Hara-Kiri_a novel of the Pacific War
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Area of Operation - The Philippines
Beginning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Japanese sea lanes, September 1944.
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
The crisis off Samar, October 25, 1944.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Historical Notes
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About the Author
HARA-KIRI
A novel of the Pacific War
©2018 Craig DiLouie. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
Editing by Timothy Johnson. Cover art by Eloise Knapp Design. Interior design by Ella Beaumont.
Published by ZING Communications, Inc.
www.CraigDiLouie.com
Click here to sign up for Craig’s mailing list and be the first to find out about new episodes of the Crash Dive series! When you sign up, you’ll receive a link to Craig’s interactive submarine adventure, Fire One.
Area of operations. The Philippines.
CHAPTER ONE
CHANGING OF THE GUARD
Captain Howard Saunders called all hands to quarters.
The crew mustered under the hot sun on the Sandtiger’s salt-stained deck. Lt. Grady, Lt. Percy, and Lt. Nixon stood in dress whites, while the sailors arrayed in neat rows behind them in their white hats and dungarees.
And Lt. Commander Charlie Harrison, USN, sweated in his high-necked white tunic while his heart pounded against the decorations lining his chest. Never in combat had he felt as nervous as he did now.
He filled his lungs with air and bawled, “Attennnnnnshun!”
Vice Admiral Charles Lockwood, Captain Squadron Commander Rich Cooper, and their entourage crossed the gangplank while the Navy band played “Semper Paratus” on the pier.
All hands saluted in unison. The senior officers returned it. As the band finished, Vice Admiral Lockwood paraded, inspecting the men.
He paused before Charlie. “You believe in destiny, Harrison?”
“I believe in its pursuit, sir.”
The man smiled. “Let’s just say I thought we’d be doing this one day.”
“Thank you for your faith, sir.”
The admiral pinned the Navy Cross to Charlie’s tunic. “Congratulations on an outstanding war patrol. You seem to enjoy taking the fight to the enemy on land, but we’re hoping this new posting will keep you in the Navy a while.”
Charlie smiled back. “Thank you, sir.”
Lockwood inspected the crew next, pausing to pin the Silver Star to Machinist’s Mate John Braddock’s chest. The big sailor’s sour expression broke into an incredulous grin. They shook hands.
Satisfied with his inspection, Lockwood returned to Cooper’s side. One of the admiral’s aides read aloud a letter of commendation for the patrol to Saipan, noting Chief McDonough’s posthumous award of the Navy Cross. Every man would have a copy placed in his service record. Many had received their dolphins, and all were authorized to wear the Submarine Combat Pin with three stars, recognizing the Sandtiger’s four consecutive war patrols with one or more ships sunk.
This done, Charlie commanded the men to parade rest. Under his feet, one of the deadliest war machines ever built lay moored to the pier. A Gato-class submarine displacing 1,500 tons of water, the Sandtiger was over 300 feet long and twenty-seven feet wide at the beam. Six forward tubes, four aft, fitted with a complement of twenty-four torpedoes. Her four diesel engines drove her at a top speed of twenty knots on the surface, while her four electric motors allowed a top submerged speed of nine knots. She could dive to 300 feet and range 11,000 miles.
The Navy Yard at Mare Island had refurbished her inside and out, including a fresh coat of black and gray paint, a five-inch deck gun, upgraded SJ radar, and a streamlined superstructure that allowed her to sail with a minimized silhouette.
The Sandtiger still had her scars, visible even with the new paint job. The Imperial Japanese Navy had mauled her more than once. Still, she’d delivered far worse than she’d gotten and survived every encounter. Her proud battle flag waved on the clothesline stretching from the bow to the periscope supports, displaying a grinning shark in a sailor’s hat along with numerous patches bragging of ships sunk. Seventeen sinkings in five patrols, nearly 50,000 tons, while logging enough miles to circle the globe twice.
She still had many more miles to go and many more fights before this war ended.
“We are winning this war,” Admiral Lockwood told the crew. “But we haven’t won it yet. With so much at stake, the Navy must have the right men commanding the submarines. It’s a job for tough, decisive leaders. You men were lucky to have such a man in your commanding officer, Captain Howard Saunders.”
Lockwood pinned the Silver Star to Saunders’s tunic and shook his hand. “Read your orders of detachment, Captain.”
Captain Saunders read his orders aloud and finished: “Haul down my flag.”
Crewmen lowered the captain’s pennant while the band flourished, ending with the crash of a gun salute. While the awards ceremony was highly formalized, the ritual of changing command was even more formal and steeped in Navy tradition. The ceremony officially transferred responsibility and authority over a U.S. warship from one commanding officer to another. All hands mustered had a clear view of the proceedings, as it required the entire crew to bear witness.
Saunders said, “I am ready to be relieved.”
Captain Squadron Commander Cooper handed Charlie an envelope. “Read your orders, if you please, Mr. Harrison.”
Charlie opened it and found two carefully folded sheets of paper.
He unfolded the first. It showed a Varga girl lying naked on pillows, giving him a mischievous look over her bare shoulder.
Charlie shot a glance at Rusty and Percy, who smirked while keeping their eyes fixed straight ahead.
He cleared his throat and unfolded the second sheet. “To Lt. Commander Charles Frederick Harrison, USN. Report no later than September 8, 1944 to SSN Sandtiger at Pearl Harbor Submarine Base. Upon arrival on board, report to Howard Saunders, commanding officer, SSN Sandtiger for duty as his relief. Then report to the immediate superior in command. Signed, Vice Admiral Charles Lockwood, Commander, Submarine Force, U.S. Pacific Fleet.”
His mouth gone dry, Charlie swallowed hard and saluted Saunders. “I relieve you, sir.”
Saunders returned the salute. “I stand relieved.”
“Break my flag,” Charlie commanded.
Crewm
en raised his pennant to full honors.
“Scared?” Saunders murmured to him as the band played.
“Yes,” Charlie said.
“The boat’s in good hands. Do your duty and never look back. You’ll do fine.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“You’re the captain now.”
After the ritual ended with firing guns, Charlie marched forward to salute Cooper. “Sir, I have properly relieved Howard Saunders as commanding officer of the Sandtiger and report to duty.”
Cooper returned the salute. “Very well, Captain.”
Charlie turned to address the crew, the faces of the young men who’d survived the Sea of Japan with him, who’d sailed with him to Saipan. “The sand tiger is a very cunning shark, a night feeder that hunts by stealth. The Electric Boat Company built our Sandtiger well. She has fought hard and taken good care of us. But you are her fighting spirit. Submarining is a team effort, and I couldn’t ask for a better crew. I’m proud to take command and continue Sandtiger’s winning streak begun by Captain Moreau and continued by Captain Saunders, whom we all wish well. As far as what comes next, I’ll simply quote Captain Mush Morton: ‘Stay on the bastard until he’s on the bottom.’ We keep doing that, we can all go home.”
The crew broke protocol by erupting into a full-throated cheer.
Charlie said into the din, “All standing orders and regulations remain in effect. Mr. Grady, you may take charge and dismiss the ship’s company.”
The band struck up a plucky rendering of “Bravura” as the crew cheered again and swarmed below deck to the reception held in the wardroom and crew’s mess.
Rusty grinned. “You ready for this?”
Charlie smiled but said nothing.
His friend changed his question to a statement of fact. “You’re ready for this.”
“Yes,” Charlie said, surprised by a surge of confidence. “I’m ready.”
“Remember what I told you. Half the job is doing, the other half is acting like you know what you’re doing.”
“I’ll remember. Nice touch with the Varga girl, by the way.”
Rusty laughed. “Another reminder for you. You got to hang loose to make it in the submarines.”
“Duly noted. Again.”
“That and to show you what we’re all fighting for, brother.”
During the invasion of Saipan, American bombers flew their first raid since the Doolittle raid of 1942. Nearly fifty B-29s based in India bombed the steel works at Yawata. The following month, American Marines completed the conquest of Saipan and liberated Guam. By August, they captured all the Marianas.
Now the Pearl Harbor Naval Base buzzed with news American forces had invaded Morotai and Peleliu. Soon, bombers would be able to stage from the Marianas and pound Tokyo on a daily basis. American grunts would continue battling their way straight to Honshu. The scuttlebutt was Taiwan or the Philippines were the next target for invasion. Taking either one would cut the Japanese home islands from their supply of oil, rubber, bauxite, coal, foodstuffs, cloth, and other materials that fed their insatiable war machine.
Meanwhile, the submarines would go on doing their part to starve the beast and shorten the war. Charlie chafed at the idea of attending the reception even though it was in his honor. He was captain now, the object of his hopes and destiny. What he wanted was orders. A fresh patrol in good hunting grounds.
He couldn’t wait to get back into the fight and see it through to the end. He couldn’t wait to see what else his destiny had in store for him.
CHAPTER TWO
NO PEDESTAL
In the red gloom of the Officer’s Club, Charlie sipped his scotch alone at a corner booth. He smiled at the busy waitresses plowing through cigarette smoke drifts with their trays of drinks. He thought of Evie, who wrote him a letter every week. And Jane, who didn’t, but still frequented his thoughts.
Things were looking up for him.
The Sandtiger had completed her voyage and combat repairs, along with a few upgrades. Per Navy policy, a quarter of the crew had rotated to new construction, but aside from the chief machinist’s mate—and Smokey, the chief quartermaster—he hadn’t lost any important personnel. Rusty had agreed to stay on as exec, which the Navy approved along with other staffing requests.
As well it should! The Navy owed him. In a heavy fog on the Celebes Sea, he’d sunk an aircraft carrier. He’d hammered his way out of the Sea of Japan and destroyed the Meteor, the giant coastal defense gun, on Saipan. Before earning his present rank, the Navy awarded him two Silver Stars, two Navy Crosses, and two Purple Hearts.
Normally a moderate drinker, Charlie found himself drunk. The scotch erased his usual self-doubt and buoyed his ego. Gone was the fatigue that had plagued him before Saipan. His impending confrontation with cleithrophobia didn’t bother him. He’d done it. He’d made captain, and now all he wanted was the chance to get back out there and sink Japanese ships.
In a week, he’d sail back into the war, and he expected the squadron commander to give him choice hunting grounds. Something big was about to happen, he could feel it. Whatever it was, he was certain the Sandtiger would play a part, with him leading her into combat.
This afternoon, he’d taken a break from the attack trainer to seek out other captains for advice. Dick O’Kane of the Tang, who’d apprenticed under Mush Morton; Eugene “Lucky” Fluckey of the Barb, who’d revolutionized night surface attacks by joining a convoy from astern before shooting; and Sam “The Destroyer Killer” Dealey of the Harder. The men had gone, but the effects of multiple glasses of scotch lingered. This last one was purely for celebration, the first time Charlie truly basked in his moment. After this, he’d splurge on a nice, juicy steak and maybe catch a movie.
For the first time in months, tonight was just for Charlie Harrison.
Rusty found him grinning into his glass.
“Good for you!” he said.
“Hey.” Charlie stiffened his posture into some semblance of an officer and a gentleman. “What’s good for me?”
“Hanging loose. Making it. Submarines. You can’t spend all your time in the attack trainer. Percy goes a bit overboard with his good times, but you could learn from him.”
“I’m doing a different kind of learning today.”
Rusty sat and waved his hand for service. “Care to explain that?”
Charlie told him he’d spoken with other captains to learn the lessons no school or trainer could teach him. He’d bought them all drinks and listened to their tales, gleaning wisdom from their triumphs and mistakes.
“Great idea,” Rusty said. “They must have some amazing stories. I’m sorry I missed it. Where’d they go?”
“They cleared out.”
Strange, how it happened. O’Kane, Fluckey, and Dealey had all heard of Charlie but appeared uncertain what to make of what they’d heard. They’d been friendly enough but excused themselves the first chance they had, as if he were a torpedo running hot in the tube.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I intimidated them a little. The whole Hara-kiri thing. All the stories going around.”
Rusty chuckled. “Brother, you are wasted. You want the truth?”
“Of course I want the truth.”
“Rig for collision, buddy.”
“Just spit it out already.”
He trusted his friend's judgment. From the bombing of Cavite to Saipan, Rusty had seen a lot of the fighting. He’d grown wise about war and Navy culture.
“They think you’re bad luck,” Rusty told him.
Charlie started. “What did I do?”
“I don’t know, let’s see. Every patrol you’ve been on, the captain either got killed, sick, or lost his nerve. The Navy may be a lot of things, but one thing’s for sure, it’s superstitious.”
“But I…” Charlie stopped. There was nothing to say. Superstition wasn’t something you could reason with.
In the old days of wooden sailing ships, sailors threw coins into the
foam and poured wine on the deck. They bore tattoos to ward off evil spirits. After getting their crew cuts, they wouldn’t trim their hair or nails again until the voyage was over. They spat into the harbor before launching.
Today, the Navy had fewer pervasive rituals, though plenty developed around each particular ship. When Charlie served on the Kennedy, the captain forbade the washing of coffee mugs until the end of the voyage. On the Sabertooth, the sailors threw coins to the crowd on the pier for safekeeping. On the Sandtiger, Percy used to wear his Aloha shirts. When the submarine originally launched, a bottle of champagne was broken against her bow, harkening back to the days of Vikings and Greeks greasing the skids with blood, which became wine and eventually the more celebratory champagne.
A waitress delivered Rusty’s drink. He sipped it and laughed. “I’m surprised Cooper let you on another boat, much less make captain.”
His friend was onto something, as usual. The realization sobered him. “You just knocked me right off my pedestal. I guess I had it coming.”
“Brother, this is the Navy. There ain’t any pedestal.”
“Well, you agreed to stay on as my exec. I take it you’re not the superstitious type.”
“Actually, I am. And you’re my lucky charm.”
Certain now Rusty was messing with him, Charlie threw him a dark look. “How am I your lucky charm, exactly?”
“Every time you’re on a boat, it goes through hell but makes it out okay, for starters. Plus you’re a new captain, at the bottom of the totem pole, and that means two things you can take to the bank. One, Cooper only gives busy shipping lanes to senior captains, so we’re in for a nice, quiet patrol. Two, there’s a torpedo shortage. We’ll be lucky if we get even half our usual number of fish. Can’t do a lot of fighting if we don’t have torpedoes in the tubes. I wanted to see the end of the war, not die in it. Lucy and Rusty Junior are counting on me coming home.”
“I thought…” Charlie let out a bitter laugh at his inflated sense of self-importance. “I had this idea… There’s no pedestal, is there?”
Rusty sipped his scotch and sighed. “No, there is not.”
Charlie tasted bile and stood. “Hold that thought.”