To Hunt and Protect
Page 12
“He wasn’t yelling at me.”
“You weren’t even a little afraid?”
“Truth? It was fucking terrifying to see the guy in charge that out of control.”
“You’re in control all the time. What would you do?”
“How many people have we already killed?”
“I haven’t killed anyone.”
“Not true. Not even a little bit true. Our ship has killed a lot of people. Hundreds. Maybe over a thousand. As a crew member you share in that the same way you get the unit citation or Battle E when the boat does.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Think it through. Talk to me if you need to.”
“Mallory, you didn’t answer my question.”
“Your upper level watch board is tomorrow. Get your card.”
Morrison walks into his stateroom and sits down. He closes his fists and silently screams. He gets out his letters and carefully sorts through them. He opens Lisa’s next letter.
My Darling Love,
I so hope and pray that you’re okay, happy, and well. In the quiet of our home, I can hear you breath. I’m a poet and a songwriter. I’m someone who is supposed to fathom the depths of the human soul and distill its essence, so I may share the truth. Right now, I feel like a giddy love bird, instead. I should say that I know we will have hard times. I recognize we will struggle and disagree. We are two very different people. Misunderstandings and disagreements are a real part of life and love. What I know more powerfully than anything else, is that you totally, unconditionally, and fully love me. A part of me fears I am unworthy of your love, but I know, to the very fiber of my being, that you are worthy of mine.
I walk a stormy desert beach
To see what drifts ashore
Cast my eyes upon the waves
For the man I adore.
All I see is the wind-swept sea
Crashing on the shore.
The only one for me.
Your life is on the sea.
I had to let you go.
It is the life you know.
It’s how my life must be.
I love my sailor. My sailor loves the sea.
How can I love a man,
Who’s first love is the foam?
How can I find a place,
To be our house and home?
How can I hold him,
When his heart will always roam?
The only one for me.
Your life is on the sea.
I had to let you go.
It is the life you know.
It’s how my life must be.
I love a sailor. My sailor loves the sea.
I cast my gaze upon the waves,
And see a distant mast.
Endless, crashing, changing sea,
And a ship, my love, at last.
The sea that stole my love from me,
Returns my love at last.
The only one for me.
Your life is on the sea.
I had to let you go.
It is the life you know.
It’s how my life must be.
I love a sailor. My sailor loves the sea.
He’s everything to me.
He is what he must be.
I need to moor with him.
So, he can moor in me.
I love you, my love. I love you exactly as you are. If I need to buy a boat, so we can share our loves, then I will. God, I love you.
Your wife, Your love,
Lisa
He collapses onto his bed, “My boat will never return.” He buries his face in his pillow, sobbing.
CAPE MAY NAVAL BASE, NEW JERSEY
1032, 30 January, 1942
Elaine Morrison stands on the quay with her son, Mitchell, and her eleven-year-old daughter, Margaret. Finally, they see the USS Livermore, DD-429, steaming into Cape May harbor. Its sides are streaked with rust, but it glides gracefully toward the pier.
Ida, the captain’s wife, joins her, “It looks a little rough.”
Elaine, “It does.”
Mitchell, “Hi, Mrs. Huber.”
Ida, “Hello Mitchell. How are you liking your school?”
“It’s okay. I’m doing good in math.”
Ida turns to Elaine, “I wish we could know more about their schedule.”
“It is what it is. Did you hear about the Carl Vinson?”
“The future carrier? I did. I’m thinking it’s some kind of war time propaganda.”
“It seems Mitchell here has a son named John on board one of the ships. John is a lieutenant commander.”
“That…that would be quite impossible.”
“Impossible, or not, he exists. We have his picture on the wall.”
Ida asks Mitchell, “How do you feel about this?”
“It says I retire a rear admiral. That means I have to work even harder in school.”
Elaine, “Why is that, dear?”
“Admirals can’t be dummies. I hope someday I get to meet him.”
Ida, “What would you do?”
“I would ask him everything I need to know so I could grow up. If I adopt him and be an admiral and everything, I have to be a really good student. I need to be like dad.”
Elaine, “But, darling, you have years to get ready.”
“Yeah, Mom, but if I don’t start now, by then, I won’t know enough.”
They hear, “Moored, shift colors.”
They wait as the brow is installed, shore services hooked up, and the engineering plant shut down. The official party goes aboard for debrief. When the official party leaves, liberty is called. The off-watch sailors stream off the ship. They pile on base buses for the gate and the pleasures of the small sea side town.
Finally, LCDR Henry Morrison walks off the Livermore with the CO, Commander Vernon Huber. He smiles uncontrollably as he walks up to his family. He pulls them all into a hug. “God, Maggie, you’ve grown like a weed. You too, Mitch.”
Mitch, “Dad, we got a letter from the Navy.”
Elaine, “Mitch, we’ll talk about it at the house. It’s odd dear, but nothing bad.”
Henry, “Okay.”
Mitch, “I’m going to be a rear admiral. I bet you are, too, Dad.”
They climb into their Chevy sedan and Henry fires it up. “What’s this about?”
Elaine, “I’ll show you the letter when we get home. Have you heard anything about a carrier battle group coming back in time from 1990?”
“Yeah, they hammered the Japanese in the Philippines real good. Gave McArthur a fighting chance.”
Elaine, “Well, Mitch has a son on one of the ships.”
Henry, “Huh. I guess it could be. Hell, we’ve been serving in the Navy a lot of generations. Really it shouldn’t be much of a surprise.”
Mitch, “Dad, it said he was adopted by retired Rear Admiral Mitchell Morrison.”
Henry, “Don’t let it go to your head, son. You still have to earn it.”
“I won’t, Dad. I promise.”
Henry, “Good. What rank is he?”
Mitch, “A lieutenant commander and XO like you, Dad.”
“XO of what?”
“The San Francisco.”
“The San Francisco is a heavy cruiser.”
“Dad, the heavy cruiser wouldn’t still be around in 1990, would it?”
“You’re right. Did it give the ship’s class?”
“No.” They pull up to their house and everyone gets out.
“Odd.” They walk into the living room and Henry looks at the picture of John on the mantle. “He looks Japanese or Chinese.”
Elaine, “His mom was, I think, Japanese. His dad was Irish, from the name, and a naval officer. It seems John’s parents died and Mitch took him in. Here’s the letter.”
Henry carefully reads it, “San Francisco, 711. No way we have made over six hundred heavy cruisers from 1942 to 1990. Must be a destroyer or destroyer escort.”
Mitch, “Dad, could it
be some type of ship that don’t even exist yet?”
“I suppose it could. Darling, have you written him?”
“I have. Mitch has, too.”
“I will as well. Japanese or not, he’s family.”
CHAPTER 10
USS SAN FRANCISCO, 50 MILES EAST OF SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
0928, 4 February, 1942
Morrison, on the periscope, does a quick 360, “No traffic.”
Cumberland walks into control and hands him a radio a message.
“Conn, Sonar. The carrier is in the harbor.”
Morrison, “Very well. Sir, want a look at sunlight?”
“I want Halsey to agree. While they are in port fucking around, we have work to do. There are convoys coming here all the time. Somewhere, the Japanese must have some submarines.”
“We have the reply, sir.”
Cumberland reads it, “God damn it. Okay, plot our course to Sydney Harbor. We’re to follow the Horne in tonight, then moor inside them.”
Morrison, “Sir, the Horne will screw up our anechoic panels.”
Cumberland hands him the message, “We surface at the hundred fathom line. Let me know before we blow.”
“Yes, sir.” Morrison reads the message.
FRM: CARGRU-3
TO: SIERRA NOVEMBER
REG: PORT VISIT
711 will follow the Horne into port this evening. A place is being prepared to moor the 711 inside the Horne. Shore power, water, and sewer connections will be provided. Once moored, off duty service members shall be granted liberty. The crew is required to wear service dress white uniform the first day and liberty uniform thereafter. They shall be briefed that they are forbidden to disclose the nature of your unit. They are to describe it as the anti-submarine ship, San Francisco. It is typical for sailor to brag on their kills. That is allowed in general, as it is good for morale. No specific details will be released (locations, weapons, tactics, procedures). Any sailor violating security shall be disciplined and at minimum lose liberty privilege. CO and XO will report to my office at 0800 02/5/1942.
Halsey
Morrison stays in control as the sub waits to pull in. As the sun sets, they approach the Horne and blow ballast at the one hundred fathom line. The sub rolls in the Pacific swells. Cumberland, “Morrison, I got the bridge. In about twenty minutes muster the line handling party.”
“Yes, sir.”
Morrison raises the scope. The Horne is only three miles away. It starts flashing blinker code. Every submarine officer is conversant in this code. “Tell the captain the Horne wants us close.”
Backes, “The captain says, no closer.”
“Roger.” He relays the message using the signal light in the periscope mast.
About an hour later, it is full dark as they pass between the headlands. The Horne picks up a pilot. The spotlights on the pilot boat never point astern. In another twenty minutes, a blacked-out tug approaches. The line handling detail ties it to the port side and they start the slow process of mooring between two barges. The wharf is completely dark, making it difficult. A second tug joins the first, and slowly, they push the submarine between two barges. Sailors on the pier throw their monkey’s fist, and the boatswain announces, “Moored.”
Miller walks into control, “Any light up there?” Morrison shakes his head, and goes back to the periscope. Miller continues, “If it’s okay with the boss, I would like to keep steamers until morning. I’m worried about hooking up at a strange port in the dark.”
“Sounds reasonable. Let’s see what they have set up. Once the Horne is in, they may turn on the lights.”
“Where is the Horne mooring?”
“They tucked us between two barges. The Horne is mooring to the barges. We’ll be tucked in nicely.”
“So much cloak and dagger.”
“It’s necessary.”
“Yeah. Does it look like World War II out there?”
“It looks dark. I think the lines are secure.”
Cumberland passes down, “Secure the main engine. Retract the outboard.”
Morrison, “The Horne is working itself in. They may need to tie off to us.” He grabs the sound-powered phone, “Captain, XO, do you know if the Horne plans to tie any lines to us?”
Cumberland, “I don’t know yet, Morrison. I’ll ask.” He comes back on, “They plan to tie over us.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll retract the masts.”
Cumberland grunts, “Yeah. Secure sea and anchor. Once the Horne is parked, they’ll turn on enough lights to hook up services.”
Morrison, “Yes, sir.” He flips the handles on the periscope and announces, “Retract all masts to their stowage position.” To Miller, “I have your answer. Once the Horne is moored, the lights will come on.”
USS SAN FRANCISCO
2335, 04 February, 1942
Mallory gets into his dress whites with watch team 2. Watch team 3 has duty and watch team 1 has it tomorrow morning. Gustaf, “Where are we going?”
Mallory, “If you’re going with me, we’re going to Bondi beach.”
“Why?”
“Save the questions until after we’re there. You coming?”
MM2 Joe Jackson, “Mind if I join you?”
Mallory, “Sure. If I can, I’m getting a room, so bring a change of clothes. We don’t have duty tomorrow.”
Gustaf, “My other whites?”
“Yes. Trust me. Just trust me.”
They hear, “Liberty call for watch team 2.”
Gustaf, “Watch 1 is getting screwed.”
Mallory, “Suckage works its way around. That’s how it works.”
Jackson asks Gustaf, “Haven’t you learned the Law of Continuity of Suckage?”
“Yeah.”
They climb out of the hatch, salute the watch and flag and go ashore. They see Horne and San Francisco sailors walking toward the gate and follow them out. Soon, they’re in a taxi on their way to Bondi. Mallory, in the front seat, asks the driver, “Sir, how late are the bars open in Bondi?”
“What mate? They’re open until they close. There is no mandated closing time.”
“Okay, we’re looking to have a beer in a decent place that isn’t crawling with sailors.”
“I know a good place. When you want to go back, the barkeep will call me.”
“I was hoping to let a room somewhere if its reasonable.”
“I know a pub that has some rooms behind it. Will that work, mate?”
“It will.”
They pull up to the Slaughtered Lamb. Mallory, “How much, sir?”
“Twenty P.”
“Do you take the American?”
“Not the coin.”
Here’s a dollar, thank you.”
“No, mate. Let me make change.”
“Okay.”
Coin in hand, they walk into the bar. The bar is wood with shake siding. There is a line of two by two windows on each side of the door. Mallory leads them in. The room isn’t large, but along the back wall is a nice wooden bar with stools. Of the five tables, three are occupied by Australian Army.
Mallory tells his companions to pick a table and walks up to the bar, “Three beers, and do you have rooms to let?”
“The room is two dollars and I don’t want it wrecked.”
“It won’t be wrecked by us. We’re just thankful to not have to sleep on the ship.”
“Ten cents a beer.”
Mallory pulls out his wallet, “Do you have anything to eat this late?”
“We’ve got some stew heating bye. It’s been there a bit. That, and some bread.”
Mallory hands him three dollars and gets change back. He carefully navigates to their table with the precious beer. He takes his first sip as if it was communion wine, and savors it.