CHAPTER III
Commander Jack Keane glanced over the railing to look down the hatch into the control room. He saw the trudging wet figure of the pilot they had just rescued following Hansen out of the room and, for the briefest of moments, Keane wondered whether the aviator was an amiable fellow, or one of those a-holes they had been forced to pick up from time to time. The a-holes could make the remaining weeks of a patrol very trying. There was nothing worse than an aloof aviator who viewed his time on a submarine as a pleasure cruise.
Keane was brought back to the present by a gray-haired lieutenant looking up at him from the base of the ladder. It was George Alexander, his diving officer. “All conditions normal on the dive, Captain.”
“Very well, George. Continue with the dive, and give me another sounding.”
“Aye aye, Captain.” A few seconds passed in which Keane could picture the quartermaster down in the control room ambling over to the fathometer and sending a pulse of sound energy directly at the sandy bottom below.
“We’ve got one hundred ten feet of water beneath the keel, sir.”
“Very well. Take her back up to periscope depth.”
With binoculars dangling from their necks, the lookouts filed down the hatch, clearing the conning tower of everyone but the necessary watchstanders. Only a handful of men remained, but the seventeen-foot by eight-foot compartment still seemed cramped.
“Up scope,” Keane ordered.
The nearby periscope assistant, his head and chest adorned with a sound-powered phone set, pressed the actuator that raised Wolffish’s attack periscope.
“Mark this bearing!” Keane called, after peering through the eyepiece and steadying the reticle on a patch of smoke that had suddenly appeared above one of the rocky hills near the shore.
“Two Seven Five,” the assistant reported.
“I hold a shore battery on that bearing, XO,” Keane called.
“Aye, Captain,” came the sharp and clear reply.
Keane did not have to take his eye from the lens to know that his executive officer, Lieutenant Tony Ficarelli, was now estimating a range to the enemy battery. The stocky, powerfully-built young officer would be leaning over the small chart table two paces behind him, marking the line of bearing, tucking, then removing, and then tucking again the yellow pencil that always seemed to be behind his ear as he made corrections to his math.
“I call it five thousand yards, Captain,” Ficarelli finally said. “If that’s a five-inch, 80-cal, we can expect her to keep lobbing those shells until we’re outside ten thousand.”
Ficarelli was part of the new breed of submarine officer being produced by the navy to answer the growing demands on the fleet. He had transferred to the submarine service from the surface fleet when the war broke out, and now, with the war in its third year, men like Ficarelli – relatively new submariners, as far as Keane was concerned – were rising through the command pipeline and would soon replace men like Keane, who had manned the submarine fleet when it was in its hazardous infancy.
“I agree, XO. Not much water here. Not much juice left in the battery to waste on zig-zagging. We’ll head straight back out to sea the way we came, and cross our fingers they don’t get lucky. Helm, all ahead one third. Steer course zero seven zero. Diving officer, take her down to one hundred feet. Down scope.”
Another two impacts thrashed the water above as the submarine started her long turn to the east and angled downward away from the surface. Keane made his way over to the chart table. He felt the stale air fill his lungs again. The few gulps of fresh, sea air that had made it inside the pressure hull while the Wolffish was on the surface seemed to have already dissipated into the mass of dank, humid gas he and the rest of the crew had been breathing for the last twelve hours submerged. They had arrived on station on time, per orders, and had waited patiently for the airstrike. But the strike was several hours late, and the delay had forced him to order the refrigeration plant secured to conserve battery power.
“Here’s what I’ve got, Captain.” Ficarelli’s wide, energetic eyes glanced once at Keane and then back at the pencil-lined, water-spotted chart. “The battery must be about here.” Ficarelli tapped his finger on a mass of topographical lines that showed a sharp rise in elevation just beyond the coast. It matched what Keane had seen of the world above. “We’re here, about six thousand yards away. The bastards have got a good line of sight on our position, and they’ve got the height. That’ll put another thousand yards on their shells. It’ll take us at least another hour to reach good water.” He ran his finger from the mark that represented the Wolffish’s position out to the open ocean where the sounding labels changed abruptly from double digits to triple digits, and then to quadruple digits.
“Another hour before we can go deeper,” Keane said evenly.
“That’s right, sir.”
Whack! Whack!
Two more explosions sounded outside the hull. This time they were very loud, and the ship shook immediately after the second one, as if it had detonated only yards away. Everyone in the conning tower instinctively grabbed a hand-hold, but the shaking was only brief.
Keane nodded to the young periscope assistant, who looked at him expectantly. “Have all compartments report damage, Mills.”
As Mills began sending the order out over the phone circuit, Keane turned back to Ficarelli.
“Like we talked about before, Tony, I’m not so concerned about those guns as I am that harbor entrance.” Keane pointed to several parallel lines on the chart, two miles from the Wolffish’s position. The lines marked the headland beyond which lay a vast bay, and the Japanese-held port of Davao.
“Think they might be missing that seaplane by now, sir?” Ficarelli said in a jovial tone.
Keane forced a laugh, knowing full well his second-in-command had made the jest in an effort to ease the tension in the compartment, but none of the sweat-streaked men around them gave any acknowledgement of it. Mills continued to receive reports over his headset, using a grease pencil and board to check off each station as they reported in. Jansen, the headset-laden sound operator, listened to the water outside and remained focused on his panel, carefully turning a small dial to electrically steer the hydrophone mounted on the Wolffish’s forward deck. In the corner, Lieutenant Junior Grade Byron McCarty spun the dials on the torpedo data computer, squinting at the numbers on the indicators, though he currently had no contacts to track. Cooper, the helmsman, stared at the compass rose on the bulkhead in front of his face while his hands clutched the big wheel controlling the rudder.
They were Keane’s best team, his first string, and he would never wish to go into battle without any of them exactly where they were at this moment, but he knew they were not at their best. They had been at sea too long, and the cloud that had descended upon them three weeks ago still hung in the air. If anything, the weeks at sea and the cramped environment had accentuated the mood, and had helped it to spread. But these were his best, and he had to keep them together. If he could not do the job with this group, then he truly was in trouble. Keane met eyes with Ficarelli and could see that the same thoughts were running through his XO’s head.
“We’re too close, XO,” Keane finally said. “They’ll send every ship that can carry a depth charge, soon enough.”
Ficarelli sighed. “Who plans these air strikes anyway, Captain? Some admiral on the carrier? Some guy who I’ll bet is sipping his coffee all comfy and cozy a couple hundred miles from here? Doesn’t that son of a bitch know he’s got to give us good water to get his boys home safely?”
“Apparently not, XO.” Keane smiled.
“What he needs is a submariner on his staff, sir,” Ficarelli grinned. “Someone to keep reminding him our boats need more than a puddle of water to dive in.”
“Got anyone in mind, XO?” Keane quipped. "Don’t tell me you want to transfer to yet another branch.”
Ficarelli grinned. “Maybe, sir. Just maybe. Out of curiosity, what would be
your response to such a request?”
“I’ll let you know when we reach Midway.”
As the Wolffish drove on, venturing deeper as the soundings would allow, the enemy shells continued to hit the water periodically, but very few were close. Keane guessed the strong currents were setting the ship further down the coast and the shore battery was not compensating for it, instead assuming the submarine was following a track straight out to sea. This was good, but also bad, for Keane knew that the currents at this time of year would be pushing the submarine closer to the point of the headland that lay just to the south. It was a hazard Keane wanted to avoid at all costs, not only because an undetected enemy warship might emerge from the bay at any minute, but also because the area was thick with mines.
A man’s head appeared in the open hatch in the deck, and looked around until he met eyes with Keane. It was Chief Hicks.
“How’s our guest doing, chief?” Keane asked, looking down at him.
“He’s in the wardroom, Captain, getting checked out. Looks okay to me. Just shaken up a little. Who wouldn’t be, after what he’s been through, eh, sir?”
“I hope the poor little thing realizes eighty men just put their lives on the line to save his airdale ass,” Ficarelli muttered under his breath.
Keane ignored the comment, and nodded to the chief. “Thanks, CoB.”
The chief dropped back down the hatch, and Keane was considering gently reprimanding his XO when Jansen's face suddenly drew grave. The sound operator raised a hand to his earpiece, and every man in the room went silent, awaiting the dreaded report that they somehow knew was coming.
“Hi speed screws, Captain,” Jansen announced. “Lots of them. At least three. Looks like a whole swarm of escorts coming out to kiss us goodbye.”
Keane looked at the chart, and then at Ficarelli.
“Where’s the bottom here, XO?” he asked what he already knew, as if to confirm the truth of their situation.
“One hundred fifty feet, skipper. Things are going to get exciting real quick. I don’t know how the hell we’re going to get out of this one.” Ficarelli sighed and then looked up and caught Keane’s eye. “I just hope one thing, Captain.”
“What’s that, XO?”
“I hope this new passenger of ours knows his way around a cribbage board,” Ficarelli grinned. “If we’re going to take a shellacking, I’d like to get something out of it. I’m tired of losing to you.”
Keane smiled but did not respond. He then turned to Mills who was waiting with his hand poised on the alarm panel. After a nod from Keane, Mills pressed the switch activating the 1MC circuit ship-wide speaker circuit, and then made the announcement that was met with dread throughout the ship.
“Rig for depth charge!”
CHAPTER IV
Trott was still shivering, even after he had toweled off and donned the underwear, t-shirt, and khaki trousers Hansen had left neatly folded on the table before whisking away his dripping flight suit. He slipped his feet into a pair of worn leather sandals that had also been left for him, and took a seat at the table.
Exhaling deeply, Trott tried to focus on the steam rising from the cup of coffee Hansen had poured for him. He had gone from the nightmarish environment of a burning plane falling out of the sky, to being shot at in a tiny raft being tossed on the seas, to now the quiet, orderly, environment of the Wolffish’s wardroom. It was hard to believe it was not all some wild dream. He half-expected to wake at any moment and find himself in his bed at home, the seagulls of Coronado Island squawking outside his open window, the sound of the curling surf down at the beach less than a five-minute walk from where he lay, his wife Rebecca already up, dressed in a wispy robe, the aroma of sizzling bacon and eggs filling the house. They would have nothing to do all day but make love and stroll bare-footed along the strand under sunny, peaceful skies, with only the occasional drone of aircraft from the nearby naval airfield to remind them of the war.
But he was far away from that life, and the longer the war lasted, the more men he saw die, the less he felt he would ever see that life again.
Now, he was all alone in the Wolffish’s wardroom, with only a whirring fan in the overhead and a simmering pot of coffee on the small sideboard to keep him company. He wanted to talk to someone, anyone, just to prove he was alive. He could hear the low voices of the men in the control room down the passageway. Periodically, someone would brush past the other side of the drawn curtain that acted as the wardroom door.
He had been on several different ships in his naval career, most of them larger vessels, most of them aircraft carriers. He had even once served on a destroyer – years ago, before he had applied for flight training – but even that had never given him the overwhelming sense of claustrophobia he felt now. The cockpit of his Helldiver had been confined, for sure, but one expected such limitations when strapped inside a warplane. It was a far different thing to eat your meals, and live out your day in such imprisonment. Earlier, as he had been shuffled through the narrow passages, bumping his head on more than one pipe or valve in the overhead, he had counted at least six men in khaki, presumably officers. It was hard to believe that they all dined in this one tiny room. The small, booth-like table looked like it could hardly seat four and took up most of the room.
The rich aroma of coffee was barely discernable among the stench of diesel fumes, cigarette smoke, and mildew, but it was there, and it had a calming effect on his overstressed nerves. When he finally reached for the cup, he felt the soreness in his shoulders for the first time. The straps of his harness had certainly saved him from a fatal collision with the plane’s instrument panel, but they had left some terrible bruises that would take some time to heal.
Two distant explosions sounded somewhere outside the hull. They were muffled, but threatening all the same. A speaker on the bulkhead intoned the conversation of two individuals identifying themselves as conning tower and maneuvering room, and Trott suddenly pictured himself as a nosey, small town telephone operator, eavesdropping on someone else’s discussion, except that the lingo they used was nearly all gibberish to his aviator's ears. He heard footfalls in the passage outside as some sailor hurried off to perform some essential task.
Again, everyone had something to do – everyone but him.
In the cockpit of his Helldiver, he was used to being in control. The blaring noise of the engine, the unity he felt with the aircraft, and the chatter on the radio, all gave him something to focus on whenever the air became thick with deadly metal. This room in which he now sat was too quiet. It allowed the senses to amplify and painfully anticipate every groan of the hull and every noise outside. It seemed absurd that this serene room, where coffee was served and a steward carefully swept the floor clean after every watch, cruised beneath the sea only a few thousand yards from Japanese shore batteries that sought to blow it out of the water. He desperately wanted to know where the submarine was, how close or far was the danger. He wanted to march down the passage and demand to know what was going on, but he resisted.
He took another sip of coffee. This crew knew what they were doing. Like it or not, he was going to have to sit here and wait until either the sub escaped, or an armor-piercing shell tore through the pressure hull killing them all.
A framed photo on the bulkhead momentarily diverted his attention. It showed an attractive, blonde actress – Trott could not remember her name – laughing emphatically while flanked by a group of chisel-jawed naval officers in dress blues. The woman wore a knee-length skirt and a form-fitting sweater that effectively accentuated her curves. The photo was obviously staged and intended for recruiting purposes, evidently for naval aviation since a navy corsair was visible on the tarmac in the background, and all of the perfect-teethed officers wore wings of gold on their chests. A notecard was pinned on the bulkhead next to the photo, and on it someone had scrawled in pencil, “Ever wonder why they never use pigboat sailors in these photoshoots?”
Evidently some joker thought subm
ariners did not get their fair share of the spotlight. Trott chuckled inwardly. It wasn’t called the Silent Service for nothing. He began to wonder if some of them resented having to risk their necks for him, and perhaps that was why no one had bothered to come relieve his anxiety and fill him in on the sub’s current situation.
At that moment, Trott sensed that he was not alone. He looked up to see the face of a young man poking through the curtain and staring at him in disbelief. The many faces Trott had seen since descending into the hull might just as well have belonged to the same man. His mind had not registered any of them. But there was an odd familiarity to the face that looked back at him now. Trott could not place it with a name, but he could swear that he had seen this man before.
“Can I help you?” Trott finally asked, a bit more irritably than he had intended.
The young man looked suddenly embarrassed. Smiling nervously, he stepped one pace into the room revealing the blue dungaree uniform of an enlisted man.
“Hello, lieutenant,” he said sheepishly. “I was told you were here, sir, but I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t set eyes on you myself.”
“I’m sorry. Do we know each other?”
The sailor’s eyes grew wide, as if the question took him by surprise. “Don’t you remember me, lieutenant? Bobby, Bobby Greenberg…I mean Aviation Radioman Third Class Greenberg, from VT-25.”
The light suddenly dawned on Trott. Of course, Greenberg! In his mind’s eye, he imagined this man as he had last seen him, bedecked in flight gear and helmet. He was a radioman-gunner from one of the torpedo bomber squadrons on the Antietam. Then, Trott remembered a memorial service he had attended several weeks ago, while the carrier and her task group plowed the seas a thousand miles from here. Three crews from Torpedo 25 had been lost in raids on the Japanese outposts in the Western Carolines. Greenberg had been one of those presumed dead. What the hell was he doing here? And Trott now understood the meaning of the remark by the disgruntled sailor up on deck that had called him another fucking Jonah.
Dive Beneath the Sun Page 3
