Winds of War (142 page)

Byron’s party had four torpedoes in the truck. He decided to load two more before leaving. His orders called for six, and false alarms had been plentiful ever since Clark Field. But with the overhead crane shut down, it was slow work moving an assembled Mark 14 torpedo, a ton and a half of steel cylinder packed with explosives, propellant and motor. The sweating
Devilfish
sailors were rigging one to the guy chains of a small cherry-picker crane when Byron’s leading torpedoman glanced out at the sky. “Mr. Henry, here they come.”

Hansen had the best eyes on the
Devilfish
. It took Byron half a minute to discern the neat V of silvery specks shining in the blue, far higher than the German planes he had seen over Poland. The old Warsaw feeling overwhelmed him - the fear, the exhilaration, the call to look sharp and act fast.

“God, yes, fifty or sixty of ‘em,” he said.

“I counted fifty-seven. They’re headed this way sir. Target angle zero.”

“So I see. Well, let’s hurry.”

The sailor at the wheel of the cherry picker began gunning the motor, tightening the chains on the torpedo.

“Hold it!” Byron exclaimed, hearing a distant explosion. More
CRUMPS!
sounded closer. The cement floor trembled. Now for the first time since Warsaw Byron’s ears caught a familiar noise - a high whistle ascending in pitch and getting louder.

“
Take cover!
”

The sailors dove under the truck and a heavy worktable nearby. An explosion blasted close to the shed, then a cataract of noise burst all around, the floor shook and heaved, and Byron too threw himself under the table onto rough cement coated with sandy grease. Quarters were narrow here and his face was jammed against somebody’s scratchy dungarees. Byron had never endured a bombing like this. Over and over he winced and gritted his teeth at the cracking blasts that shook the ground. It seemed to him a fifty-fifty chance that he would get killed in the next minute. But at last the noise lessened as the bombing moved along to another part of the base. He crawled free and ran outside. Flame and smoke were billowing around and walls were starting to crash down. The serene blue sky was flecked with A.A. bursting impotently far below the bombers, which were quite visible through the smoke. The
Devilfish
sailors came huddling around Byron, brushing themselves off and staring at the fires.

“Hey, Mr. Henry, it looks kind of bad, don’t it?”

“Are we going back aboard?”

“Should we finish loading the fish?”

“Wait.”

Byron hurried through the smoky shed to see the situation on the other side. Hansen came with him. Hansen was an old able submariner, a fat Swede from Oregon more than six feet tall, with a bushy blond beard and a belt pulled tight under a bulging paunch. Hansen had failed to make chief because once in Honolulu he had resisted arrest by three marine shore patrol men, had given one a brain concussion, and had broken another’s arm. He liked Byron and had taught him a lot without seeming to; and Byron had grown his beard partly in sympathy with Hansen, because the captain had been harrying the stubborn Swede to trim or remove it.

On the other side of the torpedo shop, large fires also roared and crackled, fanned by a sea wind. In the street a bomb had blown a large crater; water as shooting up out of a broken main, and fat blue sparks were flashing among the torn and twisted underground cables. Three heavy Navy trucks stood halted by the smoking pit, and their Filipino drivers, chattering in Tagalog, were peering down into the hole.

Byron shouted above the chaotic din, “Looks like we’re stuck, maybe, Hansen. What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Henry. If these trucks would move clear we could probably get out by doubling back around the Commandancia.”

One of the drivers called to Byron, “Say, can we drive through this shop? There a way through to wharf?”

Byron shook his head and raised his voice over the shrieking siren and the yells of fire fighters dragging hoses along the street. “All blocked on that side! Solid fire, and some walls down!”

Squinting up at the wind-driven smoke and flame, Hansen said, “Mr. Henry, the fire’s gonna spread to this shop and all these fish are gonna go.” Byron understood the pain in the torpedoman’s voice. Without torpedoes, what good was a submarine squadron? The shortage was already well known and acute.

He said, “Well, if you could operate that overhead crane, maybe we could still pull out a few.”

Hansen scratched his balding head. “Mr. Henry, I’m not a crane man.”

Standing by the flooding crater was a lean civilian in overalls and a brown hard hat. He said, “I’m a crane operator. What’s your problem?”

Byron turned to the Filipino driver. “Will you guys give us a hand? We want to move some torpedoes out of here.”

After a rapid exchange in Tagalog with the other drivers, the Filipino exclaimed, “Okay! Where we go?”

“Come on,” Byron said to the civilian. “In this shop. It’s an overhead crane.”

“I know, sonny.”

In the bay off Sangley Point, meanwhile, a gray speedboat swooped alongside the
Devilfish
, which was under way, fleeing the Navy Yard and heading for the submarine base at Bataan. It was Red Tully’s speedboat, and he was bringing the skipper of the
Devilfish
back from the base. Branch Hoban jumped from the speedboat to the forecastle of his vessel, as Captain Tully yelled up at the bridge through a megaphone, “Ahoy the
Devilfish!
What about
Seadragon
and
Sealion?
”

Lieutenant Aster cupped his hands around his mouth. “They were all right when we left, sir. But they’re stuck alongside. No power.”

“Oh, Christ. Tell Branch to lie off here. I’ll go have a look.”

“Shall we pull the plug, sir?”

“Not unless you’re attacked.”

Hoban arrived on the bridge as the speedboat thrummed away. “Lady, what about Briny and the working party?”

Aster gestured back toward the Navy Yard, which appeared solidly afire under towering pillars of smoke. “They never showed. I figured I’d better get away alongside, Captain.”

“Damn right. Glad one of us was aboard.”

In a short time the speedboat returned. The coxswain swerved it alongside and Tully came aboard the
Devilfish
white-faced and hoarse. “Bad business. They got straddled with bombs. I think the
Sealion
’s a goner – she’s on fire, her after engine room’s flooded, and she’s sinking fast.”

“Yea gods,” Hoban said. “We were outboard of her.”

“I know. Damn lucky.”

“The
Pigeon’
s trying to tow the
Seadragon
clear. Better go back in there, Branch, and see if you can help.

“Aye aye, sir.”

A sooty motor whaleboat was puttering toward the
Devilfish
. “Who’s this now?” Tully said.

Hoban shaded his eyes. “Say, Lady, is that Pierce?”

“Yes, it’s Pierce, sir,” Lieutenant Aster said, glancing through binoculars.

Sailors ran out on the forecastle to help the young seaman scramble aboard. He came to the bridge, his eyes showing white and his mouth red as a minstrel’s in a soot-covered face. “Captain, Mr. Henry sent me to tell you, the working party’s all right.”

“Well, thank God! Where are they?”

“They’re taking torpedoes out of the shop.”

Tully exclaimed, “The
torpedo
shop? You mean it’s still standing?”

“Yes, sir. The fire sort of blew away in another direction, so Mr. Henry and Hansen got these trucks and -”

“You come with me,” Tully said. “Branch, I’m going back in there.”

But when the squadron commander and the sailor reached the blazing Navy Yard, there was no way to get to the torpedo shop. Fallen buildings and smoking debris blocked every route into the wharf area. Tully circled in vain through drifting smoke in a commandeered jeep, avoiding bomb craters, rubble, and careering, screaming ambulances. “Captain Tully, sir, I think I see them trucks,” said Pierce. He pointed to a grassy area on the other side of a small bridge crowded with cars, ambulances, and foot traffic. “See? Over there by the water tower.”

“The big gray ones?”

“Yes, sir. I think that’s them, sir.”

Tully pulled the jeep out of the road and shouldered his way over the bridge. He found Byron Henry sitting on top of heaped torpedoes in a truck, drinking a Coca-Cola. Byron was almost unrecognizable, for his hands, face, and beard were sooty. The three trucks were full of torpedoes, and two cherry-picker crane trucks held more. A small Army truck was piled high with stencilled crates and boxes. The Filipino drivers sat on the grass, eating sandwiches and cracking jokes in Tagalog. The
Devilfish
working party lay sprawled in exhausted attitudes, all except Hansen, who sat smoking a pipe with his back to a huge tire of the truck on which Byron perched.

“Hello there, Byron,” Tully called.

Byron turned around and tried to jump up, but it was hard to do on the heap of long cylinders. “Oh, good afternoon, sir.”

“How many did you get?”

“Twenty-six, sir. Then we had to leave. The fire was closing in.”

“I see you scooped up a truckload of spare parts, too.”

“That was Hansen’s idea, sir.”

“Who’s Hansen?”

Byron indicated the torpedoman, who had leaped to his feet on recognizing Captain Tully.

“What’s your rating?”

“Torpedoman first class, sir.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You’re a
chief
torpedoman.”

Hansen’s beard opened in an ecstatic smile, and his eyes gleamed at Ensign Henry. Tully looked around at the trove of rescued torpedoes. “You got exploders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, good. Suppose you drive this haul around to Mariveles.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I’ll want a report on this, Byron, with the names, and ratings of your working party and of these drivers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any chance of getting more fish out of there?”

“Depends on what the fire leaves, sir. The shop hadn’t caught when we left, but now - I don’t know.”

“All right. I’ll see about that. You get going.”

Next morning Byron presented himself to Captain Tully. The squadron commander was working at a desk in a Quonset hut on the beach at Mariveles Harbor, a deep cove in the mountainous Bataan peninsula. Behind Tully’s tanned hairless pate a large blue and yellow chart of Manila Bay covered most of the plasterboard wall. Byron handed him a two-page report: Tully glanced through it and said, “Pretty skimpy document.”

“It has the facts, Captain, and all the names and ratings.”

Tully nodded and dropped the sheets in a basket. “Branch told me you’re allergic to paperwork.”

“It’s not my strong point, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Now, did he tell you what I want you for?”

“Just something about salvage, sir.”

“Byron, the Japs are bound to land soon. We probably can’t hold Manila, but as long as MacArthur hangs on to Bataan, the squadron can go on operating out of Mariveles. This is a hell of a lot closer to Japan than any other sub base we’ve got now, or will have for a good long while.” Tully stood, and gestured at the wall. “So - the idea is to clean out Cavite, what’s left of it,
and
Manila, of every single item we can use, and fetch it here. You seem to have a sort of scavenger instinct. Tully laughed, and Byron responded with a polite smile. “You’ll work on this until the
Devilfish
goes out on operations. Lieutenant Commander Percifield is in charge, and you’ll report to him now over at Admiral Hart’s headquarters in Manila. He’s expecting you.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“While you’re there, look in on Admiral Hart. He’s an old submariner, you know. I told him about those torpedoes. He appreciated it and is writing a letter of commendation.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Oh, and incidentally, I’ve written your father about your exploit, though Lord knows when and how it’ll catch up with him.” Tully irresolutely took off his glasses, looked at the erect impassive ensign, and swivelled to and fro.

“Now, Byron, do you still want to go to the Atlantic? With all hell busting loose out here?”

“Yes, sir. I do want that.”

“You do? When there’s only our squadron now to oppose the Japs on the sea? When this is where the fighting is?”

Byron did not reply.

“As for your wife and baby in Italy, that’s unfortunate, but you know, she’ll be an enemy alien now.”

“Sir, we’re not at war with Italy. Not yet.”

“Oh, that’s inevitable. Hitler’s scheduled to make this big speech today, you know. Everybody expects him to declare war, and old Musso will just follow suit, p.d.q. Your wife will be interned, but that’s no cause for alarm. After a while she’ll be exchanged. The Italians are civilized people. I’m sure she’ll be all right.”

“Captain Tully, my wife’s Jewish.”

The squadron commander looked surprised, and turned a bit red. He avoided Byron’s eye. “Well now,
that
I didn’t know.”

“My captain knows. I’ve told him. The Italians – and what’s more to the point, the Germans - will class my baby son as Jewish, too.”

Blowing out a long audible breath, “Tully said, “Okay. That’s a problem. I still don’t see what you can do about it. Our submarine operations in the Atlantic will be minor for a long, long time. Here’s where we need you.” He looked up at the ensign, who stood at attention, blank-faced. “However, Byron, I’m going to send a dispatch, recommending your transfer to Submarine Force Atlantic - as and when the
Devilfish
gets a replacement for you. Not before.”

Byron Henry showed no sign of the relief that filled him.

“Thank you, Captain Tully.”

The squadron commander opened a desk drawer. “One more thing. Your commanding officer concurs in this, so congratulations.”

He laid on the desk before Byron a gold pin, the dolphins of a submariner.

* * *

Chapter 62 - War with the United States

(from WORLD EMPIRE LOST)