learned that no other submarine had found it either.
“Well, you’re on your own now,” the pilot said. “Go get ’em and good
luck.”
They waved as the plane turned and roared over the water, lifted in the
air and circled to the east with a last dip of its wings.
“Now where do we go from here?” March asked.
“We’ll head west,” Larry said. “After that Jap plane. Let’s get going.
I’m going to find that convoy!”
Meanwhile, the Jap plane heading west had sighted something else. Its
pilot was angry at having been driven away from an American submarine
just when it was about to blow the hated pigboat to its ancestors. And
there ahead of him—to make up for that loss—was a lone American fighter
plane. He grinned happily.
“American plane,” he said to his co-pilot. “We get him.”
The co-pilot looked worried. “American fighter too fast for slow flying
boat. Maybe he get us!”
But the pilot was angry and not to be argued with. “No, we get American
fighter!”
It was obvious that the American had seen them, but the plane did not
put on a sudden burst of speed, did not maneuver quickly to get into
position for the attack.
The co-pilot grinned. “American plane damaged,” he said. “American
plane cannot fly fast!”
“Now will you question what I say?” demanded the pilot. “I said we get
American plane. Our gods damage plane so we _can_ get it.”
Scoot Bailey looked at the approaching Jap bomber and frowned. Here was
a quick decision to be made. He had been out with the other fighters
and bombers from _Bunker Hill_ attacking the Jap garrison on a small
island to the north. A lucky shot from one of the few defending Jap
Zeros—before it went down—clipped Scoot’s oil line. There was a leak,
though not a big one, and the engine was heating up badly. So Scoot had
been separated from the others and now was limping home to his carrier,
trying to get the best speed he could without overheating the engine
too much. It had not been an easy job to nurse it along that way, for
the oil was dripping away drop by drop. Still, he thought he might make
it, for he had only about forty more miles to go.
“And now this clumsy boat of the Japs has to show up!” he shouted to
himself angrily. “I could take him in a minute if I was okay, but with
this leaky oil line—what’ll I do? If I give her the gun and really
swoop down on this bird, I’ll force out most of the oil that I’ve got
left, heat up the engine so much it’ll burn out. But if I don’t, then
I’m just like a clay pigeon, sitting here waiting to be taken.”
Scoot smiled. “Doesn’t take long to make up your mind in a case like
that. I’ll get that baby who thinks I’m crippled and can’t fight back.
And then I’ll just be setting myself down on the sea somewhere and
hoping to be picked up, though there’s not much hope for that here.”
He let the Jap patrol plane come on, continued to act as if he couldn’t
maneuver the plane. He wiggled the wings as if he were trying to make
his craft do something it wouldn’t do. He succeeded in filling the Jap
pilot with such confidence that the man was happily off guard.
Then, at the last minute, he gave his Hellcat the gun and she almost
jumped out from under him. Up he rose, then did a wing-over and swooped
down on the Jap plane from above and behind. Big splashes of oil were
covering his windshield, forced from the leaky line by the sudden rush
of power in the engine. The Jap plane was just a blur when Scoot
pressed the gun button and heard the pounding of bullets from his
machine guns.
Then he pulled up and to the right, looking out the side. Yes, he had
done it. The Jap bomber was afire, but trying to turn to the left. Then
Scoot saw what he was aiming for—a tiny reef with a few palm trees a
few miles to the south. Suddenly the Jap plane blew up in the air with
a roar. Scoot felt the shock of the blast and watched the pieces of
flaming plane plummet to the sea below, where a steaming smoke arose
from the water.
Scoot’s smile was frozen by a hard hammering knock from his engine.
“That did it!” he exclaimed. “She’s conking out, and right about now.
Maybe I can make that little island even if the Jap couldn’t.”
He edged the plane around with the last gasps from the engine and put
her into a glide toward the little spot of land. Then it occurred to
him that there might be Japs on the island, tiny as it was, and with
one hand he checked his service revolver to be sure that he might take
a few with him before he went himself, if the worst should happen.
“And all that depends on whether I make it in this glide or not,” Scoot
said. “But it looks okay.”
The plane was slipping down the sky fast, approaching the island. About
ten feet above the water, Scoot leveled her off and pancaked into the
water, trying to get his tail to act as a brake. The controls flew from
his hands and his head hit the top of his cockpit. But he didn’t lose
consciousness from the blow, even though he was badly stunned.
He saw the rocky shore of the island rushing toward him as the plane
seemed to skim over the water. Then he struck the rocks, was thrown
forward, and heard a ripping, tearing sound as the bottom of his
fuselage was crushed and mangled on the rocks.
He felt a throb in his forehead and realized that he was looking at the
slightly twisted floor of his cockpit.
“Must have been knocked out for a minute,” Scoot told himself.
He lifted his head and looked around. His plane was entirely on dry
land. It had skidded over the rocks, leaving the water. Right in front
of him was the smooth slanting trunk of a palm tree. He saw no movement
anywhere.
“Well, if there were Japs here they’d have been on top of me long
before this.”
Scoot unfastened his safety belt and crawled from his seat, feeling his
bruised arms and legs to make sure they were whole. In another moment
he stood on the rocky shore surveying sadly his crumpled and twisted
ship.
“My beautiful Hellcat!” he said, patting her side. “Look what I’ve done
to you!”
Then he turned and looked the island over. It was, he could easily see,
not more than two hundred yards long and fifty feet wide, and it curved
in a gentle arc. There were rocks, a few palm trees, some low bushes
and nothing else.
“Well, I might as well like it,” Scoot said. “It may be my home for the
duration!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FIND THE CONVOY!
March and Larry stood over the navigation table and looked at charts.
“We’re just about here now,” March said, pointing to a spot not far
east of the Philippines.
“What’s that?” Larry asked, putting his finger tip on a tiny dot near
by.
“A tiny atoll,” March said. “Couple of hundred yards long, that’s all.”
“Let’s pull into the lee of it and surface,” Larry said. “There won’t
be any Japs on something that small. We can charge the batteries up
full, get plenty of fresh air, and plan our campaign from here on in.”
“Right,” March agreed. “We’ll reach it in about an hour. We’ve gone
about two hours since the patrol plane left us.”
So it was that Scoot Bailey, lying at the edge of the beach not far
from his wrecked plane, which he had covered with boughs so it would
not be seen by Jap patrols, heard a rushing of water a little way from
shore and saw a huge black hull appear from the deep, not a hundred
feet out!
He scrambled behind a bush quickly and peered out cautiously, though it
was so dark that no one on the sub could possibly have seen him.
“A sub!” he exclaimed. “But the question is—Jap or American?”
He tried to find a marking that would tell him the answer to his
question, but it was too dark to see anything. Then he made out figures
of men on the bridge, two men looking around. One said something to the
other, but so low that he could not make out the language. One of the
men took up a lookout position.
“If it’s a Jap,” Scoot muttered to himself, “I’d hate to let it get
away from me. I’m probably not in any danger. It must just be up to
charge batteries. They wouldn’t come ashore here for anything—nothing
to come for, unless some of the men just want to plant their feet on
solid ground for a change. Even then I can hide.”
He thought hard. “Seems as if there ought to be something I could do,
though one grounded flier against a sub is kind of tough odds.”
He was so busy trying to think what he could do to sink a Jap submarine
single-handed that he convinced himself that it _was_ Japanese.
“The machine guns in my plane!” he exclaimed suddenly. “They probably
still work if I can get at them. The plane’s heading the wrong way or I
could just shoot them as is. But maybe I can get one or two out.”
Then he wondered if fifty-caliber machine-gun bullets could possibly
sink a submarine.
“Probably not,” he told himself. “But they could pick off quite a few
officers and men. And then if the rest decided to come and get me, I’d
get quite a few more on their way in.”
Suddenly the Diesels on the submarine roared into life, and quickly
settled down to a steady purr.
“Charging batteries is right,” Scoot told himself. “That’s just enough
sound to keep them from hearing me try to get a gun out of my plane. Of
course, they’ve probably got their own machine gun unlimbered up there.
Usually do when they’re surfaced like this. But—well, I’ll see what I
can do.”
Scoot crawled over to his plane and started to work. Taking off the
engine cowling seemed to him to make a terrific noise and he stopped to
listen, wondering if he had been heard. The sound from the Diesels
seemed very low. And then he heard something—something that made his
heart leap.
“Car—reee me back to old Virginnneee!” sang a high tenor voice. The
lookout was indulging in his favorite sport. Scoot leaped out on the
shore.
“Yippeeee!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
On the bridge of the submarine, March whirled around at the sound of
the strange cry from the tiny island. Without a word one of the
enlisted men had leaped to the machine gun and now he poured a round of
shots at the shore. Then there was silence for a moment. From behind a
palm tree came a voice.
“Say—have a heart!” Scoot cried. “I’m an American!”
“How do we know?” demanded March over the sound of the Diesels. He
would like to have shut them off so he could hear better, but he wanted
to keep them running for a quick getaway in case there was any sort of
Jap force on that tiny atoll. The sound of the American voice sounded
genuine, but you could never be sure. Too many Japs who had lived in
America went back home to fight in Jap armies. They spoke English
fairly well, some of them, and they had used it to trick trusting
Americans too many times.
By this time Larry Gray had scrambled up on the bridge beside March who
quickly explained what had happened. Stan and Mac joined them,
wondering at the sound of machine-gun fire.
“I’m an American flier!” Scoot shouted back. “Crashed here this
afternoon.”
“Turn on the searchlight!” Larry ordered, and in a moment the powerful
beam found the lone figure on the rocky beach.
“Only one man,” March said. “And it sure looks like a Navy uniform,
slightly mussed up. He must be okay, Skipper.”
“Can’t ever be sure,” Larry said. “There may be a pack of Japs back
behind those trees. It may be a swiped uniform, anyway.”
“But he looks white and tall,” March said.
“Yes, he does,” Larry agreed. “But if he’s an American—wait, he’s
calling.”
“I know you can’t take any chances on a trap,” the voice came to them
over the water. “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it—to the letter.”
“All right,” Larry called back. “We’re sure you must be American, all
right, but we won’t take a chance. Take your clothes off and swim out
to us. We’ll keep the light on you and you’re covered at every minute
with a machine gun.”
On shore Scoot gulped at the idea of the machine gun pointing at him
every minute. But he agreed, knowing that in a similar situation he
would be just as cautious about any possible Jap trick. He quickly
stripped to his underwear, leaving his clothes on the rocks at his
feet. Then, arms in the air so the men on the sub would see that he
carried nothing, he waded into the water, always in the bright spot of
the searchlight. When the water came up to his chest he bent forward
and started swimming, being careful to raise both arms well out of the
water at each stroke. But he had to keep his head down and his eyes
averted because of the bright glare of the light.
Soon his hand struck the steel side of the hull and helping arms
reached down to pull him up on the deck. Two enlisted men and McFee
were there, looking him over carefully.
“He’s okay, Skipper!” Mac called up to the bridge. “Not a thing on him
and he’s as American as Uncle Sam.” Then to Scoot, “How are you,
fellow? Glad we found you. Come on up.”
He led the dripping Scoot to the ladder leading up to the bridge. As he
climbed over the edge, Scoot saw a familiar face—and almost fell over
backward to the deck again!
“March!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Scoot Bailey!” March cried, rushing forward. He threw his arms around
the shivering and wet flier and pounded him on the back. “Scoot, my
boy! It’s really you! How on earth—”
But Scoot was shouting and talking, too, laughing and dazed by the many
things that had happened to him in the last few hours.
McFee and the enlisted men looked on in amazement at the scene, but
Larry Gray was smiling. He remembered the name of Scoot Bailey from the
many things March had told him about his closest friend. And he had
seen enough strange things happen in the war not to be too startled at
anything that happened out in the middle of the ocean.
In a few minutes they had gone below and Scoot was wrapped in a blanket
while two men put out in a collapsible boat to bring his clothes from
the island. Scoot sat with the others in the tiny ready-room and drank
a cup of hot coffee, while they talked and asked questions and answered
them.
[Illustration: _March Pounded Scoot on the Back_]
Soon everyone was brought up to date on the most important things that
had been happening. McFee and Stan, who had joined them, knew who Scoot
was and how he came to be there. Outside, word went scurrying around
among the men that they’d picked up a Navy flier, that it had turned
out to be the exec’s oldest and best friend. Everybody felt happy.
“With a stroke of luck like that,” Pete Kalinsky said, “maybe we can
find that Jap convoy now.”
March told Scoot about their search for the convoy, their encounter
with the Jap patrol plane that very afternoon, and how the American
plane had chased him away. Scoot was serious right away.
“Two-motored Aichi flying boat?” he asked.
“Yes, why?” March asked.
“I took care of him for you,” Scoot said with a smile. “He _will_ try
to depth-charge my friend, will he? Well, he won’t do _that_ any more.”
Scoot told them about his leaky oil line, his encounter with the Jap
plane, shooting it down, and then making the tiny island in a glide.
“And then I came along and picked you up,” March laughed, “with only a
few hours’ wait.”
“Remember—a long time ago,” Scoot said, “you told me you’d probably
have to come along in your sub and save me from a bunch of Japs?”
“Sure I remember!” March cried. “Didn’t know I was such a good prophet.”
“You didn’t save me from any Japs,” Scoot snorted. “Just from boredom
spending the rest of the war on that island. But let me tell you
another thing—you don’t know how close you came to getting killed.”
“What do you mean?” Larry asked.
“I mean you ought to pin a medal on whoever it is in your crew that
sings ‘Carry me Back to old Virginny,’” Scoot said. “Up to that time I
had decided you were Japs and I was getting a machine gun out of my
plane.”
“You mean you were going to attack us single-handed?” demanded Stan
Bigelow.
“Sure—I didn’t have anybody else to help me, so it had to be
single-handed,” Scoot said. “I didn’t think I could sink the sub, but I
thought I could wait till a lot of officers and men were on deck and
pick off most of them.”
“Now, that’s the spirit I like,” Larry said. “Glad to have you along on
this trip with us.”
“Oh—” Scoot looked startled. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose I
have to go along with you.”
March laughed. “Of course, you do. We’re not a bus service. We’re out
looking for a Jap convoy and we can’t very well take time to run you
back to your base or carrier before going on.”
“Well, so I’m a submariner after all,” Scoot said. “Nice looking boat,
I must say. Can I look her over?”
“Sure, from stem to stern,” Larry agreed. “But not until you’ve eaten
something. I imagine that island didn’t provide you with much of a
dinner. The cook is fixing up something for you.”
So Scoot got into his clothes and ate a delicious meal over which he
exclaimed mightily.
“Say, there’s something to pigboat service, anyway,” he said. “I
thought we ate pretty well on the _Bunker Hill_ but this is fit for a
king.”
“Submarine men _are_ kings,” March said, and for once Scoot would not
argue on their favorite subject of the past.
Soon they went to bed, except for those on watch, and at dawn the next
morning proceeded on their way, submerged. Scoot was fascinated at the
diving operation and looked with some awe on March as he carried out
the complicated maneuver. It was only then that he learned that March
had become second in command of _Kamongo_. March then led his friend on
a tour of the submarine, explaining the workings of all the complicated
machinery, introducing him to the crew, who welcomed him warmly.
“Not bad, not bad,” Scoot said. “I begin to see why you like all this
so much. Nice small crowd here, all getting along well together. And I
don’t mind the idea of being under water at all, the way I thought I
would.”
Scoot and March and Larry sat down in the wardroom to go over their
plans.
“You see,” Larry explained, “I have a hunch the Japs are following a
course with this convoy entirely different from any they’ve followed
before. They are aware that we know they’ll reinforce Truk as fast as
possible. So we’re looking for them to take a direct route. But the
Chinese reported that there was something strange about the route. What
is it? It’s that it is so indirect.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Scoot agreed.
“Well, they don’t want to take forever getting there, however,” Larry
went on, “so they’re not being too indirect. I wouldn’t be a bit
surprised if they went down the western side of the Philippines, as if
heading for Indo-China or Burma or the Dutch East Indies. Then they
might cut through east above Mindanao, the lower of the big islands in
the Philippines. After that they’d make a fast dash straight east for
Truk.”
“Why wouldn’t we catch them easily there?” March asked.
“We might,” Larry explained. “But for some time they’d be under
protection of land-based planes from the Philippines. Then, too, we’d
be anxious to scout them out as early as possible, so our subs would be
farther north, looking along the more direct routes. They’d have a
chance of getting through without a scratch, but anyway they’d not have
far to go after we _did_ sight them.”
“What do you want to do now?” Scoot asked.
“I’m heading west toward the Philippines trying to test my theory,”
Larry said. “But I can’t make much speed, having to run submerged in
the daytime. I’m afraid they may be out in the clear before I can get
there, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
All day long they ran submerged, keeping a constant lookout. They saw a
Jap patrol plane and dived out of sight before he got near them. But
there was no sight of the convoy. Darkness began to creep over the
ocean and they were getting ready to surface when Larry, at the
periscope, saw a Jap seaplane.
“Over to the right,” he said. “Doesn’t see us. He’s too low. We won’t
need to dive unless he pulls up higher again. No—he’s coming down on
the water. Must be something there.”
March took a look and thought he saw a small island near the Jap plane.
“Getting too dark to see clearly,” he said. “Shall we go over and have
a look, Skipper?”
“Yes, let’s do,” Larry said. “I’m curious about a seaplane here. That’s
the kind that’s got pontoons and is usually catapulted from a
battleship or cruiser. You wouldn’t expect them out here. They can’t do
long cruising.”
March gave the order to change course, and they stayed under the water
as they neared the island.
“Hope there’s still enough light by the time we get close enough to
have a good look,” Larry said as he peered through the periscope. “Good
thing it isn’t overcast today or we couldn’t see a thing. And I
wouldn’t want to hang around until morning just for a look at what
might turn out to be nothing.”
In another few minutes they were close enough to see, and Larry
reported to the others that a small boat was just putting off from the
seaplane which was anchored to a buoy in the little harbor. Scoot took
a look.
“Boy, those periscopes are wonders,” he exclaimed. “Sharp as can be.
Sure, I know the ship. And there’s two naval fliers in the dinghy with
two Jap soldiers rowing them to shore. A whole flock of soldiers on
shore. Wonder what it’s all about.”
As March and the others had a look, Larry told them all what he thought
this latest event meant.
“Seaplanes come from battleships or cruisers usually,” he said. “I
think this plane might well be from some of the warships protecting the
convoy headed for Truk. The Japs have got lookout posts on a lot of
these little islands here—probably plenty more than usual right now.
They aren’t trusting to radio, even in code, any more than we are. And
they’re having a seaplane or two go out ahead of the convoy to pick up
reports from their garrisons on the various islands. This is the
plane’s last stop for the night. In the morning he’ll go back to his
ship and make his report as to how many American patrol planes or subs
have been seen in the area by these outposts.”
The others thought this over and agreed that it was a likely
hypothesis. Then Scoot asked for another look at the periscope, and the
others sensed that there was some excitement in his attitude. When he
turned away from the ’scope he said to Larry. “Can I talk to you about
an idea I’ve got?”
“Sure, come into the wardroom,” Larry said with an eager smile. “Come
along, March.”
They sat down around the little table.
“Now what is it?” Larry asked.
“Here’s the idea,” Scoot said. “I know that plane—all about it. They
made us study those things, though I couldn’t see the point of it at
the time. It usually has two men in it. Two men went ashore. So the
plane’s unattended. I’m going to swipe it!”
“Swipe it!” Larry and March exclaimed together.
“Sure!” Scoot said. “If you can surface enough to let me out—later when
it’s good and dark—I’ll swim to it, get in, cut the anchor, and be off
before those Nips know what’s going on.”
“Then what will you do?” Larry demanded.
“I’m in a Jap seaplane,” Scoot said. “Outposts won’t pay any attention
to me, because I’m right where a Jap seaplane ought to be flying along,
going back to its battleship in the morning. Nobody will question me by
radio because they’re keeping radio silence.”
“All this is assuming that my hypothesis is correct,” Larry said.
“I think it is,” Scoot said. “At least it’s what a hypothesis is—a good
basis on which to work until it’s disproved. So let’s go ahead. You
want to find this convoy faster than your sub can get you there. In
that plane I can find it in a hurry—if it’s there.”
“You certainly can,” Larry agreed, beginning to get excited about
Scoot’s idea. “But when you’ve found it—what then?”
“Well—I get word to you somehow,” Scoot said. “Now, let’s see—”
“I’ve got an idea,” March said. “Scoot sights the convoy, gets a line
on its size and direction, then turns around and heads right back
again. He knows our exact course. He’ll come down on that course at a
spot we designate. We’ll surface and pick him up there. That eliminates
all radio communication—even if that Jap plane has a radio and Scoot
can get it on our wave-length and use it. And if he did we’d have to be
traveling on the surface to get his message any distance away, and we’d
better not do that too much.”
“Sounds okay,” Larry said. “But what happens on that Jap convoy when
they see their seaplane approach, look around, and then head back
again? Won’t they think that’s mighty funny?”