Once the hand inspection was complete, the guards clapped handcuffs on each man and passed a steel wire through all the handcuffs, which was then shackled to the deck at each end. After a while two mess cooks came out onto the fantail area, each carrying a wooden tray. The men were allowed to take two rice balls apiece, each impregnated with a single drop of soy sauce. Once the rice had been distributed, the team came back with a black pot and a large copper dipper. They each got to drink one dipper of water.
From the looks on the goon squad’s faces, the POWs were being positively pampered, even though they were outside on a weather deck, sitting against cold steel with no coats or jackets. The sun was going down, illuminating nearby islands and the distant shore with a cold, metallic light. They could see two destroyers plowing along in the carrier’s expansive wake. It looked to Gar like they were making 20 knots. The props below them vibrated more than Gar would have expected for a brand-new ship. An occasional puff of stack gas whipped across the fantail, making their eyes water. The goons stood against the lifelines stretched across the very back of the fantail area, four of them, dressed out in padded vests, woolen trousers, Japanese army caps, and black gloves and carrying their ever-present batons.
As full darkness came, Gar felt movement along the line, as everybody began pressing into the center of the line of sitting men for mutual warmth. A small red light came on above them; it was mounted under the flight deck so as not to show beyond the edges of the deck. The smell of cooking food wafted back along the deck, and the guards, after a final check of the wire, went into a small guardroom just forward of the fantail area. They left the hatch open so they could keep an eye on their charges.
Gar was sore, cold, dead tired, and depressed, and this was just his first day in captivity. Some of these guys were wearing what looked like British uniforms, which meant that they could have been shipped back to the Home Islands from Singapore. That city had fallen almost three years ago. That was not an encouraging thought, nor were his prospects once they got to Tokyo. The Japs had to know the U.S. submarines were strangling them. A captured skipper would be made to sing in detail, and then he would be beheaded. Or maybe just beheaded. On that happy note, he fell asleep.
SubPac Headquarters, Pearl Harbor
It was almost seven thirty before Admiral Lockwood got back to his headquarters.
“How’d the boss take the news?” Forrester asked.
“I think he aged a year right in front of me,” Lockwood said. “But after we’d kicked it around for a while, we decided there was nothing to be done. If they break him, they’ll either change their codes or they won’t. If they do, we’ll break ’em again.”
“That’s easier said than done, I suspect,” Forrester said. “Why wouldn’t they change their codes? Disinformation?”
“Sure. They’re Japs. You know, clever Oriental bastards. If they find out we’re reading their message traffic, then they could start throwing in some bullshit, like a fake transit route of the next carrier deployment. Get us to deploy subs—right into a minefield we didn’t know about.”
“Oh, boy.”
“As Nimitz pointed out, we don’t even know if he’s been captured,” Lockwood said. “The waters out there, off Japan? In December? How long would someone floating around survive? An hour? It’s not like he’s going to swim to the nearest Jap destroyer.”
Forrester thought the admiral was starting to whistle past the graveyard. “There’s no way in hell to predict what he’ll tell them, if anything,” he said. “Knowing Hammond, he’ll probably sing like a canary and baffle them with so much bullshit they won’t know what to believe.”
“One can always hope,” the admiral said. “Any word on what happened to that carrier?”
“Weather’s prevented the air force from getting any aerial photography. Snow, low cloud cover, the usual excuses.”
“Oh, c’mon, now, Mike, what good’s a camera when it’s snowing, right? They’ll get out there. Tell me about the deployments for the Lingayen Gulf landings.”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Forrester said, glancing at his watch. “I can get a briefer up here, but it’s almost twenty hundred…?”
“Jesus, is it? Okay, tomorrow will do.” He went to the small mahogany cabinet in the corner of his office and retrieved a bottle of bourbon. He offered a glass to Forrester, who declined. Whiskey made his liver hurt.
“Is this goddamned war ever going to end?” Lockwood asked, looking out the windows at the muted lights around the Pearl Harbor lagoon. “Talk about time on the cross.”
“Think how it must be for the POWs out there in Asia,” Forrester said. “We know this has to end sometime, but they have no idea.”
Lockwood raised his glass. “Here’s to Gar Hammond, then. Let’s hope and pray he holds.”
TWENTY
The next day began at predawn. Each man was forced to get up and walk to the lifelines at the back of the fantail. Below the lifelines were woven-steel safety nets, installed to catch anyone falling or being blown off the flight deck above by prop wash or a gust of wind. They were then made to get down into the nets in groups of three.
Welcome to the POW head.
When everyone had had a chance to relieve himself, three prisoners were detailed to man a fire hose and wash down the netting. Gar noticed that the fire-main pressure wasn’t very impressive. U.S. Navy fire mains ran at least at 100 psi; these looked far more anemic. Once again he wondered how much work remained to be done before this ship would be truly ready for sea. He could guess why they were moving her: B-29 photo-recce birds, and then a submarine attack. The naval bases near Tokyo were probably much better defended than these beautiful islands. He jumped when a baton landed between his shoulders. No looking around. Yes, boss, got it.
Breakfast was a repeat of dinner. Two rice balls, with no soy this time, and a single ladle of warm tea. Then a long hike back down belowdecks to continue caulking the cable penetrations. During the night he’d managed to get some information from the guys on either side of him. The prisoners were a collection of army guys from the Southeast Asian theater. They’d been brought from camps in Malaya, Borneo, the Dutch Indonesian islands, and even China. Gar was apparently the only American, and they already knew that he had been the skipper of a submarine. How they knew that he couldn’t fathom. He was surprised to learn that they thought they were getting better treatment here on board this ship than in the camps from which they had been sent.
They spent the day back down in the bowels of the ship, still hammering oakum. There was no midday meal, only a ladle of water every three hours. Then back to the fantail for another night in the cold. One of the prisoners had developed a vicious hacking cough. Three guards took him away before everyone else went on the wire, and they never saw him again. They doubted the guards took him to sick bay. The other guys had been working at a copper mine before this job. They said that anyone who got seriously ill was usually thrown down one of the abandoned shafts. The other prisoners would then be made to shovel ore into the shaft until they could no longer hear the man screaming.
“They’re not human,” Gar commented to his wire mate.
“Neither are we, sunshine. Not anymore.”
When they woke the next morning, the carrier was anchored off the Kure naval arsenal and already surrounded by a dozen barges bringing supplies, fuel, more oakum, in bales this time, and what looked like a variety of electric motors, pumps, and refrigeration machinery. In peacetime a ship as large as an aircraft carrier would take up to two years to fit out, which was the process of installing the tons and tons of equipment needed to turn her into a warship. It was apparent to Gar that they were in a hell of hurry to get her out of here, and the POWs joined the lines of sailors hauling stuff on board from all the barges into the hangar bay for the rest of the day. Gar noticed the one thing they did not bring aboard was any sort of fresh food.
That evening as they were assembled for the wire, Charlie Chan appeared on the fantail an
d gave orders to the goons. Gar was rousted out of the line before the rice balls came, which hurt his feelings. One goon ahead, one astern, Charlie and Gar in the middle, and with Gar back on his familiar leash, they went forward into the hangar bay and then climbed what seemed like an endless series of ladders. Charlie said nothing to him this time until they reached the bridge, which was full of people. It was obvious the ship was getting ready to heave up the anchor and get under way again. They perched Gar on a binocular storage box out on the port bridge wing, with stereo goons in attendance. Charlie reported to Captain Abe, who looked over at him and made an annoyed face. He said something in Japanese to Charlie, who bowed several times and backed away as if he’d been caught crapping on the deck.
“What did you do?” Gar asked when Charlie came out onto the bridge wing.
“I did what he told me to,” he said. “He told me to bring you up here.”
“Seems to be in a bad mood today.”
“He is very angry, but not at you. You are a distraction. He says the ship is not ready to go to sea, but that Tokyo is insisting. There was another B-29 today. They fear a major bombing raid.”
Gar thought of several clever things to say but kept his mouth shut. Charlie noticed.
“Did they feed you tonight?”
Gar shook his head.
Charlie bowed slightly. “I am sorry. No one has eaten. There is no electricity in the main galleys. Something happened.”
“In my navy, we’d say they are working on it.”
He nodded. “Yes, they are. If there is no food soon, some engineers will be shot.”
That oughta do it, Gar thought. He could just imagine what his snipes would think of that logic. On the other hand, there probably would be food. Gar must have smiled, because Charlie asked him what he was thinking. Gar told him.
Charlie didn’t smile, but his face did soften. He dismissed the goons and then just stood there, looking out over the bullrail. The sun was going down, and they could hear the clattering of the anchor chain from under the extended bow, nearly 500 feet away. Despite his perfect military bearing, Charlie looked apprehensive.
“What is your name, please?” Gar asked.
Charlie looked down and began to repeat that that was forbidden. Gar held up his hand, and Charlie stopped.
“We’re going out to sea tonight, aren’t we?” Gar asked.
Charlie nodded.
“We’re going to die, then,” Gar said. “I was telling the truth the other day. There are at least ten submarines waiting for us. Only one has to get lucky. This ship will never see Tokyo Bay. So: I would like to know your name.”
“So you say,” Charlie replied. “Captain Abe sent for you. He wants you to watch as we outrun all these imaginary submarines. If they do shoot torpedoes at us, they will bounce off. This ship began life as a battleship. Belowdecks there is heavy, heavy armor. Our Type 97 torpedoes could do some damage. But yours? I am told that half of them do not even explode.”
He’s got me there, Gar thought. The Bureau of Ordnance had finally admitted there was a problem with their fish and fixed them—but only after two years of complaints from the submarine force, with the bureau blaming all the problems on the submarine skippers. Apparently, the Japs weren’t the only ones with a hidebound headquarters bureaucracy.
The wind freshened as the ship turned toward the west to go around Etajima and then head southeast for Bungo Suido. The city lights had been doused in Hiroshima, probably due to that B-29 recce flight, which reinforced Gar’s notion that the Japs knew exactly what was coming one of these days in the form of an aluminum overcast. Captain Abe came out onto the bridge wing to study some navigation features. He looked Gar up and down as he sat forlornly on the binocular box, then snapped something at Charlie Chan.
“He says he is glad you will get to watch tonight. That once we leave Bungo Suido, your personal defeat and dishonor will be complete, as we outrun all those hundreds of submarines outside.”
“Ask him what about the other submarine that came into the Seto with us. Does he know where she is hiding—and waiting?”
Charlie translated, and Abe did a double take. Gar didn’t think that possibility had even crossed the captain’s mind. Then he barked out a loud Ha! He said something in Japanese to the other officers. They all laughed in unison. Abe gave Gar a dismissive wave and went back into the pilothouse. Thirty minutes later they steamed around the western end of Etajima and were met by four destroyers. For all their scorn, it seemed they weren’t letting Shinano sail anywhere all by herself. Two of the tin cans fell in ahead of the carrier, two astern. They picked up speed as they headed down toward the straits. The night was clear, but the islands they passed were all darkened, with no navigation aids illuminated. It was getting colder, and Gar was starting to shiver. Charlie went into the pilothouse and came back out with a quilted Chinese-style jacket for him. Gar put it on but was unable to button it up. His wrists stuck out of the sleeves a good eight inches. Charlie pretended not to notice. Gar knew he looked ridiculous, but he was very grateful for the coat. The lookouts, who were stationed up on the level above them, were wearing similar coats.
“Major Yamashita,” Charlie said, suddenly. “My name is Yamashita. My uncle is a lieutenant general in the Imperial Army. He rules the Philippines.”
Gar nodded. “Thank you,” he said. He won’t rule them for much longer, he thought. Dugout Doug MacArthur was on the move, at long last.
They passed through the Hoyo Strait without incident and then headed down into Bungo Suido. Three minesweepers were in line-abreast formation ahead of them now, and Shinano slowed to 5 knots so that they could follow in the sweepers’ wakes. The after lookouts on the small wooden ships must have been apprehensive at the sheer size of the carrier following them through. The swept channel appeared to be right down the middle with two sharp turns halfway through. Gar could hear the navigation team gabbling away inside the pilothouse and lots of sharp Hais and Dozos from the bearing takers, who were manning alidades on the next level up. He couldn’t see the bow of this ship; the flight deck extended over the forecastle area just as it spread over the fantail back aft. The two giant square holes in the flight deck gave the whole structure a weird appearance.
Gar wondered if his Dragon was lurking out ahead, waiting for them to come out. Or had those two distant booms been her death knell as she darted into a minefield they didn’t know about? Gar had trouble picturing himself as the sole survivor. Major Yamashita had gone back into the pilothouse to watch the navigation through the minefields. It wasn’t as if he had to guard him. It was a good 50 feet down to the armored steel flight deck, and nearly 80 more to the water if he decided to go over the starboard side. Besides, if they were going to run the torpedo gauntlet that Gar knew was out there, he’d much rather be up here than ten decks below.
Charlie came back out to the bridge wing bearing two flat boxes, the shape and size of cigar boxes.
“Eat,” he said.
Gar had no idea of what he was eating, but it was surprisingly good, if distinctly fishy, and he finished every scrap, eating with his caulk-stained fingers.
“Thank you very much,” he said. “You are very considerate.”
Charlie—he had to quit calling him that—Major Yamashita seemed a bit embarrassed by that. “It will take all night to reach the approaches to Tokio-wan,” he said. “I think Captain Abe wants you here for the whole trip.”
“Fine by me,” Gar said. “This is not a night to be belowdecks.”
The major gave him an exasperated look. “Nothing will happen, Captain,” he declared, but his tone of voice had a certain whistling-past-the-graveyard edge to it. That was reinforced by a sudden commotion inside the pilothouse. Major Yamashita eased closer to the door to see what the fuss was about. Then he sucked in a great quantity of air through his teeth.
“Radar,” he said. “The radio room has detected submarine radar.”
“Just one?” Gar asked innocently
.
Yamashita grimaced. He was an army major out at sea on what had to be the most valuable submarine target of the war, and now he knew there was at least one American boat out there in the darkness with meat on its mind. The minesweepers fell off to one side as the carrier increased speed, followed by a broad turn to port. She’d begun a zigzag plan, and the tin cans up ahead generally were matching her movements. Just to add to the fun, a crescent moon appeared out of the cloud layer and lit up the sea. My kind of night, Gar thought. He tried to gauge her speed, but the ship was so big he really couldn’t tell. That vibration was back, though. He could feel it trembling through the binocular box.
We did that, he thought. Damaged a propeller, blunted the bow. Maybe it’ll slow her down. If she could run at full speed, and for a ship of this length that would be 30 knots or faster, none of their subs could ever end-around her. She’d have to run right over one to be in danger. That’s what the Wounded Bear, IJN Shokaku, had done, run at 30 knots all the way home. By the time each of the American subs had detected her, she was already out of range and disappearing over the horizon.
Shinano leaned to port in a ponderous turn as she executed the preprogrammed zigzag plan. If the chase became a horse race, a zigzag plan was a double-edged sword. It could screw up a firing solution if the target made a wide course change just as the torpedoes were approaching. The truth was, however, that ships were usually going from Point A to Point B when they went to sea. Through some clever plotting techniques, American subs could determine the base course underlying the zigzag plan and prepare their own torpedo approach on that. Your target could twist and turn, but she would always end up making that base course over the ground, and effectively lose some speed of advance doing it. Drive up ahead of her if you could on that base course, and she’d eventually come right into the loving arms of your TDC and its lethal progeny, six hungry steamers.
Ghosts of Bungo Suido (2013) Page 19
