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

by Laswell, Larry

  Boldly they rode and well,

  Into the jaws of Death,

  Into the mouth of Hell

  Rode the six hundred.

  O’Toole spun to tell Skittle to stuff a sock in it when Skittle screamed, “Aaaaagh!”

  “What happened?” O’Toole asked.

  “The damned dog pissed on my leg, sir.”

  Amidst the muffled nervous laughter on the bridge, Ship Shape stood beside Skittle, looking at O’Toole. “Battle Station, Ship Shape,” O’Toole ordered.

  Ship Shape snapped his hind leg up to give Skittle another squirt before scampering back to his corner.

  §

  Captain Kukuta stood on the Kamikawa’s bridge wing. They held at eighteen knots to accommodate the auxiliary ships, and this troubled him. He wanted to be moving faster, but soon they would leave the auxiliary ships behind under destroyer protection before they entered the strait to engage the battle beyond.

  Even though they were the superior force, he expected a bloody battle. The other captains in his battle group worried about the American battleship and cruisers. Kukuta worried about the destroyers and their torpedoes. The strait lay thirty minutes ahead in the darkness. He wondered if they would surprise the Americans or face a horrific battle in the strait.

  §

  Mohr joined O’Toole on the bridge wing and said, “This is embarrassing, but I was wondering, how thick is the steel on our hull?”

  “Three-eighths of an inch,” O’Toole responded.

  “Well, that makes me feel better.”

  “Why do you think they call us tin cans?”

  “Sorry I asked. But while I’m on a winning streak, what are our chances?”

  “What I hope and pray for is the Jap captains got straight As in naval tactics. If they did, we have a fighting chance, but if one Jap captain is a maverick, he will unwind the whole thing on us. If that happens, everything will go to hell in a hurry,” O’Toole replied.

  “OK, I’ll just shut up now.”

  §

  Paxton stood next to his bridge officer on the bridge wing of the Arbor, which lay motionless and tight against the eastern shore of a small island.

  “Sir, the first ship has cleared the point of the island.”

  “Very well, tell me when the troop ships clear the point,” Paxton said. To the bridge officer he said, “You ever been trap bait before?”

  “Can’t say I have, sir.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “We are going to attack the transports to get the Japs’ attention, then we’re going to come back behind this island and hide for a while.”

  “Sir, radar reports the troop ships cleared the point. Four ships guarded by six destroyers, three on each side.”

  “Tell radar no more than one sweep per minute,” Paxton said. He took a deep breath, and said a quick prayer. “All ahead flank. Weapons free.”

  He rested his weight on the rail and crossed is legs to control the tremors. The single-barreled five-inch gun on the bow boomed into the night, firing at a rate of one round every four seconds. Paxton counted the rounds.

  After the third shell, three destroyer searchlights swept the night and came to rest on his ship. The third shell hit one of the auxiliaries. By the sixth shell, a constellation of star shells burst over his head, turning night into day.

  The bright flares from the star shells floated down on their parachutes, casting the night in stark shadows and washing the color out of everything, including the sea.

  The three nearest destroyers broke formation to pursue him. Shells burst all around his ship. “Right fifteen degrees rudder.”

  By the time they covered half the distance around the island, they scored three more hits on the auxiliaries. “Torpedo action to starboard,” Paxton ordered.

  The aft gun mount joined the battle, targeting the pursuing destroyers. Three torpedoes splashed into the water.

  Paxton kept his head forward despite the smoke from the forward guns sweeping across the bridge wing, burning his eyes. He held his breath, but the sulfurous stench filled his sinuses. Every Japanese ship except the three destroyers on the far side of the auxiliaries fired on his ship. The other three destroyers maneuvered to position themselves between the auxiliaries and his ship.

  An explosion rocked the ship. Fiery black smoke was all that remained of his aft gum mount. He turned the ship to head down the other side of the island, going the opposite direction from which they had started. Less than a thousand yards astern, the nearest Japanese destroyer pounded away at him, scoring hit after hit. Without the aft gun, he was defenseless.

  The second Japanese destroyer exploded in a ball of flame from a direct torpedo hit. “We’re gonna make it, here comes the cavalry,” Paxton yelled, pointing to four PT boats springing from behind the island. The PT boats veered on attack courses toward the two remaining destroyers.

  The Japanese destroyers turned their guns on the PT boats, and the tracer fire from the destroyer’s 20-mm and 40-mm guns slashed through the shadows. One of the PT boats exploded in flame, flipped end over end, and disintegrated into a cloud of splinters. A trail of flame shot out from another PT boat’s stern, turning her wake a golden white.

  Both remaining destroyers took torpedo hits and disappeared in a flaming maelstrom.

  Paxton exhaled and took stock of the scene before him. Three sinking Japanese destroyers. He accounted for three PT boats, but two were blazing infernos fed by ruptured fuel tanks. The remaining PT boat swung around to lend them aid.

  None of the Japanese shells had holed the ship. The crew would manage the fires, and the Arbor would survive. Shielded by the island, Paxton slowed and turned his attention to putting out the fires.

  §

  Standing on the port bridge wing of the Kamikawa, Captain Kukuta adjusted his eye patch and evaluated the action. With the southwestern sky illuminated by a constellation of star shells, three auxiliaries burned, and three pyres of black smoke rose from behind a small island. He didn’t like this. It took more than one destroyer escort to deliver that much damage.

  For that reason alone, he didn’t like the flagship’s order to stay in column formation and come left 135 degrees. Yes, such a maneuver would bring them broadside to the threat axis on their starboard quarter. This is prudent when attacked because the maneuver allows the formation to bring its maximum firepower to bear on the enemy. However, one destroyer escort is not a threat to a battle group such as this. Let the destroyers handle the attack and maintain the original formation.

  More star shells shot into the sky. Kukuta scanned his bridge; all heads were turned toward the burning auxiliaries to the southwest.

  He liked that even less.

  The attack is a feint.

  “Cease fire,” he commanded. “The attack will come from the northeast. Train the guns to starboard.”

  §

  Only one foot of water separated his keel from the rocky bottom, but O’Toole focused on the greater danger of the unfolding battle. He was doing his best to seem calm despite his pounding heart and the throbbing in his neck. The twitch in his right cheek bothered him; he worried the crew would see it.

  He had brought the Farnley in close to a small island north of the Japanese formation. As the tactics books taught, the battleship and cruisers stayed in a column formation turning northwest to bring all their guns to bear on the threat to the southwest. The Jap maneuver was just as O’Toole hoped. The battleship approached bow-on, and their distance was closing rapidly. Even with the column pointed directly at the Farnley and despite the star shells, they hadn’t been spotted yet.

  It was time.

  “All ahead flank. Keep the guns silent until the Japs spot us,” O’Toole ordered.

  He motioned for the phone-talker to follow him and stepped to the bridge wing, dogging the door behind him to protect the bridge crew. His mind registered Mohr’s presence at a safe distance. To both Mohr and the p
hone-talker, he said, “Keep your heads down. The lead is going to get thick.”

  §

  The PT boat’s idling engines shook the deck with their slow cadence. Hidden behind the opposite side of the island from the Farnley, Durham couldn’t tell how the battle was progressing. He would wait until O’Toole ordered him to attack the Japanese column’s exposed flank with his four PT boats. His first priority was to make sure the battleship ate eight torpedoes, and his second was to attack the line of cruisers.

  O’Toole’s plan for the battleship was simple in theory and based on lessons from the attack on Pearl Harbor. The Japs sank every battleship in the harbor not by sinking them outright, but by capsizing them. The Japanese torpedoes compromised the outer armored hull and flooded the voids between the outer and inner hulls. The ship designers gave these invincible ships a significant Achilles heel. Tonight they would exploit it.

  The radio crackled. “Able,” the code word.

  “Let’s go,” he yelled.

  §

  Kukuta jerked his head around at a flash of light forward. The battleship’s guns thundered to life: flashes of light, then seconds later the thud of her guns. Her eighteen-inch guns remained silent; the thunder came from her two forward six-inch waist guns. Kukuta raced to the starboard bridge wing and stretched to gain a better view of the battle. An American destroyer was charging the formation, and would pass less than five hundred yards abeam the battleship. The guns on both ships filled the space between them with a chaos of muzzle blasts, fire, tracer bullets, and smoke.

  Kukuta couldn’t fire on the destroyer without hitting the battleship, but he would be ready when the battleship cleared his line of fire. Kukuta fingered the string holding his eye patch. He was right. The attack came from starboard, but why a single destroyer? This violated everything he knew; it didn’t make sense.

  §

  O’Toole’s luck surprised him. He closed to within a thousand yards of the battleship before she opened fire on the Farnley. A few more seconds and he would launch six torpedoes into her side. The battleship’s big eighteen-inch guns were useless at this range, and only her two forward waist guns had a clear line of fire. O’Toole faced the most powerful battleship in the world, but his enemy could only bring two six-inch guns to bear; it was an even fight.

  O’Toole felt useless. Everything was on automatic. CIC coordinated the torpedo and gun crews unless the bridge issued different orders. His crew knew their jobs; the battleship was about to have a very bad day.

  Charging into the fusillade from the enemy’s six-inch and anti-aircraft guns, they launched six of their ten torpedoes.

  Hundreds of 20-mm and 40-mm shells slammed against the protective bulkhead around the bridge wing. The hail of anti-aircraft shells filled the air with metal shrapnel like sand, stinging his skin. O’Toole dove into the corner of the bridge wing facedown near the pelorus and curled into a fetal position to protect himself. His life jacket absorbed most of the shrapnel and provided some protection.

  The Farnley shook from its pummeling five-inch guns and the hits it absorbed from the anti-aircraft fire. O’Toole clenched his jaw to prevent his teeth from rattling. The ship thumped from the concussion of their first torpedo hit on the battleship, and he counted the explosive concussions from each of their six torpedoes. He prayed this wouldn’t last long.

  An explosion. The ship shuddered. Another. Then another. Then another. The guns fell silent; the ships had passed. The Farnley burned from the bridge aft.

  The phone-talker struggled to control his quavering voice and said, “Torpedo mounts one and two still operational. Gun mounts one and four out of action. Casualties on the 20-mm and 40-mm guns.” ”

  The number one mount was gone. All that remained was a jagged burning maw belching fire.

  “Sir, power is out to all forward guns.”

  The next ship in the Japanese column, a cruiser, was his next target, and if they survived, the Farnley would put two torpedoes in her side. Smoke obscured the side of the battleship. The torpedoes were doing their work. The Farnley’s gunners had taken the battleship’s waist guns out of action, an essential step for the survival of Durham’s PT boats.

  Mohr was curled up in a corner, terrified and trembling. O’Toole shouted at him, “Get below and help in medical!”

  Mohr crawled through the access door toward the ladder and disappeared.

  §

  Stunned, Kukuta stared at the invincible battleship in front of him. Her side bled smoke, and she began to list. A secondary explosion from an auxiliary magazine turned the night to day in a brief flash of flame. The invincible Yamua was in her death throes.

  How can this be?

  He forced his mind back to the battle and the American destroyer attacking from the right.

  You are a magician, Kukuta thought. You occupy our attention with your left hand, then attack us from the right. Now, with our attention fixed on your right hand, your next attack will come from the left.

  The suicidal destroyer intended to run the gauntlet of the Japanese capital ships, torpedoing each as he passed. Kukuta never imagined naval combat at such close range or at such high speed. Somehow, he knew the brave American commander who stood on the destroyer’s bridge was a true warrior who would never order a subordinate to take such a suicidal assignment in battle.

  He raised his binoculars toward the American destroyer. On the bridge wing stood the man with red hair.

  Hello, Bushi, I knew you were here. I salute you. You are clever, resourceful, and brave. A true warrior.

  He feared the torpedoes the destroyer would launch in a few more seconds. The Kamikawa’s death was at hand. Escape was impossible. Unless . . .

  36

  Star shells, flashes of light, and the distant thunder of guns was all Paxton knew of the battle raging on the far side of the island. It was like watching a fireworks display from the far side of a mountain. The Arbor’s fires were contained, and she still had all of her weapons. They had survived and his orders were not to risk his ship.

  No easy answers.

  He turned toward the wheelhouse door. “To hell with this, it’s time to win the war. All ahead flank.”

  §

  O’Toole riveted his eyes on the cruiser to judge the effectiveness of his one remaining forward five-inch gun. Even without power, they punched away at the cruiser’s forward waist gun. The loss of a waist gun would not be lethal but would occupy the mind of her captain. Silent, the cruisers useless eight-inch guns pointed to starboard.

  On the cruiser’s bridge wing stood the pirate, staring back at him. The pirate’s head turned toward his bridge, and he shouted an order. The Japanese captain’s order wouldn’t make a difference; the cruiser was in his sights.

  The cruiser’s bow swung toward the Farnley. For a second, the cruiser’s turn confused O’Toole. Then he realized she intended to ram him and cut the Farnley in two.

  §

  Durham raised his binoculars. The battleship sat behind a wall of billowing black smoke between her aft and forward guns, and she was starting to list. The Farnley, now ablaze, charged ahead at full speed. The battleship’s four waist guns were of no consequence; they couldn’t see through the smoke. Durham’s boats had a clear shot at the battleship. The Farnley’s guns engaged the cruiser, and Durham decided how to attack. His boat would deliver a four-torpedo insurance policy against the battleship, and the other boats would attack the two trailing cruisers.

  He radioed his orders, and his other three boats veered to the left toward the cruisers.

  The battleship’s eighteen-inch guns swung around toward him. He hadn’t believed the battleship would fire at his boat; those large shells don’t arm themselves until one thousand yards, but a direct hit from an eighteen-inch shell would obliterate a PT boat.

  Durham thought for sure he was dead when blooms of fire exploded from the muzzles of the eighteen-inch guns. A split second later, a shockwave knocked him to the deck. At first he tho
ught the shockwave was from the muzzle blast. His aft gunners struggled to their feet, and a huge plume of water exploded aft. Had an eighteen-inch shell gone over their head? The battleship was so tall and the PT boats so low, the heavy guns couldn’t depress enough to hit them at this range.

  A spire of water shot up in front of the boat, drenching everyone aboard. The second and third cruisers in the Japanese column turned toward him and his attacking PT boats. He ignored them. He was in position. He launched his four torpedoes into the battleship’s midsection.

  An armor-piercing eight-inch shell struck the back of Durham’s boat. Striking only wood, the shell sensed no armor and did not explode, but it ripped Durham’s boat in two.

  §

  The code word Able crackled over the radio. Mobley waited his two minutes and ordered his two destroyer escorts to attack the rear of the Japanese formation from the southeast. He would pull the remaining destroyers away from the auxiliary ships to clear the way for the next attack.

  “All ahead flank,” he ordered.

  Secluded behind an island west of the one Paxton used, Mobley’s ship came to life. Echoes of gunfire swept the ocean, muzzle bursts flashed above the island, and shadowy pyres streamed upward, silhouetted in the star shells’ ghostly white light. Mobley had no idea how the battle was progressing, but he would find out once he cleared the island.

  Three Japanese destroyers guarded the auxiliaries’ southern flank. Three of the auxiliaries were burning. He could not see the other three destroyers and hoped they were out of action. Between his two destroyer escorts, he had four five-inch guns and eight torpedoes, but he was up against twelve guns and twenty-four torpedoes. He didn’t like the odds.

  His forward gun opened up on the nearest destroyer, and all three returned fire with their aft guns. Shell geysers shot up around him. The three Japanese destroyers heeled into sharp turns to come about and attack him. They were leaving the auxiliaries unprotected. The plan was working.

  A huge wall of water blasted to starboard. His ship snapped to a port list then righted herself. Water rained down on the bridge, soaking Mobley. The blast was too big for a six-inch gun; the cruiser’s eight-inch guns had his range.