In Danger's Path (69 page)

“You're chicken, Mr. Weston, but in your shoes, I'd do the same thing. I know how it is. I have lied to my wife about this mission—I don't think she believes me, but that's not the point—and I didn't like having to do that.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Women just don't seem to be able to understand that a Marine, at least an honorable Marine, has to answer the call of duty even when that involves a certain amount of personal sacrifice.”

“I suppose that's true, sir.”

“You've got your car?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go get your luggage. Meet me at base operations. I'll arrange for somebody to take care of your car until we get back. And we will come back, Weston. Get that firmly fixed in your mind.”

“Yes, sir.”

But maybe with a little luck I can stretch the ninety
days a little. Maybe to six months. Maybe for the duration of the war plus six months
.

Major Williamson touched Captain Weston's shoulder in a gesture of affection.

“I should have known, since Charley Galloway likes you, that you are really a Marine, Weston. It shouldn't have taken this to prove it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

[ONE]
Patrol Torpedo Boat 197
Kaiwi Channel
North Pacific Ocean
0815 6 April 1943

Lieutenant (j.g.) Max Schneider, USNR, into whose twenty-year-old hands the United States Navy had three weeks before placed command of PT-197, had absolutely no idea what he and his vessel were doing floating around the Kaiwi Channel at a point equidistant between the islands of Oahu and Molokai. And he had been specifically ordered to ask no questions.

He had been summoned to the office of the Squadron Commander shortly after lunch the day before. “I have a mission for PT-197, Max,” Lieutenant Commander James D. Innis, USN, had announced. “A classified mission.”

“Aye, aye, sir. May I inquire into the nature of the mission?”

“The precise nature of the mission will be made known to you in due course, Mr. Schneider,” Commander Innis had said.

Lieutenant Commander Innis, in fact, had no idea himself about the nature of the mission. But he was naturally reluctant to admit this to a twenty-year-old newly promoted j.g. who still believed his skipper knew everything.

When Innis picked up his telephone half an hour before, he was somewhat astonished to find himself talking to an admiral.

“This is Admiral Wagam, Commander.”

While Commander Innis was not familiar with all the senior officers of CINCPAC, he did know who Admiral Wagam was. Admiral Wagam was not only close to Admiral Nimitz, he had the reputation of relieving, on the spot, officers who did not measure up to his standards. Being in command of a PT boat squadron was infinitely better than being, for example, a morale officer, or a VD control officer, which is usually what happened to officers who incurred Admiral Wagam's displeasure.

What the hell does he want with me?

“Yes, sir?”

“If I told you you were going to lose one of your boats and its crew, for up to a month, which of your boats could you best spare?”

I suspect that no matter how I answer the question, it will be wrong
.

When in doubt, tell the truth
.

“That would be PT-197, sir.”

“Why?”

“It has a new skipper, sir. And some new crewmen. There hasn't been time to bring him and the boat up to speed.”

The next question will be, “Why not, Commander? What are you doing all day, lying around on your tail?
”

“But the skipper can handle the boat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You sound very sure, Commander.”

That's both a statement and a question
.

“Sir, Lieutenant Schneider has more experience handling boats than any of my other boat commanders.”

Or, for that matter, me. The problem is he doesn't know diddley-shit about anything else in the Navy
.

“How is that?”

“Sir, his family operates a fleet of tuna boats out of San Francisco. He was the master of an eighty-footer when he was sixteen.”

“He's my man,” Admiral Wagam said. “It always pays to ask questions, Commander.”

“Yes, sir, I'm sure it does.”

“Has this officer got a big mouth? Rephrased: Can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut?”

I have absolutely no idea
.

“He's a good young officer, sir.”

“Impress upon him, and have him impress upon his crew, that they are not to discuss this mission with anyone.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Sir, may I inquire as to the nature of the mission?”

“Not over a nonsecure landline, Commander,” Admiral Wagam said. “You will be contacted shortly by either Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis, who is my aide-de-camp, or Major Homer C. Dillon, a Marine. They will tell you what they feel you should know. From this moment, you will consider PT-197 attached to me until relieved.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The line went dead, and Commander Innis sent for Lieutenant (j.g.) Max Schneider.

Major Homer C. Dillon, USMCR, driving a Ford station wagon bearing the logotype of the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation, showed up as darkness was falling. He was followed by a Marine Corps General Motors six-by-six. The truck was driven by a chief carpenter's mate who had apparently lost his cap somewhere.

Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider quickly descended the ladder from PT-197 to the wharf. “Major Dillon, sir?” he asked, saluting.

“Right,” Jake Dillon replied, returning the salute. “Lieutenant Schneider?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where's the captain?” the chief carpenter's mate asked.

“I command PT-197, Chief,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider replied coldly.

“No shit? You don't look old enough,” the chief carpenter's mate said.

“You'll have to excuse the chief, Mr. Schneider,” Major Dillon said. “He's only been in the Navy nine months.”

“Before I came in the Navy, Chief, I ran tuna boats out of San Francisco,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider said. “What did you do?”

“No shit?” Chief Carpenter's Mate Peter T. McGuire, USNR, replied. “I spent some time on boats like that. Remember
They Go Down to the Sea
, Jake?”

Dillon nodded. “It laid an enormous egg,” he said.

“That was a movie,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider said. “They rented some boats from my father. I was ten, eleven years old.”

“They were your father's boats?” Chief McGuire said. “I'll be damned.”

“Can you muster a labor detail, Mr. Schneider?” Major Dillon asked. “The truck is loaded with boxes we need aboard your boat. And two rubber boats.”

“It would be best if you could lash this stuff outside,” Chief McGuire said. “Rather than put it inside, I mean.”

“To the vessel's
superstructure
, you mean, Chief?” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider asked. “Rather than
below?
”

“Right,” Chief McGuire agreed with a smile.

“Sir,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider said, looking at Dillon. “May I ask what the crates contain?”

Jake Dillon smiled at him. “Sand,” he said.

“There's twenty-seven of them,” Chief McGuire amplified. “Average weight, fifty pounds. Total weight, thirteen hundred and fifty pounds.”

“And as soon as Lieutenant Lewis can get here,” Major Dillon said, “there will also be two hundred and fifty gallons of avgas, in five-gallon jerry cans. Fifty cans.”

“Total weight seventeen hundred fifty pounds, give or take,” Chief McGuire added.

“And when we come back in the morning,” Dillon said, “in addition to myself, Lieutenant Lewis, and Chief McGuire, there will be five other men with us.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider said. He was nearly consumed with curiosity, but he had been ordered to ask no questions, and didn't. Even when he saw Major Dillon's boxes. They were of various odd sizes and constructed of what looked like aircraft aluminum. Each bore a number, (1) through (27).

The crew of PT-197 had just about finished moving the boxes and rubber boats from the truck to the boat when another GM six-by-six—this one painted Navy gray—drove up.

Lieutenant Chambers D. Lewis III, USN, climbed down from the cab. He was wearing the aiguillette of an aide-de-camp.

He and Major Dillon and Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider exchanged salutes. Chief McGuire did not.

“I was told the skipper would be here,” Lieutenant Lewis said to Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider.

“You're looking at him,” Chief McGuire informed him. “And we lucked out. He used to run a tuna boat out of 'Frisco. He probably knows more about boats than you do.”

“I'm sure he does,” Lieutenant Lewis said with a strained smile.

Major Dillon coughed into his balled fist. Or laughed.

“My name is Lewis,” Lewis said to Schneider, offering his hand.

“Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider, sir.”

“Has the chief explained what we need, Mr. Schneider?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any problems?”

“No, sir. Sir, may I ask where we are going?”

“We'll let you know that in the morning,” Lewis said. “I hate to be so secretive, but we've had a bad experience with an aviator who couldn't keep his mouth shut.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The distance involved will be about seventy-five nautical miles, one way. We may be there a couple of hours. Does that pose any fuel problems?”

“No, sir.”

“We will want to put out at first light,” Lewis said. “So we'll be here ten minutes before that. Will that give you enough time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Permission to come on the bridge, Captain?” Lieutenant Lewis asked at 0425 the next morning.

“Granted,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider replied. “Good morning, sir.”

At least one of these people knows how to treat the master of a man-of-war
, Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider thought, pleased.

The good feeling was immediately dissipated when Major Dillon and Chief McGuire came onto the bridge right after Lewis, having apparently decided the permission obviously included them.

Lieutenant Lewis handed Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider a nautical chart, and Schneider examined it in the light of a flashlight. There was an X approximately equidistant between Oahu and Molokai in the Kaiwi Channel. “Right about there, please,” Lewis said.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

By the time they had cleared the antisubmarine net guarding Pearl Harbor, it was light. Lieutenant Schneider was thus able to see for the first time where the twenty-seven oddly shaped aluminum boxes and the fifty cans of aviation gasoline in jerry cans had been lashed to his vessel. Patrol torpedo boats are not very large vessels. The packages and jerry cans were lashed all over the deck, fore and aft.

My God, we look like a garbage scow!

The seas in the Kaiwi Channel were moderate. Under ordinary circumstances, Lieutenant Schneider would have been able to push the throttles of PT-197 full forward, and her Packard engines would have sent her sailing magnificently over the water at better than thirty knots. But Lieutenant Schneider, who was in fact very experienced in handling small vessels in the ocean, knew it would be unwise to get her speed up. Sooner or later, her bow would inevitably crash into a swell. She—and the torpedo tubes and gun mounts—had been designed with that in mind. They would take the shock. But not with the added weight of fifty jerry cans and twenty-seven odd-shaped packages weighing an average of fifty pounds strapped to them wherever a line could find a hold.

They had crossed the antisubmarine net at 0450. It was 0750 before Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider felt secure in informing Lieutenant Lewis that they were at the point he had specified on the chart.

“Captain, please, maintaining headway speed, circle this position,” Lieutenant Lewis ordered, then turned to Chief McGuire. “Go get the radio, please, Chief.”

“Right,” Chief McGuire replied.

The radio equipment came in two pieces: The radio itself sat on a tripod. McGuire handed that up to Lewis on the bridge, and Lewis and Dillon set it up. There was a telescoping antenna on top, like an automobile antenna, but longer, stronger, and colored black. There was also a telegrapher's key, and a microphone was clipped to the side of the case. The second piece looked like a stationary bicycle. McGuire set this on the deck, handed a cable to Lewis, then mounted the bicycle. Lewis connected the cable to the radio, put a headset on his ears, then made a motion to McGuire to start pumping. He did so.

There was a barely perceptible humming noise, and then the dials on the radio illuminated. When he was satisfied with the position of the dials and the switches, Lewis began tapping the telegrapher's key. “This is supposed to have a range of twenty-five miles,” he said. “With the telescoping antenna. Let's see.” He tapped the key, threw a switch and listened, and then tapped the key again, repeating the process for several minutes.

So far as Lieutenant Schneider could make out—and he had done well in his radio telegrapher's course at the University of California before getting commissioned—Lewis was sending a gibberish of short Morse code letters: A, E, I, N, and so on.

Then, while listening, Lieutenant Lewis smiled.

“They've got us,” he said. He threw a switch and resumed tapping the telegrapher's key, tapping it for longer periods, sixty seconds or so at a time, before listening for fifteen seconds.

Lieutenant (j.g.) Schneider wondered whom he had contacted, but he had been ordered not to ask questions, and did not.

Lewis finally picked up the microphone. “Seagull, Seagull,” he said into the microphone. “This is Texaco, Texaco. How do you read?”