Silent Sea (The Silent War Book 2) Page 2

  “I know one thing, sir, and you can maybe tell this to the other Reserve officers in the Wardroom. I think maybe the Old Man and the Exec, they might know it already. The crew of this ship was just another crew before the Mako went down. Now it’s different. We’re Eelfish. It’s like it was before the war when I was in the Thirty-Seven Boat with Mr. Olsen.

  “You could get in a fight in a bar in Manila or up in China and if you hollered ‘Thirty-Seven Boat!’ anybody from the ship who heard you would come runnin’, ready to fight even if the odds was twenty to one.” He pulled the comb through his beard and stared at the hairs in its teeth. “That’s the way this crew is now, sir. All for one and one for all. Used to take years before a crew felt that way about each other. This crew got that way in one night, listening to the Mako go down.”

  Lee looked away from Brosmer’s intent eyes. “Does the crew feel that way about the officers? I mean, four of the six of us are Reserves.”

  Brosmer grinned suddenly, his teeth flashing white in the dense red beard. “Get yourself in a fight next time we’re in Perth, Mr. Lee. Holler ‘Eelfish’ real loud and find out.”

  “Would you come running?”

  “I’d do my damndest to beat the Old Man and Mr. Olsen. I figure either of them would fight any time.”

  Mike Brannon rolled over in his bunk and looked at his wrist watch. Almost sixteen thirty hours. He’d had almost seven hours of sleep, the longest stretch he’d enjoyed in a week. He got out of his bunk and hitched up his wrinkled khaki shorts. On a submarine on war patrol all hands usually slept in the khaki shorts that were the unofficial uniform of the day; there was no time to get dressed if the General Quarters alarm went off. Pete Mahaffey, Officers’ Cook 1/c, stuck his head through the two green curtains that served as a door to the stateroom.

  “Evenin’, Captain.” Mahaffey’s hand and muscular black forearm came through the curtain with a cup of hot coffee that had been liberally laced with canned evaporated milk and sugar.

  “Thank you, Pete. Come in. What’s new?”

  “Same as yesterday, same as the days before that, sir. Nothing in sight topside. Mr. Olsen’s waiting on you in the Wardroom with his charts, sir.”

  “Tell him I’ll be in as soon as I shower and shave,” Brannon said. He sipped at the hot coffee.

  “Sunday sir. No showers today. Showers go on the line tomorrow, sir.” Brannon nodded. Submarines on war patrol observed water rationing. Making fresh water out of sea water by electrically heating the sea water to the boiling point and then collecting and cooling the steam was a hot, miserable chore that was thoroughly detested by the Engine Room people. Brannon let down the stainless steel washbowl from its clips and ran a few inches of hot water into it. As he washed his face his mind flickered back, as it so often had this past week, to the night when he and John Olsen had stood on the bridge after the torpedoes he had fired had blasted the two Japanese Fubuki destroyers that had been depth charging the Mako.

  The flotsam of the second destroyer was floating off the port beam of Eelfish as Brannon and Olsen listened to Paul Blake, the young sonarman of the Eelfish, talk to the Mako by sonar, repeating each word the Mako’s sonarman sent so that Brannon could hear and the yeoman could take down the words in his notebook.

  The report by Mako’s sonarman had been succinct: Mako had made a night surface attack on a small convoy. Two big Japanese destroyers had apparently been lying in wait behind the convoy. Heavy gunfire killed Captain Hinman, the Executive Officer, the Quartermaster, and the lookouts on the bridge. The Mako dove and came under heavy depth charging. The After Torpedo Room was ripped open and flooded with water and Mako had struggled to the surface just as the Eelfish arrived on the scene and sank one of the destroyers. The remaining destroyer had opened fire on the Mako with deck guns and hulled the submarine in the Forward Torpedo Room. The sonar-man signaled to the Eelfish that the Mako was sinking, slowly, inexorably, out of control.

  Brannon stared at his face in the stainless steel mirror over the washbowl as he rubbed lather into his beard, reliving again the scene on the bridge of the Eelfish.

  “Mako is at four hundred feet and sinking,” Paul Blake said from the Conning Tower.

  “Oh, God!” Brannon said. “What in the hell can we do?”

  “Not much,” John Olsen said slowly. “Not much except pray, sir.”

  Mike Brannon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Tell them,” his voice broke, “tell them we are praying for them. Tell them that.” He turned away, sobbing.

  He waited, the tears streaming down his cheeks, listening to the measured sound pulses of the Mako’s response. Paul Blake in the Conning Tower called out each word to the yeoman, and on the bridge Captain Brannon and John Olsen heard Blake’s voice.

  “The Lord is my shepherd ... I shall not want ... He maketh me to lie down in green pastures ... He leadeth me beside the still waters ...”

  There was silence.

  “Sir.” The sonarman’s voice was small, hardly audible. “Sir, transmission stopped and I heard a big crunching noise.”

  Brannon looked at his Executive Officer, his eyes streaming. “My God, John, the water is six miles deep here!”

  John Olsen nodded and in a soft voice finished the words of the Twenty-third Psalm.

  He reached for his razor and shaved, forcing himself to stop thinking about that night. There was no joy in knowing that he had sunk Mako’s killers. Finished, he combed his hair and went into the Wardroom, smiling his thanks at Mahaffey, who had put a fresh cup of coffee and a sweet roll in front of his place at the table.

  “What’s on your mind, John?” Brannon asked. He bit into the roll, savoring the sweetness of the prune filling.

  “This damned gulf is too wide to patrol submerged,” Olsen growled. “Fifty miles is too wide. Takes us all day, submerged, to cover half of the distance. Takes us all night on the surface to go from one side to the other. Too much can slip past us. I’d like to go up the gulf a little way, about twenty, twenty-five miles, half way up to Tacloban.” He pointed at the chart. “We’ll be here when we surface tonight. By the time we’ve finished charging the batteries we’ll be off the east of Leyte Island. We could turn north and run at ten knots up the coast for a while. Stay close enough to the coast so the mountains hide us from radar in case they got a night-flyer out there or a patrol boat. If we don’t see anything in a couple of hours we could come right and angle back to our area and be there before we have to dive for the day.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Brannon said. He reached for Olsen’s pack of cigarets and took one. “Work out the courses and speeds.” He waited as Olsen busied himself at the chart. He looked at the result and nodded assent.

  “Enter the courses and speeds in the Night Order Book,” Brannon said. “Might break the monotony.” Olsen slid out from behind the Wardroom table and unfolded his long, lean length. “Hope we run into something,” he said. “The crew’s getting itchy.”

  In the ship’s galley Scotty Rudolph stared balefully at a big dishpan full of boned steaks. He turned to a messcook.

  “Get one of them jugs of papaya juice I bought in Fremantle and mix a cup of the juice and a cup of Wooster sauce together and paint each side of each steak with the gunk. Put a thin coat each side. Use that brush hangin’ from that ventilation duct.”

  “What’s that for?” the messcook asked.

  “Aussie beef is tough. They feed their cows on grass. Papaya juice is a tenderizer, but you got to be careful, you can’t use it full strength. That stuff will turn the toughest steak you ever saw into gray mud you put it on full strength and leave it on. Hour or so should be about right. Make them steaks nice and tender.”

  The Eelfish surfaced an hour after the sun had dropped behind the mountain ranges of Leyte Island. The submarine’s four big diesels belched a small cloud of black smoke and then settled down to a steady pounding, three of the engines charging the two giant storage batteries, the other e
ngine moving the Eelfish at a sedate six knots. Mike Brannon climbed through the bridge hatch and took a deep breath of the fresh night air.

  “Nice night, Jerry,” he said to Lieutenant Jerry Gold, the ship’s Engineering Officer, who had the Bridge Watch. “Going to be a quarter moon in a couple of hours.” He went aft to his night station, the cigaret deck area back of the periscope shears. He leaned against the 1.1 quad pom-pom gun mount that stood in the center of the cigaret deck and raised his night binoculars to his eyes to search the horizon. Above him, in the lookout stands in the periscope shears, the three lookouts adjusted their night binoculars and searched the sky, the horizon, and the sea.

  A few minutes before midnight Mike Brannon heard Lieutenant Gold reciting the litany that all Officers of the Deck on a submarine must go through when they are relieved of the Deck Watch. He listened as Gold told Lieutenant Bob Lee that the battery charge had been secured at twenty-three hundred hours, that number one main engine was on the line and making turns for six knots, the lookouts had been relieved, the below-decks watch had been relieved, the fresh-water tanks had been topped off and the evaporators were being shut down, depth set on all torpedoes was four feet, all torpedo tube outer doors closed. Course was 285 degrees, true.

  “You’re relieved sir,” Lee said to Jerry Gold.

  “Thank you,” Gold said. “The Captain’s on the cigaret deck and he hasn’t had a cup of coffee for two hours.”

  “Why don’t you send up some coffee for the Captain when you go below?” Lee said with a grin. Gold nodded his head and dropped through the hatch to the Conning Tower.

  John Olsen brought Brannon’s coffee to the cigaret deck, balancing the two coffee mugs one on top of the other.

  “Thanks, John,” Brannon said. He sipped at the hot, sweet liquid. “Anything on your mind tonight?”

  “I’d like to make a radar sweep at zero zero thirty, sir,” Olsen said. “One sweep to get a fix on the mountain peaks on Mindanao and Leyte for navigational purposes.”

  “Very well,” Brannon said. He walked forward to the small bridge. “The Exec will make a radar sweep at zero zero thirty hours, Bob. He’ll tell you when he lights off the radar.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Lee said. “Radar sweep at zero zero thirty, ten minutes from now.” He moved to one side as Olsen went down the hatch.

  Brannon heard the SJ radar antenna begin to turn, and from below decks he could hear the voice of Elmer Rafferty, the radioman who doubled as a radar operator, calling off the bearings and ranges to the mountain peaks on Leyte and Mindanao islands. There was a short pause and then Rafferty’s voice went up a notch in tone.

  “Contact! Several small pips bearing zero eight five, sir. Range is ... range is one five zero zero zero yards, fifteen thousand yards, sir!”

  “Secure the radar,” Olsen’s voice was sharp. “Bridge! Tell the Captain that radar has a contact bearing zero eight five. Range is one five zero zero zero, fifteen thousand yards. Radar is secured, pending Captain’s orders.”

  Lee turned and saw Brannon standing behind him. “I have the word, Bob,” Brannon said. He lowered his head to the Bridge transmitter.

  “Control. Let’s get another radar bearing on those contacts. Make it short but get a good bearing and range.” He looked upward as the radar antenna steadied on the bearing, and then he heard Rafferty’s voice.

  “Positive contact bearing zero eight four, sir. The range is closing slightly, closing a little bit. Contact is coming this way, sir.”

  “Secure the radar,” Brannon ordered. “Come right to course three one five. All ahead full. Mr. Olsen to the bridge.”

  “Steady on course three one five, all ahead full is answered, Bridge.” The helmsman’s voice from the Conning Tower was flat, unemotional. Brannon heard the coughing roar of the other three diesel engines starting and then the quickening of Eelfish under his feet as the ship picked up speed.

  “Very well,” Lee answered the helmsman. He turned and repeated the information to Brannon as Olsen climbed out of the hatch and went back to the cigaret deck.

  “That radar contact look solid to you?” Brannon asked.

  “Jim Michaels was in the Control Room when we lit off the radar,” Olsen said. “He’s damned good on that thing. They told us in Fremantle when we took him aboard that he was the best they ever saw. I tend to believe him when he looks at those little spots of light and tells us he’s got a solid contact.”

  “Several pips might be a convoy,” Brannon said. “Go below, John, and start the plot. I want to stay on this course until we know more about the contact, until we know its speed and course. Once we’ve got that I want to be put on a parallel course, an opposite course to that of the contact. I want to run past the contact at no more than four thousand yards. Clear?” Olsen nodded and went forward to the bridge and down the hatch. Two minutes later his voice came over the bridge speaker.

  “Bridge. Tell the Captain that we want to make two radar sweeps, one now, one in five minutes. Recommend slowing to ten knots until we have course and speed of the contact.”

  “Very well,” Brannon said. He turned to Lee. “Keep the lookouts sharp. We should be seeing whatever is out there in a little while.” He raised his night binoculars as he felt the Eelfish slow down.

  The minutes crept by. Olsen’s voice came out of the bridge speaker.

  “We’re going to make the second radar sweep, Bridge.”

  “Very well,” Brannon said. He walked forward to the bridge and stood beside Lee. Above them the radar antenna was making short, jerky sweeps.

  “Targets bear zero five seven, Bridge,” Olsen’s voice said from below. “Range to the targets is now nine five zero zero yards. Repeat, ninety-five hundred yards. Target course is one eight zero, dead south. Target speed is one zero, repeat, ten knots. Distance to the target track is now four one zero zero yards, repeat, forty-one hundred yards.

  “We’ve got several targets out there, Bridge. Suggest we come right to course zero zero zero. Request permission for another radar sweep to determine disposition of the ships in the convoy, sir.”

  “Very well,” Brannon said. “Execute course change. Let’s make this next radar sweep a solid one, Control. Is Mr. Michaels at the radar?”

  “Yes, sir,” Olsen answered. “Mr. Michaels and Rafferty are manning the radar. Plot is running, sir.”

  “Very well,” Brannon said. Olsen was showing no signs of excitement, Brannon reflected. He was doing his job calmly, plotting the problem, figuring the courses and speeds to bring Eelfish into contact with the enemy as Brannon wanted that contact to be made. He braced himself as the Eelfish heeled as it came to the new course.

  “We have a good idea of what’s out there, Bridge,” Olsen said through the bridge speaker. “We make it a convoy led by one small ship, probably a small escort vessel.

  “Back of that escort there are two larger pips. They are running abreast of each other one thousand yards back of the escort in the van. These two ships are eight hundred yards apart. Then we have two more ships. These pips are even larger. These two are aft of the first two ships at a distance of one thousand yards. They are following in the wakes of the ships in front of them. There is one more ship, a smaller pip, dead astern of the second line of ships. We assume that ship is an escort. It is one thousand yards astern of the second line of ships. We have also picked up one small pip abeam of both sides of the convoy at a distance of five hundred yards from each side of the convoy. Assume them to be small escort vessels, sir. The entire convoy is spread out along course one eight zero over three thousand yards of ocean, sir.”

  “Very well,” Brannon said. He stood at one side of the bridge, his mind sorting out the information given to him, figuring out the plan of attack he would make.

  The classic, the approved manner of attack on a convoy would be to reverse his course and run out ahead of the convoy. He had enough speed to be able to do that. Then he could submerge Eelfish and wait for the convoy to come
to him. Once they did so he would open fire.

  The classic approach was a good one, Brannon thought. What it didn’t allow for was that the water was too shallow, only 180 feet deep. That wasn’t deep enough to give him the room to maneuver away from a determined depth-charge attack. Once he started shooting from ahead of the convoy it was certain that the escort in the van and the two on each beam would rush to the attack. The escort astern would likely herd his sheep off to safety while the other escorts pinned down the submarine. Brannon turned the problem over in his mind, his face somber in the starlight.

  “I have ships!” the starboard lookout called out. “I got several ships bearing zero four zero, Bridge.”

  “Very well,” Lee said. He looked at his Captain.

  “Very well,” Brannon said. He bent his head to the bridge transmitter.

  “Plot, give me a range to the target’s course line.”

  “Range to the target track is four zero zero zero, repeat four thousand yards, sir.”

  “Very well,” Brannon answered. “Plot, here’s what I want: We’ll run on this course at this distance from the enemy track until the last ship in the convoy is to our beam to starboard. Then I want to come right and run to the enemy’s course and come right again so that we’ll be dead astern of the convoy. We’ll attack on the surface.”

  He waited a moment so the plotting party down below could make notes. Then, his voice calm, Brannon said: “Set all torpedoes for two feet depth. Repeat two feet. Gun crews to the Control Room in red night goggles. Sound General Quarters.”

  He heard the muted clanging of the General Quarters alarm and the rush of feet down below as the crew raced to their battle stations.

  He listened as the reports poured in from each compartment of the ship. All battle stations were manned. Depth set all torpedoes two feet. All torpedo tube outer doors were closed. Course is zero zero zero. Speed is ten knots. Plotting party standing by. Brannon nodded to Lee and steadied his elbows on the teak bridge rail and raised his binoculars to his eyes. He could see the targets plainly, one small ship out ahead of the others and then two lines of ships. He bent to the transmitter.