"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.
It had been bad luck that the American plane had spotted them. Even then he did not think the danger was immediate. The plane, a bomber, had circled them and was obviously puzzled at their behavior and uncertain of their nationality. The damage to the bow fins would only take a few minutes to fix, and then they could dive from the vulture's sight.
It had been stupidity, not bad luck, that doomed them when the machine gunner on the conning tower had fired at the bomber. Not only was the bomber out of range, but it gave away the game. When the bomber came in with its guns blazing, Hashimoto had been forced into the water with most of the men who now sat with him on the raft. He and the others had just made it back onto the deck of the sub when the bombs had exploded, killing the I-58. That they were not in the water, good luck, had saved them. Water does not compress so the pressure of the explosions on their bodies in the water would have squashed the life from them.
"Captain," said one of the sailors, pointing toward the horizon. Two ships were approaching. This time there was no puzzlement. They were American, and in only a few moments, he identified them as destroyers.
The only remaining officer was Ensign Naha, a young man Hashimoto didn't really know. Ensigns were best seen and not heard. Naha stood up shakily on the raft.
"We must not be taken," he announced.
"What do you propose?" Hashimoto asked. The ensign bowed respectfully and knelt down to keep his balance. "Do we have weapons to use on the Americans?" Hashimoto asked.
A quick check showed there were none, not even a pocketknife. "I believe it is our fate to be captured," Hashimoto said. He wondered whether that would be good luck or bad. Regardless, it would happen.
"I will not surrender," yelled Naha. Before anyone could stop him, he jumped into the water and disappeared. In a few seconds, some bubbles popped onto the surface. They were all that remained of Ensign Naha, and the sight of yet another wasted life saddened Hashimoto. He realized that a decision he had always thought impossible was now imminent.
"Captain?" asked one of the sailors through blueing lips. "Shall we follow him? Give us your orders."
The destroyers were much closer and had paired off, one on either side of the huddled group. In a few moments they would be on top of them. It occurred to Hashimoto that the Americans could only have been a mile or so over the horizon. Luck again?
"My orders are that we live."
"They will shoot us," the sailor wailed.
"Not if we show them we are harmless. Strip," Hashimoto ordered. He and the six other men peeled off their clothes. He'd heard that the Americans were concerned about Japanese hiding grenades in their clothing and on their bodies. Nakedness, however degrading under the circumstances, might show them otherwise.
"Everything," he commanded, and in a few seconds they were all naked and shivering from fear as well as the cold.
With exquisite seamanship, one of the destroyers placed itself virtually alongside the raft. "Do you surrender?" someone asked in terrible Japanese.
"We surrender," Hashimoto responded slowly but clearly. He hoped that the American understood him. "I am an officer and you have my word on it."
Getting on board the destroyer was tricky. Netting was lowered, but a couple of the men were too numbed from the cold to hold on. The Americans dropped ropes and hauled up the Japanese like cargo. Hashimoto, as the officer in charge, was the last and managed to climb the net.
Finally he stood, dripping and naked on the deck of the American warship. He was surrounded by at least a score of armed men. Submachine guns were leveled at them as if the seven cold, miserable, and naked Japanese would try to take over the destroyer.
They are afraid of us, Hashimoto realized. They are terrified. They outnumber us and outgun us, yet we are to them the stuff of nightmares.
Hashimoto picked out a man who was obviously an officer, perhaps even the captain. Hashimoto's English was extremely limited, but he felt compelled to say something.
Bowing with as much dignity as he could manage under the circumstances, he said, "Surrender. We surrender. We fight no more."