by Roger Jewett
“Holding course and speed,” radar reported.
Tony’s plan was to run ahead of the ship and position himself for a midship shot.
“Can’t make out what she is yet?” the XO said.
“Another few minutes and we’ll be close enough to see,” Tony answered. If he sank this one, it would give him six for this patrol and leave him with only two fish left.
“If there was just a little more moon, we’d be able to see what she is by now,” the XO said.
Over 1MC Tony ordered the diving officer to take her down ten feet. “Just enough to put the deck under.”
“Zero one zero feet,” the DO responded.
The ballast tank valves opened and water rushed into them. The sea suddenly began to swirl over the Manta’s decks; then the valves were closed.
“Steady at 10 feet,” the DO reported.
Tony checked the level indicator. The bubble was centered.
“Bridge, target changing course,” Radar reported.
“Give it to me as soon as you have it,” Tony said, wondering if the Manta was spotted and the Japanese ship was going to start zigzagging.
“Bridge, target bearing —”
“Torpedo, off the starboard beam,” the starboard lookout shouted.
“Rudder, hard left,” Tony ordered.
The explosion blew Tony off the bridge, pushed the Manta heavily to her port and snapped her in half. Within a matter of a minute or two, both halves sank.
Tony just managed to remain conscious. His head ached, and it felt as if all of his ribs were cracked.
Suddenly he heard the swishing sound of a submarine breaking surface, then the roar of the diesels being cut in. Figures came up on her deck; a searchlight was turned on and moved over the black water until it found him. He was going to be taken prisoner and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it from happening.
CHAPTER 56
“Ease back on the throttle,” Warren ordered.
“Easing back,” the machinist mate answered.
“Take her in close to the beach,” Warren said.
“Aye, aye, skipper,” the man answered.
The field hospital, with its big red cross painted on the canvas roof of a large army tent, was back a ways from the beach, in the sheltering shade of a half dozen tall palm trees.
“Looks to me as if they recently must have had a hard time,” the XO commented. “There’s a dozen good-sized shell holes over to the starboard just above the beach.”
Warren switched on the 1MC and ordered, “All gunners and ammo handlers, battle stations.” Then to the EXO, he said, “Anything starts here, pull out and pick me up after dark. I’ll be on the point we passed coming in here on our starboard side.”
“How long to figure on staying?” the XO asked.
“A couple — maybe three hours,” Warren answered. “I’m just going to visit an old friend.”
The XO nodded and smiled knowingly.
Warren looked away. This was the first time in his professional career he was using his command for personal reasons. Kate’s guess turned out to be right: Irene was sent to the Philippines and he, after he was discharged from the hospital, asked to be reassigned to a PT squadron in the same area and tracked Irene down to this particular field hospital.
“Full stop,” Warren ordered.
“Full stop.”
Warren stepped from the bridge to the side of the boat and then went over the side into water that was slightly more than knee-deep.
Suddenly a lieutenant in dirty jungle fatigues with a rifle slung over his right shoulder and followed by a burly sergeant came out of an empty tent and toward him.
“Commander Troost,” Warren said, identifying himself and saluting at the same time.
The lieutenant and the sergeant returned the salute; then the lieutenant said, “This is a restricted area, sir.”
“Restricted?” Warren repeated.
“Yes, sir, until further notice,” the lieutenant said.
“Will you please tell the CO that I want to see him,” Warren said.
“He’s dead,” the lieutenant answered.
“Then his adjutant?”
“He’s dead too,” the lieutenant said.
The skin on Warren’s back suddenly began to crawl. He looked past the lieutenant and the sergeant to where the big tent was and men, stripped to the waist, were moving things.
“Everyone is dead, sir,” the lieutenant said. “The Japs mortared it last night, then broke through our defense line, came down here, and killed everyone: doctors, nurses, and all of the wounded.”
“Raped and mutilated the nurses before they killed them,” the sergeant added.
Warren brought himself to attention.
“Sir?” the lieutenant questioned.
“I’d like to see the bodies of the nurses,” Warren said, forcing the words out. “I was engaged to one of them,” he lied.
“Sir, most of them are buried —”
“I’d like to see those that aren’t,” Warren insisted.
The lieutenant nodded and the sergeant said, “Follow me, sir.”
They crossed the beach and went past the tent to where a dozen graves were freshly dug.
“The bodies are there,” the sergeant said, pointing to a dozen canvas-covered mounds.
“Thank you, sergeant,” Warren said, “but if you don’t mind, I’d rather be alone.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” the sergeant answered.
Warren lifted the canvas off the first corpse. It lacked a nose and two ears. He dropped the canvas back over it. The second woman’s face was laid open to the bone. The third’s throat was slashed. And the fourth was Irene. There wasn’t a mark on her face and yet her mouth was contorted into a now silent scream that would sound through eternity. Something else was done to her.
Warren hunkered down and started to pull the canvas farther down the body.
“Sir, I don’t think you should do that,” the sergeant said, coming up to him.
Warren squinted up at him.
“Sir —”
Warren pulled the cover down and looked. Both her breasts were missing. Warren dropped the cover, moved his head to one side, and vomited.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the sergeant said, as he reached down and helped Warren to his feet.
“Thank you, sergeant.”
“Some are worse than that,” the sergeant said in a low voice.
Warren nodded and started back to the beach. Suddenly, he felt as if he were a very old man. Tears clouded his vision. “She was so afraid that something terrible was going to happen to me,” he said, speaking his thoughts, “and something terrible happened to her.”
“If I were you, Commander,” the sergeant answered, “I’d find me a bottle of whiskey and drink until what you saw back there was washed out of your brain.”
“It never will be washed out of my brain,” Warren said.
“Maybe it won’t, but it might help you to live with it.”
Warren didn’t answer. A few minutes later he was back aboard the boat. “Full throttle,” he ordered.
“Full throttle,” the machinist mate answered.
CHAPTER 57
At 0600 on May 6, 1945, Glen, the Edison’s navigator, passed the halfway mark of the morning watch. The sky was clear, with a few cotton-puff-like clouds over the island of Okinawa, which lay to the west. There, on the first of May, which happened to be Easter Sunday, the Edison was part of the bombardment group that raked the beaches before the tens of thousands of army troops landed. But now the Edison was some 15 miles offshore doing picket duty.
Glen’s thoughts drifted to Lucy and Lillian. Whenever he was back in Pearl, he always managed to see her and wind up in the sack with her. There was something about her that drew him like a magnet, something about the way she made love.
“Three bogies… Bearing, zero two eight five… Range, 15 miles… Elevation, zero three five… Closing fast,” radar repor
ted.
Glen sounded GQ.
“Four bogies… Bearing, zero one nine six… Range, 15 miles… Elevation, zero two two… Closing fast,” radar reported.
“I have the conn,” the Edison’s skipper, Commander Robert Burns, said, coming onto the bridge.
Right behind him was Lieutenant Commander Harold Price, the ship’s XO.
When the ship went to battle stations, Glen remained on the bridge and automatically became the ship’s tactical officer.
“Come to zero three six zero,” the helmsman answered.
“All ahead flank speed.”
“All ahead flank speed answered,” the engine room signalman answered.
The radar reports continued to place the bogies on a line with the ship. It soon became apparent that there were hundreds of incoming enemy planes. “Kamikazes!” Price exclaimed.
Suddenly the antiaircraft guns of the outer picket ships began firing.
The Edison’s five-inch guns began to blaze at two incoming targets. One blew apart 1000 yards off the stern and the second was picked up on the port side by the .40mm mounts. The plane’s starboard wing bent back, then came off, and the plane cartwheeled into the sea.
Four more planes came screaming down on the Edison.
“Rudder, hard left,” Burns ordered.
“Rudder, hard left answered,” the helmsman replied.
“Lay smoke,” Burns ordered.
The five-inch guns were hammering away at three different enemy planes; then suddenly a plane came in on the starboard side just over the water. The starboard .44mm mounts opened up. The plane began to smoke, rose slightly, appeared to veer off, and then turned and smashed into the number three five-inch mount.
The Edison heeled to the port side; then as she rolled back, ammunition exploded.
The damage control rushed to the twisted, smoking gun mount.
The Edison’s smoke was beginning to hide her, when another explosion in the stern rocked the ship, leaving her dead in the water.
Two more bogies came hurtling in at the Edison on her starboard side. But now she couldn’t run; she could only stand and fight.
“Fire in the steering gear room,” Price reported, answering a phone.
The .40mm mounts began firing.
The first plane slammed into the starboard side of the ship.
The Edison shuddered, rolled to the port, righted, and exploded into roaring flames amidships.
The second plane blew up in front of the bridge. Burns clutched his chest and fell to the deck. Everyone else was slammed against the back wall.
The bone in Glen’s left arm showed through the skin.
Price had a piece of metal sticking in his left shoulder and a gash across the top of his head.
“Glen, I’m not going to make it,” he said. “Order abandon ship.”
“Try to —”
“Order abandon ship,” Price gasped, then went limp.
Glen pulled himself up to his feet and over to the ship’s broadcasting system. “All hands, now hear this… All hands, abandon ship… Abandon ship!”
Within minutes, Glen was in the water with the ship’s other survivors watching the Edison burn and be torn apart by explosion after explosion until there was nothing left but twisted steel and a smoldering hulk that, in her last death throes, rolled over, blew apart and sank.
“Rescue boats coming,” someone shouted. “Rescue boats!”
Two PT boats slowed down. One of them came to a full stop a few yards from Glen. He looked up and saw Warren peering down at him.
Jacob was in the air on combat patrol over the Endeavor. The threat of kamikaze attacks was always present as Japan became more desperate in her response to the victories of the United States in the Western Pacific.
Flying at 13,000 feet, Jacob spotted eight enemy planes below and to his port side. He radioed, “Bogies, nine o’clock, below.” He kicked the plane over to the left to engage.
He looked over his right shoulder: his wingman turned in tight and the other planes were following him down.
The wind whistled over the Hellcat’s wings.
As he closed, Jacob realized the enemy aircraft were Kates.
“Look sharp,” Jacob said, over the radio, “as soon as they know we’re here, they’ll scatter.” His eyes moved to the altimeter. He was passing through 6000 feet.
Jacob sucked in his breath. The Kate was centered in his sights. He waited until he was close enough to see the forward part of the cockpit before he pressed the stick trigger, counted to three while the guns chattered, and releasing the trigger, pulled back on the stick. The Gs pushed him back into the seat. He looked back. The Kate was spiraling down.
“Under you, Red Leader,” a voice warned.
To locate the enemy aircraft, Jacob turned hard to his left.
“He’s still below you, skipper,” the same voice said. “I’ve got him in my sights… Got him!”
Jacob came out of the roll and climbed steadily. Ahead of him a Kate slammed into one of his men, shearing the plane’s tail section off and its own starboard wing. Both planes tumbled into the sea.
The melee lasted three minutes and when it was over, Jacob radioed the carrier. “Bridge, four bogies coming through. Miller.”
“Roger that,” came the answer.
Jacob ordered his squadron to gather into formation. Two were missing. “We’ll go up to 15,” he said over the radio, “and head over toward the island.”
By 1000, Jacob’s flight engaged the determined enemy in two more dogfights. His flight was recovered to refuel and rearm. In less than an hour, Jacob and his flight were back in the air. The Kamikazes seemed to be all over the skies and some managed to smash their aircraft into the ships below, inflicting terrible damage.
The threat continued into the twilight and only came to an end at sunset.
As the last combat air patrol of the day was recovered aboard the Endeavor, Jacob landed. When his plane finally came to a stop in the arresting gear, he slumped slightly forward and wondered where he’d find the strength to climb out of the cockpit and make it to the ready room for the debriefing. He taxied into the parking area, and when the taxi director indicated chocks were on his wheels, he unbuckled his safety harness and chute. Then he lifted himself out of the cockpit, climbed down on the wing, and dropped to the deck.
That night, Jacob was almost too exhausted to sleep, but he did, and the next day at 0600 he and his men were back in the air in a repetition of the previous day. The dogfights swirled all over the sky. Three of his pilots were shot down, and he took several hits in the fuselage, but none of them was serious.
At 1600, he led his flight back to the carrier. The first two planes were already down, and the third was on its final approach, when suddenly the LSO waved the plane off and the carrier radioed, “Red Leader, vector one zero six… Angels two… Buster!”
“Red Base,” Jacob radioed, “I have less than 10 minutes’ worth of fuel and then I’m empty.”
“Get on with it!”
“Roger,” Jacob answered. He was 500 feet above the carrier’s deck and turned to the heading ordered by the Fighter Director. His wingman joined up on him, and he climbed to 5000 feet before he leveled off.
“There they are!” his wingman radioed. “12 o’clock low!”
There were six Kates.
“Here we go!” Jacob ordered, pushing the stick forward. He dived toward the lead plane.
The plane rolled over to its port side and went down toward the water.
Jacob kept him in his gun sight and pressed the trigger button.
The plane swooped low over the water, started to climb, and then exploded.
Jacob pulled the stick back, executed a tight loop that brought him head-on with the second Kate. He fired two short bursts, and the Kate spun off to the port side and into the sea.
Two of the Kates broke away and began to close on the Endeavor.
The five-inch guns of the destroyer screen
opened up.
“Christ, those sons-of-bitches are breaking through!” one of the pilots yelled. “They’re going for the carrier.”
“The hell they are,” another pilot called. “I’m after ’em!”
For a moment, Jacob couldn’t identify the pilot; then when he did, he shouted, “Ben, get ’em!”
“That’s me skipper.”
One of the Kates was hit and slammed into a destroyer, turning it into a mass of flames.
The second Kate was still heading for the Endeavor, with Ben closing on it.
“Shoot!” Jacob yelled. “Shoot!”
Ben suddenly overtook the Kate and dropped down on top of it. Both planes merged into one ball of fire and plunged into the sea yards off the Endeavor’s starboard side.
The fire fight ended as suddenly as it began, and Jacob joined his remaining flight up and prepared to land.
Late in the evening an announcement was made over the 1MC that planes from Admiral McCain’s Task Force 58 had destroyed the Japanese battleship Yamamoto and other warships on their way to relieve Okinawa.
That night, Jacob again had difficulty sleeping. He left his stateroom and went up to the flight deck. The sky was stunningly beautiful. He walked toward the ship’s fantail, and when he reached it, he stopped and mournfully intoned the Kaddish, the Hebrew prayer for the dead, mentioning the name of each of the squadron’s pilots who were lost in the past two days. There were six names.
“Now hear this… Now hear this, all hands,” the 1MC blared. “This is Admiral Gower speaking… Minutes ago we received from Washington news that our Commander and Chief President Franklin Delano Roosevelt has died… Let us observe a minute of silent prayer for our fallen leader…”
Jacob was too stunned to move, or even to hear what one of the other officers in the wardroom was saying. To him Roosevelt was indestructible, a Titan who worked miracles.
“Skipper,” one of his men said, “my daddy must be happy as a pig in slop, now that we can get a whole man in the White House.”
And another man commented, “That’s where I’m headed, once this war is over. I’m goin’ become a politician and run for president.”
“You’re going to run,” a third pilot said, “but not for president.”