The Passion and the Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  and he was able to see more easily. ‘Still a lot of cloud,’ he commented. ‘Still … there are the bastards.’ He peered through the eyepiece for several seconds. ‘Coming down from between Bougainville and Rabaul. Four destroyers. A dozen transports. Hell, this is a submariner’s dream. And we have to look at them.’

  ‘Where are the carriers, sir?’ Crossby asked.

  ‘Hey, you’re right. There aren’t any. Whoever spotted them must’ve made a mistake. Now let’s see … ‘ he made a slow sweep to the east. ‘Holy shitting cows!’

  ‘Sir?’ The officers spoke together.

  ‘The carriers?’ Crossby suggested.

  ‘One, with one, two, four, heavy cruisers out in front.’ He closed the periscope. ‘Take her down, mister. Those guys are close.’

  The submarine sank into the depths.

  ‘The message said two carriers,’ Walt remarked.

  ‘Yeah. God knows where they get their information from. Well, they’re steering for the Louisiades, all right, so they have to be making for Port Moresby. Our orders are to shadow, so we’ll let them get ahead.’

  The submarine sank lower yet, and now they could hear the enormous grind of the propellors above them. ‘Funny thing,’ Larter remarked. ‘That carrier didn’t look so big. I always thought the Japs had twenty thousand tonners.’

  ‘Zuikaku and Shokaku are more than thirty thousand,’ Walt ventured. He had done his homework at Annapolis.

  ‘Well, hell, that guy couldn’t have been more than fifteen, at the outside,’ Larter muttered, and pulled his nose as he looked at his officers.

  ‘So maybe there are two others knocking about somewhere,’ Hogan suggested. ‘And the report was about the other half.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Larter pulled his nose some more. The noise was now fading to the south west. ‘Take her up.’

  Tempest rose to periscope depths, and the captain studied the ocean. ‘Not another damned thing,’ he said. ‘Still … I guess we have to tell them back home, or there could be a mighty foul up.’

  His officers said nothing. They could only transmit by surfacing, and it was now eleven in the morning; going up could very well be suicidal. But as the captain had said, it had to be done.

  Larter went to his cabin and coded his message, then the telegrapher recoded it. Take her up, Mr Crossby,’ the captain said. ‘But stand by to dive at a moment’s notice.’

  The sub broke the surface, and the aerials went up. Walt went up as well, with the others, to sweep the horizon with his glasses. The invasion task force was a mass of black smoke on the western horizon, and there was nothing else in sight.

  ‘Message transmitted, sir,’ the telegrapher said.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Larter said. ‘Take her down, Mr Crossby.’ He grinned at his officers as he closed the conning tower hatch. ‘Gentlemen, I would say this is a lucky ship.’

  *

  Tempest was indeed. Although the Japanese undoubtedly knew that an Allied submarine had sent a message close to the position of their invasion force, and the area was scoured by aircraft searching for the intruder, as they could not interpret the message they ignored it. Tempest steered west at well below periscope depths for a couple of hours, then came up for a look. The clouds were lower than ever, and now rain squalls were continually sweeping the sea, but in between them Larter spotted the distant smudge of smoke which marked the Japanese. They were going twice as fast as the submerged submarine, but in fact could hardly make more than sixteen knots owing to the slowness of the transports. Thus Tempest was able to close them again during the night, making full speed on the surface despite the buffeting she received from the occasionally boisterous wind and decidedly choppy sea. Crossby was seasick this time.

  Larter was unhappy at being unable to attack. ‘What the hell do we do?’ he muttered. ‘Follow them right into Port Moresby and watch while they take the fucking place over?’

  Because the invasion force was proceeding placidly towards its destination. During the night they passed south of Woodlark Island. By dawn Tempest had closed to within ten miles of them, and Larter was licking his lips as he gazed at the fat, slow, heavily laden transports. But by dawn too, they knew that something big was happening to the south of them. Listening to the radio while on the surface, they learned that there was indeed another Japanese task force, consisting of two large carriers with an escort, which had apparently passed round New Britain to enter the Solomon Sea from the east. This was alarming, until they further learned that there was actually an American task force in these waters as well, consisting of two of their three aircraft carriers, despatched secretly from Pearl by Admiral Nimitz in the hopes of catching the Japanese napping. And one of these, the Lexington, was, at well over forty thousand tons, the biggest in the world.

  ‘Brother, is there going to be a whing ding down there,’ Larter said. ‘While we … hey, something’s happening.’ He peered into the eyepiece. ‘That carrier is launching all her planes.’

  ‘She must reckon she’s within range of Moresby, and aims to soften it up,’ Crossby suggested.

  ‘But they’re flying south,’ Larter said.

  ‘South? Don’t make sense.’

  ‘They’ve sighted our people,’ Walt said.

  ‘Holy Christ! If those planes get over the carriers, unsuspected … God damn this cloud. But maybe … ‘ he looked at his officers again. ‘This is our business, gentlemen. Take her up, Mr Crossby.’

  They were fortunate to surface in the middle of a rainstorm, which left them utterly alone while the vital message was sent. Then they dived as quickly as possible, and at periscope depths saw two destroyers hurtling towards them; the Japanese had been able to tell that the last transmission had been from within ten miles.

  Tempest sank down, down, down. She levelled off at three hundred feet, and listened to the pattern of explosions from above her as the destroyers criss-crossed the sea with depth charges. But none came even remotely close, and they were suffering more damage from pressure until Larter took her up again. The time was eleven fifteen when they reached periscope depths, to find themselves still within easy sighting of the task force. ‘Hello,’ Larter said. ‘They’ve stopped. They’re turning off. They’re … oh, boy, you should see what I see.’

  ‘So tell us, skipper,’ Crossby invited.

  ‘Planes,’ Larter said, ‘Coming in.’

  ‘The Japs returning?’

  ‘No.’ Larter’s voice was excited. ‘Those are our boys. Just peeling out of the clouds. Twenty, forty, sixty, heck, there must be ninety of them. Wowee! Look at that.’

  He handed over the periscope to each of his officers in turn. Walt had a hasty glimpse of the small Japanese carrier — he later discovered her name was Shohu — twisting and turning, coming closer to them as she tried to avoid the bombs raining down on her from the Dauntless dive bombers, the torpedoes cleaving the sea as the American planes descended almost to surface level to release their deadly fish.

  ‘Full speed ahead,’ Larter commanded, as he took over the periscope again. ‘We’ve done our shadowing. Now we are going to get ourselves one aircraft carrier. Action stations, gentlemen.’

  Walt hurried off to his position with the aft tubes, and his squad fell in. ‘She’s on fire,’ Larter reported. ‘Burning like a torch. Our boys are pulling out. It’s their kill. She won’t recover. But we’ll just make sure, then we’ll have a crack at those transports. They’re high-tailing it for home now. One invasion nipped in the bud.’

  The crew cheered. It was the first actual victory gained over the Japanese since the war had begun, six months before — to the day.

  Larter lined his ship up, and Hogan loosed two bow torpedoes into the already sinking carrier. ‘One home,’ he reported. ‘She’s listing heavily. They’re abandoning ship, being taken off by destroyer. Now, let’s get in amongst those transports.’

  He turned the submarine north, but the transports were already several miles away, and gaini
ng on them.

  ‘Take her up,’ he shouted. ‘Take her up.’

  There was method in his apparent madness. The Japanese destroyers were all buzzing about the sinking carrier, trying to save her crew; for the moment they had abandoned the fleeing convoy. Tempest broke the surface and immediately leapt ahead as her diesels came into operation. Equally immediately they were isolated by a rain squall, but they knew where their targets were, and could hold their course. Fifteen minutes later the visibility cleared again and the nearest transport was only three miles away. ‘Stand by,’ Larter called. He was on the conning tower, while Hogan and Walt were below at their tubes; Crossby was on the bridge deck, and Chief Petty Officer Reynolds was with his gun crew on the foredeck, preparing the three-inch.

  ‘Five thousand yards,’ Larter said. ‘Four thousand five hundred. Four thousand.’

  Walt listened to a bang.

  ‘Christ, she has a gun on board. Reply, Chief. Three thousand five hundred. Bearing three five zero. She’s all yours, Mr Hogan.’

  The submarine trembled to the hiss of compressed air.

  ‘Number One gone. Number Two gone. Number Three gone. Number Four gone.’

  ‘Hold the rest,’ Larter said. ‘Oh, boy, oh boy, oh … Holy Jesus Christ! Take her down, Mr Crossby. Take her down. Get those men below, Chief. Mr McGann, destroyer bearing one six seven, range eight hundred yards, fire.’

  Desperately Walt pressed the firing button. Eight hundred yards? How the hell had she got up so close without being spotted? He listened to the hiss of escaping gas, listened too to the suddenly tremendously loud noise of the racing propellors, and was thrown against the bulkhead with sickening force as the destroyer’s bows slammed into the half submerged submarine.

  Chapter 5

  The Solomons, Japan and New Guinea — 1942

  Alarm bells jangled, and the downwards movement was stopped, while there was a flurry of shots from above, as well as shouts and screams, all half drowned by the hiss of escaping air and the screech of tortured metal added to the sinister gurgle of inflowing water. But the diesel engines continued to hum only inches away from the aft tubes, and the lights stayed on, most remarkably; Walt was able to pick himself up, and inspect his scattered squad.

  ‘Up top,’ he snapped. ‘Bring sidearms and rifles.’

  The submarine had stopped heeling, as the destroyer had backed off, but the water was ankle deep as they made their way forward. ‘Keep her going, Chief,’ Walt told Chief Petty Officer Marks as he went through the engine room.

  ‘You got it, Mr McGann,’ Marks replied.

  Walt and his men snatched rifles from the rack as they reached the control room, where they paused in horror; the destroyer had apparently struck just forward of the conning tower, and thus the bridge as well, and they could look through an enormous hole in the starboard hull at the morning sky, and the teeming rain. That accounted for most of the water, although as she rolled Tempest shipped more through the slash in her port hull which extended down to sea level, and must have been below it at the moment of impact. Commander Larter had saved his ship by the promptness with which he had reversed the dive and emptied the ballast tanks, but it had been his last act. The bridge had been devastated by the impact, and both Larter and Crossby, together with their staff, lay in bloody profusion on the deck.

  There was no time to discover who was alive and who dead.

  Shouts were coming from forward, as well as screams of pain, but if the ship was to be saved she had to be commanded, and fought, immediately. She was still forging ahead at nearly twenty knots, but out of control. Walt gained the conning tower in a couple of immense swings up the ladder, followed by Kowicz. The rain still teemed down, fortunately, as the destroyer was lost to sight for the moment; so were the transports and the burning carrier.

  He glanced at the compass; they were steering north west. But they could fight no longer, as they could not dive. ‘Put a man on the emergency steering,’ he told Kowicz. ‘Bring her about and steer one seven five.’ He was speaking from memory. He would have to plot a course later. Or Hogan would. Thank God for Hogan. But where the hell was he?

  ‘Man the gun,’ he ordered next. ‘Have the pumps started. Let’s get her dry. And bring me a report from forward.’

  Kowicz saluted, and returned down the ladder. Men swarmed out of the conning tower to uncover the gun, while Tempest came round in a wide circle and headed south. The rain cleared away and the sun suddenly shone through the still lowering clouds. Walt looked right and left. To starboard, some ten miles away, Shohu was nearly gone, listing right over, still attended by three destroyers. Astern, one of the transports was sinking rapidly by the bow; she was only five miles away and Walt could see men leaping into the sea — he didn’t think many of them would survive. But to port, and only a few cables distant, was the destroyer, listing and low in the water, her bows a mangled mess.

  ‘Open fire,’ he called to the gun crew, and a moment later the little cannon exploded, with remarkable accuracy in the circumstances; there was a plume of water from right alongside the enemy vessel. ‘Nice work,’ he said. ‘Keep it up.’

  Kowicz was back beside him. ‘Don’t look too good forward, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s been an explosion in the crew’s quarters. No damage to the hull that I can see, but a lot of casualties. Mr Hogan is hurt bad.’

  ‘Take command,’ Walt said. ‘Just keep steering south and shooting at that destroyer.’ He slid down the ladder, nearly slipped on the blood at the foot. Sailors were already extracting the dead men from the tangle of broken glass and twisted metal; the periscope was bent at an angle of some fifteen degrees to the deck. He looked down at Larter. The commander was dead. So was Lieutenant Crossby, and four of the bridge squad; two others were badly wounded.

  Walt made his way forward, squeezing through the no less tangled metal of the radio room where the destroyer had actually hit; the telegrapher was a mess of pulped flesh, his equipment shredded. Beyond him the officers’ quarters were equally a shambles. The wardroom was fairly intact, and here Doc Wrightson had several men stretched on the floor and table, attempting to dress their wounds. ‘Are we done?’ he asked briefly.

  ‘Like hell,’ Walt said, and looked at Hogan. The lieutenant was alive, but his head was wreathed in bandages and he was unconscious. ‘Is he done?’

  ‘Not quite. There’s nothing I can do for Larter and Crossby.’

  ‘I saw that.’ Walt went forward. There was no telling what had caused the explosion in the crew’s mess, but it was a mess, of blackened wood and metal and smouldering blankets. ‘Have these doused,’ he told one of the sailors who stood there, staring at the damage. ‘And then get topsides and do some work.’

  The submarine trembled as the gun exploded, and Walt reached the forward torpedo compartment. Here all was relatively shipshape, although there was blood everywhere; Hogan was not the only one to have been hurled violently against the bulkhead.

  He returned through the wardroom and regained the conning tower, where Kowicz was directing both the shooting and the steering. ‘Straddled the bastard, sir,’ he said proudly. ‘Next time … ‘

  Walt levelled his binoculars at the stricken destroyer. She was just about under control now, although her bows were low in the water, and he did not think she would be capable of any speed. He swung his glasses to starboard, and gulped. One of the other destroyers had left Shohu, and was coming towards them at speed. He looked to port again, saw another rain squall sweeping out of the eastern horizon. He reckoned they’d just make it.

  ‘Bring the gun on to this other fellow, Kowicz,’ he commanded.

  Kowicz looked to starboard himself. ‘Holy shit!’ he commented. ‘Swing that gun round,’ he bellowed. ‘Fire! Fire!’

  ‘Steer one five five,’ Walt commanded, and the submarine turned directly for the coming rain. The destroyer also opened fire as she gauged their plan, and there was a plume of water some hundred yards to starboard. The gun crew were workin
g away as hard as they could, although not very accurately without a range finder and with the sudden violent alteration of course. But then, mercifully, the sun went in, and a moment later the rain came teeming down. ‘Steer one eight zero,’ Walt said to the helmsman. ‘Take her, Mr Kowicz.’ He slid down the ladder, went to the wardroom, where Wrightson was still hard at work, his arms stained with blood up to his elbows. ‘What do you want done with her?’ he asked.

  The surgeon lieutenant raised his head and looked at the ensign. ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re the senior surviving officer,’ Walt pointed out.

  ‘You doing fine, Walt. What do you aim to do?’

  ‘Look for weather, pump like hell, and pray,’ Walt said. ‘And steer south.’

  ‘Then she’s yours, Ensign McGann. I have work to do.’

  *

  ‘We suffered a strategical defeat,’ Isoroku Yamamoto said. ‘However it has been represented, that is the truth of the matter.’

  ‘We sank Lexington,’ Hashimoto Kurita said. ‘For the loss of Shohu. One small escort carrier against the biggest in the world. That can never be a defeat.’

  ‘Our invasion force turned back. When Shohu went down and that submarine was discovered in the midst of the transports, their nerves failed,’ Yamamoto argued.

  ‘That is a pity. I understand the submarine was sunk?’

  ‘It is reported as being sunk. I do not see how it could have survived, after being rammed. But that too is a small gain to set against the retreat, when Port Moresby was at our mercy.’

  ‘Tea,’ Hashimoto suggested.

  Joan entered the room with the tray, knelt before the men as she had been taught, her kimono settling about her, her head bowed. She had been listening to what they had been saying from behind the screen — she had a natural gift for languages and had picked up Japanese quickly enough — with a mixture of disbelief and joy. Could these invincible people really have been defeated? Now her hands trembled as she served the tea, and some was spilt.