WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Read online

  Ernest Hemingway

  Men At War (1942)

  CHAPTER ONE

  29 January, 1943

  His Majesty’s New Zealand Ship Kiwi

  Two miles west of Cape Esperance

  Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands

  The night was clear with a half-moon rising in the eastern sky, its light shimmering off the verdant mountain-jungles of Guadalcanal. Cape Esperance, Guadalcanal’s northwestern prominence, lay two miles ahead. There was a bit of wind off the island, making the water whitecap. There was no ground swell to speak of, and the horizon was sharply defined; one could see quite a distance. For example, Savo Island lay ten miles straight off the bow, the features of its dark, brooding volcanic peak well outlined as it thrust fifteen hundred feet into the sky. Eight months earlier, Savo Island had been the site of a horrible disaster, where the Japanese Navy sank four Allied cruisers and one destroyer in just thirty minutes.

  Kiwi searched in an elongated race-track pattern, her sistership, HMNZS Moa, steaming obediently 1,000 yards off her port beam. They were 700 ton corvettes built by Henry Robb Ltd. Relatively small, Kiwi and her sisters were just 150 feet in length, and were powered by a recalcitrant 2,600 horsepower triple-expansion steam engine. With a top speed of only sixteen knots, these ships were much slower and less than half the size of their big-brother American destroyers. Used primarily for antisubmarine warfare, they carried a four-inch anti-aircraft cannon mounted on a raised platform on their foredecks, which made them a bit top-heavy. Elsewhere, their anti-aircraft suite was augmented by twenty millimeter cannons.

  Kiwi’s captain, Lieutenant Commander Jeremiah Bridson, was a man of elephantine proportions. Ship’s company stood out of his way, not only from discipline and respect, but also from self preservation. The deck gratings rattled whenever Bridson thumped about his bridge, his men feeling the vibration and instinctively stepping aside in the nick of time. Even so, Bridson was well-liked by Kiwi’s seventy-two officers and men. And his reputation for tom-foolery was legendary south of the equator.

  But now, with the moon up and seas moderate, Bridson crammed his bulk in his Captain’s chair, put his feet up and drank coffee, thanking his lucky stars that he was in the Navy and not over there on Guadalcanal, slogging around in bug-infested muck, chasing Japs. Still, Bridson had long ago learned that complacency invited disaster. He forced himself to raise his binoculars and once again sweep the horizon, as did the eight other sailors on his bridge.

  While peering into the dark reaches of Guadalcanal’s shoreline, he kept in mind a message received from the Yanks: They predicted that a Japanese cargo submarine would land on the 26th, 27th or tonight, the 29th, supposedly right into Komimbo Bay, now three thousand yards off their starboard quarter. Bridson had snorted contemptuously when he first read the message. But his Squadron Commodore had recently told him about the Yanks’ super-secret radio intelligence facility in Hawaii -- Fleet Radio Unit, Pacific, (FRUPAC) -- which did marvelous things, providing solid intelligence that most of the time was bang-on. And this message, he knew, had originated from FRUPAC. So he took it seriously, demanding that his officers keep their eyes peeled.

  Piiing, piiing.

  But damn, it was boring. The sun had set two hours ago and there hadn’t been a peep on the bloody sonar for the past four days. And it seemed Thursday was going to be a bust as well. It showed in the crew; they had become damned irritable. Thank God tomorrow evening they were due to be relieved by the corvettes Arabis and Arbutus.

  Piiiing. Piiiing.

  Bridson drummed his fingers, watching the moon and listening to the sonar. The continuous, monochromatic pinging nearly drove him mad on quiet on nights like this.

  Hadley, his twenty-five year old executive officer, stepped into the tiny shack. “Captain. Request permission to reverse course.”

  Bridson sat up, seeing Cape Esperance a mile ahead. Hadley was a little early, but what the hell. Change the pattern. Besides, turning was something to do. “Very well, Number One. Signal Moa, please.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Hadley shouted to the signalman aft, “Stokes. Take up yer light and tell Moa to stand by for one-eight turn.“

  “Aye, Sir.”

  Piiiing. Piiiing. Bridson wished he could go below and listen to records. He had a new Jerome Kern album that he’d only heard once.

  Stokes clacked his signal light. “Moa acknowledges, Sir.”

  “Very well,” called Hadley. “Stand byB execute! Left standard rudder, steady up on course two-four-zero.”

  Obediently the ships leaned into their turn to port. Bridson watched the Moa swing across her bow when he heard, “Piiiing - bloop.”

  “What the hell?”

  Piiiing - bloop. Down doppler. The contact was headed away. “Get with it, Riley!” Bridson shouted into the sonar shack.

  A surprised Riley shouted up through the sonar shack’s open hatch, “Sonar contact! Possible submarine, bearing one-eight-five. Range, fifteen hundred yards.”

  Bridson jumped from his chair, his feet thumping on the deck grating. “Eric!”

  Hadley needed no prodding. “Shift yer rudder. Steady up on one-eight-five. Close up to action stations, submarine.”

  Kiwi heeled into her turn to starboard while Bridson yelled back to the signal bridge, “Stokes. Signal Moa, ‘follow me!’ Number One, increase speed to fifteen knots.”

  “Aye, Sir. Fifteen knots.”

  Men raced throughout the ship to man their action stations as the Kiwi steadied on her new course and speed. After a few moments, Hadley, now wearing helmet and sound-powered phones, called, “All stations manned and ready, Captain.”

  “Very well.” Bridson had his binoculars up, scanning the area before him. “Bearing clear.” No surface ships were on the sonar bearing.

  Damn! The message was bang-on. We’ve got the bastard right in Komimbo Bay.

  Piiiing, Bloop.

  The speaker clicked. It was Riley again with, “Bearing now one-six-five, drawing left, range seven-fifty. Down doppler, stern aspect, strong echo.”

  “Damned near on it,” said Bridson. “Guns, stand by to roll depth charges!”

  “Standing by, Captain,” said Kiwi’s gunnery officer.

  “You okay with this, Guns?” asked Bridson. Ralph Carlson was a brand new junior Lieutenant gunnery officer, and Bridson had yet to see him in action.

  “Standing by, Captain,” Carlson repeated.

  “Very well, Guns, set depth for two hundred feet.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Piiiing, bloop.

  “Bearing steady on one-six-five, range, four hundred, shifting to short scale.”

  The pings pulsed very quickly now. Kiwi was nearly on top.

  Stokes called from the signal bridge. “Signal from Moa, Captain. She also has sonar contact.”

  “Very well. Tell Moa we’re dropping soon and to make her run as soon as possible.”

  “Bugger’s playing a dangerous game laying this close to the beach,” Carlson muttered. The risk was that the submarine could be trapped against the shore.

  “That’s why we set ‘em so deep, Guns.” Bridson raised a hand in the air, then dropped it. “Guns, roll one! Roll two!” Kiwi launched a seven-charge pattern.

  With the corvette a mere five hundred yards off the beach, Hadley kicked in full rudder and spun Kiwi back out to sea.

  WHRUMP! The charges went. Being set so deep, they didn’t raise a water column.

  Kiwi opened the range to seven hundred yards as Moa dropped her depth charges. “Riley!”

  “Captain. Yes, Sir. Regained contact. Range six hundred yards, bearing one-six-five. and...”

  “And what, damnit!”

  “Sounds like she’s blowing her ballast tanks, Sir.”

  “Good God.” Bridson jammed his binoculars to his eyes.

  Carlson saw it first. “Submarine! Red ten.” Ten degrees off the port bow.

  Bridson adjusted the fine focus and gasped with th
e rest of his men. Even partially submerged, he could tell the submarine was enormous, easily twice the length of his little ship. With a high, rounded conning tower, landing barges were strapped to her flanks; she was most likely a cargo submarine, probably a troop carrier. “Big bastard -- Number One! Head right at the bloody thing, full speed. All forward mounts, commence fire!”

  Immediately, the four inch gun belched out a round, with the twenty millimeter and fifty caliber guns chattering away.

  “Five hundred yards,” called Riley.

  The submarine’s forward hatch popped open and silhouetted figures raced for her deck gun. But they tumbled to the deck as the fifties hit them, only to be replaced by others.

  “Captain, it’s the Chief Engineer.” The watch messenger handed Bridson a sound powered handset.

  Bridson jammed it to his ear. “What is it, chief?”

  “What the hell are you doing to our ship?”

  “Shut up. There’s a weekend’s leave in Auckland dead ahead of us!” With that, Bridson bracketed the phone and yelled, “Mr. Hadley, I have the conn.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Two hundred yards.

  The Japanese submarine lay before them making very little headway. Her port side was exposed; a classic T-bone. Something whizzed by Bridson’s ear and he realized the Japanese now had soldiers on deck in full packs with rifles. Suddenly the submarine’s deck gun blasted, the round passing fifty feet above the Kiwi.

  One hundred yards.

  “Stand by!”

  Fifty yards.

  “Hang on!” Bridson slapped his palms on the bridge bulwark and locked his elbows.

  CRUNCH! Kiwi dug into the submarine’s port ballast tank.

  The submarine rolled heavily to starboard, spilling dead and wounded off her decks into Komimbo Bay.

  “Back full,” roared Bridson. “Right full rudder.”

  Like insects, Japanese troops, many in full field packs, popped from the hatches and jumped overboard as the Kiwi wiggled herself away. Bridson whiffed the heavy odor of diesel oil as it poured from the submarine’s ruptured tanks. As she backed clear, the Kiwi’s twenty-millimeter rounds pounded the submarine’s deck gun area and conning tower. One mount in particular pumped shell after shell into the landing barges. Suddenly, the barge strapped to the port side caught fire, giving the scene an eerie glow.

  As the light flickered, Bridson yelled, “Rudder amidships, ahead full!”

  Bullets zipped past their head, some clanging into the Kiwi’s superstructure as she gathered headway. Once again the engineroom phone buzzed. Bridson grabbed it, instinctively knowing it was his Chief Engineer. “What!”

  “Captain. You’re not ramming again?”

  “You bet I am. Now tell me, any damage?”

  “Not sure.”

  “All right, let me know. Say, you have any time to come up, Chiefy?”

  “Too busy keeping this bugger glued together. Why?”

  “You should see this bastard. She’s a football field.”

  “Then stand off and leave it to the damned deck gun!”

  “Take us all night, Chief. I say hit her again! It’ll be a week’s leave.” With that, Bridson jammed the phone in the bracket and ordered, “Left full rudder.”

  Another round erupted from the submarine’s deck gun and screeched harmlessly overhead. If anything, the Kiwi’s gunfire intensified, mercilessly knocking down anyone coming out of hatches to man the submarine’s guns.

  Hadley pointed to diesel smoke pouring from the submarines exhaust vents aft. “She’s gathering weigh, Captain. Looks like they’re trying to beach her.”

  “We’ll fix that,” muttered Bridson. Kiwi steadied on her course with Bridson yelling, “Stand by to raaaaaam!”

  CRUNCH!

  “Damnit.” They’d hit twelve feet aft of the first hole. Bridson had wanted to saw the sub in half by hitting her in the same place. “Back full, right full rudder.”

  Bullets clanged around them. “Arrgh! Jesus,” yelled Carlson, clutching his shoulder.

  Bridson saw blood seeping out of his gunnery officer’s right arm. “Better go below and see the quack, Ralph.”

  “And miss all this? I’m fine, Sir. It’s a clean wound.”

  Bridson thought, you’ll do fine, Ralph. All you have to do is live through all this muck they call a war. “Here, Stokes. Run a battle dressing around Mr. Carlson’s arm.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Ahead full, rudder amidships!” The phone buzzed. Once again, Bridson ripped the phone from its bracket. “This better be good, Chief.”

  “Only if you like a flooded forepeak, Captain.”

  “Is it progressive?”

  “Can’t tell.”

  “Well, find out. And we’re going in again.”

  “Captain, I don’t want to walk home.”

  “Come on, Chief.” Then he yelled for all to hear. “Once more for a fortnight!” Shoving the phone in bracket he said, “Left full rudder.”

  “Good God!” said Hadley.

  “What?”

  “It’s a bloody banzai charge.” Hadley pointed as Kiwi steadied up, the submarine once again before her.

  Bridson raised his binoculars to see a pair of Japanese officers waving swords in the air. What they were screaming, Bridson couldn’t tell. “Faster, damnit,” he urged. Because she was turning so tightly, the Kiwi hadn’t gained more than ten knots headway. Then he spotted one of the vee-shaped holes he’d put in the submarine’s ballast tank. He ran over and grabbed the helmsman’s collar and pointed. “Head right for that one!”

  “Right, Sir.” The helmsman eased in a bit of left rudder then steadied up.

  “Stand by to raaaam!”

  With an awful screech, Kiwi lunged up and rode over the submarine, shoving her halfway under. Bridson looked over the bulwark to see more Japanese soldiers scrambling through hatches and running about the submarine’s deck. Just as Bridson realized they were trying to board his ship, the Kiwi’s men, now armed with rifles and pistols, poured a murderous volley into them, knocking the soldiers into the water. Then, from the conning tower, a Japanese officer ran toward the corvette, screaming and waving a sword in the air. As Kiwi’s bow plunged back into the water, the officer leapt and miraculously grabbed the corvette’s stanchion with one hand, still waving his sword with the other. The Kiwi bucked up and down, and finally the Japanese officer lost his grip and tumbled into fuel-oil saturated water.

  Leaving a glistening odorous wake, the submarine miraculously gathered headway and again plodded toward the beach, just one hundred yards away.

  Bridson grabbed the phone and buzzed the chief engineer.

  The chief engineer raged, “Look what you’ve done to my ship.”

  “Tell me,” said Bridson.

  “Forepeak. Chain locker. Pyrotechnics locker. Bosun’s locker. Forward fresh water tank, all flooded. Crew compartment bulkhead leaking badly. I’d say we’re done for the evening.”

  “Right.” Bridson bracketed his phone and said, “Cease fire, all guns.” Then, “Stokes. Signal to the Moa.”

  “Sir!”

  “‘Take over, you deserve some of the fun.’“

  “Aye, aye, Sir.” Stokes ran off to clack his signal lantern. As he did, Bridson watched the submarine. She was nose-up on a coral outcrop, about twenty-five yards off the beach. “Looks like they’ve got her aground, Eric.”

  Hadley squinted through his binoculars. “I think so. Look at the diesel exhaust pour out. I’d say he’s trying to drive her further up the beach.”

  Bridson sighed. Suddenly he felt very tired. “Take the conn, Eric. Stand off the beach and keep us out of Moa’s way while we assess our damage.”

  “Aye aye, Sir - Blimey!” Hadley’s binoculars snapped to his eyes.

  “What the devil is it?”

  “There.” Hadley pointed. “What the hell?”

  Bridson found the spot. It was larger hole was just forward of the sub’s conning t
ower. Bubbling up amongst the diesel fuel were sheets of paper, thousands of them, tablet-size.

  “Think they’re going to dump leaflets on us?”

  “No,” said Bridson. “Secret weapon. They’ve finally figured out a way to beat us.”

  Hadley dropped his glasses and looked at Bridson.

  “Paperwork, Number One. They’ll kill us with paper work.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  24 February, 1943

  U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)

  Kula Gulf, Solomon Islands

  ...at dawn’s red glare, sailor beware.

  * * * * *

  High overhead, aircraft engines resonated among the reddish-pink clouds. Frantically, Todd Ingram tried to pick out the death-messengers, their droning a macabre reverberation in his ears.

  Where the hell are they?

  Ingram’s eyes darted among the breaking day’s overcast. His adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed, trying to force back whatever gnawed deep in his stomach.

  Almost straight up now, flying southeast.

  Jerry Landa, standing one deck below on the port bridge-wing, called up, “Maybe they can’t see us.”

  Don’t count on it, captain.

  The seas were high, and with a formation speed of twenty knots, the groundswell made the four destroyers roll drunkenly. Ingram braced himself against the main battery director rail, steadying his binoculars as he searched the clouds.

  Just then the sun rose, its upper edge peeking between clouds and horizon, bathing the four wallowing destroyers in a rich golden-yellow elixir and making Ingram’s lieutenant commander’s gold leafs gleam like the ancient beacon of Alexandria. It was as if someone had turned on stage lights.

  Up the curtain, thought Ingram, his grey eyes flicking momentarily to the other Fletcher class destroyers. They steamed in a diamond formation, each of their five, five-inch thirty-eight guns at READY AIR, their single-barrel guns pointed defiantly, almost straight up, like needles from a pin cushion. Barber was in the lead, steaming 1,000 yards ahead of Howell and carrying Otto Deveraux, Commodore of the four-ship Destroyer Division Eleven (DESDIV 11). Issac and Griffith were on either wing, with Howell in the tail-end charley slot.