by Peter Albano
Brent was amazed by the amount of polished brass glowing from dials, gauges, switches, and levers. If the conning tower was the brain of the ship, the control room was the heart. He saw engine-room controls, fuel gauges, rows of voltmeters, ammeters, shaft-revolution indicators, rows of valves, cranks, levers. Mind boggling, he said to himself. This was a different world from the SSBN.
Bernstein was even more confused, staring at two large hand wheels mounted below rows of gauges and banks of lights. Mark Allen answered the quizzical stares. “That’s the diving station. The diving officer stands about where you are, Colonel. The two large wheels control the bow and stern planes which are actually horizontal rudders. When we dive, the bow planes overcome the boat’s positive buoyancy and her own momentum drives her under the surface.” He grasped the wheel, which was wrapped with line and varnished. “When submerged, the operator watches the depth gauge and adjusts his planes to maintain depth.”
“Like flying,” Bernstein observed.
“Exactly,” Mark Allen said. He moved his hand to the other wheel. “The stern planesman watches the clinometer and it is his responsibility to keep the boat on an even keel.”
“Power assisted?” Bernstein said.
“Of course,” Allen said. “The latest power steering.” Everyone chuckled at the admiral’s quip.
He indicated the rows of gauges next to the diving station. “Those gauges indicate whether the various openings in the pressure hull are open or closed by burning red or green lights.” He smiled. “We used to call it ‘the Christmas tree.’”
“We still do, Admiral,” Williams said. Allen pointed and the executive officer led the men forward, past more crewmen hard at work and the strangest toilet Brent had ever seen. In a tiny room, it was bolted to the deck against the curved side of the hull. It was surrounded by a maze of valves. Williams saw Bernstein’s eyes widen and smiled. “Better not turn the wrong valve or the shit will not only hit the fan, but the overhead, the deck, and everything else within ten yards.” The men laughed.
“Why, there’s a fire extinguisher in there,” Bernstein said, pointing to a red cylinder with the usual funnel-shaped nozzle and Carbon Dioxide lettered in black on the tank. The extinguisher was mounted on the bulkhead next to the toilet.
Williams spoke gravely. “Yes, sir. Sometimes our cook prepares Mexican food and some of the men…”
He was interrupted by laughter. Bernstein was confused, looked around, face reddening, and finally joined the hilarity. Brent would never know if the Israeli caught the humor.
They stepped over the high coaming of a watertight door into a passageway lined with bulkheads of gleaming stainless steel. Curtained doors broke the sides. They were in officer country.
Bernstein said, “I’ve seen no batteries.”
“You’re walking on them, Colonel,” Williams said. “The forward battery well is under the deck.”
Mark Allen spoke. “If I remember, there were one hundred twenty-six cells in this compartment and another one hundred twenty-six in the aft compartment.”
Williams nodded. “Good memory, Admiral. Six fore-and-aft rows of twenty-one cells.”
“Must be a lot of weight there,” Bernstein said.
“Right, Colonel. Each cell is twenty-one inches wide, fifteen inches long, and fifty-four inches high and weighs one thousand, six hundred fifty pounds.”
Bernstein whistled. “There’s a lot of boat to drive,” Mark Allen said.
Williams stepped to a door and pulled a curtain aside and the four officers entered the wardroom. Not more than ten by twelve, the small room had a single table bolted to the center of the deck with two space-saving benches instead of chairs. A small refrigerator was built in under a stainless-steel drainboard and sink, and in the aft bulkhead, a closed pass-through led to the galley. Two cupboards with latched doors were above the sink and in a corner of the counter was a stack of a half-dozen copies of Sports Illustrated. A tiny desk was attached to the aft bulkhead. Overhead in the usual clutter of conduits, cables, and pipes was a speaker, two lights in big saucerlike fixtures, and an exhaust fan. In the center of the room, two officers were standing at attention.
The first, a senior lieutenant of average height who appeared to be about thirty years of age, stepped forward. Fair and streaked with platinum, his hair reminded Brent of dry sand in the morning sun, eyes blue-green and intelligent. “Chief Engineer Brooks Dunlap,” the lieutenant said, shaking the admiral’s hand.
Brent found Dunlap’s hand big and rough, and he noticed grease on the sleeve of the engineer’s tan shirt. When Dunlap smiled, deep lines fell off from the corners of his eyes and mouth, dark as if grease had been ground into his flesh and indicating more years than Brent had first guessed. He smelled of diesel oil and solvents and his fingernails were black. Brent felt sudden confidence — an insight that told him he was in the presence of a master mechanic, a man who knew his engines and probably loved them as well.
The second officer was a tall rail of a young junior lieutenant in his early twenties. His most prominent feature was a sharp, chiseled nose that appeared even larger in a narrow face with sunken cheeks and pointed chin. His eyes were brown, bright, and alert. Brent smiled to himself as he reached for the young man’s hand — he looked just like a youthful John Carradine. Although his hand felt like a bag full of rocks, the grip was firm and his smile friendly. “Lieutenant Charlie Cadenbach,” he said in a high, thin voice. “Navigator and assistant attack officer.” He shook hands all around.
Admiral Mark Allen gestured and the officers seated themselves. Allen eyed the new officers. “How much experience do you” — he moved his eyes to Williams, “do all of you have with these old fleet boats?”
Williams spoke for the trio. “We all were in the recommissioning crew of Fifer at Mare Island.”
“She’s a Gato?”
“Yes, Admiral. We were involved in every aspect, Admiral. Engineering, ordnance…”
“Sea trials?”
“Yes, Admiral. We shook her down and every one of the enlisted men on board Blackfin was in that crew.”
“Very good,” Mark Allen said, obviously relieved.
Brooks Dunlap spoke to Admiral Allen. “It’ll be an honor to serve with you, Admiral. I’ve heard a lot about you — Yonaga — the battles you’ve fought for all of us.”
Allen acknowledged the statement with a gracious nod. Dunlap turned to Brent Ross. “Heard a lot about you, too, Mr. Ross. The American Samurai.”
“Also, the All American,” Williams said with narrowed eyes.
Brent thought he detected an edge of sarcasm. “I’ve flattened a lot of linebackers in my time — left my cleat marks right up their butts,” he said, staring across the table directly into the Negro’s black eyes. Williams straightened as if someone had jabbed him in the small of the back with a sharp stick.
Allen’s voice brought a halt to the exchange. “How many enlisted men do you have assigned?” he asked.
Williams moved his eyes from Brent slowly. “Thirty-two, sir.”
“We have thirty-one men in our draft, all experienced submariners, too, but not in these boats. We need ten–fifteen more men and there are only five of us.” He rapped the table with his knuckles. “I need four more officers.”
“We have ten more enlisted volunteers coming aboard tomorrow and I expect three new officers.”
“Only three?”
“Sorry, sir. That’s all.”
“It’ll have to do. Are they experienced submariners?”
“I don’t know, Admiral. The CIA just informed me about the numbers. That’s it.”
Mark Allen glanced at the chief engineer. “What is the condition of the engineering department?”
“We’ve had four dock trials, Admiral, and the engines are four-oh.” He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and held it up for all to see. “We’re on shore power, but our auxiliary engines are operational. I have a fine crew, but not enough men to m
aintain three steaming sections.”
“Yes. Yes,” Mark Allen said impatiently. “We brought twelve machinists for you.” He turned back to Williams. “I would like to take her on her first sea trial within a week.”
The black thumbed his chin. “The boat should be ready, sir. It’s the crew.”
“Will Electric Boat help us?”
“They’ve been great, sir. Four of their engineers are staying in a hotel nearby and are on call. Two of them are old retired men who actually worked on the design of these subs. Real pros.”
“Good. Good,” Allen said, rubbing his hands together. “What about ordnance?”
Williams nodded to Charlie Cadenbach. “Our ammunition and torpedoes are stored in a shed at the end of the pier, Admiral,” Cadenbach said. “There is no ordnance on board except small arms.”
“Very well.” Mark Allen glanced at the passthrough. “I saw dry stores being loaded.”
“The galley’s operating, sir.” Suddenly anguished, Williams shot a glance to the rear. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. Would you like something? Coffee? A sandwich?” He waved at one of the cabinets, “A highball?”
Allen’s eyes flashed. “Liquor?”
“Why, yes,” Williams said, reading the hard look on the admiral’s face with his own anxiety.
“Throw it overboard. Now!” Mark Allen bellowed.
“Pablo!” Williams shouted. “Pablo Fortuno!” The swinging doors to the galley flew open and a short, dark man with the flat, wide nostrils and thick, full lips so common to the people of the South Pacific Islands entered. With jet-black hair that appeared as if it had been rinsed in India ink, the short, stocky man’s skin was pockmarked and his stomach bulged under his whites like so many naval cooks Brent had known. There was an anxious look on the man’s face and he was wringing his hands like a housewife caught with her lover. Obviously he had been listening behind the closed doors.
Williams said to the cook, “Empty the liquor locker and throw the booze overboard.”
Allen said to the cook, “Every bottle. I’ll court-martial you myself if you cheat.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Fortuno said, opening the locker. In a moment there was a clink and clatter as the cook gathered a half-dozen bottles. Brent noticed one was Johnnie Walker Black Label. He winced. The cook dropped the bottles in a bag and fled.
“There will be no drinking on board this ship. My standing orders. Under way or in port.” Allen moved his eyes from face to face in short jerky movements. “Understood?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the men chorused. Brent was awed. He was seeing a new side to Admiral Mark Allen.
Mark Allen’s fingers began a tattoo on the table and the anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “We have another problem. The day after tomorrow, Thursday, Lieutenant Brent Ross, Colonel Irving Bernstein, and I must be at the UN at ten hundred hours to meet with certain groups from the Middle East.” The fingers stopped and the hand became a club. He turned to Williams. “You’re the exec. Draw me up a schedule of orientation procedures for the new hands. We will start at zero eight hundred hours tomorrow. We’ll run them through their diving and surface stations here at the dock until they can perform in their sleep.” He struck the table for emphasis. “Maybe we can start shaking her down in a week.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Williams said, relieved at the admiral’s change in demeanor.
“Anything else?” Allen asked. There was a short silence broken only by the sounds of the overhead fan.
Bernstein gestured at a display of Japanese flags on the bulkhead behind Brooks Dunlap. “What’s that about?”
The men turned. Brooks said, “That’s Blackfin’s score in WW II.” He stabbed a finger. “The merchant flags represent thirty-eight merchantmen sunk and the ensigns represent five warships.”
“There’s a cartoon dolphin firing a torpedo from a crossbow in the upper corner,” Bernstein noted.
Williams smiled. “It was a Disney generation, Colonel. That’s the ship’s logo.”
Bernstein was not satisfied. “The locomotive, trucks, stars, a crane…” He pointed. “That other flag and the pennant?”
Williams said, “The stars represent eight patrols, the blue-red-yellow pennant is the Presidential Unit Citation, flags with white centers represent ships damaged but not sunk, the locomotive, trucks, and crane were destroyed when she penetrated Minami Daito Harbor and shot up the town.”
“Good Lord,” the Israeli said. “Shot up a town.” He moved his finger to a new aiming point. “That flag. It looks French.”
“Right, Colonel,” Williams said. “It is. She knocked off a Vichy French ‘can’ off Indochina.”
“You weren’t at war with them.”
Dunlap and Cadenbach laughed. “Blackfin was,” the engineer said.
The Americans chuckled and looked at each other while the Israeli sat stolidly.
“Quite a historical vessel,” Bernstein said.
Williams nodded agreement, spoke to the Israeli. “She was commissioned in November of ’41 — just in time for the kickoff. Her eight patrols were all made in Japanese home waters. Over a hundred fifty thousand tons of enemy shipping sunk. She got her Presidential Unit Citation for her raid on Minami Daito. She was decommissioned in ’47 and placed in the Reserve Fleet, New London Group.” He smiled. “But the old girl came to life again late in ’51 during the Korean War and landed reconnaissance personnel behind North Korean lines. In ’54 she was designated ‘out of commission in reserve.’ Then in 1960 she was towed from Mare Island to Seattle where she became a Naval Reserve training vessel. She was stricken from the lists…”
“‘Stricken from the lists?’” Bernstein interrupted.
Williams nodded. “Yes. That’s ‘Navy’ for ‘too old,’ ready for the scrap yard — razor blades and hairpins.”
“But obviously, she wasn’t scrapped.”
“Some old submariners stepped in — raised money, and with the help of the Navy League bought her, had her towed to New York Harbor and made a memorial of her.”
Bernstein tugged on the point of his beard. “Quite a career — quite a fighter.”
“Our ship has had a distinguished career, gentlemen,” Allen said suddenly. “Will we live up to it?”
There were shouts of, “Hear! Hear!”
Good Lord, he’s another Fujita, Brent said to himself.
“There’s one other thing, Admiral,” Williams said. “All of your cabins have been ripped apart — new wiring, pumps. It’ll be a couple of days before you can use them.” He gestured at Dunlap and Cadenbach. “We’re bunking in the chiefs’ quarters.”
“Accommodations have been arranged for us in a hotel nearby,” Mark Allen said. “The Oakmont Suites.”
Dunlap, Cadenbach, and Williams exchanged a strange look. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Dunlap said cautiously. “But that’s not exactly the Waldorf.”
“I know, but it’s nearby.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“That’s all that counts,” Mark Allen said.
The officers shrugged.
Mark Allen tugged on his ear thoughtfully, turned to Williams. “Mr. Williams,” he said. “As CO, I should stay aboard. Please exchange billets with me — if you don’t mind staying at the Oakmont Suites.”
“But, sir, the chiefs’ quarters are very uncomfortable…”
“Mr. Williams,” Allen interrupted sharply. “If you don’t mind.”
“I’ll get my gear together,” Williams conceded.
“Very well,” Mark Allen said. “That’s settled.” He gestured to the door. “Come, gentlemen, I want a tour.” His eyes moved from Williams to Dunlap to Cadenbach. “From periscopes to bilges, from tubes to tubes.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the officers chorused. They came to their feet.
With Reginald Williams leading, the group moved toward the bow to the forward torpedo room. Set in vertical banks of three, the solid brass doors of all six tubes were open. Twenty-one inches in diam
eter, they were huge, moldings glistening with polished brass, nestled in a jungle of valves, endless piping, springs, levers, and switches. Three torpedomen who had had their heads inside the twenty-one-inch openings polishing the stainless steel, came to attention. “As you were,” Mark Allen said. Self-consciously, the men returned to work.
The admiral pointed to brass rollers and loading trays beneath bunks secured to the ship’s sides. “The fish are stored there under those bunks and are actually reloaded by hand with lines, pulleys, and rammers,” he said.
Bernstein eyed the tubes. “How do they fire them,” he asked.
Mark Allen nodded to his executive officer. Williams took his cue. “They’re fired electrically from the conning tower.” He pointed to a panel mounted on the bulkhead between the two banks of tubes. The panel had six glass windows and six switches below the windows. “That’s a firing panel. It’s similar to one in the conning tower. If the firing circuit fails, the chief torpedoman can hand-fire the fish by turning those valves and pulling those levers.” He gestured to two banks of valves and levers.
Mark Allen nodded. “Rigged a little different from Grouper,” he said.
“There will be differences, sir. She was wired with new firing circuits in ’51. As you know, no two boats are exactly the same,” Williams said.
“True. True,” Mark Allen acknowledged. He turned to Brooks Dunlap. “Let’s see your country, Chief Engineer.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Dunlap said, turning to the stern. As the officers left, the three torpedomen sighed with relief.
Following the engineer’s lead, the group moved aft through watertight doors, back through the control room, and into the maneuvering room. Crewmen were working everywhere, adjusting and testing equipment. To a man, they came to attention as the admiral passed. Mark Allen smiled, nodded, and repeated, “As you were. At ease.”
Stopping in the middle of the maneuvering room, Williams waved at a panel at least eight feet long cluttered with volt meters, ammeters, indicators, levers. “Control stand,” he said. He pointed at a pair of annunciators. “Remote controls for engine shutdown, and that,” he pointed at the meters, “is an auxiliary switchboard.” They passed another head and a small lathe crowded in a corner against a bulkhead.