Over the Hill: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 6)

by Craig DiLouie

  “As I informed my captain. Captain Harrison’s loss is understandable, if regrettable.”

  Saito talked to Captain Kondo, who responded with quiet authority. Charlie steeled himself for questioning. How they answered would decide the captain’s next move. Would determine whether they were tortured for the information.

  They just had to be believable. Charlie prayed Morrison went along and didn’t play the tough guy. If he did, the captain would conclude they were hiding something, and he’d stop at nothing to get it.

  Charlie didn’t know how he’d stand up to abuse. He’d volunteered for this war to be tested, and the war had shown him, often severely, what he was made of. The man he’d become under the horrors of torture, however, was not a man he wished to meet.

  Saito translated, “Captain Kondo wanted to tell you in person that you and your commander fought bravely and that it was an honor to meet you in combat.”

  To Charlie’s astonishment, the captain saluted the survivors of the Sandtiger.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DINING WITH THE ENEMY

  In the wardroom, the Japanese officers knelt on cushions set around a low table. Freshly washed and wearing dry clothes, Charlie and his men did likewise as instructed. The Japanese skipper sat at the head of the table. In front of the door, two guards stood at the order arms rifle position, bayonets affixed.

  Stewards brought hot steamed towels to wipe their hands followed by bowls of clear soup and rice topped with raw fish. The Americans tensed at every movement, but the battle was long over; there was nothing to fight. They blinked at each other in a daze, completely lost, still absorbing this surreal experience.

  The Japanese officers produced ornate wooden boxes and removed their personal chopsticks, resting them on small stands. The stewards laid out silverware for the Americans.

  The skipper remained silent throughout this strangely formal preparation. “Itadakimasu,” he grunted, and the officers started eating and pouring each other little cups of warm rice wine Saito called “sake.” Charlie had heard of it but had never tried it.

  Percy tested his with a sip, sighed happily, and downed it like a shot.

  The captain raised his cup, his officers mirroring the action. Head bowed, the commander gravely spoke in staccato Japanese until Charlie caught the word, “Sandtiger.”

  Across the table, Americans and Japanese drank in respectful silence.

  The skipper hadn’t captured them. He’d rescued them from the sea. Out of respect.

  Saito raised his cup. “Kanpai!”

  “Kanpai!” the officers said and drank again.

  One of them smirked at Charlie and yelled, “Banzai!”

  The submariners jumped, which made the Japanese laugh. “Banzai!” they shouted and drank, hurrying to refill each other’s cups.

  Morrison bristled, but Charlie cautioned him with a glance. The Japanese watched as he raised his cup and drained it, prompting another round of laughter.

  The Japanese thought Charlie didn’t know what the word meant and had tricked him into toasting long life for the emperor. Charlie played along because, as long as they were feeding his men and otherwise not harming them, he didn’t care. After enduring years of hazing as a junior officer in the U.S. Navy, this was nothing.

  Satisfied they’d taught the gaijin a lesson, the officers went back to slurping their soup. Charlie declined more sake, which was already making him feel woozy, and dug into his supper, suddenly ravenous.

  At the end of the tasty meal, Saito straightened his dishes and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Charlie. “I hope you will answer a question.”

  Charlie hadn’t smoked since Saipan. He took a drag and reeled at the head rush, taking a moment to prepare for whatever Saito might ask. “What’s that?”

  “Which of our destroyers holed you?” He added slyly, “Was it the Akasuki?”

  Charlie passed the smoke to a grateful Percy. “Probably. It was hard to tell.”

  No need to tell him about the faulty torpedo. That the American Navy had torpedo problems was probably common knowledge in its Japanese counterpart. Still, it was best to say as little as possible as long as he had a choice.

  “We wondered if one of your torpedoes had malfunctioned. Your torpedoes are not very good.”

  Morrison muttered, “We did okay with them anyway, don’t you think?”

  Charlie held his poker face. “Yours are very good. The best in the world, in fact. I’ve always envied that about you.” It was the simple truth, not flattery.

  Saito puffed out his chest. “Yes, they are. The best.”

  “Maybe you could answer a question, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “You may ask.”

  “Why did you retreat?” Charlie said. “Off Samar?”

  The lieutenant shrugged. “I am not certain myself.”

  “You had us on the ropes.”

  “The ‘ropes’?”

  “I meant to say you were on the verge of a great victory.”

  “Admiral Kurita obviously thought otherwise. The battle was chaotic. Our forces had spread out so far they were over the horizon. And your torpedoes forced his ship off the line. He took on water and had to reduce his speed.”

  The Sandtiger’s attack had disrupted the Japanese formation. She’d damaged the Yamato and forced him to withdraw from his fleet. As a result, the Japanese admiral had lost tactical awareness and control.

  Charlie still didn’t think it was worth the price, but it was possible the Sandtiger’s sacrifice had accomplished something good.

  The Japanese officer hoisted a bottle of sake and refilled Charlie’s cup. “I hope we can speak more. I haven’t talked to an American in years, and it is interesting to hear your perspective on the war. It has been a long, glorious, and bloody road.”

  Charlie returned the favor by refilling Saito’s cup. “It has,” he agreed, though right now he saw little glory in it.

  “And now, let us drink once more.” The officer proposed a toast. “To the day this war is over and we can be friends again instead of enemies.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  KURE

  The Americans stewed in the tiny storage compartment with nothing to do but ponder their bleak future. With each passing hour, the shock of the Sandtiger’s sinking wore off, and their isolation and loss of liberty set in.

  The Japanese treated them to a courteous minimum of comfort. Bedding at night, regular hot meals, and a bucket of soapy water each morning. When the Akasuki docked at Formosa for provisioning, the Japanese allowed them to stretch their legs on the deck.

  Their captors weren’t living up to their brutal reputation, and with no control over his own fate, nothing to fight, Charlie had no focus for his boiling anger except the Bureau of Ordnance and its inability to produce good torpedoes.

  Restless and irritable, the men sweated. Morrison whiled away the time plotting escape. Charlie stopped shutting down his hopes and let him ramble. The man obviously needed it.

  At last, Rusty cut him off. “Still think you’re in a movie, Morrison?”

  “They grabbed me out of the water. I never surrendered.”

  He sounded like Tanaka, who’d told Charlie almost the exact same thing in the Japan Sea.

  “Either way, we’re prisoners now,” Charlie said. “The war’s over for us.”

  The sooner Morrison stopped trying to control his fate, the sooner he could adjust to this new reality. Otherwise, it would eat him up.

  Never had Charlie seen greater wisdom in Percy’s advice to let things go. The communications officer seemed to be getting along fine. He was alive, right now, and that was enough for him. Mostly, he just seemed bored. If the Japanese asked him to swab their decks, he probably would have happily complied.

  Charlie added, “If we’re in a movie, it’s a Jap movie now. Their story.”

  He didn’t judge Morrison. It was eating him up too. A part of him hoped as much as the young officer did for some way out. Cha
rlie still believed his life was a movie, and he was the star. That Third Fleet would show up, force the Japanese to surrender, and take him home.

  Another time, he’d imagined the Akasuki floundering in a storm. In the daydream, a Japanese sailor tumbled overboard. While the Japanese fretted at the gunwales, Charlie dove into the water and rescued him because all life is sacred. After fishing them from the drink, the captain was so impressed he released him and his comrades.

  Ridiculous.

  He wasn’t important. He wasn’t the star of the movie. And he wasn’t getting out of this. His command, crew, medals, and almost all evidence of his existence had sunk to the bottom. He was a prisoner and would be until the end.

  It turned his very bile into a burning acid.

  It made him want to scream.

  He told himself not to abandon hope, but he had to stop hoping for the impossible. Stop wanting to control what he couldn’t. His new objective was to get himself and his men home alive. Japan was almost licked. They might not have long to wait.

  Eventually, Morrison stopped sharing his own fantasies of escape and slouched against the bulkhead. Sweat poured off him.

  They sat like this for hours. Plenty to talk about, but they were too drained to say anything.

  The door opened. Lt. Saito entered and said, “Last stop, gentlemen.”

  The men removed the clothes the Japanese had given them and changed back into their uniforms, which the ship’s laundry had cleaned and pressed. Then Saito led them to the bridge.

  There, Charlie saw Kure, the industrial city and great naval base.

  They’d reached Japan.

  He shivered in the wind. The October climate was far colder here than in the Philippines.

  Vast industrial buildings covered the land surrounding the harbor. A smoky haze hung in the sky from workshops and ship funnels. Warships lay in rows at their moorings, meatballs on their hulls. Showers of sparks spat from arc welders. Trucks crawled under massive cranes.

  Uniformed workers and sailors labored on the great Imperial ships, filling the sound with the drone of machines.

  “Jesus,” Rusty said.

  Charlie thought the same thing. After years of heavy losses and its economy being throttled by submarine warfare, the empire was far from licked. If Kure was any indication, the nation remained productive and committed to war. Tanaka had said every man, woman, and child would fight to their last breath for the emperor. Nothing short of invasion would end the contest.

  A bloodbath that could go on for years.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DAVY JONES’ LOCKER

  The grating honk of the collision alarm blared throughout the boat. All four engines roared at full loading, giving everything they had.

  The 1MC blared: “Rig for collision! Rig for collision!”

  The engine snipes jerked their heads to Chief Machinist’s Mate John Braddock, who growled, “What’re you looking at me for? Secure the goddamn—”

  BOOM

  The world whipped sideways, throwing him into the air. He crashed down on his side, his breath leaving with him a gasp.

  Okay, that hurt.

  Steel plates jumping, the deck buckled under his body. Loose tools and gear clanged off the engines and bulkheads. The engines whined and then screamed before dying one by one with a strangled whir and plume of acrid smoke.

  The watertight door at the compartment’s forward end slammed shut.

  “What the hell happened?” Leach shouted.

  Braddock glared at him. What did he think happened? Hint: The captain had thrown the Sandtiger in front of multiple destroyers to take on the Yamato. Which was crazy even for Harrison, though the man had the luck of the Irish.

  Now, that luck had run out. One of those ships had decided to knock the Sandtiger on her can. And as Braddock had predicted, Harrison’s luck running out meant everybody’s time was up.

  He pushed himself up. “Who’s hurt? Anybody hurt?”

  The deck tilted. He staggered but righted himself, his strong sea legs accustomed to balancing in heavy seas. Then he staggered as the stern sank.

  “This is bad,” he said as he lost his footing. Men and gear tumbled and crashed against the aft bulkhead in an avalanche of flesh and metal.

  He shook his head to clear it. The lighting flickered before winking off, plunging the compartment into darkness.

  “Turn on the fucking lights,” he snarled.

  The boat had been hit. She had no propulsion and was sinking by the stern. He knew to take these problems one at a time. Light came first.

  “I think my arm’s broken,” somebody moaned. It sounded like Leach.

  “Hang tight. Can anybody reach the lights?”

  No answer. The boat hung dead in the water at a forty-five-degree angle. He’d have to climb up and do it himself, just like everything else in this department.

  The emergency lights clicked on. Always the eager beaver, Petty Officer Third Class Gentry waved at him from the switch. “I got it, Chief!”

  “Good for you.” Braddock surveyed the pale faces in the pile of bodies crammed against the bulkhead. The men were gasping, but otherwise, it was eerily quiet.

  No, not entirely quiet. An ominous rushing sound filled the air.

  He hauled himself to his feet and gazed through the open aft passageway. Seawater was gushing into the aft engine compartment. Bodies and garbage floated on the oily deluge, which surged around the flooded engines. The boat groaned under the stress, the sound hollow.

  “Christopher Columbus,” he breathed.

  Spray already moistening his skin, the sea boiled toward his compartment.

  “Secure the door! Now!”

  Estes helped him slam the door and dog it. Shaking, the sailor said, “We’ve been holed, Chief!”

  “I know we’ve been holed, you moron.”

  Captain Harrison had finally gotten his suicide mission. The arrogance of heroes. Captain Ahab was more like it.

  He was likely still up there on the surface, shaking his fist at the Japs, gnawing on the Yamato’s hull.

  While the Sandtiger, with negative buoyancy at her stern, headed straight for Davy Jones’ locker.

  “Hope he’s okay,” Braddock muttered to himself, wondering at the soft spot he had for the earnest lunatic.

  “The guys in the aft room, they’re all dead,” Estes said. “They’re dead.”

  Gentry had reached the sound-powered phone. “I can’t get anybody, Chief!”

  Estes moaned. “Do you think it’s just us that’s left?”

  “Don’t flip your wig,” Braddock said. “Everybody forward should be all right.”

  “Well, what do we do?”

  The boat was sinking without power, the phones were dead, and the engines were fried. One thing at a time.

  Braddock spat and said, “We get the hell out of here.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DAMAGE REPORT

  The engine snipes climbed the crumpled, inclined deck. With wounded sailors, it seemed to take forever. Braddock addressed everybody’s whining with as much derision and sarcasm as he could muster.

  He laid it on thick, playing the asshole. With a lifetime of practice, it required little effort and was worth it. For years, being an asshole had served to entertain him during the long, tedious hours of wage slavery the Navy called the submarine service. Now, however, it provided a far more important function.

  Simply put, the more he played the asshole chief, the more his men believed they’d make it out of this alive, which helped them keep their wits and do their jobs. They were chuckleheads, but they were his chuckleheads, and he didn’t intend to let them down.

  Gentry led the way, helping to pull the wounded up to the next handhold. The little eager beaver with the perfect white teeth was shooting for a medal. Let him. If they got out of this, Braddock would pin it on the kid’s chest himself.

  They reached the top. He tapped the door with a wrench.

  Somebody
tapped in reply.

  “What is that, Morse?” Gentry said. “I think he’s saying—”

  Braddock banged again, hard. “Open the goddamn door!”

  The sailors on the other side heaved it open. One peered out from the crew’s quarters. “You guys all right?”

  “Ducky,” Braddock said. “Now get the hell out of the way.”

  “Sure thing, Chief.”

  “Let’s go, swabbies,” he told his engine snipes.

  In the crew’s quarters, the sailors off duty during the attack shouted questions from their bunks.

  “Everybody, hang tight,” he growled. “Somebody get Doc. I got wounded.”

  “I’m here,” Chief Pharmacist’s Mate Henry Pearce called from the far end of the compartment where he was sewing up a head laceration. “Anybody critical?”

  “Broken bones and cuts, Doc.”

  “Asking again. Anybody critical?”

  The pharmacist’s mate could be an even bigger asshole than Braddock, who didn’t mind. Any man who had to treat fifty-five sweating, filthy sailors for everything from mumps to VD to gunshot wounds automatically earned his respect.

  “Nope,” he said.

  “Then they’ll have to wait their turn.” Pearce pointed at a bunk. “Put your men there, and tell them to wait.”

  “You guys stay here,” Braddock told the snipes. “Those of you who are hurt, tough it out. Doc will be with you when he can. I’m going forward to see if I can get the dope from whoever’s in charge.”

  He continued the climb, stepping over bodies until he reached the galley and mess. A-gangers worked on repairing leaks from ruptured hydraulic and air lines. The air was smoky here, a harsh chemical stink, but the fires had been put out. The deck was slippery, but the compartment wasn’t flooding, a good sign.

  Next came the radio shack and then the control room, where Spike was shouting orders at his men.

  “What gives, COB?” COB stood for chief of the boat.

  “Damage report, Braddock.”

  “The engines are broke dick for good. The boat’s flooded from the aft engine compartment all the way to the stern. They’re all dead.” And if they weren’t, they had to take care of themselves.