Giles forced a smile, though the status of the downed aviator did not concern him. His thoughts still dwelled on the mission, and how he might convince this dolt of a task group commander to see things his way.
Then, a thought suddenly occurred to him. Of course! How could he have been so stupid? He quickly marched over to Packard, reached over his shoulder and flipped back to the message about the rescue.
“What’s the big idea, Teddy?” Packard asked with annoyance.
“Where was the sub when it picked up the pilot? Does the message give their position?”
“ComSubPac only received the message this afternoon. It doesn’t give the sub’s position. Who knows why it took so long for them to – “
“I need to use your radiomen again, Dave,” Giles interrupted. “I need to send a message to CINCPOA, with the highest priority.”
Giles commandeered a notepad and pencil from the flag lieutenant, without so much as a thanks, and quickly retired to a quiet corner of the room. He furiously began scribbling the lines, nearly breaking the lead in his haste to get the message written and sent.
What did it matter where the submarine was when it had picked up the pilot? Giles concluded inwardly. She still had to be close to Davao, and close was good enough for what he had in mind.
Across the room, Packard glared at Giles, who was too absorbed in crafting the message to notice. Ever since their academy days, he had always thought Giles an arrogant, callous bastard. He had never been known for his seamanship. When it came to ships, steam engines, and naval aircraft, Giles didn’t know whether to scratch his watch or wind his ass, and yet he had managed to slither his way from one promotion to another without ever commanding a ship at sea. Now, Packard could only guess what the beady-eyed son of a bitch was cooking up.
Packard’s eyes drifted back down to the message from ComSubPac, and he read the lines again:
LIFEGUARD SUB RECOVERED LT FRANK TROTT, USN. CONDITION EXCELLENT. SUB RETURNING TO BASE. LT TROTT WILL DEBARK AT MIDWAY ISLAND TO REJOIN HIS UNIT.
It was at that moment that Packard suddenly realized what Giles was planning. He glanced over at the feverishly writing bastard with resentment, because Packard now knew there was a good possibility he would have to write that letter to Lieutenant Trott’s family after all.
CHAPTER XVII
The Wolffish rode on the surface, cutting through the dark seas under a blanket of thickening clouds. It was nearing midnight, and she moved through utter blackness, the putter of her diesel engines nearly drowned out by a strengthening wind thick with the smell of rain. Brilliant lightning rippled in the distance, affording brief glimpses of an endless seascape that grew more agitated by the hour.
“Kind of puts it all into perspective, doesn’t it?” Ficarelli said, one foot on the railing of the cigarette deck as he and Trott gazed out at the storm astern.
“What’s that?” Trott replied, somewhat frazzled.
The Wolffish’s executive officer grinned, his white teeth outlined by the shadow of his face. He seemed to realize that Trott was uncomfortable. Ficarelli was obviously trying to distract him, but his complaisance only made it worse.
“Out there,” Ficarelli continued, gesturing to the dazzling storm. “On nights like this, whenever I see that, it makes it all seem so insignificant. The war, the Japs, our lives back home, hell, everything we’ve managed to muck up since the dawn of time. You must have felt it, too, sometimes, I imagine, flying up there above it all, just you and your crew, looking down on a big world that really is a lot smaller than we like to remember.”
“I’ve never really thought about it,” Trott said, and by that he meant he did not give a damn. He did not care about Ficarelli’s philosophies on existence. He wanted only one thing, and he wanted it so desperately that he might tear the ship apart to get it. He glanced up at the lookouts high in the periscope shears, and then at the other watchstanders on the bridge, mere shadows in the darkness. Perhaps they would not overhear. Perhaps he could venture to ask. “Do you think it might be possible, Tony, if I could have a smoke?” Trott spoke lowly, under his breath, as if ashamed. “Just for a few minutes?”
This drew a broad grin from Ficarelli who obviously recognized the nicotine fit. Trott had not had a cigarette in more than twenty-four hours.
“Sorry, Frank. We’re in enemy waters. There might be a Jap destroyer sitting out there somewhere. With our radar kaput, there’s no way to know for sure. Normally, you could smoke below, but we’re having problems with our battery ventilation system right now. Hydrogen levels are creeping up down there, a little above the comfort zone. Believe me, you don’t want to play with that stuff. A little spark can blow this whole boat to kingdom come. Until it’s fixed, the captain doesn’t want any smoking. You understand?” When Trott said nothing in response, Ficarelli added, “Why don’t you head down to the crew’s mess, Frank? The off watch guys are watching a movie.”
“No thanks.” Trott had already tried that and could not keep his mind on what any of the actors were saying. The only thing he could think about was the precious cigarette between Bogart’s lips.
Ficarelli appeared to be grinning in the darkness, amused by Trott’s behavior.
“I tell you what, Frank,” he said sympathetically. “Let me check on that ventilation repair job, and see how it’s going.” He picked up the bridge phone. “Maneuvering room, bridge.” After a few seconds of waiting, he repeated the call, and then frowned and returned the phone to its cradle. “Electricians are still working on the phone circuit. I can’t contact the maneuvering room.” He moved over to the intercom microphone and pressed the button, but got the same results. “Intercom’s not working!” he called down the open hatch in the deck. “Pass the word for the electrician of the watch to come to the bridge. We need to get that fixed ASAP, gentlemen! And pass the word to the maneuvering room to report status of battery ventilation repairs!”
“Why don’t you let me go?” Trott said desperately. “I can go to the maneuvering room and find out the status for you. It’ll give me something to do.”
“Thanks, Frank. You sure you remember the way?”
Trott detected the mockery and shot Ficarelli a sour look. “I think I can manage. Be back in a flash.”
After descending into the bowels of the submarine, Trott made his way aft. It was a long walk, through several compartments, stepping over men and missing deck plates where repairs were being made. He passed through the crews mess, crews quarters, both engine rooms, and the motor room, stepping aside often to allow working sailors to use the passages and wondering just how this ship could still be at sea with so many repairs in progress. Finally, he reached the maneuvering room, where Lieutenant Howard and the electricians briefly glanced away from the myriad of voltage and current instruments to acknowledge him. The engineer informed him that the battery charge was in its final stages and that the smoking lamp could be relit in half an hour, as soon as the hydrogen gas in the battery wells had dissipated. That was not the most welcome news to Trott – a half hour seemed like an eternity at this point – but he would take what he could get.
Before heading forward to report this, Trott instinctively glanced through the open door to the after torpedo room. There, he saw Greenberg, propped up on a fold down cot, exactly as Trott had left him several hours ago. The rear-seater’s head was bandaged and his eyes were open, staring blankly at the bulkhead, just as they had been since the depth charge attack. He had suffered massive trauma. The Wolffish’s corpsman had concluded that Greenberg was in some kind of comatose state, and either his brain would heal itself over time, or it would continue to swell and he would either die or end up a vegetable. Trott had stayed with Greenberg for the duration of the battle, replacing five bandages while the Wolffish crept through the minefield, and had been in the process of changing a sixth when the sub was forced deep by the sudden ambush of the enemy destroyer.
It had been dicey there for a few minutes, and Trott hoped he
never experienced anything like it again. Had the battered Wolffish not crash dived when she did, the guns of the enemy destroyer would have undoubtedly blown her out of the water. The submarine’s rapid descent had saved her, but it had also come very close to being fatal. Having taken on much water from earlier damage, she was heavier than the diving officer had anticipated, and thus passed well below test depth before pulling out. Trott, having experienced the whole ordeal from the crews mess, did not learn the particulars until afterwards, but he had not needed anyone to tell him that the submarine was in trouble. The overstressed pressure hull popping like a kettle of corn had been indication enough. For a few spine-chilling moments he had heard a whine in the pipes above him and had felt certain the hull was about to split open, but it turned out that noise had been their salvation. It had been the last few pounds of pressure leaving the air banks, forcing whatever water it could from the ballast tanks, and this had finally stopped the perilous descent. After several agonizing minutes, during which, Trott later learned, the needle on the depth gauge in the control room had swept past the six-hundred-foot mark, the Wolffish had eventually begun to rise. Who knew how close they all had come to being torn apart. One crewman near Trott vented his own anxiety by doing the math in his head, excitedly announcing to all who would listen that every one hundred feet of depth increased the sea pressure by forty-four pounds per square inch, and thus the water would have entered the hull with enough force to ignite the air, like the piston of a diesel engine. And so, the man had concluded, everyone would have died instantly. That had done little to calm Trott’s nerves, and he had found himself envying the comatose Greenberg whose blank stare had not changed throughout the whole ordeal.
As he now stood in the maneuvering room passage, considering whether he should first check on Greenberg or head back to the bridge, he noticed another sailor appear next to Greenberg’s cot. Trott recognized him instantly as Clark, the man he had overheard saying disparaging remarks about Greenberg on a few occasions, and the same man who had greeted Trott insultingly when he was pulled from the sea.
“You think you’re better than us?” Trott overheard Clark say while brusquely nudging Greenberg’s limp form. “You think you’re better than Martinez? Martinez never let his shipmates down. He never laid in the rack like some dockyard slut while the rest of us worked. Wake up, asshole!” When this drew no response, Clark slapped the empty-eyed Greenberg hard across the face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Trott demanded as he ducked into the room, incensed by what he had just observed.
Clark turned to face him, and though he looked surprised at Trott’s sudden appearance, he did not appear the least bit intimidated by it.
“Nothing, sir,” Clark said, after staring back at Trott defiantly for several long moments.
“What is your name, sailor?” Trott said angrily. “Who do you report to?”
“Radioman Third Class Clark, sir,” he answered defiantly. “Mister Giordano is my division officer.”
“You can bet he’ll hear about this. Now, carry on and leave this man alone.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Clark replied, in a tone that could only be interpreted as insolent. After a parting, baleful glance at Greenberg’s still form, Clark stormed out of the room.
Trott stood there for a long moment, perplexed by the sailor’s odd behavior. Clark was not a large or muscular man by any means. He certainly did not look like the kind that made his way around a ship bullying other members of the crew. He had seemed consumed by a confused mix of hatred and grief, but Trott could not guess what had him so upset.
Nearby, a cluster of sailors performed maintenance on the one torpedo in the room. They pretended to be absorbed in their work, as if they had not seen the incident. Trott knew he would get no explanation from them. Was Clark just an asshole, or was there a good reason for his behavior? Perhaps he was suffering from combat fatigue, or perhaps Greenberg had wronged him in some way. Perhaps it was something that had happened between the two men before Trott came aboard.
As Trott made his way forward, he contemplated the incident, and began to recall several less blatant ones in which he himself had been treated disrespectfully by members of the crew. It was certainly the exception, not the norm, but there was something there, some acrimony that he could not explain. He began to ponder his few moments with Greenberg, before the depth charge attack had left the sailor in his current condition. Greenberg had acted strangely. He had seemed on edge. Trott had thought little of it at the time, dismissing it as submarine fever. But, perhaps, his odd behavior had something to do with Clark.
Trott was broken out of his thoughts by Alexander, the diving officer, who stopped him at the base of the control room ladder.
“Skipper wants to see you, Frank. He’s in his cabin.”
“I was just headed up to tell the OOD the battery charge is finished.”
“Don’t worry,” Alexander said. “I’ll tell him. You go see the skipper.”
Trott half thought of asking Alexander if he knew any reason why Radioman Clark would harbor a grudge against Greenberg, but the diving officer was already halfway up the ladder before he could get the words out. Trott felt the urge to light up coming on again as he passed through the forward watertight door to the officers’ passage. As he strolled past the wardroom, the aroma of fresh coffee reached his nostrils, and quickly decided that caffeine would have to do for now. Ducking inside the wardroom, he found it empty, with the exception of Hansen who was clearing the table of dishes left by the officers of the relieving watch section. A fresh pot of coffee steamed on the sideboard, and Trott quickly scrounged up two cups.
“Fresh cup of coffee, Captain?” Trott said from the doorway of Keane’s stateroom, holding the two steaming cups he had just poured.
Keane looked up from a small fold-down desk which was hardly the size of a chessboard. “Yes, please! Thanks, Frank. Come on in. Come in and have a seat. Draw the curtain, will you?”
Keane’s quarters seemed absurdly cramped, yet it was the most spacious accommodation on the ship. The only thing Trott could liken it to was a third class sleeping compartment on a train, but even that was not an adequate comparison. A single bunk that took up most of the space, leaving little room for the fold-down desk, several lockers in the overhead, and a small wash-basin on the bulkhead opposite the desk. The only place for Trott to sit was the bunk, and this left him essentially knee-to-knee with Keane, who had turned his chair around so that he could face him. It felt extremely awkward to Trott, as they both held their coffee cups mere inches away from each other, but Keane seemed unfazed by it.
“That’s the stuff,” Keane commented, after taking a long sip. “Thanks, Frank.”
“Anytime, Captain.”
Trott noticed the gyroscope and depth gauge repeaters mounted on the bulkhead just above Keane’s bunk. They displayed the submarine’s current heading and depth, and in the few seconds Trott had been in the room, Keane had glanced at them twice – not nervously, but casually, instinctively, as if checking the repeaters was as natural to him as breathing.
A captain never could relax, Trott thought, even when in his bunk. Keane carried a huge burden on his shoulders. Out here in the vast Pacific for two months at a time, deep within enemy waters, with no friendly ships or any higher authority within thousands of miles, he alone determined the fate of his eighty-man crew. Keane was a lieutenant commander, and Trott a senior lieutenant. They were not far separated in age or rank, yet Keane somehow seemed much older. Behind the casual smile, behind the welcoming demeanor, the strain of command was evident on his face.
“I called you here because I’ve got good news, Frank,” Keane said, handing Trott a printed message that he took from the desk. “We’ve received an acknowledgement from ComSubPac on our last sitrep. Your squadron has been informed that you’re A-Okay, and they want you back ASAP.”
“Glad to hear it, sir.”
“We should reach Midwa
y in sixteen days. From there, you’ll hop a plane to Pearl. Then, I suppose, back to your squadron.”
Trott nodded, briefly pondering the series of long island hops over empty seas.
“And what about the Wolffish, Captain?” Trott asked. “Will you be heading back to Pearl, too?”
Keane shook his head. “As much as this crew needs it, I’m afraid not. They’ll patch us up as best they can, fill us with torpedoes and send us back out again.”
“No rest for the weary, eh, Captain?”
Keane nodded and sighed. “In the early days, we were eager to go out and sink’em. Now, I sometimes wonder if there is any other world than this. When you’ve been out here as long as I have, when you’ve sunk as many ships, killed as many Japs, you start to wonder.” Keane’s face drew grave for a moment, and Trott got the feeling Keane was seeing burning ships and floating bodies in his mind’s eye. But the moment soon passed, and Keane again wore a smile. “The XO tells me you asked to be added to the watchbill. That’s good. The trip will seem a lot faster if you’ve got something to do.”
“I don’t plan to sit in the wardroom reading paperbacks, Captain. I want to do my fair share.” Trott paused before adding, “Besides, it seems there’s enough animosity towards aviators around here as it is.” He instantly regretted saying it, but the incident in the after torpedo room still troubled him. He fully expected Keane, who had been nothing less than polite and accommodating from the moment Trott had met him, to demand an explanation for the statement, but he did not.
“I apologize if any of the boys are giving you a hard time,” Keane said heavily, as if the subject was a sore one for him. “It’s not your fault. They’ve had a tough time of it.”
“So has Petty Officer Greenberg, sir,” Trott could not resist replying. After a quizzical look from Keane, he continued. “I intended to tell the XO about this and not bother you with it, Captain, but the thing’s got me all riled up, and since I’m here…”
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