by James Young
"Damage report!" Jacob shouted, even as the main battery began to swing out. He saw black smoke already pouring from the Pillsbury's amidships, the destroyer obviously struck by whatever guns had not fired on Houston.
Sailed us right into a damn trap.
"Sir! Guns reports they're flying the fucking Kraut flag!"
The two "merchants" were indeed flying the German flag. The lead vessel, the Kormoran, had just entered the South Pacific in order to rendezvous with her sister, Pinguin prior to both heading for Japan. Both vessels were similarly armed with a half dozen 5.9-inch guns, giving them a total of eight to a broadside. Having had the Pillsbury wander well within maximum range, the Pinguin's captain had taken the old four piper under fire with two of his guns and torpedoes while joining the Kormoran in firing half his broadside at Houston.
The Pillsbury had never been designed to take hits from her own battery, much less cruiser shells. At just under 6,000 yards, the first shell had exploded in her boiler room while the second had ruined her bridge. Even as the veteran crew was responding with a ragged salvo that splashed short, the Pinguin's crew put another pair of shells into the battered Pillsbury that slowed the tin can's speed to a veritable crawl.
The Houston's firing gong sounded just as Jacob was turning to hear the talker's report. With a concussion that shattered the bridge windows and shook the cruiser, a full broadside flashed out towards the Pinguin. No sooner had that assault on the senses occurred then the air was buzzing with splinters and fragments from a Kormoran shell ricocheting off the front turret face.
Have to even the odds, Jacob thought, hearing the Houston's secondaries belatedly entering the fray.
"Starboard twenty degrees, all ahead flank!" he shouted, the cruiser shuddering again as another Pinguin shell hit her. The helmsman spun the wheel…and there was no commensurate swinging of Houston's bow.
"No response from–" the quartermaster started to say, just before a shell exploded just aft of the bridge. Whereas the ricochet had seemed like a minor passage of honey bees, this explosion was a swarm of hornets making its way through the bridge. Jacob felt at two sharp lances of pain across his chest and looked down to see his uniform slashed.
Is it too much to fucking ask for just one battle without getting hit?
The main battery roared again as he looked quickly around the bridge. One talker was a slumped ruin, his remains looking like what happened in a farm accident. The other was staring in shocked horror at his friend, mouth moving silently before he was struck from behind by a petty officer.
"You fucking idiot, tell Battle Two to take control before we're dead!" the chief shouted. Seeing the bridge was in hand, Jacob turned to see Farmer trying to stop blood spurting from a lookout's neck. Bringing his binoculars up, he focused on the almost drifting Pillsbury…then clenched his teeth in helpless fury. The destroyer’s superstructure was a ruin and her forward guns were knocked askew in their mounts.
Goddammit Moran!
The Pillsbury suddenly leaped out of the water, the white spout tinged with a black just under the forward mount immediately telling Jacob the destroyer had been hit by a torpedo. There was no time to react before their companion's entire fore section exploded, her forward magazines touched off in an awful secondary explosion.
"Sir, steering restored!" the helmsman reported.
Houston's bow came to starboard, the movement sluggish but at least opening the range from the furthest German raider. The main battery thundered again, and Jacob realized he could see their intended target's superstructure in worse shape than Pillsbury’s had been. Two shells detonated low on the waterline amidships, followed by a tremendous cloud of steam from the vessel. Jacob was distracted again by two shells hitting the Houston forward, the blasts muffled. Looking, he saw the heavy cruiser's No. 1 turret lurch, then stay stuck in train even as the No. 2 turret began to swivel onto the forward merchant.
Willoughby must think we've damaged the first vessel enough. Or else he realizes that bitch will kill us if we keep letting her shoot freely.
Without the benefit of the Houston's director's sights, Jacob had no idea how badly the Pinguin had been hurt. Willoughby was indeed switching targets after having turned his initial prey's superstructure into a chewed cauldron. Her captain dead, fires raging on the bridge, and power no longer to the mounts, the Pinguin began to coast to a stop. A final blow from the Houston's secondary armament damaged the steering, and the big merchantman began an involuntary starboard turn that pointed her bows towards the distant American cruiser.
"Fire in the galley and crews quarters, sir," the talker reported. "We've been holed again in fire room number one, and–"
The main battery roared again, interrupting the talker just as the merchant’s side flashed once more. The German fire arrived as a ragged volley, this time with a shell hitting the Houston's stem. Jacob cursed as fragments and splinters from the deck cut down several of the men attempting to clear the obstruction in No. 1 turret's barbette. Turning to observe the fall of Houston's shot, he was pleased to see two clear hits on the now burning enemy raider. For a brief instant he considered closing to finish the vessel off, then remembered what had killed the Pillsbury.
Have to keep the range open, plus he's shooting faster than we are.
As the German fired again, Jacob thought back to the War College. There had been vigorous debates between proponents of smaller, faster firing guns and those who believed in a weightier main battery. Jacob had been part of the latter group. Now, as his command was getting thoroughly riddled by faster gun crews, he could appreciate the former argument. Then the German salvo arrived, every one of the shells splashing short.
Opening the range is working!
Jacob saw Houston's No. 2 turret correct slightly, then Willoughby's response roared back at the raider. Jacob mentally started counting down the time of flight…only to be utterly shocked as their target disintegrated in a ball of flame, smoke, and expanding debris in the twilight gloom.
"Holy shit! Holy fucking shit!" one of the lookouts screamed, his cries echoed by other cheers across the Houston's crew.
Maybe the heavier broadside folks have a point after all.
Shaking himself out of his brief stupor from having likely watched a hundred lives snuffed out in an instant, Jacob turned to look towards the sole remaining German vessel. The raider was listing and smoking, but her fires seemed to be dying down.
"Port eighty degrees rudder," he ordered. "Tell guns to cease fire."
As he heard the order relayed, Jacob continued to study the area around the German raider. The crew was busy abandoning ship, and he could see them attempting to launch boats into the water.
"Sir, we should stop them from abandoning ship," Farmer said urgently.
"What?" Jacob asked, turning to look at the British officer in horror. "They're not pirates, Commander."
Farmer started to open his mouth, then stopped.
"Sir, you misunderstand me," he replied. "I am not saying we give no quarter. I am saying that if we board that vessel, we will likely find intelligence of great import. It will all be lost if we allow them to scuttle."
Ruthless man, but he's right.
"Order the XO to form a boarding party," Jacob ordered rapidly. "Tell guns to have the machine gun crews to stand by, bring us about and close with that vessel."
Two hours later, the Houston began to turn her bow back towards American Samoa as the Pinguin exploded three thousand yards behind her. The blast caused the raider's leaking bunkerage to ignite as well, creating a hellish pool of flame around the hull.
That would be her magazines. Farmer was right, keeping the Krauts from reboarding her was critical.
"Commander Sloan, you have the con," Jacob said, turning to his XO. "Set course for Samoa, wait an hour to send the report if I'm not back on the bridge."
"Aye aye, sir," Sloan replied, his jaw set.
“I don’t think the captain’s mast will take that long,�
� Jacob said. “I might drag it out a bit so O’Rourke doesn’t kill himself trying to be everywhere on damage control.”
Sloan shook his head at that.
“Or alternatively, so you’re stuck here rather than climbing all over the ship either.”
“I may have learned that from my predecessor, sir,” Sloan replied with a slight smirk.
“Yes, well, I have it on good authority that man is a heartless bastards,” Jacob thought, glancing back towards the flaming oil.
I hate not staying longer to search the ocean near where that other Kraut bastard went down either. But we now have no escort, the ship is shot to shit, and I don't feel like finding out if there really is a third raider within seaplane range.
The mystery aircraft that his lookouts had sighted was allegedly a seaplane off the Kormoran. It had allegedly been sent north to try and rendezvous with another German supply vessel. At least, that was the scuttlebutt several Trenton survivors had immediately told him when they'd gotten hauled from the Pinguin's boats.
Guess we solved that mystery of what happened to Trenton.
Jacob tried to cool his anger he headed across the Houston's darkened bridge towards his day cabin. The smell of smoke, burnt debris, and blood once again permeated the Houston's superstructure.
I'm never getting to Pearl Harbor. Couldn't make it if we wanted to right now, not with three hundred extra mouths to feed.
The Pinguin's cruise had been lucrative according to the material Farmer and the Houston's boarding party had recovered. The Houston's shells had killed most of the senior officers, so there wasn't really anyone to ask for particulars. Jacob would leave it up to the interrogators in Samoa to figure out details. All he knew was that he had roughly one hundred and fifty Germans, over a hundred former merchant sailors and, last but not least, ten Trenton survivors aboard his vessel.
Terrible tragedy that the Kormoran apparently took aboard a hundred or so other men off the Trenton. Add in the merchant sailors aboard her and we killed almost as many Allied sailors as German.
Nausea at that realization rose and he had to swallow hard.
Nothing to be done for it. Even if I'll go to my grave thinking maybe I should have just spent a few more minutes looking.
It was grim consolation that Catalina flying boats would likely depart before dawn from Samoa after his report. Technically the waters were warm enough for anyone who had survived the blast to potentially live until the next day. Unfortunately, that very same warmth meant a plethora of predators and the specter of dehydration were almost equally likely to kill any survivors.
Lucky enough to survive getting sunk by a raider and a magazine explosion only to end up in a shark's belly. I'm sure someone would have words with ol' St. Pete when they got to the Pearly Gates. Do you go to Hell for telling an eternal gate guard to go fuck himself?
The two armed Marines outside his day cabin's hatch came to attention. Jacob nodded at both of them.
"Carry on, gentlemen," Jacob stated. Both Marines returned to parade rest as he opened the hatch.
"Carry on," Jacob repeated, waving the gathered officers back to their positions of parade rest. Two men stood in the center of the gathered group. One wore a set of ill-fitting USN khakis, clearly borrowed from someone aboard the Houston. The other was in manacles and wore a still wet Kriegsmarine uniform.
Plenty of witnesses here for what's about to be said.
He noted that at least two officers had notebooks and pens in hand. Moving behind his steel desk, Jacob took a seat, then gestured for everyone but the two men standing in the center of the room to do so. He noted that Captain Westerman, commander of the Houston's Marine detachment, was under arms with a riot shotgun in his hands.
I really hope that he's got birdshot or something similar in that street sweeper. Also glad he had the common sense not to bring a rifle into a compartment this crowded.
Looking around the space, Jacob saw that two more of his officers were also armed, their .45 pistols secure in their holsters.
Commander Sloan is paranoid, but I'm also not interested in taking any chances with this lot.
"Sir, Kapitänleutnant Kruger asked to have a word with you as the senior survivor," Westerman stated. Jacob remained expressionless as he looked at he tall, muscular German in front of him.
"Do I need a translator?" Jacob asked.
"No, I speak English," Kruger spat.
Jacob continued to lock eyes with the man, the German's pure hatred and spite roiling off of him.
Shame I couldn't have had him led down here by one of the stewards. I'm sure that would have really made him happy with all that stupid 'Master Race' talk.
"You've got five minutes," Jacob said. "Speak your piece."
"I protest the treatment of my men and your refusal to allow us to return to our vessel in time of distress," Kapitänleutnant Kruger stated angrily, his accent growing slightly thicker with emotion.
"Your men ignored a clearly signaled order," Jacob replied.
”The law of the sea is clear," Kruger said rapidly.
"Yes, the same law that says, by virtue of you getting your flags up a split second before shooting at the Pillsbury, I cannot have you summarily hanged," Jacob stated.
"We conducted ourselves in accordance with the law of warfare," Kruger sneered. "It is not our fault that you fell for our ruse. Perhaps your destroyer captain should have paid more careful attention."
Jacob could have sworn the man standing beside Kruger was about to turn and throttle the German, long-term consequences be damned.
I'd better take control of this situation before Lieutenant Hoffner makes my life more complicated.
"And it's not my fault your scuttling charges didn't detonate," Jacob retorted. "Perhaps the responsible personnel forgot to check the fuses in their haste? Talk to them about why 'your' men are dead along with your XO."
Blood ran from Kruger's face, followed by what Jacob could swear was a brief moment of guilt.
"You have committed a war crime!" Kruger screamed. "You are–"
Jacob slammed his hand down on his desk as he sprang to his feet. The noise startled everyone in the room and stopped Kruger mid-rant.
I will not be spoken to this way on my ship.
Jacob let Kruger and the cabin's other occupants sit in silence for a couple of seconds while he considered his next words.
"You listen to me you little Nazi son-of-a-bitch," Jacob said slowly, his tone cold but level. "I will not be lectured on proper decorum or procedures on my vessel. If you ever speak to me in such a manner again, I will have you bound, gagged, and thrown into the brig. If you resist, I will have you shot."
Kruger's eyes widened at the clear threat as Jacob finished.
"Do. You. Understand?"
Kruger looked at him, defiance etched on his features. Jacob felt the vein on his temple starting to throb.
I just may offer up a three day liberty if you go into that brig with a few bumps and bruises.
Something about his face made the German officer reconsider his life choices.
"I understand, Kapitan," Kruger said, coming to a position of attention.
"Very well," Jacob continued. "Now, as to the matter of your treatment aboard this vessel—we will conduct a preliminary investigation and questioning of the merchantmen and sailors we took prisoner. If you or any of your men are accused of maltreatment, my officers will begin a charge sheet."
Kruger remained at attention, staring at the bulkhead behind Jacob.
"Understood, Kapitan," he said.
"If you attempt, in any way, to sabotage this vessel or harm a member of my crew, I will have the offender summarily hanged from the mainmast," Jacob continued. Kruger flinched slightly at that, then nodded.
"Understood, Kapitan."
"If any member of my crew mistreats you or your men, I am to be notified immediately," Jacob finished. "The offenders will be punished harshly, I assure you. Do you have any questions?"
<
br /> Jacob saw a brief moment of skepticism cross Kruger's face before the German regained control of his emotions.
Again, if your executive officer had listened, he and everyone else in that boat would still be alive. Foster's pretty sure we have a fully functional codebook and current machine. I'd shoot my own mother for that.
Jacob had never worked in cryptography, but he had studied ciphers as a hobby in school. He was well aware of how important having a complete codebook was.
"Nein, Kapitan," Kruger replied after the short pause.
"You're dismissed," Jacob said with a gesture towards the cabin hatch. The German officer came to attention and rendered a salute, arm extended at an angle towards the bulkhead behind Jacob. As much as it pained him, Jacob returned the gesture with a hand salute. With as much bearing as a man in manacles could muster, Kruger turned and shuffled out of Jacob's cabin.
"Now, Lieutenant Clancy, your report," Jacob said after Kruger's guard had shut the hatch behind them. "No, first, someone give this man a damn chair, it's not a Captain's Mast."
There was a hurried shuffle as several of his officers started to give up their seats. He was not surprised that Ensign O'Rourke caught the proverbial short end of the stick as the junior man in the room. Even if, Willoughby aside, the young officer had done the most work in the last couple of hours of any of Houston’s wardroom.
We got shot to shit. Lucky we didn't end up crippled again.
Looking at Lieutenant Clancy, Jacob felt a wave of sadness and anger.
Trenton never had a chance.
"Sir, I'm not sure where you want me to begin," Clancy stammered. Jacob could see an almost visible weight settling on the young officer's shoulders.
"I just need to get your impressions of what happened to your vessel," Jacob prodded gently. "I know Commander Sloan already asked you some questions and you were off watch when the shooting started. I guess we'll start there."
"Aye aye, sir," Clancy began. "As I told Commander Sloan, I was down in the wardroom when those bastards opened up…"