Ghosts of Bungo Suido (2013)

by Deutermann, P. T

  “Commander,” Falcone said, “I’m supposed to be your counsel, sir.”

  “Lucky you,” Gar said.

  “Sir, may I have a word? Or better yet, can I buy you a beer?”

  “Do I look like I need a drink at eleven in the morning, Lieutenant?”

  Falcone blinked. “Yes, sir.”

  Gar laughed. “Sold,” he said. “Assuming the sub base O-club is still in business. The rest of the submarine establishment seems to have folded its tents.”

  They found a corner table and ordered sandwiches and a beer each. Gar asked Falcone when he had been appointed.

  “This morning, sir,” Falcone said. “They told me to get down here to the sub base for a meeting with the chief of staff.”

  “So there’s definitely going to be a court of inquiry.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Monday, starting at 0900, at the 14th Naval District headquarters building.”

  “That gives us, what, three days to prepare my defense?”

  Falcone hesitated. “Sir, defense is the wrong word here.”

  “Not from where I’m sitting, Lieutenant.”

  “I know, sir. You’ve been accused of a serious infraction, collaboration with the enemy in time of war. But you’ve not been charged. There’s a big difference.”

  “Sounds like lawyer talk.”

  “It is. Lawyers have to be specific, sir. If you were charged, then by now you’d have been arrested and confined. We’d be looking at a general court-martial, with a prosecutor, who’s called the trial counsel, a defense attorney, who’s called the defense counsel, and the members of the court, who are the jury. The prosecutor would be presenting evidence against you, and I’d be trying to poke holes in that or present some kind of evidence to the contrary.”

  “Isn’t that what’s going to happen Monday?”

  “No, sir. Captain White, our senior JAG, will introduce the allegations made against you, and, if they can find him, they’ll get Major Franklin to testify as to what he heard you say.”

  “And if they can’t find him?”

  “Then they’ll just read the allegations out in the courtroom. Couldn’t do that in a court-martial, but this is an inquiry into the facts, not a trial.”

  “I’ve been told all this, Lieutenant,” Gar said. “But from my perspective, it sure looks like a trial. Lawyers on both sides. Senior member equals judge and jury, assisted by two more line officers. Evidence against me and for me. If the court of inquiry finds that there’s sufficient reason to go to court-martial, that’s as good as a conviction. And after that I go to the brig.”

  Falcone looked uncomfortable.

  “What?” Gar asked.

  “After that, sir, I regret to inform you that you could go to a firing squad,” Falcone said. “Collaboration with the enemy in time of war is a capital offense.”

  Gar sat back in his chair. Welcome the fuck home, sailor. First a Navy Cross and now a firing squad? He should have taken his chances with that damned hatch. All those ghosts down in Bungo Suido would have been more sympathetic than any of these CYA staffies back here in Pearl. A capital offense. No wonder Lockwood and Forrester had run for cover. That wasn’t like Lockwood, so Gar figured this was Forrester’s recommendation.

  “So what do we do now, Mister Falcone?”

  “We begin by you telling me your side of this story, Commander, but not here. In my office conference room up at PacFleet, where I can record it, and then transcribe it.”

  “How long have you been out of law school?” Gar asked.

  “Harvard, ’43,” Falcone said.

  “Well, that’s a good start,” Gar said. “I think.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  They did the transcription that afternoon. It took longer than it had in front of Lockwood because Lieutenant Falcone asked questions. A bulky RCA tape recorder went through two reels of tape in the process, while a stenographer sat in one corner typing silently into a desk-sized Ireland stenotype device that produced a continuous roll of paper. Gar was tired by the time they quit at five, both from the telling and the remembering. Lieutenant Falcone was obviously aware of this. He suggested that Gar go get some rest, and that they’d meet again Saturday afternoon to discuss strategy.

  The following afternoon, Falcone surprised Gar with his first suggestion.

  “We’ll ask for an immediate recess,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m going to ask for an immediate recess so that the members of the court can read the record of what you’ve been through. I’ll suggest to them that this will better prepare them to ask questions. It will also spare you the emotional labor of reliving your experiences by having to give three hours of testimony.”

  “You think they’ll do that?”

  “I certainly would. The only risk is that they will be much better prepared to ask questions, but from what I’ve heard and read, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “A group of senior line officers might think differently,” Gar said. “I wish I could get a POW or two on this board. By the way, do we know who is going to be on the board?”

  “Court, not board, sir. And no, we don’t. Probably won’t even be submariners. This isn’t about your conduct as the CO of a boat. This is about your conduct as a POW. I expect they’ll be captains, with a really senior captain in charge. If it’s any consolation, they won’t know what this is about until it convenes.”

  Gar smiled. “You may have gone to Harvard, Lieutenant, but I guarantee they’ll all know exactly what this is about by opening day. Pearl’s a small place, really, and there’s not much a captain, USN, doesn’t know about what’s happening in the harbor.”

  “That was probably true during the war, sir, but these days most of the faces around Makalapa are brand-new. I’m actually one of the few JAG officers who was here in early ’44 and who’s still here.”

  “You know Sharon DeVeers?” Gar asked.

  “Yes, sir, and she’s leaving soon, too. All the WAVES are going back to civilian life, from what I hear.”

  “I wanted her as my attorney for this thing,” Gar said, “but Captain White said no. Said she had a problem, and that I’d be better off with someone else.”

  Falcone stared down at the conference table and said nothing.

  “Do you know what that problem might be?” Gar asked.

  “Lieutenant Commander DeVeers is a pretty sharp lawyer,” Falcone said. “She was a state court judge back in ’41.”

  “And?”

  “I guess you should ask her, Commander,” Falcone said. “It’s not my place to—”

  “Booze, isn’t it?” Gar asked. “She’s a hard-core alkie.”

  Falcone blinked, then nodded.

  “She’s damned good-looking, so I don’t guess that anyone senior up there cared when it came to liberty time. But if she showed up the next morning looking like the wreck of the Hesperus…”

  Falcone nodded again.

  “Let me speculate some more. She’s made some enemies up there, possibly by declining certain invitations in favor of other invitations. Or by surprising the shit out of opposing counsel who were focusing on her legs while she was focusing on their case.”

  Falcone raised a hand. “Guilty,” he said. “She’s good, real good.”

  “When she’s sober.”

  “Yes, sir, when she’s sober.”

  “May I ask a favor?”

  “Sir?”

  “Will you talk to her, tell her what you intend to do, see what she thinks?”

  “Does she know this case?”

  “She does. I met with her after White told me no. And you should know, we’d met before, socially, back before I left for my last patrol.”

  Falcone gave Gar a speculative look. “Socially,” he said.

  “Yeah, Lieutenant, socially. It’s what she’s really good at.”

  Falcone blushed. “I’ll talk to her, sir, if that’s what you want.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I
want. What the hell, having been a judge, she may have an angle we haven’t thought of.”

  “Anything’s possible, sir.”

  * * *

  On Monday, Gar arrived at the 14th Naval District headquarters building at eight thirty. He was dressed in service dress khakis, complete with tie. Except for his single appearance in Lockwood’s office, he hadn’t worn this dress uniform since leaving Pearl on the Dragon’s special mission to the Inland Sea. The one he had on now was his original uniform. Before departing on her final patrol, Dragonfish had put all of Gar’s personal effects in a seabag and handed it in to the SubPac admin in Guam, who’d sent it on to Pearl, where headquarters maintained a locker for the personal effects of the missing in action. He’d even retrieved his Naval Academy ring, which he’d presumed had gone to the bottom with the Dragon. The uniform fit him like a beach towel. Lieutenant Falcone told him to wear it anyway—it would accentuate his much-diminished physical appearance.

  Falcone met him at the main entrance, and together they went to the courtroom on the second floor. It was a large room that looked more like a classroom than a court. There were the obligatory green-felt-covered tables, one for the witnesses and counsel, and a second for the JAG officer who would act as counsel to the court of inquiry. One long table was set up along the wall for the members of the court. Gar saw that there were three places set up on the long table, each with its own silver water carafe, glass, yellow legal pad, and two navy-issue pens. There was no witness box and no PA system. Overhead two large fans were listlessly stirring the humid Hawaiian air. There was one row of chairs against the back wall, which Gar assumed was for spectators.

  Gar took a seat at the witness table while Falcone put a copy of the transcribed debriefing at each member’s place, plus one for the court’s counsel.

  “Think they’ll grant the recess?” Gar asked.

  “I prebriefed Captain White,” Falcone said. “He’s going to be court counsel. He thought it was a good idea and said he would so advise the court.”

  “So did they find my good buddy Major Franklin?”

  “He’s in a hospital in Oakland. He has a case of what they call black lung, whatever that is, complicated by pneumonia. He’s in bad shape. The docs don’t really expect him to make it.”

  “Black lung is what you get from breathing coal dust down in a mine,” Gar said. “Most of us tried to wrap something over our nose and face when we were down there. Sometimes the guards wouldn’t allow it.”

  Captain White came in at nine and informed them that the court would not convene this morning. He personally was going to take the transcripts to the president and each of the members, and they would convene formally once the members said they were ready. This arrangement saved everyone concerned the process of convening and then immediately adjourning.

  “Commander Hammond,” White said. “You sure about this? I understand that you agreed to it?”

  “I did. Why wouldn’t I—it’s my testimony.”

  “Yes, it is. Let me ask you—does this transcript describe your interaction with the Japanese interrogators?”

  “Peripherally,” Lieutenant Falcone said. “We figured that’s where the questions would focus, and we’d let Commander Hammond expand at that time.”

  White thought about that for a moment. “You understand, Commander Hammond, that my role as court counsel is not to act like a prosecutor. The president and the members will ask the questions. My job is to referee—to make sure neither they nor you venture too far afield, and also to answer questions of law.”

  “What’s your point, Captain?” Gar asked.

  “The central issue here is whether or not you gave the Japs anything more than name, rank, and serial number. Do you admit doing that in this transcript?”

  “I guess I do,” Gar said. “I didn’t given them anything of real value, but—”

  White held up his hand. “Say no more, Commander. Let’s save it for the hearing. But as a point of law, you’ve admitted that you did what has been alleged. The president has the right to terminate the hearing based on that alone and then proceed directly to findings.”

  Gar hadn’t known that. He looked at Falcone, who shrugged. “You’ve never denied it, sir,” he said. “Because it’s the truth. The truth is supposedly what we’re here for. I see the central issues differently from Captain White. I see two issues, actually. One, were you justified in doing what you did. I think that’s self-evident. Two, did you do damage to the American cause, and I think, once they read your testimony and discuss it, you did not.”

  “You better hope so, Lieutenant,” Captain White said. “May I have the transcripts, please?”

  “They’re right there, sir, on the table.”

  * * *

  After a day of waiting, Gar thought he was beginning to go crazy. He was deeply angry that he was being accused of treacherous conduct. If he’d made it back before the war ended, this would never have happened. Now that the war was over and the huge military establishment that had been needed to win it was being dismantled, it was a totally different ball game. Careers were at stake, with whole commands at risk of simply going away, and the legacy of senior flags at risk as investigations like this one ground through their paces. Gar knew that the submarine force had made something of a religion out of their Silent Service trademark. They didn’t brag, but they made sure the statistics were in plain view.

  The silent, invisible menace presented by American submarines was one of the least-kept secrets of what they were already calling World War II. Admirals like Lockwood and Forrester were juggling two hot potatoes: how much of the submarine force would survive the massive demobilization, and how much of the force’s image would survive the inevitable explorations by historians over issues such as the torpedoes, the fact that the submarine force suffered the heaviest losses of any ship type in the navy, the sub captains who broke under the strain of command, and incidents like this one, where one of their skippers, honored as a hero for choosing to stay on the bridge during an emergency dive, was accused of aiding the enemy. Gar knew from years of experience that the submarine service wanted above all to solve its own problems in-house. So why had Lockwood acquiesced to this court of inquiry?

  Lieutenant Falcone called the following morning, as Gar was getting ready to go back over to the naval district headquarters. The opening day’s session had been postponed for one more day. Apparently the members wanted more time to read, study, and prepare questions for the actual hearing. Great, he thought. Another day of stewing in the BOQ. Falcone, however, had a plan. He had provided each member with a legal yeoman, whose job it was to type up any notes or questions being made by the members regarding the transcript. Those same yeomen worked for him. He had arranged for them to show him what they were putting together, and he wanted Gar to be on call that afternoon so they could begin to assess the questions and prepare answers.

  “Is that kosher?” Gar asked.

  “Sure,” Falcone said. “If we wanted to, we could request a formal copy of all their questions, and then ask for our own continuance to get ready. This way we can get going.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “I think the longer this court takes, the more likely it’s going to metamorphose into a much bigger deal.” His voice became oracular. “Mr. President, grave matters of principle are at stake here.”

  “So maybe telegraphing my testimony was not such a good idea?”

  “Do you think you did anything wrong?” Falcone asked.

  “No, I did not.”

  “That’s your best defense, Commander. Tell the truth. It’s a pretty amazing story. You did the best you could. You saved some prisoners’ lives. You saved your ship by staying topside in an emergency dive. Besides, they have to be careful, too.”

  “How so?”

  “If they decide to recommend prosecution for you on the basis of some by-the-book-with-no-exceptions rule, they send a message to the entire fleet that anyone who becom
es a POW is instantly in a no-win situation.”

  “You think these captains will consider that?”

  “If they don’t, rest assured I’ll be raising it. Oh, by the way, Lieutenant Commander DeVeers wants to see you if you have time. She suggests you meet her for lunch at the Cannon Club on Fort DeRussy.”

  “If I have time?” Gar repeated. “I have nothing but time. Or maybe not.”

  “Great,” Falcone said. “I’ll tell her you’ll be there at noon, then. I should have some stuff to talk about by three.”

  * * *

  Gar had never made it to Fort DeRussy during his time in Hawaii. During the war it had been a staging area for the transshipment of thousands of GIs to meat-grinder islands of the western Pacific. It had also been an army coastal artillery site, complete with a battery of two 14-inch naval rifles lurking inside massive concrete bunkers high on the slopes. The officers’ open mess, nicknamed the Cannon Club, had one of the best views on the island of Oahu, overlooking Waikiki Beach and a lot of Honolulu.

  Sharon showed up at ten after twelve, looking smart in her WAVE lieutenant commander’s uniform. Gar felt almost shabby in his ill-fitting khakis, but she pretended not to notice. They got a table inside, as the day was humid.

  Gar ordered a cold beer, Sharon a gin and tonic. Once they had their drinks, he offered her a salud. She returned the gesture. Her hairdo was perfect, and she was, if anything, looking even sexier than the last time he’d spent time with her.

  “Good to be back?” she asked with a rakish smile.

  “Oh, hell, yes. Got a wonderful welcome, a medal, maybe two, and a court of inquiry, all in the same week. Great to be back.”

  “Tony Falcone told me about the transcripts. Good move, that. I haven’t read them, of course, but I think they should make quick work of this business.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “Although Captain White had a different opinion on what’s possible. He seemed to have a very literal point of view on my talking to the Japs.”

  “Tony told me about that, too,” she said. “Captain White is sixty years old; he spent the whole war up at Makalapa, overseeing the drudgery of military law. All the interesting stuff was done by reservists who came in for the duration, specialists, say, in international law, or law of the sea. He has to retire at sixty-two, and he’s just hanging on for dear life.”