“Yeah, sir. Did we set some kind of record?”
“Don’t know, but it should be.”
The glad-handing behavior felt odd to him even though it lifted the men’s spirits. He guessed they didn’t know who was on the table.
O’Toole walked to the table and stood opposite Strong, who was busy stitching up Shelly’s shoulder. The captain was unconscious, and a large bandage bound his leg.
“He’s alive,” Doc said, “but I can’t figure out how. He lost a lot of blood, and I didn’t think he would make it.”
“How long before he can return to duty?”
Strong shook his head at O’Toole as if he couldn’t believe the question. “With his shoulder damage, that’s never going to happen. This is a million-dollar wound; he’s headed stateside. The current problem is his blood loss. He’ll be weak and won’t be able to sit up for week.”
O’Toole was relieved Shelly would survive, but saddened he would lose one hell of a captain.
“I’ll sign the paperwork stating the wounds prevent him from performing his duties,” said Doc. “You’re the captain now.”
“Don’t do that, Doc. I’m in command, but I want him to be a captain as long as he’s aboard the Able. It’s still his ship, and he’s still the captain.”
Strong nodded.
“When can I talk to him?”
“I’ll put him in is quarters and keep someone with him around the clock until he’s out of trouble. He’ll wake up in an hour or so, and when he does, he’ll be on morphine. I would rather you leave him alone, but you won’t, so make it short and don’t get him upset.”
O’Toole left battle dressing to tour the ship and check the damage.
13
USS Able; en route to Kogeri Island
O’Toole got to the fo’c’s’le as the work party winched the aircraft engine to the side of the ship. For the final two feet, three teams manned large steel pry bars to leverage the engine overboard. Other men worked to paint out burn marks and weld temporary patches over holes in the ship’s skin. Satisfied, he headed aft to check the work on the Japanese propeller blade stuck in the Able’s side.
Chief Barnes saw him coming and with a wide smile walked to meet him. “Why so happy, Chief?” O’Toole asked.
“The propeller cut right through to the main engine room. My guys figured the hole would provide more ventilation, but I pointed out there weren’t any such holes on the blueprints. We’ve been making an argument about it. It’s all in fun.”
“Any more damage other than better ventilation?”
“Nope. We’re about done here, and it looks like everything will be shipshape by lunch. How’s the captain?”
“He’ll be alright. I’ll talk to him later, but from what the doctor told me, he got a million dollar wound. He’s headed stateside.”
“Don’t know whether to be happy or sad. He’s a good captain. You’re gonna be a good captain too.”
“No, no, chief. He’s still the captain, and I’m the XO. Besides, the last time we talked, you called me a prick.”
“Said no such thing sir, but you might want to know the crew promoted you to bastard. After all this action, they’re saying, ‘That bastard worked our asses off, but thanks to him, we still have ‘em.’”
Barnes’ words gave O’Toole a sense of relief. Being a bastard lifted some of the guilt from his shoulders, but O’Toole felt he still had a long way to go. “I never thought I’d be happy to be called a bastard. Thanks.”
§
After lunch, O’Toole headed to Shelly’s quarters. The captain lay chatting with the pharmacist mate in a weak voice. O’Toole patted the pharmacist mate on the back and jerked his head toward the door. The pharmacist mate stepped out.
Shelly’s face was the color of death, and only his eyes told O’Toole he was alive. Before O’Toole could ask Shelly how he was doing, Shelly asked, “What’s on your mind, XO?”
“I would like you to reconsider our plan to put Pip ashore. The Japs certainly know our course, speed, and destination by now. Yesterday, one of their patrols found us by chance. Today they came at us in force. If we get through tomorrow, they’ll be waiting for us at Kogeri.”
“I don’t think they will send anything more than zekes after us.” Shelly closed his eyes and paused for a second. “That’s going to happen no matter what. Speed—in and out fast—best bet.”
“There are Jap ships in the area because the navy puts coast watchers where there are Jap ships. There’s a good chance there will be more zekes tomorrow.”
“Don’t think so. We’re small potatoes to them.”
“We’ve shot down eighteen of their aircraft. We have their attention, and they will want to even the score.”
“XO, Doc Strong told me you stopped him from certifying me out of command. I appreciate the gesture, but either get him to sign the paper or follow orders. I’m weak, but I refused the morphine. My brain is working fine.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
§
O’Toole secured the crew from sunset battle stations, made his night tour of the ship, and chatted with the sailors he met. The full moon played hide and seek behind scattered clouds and glistened on the rolling sea. O’Toole allowed the peace and the gentle roll of the ship to drain the stress and latent fear from his body. Lightning flashes on the northern horizon didn’t break the mood. He couldn’t yet tell which way the storm would move.
He spotted an irregular shadow on the other side of the anchor windlass and investigated. Hatfield was sitting against the windlass with his knees drawn to his chest. He stared into the darkness and only turned his head for a second to acknowledge O’Toole.
“Mind if I join you?” O’Toole asked.
“No, sir.”
Hatfield’s voice was soft, somber, and devoid of its normal buoyancy. They sat in silence for several minutes.
“Connors and White aren’t hurt badly. Doc says they will back to full duty in two weeks,” O’Toole said.
“Yeah, I talked to them. They said they would be back to the gun in five or six days.”
“Why so quiet tonight?”
“I screwed up today. I let everybody down.”
“Hatfield, you’re one of the best gunners in the navy. You showed courage, and stayed at your gun. You didn’t let anybody down.”
“Yes I did, sir. I stopped shooting for a few seconds.”
With Hatfield’s current mood, O’Toole wasn’t sure he should push the subject, but he wanted to find what was bothering him. “What happened?”
“Not much to tell. I froze. The Jap got so close I could see his helmet, goggles, and some of his face. It dawned on me he’s not much older than I am and he’s scared like me. Before it was more like sport or a contest. I realized I was trying to kill someone. I never thought about killing another human being before. I didn’t want his blood on my hands forever.”
O’Toole shifted his weight and rubbed his eyebrows, trying to adjust his thinking toward Hatfield. The innocence in his voice had disappeared. He felt as if he were speaking to a man thrice Hatfield’s age. “But you started shooting again and brought him down.”
Hatfield continued to speak to the night. “It’s strange. Our countries are at war, but I’m not at war with those pilots, and they aren’t at war with me. It isn’t personal. The Japs aren’t trying to kill me; they’re doing their jobs, trying to sink our ship. It isn’t personal.”
“Hatfield, you showed great courage standing there under fire. There is nothing for you to be ashamed of.”
“Now I understand it isn’t about me. If everyone heads for cover to protect their butt or freezes like I did, we’re all dead. I gotta do my job. What happens to me doesn’t matter. My ship and shipmates need me to do my job like we need you to do yours. It’s the only way we can stay alive. When I realized that, I shot the zeke down. It was him or us.”
In a whisper, Hatfield said, “It doesn’t seem fair.”
After a sec
ond, O’Toole said, “I’ll talk to Doc Strong and get you a couple days off. This has been a tough day for you.”
Hatfield’s voice was strong and resolute. “Don’t do that, sir. I’m alright. I understand things now and what I need to do.”
They sat in silence for several more minutes until O’Toole got up and said, “Get some sleep.”
Hatfield didn’t answer.
§
In his quarters, O’Toole found Strong asleep in his clothes. O’Toole didn’t disturb him and settled into his bunk with a tech manual. About a half hour later, Hatfield’s voice interrupted his reading.
“Sir? Sir, don’t mean to bother you like this, but could I have a minute?”
It was not normal for junior enlisted men to call on the ship’s executive officer late at night, but Hatfield never quite understood military etiquette. After their talk on the fo’c’s’le, O’Toole wanted to make sure Hatfield was okay.
“Sure. What is it, Hatfield?”
“Sir, there’s something I want you to know.” Hatfield looked at his shuffling feet. “I write home every day and tell my folks about you. Up until yesterday, I called you every name I knew except an officer. See, the guys and me got talking. With things being like they been the past two days, we figured you was hard on us to make us tough. Chief Starret even told us you got chewed out by an admiral on account of us. Then the chief said we’re the best gunners in the fleet and any other ship would’ve got blown out of the water with the air attacks and all. That’s what I meant before when I said I let you and the guys down when I stopped shootin’.
“Me and the guys got to figurin’ and decided you’re a straight-up guy. I just want you to know, if you heard about us calling you names, pay it no mind. Me and the guys are behind you all the way. I guess that’s it, sir.”
Hatfield’s half-confession half-apology wasn’t anything he had ever experienced before. It was good the crew understood what all the hard work was about, and he reminded himself he could have done it better. He was proud his gunners were behind him.
O’Toole had trouble thinking of something to say to Hatfield and let his words flow out. “Thank you, Hatfield. You guys are the best gunners in the fleet. I’m proud of you, and proud to be your officer.”
Hatfield nodded, shuffled his feet again, and left.
“Interesting,” Strong said.
“You’ve been awake?”
“Uh huh.”
“What do you make of it, Doc?”
“Well, Chief Barnes told me the crew promoted you to bastard. Guess this confirms it, except now you’re an okay bastard. I’m also considering the fact you may have been right about the training.”
From Strong, those words were as close to an apology as he would ever get. He thought about acknowledging it, but Hatfield still troubled him. “Doc, first thing in the morning, I need you to put Hatfield on medical rest and talk to him. He had a bad experience today and could use some downtime.”
“Anything for a tough bastard like you, even when you are trying to care for your men.”
O’Toole chucked. “Was that sarcasm or irony, Doc?”
“Well, don’t ask me; I’m a doctor of medicine, not rhetoric.”
§
O’Toole turned toward the eastern horizon glowing blue and white in the predawn. The crew stood at morning battle stations, which until now had proven to be an empty exercise.
The phone-talker spoke so everyone on the bridge could hear, “Sir, radar has two large contacts three-zero-eight degrees, three-eight thousand yards.”
“Flash Red. Control Yellow,” O’Toole called out.
He glanced down at Hatfield’s gun position and saw Hatfield manning it. Either strong hadn’t had a chance to talk to Hatfield or Hatfield was disobeying orders. Neither would be surprising. If he ordered Hatfield off the gun, it would be a breach of trust. If he left him there, there would still be time afterwards to give him some downtime. He let it go.
After a few minutes of silence, the phone-talker said, “CIC says they’re circling at twenty thousand yards.”
They’re waiting for the sun to come up so they can come at us out of the sun.
Five minutes later, O’Toole raised his binoculars, two groups of six black specks against the bright sky were visible. One group broke away, rolled, and dove. He reminded himself about his voice. He took a breath to calm his heart and locked his weakening knees, but he could do nothing about the tick in his cheek.
“Here they come. Air action to starboard!”
The five five-inch guns opened up, each firing a round every four seconds. Blinded by the sun, O’Toole felt useless. He worried the gun director captains would have the same problem. Radar provided range information, but optical sights were still the best way to target the zekes. At six thousand yards the Bofors added their thunder to the battle, but the Bofor gun directors didn’t even have radar.
Soon the 20-mm guns followed, shooting blindly at the sun. All except Hatfield. Hatfield’s loader held his hand between the sun and Hatfield’s face, shielding his eyes as Hatfield shouted directions to guide the man’s hand. Hatfield’s gun chattered, and a kate, a torpedo bomber, spiraled out of the sun and crashed into the sea.
“Torpedo bombers. Right full rudder,” O’Toole called.
O’Toole’s heart jumped. The Japs had thought this attack out and were dictating the battle to him. The turn was the lesser of two evils. By turning into the attack and the sun, the Able’s narrow beam presented the smallest target to the bombers’ torpedoes. The trade-off was it took all but his forward guns out of the fight.
The wake of a torpedo streamed down the starboard side, missing them by fifty feet.
“Torpedo to port!”
This one would be close. If he juked the ship away from this torpedo, he worried the swinging stern would still be exposed. Leaning over the railing, he sighted the torpedo wake relative to the Able’s course. He grabbed the railing, and his neck and jaw tightened. The torpedo tracked down the side of the ship less than a foot from the hull. He caught himself inhaling and sucking in his gut. Stupid, he thought, and turned back to the battle.
Two groups of six. We got three; three more are coming.
O’Toole used his hand to shield his eyes. He glimpsed a torpedo bomber banking out of the sun and swerving back toward the Able. Hatfield opened fire, and the kate exploded, but not before the torpedo dropped. This one was too close and too well aimed.
The bow disappeared in a ball of flame, jerking upward as sheets of water slammed into the bulkhead behind him. Stunned by the impact, O’Toole made his way back to the railing. Falling water drenched him, and he had to clear his eyes to see. The torpedo had struck the port side about a foot aft the prow. The bow was the strongest part of the ship, and O’Toole surmised the torpedo hit would not be fatal.
A zeke flashed overhead, flying down the length of the ship. There was too much happening at once. He had lost count of the torpedo bombers, and now the second group of zekes was attacking with bombs.
With his ship headed into the torpedo attack, the Able presented the Japs with a 300-foot target. The Japs had set him up for the bomb attack.
A bomb arched down and exploded aft on the port side. The sun was rising fast, and the attacking pilots were guessing the right altitude to make use of it. Two zekes raced toward the Able with their guns firing. Shells exploded against the superstructure below the bridge.
O’Toole glanced down toward the 20-mm gun where Hatfield, helmetless, hung limp in his harness. He struggled to his feet. Beneath his shredded life vest, red blood soaked his white T-shirt. A silence shocked O’Toole as the last two zekes arced toward the sea in flames.
The forward 20-mm guns opened up. Hatfield was back at the gun with the magazine handler using his hand to shield Hatfield’s eyes. An unseen zeke returned fire, covering the gun deck with exploding shells and shrapnel. Hatfield’s body jerked back, but he held on and shoved his bleeding chest deeper into
the gun stirrups to return fire. O’Toole felt hopeless. The sun made it impossible to shoot down the zeke, even for Hatfield.
Debris radiated from the sun in all directions. O’Toole ducked, but a sharp burning pain stabbed at his right forearm. He pushed the pain out of his mind and waited for the tumbling tail section of the burning zeke to bang against the Able’s side.
A voice inside the bridge called out, “CIC says all clear.”
Three wounded men carried Hatfield by the arms and legs toward battle dressing. Other men scrambled to cover Hatfield’s gun position.
He wanted to run to battle dressing to be near Hatfield. The guilt of not going closed in on him, but he pushed it back. His duty was to his ship.
“Okay, let’s get this debris cleaned up and overboard. Get damage control to get us a report up here. Find Chief Starret. Tell him to muster another gun crew for the starboard 20 mm.”
A crewman approached with a battle dressing for his arm, which he had forgotten. Although blood covered his arm, O’Toole guessed Doc would stitch the wound shut and send him on his way. He held his arm out to the crewman impatiently; he had more important things to do.
§
The torpedo had torn the first five feet of the bow away near the waterline. It was more of an annoyance than a problem, and Damage Control reported all fires out. A haggard Chief Barnes approached O’Toole. Soot covered his face, and his wet, dirty uniform clung to his chest.
“XO,” Barnes began, “we’re not too bad off. The bomb holed us above the waterline right between the forward engine room and the aft boiler room. The aft boiler room got the worst of it; it’s a real mess. We lost a generator and an evaporator in the engine room.
Okay, here’s the deal: if we can stop for thirty minutes, we can patch the hole. That’ll stop water slopping in on us. Once the water is under control, my crew can have both engines and all four boilers back on line by nightfall. Gonna need about twenty other men to help, if you can spare ‘em.”
“What about the generator and the evaporator?”
“The evap will take a few days. The generator took the brunt of the blast and saved a lot of other equipment. It ain’t gonna be running anytime soon.”
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 11
