Sentinels of Fire (15 page)

I hadn't thought of it that way, although the captain had proposed just that. Proposed, not ordered. Marty was right … and yet.

I just couldn't bring myself to force that issue.
Malloy
was a fully trained ship of war, thanks mostly to Captain Tallmadge's personal tutelage over the past eight months. It hadn't been that way under the previous skipper, if I could believe the longest-serving department heads. Captain Tallmadge was also older than most of the other skippers in the squadron, having entered the Naval Academy after two years of college. As far as I could see he exhibited none of the careerism that was beginning to infect the fleet as the war against Japan was obviously drawing to a climax, with some overly ambitious officers scrambling to get wartime commands before the opportunity for “glory” disappeared. Everyone knew that there would be no more fleet carrier battles, or ship-versus-ship duels, because the formerly majestic Imperial Japanese Navy was, for the most part, asleep in the deep. The only thing remaining was the invasion of the Japanese home islands, once Okinawa had been taken.

Just prior to my coming aboard, the captain had warned the department heads that Okinawa was going to be different from the previous island assaults. Not only did the Japs consider it one of the home islands, the introduction of the kamikaze as a full-time, planned campaign meant that the Navy was now going to be in just as much peril as all those doughboys tramping ashore.

“It's one thing when a pilot is trying to drop a bomb on you,” he'd said, prophetically. “It's quite another when he wants to come aboard and has no intention of ever going home again. This is going to be bad.”

So bad, I thought as I considered Marty's words, that our beloved skipper had taken up running and hiding when the guns trained out to go to work.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll make the sure the doc who comes in with the LSMR has some face-time with the captain. In the meantime, let's keep this problem among ourselves. We'll meet again tonight after the LSMR leaves. Mario, I need an updated damage report—what's been repaired, what they're working on, and what's beyond our capability. Marty, same deal with the guns and their crews. And remember, gents: We're still very much in Injun Country.”

*   *   *

The LSMR hove into view thirty minutes past noon, pursued by a large cloud of diesel exhaust from engines badly in need of some work. It looked somewhat similar to the much bigger LST: Landing Ship, Tank. Shaped like a shoe box with a blunt bow up forward, her job was to stand offshore and fire barrages of five-inch rockets into the active battle zone. The little ship had not been modified for picket line duty and thus retained almost all of her rocket launchers. The only visible changes had been a few topside modifications to allow temporary berthing for wounded being transferred from the warships to one of the hospital ships or tenders anchored off Kerama Retto. There were large red crosses painted on her sides and main deck, not that that seemed to matter to the kamikazes. The skies over the picket area had been clear of bogeys all morning, with not even any Jap recon aircraft being detected. Everyone hoped the Japs were taking the day off for some reason, but I suspected they were assembling something special for the combined American and British armada surrounding Okinawa.

Doc Walker and I met the doctor, who was first up the boarding ladder, and handed over Walker's summary of the wounded, listed on a triage basis. The doctor, an impossibly young-looking medical officer except for those dark circles under his eyes, scanned the report and then asked to be taken to sick bay so he could set up shop. Four hospital corpsmen came up from the LSMR, which was rubbing and bumping alongside our much larger sides. They brought up several bulky medical kits and bags of replacement medical supplies. Once the med team was on board, the LSMR rumbled away to take up a station a thousand yards from
Malloy
. She had one twin forty and three twenty-millimeter gun mounts, and
Malloy
's officer of the deck had reminded the LSMR's skipper to keep them manned and ready. That worthy gave the OOD a sharp look and reminded him that the picket line wasn't where most of the kamikazes came to do business. Our OOD, an ensign, was suitably chastened and saluted the offended skipper of the LSMR—a lieutenant.

I took the doctor aside for a moment and told him that our skipper was suffering from what looked like acute exhaustion. He asked me if I wanted him to deal with the ship's wounded or the skipper first. I told him the wounded came first, but that I needed him to see the captain before the team disembarked.

“Acute exhaustion,” he said. “There's a lot of that going around, especially on the destroyers up here. How are
you
holding up?” he asked, glancing at the white bandage showing under my torn khaki trousers. Now that I got a closer look at him, he didn't seem so young anymore.

“Better than he is,” I said. I pointed at my right leg. “This hurts, but APCs seem to work it down to a dull roar.”

He said he'd look in on the CO as soon as he could. I went up forward to meet with the chief engineer and get a status on the main steam plant. They'd been working on a way to relight the two forward boilers with only half a stack, and we were now back to full power available. After that I went to the captain's cabin and briefed him on what was going on. He took it all on board and then asked me about the department heads' meeting he'd heard called over the
1
MC. I didn't equivocate. I told him what we'd talked about and how everyone felt. The captain smiled.

“You're a good guy, XO. Thanks for your honesty, and it may well be that I'm much more tired than I thought, but you should know that when the GQ alarm goes, so does my plumbing.”

I had no answer for that.

“I think maybe Marty and Jimmy are right,” he continued. “I should go topside, write in the log that I'm no longer capable of performing my duties and that I have
ordered
you to take command. That way there's no whiff of insubordination, or worse.”

“There's no chance of anybody in this ship thinking about mutiny, Captain,” I said. “In fact, we're all trying to cover for you, and that's because we need you and your experience. Each time I make a tactical decision, you very politely say ‘That was good, XO,' but then you come up with something that never crossed my mind. I want to stay alive out here. We all do. The longer we're here, the less likely that becomes.
Waltham
was the fourth destroyer lost up here in three weeks. We need you to tell us what to do.”

“
Malloy
's a lucky ship, XO,” the captain said. “That's more important in war than any alleged brilliance at the top.”

“We're lucky because you've trained us and you always are one step ahead of everybody else when the kamis come.”

“Not anymore, XO,” he said with a sigh. “Right now I'm several steps
behind
you when I start crapping my trou while trying not to throw up with fear.
You're
ready, XO. I think I'm done. Let's think about the ship, okay? The ship and the three hundred or so souls on board, not as many as we had before yesterday, but still—that's a valuable crowd.”

I was trying to formulate an answer when the GQ alarm sounded. The OOD on the bridge came up on the announcing system: multiple bogeys, sixty miles, high, inbound, but crossing.

I didn't want to, but I glanced back at the captain. His face had begun to go rigid, and his eyes seemed to be losing focus.

Great God, I thought. This is real.

“Go,” the Captain whispered.
“Please.”

I sighed, put my hand on his shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. Then I headed for the bridge.

“We need to get the med team back on board the LSMR,” I said to the OOD as I came out into the pilothouse, donning my battle gear.

“Yes, sir,” the OOD said. “We have time?”

“The radar indicates the raid is crossing, meaning they're headed for the main fleet dispositions around Okinawa. Signal that LSMR back alongside, and let's get all those people plus our most seriously hurt out of here. And tell 'em to move it.”

The OOD got on the bitch-box to the signal bridge, and moments later we all heard the clacking of the signal searchlight. The LSMR CO must have already figured out why all our topside mounts were suddenly crawling with gunners, because as soon as the signal light started up, he turned his ungainly craft toward
Malloy
with a great burst of diesel exhaust.

“Okinawa med team to the starboard side, on the double. Kamikazes, inbound,” came blaring over the
1
MC. That ought to do it, I thought. Then I remembered that I'd been supposed to get the medical officer and the captain together.

Decision time: If I did that now, the captain would leave with the LSMR, probably in medical restraints. On the other hand, we hadn't tried the rest-and-respite treatment yet. I hated to solve this problem without even giving the Old Man a chance. I took a deep breath, then went out to the starboard bridge wing, where I could see the medical team and five of
Malloy
's wounded in stretchers being assembled next to the sea ladder. The LSMR was nearly alongside.

“As soon as they're clear, have Doc Walker come up here. Then go to fifteen knots and start the dance.”

“Aye, aye, XO. Bridge is manned and ready for GQ.”

“Good. Log all this, please.”

I went into CIC to take a look at the air plot. The enemy aircraft were forty miles out now, and it did look like the main blob of radar video was headed south. We had to assume, however, that a few of them would peel off to go kill the nearest picket destroyer.

“The main task force know this is coming?”

“Yes, sir, as soon as we first saw 'em. Extra CAP are being launched, and our own guys are ten miles from first intercept.”

“Watch the surface search for low-fliers,” I said. “Don't fixate on that big gaggle unless it turns our way.”

Jimmy nodded. “Already on it,” he said. He looked around briefly and then asked me, “Didn't happen, did it?”

I sighed and shook my head. “Talk later” was all I could muster.

Jimmy grunted and moved away toward his GQ station next to the dead-reckoning tracer table.

“Combat, Bridge. LSMR is away to starboard. Coming to fifteen knots.”

I nodded at Jimmy, who acknowledged the message on the bitch-box. Then I went back out to the bridge. As I stepped out, the bitch-box came up with a big surprise.

“Bridge, Sonar. We have a possible sonar contact, bearing three four zero true, range fifteen hundred yards.”

What?

I moved swiftly to the bitch-box. “Echo quality?” I asked.

“Sharp, slight up-Doppler, XO. Looks good.”

“Bridge, Combat. Intermittent radar contact, three four three true, eighteen hundred yards.”

“Low-flier?”

“No, sir, surface—it's gone now.”

Periscope, I thought.
Move!

“Left full rudder, all ahead
flank,
emergency!” I yelled, startling the helmsman and lee helmsman, but not so much that they didn't respond. The helmsman almost torqued the brass helm off its axle. The lee helmsman grabbed the two brass engine-order telegraph handles and pushed them all the way forward to flank ahead, then all the way back to full astern, and then again all the way to flank ahead in a shower of bells. The engineers down below understood that sudden flank speed command and spun the big steam admission valves.
Malloy
's hull shook with a rumble from astern as the screws dug in and our one and one-half stacks spat out plumes of smoke.

By issuing conning orders, I had automatically assumed the conn. “Steady three four zero,” I ordered. “Combat, tell Sonar to prepare for urgent depth-charge attack. Set depth two hundred fifty feet.”

“Two five oh feet, Combat, aye!”

We waited for a very long sixty seconds as
Malloy
accelerated. Then the report I'd been expecting came, “Bridge, Sonar, torpedo noise spokes, two niner zero relative.”

The ship was deep into a left turn, which should mean those torpedoes would miss astern. Having fired, the Jap sub would be diving hard by now and also turning away. He knew exactly what we would do next. Our sudden maneuver would save us, but the hull and propeller noise of the flank bell would make the sonar useless. We'd have to wing it.

“Slow to fifteen knots. Combat, take us in on your best EP and drop. Tell the boss what we've got.”

“Drop on best estimated position, Combat, aye,” Jimmy replied.

“Torpedo noise spokes are null-Doppler,” Sonar reported. Then, “Torpedo noise spokes are
down
Doppler.” Good news: Down-Doppler meant they were going away. Our maneuver had worked. A moment later, two lookouts reported seeing wakes passing behind us. I, along with the rest of the bridge crew, blew out a long breath. Then I remembered that LSMR. Where exactly was—

A thunderous explosion ripped the afternoon air from about a half-mile on our starboard quarter. I ran out to the starboard bridge wing in time to see the fireball that had been the LSMR, loaded to the gills as she was with five-inch rockets—and
Malloy
's casualties—turn into a red and black ball of fire and smoke from which a few dozen shore-bombardment rockets ripple-fired in all directions. As the huge cloud expanded, there was nothing to be seen of the LSMR. We all stared in awe, shocked by the suddenness of it and the realization that we'd just lost more shipmates.

“Bridge, Combat. Rolling the pattern.”

I shook myself out of my dry-mouthed trance and back to the present menace.
Malloy
ran over the best estimated position of the Jap sub and began to roll multiple depth charges off our fantail. The chances of getting the sub were minimal, but it was worth a try, if only to make the bastards go deep and stay deep now that we were hurling five-hundred-pound depth bombs into the sea. I ordered CIC and sonar control to go back into search mode. As long as there were no kamis coming, we'd work this problem instead. The familiar eruptions began astern, each one kicking the ship in the keel, even at two hundred fifty feet.