Run Silent, Run Deep - Страница 50

Another week went by. We changed our position several times, went close into the coast once more, then back out to the original position again, all to no avail. The Japanese were simply refusing to cooperate, we decided.

And then one night, after the surfaced routine for the night had become well established, Kohler rushed to the bridge hatch, called up to me: "Captain! They're calling us on the radio!"

There was something strange about this, I felt, as I hastily put on a pair of red goggles and climbed below. Kohler preceded me down the ladder, but he went right by the radio room, led me into the crew's mess compartment immediately aft of it. A crowd of our men were gathered around the entertainment radio mounted above one of the mess tables. Several were hastily clothed, some merely in their underwear, one man, I saw, half-shaven with lather drying on his face. Dave was there, looking grave, and so was Pat Donnelly. A woman's voice was coming over the loud-speaker.

American submarine sailors," she was saying, "we regret to have to do this to you, but you have brought it upon yourselves. Japan did not make war upon you; you brought killing and wanton destruction to us. You have violated our waters, killed our toilers on the sea whose only crime is that they sought to travel our own home waters, which you have unjustly invaded. For this you have merited death, and death you shall have." Her voice lilting, she kept on: "While you are awaiting your last moments, perhaps this recording from home may make the thought of the future easier to face with equanimity." The melodious voice stopped and the strains of a popular dance tune filled the crowded compartment.

"Who the hell is that?" I interjected angrily.

Dave turned, seeing me for the first time. "Haven't you heard her before, Captain? The men call her 'Tokyo Rose.'"

Kohler nodded. "Yes sir, we've had her on a couple of times before this. Usually she just plays music and hands out a load of baloney. Tonight, though, she was different."

"Dammit, Kohler!" I blazed, "I don't want anyone to listen to her again! I'll have the radio disconnected until we leave the area if you do!" Her words had been disturbing enough to me; who knew what their effect could be on some of our less experienced sailors?

"But she called us by name, Captain!"

"What!"

"That's what I tried to you tell you, sir! She was telling that to us-to the Walrus!"

Dave nodded. "I heard it too, sir. She said she had a special message for the crew of the U. S. submarine Walrus. She said she knew we were here, not far from the Bungo Suido, and that we had sunk some ships, but those were the last ones we'd ever sink." Several solemn faces nodded in corroboration.

The music stopped. "Men of the Walrus," the limpid voice said sweetly, "enjoy yourselves while you can, for eternity is a long, long time. Think of your loved ones, but don't bother to write because you'll never be able to mail the letters. just think of all the thoughts they will be wasting on you, and the un- answered letters your wives and sweethearts will write-those who do think of you, and who do write!" She ended in a loud titter, almost a giggle. I had never heard anything quite so evil in my life.

"Turn that Goddamned radio off! Kohler, remember what I told you!" I stamped furiously away and climbed back on the bridge, more upset in mind than I could admit anyone to see.

I needed to think.

No one on Midway, for that matter no one in the ship, either, except Jim, had known of our destination until after we had left the island out of sight. But somehow the Japanese propaganda ministry had full knowledge that Walrus was the sub- marine currently off Kyushu. Captain Blunt already had hinted that he was worried about some of the uncannily accurate information Bungo Pete seemed to possess; now I could see why.

There could be only one explanation: espionage at Pearl Harbor!

For that matter, only Captain Blunt, ComSubPac himself, and one or two others on his staff knew where we had been sent, and even if others had guessed, how could they have predicted our movements so accurately? It had to be more specific than guesswork. No, unless some rational explanation presented itself, there must be a security leak back in Pearl. It was a horrid conclusion, yet inescapable. Then another thought presented itself: We had not yet gotten to the bottom of the torpedo troubles. Could there, somehow, be some connection?

Could those, also, be the result of sabotage or espionage? I paced back and forth on the cigarette deck, puzzling over the few facts at my disposal, feeling the cool breeze of the night on my forehead, feeling anything but cool inside.

Despite premonitions I could not put down, nothing of note occurred the rest of the night, nor during the next day, but I had done some heavy thinking. When next we surfaced there was one significant change in our routine. Our garbage contained several carefully prepared scraps of paper bearing the name USS Octopus, some official in appearance, some apparently from personal mail. Quin, entering into the spirit of it, had even made, by hand, a very creditable reproduction of a large rubber stamp of the name. And all vestiges of the name Walrus had been carefully removed.

The garbage sacks were thrown overboard as usual, and as usual they floated aft into our wake, slowly becoming water- logged. As I had suspected, and found to be so upon investigation, some of them were not so well weighted as others.

There was, a good possibility that some of them might remain afloat for an appreciable time.

There was no longer a submarine in our navy named the Octopus. Choice of that name for our stratagem had been made for that reason, and out of pure sentiment. It was a good joke through the ship that the skipper had decided to change the name of Walrus to that of his first boat, the old Octopus.

And I told no one that my regular nightly visits to- the radio room, which became a habit at about this time, were for the sole purpose of plugging a pair of earphones into the extra receiver and surreptitiously listening to Tokyo Rose's program.

She several times made me speechless with rage, but she never mentioned the Octopus, nor, for that matter, did she refer to the Walrus again. The whole thing began to look like a great waste of time and effort, for our men had to go over everything they put into the garbage very carefully, and every day Quin had to prepare more natural-looking paper with Octopus on it.

But we kept it up during the rest of our time in the area.

There wasn't much time left, as a matter of fact. A few days more than a week, and our "bag" of three ships was beginning to look like the total for that patrol. The week passed. We sighted nothing but aircraft and a number of fishing boats.

Then, only two nights before we were due to leave the area, the radar got a contact. It was a rough night, dark, overcast, raining intermittently, with a high, uneasy sea running. It was warm, too, unseasonably so, and the ship was bouncing uncomfortably with "no regular pattern as we slowly cruised along, two engines droning electricity back into our battery.

"Radar contact!" O'Brien happened to have the radar watch, and it was his high-pitched voice which sounded the call to action. "Looks like a convoy!" he added.

"Man tracking stations!" responded Keith, muffled in oilskins on the forward part of the bridge. Pat Donnelly, standing watch with Keith as Assistant OOD, was aft on the cigarette deck, as was I. I was beside Keith in a second.

"What's the bearing?"

"I've got the rudder over. We'll have it dead astern in a minute!" A main engine belched and sputtered; then another, and we had four half-submerged exhaust ports blowing engine vapor, water, and a thin film of smoke alternately above and under the waves.

"True bearing is nearly due north, Captain!" Keith was doing my thinking for me. "We're steadying up on course south right now, still making one-third speed."

I went aft again, searching the ocean astern. Nothing could be seen through the binoculars, not even the faint lightening of the murk which would indicate where water and sky met to form the far-distant and unseen horizon. Walrus pitched erratically, and a sudden gust of warm wet wind whipped my sodden clothes around my body. I spread my feet apart and leaned into it with my knees slightly bent, adjusting to the jerky motion of the ship. Holding my binoculars to my eyes, I made a deliberate search all around the horizon, or where I imagined the horizon to be. Nearly completed, I was startled by, a small black object which abruptly intruded into my field of view, relaxed as quickly. It was only the stern light fixture, mounted on top of our stern chock where, for over a year, it had been a useless appendage.

"Keith, have the radar search all around!" I called. It wouldn't do for us to become so interested in our contact that something else, an escort vessel perhaps, or some as-yet- undetected section of the convoy, could happen unexpectedly upon us.

"Nothing on the radar, sir! just the original contact!" Keith had anticipated that, too. I moved back to the forward part of the bridge, almost collided with Hugh Adams, who chose that instant to come jumping out of the hatch. He was rubbing his eyes.

"Take me a few minutes to relieve you, Keith," he gasped.

"I'm not night-adapted-I was sound asleep when you called tracking stations."

"I've been up here. I can see fine," I broke in. "Keith, I'll take over that part of it. You go below and take over the TDC so that Jim can organize the approach."