WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Landa rubbed stubble on his chin. “I’m putting those guys in for a bronze star.”

  “No argument from me,” Ingram said.

  “Do you think Dexter Sands will ever speak to me again?”

  “You were pretty brutal.”

  “Yeah, I was. Too bad.” Landa shook his head. “Let’s collect our casualty reports and figure out what’s going on.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  7 March, 1943

  U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)

  Mondo Mondo Island, Solomon Islands

  Ingram checked his watch:1522. Damn! It seemed a crisis rose every two minutes, with everyone rushing from one emergency to the next. Landa had scheduled an officer’s meeting long ago and still, it hadn’t happened. And, the rain didn’t help. Everything was slippery, with spilled fuel-oil making it worse as he picked his way among the main deck wreckage.

  Suddenly, the ship gave a terrible screech. Then, it slid back, bumping along the bottom. Lurching to port, the bow skewed out to where Howell’s starboard side was nearly parallel to the thickly vegetated shore. Then something caught her, perhaps another coral head, and she suddenly jolted to a halt. It was like being in an earthquake, Ingram realized: deep rumbling, shaking and terrifying uncertainty, followed by euphoric moments of gratitude and relief that the earth hadn’t swallowed him up. A long five seconds passed before he dared to look over the starboard bulwark and check on the anchor chain. As he suspected, it was taut. That was what saved them. The anchor had dug in, keeping the bow from sliding out further.

  Suddenly, Hank Kelly ran past Ingram and dove down the after fireroom hatch. Hearing a whistling noise, Ingram leaned over the hatch. A great blast of air roared in his face. Down below, the after fireroom was lighted only by battle lanterns, their hoary-white beams stabbing at the machinery. Sweating, filthy bodies darted about. Indeed, it looked like Lucifer’s workshop.

  Kelly’s voice echoed up, “Secure. Secure. Get the hell out of here!’

  Soon, eleven oil-soaked men erupted from the boiler room. Kelly was last to crawl out, his arms loaded with maintenance logs. He leaned over, slammed down the hatch and kicked the dogs tight.

  Ingram said, “That’s it?”

  “Bulkhead let go. Worse, a coral head punched us though the bottom just beneath boiler number four. It’s all flooded now, boilers three and four, half submerged. Nothing left but to get the hell out.”

  “Next line of defense..?”

  “Up here.” Kelly paced quickly to the forward engine room hatch. With a toothy grin, he stepped in the hatchway and held his face up to the rain, pausing to let it wash away some grime. “What’s the movie for tonight?” And then he was gone.

  “Keystone Cops.” Ingram called after him. A thunderclap followed as he walked to the passageway to check on the wardroom, now converted to an operating theater.

  He stepped in, finding Bucky Monaghan and two other corpsmen in blood-spattered surgical garb, standing over a patient splayed on the table. Earlier, Monaghan, their leading pharmacist’s mate, had triaged the worst cases, deciding which of the scalded and shattered men should first be cared for; leaving others aside, to perhaps die.

  “Hello.”

  The three looked up, then stepped back, taking off their masks. Monaghan nodded curtly. “Care to pitch in and give a hand, Sir?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sorry, we just lost Redding.” Monaghan’s shoulders slumped and a set of forceps clanked as he threw them into a stainless basin. He waved at the inert form on the table. The man’s mouth and eyes were wide open. “Internal injuries. Poor bastard bled out. I just couldn’t find it all.”

  Ingram stepped up and closed Redding’s eyes. He tried to speak. But words didn’t come.

  Monaghan’s eyes glistened.

  “...not your fault,” Ingram managed.

  “...I know. But tell that to Redding.” Monaghan swallowed. “His last words were, ‘God bless you.’ Can you imagine that coming from Red? He swore like a...a friggin’ bosun’s mate.” Monaghan exhaled deeply and leaned on the wardroom table. “‘God bless you.’

  “Better check on the guys below,” he said to his two corpsmen.

  “Okay, Buck.” The corpsmen gathered medical supplies and walked out.

  Ingram said. “You need anything?”

  “Bottle of gin would do nicely.”

  Ingram pat Monaghan on the shoulder and walked out.

  He stepped down the companionway to the next deck, an area given over to officer’s staterooms and chief quarters. Now, without power to run the lights, blowers and exhaust fans, it was dark and the air was stale. In a macabre dance, flashlights bobbed up and down the midships passage-way as Monaghan’s corpsmen darted in and out of staterooms, injecting morphine, patching wounds, wrapping broken limbs, doing their best to comfort their patients. As Ingram walked by, he could see in the faint light that some of the wounded had accepted their fate stoically, laid back and were quiet. Others moaned occasionally; a few cried. Taking a quick count, Ingram found twenty-two bunks full, including his own. Of the twenty-two, four had sheets drawn all the way over their heads. That was two more since the last time he’d been down here.

  Continuing his walk forward, he stepped into the chief’s quarters and walked among listless men, some sitting and muttering to one another, others sipping cold coffee and staring into space. Then he mounted the ladder and stepped onto the fo’c’sle.

  With a vengeance, lightning flashed and thunder burst so harshly that seemed to raise him off the deck. And the rain poured harder, carving thousands of perfect little craters on the water. He found Chief Murphy standing at the bow, looking over the side. A twenty-two year veteran and ex-China sailor, Murphy’s eyes were wide and round, his face the color of chalk.

  “What do you think?” Ingram had to shout to be heard. His teeth chattered and he knew it wasn’t from the rain.

  “Don’t look good. Where are we, Sir?” Murphy yelled back.

  “Looks like Mondo Mondo, but we’re not sure until we get a fix. And we can’t do that until this storm clears.” Mondo Mondo Island was one of a series of heavily wooded narrow islands forming a barrier off the northern coast of New Georgia Island.

  Chief Murphy bent over the life line again, peering down.

  “What is it?” asked Ingram.

  “If this is Mondo Mondo, then the bottom is steep to.” Murphy waved a hand aft. “The bottom drops off suddenly. This means, if the ship slides again, then we’ll be afloat. Hard to see from here, but there’s a bunch of coral heads where the bottom falls off. I’ll bet we’re wedged in among some. They could break and we could slide free.”

  “I don’t think we want to do that. That slide punched a hole in the aft boiler room. They had to secure it. And the bulkhead let go.”

  “Shiiit,” said Murphy.

  “What?”

  “I was hopin’ we’d sort of slip back to sea. You know? Sort of like being launched again? And then just get towed home.”

  “Maybe, but with that bulkhead gone, we’d probably go down. Can you drop the port anchor?”

  “...Todd?”

  Ingram looked up to the bridge.

  Landa gave a loud whistle and waved him up.

  Waving back, he asked. “Chief?”

  “Yes, Sir, we can drop it.” said Murphy.

  “Okay. Better do it and keep the scope short. In the meantime, I’m headed aft for officer’s call.” said Ingram.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  For some crazy reason, Ingram thought of ‘Hot Lips’ Edgerton, sipping soup in the wardroom just a few days ago. And now, the young man was gone, trapped in a gun mount. Welcome to World War II, Hot Lips. He wondered if Chief Murphy had seen his teeth clacking. Not from the cold, Ingram was sure. Running up into the rain, he took the aft companionway, two steps at a time.

  Except for three officers who went down with the Howell’s aft section, they were all there. Ingram took in their faces, realizing the
y mirrored his own. They had all aged over the last twelve hours. Their eyes were dark and deep-set. Pale lips were pressed in near grimaces and without sleep, faces were shriveled. Kelly seemed the worse off. His light sandy hair was terribly thinned, almost white.

  “Okay, XO, why don’t you start?” Landa said.

  Ingram reported on his tour and finished with, “I told Chief Murphy to let the port anchor go.”

  “Makes sense.” Landa turned to Kelly. “Okay Hank. Tell us what we have.”

  Kelly slumped against the aft bulkhead, hands stuffed in his oil-splotched coveralls, talking as if he were somewhere outside his body, his voice hollow. “...after fireroom is flooded and secured. That’s it for boilers three and four. The space is useless. Main control is okay; we’re shoring that bulkhead to make sure. Generator number one looks decent, but there’s no steam for it. Boilers one and two in the forward fireroom have ruptured steam lines and we’re trying to figure out a way to fix that. Plus, it looks like both boilers, especially number one, have shifted on their foundations and may be unsafe to operate. If there’s any hope, it’s with boiler number two. That’s where we’re concentrating right now. Fixing the steamline and a million other things so we can send steam to generator number one.

  “As for the diesel-generator...” Kelly waved a hand.

  Landa’s eyebrows went up.

  “...shrapnel penetrated both the block and crankcase. Looks like the crankshaft is cracked. We don’t have a prayer.”

  A collective groan ranged among the officers.

  “Emergency power?” Landa asked.

  “We have ten, six-volt batteries in emergency radio, Captain. Otherwise, it’s battle lanterns, and flashlights. So far, there’s juice. Maybe for six or eight hours for the big, six-volt batteries. Depends on how well we conserve power. After that...” Kelly shrugged.

  “Okay, Hank.” Landa said. “Offenbach, where’s your flute?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You ready to march in the Minute Man Parade?”

  Offenbach blinked, as he figured out what the Captain meant. A corpsman had stitched his head and wrapped a neat dressing around his brow, where just a spot of blood leaked through.

  “Looks like Gunga Din to me,” said Wilson.

  Offenbach silenced Wilson with a glare that said,’I’m a lieutenant, you’re a lieutenant (j.g).’

  “What is the story on the radios?” asked Landa.

  “As some of you may have noticed,” Offenbach said sarcastically, “the mast is gone. So, we jury rigged an antennae to the aft stack. No contact with anyone via TBS, which is to be expected. We’re guarding that circuit right now and not trying not to transmit in order to conserve power. But the bad part is that we can’t get Tulagi on CW. We’re trying all circuits. Nothing yet. Could be this damned storm, could be the antenna. Just don’t know.”

  “Okay.” Landa eyed Delmonico. “Gunnery?”

  “All gunmounts forward of frame 155 are operable, at least in local control. We lost two of the waist twenty millimeters. So only two are left. One on each side. These are most easily manipulated, since they’re essentially a manual cannon anyway. And thanks to mother nature a few minutes ago,” Delmonico nodded toward the beach, “both five inch guns and both port side forty millimeters can be brought to bear, covering us from an attack from the sea.”

  “But only in manual control?” Landa asked. The hydraulically operated five-inch and forty millimeter guns were cumbersome to crank around in manual control.

  “Yes, Sir,” said Delmonico. “No power.”

  “Small arms?” asked Landa.

  “Sir?” asked Delmonico.

  “Against an attack from Mondo Mondo Island.”

  Ingram looked out the port hole. The bow was next to a small beachy area of perhaps ten feet or so. The rest of the coast was tall trees and mangrove swamps. “Hard to see where the Japs can get through, Captain.” Delmonico turned to Wilson. “Jack?”

  “Most of our small arms stuff went down with the aft end, Captain. But the midships gunlocker has ten Springfields, five of the new M-1s, two Thompson sub-machine guns, five BARs, and fifteen .45s.”

  “Ammo?” said Landa.

  “About two clips each, Captain.”

  “All right. What aboutBA

  “BOh,” said Wilson.

  “Yes?” From Landa.

  “And a case of grenades.”

  “Are you finished, Mr. Wilson?” said Landa.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Then I want a plan, within a half hour, of how and to whom we distribute these weapons. Understand?” Landa’s eyes flicked to Delmonico.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I want the Deck Division to launch the whale boats and all life rafts. Then inventory the survival gear and have it all ready to go. We might have enough diesel fuel to tow everybody down The Slot?” It was a rhetorical question and Landa looked at Kelly.

  “I’ll check, Captain,” said Kelly.

  The sound powered phone buzzed. Ingram picked it up. “Bridge.”

  A voice crackled, “Sir, Templeton in Radio Central. We have CW contact with Ring Bolt.”

  Ingram covered the mouthpiece and reported, “They’ve got Tulagi on CW.” Then he asked Templeton, “Have they acknowledged our SITREP?”

  “Just did, Mr. Ingram.”

  “They’ve got our SITREP. Anything else you want, Captain?”

  “Send beer and sandwiches.”

  “That’s it for now,” Ingram said to Templeton. “By the way, how are the batteries doing?”

  “Plenty of zip, so far, Sir,” said Templeton.

  Ingram had another thought. “Templeton?”

  “Sir?”

  “Send Interrogative, Tootsie Roll.” Landa nodded his approval to inquire about the Isaacs’s fate.

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Tulagi. They’d made contact with home base, 140 miles away. Help should arrive, soon. The pilothouse seemed lighter, the storm not so intense, their wounds less serious, the ship more comfortable.

  As if in confirmation, the rain stopped. Soon a bolt of golden sunlight stabbed though the starboard side portholes. Then the clouds swept to the northwest, leaving the afternoon crisp and pure.

  They piled out onto the starboard bridge wing, looking into the aquamarine blue waters of New Georgia Sound. Ingram sniffed the air: clean, ozone tainted, and wonderfully refreshing.

  And before them, off the starboard side, was a heavily forested land, with the cone shaped volcanic peaks of New Georgia rising in the background. Offenbach nodded to Briley, one of his quartermasters, and they quickly took a round of bearings. Landa walked in the pilot house and leaned over Offenbach’s shoulder as he plotted their position.

  “Right here, Captain. Mondo Mondo Island,” Offenbach announced.

  “Okay, Carl,” said Landa. “Get that to Tulagi ASAP.” Then he stepped out on the bridge and stood next to Ingram. “When was the last time you had chow?”

  “Not hungry.” Ingram thought of Redding below on the wardroom table.

  “Oh, yeah? I tell you, I could use a tall, cool bottle of Schlitz right now.”

  “Radio Central just called up, Captain,” Offenbach’s voice echoed from the pilot house. “Good news. The Isaacs made it home.”

  “Very well,” Landa sighed. “God, all we need now is some---“

  Suddenly, Wilson’s arm jutted to the northwest.

  “Damnit!” said Landa,

  At first Ingram refused to look. But by the sound, he knew what it was and finally forced his eyes in that direction. A speck slowly circled the Howell’s carcass, its engine, barely audible.

  “Probably the same sonofabitch,” Landa said.

  Ingram’s eyes narrowed on the Mitsubishi “Rufe,” the single engine Zero with a float and wing pontoons; just like the one that had dogged them early this morning, now ages ago.

  “Sound General Quarters,” Landa said quietly.

  With the ship s
o ripped up, it took five minutes to assume a semblance of general quarters. With the gun mounts manned and cranked around in the Rufe’s general direction.

  Then Ingram heard another engine, closer, its pitch much deeper. He groaned.

  “What?” asked Landa.

  “Hear that?”

  “How can I not?” Landa peered to starboard, his binoculars scanning Mondo Mondo’s treeline.

  “Jack, you passed out the small arms?”

  “Not yet,” replied Wilson.

  “Get to it,” said Ingram. “Now.”

  “What’s up?” Landa asked.

  That damned engine. It was a diesel engine: a distinctive engine he’d heard ten months before, during his escape from Corregidor. “It’s a Jap barge, Captain. A hundred footer. My guess it’s coming down the inland waterway full of Jap Marines. If so, we can count on a night assault from Mondo Mondo Island.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  7 March, 1943

  U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)

  Mondo Mondo Island, Solomon Islands

  Four Marine F4Fs flashed overhead with a great roar. The men on the Howell’s bridge whooped and hollered as the Wildcats arched up and circled to the left. Three of them came down and were lost to sight on the other side of the tree line. Then their machine guns rattled, and something exploded inshore, nearly opposite where the Howell lay. Soon, a dark cloud of greasy smoke billowed up.

  “Go gettum,” yelled Landa. He leaned in the pilot house. “Carl, you have voice contact?”

  “Trying, Captain.” Offenbach twirled a dial on his receiver.

  “Well, shove in your clutch.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Jack Wilson yelled and waved his helmet over his head, pointing off to the north. The fourth Wildcat had just gained the tail position of the Rufe. Little puffs trailing from the Wildcat’s wings indicated the pilot had taken the float plane under fire. Then the Rufe panicked and peeled off to its left, and headed back toward the Howell. Easily, the Wildcat stayed on the lumbering float plane’s tail, firing its six fifty-caliber wing-mounted machine guns. The pair descended to about fifty feet when a black puff of smoke suddenly belched from the float plane. For a moment, it arched gracefully up then rolled to its right and dove in, cartwheeling across the ocean, spewing parts as it went. The F4F flew on, doing a barrel roll over the Howell, as it passed overhead. A great roar broke out aboard the Howell, everyone cheering and thrusting their fists into the air.