Battle Stations

by Roger Jewett

  The boat leaped forward.

  “Nothing on the beach,” Manuel called out.

  “Give them a minute or two,” Warren said, as the boat heeled over to her starboard in a tight turn. He reached over to the helm and eased it back. “Hold it steady,” he ordered.

  “There they are!” Manuel exclaimed, swinging the deck gun around to rake the beach, while the two machine guns opened up.

  CHAPTER 50

  The family party was for Tony. He was home on leave before taking command of his own boat, the Manta. For bringing the Tarpon and its crew safely back to Brisbane, Tony was awarded the Navy Cross and promoted to Lieutenant Commander.

  Because the party was “family,” not only were there members of Tony’s real family there, but many of the guests belonged to his father’s other family. Among them was Carlo Spilachi, the father of all of them.

  “So,” Spilachi asked, “you had enough of the war, Tony?” He was a dignified-looking man, with pure white hair and bottomless gray eyes. He ate very little and only occasionally sipped the wine in his glass.

  “I had enough,” Tony answered, “but the war is still there. It won’t go away.”

  “I can make it go away for you,” Spilachi said. “You did your share. How many times do you want to be a hero? Maybe one time you’ll wind up a dead hero.”

  Everyone in the Trapasso dining room stopped talking and the silence, like some viscous liquid, flowed quickly into the kitchen, bringing his mother and her two sisters to the door.

  Tony nodded. Everyone was waiting not only for his answer, but for how he’d answer. He was expected to phrase his answer, regardless of what it would be, in such a way that he would be subservient to Spilachi and thereby give the man the respect due to him. Tony smiled, looked straight at him, and said, “Because you are a guest in my father’s house and have come to join my family in this celebration, I will not say what I want to.”

  The people at the table stirred uneasily.

  “Certainly,” Spilachi answered, “you’ve won the right to say what you want to say.”

  “No,” Tony said. “I think you know what I was going to say, Mr. Spilachi.”

  Spilachi looked at Tony’s father. “I’ll say this for him, he’s not afraid.”

  “You’re wrong, Mr. Spilachi,” Tony said. “Over these past three years I have been afraid more times than I ever want to remember. All of those times I had something to fear, but from you —” He let that hang in the air for a few moments; then he finished by saying, “Nothing, absolutely nothing.”

  Spilachi’s face became red.

  “All right,” Tony said, in a loud voice, “I have an announcement to make. Everyone, listen. I’m going to be married.”

  “Holy Mother of God!” his mother cried from the kitchen doorway. “How could you do that to me. The girl isn’t one of us; she isn’t Catholic. Tony,” she wept, “it’s not a marriage unless it’s in the Church.”

  Tony left the table and went to his mother. “I thought you’d be happy,” he said.

  “Oh Tony,” she cried, “I wanted to see you married, but what you’re going to do is wrong!”

  “Come sit down,” he said.

  She shook her head. “The party was for you,” she said, “and now you’ve ruined it.”

  Tony looked at the table. It was empty.

  CHAPTER 51

  Jacob sat in between Tony and Glen at the Hali Kalani bar. Tony was now his brother-in-law. Two days before, he’d returned from his first successful patrol as skipper of the Manta. Glen’s ship, the Edison, was in for repairs at Pearl after being struck in the stern by a kamikaze off the island of Samar in the Philippines.

  “A toast to Warren,” Tony said, raising his martini. “Did you know that bastard stole a Jap torpedo boat?”

  “It made the headlines when the news was released,” Jacob said. “But it actually happened in ’43, on Christmas day. The censors didn’t want to release anything about it.”

  “To Warren,” Glen said, raising his glass of scotch.

  “Warren,” Jacob echoed, touching the glasses of the other two with his.

  “How long do you have here?” Tony asked, looking at Jacob.

  “A month, maybe six weeks,” Jacob said. “I’m now an air group commander of Air Group Twenty and skipper of the Fighting Squadron as well. I have a whole group of young, inexperienced pilots to get ready for what they’re going to face.” For the past year he instructed student pilots in operational tactics at the Naval Air Station, in Opalocka, Florida and was promoted to a Lieutenant Commander. Now he was back at sea and his new Air Group was assigned to the fight attack carrier, CVL-20, Alamo.

  “Yeah,” Glen commented, “the new men seem to be younger and younger.”

  “I have some men aboard the Manta that still have fuzz on their face,” Trapasso said.

  The three of them laughed.

  “How’s your son?” Jacob asked, looking at Glen.

  “Wait, I’ll show you his picture,” Glen said, pulling out his wallet and removing the photograph. “Does he, or doesn’t he look like me?” he asked proudly.

  “How could he look like you?” Jacob asked. “He’s good-looking.”

  Tony nodded, looked at Jacob, and said, “How would you like to be called Uncle Jake?”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Not unless Miriam is,” Tony answered. “In her last letter she was already four months gone.”

  “Bartender,” Jacob said, “give us a bottle of your best —”

  “Commander Jacob Miller,” a bellboy called. “Is there a Commander Jacob Miller here.”

  “Probably the base,” Glen said.

  Jacob stood up, summoned the bellboy, and said, “I’m Commander Miller.”

  “Sir, you have a phone call. You may take it in the lobby,” the bellboy said.

  Jacob tipped him, went to the lobby, picked up the phone, and told the operator who he was.

  “Go ahead,” the operator said.

  “Commander Miller,” the woman said, “this is Miss Ryder from the American Red Cross. Your duty officer was kind enough to tell me where I might be able to find you. Commander, I am sorry that I have to be the one to tell you that your father has suffered a very serious heart attack and is not expected to survive…”

  Jacob didn’t hear the rest of what the woman said. He put the phone down and walked back to the bar.

  “What’s wrong?” Tony asked, getting up to meet him.

  “Papa has had a heart attack and is not expected to live,” Jacob said.

  “Are you going to try and go home?” Glen asked.

  Jacob shook his head. “I’ve got to train my men,” he said fiercely. “I don’t want to lose any of them because of something I didn’t tell or show them.” He looked at Tony. “Papa would understand that, wouldn’t he?”

  “He’d understand,” Tony answered.

  “Listen you guys,” Jacob said, “I’m going to try and get a call through to New York.”

  “The Red Cross will help do it in an emergency,” Glen said.

  Jacob nodded. “I’ll get in touch with both of you in a few days,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

  “It’s covered,” Glen told him.

  “I’ll try to speak to Miriam in a little while,” Tony said.

  “Yes, that’ll be good,” Jacob said and walked slowly away.

  CHAPTER 52

  Warren’s squadron was part of the 39 PT boats ordered to take up positions in the coves of the islands off the southern entrance to the Surigao Strait. The order came from Bull Gower, now over all commander of the United States Third Fleet. The PTs were the first line of defense against the Japanese push into the strait; behind them was a line of destroyers, and to the rear of the destroyers were the cruisers and battleships.

  The orders to all of the squadron commanders were terse and simple: “Your task is to intercept and sink as many of the enemy ships as possible.” From the succinctness o
f the order, it was clear to Warren, and all of the other squadron commanders, that Gower considered them expendable.

  Warren cupped his hand over the cigarette and took a long drag on it, then let the smoke pour out of his mouth and nostrils.

  “Skipper,” Phil, the radar operator, said, “I have three unknowns on the screen… Bearing, zero, two nine five… Range, 12,000 yards and closing fast.”

  Warren quickly radioed the target bearing and range to the other squadron commanders. Then he said to Sean Devlin, his EXO, “Check with the other boat skippers and make sure we don’t have anyone developing engine trouble at the last minute.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper,” Devlin answered.

  “Pass the word that all boats stand by for full throttle operation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Devlin said and left the bridge to go to the radio shack.

  Warren didn’t particularly like Devlin and he was sure the feeling was mutual. Sean, the same age as himself, was the only man Warren knew who could actually twist his face into a disdainful sneer, and what made it worse, the man was disdainful of just about everything. Almost as soon as Devlin joined the squadron, he let it be known that he wasn’t really navy, and that after the war the men would be able to proudly tell their friends that they had served with him.

  A radio intercept from the battleship Kansas, Gower’s flagship, indicated that it had radar contact with a “probable enemy bearing one eight five — range 18,000 yards.”

  Warren turned to the radar operator. “Check your bearing and range,” he ordered.

  “Target bearing two nine five, range 10,000 yards and closing,” the radar operator said.

  Warren was just about to radio the Kansas, when a voice over the radio said, “Separate enemy contacts — one made up of four ships, bearing two nine five, range 15,000 yards from K; second of six ships, bearing one eight five, range 18,000 yards from K… Expect two forces to join into one.”

  The battle plan for the PTs was simple: attack as soon as the enemy comes into visual contact.

  “Stand by,” Warren announced over the 1MC.

  Sean came back to the bridge. “All boats report engines idling,” he said.

  “We’ll be underway in another minute or two,” Warren said.

  “I feel like I’m with the U.S. cavalry in one of those spectacular Hollywood charges,” Sean commented.

  “Believe me,” Warren said, remembering the engagement in Iron Bottom Sound, off Savo Island, “this is going to be like nothing you’ve ever experienced.”

  That look of disdain came to Devlin’s face. “Captain, I have been in combat before,” he said.

  Ignoring Devlin, Warren asked for a radar check.

  “Bearing, two nine eight; range 5000 yards and closing,” Phil answered.

  Warren radioed the bearings and range to the other boats in his command. Each of them, with the exception of the one with him in the cove, would have, as a result of their positions, different readings on their radar. He touched the machinist mate, who was both throttle man and helmsman, on the shoulder. “There they are… Full throttle!” he ordered.

  With a roar, the boat leaped forward; then settling stern down, it raced through the water, creating two huge fans of water at the bow and a white wake at the stern.

  The night was moonless and the water was a black surface.

  Warren switched on the mike. “Get in and out as quickly as you can,” he told his skippers. “Have your gunners go for the searchlights. Remember, what they can’t see, they can’t hit.” He switched off the mike. “Check torpedo tubes,” he said.

  “Torpedos armed and loaded,” Devlin reported.

  “Come to two eight five,” Warren ordered.

  “Two eight five,” the helmsman answered.

  Warren could see the Japanese ships now. There were four destroyers leading the van, and behind them were cruisers and battleships, screened port and starboard by additional destroyers. He glanced to port, then to starboard. There were PT boats on either side of his. He turned on the 1MC. “Attack… Attack!” he ordered.

  Suddenly the searchlights came on and swept the water. Some boats were instantly caught in a yellow circle of light. A second later the Japanese guns opened up.

  “Rudder, hard right,” Warren ordered.

  “Hard right,” the helmsman answered.

  The boat heeled over and started to make a turn.

  “Rudder, hard left,” Warren ordered.

  The yellow circle of light skidded past them. Two geysers of water shot up on the boat’s starboard side, drenching it under a torrent of water.

  “Close!” Devlin exclaimed, wiping his face.

  Suddenly the forward deck gunner opened up. A searchlight above the navigation bridge aboard the nearest destroyer blazed white then went out.

  “Good shooting,” Warren shouted.

  Suddenly the boat next to his became a mass of flames.

  Warren ordered the helmsman to steer directly for the target. “Stand by to launch torpedoes,” he ordered.

  “Christ,” Devlin shouted, “we’re being shot to pieces!”

  There were burning and sinking boats in every direction.

  Warren kept his eyes on the destroyer. He maneuvered his boat to come at her port side.

  The Japanese searchlights frantically tried to find him. One finally did.

  “Fire tube one!” he ordered.

  The boat’s starboard side rose slightly.

  “Torpedo one on its way,” the officer reported.

  The boat’s gunners were trying desperately to shoot out the destroyer’s searchlights.

  “Launch tube two,” Warren ordered.

  The boat leveled itself.

  “Torpedo two on its way.”

  “Full left rudder,” Warren ordered.

  A huge explosion staggered the Japanese destroyer.

  “Got the fucker,” one of the men yelled.

  “Full right rudder,” Warren ordered.

  Two shells burst over the stern of the boat. The rear deck gunner’s head dropped to the deck and rolled into the sea, as the rest of the body fell to the deck.

  Just as a second explosion broke the destroyer in half, an explosion lifted the U.S. boat out of the water and heaved it on its port side!

  Warren found himself in the water. He was dazed and fought not to lose consciousness.

  “That you, Captain?” a voice called.

  He recognized Devlin’s voice. “Over here,” he called. “Over here!” And as he felt himself slide under the black water, he heard his father shout, “Go back Warren… Go back… Go back!”

  CHAPTER 53

  Warren opened his eyes. The room was in semidarkness. From the feel of the bed and the sheets, he realized he was in a hospital. There was a bed on either side of him. The one on the right was empty, but there was someone in the one on the left.

  He tried to move and felt a jagged slash of pain in his right shoulder and across his chest. He remembered being in the water, but didn’t remember being wounded. The pain subsided and he realized he was very hungry.

  Suddenly he heard footsteps in the room and called, “Nurse… Nurse.”

  “Yes,” the woman answered, coming up to the foot of the bed.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “In the hospital in Pearl,” she answered, with a smile.

  “Pearl?”

  “You were flown here two days ago,” she said. “Now you sleep. In a few hours the doctor will tell you everything you want to know.”

  “One more question, please?”

  “Go ahead, ask. I’ll try to answer it if I can,” she said.

  “I remember being in the water, but —”

  “Lieutenant Devlin saved you, Commander,” she said. “He held on to you all night and well into the next morning, when the two of you were picked up by the destroyer Edison, whose navigator, it turned out, was a friend of yours, Lieutenant Commander Glen Lascomb. I’d say you were a very lucky ma
n.”

  “Lucky isn’t the word for it,” Warren answered.

  “Since you arrived,” she said, “your mother, your sister, and Mrs. Hasse have been here.”

  “Together?” he asked in astonishment.

  “No, Mrs. Hasse comes alone and in the early morning.”

  Warren smiled, closed his eyes, and felt himself sliding into sleep.

  “Aerology says we have some heavy weather coming in from the east,” Henry Blake, the Alamo’s XO, said to Jacob.

  “Are we still going to refuel?” Jacob asked. He and Henry were in the wardroom drinking coffee. They became friends just before the ship had left Pearl. Jacob had received another phone call; this time his sister, Miriam, was on the line. He knew what she was going to tell him, even before she said, “Papa is dead…”

  When Jacob put the phone down, he left the booth and found himself standing in front of Blake, a man ten years his senior, whose family owned the New York stockbrokerage firm of Blake & Blake.

  Henry was of middling height, with an impish face, dark gray eyes and close-cropped brown hair. “My father died,” Jacob said and tried to sidestep Blake.

  Blake grabbed hold of his arm. “Easy,” he said with quiet authority. “Easy, man. We’ll go somewhere we can talk.”

  And talk they did, or rather Jacob talked and Blake listened.

  When Jacob finally ran out of words, Blake said, “I have a son and I hope that when he’s a man he loves me half as much as you love your father. Now, let’s get back to the ship and have a cup of coffee.” From that moment on, Jacob felt he had a friend in the older man.

  As soon as they were aboard the Alamo, they went to Blake’s cabin and Blake had a steward bring them a pot of coffee and two pieces of cake.

  “Admiral to push hard against the Japanese is what Gower wants,” Blake said, slowly sipping his coffee. “From what the skipper says, the admiral intends to move into the South China Sea for a few days and hit the Philippines hard.”