“They’re going off in all directions, sir,” Paul Blake reported. “All the screws I can hear are turning up very high revolutions.”
“Very well,” Mealey said. “Maintain depth at one hundred feet, rudder amidships. Now we’ll wait and see if that did any good.” He mopped his face and neck with the wet towel.
Blake reported that he had lost all the high-speed screws five minutes later. Mealey nodded and looked at the two men on the helm. Both were hanging on to the big brass wheel for support, physically exhausted.
“Shift to hydraulic power on the sound heads, bow and stern planes, and the helm,” Mealey said.
“I can hear a slow twin screw beat bearing one seven zero,” Blake reported. “Sounds like one of our submarine screws, sir.”
“Any guess, son, on how far away he might be?”
“No, sir, but he’s not too far.”
“Make a recognition signal by sonar,” Mealey ordered.
Blake keyed the sonar transmitter slowly and carefully and waited. The entire crew of the Eelfish heard the answering message beat against the hull.
“Mauler Two reporting for duty. Mauler Two reports two torpedo hits in a destroyer and observation of the destroyer breaking up. Mauler Two at periscope depth and can see no enemy. Over.”
“Tell Mauler Two many thanks and that we will surface on heading three five zero,” Mealey said. He looked at Mike Brannon, and a faint smile showed under the white mustache.
“The Lord provides when you need it most. Stand by to surface.” The surface klaxon squawked and the Eelfish surged upward in a long slant. Captain Mealey climbed the ladder to the Conning Tower and looked at Lieutenant Perry Arbuckle and Paul Blake.
“Damned fine work, you two. Damned fine.”
Eelfish burst through the surface of the water as Mealey fought his way upward through the bridge hatch, ignoring the residual water that poured in as he pushed the hatch open. Mike Brannon followed him to the bridge and jumped out of the way as the lookouts and Bob Lee came scrambling topside.
“Submarine surfacing bearing one five zero,” the starboard lookout bellowed. Brannon ran aft to the TBT and then relaxed as he saw the familiar shape of a U.S. Navy fleet submarine. Blake’s voice floated up the hatch.
“Mauler Two requests permission to close and speak to Captain Mealey, Bridge.”
“Answer affirmative,” Mealey called down the hatch. “Tell him to come up on my starboard side.” He leveled his binoculars at the Sea Chub as it slid into position barely fifty feet off the starboard side of the Eelfish.
“Hold your course steady,” Mealey called down the hatch. “Make turns for one third ahead. Start the battery charge.” He leaned his elbows on the bridge rail and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Many thanks for your attack, sir. They were a very persistent bunch.”
“We appreciate your getting them off our backs, sir,” Captain Shelton sang out in a loud voice. “We could hear those fish of yours thrashing along; my sound man thought you fired your torpedoes at a low speed setting. That right?”
“Affirmative,” Mealey called out. “We fired from one hundred feet, depth setting zero, low speed. Figured they would see them and get panicky.”
“Mauler Two reports sinking one troop transport, sir. We have two prisoners from that ship. What was your bag?”
“One small carrier, one troop ship, one tanker, one freighter, and two destroyers,” Mealey called out. “How many torpedoes do you have left?”
“Fired four at the transport. Fired four at the destroyers that were clustered over you, sir. We have sixteen fish left, twelve forward, four aft.”
“We have one left forward,” Mealey called out. “Have you heard from Mauler One?”
“Negative, sir. Advise you inspect your topside. From here it looks as if you’ve lost most of your main deck. Congratulations on one hell of an attack, sir.”
Mealey and Brannon looked at the decks. The area forward of the bridge was a mass of twisted wood and steel supports.
Aft of the deck gun on the afterdeck there was no deck at all. “They have some big sea lice in this part of the world,” Mealey yelled across to the Sea Chub. “Where did you pick up the troop transport?”
“Picked him up when we headed for your fireworks, sir,” Captain Shelton yelled back. “He came right across my bow. Stopped to get two prisoners hanging on to a life ring. Went under far enough to submerge our decks and used radar to sort out what was happening to you. Couldn’t get into your mess until you had gone under and the destroyers had established an attack pattern that we could take advantage of.”
“Took him a hell of a while to do that,” Mealey said in a low voice to Brannon. He raised his voice and faced the Sea Chub.
“Our thanks to you. Haul off now and take up position five hundred yards on my starboard beam. We’ll wait for Mauler One to show.”
An hour later Jim Michaels reported that Mauler One was requesting contact with the pack leader. Mealey looked at Mike Brannon. “I’ll talk to that gentleman myself,” he said and went down the hatch.
At the door of the radio shack he motioned to Jim Michaels.
“Ask the radioman to step out here please,” he said. “I’ll talk to Mauler One and I’d like to keep the door closed, if you don’t mind.”
The radioman closed the door after Captain Mealey had gone into the radio shack. He grinned slyly at Jim Michaels. “I don’t think my gear is going to stand up under what the S.O.B. is likely to say,” he half whispered to Michaels. “Did you see those eyes? He’s mad enough to bite the damned mike off’n the stem.”
Mealey sat in the radio shack and pushed the transmit button.
“Mealey to Mauler one. Mealey here.”
“Mauler one affirmative.”
“Report your position,” Mealey said.
“Mauler One is on station as ordered, sir.”
“Is this the Captain speaking?” Mealey asked.
“No, sir. Captain is in the radio shack. This is Harold Crippin, Chief Radioman, sir.”
“Please put Captain Marble on the microphone,” Mealey snapped.
“Marble here.” The voice was a slow drawl.
“How many torpedoes do you have left?” Mealey asked.
“Mauler One reports all torpedoes aboard, sir.”
“Were you aware, sir, that we were under heavy attack?”
“We saw your fires and heard what we took to be some depth charging, sir.” Captain Marble’s voice over the air was almost frosty. “We received no orders to contradict those you issued with commendable firmness, sir, to stay on our station.”
Mealey stared at the microphone. He drew a deep breath and thumbed the transmit button.
“Stand by to copy your orders, sir.
“Eelfish is returning to port with only one, repeat one torpedo. Mauler Two has sixteen torpedoes. Mauler One will proceed in company with Mauler Two to original patrol area. Advise Mauler One, as pack commander, that the rest of that task force is steaming back toward Manila. There is a heavy cruiser in that lot and at least six destroyers. Over and out.”
“Thank you, sir. Mauler One will assume pack leadership and proceed to original patrol area. Over and out.” The circuit went dead and Captain Mealey pushed his chair back from the radioman’s small table.
“You son of a bitch!” he whispered to himself, “you damned cowardly son of a bitch! I’ll hang you, Marble, I’ll hang you so high you’ll get airsick reading the charges!” He went out into the Control Room and climbed wearily to the bridge. Jim Michaels’s voice came up through the bridge speaker.
“Mauler Two reports reading message to Mauler One and wishes Eelfish a safe and speedy return home.”
“Tell them Godspeed,” Mealey said. He turned to Mike Brannon.
“I’d appreciate it, Captain, if you’d take back your ship, sir. I suggest you secure from General Quarters, set the regular sea watch, and have Mr. Olsen lay down the most direct course to
Fremantle. I would like to see you in the Wardroom in ten minutes.” He turned and began to climb down the ladder. Brannon, watching him, wondered at the slowness of his movements and then realized, as Captain Mealey looked upward, that the older man’s face was haggard with exhaustion.
CHAPTER 18
Mike Brannon walked into the Wardroom and found Captain Mealey sitting there, a cup of coffee in front of him. The Captain reached for his pipe and tobacco and began to fill his pipe with slow, deliberate motions.
“As part of my last duties as the wolf-pack commander,” he said, “I think we should get off a report at once telling Pearl Harbor and Fremantle what ships we sank and what the Sea Chub sank and advise Fremantle that we are returning to port because we have only one torpedo left. Advise Fremantle that Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub have been sent to the original patrol area by my order. That’s the only mention I want made of Hatchet Fish in this message. Advise Fremantle of our course and ETA. I don’t want some trigger-happy submarine skipper shooting at us on our way home because he doesn’t know we’re supposed to be going through his area.”
Mealey stopped and sipped at his coffee, and then he lit his pipe. “I don’t know how you go about getting ready to write a contact and action report, Mike. But if I may make a suggestion: So much was going on during our action, so damned much, that rather than leave something out it might be a good idea to get everyone in here and get the benefit of their recollections. With the plots, of course. I think if we do that we’ll have a very comprehensive report, and that’s what Captain Rudd is going to need. We can do that right after the noon meal.”
“If I may suggest it, sir ...” Brannon’s face was concerned. “You look awfully tired.”
“I know how I look,” Mealey said. “I washed my face when I came below. I am not that tired, sir, nor that old. I am forty-one years old this past birthday. This is supposed to be the prime of my adult life, at least intellectually. What you see in my face, sir, is not weariness. It is disgust.
“I am sick to my stomach, sir. Sicker than I have ever been in my life, and the sickness is not due to anything I ate.”
“I understand, sir,” Brannon said softly.
“Do you?” Mealey’s eyes were boring into Brannon. “Yes. You probably do. You’re Irish. You would understand.” He looked up as Pete Mahaffey came into the Wardroom with a carafe of coffee.
“Captain,” Mahaffey said to Brannon, “cook wants to know if he can feed steak for the noon meal. Cook figures Captain Mealey needs some more red meat.” His cheerful face split in a wide grin.
“Absolutely,” Brannon said.
“One steak or two for you, sir?” Mahaffey said to Captain Mealey.
“One. Very rare.”
The contact report from the Eelfish arrived at the Bend of the Road while Admiral Christie was holding a staff meeting. He read the message and bounced to his feet, waving the message flimsy in the air.
“Mealey smashed that task force to bits!” he shouted. “He sank, let me see, it says here he sank one small aircraft carrier, a tanker, a freighter loaded with ammunition, a troop transport — he says he saw hundreds of troops in the water — and two destroyers! My God!
“He says the rest of the task force hauled ass back toward Manila Bay. Call General MacArthur right away, Sam. This can make a hell of a difference to his plans.” He sat down in his chair, holding the message in front of him.
“Oh, this makes my day! My whole week! That crusty old S.O.B., he was right. The wolf pack idea is a good one.”
“How many Captain Mealeys do we have in our skipper locker to run wolf packs?” Sam Rivers said dryly. “And what about Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub?”
“Let me see, I didn’t even read the whole thing. Oh, he says that Shelton in Sea Chub got a troop transport and has two prisoners and that he got a destroyer.” He read through the message again. “That’s strange, not one word about Hatchet Fish’s part in the action. The only time he mentions Captain Marble and Hatchet Fish is at the end where he says he ordered the other two boats to proceed to the original patrol area under command of Chet Marble. That’s very strange.”
“Not to me,” the Operations Officer growled. “Old Chet Marble was probably hunting for a way to get away from that action if I know him. Either the water wasn’t deep enough or it was too deep or the Japanese destroyers were vicious. He’d find some reason not to put his ass in danger.”
“Now wait a minute, Sam,” Admiral Christie said. “We don’t have Chet’s side of the story. Maybe he lost touch with Mealey, maybe his communications got fouled up. Maybe Mealey deployed him way out in left field and he couldn’t get into the fight. We just don’t know.”
“I know one thing,” Sam Rivers growled. “Being with Mealey must have done something for Shelton in Sea Chub. If he got two ships he must be creamin’ his shorts! He’s never hit a ship up until now, and he’s made three war patrols.”
In Pearl Harbor Captain Mealey’s boss, a tall, beefy, red-faced four-striper named Bob Rudd, was eating dinner in the Officers’ Club when a Marine Sergeant came up to his table and handed him a sealed envelope. He opened the envelope by running a thick index finger between the flap and the back of the envelope, pulled the message out, and read it. His eyes widened, and he read the message again; then he leaped to his feet with a whoop that startled the other diners, grabbed a roll and stuffed it in his pocket, and ran for the door. Back at his office he sat down at his desk and began dialing telephone numbers. When his staff had assembled in a cluster in front of his desk he held up the message he had received in the O-Club.
“I didn’t drag you away from your dinners for nothing, fellas. Listen to this.” He read the message slowly and then reread it.
“That old bastard did it again! He purely knocked the living shit out of those people and sent them running back to Manila Bay! Christ, he even got Jim Shelton to bust his cherry. He isn’t a virgin any more, he got two ships. But he doesn’t say anything about the other boat in the wolf pack. Chet Marble in Hatchet Fish. Must be Marble is still a virgin. Something funny there, but we’ll know about it soon enough.” He turned to his Operations Officer.
“Walt, make a copy of this and hand deliver it to those people in Ultra. Read it out loud to the whole damned bunch. They did an absolutely superb job of pinpointing the assembly and the departure of that task force, and we owe them one hell of a lot of thanks. So let them know how we feel.”
“Maybe if I go down into that damned cubbyhole of theirs with something like this,” the Operations Officer said with a small grin, “maybe if I give them something like this that weird guy in charge who walks around in a damned smoking jacket and slippers will finally give me the time of day. Every time I’ve had to talk to him he just looks right through me and grunts.”
“I don’t give a damn if he grunts or if he wants to wear bathing trunks and a diver’s helmet. Mr. Rochefort is a damned genius, that’s what the son of a bitch is.
“Now, the rest of you: First thing tomorrow morning call a meeting of all Squadron Commanders. I’ll have copies made of Mealey’s message by then.
“We are going to wolf pack, fellas. Mealey’s proved it can be done and by God, we’ll do it!” He reached for the telephone. “You people can go back to doing what you were doing when I called you. Breakfast staff meeting at zero seven hundred tomorrow.” He put the phone to his ear and spoke to the yeoman outside his office.
“Get me Admiral Nimitz, son. Get him no matter what he’s doing, even if he’s in the sack with some broad.” He waited, drumming his fingers on the desk.
“Sorry to take you away from dinner, Admiral,” he said, “but I knew you’d want to know this.” He began to read the message from Captain Mealey.
The arrival of the Eelfish in Fremantle was a celebration. A fire tug, its fire nozzles spouting great arcs of water, accompanied the Eelfish into the harbor, where ships responded with congratulatory blasts of their whistles. The Eelfish slid in alongside
the outboard submarine of the clutch of submarines nestled alongside the submarine tender. A crew of ship’s carpenters was waiting with a section of wooden platform to lay over the torn deck near the afterdeck gun. The gangway was run over when the carpenters had finished, and Admiral Christie raced down the gangway, his hand outstretched to Captain Mealey.
“Just absolutely damned great, Arvin!” Christie boomed.
“Thank you, Admiral,” Mealey said. He released the Admiral’s hand and stood to one side so the Admiral could pump Mike Brannon’s hand. The Admiral looked up and down the deck. “If this is all that’s busted up we can take care of that in no time. No leaks? You must have taken a hell of a pounding.”
“Nothing major, sir,” Brannon said.
“Good,” Christie said. “Staff meeting at fourteen hundred hours, gentlemen, at my headquarters. Captain Mealey, Captain Brannon, your Executive Officer.” His bright eyes fastened on Captain Mealey.
“I’m told that Admiral Nimitz is so damned happy that he’s turning cartwheels, or so Bob Rudd says. I’d be doing the same thing if I could turn cartwheels. Mike, the buses will be here at eleven hundred thirty hours. Dress blues, white hats, shined shoes. It’s winter here now. Gets a little cold in the evening and at night. Noon meal will be served at the hotel. Paymaster will be in the lobby after the noon meal. See you this afternoon.” He turned and bounded over the gangway, followed by his staff. A Lieutenant and three Chief Petty Officers who had been standing patiently on the submarine alongside came over the gangway. The Lieutenant saluted Mike Brannon. “I’m Lieutenant Pinter,” he said. “We’re the relief crew people. I guess we’d better meet in the Forward Torpedo Room, sir. Not much room up here.”
Mike Brannon looked at the shattered decks of his ship. His crew was perched in the wreckage, eating apples and oranges and reading their mail. He turned to John Olsen.
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