1945

Kutchinski hoped it was a Jap. He had never bombed a ship and hated to abort the mission with a full load. In a few moments he was going to have to dump the bomber's load into the ocean. Now maybe, just maybe, he might have a useful target.

Kutchinski was well aware that no bomber had likely yet sunk a moving warship. Despite pilots' claims to the contrary, it was just too difficult to hit a moving target from a great height. The ship below had too much time to gauge the fall of the bombs and simply turn away. That there was really no such thing as precision bombing was another factor.

Despite new Norden bomb sights, most bombs didn't land anywhere near their intended target. Norden bomb sights didn't take into account the nervousness of the operator, where a single second's misjudgment could send a bomb early or late to its destination, winds that could shift even the largest bomb in its flight, and air turbulence that jarred the plane and spoiled the calmest bombardier's aim. These and the fact that bombers could still be fired at during some aspects of their run all conspired to send bombs off target.

But what if it was a Jap sub and there was something wrong with her? She was clearer now and her silhouette was definitely strange. Their radioman signaled Guam that they had a possible enemy sub sighting and were trying to verify. Guam told them to be careful.

Maybe the Polish Pope's luck would change. After the two earlier aborts, some wiseasses were saying it was because of the plane's name. There had never been a Polish pope, Kutchinski was told, and there never would be. The name was a jinx. Even Father Girardelli, the Catholic chaplain, had suggested he change it. The priest had also assured him that the papacy was reserved for deserving Italians and had gotten a little angry when Kutchinski had told him there was no such thing as a deserving Italian.

"He's shooting at us!" yelled Franks.

"He surely is," Kutchinski said happily as tracers arced from the sub toward their plane. That settled it. The sub was a Jap. He bounded to the pilot's seat and took over command of the plane. And she's not diving, he thought with glee. Maybe she can't, he thought. Such a shame.

He decided he would not try to hit the sub directly, but came at her bow-on at one thousand feet. If a bomb dropped even near a ship, the pressure would cause the sub's hull to buckle and send her down as effectively as if he had dropped one straight down her conning tower. He ordered the nose gunners to spray the decks of the sub with. 50-caliber machine-gun fire as they approached. It wouldn't be accurate, but it might make those on her deck keep their heads down for a critical second while they bombed.

For an instant before the bombs dropped, he saw figures running about the deck of the sub and jumping into the water. Then the plane flew over and peeled away. Kutchinski saw nothing but heard the tail gunner whoop with joy. He banked the plane in a tight turn and saw the waters around the sub had been whipped into a froth as a dozen five-hundred-pound bombs exploded around her. As expected, none hit, but they caused a pressure surge that lifted the sub out of the water and laid her on her side. She began to take water and settle.

"Anybody taking pictures?" Kutchinski hollered. An affirmative reply came from two of his men who never flew without their cameras.

Franks hollered that he could see that several hull plates were damaged. "She's ruptured like my uncle Harry, Major. She's done for!"

"My sympathies to your uncle Harry," Kutchinski yelled over the intercom. He then directed his radio operator to notify the navy that there might be debris that could provide intelligence, along with the possibility that some Japs had survived the onslaught. Through his own binoculars he thought he could see heads in the water.

As the men on the Polish Pope circled and watched, the stricken sub sank beneath the waves, breaking in half just before she slid from view. It occurred to Kutchinski that damned few men had been able to get off, and he wondered what was going on in that sinking ship as it descended to the bottom of the Pacific. He decided he didn't really want to know.

CHAPTER 64

SOUTH OF KYUSHU, THE I-58

Comdr. Mochitsura Hashimoto vomited oily water and grasped for a piece of floating debris. The dying submarine I-58 had sent a torrent of materiel upward as she sank to the bottom, and much of it now floated near him. If he could stay afloat for a while, he might not yet die. That he was still alive in the first place hinted that he might not yet have been chosen to die this day.

He wiped his eyes and squinted. The oil and the salt from the water had blurred his vision. A life preserver bobbed a few feet in front of him and he struggled into it. Relieved of the need to use all his strength swimming, he looked about him. The I-58 was indeed gone, as if there had been a doubt. He hollered and a scattering of voices answered.