Reluctant Warriors Page 7

  He could never remember actually getting out of the ship. Later, he imagined he must have gone through, or been pulled through, the hole the mine had blown in her side.

  He could remember swimming through an interminable rush of dark water, as fast as he could. As he felt the water’s pull slacken, he rose to the surface.

  There was a lot of debris floating in the water around him. He grabbed the nearest piece big enough to keep him afloat and hung on, mind and body numb. In a short time, he began to come to his senses. He noticed many men in the water, some crying out in agony. Harry knew he needed to help, so he slipped into the water, which, luckily, was not contaminated by fuel oil.

  He was surrounded by chaos: men yelling, some in the water, and some on impromptu rafts, mostly made of deck planking. Harry spotted Captain Fostel, clinging to some debris, mostly unnoticed by those around him.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  The captain did not react. His eyes were closed and his head barely above the water. It was obvious that he was terribly hurt. Harry touched him on the shoulder, and he let out a deep moan. Harry called to him again, but the man so familiar to him was beyond responding. He tore Fostel’s shirt, attempting to ease the pressure on the shoulder. It exposed a large puncture wound in his side, streaming blood into the water.

  Harry saw Fostel’s grip begin to slip. There was nothing he could do.

  He tried to hold the captain up, knowing he would die, listening to the man’s breathing become slower, raspier, then stop. Harry had seen life and death growing up on a farm, and he knew when there was nothing to be done.

  He let go of Fostel’s limp body, turning and paddling away. There was a small knot of men floating nearby. He struck out toward them, and then collided with something else afloat.

  It was his best friend and bunkmate, Walter Wood.

  Wood was floating next to some wood planking, his head barely above the water. Harry saw immediately that he too was in bad shape. He was trying to say something, but he couldn’t speak.

  Oh, Walter, I wish it were me, Harry thought.

  Wood seemed to recognize Harry and blinked a few times, but said nothing. Harry couldn’t tell where he was hurt. He grabbed his friend and, for some minutes, did his best to hold him to the debris; then Walter became limp, just like Fostel.

  Harry couldn’t let go. He held Walter up longer, hoping he had just fainted and would revive. But the burden became too great. He knew he would have to choose! If he held on, the time would come soon when he could no longer save himself.

  He looked into Walter’s slack face.

  “Walter, forgive me. I can’t hold us up. I have to let you go.”

  Walter was dead, Harry knew. His body was completely limp.

  Harry felt himself reaching exhaustion, coughing, water coming into his mouth. He had to rest or die. He let go. Walter slipped straight down, and in ten or so feet, was out of sight in the greenish water.

  Walter had been his roommate at Annapolis. They’d spent thousands of hours together. He had laughed when Harry came aboard Mojarra at the chance that both wound up on the same ship. Fostel seemed to have a particular dislike of Walter, though no one had a clue as to why. Walter was as amiable a guy as you could find.

  Harry grabbed onto the debris and hung on for a while. With the captain dead, he fully realized that he was the senior officer and that he should take charge and swim to try to help the others. But he couldn’t move.

  I always kidded Walter that he would become a movie star, he thought, without a smile. And he was such a great runner at Annapolis too. I was best man at his and Sally’s wedding. They didn’t get a chance to have the kids they wanted. Now she’ll have nothing left of him.

  His parents are such wonderful people too. His dad tempted both of us with the idea of getting out of the Navy and becoming lawyers in his booming practice. Who’s gonna tell them what happened?

  His thoughts were interrupted when one of the men called out: “There’s a ship off to the east!”

  Harry couldn’t see well enough from where he was. Carefully, painfully, he climbed onto the largest piece of planking and slowly stood up, recalling something he had overheard the radar man say just before Mojarra exploded. He peered, shielding his eyes from the glare.

  His face sank. “It’s that patrol boat we had on the radar before we got hit!”

  Quickly, he jumped back in the water. He perched himself on the planking with his torso out of the water and yelled to the men. “There’s a patrol boat out there about three or four miles off. I think she’s headed this way.”

  The men who could perked up. A few asked what they were to do. Harry called out to them again.

  “Men, whatever you do, don’t signal them. You know that they’ll try to kill us or bring us on board to torture us if they find us. Stay down!”

  In the next hour, as the hurt and exhausted men continued to slip away, the patrol boat got closer. Harry prayed for darkness, but the enemy finally saw some of the debris at about 1830. They sped up and closed on some wreckage about five hundred yards from Harry.

  First the enemy ran over some men in the water who couldn’t get out of the way. Harry could hear their screams above the craft’s motors. Then they methodically began machine-gunning men from the prow. With such a small ship, they couldn’t take on many survivors, and so took joy in killing the Americans. Harry tried to stay absolutely still, hoping the enemy would mistake him for a corpse. The boat was close enough that he could hear the Japanese laughing.

  Suddenly, a tremendous whine came from overhead, and an explosion jarred everyone. A great geyser shot up fifty feet in the air, yards off to the north and much closer to the patrol boat.

  “She blew up, sir. That damned patrol boat blew up,” a sailor nearby yelled.

  No, I don’t think so, Harry thought. As the geyser dissipated, it once more revealed the Japanese patrol boat. Men on the deck of the little ship began scurrying about. In about fifteen seconds another of the heavy and menacing sounds came whistling through the air, and another explosion rocked everyone.

  “Someone’s shooting at them!” a sailor shouted.

  Harry watched as another shell came even closer to the enemy craft. He was simply amazed.

  Jeez, he thought to himself, THAT is a gun! Unbelievable power! If I ever get my own sub, I want a gun like that! It must be one of our newer subs, a Balboa Class with one of those five-inch guns instead of our three-inch. If I ever get a gun like that, I am going to use it!

  Shells continued to come close to the enemy ship. The Japanese got under way as fast as they could. Having nothing to match the big cannon, they moved off in the opposite direction and began to build up speed. One of the shells came very close. Harry could barely see as men were blown from the deck by the explosion. Soon the Japanese disappeared to the west.

  In the next half hour, it became quite dark. With the overcast sky, Harry and the other men could see very little. But soon a long black shape loomed into view and lights began to flash in their direction. The men yelled in the direction of the lights, and the boat drew closer.

  Away from the lights, no doubt, more men w
ere lost. It was impossible to tell. Harry thought, Those lights can be seen for miles. These guys are risking their lives to save us!

  Harry swam from group to group, yelling out into the void to see if anyone was still out there. When everyone he could find was taken on board, he came alongside himself.

  “You Lieutenant Connors?” a voice called down.

  “Yes,” he answered, looking up into some lights and not being able to see the face that asked the question.

  As he climbed up toward the bridge, Harry started to shake. A hand he could barely see reached down and helped him up the last rungs of the ladder. He climbed onto the deck. The helping hand belonged to a tall, red-haired man who looked vaguely familiar.

  “You Connors?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is the submarine Bluefin. I’m ‘Red’ Phelps.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harry said, smiling. “I remember you from the Academy. I was in the ’37 class, two behind you.”

  “Let’s go below. I’m sure you’re beat. Get him a blanket,” he said to someone, “he’s shaking like a leaf.”

  They went down into the conning tower, to the Control Room directly below it, and then to the captain’s cabin. Phelps took one look at Harry and started a little.

  “Harry, you need to have someone look at that wound.”

  “Wound, sir?”

  “Harry, you have blood all over the right side of your face. It’s matted in your hair. You feel okay?”

  “Yes, sir. How many did we get?”

  Phelps frowned. “Looks like ten men, including you. Four were dead in the water.”

  Harry slumped a bit. Mojarra had had an eighty-man crew.

  Phelps jumped up to steady Harry.

  “Harry, I want you to lie down right here in my bunk before you collapse.”

  Harry passed out the moment he hit the bunk.

  He awoke to someone bandaging his head. He squinted up. The man tending him looked very tired and very young.

  “I’m Botel, sir. I amount to a medic around here. You can try sitting up, but go slow. You’ve been out for a while.”

  “My crew!” Harry said, sitting up. This time sitting up was not so painful. “What about my crew?”

  “Well, sir, I’m sorry to say we lost a man late in the afternoon yesterday, Seaman Wolston.”

  “Rudy Wolston. I never even saw him in the water,” Harry said. Wolston had been only eighteen. He was from Dubuque, Iowa, only eighty miles from Dorance. The two Iowans had spent much time talking. He was an only child, Harry thought, and his dad died years ago. Now his mom’s got no one left.

  He looked up again. “What about the others?”

  “They’re under control.” The young pharmacist’s mate nodded. “A broken leg, several broken arms, many contusions, a bad concussion, as bad as yours, but they should all recover.”

  The doorway curtain opened, and the steward stuck his head in the cabin. “Sir, if you’re okay, the captain says you are to eat something first, then come see him on the bridge.”

  “Okay. What’s the time?”

  “About 1600, sir.”

  Twenty-four hours have passed, Harry thought as he stood up. I guess I feel okay so far. He was wavering a little, but only because he had been off his feet for so long.

  “Thanks,” he said to Botel, then stepped into the submarine’s narrow hallway and wobbled down to the Wardroom down the hall. There were only a few people there, drinking coffee and talking amongst themselves.

  Harry stood uncertainly in the doorway, looking around. One of the guys looked familiar. He stared, then remembered the man’s name: Julian “Rocky” Fordyce, from the class after his at the Naval Academy.

  “Harry, come on in!” Rocky called.

  Harry stepped in and was glad to sit down again.

  “Sorry about your crew, Harry,” Rocky said.

  “Yeah.”

  Soon, they were joined by Ted Felders, whom Harry recognized—barely—from one of the later Academy classes. Both men sat quietly and respectfully as Harry had some coffee and a sandwich. He wasn’t sure exactly what was in the sandwich—but it sure tasted good.

  Afterward, as he made his way past the Sonar Room to the Control Room, a passing young officer stuck out his hand.

  “I’m Pete Danford, sir. Glad to have you aboard.”

  “Thanks.”

  Harry nodded to each man in the Control Room and felt okay going up the ladder and through the tiny opening to the conning tower.

  “Is the captain on the bridge?” he asked. As the men looked his way, he recognized Rudy Ferrell, who had been a year behind him at the Academy.

  “Hey, Harry!” Ferrell bounced over to him, and they shook hands warmly. “I’m sorry about Walter. I know how close you two were.”

  “Thanks. The captain up top?”

  “Yeah.”

  Harry ascended the ladder to the bridge, feeling much more encouraged. As he emerged into the light and wind, he immediately saw the captain from slightly behind.

  The boat was traveling at Standard speed, about sixteen knots. Phelps’ famous red hair blew straight back. Harry remembered that Phelps had been a star on the Academy football team and become famous for a particular goal line stand in the Army-Navy game of 1935. He was well known throughout the service as a good commander, fair in his dealings, good to the men.

  “You okay, Harry?”

  “I think so, sir,” he said as the two shook hands.

  “Harry,” Phelps began, “there are several things I need to talk to you about.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Well, that’s probably the first one. Harry, we’re very informal on Bluefin. The men might have called you ‘lieutenant’ or ‘sir,’ but that’s only because they don’t know you yet. Soon they’ll start calling you ‘Harry.’ I want you to be okay with that.”

  Harry thought how different that would be from the formality Fostel had demanded—and how much nicer. He’d already noticed a different air to this boat. The men were contented, happy, something he had not seen before.

  “That’s fine, sir,” he answered.

  “Everyone calls me ‘Red.’”

  “Red, how the hell did you find us?”

  “It was just sheer luck, Harry. We heard your report of the convoy, and Pearl ordered us to back you up. We were coming up as fast as we could, dead astern of the convoy. My exec [executive officer] Louie Rice was on the bridge, and he thought he saw an explosion to the west. None of the lookouts saw anything, because they were concentrating on the convoy to the north. He thought it was either a ship being torpedoed or hitting a mine. Was it a mine?”

  “I think so.”

  “Anyhow, we couldn’t raise you. We had to assume that either you had blown up or were submerged ahead of the convoy. From your last transmission, Rudy Ferrell, who was doing the plot with Louie on the bridge, came to the conclusion that you had not had enough time to get that far ahead. But that’s when the
appendicitis hit Louie! He just keeled over on the bridge. I was below. We took up the wrong heading, because all he got out was that it was off to the west. He was doubled over and couldn’t even say anything. Botel, our pharmacist’s mate, who you’ve met, performed the operation.”

  “He did a nice job cleaning me up too.”

  “He’s a good man. Says Louie will be okay, but won’t be getting out of his bunk for probably a week. So it was several hours before we came this far west and found you. The tip-off was that damn patrol boat firing away at your men. I am very sorry about that. You were unlucky that Louie got sick, but lucky that he saw anything in the first place.

  “Harry, I’ll get straight to the point. I need an executive officer, and I want you to fill that spot if you’re up to it. You know Louie. He was in the class ahead of yours, I think.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Well, he’s laid up below with appendicitis. Fleet has already hinted that, when we get back, Louie will be in line for his own command. We have some good young officers aboard. I wouldn’t trade any one of them for a trip to the Rose Bowl. They will be ready soon, but they are not ready now. I know of your troubles on Mojarra. Hell, the whole fleet knows. I hope you can do this for us. You up for it?”

  “I would be honored!”

  “I thought you would. Word came from Pearl an hour ago officially transferring you to this boat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Red.”

  Harry nodded, and the two shook hands.

  The Devil’s Cauldron

  Central Pacific, January 4, 1944

  Harry Connors was in the Control Room when the message came in to his submarine, Bluefin, over the radio from Commander Submarines Pacific at Pearl Harbor, known as ComSubPac. Bluefin was to leave the convoy they’d been trailing for hours and divert south to an island that no one on the boat had ever heard of before.