To Hunt and Protect

by M L Maki

  “Okay, John, but what is he going to do with the information?”

  “I don’t know. We all serve at his pleasure. That’s just how it is.”

  Backes, “You think he might replace all of us?”

  “I doubt it. Some of us may go, though.”

  “John, I thought he was your friend?”

  “He is a friend, and a mentor. That said, we’re at war. If I’m part of the problem, then I need to go.”

  “John, Cumberland is the problem.”

  “Is he? We’ve both had bad bosses. He’s a competent tactician. He knows how to run the ship. I, though, have been undercutting him with the command. I’ve been tolerating the crew making fun of him. The problem, from a certain point of view, is me, not him.”

  Backes, “From that point of view, we’re all the problem and only Cumberland is good. Is that what you believe?”

  “No. No, but have I handled it right?”

  “John, you’re my friend. We’ve been friends for years. You know I’ve got your back.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just worried. I thought Admiral Klindt would be here.”

  Greg, “Yeah, I get it. I guess we’re not going to be rescued.”

  “Nope. We’ll have to rescue ourselves.” They exchange an understanding look.

  Greg, “How are we going to do that?”

  “Have you noticed that he has calmed down about how we treat the crew?”

  “Yeah, as long as he gets his regular fix.”

  John breaths in and nods slightly, then looks down, “That talk makes me nervous. It’s disrespectful. It could be seen as sedition.”

  Greg, “You’re right. We need to lock it down.”

  “Until relieved, he’s the boss. I’ve already done what I can to inform the upper command about the issue. Also, of late, he’s been listening to me.”

  “How long do you suppose he’ll be in charge?”

  “No idea, Greg.”

  “I have had guys asking about re-enlisting for orders.”

  “Miller has too. We can’t replace anyone yet, especially back aft.”

  A lieutenant commander in winter khakis comes up to their table, “Any chance I could join you?”

  Morrison, “Sure. John Morrison, and this is Greg Backes.”

  “Rick Lake, PCO of Albacore.”

  Morrison, “XO and Nav on the San Francisco.”

  Lake, “You’re not PCO’s?” He signals the staff for another round.

  Backes, “Nope. Our boat has a silver leaf for a skipper.”

  “Oh, you’re on the mystery boat. What can you say?”

  Morrison, “It was built at New Port in 1981.”

  Lake stares at him, “You are time travelers. How did that work?”

  Morrison shakes his head, “Can’t go into it. I can say, it was an accident.”

  Their beers arrive, “Okay. What can you tell me that will help me kill Japanese subs?”

  Morrison, “In this place, nothing. I’ll talk to the skipper about holding a seminar or two in a secure location.”

  Lake, “Thanks. You know, you kind of look Japanese.”

  “From my mom. My dad was a good Irishman and a Navy officer.”

  “Do we win?”

  John, “We do, but this war is playing out differently than our history did.”

  Lake, “Should I ask how I do?”

  Greg, “Hell, no. Just do it. Trust your instincts and kick ass.”

  Lake, “Any chance of a tour?”

  John shakes his head, “No, sorry.”

  “Why did they name your sub after a heavy cruiser?”

  Greg, “We never said it was a sub.”

  “Yeah, but you’re both wearing dolphins.”

  Morrison, “Subs become much more important after the war, and heavy cruisers did not. In our time, there are no heavy cruisers in commission, and over a hundred subs.”

  BUILDING 49, NSB, NEW LONDON

  0915, 11 March, 1942

  MM2 Jackson walks out of a room, “You’re next, Gary.”

  Mallory knocks on the door and walks in. He stops in front of a chair and comes to attention. Captain Warren says, “Have a seat. I trust you’ve been through one of these before?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “Okay. Describe all the interlocks associated with the reactor control system.” This begins forty-five minutes of detailed and specific questions regarding the engineering systems and other systems on the sub. Warren, “What do you think of Commander Cumberland?”

  “Excuse me, sir”

  “Please, MM1, it’s a straightforward question.”

  “Sir, it’s not at all straightforward. He’s the captain. My thoughts or opinions are irrelevant.”

  Warren, “We’ve heard about a number of concerning traits with your commander. I know you are on the tracking party and thus in control during engagements. Please share a candid response.”

  “Sir, as I recall, criticizing a superior officer is disrespect and insubordination. Something like that. You’re asking me to violate the UCMJ.”

  Warren sets down his pen, “You are generally correct. However, there is a difference between disrespect and performance assessment. I’m asking for your assessment. To your knowledge, has Commander Cumberland ever violated the UCMJ, or any other law or regulation?”

  “Yeah, sure. He ordered me not to get married when we were in port in Sydney. I wrote a statement and submitted it to Commander Miller. Cumberland has publicly mocked the XO and other crew members. Isn’t that cruelty? That’s an article, right?”

  “It is, article 93.”

  “Yes, sir. There have been a couple of times he’s walked out of control in the middle of an evolution or attack when precise movements are required. That isn’t against the UCMJ, but it is weird. One other thing that probably isn’t a crime, but is weird; he seems to get off on killing the enemy. I’ve seen him dance after a torpedo hit. That said, we’ve made a clean sweep, thus far. We’ve sunk around twelve submarines and a couple of surface ships, with no misses. Are you thinking about relieving him, sir?”

  “It’s being considered.”

  “Being as you’re asking my opinion; Commander Morrison is ready for command. He’s calm, where Cumberland is difficult. He’s moved mountains keeping everything on an even keel. The two seem to work together, most of the time.”

  “Do you think Cumberland’s behavior is getting worse?”

  “I don’t think so. In fact, it seems to be getting a little better.”

  “Thank you. One thing. I have a copy of your statement, MM1. Did you marry?”

  Mallory hold up his ring finger, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’ve one more question. Commander Morrison has recommended you for commissioning. Are you willing to become a nuclear officer?”

  “Will I be assigned to the Frisco?”

  “No, you’ll be assigned here. We need a systems expert.”

  “I would be honored, sir.”

  “Good. Thank you, MM1.”

  “Can I write my wife and tell her about the promotion?”

  “Of course. Could you please tell me about your wife?”

  “Sure. Some of us went to Bondi Beach. It’s a public beach near the base where a lot of girls hang out. I kept reminding my guys that these were good girls and not prostitutes, because so often, that is what sailors find. Anyway, Amy and her friends work at a ship yard as welding assistants. They had the day off, so they headed for the beach. Truth, she singled me out because I was the tallest. We spent the day together.

  “The next day we could meet, I met her mom and dad. Dad was not at all amused. I was respectful. Anyway, we spent the entire day and night together. Somewhere in there, I proposed. I wanted to marry after the war. She flat out said, no. She would marry me, if we did it before the ship left. We were together a week and a half before the wedding.”

  He looks Captain Warren in the eyes, “She’s tough. Damn tough. In that, she takes after her da
d. He and I worked it out: the issue was me taking their only child away. I promised him, after I retire, we’d spend most of our time in Aussie. Anyway, Amy is my wife.” He hands Warren a photo.

  “How many years do you have in?”

  “Eighteen, sir.”

  “You understand, that you cannot retire until after the war is over?”

  “Yeah, of course. VJ and VE means free me.”

  Warren grins, “Okay, better than half of the war time servicemen will leave the service after the war. That isn’t an issue for me. Another issue. Are you wanting to pursue a career at sea?”

  “If I need to, I will. If I never submerged again, that would be fine with me. Sir, have you ever pushed a button and killed someone?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “He stopped doing it, but he would call people up and have them push the fire button. I killed a Japanese submarine. I don’t know, maybe fifty, maybe seventy-five, people died because I pushed a button. I know it needs to be done, and I’m okay with that, but I have no desire to personally kill. If I serve out the war at a desk, that is fine.”

  Warren, “I don’t know how it will play out. I do know we desperately need you here. I also know that Admiral Klindt will want you to be a nuclear officer.”

  “I’m already a watch supervisor. EOOW is easy. When we go out to train, can I stand the control watches?”

  “Of course. Who else do you recommend for commissioning?”

  “I would say Wankowski, but he already is. ET1 Brown, he’s ready. He’s the RC division LPO. Chief Giblin. He’s the A gang chief. The captain masted him for refusing to push the button. He did it on principle. He knew there were men on board that would protest, and he wanted to be the lightning rod. You need a sonarman. ST1 Brown is our best and he’s the LPO. ST1 Thorsen probably knows the systems as well, if not better. That, and he already has a bachelor’s degree.”

  “Do you know his major?”

  “Yeah, music theory, with a minor in math. He’s from New York and attended one of those high schools for the arts. He knows like a hundred musical instruments, or something. He’s brilliant. You know, his best friend, EMC Hines would be a good choice, too, except they already lost Wankowski.”

  “I don’t want to cut the submarine too thin.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  WARNER STREET, GROTON, CT

  1800, 11 March, 1942

  LCDR Morrison, wearing his dress blues, parks his Navy Ford sedan at the curb and walks up to the Houlihan residence. The door is answered by a pregnant blonde woman, “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Mrs. Houlihan?”

  “I am. Molly Houlihan. What’s this about?”

  “Did you and your husband receive a letter regarding a granddaughter serving in the Navy?”

  “Yes, her name is Gloria. Sorry, please come in. Could I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “If it isn’t too much trouble, please. My name is John Morrison. I’ve met your granddaughter. We’re friendly, if not friends.”

  “You know her?”

  “Well, to be fair, we met with a group of friends on a couple of occasions when we were in Sydney, Australia. It wouldn’t be fair to say she and I are close.”

  “The letter said she had twelve kills. What is she like? What are your impressions?”

  “She’s an F-14 pilot with the Black Knights. The plane she flies has a crew of two, a pilot and a radar operator. She’s the one who flies the plane.”

  “What is she like?”

  “She’s nice. Her manners were excellent when we went to a formal tea. She’s really, really smart and very assertive.”

  “What does assertive mean?”

  “Um, she stands up for herself in a positive way. Have you written her?”

  Molly, “Ian thinks poorly of her, but I sent a letter to the address they gave us.”

  “It’s very important to support your family who are at war. She needs it.”

  “Okay, I will, but Ian. I don’t know.”

  John, “I’ll speak with your husband.”

  “Are you Japanese?”

  “My mom. My dad was a good Irishman.”

  Molly, “Oh.”

  They hear Ian walk into the house. Molly stands, goes to the fridge, and gets a beer, meeting her husband at the door. “Dear, we have a naval officer here about Gloria.”

  John stands, “Sir.”

  “Dear, this is Commander Morrison.”

  Ian gives Morrison a measuring look, “So, you know her?”

  Molly, “Why don’t I fetch a beer, Commander, and the two of you can chat in the parlor.”

  Morrison, “Thank you. I’ve met her. I wouldn’t say I know her.”

  “Well, tell me, why should we support some trollop galivanting around doing a man’s work. Is she too ugly to marry?”

  “She’s not ugly at all. The Navy should have sent a photo.”

  “Photos can lie.”

  “Sir, from where I sit, she’s a star. She’s a member of an elite squadron performing vital work in defense of the free world. I’m having difficulty understanding your objections.”

  “Are you daft, Commander? A. Woman. Should. Never. Fight. It’s a man’s job.”

  “I see. Well, I can see you’ve made up your mind on this matter. Being that is the case, sir, you don’t deserve her. Mrs. Houlihan, thank you very much for your hospitality.” He hands her his beer bottle and walks out of the house.

  Ian stands to watch him leave. He sees Morrison shake each of his shoes before getting into his car.

  BRITISH WELLINGTON, 10000 FEET, 15 MILES SW OF TRONDHEIM, NORWAY

  0700, 13 March, 1942

  Flying Officer Anthony Haversham sits in the copilot’s seat of a Wellington bomber, part of the 156th Bomber Squadron. He, and his pilot, are fighting upper atmosphere turbulence. The plane is shaking so hard, they can hardly hold her in formation. The captain, Flight Lieutenant Peter Shanks looks over to Haversham, “So, Sham, did you score on that girl last night?”

  “No, her nickers were too tightly bunched to get them down.”

  Shanks, “So, she didn’t want to see your cockpit?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Well, better luck next time. It’s good to be married. You don’t have to wonder where your next gash will come from.”

  Haversham, “And, you don’t need to worry about spending your money. You’ve a wife for that.”

  Shanks, “Okay, here we go. My bird. Open the bomb bay.”

  “Your bird.”

  PORT AFT MISSILE LAUNCHER, TIRPITZ, NEAR TRONDHEIM

  Schmitt looks away from his mount to his guys, “This is what we do. It’s our job to protect our beloved ship. Please stay focused.”

  “Launchers, Missile Control, the link is down. Switch to local.”

  Schmitt flips the switch as his phone talker acknowledges. With the cliff off their starboard side, his launcher has the best view. Schmitt is now controlling the radar on the superstructure. He sees the British bombers in their stepped formation. “All launchers, Missile Control, weapons free.”

  Schmitt, “Wagner, fire one.”

  Schmitt keeps the pipper right on target. The missile flies true and hits a bomber. It belches smoke and tumbles. “New target. Fire two.” As his missile leaves the rails, another missile hits the bomber he was targeting. He quickly shifts his aim point and his missile shifts and hits another plane. “Reload! Snell!”

  He sees bomber after bomber blotted out of the sky as he waits what seems like forever. “Missiles up.”

  He settles on a target, “Fire one.” The missile roars off the rails and hits another bomber. “Good.” He looks for more targets. There are none.

  WELLINGTON BOMBER, SOUTH OF TRONDHEIM

  Haversham, “What the hell was that, sir?”

  Flight Lieutenant Peter Shanks, “I don’t know. Close the bomb bay doors. Get on the radio. Try to raise any other survivors. We need to get back into formation.”

 
; A few minutes later they understand. They are it. Their entire squadron was on this raid. The 156th Bomber Squadron has ceased to exist.