Sheppard Of The Argonne Page 2

  He would be within his patrol area regardless, but Meier wanted the honor of the first kill. Gaining that distinction required knowledge of the shipping patterns the Americans were using, as well as understanding patrols in the vicinity. Meier knew there was little doubt of success. He had trained the U-179’s crew well. They had been together for almost a year, during which time he had scored one sinking after another. All he needed was to be on station early enough to gain the needed intelligence. Then Vizeadmiral Karl Dönitz—or “Uncle Karl,” as all the German skippers referred to their commanding admiral—would congratulate him in a message every U-boat would read.

  No, it would not be much of a gamble. The Americans had no reason to believe that German submarines were closing the East Coast to initiate Operation Beckenschlaege (Cymbal Crash). The lax Yankees would learn the same hard lessons as their British allies, while Vizeadmiral Dönitz’s U-boats ravaged their unprotected shipping. With a little luck, Dönitz could end this war in six months without any assistance from the rest of the Kriegsmarine.

  “Surface!” Meier ordered.

  Lieutenant John William Hamblen IV, USN, answered the 21MC “squawk box” report from the signal bridge with a curt, “Quarterdeck, aye.” Lifting the sixteen-power long glass, symbolic of his position as the Officer of the Deck (in port), he focused on the signal halyards of the aircraft carrier Sabine. As the signal guard ship, she would repeat any flag hoist from the Norfolk Naval Operating Base signal tower to ships anchored farther out in the roadstead.

  The light breeze from the west barely fluttered the five brightly colored flags and lone pennant that rose sharply to Sabine’s yardarm, making recognition difficult in the late-morning light. Yes, it was as the signal bridge had reported from their higher vantage point, just able to see the base’s mast. “Charlie, Charlie, Four, Nine” was Argonne’s hull number. What followed would be an order that Hamblen would be responsible for carrying out. “Easy, Pennant Six”—the call for the captain’s gig—was what every man on board was anticipating.

  Lowering the long glass, Hamblen turned to his boatswain’s mate of the watch and said, “Boats, call away the gig.”

  Moving to the microphone for the ship’s general announcing system (1MC), the petty officer placed the boatswain’s pipe to his lips and piped,

  “ss-s-s-sssssss”—Attention!—using his lungs and hand position to make the staccato starts and stops of the notes, followed by, “Away the captain’s gig, away.”

  Feeling pleased with himself, Hamblen took one more turn around the quarterdeck to ensure everything was squared away. Not a deck per se as it had been in the age of sail, the quarterdeck of Argonne was just an area of the starboard-side main deck adjacent the aft accommodation ladder and landing stage that was reserved for formal arrivals and departures. Located between the superstructure and the Number III main-battery eighteen-inch, three-gun turret, the deck was immaculate. A heavy steel locker jutted from the superstructure bulkhead nearby. An equally heavy armored cover, dogged shut when at sea, protected the communication instruments within from the muzzle blast of the guns. Now the cover hung open on its hinges, allowing access to the 1MC microphone, a ship’s telephone, the captain’s command-announcing circuit (21MC), collision alarm, general alarm switches, and sound-powered telephone jacks inside. A snow-white decoratively braided lanyard dangling nearby led to the ship’s bell three decks above. The only remaining item was a small portable desk, removed when the ship was at sea. Waist high and at the end of a stanchion decorated with coxcombing, the desk served as a place for the OOD to write the ship’s log when in port.

  Hamblen wished that the teak deck could have remained its normal peacetime holystoned off-white, but the dictates of war required that it now be painted a dull dark blue-gray, consistent with the Measure 12 (modified) camouflage scheme of all ships in the Atlantic Fleet.

  The bright flash startled Sheppard. He resisted the impulse to take cover, instinctively trying to avoid any outward sign of fear of the bursting shell as he directed the escape from the Japanese counterattack. The thick armor of Shenandoah’s command tower protected him; the hose teams extinguishing the blaze in the superstructure were not protected. They fell as if cut down by a scythe, shredded by the shrapnel and the explosion before Sheppard’s eyes.

  Why had he decided to attack the Japanese carrier force? The odds against him were overwhelming. Coldly calculating, he knew the weather was to his advantage. His new fire-control radar, just tested in the foul weather northwest of Oahu, allowed him to hide in the rainsqualls as his sixteen-inch guns sought revenge for the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor earlier in the day. He had thought he could get a few hits on the carriers before the heavy escorts closed within visual range in the fading gray light. Perhaps he could cripple or sink some of them. Supremely confident that the speed of his ship would safely allow him to escape, the “great” Captain McCloud, as he now sarcastically thought of himself, had not hesitated to engage. He had been so sure he could pull it off. Sheppard had always made the right decisions …

  “Captain? Captain! Does the captain require assistance?” The marine at the door stared at him.

  Had anyone else seen him? Sheppard stood at the entrance of Atlantic Fleet Headquarters, his eyes adjusting to the bright wake-up call of a cloudless day, the brilliant sun in his face. He had to become the confident leader again for the sake of his new command. He knew that if he failed, the men would doubt him and more sailors—his sailors—again … would die.

  As his vision returned, he steadied himself against the doorframe, for a moment fearing his left leg would betray him the way it had that Sunday evening when the Shenandoah had engaged the Japanese fleet. As a young officer, Sheppard had wondered why his captains clung so tenaciously to their commands. In his own first command—the destroyer Rowan—he had learned the answer: responsibility. The Shenandoah had taught him the dark side of that same responsibility.

  “No, thank you,” Sheppard answered.

  Stepping out of the doorway, he exchanged salutes with the sentry, who cast an inquiring glance at the ribbons on his chest, stiffening to perfection as he noticed Sheppard’s recently acquired red-white-and-blue ribbon of a Silver Star and the purple-and-white ribbon of a Purple Heart.

  Vice Admiral Ingraham’s heartening words assigning him to replace Leland—giving Sheppard another command, returning him to duty—were what he needed.

  What he hoped he needed.

  An ocean away in Brest, France, Vizeadmiral Klaus Schröder walked across the gangway of his flagship, the Graf Zeppelin. As he stepped aboard Germany’s first aircraft carrier, the pipe of the boatswain’s mate twittered, and the first of fifteen guns fired in salute. A product of the Imperial Navy, Schröder gave the traditional naval salute rather than the Nazi stiff arm. Of course, he was a party member; all flag officers were required to join. But Hitler, that Bohemian corporal, was stupid and did not understand the nature of modern war at sea. Fortunately, Großadmiral Erich Raeder and his predecessors did, and they had prevailed in building an impressive navy that could tie down the British Home Fleet while barely retaining sufficient forces to strike at convoys. The safe transit of those convoys was the only way for Great Britain to stay in the war. The Graf Zeppelin and her sister-ship, the Anton Fokker, were the direct result of Raeder’s efforts to educate the Führer in the new reality of war at sea—the necessity of air cover in all operations. With the final subjugation of France in the fall of 1941, all the French Atlantic and Mediterranean bases had become available to the Kriegsmarine, as had some units of the French fleet. Now Germany had a realistic chance of strangling Great Britain by cutting her supply lines.

  The first foray of Schröder’s fleet into the Atlantic via the Denmark Strait had been successful in not only sinking thirty-eight merchant ships and two armed merchant cruisers but also in destroying Admiral Tovey’s cruisers patrolling the strait in the fog. Unfortunately, Schröder had not anticipated the heavy expenditure of fue
l oil and gasoline necessary to maintain air cover in daylight hours, which he required to keep the British search planes from locating him. As a result, his fleet had to return to port sooner than he wanted. This deployment would be different; Schröder changed the mix of stores in his tanker supply ships in addition to acquiring several more. Little did the Brits know that the German supply ships were secretly operating from Spanish ports. Since they were not warships, they technically did not violate the sham of Spanish neutrality. This time Schröder was much closer to his operating areas, and the calmer waters of the southern latitudes would make it easier to replenish.

  Schröder knew he could slip past the British airborne patrols in the Bay of Biscay at night during the April storms. Once he was clear, the Brits could not catch him before he began preying on the fat tankers and cargo ships vital to that island nation’s existence. The German army might have failed in its invasion attempt when the Royal Navy sacrificed much of its destroyer strength to defeat the cross-channel assault. But the Kriegsmarine would not fail to humble the British lion and force Winston Churchill to accept Germany’s terms, erasing forever the ignominy of the first war. The world would soon come to know German efficiency and discipline.

  Unfortunately, the U-boats were reporting a high-pressure area to the west. His sortie would have to wait a few days for a low-pressure area and cold front to develop. In the meantime, the carrier’s air squadrons, flying from the nearby French fields, would keep British forces at bay, preventing any damage to his ships while they remained at the ready in Brest.

  As the last gun fired, Schröder dropped his salute and stepped aboard his flagship.

  “Ah, Becker,” he greeted the Captain of the Graf Zeppelin. “Your crew is well disciplined and executed the arrival ceremony well. I trust they are just as prepared when it comes to fighting.”

  Boatswain’s Mate Second Class Cruz was sitting in the aft starboard corner of the mess decks aboard Argonne with the rest of the gig’s crew, enjoying a cup of thick navy coffee, when the 1MC call came. With the gig’s crew wearing their best service dress blues, no officer could find fault with their current appearance (the Irish pennant on one of Fireman Russert’s thirteen front trouser buttons that Cruz had found now corrected). Only four men were assigned to the gig. Cruz was the newest member, but as coxswain, he was in charge, since the bow hook, stern hook, and the engineman were all nonrated. Even though Cruz was a pay grade too senior, it had not deterred him from specifically requesting assignment to the captain’s gig when he had reported aboard last month.

  All four men had spent days shining brass, cleaning, varnishing, and spiffing the gig housed inside the Argonne’s hangar, where Cruz had convinced the aviation chief boatswain’s mate to stow the launch awaiting the new captain’s arrival. Out of the weather, the polishing, painting, and cleaning continued, unhindered by morning dew, salt spray, or passing squall.

  “Okay, men,” Cruz said, “it’s show time. Goldstein, have Chief Bledsoe hoist the gig to the main deck starboard railing. I’ll meet you guys there.” Smiling, he added, “Don’t leave without me.”

  Cruz was not worried. He knew that the three young men were already proud of their achievements and the importance of their assignment. He watched them disappear through the watertight door to the starboard-side passage before he turned, hustling past the tables and stools fixed to the deck until he came to the double ladder leading up to the main deck. He knew exactly what he was going to do, but service tradition and the chain-of-command dictated that he get his instructions from the Officer of the Deck.

  Sheppard kept surreptitiously glancing at Hampton Roads, hoping to see his new command, as Admiral Ingraham’s sedan weaved its way toward the fleet landing. He knew Argonne was anchored out with her sister-ship, Belleau Wood. Those two capital ships—in addition to the carriers Raritan and Sabine—would be the heart of the hastily assembled force his orders directed him to join. Beside the flattops and battle cruisers, the rest of the task force would include the armored cruisers Quincy and Bethlehem. Their designation was old, but the ships, with their speed, armor, and ten-inch guns, were really only smaller versions of the battle cruiser he would command. A light cruiser squadron for scouting, some of the new light antiaircraft cruisers, and two destroyer squadrons would complete the ships assigned to Rear Admiral Adolphus Hamilton.

  Sheppard, though, would have to wait for his first glimpse of Argonne. The carriers anchored closer to the fleet landing, with their high flight decks and massive funnels, were blocking any view of the roadstead beyond. Crowded flight decks indicated they had already loaded their air groups at the carrier piers before returning to anchor.

  Arriving at the landing, the admiral’s driver braked to a halt and jumped out to open the right-rear passenger door for Sheppard. Yeoman Second Class Brewster, though, was not fast enough; the chief petty officer in charge at the fleet landing grabbed the door handle first.

  “Good morning, Captain,” the chief said.

  Sheppard awkwardly climbed out of the sedan. “Good morning, Chief. I’m Captain McCloud.”

  “Yes, sir. Admiral Ingraham’s aide called, saying you were enroute. The Argonne’s gig should be here any minute.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sheppard believed the “Chiefs” were the glue that held the navy together. He had relied on them ever since Chief Stratton on the old battleship New York had kept him, as a young officer, from making fatal mistakes that would have cost him his career. Aboard Shenandoah, he had made it a point to visit the chief’s quarters at least once a week for a meal and small talk, but only when invited.

  When Sheppard was wounded, his executive officer Chris Baer’s ready acceptance of the senior chief’s first invitation was the last thing Sheppard had needed to cement his opinion—he then requested that Baer remain in command of the Shenandoah while battle damage was being repaired.

  Yeoman Brewster returned from taking Sheppard’s luggage to the landing.

  “Captain,” the yeoman asked, “is there anything else I can do for you before the Argonne’s gig arrives? Anything you need from the exchange?”

  “No, thank you. I appreciate all you have done.”

  “Captain, if … if Argonne is in need of a yeoman before you sail, I know that Admiral Ingraham will let me go back to sea.”

  Sheppard turned and cocked an eyebrow at the yeoman. “Brewster, wouldn’t that be short notice for your family?”

  “No, sir. I am still single, and I’m coming to the end of my shore duty anyway.”

  “Very well. When I get aboard, I’ll see how we are manned. I’ll ask the chief of staff for your assignment if we have a billet open.”

  “Thank you, Captain!” With a crisp salute, Brewster was gone.

  As the Argonne’s gig approached the landing, the coxswain’s maneuvering seemed familiar. When the gig turned at the last second and backed down full to check its way, Sheppard knew why. The bow hook and stern hook, jumping to the pontoon, smartly made the gig fast to the landing and then hustled his baggage on board without a word, confirming what Sheppard suspected.

  “Petty Officer Cruz,” Sheppard said, “what are you doing here?”

  “It’s like this, Capt’n,” Cruz said, saluting from the gig. “Capt’n Baer found out what happened to the Argonne’s first captain. He figured that your leg would just about be healed and the Navy would probably want you back in command. He asked if some of us would volunteer to transfer out of the shipyard. Give you a few familiar faces in your new ship. When Boatswain Reed called a friend in the Bureau and confirmed you might be going to the Argonne as soon as your convalescent leave was up, there was no shortage of volunteers.

  “When I reported aboard, I told Commander Grabowski that I had been your coxswain before and volunteered to run the gig. It took me awhile to get Seaman Johansen, Seaman Goldstein, and Fireman Russert here trained up and the gig squared away, but we’re getting there. Still have a lot of rope work to do.”

/>   With a suppressed smile at the fresh paint, varnish, and gleaming bright work, Sheppard returned Cruz’s salute and stepped aboard, followed by the two seamen. Goldstein placed the shined brass ball at the top of the flagstaff, signaling to all ships and boats that a full captain had embarked. As Russert revved the engine in response to Cruz’s order, Johansen and Goldstein synchronized a display of their boathooks, wordlessly impressing any observers. Cruz was clearly in charge; he had trained the gig’s crew well. Wherever Sheppard went, he knew that he would be greeted with respect because of such a beautifully maintained and smartly run gig. Chris Baer had known that and made sure Cruz was one of the volunteers to go to the Argonne.

  Meier watched the twin-engine aircraft closely with his Zeiss binoculars. Low on the horizon to the west, he knew he had the advantage of the sun behind him. He felt certain that it was a B-18, meaning it belonged to the US Army.

  “Bah!” Meier muttered.

  He dismissed the possibility that the plane’s crew could spot, let alone recognize, his Type IXB U-boat at this range. His only concern was the white water of his wake.

  Turning to his watch officer, Meier ordered, “Slow to five knots until the American disappears.”

  Meier did not expect a delay of more than a quarter hour. He smiled. He would still have plenty of time to observe the entrance to the Chesapeake before he would initiate the attack.

  Squadron Leader Rupert Wythe-Jones, RAF DFC, had already sunk one U-boat in this war, and Four-One-Five Squadron of Coastal Command had developed into a first-rate unit, equipped with Short Sunderland flying boats, under his command. But Rupert was not flying today. Finally, he had a chance to catch up on his paperwork.