by Roger Jewett
Kate looked toward the bay. “I can’t even tell you to —” She looked at him. “I wish I could help you.”
“I know,” he nodded.
“Come with me back to the room before you leave?” Kate asked.
Troost looked out at the bay. Its clear blue water suddenly became a blur. “It would hurt to lose him, Kate.”
She reached across the table and with her handkerchief wiped the tears from his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Troost said. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
Kate put her hand over his. “Why shouldn’t you? We should be able to share more than just our bodies. If you hadn’t told me, who would you have told?”
“No one.”
She kissed the tips of his fingers.
The Tarpon surfaced and ran awash, ready to dive the moment Brisson shouted the order and gave a single sustained blast on the Klaxon.
Tony was in the conning tower with Wally Triman, another junior officer, who had joined the boat in Pearl. Wally was the boat’s designated Torpedo Officer. He was a small man with an owl-like face, whose father was the editor-in-chief of Royal Books. Wally’s stated ambition was to write novels.
The two of them were waiting to be called to the bridge. Brisson put Tony in charge of the detail and named Wally as his second. They were responsible for off-loading the ammo and medical supplies and then bringing pilots and nurses on board. And Brisson stressed speed. “We’ve got to get in and out as quickly as possible,” he said. “We have to be out of there in a matter of hours.” Then he told them to curtain off three bunks to provide the nurses with some small measure of privacy. But the pilots would have to occupy whatever deck space was available.
Tony positioned himself close to the open hatch. With the Tarpon underway at 16 knots, there was a good flow of fresh air, some of which reached into the forward and after sections of the hull. But unless all the hatches were open and the blowers working, the air in those areas of the boat would remain hot, moist, and smelly.
“Do you think we’ll head back to Pearl?” Wally asked.
“There or Australia,” Tony answered.
Suddenly Wally grinned. “Wouldn’t it be great if we had to take the nurses and pilots back to the States?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Tony answered. “It’s going to be more than a little tight in here and —”
“Unloading detail stand by,” Chris called through the open hatch.
Tony put on his red goggles. “Better get them on before you go topside,” he said to Wally, “or you’ll lose some of your vision for a while.”
Wally waved the suggestion aside. “For the first few minutes we’ll be on deck and, besides, there’ll be some light.”
Tony shook his head. “Everything will be done in total blackness. No light coming from the open hatches.”
“Christ, how the hell are we expected to see anything?”
“Put the goggles on,” Tony said.
“With reluctance,” Wally answered, donning the goggles.
“All engines back one third,” Brisson called.
“All engines back one third, sir,” the quartermaster responded.
“Rudder amidships,” Brisson said, as the Tarpon nudged gently into the pier.
“All engines stop, secure the plant.”
“All engines answer stop, sir,” the quartermaster called out.
The pounding noise of the diesels abruptly ceased, leaving only the softer sound of the generators.
“Forward and after torpedo rooms, all lights out,” Chris ordered.
Tony repeated the command into his sound-powered phones.
“All lights out forward torpedo room,” a man responded.
“Lights out, forward and after torpedo rooms,” Tony said.
Chris gave the order to open the forward and after hatches; then he called for the deck detail. “Bow line out… Stern line… Midship line.”
“Lines secured,” the chief called.
“All stations remain at the ready,” Brisson ordered.
“Off-loading detail, topside,” Chris ordered.
“That’s us,” Tony said, scrambling up through the open hatch.
Brisson pointed at the pier. “There are a couple of trucks. Get our men working.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Tony answered and, turning to Wally, he said, “Get the medical supplies out. I’ll take the ammo.”
Tony worked the gang on the forward hatch. Heavy wooden boxes with Manila rope handles were hefted through the narrow hatch opening onto the deck.
Tony worked along with the men. In a matter of moments, he was sweating profusely. The night was hot and very humid. But it was worse for the men inside the boat, where the humidity was 100 percent and the temperature at the 90-degree mark.
Whenever Tony sensed a slowing in the tempo of the work, he leaned over the open hatch and shouted, “Keep moving those boxes; we don’t have all night.”
“How many more to go?” Brisson called down from the bridge.
Tony repeated the question to the men in the torpedo room.
“Half dozen,” someone answered.
“Half dozen, skipper,” Tony said.
“Let the chief handle the rest of it,” Brisson told him. “You pick up our passengers. They should be waiting at the Malinta tunnel entrance, just up the road. I want to get us the hell out of here as soon as I can.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Tony answered, and walked across the narrow board that served as a gangplank between the Tarpon and the small dock. A half dozen soldiers, stripped to the waist but wearing their “tin helmets,” were hefting the ammo crates and medical supply boxes onto a couple of three-quarter-ton trucks. They worked silently.
100 yards, at the most, from the pier, Tony found himself approaching one of the entrances to the tunnel network that had been cut out of the island’s rock. Designed to be impregnable, it now housed thousands of men, and its ability to withstand a sustained and concentrated assault by the Japanese was in doubt.
As he moved closer, a sewer-like smell almost made him gag. The entrance was completely dark, but about 100 feet inside there was a small glow of yellow light that washed over the ceiling and down the walls. Then, to his surprise, he realized there were men sprawled out on the floor at the entrance. He stopped. Those that were close he could see. They were as skeletal as men could be and still be alive. And their eyes were wide with fear.
Suddenly a voice to Tony’s right asked, “You from the sub?”
“Ensign Trapasso,” he said, peering into the darkness.
“Warrant Officer Brooks… Six pilots, three nurses, and six more on stretchers,” Brooks said.
“Six on stretchers?” Tony repeated.
“Two officers and four EMs,” Brooks explained. “Can’t do anything for them here. But if you can get them to a ship, maybe they’ll live.” He spoke matter-of-factly, almost as if he were talking about something completely unimportant. “The nurses will take care of them.”
Tony hesitated. The men on the Tarpon would be hard pressed for living- and workspace with just the nurses and pilots aboard. But six stretcher cases would —
“Anything wrong?” Brooks asked.
Tony motioned him closer. “We have to talk.” Because of the darkness he still hadn’t seen anything more than the man’s form, which was tall and thin.
“Follow me,” Brooks ordered.
Tony moved deeper into the tunnel, stepping over or walking around hundreds of men. Some were leaning against the black tunnel walls; others were stretched out on the floor. The sewer-like smell became heavier. Finally, they came into the diluted penumbra of the light and stopped.
Brooks faced him. He was a man somewhere in his 40s: a lifer. “Talk,” he said. A dirty, bloodstained bandage was wrapped around his head. An unbuttoned shirt revealed that another bandage, bloodstained and as dirty as the one around his head, covered his chest. He wore a .45 low on his right hip and a trench knife on his left. He was
gaunt; his wide and staring eyes, ringed with dark circles, burned with fever.
Tony had never seen a face like that and knew, even as he was looking at it, he would remember it for the rest of his life.
“You wanted to talk,” Brooks said.
“The stretcher cases —”
“What about them?” Brooks challenged.
Tony took a deep breath and immediately started to cough.
“They’re going with you,” Brooks snarled, his hand dropping down to the hilt of the trench knife.
Tony stopped coughing. The decision wasn’t Brooks’s; it was his. The Tarpon and its crew were his responsibility. “Only the nurses and pilots,” he said quietly.
Brooks grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pinned him against the rock wall. “Listen, Admiral, those stretcher cases are going on your fucking boat, or I’m going to slice you so bad, your own fucking mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
Tony took a deep breath. He felt the razor-sharp edge against his right cheek. None of the men nearby seemed to be aware of what was happening, or if they were, they either didn’t care or lacked the strength to intervene.
“I say they’re going,” Brooks breathed. “What do you say, Admiral?”
“Put the knife down and step back,” Tony ordered, putting authority into his voice.
“Sure, Admiral, as soon as I get the word from —”
Tony jerked his head away and kneed Brooks in the groin.
“Fucking son-of-a-bitch!” Brooks roared, staggering backwards.
Tony jumped away from the wall.
With the knife still in his hand, Brooks pulled himself up.
“Mister, put that knife away,” Tony snapped.
Brooks’s lips curled into a snarl. He bent into a low crouch. “This ain’t settled yet, Admiral,” he said, beginning to move toward Tony. “I’m not going anywhere and I have nothing to lose.”
Tony backed away. Years before, when he was a runner for his father, he faced a man with knife. It was around Thanksgiving. He was returning to the club’s store with a brown paper bag that had the day’s receipts from the neighborhood number operators. As he passed in front of an abandoned store, a punk came out of the entrance and, pulling a knife on him, demanded the paper bag. He dropped the bag and, grabbing the hand that held the knife, twisted it back until he heard the bones snap and saw the punk let go of the weapon.
“Those stretcher cases go, Admiral, or —”
A sudden explosion shook the tunnel. The light dimmed then brightened. Another explosion crashed down — and another.
A siren began to wail.
The men in the tunnel drew themselves up into a sitting position and, resting their arms on their knees, buried their heads in them.
Brooks stopped. His jaw went slack. He looked dazed.
From somewhere on the island, heavy guns were fired.
More rounds crashed against the island.
Tony looked back toward the entrance, wondering if the Tarpon was safe.
“For the love of God,” Brooks said, with tears streaming down his face, “take those men.”
Explosion after explosion shook the tunnel, and each one dimmed the lights.
“The nurses and the pilots,” Tony said. “Get them now, or I leave without them.”
Brooks turned and staggered deeper into the tunnel.
Tony went after him.
“Here,” Brooks said, gesturing to a bay on the right side.
“Where the hell have you been?” one of the pilots asked.
The bay was steeped in darkness.
“Let’s move,” Tony said.
“Give me a hand with this stretcher,” one pilot said to another.
More shells crashed down.
“Only six pilots and three nurses,” Tony said. “Now let’s move.”
“These men —” a nurse started to say.
“I tried,” Brooks said with a sob in his voice. “Admiral, didn’t I try… Tell them I tried.”
“He tried,” Tony said, forcing the knot out of his throat. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here or there won’t be a boat left to take you.”
There was some whispering in the bay; then one of the pilots said, “As soon as we’re on your ship, I want to speak to your captain.”
“That’s your right,” Tony answered. “Now let’s move out.” He turned, and without looking back to see if anyone was following him, he walked quickly toward the tunnel entrance.
Outside, Tony took several deep breaths, but the heavy moist air was filled with the stench of burnt powder. The trucks were gone. He turned. There were nine people following him. Because the nurses wore pants and shirts, he couldn’t distinguish the men from the women. But each of them had a musette bag slung from their right shoulder.
“Bridge, Ensign Trapasso and nine others coming aboard,” Tony called out.
“Come aboard,” Brisson called out. “Deck detail, stand by to cast off.”
“Standing by,” the chief answered.
Tony crossed the gangplank.
“Get those people below as quickly as possible,” Brisson ordered.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Tony responded.
“Captain, I’m Colonel Henderson and I must speak to you,” one of the men called out. He stopped on the deck and looked up toward the bridge. “There are six stretcher cases back there that your officer refused to take. I demand —”
“Get below, Colonel,” Brisson said.
“Better do what he says, Colonel,” Tony advised.
Henderson looked as if he were about to say something more; then changing his mind, he climbed down the hatch.
“All visiting personnel below,” Tony reported.
“Mr. Trapasso, report to the bridge,” Chris said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Tony answered.
“Take in all lines,” Chris ordered. “Rudder amidships.” He waited until the helmsman responded before he ordered, “One third back.”
The diesels coughed and began to pound. The Tarpon backed slowly away from the pier.
The AKO-96 was in a cove on the northeast coast of Panay. As soon as it was dark enough for her to get underway, she’d been ordered earlier in the day by ABDAFLOAT to rendezvous with the Tarpon five miles offshore and refuel her. Though Bradly had the watch and now, as acting exec, he was an experienced hand at getting the ship underway, Warren came up to the bridge.
“I’d say we have 20 minutes of light left,” Bradly commented.
Warren agreed with a silent nod and looked at the nearby bank. It was thick with foliage. Huge cypresses came right to the water’s edge and thick liana vines circled around the trunks and branches of the trees. And there seemed to be thousands of white, purple, and pink wild orchids. It reminded him of a movie set for a Tarzan film, or perhaps what he might have imagined the jungle to look like when, as a boy, he read all of the Bomba the Jungle Boy books he was able to get his hands on. He even had several of his own that his father had bought him for Christmas. Just beyond the bank, it was already dark and very, very quiet.
Warren looked toward the mouth of the cove. It was clear. On the starboard side was a sand spit and on the port side, the trees came down to the water. Between the two arms was an opening about 50 yards wide.
“Radar on,” Bradly ordered.
“Radar on,” the radar operator answered.
Bradly walked over to the chart table. “It would be a hell of a lot easier,” he commented aloud, “if we could back out.”
Warren turned from the jungle to him. “Too tricky without lights. As it is, we have —” A sudden noise came across the patch of water from the jungle and the next instant a flock of birds swished into the air. He glanced over his shoulder; then looking straight at Bradly, he said, “Pass the word, battle stations.”
Bradly hesitated for an instant.
“Move!”
Bradly went to the phone bank.
Within minutes the forward and aft gun crews repor
ted they were “ready.” And the four .50s Warren had managed to scrounge from one of the makeshift navy bases 200 miles to the south were covering bow, stern, and both sides of the ship.
“Weigh anchor,” Warren said, sweat beginning to soak through his shirt.
Bradly relayed the order to the anchor detail at the winch.
The chain rattled in and the ship began to pull up on the anchor.
“Helmsman, rudder amidships,” Warren said, in a voice so low that Bradly repeated it.
“Rudder amidships, sir,” the yeoman responded.
The instant the anchor broke free of the bottom, the bow began to slide to the starboard, pointing it toward the cove’s entrance.
Swallowing to ease the tightness in his throat, Warren ordered, “One third ahead.”
“One third ahead,” the engine room signalman repeated.
Warren looked at the jungle: it was considerably darker now than it had been. The sky was sufficiently dark for several of the brighter stars to show. “The Japs are in the fucking jungle,” he rasped, wondering why they hadn’t opened up. “They’re there.”
Bradly looked at him questioningly. “Maybe they’re not… Maybe it was a large animal that scared the birds,” he said.
Warren didn’t answer. He was concentrating on the movement of the ship toward the entrance. There was just enough light left for him to see the two sides of the opening. “Helmsman, ease to zero two zero,” he said.
“Easing to zero two zero,” the helmsman answered.
“Steer for the middle of the opening,” Warren said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” came the response.
The ship’s bow was between the two tips of the opening, when the radarman said, “Skipper —”
Two enormous bright lights flashed down on the port bow.
“Back full!” Warren shouted.
“Back full,” the man at the engine room telegraph answered.
Within seconds two heavy-caliber rounds slammed into the jungle on the starboard side, and at the same time another round splashed short of the stern.
“Put a couple of rounds from mount two on the bank astern of us,” Warren said.
The after gun responded with two rounds close to the bank.
“There’s the bastard!” the chief exclaimed, as the Japanese gunboat slid into view at the cove’s entrance.
