The men around Cassidy stood motionless as the hiss from the overhead speakers was abruptly silenced. They stared into space, unaware of what stood in their direct line of sight.
To Cassidy they were blank faces; he had no idea what was going on behind any of them. He watched Brownhaver sit down on the engine casing and shake his head in disbelief.
If this was any indication of how the rest of the crew was taking the news, then it looked to Cassidy as if the dog days were definitely over.
Cassidy came out of the after head wiping his hands on a paper towel. He chucked it into a refuse can and stepped into the crew’s quarters, smoothing down his hair, checking his watch to see how much time he had before the officers’ meeting. He wanted to get back to his station to pick up a pipe. He paused at the hatch as his ears picked up a comment from Nadel, the sonar operator, who was off duty, sacked out on his bunk.
“Personally, I’d like to go back and give those fuckers hell.”
Cassidy stared at the face of the pudgy little man. Nadel was not usually a vindictive man, at least he hadn’t proven to be so on this patrol. Cassidy automatically made a long sweep around the bunks and saw the same resentment and indignation in other eyes. It seemed logical: Their Captain had just been cut down by the enemy and they wanted revenge. But who was the enemy? Cassidy shook his head, as if he could rattle the cobwebs loose. He just wasn’t sure... of anything. Except the meeting. He had to get to the meeting.
Cassidy stopped at main engine number two and opened his pipe cabinet. He drew out the Barling and filled it. Googles and Brownhaver appeared at his side.
“Listen, Hopalong,” said Googles, “just how much do you trust this guy Frank?”
“What?”
“Does he know what he’s doing?”
Cassidy clamped the pipe between his teeth and fumbled for a match.
Googles went on, “I hope he does, ‘cause none of us have any inclination to die out here.”
“Nobody’s going to die,” said Cassidy. Brownhaver passed him a match. Cassidy eyed them both through the smoke. “Nobody. Is my word good enough for you?”
“Tell it to the captain we just lost,” said Brownhaver.
Both men turned and went back to their business. Frank was going to have to become, one hell of a diplomat, and Cassidy had not yet seen anything in his nature that would qualify him for that title.
He went all the way forward and entered officers’ country, still feeling far out of place, and stepped into the wardroom. They were all there, ranged around the table, working on steaming mugs of coffee: Dorriss, Stigwood, the two juniors Danby and Adler, Vogel, Roybell, Hardy, and Ed Frank. Cassidy took the one empty seat and scrutinized the new captain. The same short body with the same elongated features, the same dark hair brushed back, but something new... a look of firm determination cemented into the eyes.
Frank studied the faces before him. They all seemed to reflect the same fearful uncertainty. He and Jack Hardy were the only ones who had any definite idea of where they were going and what they would encounter. And the Professor was sitting on his right, very still, arms folded across his chest, his chin sunk down and his beard flattened out. Damn him! thought Frank. He’s hoping I’ll break, so he can take over. And what would he do? Turn us around?
The eyes of his officers were unsure, questioning. There was no visible sign of inner terror, but he felt it pervading the room. And, strangely, it filled him with a sense of power. At last he had what he had wanted all along: complete control.
He caught the tiny smile etched across Jack Hardy’s beard, the slash in that gray thatch of fur, and the eyes boring into his. He squirmed. How the hell did Hardy know what was going through his head?
“Gentlemen,” he began, and stopped. Their faces swung up in unison, and he saw immediately what they were expecting him to say: “This has gone too far. We’re going home now, before anyone else gets killed.” If he said that, they would probably clap him on the back, splice the main brace, and start to sing! But he couldn’t do it; there was too much at stake. He warmed up every tactful bone in his body and began again.
“It’s very tough losing a captain. Even one we—Probably none of us knew him that well. We didn’t serve enough time under him... but I think we all recognize a competent officer when we see one...” Frank found it hard to drag the words out, because he had found Byrnes so difficult. “He was a conscientious seaman, and he did what he felt was best... for, all of us.”
He looked around to see if he was coming across. The faces had gone blank.
“We all know the hazards of submarine duty. This one was unforeseen.”
He swallowed on the last word and knew immediately it was a lie. It wasn’t unforeseen at all. He had read the log. He had known all along what was coming, and he hadn’t given poor Byrnes sufficient warning. Of course, Byrnes knew the log too; the difference was, he had never believed it. Besides, there was nothing in the log about a casualty. Frank’s mind raced. It came to him after a moment of utter silence. He was the Captain now, the focus of attention. He couldn’t wait for them to feel; he had to show them what to feel.
But the truth was, he felt nothing. Nothing for Louis Byrnes and nothing for these men. He cared only about one thing: the expedition and what it could accomplish.
He was suddenly terribly frightened. Could they see through him? Were they sharp enough to sense when he was lying, when he was glossing things over? He began to see the tactics he would have to use. Toughness, firmness, conviction. If necessary, he had to make these men fear him—at least enough to follow him.
“Byrnes is gone,” he said simply, “and we’re going to pick up the pieces. We all know the mission and what has to be done to make it come off. We have to press on.”
He saw Dorriss fidget in his seat. If anyone had been a close friend to Byrnes on this voyage, it was Dorriss, the executive officer. Frank addressed himself to the skinny lieutenant:
“Look, we’ve been through a lot already but there’s more to come. Things were getting rough a few days ago and Byrnes wanted to turn back; I insisted we press on. I still do! I don’t believe it is in the best interests of the Navy to abandon it now—not when we have a chance to go through something no one before us has ever gone through.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Dorriss, “that’s all fine for you. But maybe we don’t feel the same way.”
The most junior officer, Adler, stood up and clutched the edge of the table. “You know as well as we do, sir, we should turn back.”
“I wish it were that easy. Even if we turn back, we don’t know what we’re going to be up against. We have to face the fact that we are no longer in 1974.”
He drew silent stares.
“There really is no way out of this except to see it through to the end. I’m going to need your help for that. You’re going to have to work with me, not against me.
He saw eyes lowering, men thinking it out, realizing he probably spoke the truth. Frank licked his lips.
“I know you’re all loyal,” he said, “to the Navy, to whatever ship and whatever captain you serve. I am not going to make excessive demands on that loyalty. But I’m asking for your help.”
Dorriss stood up. “May I suggest, sir, that we radio Pearl for instructions?”
Heads turned. That seemed to be a rational and constructive idea. Frank shot it down abruptly. “What message would we send? ‘Candlefish is in trouble—caught in a possible time-warp’?”
“Why not?” asked Dorriss.
“If this is no longer 1974, who is going to receive it?”
“ComSubPac.”
“If it’s 1944 where we are, it’s probably 1944 there as well,” said Frank.
“We should try.”
“Well, what are you going to say? We lost Captain Byrnes? They’ll signal right back, ‘Who the hell is Byrnes? Who are you?’“
“Not if we sign it with the other guy’s—what’s his name?”
“Ba
squine,” Hardy offered helpfully.
“Right!” said Dorriss triumphantly.
Frank glared at Hardy, then jumped on Dorriss. “Tell me what you’re going to put in the message.”
“Ask for an escort back to port. Specify unusual circumstances.”
Frank shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Why?” Dorriss demanded, his eyes flashing.
“Because if there is anything suspect about that message, they are liable to think it was sent by the enemy. They will know our position, and they’ll come after us with everything they’ve got. Or they’ll ignore us... completely. The answer is no. We better maintain radio silence.”
Hardy unfolded his arms and spoke up. ‘That leaves us with only one course of action. The present one. Right?” Frank nodded. “Then what about tomorrow night?”
“What about it?”
“Well...” He stood up. “According to my log, on the night of December third we intercepted a Japanese convoy at about twenty-one hundred hours. What are we going to do about that?”
Slowly, one by one, the men leaned back and let that one sink in.
Frank thought it over a while and then snapped out, “Attack ‘em.” Everyone looked up, so he qualified it. “If we have to.”
There was no response.
Frank looked straight at Vogel, the forward torpedo officer. “What about that?”
“Well, sir.” Vogel cleared his throat “We’re sure armed for it.”
“What do you think about it?”
Vogel worked hard to get the frog out of his throat. “I think... it might be a fine way of... getting even for Captain Byrnes, sir.”
It was probably the wisest remark made all day, and it had a revitalizing effect. Frank sensed the tension easing in the room. Now they had a scapegoat. The reasoning was a little off-center, but it seemed to click with everybody. Adler and Danby mumbled something to each other and nodded. Dorriss sat back and reflected deeply. Stigwood lit a cigarette and gazed into the smoke. Roybell sat back and nodded to himself.
Hardy’s eyes rose grimly and locked onto Cassidy’s across the table. Cassidy was worried.
“All right, then,” said Frank, “if we’re going to be called upon to fight, we better get ready. I want every watch to drill battle alert. I want it constant and relentless. Let every man aboard know we tire in a potentially dangerous situation.”
“Potentially, hell,” said Cassidy.
“We’re sitting on a powder keg, then!” Frank folded his notes and stuffed them into a back pocket. He felt in control again. “Anybody gives you any questions about where we’re going or what we’re doing or why—tell them we’re at war! Tell them the truth. We don’t know how we got here, but we’re stuck, and from now on they’re to concentrate on manning battle stations. Keep it on their minds!”
Hardy stood up and eyed him suspiciously. “Do you really mean to attack?”
“I mean to do whatever I have to.”
“To accomplish what?”
“To follow your goddamned log.”
Hardy went away without offering any reassurance, and that left Frank momentarily in doubt again. As usual, Hardy was providing no support.
Cassidy was last to leave. He turned in the doorway, relit his Barling, and cast an uncertain smile at Frank. “If it’ll help, sir, I’ll sort of pass the word to the crew.”
“What word?”
“That maybe you do know what you’re doing. I think they’d like to feel that. They’ll sleep easier. Even if it isn’t true.”
Frank smiled. “Cassidy, you’re pretty perceptive for a fucking yardbird.”
“To the crack of doom, Skipper.”
Cassidy whirled and hustled off. Frank blinked at the last remark and decided to take it in the light vein in which it was delivered. Relief surged through him. There was an extra bounce in his step as he went through control and up to the conning tower.
December 3
Frank spent several hours personally conducting dive drills from the bridge, attempting to reduce the amount of time it would take to get the sub under and attack-ready. It didn’t seem to do much good. One day of training wasn’t enough; the best he could get was nineteen seconds from sounding the alarm to shears awash. He didn’t want to worry anyone, so he gave a short pep talk over the intercom. He expressed the hope that the “enemy” was operating on the same time clock, that the convoy would make its appearance at exactly 2100 hours, so they would be ready for it. He told them, “We have the advantage. We know what to expect, thanks to Hardy’s log; we can predict what’s going to happen. We won’t be taken by surprise again.”
Of course, the same problem kept nagging at him. If they followed the log and arrived safely at Latitude 30° on the 11th of December, just how safe would they be? There the log ended. Would this cruise end there too? His mind raced for an answer while he read portions of the log to the crew, letting them know exactly what they were in for. He finished with a carefully worded statement: “We will reach our objective with an eye-opening war record behind us. When we get there, let’s keep our eyes open. We must make this work to our advantage—if we’re to come through it alive.”
No slipups—that was the important thing. He ordered the duty officer of each watch to familiarize himself with the log for the current day, make notes, and delegate men to follow prescribed courses of action.
By 1800, the men were breathing easier, gradually breaking out of their melancholy and shifting into a state of excitement. They were beginning to see the whole voyage from the positive points of view: getting even for Byrnes, living through World War Two, something to tell their kids when they got home. Frank was gratified.
The new Captain returned to his old quarters just after supper and went to clean out his locker. He keyed open the padlock and withdrew clothes, shirt and pants, socks and underwear, and piled them into the arms of the steward.
His hand froze when he touched Basquine’s log. It had remained locked up in here since last night. Now he would have to take it with him.
As soon as his gear was stashed in the locker in the captain’s cabin, Frank found himself opening the log. December 2nd was there, and December 3rd, complete up to the minute. But something in the description of the strafing bothered him. Something was missing. The time of the attack was right, the number of planes, description of the armament, of the damage, the two quick passes before Candlefish dived, the rush to get under, surfacing again to inspect the damage. Yet something was missing.
He opened Hardy’s log again. The same facts, the same time, planes, number of passes, bullet holes. No casualties, of course. The crew had survived without a single fatality. He felt fine again. It was all there. He closed Hardy’s log and consigned it to a cubbyhole. He placed the Captain’s day-to-day log in the front of the hinged desk and tipped it shut.
Then he stretched out on the bunk and drifted off to sleep.
“No casualties,” he mumbled, and clucked himself a round of congratulations.
At 2000 the Candlefish surfaced into the western Pacific twilight. Frank stood with Hardy on the bridge, sweeping the horizon with Byrnes’s binoculars. Frank checked his watch and then spoke softly.
“Professor, only forty-five minutes to go.”
“I know.”
“How does it feel?”
“What?”
“Living through it again.”
“Mr. Frank, I think if we sight that convoy we should run like hell.”
Frank was silent, measuring Hardy with growing mistrust. “One minute you say ‘Follow my log.’ The next you say ‘Skip it’ Make up your mind, Professor.”
Hardy turned and pressed his elbow back on the bridge coaming. “I’m just not sure.”
“Well, I am. We’re here and we have to make the best of it. We’re not going to run like hell. We’re going to shoot like hell.”
“Why?”
Hardy never got an answer. Frank was called below to control by the tra
cking party so they could plan what was to be done when the convoy showed up.
Hardy went below too, and stepped into the crew’s mess with a cup of coffee. The relaxed faces were sporting beards in various stages of growth. There must have been a contest afoot among the men.
Then he noticed other changes in the crew. The men had taken to wearing their t-shirts on duty, instead of their blue Navy fatigues. And the haircuts... Witzgall’s sideburns and the curls around Googles’s neck were gone. What was going on? The men were starting to look like throwbacks. Maybe the Navy does it to you, he thought. He had crossed to the hatch on his way to the forward engine room when someone in the opposite corner caught his eye. He was tucked into a bench, engrossed in what looked to be one of Jenavin’s old OCS manuals. It was one of the quartermasters... Lang was his name. Lang? So Lang wanted to get into OCS?
Hardy felt a brief chill but continued aft, curiosity drawing him on. He was conscious of music piped in over the intercom, but he couldn’t tell what it was until he entered the crew’s quarters, where they had it turned up.
The strains of Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” filtered over to him, and Hardy thought for a moment someone had found old Rah-Rah Stanhill’s record collection and had piped it through from the record player in the crew’s mess. But no—he heard the sounds of static and then the shuffle of hash as Giroux sought a better station. It was the radio. And they were playing Glenn Miller. Nostalgia time at home. Giroux settled on a louder signal, and the men started to hum along to the Harry James version of “You Made Me Love You.” More ‘40s nostalgia. Amazing that these guys knew the songs so well.
The bunks were ranged with off-duty crewmen, asleep, reading, telling jokes, griping. A couple were playing checkers. Hardy’s gaze came around to Clampett, the torpedoman, the fresh youngster with the natural disdain for anyone over thirty. Yet he was mouthing the words of the song while standing in front of the Ann Sheridan poster with his arms folded across his chest. His pose was terribly familiar. Hardy backed away in shock, positive that he was staring at the reincarnation of Corky Jones. He turned and fled the crew’s quarters, stumbling back through the engine room until he found Cassidy.
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