Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series)

by Laswell, Larry

“Then you will never again assault my ears with landlubber words aboard my ship?”

  “No, sir.”

  O’Toole forced himself to hide his smirk, and he could see Strong was having the same problem. “At ease, Lieutenant.” O’Toole let a broad smile fill his face and said, “In the future, I will always keep a weather eye out for crafty old country doctors.”

  Strong smiled. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Thanks, I’ll remember that next time.”

  Strong burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” O’Toole asked.

  “It’s a long story, but there’s a voice in my head giving you the raspberries.”

  §

  Four weeks later, Periman met with O’Toole and Paxton. “That wraps it up, Captain.” Periman said. “Except for the four Bofors you’re ready to go. I need to ask you to leave the pier tomorrow and anchor in the harbor until your guns arrive.”

  The group stood on the oh-one level where the Bofors should be, and went through the final repair items. Periman’s efficient and no-nonsense crews impressed O’Toole, but he wanted his guns.

  Over Periman’s shoulder, a tug towed an Australian destroyer into the harbor. The deserted ship’s bow was blown off, and she had four undamaged Bofors.

  “Are you sure there are no guns available?” O’Toole asked.

  “Absolutely. I’m sorry. I know you wanted some training time.”

  “Then what is that?” O’Toole asked, pointing to the towed destroyer.

  “She’s headed to pier three for stripping and salvage.”

  “What about her guns?”

  “They’re spoken for,” Periman said.

  “I see,” O’Toole began, “Is it okay if we pull away from the pier about 0700 tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been good working with you, Mr. Periman,” O’Toole said, shaking Periman’s hand.

  O’Toole didn’t move until after Periman reached the main deck. He turned to Paxton and said, “Get Chief Grubowski and Starret up here on the double.”

  §

  At 0600, the bridge buzzed with activity as the crew prepared the Farnley for sea. Bridge preparations were going well, so O’Toole headed aft to the rear gun deck.

  Chief Grubowski and Starret worked with several crewmen bolting four new Bofors to the deck. O’Toole called to them and asked, “Are they secured?”

  “It’s been a long night, Captain, but we’re ready to go. We need to check ‘em over and clean ‘em, but that’s it.” Starret said.

  “What are the yard birds going to say about this?” Grubowski asked.

  “I don’t care. We’ll be long gone before they figure it out,” O’Toole said.

  “Give me until tomorrow to check them out. I spoke to Paxton, so he’s rearranged the training for today,” Starret said.

  “Thanks to both of you; it’s an adequate night’s work,” O’Toole said and returned to the bridge.

  The Farnley backed away from the pier and entered the harbor channel in time for the shipyard whistle to signal the end of the quiet morning and the start of the first shift.

  Paxton and O’Toole stood on the bridge wing. “Good timing, Captain,” Paxton said.

  “Just call it the luck of the Irish,” O’Toole said.

  “So what happens now?”

  “Nothing. They couldn’t get those guns off that ship and onto another ship within two weeks. I toured the yard, and no other ship needed their Bofors replaced. Periman’s problem is he doesn’t want to fill out the paperwork to transfer the guns from the Australian Navy to the US Navy. That’s what he didn’t want to do, but now he has no choice because the serial numbers have to be tracked.”

  “Excuse me, Captain.”

  Grubowski, rolled his cigar stub to the right corner of his mouth and said, “Funny thing you should mention serial numbers.” Grubowski pulled the cigar out of his mouth and spat a strand of tobacco. “I just checked, and would you believe it, not one of our Bofors have a serial number plate on it.”

  “How did that happen?” O’Toole asked.

  Grubowski shoved his cigar stub back into the corner of his mouth. “Don’t know, Captain. They build them so fast they forget to put them on.”

  §

  June 6, 1943

  USS Oregon; Five miles south of Red Beach, Mujatto Island

  After midnight, Admiral Garrett moved his invasion force of thirty-nine ships, including eight troop ships and ten cargo ships, into Mujatto Gulf. The troop and cargo ships stood back while Garrett’s battleship, four cruisers, and sixteen destroyers took their assigned positions.

  The sun came up far enough for him to make out the detail on the beach. Garrett sensed trouble, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Still, he needed to move on.

  Garrett’s staff gave each ship a list of targets, and it was time to visit unimaginable violence upon the enemy. “Commence firing,” Garrett ordered.

  A thunderous broadside from the Oregon’s sixteen-inch guns lit the sky and shattered the silence. Within seconds, flashing thunder erupted from the other twenty warships. Explosions and smoke blossomed on the shore of Mujatto. Still Garrett sensed trouble.

  “Get me the aerial recon photographs of the beach,” he ordered.

  He shuffled through the photographs and selected four, then fanned them out in his hand like playing cards. With his other hand, he held his binoculars. His eyes flicked back and forth between the binoculars and the photographs. He spotted everything in the photographs, but the photographs didn’t show the new gun emplacements, revetment, and bunkers.

  “Mungrove, come here,” Garrett shouted over the constant rumble of gunfire.

  Rear Admiral Mungrove, his chief of staff, ran to his side. “Match these photographs with what’s on the beach,” Garrett said, handing him the binoculars.

  Mungrove repeated Garrett’s comparison then turned to Garrett with a worried face. “Someone added a lot since we took these pictures.”

  “Either they are real or they are decoys. You need to re-target every ship in the task force. Target the big guns first, then walk your way up the beach. Decoys or not, I want them gone before we put the marines ashore. Push back the landing for an hour.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mangrove hurried off with the photographs.

  §

  By 0900, the first wave of Higgins boats loaded with marines circled, waiting for the signal to land, but the beach still concerned Garrett. He was on the horns of a dilemma. He needed to get four waves of Higgins boats ashore and give the marines enough daylight to secure the beach. If he didn’t start the landings now, there wouldn’t be enough time. But he wasn’t satisfied with the beach bombardment. “God help me. Send them in,” he ordered.

  The circling Higgins boats uncoiled and formed three straight lines, churning at full speed toward the beach. The Japanese defenders attacked the boats with artillery and heavy machine gun fire. Boats exploded and others streamed black clouds of smoke. Most drove themselves onto the beach, dropped their ramp, and disgorged their marines. Garrett clenched his jaw at the carnage. Some marines jumped the Higgins boat gunwales to avoid machine gun fire, others raced up the beach. Those who survived the first ten yards found themselves pinned down behind a small dune. He had 1,200 marines on the beach against a defending force of perhaps a thousand.

  Absurd.

  A thousand defenders couldn’t put up that much resistance.

  “Get Intel up here on the double,” he shouted.

  Within seconds, Captain Lester, head of intelligence, ran to his side. Garrett spun and turned on Lester. “Your intel is crap. I want low-level aerial photographs of every inch of the beach by dinner. And I want a good assessment of what we’re up against.”

  Lester squinted at the beach, and said, “Low-level photographs over that shit?”

  “Your group told me that shit wasn’t there, and that shit is cutting the marines to ribbons. Tell me what I am up against, or
I’ll load your entire unit into Higgins boats to do a land survey.”

  §

  June 8, 1943

  USS Farnley

  “Captain, flash orders from Fleet.” The radioman handed O’Toole the message form.

  USN MESSAGE

  1432 19430608

  FROM ADMIRAL GARRETT

  TO USS FARNLEY

  Urgent. Assume command of emergency relief ships to Mujatto invasion fleet USS Carson, USS Franklin, and USS Arbor. Proceed best speed to Mujatto Gulf. Provide emergency relief to invasion fleet as directed Admiral Garrett. Board war correspondent Tom Mohr USS Farnley at Auckland for coverage of Mujatto invasion. Repeat. Best Speed. Urgent.

  “Crap,” O’Toole said. “The Mujatto invasion is going bad, and they need some help, and why in the hell do they want a war correspondent to cover it?”

  The radioman stood waiting for instructions.

  “Locate the other ships. I need their locations and readiness for sea.”

  “Yes, sir.” The radioman hurried for the door.

  O’Toole headed to Paxton’s quarters. “XO, we’re headed to Mujatto best speed. Get us back into Auckland to refuel.”

  “What’s up?”

  “The Mujatto invasion fleet is in some kind of a bind, and they need us and three other ships for emergency relief.”

  “What about provisions? We need something to put in our reefers; we’re almost out of food.”

  “You handle it, XO. We need to find out how soon we can get turned around.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “One more thing. They’re sending a war correspondent to come with us. Turn us around quick; I want to be at sea before he shows up on the pier.”

  §

  The Farnley backed down from the fueling pier, and three provision trucks rumbled away. “Good job, XO. That was one quick turn-around. However, I think the war correspondent is quicker than you are. I assume he’s the guy that jumped aboard from the pier at the last second,” O’Toole said.

  “We’ll find out soon enough. Why do you hate war correspondents?”

  “Civilians aboard a destroyer are as useful as a roller skate on a turtle, and war correspondents are worse. A war correspondent started this whole Terror thing, and it’s been a pain in my ass ever since.”

  The sound of a metal ladder clanging told O’Toole someone was running up to the bridge. A civilian appeared, glanced around, spotted O’Toole, and headed straight for him.

  “Captain, Tom Mohr, New York Times. Glad to be aboard.”

  “The feeling is not mutual,” O’Toole said.

  “Do you have something against war correspondents? It’s essential we get the news of the war back to the people at home. It keeps their morale up.”

  O’Toole huffed then called out, “XO, please escort Mr. Mohr off my bridge. Get him a bunk in officer country and keep him entertained.”

  “Excuse me, Captain, but—”

  Ship Shape growled. Mohr surveyed Ship Shape’s white fangs. O’Toole said, “You’d better leave. He’s small, but the last guy to cross him got fourteen stitches.”

  “This way, Mister Mohr,” Paxton said.

  Ship Shape snarled louder.

  Mohr backed away from Ship Shape, turned, and scurried after Paxton.

  “Good boy, Ship Shape,” O’Toole said.

  Ship Shape puffed up and sat as proud as the Egyptian Sphinx.

  §

  O’Toole stayed on the bridge until dinnertime, enjoying Mohr’s absence, but when he entered the wardroom Mohr was seated next to his spot at the head of the table and opposite Doc Strong. Mealtime tradition demanded gracious and civil behavior. Sometimes he hated tradition.

  “Good evening, Mister Mohr,” O’Toole said.

  “Where’s that cute little dog of yours?” Mohr asked.

  “He eats with the crew.”

  “Ah, good. Captain, I would like to interview you for my paper.”

  “Thought you said you were covering the Mujatto invasion.”

  “Well, yes, but it’s not often a reporter is given the opportunity to interview someone of the stature of Terror O’Toole.”

  Be gracious. Be civil.

  He smiled at Mohr and said, “That’s fine, Mister Mohr, but there is a rule on this ship to never talk business at dinner. If you come to the bridge after morning battle stations, I’ll give you thirty minutes.”

  “Thirty minutes isn’t enough.”

  “You now have twenty minutes, Mister Mohr,” O’Toole said while maintaining his smile.

  “But—” Mohr stopped when Paxton made eye contact while shaking his head.

  The stewards served dinner, and O’Toole addressed the group, “Fine. Someone turn on the radio, we should be able to pick up Tokyo Rose.”

  33

  June 12, 1943

  Ubella Atoll

  Feakes completed a scan of the sky and started a three-sixty scan of the horizon. Halfway around, he spotted the tip of a mast above the horizon; the ship was coming closer. Soon four more masts appeared, then ten others. Still below the horizon, he couldn’t identify them, but he pulled out his ship identification silhouettes from a canvas pouch. The ships would pass close ashore, so he dropped a camouflage flap in front of his observation point. He sat on the ground and pushed his binoculars through an opening in the netting. He waited.

  The first ship was a battleship. He grabbed his ship identification cards: it was Yamoto class, a super battleship. The next four ships were cruisers. He recognized the first one without consulting the cards. He was familiar with the Kamikawa. He identified the other three cruisers. Four cargo ships and six destroyers followed the heavies. Those he couldn’t identify by name.

  He pulled a compass from his pocket and dropped it on the ground between his legs. He moved his eyes back and forth between the column of ships and his compass several times before guessing their course of zero-eight-zero. Taking the chart out of his canvas pouch, he spread it on the ground so he could estimate their destination. They were headed to Mujatto.

  He wondered what was up. A lot of iron steamed by, far more than was needed for reinforcements. After the column disappeared over the eastern horizon, he headed to his hut to make a report.

  §

  As soon as they secured from morning battle stations, Ship Shape left his battle station under the captain’s chair and joined O’Toole on the starboard bridge wing. As expected, Mohr showed up seconds later.

  “Good morning, Mr. Mohr,” O’Toole said.

  Mohr smiled. “Please, Captain, let’s be friends. My first name is Tom. Call me Tom.”

  “Very interesting, Mister Tom Mohr. I’ll give you twenty minutes.”

  “Why so hostile, Captain?” Mohr asked.

  “I don’t like cargo on my ship.”

  “I’m not cargo.”

  “Then we have a difference of opinion. You better get started, the clock is ticking.”

  Mohr pulled a small notebook from his hip pocket and produced a pencil. “I wrote down hundreds of questions for you, Captain. I’m not sure where to start.”

  “How and why, did you get aboard my ship, Mister Mohr?”

  “I’m a journalist, Captain. My job to find and report the news, and I wanted to cover the Mujatto invasion. I found out Fleet assigned your ship to Mujatto, so I put in a request to ride your ship, and here I am. I was surprised when I found out you were the captain. It is not often you get to meet a legend.”

  “Wonderful. You understand the information you gave me is classified?”

  “Yes, I would never print that.”

  “Damn right you wouldn’t.”

  “Off the record, how did the nickname ‘Terror’ come about?”

  Ship Shape growled.

  “I thought you would want to talk to me about my views and my ship.”

  “I do. Just so you understand, I believe legends are built on half-baked information. That’s bad journalism and not my style.”

 
“The guy who wrote the article for the Boston Globe had a bad carbon build up in the brain chamber.”

  Mohr frowned at O’Toole for a second, then began his interview. “Captain, how many boats did the Japs have at Kogeri?”

  “Boats or ships? There’s a difference.”

  “Ah, ships.”

  He allowed Mohr to ask any question, and he answered them as factually as he could. After thirty minutes of questions, O’Toole said, “Your time is up, this conversation is classified so you can’t print a word of it. Have a good day, Mister Mohr.”

  “You—you can’t do that.” Mohr sputtered.

  Mohr’s face flushed. After a few silent seconds, he turned and stormed off the bridge.

  Ship Shape barked at Mohr’s back as he left.

  “Good boy, Ship Shape. Give him hell.”

  §

  The destroyers Farnley and Arbor with two destroyer escorts passed through the eastern strait into Mujatto gulf. Mujatto was a large island by South Pacific standards and part of a larger chain of smaller islands. The two main islands formed an east-west strait with a wide gulf at its center known as Mujatto Gulf. The last vestige of an ancient mountain range, a crescent-shaped string of smaller islands radiated outward from both sides of Mujatto. The marines landed on Mujatto from the gulf since the straits on either side of Mujatto provided some protection for the invasion fleet.

  As they approached the Oregon, O’Toole studied the gulf with his binoculars. Admiral Garrett had arranged his fleet in concentric semi-circles around a beach area. The guns from the inner ring of ships pounded away at the beach, and occasionally a cruiser on the next ring out would fire a few salvos at hardened targets. Soon he realized the marines had no air cover; there wasn’t a US plane in the sky.

  O’Toole received orders by flashing light to anchor abreast of the battleship Oregon and report to the fleet commander. The Farnley anchored abreast the port side of the Oregon away from the quarterdeck, so O’Toole’s boat swung around the Oregon’s stern. A PT boat, number 15, rocked in the waves alongside the Oregon.

  A marine escort led him to a compartment behind the flag bridge. He recognized Admirals Garrett and Durham. Garrett seemed as serious and somber as a funeral. The hellos were brief and quiet. Then Garrett led them to a large map posted on the rear bulkhead.