Greenberg was, Trott assumed, the other Jonah.
“I can see you’re about as surprised to see me as I you, lieutenant. They fished me out of the water, just like they did you. I’ve been living inside this steel death trap ever since. I’ve lost count how long it’s been. I hardly know what day it is.”
Trott smiled as if Greenberg had said it in jest, though his tone had indicated otherwise. The boy looked nervous. He was much paler and thinner than Trott remembered. Submarine life must not be sitting well with him. Greenberg’s appearance was far from bolstering, but Trott was just glad to have someone to talk to.
“So, what happened, Bobby? Did you bail out, or ditch?”
“I jumped, sir," Greenberg answered a bit too abruptly, and oddly looked back at the passage behind him before adding, "Lieutenant Jacoby…you remember him, sir?”
Trott nodded, picturing the face of yet another man he had almost forgotten, just one of many claimed by the deadly air war over the Pacific.
“Lieutenant Jacoby was talking to me on the radio,” Greenberg continued, still somewhat nervously, “when we got jumped by a Zeke. Came at us from the side, guns blazing. Had us dead nuts on, sir. Splashed us on the first pass. Chopped the fuselage to pieces. I looked up at the pilot cockpit, but all I could see was blood on the wind shield. There was no way he could have survived, sir, so I jumped. Then these guys showed up.”
“I’m sure your buddies will be glad to hear you’re okay, Bobby.”
Greenberg stared at him incredulously. “You mean they don’t know, sir? They don’t know I’m alive?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember reading the notice of your rescue in the message traffic.” Trott immediately regretted having said anything after seeing Greenberg grow visibly distraught before his eyes. Trott forced a reassuring grin. “But you’re in a different squadron, Bobby. It’s a real possibility that message didn’t go out to the whole air wing, but just to Torpedo 25. I’ll bet that’s it.”
This explanation did not appear to encourage Greenberg in the least. Two more explosions sounded some distance outside the Wolffish’s hull, but Greenberg seemed not to hear them. He simply stared at the deck open-mouthed, as if contemplating all of the repercussions to the prospect that he might have been declared presumed dead. It was a possibility. Trott did not know a whole lot about submarines, but he knew that they seldom risked radio transmissions. When they did, the messages were nearly always of a tactical nature. Greenberg’s name might have been appended to the end of a lengthy contact report and completely overlooked by the handlers back in Pearl Harbor. His plane had been shot down nearly three weeks ago. In all that time, stuck on this submarine, with no way of contacting his family, he must have taken heart in the belief that the navy had gotten word to his folks that he was alive and well. Now, Trott had cast doubt on that reality, and he could only imagine what was going through the young radioman-gunner’s mind.
“Tell me about this sub, Bobby,” Trott asked in an attempt to steer his thoughts elsewhere. “What have you been doing all this time?”
“They've probably held my funeral by now,” Greenberg mumbled distantly, as if he had not heard him.
“The boat, Bobby,” Trott said sharply, growing somewhat annoyed at the sailor’s overdrawn malaise. He was in no mood to coddle the young man, especially after his own ordeal. “Tell me about the boat.”
Greenberg shrugged, his tone still somewhat disheartened. “There’s not much to tell, sir. These guys are okay, I guess, but they’re not the friendliest bunch. They were done with their patrol early, and were headed back to Midway, when they got diverted to lifeguard duty. Most of them aren’t too thrilled about it. They were looking forward to some R&R on the beach. It’s pretty clear they’d rather be there now than here, fishing guys like us out of the water. Don’t be surprised, sir, if you get the cold shoulder.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to remember that.”
Trott now understood why some of the crew had not seemed as friendly as the good-natured chief and the helpful steward Hansen. But he could sense some apprehension in Greenberg's demeanor, as if the young rear-seater was holding something back.
“Have you seen any action with them?” Trott asked.
“Not so much. From what I understand, they can’t go off chasing every ship that comes by when they’re on lifeguard duty. There have been lots of contacts, or so I’ve been told, but none close enough to attack. I’ve done a few turns at lookout, but I’ve never been topside when a ship was spotted or when any land was in sight. I don’t spend much time in the control room, either, so I’m not even sure where we are right now. Where the hell are we, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Off the coast of Mindanao.”
“Where’s that?”
“About four thousand miles from anywhere you’d ever want to go.”
Greenberg briefly gave the first genuine smile Trott had seen on his face, but then quickly returned to his former gloomy, brooding state. “Any news about my old squadron, sir? I never thought I’d miss those guys, but I sure miss them now.”
“They’re doing fine.”
“Any losses?” Greenberg asked hesitantly.
Trott considered telling him about the five men Torpedo 25 had lost in the last month, two to the enemy and three to accidents, but he decided it might do more harm than good. He did not remember all of their names, and the last thing Greenberg needed right now was another element of uncertainty about the fate of his friends.
“No,” Trott finally answered. “No losses.”
Greenberg shot him a suspicious look, and Trott tried his best to mask his expression in his coffee cup. But then, a sudden explosion, much louder than the others, shook the hull, enough to splash hot coffee into Trott's lap. He exchanged startled glances with Greenberg.
Trott detected an urgency in the voices in the control room down the passage, a chord of anxiety that had not been there before. They were concerned. And at that moment, Trott knew that his interminable wait in the wardroom was about to get a lot more interesting.
CHAPTER V
A billowing cloud of smoke moved horizontally above the hills of the promontory. As the headland fell away, the camouflaged hulls of three ships emerged. They steamed in column, the churning gasses spewing from their squat stacks revealing their haste. Upon clearing the point of land, the ships made a sharp turn to the north, their masts leaning to starboard, their churning screws drawing a giant white arc in the blue waters as they steadied on a new course that would take them up the coast.
The rising sun emblem of Japan whipped and jerked from their fantails. They were warships, one destroyer and two escorts, each rust-streaked hull weathered by months at sea, each crew honed and trained by the brutal discipline of the Imperial Navy. The three ships were but a miniscule element of a colossal fleet that had battled Allied navies across half of the globe, from the Indian Ocean to the Hawaiian Islands, from the Solomons to the Aleutians, a bloody conflict the savagery of which surpassed any naval war in history, littering the bottom of the sea with thousands of ships, and hundreds of thousands of dead.
The column fanned out into a line abreast, like competitors in a race, their plunging bows tossing the seas aside as if each strove to be the first to reach the enemy, the first to exact revenge for the air raid that had wreaked destruction on Davao. Helmeted Japanese sailors ran to their stations, unlashing stacks of depth charges, and preparing gun mounts.
The roar of engines overhead signaled the arrival of a squadron of friendly N1K fighters. They had pushed their aircraft, flying all the way from their airfield at Buayan in little less than an hour, but the American planes had long since gone. Now, with no enemy to blast from the sky, the fighters overflew the warships, heading toward the same spot in the ocean where the coastal batteries had reported firing on an American submarine.
Circling like dogs in a fox hunt, the fighters flew high and low. They searched the blue sea below for a periscope
, a shadow, an effervescence, a wisp of spray, or any sign of the submerged enemy. They were still searching when the warships arrived and immediately began piercing the shadowy depths with shrill pulses of sonic energy.
The captain of the destroyer Yokaze, thirty-two-year-old Commander Timeshi Nagata, strode to the starboard bridge wing, shading his face from the sun as he looked up at the orbiting planes. The aircraft were searching where the submarine had disappeared nearly half an hour ago, as instinct might have prompted him to do had he not operated against the undersea devils before. Nagata was no novice. He had seen his share of anti-submarine operations, and was considered something of an expert, with two submarine kills under his belt. That label, however, had come to annoy Nagata immensely. It was almost certainly the primary reason why, weeks ago, the Yokaze had been pulled from the main battle fleet and re-assigned to harbor guard duty at Davao. Escorting merchant ships and chasing submarines was a painstaking, tedious business, with little or no glory, and he would gladly give it up to get back to the battle line.
Nagata crossed to the other wing of the destroyer’s bridge, crowded with officers and lookouts pressing binoculars to their faces.
“Your pardon, Captain,” an ensign beside him spoke. The young officer held a phone to his ear tethered by a long cable that allowed him to follow Nagata around the bridge. “The radio officer reports a message from the air squadron commander. His planes have sighted no trace of the enemy submarine.”
As expected, Nagata mused. Now, the game of Go could begin.
“Tell the radio officer to relay a message back to the squadron commander,” he said. “Remain on station as long as fuel allows.”
The young ensign repeated the order into the phone, his voice filled with exhilaration. As wearisome as this duty was to Nagata, the young officer seemed thrilled by it. He was a new replacement, having only arrived from Japan a few days ago – one of the cadre of new officers and sailors being trained to continue this interminable war which had cost Japan so much, and had gained her very little. The ensign was still invigorated by the false propaganda being fed to the people back home, that Japan was winning, that the Allies were suffering unsustainable losses in their overly-ambitious counter-offensive, that the enemy was afraid, and would soon sue for peace. The ensign had not yet been tainted by the intermittent grumblings of Yokaze’s veteran officers who, like Nagata, knew the hard truth. They had witnessed the determination of the enemy first hand in the Guadalcanal operation, where the Allied navies had engaged the Combined Fleet with a determination no one could ever categorize as fearful. In fact, mad recklessness would have been a better description, for that is how it seemed at times. Nagata had been in night actions in which entire squadrons of American cruisers and destroyers were reduced to burning wrecks, only to be replaced days, sometimes hours later by fresh squadrons, seemingly eager to meet the same fate as their comrades.
But, in the end, the Americans had won. Their objective had not been to win at sea, but to secure the island of Guadalcanal and its invaluable airfield, and, eventually, they had done that, in spite of so many horrific naval losses.
Nagata noticed the ensign leaning over the rail, peering into the dark blue water four decks below, as if he could see the enemy through the light-swallowing barrier. Who knew what the training schools were teaching youths like him about the Guadalcanal disaster? It would not surprise Nagata if they were spinning it as a victory, as the Imperial General Headquarters had to the people.
A recent letter from his own daughter had exemplified the dishonorable deceit that was being perpetuated by the government. In it, she had expressed her great sadness over a recent public announcement that the Ueno Zoo in Tokyo had been forced to poison several animals as a precaution, in the event that enemy air attacks allowed the animals to escape and harm the local population. That was the official explanation, but any man fighting on the front line knew the real reason. American submarines, like the one Yokaze now prosecuted, had devastated Japan’s imports to the point that food supplies were running low – too low to expend on penned animals. Hard-biting rationing was coming soon for Japan’s general public.
How could Imperial Japan withstand so many nations? How could she continue the fight when so many enemy aircraft carriers now cruised the Pacific, striking at will, while the Combined Fleet hunkered in safe harbors, waiting for their own carrier forces to be replenished by planes and pilots that did not exist? The war was lost. The only thing that remained now was to die preserving their honor.
A faint whine resonated from the ocean’s surface as the Yokaze’s sonar probed the deep. Nagata did not expect it to take long. The escort Kiku’s sonar was similarly searching a few hundred yards to port. Nagata would have preferred adding yet another sonar to the search, but the unit aboard the other escort, the Enoki, was out of commission and beyond the skill of the technicians at Davao to repair. But, no matter, she had brought her depth charges to the hunt, and that would be enough.
The planes would not have found the enemy, and that was because no submarine captain in his right mind would dare remain anywhere near the spot where he had submerged. Comprehending that the water was somewhat shallow here, and that the current ran south along the coastline, Nagata had concluded there was only one logical choice of maneuvers for the submarine’s captain. The American would use those strong currents to get as far away as possible from his diving point, which is precisely why Nagata had ordered his ships to slow and begin their search right here, ten kilometers to the south of that location. The seas were pushing against the Yokaze’s bows at a good three knots. Add to that four knots from the submarine’s own propulsion and he had come up with a good estimate of her present position.
It was not long before his calculations were confirmed, and his foresight was rewarded.
“Kiku reports a contact, Captain!” The ensign’s eyes lit up with joy as he relayed the report. “Two thousand meters off the port bow!”
Nagata smiled, glancing at the smartly-handled escort steaming off Yokaze’s port beam. “Excellent, Yamasuki,” he said quietly, as if the captain of the Kiku, could hear him across the watery expanse that separated the two ships. Yamasuki was proficient and had a good crew under him. He would not lose the enemy.
Nagata then nodded to the waiting ensign. “To all ships, commence tracking. All depth charge racks and throwers stand by.”
CHAPTER VI
“I think they’ve found us, skipper,” Jansen announced. “That tin can’s shifting to attack frequency. Steady bearing, high speed. He’s coming right at us!”
From the rear of the conning tower, Keane exchanged glances with Ficarelli, who had been plotting the lines of bearing passed to him by the sound operator for the last half hour as the Japanese warships slowly closed the distance. The plot clearly showed how the enemy had countered every one of Keane’s evasive moves.
“Left full rudder!” Keane commanded in frustration. “All ahead full!”
As the Wolffish picked up speed, and the deck began to tilt, Keane exasperatedly slammed his fist into the cork-insulation on the bulkhead, starting a small waterfall of condensate. He cursed under his breath. The enemy had out-guessed him. Either that, or they had gotten extremely lucky.
He noticed the glances from those around him. They had been in such spots before. They knew his idiosyncrasies, and it was not the first time they had seen him vent his aggravation. Still, he had to check himself. As familiar as they were, as much as they behaved as a single machine during an approach and attack, he was their captain. They drew strength from him. He had to stay confident, to reassure them they would get through this.
“How much water beneath the keel, George?”
“Thirty fathoms, Captain,” the reply came through the open hatch to the control room. “If you can work us further to the northwest, we might see a good drop off in about five miles.”
Alexander was looking at the navigation chart on the large table in the control room below
, as any good diving officer should, making recommendations that seemed logical. But Keane had other tactical factors to consider. He studied Ficarelli’s chart, which was similar to the one in the control room, but marked with as many drops of perspiration as pencil marks.
If they headed northwest, as Alexander suggested, they would be using the meager power left in the batteries to fight against a current that would probably set the submarine further back than forward. On the other hand, should the Wolffish drive with the current, she would end up near the tip of the promontory, about five miles to the southwest. That was no good either. The shoal markings on the chart were decades old, and Davy Jones only knew what seismic events or dredging might have happened in that time.
And then there were the mines.
Again, Keane cursed his own judgement. Why had he taken the risk of moving closer to save the damned pilot? Was it worth a whole submarine and its crew to save one man?
Or was it something personal? Was he trying to prove to them, and to himself, that it could be done, that the events of three weeks ago were merely a fluke? He could have turned the ship around and made for the open sea after watching through the periscope as that American dive bomber crashed into the sea. He could have justified such an action, even after seeing the pilot leap from the burning plane, but the Wolffish had not come here to run away. She had come to do a job, and was his responsibility to see it done.
The men around him appeared absorbed in their tasks, but he knew what was going through their minds. They thought he was mad to commit them to such folly.
Now, he had taken an even greater gamble by maneuvering south. That gamble had failed, and now they were in a trap – one from which they might not escape.
“To the maneuvering room,” he said, turning to Mills. “Report estimated charge left on the batteries.”
Dive Beneath the Sun Page 4
