1945 (21 page)

As always, Commander Hashimoto let no hint of any emotion show on his face as he stood in the conning tower of the I-58. Inwardly, he was churning. He wanted to yell at the confused soldiers who had spilled out of the hatches and onto his deck. They looked like fish escaping from a torn net. He wanted them to hurry even faster than they were, for every instant spent on the surface and so close to land was fraught with peril. Even seconds too long could mean death. He silently cursed.

As with the other transits, this too had been a litany of confusion and even horror as one soldier, confined in a submarine that was under the ocean and jammed full of sweating, stinking bodies, had gone mad and been bludgeoned to death. It could not be helped. Ferrying soldiers from Korea to Kyushu by submarine was the only way their arrival could reasonably be assured. The I-58 had made a score of those trips between Korea and Kyushu and, by Hashimoto's count, had delivered more than fifteen hundred frontline soldiers to fight the coming of the Americans.

The routine was simple. The I-58 would surface in the night off the Korean coast and south of the city of Pusan. Small boats would stream out from the shore and deposit as many soldiers as the I-58 could hold. That most were without weapons or other equipment meant that more could be squeezed in. Once loaded, the I-58 would submerge and make the 150-mile journey to Kyushu. Sometimes they would pause at Tshushima Island, a rough midway point in their journey, and surface to clear the air that the presence of so many bodies had fouled. The I-58 had been refitted with a German air-breathing device called a
Schnorchel,
but it was barely adequate under normal circumstances, and the additional men simply overwhelmed the
schnorchel's
abilities.

When they arrived at the night-darkened coast of Kyushu, the soldiers would be off-loaded onto yet another swarm of small boats and taken ashore where they would get new equipment. From there they would be sent southward to stem the anticipated onslaught.

While Hashimoto recognized the need to do this, he resented that his submarine had been forced to act as a transport and not as a weapon. He knew it was as a result of his using two of the precious
kaiten
human torpedoes against that damned American sub. In retrospect, he realized that he should not have given in to the wails of the young volunteers and should have saved them for a more significant target, such as a carrier, and used conventional torpedoes against the American sub. He had been rebuked for his actions, and the assignment as an underwater ferryboat captain had been his punishment.

Thank God, his stint in purgatory was about to end. Or it would as soon as the last of the soldiers stumbled and bumbled their way off his boat and onto the small craft. Thankfully, they were being quiet. While the likelihood of voices carrying over water to where an American patrol boat might be lurking was small, it was not a chance he was prepared to take. The soldiers had been ordered to maintain silence under penalty of death.

Hashimoto saw his lookouts straining, staring into the darkness to try to detect even the slightest hint of motion. If they saw anything, the I-58 would submerge immediately, even if that meant that some of the soldiers were lost.

Many of the larger American planes had radar and would, upon registering a contact, drop flares and use searchlights to pin a target. Then they would strafe with machine guns and drop depth charges to sink the target. Since the I-58 was in relatively shallow water, a sudden attack would be fatal, as he could not dive deeply to get away. Hashimoto had a submariner's dread of being submerged so close to the surface as to be visible to an enemy plane.

Hashimoto saw an army officer heading toward the conning tower. It was the commander of the army unit. What the hell did the man want?

"Captain, I wish to thank you for bringing us safely home."

Hashimoto wanted to tell the man to shut up and get the flick off his ship, but he forced himself to be polite. The officer wheeled and stepped briskly onto the last of the small craft. En route, the officer had told an interesting story. He claimed that he and his men had actually passed safely through the Russian lines on their way to the Pusan area. Most interesting if it was true. But then, the officer was quite young and most likely confused. The Russians were Japan's enemies, and not her allies.

Hashimoto ordered the hatches closed, and the I-58, free of its cargo, turned its nose toward the sea and safety.

"The last time," Hashimoto muttered, and a few heads turned at the sound of his voice. No one dared to ask what he was talking about.

Hashimoto gave the order to dive and went to his cramped cabin, where he sat down at his small desk and examined the piece of paper on which his radio operator had written his new orders. His hands shook slightly as he reread the orders. The I-58 was to proceed with all prudent haste to a position off southern Kyushu. There, American ships were gathering for the invasion. His orders concluded with the simple phrase that he was to attack and destroy any and all targets of opportunity, but with special emphasis on carriers and troop transports.

For the first time in weeks, Hashimoto smiled. The orders had told him he could return to base and get additional supplies if that was necessary. He had thought about it briefly, but decided against it. He was safest under the sea and not alongside a dock at some navy base that was subject to bombing. No, he would proceed directly to the waters off southern Kyushu. He had food and water for several weeks normal cruising and could extend that by cutting back on rations. He had a full complement of Type 95 torpedoes. He did not have any of the distracting
kaiten
on this trip and didn't want them.

Targets of opportunity, the orders said. The I-58 and her sisters were free to roam and kill as they wished. Instead of working as ferries, they were to be sharks, predators of the sea. It was glorious, as was the phrase
targets of opportunity
. It was a submariner's dream and he vowed to live it to the fullest.

With more than a thousand men and many tons of their equipment jammed onto the attack transport USS
Luce,
Morrell found it more comfortable to be on the deck than below in their cramped sleeping quarters. In this he was joined by hundreds of others, who, after several days afloat, found the accumulated stenches from belowdecks a little difficult to take.

Several days of puking and sweating had turned the interior of the
Luce
into something of a putrid garbage dump. No lights were permitted on deck, not even cigarettes, and Paul wondered if Jap pilots could really see the ship from the glow of a bunch of cigarettes. Maybe they could, but it probably was an unnecessary precaution. Even solely with starlight, he could see the shapes of other ships in the convoy.

Another, more primal force drove the men to the decks. They approached ever closer to Japan each time the
Luce's
bow surged into the choppy November waves. They all knew that death might strike at them at any moment, just as it was striking at those who were going before them. Along with the so-far-unseen suicide planes, Japanese submarines were presumed to be nearby, and no one wanted to be inside a ship as it sank into the depths of the Pacific. They would much prefer to take their chances on the cold waters of the ocean, rather than a downward plunge in a seven-thousand-ton steel coffin. Most of the soldiers had decided that the risk of being struck by a kamikaze while on the decks of the
Luce
was the lesser of evils.

Paul shifted his aching buttocks on the cold metal of the deck. There was a chill in the November air, but it wasn't really cold yet. If only he had a pillow or a cushion to sit on, things would really be okay. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, which he opened to the photo of Debbie. He could barely see her face in the stiffly formal studio picture she'd sent him. The face that looked up at him really wasn't her. It didn't show her laughing, or flashing that silly grin he liked so much, and it didn't capture anything of her personality. It didn't smell at all like her, and it sure as hell didn't feel like her, and the portrait was from the shoulders up so it didn't show any of the slender but delightful body he liked to hold.

But it was the only thing he had to remember her by and it triggered rushes of memories that almost caused tears to well up in his eyes.

"Nice-looking girl, Paul. Gonna marry her?"

It was Captain Ruger. Paul laughed reluctantly, folded his wallet, and put it back in its waterproof pouch. At least he hoped it was waterproof. "I hope so. If I get back, that is." Then he corrected himself. "I mean, when I get back."

Ruger sat down beside him and watched as a couple of soldiers edged by them. Right now their biggest danger came from being stepped on, not from the Japanese.

"I just put my wife and kids' picture away too. It hurts a lot to look at it, but I had to at least one last time. I guess everyone on this slow ship to nowhere feels that same way."

They had spent their last days on Okinawa packing their gear for the journey and spending their empty nights trying to forget about it. In what some felt was a macabre salute to the departing soldiers, there'd been USO shows galore to lighten their emotional burden. Bob Hope did arrive and brought Jerry Colonna and Frances Langford with him. Danny Kaye was there and so was Kate Smith. In just a few days they got more entertainment than many could handle, although that didn't stop some GIs with a warped sense of humor from announcing that Glenn Miller would be appearing at a particular field. This resulted in several hundred men waiting patiently at the designated place for the arrival of a man who had been killed a year earlier over the English Channel.

Finally, they had been taken out to the attack transport
Luce
, where they had, once again, waited. When they did move out to sea, it was to join a vast convoy. Comments were made about being able to walk across the rows and rows of ships all the way to Japan without getting their feet wet.

During the daylight hours they saw the destroyers and other escort ships dipping in and out of the endless lines of transports and herding them like sheepdogs keeping the wolves away.

Then the convoy slowed and almost stopped. Word went through the ship that the invasion had started. This was quickly confirmed by the
Luce's
captain, who read an announcement to that effect to the soldiers and crew. On hearing it, a few men had cheered, while some others wept. The majority responded in grim, almost prayerful silence. Now any hopes they'd been harboring that they would not have to take part in the ordeal were dashed. Their turn to land on Japanese shores could come at any time.

"You take care of everything like I told you?" Ruger asked.

"I did. I told the men that if something happened to you, I was taking over the company and that Sergeant Collins would be responsible for the platoon. Or if something happened to me, for that matter, it was still Collins. I ran down a complete chain of command involving all the NCOs and made certain they knew just who was next in line."

"How'd they take it?"

Paul laughed softly. "It went okay until the PFCs got into the act and figured out that Private Randolph was the most junior man in the platoon. Randolph then said if he was ever in charge of the platoon, he was taking it and him home right away and flick the war."

Ruger chuckled in the night. It never ceased to amaze him how men found humor in the darkest of situations. The black humor showed that morale was fairly high. "Good for them. You told them to make wills?"

"Yeah, but most of them didn't. They said it's bad luck to make a will on the eve of a battle. I didn't, either. I rationalized my way out of it by deciding I didn't have anything to leave anyone."

And I really don't, Paul thought grimly. What the hell kind of a mark will I have left on this world if some Jap shoots me? No wife, no kids, nothing. My parents would mourn for me and Debbie would too, but, after a while, life would go on. My parents would go about their own lives, and Debbie would find someone else. God, she would have to. She had a life to lead. At least his parents were older, almost fifty. He had written Debbie and told her not to waste herself on his memory in case he got killed, and that he wanted her to live a life that was full, whether it was with him or not. He'd started to cry while writing it.

"I did write some last letters, though," Paul said. "If worse comes, they'll know that I loved them."

Ruger nodded and Paul realized it was difficult for the other man to speak. Ruger had kids and a wife. Maybe it was better not to have family like that.

Finally, Ruger recovered his voice. "Everyone's writing letters. Are you censoring them?"

"Hell no!" Paul snapped. "I don't want to read what may be their last words. Besides, what kind of secrets could they give away? Dear Mom and Dad, I'm on a transport and we're headed for Japan and— oh, by the way— I'm scared shitless. Sure as hell aren't any secrets in a letter like that, are there?"

Ruger smiled in the darkness. "Agreed, and that's one of the little reasons you're my heir apparent. I actually had to tell young Lieutenant Marcelli to lay off reading the men's letters for just that reason. Let them know they have privacy. I put you in for first lieutenant, but I don't expect you'll get the promotion officially before this is over."

Paul muttered his thanks. "What happens now, Captain? When do we go in?"

Ruger took a deep breath and watched it mist as he exhaled. "Word is that the first waves have been mauled pretty badly, a lot worse than expected. That means we could be landing as early as tomorrow. I guess they're trying to figure out exactly where."

"Jesus." He'd been hoping for a few days, maybe even a week before going ashore.

"Yeah. We all should be getting a good night's rest, but I think that's kind of impossible under the circumstances. I can't imagine anybody able to sleep much this night."