“Well, I’ve got something to shake things up.” O’Toole turned. Captain Shelly stood in the doorway.
O’Toole and Strong stood-up. “What’s up, Captain?” O’Toole asked.
“Come up in the wardroom.”
§
In the wardroom, a man in an Australian uniform was sipping coffee and gazing at several charts on the table.
“Pat, this is Piper Feakes. He’s a coast watcher.”
“Call me Pip, if you don’t mind, mate.”
“We’ve been assigned the job of getting Mister Feakes to his new hideout on Kogeri Island.”
Pip pointed to the chart.
“Why us? Don’t we use submarines for missions like this?”
“Not this time. Appears Nimitz is short on submarines this week,” Shelly replied.
“Shoot, Captain, we’re going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“We have our orders.”
“So I’ve heard.”
O’Toole turned his attention to the chart. Kogeri Island was about thirty miles long, running north to south. Another longer island sat west of Kogeri. At the north end, the two islands were about a mile apart; at the southern end they were about five miles apart.
“What we’re going to do is drop Pip and his equipment off right here,” Shelly said, pointing to the west coast of Kogeri.
O’Toole was concerned. Shelly had years of experience in the merchant marine and was one hell of a skipper, but tactically his plan made no sense. He held his objection and instead asked, “When?”
“We can reach the island in four days, and we’ll do the drop at dawn on the fifth day.”
“May I make a suggestion, Captain?”
“Sure.”
“If we do what you suggest, we’re trapped between the islands. If something goes wrong or the Japs show up, we’re caught in tight waters, and there is not enough room to maneuver, fight, or escape.”
Shelly shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. If the Japs do show up, we’ll just hightail through the open end of the passage.”
“Sorry, Captain, your plan still makes me nervous. Why don’t you want to put him ashore on the eastern side of the island?”
“The surf will be heavy on the eastern side because the shore is exposed to open ocean. That’ll make it difficult to get ashore. Between the islands, the water will be calm. Getting Mr. Feakes ashore will be much easier, and most important, faster.”
“It’s still doable to put him ashore on the east coast, and if the Japs show up we need room to maneuver. Between the islands, we’re cornered. The Japs can’t corner us in the open ocean off the eastern shore.”
Shelly studied him. A cloud of guilty sorrow descended on O’Toole. He thought he saw distrust simmering behind Shelly’s eyes.
“Putting him ashore on the western coast will be quicker and will reduce our exposure and risk. I’ve settled on this plan.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I have one more suggestion, Captain. Let’s do this at night. A nighttime operation eliminates the possibility of Jap planes, and we’ll be a lot harder to see.”
Pip broke in. “If I might say, Captain, the lieutenant has a point. No point in making yourself obvious when you could sneak in at night.”
“No. If we go in at night, the shore drop will be more difficult and will take longer. Think about what you are saying. If we put him ashore on the east coast, there is heavy surf to contend with, and then you want to do the landing at night. That will risk banging up a whaleboat. I want to get in and out as fast as possible because it’s the best way to reduce our risk. We’ll go in at dawn.”
O’Toole wanted Shelly to know he was offering suggestions, and he intended no disloyalty. “Captain, the little guy on my shoulder is nervous, but I’m with you 100 percent.”
Captain Shelly nodded and said, “I appreciate your ideas, but we go with my plan.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“We leave the day after tomorrow.”
§
That night a fight broke out at one of the local bars, forcing Captain Shelly to cancel liberty. O’Toole knew canceling liberty would be hard on the crew and was glad they’d be underway the next day. He had figured morale would be low, but after one of his regular ship tours, he sensed morale was not a problem.
On the fantail he found a small mob of sailors laughing and raising a ruckus. Ever since they had left the States, small mobs like this were a regular occurrence, and Hatfield was always at the center of them. He walked up to the group, and sure enough he heard Hatfield’s voice.
“Then, ya see, this shriveled old lady turns around and coldcocks the old geezer right across his head with her cane. The old geezer stumbles back against this big old oak tree. He’s rubbing his head and all and says, ‘What was that fer?’ The old lady gives him the devil eye and says, ‘That’s fer forty years of bad sex, you old fart.’ Well, the old geezer rubs his head some more, then all of sudden like, whacks the old lady alongside the head with his cane. Why, she didn’t move an inch and kept givin’ him the devil eye. ‘What was that fer?’ she asks. The old geezer bends down and looks her right in the face, givin’ her the devil eye back, and says, ‘That’s fer knowing the difference.’”
The crowd exploded with laughter. Smiling to himself, O’Toole headed forward to his quarters and was still chuckling when he entered.
“What’s so funny? Strong asked.
“It’s Hatfield. He’s better for morale than weekend liberty.”
Strong chuckled. “Yeah, he’s a regular one-man USO troupe.”
“If you could figure a way to bottle that guy, we would make a fortune.”
“No way, you’d never get that much energy to stay put in a bottle.”
O’Toole laughed. “You’re right about that, Doc.”
Strong propped himself up on one elbow and said, “The thing that amazes me is he doesn’t have a clue about his popularity. It just doesn’t faze him at all.”
“I know, and that’s part of his charm. Hatfield is just Hatfield, 100 percent genuine Hatfield. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I wonder if he’d be any good at shooting cockroaches,” Strong said.
12
January 17, 1943
USS Able; Coral Sea
Thirty minutes after sunrise Shelly set Condition III, securing the crew from morning battle stations, and settled back in his captain’s chair to nap. O’Toole took the bridge watch and through the phone talker took muster of the weapons crews to verify a third of their weapons manned. Since leaving Auckland yesterday morning they hadn’t seen a thing.
“Radar contact bearing three-one-five, forty five thousand yards and closing.”
“Sound general quarters!” O’Toole yelled.
On the bridge wing, O’Toole could see aircraft off the starboard quarter through his binoculars, but couldn’t identify them.
“What’s happening, XO?” Shelly had to yell to be heard over the general quarters klaxon. The metal ship drummed from the impact of hundreds of running boots moving forward on the starboard side and aft on the port side.
Shelly pulled on his life jacket and helmet, and the quartermaster handed O’Toole his life jacket, helmet, and sidearm. O’Toole remembered the Green and his near miss with a broken neck and declined the helmet.
“We’ve got six bandits ten o’clock high two-one-zero relative,” O’Toole said.
O’Toole put on his life jacket while Shelly squinted at the sky through his binoculars, and said, “They’re rolling out and dropping altitude.”
O’Toole’s heart pounded. “Air action to starboard,” he yelled into the wheelhouse. He wanted to take the attack off the beam so all their guns could be used. “Left full rudder, come left six-zero degrees. All ahead flank.”
O’Toole glanced at the 20-mm gun crew on the deck below standing ready in their helmets and gray life jackets. One man was still strapping on his helmet, but Hatfield was in the gun stirrups with his harness pulled tight a
cross his back. He jerked the gun around and drew a bead on the unidentified aircraft.
The six aircraft turned toward the Able and took a two-by-two formation.
This is where the training pays off.
The Japs hoped the gunners would focus on one plane and would relax if it was shot down, allowing the other aircraft through.
On the Green he hadn’t had time to think. Now his body betrayed him; his right knee trembled, and his right cheek twitched.
At nine thousand yards, the five-inch guns opened up, sending short, sharp concussions through the ship. The planes continued to close their range, and now O’Toole could identify them. “They’re zekes carrying a bomb load, not torpedoes.”
At six thousand yards, the Bofors thundered to life. One of the zekes burst into flames and went into a tight downward spiral, crashing into the sea. Another zeke, hit by a five-incher, exploded in midair.
The next two zekes came in on a lower trajectory. Flashes of light flickered on their wings. O’Toole shouted, “Incoming!” The bridge crew lowered their heads.
A zeke flew through a wall of tracer fire headed for the aft section of the ship. Dozens of tight black balls of smoke from exploding five-inch shells burst around it. It lost its wing, flipped, and slashed into the sea upside down. Another zeke closed to within two thousand yards, and the 20-mm guns added their tracer fire to the maelstrom.
Strafing fire hit the ship below the bridge. Hatfield’s gun crew crouched to avoid the shells ripping at the bulkhead behind them. Hatfield maintained his standing position behind the splinter shield and fired away. His fire disassembled the right wing of the zeke. Hatfield walked his fire down the wing to the center of the aircraft. His bullets reached the engine, and the propeller disintegrated in a ball of flame. The zeke nosed into the sea about a thousand yards out.
The gunners hit the next two zekes at about four thousand yards, turning them into flaming black comets crashing into the sea.
All the guns fell quiet, which gave way to a long tense pause during which the crew held their breath. The phone-talker yelled, “CIC reports all clear.”
Cheers rippled through the ship. Hatfield’s crew celebrated, jumping up and down, shaking their fists in the air, and slapping each other’s backs.
“Good shooting, Hatfield! You got your first zeke. I’ll paint a meatball on your gun for you,” O’Toole called down to the gun crew.
“Can’t wait, sir. I’ll get the paint ready for you!”
§
After his watch, O’Toole found Chief Starret, and they talked to the gun captains about the engagement. Each gun captain claimed at least one zeke, some two or three. After sorting things out they decided which guns would be credited with a kill. With small paint cans and a brush, O’Toole and Starret started their rounds to award the meatballs. When they appeared on deck, a crowd of happy and rowdy gunners greeted them. As expected, the ringleader, Hatfield, was walking on air, fueling the gunners’ energy and chatter.
O’Toole was more than happy to paint the meatballs on the guns himself, but, without exception, a member of each gun crew insisted on doing it himself. At Hatfield’s gun, Hatfield deferred the meatball-painting honor to his loader.
“Why don’t you want to do the honors?” O’Toole asked Hatfield.
“Heck, sir, it wasn’t just me; we’re a team. The best damn gun crew in the fleet.”
§
After dinner, O’Toole wandered the ship to offer encouragement to the crew. With his rounds completed, he headed for his quarters and found Strong reading a tattered magazine. “It’s been a good day, Doc.”
“Yup, any day I don’t have patients is a good day. Tomorrow will be better.”
“That’s because of the training you hate so much.”
“There were only six of them.”
“Only six? Any one of them could have sent us to the bottom.”
“I doubt it. I think the Japs were stupid the way they came in. Anyone could have shot them down. I see nothing but clear sailing ahead.”
“Sorry for raining on your parade, Doc, but they were a patrol squadron that stumbled across us. They know we’re out here now, and they’ll be back.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Can I make an observation?”
O’Toole nodded.
“Standing outside of battle dressing I could hear the yelling on the bridge during the attacks. Are you aware your voice was high-pitched? You almost sounded scared. Shelly was a little better.”
“I was scared, and this was Shelly’s first action.”
“The attack scared me as well, but your voice gave me the willies.”
“Why?”
“Fear and panic are contagious, and I caught them from your voice. On the other hand, confidence and calm are infectious. That would have made me feel better.”
“I didn’t realize my voice was that high. I thought I managed to do a good job of looking calm even though my knees were knocking. Next time I’ll take a deep breath and swallow the adrenaline before shouting commands.”
“Well, it’s a thought.”
“Doc?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
§
The next day, after securing from morning battle stations, two squadrons of aircraft appeared, and the general quarters klaxon sounded.
O’Toole joined Shelly on the bridge wing. Shelly said, “Two squadrons this time. One’s a torpedo bomber squadron.”
Aware of his pounding heart, O’Toole donned his life jacket and grabbed a set of binoculars. The weak trembling knees returned, as did the twitch in his right cheek. He did what he could to conceal them from the crew and reminded himself of his voice.
At nine thousand yards the five-inchers blasted away, and the Bofors opened up at six thousand yards. The Bofors downed one, then another. The five-inch guns took out the next zeke at seven thousand yards, and the Bofors splashed his wingman a few seconds later.
Bullets exploded around the bridge wing. O’Toole hit the deck. A shell tore into Shelly’s left shoulder, ripping away the socket. The impact spun Shelly around and threw him to the deck on his back. Only muscle and skin held his arm to his body.
In a crouched position, O’Toole took a quick breath and concentrated on his voice. “The captain’s hit!” A man rushed to the Shelly’s side with a large battle dressing.
Peeking over the railing, O’Toole saw an explosion about one hundred feet out filling the sky with fire and shrapnel. A two-foot section of jagged metal hurtled at him. He ducked. The metal flew over his head, hit the bridge house bulkhead, and careened toward the deck. It struck Shelly, tearing a large chunk of muscle from his inner right thigh.
A geyser of arterial blood soaked O’Toole’s shirt. The captain would bleed out in less than a minute. O’Toole reached for his belt to make a tourniquet.
Someone yelled, “Torpedo bomber to port!”
Without thought, O’Toole left his belt dangling from its loops and returned his attention to the battle.
“Left full rudder,” he ordered.
“Torpedo bomber to starboard,” a voice yelled.
His thoughts came in staccato flashes. Bomber aflame to port. Torpedo wake to port. Sky clear to starboard. Torpedo wake to starboard. Torpedoes off both bows. Avoid one, turn into the other. No escape.
“Rudder amidships. Emergency all back flank.”
His eyes flashed right and left. Starboard torpedo closest. The ship quaked under the sudden deceleration. He might just miss the starboard torpedo.
Slow down, baby.
The port torpedo crossed the bow.
Slow down.
The other torpedo came so close the deck blocked his view. O’Toole inhaled. The wake reappeared to port. They had made it. He exhaled.
“Zeke to starboard!”
Speed.
“All ahead flank!”
A zeke headed for the stern to damage the rudder or screws. At two thousand yards, the aft 20-mm guns opened up
on the zeke.
Tracer fire crossed in front of him from left to right. Hatfield was firing on the closest zeke. At five hundred yards, the zeke lost a wing and spiraled into the sea. For a second, O’Toole lost track of the next incoming zeke. At less than seven hundred yards, the zeke strafed the Able, targeting the bridge.
On the gun deck below him, two men fell, and exploding shells ripped across Hatfield’s gun position. Hatfield spun his gun around and opened fire on the zeke. He hit the cockpit. Hatfield stopped firing and stood there like a mannequin as the zeke closed, raining gunfire around Hatfield’s position.
He counted down the distance. Five hundred, four hundred, three hundred. Hatfield started firing again. He put his line of fire above the zekes wing and lowered his aim, cutting the wing off. The zeke jerked to the side, nosing toward the ocean. The propeller’s impact with the water sheared the propeller off. Still spinning, it cartwheeled toward the Able.
The plane’s engine ripped away and skipped once on the water before rebounding into the air. The flaming engine flew over Hatfield’s head, crashed into the superstructure, and ricocheted into the number-two five-inch mount. The spinning propeller buried itself halfway into the side of the Able.
Two seamen had a med kit open and struggled to apply pressure and a battle dressing to Shelly’s leg wound without success. He pulled his belt free, and threw it at them. “Make a tourniquet.”
The guns continued to pound away at the attacking planes, downing them one at a time until they fell silent. After a pause, a voice called from inside the bridge, “CIC says all clear.”
The adrenaline drained from O’Toole’s body, allowing him to collect his thoughts. That was too close, but the gunners had kept the enemy at bay, and a big part of that was Hatfield’s deadeye shooting. Twice Hatfield brought down a zeke at the last second, but why had he stopped firing at the second zeke?
Soon everything seemed under control, and he headed for battle dressing where the pharmacist mates tended to eight men with minor wounds. He called each by name and told them what a great job they and the ship had done. “We downed eighteen Jap planes in two days. They’re going to fear the Able and her gunners now.”
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 10
