by Paul Lally
This is a work of fiction. And while some persons, organizations, places, events, and incidents may have existed in the real world, they’re purely imaginary in the author’s literary world where anything can happen—and does.
Book cover design: Lewis Agrell
Copyright 2021 Paul Lally
All rights reserved.
For John A. Lally, Esq.
Loyal brother, trusted friend,
fearless father, loving man.
USS New Hampshire (BB-70)
Tokyo Bay, Japan
August 15, 1946
Y oung men think they’re immortal. That’s why old men send them off to fight their wars.
Barely eighteen years old—he lied about his age when he enlisted two years ago at the tender age of sixteen—Gunner’s Mate Second Class Stanley Albertini fits right in with his fifteen-man gun crew of equally young sailors.
Because he’s the senior gun captain of Turret 4, the battleship’s aftermost 16-inch main battery, he stands on top of the heavily armed barbette encouraging his crew to swab the lowered gun barrel on “his” turret.
“Stick it to her, boys. Make her take every inch.”
That gets a laugh.
Always does.
Stanley’s quite the character.
Comparing a 60-foot-long, 120-ton naval cannon to male genitalia is part of the reason young men think they’re immortal…so does serving onboard the USS New Hampshire. a massive 68,000-ton Montana-class battleship, nicknamed “The Rock” (after New Hampshire’s motto: “The Granite State”).
She sports twelve stupendous Mark 7 16-inch/50 caliber guns, three each mounted inside four heavily armored turrets, two forward, two aft. That’s her “big punch.” Add to that, menacing clusters of 5-inch guns, plus hordes of anti-craft 40mm quadruple Bofors “gun tubs” and 20mm Oerlikons crammed in wherever space allows, and you have yourself one hell of a war machine.
As for Stanley?
Full disclosure:
We first met a few years back when I was researching a feature article for New Hampshire Today called “The Battleship Boys.” What began as a simple story grew into the book you’re now reading.
At the time, the ninety-three-year old’s memory was—and still is—photographic. Stanley told me that witnessing a battleship’s thundering, four-turret, twelve-gun salvo during WW2 was a sneak peek into the jaws of hell.
But come to think of it, it’s not surprising that he could recall this formative time in his life like it happened yesterday, instead of over seventy-five years ago. That’s because when you’re a young man fighting an old man’s war, you witness more death and destruction than beauty and tenderness. Maybe that’s why those memories tend to stick.
For example.... Stanley described in great detail what it was like to bore-clean a 16-inch/50 caliber cannon with his gun team....
Imagine if you will...
It’s 1945
Hot as hell for August.
Humid too.
Especially in Tokyo Bay, where the Rock is currently anchored. Stanley and his guys are stripped to their waist, glistening with sweat. The pitiless South Pacific sun has their turned lily-white skins golden brown. Flat stomachs all. Not a beer belly in sight. They’re lean, mean, and oh, so young.
Been at sea for almost eighteen months, now. Not a woman in sight. Hard enough on grown men. Murder on boys—some still in their teens like Stanley, others barely on the other side of twenty—their bodies jampacked with raging hormones; all dressed all up with no place to go.
Any wonder they’re always dreaming about that “something else,” while busy fighting a war. Is it love? Hell no. They’re far too young for that. Sex is what happens on the way to love, and if they’re lucky what might happen next.
Stanley cups his hands and shrieks in a high-pitched, girly voice, “Oh, baby, oh BABY, do me right!”
The guys laugh harder as they thrust the long wooden pole deep down the barrel’s bore. A bundle of twisted steel bristles the size of a hatbox scours the chromium-plated rifling grooves to remove any traces of the hundreds of Mark 8 “Super Heavy” shells that have BOOMED out of its muzzle during the last engagement.
Think about it: a 16-inch, armor-piercing shell tips the scales at 2400 pounds. An HC (High Capacity) one at 1200 pounds. That, my friend, is a lot of whoop-ass. And for the past eighteen months, Gun Captain Albertini and his crew have been delivering LOTS of said whoop-ass to the Empire of Japan on land, sea, and in the air.
“Pull out, pull out,” he yells “I’m COMING.”
Howls of laughter at this. And out slides the oversize bore cleaner. Along with it, a shower of carbonized residue and brass filings left over from the ”six-bag” load of high explosives that powers these monster-sized, four-foot-long projectiles. A soft breeze catches most of the gunk and whisks it overboard into the calm waters of Tokyo Bay.
“One lady down, two to go.” Stanley points to barrel #2 of the three-barrel turret.
Amidst groans of protest, he says, “War’s over, fellas, remember? This time next year, instead of ramming these guns....” He grabs his crotch and gives a pelvic thrust. “You’ll be ramming for real.”
A few grins and nods, but then Jocko, his shuttle operator, growls, “It ain’t over until the Japs sign on the dotted line.”
Grins fade at the truth of Jocko’s words.
A year-and-a-half sailing the high seas and fighting the good fight as part of Fast Carrier Task Force (FTF-59) has turned the tide of war. But along the way, also robbed them of their youthful optimism. Kamikaze suicide attacks can do that sort of thing. So will torpedoes launched from Japanese subs gliding beneath the waves, as secretive as they are deadly.
“Open wide, baby, I’m coming in!” Stanley shouts.
As his team transfers the bristle brush to the next gun barrel and repeats their labors, our young gun captain gazes out over the ship-filled harbor jammed with battleships, cruisers, flattops, destroyers, and attack transports as far as the eye can see. So amazing to behold...a grey-painted gathering of the mightiest navy in the world, including the battleship USS Missouri (BB-63) anchored about a mile to the east of the Rock.
Guns stilled on every ship.
“General Quarters” a distant memory.
Peace at last.
It’s the silence Stanley remembers more than anything else.
That’s because tomorrow, August 16, 1945, a Japanese diplomatic delegation will slowly climb the USS Missouri’s accommodation ladder and step onto the deck, where military and naval representatives from nine allied nations will be patiently waiting, along with thousands of sailors crammed in every nook and cranny of the Iowa-class battleship to witness history in the making.
One by one, Japanese officials will approach Supreme Allied Commander General Douglas A. MacArthur, who stands at rigid attention behind a table draped in green baize .
On that table, bound in a leather portfolio, the two-page “Instrument of Surrender.” Fountain pens at the ready, plus a chair, should any of the Japanese officials choose to sit while signing away the misguided, disastrous dreams of their Empire.
“We, as acting by command of and on behalf of the Emperor of Japan... hereby proclaim the unconditional surrender to the Allied Powers of the Japanese Imperial Headquarters and of all Japanese Armed Forces and all armed forces under Japanese control wherever situated.”
Signatures affixed, speeches made, humiliation complete, thus will end the state of war that has existed between the United States of America and the Empire of Japan ever since December 8, 1941.
Tomorrow.
Stanley sighs. The war will really be over.
He hasn’t thought about home for a long time; Brooklyn, New York—like a faraway kingdo
m, or a dream maybe.
Then the thought of his Italian mother’s famous “Sunday Gravy” floods his teenage mind and brings a smile. Spicy sausage, fat meatballs, thick pork chops swimming in a sweet and smoky tomato sauce, and platters of pasta... he can taste the feast in the back of his throat.
“Sunday,” he whispers.
“Torpedo!!” A high-pitched lookout’s voice screams from somewhere above. “Bearing two-six-zero, port quarter!”
The golden bubble of “peace-at-hand” pops.
Stanley and the others swing like compass needles to seek the heading. Nothing at first, but then, what the lookout saw: a torpedo—no wait a second—while it’s long enough to be one of their Type 93 “Long Lance” torpedoes, something’s different about it... moving way too slowly, almost wallowing through the water instead of racing arrow straight.
Just then, the object broaches, then another almost directly behind it, single file. Twin, dark black, rounded, blunt noses that can’t be anything except torpedo warheads.
Heading straight for the Rock’s aft counter.
Straight for Stanley and his men.
Then he knows.
Scuttlebutt moves fast in the navy. By now, most everybody’s heard about the Japanese Navy’s Kaiten-10 subs. How the dying empire took a “Long Lance” torpedo, cut it in half, spliced in a rudimentary conning tower and periscope, then added a “Divine Wind” idiot at the helm, dying to blow himself up for the Emperor.
But until now, there’s been no proof of these contraptions mimicking the madness of Japanese aircraft that started crashing nose-first into the fleet, beginning with Okinawa and continuing without let up until Hiroshima went up in atomic smoke and never came back down again.
“Goddammit, the war’s OVER!” Stanley shouts.
Then self-preservation replaces rages. Better to be wrong and alive than dead and right. Some asshole suicide mini-sub driver—make that two of them—obviously didn’t get the memo.
“Take cover behind the turret!” he shouts.
Up until now, Stanley and his work team have been hypnotized by their impending doom. But at the sound of their gun captain’s voice, they bolt like a flock of startled birds and duck behind the turret’s thick, sloping, armored steel sides.
The Rock’s a sitting duck, anchored like all the other ships, waiting for the big day tomorrow, while two, thirty-foot-long Kamikaze subs are heading straight for her, each sporting a thousand-pound warhead.
Stanley risks a few precious seconds to look more closely at the approaching Kaitens.
Sure, the Rock’s got an armor belt that includes plenty of protection from torpedo attacks. But it doesn’t start until the third deck down, where a submarine-launched torpedo would be anticipated to strike. Problem is, these bastards are heading right for the waterline...almost two thousand pounds of Type 97 Hexanite...no telling what’s going to happen if they both hit.
Not if...Stanley thinks. WILL hit. He knows this deep down.
The explosive POM-POM-POM of a 40mm quad belatedly opens up. But the shell strikes land far behind the suicide subs, now closing to the lee of the Rock’s aft quarter.
“General quarters, general quarters. All hands man your battle stations.”
The ship’s loudspeaker shouts to be heard over the din of the 40mm. Then the chatter of 20mm Oerlikons opening up too—but just as ineffective. They can’t depress their barrels low enough either. Stanley’s battle station is Turret 4, center gun, waiting for Jocko to ram a 16-inch shell into the open breech. Then slam it shut, hit the “ready” button and...
No time for that now... only time to crouch down and hope not to die.
It’s not like the end of the world when the first warhead detonates against the ship’s hull. After all, the Rock tips the scales at a hefty, armor-plated 68,000 tons. Still, a thousand pounds of explosive can do a hell of a job puncturing the outer double hull of a battleship—but that’s what it’s designed to do: absorb the shockwave of that initial explosive SLAM without compromising the ship’s watertight integrity.
The warhead’s BLAST includes a metallic BANG that vibrates the stern section like a tuning fork. A water column rockets straight up, the wind grabs the spray and dumps a tropical rainstorm down on the heads of Stanley and his crew.
But before he can wipe his face, the second Kaiten-10 sub hits.
And hits hard.
Two weeks later, navy ocean-going tugs warp the USS New Hampshire inside the waiting steel walls of the USS Artisan (ABSD-1) floating drydock at Ulithi Lagoon to examine the surprising amount of damage that caused flooding and loss of life.
Once the water’s pumped out and the Rock’s immense hull is exposed for all the world to see, repair crews discover the most amazing thing. The reason she started taking on water in the after-crew quarters and twelve sailors lost their lives while scrambling to battle stations is that the second sub’s warhead hit in the exact same spot as the first.
Exact.
It was like in those Robin Hood movies where there’s an archery contest and Robin shoots his arrow and splits the Sheriff of Nottingham’s arrow with his own arrow—right down the middle. In this case, right up the Rock’s ass-end. As if finding her Achilles Heel, the explosion wreaked havoc as it broke through a blast-weakened seam and spent its full force destroying ballast tanks, interior compartments, and human beings.
The odds of two small subs causing that kind of damage?
Astronomical.
But then again, that’s the nature of war. Generals and admirals and politicians make all sorts of strategic and tactical plans. But when bullets start flying, the stars, and fate, and fortune, and luck—both good and bad—take over the reins, and anything and everything can happen—and does.
They patch up the Rock in less than a week. She sails home, drops anchor in San Francisco Bay, and along with hundreds of other ships, musters out her wartime crew.
One week, four days, and eight hours later, eighteen-year-old former US Navy Gunner’s Mate Second Class Stanley Albertini sits down to “Sunday Supper” at his family’s house in Brooklyn.
His mother says, “Mangia!”
His father says, “Home is the sailor, right?”
His fifteen-year-old brother says, “Tell me what it was like.”
In between mouthfuls, Stanley does his best.
USS New Hampshire (BB-70)
South Vietnam
February 22, 1969
S een from high above, the full moon and cloudless night sky turns the Montana-class, World War II-era battleship USS New Hampshire (BB-70) into a bathtub toy.
A very dangerous toy.
“Cupcake, this is Eight-ball, on station and ready for call to fire.”
“Eight-ball” (the Rock’s radio call sign) is one of two battleships, plus a guided missile cruiser and four destroyers of the Seventh Fleet’s Task Force 75. Deployed to prowl the waters off the coast of Vietnam, they’re ready, willing, and deadly able to answer a call for help should it come.
Cupcake has called.
And they’ve answered. Most notably, the USS New Jersey and USS New Hampshire; “Big J” and “The Rock,” respectively.
A year earlier, Pentagon-powers-that-be decided that a battleships’ impressive firepower could be used to attack enemy lines of communication from the sea. By turning off the Vietcong’s spigot of ammunition, fuel, food, and personnel flowing down from North Vietnam and Red China they hoped to transform the flood of war into a tiny trickle.
Towed out of mothballs in Bremerton, Washington and upgraded with the latest radar and fire control systems, the Iowa and Montana-class battleships added their naval bombardment to the Air Force B-52s high altitude carpet bombing.
Tonight, like beefy cops walking shoulder-to-shoulder on a dangerous beat, two battleships prowl the coastline “checking the locks,” with radar-assisted eyes and radio-aided ears peeled for signs of trouble. They’re not about to take any guff from any two-bit North Vietnamese thugs
with the nerve to raise hell on their beat.
No way.
Toward that end, during the past two months on the gunline, they’ve pounded the living hell out of the People’s Army of Vietnam (PAVN). But these two heavyweight “cops” don’t pack .38 caliber popguns in their holsters.
No way.
The very same armament that Stanley Albertini used to bring the Empire of Japan to its knees—16-inch/50 caliber Mark 7s with HC rounds—are locked, loaded, and ready to go.
First it was firing on tunnel complexes at Quang Ngai. One minute, filled with Vietcong troops scurrying like ants—armed with AK-47s, mind you—and the next, nothing but collapsed walls, busted berms, torn-up bodies, and a series of shell craters.
When the fortunate enemy soldiers who managed to survive fled to the tree-covered hills or hid in dusty ravines, they got unlucky when the Rock’s 2700-pound Mark 8 High Explosive shells found them and sent them to wherever bad guys go.
Which leads me to describe the good guys.
Takes lots of them to make a battleship work like a finely tuned instrument. Takes even more to make it an instrument of death.
To accomplish this, the Rock is a small city shoehorned inside a hull that’s 856 feet long, bow to stern, 107 feet wide, rail to rail, and 220 feet high, keel to mast, with various decks and platforms sandwiched in between.
Because she’s packed with 1855 officers and enlisted men living “asshole-to-elbow,” as the saying goes, maybe it’s more appropriate to say this battleship’s more than just an instrument of war, she’s a full-blown orchestra armed to the teeth.
Of course, not everybody plays the 16-inch/50 caliber “kettle drums,” or the twin 5” secondary battery “Tubas” or the quad 40mm and 20mm anti-aircraft “trombones” and “trumpets.” In between all hell breaking loose, somebody’s got to bake bread, do the ship’s laundry, repair shoes, cut hair, sort mail, chip rust, plot a course, say a prayer, pull a tooth—in short, nearly two thousand members of a highly complex, high seas “orchestra” are doing their level best to stay on pitch, carry a tune, and read sheet music, all the while following their conductor who sits in his leather-cushioned “Captain’s Chair” in the navigation bridge high above, like Neptune himself.
