Day of the Bomb
Steve Stroble
Day of the Bomb
Steve Stroble
Day of the Bomb, Copyright c 2016 by Stroble Family Trust. All rights reserved.
Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com
This book is a work of fiction. All people, places, events, and situations are the product of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance of them to actual persons, living or dead, places, events, and situations is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1
“FUBAR!” Fouled up beyond all recognition. “SNAFU!” Situation normal all fouled up. Can’t be saying the real F-word or Mom will wash my mouth out with soap. Yeah, if Mom could only see me now. I had it all planned out, Mom. After the war ended I was going to introduce you to the Professor. You’d really like him. He’s one of those college boys, real smart and all. He told me where the F-word came from…
The Professor materialized in his mind’s eye.
“You see, PFC Dalrumple, back in ancient England they taxed married couples at a higher rate than couples that just shacked up. So folks would put signs on their doors that said: Fornicating Under Command of the King to get a lower tax rate. That’s where the F-word came from.”
“No kidding? You mind coming over to meet my mom after the war and tell her that? She’ll never believe me.”
“Be glad to.”
Calling out to Mom when the chips are down. Jason Dalrumple had heard dying men do it on Tarawa, in the Solomon Islands, and the Philippines. He had even kept track of how many he had heard do so, as if being able to recite that bit of trivia qualified him to survive this war so that he could relate it to the folks back home. Besides, bouncing about in this warm water was as close a feeling to being back in his mother’s womb he could fathom. So wasn’t it natural for him to call on her? Only problem was that this amniotic fluid happened to be the largest ocean on Earth and home to those who would rather make a meal of Jason than reminisce about mothers.
He swallowed another mouthful of salt water. It burned every tissue it touched. Be glad to? How about being glad enough to come rescue me, Professor? I’ve been in the water all last night, you know. I’m not a squid like you are. I’m feeling pretty waterlogged right about now. At least the sun’s coming up finally. If anybody can spot me, it’s you. I’ll even wave and yell as soon as I spot the ship.
***
“Ensign Rhinehardt!” The runner from the command deck shook the one he had been sent to retrieve.
“Huh?”
“Get up and get dressed, sir. The captain wants to see you ASAP.”
“All right, all right.” What now? The last time he called me in I had to explain what a Navy officer like me was doing hanging around an Army enlisted man. Good thing we’re from the same town, sort of. Better get ready. How do I report in? Fred Rhinehardt, Ensign, 2…Wait a minute. That’s how I report in to the Japs after we invade Japan. They got so many subs up there that they’ll sink us for sure and I’ll end up a POW. I better grab a cup of Joe to wake up or I’ll mess up. Old man Uley doesn’t like screw-ups.
As troop transport ships went, Ensign Fred Rhinehardt’s was better than average. A veteran of dozens of island campaigns, she bore little in the way of battle scars thanks to ever-present destroyers and cruisers that protected her like big brothers watching over a little sister. Most of her damage had been inflicted earlier that year when a kamikaze plane dive-bombed into her deck, sending its Japanese pilot, eleven sailors, eight marines, and six soldiers to the hereafter. A grunt had pushed Fred to the deck as flaming metal fly over them, an act that forever changed the ensign’s attitude toward soldiers. So far, one torpedo had dented her hull, a dud that found its resting place on the bottom of the Pacific. It now protected smaller fish that hid behind it as those higher up the food chain searched for them.
All other torpedoes fired by Japanese submariners had missed it due to her three captains’ evasive maneuvers since December 7, 1941. Her current captain had sufficient motivation to stay afloat. If Captain T. A. Uley survived WW II, he could retire with thirty years of service and at last return to the hometown he had left during WW I to answer the call of “anchors aweigh, my boys, anchors aweigh…” His epiphany during military service occurred as he watched flyboy Billy Mitchell sink every target ship the Navy had lined up with bombs dropped from a propeller-driven airplane.
After that, Captain Uley wrangled his way onto an aircraft carrier as a junior officer. But his floating city went down to the bottom during 1943, with survivors of the sinking transferred to other vessels. His final ship during WW II would prove to be this transport ship, which was currently minus one passenger as of…That was the worst part of any “man overboard incident,” when did the poor sap fall, jump, or get dumped over the side? If it were daytime, most likely he could be spotted and a rescue attempt made unless…unless the craft was part of a convoy steaming to some beachhead. If so, then the best that the one trying to keep his head above water could expect was a life preserver thrown over the side.
Good luck, good buddy, trying to retrieve any floatation device by swimming through wake after wake produced by a line of transports, cruisers, tenders, battleships, and maybe a carrier or two. Then again, it was not yet certain that Private First Class Jason Dalrumple had gone overboard. Maybe he had a hiding place where he slept off the homemade hootch that those dumb Army grunts could concoct out of sugar and anything that would ferment.
“Ensign Rhinehardt reporting as requested, sir.”
“What took you so long, ensign? I sent Seaman Brueagard for you twenty minutes ago. Two minutes for him to get to you, five minutes to dress and go to the head, and two minutes for you to get here.” He tapped his watch. “You should’ve been here eleven minutes ago.”
“Uh, I swung by the mess for a cup of coffee, sir.” His hand shook until the little that remained sloshed onto his shoes. “Oops. Sorry, sir.”
“The captain in charge of the Army troops says one of his men is missing, PFC Dalrumple. You know, the clown you pal around with, the one who calls you the Professor.”
“Jason?”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Last night at about 2200 hours. He said he was going up on deck for some air.”
“Did he come back down below after that?”
“I don’t know. I went to my quarters about five minutes later.”
Captain Uley turned a chart so Rhinehardt could better see it. “Okay, we were about here at 2200 last night. He was reported missing at 0600 hours. So he went over the side somewhere between here and here.” He drew a straight line between the two points.
“Sir, when I went out on deck I noticed we’re still steaming the same direction as yesterday. Why haven’t we reversed course yet to search for Jason?”
“Because of our orders. Something big is cooking. I don’t know what it is but I think it has something to do with the invasion of Japan. In any case, when I radioed fleet they denied me authority to launch a search for your friend. The best they can do is a search and rescue by air using the flyboys.” He handed the chart to his orderly. “Get this down to the radio room. Have them transmit these coordinates I marked off so they can pass them on to the flyboys. It’s time for them to rise and shine and get in the air so they can search all day.”
“But sir, we’ve covered almost 200 miles since last night. We need to turn around and…”
Captain Uley placed a hand on Rhinehardt’s shoulder. “Son, once you factor in currents, tides, sharks, and whether or not your pal was wearing a life preserver, you’re talking thousands of square miles. Worse than looking for a needle in a haystack, any day of the week, boy.”
Rhinehardt slumped into a chair. His chin quivered as he fought tears meant to mourn the best f
riend he had had during three years of war. He wanted to protest his captain’s assessment but could not. It was not a matter of rank as much as his thirty years at sea versus his three.
“Don’t just sit there, boy. We’ve got work to do.”
“Huh?” His daze removed expected military formality.
“Let’s narrow down the search area for the Army Air Force boys.”
Chapter 2
One Month Earlier, White Sands Missile Range
The voice counting down the minutes echoed from the test site’s loudspeakers. “Countdown commencing. Twenty minutes and counting.”
That’s my cue. Exit stage right.
“Hey there, Mr. Freight. You gonna watch it from here, too?”
“Uh, sure, George. Just have to use the bathroom first.”
“Okay. I got us two pair of dark glasses. Snatched them out of the box before everyone else took on off. How do mine look? Are they tight enough to protect my eyes?”
“They look perfect. Be right back.”
“Okay. If we look out this window right here we’ll get to see the bomb go off. I’ll go ahead and pull us up a couple of chairs to watch from.”
“The Gadget, George! There is no bomb, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right. Sorry, Mr. Freight. I ain’t too up on all that top secret talk.”
“George, we’re friends so don’t call me Mr. Freight.”
“Sorry, Mr. Freight, I mean Dave. It’s just the way I was brought up. My daddy whooped our butts real good if we didn’t say, ‘yes sir, no sir, yes ma’am, and no ma’am’ all the time.”
“I need to go.”
“I’ll have your chair set up.”
Now I’m way behind schedule. I thought that George would go off with the rest of those fools to watch the bomb go off. Oh well, when all else fails, improvise. Fifteen minutes left, if my watch is right. That’s not enough time to line the walls of the supply closet now. That means the rays will get me. I better get moving. I’m down to fourteen minutes. I’ll just sneak by him to the closet.
“How come you’re crawling on the floor, Dave? You got another attack of the hemorrhoids again?”
“No, George. If you have to know, the rays that are coming out when that bomb explodes are harmful.” He rose from his hands and knees and dusted off his pants as he sidestepped toward the closet.
“But then why everybody else be going down real close to where they gonna explode it at?”
“Because they’re fools, that’s why! And you’re a fool if you stand over by the window. The rays will go right through the glass, then through your goggles, then your eyes straight into your brain! What are you going to do then?”
“My brain? You sure about that?”
“Yes. The worst-case scenario is that it will set off a chain reaction and destroy the earth. My best-case scenario is that the rays will fry anyone’s brain that is too close to the blast. I told all those hotshot scientists who walk right by me day after day all about it. I told them how Tesla burned his hand fooling around with X-rays. And all about Hermann Muller’s experiments way back in the 1920s that proved how harmful invisible rays really are. And…oh, forget it.” He clutched the janitor’s uniform.
“Nine minutes and counting.”
“You hear that? There’s barely enough time.”
“For what?”
“To put on the tin foil, you idiot! Because you delayed me I don’t have time enough to line the walls of the supply closet now. But I have a backup plan. Come on and follow me before it’s too late.”
“Okay.”
“Here they are.”
“Mmm, mmm. How many rolls of tin foil you got stacked up in there?”
“Ten. That’s just enough for both of us. You in or out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Quit thinking and start wrapping the foil all around your body. That, plus the walls of the supply closet will stop at least some of the rays. It worked in Huxley’s book.”
“Tell you what. You go on ahead and wrap yourself up twice. I heard the scientists talking that this is gonna be one historic day so’s I think I’ll just mosey back on over to the window and watch it go off.”
“Eight minutes and counting.” The announcer’s voice crackled through the speaker that hung next to the ceiling.
“But if it makes you feel better, I’ll help you wrap you on up first. Sure can’t be blaming you for being careful.”
“Thanks, George. Hurry!”
Ten rolls of unwrapped and rewrapped tin foil later, George shut the door to the supply closet. “I’ll be back to check on you once it’s all over.”
“One minute and counting. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight…”
Chapter 3
“Jason Dalrumple. Private First Class…” The words passed by swollen tongue, parched mouth, and raw lips beaten bloody by ten hours of nonstop slaps of seawater. “Forget it, Mr. Jap! I ain’t gonna give you my serial number. It’s so top secret that I can’t even remember it!” He scanned the blue sky. “Sure could use some more of those clouds to block out the sun, Lord.” He decided it was almost noon. “Like I was telling you, it’s high noon! Time we had it out, Yamamoto. Just you and your sword and me and my M-1. It’s right here somewhere.” His hands clutched at salt water but brought nothing to the surface. His estimated time was off by four hours.
Twenty hours since his last food because supper had been skipped to practice the Professor’s Method to win at blackjack followed by fifty-nine hands dealt and twelve shots of hootch drunk. The hootch was courtesy of the dealer who served it free of charge whenever a player won three hands. Any other drinkers paid two bits. Nasty hootch: raisins, canned peaches and fruit cocktail, and coconut juice set to cooking with a couple pounds of sugar. Jason had vomited part of it over the rail into the tossing water but the hootch that remained within him now served no purpose but to dehydrate and disorient him.
***
Army-Navy football games are nothing compared to an Army captain on the receiving end of a Navy captain laying down a barrage aboard the latter’s ship.
“Where are they? I asked you to bring them to the officers’ mess a half hour ago!”
“That’s what’s wrong with you swabbies, sir. You don’t understand the Army’s chain of command. I told my lieutenant who told his top sergeant who…”
“Get your troops on deck! Now!” Five minutes later Captain Uley addressed the two companies of soldiers who had irritated him since they had come aboard. Now his patience, which he claimed rivaled Job’s, ended. “I’m Captain Uley for those of you I have not met. In all my thirty years of service to our country, I have never witnessed such a SNAFU as this. One of your men goes missing and he’s floating somewhere out there.” His palm swept toward the expanse of blue behind the ship’s stern. “Now I realize most of you think the U.S. Navy is just a taxi service meant for nothing else than hauling you from island to island just so you can get your brains blown out by some Jap bullet. In any case, I don’t have any time left for chains of command. Right now I’m in charge of this vessel and I’m ordering the men who played cards with PFC Jason Dalrumple last night to step forward. If they don’t I am going to make every marine on this ship into military policemen. Their first task will be to search every one of your lockers, beds, duffel bags, and the uniforms you are wearing for anything I deem to be contraband. Their second task will be to make your life hell until I can finally deposit your sorry butts at your destination.”
The Green Wall, Army style; the unwritten variation of the universally understood Code of Silence. Army, Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, Army Air Force members, enlisted and drafted, knew that code better than any of the tales of the two million court-martials that would take place during WW II. The only thing worse than being court-martialed was to rat out someone who would face justice military style. But one of the troops on deck that morning possessed enough contraband that he loved more than the code. He pushed one of the card playe
rs out of the ranks and toward the sweating, cursing captain. He was in the grunt’s face before he could slip back into the empty space where he had stood.
“All right, soldier. Who are the other two? I know there were three of you playing cards with PFC Dalrumple.”
With the jig up and the Code of Silence no longer guaranteed, two others joined their comrade in cards.
“Follow me. Carry on, captain.” Captain Uley saluted the one who commanded the assembled men. “Dismissed.” Accompanied by an Army lieutenant, he led the way to one of the few places the three soldiers had not yet stepped foot in on the transport ship – the officers’ dining room. Once there, Captain Uley took the first man inside and had the other two wait in the hallway with a marine armed with a .45 and nightstick.
“Have a seat, corporal.” Captain Uley pointed at a chair as he sat. “Your Lieutenant is here to ensure you are treated fairly. Since you outrank your fellow gamblers outside, I thought we’d start at the top and work our way down.” He smiled. “Chain of command. Or as you grunts put it, hurry up and wait.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many players were there?”
“Four.”
“Just four the whole time PFC Dalrumple played?”
“Yes.”
“Who won the most money?”
“Jason did. I’ve never seen anyone so hot. He cleaned me out.”
“So after the game ended, you mugged him and tossed him overboard.”
“No. Sure I was sore but not that sore.” He stood and waved his arms. “You’re just wasting your time with me.”
“Simmer down, son. Do you know anybody else that might have rolled him?”
“No.”
“One last thing. Which one of the four of you dealt the hands? Or did you take turns dealing?”
“None of us. It was some guy who just likes to deal but not bet money. He says he wants to be a dealer in Las Vegas when the war is over.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Some new guy I don’t know.”
“Dismissed. Send in the PFC on your way out.” He turned to the lieutenant. “You know any troopers that like to deal blackjack?”
