Ghosts of Bungo Suido (2013)

by Deutermann, P. T

  “We call it the conning tower,” Gar said, “and it’s already crammed full of stuff. Could I shoot at something using this FM sonar? Like at another submarine?”

  “We’ve looked into that,” Westfall said. “Right now the display shows little pear-shaped blobs wherever the sonar sees mines. Another sub would appear as a much bigger blob, depending on his aspect. If he’s broadside to you, and at your depth, the whole screen will go green on you. If he’s end on, it’ll look like a slightly bigger blob. Then there’s only one way to answer the question.”

  Gar raised his eyebrows at him.

  “Fire one!” Westfall shouted, then dramatically lowered his voice. “Then go really deep.”

  Everyone’s a comedian, Gar thought, as the EDOs chuckled.

  * * *

  That night he was having a drink up in the skippers’ lounge with two other captains when Captain Forrester showed up. He came over to the Royal frequently in the evenings and even had a room down on the fifth floor. He was always welcomed into the evening BS sessions, first because he was Lockwood’s chief of staff and thereby privy to a lot of inside dope about what was going on in the war, and, second, he’d been a skipper himself. Normally commanding officers wouldn’t have much contact with the chief of staff; their direct bosses were division commanders, four-stripers who’d distinguished themselves in command. Both Lockwood and Forrester, however, made a point of keeping close to the COs, mostly because of the sorry history of American submarine torpedoes at the beginning of the war.

  After a half hour or so, Forrester gave Gar the high sign, and they went to one corner of the lounge, where he produced a brown envelope. He withdrew a pair of glossy black-and-white photographs and handed one over to Gar. It showed a large, dark building, shaped like a shoebox, with what looked like a dry dock on one side and a pier on the other.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” Gar said. “Looks like an aerial photograph of a dockyard building, maybe in a shipyard?”

  “Correct,” Forrester said. “There’s a scale on the bottom. White lettering, bottom right. That building is fifteen hundred feet long.”

  “Yes, I can see that. The dockside cranes look wrong, though. Too small. Is that a distortion of the camera?”

  “No. If you look closely, they’re the same size as the cranes on the adjacent pier. It’s the building that’s really big.”

  “Where was this shot?”

  “Near Hiroshima, on the Inland Sea. Actually, it’s the Japanese naval arsenal at Kure. A reconnaissance B-29 flying out of China took it while he was doing a target survey.”

  “Did he bomb it?”

  “No, when this was taken they couldn’t reach the Home Islands with a load of bombs. This was a photo-recce plane, so it has longer range than a fully loaded bomber. That picture was taken two months ago.”

  Okay, Gar thought. Big, fat building in a Jap shipyard. Even from 30,000 feet, the B-29s out of Tinian should be able to hit that. So why was he getting an oh-oh feeling about this little meeting? He looked over at Forrester, who handed him the second picture.

  “This is what they were hiding under that building,” he said.

  The second picture showed almost the same scene, this time with a few wispy white clouds framing the image. Where the building had been there was now the unmistakable shape of an aircraft carrier under construction. This must be the ship Marty had been talking about, Gar thought.

  “That thing’s huge,” Gar said. “Same scale?”

  “Same scale. Taken two weeks ago. She’s slightly over a thousand feet long. The army photo interpreters saw this, went back and found the previous shot, and then realized this needed to get back here to Pearl.”

  “Well, if the B-29s can’t handle this, sounds like a job for a carrier strike force, Captain. Halsey needs to take the Big Blue Fleet in there.”

  “We’re talking the Home Islands, Gar,” Forrester said. “With all due respect to Admiral Halsey, a carrier task force would get its ass kicked pretty hard, they venture into Home Island waters. Actually, Admiral Nimitz thinks this a job for a submarine.”

  Oh, shit, Gar thought. Here it comes. They want a sub to get this thing, and that means Bungo Suido—and this was coming from Nimitz himself? Gar made the argument about Tinian that he’d made to Marty.

  “The airfield on Tinian won’t be fully operational for another two, maybe three months,” Forrester said. “Besides, those cranes and all that stuff on her flight deck aren’t construction materials, Gar. She’s just about completed. Admiral Nimitz says that we cannot afford to let a carrier of that size get loose in the Pacific right now, especially with the invasion of Luzon imminent. The Japs are already moving large fleet forces south.”

  Gar tried to ignore that sinking feeling in his gut. “She’ll have to come out sometime,” he said. “And then we’ll let one of the boats on empire patrol take her down. What’s the big deal?”

  Forrester cleared his throat. “Remember the Wounded Bear, Gar?”

  That was just what Marty had said. At their “chance” encounter in the O-club. First it had been Uncle Charlie casually inquiring about Bungo Suido. Then Marty. Now the chief of staff. Plus the brand-new and improved FM sonar. Oh, boy, he thought.

  He tried again. “Right now we all have standing orders to stay the hell out of all the Home Island straits, especially Bungo Suido. We’ve lost five boats in and around those waters. Mines everywhere, their best destroyer forces, a zillion fishing boats and sampans to provide early warning, constant local air patrols, no really good charts of the area—”

  Forrester interrupted him as if he’d heard that all before. “Nimitz proposes that we send a boat into the Inland Sea to keep that carrier from ever leaving Japan. It’s a tall order, I know, but if it can be done, they’d never expect it.”

  “With good damn reason,” Gar said, realizing that all his objections had already been surfaced and overruled at PacFleet headquarters. “That would be like trying to get a sub into the Chesapeake Bay, right past all the Norfolk navy bases.”

  Forrester said nothing.

  “And then? Suppose we do get a boat in? He’s going to drive up to the Kure arsenal in, what, fifty, sixty feet of water? Unable to submerge? And torpedo a carrier at the pier?”

  Gar had raised his voice enough to attract the attention of the other skippers in the lounge.

  Forrester leaned closer and gave him a meaningful look. “Not just any boat, Gar.”

  FOUR

  The next day Gar spent cloistered with the hydrographic office at SubPac headquarters, studying the charts they did have of the Seto, as the Inland Sea was known in Japan. Captain Forrester had told him the entire mission was extremely close-hold, even within the already highly restricted world of sub skippers. Gar was not to discuss it with anyone yet until given specific permission. “If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “the admiral is going to have one more try at turning this brain fart off. But I have to tell you: Nimitz almost never changes his mind once he’s made a decision.” Gar had wanted to say, Nimitz was a sub skipper—if he really wants a sub to get into the Inland Sea, let him try it, then. Sadly, he was brave but not that brave.

  He spent the afternoon on board the Dragon, checking on the progress of the repairs and the installation of the new sonar system. Dragonfish was a Balao class, new construction in early 1944, with the stronger hull and better everything inside. Captain Westfall was right about electronics beginning to take over warship design. The Dragon had been commissioned with two periscopes; now she would have four. She’d started out with one HF radio set; now she had six different radios and an underwater telephone system. At the beginning of the war they’d computed fire-control problems using a handheld calculator called the Is-Was and plotted the tactical picture on a copy of a chart. Now they had the torpedo data computer and a lighted plotting table that showed their position in real-time motion across a geographic plot, called a DRT. If they added one more piece of gear to the conning tow
er, they were all going to become very good friends every time they went to GQ, and nobody had better smile, either.

  It had been difficult not to pull the exec aside and tell him about the mission that was coming their way. The closest he had come was when Russ commented on all the new gear up in the conning tower. “We’re gonna need it,” Gar had said mysteriously.

  * * *

  That evening Gar went down to the dining room. He didn’t bother to change from work khakis. The place was full for a change because of some big conference going on up at Makalapa. He had to settle for a deuce out on the lanai, which wasn’t all bad. Even though it was hotter than usual, the lanai was dark enough that he could avoid making eye contact with other skippers if he wanted to, and tonight he wanted to. He had a low tolerance for people in general, and having to listen to shipyard workers, the FM sonar engineers, the exec’s litany of daily problems, and some staffies from SubPac all afternoon hadn’t improved his disposition. He told the waitress when she finally showed up to start with a double Scotch rocks, and he’d decide after that whether or not to eat or drink this evening.

  A few minutes later she brought his drink, and then the maître’d came though the lanai doors with the same woman he’d semirescued a few nights ago. This time she was definitely sober and actually quite attractive. Somewhat to his surprise she was wearing the uniform of a WAVE lieutenant commander. The pair were scanning the crowded room for a table, and there weren’t any. The maître’d saw that Gar was in uniform and gave him a discreet eyebrow. Gar nodded. He brought her over, and Gar stood up to greet her. She thanked him for letting her join him and introduced herself.

  “I’m Sharon DeVeers,” she said.

  “Gar Hammond,” he replied. She had a firm handshake and grayish green eyes that were no longer bloodshot. She still wore her luxuriant blond hair in a wave across one side of her forehead. “Are you one of the visiting firemen?”

  “No, I’m assigned to CincPacFleet legal; I’m one of the lawyers up there.”

  He signaled a passing waitress for Sharon, who ordered a ginger ale. When the waitress left he made a comment about expecting her to have a real drink. She smiled and said that she was still recovering from the hangover of the last time she’d been here.

  “I can understand that—you were pretty hammered.”

  She stared at him for a moment and then put a hand to her mouth. “That was you?”

  “The one and only. And I believe you got ambushed by something called a mai-tai.”

  “I am so sorry,” she said. “I have never been so drunk in my life. And the next day—God!”

  “Lemme guess, a bunch of the guys from the office demanded that you just had to try one. Or three.”

  “Bingo,” she said. “After the first one I thought it was just the best fruit concoction I had ever had, especially because it had very little liquor in it. Silly me.”

  “Yup, that about describes it. I’m a Scotch man myself—straight up or on the rocks.”

  “M-mmm, I like Scotch, but I save it for when I’m having a drink with a really close friend,” she said, with a definite twinkle in her eye. Gar tried to gauge how old she was. “Where are you stationed?” she asked.

  “That’s a deep secret,” Gar said solemnly. “The entire war effort would grind to a halt if that were revealed.”

  “Un-hunh,” she said. “Those are submariner dolphins, and you’re a commander, so I’d guess you’re one of those special people they have locked up on the top floors.”

  “Listen,” he said.

  She pretended to listen.

  “Hear the grinding?”

  “Nope.”

  “Damn,” he said. “Most women are so impressed with that.”

  “You don’t have to impress me, Captain,” she said. “You were a complete gentleman the other night, so please let me spring for dinner tonight as a small measure of my appreciation.”

  “Okay,” he said immediately, and she laughed. She had a very nice laugh, for a lawyer. The waitress sailed by, depositing Sharon’s ginger ale on the fly. They toasted each other.

  “You have a family back in the world?” she asked.

  “Nope,” Gar said. “I’m just a fleet-average sea dog. I go from sea duty to sea duty, so I never saw the need for a wife, etc. And you?”

  “I was almost married once,” she said. “Right after law school. He was brilliant and unfaithful, in about equal measure. After that I decided I’d make it all about me and never looked back.”

  “So,” he said. “What does CincPacFleet need with a herd of lawyers?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised at our case load. Courts-martial, courts of inquiry, like when a ship is lost. International law issues—such as when one of our subs sinks a hospital ship. The Law of the Sea. Atrocity cases. Geneva Convention. Special missions.”

  “Wow,” he said. “I had no idea. Bet you never did a court of inquiry on the loss of a submarine, though.”

  Her expression said, Why not?

  “Nobody comes back to answer the questions.”

  “Good point.”

  “What is your role in all this lawyering, if I may ask.”

  “If it’s a court-martial, I’m usually the military judge.”

  “You don’t look old enough to be a judge,” he said. He wasn’t being gallant—she really didn’t.

  “I was a judge in real life,” she said. “Before this awful war. State court. And as to age, I’m forty-one last month.”

  This time Gar was being gallant. “Going on thirty-five,” he said. “How do you manage that?”

  She smiled again, and that smile lit up the table. “Lots of illusion there, Captain,” she said, “and dieting, and makeup, and a really special Filipina hairdresser down on Broad Street.”

  She was four years older than he was. He was entranced. A small dance combo opened up and he asked her if she’d like to dance. She asked if he had ordered yet. He said no.

  “Why don’t you and I blow this pop stand, then, and just go upstairs?” she asked, while rubbing a stockinged foot against his right leg.

  “The marines don’t allow ladies above the third deck,” he said, trying not to whimper.

  “There are no marines on my floor,” she said. “If that helps.”

  * * *

  As it turned out, Miss Ginger Ale had a bottle of truly lovely single malt, which they dutifully sampled. The windows were open, and the music from the lanai drifted into the room.

  “Now I’d like to dance,” she said, and so they did. She moved right in, a glass of Scotch in one hand and Gar in the other. One thing led to another, followed by a prolonged hot shower. Gar had learned a long time ago, via the good offices of older and sometimes married women in and around various navy towns, that when a woman in the mood knows what she wants, all that’s required is what one does every great navy day: follow orders willingly and to the best of one’s abilities. If the lady likes to subdue her natural inhibitions with a wee dram or three first, God love her.

  They got dressed and went back down to the dining room for a late supper, and then out to the lanai, which by now had pretty much emptied out. It was another gorgeous evening in Hawaii. He asked her how she’d come to be here.

  “Wanted to do my bit,” she said. “With an entire generation of young men absent at war, my work as a state court judge was pretty dull. I was single, turning forty, tired of hearing mostly frivolous lawsuits, and wanting a change of pace.”

  “Get what you wished for?”

  She nodded and then smiled. “Certainly did tonight, kind sir.”

  “I’m very glad,” he said. “Being the male part of the equation, I felt lucky that you even looked my way.”

  “I have to be careful,” she said. “Up there at headquarters, I mean. Everyone’s a bachelor, even the ones with the wife and kiddies’ pictures on their desks. The four-stripers are the worst offenders.”

  “Comes with that fourth stripe,” Gar said. “The one tha
t proclaims for all to see that you’re officially old and on a bold course for imminent pasture.”

  She laughed at that. “A lot of them seem to think they’re going to be admirals pretty soon,” she said, signaling the waiter for another drink.

  “One, maybe two,” Gar said. “Back in ’42 the chances were better, but now? I think this thing’s going to be over in a year or so, and then most of those admirals and their strikers will be getting Dear John letters from BuPers.”

  “And you?”

  “You mean after my command tour? Honestly, I have no idea. I might have to get out and find a real job somewhere. I try not to think about it.”

  Sharon asked whether he would ever get married.

  “Marriage?” he echoed. “As in a family, kids, a house in the suburbs? Like I said, just never felt the need, I guess. I’ve been on sea duty for my entire career except for sub school and a year at postgraduate school. My more politically savvy classmates have done tours on staffs, shore stations, Washington, but I’m a haze-gray and underway guy. Once I got into the boats my career objective was to get a sub command; the war was a bonus.”

  That seemed to surprise her. “My, my,” she said. “The war was a bonus? That’s a little stark, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that old British Army toast? To a long and bloody war? It originated in the fact that advancement in the British Army was strictly by seniority and length of service. If you were going to be promoted, somebody literally had to die.”

  “From what little I’ve heard about losses in the Pacific submarine force, promotions ought to be rolling right along.”

  He’d forgotten she was a headquarters maven, and the one thing he’d learned about staffs, especially big staffs, was that they loved to gossip. Submarine losses were closely held, mostly because the Japs were pretty quick to claim a kill every time they tangled with an American boat. It was to PacFleet’s advantage to let them think they were wiping the American submarine force off the map when in fact they were not. There was, however, just one little fly in the ointment when it came to applying British regimental logic to his own situation.