Sergeant Dooley and the Submarine Raiders, page 38
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied as he slid down the ladder, letting Vostok return his attention to the fight in front of him. The jitterbug, presumably with Sergeant Dooley at the controls, flew straight in to engage the slower June bug hundreds of feet above the destroyer. At the same time, the Whaleshark was flying straight in at the stern of the destroyer.
***
“What’s in those crates?” Fowler asked as he reached into the nose compartment for an extra magazine.
Dooley answered as his confidence at flying increased. “Dynamite and fuses.”
“Dynamite? What the hell are Russians doing with dynamite aboard this thing!” Fowler yelled as he turned to hand Zeta a magazine. “We need to dump it over the side!”
Zeta accepted the magazine while looking at Dooley.
“I brought them on board. Figured they’d come in handy,” Dooley answered assertively.
“Yeah, at blowing us to smithereens!” Fowler replied. “What? You got ammonia on the brain? All it would take is one stray bullet and we’re done for!”
Dooley, flying the airplane and starting a wide turn back toward the ship, answered Fowler’s complaint defiantly. “Well, then, Pancho Villa, you’d better keep them off our asses! Get on that forward gun! And, if you got time, see if you can arm some of those sticks of dynamite with fuses. Hope you still got your cigarette lighter!”
“Don’t worry about me!” Fowler retorted as he turned back into the nose compartment. “I know what I’m doing.”
Dooley’s only response was thinking about his next step. Knowing that the only deck weapons the submarine could mount was at least one Lewis gun, his original plan was to attack the submarine with his machine-gun fired by Zeta to keep their heads down while Fowler could drop sticks of dynamite at the same time. However, the arrival of that fat airplane from the cavern and the small, stubby, tracked airplane interfered with those plans. It was then he saw something flash behind a cloud. It was another one of those stubby, tracked airplanes.
“Three separate flying machines and a submarine!” Dooley cursed aloud. After taking a deep breath, he made up his mind by pushing the control stick a little more to his right. At the same time, he grabbed the four-foot-long stick under the torpedo tube and used it to reach behind him and poke Zeta in the leg. Turning around, he stuck it into the forward compartment and poked Fowler in the back. Fowler and Zeta both turned to look at Dooley.
“We’re going to take out the stubby, tracked machines first!” Dooley yelled over the engines. “They’re no match for this thing! Also, they’re armed with a fixed, single-barreled artillery piece that can fire big shotgun shells! Since they have to aim with the airplane, I’ll come in at them from their sides! Remember: short bursts! The destroyer can take care of the larger airplanes!”
Zeta and Fowler nodded and returned to their guns. Replacing the stick, Dooley saw the hinged two half doors in the machine’s nose pop open, followed by Fowler’s head and shoulders, and the Lewis gun. As he did, a strong draft now blew through the nose gun access and out of Zeta’s position, which added to the noise of the engines. Also, because the hinged two half doors fell to the sides of the hatch, and the fact that the engines, propellers, and wings were directly behind him on either side, Fowler’s field of fire was limited to an arc in front of him. Seeing that Fowler was doing well with his Lewis gun, Dooley looked beyond him and at the stubby, tracked airplane coming in at the destroyer from its port side. Its silver skin stood out against the green backdrop of the island. Dooley continued to go in at his opponent but, knowing height was a pilot’s friend, planned on two, last-minute moves. After a glance, Dooley looked out the window at the fat airplane and saw that the pilot was still intent on attacking the destroyer.
Looking past Fowler’s head and shoulders, he watched as their two machines drew closer to each other. As they did, the details became clearer, especially with the single-barreled artillery piece sticking out in front of the machine. Knowing that the pilot needed to get close enough to fire either an explosive shell or a shotgun-type of round to any degree of effect, the pilot was coming straight in at Dooley’s airplane. Dooley gave him that courtesy, at least until the last minute. A quarter mile out from each other, Dooley pushed the right rudder with his foot and tilted the control stick, banking the machine slightly to the right. At the same time, he pushed in the throttle to increase the engine rpm to offset the loss of lift from the banking. Watching his opponent while in his turn, he also pulled back on the stick to increase his altitude at the same time. Closing within two hundred yards, and with some height above his opponent, Dooley pushed his stick forward, dropping the nose of the airplane to place the profile of the flying machine directly in front of the Fowler’s and Zeta’s Lewis guns. Neither person wasted time as he saw spent casings fly from Fowler’s weapon and felt spent casings fall on his shoulder from behind. He watched as smoke started to pour from the airplane and pieces flew from its fuselage.
Finishing his pass over the stricken airplane, Dooley continued his turn, knowing there was another stubby machine somewhere behind him. As he did, he saw the larger, fat airplane with its single cockpit gunner, suddenly lose its starboard wing. The last thing Dooley saw of the machine was the wing going one way while the remainder of the craft spiraled toward the destroyer it was attacking. The destroyer, now dead in the water, gave rise to escaping spirals of black smoke, which looked like wraiths, complete with their present task: seeking a new haunting.
Dooley came out of his turn, now facing east, and at the bank of clouds. Somewhere in those clouds was the last short, stubby airplane and its cannon. Under him, he saw the stricken navy ship. He also saw the submarine maneuvering to line up its bow at the ship’s starboard side. Now, only a few hundred yards separated the two vessels. There was no hope for the American ship, but there was one hope for them. He nodded to himself in agreement, and, as he started his turn to the northeast, Dooley felt the machine shudder through his foot pedals and stick.
Dooley turned to see Zeta still at her station. He also saw what looked like flickers of flame behind her in the small engine room compartment. He tested his controls, and the machine responded accordingly. As he did, Dooley looked out the front windshield and saw his last opponent drop out of the clouds many yards above and in front of him. He also saw Fowler reach down and pull his massive six-shot revolver and the fancy forty-five-caliber pistol from their holsters. Firing both, like he was a moving picture star, the airplane continued its downward angled path now only a hundred yards in front of them. As the machine filled Dooley’s windshield, he thought he recognized Sergei Popov’s face under the leather helmet. He also saw the pilot use his free hand to reload the weapon next to his head. Dooley pushed the stick to his right and, while doing so, smelled the acrid taint of gunfire replaced with something else.
Chapter 38
Vostok watched as the bow lined up on the space between the destroyer’s first and second stacks three hundred yards away. At the same time, he watched as the multi-airplane air combat came to an end. The engagement with the second to the last June bug was decisive, with Dooley getting the better of the duel. Just before that, he saw the Whaleshark’s wing blow away from the flying machine. Both spiraled into the sea behind the destroyer.
“Ready Tubes Numbers One and Two!” Vostok ordered down at his feet.
Vostok returned his eyes to the machine flown by Sergei. While Dooley was busy, Sergei hid behind the clouds to gain altitude. He appreciated his fellow Russian’s skills, and even more so when Sergei dropped from the sky and fired a thirty-seven-meter round at Dooley. A blast of smoke erupted from the gun’s barrel and stained the sky behind the downward-pointed machine.
“Tubes One and Two ready, Sir,” the voice at Vostok’s feet stated.
Vostok nodded while he looked up at the last two aircraft. Both were withdrawing from the fight, and both appeared to have suffered damage. “Fire!”
A second later, he felt the submarine tremble through the soles of his shoes as two torpedoes exploded from their tubes just under the water’s surface.
As he watched the wakes of the two torpedoes draw lines toward the ship, he also saw the craft supposedly flown by Dooley fly off to the northwest, leaving a faint trail of wispy smoke staining the very blue sky. Sergei’s machine made its way south. It, too, left a trail of smoke.
Returning his attention to the ship, he watched the warheads explode in brilliant flashes followed by columns of water and debris shooting into the air. He immediately felt the detonations against his face. Vostok looked down into the hatchway. “Slow speed ahead.”
Looking back up, he spoke to the gunner. “Remember, we have one friend aboard that ship.”
The man responded by leaning his shoulder against the stock of the weapon and firmly planting his feet. He, his assailant, and Vostok, watched as the geysers collapsed back onto a ship now in flames and breaking into three pieces. Sooty air shooting from the smokestacks replaced the water geysers. At the same time, he saw men leap from the ship and into the water. Closing in for the kill, Vostok took a second to look at the airplane flown by Dooley. Now, off in the distance, still heading northwest, he saw that the thin trail of smoke from a minute ago billowed into a thick, smoldering length of oily stain against the blue sky. Listening to the opening bursts of the Lewis gun, and the screams of men, he watched in appreciation as the flying machine that just escaped the carnage of the battle flew further from the island. Then, as if to signal the end of the day’s fighting, a brilliant explosion flashed red at the north end of that oily black line. Five seconds later, while watching the burning black dot fall to the sea, Vostok heard the explosion.
***
Hillary scrambled to load the starboard six-pounder. Behind him, he heard gravely wounded men groaning as less-wounded men tried to care for them. At the base of the weapon’s mount was the body of a young sailor. Hillary sighed as he remembered promoting the young man from ordinary seaman to a signalman rating at the start of their patrol. Bringing his mind back to the present, he leaned over and hand-cranked the weapon’s elevation so that the barrel lined up on the oncoming aircraft. With a lanyard in the other hand, he watched as the airplane flying toward the ship at a slight angle, spit out a line of machine gun bullets. As the bullets started to reach the stern, he pulled the lanyard, and the weapon roared. Reaching for another round he was amazed as he heard an explosion. He looked up just in time to see the entire port wing blow away from the flying machine. His amazement, though, was interrupted as Grover, leaving a useless bridge, yelled at him from the starboard bridge wing. “Skipper! Torpedoes!”
Hillary looked at the submarine while dropping the lanyard from his hand. He also saw the white lines racing toward his vessel. “Grover! Get the men out of the engine spaces!”
Hillary then turned to round the end of the ship’s superstructure to the portside, hoping to release the straps holding the lifeboat in that davit. Looking up and forward as he unfastened the first buckle of the lifeboat’s strap, he saw the last aircraft, the last one that left the cavern and fought the other aircraft, fly off to the northwest, leaving behind a dense trail of thick black smoke. “I don’t know who you, are but thank you.”
Just then the ship under his feet exploded, and it seemed like he was being launched to the moon. He knew not how high he flew, but it seemed like he was in a spaceship of silence. While flying, he saw, in slow motion, parts of his ship and parts of his men, lofting into the air about him. All the suspended parts were bathed in a reddish-orangish glow. Along with hearing no noise, he also felt no pain. Suddenly, everything went black. How long he remained in the abyss he did not know, but when he emerged from the darkness, he found himself coughing up saltwater and oil. He also heard the screams of surviving men. He opened his eyes to burning oil and ears to the interruptive bursts of a machine gun. Like swipes from the Grim Reaper’s scythe, the bullets collected the day’s quota for its voracious handler. He saw the main deck of his ship awash with air and soot erupting from the ship’s Number Two smokestack towering over him. Realizing now that his ship was dead, along with most of his men, he knew he had to stay alive, so that he could tell somebody what occurred on this island. As he kicked his legs to get out from under the ever-increasing tilting smokestack, he also kicked through the thick layer of bunker oil and flotsam. After a minute, his head rammed into something hard. He turned to face the upside-down lifeboat. Grabbing the gunwale, he pushed himself under while taking one last look at his command. All he saw was the top of his bridge as it slipped under the oil and debris, and the submarine on the other side. Pushing himself underwater, he came out of the water on the inside, but he could still hear the muted screams of men and gunfire. All he could do now was to try and survive this slaughter.
***
Ten minutes after the torpedoes exploded, the machine gunner removed his finger from the weapon’s trigger for the last time, letting the smoking barrel tilt downward. Floating around the stationary submarine, in the oil-layered water, were bodies, pieces of bodies, and other debris, including the upside-down lifeboat drifting toward the beach. Rising air and oil bubbles escaping the now-sunken ship disturbed the flotsam.
Now that the sky above them was vacant of fighting aircraft and the destroyer was resting on the seabed under them, Vostok gave one more order. “Stow your weapon,” he said as he turned to look at the deck aft of the conning tower. His feet kicked the spent brass layering the deck of the conning tower while doing so. He saw two of his men using a line to haul one man from the water. That man wore black socks, civilian trousers and shirt, a military cartridge belt with an empty holster, and a coat of bunker oil.
The man looked up at the conning tower and saluted. Vostok returned the salute. “Captain Hugh Rodham, I presume!”
“The very same!”
“Good. Get below and scrape off some of that oil,” Vostok stated. Turning his attention to the hatch at his feet and kicking a couple of spent casings into the submarine, he spoke to his officer. “Radio the others and tell them the destroyer is gone. Suggest sending up crews and boats to start collecting any evidence of an American presence. And our men as well.”
Two hours later, Rodham, now showered and wearing a new set of civilian clothes, sat at the wardroom table of the tramp steamer captained by Lagos. Rodham held a whiskey in his hand. The men around him were equally armed.
“It has turned out to be quite a day,” Utkin said as he looked at the plate-sized chronometer mounted on the white-painted bulkhead of the ship’s wardroom. “But our cleanup this afternoon is going well, which bodes for a successful departure from this island.”
“What about Dooley?” Rodham asked. “And the Countess?”
“Don’t forget the other man,” Popov spoke up while turning to look at Rodham. “The one you call Fowler. He stood in the nose of the machine firing a revolver and automatic pistol like he was Allan Quatermain taking down a charging bull elephant on the Serengeti.”
“I only met him a couple of times while aboard that ship,” Rodham replied after sipping his whiskey, “but he came off as somebody that could match your submarine raiders.”
Utkin answered their concerns while inspecting his whiskey. “In a way it is too bad my men did not have the chance to tangle with that man. Anyway, I, like most here at this table, saw the midair explosion, which accounts for the missing dynamite and fuses. For what purposes Dooley and Fowler had for the dynamite we are thankful to not have found out.” Utkin paused to look at the American. “So, you never ran into Dooley while in Russia?”
“Only at Regimental parade,” Rodham answered, “when he received his medals. That said, despite his grandiose citations, he was still flesh and blood.”
“You are correct,” Utkin offered. “I doubt he, or any of those three, survived that explosion. And while I welcome their demise, I also appreciate his companionship leading up to this morning. I will relish the events of this morning during our transit.”
“How so?” Bogdanovich asked.
Utkin appreciated his whiskey. “Whether Roman gladiators or Sioux warriors, there has always been this sentiment: the greater the opponent, the greater the victory.”
The others paused to look at their glasses.
“What I mean,” Utkin continued, “is that we were like a well-trained team made of vigorous players, but one that has faced only scrimmage teams. You mentioned earlier, Issak, that Dooley has bloodied our noses. I argue he trounced us within an inch of our lives. Dooley was quite an efficient pilot, and, perhaps, a teacher. By all accounts, Countess Zeta Tolstoy was proficient with that Lewis gun aboard the airplane. And the fact that they were aided by a chief petty officer armed with a shotgun and two pistols. I lost more than half of my air assault commando, and we do not have one flying machine left unscathed. This morning’s beating has provided me with a month’s worth of reflection that I will put to ink and paper during our transit across the Pacific. When we arrive in Latin America, we will have an updated field manual with new direction. For that reason, I salute our adversaries. Caveat Emptor! Winner beware!”
“I thought the phrase meant buyer beware,” Captain Lagos said.
Utkin reflected on what Dooley said days before when back on the submarine. “I’m just repeating a piece of sage advice I received from across the felt.”
Utkin, and the others raised their whiskey glasses.
“What do you propose now, Major?” Bogdanovich asked as he lowered his glass.
Utkin answered. “I propose we do the following, but first, I would like to commend Captain Hugh Rodham on his commitment to our cause. You stood on the deck of that ship in the face of withering gunfire. Your courage will be known to other family members. By the way, when was the last time you shaved?”
