“The name’s Frank. And yes, that’s my cab. We have some ammo for you, Griffith and Issac.”
They peered into the LCM’s well to see several pallets of olive drab five-inch gun projectiles; stacked nose up, deadly. Suppose we call away a work party?” Ashton said.
“The sooner, the better,” agreed Landa. “Excuse me.” He stepped over to Tubby White, palmed his elbow and moved him away. “Why didn’t you let me know he’d arrived?” he hissed.
“Captain, he just pulled up without warning. I didn’t know.”
“You goldbrick.” Landa’s teeth were clenched. “We had word of this at 0800. Don’t you read the message board?”
“I---” Tubby looked wildly at Ingram.
Landa seethed, “as far as I’m concerned, Mister, you can have your damned PT transfer, the sooner the better. Now call away a work party and get that ammo aboard. Better get the chief gunner, too.” His hand tightened on White’s elbow.
Tubby White jerked his elbow away and stood at attention. “Yes, Sir. Will there be anything else, Sir?”
Landa unclenched his fists, spun, and walked back to Ashton, who flipped pages on a clip board.
Ingram moved over and said, “Not your fault, Tubby. The radioman forgot to post the message. I’ll fix it with the skipper.”
White glared at Landa and rubbed his elbow. “Sonofabitch.”
“That’s enough. I said I would fix it,” said Ingram. “By the way,” he said more softly, “your transfer came through about a half hour ago. This is your last watch aboard the Howell. So when you’re relieved, go have chow, pack your gear and adios.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir,”
“Forget it, Tubby. The Captain’s had bad news about his brother.”
Tubby White’s face said so what?
“Better call away that work detail.” Ingram patted Tubby White’s shoulder, then joined Landa and Ashton as they moved forward to the wardroom.
White watched Ashton lead the way, grinning and returning salutes as he went, waving his arms, laughing. God, now there’s a leader. The kind of guy you’d follow anywhere.
As for Landa, he thought, I’ll fix that bastard.
Seltzer walked up, brushing off his hands. “Mr. White, Sir, about my proposal for that scotch?”
“Later, damnit.”
“Yes, Sir.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
6 March, 1943
U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)
Tulagi Harbor, Solomon Islands
As tradition dictated, Landa, the ship’s commanding officer, took the head of the table for the noon meal. Ashton sat to Landa’s right, a chair normally reserved for Todd Ingram, the executive officer. So Ingram sat to Landa’s left, the rest of the officers arranged in the usual order of seniority with Edgerton, the boot ensign, sitting in the far corner.
Landa toyed with his food. The others were quiet, too. Maybe it was the heat, Ingram thought. Their faces were flushed, in spite of three mighty fans, giving it their all. Thankfully, a cold bean salad was the main course served along with a semi-viscous tomato soup of dubious origin.
From courtesy, all waited for the ranking officer, Ashton, to begin the meal. He rubbed his hands and said, “Looks good.” He raised his spoon with a flourish, slurped loudly and said, “What? Cold soup?”
At the table’s end, Ensign Edgerton lifted a full spoonful and swallowed. “Owwww. Cheez!” He fanned his mouth furiously, and his face turned red.
“Here.” Kelly shoved over a glass of water.
“Joke’s so old,” Ashton laughed, “I didn’t believe anyone would fall for it. I should apologize.”
“Don’t,” said Landa. “He’s headed for a lot worse. Might as well get used to it.”
“What’s his name?” Ashton asked.
“Edgerton, Sir,” Ingram told him.
“Mr. Edgerton. Where you from, Sailor?”
“Cuyahoga Falls, Sir,” Edgerton gasped. “That’s in Ohio,”
“You bet I know where Cuyahoga Falls is. I’m from Sioux Falls.”
“I’ll be damned,” Edgerton blurted,
Kelly grinned. “Me too, Sir.”
“Where?” asked Ashton.
“Sioux Falls. You know South Euclid?” Kelly said.
Ashton sat back. “I’ll be damned. That’s where I grew up. Tell me, Mr...”
“Kelly.”
“Mr. Kelly. I haven’t been back in twenty years. Do the Tanner Brothers still have their hardware store?”
“I’ll be damned,” said Kelly “ As far as I know, they do.”
Ashton eyed the rest of the table. “For the rest of you unfortunates, the Tanner Brothers gave free candy, summer employment to neighborhood kids, shelter to hobos, and had the hottest stove in winter. The grown ups would sit by the cracker barrel and talk politics, religion, women, and every other damned thing under the sun. We called it the...” He snapped his fingers.
“...Spit and Argue club,” said Kelly
“That’s it. The Spit and Argue Club.” While the others ate, Ashton kept talking. Soon, he was reminiscing about his first duty assignment out of the Naval Academy. “...she was the Lindsay, an old four stack destroyer.” In a single, fluid motion Ashton loaded more bean salad on his plate, took a bite, then continued, a far off look in his eye. “Along came World War I and we found ourselves bouncing in the North Atlantic on convoy duty. Now you guys may have a legitimate gripe about what’s going on down here, but, I’ll tell you, the North Atlantic in winter is not my idea of a good time. And still,” he smiled, “we got two German U-boats.”
“Really?” said Kelly.
“Caught the first one on the surface at night. Damn fool was up-moon. Didn’t see us coming...”
Something struck Ingram. Ashton, Ashton. Yes...he’d heard of this senior naval captain who still looked as if he’d stepped from a recruiting poster. He was a favored son, reputed to be in line for the top job at the Bureau of Ordnance. And the Ashtons were a well known Navy family; hell, the guy’s great grandfather had stood beside Farragut at the Battle of Mobile Bay.
Ashton stabbed the air with a fork. “...we ran over him and laid a pattern of six depth charges. But God, it was stormy. Waves with short periods and steep troughs. I don’t know how we rolled them off. In fact, one depth charge pitched off the ready rack and slid around the deck. Took four men to grab hold and wrestle it down. They were scared. I don’t blame them. So was I. Four hundred and fifty pounds clanking around. Then they set the fuse and shoved it over. Turns out that was the one that got him.” With a grin, Ashton fashioned an explosion with his hands. “Whump! Right away. The Jerry’s stern shot in the air, hung there for a moment then went straight down.”
The plates were cleared and the conversation became animated, with the officers hurling questions at Ashton.
Seltzer knocked and walked into the wardroom wearing his hat, duty belt, and side arm. Standing at attention, he said, “Captain, the Officer of the deck sends his respects and reports the hour of twelve hundred. The chronometers have been wound and compared, and he would like to submit the noon position and fuel status reports.” Seltzer handed over two slips.
“And the OOD is...?” Landa asked.
Seltzer said, “Mr. Foreman relieved Mr. White about fifteen minutes ago, Captain.”
“Is the ammo aboard, yet?”
“Almost. About twenty rounds to go, Captain.”
“Very well. Please give Mr. Foreman my compliments. And tell him he may light the smoking lamp when finished loading ammo.” Landa pocketed the noon status slips.
“Yes, Sir.” Seltzer turned and walked out.
“Excuse me, Captain.” Ingram rose and followed Seltzer down the passage way. “Leo?”
Seltzer stopped and turned. “Sir?”
“Where’s Tubby?”
“Damned if I know. What’s with the Skipper, anyway? His little gig on the quarterdeck went over like a turd in a beer pitcher.”
“It’s his b
rother.”
“Don’t matter.”
Seltzer had pushed beyond the limit, but Ingram let it pass. He and Seltzer had joined the Howell last September and fought side-by-side in the Battles of Cape Esperance and the Santa Cruz Islands. Later, while the Howell was in the Brisbane shipyard, they had been parachuted into Japanese-held Mindanao on a top secret, near-fatal assignment. By now, their times in combat had forged a bond of mutual trust. Ingram said, “He’ll get over it. We just have to be patient. It’s Tubby I’m worried about. He didn’t show up for chow. Usually, he’s the first one to the hog trough.”
Seltzer shrugged.
“Okay.” Ingram left Seltzer, headed down the ladder into ‘Officer’s Country’ and walked to Tubby’s stateroom. Sweeping aside the curtain, he looked in. Empty.
He retraced his steps and bumped into Tubby White.
“Excuse me, Sir.” White stepped in, flipped his pith helmet on the desk, pulled a dufflebag from the overhead and threw it on the bunk.
“You going up for chow?”
“No, thank you, Sir.” White yanked opened drawers, dug out his clothes and stuffed them into the duffle.
Feeling Ingram’s eyes on his back, he turned and added, “A stores boat is standing by to give me a hop to the PT base.” He paused, “If that’s okay with you, Sir.”
“Come on, Tubby. You don’t have to walk off like this.”
Tubby stuffed soiled laundry atop clean shirts and trousers. “All I need are my orders, Sir.”
Ingram pushed his toe through a patch of rust on the deck. When first built, Officer’s Country in the Fletcher class destroyers had dark-green linoleum decks, haze grey bulkheads and white overheads. Good for habitability, bad for fire prevention, as many had learned in the past few months. In fact, BuShips had passed orders for all ships to immediately remove all flammable materials such as linoleum, wood paneling, and interior paint, which had to be scraped to bare metal. So now, everything was a dull rust-brown, giving one a repressed feeling, which perfectly matched Tubby’s demeanor at the moment.
After a long pause Ingram said, “As you wish, Mr. White. You may pick up your orders in the ship’s office.” He turned and walked aft.
“Mr. Ingram?” Tubby’s head poked in the passageway.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. You’ve treated me swell. I don’t have it in for you. But I can’t let that jerk--”
“--don’t forget to say goodbye to the Captain.” Ingram headed down the passageway.
A baize green cloth covered the wardroom table, and the chairs were re-arranged classroom style, facing the starboard side where Captain Ashton stood before a portable blackboard. He scrawled on the blackboard, TOP SECRET, then said, “Need I say more?”
His eyes swept the wardroom. “Okay, let’s start from the top. Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto is the guy, who you know, runs the whole Jap Navy. And, in case you didn’t know, it’s this jerk who planned the Pearl Harbor attack. But now, Mr. Yamamoto is one angry sonofabitch. He is angry because we kicked him off Guadalcanal two months ago.”
A few smiled.
“You’re proud, and rightfully so. This ship distinguished herself admirably in the Santa Cruz Islands battle and at Cape Esperance. So now, Mr. Yamamoto is swinging at anchor in Truk Lagoon, trying to figure out a way to knock us on our butts and eventually kick us out of Guadalcanal.” Ashton paused for a moment. “Except for the Barber incident, it’s been a quiet time. We believe something’s coming our way, but we’re not sure what it is exactly. But, you can bet the Japs will throw everything at us, except maybe Tojo’s limousine. So what we’re trying to do right now is figure out a way to stop the bastards. Cold. In their tracks.
“Now, for the past two years, a special office of BuOrd, simply called Department ‘T,’ has been working on something to counter the enemy air threat.” Ashton smacked a fist in his palm. “And now, I’m happy to tell you that we’ve done it. I--”
A clean-shaven Tubby White knocked softly and stepped in, a large envelope tucked under his arm. He was dressed in clean khaki’s. His shoes were shined; even his belt buckle was polished. “Excuse me, Sir.”
Landa looked up. “Yes?”
“Sorry for the interruption, Captain. Permission to leave the ship, Sir?” Tubby said.
Landa stood, took Tubby’s hand and said, “Of course.” He flashed his best grin and said, “Good luck in those floating hundred-octane bombs, Tubby.”
Ashton coughed politely and sipped coffee, while the other officers said their good-byes. There was a good round of handshakes with cat-calls following Tubby as he walked out.
Landa waved a hand to Ashton. “Sorry, Sir.”
“It’s okay. You, Issac and Griffith are my first clients, so to speak, especially since,” Ashton glanced at his watch, “ you’re underway for the Blackett Straits this evening. So I have two more calls this afternoon.”
Landa nodded.
“Gentlemen,” Ashton asked in a crisp baritone. “They’ve sent me all the way from Silver Spring, Maryland, to indoctrinate you into the use of the Mark 32 proximity fuse.”
Ingram looked around, seeing more than one officer sitting pitched forward in his chair.
Ashton’s chalk squeaked on the board as he drew a picture of a five inch projectile, then, an expanded view of the fuse that sat atop the projectile .”The Mark 32 proximity fuse is, in reality, a miniature radar set. After it leaves the gun-barrel, it sends out radio waves just like a radar transmitter. At the same time, a receiver in the fuse senses the echoed waves as they bounce back from a target. When the shell is closest to the target, it goes off, spreading a lethal pattern of shrapnel. Right now, we estimate the kill ratio to be about fifty percent, compared to the ten percent of your current Mark 18, mechanical time fuses.”
“You gotta be kidding,” said Lou Delmonico, a dark, wavy haired lieutenant who was Howell’s new gun boss. He’d been aboard only a few days to replace Luther Dutton. They all began talking, with Delmonico asking, “What fires the fuse?”
“Basically, there’s an oscillator that receives the reflected waves from a target.” Ashton sketched as he spoke, “The outgoing and incoming signals interact to create a ripple signal. Thus, when the projectile closes the target to within seventy feet, the ripple pattern triggers a thyratron tube. Now, that’s really a switch which sends an electric current to a condenser which, in turn, sets off an explosion in the tetryl detonator here,” Ashton smacked the board, breaking the chalk. Tossing the broken pieces in the tray, he brushed off his hands and continued, “That, in turn, fires the projectile’s main charge. Boom!”
“You mean we don’t have to set fuses?” Ingram asked. In addition to aiming the gun, fuse setting was one of the trickiest parts of the air defense problem. Projectiles were set to explode at a pre-set time. If the ship’s gunfire control computer calculated correctly, the shell would explode when it arrived at the target. Otherwise, it would detonate uselessly before or after the target, leaving the familiar puffy black smoke puff in the sky.
“No.” Ashton folded his hands. “No fuse setting. In a way, that’s why some of us call the proximity fuse the variable time or VT fuse, because we don’t have to calculate the time of flight. The fuse’s radar signal does it all.”
“Yikes! No excuse for your guys missing now.” Chief Engineer Hank Kelly smacked Gun Boss Lou Delmonico on the arm.
A hub-bub arose with everyone talking at once. Someone whooped with, “So solly, Cholly. Sayonara.”
Landa turned and gave his officers a sour look. Ingram put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly.
“How can you be so sure?” Landa said after they quieted.
“Believe me, Jerry, we tested this fuse at Dahlgren until the cows came home. And we kept testing after that. It’s ready. And it is effective. And it is safe to handle. We made sure of that.”
“But you have no experience in the fleet. You---“
“Actually we do.” Ashton interrupte
d, looking at his watch again. “ The Helena shot down a Betty using VT ammo a little over a month ago,” he pointed northwest, “right up The Slot.”
Quiet descended on the wardroom. Landa crossed his arms and looked at the deck, his lips pressed white. After a minute he looked up . “...but the set-back would ruin your little radar set. A cannon punching out a shell at twenty thousand Gs. Then it spins at---“
“Believe me, Jerry. It works. And Rocko Myszynski has bought into the VT fuse and will incorporate it into squadron doctrine in the next few days.”
“I wouldn’t know about that; we’re too busy fighting Japs,” Landa said softly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry Captain. Just talking to myself.”
“I see.” Ashton reached into his briefcase and produced a thick folder of papers. “Here’s Commodore Myszynski’s doctrine draft regarding DESRON TWELVE using variable time fuses for anti-aircraft warfare. He’s asked me to give a copy to you and the other skippers for comment.” Ashton dropped the folder on the wardroom table, his gaze on Landa. “Are there any questions?”
“No, Sir. I don’t think so,” said Landa.
“Then, I thank you.” Ashton quickly wiped off the chalk board, stuffed his material in his briefcase, and walked out.
The others stood, but Landa said, “Hold on. Remain in your seats, please. I want to go over a few things about tonight.” Then he walked out after Ashton.
Delmonico poured coffee. “What the hell gives, XO?” Ingram shook his head. “Damned if I know.” He grabbed his cap and headed out to find it had begun raining. In fact, the storm was heavy, with water sheeting down the decks. Momentarily, he took shelter under the starboard motor whale boat as a cloudburst grew to a roar. When it lightened, Ingram saw Ashton and Landa talking thirty feet further aft, standing in the open, oblivious to the rain. They were nearly nose to nose and were red-faced; and it wasn’t the oppressive humidity, Ingram could tell. Men ducked past, as if the two senior officers were pedestrians blocking a Manhattan sidewalk during a blizzard. Their conversation grew more animated. Suddenly, Ashton stepped back and pointed a finger at Landa. Landa gave a retort.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 7
