The escort next to him took a direct hit, followed by another. Out of action, she slowed: the kiss of death in battle. A third and fourth explosion tore into her side. She disappeared behind a curtain of fire. Mobley looked away.
He veered his ship to port and launched his four torpedoes at the approaching destroyers in a desperate attempt to slow their advance. An eight-inch shell exploded into the bridge of Mobley’s ship, tearing the top two decks from the superstructure.
§
Munroe saw Mobley’s attack and its tragic end. Tucked behind an island to the northwest and rear of the Japanese formation, they hid in the shadows. The Japanese destroyers were out of position on the opposite side of the auxiliaries but still close enough to reverse course and obstruct his attack.
Munroe thought for a second. This was the last of the four attacks, their last chance at turning the Japanese battle group. They had to succeed. “Tell the other boats we want to sink the two closest auxiliaries. Fire all torpedoes at them, then scatter and escape. Let’s go bag some Jap ass.”
§
The cruiser’s bow swung toward the Farnley. There was only one hope for survival.
“Hard right rudder,” O’Toole ordered. The Farnley heeled into the turn. The ship’s bows came even. A glancing collision was unavoidable. The cruiser’s forward guns were trained outward, overhanging her side by a good ten feet.
The cruiser’s hulk approached until their sides collided with a jarring metallic thud followed by the sound of screeching metal. The Farnley shook and jerked to starboard. The cruiser’s eight-inch gun barrels clipped the forward gun mount, knocking it askew.
The anti-aircraft gunners on both ships fought muzzle to muzzle. The Farnley shook from the pummeling guns, and their sharp reports echoed in the chasm between the ships.
A barrel of the cruiser’s eight-inch guns crashed into the Farnley’s forward superstructure. Metal groaned, and the deckhouse beneath the bridge buckled. The deck gave way, tilting forward. One of the cruiser’s eight-inch gun barrels fell and rolled between the ships. The air was torn by the scream of shearing steel.
O’Toole glared at the pirate, who stoically stared back. When their eyes met, Hatfield’s words came back to him. Their nations were at war, but O’Toole was not at war with this man, nor was he at war with O’Toole. They were sailors bound by duty and honor to defeat their nation’s enemy. O’Toole saluted the pirate. The pirate returned the salute and bowed to O’Toole. Both men turned to attend to the battle and pursue the destruction of the other.
§
The Arbor rounded the island and gave Paxton his first view of the battle. The sea seemed full of burning ships and continuous gunfire. The Japanese auxiliaries would be to his left: three ships burning. The cruisers and battleship would be off his starboard bow. The Japanese battle line was broken, and the three cruisers were turning east. What he thought was the Farnley was ablaze and headed west. Where was the battleship? Nothing made sense. Paxton didn’t know which way to go or what to do. Paxton checked himself. He wasn’t suffering from indecision; it was just that nothing made sense.
After a minute of trying to figure the battle in front of him, Paxton realized no one was shooting at him. He wasn’t shooting either. Was everyone so occupied they hadn’t noticed him? He had done nothing to draw their attention.
Common mission. Independent action. Attack the capital ships.
Paxton turned to his bridge officer. “Tell gunnery to hold fire.”
“Hold fire?” the bridge officer asked.
“No need to draw their attention. It’ll just piss them off.”
§
O’Toole thought for a second. His rudder was still hard right. The Farnley was moving faster and was more maneuverable than the cruiser.
O’Toole entered the wheelhouse and grabbed the phone talker. “Torpedo battery. Put a torpedo up her ass. Steady on your rudder.”
O’Toole ran to the bridge wing in time to see the torpedo leap from the side. The cruiser was still in a hard turn and her stern was no more than two hundred feet away. He held his breath.
§
Captain Samura, captain of the cruiser behind the Kamikawa, had broken from the column to attack the PT boats coming from the northeast. The cruiser behind him had also joined the chase. The collision between the Kamikawa and the American destroyer surprised him: both ships were still in a hard right turn trying to disengage.
The stern of the Kamikawa erupted in a ball of flame atop a mountain of water.
§
Kukuta ran to the starboard bridge wing to watch the American destroyer as Kamikawa’s stern slipped sideways in her turn. A torpedo shot from the American’s deck. Helpless, he braced for the impact. The torpedo exploded on his stern.
“Shift your rudder,” he ordered.
“Captain the helm does not respond. The rudder is hard right.”
An unnatural thumping vibration shook the Kamikawa like a flat tire on an automobile. His rudder was jammed, his screws damaged; the Kamikawa was all but dead.
§
The Farnley was three quarters of her way through a three-sixty. O’Toole was sure the Farnley would soon be lost. Despite the damage to the Kamikawa’s stern, her port waist guns were pounding the Farnley to death, and two other Japanese cruisers had broken formation and were maneuvering to clear their line of fire. In a minute, the Farnley would face a firing squad.
He had three torpedoes left and could finish the Kamikawa, leaving her between the Farnley and the other cruisers and perhaps giving the Farnley another thirty seconds of life.
“Torpedo action to starboard. Meet her,” he ordered.
§
Paxton was convinced he was dreaming. Not a single ship had opened fire on the Arbor. Directly ahead, two cruisers were steaming abreast toward the Farnley. He still had the Arbor at flank speed, and the cruisers had dropped speed and were maneuvering, which slowed them even more. The Arbor’s closing rate on the cruisers was breathtaking.
Audacity.
To his bridge officer he said, “Maneuver between the Jap cruisers.”
To the phone talker he said, “Torpedo action to port and starboard.”
Confused, the phone talker asked, “Which one, port or starboard?”
Paxton realized no one had ever contemplated such an order. “Forward torpedo mount, action to starboard. Aft torpedo mount, action to port.”
§
Captain Samura fixated on the battle in front of him. He could only think of avenging the battleship Yamua and the damage to the Kamikawa. He vowed to show the American destroyer no mercy. The cruiser that had been behind him was now six hundred yards off his starboard beam and was maneuvering with him to open fire on the American destroyer.
He cursed when the American destroyer fouled his line of fire by dipping behind the Kamikawa.
§
With his rudder frozen hard right, Kukuta knew the Kamikawa was all but lost. All she could do was run in circles; the American would finish her off within seconds. All he could do was watch.
The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the wake of three torpedoes driving into the Kamikawa’s side.
§
Captain Samura urged the American destroyer on so she would come out from behind the Kamikawa.
Just a few seconds more.
He took a breath, ready to give the order to fire, when a panicked voice called out, “Captain, American ship to starboard.”
Captain Samura turned his head. An American destroyer slid into position between his ship and the other cruiser. The three ships were steaming in a line abreast. Neither cruiser could fire on the American without risking damage to the other.
An American officer on the bridge wing seemed to be waving to him. Three torpedoes exploded into the side of his ship, throwing Samura to the deck.
§
“Captain, flashing light from the Arbor. A cruiser is trying to escape. Should they pursue?”
O
’Toole had seen the retreating cruiser. They had silenced the thunder of battle. The bridge was nothing more than a pile of scrap metal, and he stood in a puddle of blood. He was numb and wanted no more of this.
“Tell them no. Enough men have died today,” he said.
37
Listing ten degrees to port, the Farnley lay at anchor abreast the battleship Oregon in the Gulf of Mujatto. O’Toole had spent the last three hours walking the ship, checking on the crew, and finding things needing to be done. He was lost; there was nothing more he could do for his crew. A group of men sat against the windlass eating. He nudged Ship Shape off his left shoe and started toward them. Ship Shape had been under his feet all day with head, tail, and ears down. “You guys okay?” he asked the men.
Metzger lifted his soot-smeared face and said, “Yes, sir.” He pulled the key from the bottom of a C-ration can and began winding it around the can to remove the metal ribbon.
“What did you get?” O’Toole asked.
Metzger checked the label on the three-inch can and said, “Meat and beans.”
“Yeah, mystery meat and bomber beans. I’m not sleeping anywhere near to you tonight,” one of the other men said.
Metzger picked up his second can and read the label. “And I got three biscuits, fudge, sugar cubes, and instant coffee to wash it down. Thank God I’m not a marine.”
Metzger put down the three-inch can and finished opening his can of meat. Once the lid was off, he asked O’Toole, “What we going to do for bunks tonight, Captain?”
“Got blankets and pillows coming from the cargo ships and the Oregon. It’s all we got for now,” O’Toole said as Ship Shape draped himself over his left foot again.
“Aft berthing is almost pumped out,” Metzger said, “and a lot of the mattresses didn’t get burned too bad. If we can get them dried out, we’ll have something.”
“Wet mattresses won’t be much help tonight. Anything else you guys need?”
“No sir, we’re fine.”
The group’s silence pained O’Toole, but it was his silence too. He wanted to find a place to sit down and be alone, but he still had one thing to do. “Try to get some rest as best you can,” O’Toole said and walked away.
He took a deep breath and walked forward. The smell of smoke hung over the Farnley like a pall. He passed the aft Bofor, now a jumble of jagged metal. He swallowed hard. None of those men survived. He couldn’t believe such things were possible, much less that the Farnley had survived. From the faces of the crew, he guessed they felt the same way, but each man would need to figure things out on his own.
A boat ferrying some injured to the Oregon revved its engine, sending a blue cloud of stinging diesel exhaust over the fantail.
That’s the last of the wounded.
His foot landed on some debris and crushed its black carbon skeleton with a crunch. He stopped but couldn’t tell what it was. From somewhere the iron scent of blood blew across him, and Ship Shape pressed against his leg. He took a deep breath and said, “It’s okay, boy.” He would ask Grubowski to get the decks hosed down again.
O’Toole continued forward along the starboard deck. Doc Strong stepped through the door from Battle Dressing, looked right then left, and turned toward O’Toole.
“You’re coming with me, Captain.”
“I’m okay.”
“Sure you are. Your arms are covered with dried blood, there are nicks all over your face, and half your uniform is gone.
“I said I’m okay.”
“When did you get your medical license?”
“I have something I have to do.”
“It’ll still be there when I get done with you. Into Battle Dressing; that’s an order, Captain.”
Strong grabbed O’Toole’s shoulder, pushed him into Battle Dressing, and made him sit on the table.
Strong swabbed his arms with an alcohol solution. The burning was intense, but O’Toole accepted it as penitence. As he worked, Strong said, “Talked to Grubowski earlier. He said when we took a hit on the stern, aft berthing became an inferno and trapped five men in aft steering. They were being cooked alive. Grubowski thought they were goners, but two fire teams went in and got the fire out. Grubowski said he never saw such bravery, skill, and coordination. They saved all five of them.
“I assume you know about the direct hits on the forward boiler room and engine room.”
O’Toole nodded.
“Never lost power, did ya?” Strong asked while he picked a chunk of metal out of O’Toole’s arm with tweezers.
O’Toole blinked. He couldn’t remember ever losing power.
Strong continued his monolog. “Seems the guys in engineering were on their toes and knew exactly what to do. They never missed a beat, just like the guys in mount 52 when it lost power. Starret told me they took out two of the cruisers waist guns on manual.
“After today, you’re never going to get your Terror legend stuffed back in the bottle. Heck, you’ll make Admiral before this war is over.”
With the record he was building, O’Toole guessed Strong was right, but he didn’t care. Becoming an admiral meant nothing to him now. “I’ll never be an admiral. I’ll turn down the promotion if need be,” O’Toole said.
“Why?” Strong asked.
“Because my men need me, and I need them.”
“Thought you would say something like that.”
Twenty minutes later, O’Toole stepped out on deck with his arms and neck bandaged. The sun was setting. He needed to say goodbye to his bravest shipmates before he sought solace in his cabin. On the fo’c’sl he skirted the rope barricade around the gaping hole where the forward mount used to be.
O’Toole nodded to the two sailors dressed in white hats, dungarees, and white gun belts. At parade rest, their stiff right arms held the stock of an M-1 Garand. It was a dignified thing to do, and he needed to thank Navarro for providing an honor guard.
The Union Jack, flying from the jack staff, cracked in the stiff evening breeze. Below it, the low angle of the sun cast sharp angular shadows from each of the forty-nine mattress covers laid out in orderly rows. Inside each mattress cover lay the body of a shipmate. Edges of the mattress covers fluttered, their centers billowed and luffed in the breeze.
He retrieved Hatfield’s brass balls from his pocket and played them in his hand as he viewed the field of the fallen before him. The destruction, horror, and carnage left him helpless. Seeing them all there, his knees went limp, and he had to concentrate to maintain the strength to stand.
They deserved better than this.
He summoned his strength and walked the rows, read the nametag on each mattress cover, remembered the man. He told them how proud he was of them, the honor it had been to be their captain, then said goodbye. He couldn’t image how he deserved such fine men as these.
When he reached Seaman Mahoney, he pulled a photograph he found in the burnt remains of a berthing space. The photograph was of Mahoney, proud and smiling, holding his newborn child. Beside him was his wife. An older couple flanked them. O’Toole dropped to one knee and carefully pinned the photograph to the mattress cover.
“Mahoney, I am so sorry. Chief Grubowski told me how brave you were, and I am proud you were on my ship. In a day or two, I’ll write a letter home for you and make sure to tell your wife and parents how brave you were. It was an honor to know you and have you in my command. I am sure your wife will save the letter I write her and show it to your son someday. He will learn of your courage and be proud of his father. Your death will be hard on those at home. I am so sorry for their grief, and I am sorry there is nothing more I can do here to help you or your family. May God be merciful and keep you in his care.”
He struggled for more words, but they eluded him, so he rose to his feet, and moved to the next man.
These were his men, destroyer men who carry the burden of battle and death in the navy. The capital ships—battleships and cruisers—stood in reserve out of harm’s way while destroye
r men carried the battle to the enemy. These men needed and deserved the best leaders and captains the navy had. The navy owed them their best. He owed them his best. To deny them that was unconscionable.
When he had said goodbye to the last man he walked back to the rope barricade and turned to face his formation of fallen men. He blinked, and his throat locked itself in a tight knot. As he viewed the forty-nine bodies, he vowed as long as he served the navy, he would never leave destroyers. He would devote his life to being adequate so his men could return to their families. He would never accept good enough from himself or his men; they deserved more than that. He would never lose an opportunity to teach or strengthen. He would never forget these men. He would never stop caring for them. This was his duty. This was his sacred vow to the fallen.
The finality of their sacrifice crept over him. He yielded to the loneliness and accepted their deaths. He fought back a tear when he realized there was nothing more he could do for them; their care now rested in the hands of God.
He pulled the green notebook from his hip pocket, reverently removed the rubber band holding it closed, and began to read. A soft voice behind him called out, “Captain?”
He turned. Admiral Garrett stood ten feet away. Garrett came to attention and saluted O’Toole.
O’Toole neither had the energy nor will to return the salute. Apparently, Garrett didn’t expect him to.
A tear dripped off O’Toole’s chin. “Sorry, sir.” O’Toole tapped his stomach and Ship Shape jumped into his arms.
“Don’t be. Tearless grief bleeds inward. Are you okay?” Garrett said,
The question angered him. “Forty-nine dead, fifteen missing, and seventy three wounded. We lost two escorts and eight PT boats. Yeah, Admiral, I’m okay.”
“Sorry,” Garrett said, almost whispering. “The mortuary group started a cemetery on an outlying island. We can bury them there.”
O’Toole stroked Ship Shape’s neck, and Ship Shape buried his head in the crook of O’Toole’s arm. “Thank you, sir. That way there might be a chance for them to get home when this war is over.”
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 32
