by James Young
Lieutenant Commander Anthony Todd, United States Navy, bit back his first response to the voice’s owner. Lowering his night binoculars, he found the entire bridge crew looking at him rather than watching their respective sectors.
It would not do to cuss out a flag officer, even if he apparently got the rank by making sure his nose was firmly attached to a four-star’s ass, Todd thought. Really starting to wish Mrs. Sutherland had talked her husband into pulling out.
“Gentlemen, I believe you all have work to do,” Todd snapped, causing the sheepish bridge crew to turn back to their tasks.
Not that you can really do it in this murk, he thought. A truly stupendous fog had begun rolling into the Sulu Sea, and Todd wished he’d given the island of Palawan a wider berth.
Glad I ordered a slow down, Todd thought to himself, fuming. Which robably what that Army dumbass is upset about.
“Lieutenant Graham, tell the XO that now would be a good time to charge the batteries,” Todd said. “We’re not going to be going much faster than this until we’re past Palawan Island or the fog clears, whichever comes first.”
“Aye aye, Sir,” Graham said, then began speaking down the hatch into the control room.
“Lieutenant Commander Todd…” the Army brigadier said again, clearly nonplussed at being ignored.
“Sir, with all due respect, I am busy commanding my vessel,” Todd stated. “Perhaps General MacArthur is not aware of Navy custom, but typically captains stay on our bridge.”
There was a tense moment of silence, then the sound of footfalls on the ladder as the voice’s owner finished coming all the way up into the night air.
“You listen here, Lieutenant Commander,” the man snapped as he emerged. “I do not need a lecture from you on common military courtesies.”
“Lieutenant Graham,” Todd barked, his face set in a mask of rage as he turned away from one Brigadier General Sutherland, USA.
“Yes sir?” the officer of the deck asked, turning away from his own sector.
“Take the good general here below to the rear torpedo room!” Todd shouted. “He is to be confined there under bread and water for the remainder of our voyage.”
“What?!” Sutherland roared. “I will…”
“Enemy vessel, four points off the starboard bow!” one of the lookouts screamed.
Todd turned to where the frightened man was pointing just in time to be blinded by the searchlights of the Japanese destroyer Awikaze. Moments later, the destroyer’s forward turret roared as the DD’s gunnery officer attempted to find the range. The two shells screamed across the intervening distance and landed four hundred yards short of the Shark’s hull.
“Crash dive! Take her down!” Todd shouted. Two of the lookouts shoved past the bewildered Sutherland on their way to the hatch, followed by the officer of the deck.
“Move you stupid son of a bitch!” Todd shouted, shoving Sutherland towards the hatch.
The Army general was turning to protest this treatment when the Awikaze’s next shell ended the discussion with explosive finality. Striking level with the lookout platform on the conning tower, the blast simultaneously killed Sutherland and Todd and the Shark incapable of diving. Lieutenant (j.g.) Graham, having just begun his descent into the boat, dropped unconscious to the control room’s deck with fragments through his head and chest.
To his credit Shark’s XO, Lieutenant Morris, responded remarkably well to the hits. Shouting at the control room crew to get a hold of themselves, Morris countermanded Lieutenant Commander Todd’s final order, then barked orders for the crew to battle surface. Easing himself through the perforated conning tower, Morris reached the Shark’s bridge in time to see the Awikaze less than two thousand yards away and closing, another brace of shells striking the Shark aft. The next duo of shells ended any more of Lieutenant Morris’ concerns as well as rendered the Shark capable of being effectively conned as they destroyed the control room, conning tower, and the deck gun in the midst of the latter being manned.
As fuel oil spurted from the submarine’s shattered tanks, the Awikaze continued to close even as the Shark began to settle into the water. Believing the American submarine was trying to escape, the Japanese destroyer captain ordered depth charges to be readied. It was only as the Shark began rolling to port that her assailant’s master realized the American submarine was mortally wounded. Calling for full astern, the Awikaze drifted to a stop barely one thousand yards from where the Shark slowly slipped beneath the waves.
Curtly ordering the searchlights cut, the Awikaze’s captain curtly asked for the depth at their current location. Informed that there was only eighty feet under the keel, the man’s fet set in a hard scowl. There were shouts for aid from the darkness ahead of the destroyer, an occurrence that made the Japanese officer’s face become even more menacing.
“Set the depth charges for sixty feet, all ahead full,” he barked. Black smoke belching from her stack, the destroyer began accelerating towards the spreading oil slick. A little over two minutes later, as a six charge spread rolled off her stern, the Awikaze ensured that there would be no personal plea for aid from General Douglas MacArthur, Commanding General, U.S. Army Philippines.
Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
1630 Local (2300 Eastern)
15 April
“With all due respect, Sir, I would rather be reassigned to a boat at the earliest possible convenience,” Nick stated, standing stiffly at attention.
There was a menacing chortle from behind the desk in front of him.
“You hear that, Commander Freeman? Lieutenant Cobb believes Rear Admiral Graham’s order that he be reassigned to his staff is rather inconvenient,” Captain Daniel Davis, commander Submarine Squadron Six, said snidely. The heavyset senior officer sat behind his desk, his jowled face and ruddy expression making him look like a brown eyed boar hog.
“I think Lieutenant Cobb’s request is reasonable,” Commander Jason Freeman, former commanding officer of the U.S.S. Nautilus, stiffen beside him. Slightly taller than Nick, Freeman was almost as slender and wiry. His sandy blonde hair was short and slicked back in a barely within regulation Clark Gable haircut. The man’s mustache was similarly trimmed, the complete style making him appear like a Hollywood lothario in his service whites. The Medal of Honor around his neck glinted in the room’s overhead lighting.
“Well, pardon me, Commander, but for some damn reason I remember not arguing with flag officers when I was a lieutenant,” Davis barked.
“Sir, I meant no dis…” Nick started to say, feeling Commander Freeman stiffen beside him.
“Shut up, Lieutenant Cobb,” Davis said, his voice cold as ice. “Just because you and Commander Freeman happened to luck into helping sink a Japanese carrier does not entitle you to the privilege to talk back to the commanding officer of your squadron. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Nick replied in the loudest voice possible.
The fact I just sounded like a plebe answering a particularly ignorant upperclassman is purely coincidental, Nick thought. Or at least that’s what I’ll swear to on a stack of Bibles if it comes to that.
The fact that Davis suddenly looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel indicated to him that his tonal effect was right on.
“Get out of my sight, both of you,” Davis snarled. “Now.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Nick replied, saluting and executing an about face that was straight out of Bancroft Hall. Commander Freeman offered a more lackadaisical salute, its meaning as clear as Nick’s hyper reaction, then turned and exited Davis’s office also.
“I guess we could have handled that a little bit better, Lieutenant Cobb,” Commander Freeman observed a few minutes later as they stepped out into the bright Pearl Harbor sun.
“Sir, I can’t believe he won’t recut my orders so I can go with you to the Herring,” Nick seethed. “What good is giving every officer in a wardroom Navy Crosses if they’re going to break the gang up?”
Freeman l
aughed at that, returning the salute of two passing commanders. Nick greeted the two officers, receiving a pair of nods in return.
“That is going to take some getting used to,” Freeman observed, looking down at his award self-consciously.
“Well Sir, you can imagine my surprise at my own award,” Nick replied.
“Seems like your family makes a habit of collecting the things,” Freeman joked, then stopped at the pained expression crossing Nick’s face.
“Sorry sir,” Nick stated sorrowfully. “My brothers are all a little banged up at the moment.”
Freeman nodded sagely.
“I imagine watching your entire squadron die in front of you has that effect,” he noted.
“Yes sir, it apparently does,” Nick replied. “I don’t think either of my brothers has slept a full night since they have returned. Between notifying the next of kin and boxing up effects, they’ve been busy.”
“You ever think maybe you should embrace this assignment, Lieutenant Cobb?” Freeman asked. “Perhaps for your mother’s sake if nothing else?”
Nick looked sideways at his former commanding officer.
“Sir, I figure you’re my best ticket to getting out of this war in one piece,” Nick replied. “Followed closely by Lieutenant, I mean Lieutenant Commander Banes.”
“Ol’ Stringbean will make a great commander, but he needs to get his own folks,” Commander Freeman observed. “You guys lower down the totem pole didn’t notice it much, but we definitely had different styles.”
Nick looked at Commander Freeman in surprise.
“Let me guess, you figured we were both hyper-aggressive?” Freeman asked with a smile.
“Sir, are you saying Lieutenant Commander Banes wasn’t?” Nick asked, genuinely curious.
“No, I’m saying Stringbean makes me look calm and reticent,” Freeman replied with a twinkle. “Still think his boat is a safe bet?”
Nick shrugged.
“Sir, we attacked an entire Japanese task force,” Nick replied. “I don’t think there’s an aggression setting higher than that.”
“You’d be surprised,” Freeman replied, looking at his watch.
“Don’t you have to be at Rear Admiral Graham’s headquarters soon?” Commander Freeman asked.
“Yes, sir,” Nick replied.
Freeman looked at him askance.
“It’s a bad look to be late to your new job,” Freeman said sternly. “Especially since you know there was a phone call saying when we left.”
“What are they going to do, sir, send me to sea?” Nick asked with a sneer.
“I think you’ll find yourself back out on a boat soon enough,” Commander Freeman said. “Be late and it will be some Sugar boat heading up to Alaska.”
Okay, I had not considered that possibility, Nick thought.
“Thank you, sir,” Nick said, coming to attention and rendering a proper salute.
“Till we meet again, Lieutenant,” Freeman said, returning the gesture. He turned and began walking away towards his billets.
Nick watched his former commander go for a few moments, returning the salute of a couple of sailors, then turned the other way and looked down the street towards his own fate. He had no idea what his future as a staff officer held, but he was sure it was going to be painful. As he passed by the empty submarine docks, Nick gave a wistful gaze towards the U.S.S. Tautog as that vessel was taking on provisions.
Maybe I could stow away, he thought briefly, then quashed the thought. While I have no idea what people do at SUBPAC headquarters, I am well aware that it has to beat the brig.
“Well, guess it’s time to take my whippin’ like a man,” Nick muttered as he reached the square building serving as SUBPAC headquarters. Making one last check of his uniform, Nick strode up and presented his identification to the Marine NCO standing guard with a bayoneted rifle and old World War I helmet at the door. The man looked over Nick’s identification and his orders, then handed them back to the officer with a salute.
“Well, everything looks in order Lieutenant Cobb,” the gunnery sergeant said. “Do you know where the admiral’s office is?”
“Negative Gunnery Sergeant,” Nick replied.
“Very well, you pass through this door and go to the end of the hall and take a right,” the grizzled man replied. “Don’t worry, there’s no gallows in there, sir.”
“Thank you,” Nick said with a grin. The NCO came to attention and saluted once again.
“Good luck, sir,” the man replied.
“Thanks Gunnery Sergeant,” Nick replied.
Nick followed the directions and soon found himself standing outside the chief of staff’s door. Raising his hand, he knocked three times.
“Enter!” came the shout from beyond the door. With a last deep breath to stiffen his resolve, Nick entered the chief’s office.
Sitting behind his desk, a lit cigar throwing up a thin trail of smoke, was Captain Kevin J. Donze. A tall man, Donze’s physique could be described as “grizzly.” A mustang, Donze was known for his low tolerance of idiocy and, much to the horror of his “refined” peers, an almost ever present cigar.
Rumor has it that the man does not carry matches for his cigars, as he simply lights them on the flaming remnants of the staff, Nick thought. He came to a position of attention precisely three steps in front of Donze’s desk and snapped off a perfect salute.
“Lieutenant Nick Cobb reporting as ordered, Sir,” he said flatly.
Donze returned the salute, then gestured for Nick to sit down at one of the two chairs just in front of his desk.
“Coffee or a smoke Lieutenant Cobb?” Donze asked, reaching for the open pack of cigars on his desk.
“No thank you, sir,” Nick replied, sitting stiffly in the chair.
“Lieutenant, you need to relax in this headquarters,” Donze said, a slight smile on his face. “Just because some of us happen to have all this extra braid on our caps doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten how the rest of the submarine force lives.”
Nick allowed himself to relax into the chair, still keeping his back straight as he looked around.
“While I’m sure you’ve heard this until you’re ready to puke, great job on that Jap carrier,” Donze said. “So what exactly do you think your new job is going to entail?”
“Sir, I’m not quite sure,” Nick said. “I was not briefed prior to coming over.”
That’s the understatement of the year, he thought to himself.
“Well, I might be a bit responsible for that,” Donze allowed. “Captain Davis was a bit slow in ordering you to move up here, so I suggested to Admiral Graham that he might need ‘encouragement’.”
Nick fought back the urge to grimace at that one. Suddenly the reason behind Davis’s attitude became a lot clearer.
“Admiral Graham believes that there is a lack of “big picture” understanding at the boat level,” Donze said. “Quite frankly, he doesn’t think most of our commanders understand the reasons behind their orders—something that was exacerbated by the late Admiral Bowles believing that he ran this building as well as serving as CINCPAC chief of staff.”
Nick kept his face expressionless at the mention of the late flag officer.
I’m probably going to Hell for thinking getting roasted in aviation gas was a fitting end for that man, Nick thought.
“In order to fight this problem, Admiral Graham has decided that he needs a junior officer, that being yourself, to write out a weekly strategy update,” Donze continued. “The report needs to be geared towards officers of your rank and experience, the intent being to given them an idea of what’s going on outside of their boat.”
Nick was thunderstruck.
“Uh, Sir, are you sure you have the right Lieutenant?” Nick asked. “I mean, I just barely passed English while at Annapolis?”
Donze chuckled at that.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant Cobb,” Donze said. “If necessary, we’ll get one of the local teachers to help
you.”
Nick wisely decided not to push the issue. His mother had not raised any fools.
It’s also been made clear to me today that a lieutenant’s opinion isn’t worth an admiral’s fart, much less consideration, Nick thought bitterly. Guess I’m pretty much stuck with this job, he thought to himself.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant, we’re not planning on keeping you here forever,” Donze said. “You’ll be here for six, maybe eight months top before we’ll have you on the next new boat that shows up from the States.”
Not forever, Nick thought, feeling genuinely horrified. It will just seem like it by the time we’re done. Is it too late to learn how to fly?
Several miles away, Sam and David would have happily traded places with their brother.
I almost wish we were back to doing notifications, Sam thought, hammering down the lid on yet another crate of personal effects. I don’t know how many more wives’ pictures I can see.
“It’d be nice if they had just told us to do the officers,” David seethed. “I mean, it beats hearing kids scream at us to ‘bring their Daddy home,’ but…”
Sam looked over at his brother as the other man let his voice trail off. He could see that his twin was fighting back tears, and reached past him to grab the form.
“Read the next item, David,” he said. “I’ll buy first round after we get done here.”
I hope I never have to do that again as long as I live, Sam thought, waiting for his brother to regain his composure.
“Picture, five by seven, in frame,” David said heavily. The woman in the picture was a pretty brunette in a patterned white dress, obviously something quite important to the late Captain Abraham Finkel of Brooklyn, New York. Sam made the notation, then took the picture and began to put it in the crate.
“His sister, Celia,” Sam said softly. “Told me if I had been a Jew he would have happily set us up together, thought we would have gotten along great. She even wrote me a couple of letters.”
David looked at his brother in shock.
“You never told me about that,” he said, surprised.
