by Roger Jewett
“Forward gun commence firing!” Warren ordered.
An instant later mount one began firing.
“All stop,” Warren said.
“All stop,” the engine room signalman answered.
Machine-gun fire raked the ship’s stern. Several more rounds splashed close to her port side.
Then suddenly there was more cannon fire from the jungle.
A round dropped on the stern. The explosion wrecked the ship’s number two mount and tossed the men on the .50s into the air. Two slammed down on the deck and the third went over the side.
“Knock out those floodlights,” Warren said.
Bradly relayed the order to the .50-caliber crew on the bow.
One light flashed out, then the other.
Suddenly a Japanese speaking English said over the gunboat’s hailing system, “Captain, you can’t get out… There are soldiers in the jungle behind you and my ship is here. Surrender now and save the useless loss of life. I’d prefer not to have to sink you or call for an air strike against you at dawn… You have 10 minutes to make your decision.”
The ship was dead in the water.
“Give me nine hundred RPMs so we can hold steerageway,” Warren said.
The engine room signal man relayed the order by phone; then he answered, “900 RPMs, sir.”
The gunboat was reversing course just beyond the cove.
Warren paced the deck. He had already lost three men and, if he tried to fight it out, he’d lose more. But surrendering the ship and the fuel to the Japanese didn’t sit well with him either, nor did the idea of sitting in a Japanese prison camp. The few times he’d made supply runs to Bataan and Corregidor, he’d heard what the Japanese did to prisoners. He took several deep breaths, but the hot humid air he forced into his lungs didn’t satisfy his need for fresh air. “They want this ship,” he said, voicing his thoughts. “If they didn’t, that Jap captain would have tried to blow us out of the water.”
Just as the gunboat slid past the cove again, the Japanese officer said, “Captain, the war is over for you and your men. I urge you to think about —”
A sudden explosion turned the gunboat into a yellow and red sphere of flames.
Even as the men began to cheer, Warren ordered, “All ahead flank!”
“All ahead flank, sir,” the answer came and the AKO-96 surged out of the cove.
“Look, it’s that sub we’re supposed to meet!” Bradly exclaimed.
“It sure is,” Warren responded. “It has to be the most wonderful, most beautiful sub in the world!”
CHAPTER 24
While the Tarpon lay alongside the AKO-96 having her tanks pumped full of diesel fuel, Warren and Brisson were in the wardroom having coffee and recounting the events of the last few hours.
“The Japs were so busy with you,” Brisson said, “they never saw me. I don’t think they knew a sub was there until the torpedo hit and then it was too late.”
“But what made you come so close inshore?” Warren asked, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Brisson.
“We were running on the surface when the OOD, Ensign Trapasso, was sure he heard gunfire,” Brisson said. “We checked the charts and saw that there was a cove and figured that was where you were. The rest you know.”
“It was just damn lucky that your OOD was alert,” Warren commented.
“And you’re damn lucky to have your own command, Lieutenant,” Brisson said.
Warren studied his coffee mug for a few moments; then having made his decision, he said, “I got it by default. Commander Hacker was the ship’s skipper.”
“Hacker?”
“Did you know him?” Warren asked.
Brisson shook his head. “One of the nurses we took off Corregidor is Lieutenant Irene Hacker,” he said, lifting a glass of iced tea.
“He mentioned he had a daughter who was a nurse and he has a son who graduates from the Academy this June,” Warren said.
“Well, you’ll certainly want to tell her where her father is.”
“He’s dead.”
Brisson looked at him questioningly.
“So is Lieutenant Rawlins, the XO,” Warren said.
“Both killed in action?”
Warren shook his head. “Rawlins killed Hacker; then he blew his brains out.”
Brisson’s hand trembled, making the ice clink against the glass. “Did you file a report?”
“Only that both officers were accidentally killed when a —”
Brisson held up his hand. “I don’t want to know what you did, but I’m sure you did the right thing.”
Warren nodded. “I did what had to be done to protect the reputations and the families of both men.”
“Do you want to speak to Irene?” Brisson asked.
Warren thought for a moment. “I’m not a good actor. She’d know I wasn’t telling the truth. If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to pass on that one.”
“I understand,” Brisson said.
The two of them stood up.
“I’ve arranged for some of the stores to be transferred from —” he was going to say my ship, but instead, he said, “from this ship to your boat.”
Brisson thanked him.
“We owe you,” Warren said. “That Jap gunboat had us between a rock and hard place. I wasn’t about to surrender.”
“Didn’t think you would have,” Brisson responded, as they left the wardroom and went out on deck. “And thank you for allowing all of us to use your showers.”
Warren smiled. “It was a lot easier than having to smell you.”
“Stated bluntly, but honestly,” Brisson responded.
A man from the Tarpon approached Brisson. “Skipper, we should be finished taking on fuel in about 15 minutes. The EO wants to top the tanks.”
Brisson nodded. “Ensign Tony Trapasso, Lieutenant Warren Troost, skipper of this ship.”
Tony flashed a smile. He was sweaty and stained with oil. He started to salute and said, “It gets kind of dirty from time to time.”
“A handshake will do,” Warren said, extending his hand. “Thanks for hearing the gunfire and doing something about it.”
“The skipper was the one who did it,” Tony answered.
“Thanks, anyway,” Warren said.
Tony repeated Warren’s surname. “I know that name.”
“My father —”
Tony shook his head. “That’s not it. I know a pilot who knows you. He’s from Brooklyn. I met —”
“Jacob Miller?” Warren asked, excitedly.
“That’s him,” Tony said. “That’s him. We went out to the Coast together. He told me about you. In his book, you’re a great guy.”
“He’s not so bad himself,” Warren said.
“You better believe it!” Tony exclaimed.
“When you see him, you tell him we met,” Warren laughed.
“If you see him first, you tell him yourself,” Tony answered. “Hey, this is great. Maybe when all of us get back to Pearl, we’ll have one hell of a celebration.”
“Skipper, will you join us?” Tony asked, looking at Brisson.
“Sure, he’ll join us,” Warren said. “He and every man on the Tarpon will join us. Hell, we can’t ever pay them enough for giving us back our lives.”
“If the food and drink are free,” Brisson laughed, “sure I’ll join you. But what choice did we really have? None. You had the fuel. If the Japs had gotten it, we wouldn’t have. To save ourselves, we had to save you.”
“Listen,” Warren said, “don’t destroy the few illusions I have left. Let me believe that you saved us because we needed saving.”
“And you just happened to be on the same side,” Tony added.
“That too,” Warren said.
“I better get back to the boat,” Tony said, “and make sure the EO doesn’t find some empty barrels to take a few more gallons just in case.”
“As soon as we’re topped,” Brisson said, “you and the EO have 15 m
inutes to come on board here and shower down. Tell them to go easy on the water. We just about have enough for our own needs.”
“Thanks, skipper,” Tony answered, saluting him because they were in the presence of another officer, who probably wouldn’t be familiar with the informality aboard the Tarpon.
Brisson waited until Tony was out of earshot before he said, “He’s a good officer and knows how to make hard decisions.”
“Sooner or later that’s something all of us have to do,” Warren responded.
“Speaking about hard decisions, that’s Lieutenant Hacker coming toward us now,” Brisson said, looking past Warren.
Warren turned around. Irene Hacker was smiling. She was a petite woman, with a good figure that even the baggy khaki pants and oversized shirt she was wearing couldn’t hide. She didn’t resemble Hacker in the least.
Brisson introduced them and said, “Please excuse me, I have some things to check out before we get underway again.”
“I hope you had a good shower,” Warren said, not able to think of anything else to say and, at the same time, not wanting to appear to be gauche or unfriendly.
“Delicious,” she answered. “Three glorious minutes under scalding hot water with half a bar of Ivory soap was a dream come true.”
Warren laughed.
“Tell me, Captain, is there any way I can bribe you to pack up the shower and soap and send it across to that excuse for a ship down there,” she said, pointing to the low, dark shape of the Tarpon.
“In a week, 10 days at the very most, you’ll be back in Pearl,” Warren said, “and then you can even have a bubble bath and all that goes with it.” Suddenly he found himself imagining her naked in a bathtub full of perfume-scented bubbles…
“Captain, is anything wrong?” she asked.
He felt himself flush but knew that in the darkness she couldn’t see it. “I’m sorry,” he apologized.
For several moments, they looked at one another without speaking; then she said, “I better get aboard the boat.”
Warren put his hands on her arms. “Don’t go yet… I —”
She scowled. “Don’t do, or say, anything you’ll be sorry for,” she warned, twisting away from him.
He took a deep breath. “You’re making a mistake,” he told her.
“No, but you were about to,” she said and, turning around, she started to walk away.
“Irene, your father was skipper of this ship,” he said, following a few steps after her.
She stopped and faced him. “Is this some sort —”
Warren put out his hand and took hold of hers. “Come with me,” he said.
She nodded.
Warren led her into the wardroom. “Sit down,” he said and asked if she would like a cup of coffee.
“No,” she answered quietly.
He stood in front of the coffee urn. She had a small, doll-like face, with dark blonde hair, almost brown, and Hacker’s blue eyes; only the blue of hers was richer.
“Where is he?” she finally asked.
“He was buried at sea on January first,” Warren answered.
She stiffened. “Killed in action?” she asked in a whisper.
“No,” Warren said and explained what happened.
Irene bit her lower lip. She stood up and began to pace back and forth; then she stopped. “I didn’t even know he’d been given command of a ship.”
“I didn’t think so at first,” Warren said, “but he was a good skipper.”
“Thank you for being honest.”
“If you want anything of his —”
She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “I scarcely knew the man. Now and then he was around and when he was, he was difficult to —” She stopped and tried hard to keep herself from sobbing.
Warren went to her and put his arms around her.
“This is so stupid,” she said, talking into his chest. “So stupid.”
Warren couldn’t think of an appropriate response, but he found himself intensely aware of her.
“I must have wished him dead hundreds of times,” she said. “But now that he is, I suddenly feel empty and alone.” With tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked up at him and asked, “Was he really a good skipper?”
Warren nodded. “And a brave man too,” he told her.
She managed a smile. “You are too, Captain,” she said and kissed him lightly on the lips.
CHAPTER 25
Jacob was in the cockpit of his F4F, waiting for the flight deck address system to blare: “Stand clear of propellers… Start engines.” It was dark. But a full moon was just setting and the flight deck was bathed in moonlight. Soon dawn would break. He checked his safety belt and his parachute harness; then he craned his neck and looked from side to side. The two pilots on either side of him looked relaxed, almost bored. But he was so nervous that he felt his stomach alternately tighten and churn. He was, as the saying went, “chewing buttonholes in his seat pack.”
This would be his first strike mission over enemy territory since he’d become a member of Fighting Squadron Six aboard the Big E. On previous days, as the ship entered enemy-dominated waters, Fighting Six flew combat air patrol missions over the ship only to defend her against possible air attacks. But today all of Air Group Six was going into combat. Twelve VF6 aircraft in two groups would make bombing and strafing attacks on a Japanese-held atoll in the Marshall and Gilbert Islands. If any Japanese fighters rose to intercept them, they’d jettison their 100-pound bombs and fight air-to-air. This was going to be his first combat experience. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He wished he had a cigarette. The wait seemed interminable.
Suddenly he realized the ship was turning into the wind.
“Start engines,” the voice on the flight deck address system finally ordered.
Jacob hit the starter button; the shotgun cartridge in the starter fired and the engine coughed. The propeller made a partial revolution and stopped. The plane captain pulled out the spent round, inserted a fresh one, and held his thumb up.
Jacob pushed the starter button again. The engine coughed, sputtered, and came to life with a steady roar.
Ahead and on either side of him the exhaust from the engines of other planes flamed red, white, and then hot blue.
He would be the fifth plane out of the 12 scheduled to take off for the strike. Already three were in the air. The plane in front of him was rolled into position. On signal from the crouching deck officer it raced down the deck.
Jacob unlocked his plane’s wings. The handlers spread them and, as they thumped into place, locked them. In answer to the taxi director’s signals, he moved his plane forward and finally into take-off position; sucking in his breath, he waited for the launch signal.
The Launch Officer went down on one knee and extended his right arm toward the bow.
Jacob’s left hand kept the throttle forward as far as it would go. He released his foot pressure on the brake pedals, lowered his toes to the rudder pedals, and was racing down the deck. In seconds, he was airborne, settling slightly toward the sea and the next instant climbing for altitude. He raised his flaps, cranked up his wheels, veered slightly to the starboard, and glanced over his shoulder back at the carrier, just as another plane cleared the deck. To his horror, he saw it stagger and plunge into the sea.
“Goddamn,” Jacob swore, “he spun in!” But he couldn’t think about the crash; now he had to concentrate joining up on the plane ahead of him.
He was wingman to Lieutenant John Yancy, a Mississippian, who had told him several days before, “I hate Jews more than I hate Catholics. You get your fuckin’ chestnuts in a jam, you get ’em out, you hear. Because, I don’t risk my ass for any son of Satan.”
“And what if you get your fuckin’ chestnuts in a jam?” Jacob had asked.
“Don’t worry about me none,” Yancy had said. “I got friends here who’ll help me, if it comes to that.”
Jacob had nodded and walked away.
The 11 VF6 aircraft circled the Big E and then headed toward the targets. Jacob put on his oxygen mask and at 15,000 feet the Flight Leader leveled off. Five aircraft would attack Wotje atoll; the remaining six would strike Maloelap. Orders were to maintain radio silence to and from the target until the captain decided not to. The pilots could use only hand signals to “talk” to each other.
Jacob checked each of the instruments in the cockpit. All of the readings were normal. He was close in on Yancy’s port wing. The planes in the group were flying in a tight left echelon formation. At sea level it was still dark, but at 15,000 feet the setting moon and the rising sun were on opposite ends of the horizon, and there was sufficient light for him to clearly see Yancy, who faced him.
Jacob stuck his thumb up.
Yancy immediately looked the other way.
Speaking to himself, Jacob said, “Nice to know you’re there, old buddy.”
He listened to the steady throb of the engine and found the sound reassuring. A great many thoughts ran through his mind, but none of them stayed more than an instant before it was replaced by another.
Moment by moment, the sky around him was becoming brighter and brighter. He looked at his watch. It was 0515. In 15 minutes, they’d be over their target. The plan was to surprise the enemy as they had surprised Pearl Harbor.
The Flight Leader began to nose down slightly and in a matter of seconds, Jacob saw a dark-hued speck in the ocean below, over which hung scattered white cotton-candy looking clouds. He concentrated on keeping his position on Yancy’s wing. The atoll was beginning to have definition, especially around its irregular perimeter. He could see the clear blue water inside the atoll’s lagoon and the white ring of surf on the outside of it.
The CO signaled his flight to open out and prepare to dive.
Jacob reduced the throttle and dropped back from Yancy’s wing. All six aircraft were strung out in a long line, ready to push over and follow the leader. Jacob checked his altimeter: the needle moved through 12,000 feet. Suddenly, he felt disembodied and his other self was watching him. That he was actually going into combat for the first time struck him as being extraordinary, especially since it was going to happen on such a beautiful morning with the sun now above the horizon in the east and darkness still claiming much of the distant sky in the west.
