The Winds of War

the neat V of silvery specks shining in the blue, far higher than the German planes he had seen over Poland. The old Warsaw feeling overwhelmed him — the fear, the exhilaration, the call to look sharp and act fast.

“God, yes, fifty or sixty of ‘em,” he said.

“I counted fifty-seven. They’re headed this way sir. Target angle zero.”

“So I see. Well, let’s hurry.”

The sailor at the wheel of the cherry picker began gunning the motor, tightening the chains on the torpedo.

“Hold it!” Byron exclaimed, hearing a distant explosion. More CRUMPS! sounded closer. The cement floor trembled. Now for the first time since Warsaw Byron’s ears caught a familiar noise — a high whistle ascending in pitch and getting louder.

“Take cover!”

The sailors dove under the truck and a heavy worktable nearby. An explosion blasted close to the shed, then a cataract of noise burst all around, the floor shook and heaved, and Byron too threw himself under the table onto rough cement coated with sandy grease. Quarters were narrow here and his face was jammed against somebody’s scratchy dungarees. Byron had never endured a bombing like this. Over and over he winced and gritted his teeth at the cracking blasts that shook the ground. It seemed to him a fifty-fifty chance that he would get killed in the next minute. But at last the noise lessened as the bombing moved along to another part of the base. He crawled free and ran outside. Flame and smoke were billowing around and walls were starting to crash down. The serene blue sky was flecked with A.A. bursting impotently far below the bombers, which were quite visible through the smoke. The Devilfish sailors came huddling around Byron, brushing themselves off and staring at the fires.

“Hey, Mr. Henry, it looks kind of bad, don’t it?”

“Are we going back aboard?”

“Should we finish loading the fish?”

“Wait.”

Byron hurried through the smoky shed to see the situation on the other side. Hansen came with him. Hansen was an old able submariner, a fat Swede from Oregon more than six feet tall, with a bushy blond beard and a belt pulled tight under a bulging paunch. Hansen had failed to make chief because once in Honolulu he had resisted arrest by three marine shore patrol men, had given one a brain concussion, and had broken another’s arm. He liked Byron and had taught him a lot without seeming to; and Byron had grown his beard partly in sympathy with Hansen, because the captain had been harrying the stubborn Swede to trim or remove it.

On the other side of the torpedo shop, large fires also roared and crackled, fanned by a sea wind. In the street a bomb had blown a large crater; water as shooting up out of a broken main, and fat blue sparks were flashing among the torn and twisted underground cables. Three heavy Navy trucks stood halted by the smoking pit, and their Filipino drivers, chattering in Tagalog, were peering down into the hole.

Byron shouted above the chaotic din, “Looks like we’re stuck, maybe, Hansen. What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Henry. If these trucks would move clear we could probably get out by doubling back around the Commandancia.”

One of the drivers called to Byron, “Say, can we drive through this shop? There a way through to wharf?”

Byron shook his head and raised his voice over the shrieking siren and the yells of fire fighters dragging hoses along the street. “All blocked on that side! Solid fire, and some walls down!”

Squinting up at the wind-driven smoke and flame, Hansen said, “Mr. Henry, the fire’s gonna spread to this shop and all these fish are gonna go.” Byron understood the pain in the torpedoman’s voice. Without torpedoes, what good was a submarine squadron? The shortage was already well known and acute.

He said, “Well, if you could operate that overhead crane, maybe we could still pull out a few.”

Hansen scratched his balding head. “Mr. Henry, I’m not a crane man.”

Standing by the flooding crater was a lean civilian in overalls and a brown hard hat. He said, “I’m a crane operator. What’s your problem?”

Byron turned to the Filipino driver. “Will you guys give us a hand? We want to move some torpedoes out of here.”

After a rapid exchange in Tagalog with the other drivers, the Filipino exclaimed, “Okay! Where we go?”

“Come on,” Byron said to the civilian. “In this shop. It’s an overhead crane.”

“I know, sonny.”

In the bay off Sangley Point, meanwhile, a gray speedboat swooped alongside the Devilfish, which was under way, fleeing the Navy Yard and heading for the submarine base at Bataan. It was Red Tully’s speedboat, and he was bringing the skipper of the Devilfish back from the base. Branch Hoban jumped from the speedboat to the forecastle of his vessel, as Captain Tully yelled up at the bridge through a megaphone, “Ahoy the Devilfish! What about Seadragon and Sealion?”

Lieutenant Aster cupped his hands around his mouth. “They were all right when we left, sir. But they’re stuck alongside. No power.”

“Oh, Christ. Tell Branch to lie off here. I’ll go have a look.”

“Shall we pull the plug, sir?”

“Not unless you’re attacked.”

Hoban arrived on the bridge as the speedboat thrummed away. “Lady, what about Briny and the working party?”

Aster gestured back toward the Navy Yard, which appeared solidly afire under towering pillars of smoke. “They never showed. I figured I’d better get away alongside, Captain.”

“Damn right. Glad one of us was aboard.”

In a short time the speedboat returned. The coxswain swerved it alongside and Tully came aboard the Devilfish white-faced and hoarse. “Bad business. They got straddled with bombs. I think the Sealion’s a goner — she’s on fire, her after engine room’s flooded, and she’s sinking fast.”

“Yea gods,” Hoban said. “We were outboard of her.”

“I know. Damn lucky.”

“The Pigeon’s trying to tow the Seadragon clear. Better go back in there, Branch, and see if you can help.

“Aye aye, sir.”

A sooty motor whaleboat was puttering toward the Devilfish. “Who’s this now?” Tully said.

Hoban shaded his eyes. “Say, Lady, is that Pierce?”

“Yes, it’s Pierce, sir,” Lieutenant Aster said, glancing through binoculars.

Sailors ran out on the forecastle to help the young seaman scramble aboard. He came to the bridge, his eyes showing white and his mouth red as a minstrel’s in a soot-covered face. “Captain, Mr. Henry sent me to tell you, the working party’s all right.”

“Well, thank God! Where are they?”

“They’re taking torpedoes out of the shop.”

Tully exclaimed, “The torpedo shop? You mean it’s still standing?”

“Yes, sir. The fire sort of blew away in another direction, so Mr. Henry and Hansen got these trucks and -”

“You come with me,” Tully said. “Branch, I’m going back in there.”

But when the squadron commander and the sailor reached the blazing Navy Yard, there was no way to get to the torpedo shop. Fallen buildings and smoking debris blocked every route into the wharf area. Tully circled in vain through drifting smoke in a commandeered jeep, avoiding bomb craters, rubble, and careering, screaming ambulances. “Captain Tully, sir, I think I see them trucks,” said Pierce. He pointed to a grassy area on the other side of a small bridge crowded with cars, ambulances, and foot traffic. “See? Over there by the water tower.”

“The big gray ones?”

“Yes, sir. I think that’s them, sir.”