by Herman Wouk
Beck got into the driver’s seat.
She choked to Rabinovitz, “Am I doing the right thing?”
“It’s done.” He touched a rough hand to her cheek. “Next year in Jerusalem.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She kissed his bristly, greasy face, and stumbled into the car. He shut the door on her. “Let’s go!” he called in Italian at the crewmen. “Get the plank in!”
The Mercedes drove down the wharf, with Jastrow and Beck blithely chatting. Natalie bent over the baby’s basket, dry suppressed sobs convulsing her throat. As the car headed north out of Naples on a deserted macadam highway, the sun rose in a white blaze. Its slanted afternoon rays were lighting the Via Veneto when Werner Beck halted his car at the American embassy, and helped Natalie alight. Louis had a high fever.
The Red Cross was handling mail for the internees. Before Natalie left for Siena, she wrote Byron what had happened, summing it up so:
Now that I’m back in civilization — if you call Mussolini’s Italy that — I can see that I did the prudent thing. We’re safe and comfortable, an American doctor’s been treating Louis, and he’s on the mend. That boat was a horror. God knows what will become of those people. Still, I wish I didn’t feel so lousy about it. I’ll not rest easy until I learn what happened to the Redeemer.
5
EXCEPT for the haunting uncertainty about his wife and baby, Byron Henry was enjoying the new war with Japan. It had freed him for a while from the Devilfish and its exacting captain, for salvage duty in the ruins of the Cavité naval base. Under the bombed-out rubble and broken burned timbers lay great mounds of precious supplies in charred boxes or crates — electronic gear, clothing, food, machinery, mines, ammunition, the thousand things needed to keep a fleet going; above all, spare parts now desired above diamonds. With a sizable work gang, Byron was digging out the stuff day by day, and trucking it westward to Bataan.
His feat of retrieving torpedoes under fire during the Cavité raid had brought him this assignment direct from Admiral Hart’s headquarters. He had carte blanche in the burned ruins, so long as he produced the goods at the peninsula enclosing the bay to the west, where American forces were digging into the mountains for a possible long siege. This freedom of action enchanted Byron. His contempt for paperwork and regulations, which had gotten him into such hot water aboard the Devilfish, was a prime scavenger virtue. To get things moving he signed any paper, told any lie. He commandeered idle men and vehicles as though he were the admiral himself. For overcoming resistance and settling arguments, he used fire-blackened cases of beer and cartons of cigarettes — which worked like gold coin — from a vast cache he had come upon in the ruins. His drivers and loaders got plenty of these, too, and he made sure they were well fed. If he had to, he brought them into officers’ messes, brassily pleading emergency.
Once during an air raid he marched his seventeen men into the grill of the Manila Hotel. The dirty, sweaty crew ate a sumptuous lunch on white napery to string music, while on the waterfront bombs exploded. He paid the enormous check with a Navy voucher full of fine print, adding a five-dollar tip from his own pocket; and he walked out fast, leaving the head waiter staring dubiously at the flimsy blue paper. Thus Byron got his raggle-taggle pickup gang of sailors, longshoremen, marines, and truck drivers — Filipino, American, Chinese, he didn’t care — to drudge cheerily from dawn to nightfall. They stuck to him because he kept them on the move, rewarded them as a trainer throws fish to his seals, and turned a blind eye to their own pilferings in the rubble.
The stinking smashed-up Cavité base reminded him of battered Warsaw, where he had been caught with Natalie by Hitler’s invasion. But this was a different war: sporadic bombings from the azure tropic sky setting ships ablaze and raising pretty bursts of flame among the waterfront palm trees; nothing like the storm of German bombs and shells that had wrecked the Polish capital. Nor was there yet the fear of an enemy closing in. Cavité had been a hot show, a thorough rubbing-out of a military target, but the base was just a smudge on the untouched hundred-mile coast of Manila Bay. The city itself kept its peacetime look: shimmering heat, glaring sunshine, heavy automobile traffic and crawling oxcarts, a few white men and hordes of Filipinos strolling the sidewalks. Sirens, fires, sandbags, tiny Japanese bombers glinting over green palm-feathered hills far above the thudding black AA puffs, made a war of it — a war slightly movie-ish in feel.
Byron knew things would get rougher. Pessimistic rumors abounded: as, that the entire Pacific Fleet had been sunk at Pearl Harbor, carriers and all, but that the guilty President was suppressing the catastrophic news. Or, that MacArthur’s announcements of “small-scale” enemy landings on Luzon were lies; that the Japs were already ashore in force, thundering toward Manila with thousands of tanks. And so forth. Most people believed what General MacArthur told them: that the Jap landings in the north were light feints, well-contained, and that massive help was on the way. There were also optimistic rumors of a huge relief convoy, already en route from San Francisco with a Marine division and three mechanized Army divisions, plus two aircraft carriers crammed with fighters and bombers.
Byron wasn’t much concerned either way. A submarine could leave Luzon at a half hour’s notice. As for his father and brother at Pearl Harbor, Victor Henry seemed indestructible to Byron, and he doubted the Enterprise had been sunk. That would have come out. He would have been quite happy, had he only been sure that Natalie and the baby were homeward bound. The work was a godsend. It kept him too busy by day and too worn out by night to worry overmuch.
This pleasant time abruptly ended. Stopping his truck convoy in downtown Manila to report on his progress, he met Branch Hoban coming out of the Marsman building with a thick envelope in hand, blinking in the sunshine.
“Well, well, Briny Henry himself, loose as a goose!” The captain of the Devilfish caught at his arm. “This simplifies matters.”
Hoban’s handsome face had a hard set to it; the jaw was thrust far forward; the neat Clark Gable mustache seemed to bristle. He squinted at the four heavily laden trucks, and at Byron’s work gang, all bare-chested or in dirty undershirts, drinking warm beer from cans. “Heading for Mariveles, were you?”
“Yes, sir, after making my report.”
“I’ll ride along. You’re securing from this duty.”
“Sir, Commander Percifield expects me, and —”
“I know all about Commander Percifield. Go ahead in. I’ll wait.”
Percifield told Byron that the admiral wanted to see him, and added, “You’ve done a 4.0 job, Ensign Henry. We’ll miss you. Turn over your men and vehicles to Captain Tully at Mariveles.”
Byron was led by a yeoman into the presence of the Commander-in-Chief of the Asiatic Fleet, a dried-up small old man in whites at an oversize desk, facing out on a spectacular panorama of the blue palm-lined bay.
“You’re Pug Henry’s boy, aren’t you? Warren’s brother?” Hart twanged with no other greeting. His round face, weathered in red-brown streaks and patches, wore a harried embittered look. His neck was all sunburned cords and strings. He held himself straight and stiff in the swivel chair.
“Yes, Admiral.”
“I thought as much. When I was Academy Superintendent, Warren was a battalion commander. A real corner, Warren. And your father’s an outstanding gent. Have a look at this.” He tossed Byron a dispatch.
FROM: THE CHIEF OF PERSONNEL
TO: CAPTAIN VICTOR (NONE) HENRY
DETACHED CO CALIFORNIA (BB-44) X RELIEVE CO
NORTHAMPTON (CA-26)
So the California was out of action, and his father had a cruiser instead! This was news. But why was Thomas Hart, who bore naval responsibility for the whole Asian theatre, taking notice of an ensign?
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“Not a bad consolation prize, the Northampton,” Hart said in brusque gravelly tones. “The California’s sitting on the mud in Pearl, with a hell of a big torpedo hole in her hull. That’s confidentia
l. Now then. You seem to be an original, hey, Ensign?” The admiral picked up two papers clipped together. “Seems you’ve been put up for a letter of commendation, for pulling a quantity of torpedoes out of Cavité under fire. As a submariner, I deeply appreciate that exploit. We’re very low on fish. And you’ve since been recovering other valuable stores, I understand, including mines. Well done! On the other hand, young fellow —” he turned over a sheet, and his face soured, “you’ve gone and applied for transfer to Atlantic duty!” Leaning back, Hart clasped his hands under his chin and glared. “I wanted a look at the Henry boy who would put in such a request at a time like this.”
“Sir, my wife —”
Hart’s hostile look softened, and his tone too. “Yes, I’m told that your wife is Jewish, and that she may be caught in Italy with a baby. That’s a very bad business and I sympathize, but what can you do about it?”
“Sir, I’ll be ten thousand miles closer, if by chance there is something to do.”
“But we need submarine officers here. I’m combing them from the tender and the beach. For all you know, your wife’s back home by now. Isn’t that the real truth?”
“It’s not likely, but even so, I’ve never seen my son, Admiral.”
Hart stared at Byron and shook his head in a tired way. “Dismissed.”
It was a long glum run to Bataan with Branch Hoban on the driver’s seat beside Byron, in an Army truck groaning with crated mines. At the Mariveles Navy headquarters he said good-bye to his work gang. They responded with offhand waves and grunts as they began unloading. He doubted that they would stay together long.
“Now then,” Hoban jovially remarked, as the dinghy puttered out past the green rocky island of Corregidor into the breezy bay, “the next question is, where’s the Devilfish?” He stared around at empty waters stretching everywhere. Manila lay beyond the horizon thirty miles off. Smoke from an air raid marked its location. Not a ship was in sight; not a tug, not a garbage lighter. Fear of the bombers had cleared the bay. “The squadron’s lying doggo on the bottom out around here, Byron. We’ll just wait.” For about an hour periscopes briefly rose from the waves, looked about, and vanished, while the dinghy lay to, tossing. Finally one scope popped up, turned, fixed a stare at the dinghy like the wet head of a sea serpent, and made for it. The dark hull broke the surface, streaming white water; and soon Byron was back aboard the cramped Devilfish, which, much as he disliked it, felt and smelled like home.
The executive officer staggered him by saying that his relief had reported aboard. At his hoot of disbelief Lieutenant Aster insisted, “He’s here, I tell you. It’s Ensign Quayne. You know him, that long drink of water off the poor old Sealion. They’re reassigning her officers. You were up for a letter of commendation, my boy, but the admiral instead is transferring you to the Atlantic.”
Byron said with false nonchalance, “Then when can I leave, Lady?”
“Hold your horses. Quayne’s had only four months at sea. He has to qualify first. Wardroom meeting, incidentally, in a couple of minutes.”
Ensign Quayne, a pale nail-biter, fresh off a submarine sunk at Cavité, was the one new face at the small green-covered table. Captain Hoban showed up clean-shaven. He looked not only younger, Byron thought, but less obnoxious; the dashing peacetime hotshot and lady’s man giving way to an officer meaning business.
“If any of you are wondering about the soup strainer,” Hoban grinned, unfolding the old scuffed H.O. chart of the northern Pacific on the table, “it’s a war casualty. Not much chance of keeping it properly trimmed at sea, so — the word from headquarters, gentlemen, is to stand by for war patrol number one. Button up all maintenance work in three days, or scrub it. We top off, take on provisions and torpedoes, and go. The intelligence is that a mess of big transports have already left the Jap home islands, escorted by battleships, carriers, cruisers, and Christ knows what else, for an invasion of Luzon in force. Destination, probably Lingayen Gulf. Looks like Christmas on patrol for the Devilfish and most of the squadron. Our orders are simple. Targets, in order of priority: first, loaded troop transports. Second, major combat vessels. Third, any combat vessels. Fourth, any Jap ship.”
A thrill rippled down Byron’s spine. Around the table he saw tightened lips, widened eyes, sobered expressions; on Carter Aster’s long face, a peculiar fleeting grin.
The captain tapped the blue and yellow chart. “Okay. First, to review the basics. We’re eighteen hundred miles from Tokyo here. Five hundred from the Formosa bomber base that’s been slugging at us. Seven thousand miles from San Francisco, lads. More than four thousand miles from Pearl Harbor.
“As you know, Guam and Wake look to be goners. They’ll probably be operational Jap air bases in a week.” Hoban’s finger jumped from point to point on the worn creased chart. “So our line is cut. We’re in the Japs’ back yard, surrounded and trapped. That’s how it is. How we got into this mess, you can ask the politicians some time. Meantime help can reach the Philippines only by sea, by the long route via Samoa and Australia outside Jap air range. Ten thousand miles, each way.” His meaningful look went round the table.
“Incidentally, that story about the big convoy from San Francisco is horse manure to bolster civilian morale. Forget it. We’ll patrol in waters totally controlled by the enemy. The rest of the Asiatic Fleet will be heading south to Java. They can’t take the bomber raids. Only the submarines will stay. Our mission is to harass the landing of the main Japanese expeditionary force — where, it goes without saying, destroyers will be thick as fleas on a dog’s back.” Another glance around; a tough, exhilarated smile. “Questions?”
Sitting in an easy slouch, Aster held up a hand. “What was that fourth priority, sir? Any Jap ship?”
“Affirmative.”
“Unarmed merchantmen and tankers, too?”
“I said any Jap ship.”
“We follow Geneva Convention procedures, of course — warning, search, putting the crew into boats, et cetera?”
Hoban slid coarse gray mimeographed sheets from a manila envelope. “Okay, here’s orders on that point.” He flipped pages. His voice became monotonous and declamatory. “Here we are. ‘On December 8, this force received the following fleet order from the Commander-in-Chief, Pacific Fleet: EXECUTE UNRESTRICTED REPEAT UNRESTRICTED SUBMARINE WARFARE AGAINST JAPAN.’” Hoban paused to give his officers a meaningful look. ”’Devilfish will govern itself accordingly.”
“Captain,” Byron said, “didn’t we declare war on the Germans in 1917 for doing just that?”
“Glad you brought it up. Negative. The Germans sank neutral ships. We’ll attack only enemy ships. ‘Unrestricted’ here means warship or merchant vessel, no difference.”
“Sir, what about Article Twenty-two?” Ensign Quayne said, holding up a bony finger with a chewed nail.
Sans mustache, Hoban’s smile looked boyish. “Right. You just memorized the articles for the qualification course. Repeat it.”
In a dull flat voice, Quayne self-consciously recited:
“Except in the case of persistent refusal to stop on being duly summoned, a submarine may not sink or render incapable of navigation a merchant vessel, without having first placed passengers, crew, and ship’s papers in a place of safety. For this purpose, the ship’s boats are not regarded as a place of safety, unless the safety of the passengers and crew is assured, in the existing sea and weather conditions, by the proximity of land, or the presence of another vessel which is in a position to take them on board.”
“Outstanding,” said Hoban. “Unlearn it.” Quayne looked like a startled fowl. “Gentlemen, the Japs attacked Pearl Harbor without warning in the middle of peace talks. We didn’t throw away the rule book of civilized war. They did. This isn’t the war we trained for, but it’s sure as hell the war we’ve got. And it’s just as well. By the time we’d go through that rigmarole, our target would shoot off an SOS and Jap planes would be swarming on us.”
“Captain, let me understand
you.” Aster touched a match to a thick gray cigar. “Does this mean if we see them, we sink them?”
“We see them, Lady, we identify them, and we sink them.” A jocularly ferocious grin lit his face. “When in doubt, of course, we give them the benefit of the doubt. We shoot. Any further questions? Then that’s all, gentlemen.”
As the officers left the wardroom the captain said, “Briny?”
“Yes, sir?”
Byron turned. Hoban was extending a hand and smiling. The wordless gesture, the youthful smile, seemed to wipe out six months of hostile tension. This was leadership, Byron thought. He grasped the captain’s hand. Hoban said, “Glad you’ll have at least one war patrol with us.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Captain.”
He had been up since dawn, working hard; and he worked late into the night in the torpedo rooms with his chiefs and crewmen, getting ready for a combat patrol. Falling asleep was seldom a problem for Byron Henry, but this night his thoughts kept drifting to his wife and son. In the cabin he now shared with Quayne were all his mementos: her picture taped on the bulkhead, her letters worn and wrinkled with rereading, the scarf he had filched from her in Lisbon, a single cracking snapshot of the infant. Lying wideawake in the dark, he found himself reliving the best moments of the helter-skelter romance — their first meeting, their adventures in Poland, her declaration of love in the pink boudoir of Jastrow’s villa, the rendezvous in Miami, the wild lòvemaking of the three-day honeymoon in Lisbon, and their dockside farewell in a foggy dawn. He could call up these scenes in detail, her own words and his, her littlest gestures, the look in her eyes; but the memories were dulling, like old phonograph records played too often. He tried to picture where she was now, and what his baby might look like. He gave way to fantasies of a passionate reunion. Like a jewel in his possession was the knowledge that his relief was aboard; that this first war patrol would be his last voyage on the Devilfish; that if he survived it, he would be going to the Atlantic.
