"Ship on the water below us."
Kutchinski grinned. "That's where ships are supposed to be, Sergeant." Like the others on the Polish Pope, Franks was an original member of the close-knit crew, and none of them thought too much of military discipline when they were in the air and away from the base.
"I know that, Major sir, but I've been watching this one through my binocs and it looks like a sub. Aren't they supposed to be underwater?"
"Except when they're not," Kutchinski said. "What's so interesting about this one?"
Franks paused. "I don't believe it's one of ours."
Kutchinski turned the controls over to his copilot and went down the middle of the plane to the underslung glass bubble that housed the belly gun. Franks handed him his binoculars. They were high powered and unauthorized. Franks had won them in a poker game a couple of weeks earlier.
"Take a look," Franks invited.
Kutchinski took the binoculars and focused them. It was difficult because the plane was bouncing slightly and there were irregularities in the glass bubble, but he finally managed to get a good look. Yes, it was a ship, and, yes, it was a submarine. It was hard to tell its speed from their height, but the small wake indicated it was moving slowly. Kutchinski agreed with Frank's assessment that the sub indeed looked strange. He switched on the intercom and told the copilot to descend to ten thousand and circle the vessel.
"She'll see us and dive if she's a Jap," Franks complained.
"Better that than drop a load of bombs on one of ours."
"Ain't ours, Major," Franks insisted.
Kutchinski hoped it was a Jap. He had never bombed a ship and hated to abort the mission with a full load. In a few moments he was going to have to dump the bomber's load into the ocean. Now maybe, just maybe, he might have a useful target.
Kutchinski was well aware that no bomber had likely yet sunk a moving warship. Despite pilots' claims to the contrary, it was just too difficult to hit a moving target from a great height. The ship below had too much time to gauge the fall of the bombs and simply turn away. That there was really no such thing as precision bombing was another factor.
Despite new Norden bomb sights, most bombs didn't land anywhere near their intended target. Norden bomb sights didn't take into account the nervousness of the operator, where a single second's misjudgment could send a bomb early or late to its destination, winds that could shift even the largest bomb in its flight, and air turbulence that jarred the plane and spoiled the calmest bombardier's aim. These and the fact that bombers could still be fired at during some aspects of their run all conspired to send bombs off target.
But what if it was a Jap sub and there was something wrong with her? She was clearer now and her silhouette was definitely strange. Their radioman signaled Guam that they had a possible enemy sub sighting and were trying to verify. Guam told them to be careful.
Maybe the Polish Pope's luck would change. After the two earlier aborts, some wiseasses were saying it was because of the plane's name. There had never been a Polish pope, Kutchinski was told, and there never would be. The name was a jinx. Even Father Girardelli, the Catholic chaplain, had suggested he change it. The priest had also assured him that the papacy was reserved for deserving Italians and had gotten a little angry when Kutchinski had told him there was no such thing as a deserving Italian.
"He's shooting at us!" yelled Franks.
"He surely is," Kutchinski said happily as tracers arced from the sub toward their plane. That settled it. The sub was a Jap. He bounded to the pilot's seat and took over command of the plane. And she's not diving, he thought with glee. Maybe she can't, he thought. Such a shame.
He decided he would not try to hit the sub directly, but came at her bow-on at one thousand feet. If a bomb dropped even near a ship, the pressure would cause the sub's hull to buckle and send her down as effectively as if he had dropped one straight down her conning tower. He ordered the nose gunners to spray the decks of the sub with.50-caliber machine-gun fire as they approached. It wouldn't be accurate, but it might make those on her deck keep their heads down for a critical second while they bombed.
For an instant before the bombs dropped, he saw figures running about the deck of the sub and jumping into the water. Then the plane flew over and peeled away. Kutchinski saw nothing but heard the tail gunner whoop with joy. He banked the plane in a tight turn and saw the waters around the sub had been whipped into a froth as a dozen five-hundred-pound bombs exploded around her. As expected, none hit, but they caused a pressure surge that lifted the sub out of the water and laid her on her side. She began to take water and settle.
"Anybody taking pictures?" Kutchinski hollered. An affirmative reply came from two of his men who never flew without their cameras.
Franks hollered that he could see that several hull plates were damaged. "She's ruptured like my uncle Harry, Major. She's done for!"
"My sympathies to your uncle Harry," Kutchinski yelled over the intercom. He then directed his radio operator to notify the navy that there might be debris that could provide intelligence, along with the possibility that some Japs had survived the onslaught. Through his own binoculars he thought he could see heads in the water.
As the men on the Polish Pope circled and watched, the stricken sub sank beneath the waves, breaking in half just before she slid from view. It occurred to Kutchinski that damned few men had been able to get off, and he wondered what was going on in that sinking ship as it descended to the bottom of the Pacific. He decided he didn't really want to know.
Chapter 64
Comdr. Mochitsura Hashimoto vomited oily water and grasped for a piece of floating debris. The dying submarine I-58 had sent a torrent of matériel upward as she sank to the bottom, and much of it now floated near him. If he could stay afloat for a while, he might not yet die. That he was still alive in the first place hinted that he might not yet have been chosen to die this day.
He wiped his eyes and squinted. The oil and the salt from the water had blurred his vision. A life preserver bobbed a few feet in front of him and he struggled into it. Relieved of the need to use all his strength swimming, he looked about him. The I-58 was indeed gone, as if there had been a doubt. He hollered and a scattering of voices answered.
In a few minutes he had gathered up the survivors of the sinking. Counting himself, there were eight men. Eight men out of the entire crew. A couple were wounded, but would survive if he could get them out of the chill waters in a reasonable amount of time. He didn't think there were sharks this far north, but he quickly concluded that sharks were the least of their problems. The cold would get them in a few hours at most.
They fashioned a raft of sorts out of the remains of the sub and clambered on board. They had no food or water, but at least they were alive. They were the lucky ones.
Luck, however, could be good or bad. It had been good luck that the I-58 had evaded destruction for so long. They had used the last of their torpedoes and were attempting a passage back to Japan when, bad luck, the bow fins had suddenly stuck in a position that gradually drove them toward the surface. But perhaps that had been good luck? Had they jammed in the downward position, the I-58 would slowly have descended to the bottom of the ocean, where it would have laid forever while the men died of oxygen loss if the depths didn't crush the sub's hull.
Hashimoto shuddered at the thought. He had thought they were far enough away from the American warships and ordered an immediate surfacing to see if the damaged fins could be fixed. He feared daylight surfacing, but there had been no choice.