by Robb White
The admiral turned to Stevenson. ‘1 don’t want you going on the prod, Paul. Don’t hunt for trouble. But, if it comes— fight. The important thing, of course, is to get Braden to the islands and—get him back.”
“I’ll see to that, sir,” Stevenson said.
“Good. Now on the voyage out, Ken, study that Japanese dictionary so that you’ll be able to recognize a code if you see one. Now, Paul, here are your charts. We think the transmitter is on one of these six islands. But if it isn’t take a look at this group down here.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The admiral picked up the twenty-five cents and stood up. “All right, that’s it.”
Stevenson and Ken stood up, and Stevenson asked, “How much of this can I tell the crew, sir?”
The admiral hesitated. “Not much, Paul. I want no talk about the leak in Pearl, or about transmitters. None of that. Tell them you’re scouting the islands for possible invasion points.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The admiral held out his hand to Ken. “Good luck. The very best.”
“Good-by, sir.”
The admiral turned then to Stevenson. “Paul, let’s have a look at these new cabins for sub skippers I hear BuShips is turning out.”
In Stevenson’s cabin the admiral pulled the heavy curtain across the door and faced Stevenson. “What do you know about this underwater stuff, Paul? These diving rigs they’ve got now, and all that?”
“Well, sir, it’s all pretty new and I’ve been at sea for the last fifty-seven days, you know.”
The admiral nodded. “I don’t know much about it either. So we’ll just have to leave that phase of it up to Braden. He’s fresh out of UDT and should know what he’s doing.”
Stevenson’s usually pale, grayish face began to turn a faint pink with anger. “Do you mean, sir, that I’m to take orders from a j.g.?”
“Certainly not, Paul. I mean only that he’ll need all the co-operation you can give him. He’ll need maneuvers, dives, ways of getting in and out of the boat, rendezvous, which you’ll have to let him have. In that connection I want you to take—any—risk—you feel is justified, Paul.”
Stevenson’s face was still pale pink as he said, “Aye, aye, sir.”
The admiral sat down on the bed. “You’re not very happy about this, are you, Paul?”
“It’s not a question of happiness, sir. But I don’t see how they can expect one man, especially a j.g. right out of civilian life, to go out there and get that code. Why don’t they send a Marine raiding party out there and take over that island?”
The admiral said patiently, “We don’t want that island, Paul. We only want the code.”
Stevenson fiddled with the gold eagle on his cap as he said, slowly, “Well, Admiral, I think they’ve picked the wrong man for the job. Braden may be able to swim like a fish but—in my opinion—he hasn’t got what it takes. In the first place, he won’t obey orders. I ordered him to get some crates out of the boat and he stood there and argued with me. He doesn’t know the first thing about discipline.”
The admiral hid the strong doubt now running through his mind as he said, “Maybe not. But he was hand-picked for this job so you’ll just have to put up with his civilian ways.” “Yes, sir. I understand that, sir. But, from what I’ve seen of him, I just wonder if he’s got the guts it’s going to take to do this thing.”
The admiral said slowly, “So do I, Paul. I don’t think I’ve got enough guts even to try it, but maybe he has.”
“Why didn’t they pick a real Navy man then instead of one of these ninety-day wonders?”
“I don’t think the Regular Navy has any corner on guts, Paul. Some men have ’em, some don’t.” The admiral stood up. “Good-by, and good luck,” he said. “Do the best you can, Paul.”
II - UP PERISCOPE!
Chapter 1
Ensign Malone pushed the curtain aside and stood back. “Welcome to my mansion, Lieutenant,” he said, bowing. “This, sir, is our home away from home.”
Ken looked in. The room was no bigger than a closet. Three built-in bunks covered the entire far wall. Another wall was covered with small lockers while the third had a medicine chest and Pullman-type washbasin. There were no chairs, no tables, there was no space.
Ensign Malone peered in over Kens shoulder. “I think there’s something you ought to know, Lieutenant, sir,” he said. “In order to live in this vast amount of space only one of us can take a breath at a time. You’ll soon get used to it.”
“How many people live in here?” Ken asked.
“Only three of us,” Malone told him. “The bottom bunk is the sole property of one Lieutenant (j.g.) Silas Mount. The next one is—well, er, sir—mine. Unless, of course, you are impolite enough to pull your great rank and order me out of it. Otherwise, the top one will be yours. You are most fortunate, Lieutenant, because the man in the top bunk enjoys many privileges, including stepping on everybody else when getting in or out of his sack. The top bunk is also not where we all sit. We sit on the bottom bunk regardless of whether anyone is in it.”
Malone was about to say something else when the diesels started. “Oh-oh. Here we go. Down in the wild blue yonder.”
“Are we leaving?”
Malone nodded.
“I think I’ll go topside and see the sights. This is the first time I’ve ever been on a sub.”
Malone glanced over at him. “I’d stay down here, Lieutenant,” he said seriously. “The Skipper’s sort of particular about people on the bridge. Especially when he’s maneuvering. If you haven’t got a job up there you’d better stay below.”
Ken thanked him and went into the tiny room. Malone disappeared down the corridor.
There was no place to sit in the room except on the beds, so Ken climbed up to the top bunk and sat down, his feet hanging down almost to the bunk below.
He could hear faintly the commands from the bridge. “Take in four.” The diesels, idling, filled the ship with a low, panting hum.
The voice drifted down, “Take in one. All back full.”
The diesels stepped up their panting and Ken felt the ship heave itself backward.
He pulled his feet up and stretched out on the bunk.
“Ahead one third, left full rudder.”
The ship slowed, stopped, went forward. In the harbor there was no wave motion, so it was hard for him to tell that the ship was moving. Soon, though, as the Shark passed out through the opening in the anti-submarine net at the entrance to Pearl Harbor, she was in the waves of the open sea. Now she rolled a little and Ken could hear the sound of water slapping against the steel hull.
He wondered if he would ever come back into that calm, deep, scarred harbor.
Malone stuck his head into the room and grinned when he saw Ken lying in his bunk. “You 11 make a good submariner, Lieutenant. The first law of the sea is to sack out. The Skipper wants to see you in his cabin.”
“Thanks.” Ken swung his legs over and climbed down.
At the captains cabin he knocked and went in. Stevenson was sitting at the desk reading some papers. He kept on reading as Ken stood at attention in the doorway.
At last Stevenson glanced up at him. “Don’t just stand there. Come in and pull the curtain.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
There was nowhere to sit except the captains bed so Ken remained at attention.
“Well,” Stevenson said, “have you gone over the op plan?”
Ken didn’t know what an “op plan” was so he shook his head.
“Well, what have you been doing?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Stevenson sighed loudly and swung around in the chair. “That’s a good beginning. That impresses me, Mr. Braden. You must be a very brave young man to be going out on an assignment like this without even studying the op plan.” He reached into the desk and got out the envelope marked SCAN. “I’m quite sure that the admiral went to a lot of trouble to work up this op plan. He’d be hurt if
he knew that you just aren’t interested in it.”
Ken started to point out to Stevenson that he couldn’t very well study the “op plan” as long as it was locked in Stevenson’s desk, but he changed his mind and said nothing.
“Have you gotten those crates out of the way yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know where to stow the gear, sir.”
Stevenson sighed again, loudly. “Stow it in your cabin, Mr. Braden.” Then he swung all the way around so that he was facing Ken. “Since you’re not interested in the op plan, perhaps I can interest you in a few other things.”
Ken, still standing at attention, looked steadily at Stevenson’s pale, gray face with the dishwater blue eyes.
“In the first place,” Stevenson said, “there are eight officers and seventy-four men in this boat—not counting you. Do you know who is responsible for keeping these officers and men alive?”
“You, sir?”
“Right! Check! That’s my first duty, and I want you to keep it firmly in mind, Mr. Braden. I make the decisions in this boat—all of them.”
“Yes, sir.” Ken wondered why Stevenson was giving him this lecture. He also wondered about the things he had studied in the Regulations for governing the Navy. He couldn’t remember the Regulations’ saying anything about the commanding officer’s first duty being to keep his men alive. It seemed to Ken that one of the first duties of a commanding officer was to engage the enemy and fight.
“Now—if you can spare the time, Mr. Braden—I’d like for you to take this op plan and study it. Then, when you think you understand it, I want you to give me an operation plan of your own. This must include what you intend to do and how you intend to do it. With all the details. In writing. But—keep in mind as you make your plans that I and not you, am Skipper of this boat. I, and not you, will decide whether what you plan to do can be done. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But—first—get that gear out of my torpedo room.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“That’s all, Mr. Braden.”
Ken hesitated. “May I have the op plan, sir?”
Stevenson looked at him for a long time. “What was my first order to you, Mr. Braden?”
“To study the op plan and make a report, sir.”
“Wrong,” Stevenson said coldly. “That was a request. My first order was to get that junk out of my torpedo room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not ‘Yes, sir,’ Mr. Braden. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ That means to a naval officer ‘I understand and will obey.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ means nothing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stevenson sighed loudly again and turned back to his desk.
Ken walked slowly back to his cabin. As his anger at Stevenson subsided, in its place came the knowledge that he was in serious trouble. Without Stevenson’s help he didn’t see how he could do his job.
Ken went on to the forward torpedo room. It was filled with men stowing gear in the small lockers or lying in the tiers of pipe berths which hung on both sides of the room. Behind the berths Ken could see the oiled bodies of torpedoes.
As he was asking a chief petty officer for a hammer and screwdriver, Malone, his beard still clean and shiny, stepped through the low hatch. “Ahhh,” he said. “Santa Claus is now going to open his sackful of presents.”
Ken ripped open the first of the crates. “The Skipper says for me to stow this stuff in our cabin,” he informed Malone.
“Oh no!” Malone cried. “It can’t be done. There’s no room for it.”
Ken shrugged. “Where, then?”
“What is the stuff?”
Ken lifted back the wooden top. In this crate there were only air and oxygen cylinders and cans of soda lime for the rebreather. In the other crate there were the face masks and tubes for the rebreathers and two plain face masks. The knife, wrist compass, watches, rubber suits, fins, and gauges were packed separately. There were also two tiny Minox cameras in waterproof cases. In addition there was a complicated-looking valve with a book of instructions.
Ken unpacked the stuff as members of the crew stood around and watched. Suddenly he wondered if he could get oxygen and air on the sub. Turning to Malone, he asked about it.
“How much oxygen have we got, Chief?” Malone asked the Chief of the Boat, a lean, muscular, handsome petty officer still wearing a complete uniform.
“Full up, Mr. Malone.”
Malone turned to Ken. “How much will you need?”
Ken picked up one of the oxygen bottles. “A bottle will last me from two to two and a half hours under water,” he said. “It just depends on how scared I get.”
Malone looked puzzled and Ken grinned. “The scareder you are the faster you breathe and the more oxygen you use.” Then he asked about air. “Is there any way we can compress pure air down to around two thousand pounds per square inch?”
The Chief of the Boat laughed. “If you want, we’ll squeeze it down to three thousand psi, sir.”
“That’d be even better,” Ken said.
The Chief of the Boat said, “At two hours per bottle we can keep the lieutenant under water for about a year.”
Malone laughed and asked if the chief could stow any of the gear.
“I can take care of the bottles in the racks, sir. I don’t know about all these tubes and things, though.”
Malone looked morosely at the diving gear. “Oh well, outranked again. I’ll give you half my locker space, which will leave me just enough room to stow my toothbrush.”
As Ken and Malone gathered up the gear the chief asked, “Is the Skipper going to give us the word about where we re going, Mr. Malone?”
Malone looked at Ken. “I think so,” Ken said.
The chief looked steadily at him. “We’d like to know, Lieutenant. We’d sort of like to know why we have to go out again without any rest after a fifty-seven-day patrol.”
“I don’t blame you, Chief,” Ken told him, “but it isn’t my job to give you the word.”
“No, I guess not,” the chief agreed. “I hope the Skipper doesn’t forget to tell us.”
Back in Malone’s cabin they somehow managed to get the gear stowed so that the three officers could, at least, get into their beds and stand up in front of the washbasin.
With that done Ken went back to Stevenson’s cabin. “The gear is stowed, sir. May I have the op plan now?”
“Mr. Braden,” Stevenson said, “will you please allow me to decide whether the gear is stowed properly or not?”
Stevenson marched forward to the torpedo room. Some men were knocking the crates apart and getting them ready to heave overboard after nightfall.
Stevenson inspected the stowage of the air and oxygen bottles and then came aft to inspect Ken’s cabin. Some of the tubes were still visible and the face masks hung on clothing hooks on the bulkhead. ‘Is that the best you can do, Mr. Braden?” he demanded.
“I think it is, sir.”
“Do you realize how much of an inconvenience all this junk is to the working officers who have to live in here? I don’t suppose you do.” Stevenson whirled around and went on to his own cabin.
“All right, Mr. Braden,” he said, handing Ken the SCAN envelope. “I want your op plan by twenty hundred tonight.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Stevenson almost smiled. “That’s better.”
In the corridor Ken glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. He had eight and a half hours.
Back in his cabin he climbed up and settled down in his bunk. Opening the envelope, he first studied the chart. The six islands the admiral had pointed out formed a huge atoll, the islands scattered around the lagoon in a rough circle. Their real names had been taken off the chart and code names put on. The biggest of the islands had been named Sunset, then there were Sunrise, Dawn, Noon, Midnight, and Morning.
He had just begun to think about the whole situation as a series of problems wh
en Malone came in.
“Ahhh,” Malone said, seeing the charts and papers. “The —secret papers. Where we going, Lieutenant, sir? What we gonna get done to us when we get there?”
“I wish I knew,” Ken told him. “Haven’t had time to find out yet. What’s the boat doing?”
“Well, Lieutenant, sir, we’re steaming peacefully along at eighteen knots in the general direction of Midway Island. If our Executive Officer, Lieutenant Carney, knows anything about navigation—which he do—we will find the island of Midway and will thereupon refuel and be on our merry way.”
“Are we above the water or below it?” Ken asked.
“Good question. But I will let you in on a little submariner’s secret. When you hear an old-fashioned automobile horn go ‘Aaah—ooogah, aaah—ooogah’ you will know that we are preparing to get ready to see if we can make this boat go down under the water.”
“What does it feel like when you get under there?”
“Hah!” Malone exclaimed with joy. “Now’s my chance to explain the horrors of the deep, the ghastly shut-in feeling, the clammy darkness of the dreadful abyss. Let me tell you, Lieutenant, just what it feels like to be below the surface in a submarine. It feels like—nothing at all, just rides smoother. If it weren’t for the horn and a certain amount of activity you wouldn’t even know you were under water. That is— ordinarily.”
Ken grinned. “So what’s it like when it isn’t—ordinarily?” Malone’s expression changed. “There’s no describing that. When the heat’s up to a hundred and twenty and the air’s so foul you can slice it with a knife. When there’s water coming into the boat and the depth charges are coming down on it. Well, that’s a different thing.”
“Have you been depth-charged?”
“Not in this boat. Not seriously, anyway. But I took one working over in Wahoo before I was transferred here.”