Battle Stations Read online

  BATTLE STATIONS

  U.S. Navy Historical Thriller Series

  Book One

  Irving A Greenfield

  writing as

  Roger Jewett

  This book is respectfully dedicated to the men of the United States Navy and to the two individuals, Rear Admiral Roger W. Mehle, USN (Ret.) and Captain Clark Gammell, USN (Ret.), whose technical assistance made it possible for the book to be written.

  This book is also dedicated to the characters Andrew and Warren Troost, Jacob Miller, Tony Trapasso, and Glen Lescomb, whose exploits are fictionalized versions of real incidents, and I have a special word of thanks to the character Kate, with whom I fell in love while writing this book.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  ALSO BY ROGER JEWETT

  CHAPTER 1

  Captain Andrew Troost, United States Navy, was on the bridge of HMS Broadwater, a British destroyer under the command of Commander William Blakely, Royal Navy. With his hands clasped behind his back, Troost stood between the starboard window and the ship’s captain. Destroyers were not new to him. He’d been the gunnery officer aboard a “tin can,” as they were affectionately called by those who had served on them during the First World War; and even after that war, he had on several tours enjoyed destroyer command. And later he had been chief of staff of an American destroyer squadron.

  Only Troost’s cap device and sleeve insignia distinguished him from the British officers on the bridge. He was a chunky man with a square chin, light gray eyes, and thinning brown hair. Chosen by Admiral Ernest J. King, commander-in-chief of the Atlantic Fleet, to be the liaison officer between the British and American naval units when the Broadwater rendezvoused with the eastbound convoy which they were approaching. He was aboard the Broadwater to insure that the mid-ocean point (dubbed MOMP by the men of both commands) transfer of the slow convoy SC-48 from the American escort force to the British would take place as smoothly as possible.

  The convoy was made up of 50 merchant ships sailing in nine columns at seven knots and protected by four destroyers. According to the latest position reports, 11 merchant ships were straggling as the result of increasingly bad weather and heavy seas the second day out of port.

  The Broadwater’s bridge was dimly lit. Even the binnacle’s light was shielded. The men spoke in low tones and only when necessary. Captain Blakely ran a tight ship, even though more than half the men and officers aboard were newly assigned to her, and Troost admired him for it.

  Because this was Troost’s third voyage aboard the Broadwater, he was thoroughly familiar with routine convoy operations, and unless something extraordinary happened, the Broadwater, the Columbia, the Levis and the Free French corvette Lobelia would take up the positions vacated at MOMP by the escorting American destroyers without having to receive any instructions from him.

  Turning slightly to his right, Blakely said, “Captain, our ETA at the MOMP is at 0330.” He spoke with a heavy Scottish burr, made more difficult to understand by the cigar almost always present in his mouth. As soon as the rendezvous was completed, Blakely would assume overall command of the convoy.

  Troost checked his watch: it was 0115; then he gave an acknowledging nod. MOMP could be as far east as 22° west longitude, but was always above 58° north latitude. For this trip it was at 24° west longitude and 59° north latitude.

  “Another trip or two and the Broadwater will be able to find her way here without any help from us,” Troost remarked.

  Blakely laughed. “She can just about do it now,” he answered, adding, “The glass has been falling for the past two hours and the sea has been building, but we should reach MOMP before we have any real severe weather.” Then he resumed his former position and said something to his operations officer, who was manning the bridge with him.

  Troost looked out of the window. Though there was a gibbous moon, there was only enough light to show that the sky was heavily patched over with dark scudding clouds and little moonlight leaked through to touch the already wind-riled sea. Because of the building sea and the German submarine threat, the ship was already buttoned up and all hands were at general quarters.

  Suddenly, the Broadwater reacted to a strong gust of wind and rolled heavily to her port side.

  “Good Christ!” Blakely swore, moving to the rear of the bridge to check the weather instruments. “Where the hell did this come from?” He tapped the glass to steady the needle. “She’s gone down five-tenths of an inch within the hour,” he said.

  Troost suddenly realized that Blakely estimated the storm’s center to lie ahead to the southwest. Clearly, now it was coming out of the northeast.

  The wind was veering steadily around to the northeast with building velocity and very heavy seas, and the Broadwater began to claw her way up to the crest of a wave.

  Troost steadied himself against the side of the bridge.

  The Broadwater crested the wave and plunged into a trough. The next wave smashed down on her stern. The sea poured over the bow, forcing it down. The stern came out of the water. Her single screw flailed in open air. Shuddering, the Broadwater again slammed down into the water.

  Troost lost his footing and fell against the side of the bridge.

  “OPS, put all ship’s communication over the ship’s broadcast system,” Blakely ordered.

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” the operations officer answered.

  The wind backed farther around to the north-northeast.

  “Helmsman, left full rudder, come to course 015 degrees,” Blakely ordered.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the helmsman answered. “Rudder is left full, coming to course 015 degrees.”

  Troost scrambled to his feet.

  Another wave crashed down on the Broadwater.

  “Helm slow to answer,” the helmsman reported.

  The Broadwater’s stern lifted out of the water again, further reducing the rudder’s effectiveness.

  “Get your bloody ass down,” Blakely shouted above the wail of the wind. “Get it down.”

  The Broadwater shuddered, taking the brunt of the seas on her port side. Her plates began to scream. Then her stern fell back into the sea. The shock passed through the ship’s steel hull.

&
nbsp; Suddenly, the executive officer at his damage control station in HQ-2 reported to the bridge, “Captain, we’re taking on water in the shaft alley.”

  “Roger that,” Blakely responded, and speaking to his exec over the ships’ broadcasting system, he said, “Number one, insure that HQ-3 takes all possible steps to control the flooding. We must keep propulsion and steering control.”

  “Helm not answering,” the helmsman reported.

  “Keep trying,” Blakely answered.

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” the helmsman said.

  The Broadwater rolled to the starboard. Another wave slammed into her port. Before she could come out from under the torrent of water, her port motor whaleboat was ripped away from the davits and several life rafts were torn away from their skids. Another wave hammered down on her, smashing the bridge windows and sending a rush of water onto the bridge.

  The lights went out.

  “Number one, emergency lighting,” Blakely yelled into the ship’s broadcast mike.

  “I can do it,” Troost shouted and made his way to the rear panel. A moment later dim lighting was restored to the bridge instruments.

  “Captain,” the communications officer reported, “we have a report that the convoy was forced to scatter.”

  “The Jerry fuckers will be at her as soon as this storm stops,” Blakely answered.

  The Broadwater took another wave.

  “Helm now answering,” the helmsman called out.

  “Steady on course 015 degrees,” Blakely said.

  “Aye, aye, Captain — coming to course 015 degrees.”

  The Broadwater slowly swung around, plunging and rolling.

  Troost was close enough to the weather instruments to look at them. The barometer was at 29.1 inches and the wind was blowing at 55 knots and gusting to 70.

  “Captain, we have a mayday from the Sally Blue,” the communications officer reported. “She’s foundering.”

  Blakely went to the chart table. “Position?” he asked, switching on the table lamp.

  Troost came to the table. “I can do this,” he said. “You have enough to do.”

  Blakely nodded.

  Troost asked for the Sally Blue’s position.

  “As of 0100 she was 23 and a half degrees west, 57 north,” the communications officer answered.

  “Roger that,” Troost said, using a pencil to mark the Sally Blue’s position on the chart with a small x. The Broadwater’s last known position had already been placed on the chart. Using a parallel ruler, Troost drew a line between the two positions and measured it. Converting the inches to miles, he said, “Captain, as of our last known position, we are 45 nautical miles northeast of the Sally Blue.”

  The Broadwater crested another wave and dropped into the trough behind it. She couldn’t make her way out of it before the wave crashed over her.

  Another torrent of water gushed onto the bridge, hurtling Blakely and his first officer backwards.

  Troost held on to the chart table.

  The executive officer in HQ-3 contacted the bridge. “Engineering reports main drive shaft bearing beginning to overheat. Recommend reducing speed to one-third if feasible.”

  Blakely pulled himself up to a standing position. “Reduce speed to one-third ahead,” he ordered the engine order telegraph operator; then he rang the communications officer. “Any more from the Sally Blue?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Blakely said, repeating what he was told. “Roger that.” He put the phone down and said, “We would have never reached her in time.”

  Almost as dramatically as it had developed, the storm passed and the seas began to abate, and by 0600, Troost noted, the wind had dropped to 10 knots and the barometer stood at 28.94 inches.

  “Captain Troost, would you prefer tea or coffee?” Blakely asked, with traditional British aplomb, as he stepped out of the way of a repair crew working to replace the smashed bridge windows.

  “Coffee would be fine,” Troost answered, admiring Blakely’s poise.

  Suddenly, over the ship’s broadcast system, the sonar officer shouted, “Target bearing —”

  The first torpedo exploded amidship on the port side with a huge geyser of water cascading over the ship.

  Troost was thrown against the side of the bridge.

  Moments later there was a second internal explosion forward of the bridge. Fire burst across the forecastle and the Broadwater listed heavily to port.

  “Submarine, surfacing four points off port bow,” the lookout yelled.

  “They’re going to finish us off with gunfire,” Blakely said. “But we’ll give them a run for their money.” He ordered all operational guns to “fire at will.”

  “Mounts one and two out of action,” the gunnery officer reported.

  “Roger that,” Blakely answered.

  “Captain we’ve lost fire-room boiler pressure,” the executive officer reported. “The ship is taking more water than the fire and bilge pumps can handle.”

  “Stand by to abandon ship. All hands, topside,” Blakely ordered.

  Two bracketing rounds come from the submarine.

  The Broadwater’s remaining mount, number three, continued to fire. But all rounds fell yards short of the target.

  The submarine fired again. This time with fatal effect.

  Number three mount dissolved into flame. An instant later an explosion tore away the ship’s stern.

  “All hands, launch all available life rafts,” Blakely ordered over the ship’s broadcast system. “All hands… All hands… Abandon ship… Abandon ship.” He looked at Troost, and with quiet resignation, said, “Good luck, sailor… Now go.”

  “I’ll stay,” Troost offered.

  “She’s my ship,” Blakely answered.

  “Good luck, sailor,” Troost said, saluting him. Moments after he left the bridge a shell slammed into it. The explosion sent him crashing down in to a smoky blackness. Troost felt himself being dragged along the deck; then he was in the water.

  CHAPTER 2

  Buoyed by his life jacket, Troost looked back at the Broadwater. The stern section had already sunk and what was left of her was burning.

  “This way,” a man shouted from behind Troost. “This way, man!”

  He turned in the water and saw the raft. There were three men on it.

  “C’mon, swim,” a man on the plunging raft urged, motioning to him.

  Suddenly aware of how cold the water was, Troost began to swim. He raised his head to look at the raft. It was bobbing up and down and it seemed to have moved away from him. He propelled himself toward it. Suddenly, for no reason at all, Troost remembered it was his birthday: he was 52 years old.

  “52,” he told himself, “and not much chance of making 53.”

  “Keep coming!” the man on the raft shouted.

  Troost felt cold and lethargic. The sensation grew, spreading its tendrils into his arms and legs. He was losing strength.

  “Don’t stop,” a man with a cockney accent shouted. “Don’t let those sons-of-bitches see a Yank die!”

  Troost didn’t know what the man was talking about. Who was watching him? To stop for even a few moments would give him the rest he needed…

  “Swim … swim — for the love of Christ, swim!” someone shouted. “You’re almost here — a few more strokes.”

  Troost raised his head. The raft was a blur.

  “Don’t stop,” the Limey cried.

  Troost started to raise his right arm. “I can’t,” he shouted. “I can’t.” He dropped his arm. “I can’t,” he said in a low voice and closed his eyes.

  “Captain, one more stroke — one more, Captain.”

  Troost opened his eyes.

  “He’ll go belly up if he doesn’t make it this time,” a man said. “He’s takin’ on water!”

  Troost forced his right arm up. Belly up, shit! He pulled himself toward the raft.

  “I got him!” a man shouted.

  Troost felt several pairs of hands grab h
old of him; then he was out of the water, looking up at three oil-stained faces and the gray sky behind them. “Belly up, shit!” he said.

  The three faces fractured into grins.

  Troost grinned back; then he closed his eyes…

  Troost felt the raft’s movement before he opened his eyes. He would have decided that he was dreaming if it hadn’t been so cold. Then he heard a man say, “Looks like ’e’s comin’ round.” The possibility of being involved in a dream vanished and, opening his eyes, he saw an intense blue sky and then the three oil-stained faces he had seen before. Two were on his right, the third on his left.

  “Welcome aboard, Cap’n,” the man on the left said.

  Troost started to pull himself up into a sitting position.

  One of the men on his right offered to help.

  “Thank you,” Troost said, “but I can manage myself.” He looked back over his shoulder.

  “We’re all that’s left,” the other man on his right said. “Those that didn’t go down with the ship never made it to a raft.”

  Troost nodded. They were the only survivors out of a complement 225 men.

  “Able-Bodied Seaman Raymond Forest, but everyone calls me Ray,” the man on his left said.

  Troost moved his eyes to the right.

  “Machinist second-class John Forster,” the man who offered to help said.

  “Chief Harry Walker, ship’s cook, sir,” the other man reported.

  “Gentlemen,” Troost said, “thank you for —” He smiled. “For having me as your guest.”

  The men grinned. The three of them, like himself, were shivering.

  “Or to say it differently,” Troost told them, “thank you for saving my life.” And he shook each of their hands, beginning with the man on the left. Then he said, “With some luck I’ll stand each of you a good dinner and a pint or two in a few days.”

  “Captain, how do you make our chances?” Forster asked. He was the gauntest of the three, but even the cook was thin.

  Troost looked up at the sky. Grayish white clouds were beginning to scud across it. They were apparently in the eye of the storm, and in a relatively short time they could be in the storm again.

  “Maybe 10 percent,” he said, looking straight at Forster, then at each of the two other men. “But we have to fight for that 10 percent with everything we have.”