Battle Stations

by Roger Jewett

  “Thank you, sir,” Warren replied.

  “By the way, your new boats will be equipped with radar equipment that works,” Harly said. “That should give you a tremendous edge.”

  “We’ll need it.”

  “Report back to me after New Year’s,” Harly said, “and you and my staff will get some basic planning done.”

  The two men stood up.

  “I was sorry to hear about your father,” Harly said. “I served under him for a while when he was Chief of Staff of Destroyer Division Four.”

  “Thank you for remembering him,” Warren responded, as they shook hands across the desk.

  Later that day, Warren went to see Kate.

  She had brewed tea and made a tray of small sandwiches that she set out on a Carrara marble-topped table.

  They sat across from each other, avoiding eye contact, and after cautiously exchanging comments about the weather, neither one seemed to have anything else to say.

  Warren was very uncomfortable. It wasn’t a good idea to — dredge up…

  “My God,” Kate exclaimed, “this is positively ridiculous! I want to hug you and tell you how happy I am to see you.”

  “Then do it,” he said, standing up and crossing the distance between them.

  She kissed him on the forehead. “I am so happy to see you and so pleased that you came here.” Letting go of him, she took a step backward. “And so very grateful that you wrote to me after Andrew was killed.”

  “He would have wanted me to,” Warren answered.

  She nodded and they sat down again.

  “Your father was very proud of you,” Kate said.

  Warren nodded.

  “Are your mother and sister well?” she asked.

  “Yes… I think my mother has stopped drinking…”

  “Oh, how really wonderful!” Kate exclaimed.

  Warren nodded. He felt he was in the presence of a rare and unique woman and understood why his father had fallen in love with her.

  “Since I saw you last,” Kate said, “two of my stories have been published — one in the Atlantic and the other in The New Yorker.”

  “My father would have been very pleased,” Warren replied. “He was an avid reader. I was always surprised when he would suddenly quote something from one of Shakespeare’s plays that happened to fit the situation at the time.”

  “Would you like to read the stories?” she asked.

  “Very much.”

  She stood up, went out of the room for a few moments, and returned with the two magazines. “One of the stories is something of a love story,” she said, handing them to him. “It was my final love letter to your father.”

  Warren developed a sudden tightness in his throat.

  Kate sat down again. “There’s something I want to tell you,” she said. “Something that until now I never told anyone.”

  Warren nodded.

  “I loved two men in my life: my husband and your father. Your father and I came together at a time in both our lives when there was a need in each of us for the other. The physical attraction between us was strong and exciting. Your father was a considerate lover,” she said, looking straight at Warren.

  Warren shifted his position. He’d never heard anyone speak about his father that way.

  “There is no need for you to be embarrassed,” Kate told him. “I’m telling you these things because it will help you understand him. He was also considerate in hundreds of other ways. He believed in me, in my ability to write, even when I had doubts about it. Without his encouragement, I never would have believed that anyone would publish my stories.” She paused again, took a sip of tea, and then continued. “He often told me what I gave him,” she said. “Much of it had to do with my giving him the love he did not get from your mother. I was the woman with whom he could be a man, with whom he could share his thoughts, with whom he was comfortable.”

  “I know he loved you,” Warren commented.

  “He was another part of me, a part that no other man ever knew,” Kate said. “That way, I came to him a virgin.”

  “I’m sure he sensed that,” Warren answered softly.

  “Yes,” Kate said. “I’m sure he did too. He was a very perceptive man. Even when I didn’t think he was aware of something, I’d find out later that he was.” A few moments of silence passed before Kate asked, “Will you be in Honolulu for a while?”

  “For a while,” Warren answered.

  Kate smiled. “From the pictures your father showed me of himself when he was younger, I’d say you look very much like he did.”

  “Some people thought he was good-looking,” Warren said, teasingly.

  “So are you.”

  “That’s because you’re being totally objective, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” she countered. “Of course!”

  Warren reached for a sandwich, bit into it, nodded, and said, “Absolutely delicious. What is it?”

  “Cucumbers!” she laughed.

  “Who would have thought anyone could make cucumbers taste like, like —”

  Kate threw up her hands. “You made your point,” she laughed. “But allow me my biased objectivity.”

  Warren picked up another small sandwich, examined it critically, and then flourishing it in front of him, said, “Certainly, the epitome of cucumber sandwiches.”

  By the time Warren was ready to leave, the sun was setting.

  “Come again,” Kate said, standing in the half-opened doorway. “You’re always welcome here.”

  “I will,” he said. “But you must promise to come to dinner with me soon.”

  “I’d like that,” she answered, her cheeks wet with tears.

  Warren leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips.

  “Vaya con Dios,” she whispered.

  “Vaya con Dios,” Warren answered, then turned and walked down the pathway to the rapidly darkening street. He was very glad he had visited Kate. She gave him something to hold on to about his father that he’d never before known.

  CHAPTER 47

  It was the Tarpon’s sixth patrol. She was out of Brisbane 35 days and had managed to sink an enemy Japanese transport on the 16th of January and damage a freighter on the 30th. On the night of February 4, the Tarpon was on the surface recharging her batteries south of the Steffen Strait, along the route used by Japanese ships involved in the evacuation of the remaining enemy troops on Guadalcanal.

  The night was clear and moonlit and Tony was relaxing on the bridge with Chris, the X.O., enjoying the feel of the light breeze and thinking of Miriam.

  In his last letter to her before leaving Brisbane, he had asked to marry him. He was certain her answer would be “yes.” But there was always the possibility of a —

  “Conning tower to bridge, radar contact… Targets, bearing zero eight five… Range 15,000 yards.”

  “Targets on radar bearing zero eight five,” Tony said, alerting the forward, starboard lookout.

  “Got him!” the lookout said, peering through his glasses. “Looks like two freighters and a patrol boat.”

  Chris picked up the sound powered phone and pressed the buzzer to Brisson’s cabin. “Bridge to skipper, three targets, bearing zero eight five… Range 15,000 yards.”

  Tony and Chris waited until Brisson was at the periscope in the Conning Tower below the bridge before they dropped through the hatch. Tony positioned himself behind the radar officer. Chris descended into the control room immediately below.

  The three green blips were clearly visible every time the rotating sweep touched them.

  Brisson ordered the boat to General Quarters and the alarm sounded.

  Tony went to the TDC and turned it out Brisson’s voice came over 1MC. “We’ve got ourselves three good targets,” he said. “Looks like they’re on their way into Rabaul and we’ll take them on an end run.” He paused before he said, “Helmsman, come to new courses zero nine five.”

  “Zero nine five,” the helmsman answered.r />
  “All full ahead,” Brisson ordered.

  “All ahead full, answered,” the engine room signal man responded.

  The sound of the diesels became louder, almost, it seemed to Tony, with a sense of urgency.

  The flow of cool air through the open bridge hatch into the conning tower increased.

  “Captain,” the radar officer reported, “radar contact very intermittent… I’m trying to hold on them.”

  For the next hour, the Tarpon sped through the smooth surface of the water.

  “Targets, bearing zero two zero,” Radar suddenly reported. “Range, 6000 yards and closing.”

  “He put us right on them,” the RO commented in a loud whisper.

  “All ahead two thirds,” Brisson ordered.

  “All ahead two thirds answered,” the engine room signal man said.

  “Radar, I’m having trouble getting periscope contact… You feed bearing and distance to the TDC… We’ll go for a surface shot.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the RO answered.

  Brisson reduced the Tarpon’s speed to “All ahead, one third.”

  “Targets, bearing zero two nine… Range, 5000 yards… Speed, one five knots.”

  “Load forward torpedo tubes,” Brisson ordered.

  The phone, talker passed the word.

  Then suddenly two enemy rounds exploded close aboard on the Tarpon’s starboard side.

  The klaxon screamed.

  “Dive!” Brisson shouted. “Dive.”

  The diesels were cut out and the electric motors began to hum. The lookouts came through the bridge hatch; then the quartermaster came down and pulled the hatch shut and dogged it down.

  “XO,” Brisson, ordered, “take her down to 100 feet.”

  Chris ordered the diving planes rigged out and set for the dive. The Tarpon’s bow pitched forward.

  “Two five feet,” Chris called out from the control room.

  Tony’s eyes went to the depth gage. And saw it unwind rapidly.

  “Target, bearing zero three zero… Range 3000 yards, closing fast… Twin screws, skipper,” sonar called out.

  “Rig for depth charges,” Brisson ordered.

  The hull was filled with the sounds of watertight doors being shut.

  “Zero one zero on the bow planes,” Chris ordered, his eyes on the depth gage.

  The churning sound of the Japanese screws became louder and louder.

  The Tarpon’s bow dipped.

  “Two cans,” the sonar officer reported.

  Tony sucked in his breath.

  The explosions hammered down on the Tarpon with a mighty force.

  “Conn, we’re taking water,” the forward torpedo officer reported. “Damage control party one is already here.”

  “Report damage and repair progress,” Brisson said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the FTO answered.

  “100 feet and coming to level,” Chris reported.

  “Another can coming down off our bow,” the SO called out.

  “Right, full rudder,” Brisson ordered.

  There was a strange note in the sound of Brisson’s voice that made Tony turn sharply to look at him.

  “Right, full rudder,” the helmsman answered.

  Brisson’s face contorted with pain. He staggered and clutched his chest.

  “The skipper!” Tony shouted, crossing the few steps separating them to grab Brisson, even as he started to fall. “Get the medic.”

  “Medic to the conn,” Chris shouted over the 1MC. “Medic to the Conning Tower, on the double.”

  The concussion from the exploding depth charge rolled the Tarpon to her port side.

  Tony fought to hold his footing and did. He stretched Brisson out on the deck and felt for a pulse in his left hand.

  The pharmacist mate and the Executive Officer scrambled up through the control room hatch.

  “No pulse, doc,” Tony said.

  The doc hunkered down next to Brisson and putting his hand inside the skipper’s shirt, he held it there for several moments. “I’m afraid, sir, he’s gone,” he said, slowly standing.

  “Conn, the forward ballast tank’s manhole gasket ruptured,” the DCO reported. “Bilge flooding is being controlled by the bilge pumps and we’ve put a temporary rubber sheet cover over the manhole cover. The deck plates are being held by shores and jacks. The gasket can’t be replaced until we’re on the surface.”

  Tony looked at Chris. “It’s yours now,” he said.

  “Roger that,” Chris answered.

  “Screws fading,” the SO reported.

  Chris switched on the 1MC. “All hands, now hear this… All hands… This is Mr. Bond… The skipper —” He stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “The skipper apparently suffered a heart attack. He’s dead. I have assumed command, Mr. Trapasso will be acting XO!”

  “Contacts lost,” the SO reported.

  “Doc, get the skipper ready for burial at sea,” Chris said. “We’ll hold services for him at dusk.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the doc answered.

  Two of the men volunteered to carry the skipper to his cabin.

  “Helmsman,” Chris said, his voice unsteady, “come to two seven zero. Tony, secure from general quarters.”

  “Two seven zero,” the helmsman answered.

  “All ahead full,” Chris ordered.

  “All ahead full,” answered the engine room signal man.

  The Tarpon’s crew was subdued; even those who were jokers were not their usual selves, and though the men liked and respected Chris, Tony noticed, they were more formal with him than they ever were with Brisson. But the routine continued without any change.

  Three days after Brisson was buried at sea, Chris asked Tony to join him in the tiny wardroom and shut the door. “We have to talk,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  Tony sat down at the table and glanced at the wardroom clock. It was just 0110. The Tarpon was running on the surface to recharge her batteries.

  Mug in hand, Chris joined him. “I have two choices,” he began. “As I see it, I can abort the patrol and return to Brisbane, or —” He lifted the mug, but didn’t put it to his lips. “Or I could turn the command over to you.”

  Tony started to stand.

  “Sit down, Tony,” Chris said. “This isn’t easy for me. There are 75 men aboard who depend on the skipper. Well, I know I’m not that good … not as a skipper.” He put the mug to his lips and drank.

  “You’ve got years of service,” Tony said, completely taken aback.

  “The men sense —”

  “Give them time, Chris,” Tony said, “they just lost someone they loved and trusted.”

  “Trusted is the key word,” Chris said. “If I don’t trust myself, how could I expect them to trust me.”

  “Give yourself time —”

  Suddenly the wardroom phone rang. Tony answered it.

  “Target, bearing zero one zero relative… Range, 2000 yards, moving on a one eight five true course,” the RO reported.

  Tony repeated the RO’s report and added, “She’s moving on an opposite course to ours and crossing.”

  “Sound general quarters,” Chris ordered and rushed from the wardroom to the bridge.

  Tony followed.

  Topside, the visibility was reduced by rain showers.

  Chris peered into the murky darkness. “I can’t see a damn thing,” he said, wiping the rain from his face.

  “Target holding course… Range 1800 and closing.”

  “One third ahead,” Chris ordered.

  “One third ahead, answered,” the engine room signal man responded.

  “Load forward torpedo tubes,” Chris ordered. “Open outer doors.”

  “Target changing course,” the RO reported. “Bearing zero one zero… Range, 400 yards.”

  “She’s crossing close ahead!” Tony shouted.

  “Right full rudder,” Chris ordered.

  “Right full —”

  Tony hi
t the collision alarm button.

  An instant later the Japanese gunboat’s searchlights swept the Tarpon’s deck.

  The Tarpon’s bow crashed into the gunboat’s port side.

  All hands on the bridge was thrown down by the terrible impact.

  The Tarpon heeled over, and as she righted, Japanese heavy caliber automatic weapon fire whipped across the Tarpon’s deck and into the bridge.

  The OOD and the Chief Quartermaster of the watch were killed instantly. Two of the four lookouts were hit by fragments. A section of the bridge coaming peeled back and a jagged spear of metal impaled Chris’s right leg literally stapling him in agony to the bridge.

  “Clear the bridge,” Chris shouted above the continuing sound of gunfire. “Clear the bridge.”

  Bullets continued to ricochet around the bridge.

  The two remaining lookouts scrambled through the hatch into the conning tower.

  “Dive. Dive,” Chris screamed. “Take her down. Don’t wait for me! Save the boat!”

  Tony hesitated, then dropped through the hatch.

  One of the lookouts pulled it closed and dogged it shut.

  “Take her down!” Tony shouted through the open hatch to the control room.

  A dozen machine-gun bullets pierced the conning tower’s thin skin.

  Dazed, Tony held himself against the periscope tube. “Make 80 feet,” he ordered.

  High-pressure streams of water shot into the conning tower through the machine gun bullet holes.

  The control room and the pump room were flooding. The gyros were out of commission. The intercommunication system failed, and heater circuits badly damaged.

  “We must surface!” the DCO reported. “Otherwise we are goners!”

  “Coming level at 80 feet,” the DO reported; then he said, “Forward diving planes are inoperative.”

  “Anything on the sonar?” Tony asked.

  “Damaged,” the SO reported.

  “Periscope depth,” Tony ordered.

  “Periscope depth,” the DO answered.

  Tony watched the depth case with fearful fascination. Miraculously it showed the boat to be rising. When it reached 58 feet, he bent down, snapped out the handles, and rode the periscope up. He made a quick 360° sweep… Nothing… He made a second sweep… Nothing. “Down periscope,” he ordered, snapping the handles closed. “Surface,” he ordered.