“That’s about as close as we can get, Lieutenant,” said the corporal in charge.
A searchlight arced out from the shore and now they could see the enemy boat. The deck gun fired again and another explosion chewed up the American base.
“We need more range,” Farris shouted. He took a sandbag and shoved it under one side of the base plate. This would lower the angle and maybe increase the range.
The mortar fired again and the shell landed over the sub. They were within range. The second mortar was similarly fixed and Farris gave the order to fire at will.
The corporal grimaced. “Just so you know, sir, we’ve only got twenty shells apiece. They’ll all be gone in a couple of minutes.”
“No point saving them, is there?” Farris said harshly. The corporal agreed.
The sub located its tormenters and the deck gun fired toward them, the shell exploding just inside the beach line. Farris realized it would take a miracle to hit the sub.
But miracles do happen and one of the last rounds they fired slammed into the conning tower. The explosion threw one of the deck gunners into the ocean and Farris’s gunners cheered their unlikely achievement. The sub’s skipper had had enough. She turned and headed out to sea but, curiously, wasn’t attempting to dive. Was the water too shallow or—Sweet Jesus, he thought—had they actually done some damage to the bastard?
A moment later, a dark shape flew low over Farris’s position. Machine-gun bullets and rockets streaked over the water to where they could still see the dark shape of the fleeing Japanese sub. They cheered as a second and a third plane raced in for the kill. The sub was doomed. She had to be too hurt to dive. The planes were shredding her hull with rockets. A bomb landed in the water near her. Then, suddenly, she rolled over on her side and bobbed lifelessly.
Farris shook himself. It was over. He was shaking and drenched with sweat. He checked his watch. The fight had lasted less than ten minutes. “Stecher, you stay here. I’m going to see what happened at HQ.”
He grabbed a jeep and raced over. By the time he got there, the fires were out and medics were treating the wounded, who were laid out on the ground. Some of the wounds were horrible and a few men were missing limbs. A trio of ambulances pulled up and men hopped out and started putting the wounded on stretchers. A couple of the wounded were moaning and one man screamed until some hastily injected morphine took over. A row of blanket-covered bodies lay a few yards away.
He found a wounded Lieutenant Sawyer trying to direct things. Sawyer’s head and left arm were wrapped in bandages. Sawyer looked grateful to see Steve arrive.
“How bad are things?” Farris asked.
“Six dead and fourteen wounded. One of the dead is Captain Lytle. I think he caught a Jap shell with his chest. Jesus, what a mess. You were right. He should never have built here.”
Steve agreed quietly. There was no changing what had been done. Lytle had paid with his life for his stupidity, and killed five others. More than a dozen men were wounded thanks to him. It was a helluva mess.
Sawyer sat down on a white rock. “You okay?” Farris asked, wondering if the young lieutenant counted himself as one of the fourteen wounded.
“I’ll be fine. It’s just starting to sink in, that’s all. These wounds are bloody cuts, nothing serious. Medic says I won’t even get stitches to go with my Purple Heart. By the way, Steve, you realize you’re the senior lieutenant. That means you command this fucked-up company until somebody else is assigned.”
“Aw, shit,” Steve said and sat down on a rock beside him. Sawyer was correct. If by only a few weeks, he was the senior lieutenant. And as to somebody else being assigned, that could take quite a while.
“So what are you going to do?”
Farris smiled grimly. “Act like I belong, I guess. First, we continue to take care of the wounded, then we arrange to bury the dead. I guess the Thirty-Second Infantry has a cemetery, but I have to admit I never gave it a thought. And right after that, I want what remains of the headquarters moved to a much better, less obvious spot. We will not repeat Lytle’s mistake.”
Sixth Fleet headquarters was in a state of confusion as frantic reports flowed in. So far, at least twenty attacks on American towns and military bases along the coast of California had been reported.
Once again, Japanese cruisers, destroyers, and submarines had darted in, fired a number of shells at mainly civilian targets and raced away into the night, leaving hundreds dead and wounded and multitudes of fires burning up and down the Pacific shore. The coast of California was in panic and there were reports of several large-scale exoduses from the coastal cities. It appeared that several hundred thousand people were moving inland. Where the people would go, nobody seemed to know.
It was another reminder of what skillful warriors the Japanese were. At least no battleships or carriers had been involved. These were pinprick raids, although the towns and cities hit were in an understandable state of panic. Dane could just visualize the recriminations, the newspaper headlines, and the angry citizens. Where’s the navy? Where’s the army? Didn’t we have some planes? What the hell are our tax dollars going for?
Just as important, everyone wanted to know just how the Japanese had managed to get at them with literally hundreds of American planes in the air at all time looking for them. Someone suggested that our patrol patterns had become predictable, which meant the enemy could time them and slip through unnoticed. Another suggestion was that the Jap ships were pretending to be American escorts shepherding dummy convoys.
However, the Japanese had not gotten away unscathed. At least three destroyers and one cruiser had been sunk, along with a pair of submarines. Sub kills were harder to confirm, but the one just off where Tim’s nephew was stationed was definite. The smoking hulk was still somewhat afloat and experts were trying to tow the thing ashore where it could be examined. A numbers count showed that the Japs had lost the actual battle but won the public relations war.
A quick phone call had confirmed that Steve had indeed been involved in the fighting, but was safe and that he now commanded the company following the death of his CO.
Steve had then cheekily invited his uncle and Amanda over for a cookout on the condition that Amanda bring a friend for him. Tim sighed. Didn’t Steve know there was a war on? He replied that he thought it would be a little while before things calmed down enough for him to take another day off. He didn’t tell his nephew that he’d been meeting Amanda each evening, going for walks and dinner, although he was quickly running out of money.
As predicted, physical contact between them had been minimal. A few kisses were about it. The more he thought about it, the more Tim thought the idea of another cookout on the beach was a splendid idea. Maybe in a week or so things would calm down a little bit.
Wilhelm Braun cheered the news of the Japanese attacks and the subsequent panic that was causing thousands of civilians to head for the hills and perceived safety. However, he was convinced that in a few weeks the panic would wear off and most of the refugees would sheepishly return to their homes. After all, it wasn’t as if the Japanese had won a great victory. They hadn’t, but it was a slap in the face for the arrogant Americans, and Braun loved it.
He and Krause celebrated the news by getting a little drunk on some cheap American whisky bought in a shabby bar filled with sailors. They couldn’t afford better. They were painfully aware that what had seemed like so much money a while back was proving inadequate for their current and future needs. Their communications with comrades in Mexico had become even more terse and infrequent. Braun and Krause were of the opinion that his superiors in Berlin were disappointed with their results so far, and that they were on their own, at least until they actually accomplished something.