“You should have seen the shack we lived in when we were sent to Panama! Roaches big enough to carry off a bag of groceries, if we’d ever had enough money to buy a whole bag of groceries. The roof leaked in the rainy season and they wouldn’t fix it then because they couldn’t work in the rain. When the dry season came they couldn’t fix it because they didn’t know where it leaked!”
“What’s Mary Simms’ background?” Bernice asked.
“Civilian,” Gloria Brannon said. “She met Pete when she was working in some Senator’s office in Washington. He was attached to the color guard or something like that. He was a football player at the Academy, you know, big man on campus sort of thing. Very good looking, as he is now. She was much slimmer then, she’s let herself go a little since they had the baby.
“She told me once, when they were commissioning Mako, that he made her do thirty minutes of calisthenics every morning when they got up. Then he’d take his shower and she’d fix breakfast because he wanted his breakfast as soon as he was dressed. And then he’d chew her out for not being showered and cleaned up! He said she shouldn’t sit at an officer’s table in a robe and hair curlers!”
“Nice man,” Grilley said. “You had a little trouble with him at New London, didn’t you?”
“Just a little,” Mike said slowly. “He started getting on Nate Cohen, needling him because Nate’s Jewish. I stopped it.”
“Simms is a fool,” Grilley said. “Cohen is ten times as smart as Simms is ever going to be. Did you know he was studying for the Rabbinate, Mike?”
“Yes. The Skipper told me he saw it in his service jacket. I wondered,” Brannon’s face was solemn. “I never served with a Jew before, never even knew a Jew for that matter. I thought they had to eat special foods off special plates, things like that.”
“If they observe dietary laws, they do,” Grilley said. “But I think Nate would have asked for a dispensation because of service in a submarine in wartime.”
“You got along very well with Cohen?” Brannon was speaking slowly, picking his words.
“Yes,” Grilley said. “I had some Jewish professors in school. I admired them as men and for their learning.” He was conscious as he spoke of a subtle change in the room. The same sort of change that came about whenever Nathan Cohen walked into the Mako’s Wardroom was here in this slightly shabby room in this seedy house that the Navy had appropriated for Officer’s Quarters. There were only a few Jews in the prewar Navy. The Jew was unknown. Therefore he was dangerous. Grilley changed the subject abruptly.
“I think there’s something you ought to know, Mike. We, all of us in the Wardroom and I’m sure that everyone in the crew — we’re going to miss you. You were one hell of a fine Executive Officer. I know you’re going to make a hell of a good Skipper.”
Brannon blushed, the solid red flush mounting swiftly from his open shirt collar to his black hair. His bright blue eyes squeezed shut for a moment and then opened.
“Well, Don, that wasn’t necessary. I’m going to miss Mako, all of you.” He spread his hands, almost helplessly.
“You know, when you Reserves started coming in with us we resented you. Yes, we did! Called you shoe salesmen and ribbon clerks. You got ranks that some of us worked years and years to get. I think you can understand how we felt. We’d been doing our work for years, ever since high school and in you came and got braid some of us couldn’t get. And I, for one, want to go on record as saying that most of you people are damned smart!”
“It cuts both ways,” Grilley said softly. “Most of us who came into the Navy had a pretty low opinion of Regular Navy officers. We thought you were parasites, you’d been getting free hospital care, free dental care, a free education and that sort of thing and we’d been on the outside, fighting to get through school in the Depression years. And most of us have found out that most of you are damned good men, damned good.
“I found out that it isn’t much different in here than it is outside in many ways. You have a system. In the oil fields you learn very quickly to lean on the chief rigger. He’s the man who knows everything. Here you lean on the Chief of the Boat. He knows everything.”
“Let’s end this mutual admiration society,” Bernice Grilley said, “before you wind up crying on each other’s shoulders. When do you have to leave, Gloria?”
“We’ve got about another eleven days,” Mike Brannon said. “We get to go together, privilege of command. But we’ll be together for only a few weeks, and then Eelfish will go to sea. Gloria is going to stay in the States, with her folks.”
“I don’t like that part,” Gloria said. “I won’t be here to see Mike bring his ship in at the end of his first war patrol.”
“I don’t think you’d see that anyway,” Mike said. “Bob Rudd told us at lunch yesterday that Nimitz is thinking of sending most of the new submarines to Australia. Down there we’ll be closer to the islands the Japs have captured and closer to their supply ships.”
“Do you know anything about this new Captain we’re getting?” Grilley asked.
“I know Capt. Arvin Mealey,” Brannon said. “His father was an Admiral. I served under him in R-Boats in Panama.”
“What’s he like?” Grilley asked, his voice as casual as he could make it. He could feel the atmosphere in the room change. Reservists didn’t ask leading questions about Regular Navy officers.
“He’s a strict Commanding Officer,” Brannon said slowly. “He lives by the Book, by the rules and regulations of the Navy. If you know the Book, if you live by it, you’ll get along with him just fine. If you don’t, well, I’ve seen some who didn’t. They had a lot of trouble. I got along with him pretty well.”
“How about the man who’s taking your place?”
“I don’t know him,” Brannon said. “He’s a Reserve, I was told, an engineer from M.I.T. You didn’t go there, did you?”
“No,” Grilley smiled. “Oklahoma. A Reserve as the Exec? Pete Simms will have a fit! He thinks he’s going to be the new Executive Officer of the Mako!”
“I think he should be,” Brannon said slowly. “I don’t know of any other Fleet Boat with a Reserve for an Exec I don’t know how Captain Mealey will like that. He may not like it at all!” He rose and Gloria went into the front room to get little Glory.
“You people take good care of Mako,” Brannon said as he reached the front door. He walked through the door quickly so Grilley wouldn’t see the tears filling his eyes. Once he was away from the house and in the shadow of a tree he turned.
“You keep a sharp lookout when you’ve got the deck, Don. You’ll see the Eelfish one of these days!”
Chapter 10
The Royal Hawaiian Hotel on Waikiki Beach was the R & R center for submarine crews in from a war patrol. The men were given two weeks to unwind from the rigors of a war patrol while repair crews at the Submarine Base, called “relief crews,” repaired and repainted their ship. The hotel’s spacious grounds were large enough for those men who, after weeks of living shoulder-to-shoulder with others, wanted nothing more than solitude and quiet. The comfortable rooms were a welcome contrast to the steel-framed bunks and the confining curve of the ship’s hull. The sunshine and high blue sky were savored by men who in the course of a long war patrol often never saw even the night sky.
As Mako’s crew came piling out of the buses they were met by a grim-faced Chief Boatswain’s Mate and his crew of Masters at Arms, the hotel police force.
“Pile your gear on the starboard side of the lobby,” the Chief barked. “My people will stand watch over it while you eat. When you’re through with chow fall in by your gear.”
The Chief Bos’n’s Mate lined them up after they had eaten. His seamed face split in a small smile as he told them to stand at ease.
“I don’t want any of you people to get the wrong idea,” the Chief began. “We’re not here to make trouble for you unless you insist on it. There ain’t too many rules you have to obey. But there are some rules and here they are.
“You’ll keep your rooms shipshape. No laundry will be hung from the room balcony railings. You’ll wear uniform of the day at all times outside of your rooms unless you’re going to the beach to go swimming. No drinking in the rooms. You got three bars on the first deck, do your drinking there.
“No broads are allowed on the grounds or in the hotel. And if any of you people want to fight,” his tough face broke into a wide smile, “I got two Fleet champions in my detail. They’ll give you all the fight you want, inside the ring or out.
“Honolulu is under martial law. That means nobody except security personnel is allowed on the streets between sundown and sunrise. That goes for all civilians, too. I mean you can’t go out on the streets after sundown! You go wandering out of this hotel after dark and some trigger-happy Army fuck-off is liable to shoot you dead!” He took a deep breath.
“Now because all of you people are war heroes you get some special privileges.
“There’s some whorehouses downtown. The cab drivers know where they are. They open at zero eight hundred for ordinary sailors who ain’t heroes. You people can get in the whorehouses at zero seven hundred. To do that you have to get a special pass from the desk that lets you out of the gate at sunrise. You’ll find cabs coming to the gate right after that. Now lemme give you some advice about them whorehouses.
“First place, they’re on the second deck in one block of town. On the first deck there’s a big grocery store. You’ll find a lineup of women doin’ their shopping. Be on your best behavior when you go through that line. Don’t make no cracks! Them women know what’s topside in that building.
“When you get topside you’re going to be the first people of the day. You don’t have to take no wet decks. But those places are so busy you only get three minutes with a girl. If you can’t get it off in three minutes they give you a rain check and you can go back another day for half price.
“Another thing: The Army polices the whorehouses. They got MPs in there with clubs. Most of those fuck-offs are Reserves, cops from the South. They like to break heads. So don’t start any trouble in the whorehouses.
“One last thing: Don’t get any ideas you can make it with the women around town. Those broads got the pick of the crop. They’s about a thousand men here for every woman and they don’t have to pick crazy submarine sailors.
“We want you to have a good time while you’re here. You get drunk we’ll put you to bed if you don’t make no trouble. You get sick someone will clean up after you. Now line up at the desk over there, Chiefs first, and get your rooms. You’ll find chow schedules and laundry lists in your rooms. That’s all. Dismiss.”
“Those bastards tell you rest and recreation,” Ginty growled to one of his torpedomen as he found his sea bag in the pile near the wall. “First thing they do they hit you in the ass with a Chief Master at Arms who looks like he’d have fun biting a sick bulldog in the ass! Soon’s you get your gear in your room you get your ass in gear and make the arrangements for the beer party. Go to that fuckin’ Chief and find out the drill and take care of things. Check with me later.”
By five that afternoon — seventeen hundred hours in Navy parlance — the Mako beer party was rolling in high gear. The amateur drinkers had long since staggered off to their rooms. The Masters at Arms kept their distance from the party, moving in only when a Mako crew member decided it would be fun to go in the sea for a swim. The Masters at Arms were gentle but very firm. No swimming unless in the uniform of the day for swimming, regulation trunks.
The hard-core drinkers had gathered in a circle around Ginty, who presided at the beer keg tap. A kitchen worker from the hotel appeared with a big box of sandwiches and Ginty rewarded him with a beer. Spook Hernandez turned to Ginty as he handed out the food.
“Beer’s all right as a belly wash,” he grumbled, “I need something better. Gimme the key to the alky locker in your Forward Room, Ginch. I got time to grab a cab back to the Base, get a five gallon can of alky and get back here before sundown. We can stow the alky in my room, big-deal the galley out of some grapefruit juice and have us a real submarine party, like the old days.”
Ginty shook his massive head. “Nope. Ain’t givin’ you no key to no alky locker. I do that and Dusty Rhodes finds out he’s gonna land on me like a fuckin’ ton of bricks!”
“What the hell you afraid of Rhodes for?” Hernandez demanded. “You’re bigger’n him. Fuckin’ Chief of the Boat got no business interferin’ with the troops on leave. Gimme the key!”
“Two things you gotta get straight, Spook,” Ginty said. “First thing is I ain’t afraid of Dusty Rhodes. I just got good sense which you ain’t got. The man was Fleet heavyweight champ for three years. I served with a dude in the Asiatic Fleet fought him. Got knocked out inna first round ! Old Dusty got him a string of about twenty KOs in the first round!
“Second thing is that I ain’t given’ you no key to the alky locker so forget it and have another beer.”
“You’re a fucking shithead,” Hernandez said, “a real shithead! Don’t never come back to my After Room to borrow a tool because you dropped one in the bilges and you’re too lazy to dig it out! Just don’t come aft of the fucking Maneuvering Room, you hear?” He turned and began weaving his way through the sand toward the hotel.
“Fuckin’ Spics can’t drink,” Ginty pronounced. He drew a stein of beer and rubbed his head. “Got to get me a haircut tomorrow. Anyone seen old Hindu Hendershot? Bastard was here a while ago.”
John Maxwell, the Chief Yeoman, held out his empty stein. “Gimme a refill, Ginch. Hindu went lookin’ for that second class of his who wants to change his rate to radioman.”
“What’s he want with a fuckin’ Reserve?” Ginty grunted. He filled Maxwell’s stein and handed it back to him. “Shit, that Reserve, that Billy Strong, he had two beers and left!”
“Chief Hendershot, in his wisdom, has decided that Billy Strong has disgraced his electrical gang by wanting out,” Maxwell drawled. “So he’s gone to the guy’s room. He hopes the room is high enough up in the hotel that when he throws Billy Strong off the balcony he’ll bounce at least one floor high!”
“You better go find Hindu and change his mind,” Ginty said. “Hindu’s good people. He shouldn’t get fucked up over a Reserve.”
Maxwell smiled happily, the beer foam covering his thick black mustache. “You’re a First Class Petty Officer last time I looked at your service record, old Ginch. First Class can’t give orders to a Chief, you know that.”
Ginty lowered his head and stared at Maxwell. “I don’t want no trouble with you, Chief. But a Chief tells another Chief not to do something, savvy? First Class don’t go tellin’ a Chief not to throw a silly fuckin’ Reserve offa no balcony. Chief’s gotta do something like that. Another thing, you’re nothin’ but a fucking ex-Marine joined the Navy because the chow was better. So go find Hindu and do your thing.”
Maxwell rose and flexed his wide, muscular shoulders.
“I had a Gunnery Sergeant when I was in the Corps was just like you, Ginty. He was so ugly that when he farted you couldn’t tell which end it came out of!” He whooped with joy and dodged the empty beer stein Ginty threw at him. He was still laughing as he went up through the white sand to the hotel.
Breakfast hours in the Royal Hawaiian were generous by Navy standards. The dining room served coffee and doughnuts from 0530 to 0700 for early risers and for those who wanted to get into town to be first in line at the crowded brothels. Regular breakfasts were served from seven until mid-morning. Each table was stocked with pitchers of ice-cold milk and tomato juice for those who had imbibed too well the evening before. Ginty left his room shortly after eight and padded down the hall. He passed an open door and heard Hindu Hendershot’s Kentucky twang singing. He went into the room. It was empty.
“You in here, Chief?” he bellowed. “I can hear you moanin’ but where the fuck are you?”
“In the head,” Hendershot’s voice floated out of the bat
hroom into the room.
Ginty walked into the big bathroom and saw Hendershot, stark naked, walking up and down in a bathtub that was a third full of soapy water.
“What in the fuck you doin’?”
“Washing my clothes,” Hendershot said happily. “Walkin’ up and down on ‘em is easier than bendin’ over and doin’ it by hand. Makes my head ache to bend over the tub. Where you goin’?”
“Breakfast,” Ginty said. “Gonna eat this hotel right out of hot cakes and sausages. Get dressed and let the clothes soak. Come on and eat.”
A duty Master at Arms hailed the two men as they walked across the lobby.
“You Mako people, Chief?”
Hendershot nodded.
“There’s a notice going up on the bulletin board right soon,” the MAA said. “All you people got to be in uniform of the day at fourteen hundred. They’re gonna take you back to your ship.”
Ginty pushed forward, his big face hard. “Whaddya mean, take us back! We only got here yesterday!”
“It’s only for an hour or two,” the MAA said. “You’re getting a new Skipper. It’s a change of command thing.” He turned to Hendershot.
“Would you pass the word, Chief? Much obliged if you would. Lotta people don’t know we got a bulletin board.”
Ginty was starting on his third stack of hotcakes when Johnny Paul, his Second Class Torpedoman, came up to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Who asked you to sit down?” Ginty growled.
“Ginch, a terrible thing happened!” Paul said.
“What’d you do, piss the bed?”
“It’s Hernandez. You know, the First Class got the After Room?”
“I know who Hernandez is and where he works,” Ginty said. He speared a wedge of hotcake and pushed in into his mouth and chewed, his eyes on Paul.
“I don’t have to have his name, rate, serial number and blood type. What about Spook?”
“He’s blind!” Paul said in a low voice.
“You crazy?” Ginty said. “He was drinkin’ beer with us on the beach yesterday afternoon.”
Final Harbor (The Silent War Book 1) Page 10