Night was the best time for a submarine attack. Hidden by darkness, the small boats could sneak up on the surface and be fairly confident that the enemy wouldn’t see them first.
Commander Nimitz’s plan was to use all three of the remaining O-Class subs in a crudely coordinated attack on the expected German convoy. This would not be easy; the German Navy was getting smarter. Scout planes still operating out of Catalina Island said the approaching German convoy was being escorted by a half dozen destroyers and that more were en route from Los Angeles to meet it.
Regardless of the difficulties, the American subs would attack. The prize was too valuable—a dozen tankers loaded with refined oil. It was fuel for the energy-starved German fleet. Sending any or all of that oil to the bottom of the Pacific would put a serious crimp in the German plans.
The scout plane’s pilot had given them the convoy’s time, distance, and direction, and then cheerfully informed them that he’d been spotted. So what would the Germans do now? Continue on their original course? Nimitz thought they would. How else would the convoy rendezvous with the reinforcing warships?
Of course it meant that the Krauts would be doubly edgy and on guard. Carter’s sub had the task of distracting the escorts. He would close, submerge, and fire a torpedo at a destroyer and then scoot like hell. Hopefully, the Germans would chase him and leave a gap in their defenses, enabling the other subs to slip in close enough to make a number of kills. Hopefully, too, Carter and the O-7 would make good their escape.
One torpedo and one tanker, was Nimitz’s plan. The three subs carried a grand total of twenty-four torpedoes and there were a total of eighteen German ships, counting the escorts. Even with a whole lot of luck, that was cutting it close, very close. Firing a torpedo from a sub just wasn’t that accurate. Nor was it a good idea to surface and fire on the ships with the sub’s three-inch cannon. Unless all the escorts were destroyed or otherwise accounted for, the subs would be just too vulnerable to German gunfire.
Carter could see the convoy through his periscope. The ships were running without lights and were dark blobs on the horizon. The smaller blobs were the destroyers and they were running well away from the tankers. They wanted to catch a sub on the surface. Well, that was fine with Carter. He wanted a destroyer.
Christ. There was one and it was only a few hundred yards away. How the hell had it gotten so close? It was the curse of limited visibility while submerged. Range and course were confirmed and a torpedo sped on its way. Suddenly, the German destroyer started to desperately change course. It had seen the torpedo’s wake. Carter ordered down periscope and began evasive action. More precious time went by and no explosion. At nearly point blank range, they had missed and, worse, a thoroughly pissed-off German destroyer was heading towards them, tracking back through what remained of the torpedo’s wake.
They went deep and stayed there, immobile and silent. Overhead, they could hear destroyer’s propellers slicing the water above them. Did the Krauts have depth charges? Most German ships didn’t, he’d been told. He hoped this one wasn’t an exception.
The men of the O-7 heard explosions in the distance and grinned. This could only mean that some German tankers had been hit by the other American subs. Their attempt to draw off the German escorts might have been the cause.
Carter couldn’t wait. He ordered the sub to periscope depth and stared at the outside world. In the distance a number of ships were on fire. Great, greasy billows of flame reached for the stars. The other two subs had killed at least some of the tankers.
He was counting the dead and dying ships when he sensed motion. He swivelled the periscope and saw a German destroyer less than a hundred yards away and picking up speed as it headed toward him. It had sat unmoving and silent on the surface hoping to catch the American sub unawares. It had succeeded. Sharp eyes on the destroyer had spotted the periscope silhouetted against the burning tankers.
“Dive, dive, dive!” Carter screamed. The crew reacted desperately, but it was too late. The knife-edged prow of the German destroyer sliced through the hull and conning tower of the O-7. Carter’s last thoughts were of sheer terror as he and his sub were cut in half by the larger ship. The two sections sank quickly. There were no survivors.
The captain of the German destroyer glared angrily at the debris and the handful of mangled bodies that bobbed to the surface. He had won a Pyrrhic victory. The American sub was dead, but the destroyer’s hull had been badly damaged by the collision and she was taking water. Damage control parties were working desperately to shore up ruptured bulkheads. He would have a devil of a time getting his ship back to Los Angeles. Already the destroyer was down by the bow and his executive officer sadly informed him that she would probably sink. Worse, the American sub attack had destroyed perhaps half of the desperately needed tankers.
At least there were no more American submarines to contend with. Reports said there’d been three and that all three had been destroyed. But who, he wondered, had won the battle?
CHAPTER 15
Josh rather liked being driven around in a staff car by an enlisted driver, even though the driver was an Army private who must be wondering just what Josh had done to deserve him. At any rate, they drove in relative luxury until, about ten miles outside of town; they exchanged the car for a motorcycle and sidecar, with Josh in the sidecar. At this point, the driver turned into a lunatic who drove as fast as he could over the rutted dirt roads that rapidly deteriorated into crude paths in the dense and rugged woods.
Josh hung on for dear life as he was pitched back and forth. More than once his head hit the windscreen and he wondered if the bruises would qualify as yet another wound. When he questioned the driver, he was told that he was supposed to get Josh to the site by three. Josh thought they could have left a little earlier and driven more slowly, but such was life in the military.
A few minutes before three, they pulled up before a log gate that was guarded by a pair of grim-faced soldiers armed with Thompson submachine guns. Other guards were visible in the woods behind, and barbed-wire fencing ran as far as he could see.
The guards checked their ID and let them through. They drove down a hillside and into a valley. A tent city was at one end along with a crude airfield. Chalk outlines and rough structures that looked vaguely familiar were scattered about. Several dozen small biplanes were scattered about. From the miscellany of colors and styles, he assumed they were civilian craft, but what the devil were they doing in an army installation?
He would find out in a minute. He got out of the sidecar, checked his bruises and limbs to see that all was there and promptly snapped to attention. Colonel Billy Mitchell stood beside him.
“At ease, Lieutenant. How was your trip?”
“Sir, about as frightening as the thought of going up in one of those little planes.”
Mitchell chuckled. “We will arrange a ride to complete your education.”
Josh was about to say something when he realized that Mitchell was serious. “Sir, the admiral only said you were working on something to harm the German fleet and that I was to talk to you about your progress. May I ask what that is?”
Mitchell glared at him. “Certainly you are not alluding to my attempts to sink warships with bombs are you? While my attempts might have failed, I do believe such will happen and in the not to distant future.”
“As in the next few weeks, sir? I would dearly love to see the German fleet destroyed,” Josh asked hopefully.
“As I told your admiral, absolutely not,” he said as they walked over to a two-seater biplane. Josh was suddenly filled with dread. “Get in the rear and take two of those bags of flour with you.”