“Hamp’s coming with me,” Solly said. “I alerted the folks that we might be coming. My mother has promised to feed him a complete Jewish dinner.”
“It’ll be a new experience for me,” Hamp said. “Might even convert me; my Anglican forefathers will feel no loss.”
“Sounds like the two of you are well covered,” Ash said, “and Solly, my regards to your family. I’ll look for the both of you to be back here by 2300 tomorrow night.”
Ash turned the liberty party loose at 1000 that morning whereupon most of them headed straight for the Staten Island ferry and the attractions, if not the flesh pots, of Manhattan. Solly and Ash, muffled in their overcoats, departed not long after. After first checking in the galley to insure that Watts had ordered stores as needed to replenish what the crew had consumed, Ash then went down to his bunk and slept for ten hours straight. When he got up, he went ashore to shower and shave in the officer’s quarters at the Coast Guard station. Then, he walked out onto Staten Island, found himself a cafe, ate a steak, a baked potato, and a piece of Dutch apple pie, and returned to the ship where he slept through the night, waking after reveille had been piped and the ship had been washed down. In the chart room, not long after, Ash found the appropriate charts for the trip down to Norfolk, picked up a set of dividers, and began laying out the track for the following day, marking in the point of their intended rendezvous with the ship from Wilmington, while, at the same time, studying all of the lights and buoys that he could expect to help with his piloting on the transit.
An hour before lunch, having committed to memory what he thought he needed to know in advance, Ash climbed up to the bridge, picked up his binoculars, and began reacquainting himself with what he could see of the New York harbor. From where Chaser 3 had tied up, Ash was unable to see the Navy Yard because Brooklyn Heights interposed itself across his line of vision. Twice he saw destroyers coming out of the East River and, not far behind them, a cruiser; he guessed that they were on their way, escorts and big boy, to join in the battle for the Atlantic. Scanning south, he received a sudden jolt when he saw a fleet tug, her deck gun blackened and knocked asunder, the forward bulkhead of her superstructure equally blackened and considerably splintered, towing a freighter that looked to be down at the bow, the ship’s prow much mangled, twisted or ruptured steel plates, girders, and rails upthrust in all directions. Clearly, the ship had been attacked by a U-boat on the surface, and the tug, coming to the rescue, had also been damaged, both vessels attesting to the destructive power of the U-boat’s 4-inch deck gun.
As the pair struggled up The Narrows, Ash found the sight sobering, even downright chilling—but not without hope. Fixed to the top of the tug’s mast, he could also see a broom, an indication that by near-miraculous chance, the tug, with its single 3’/50, had actually hit and sunk the U-boat. How, Ash wondered, had she done it? And how, after her own gun and fo’c’sle had been blown to smithereens? Studying the tug more closely, he saw that beneath her beak, the big tug’s reinforced bow had crumpled inward by a good 3 feet, and that is when Ash deduced that the tug had rammed the U-boat. When he knew, he also sought and found the supporting evidence—eight men standing on the fantail, bare headed and wrapped in blankets, German sailors, prisoners, guarded by a single American sailor armed with a Thompson gun. It would be something to tell Solly and Hamp when they returned and something to remember. The remainder of the German crew, Ash assumed, must have gone down with their boat. Would Chaser 3, Ash wondered, hold together well enough to sink a U-boat by ramming? He didn’t think so. He thought the impact might shatter her. On the other hand, if the chaser could ride up on a half-submerged U-boat and tilt her enough to flood her in some uneven way, it might be enough to take her down while the chaser still remained intact to slip off. The possibility presented a problem that Ash did not know how to solve; considering speed, battle damage, wave height, the angle of collision, and half a dozen other factors, he knew that there were simply too many variables to contemplate or follow to a logical outcome.
Through his binoculars, Ash continued to watch the ships until they moved into the Upper Bay south of Governor’s Island. There, the fleet tug turned over its tow to a pair of civilian tugs, which immediately began pushing the crippled freighter up the Hudson while the gray tug turned up the East River toward the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Her crew, Ash thought, could expect to enjoy a well-earned leave period while the vessel remained dry-docked for repairs.
Starting in the early afternoon on the same day, a convoy must have arrived in Raritan Bay. Not long after Ash had been down for his lunch and returned to the chart house, one ship after another began entering The Narrows, three oilers riding high and empty, 12 freighters also riding high, also apparently empty, seven more riding lower and probably bringing in cargo of some kind from England, and a lone cattle boat that even Ash could smell from a distance. And in their wake, Ash had a good look at the one Canadian and five American destroyers that had served as the convoy’s escorts after it had crossed the mid-Atlantic chop line while steaming west.
Ash slept again for part of the afternoon, rose around 1600 to write a letter, and then went to the mess decks for the first sitting, once more placed at the head of the table, with Samarango and Chief Stobb seated to either side of him.
“See that convoy come in this afternoon, Cap’n?” Stobb asked as soon as Watts began serving.
“Yes,” Ash said. “Did you see the fleet tug and its tow that came in just before?”
“I think that tug must have rammed a U-boat,” Samarango ventured. “Looks to me like she was carryin’ prisoners back aft.”
“Right,” Ash said, “that was my guess as well. So, what about it, Chief, do you think Chaser 3 could ram and survive? I’m not being flippant; I’m wondering about the strength of our construction.”
“Hard to say, Cap’n,” Chief Stobb said, chewing on the thought. “Maybe if we slid up on top of her and wrecked her stability somehow. But if we hit straight on, and hard, we might just as easy shatter our bow.”
“That was my guess too,” Ash said.
Then the subject of Benny Goodman came up, the three men exchanging words about their favorite recordings, and then Samarango mentioned Jack Teagarden and his version of “St. James Infirmary,” something he’d heard Teagarden play live somewhere. For the remainder of the meal, the three men talked back and forth about the little they thought they knew regarding the evolution of New Orleans jazz, with here and there a remark about Louis Armstrong or Jelly Roll Morton, and once, from Hill, the yeoman who was sitting farther down the table, they heard a remark about Bix Beiderbecke. The other men, content to bend over the tasty salmon patties that Watts had fried for them, listened, occasionally nodded their heads in agreement with what they gleaned, but remained mostly silent, either cowed by the seniority at the head of the table or quieted by a disposition to silence while they ate. And then, the meal finished, the men dispersed, Ash returning to the wardroom, the others either going on watch or back to their bunks, leaving the mess table clear for the second sitting.
Later, after walking through the spaces and inspecting the ship from the bow to the lazarette, and after appointing Chief Stobb as Command Duty Officer for the evening, Ash stepped ashore, took a bus up McClean Avenue, found himself a well-lit business district of sorts, and began to walk. The weather remained cold and bitterly so, but Ash needed the exercise and knew it. Earlier that day, barely awake in his bunk, his leg had suddenly cramped, the Charlie-horse causing him to leap from his rack in order to stamp it free. He imagined his two days and nights on the bridge to be the root cause, a condition necessitating a change, and so he walked, and after 30 minutes moving inland up McClean and another 30 coming back, he found himself a drug store that remained open, sat down on a stool at the soda fountain, and treated himself to a hot fudge sundae before he returned to the ship.
Well before the Cinderella hour which, for the crew, Ash had set at 2200, the men were back, relatively so
ber, excited and talkative about the adventures they’d had in New York. Two thirds of the section on liberty that day had never been there before, and from what Ash could hear coming up from the forward Booby hatch, Manhattan had met them with open arms, the cab drivers had given them free rides, and the women had swooned over them all the way up from the Bowery to the Bronx.
“I suspect some slight exaggeration,” Ash said to Stobb, who had come forward along the deck to report that all hands were present on the ship and accounted for.
“And each lie bigger than the one before,” Chief Stobb said, meeting Ash’s grin.
“Just so, Chief, just so. Let me know when one of them finally reveals that he’s been seduced by Joan Bennett or Greta Garbo, and we’ll see that the news is posted on the bulletin board outside the ship’s office.”
“You can bet on it,” laughed the chief.
By the time Solly and Hamp returned at 2300, a light snow had started to fall, and both came down into officer’s quarters blowing on their hands, regardless of the gray gloves that each had been wearing.
“Cold coming back on the ferry?” Ash asked.
“Perishing,” Hamp said, “but well worth the trip. Solly’s mother cooks like an angel, and you wouldn’t believe what they produce in their bakery. Their coffee cake is the best I’ve ever put in my mouth, and the turnovers are to die for.”
Solly smiled. “Brought you some,” he said, producing a box.
“Thanks,” Ash said. “I gather from the size of the box that you have more than one in there.”
“Half a dozen,” Solly said, setting the box on the table. “Thought we might share them out in the morning. Interesting day? Get some rest?”
Ash answered in the affirmative, and then, as the two of them removed their overcoats and prepared to turn in, Ash told them about the damaged tug and its tow and about the convoy that had arrived during the afternoon.
“I suspect the tug captain and his crew are in for a gong,” Solly ventured.
“That would be my guess,” Ash said, “and well deserved. If they really did sink a U-boat out there, I’d imagine that the C.O. will be advanced to a bigger ship, possibly while his tug is still in dry dock. A success like that is bound to breed promotion.”
“Reserves ever command those things—fleet tugs, I mean?” Hamp asked. “Not that I’m expecting ever to command one, you understand; I’m just curious. Not trying to get ahead of myself.”
“Ha,” Solly laughed. “I’ll have to remember to tell that to my sister next time I see her. She’ll dissolve with laughter.”
Ash looked up quizzically. “I detect a story here somewhere.”
“Now, now,” Hamp leapt to say, “won’t do to bother our captain with idle gossip and gross exaggerations.”
“You should have heard what I’ve been listening to as it came straight up out of the Booby hatch,” Ash said.
“Something out of the Booby hatch is about right,” Solly laughed, and this time a good bit harder. “We hadn’t been home for ten minutes before Master Hampton over here takes one look at my sister when she comes into the house, helps her off with her coat, and asks her for a date the next time we put in here. Honest to God, I thought Chana was going to faint dead away!”
“According to the crew,” Ash laughed, “every woman up and down Fifth Avenue has been fainting dead away at the mere sight of them. Hamp, you seem to have gone them one better and to be upholding what is rapidly becoming a Chaser 3 tradition.”
Hamp, and not without actually blushing, suddenly became serious. “Chana is a lovely girl,” he protested, “and smart as they come, and a perfect lady, and all I did was ask her if she might like to see a movie with me when we next put in here, and she said that she would think about it and probably accept. And I guarantee, Solly, that I will treat her with every consideration.”
By this time, both Solly and Ash were laughing so hard that they could barely keep from doubling over.
“So, right out of the gate?” Ash asked.
“Right out of the gate,” Solly replied.
“Not one to let the grass grow under his feet, our Mr. Hampton?” Ash teased.
“Not so much as a single blade,” Solly said. But then, seeing Hamp squirm in embarrassment, Solly put a hand out and clapped him on the shoulder. “For what it’s worth, Hamp, and for all the attention that Chana is liable to pay me, which is just about zilch, you have my permission and my good wishes to go out with my sister any time she accepts the invitation. I don’t doubt for a minute that you will behave like a gentleman.”
“The same goes for me,” Ash said, stifling the urge to roar. “And if she is as pretty a girl and as much of a lady as you say, you can thank your lucky stars that we got in here, no matter how sick you were on the way down from Portland.”
“You know,” Hamp said, recovering himself, “Solly almost bilged me completely by telling her about that. And he went into unnecessary detail about what I looked like bent over a barf bucket.”
“Well, I hope you responded in kind,” Ash said.
“Oh yes,” Hamp said, recovering his color, “I was very descriptive.”
“And Chana?”
“Chana,” Hamp grinned, “was enormously amused and regretted not seeing Solly sick for herself. She said it would have served him right for having lorded it over her while they were growing up. She suggested that I keep a record. However, Mrs. Solomon seemed less enthused, so we let the matter drop with a word or two about the needs of the Navy, and that’s when Mr. Solomon broke out laughing and said ‘I told you so.’”
“I have no idea when we might get in here again,” Ash said, “but I’ll keep my fingers crossed for the both of you. You, Solly, for a shot at one of your mother’s home cooked meals, and you, Master Hampton, for the chance to squire the lovely Chana to the movie of your choice.”
“Ha,” Solly once more broke out laughing, “what our Master Hampton does not yet realize is that just about any venue the two of them frequent will be Chana’s choice, or I can’t tell a hawk from a handsaw. My sister, Hamp, has a mind of her own and a will of iron, so even as you give her every consideration, I’ll be hugely surprised if she doesn’t get the better of you. Not to worry, though; you’ll probably look just fine with a ring through your nose.”
11
The following morning, Chaser 3 cleared The Narrows before sunrise, picked up the ships of her convoy in Raritan Bay, and proceeded into the deep Atlantic without hindrance. Once out into open water, with a State 3 sea running from almost dead astern, Ash swiftly organized the convoy into another box formation and began turning down the coast. Above the Jersey shore, the sky remained gray, overcast, dismal, but the freezing temperatures of the preceding days had risen by several degrees. As Ash expected, the little ship once more began to yaw, not greatly but enough to make at least three of the crew seasick, so before the 0800-1200 watch relieved, Samarango had overseen two scrub downs forward and one on the fantail aft. Ash had brought the ship out that morning, but as soon as the last sea buoy had been passed and the convoy formed, he rapidly gave Hamp the deck and set their zig-zag according to pre-selected plan in the governing Navy tactical manual. Momentarily, Ash wondered if Hamp appeared to be about to join the few suffering from mal de mer, but when Ash thought to mention Chana, Hamp seemed to take a grip on himself, perked up appreciably, and greeted Solly enthusiastically when the man came up to relieve.
“Not to make too much of it,” Ash said, after Hamp had gone down, “but I think the lad was about to be sick until I mentioned your sister; that perked him up like a stalk of new grown corn.”
Solly laughed. “They seem to have hit it off,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought it, given Hamp’s moneyed background and Chana’s ideas about the distribution of wealth, but with regard to human relations, you never can tell.”
“They’re a muddle, no question.” Then, changing the subject, he added, “I see a mast on the horizon … two masts, about four p
oints off the port bow. Merchantmen, I’m guessing, making for the City. Given their angle off the bow, they ought to pass well to port. We’re going to have to keep a closewatch on things; I expect more traffic in this direction than we had coming down from Portland.”
“Yes,” Solly said, “stands to reason.”
Their second convoy, freed from the plodding Orion Light, steamed at a steady 10 knots. Following the track that Ash had laid out for them, the ships set a course that kept them between 8 and 10 miles from the coast, close enough for Ash and Bell to pilot by sight, far enough out from the beach to avoid underwater obstacles, difficulties with the currents, and anything like excessive interference from fishing boats. Their progress, somewhat slowed by the necessary zig-zag, remained uniform at something approaching 8 knots made good so that by 1500, they were far enough down the New Jersey coast to be pitching through a higher sea several miles east of Barnegat Bay. That was where Chaser 3 ran into her first spot of trouble.
Looking back on that event, Ash could never quite explain it to himself. In fact, he found the moment almost existential, accidentally absurd, the inadvertent but timely intervention of pure chance. With Samarango on watch, Ash had caught a couple of hours’ sleep in the hammock. Then, waking and turning out, he pulled his foul weather gear back on and climbed almost without thinking back to the bridge, glanced once at the compass to confirm the course the helmsman was steering, glanced again, astern, to assure himself that the spacing of the convoy was in order, and then glanced off the starboard bow a point or two in the direction of Barnegat Light. Suddenly, lifting his binoculars to examine something in the distance, his whole body went rigid. “Shit!” he called out. “Mine in the water! Sound General Quarters! Left hard rudder! Glick, signal to convoy: ‘Port turn to 090, Immediate, Execute!’ Helmsman come left to 090!”
Splinter on the Tide Page 11