpon’s bow tilted sharply down.
“She’s echo ranging on us, skipper,” the sonar watch reported.
“Passing through 80 feet,” the diving officer called out.
“She’s directly above us, skipper,” the sonarman reported.
Prickles broke out on Tony’s back.
“Left full rudder,” Brisson ordered.
Sweat soaked through Tony’s shirt.
“Three cans on the way down,” the SO said.
Chris turned very pale.
The first explosion thundered overhead and shook the boat from stern to stern. The second can caught the port side. Again, the boat trembled in agony.
The lights went out then came back on.
“Skipper, two men in the forward torpedo room are injured,” the torpedo officer reported.
“Harly, to the after torpedo room,” Chris shouted into the control room, where the pharmacist mate was doubling on an emergency telephones to engine room.
The third can detonated under the stern, lifting it upward and throwing all hands off balance.
The red signal light on the phone connecting the control room to the after engine room began to flash.
Chris answered. “Skipper, engineering reports a ruptured hydraulic line… Damage control is working on it now.”
“Passing 100 feet,” the DO said.
The pinging faded out of the hull. But the thrumming of the destroyer’s screws was loud and clear.
“He’s making another run,” the sonar reported. “Two more cans.”
Tony clenched his teeth. He looked at the men around the TDC. His fear was reflected in each one of their faces. Not one of the boat’s crew had ever experienced a depth charge attack. They were all new to the terror. A thunderous explosion outside the laboring boat knocked him against the bulkhead.
“Passing one two five feet,” the diving officer reported, his voice tight with fear.
Before Tony could pull himself up, another explosion hammered against the starboard side.
“Left full rudder,” Brisson ordered.
“Left full rudder,” the helmsman responded.
“Control, level off at 150 feet,” Brisson said.
Chris started to relay the order, faltered, and had to begin again.
“Coming to 150 feet,” the DO answered.
“Target moving away,” the sonar reported. “Bearing two six zero.”
Tony heard the feeling of relief in the man’s voice and felt the tautness go out of his own body. He looked at the conning tower clock. Less than 45 minutes had passed since the Japanese signal lights were spotted. He took a deep breath and, as he slowly exhaled, the DO called out, “150 feet, skipper.”
“Helmsman, come to two six zero,” Brisson ordered.
Tony stiffened. It seemed as if the skipper was going after the Japanese destroyer. He looked at Chris, who was saying something to Brisson.
The skipper responded with a vigorous shake of his head.
“I have lost contact with target,” the sonar reported.
“Dive Control, bring her to periscope depth,” Brisson said. “We’ll go up and take a look around. If we don’t have any company, we’ll surface and finish recharging our batteries.”
Tony relaxed again. The men around the TDC broke into smiles. Minutes later the Tarpon surfaced, and he and Brisson were back on the conning tower bridge. Miles away, toward the southwest, a small portion of the sea and sky glowed red. The enemy ships were still burning.
“From here,” Brisson commented, “it almost looks pretty.”
Tony had other thoughts and, though he wasn’t a religious man, he crossed himself and said, “But it also looks a lot like the mouth of Hell, doesn’t it?”
For several moments Brisson remained silent; then, in a low voice, he answered, “Very much like the mouth of Hell. Thank you for — for bringing a new perspective to me.” Then he said, “I’m going below. You have the conn.”
“Aye, aye, skipper,” Tony responded.
CHAPTER 31
Warren sat across the table from Irene Hacker in Society Sal’s, a small French restaurant. The wavering light from a candle in a green wine bottle flickered across her face. She was in uniform and there was considerably less strain on her face than when he had seen her aboard the AKO-96.
They met outside the restaurant, acknowledged one another with a nod, entered, and were shown to the table by the hostess.
Warren ordered a scotch for himself and a rum and coke for Irene. Neither of them made any effort to speak.
Irene studied the menu, while Warren studied her.
Finally, looking over the top of the menu, she asked, “Have you decided what you want?”
Without hesitation, he answered, “You.”
“Onion soup and the medallions of veal with mushrooms for me,” she said.
“That sounds good to me,” Warren responded.
“What?”
“I’ll have whatever you have,” he said, offering her a cigarette from a case.
She nodded and took one.
Warren held the cigarette lighter for her and then lit his own.
“How did you find out about this place?” she asked.
Warren looked around. The walls were red brick. There were potted plants in the corners. “Don’t you like it?” he asked.
She smiled. “I’ll let you know after I’ve eaten,” she said. “But how did you find out about it?”
“I asked one of the guys at the BOO,” Warren explained.
The waitress brought a basket of hot French bread to the table and two small cups filled with butter. “One is regular, the other is flavored with garlic,” she explained; then she asked if they were ready to order.
“Both of us will have the onion soup and the medallions of veal with mushrooms,” Warren said.
“And would you care for wine?” the woman asked.
“A carafe of the house white —”
“I’d much prefer the red,” Irene said. “Though of course white goes with veal.”
“Make it a carafe of red,” Warren said, looking up at the waitress.
She nodded, smiled at him, and left the table.
“I’m glad you agreed to meet me,” Warren said, moving his eyes to Irene.
“More out of curiosity than anything else,” she answered. “I’d have to admit that I didn’t expect to ever see you again, let alone have you call and invite me to dinner.”
Warren stubbed out his cigarette. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever see Pearl again.”
The waitress brought the soup to the table and then the carafe of wine.
Neither spoke until they were finished with the soup. “I’m glad you got out,” Warren said finally. “Things were very bad when I left. I was supposed to take MacArthur and some others to Australia, but they were flown out instead.”
“I have bad dreams about Corregidor,” she said, looking down at her empty soup plate, “and worse feelings about being safe here.” She raised her eyes.
He reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“I left some very good people —” Her voice cracked and she turned her head away. “Excuse me,” she said, “I’m sorry.”
Warren lit another cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. He had his nightmares too. He’d see Rawlins’s head, or what was left of it, or he’d be on the ship’s bridge again when she was attacked by bombers.
A moment later and more composed, Irene asked, “Would you mind if I had a glass of wine now?”
Warren poured.
A busboy came to the table and collected the soup plates.
“Was there someone special?” Warren asked, putting into words what he intuitively knew.
S
he nodded. “A major. We were going to be married. He was still on Bataan when I left Corregidor. He’s a doctor. I don’t think he ever left Bataan.”
Warren remained silent. That afternoon there were rumors that Corregidor was about to surrender.
The waitress came with their entrees and, when she left the table, Warren said, “If it tastes as good as it smells, it will be delicious.”
They began to eat.
Warren offered to pour Irene more wine and she held out her glass.
“You didn’t have much of your scotch,” she commented.
“I really don’t care much for drink,” he said.
“Then why did you order it?” she asked.
“Foolish, I guess,” he said; then looking at her, he added, “It was the thing to do.”
“Because of me?”
He nodded.
Once more the conversation between them lapsed until Irene said, “There was no need to try to impress me. Whether you drink or don’t is your business.”
“I know that,” Warren answered; then with a slight smile, he added, “I’d much prefer it if you didn’t drink.”
Irene frowned.
He touched the carafe. “That won’t bring your major or anyone else you knew back.”
“How dare you say that to me!” The candlelight heightened her flush. “What do you know about losing people?”
“I already know a great deal about losing people,” he said. “Your father … the man who killed him … several other members of my crew.” He paused and took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “that was a stupid thing to say.”
Warren looked straight at her. “I also know about alcoholics; my mother is one.” The words were out before he could stop them. He saw his mother the evening he arrived. She had a drink in her hand and told him that his father had another woman. Not that he disbelieved it, or resented it, but wondered, if it was true, why his father had waited so long to have an affair.
“Why did you tell me that?” Irene asked. The flush in her face was gone now.
He touched the carafe again. “Because this can’t ever give you what you need,” he said.