The quartermaster collected the ship’s logs and joined O’Toole.
As he prepared to jump the last ten feet into the ocean, the quartermaster yelled, “Stop! Your helmet, sir.”
O’Toole had forgotten he was wearing it. Going overboard with a cinched helmet would break your neck. He tore it off, and they jumped together.
There was no past and no future, only the immediate need to survive. O’Toole swam from the sinking bow section, demanding his muscles move faster before her sinking hulk sucked him under. His muscles grew tired from the frenzied effort until a voice yelled, “She’s going down.”
He stopped and turned to what remained of the Green. Out of breath, he bobbed in the one-foot swells and coughed to clear the salt water from his lungs. The Green’s prow swung skyward while the hulk of the remaining bow section backed into the depths under the meager light of the new moon. The sea extinguished the fires as she slid under.
She died a silent death. After the tip of the bow disappeared, his eyes lost focus and he stared at the empty sea for several seconds, unable to grasp the meaning of this moment.
He linked up with a small group of survivors, and they linked up with other groups. They located two floater nets, lashed them together, and placed the injured in them. They found several of the watertight powder canisters used to protect the five-inch brass powder casings while in the magazines. The crew used empty canisters to stow stable dry food and water with the floater nets. He ordered several men to attract scattered survivors by yelling into the night.
At first, groups of four would swim toward them. Now an occasional lone survivor would show up. O’Toole gathered the surviving officers and chief petty officers. The group of seven rolled with the lazy sea, clutching the floater net to stay together. Three wore life jackets; the other four relied on the floater net.
“Someone said there is another group with a floater net south of us.” Pointing to Ensigns Carter and Fitch, O’Toole said, “Swim to the south floater net, if there is one, take a count, and tell them to swim their way to us and lash-in. While you’re at it, round up volunteers to scavenge for debris we can use. The men should also collect all the powder canisters and bring them here. Tell the men to never lose sight of the floater net, it’s damn easy to get lost out here in the dark.”
Turning to Chief Brandon, he said, “Make sure the injured are wearing life jackets, and get those with serious wounds in the floater nets.” Brandon swam off.
To Ensigns Parker and Adbury, he said, “You two make the rounds and get a head count of the healthy, injured, and critically wounded. After you report back, take charge of the injured. Collect the morphine ampules from the crew.” O’Toole reached into his trouser pocket and handed over two morphine ampules. “Bring the wounded together, especially those with bleeding wounds. Get them in the floater nets and get the bleeding stopped; the sharks will show up soon enough.”
To Chief Zeis, O’Toole said, “Chief, make the rounds, talk to everyone, and make sure their heads are on straight. Find anyone who might lose it and buddy them up with someone. We don’t want panic or men going nuts.”
Chief Zeis swam off, and O’Toole reached underwater to remove his shoes. He tied the laces together and draped them over his neck.
Chief Zeis made his rounds and returned to O’Toole’s position.
“You get a head count yet?” O’Toole asked.
“My count is fifty-seven, including you.”
“Just fifty-seven?”
“Lieutenant, the aft two-thirds of the ship sank like a rock. From the time the Japs attacked to the time the stern sank wasn’t more than a minute. I’m surprised we have this many left.”
O’Toole’s chest went hollow, and his mind went blank. Visions of shattered bodies and blood-soaked decks, the sound of dying men flashed through his mind. As the deck officer, he was responsible for the safety of the ship and crew. His gut radiated the hollowness of failure. The dark corners of his mind whispered, “You’ll never be the same.”
“Three-fourths of the crew is missing,” O’Toole said.
“There has to be more out there,” Zeis said.
“Yeah, there has to be more out there,” O’Toole said.
He had scanned the horizon, and he had jacked up the lookouts and the bridge crew. It hadn’t been enough. Either way it was his responsibility. It takes three minutes to get a torpedo firing solution, and one zigzag might have destroyed their firing solution and saved the ship. He hadn’t seen his options; his wall had blocked him again. His grandfather’s words stabbed at him.
You’re not adequate.
It was the story of his life; he always fell short of adequacy. There was always one more thing he might have done, but he could never see it until it was too late. His wall was always there to stop him and hide the solution. His wall had damned him to failure again. His wall was always there blocking his way a single step short of success.
Ensign Parker swam over to him. “Got the head count. Fifty-seven men. Twenty-one wounded. Six critical. That includes the south floater net we got lashed-in.”
“We’ll wait till dawn to find the others,” Zeis said. “What the heck happened, sir?”
“Wish I knew,” O’Toole began. “A column of Jap ships were headed to Guadalcanal to counterattack. I suspect they left a destroyer behind to ambush us once the fight off Guadalcanal started.”
“That means they spotted us, but how did that happen without us seeing them?” Zeis asked.
“That part is easy. We weren’t looking, but I still can’t figure out how we missed them once we did start looking. I should have zigzagged despite the captain’s orders.”
Zeis looked at O’Toole for a long minute. “You’re not blaming yourself for this, are you?”
O’Toole didn’t answer.
“Are you?”
The question tore at O’Toole, but he had to look forward, and swore his wall would not stop him. “For now, we’re not losing any more men, Chief. Keep the men together. They’ll start looking for survivors tomorrow; they’ll find us,” O’Toole said.
Voices shouted. Zeis turned. A searchlight from an approaching ship probed the surrounding sea. When it reached the far end of the floater nets, gunfire erupted. Spikes of water shot up around the Green’s survivors.
Both O’Toole and Zeis screamed, “Everyone down!”
O’Toole shed his life jacket, took a deep breath, and dove. He figured five feet would be enough. He pivoted his feet beneath him and tried to maintain his depth. When the burning in his lungs became unbearable, he kicked hard to reach the surface. When his head cleared the water, he sucked in a chest of air, preparing to dive again, but the gunfire stopped.
The searchlight now centered itself on his small group, and a Japanese heavy cruiser loomed over them. With his hand, he blocked the searchlight so he could see the bridge. He studied the bridge and a man with a patch over his left eye. By his position on the bridge wing, his carriage, and the separation between him and the other officers, O’Toole guessed he was the captain.
They locked eyes. Neither man flinched. After several seconds, the Japanese captain walked away. The cruiser picked up speed and disappeared into the night.
Zeis asked O’Toole, “What was going on between you and that Jap with the eye patch?”
“I wanted the bastard to know we weren’t defeated,” O’Toole began. “The Japs won this battle not with equipment but with smarter officers and sharper training. How they pulled it off was brilliant: at night, torpedoes first, guns second, no star shells. They mauled us with their guns, but knew that wouldn’t sink us. Once the Jap ship saw the torpedoes hit, there was no need to continue a gun battle and endanger their ship; they knew they had sunk us, so they vanished into the night.”
He knew there was more to it than that. O’Toole shook his head; he would have to figure it out later. He put it out of his mind.
“Okay, Chief, have the men with life jackets chain up. Make sure th
ey lash in each chain to a floater net. As you make the rounds, make sure everyone is secure for the night. By God, we’re not losing any more men.”
“Aye, sir.” Zeis swam away, yelling, “Everyone chain up and lash in!”
Men formed spiral chains. One man would loop his arm through the hole below the high collar of the next man’s life jacket, burying the arm to the shoulder. The chains provided security, extra buoyancy, and a way to sleep without drifting away.
2
August 9, 1942
Matewan, West Virginia
John Hatfield arrived home before supper and opened the screen door to the kitchen. The creaking door slammed shut, and his momma called out to him, “Don’t you come in here covered with sawdust! Clean yourself off first!”
John worked at the sawmill and was a mite dusty. He bent over, ruffled the sawdust out of his hair, and brushed off his overalls before stepping into the large kitchen that stretched across the back of the house.
The fried chicken cracked in the pan, filling the kitchen with its aromas and putting a spring in his step. “Howdy, Momma.”
“Get yourself cleaned up. Supper’s about ready,” Sundee Hatfield said.
John’s heavy boots thumped on bare pine floor as he headed to the sink to scrub up.
“Daddy, get yourself in here. Supper’s on.”
Jayland, John’s father, entered the kitchen, pulled back a wooden chair and sat down, saying, “The newspaper says the Japs in Burma are fixin’ to invade India. Now that Gandhi fella calls for independence from the Brits. He ain’t as smart as I thought he was.”
Sundee placed a big bowl of fried potatoes and a small mountain of fried chicken on the table next to the green beans. “It’ll be all right. They’ll stop the Japs for sure,” Sundee said.
While they ate dinner, Sundee caught them up on all the latest gossip. John grew more nervous as the minutes ticked by.
“What you twitching and fidgeting about for, boy?” Sundee asked.
John glanced at his parents. “I got something I gotta tell ya. I enlisted in the navy. I’m gonna go fight the Japs.”
Sundee took a deep breath and twisted her hair with her fingers. Jayland knitted his brows. Sundee let out the breath she was holding. “Absolutely not, I forbid it.”
“You didn’t hear me, Momma. I said I enlisted. It’s done. I’m eighteen now.”
Sundee smoothed down her apron, stood, then smoothed down her dress. “We’ll see about that.”
“It’s done, Momma. I leave Monday.”
Sundee’s hand moved through her hair, jerking and trembling. “How could you?” she yelled and stormed from the kitchen.
John’s father cleared his throat. “Seems like you’re a man now, wanting to do the right thing. You gotta understand this is a shock, and your momma’s gonna be worried sick about you.”
“I’ll be all right, Daddy.”
Jayland smiled, but his eyes glistened with tears. He reached out and pulled him into a big hug. After several seconds, Jayland let him go and said, “Come out back to the shed with me. I got something I want to give you.”
§
The sky was clear and the wind calm, and in the morning twilight, the top of Savo Island peaked above the horizon. O’Toole guessed it couldn’t be more than two miles away. The sea was calm with no appreciable swell, and the slight breeze blew from the west, pushing them away from land.
The nine Japanese ships that had passed them last night showed no damage, but the light flashes over the horizon were from a tremendous battle. How badly damaged was the American fleet? Did it still exist?
They inventoried the supplies stored in the shell canisters; all they found were a few saltine crackers and about a gallon of fresh water. The crew had been using the canister supplies for midnight snacks.
The sun and saltwater would stress the survivors. The weaker men would begin hallucinating by evening. Driven by thirst, some would give into the dream that drinking salt water was safe, and they would die horrible, painful deaths. About that time the sharks would show up.
“What now, Lieutenant?” Zeis asked.
“Three of the wounded died last night: Karl, Paulson, and Jeeter. We pushed their bodies away from the floater nets and cast them adrift.”
“I heard. That’s tough. When do you think they’ll start looking for us?”
“It’s anybody’s guess, Chief. We might be rescued within a few hours, or it might be days. I’m thinking dry land. Savo isn’t a coral island, and with a calm sea getting the men ashore will be safe. If we’re still in the water by sunset, some of the men will hallucinate, so we’re going to swim to the island despite the dangers. Swimming is the lesser of two evils. Get the other officers and chiefs together. Let’s get organized.”
With the officers and chiefs assembled, O’Toole spoke to the group. “We’re swimming to Savo Island. We’ll abandon the floater nets because they’ll be too much to drag through the water. Have men take turns helping the wounded. It will be a long, hard swim, and I will set a slow, steady pace. Once we start, no one stops swimming. If one stops to rest, two will stop to rest, then three. Once they stop it’s too easy to give up, and they will die out here. We’re not losing any more men. It’s your job to keep them alive by keeping them swimming.”
A stunned expression spread across Ensign Parker’s face. “We can’t swim that far without taking a few rests.”
“Parker, if they stop, they’re dead. I don’t care how hard you have to push them. Exhaustion is better than death. Kick ‘em, beat ‘em, or drag ‘em if you have to, but no one stops. I said we’re not losing any more men. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Chief Zeis, you’re with me. Chief Brandon, you bring up the rear. The other officers spread out in the group. Remember, if you let someone stop, you’re letting them die. If you stop, the men will follow your lead, and more men will die. That will not happen. Let’s go.”
O’Toole turned and started toward Savo Island in a measured breaststroke that he felt was comfortable, yet fast enough to get them to the island before their strength gave out.
The first few hours went well, and with the officers and chiefs pushing the men, no one stopped despite the fatigue creeping in. A bit before noon one of the men in a life jacket quit. O’Toole could feel his wall looming over him. He wasn’t going to let his wall win.
“Zeis, keep the lead, I’m going back.”
O’Toole turned and swam to the man, yelling, “The rest of you keep going.” He swam up to where Ensign Parker was yelling at the man and tugging on his life jacket to get him moving.
Grabbing the man’s life jacket, O’Toole said, “Damn you, sailor, we’re not leaving you to the sharks. No more men will die out here.” He jerked him forward and swam with the man in tow.
“It may kill me to tow your ass to the island, but someone else will take over. Get it through your head that by God that’s what will happen. That or you can start swimming and help your shipmates survive.”
After a few minutes, the man reached out to O’Toole, and said, “I think I got it, sir. Thanks for the rest.”
“Good man,” O’Toole said and swam to rejoin Zeis.
The sun reached its peak, and O’Toole was approaching exhaustion. His arms and legs were weak, and with each stroke, his muscles protested with sharp aching pains. His neck and face burned, and the ocean no longer provided cool relief. O’Toole pulled off his shirt and draped it over his head for protection.
He had to keep going or his small group of survivors would stop and die. They had to make the island before sundown, and that was looking doubtful. His grandfather’s words slapped at him.
If you want to be a man, if you want to be adequate, you have to be a ground fisherman like your father and me. Be tough. Don’t ever quit. It’s your fish. Land it yourself.
§
O’Toole had lost his father in the hurricane of 1924, and his grandpa, Daeg, took his mother and s
isters in. The following summer his grandpa took him on his fishing schooner, the Marella. The first year he was the cook’s assistant and bait cutter. On Georges Bank the following year, at the age of nine, his grandpa decided it was time he learned to fish. After the four dory boats had left to set their trawls, his grandpa approached, carrying a small bail of fishing line and a handful of bait.
“Come, Patrick, it’s time you learn to be a ground fisherman like your father and me. Can ya bait a hook?” he said, offering him a handful of cut menhaden fish.
“No,” Patrick said.
“Ayuh, watch me.” Daeg showed how to fix the bait to the hook.
“Ya see,” Daeg said, “that’s adequate; it won’t come off.” Daeg pulled on the bait to show.
“Okay,” Patrick replied.
“Is it now?” Daeg took the bait off the hook and continued, “You try it.”
Patrick took fresh bait from Daeg’s hand and tried to bait the hook as Daeg had done.
“That’s not adequate,” Daeg said, pulling the bait off the hook with ease. “Did you learn anything?”
“I think so,” Patrick said. He tried again, this time looping the strip of bait through the hook several times.
Daeg examined his work, and said, “Ayuh, that’s good, but good ain’t adequate when you’ve got a family to feed. Try her again.”
Patrick baited the hook again making sure the bait wouldn’t come off and held it up for Daeg to see.
Ayuh, that’s adequate. Now throw her over the side. Let your line out until it hits bottom. Takes lots of line. It be over forty fathoms here.”
Patrick unwound the line from the bail until the line went slack. “That’s it, boy. You’re on bottom. Hang on until it tries to run away from you. When it does, pull in your fish. You’ll need these nippers.” Daeg produced two garter-like wool loops from his pocket and placed them over Patrick’s hands. “When you haul in, run the lines along top of the wool across your palms. Keeps the line from cutting your hands.”
Daeg busied himself cutting bait, but never took his eyes off Patrick nor got more than ten feet away.
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 2
