Battle Stations

by Roger Jewett

  The other ships commenced firing.

  Smoke arcs marked the path of the shells from ship to the shoreline at Lunga Point.

  Troost watched the shelling through powerful glasses. Huge chunks of the beach and the jungle beyond suddenly leapt up and became enveloped in smoke. That must be what Hell is like, he thought.

  “No return fire, so far,” Troost commented with a note of relief in his voice, as he lowered his glasses.

  “None, sir,” the watch officer answered.

  “We’ll continue firing for another 10 minutes,” Troost said. “Then we will lift our gunfire to allow the Airdales in their SBDs to attack their targets. Let’s hope they are on time.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the WO said.

  Troost raised the glasses to his eyes again. In minutes the beach was turned into a moonscape, and the jungle behind it shattered. Huge trees were reduced to stumps. It was an awesome sight!

  Suddenly, radar reported, “Bogey aircraft… Bearing, one eight seven degrees… Range, 15 miles… Angles, 18,000 feet…”

  The captain’s voice came over the squawk box: “Admiral, my antiaircraft guns are ready if the bogies aren’t ours.” Almost immediately, he followed with, “Admiral, IFF shows aircraft to be the friendlies we expected.”

  “Very well, thank you,” Troost responded.

  On schedule at 0610 all shore bombardment ceased, and a flight of 12 SBDs, in two separate lines of attack, swooped down over the beach and dropped their 500-pound bombs with devastating effectiveness. Enemy antiaircraft fire was very light. The SBDs zigzagged away from their targets at a low altitude and then climbing rapidly over the water, turned and in long lines, dived again to deliver their remaining bombs.

  “Landing craft are moving in, sir,” the WO reported.

  The marines landed without any opposition and immediately began moving inland toward the airfield.

  At 0100 Troost was unable to sleep and went out to his bridge. The night was sultry, with low, dark rain clouds. A rainstorm to the west obscured Savo Island. Intermittent flashes of lightning in the distance momentarily silhouetted other ships of the force. The night was calm. But oddly it was the calmness that was making him edgy. Earlier, one of his picket ships reported that a plane was over Savo. But nothing came of it. They were now steaming in a column of darkened ships down “the Slot” for another amphibious assault in two days.

  Troost returned to his sea cabin and, sitting down at the desk, he began to write to Kate. There really wasn’t very much he could tell her about what was happening. He did mention that Warren’s PT squadron was nearby and then wrote, “I think you should take the plunge and send one or two of your stories to magazines on the mainland. Why not? You really have nothing to lose —”

  The klaxon screamed.

  Troost raced back to the bridge. The ship was illuminated by two magnesium flares; then suddenly a lookout on the starboard side shouted, “Enemy gunfire!”

  An instant later the lookout on the portside yelled, “Gunfire to port!”

  Seconds later the starboard side exploded and the first Japanese shells smashed into her. There were flames along the length of the ship.

  Troost’s force had steamed into a trap: Japanese warships were waiting for them on either side of the slot.

  A shell smashed into the bridge.

  Troost was thrown against the bulkhead. His left arm was slashed open. When he managed to get to his feet, he saw that the watch officer’s chest was torn open, and another member of the bridge watch lay crumpled in the doorway. Troost raced down to the ship’s navigation bridge.

  “The skipper and the EXO are dead,” the officer of the deck reported, with a note of panic in his voice. “Damage control says there’s serious flooding amidships below the waterline.”

  “I have lost rudder control, sir,” the helmsman reported.

  One of the ship’s five-inch guns began firing, and somehow the torpedo crew fired two torpedoes.

  A star shell exploded above the ship, starkly illuminating her. Then four more rounds slammed into her. The five-inch gun mount exploded.

  An engine room phone rang. The OOD answered it. “All engineering space has been abandoned, sir. Damage Control reports many fires are out of control. Recommends abandon ship! She cannot be saved.”

  Without hesitation, Troost switched on the 1MC. “Now hear this… All hands, now hear this… This is Admiral Troost… I have taken command of the ship —” Three explosions rocked the Appalachia. “Abandon ship,” Troost ordered. “Abandon ship… All hands abandon ship.”

  “Jesus, we’re already listing more than 10 degrees to the starboard side,” the quartermaster of the watch exclaimed.

  “You men get out now,” Troost told the OOD, the helmsman, and the quartermaster.

  “If it’s just the same to you,” the sailor said, “I’ll stay with you, sir.”

  Their eyes locked.

  “You’ve got a bad arm,” the younger man told him. “You might need some help.”

  “All right, stay,” Troost answered. “But let’s get down to the main deck and make sure the men get off.”

  There were hundreds of men already in the water.

  A destroyer was standing toward the burning cruiser, now dead in the water.

  Men from below decks were scrambling topside and jumping over the side into the oil-covered waters.

  Troost glanced at his watch: unbelievably only 11 minutes had elapsed from the time he heard the klaxon.

  Deep inside the ship the ammunition stored in the magazines exploded.

  “I don’t think there’s anyone else on board,” the quartermaster said.

  Troost nodded. “I’ll follow,” he told him, suddenly remembering the Broadwater. An eerie déjà vu sensation overwhelmed him.

  “Good luck, sir,” his helper said.

  Troost shook his hand. “Good luck.”

  The young sailor kicked off his shoes and dived into the water.

  Then suddenly the destroyer trying to assist came under fire and a huge fire erupted from her bow.

  Troost was just about to jump when the Appalachia abruptly rolled over on her starboard side and capsized. In a terrifying instant, he realized he would not be able to get clear of her before she went down. An enormous roar filled his ears. “Kate!” he shouted, “I’ll love you forever! God help us!” And he gave himself up to the sea.

  CHAPTER 42

  With his legs braced, Warren was standing behind the helmsman of his boat, the PT 116. The five-boat squadron hurriedly left their base on Tulagi as soon as word of the shooting at Savo was received. With the throttles wide open, the three 1200-horsepower Packard engines were driving each of the boats through the water at 40 knots.

  From the radio reports, Warren knew the Appalachia was dead in the water and on fire and that four other U.S. ships were in the same condition.

  “There are ships on fire everywhere!” Mike Frass, the yeoman at the helm exclaimed.

  Warren peered into the night. A heavy rain squall was off to the starboard, but in front of him were five huge pyres. Then suddenly toward the west there was the rumble of gunfire.

  “Skipper, the destroyer Karl and cruiser Perry are under attack,” the radio man reported.

  “Christ,” Warren swore, “the Japs just came through here and shot the shit out of us!”

  “Squadron Commander is on the horn,” the radio man said.

  “Put him through.” Warren switched on the bridge radio and put on a set of earphones. “Troost here,” he said.

  “Stand by,” a voice said.

  Frass suddenly pointed to the starboard, where the rain squall was.

  Warren looked. A ship was moving rapidly out of it. “Target,” he said into the mike, “bearing, zero eight zero.” Then to Frass he said, “Come to zero eight zero.”

  The boat, at full throttle, heeled over to the starboard.

  Warren held the left earphone to his ear. “Ready torpedo tubes,” he ye
lled down to Phil Harris, the boat’s chief quartermaster.

  “The other boats are turning,” Frass said.

  “Troost?” the squadron leader, Commander George Hopkins, called.

  “Standing by,” Warren answered.

  “Take him from the port side with boats one one five and one one seven. The rest of us will go in on his starboard.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Troost answered.

  “There’s another ship behind him!” Frass exclaimed.

  “Troost,” Hopkins said, “you and one one five and one one seven attack as ordered; the rest of us will go for the second target.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Warren responded.

  “Torpedoes armed and ready,” Harris reported. “All gun stations ready.”

  Warren watched the Japanese destroyer loom larger and larger. They would hear his and the other boats before they saw them. He picked up the mike. “One one five and one one seven. They’ll be sighting us any moment now. We’re going to do a lot of zigging and zagging. Keep a sharp lookout before you change course.”

  The other skippers acknowledged his transmission.

  Suddenly the Japanese searchlights came on. Their long thin beams cut through the darkness and turned the black water into a yellow circle.

  “Go for the lights,” he yelled to Harris.

  A half dozen powerful beams on both ships began to slide over the water.

  Warren watched one of the yellow circles. “Hard left,” he ordered.

  The boat swung away from the light.

  “Bring her back as you were,” he said.

  Frass spun the wheel over. “Coming to zero eight zero,” he said.

  The yellow circles crisscrossed over the water. Then one of them captured and steadied on PT 115. The destroyer’s number one mount began firing.

  Plumes of water rose alongside the boat.

  She swung to the starboard.

  The light followed her; then suddenly PT 115 exploded into a mass of debris and flame.

  “Closing fast,” Frass said.

  “Going in,” Warren said. “Stand by to launch torpedoes.”

  “She’s starting to turn!” Frass yelled.

  “Fire one and two,” Warren ordered. “Shoot out that fucking searchlight!”

  “Torpedoes in the water,” Harris responded.

  The dual .50 mounts behind Warren chattered.

  One of the destroyer’s searchlights went out.

  “Full left rudder,” Warren ordered, watching the luminescent wakes of his torpedoes as they ran toward the target.

  The boat heeled to port and began a tight turn. “Come all the way around and head directly for him,” Warren yelled above the noise of the engine.

  A searchlight suddenly poured over them.

  “Hard right,” Warren yelled.

  The light followed.

  Two geysers erupted directly in front of the boat and lifted its bow out of the water.

  The boat’s .40mm aft gun spewed round after round at the insistent light.

  Then suddenly there was an enormous explosion.

  Warren looked back over his shoulder and saw his torpedoes smash into the destroyer. The ship staggered. A burst of flames engulfed her forward.

  “We got the bastard!” Frass shouted. “We got her!”

  The next instant a light steadied on PT 117 and she was blown out of the water.

  The second destroyer hove into view. She was going to assist the wounded ship.

  “Damn good shooting, Troost,” Hopkins said over the radio. “I can’t get close enough for a torpedo attack.”

  The very next instant two of the other three boats were hit. One burst into flames and the other disintegrated.

  “One one six,” a voice said on the radio, “this is one one eight… Hopkins is dead… One two zero is on fire.”

  “Is that you, Lieutenant Greely?” Warren asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Break off and return to base,” Warren said, knowing he was now the squadron’s ranking officer. “We’ll pick up any survivors and head back.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Greely answered.

  “You think you can find your way back to the base?” Warren asked Frass.

  “Sure thing, skipper,” the man answered.

  Warren ordered the helmsman to ease the throttle back and the boat slowed. A cold, hard rain began to fall. He called down to the galley. “Do you have any coffee?” he asked.

  “In a minute, skipper,” a voice replied. “I’ll bring it to the bridge.”

  “Thanks,” Warren said; then he put one of the earphones next to his ear. Radio traffic indicated the destroyer Blue was standing by the Appalachia, taking survivors aboard. He hoped his father would be among them.

  CHAPTER 43

  The following day Warren was summoned to a meeting with Admiral Tyson, the commander of the amphibious forces, aboard the heavy cruiser Washington.

  Tyson, a man in his late 50s, looked very tired. He invited Warren to sit down and said, “I regret to say that your father’s body has not been recovered. From what we were told by some of the survivors who saw him just before the Appalachia turned over on her starboard side, he lost his footing on the deck and went down with her.” He spoke in a slow monotone and his coal black eyes never left Warren’s face. “There was a chief with him, who said that he would not leave the ship until he was sure no one was left on board.”

  Warren nodded. “He would do that,” he responded.

  “Your mother will be officially notified by the War Department that he was killed in action,” Tyson said.

  Warren understood that it was Tyson’s way of telling him that there wasn’t any hope that he was alive.

  “Your father was a fine officer and a fine man,” Tyson said. “But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

  “No, sir,” Warren responded.

  “I wish there was something else I could say,” Tyson said. “But there isn’t anything that wouldn’t be superfluous. I am going to recommend that your father be given the Navy Cross posthumously for valor and dedication to duty.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Warren answered, and wondered how his mother would react to her husband’s death.

  “There is one other thing I want to mention to you, now that you’re here,” Tyson said. “Under the circumstance, I think I could have you transferred back to Pearl for a few months.”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Warren answered. “My boat and my crew are here. I’ll wait my turn to be rotated back.”

  Tyson smiled; then he said, “I heard you put two fish into a Japanese destroyer last night.”

  “She was down at the bow when we left her,” Tyson said.

  “I’m also recommending to CinPacFleet that you be given command of PT Squadron Ten.”

  “Admiral, there’s only my boat and the 108 left,” Warren said.

  “Six new boats and their crews are coming in within a week to 10 days,” Tyson said, standing up. He shook Warren’s hand. “You’re a credit to the memory of your father.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Warren responded, and he left the admiral’s sea office.

  CHAPTER 44

  On a hot humid Tuesday in the second week of August at 3:30 in the afternoon, Jacob found himself on a bus entering Thornton, Mississippi. The bus rolled down Main Street, turned into an alleyway between Bert’s Feed & Hardware Store and Miss Lee’s Luncheonette and Ice cream Parlor; then it made a U-turn and came to a stop alongside a rickety wooden platform stained gray by the weather.

  “You folks goin’ on to Chardin got 10 minutes,” the driver announced, opening the front door.

  Jacob pulled down his suitcase from the overhead rack and left the bus. There were at least a dozen people on the platform. Most of the men wore overalls and cowboy hats made of straw. Dressed in whites, he was the center of everyone’s attention. He walked into the waiting room. There were signs designating which part of the room was to be used by whites and which pa
rt by negros. It took him a few minutes to realize that even the ticket windows were similarly marked. The same thing existed in Pensacola, but as soon as he’d left there, he’d put it out of his mind.

  Coming straight up to Jacob, a young man asked, “You for the Yancys?”

  “Yes,” Jacob answered.

  “I was sent by Mr. Yancy to fetch you,” he said. “I got a truck outside.” He wore a pair of overalls that were hooked over his right shoulder. No shirt. But a large straw hat with a torn brim shaded his eyes.

  Jacob followed him outside.

  The truck was parked in front of Lee’s. It was an old Ford, with thin rubber tires and four posts on each corner of the flatbed that supported a wooden frame to which a dirty canvas tarpaulin was secured by pieces of rope.

  “Soon as I’m old enough,” the young man said, “I’m goin’ ta join up.”

  Jacob nodded. He was interested in the countryside, which began just outside of the town. “What do you grow down here?” he asked, looking at the cultivated fields on either side of the macadam road.

  “Mostly cotton, but some plant sugar beet, especially now with the war goin’,” the young man answered.

  “What’s on either side of the road?” Jacob asked.

  “Sugar beet,” he answered.

  Jacob took out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to the young man.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, taking one from the pack.

  Jacob held the lighter for him and then lit his own.

  “My pap does sharecroppin’ for Mr. Yancy,” the young man said. “But come next year, he says he’s goin’ ta buy a few acres of bottom land, near the river. He says he’ll put in sugar beet and some cotton, but mostly he wants to raise hogs.”

  Jacob nodded.

  “You knew John Yancy?” the young man asked.

  “I knew him,” Jacob answered. “I was his wingman.”

  They turned off the blacktop and onto a dirt road. A cloud of red dust rose up behind the truck.