Time and Tide

by Thomas Fleming

  What agony it must have been for a man like Albert Rooks, the captain of the Houston. If there was anyone on whom Win Kemble had modeled his career, it was Rooks. Like him he had won the annual essay prize in the Proceedings of the U.S. Naval Institute, he had studied at the Naval War College, he had blended staff work for potent admirals with commands at sea. To see such a man trapped in the doom that engulfed the Asiatic Fleet must have been agony for Win.

  More disturbing to Arthur McKay was what he heard behind and beneath Win's monologue. One ugly word summed it up: defeat. Win's soul was drenched in it. The same malaise had infected the soul of the USS Jefferson City. Captain McKay had sensed it within a day of his arrival. Demoralization was visible in the eyes of the officers and crew. In their atrocious conduct ashore. In the dirty sleeping compartments of the deck divisions. In the repulsive food being served in the crew's mess. Nobody wanted to serve on the Jefferson City. In the past two weeks over two hundred enlisted men had transferred off her. Most of them were Old Navy veterans, chiefs and first class petty officers. They had been replaced, McKay feared, by men whom nobody wanted —troublemakers, screwups. The turnover had been almost as heavy among the officers.

  "Win's written a letter to Frank Knox," Mrs. Kemble said.

  Arthur McKay was getting drunk. They had killed three bottles of this excellent California wine. He gazed into Mrs. George Stapleton Kemble's wide brown eyes and marveled at her serenity. It was a trait shared by her daughter-in-law, most of the time. Was this serenity created by an act of the will? He wondered. Did such women carefully cultivate their refusal to face facts, their ability to ignore realities? It was an immensely touching trait; it stirred a wish in the male soul to preserve, protect, such innocence.

  Then the meaning of her words penetrated the cabernet haze. "The Secretary of the Navy?" he said.

  "I believe that's his title," Rita said wryly.

  "It's like Daddy's letter to T.R.," Lucy said. "Look what that accomplished."

  In 1903, Commander Robley Semmes had written a letter to President Theodore Roosevelt, informing him that the U.S. Navy was building battleships manned by sailors who were lucky to score one hit out of a hundred shots fired, thanks to their antiquated gunnery systems. The President had appointed Semmes his naval aide and launched an overhaul of the Navy that eventually produced a modern fleet — and an admiral's rank for the daring commander.

  "Mother, that letter's a confidential matter. I wish you hadn't mentioned it to a member of Fleet Admiral King's staff," Win said.

  "A former member," Arthur McKay said.

  "From what I hear, your wife remains — what shall we say — a distaff member?" Win said.

  "What the hell do you mean by that?" Rita said.

  "Calm down, you two," Arthur McKay said. "What did you say in the letter, Win?"

  "After some preliminary remarks about the madness of starting a war with the world's second-largest Navy two years before we were ready to fight it, I told Knox exactly what I thought of putting nineteen thousand marines armed with 1903 Springfield rifles and machine guns that have been in Cosmoline since the battle of Bellau Wood ashore on Guadalcanal, within a few hours of a hundred and fifty thousand Japs on New Guinea and a fleet that outguns us four to one. I wrote it before Savo Island, I might add."

  The Secretary of the Navy was a Republican whom FDR had brought into his war cabinet. He was also a former Rough Rider who had charged up San Juan Hill behind Theodore Roosevelt in 1898. Knox had been a close friend of another Rough Rider and T.R. intimate, George Stapleton, the man after whom Mrs. Kernble's late husband had been named. Between them, the Kembles and the Stapletons were a formidable Republican phalanx in the states of New Jersey and Pennsylvania. They shared ancestors who had signed the Declaration of Independence, fought in the American Revolution. They personified the old money, the old blood, that gave Win Kemble his conviction that he was born to command.

  "At my suggestion, Win sent a copy to Senator Wheeler," Mrs. Kemble said.

  Senator Burton K. Wheeler of Montana was a Democrat who also was the leader of the anti-Roosevelt isolationist bloc in Congress. A year before Pearl Harbor, he had predicted that Roosevelt's policies would "plow under every fourth American boy." He was widely suspected of leaking to the Chicago Tribune the top-secret "Victory Plan," calling for the drafting of ten million men, which Roosevelt had ordered the Navy and Army to prepare six months before the Japanese struck. Published on December 4, 1941, the document had rocked the Roosevelt administration. Only the Japanese attack three days later had rescued the President from political humiliation.

  "What do you expect to accomplish?" Arthur McKay asked.

  "I don't know," Win said. "Maybe a change of command."

  Arthur McKay shrugged. "It might work."

  "You're out of your skull," Rita said. She glared at Win. "Cominch is going to cook you over a slow fire."

  Arthur McKay was amused by Rita's indignation. Only two weeks ago, on the morning they arrived, she had been coldly considering the possibility that if Operation Watchtower failed and Guadalcanal had to be abandoned, Admiral King might soon be on the retired list. Now her old rancor at Win made her the admiral's disciple. She was right about one thing. Corninch would not surrender without a savage struggle.

  But startling things could happen in a democracy at war. Congress was still fulminating over the disaster at Pearl Harbor. Waiting in the wings were men like Admiral James 0. Richardson, who had been relieved as commander of the Pacific Fleet for telling Franklin D. Roosevelt it was a mistake to base the battleship force in Hawaii, where it was vulnerable to a surprise attack. Win Kemble had been on Richardson's staff and had written a brilliant analysis of what could happen at Pearl Harbor, based on the way the British had smashed up the Italian Navy while it was at anchor in the harbor of its main base at Taranto in 1940. It had proved to be as close to prophecy as a Navy officer could come. Richardson — and the men around beloved “J.0." the most popular admiral in the U.S. Navy in memory — could suddenly become a very appealing alternative to scowling, snarling Ernest R. King, the personification of the admiral as son of a bitch.

  It would not be difficult to obtain Frank Knox's backing for such an idea. Knox loathed King's imperial style, his habit of going over his head to the President, of issuing orders, announcing policies, as if the Secretary of the Navy did not exist. So far, King's admirals had won victories at Midway and Coral Sea. But they had been defensive battles, desperate parryings of massive enemy assaults. If Watchtower collapsed and the American Navy lost the offensive momentum they were trying to build with it, more Japanese thrusts toward Hawaii and Australia could be expected. A new strategy, a new Cominch might be summoned to repel them.

  In her present mood, Rita was not prepared even to consider such a possibility. "You're dealing with a very different President, even though they have the same last name," she said. "Daddy was the luckiest man in the history of the Navy, to get away with that letter. I think you may have finished yourself, Win. If Savo Island hasn't done it already."

  Pain — and something close to hatred — flickered in Win's eyes.

  "Really, Rita," Lucy said.

  There were tears in Mrs. Kemble's eyes. Her veined hands trembled as she raised her wineglass to her lips. For Arthur McKay it was an intolerable sight. He was aware of Mrs. Kemble's limitations. But he remained her defender, her devotee, because of the generosity with which she had received his mother during the painful week she had spent in Annapolis visiting him in McKay's first class year. She had been awed, overwhelmed by the great cities, the wealth and elaborate snobbery of the East. She had seen it was too late to fulfill her dream of moving there. She was a farmer's wife, a country bumpkin, forever. Nevertheless Mrs. Kemble had welcomed Willa McKay to her Annapolis parlor, she had invited her to dinner with admirals and congressmen. She had given her a glimpse, at least, of the world of sophistication and privilege for which she had yearned in Kansas.

&nb
sp; "Rita," Arthur McKay said. "This is our family. We don't discuss naval tactics, we don't discuss careers."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Rita said. She was ready to quit now, having scored a direct hit on Win's ego.

  Rita would go back to Washington and tell Cominch everything. Arthur McKay could not stop her. Perhaps it would be disloyal to a man who had just given him command of a capital ship even to try.

  Lucy said that her mother, now in her eightieth year, had invited them to live with her in the Patapsco house if Win was stationed in Washington.

  "I can't go near the place," Rita said. "I'm afraid to see Daddy's ghost in every corner."

  "What's wrong with that? You loved him, didn't you?" Mrs. Kemble said.

  "I'm afraid I'll start arguing with him. And he'll start arguing back."

  "He was a brave man," Mrs. Kemble said. "I remember Father saying that even if he had no one else among the younger men to defend him against the slanderers, he would have had nothing to fear as long as Robley Semmes was on his side."

  For a moment Arthur McKay wanted to tell Mrs. Kemble she was dredging up ancient history, defunct quarrels. But he said nothing. These women were inseparable parts of his life, of Win's life. They embodied the past in its maddening mixture of hope and disappointment and happiness. They presided over the sacred altars of home, where the only gods worth worshipping — love and loyalty and friendship — hovered.

  "I want to drink to something important to all of us," Lucy said. "The success — the victories — of the USS Jefferson City."

  The words connected to what Arthur McKay was thinking in an amazingly immediate way. He struggled with a rush of emotion. "Thank you, Lucy," he said.

  Rita looked overwhelmed by remorse. It was not the first time Lucy had intimidated her with the purity, the inviolability, of her affection.

  "They're overdue," Win said, gamely raising his glass.

  "Amen to that," Rita said.

  "And now," Lucy said, pushing her chair away from the table, "I'm sure these two old salts want some time alone to work out a comprehensive plan for winning the war by Christmas. I, for one, am going to demonstrate my unbounded faith in them by going to bed."

  Mrs. Kemble smiled somewhat forlornly. "I think I'll imitate your example," she said.

  The expression on Rita's face made it clear she did not want Arthur McKay to spend any time alone with Win Kemble. But she could not think of a suitable objection. She was towed out of the room in the wake of Lucy and Mrs. Kemble, grumpily warning her husband she would not stay awake indefinitely.

  Captains McKay and Kemble regarded each other warily for a moment. Then Win seemed to relax. Physically he looked fifty percent better than the man who had greeted McKay on the quarterdeck of the Jefferson City. Maybe it was his turn to look haggard, McKay thought wryly. Rita, with her inimitable talent for compliments, told him he had aged two years in the past two weeks. It was her sweet way of expressing her fear that he could not handle the job.

  Win strolled to the bar and flung ice into two glasses. "I suppose you're still drinking that swill known as bourbon," he said.

  "Still a man of the people," McKay said.

  "Sometimes I think all my labors to make you an officer and a gentleman have been in vain."

  "Remember what I used to tell you. The real trick is to make a sow's ear out of a silk purse. That's how to get someplace in the American Navy."

  Win poured him a double shot of bourbon and himself an equal amount of Scotch. He sat down in the easy chair facing Arthur McKay and took a long defiant swallow. "You don't approve of my letter?"

  McKay sighed. "Why didn't you talk it over with me first? Didn't it occur to you that after nine months in Washington, might have had some suggestions?"

  Over the years, in their letters and in meetings such as this one, Arthur McKay had spent almost too many hours trying to temper Win Kemble's violent opinions, to moderate his headstrong ways. Win had always been too fond of challenging the policies of officers who outranked him. Even as a lieutenant he had not hesitated to present admirals with a plan of operation, complete with chapters on strategy, tactics and politics. Worse, he became outraged and depressed when his recommendations were rejected.

  Win took another large swallow of his Scotch. "The last time we met, you didn't seem that interested in my opinions. All of which turned out to be correct, I might add."

  They had gone to their class's twenty-fourth reunion in June of 1941. Win had spent hours condemning Roosevelt and predicting disaster at Pearl Harbor.

  "I never argue with a man who relies for evidence on a crystal ball," McKay said.

  "Why not?" Win snapped. "Isn't that what the word professional means? We're supposed to know more than the fucking civilians. We're supposed to be able to foresee trouble — and prevent it."

  "True enough."

  "I know what you're going to say. About the other truth. I've never been able to swallow your philosophy of RHIP.”

  For a moment they were back in Shanghai and Arthur McKay heard himself saying, Win, Rank hath it’s privileges, and on of them is to be wrong.

  “It isn’t a philosophy it’s a fact.”

  "You've always been too impressed with facts, Arthur. Too quick to accept the status quo as an eternal verity."

  "Is that a new way of telling me. I don't know my ass from my elbow?"

  “You know a lot, Art. We all know a lot. The question is what to do, how to act on that knowledge.”

  "Now there's an eternal verity."

  "It's not funny, Art. Look where our inaction, our supine obeisance to the civilians has left us. With second-rate ships in a second-rate Navy."

  Again McKay heard echoes of old anger in those words. Throughout the 1920s and '30s, as the politicians postured and negotiated on behalf of peace through disarmament, Win had been infuriated by the concessions America's diplomats had made, limiting the weight and armament of destroyers and cruisers, actually forcing the United States to sink some of its ships. More and more he had become the vociferous proponent of the idea that the Army and Navy should take the offensive against civilian timidity and ineptitude. He had had not a little to do with persuading Admiral James Richardson to go to Washington to tell Franklin D. Roosevelt he was wrong to base the fleet at Pearl Harbor.

  "That's changing fast, Win. The pols are scared out of their shoes. They're doubling and tripling everything we ask for."

  There were intimations of multiplying battle fleets in those words, of dozens of task forces for ambitious young admirals to command. Win splashed some more Scotch in his glass. "You think I should withdraw the letter? Wire Knox and tell him I was drunk when I sent it? Something like that?"

  "Something like that. Maybe your mother could call him."

  "Jesus Christ." Win stared at Arthur McKay across his upraised glass. "Do you know how old I am?"

  "Forty-seven."

  "Do you think, in all honesty, Friend of My Life, that a man of forty-seven should let his mother make phone calls for him?"

  McKay was tempted to point out Win had never objected to his mother making calls for him during their first decade as officers, when the Republican Party had ruled in Washington. But that remark might lead to revealing that McKay never thought Mrs. Kemble's calls were a good idea.

  "I suppose not."

  "The letter is a fact. Maybe we should consider it part of that vast nauseating fact you call RHIP. I do have some rank in this excuse for a Navy. Maybe I'm entitled to a mistake. What do you think?"

  "We're all entitled to a lot of mistakes, Win."

  Face to face, shorn of their women, now if ever was the time to speak the truth. For a moment McKay could almost tangibly feel Win's impulse to tell him what had happened at Savo Island. McKay sensed his spirit depart from them — perhaps to ascend the stairs and pause outside his mother's door, then Lucy's door. Or was he visiting a more mysterious shrine? Wherever it was, he made the journey and McKay heard his answer. No. The unspoken word
thudded between them like the slam of a watertight door.

  "I don't know about the Navy you serve in. But in mine, a single mistake and there'd be a laughing chorus dancing on my entrails in the scuppers."

  "It's not that bad, Win. I've told you a hundred times it's never been that bad. You've got a lot of friends."

  "Optimistic Arthur. The man who still believes we can save the world for democracy. When all that's ever saved the world is steel and iron, applied by men with the same metal in their blood."

  McKay drained his glass. "Now I know it's time to go to bed."

  "I hope Rita is still waiting."

  McKay stood up. He looked calmly, steadily at Win Kemble, trying to tell him once and for all that Arthur McKay was no longer the scared stammering plebe of 1913. "I hope so too," he said.

  He turned his back on the friend of his life. Turned his back on Win's rage, his pain, his bitterness. In Long Beach Harbor a troubled ship awaited his command. Off Guadalcanal, on the edge of the Coral Sea, the war insisted on its absolute pre-eminence, its guttural demand to set the cruelest limits on love and loyalty and friendship.

  Win's voice, harsh, choked, caught him at the door. "Art!" McKay looked over his shoulder, wondering what else there was to say.

  "Good shooting out there."

  Hot incomprehensible regret surged in McKay's throat. Win Kemble vanished in a blur of tears. Somehow the new captain of the Jefferson City found the strength to stifle them.

  "Thanks."

  Steaming

  After a day and night of loading ammunition and stores, the Jefferson City was ready for sea. The officer of the deck had tested the steering engine, ordered the accommodation ladders rigged in, checked the fathometer, the whistle and siren. The sea details were on station.

  "Why don't you take her out, Commander?" Captain McKay said to Daniel Boone Parker, his executive officer.

  "Glad to, Captain."