Reluctant Warriors (10 page)

“Well, Harry, we ought to be down to maybe thirty-five tops, 'eh?” he said.

“Sir, it's the flare!”

Everyone turned at Minton's call. Sure enough, the submarine's flare was arching
through the sky.

Harry smiled. “So we pulled it off. Now we need to get out of here!”

“Yeah, but look at that surf,” the chief said in a low, depressing tone. “It's higher
than before, the wind's up more. We are not getting through there in that raft.”

The sullen look came back on Harry's face. It was the truth, and it didn't take long
for him to come to a conclusion.

“You're right, Duke. The raft isn't going through there. I'm going to have to swim
out to the sub and bring a rope back.”

“I wish I was twenty years younger, I'd try it,” Osborne said. “But I don't think
you can make it, Harry.”

“Do we have any choice?”

“No.” The chief shook his head. “At least you have plenty of time. The tide crested
an hour or so ago and is still pretty full. We got a stalemate here. The enemy's
hung up just as we are. Unless they get reinforced, with the thirty or so men left
they won't try to swim around the left side anymore, and sure as hell won't try coming
across the rock face. And now we can have Phoebe watch the starboard side. They can't
get to us, at least until dark. Then they'll rush us and kill us.”

“So how long you figure I have, Chief ?” Harry asked, looking at his watch.

“Six to eight hours.”

Harry nodded, the other three looking on.

“Look, if I don't get back, take the raft and head out before dark. I doubt they
could see you pushing off from where they are. By the time they rushed in maybe you
would be to the breakers, a long shot with a rifle. Don't wait too long. Who knows,
maybe the wind will be down by then and you can paddle right out.”

“Harry, you take care.”

“Sure,” he said, noting their respectful faces.

The Duke came over and stood by him. “Harry, get the three-eighths-inch Philippine
hemp. Have Chief Dougherty get it. It's the only rope that I think will work. We
have two thousand yards of it stowed in the Forward Torpedo Room. Dougherty will
know. That stuff will almost float and won't rip against that rock goin' around those
bends.”

“Okay.” Harry picked up the Morse lamp, aimed it out to sea again, and sent:

AM SWIMMING OUT.

He watched for two minutes, then repeated the message, but didn't see any response.
It wasn't surprising. If anything, the wind was still stronger. Shedding the .45,
he decided to keep on all of his clothes, even shoes, in case he was thrown against
the rocks. Then he waded into the water he had come out of almost twenty-four hours
before.

Even a hundred yards out, he was still on his feet. Soon, he began to swim through
almost three hundred yards of nearly placid water, a sort of lagoon. He kept aiming
toward the surf beyond, directly toward the two pinnacle rocks, each jutting up thirty
feet, directly toward the forty-foot passage that went between the two. He decided
to swim like Johnny Weissmuller, the Olympic champion. Weissmuller swam freestyle
with his head up out of the water, rather than the traditional method of the head
down and breathing with every other stroke. With the tempestuous water he was to
face, using that style was Harry's only chance.

After many minutes of easy swimming, the water began to swirl. In another twenty
or so more minutes, Harry entered the surf and began to be buffeted by undercurrents.

Then, he was in the Cauldron, encountering violent waves. Angry currents swept him
almost instantly many yards in one direction, and then, seemingly without logic,
in another. Rip currents pulled him under without notice and then tossed him up above
the waves as though he were a blade of grass. Gulping air, half seeing, swimming
as hard as he could, he made it to the two great rocks. First, the tide drew him
out and the swell pushed him back in, then again and then still another time, in
and out he went.

He pushed off some boulders, and was thankful he had his shoes. The hurrying tide
and the depth of the water saved him from hundreds of submerged objects that would
have shredded his body or torn out the bottom of a boat at low tide.

As he cleared the Cauldron, Harry knew he had made the wrong decision. It had taken
only ten minutes to get out, and it had not been nearly as bad as he thought it would
be. It was something he could never admit to anyone else, but he knew it as he swam
on, that if they'd taken off just then
in the raft, they would have made it. He also
knew he couldn't go back and get the men and the raft. The wind was getting stronger
each minute. By the time he'd get back in, it might no longer be possible to get
out. The only way to have a good chance to get out was Duke's rope.

Harry swam on. The swimming gradually became easier, and he navigated passages he
had carefully noted the day before. He slowed his pace and swam down one narrow corridor,
about fifty feet wide, where the pillow basalt sides went up ten to fifteen feet
on each side. He knew that the next passage led out to the south and would take him
to the open sea.

After nearly forty minutes in the water, he emerged. To his great relief, the sea
was not as rough as he'd thought it would be. He couldn't see the sub, but the wind
was just right and he heard voices.

“Harry!” he heard, far off. He treaded water for a minute, looking around.

“Harry!” he heard again. “Harry, over here. Harry!”

Between the swells, about a hundred yards off was a raft with men on it. He swam
in that direction. In a few anxious minutes, he was on board! In another fifteen
minutes, they came aside
Bluefin
.

Red Phelps came down onto the ballast tank and pulled him on board. “Harry, I'm glad
to see you,” he said. “I want to hear about the situation on shore.”

As they made their way below, Phelps anticipated Harry's first question and answered
it. “Howie's fine. We got the German.”

“You know he lied.”

“Yes, we know all about that. Fleet still thinks he can tell our people the best
passageway through the outer islands and into the big lagoon, which is about six
miles across.”

“What about him shooting Howie?”

“Well, Arnie Blackmon knows his lingo. He says Vandelmann said it was all a mistake,
that Howie rushed him. You know as well as I that it all depends on what he knows.”

They went to Red's tiny cabin, along with Rocky Fordyce, who had debriefed the patrol.
The Filipino steward came in with sandwiches. Harry ate and explained the shore situation.
Phelps looked at him. Recalling a
conversation with Rocky a few minutes before, he
knew Harry would have to swim back in.

“I want Harry to lie down and rest for twelve hours,” Phelps had said.

“Red, Harry is going to have to go back!” Rocky insisted.

“No, he's bound to be exhausted.”

“Red, we can have him rest for two hours before he goes back in. He'll have three
hours to get in and start out with the guys before dark and the enemy closes in.”

“No, I'm not going to do that to him. We need someone else to do it.”

“Red, according to Polavita and the others, it's a maze in there; Harry knows that
maze. Besides, I was a year behind him at the Academy and saw him swim. One time
half our team was down with the flu and we had a meet with Rutgers. He stood pretty
much the whole Rutgers team, swimming four events for us and winning three. He has
the body for it, and he recovers quickly. Red, we don't have anyone who can match
Harry. We had Pelston, but he transferred. And he wouldn't know the passageways in
anyhow. If Harry goes in and fails, that's one thing. But if you send someone else
in there and none of those guys come back, Harry won't be able to live with himself.”

Red sighed heavily. “Rocky, I appreciate you telling me this. I'm sorry to have to
tell him to do it, but I suppose I have to.”

Red was getting ready to say something to Harry as he finished the second sandwich,
his clothes dripping a few cups' worth of seawater on the floor. But Harry knew what
was going on the captain's mind and spoke first.

“Red,” he said, “I have to go back. I have to try it. Yes, I'm tired. How long ‘til
the tide changes?”

“A few minutes.”

“How long till dark?”

“About five hours.”

“I'll have to try it at fairly low tide, which isn't good, but at least it will be
going in. Did Polavita tell you the setup on the island?”

“Yeah, the gun. We heard the thing firing some.”

“In the last two hours?”

“Yes.”

“That's not good. When I left, I thought Duke had them in a standoff that would probably
be good till dark. There's this rock face the Japanese have to come across.”

“Tony said something about that.”

“Unless they were reinforced, they couldn't have come across it against Osborne.
Any reinforcements with equipment to overpower that gun would have to come up that
coast road, and you would blast the hell out of them. By the way, thanks for blasting
them with the five-incher.”

“Sure. We're watching the road real good. Luckily, no planes have come along. I can't
think that will last. We have that new forty-millimeter Bofors antiaircraft gun,
so we won't submerge unless they attack with several planes. Harry, I just hate that
you have to do this.”

“I'm not looking forward to it myself, but there's no other way.”

“All right. Lie down for an hour, right here in my cabin. That will give you some
rest and let the tide bring the water level back up some. If anyone wakes you up,
I will personally throw them overboard. We're going to set the rope up on a small
raft that you'll tow. The guys will take you in as close as possible to those corridor
things. That way there will be no weight on you directly. How about you with a Mae
West with a twenty-foot tether? The rope will play out from the raft you tow.”

“Sure. Osborne says we need the three-eighths-inch Philippine hemp stashed somewhere
in the Forward Torpedo Room. Dougherty knows. He thinks it's my only chance, because
it'll float.”

“You lie down for a while. I'll take care of it.”

Harry collapsed on the bunk as soon as Phelps and Rocky left the room. In a few moments,
he was sound asleep.

Some time later someone shook him awake. It was Phelps. “Okay, Harry, it's time.”

Harry sat up slowly, his wet clothes still clinging to his body, and followed
Phelps
up on deck. Immediately, he could tell the wind had slackened.
Now at least I have
a chance
, he thought.

“Harry, we got the rope,” Phelps said. “Good luck.” They shook hands warmly. Then
Harry turned, walked down on the ballast tank, and sat down in the raft.

The first raft, with Ensign Felders at the head, pulled away from the submarine.
Three others followed. In thirty-five minutes they were as close in as they dared
get to the rocks. Harry slid off into the water and headed out.

Soon, he found himself alone in the rock corridors, pulling the two-man raft with
the two thousand feet of rope slowly playing out. The water in the corridors was
lower than when he had come out, and he feared underwater obstacles. The waters swiftly
rose and lowered, but it was actually easier swimming than when he came out. With
each stroke the tide carried the water in, and in only twenty minutes he could see
the two great vertical rocks and feel the water begin to act up.

He reached the pillars and entered the Cauldron. The comparatively easy swimming
turned into a nightmare again, and he swam as hard as he could, his arms and legs
going hard. It continued for a long time. His strength held as his heart pounded
and he gasped for breath, occasionally pushing off rocks and cursing the life preserver
for impeding his progress.

Almost imperceptibly, the rate of his arms and legs began to slacken. He pulled at
the waters as they tossed him about. Once or twice the raft was flung in front of
him, but luckily he was not entangled. His speed continued to slacken. As his concentration
began to lapse, words from almost forgotten passages plowed into his head, mostly
from Tennyson's
Idylls of the King
. He had read and memorized these as a boy with
great joy. Now his mind played tricks on him and carelessly, meaninglessly, dumped
King Arthur's words into his mind:

Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will.

He kept up measured strokes in the turbulent waters. More words about the mythical
king flooded in his mind.

. . . because his wound was deep,
The Bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel night the field
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.