Splinter on the Tide

by Phillip Parotti

  “Yes,” Claire said. “I don’t know where you picked up your secret about the tomato paste, about leaving it out, I mean, but obviously you knew someone who knew something.”

  “I got that from the Lombards in Herrin when I lived there,” Ash said. “The ones I knew turned up their noses at too much tomato. Said it was a bad habit that the immigrants from southern Italy brought with them. Said that red food tended to turn people’s stomachs. Not a lot of love lost there. Probably something to do with a distaste for the Mafia, and for southern Italian cooking.”

  “What if I tempt you while you’re cooking?” Claire said, “while I’m lolling obscenely?”

  “Dangerous,” Ash said. “I might overcook the pasta.”

  Ash’s pasta turned out well, Ash tending to business, Claire sitting primly in a chair to watch him, the two of them digging in with a degree of gusto when the meal was ready, after which Claire registered just the right degree of approval to make Ash think he hadn’t muffed the exercise or ruined the evening. And then, for an hour or two afterward, they tuned in radio programs before, finally unable to restrain themselves, the two adjourned to the bedroom for another night of bliss.

  “How long, Ash?” Claire asked him over coffee the next morning.

  “How long, what?” Ash said.

  “Before you’re relieved? Before they give you a break? You’re absolutely wonderful in bed, love, but even I can see that you’re otherwise exhausted. It’s written all over your face.”

  “I know,” Ash said. “I’ve looked at the same face in the mirror and found it hard to recognize. But I don’t think there will be any letup. In fact, if anything, I expect operations to pick up. The DEs are coming off the ways fairly fast now, and we’re seeing a lot more chasers and destroyers as well, but I’m told that we’re prefabricating Liberty ships in a matter of days in our attempt to outstrip the Germans. We are trying to build them faster than they can sink them, so that means more convoys, more escorts, and bigger screens. It won’t slow down, not until this thing’s finished.”

  “The thing I’m worried about,” Claire said, “is that I don’t want it to finish you. You need a rest.”

  “I do,” Ash said, “but really, I’m fine. It just begins to wear a man down after a while. I suppose it’s the price of command.”

  “What about Solly and Hamp?”

  “Watches are exhausting,” Ash said, “but they don’t have to carry the rest of it. Add what Solly’s done already, and then, after he takes command, I’ll give him about 12 months before he’s in my condition. If Hamp stays aboard during that time, the accumulated wear will probably have him ready for a change six or eight months after he takes command from Solly. That’s all speculation, of course, but that would be my guess.”

  On Monday night, Ash took Claire to a hotel supper club in Portland. The cocktails were superb, the food adequate, and the music excellent, a mixture of dreamy dance arrangements salted with just enough high-stepping tunes to keep the dance floor lively. Because they had taken a room below the night club, Ash and Claire remained on the floor until they finally helped shut the place down. Ash imagined that it must have been close to four o’clock in the morning before they both fell asleep.

  They breakfasted well late the following morning, the hotel serving them cheese omelets, rashers of well-prepared bacon, greaseless hash browns, and all of the toast they could consume, even if they had to settle for margarine as a spread.

  “Very satisfying,” Ash said, as they left the table and headed back for the bus up to South Freeport.

  “Growing boys need sustenance,” Claire said. “Will you eat on the train going back?”

  “No,” Ash said. “I intend to save the money and let Watts hand me a sandwich once I get back aboard.”

  “You can’t run on empty, love.”

  “I don’t intend to,” Ash said. “Watts makes very big sandwiches.”

  “What if you have to stand all the way from Boston to New York again?”

  “That,” Ash said, “is something with which I have immense experience.”

  They returned to South Freeport in time for them to spend a few more quiet hours together, and then, after Claire clung to him for a long, lingering goodbye, she finally let him go.

  “No unnecessary risks, Ash. I want you home again in one piece just as soon as you can beat a path to the door.”

  “Rest assured,” Ash said, “just as soon as I can beat a path to your door.”

  Ash caught the four o’clock train. As before, he found that he was able to sit as far as Boston, but the train from Boston down to New York appeared to be more crowded than the train he had taken days before, with the result that he stood in the club car all the way, a seldom tasted bottle of beer in his hand, talking with a pair of destroyer officers, ensigns, who’d been on leave in Cambridge visiting old Harvard pals. Assigned as junior officers on one of the new DEs, they were experienced enough after a year to talk easily with Ash, and what they had to tell him proved interesting.

  “Our C.O. thinks the battle of the Atlantic is about to turn,” one of them said. “We’re in one of these killer groups. Planes off the jeep carrier go out and spot for us, find a U-boat, and call back, and then we head out with two or three cans, find the krauts with sonar, and pound the hell out of them. We haven’t sunk one so far, but three of our sister ships have, and that’s just in the last four months. What about you, Sir? Seeing action in the chasers?”

  “After a fashion,” Ash said. “We’ve had a few contacts and dropped a few depth charges, and once, we caught one on the surface and put a couple of rounds into him, but as far as sinking one, we’ve never been certain.”

  “Radar sure helps.”

  “Yes,” Ash said, “yes it does.”

  “I think we’ve about got ’em on the run,” said the less talkative ensign.

  “Let’s hope so,” Ash said.

  When Ash finally arrived back on board at around 2300 on Tuesday night, Watts did prepare him a sandwich—cheese and onion on fresh toast. At first, Ash thought the combination strange, but when he tried it, he found it wholly satisfying. Then he went up to the wardroom, expecting to find Hamp and Solly back, only to see that they had not yet returned. As a result, Ash had already changed into wash khaki working trousers and had his feet elevated by the time they came on board, Polaski having presented him with the message file which he had just finished reading as the two dropped down the ladder into the wardroom.

  “The two of you look ridiculous,” Ash said, studying their faces. “What the hell did those two girls do to you? Your faces look positively bloody with lipstick!”

  “This one got engaged,” Solly said, pointing to Hamp before he looked into the mirror and then began rapidly washing his face over the sink.

  “I merely proposed,” Hamp said, “and the lovely Chana showed me the good grace to accept.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Ash,” Solly said, his face dripping, the towel he was holding having taken on a red sheen, “I think your wife may have to be charged with lending aid and comfort to the enemy.”

  “You mean the Germans?” Ash exclaimed, slamming his feet to the floor.

  “I mean my sister,” Solly said. “I can’t be certain, but I think she gave Chana advice about how to lure the lad into her trap.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Hamp said.

  “And what about you?” Ash said. “That towel you’re holding is showing battle damage of its own.”

  “Keren and I,” Solly said with solemnity, “have merely reached an understanding.”

  “Tell that to the Coast Guard,” Hamp snapped. “You should have seen the two of them at the ferry landing. They were utterly shameless, while Chana and I were exchanging a warm handshake.”

  “I think I get the picture,” Ash said. “What you might tell the girls, when next you write them, is that they have both come into the money.”

  “That will certainly provide music for Chana’s ears
,” Solly said. “How so?”

  “I have a message here,” Ash said. “The Navy, with apparent foreknowledge that you were going to take the leap, has promoted both of you to the august rank of Lieutenant, junior grade. But don’t let the girls go out and buy their mink coats yet. Your promotions are not effective until June 2. Congratulations, the both of you.”

  “Well,” Solly said, “who would have thought it? Seems like yesterday that we were just reporting to Anson’s yard.”

  “What I want to know,” Hamp said, “is how the women seem to know about this stuff before we ever do. Chana told me I was going to be promoted before I’d even thought about it!”

  “I’d bet money,” Solly said, “that if you went into my sister’s bedroom, you’d find a pay scale tacked to the wall for every rank from ensign to admiral with time in grade for promotion marked off on a conveniently situated calendar. You’d better prepare yourself, Hamp. The next time we put in here, Chana will want to drag us to the Ritz, if not the Waldorf. If I were you, I’d think about starting to mend fences with that grandmother of yours.”

  “Possibly,” Hamp said, “I can find Chana something really productive to do. Do you think she might like to apply for a paper route?”

  “The only route in which Chana is likely to show an interest,” Solly said, “is the route to Bergdorf-Goodman’s.”

  27

  According to COMDESLANT’s message from the night before, Chaser 3 had been slated to get underway at 0800 the following morning, pick up a convoy in Raritan Bay, and lead them south toward Cape May in company with five other chasers, Ash, as the senior officer in the group, having been designated screen commander for the evolution. Instead, Michelson, duty radioman for the watch, woke Ash at 0430 that morning with an urgent change of orders. A Canadian freighter had been torpedoed in the night 54 miles east of Nantucket. Coast Guard cutters had been dispatched both from Nantucket and Cape Cod to search for and pick up survivors, but Ash was ordered to proceed, with four other chasers, to search for and, if possible, sink the offending U-boat.

  By the time Watts got up to the chart room with coffee for them, Ash and Solly were already bent over the chart, while Hamp watched Ash wield a pair of dividers and a parallel ruler from over his captain’s shoulders.

  “The way I see it,” Ash said, “the U-boat will do one of three things. It could head north toward Casco Bay, Nova Scotia, and the mouth of the St. Lawrence, in which case we don’t have a prayer of ever catching up with it. It could turn and head east, back toward the middle of the Atlantic, or it could stay out where it is, turn southwest, and set a course for the coast in the vicinity of Cape May. If it does that, it can avoid approaching too close to the beach where it might be more easily detected. This is a crap shoot, no question about it, but I’m going to bet he’ll go south and look for easy pickings around the mouth of the Delaware. So, if we figure him for 4 or 5 knots submerged during the day and 15 knots on the surface after dark …” Ash made some swift calculations, ran off a line from the position where the Canadian had been reported sunk toward Cape May, and measured off distance with the dividers. “I’d say we ought to shoot for this spot,” he said, marking an X on the chart, “as our best point for an intercept. Set the Special Sea and Anchor Detail, Solly, and I’ll get a message off to the chasers that are going with us. I want to be out in The Narrows within the hour, and then we’re going to put on turns.”

  Twenty minutes later, after Polaski had sent Ash’s message to the other chasers, he came to the bridge grinning and thrust another message board into Ash’s hands.

  “Congratulations Cap’n,” Polaski said.

  “For what?” Ash said.

  “From BUPERS,” Polaski said.

  Ash flipped open the boards and read. “Our masters seem to have made a mistake,” Ash said to Solly and Polaski, his lips curling slightly into a smile of his own. “They’ve promoted me to Lieutenant, effective yesterday. That’s right decent of them, I’d say, but the question in my mind is why? I don’t think I have enough time in grade yet.”

  “I’d guess that’s another of the Navy’s rules that has been thrown out with the war,” Solly said. “If this thing lasts long enough, Ash, you might even make Lieutenant Commander before it’s over.”

  “I’ll try not to bank on it,” Ash said. “I wouldn’t want Claire to start buying real estate.”

  “Consult with Hamp,” Solly joked. “By the time my sister’s finished with him, he’ll know every loan shark in the five boroughs, so if Claire does go on a spending spree, you will still be able to eat.”

  “Perish the thought,” Ash said.

  Fourteen hours later, at around 2000 that evening—with the sun going down and with the point where Ash had estimated that he might intercept the U-boat no more than 20 miles distant—Ash ordered the chasers in his miniature squadron into a line abreast with a 4,000-yard interval between each ship and began a genuine hunt. According to Ash’s reasoning, their search line, given about 8,000 yards effective for each sonar, would stretch approximately 32,000 yards from north to south, depending on the thermal layers in the water, and Ash hoped it would be enough. If the U-boat attempted to surface and run free, the ships’ radars would extend the search even farther. The seas, running between 4 and 8 feet beneath a spring breeze, caused the ship to roll but not excessively, and to Ash’s thinking, they had seldom enjoyed a more stable platform on the few occasions when they had actually seen anything that he could call action.

  Cruising at 12 knots, Ash ran his search line east for more than three hours, reversing course around the time that the mid-watch relieved. Doing so, he reasoned, would recover the same distance while steering the formation more to the southwest to allow for any progress a U-boat might have made if it had passed behind them while they were still moving east. At around 0500 that morning, just as the dawn was breaking, a PC out of Newport joined their search—COMDESLANT having ordered it out to assist—but the commanding officer of the PC, a senior lieutenant, after learning the details of the search, chose to defer to Ash so as not to disrupt what Ash had already ordered.

  Regardless of the command arrangements, it was the larger ship, the PC, which first gained sonar contact that morning, announcing a strong contact 4,000 yards off its port bow even as it signaled that it was racing in to drop depth charges. As search commander, Ash instantly ordered the nearest subchaser to join in the attack, while leading his and the other three chasers to box the evolution to prevent the U-boat from escaping should the attacking ships lose contact with it. Twice the PC did lose contact, but twice, one or another of the boxing chasers, also having gained sonar contact, redirected the PC onto the U-boat, and the attack continued until the first and second assigned chasers had expended all of their depth charges. At that point, Ash took Chaser 3 in to take their place, dropping pattern after pattern of his own ash cans. Finally, two hours after contact had been gained and after something in excess of 116 depth charges had been dropped down onto it, Gomez shouted that he’d heard an unmistakable underwater concussion, something exceeding anything that the depth charges had ever before produced.

  “We got it!” he roared up from sonar. “I think we got it!”

  Suddenly, not 200 yards distant, with a speed that shocked everyone, amid a swirling cauldron of turbulent waters, the stricken U-boat broached, bow slicing high, foam streaming back from its tanks, coming up sharp at a 30-degree tilt before crashing back level onto the blue-green sea. In that instant, with its hatches thrown open, white-shirted German sailors began to pour up onto its decks and race to man the boat’s guns, each of which flanked the conning tower which arrogantly advertised itself by means of the menacing black seahorse painted on its side.

  Neither Ash nor the captain of the PC hesitated for a second. Both opened fire from mutually safe angles, loosing every gun that they could bring to bear, the Oerlikons mincing the Nazi seamen, the 3-inch thundering in tandem so as to instantly destroy the U-boat’s guns. Within
a lightning flash of seconds, the U-boat’s decks were cleared, bodies floating on the waves to both sides, and the silent killer and its crew of murderers were going down, bow first, the stricken sub’s stern rising higher and higher even as its telltale conning tower disappeared beneath the swell, the sub’s massive, upraised propeller remaining motionless in its failure to turn. Then, the beast was gone, sunk, finished, leaving no trace behind.

  Ash should have felt euphoric, but he didn’t. Instead, he could feel the bags under his eyes sagging. For 22 straight hours, he hadn’t been off the bridge save for occasional calls to the head, and when Gomez finally announced what Ash had been waiting to hear—tense, keyed to the limit—he almost felt dizzy with relief. They would have to retrieve bodies for convincing proof, and Ash wondered if anyone on the PC had taken a photograph in order to underscore the kill, but when the idea crossed his mind, he discarded it as pointless. Every man on deck had seen the proof for himself. There could be no doubt that the assembled ships now shared a victory.

  “It was the PC who finally got him,” Solly said, coming up beside Ash. “It was that last pattern that he dropped. I was down there with Gomez. Huge sound return on the scope.”

  “The troops will take some pride in this one,” Ash said.

  “You bet they will,” Solly said. “They’re cheering down below. This is everyone’s victory, and most of all yours. You’re the one who planned the intercept, Ash. You’re the one who led the search. You’re the one who outsmarted the German, and everyone knows it.”

  “I’m just glad it’s done,” Ash said. “For once I feel like we’ve earned our mustard. Get a message off to the PC, Solly. ‘BRAVO ZULU PC … whatever its hull number is, and THANKS FOR YOUR EXPERTISE! Send that one by itself, and then send the same to all of the chasers collectively. And then get something out to COMDESLANT. Something moderate. INTERCEPT SUCCESSFUL; SCRATCH ONE U-BOAT.”

  “Will do,” Solly said, heading for radio.