Mullenoe heard it in main forward and telephoned Montgomery West on the bridge. Captain McKay asked West why he was laughing so hard. When he explained, McKay looked grave.
"I knew something like this was going to happen," he said. "Newspapers and the Navy don't mix."
"As far as I'm concerned, Captain, Kruger's just getting what he deserves."
McKay shook his head. "Kruger's a good man. He knows more about fire control than the rest of that division put together. But he doesn't have a sense of humor. Especially about being an officer. You'd have to know the Old Navy, the tremendous gulf between officers and men, to understand it. Becoming a lieutenant is the most important thing that's ever happened to him."
West accepted the rebuke in silence. He simply did not believe the captain. That night at supper, the wardroom seemed to share his opinion. Everyone tormented Kruger.
"Say, West," Mullenoe said, "how come CIC didn't pick up on this hot scoop about that German lieutenant, Flugel? It's no worse than a lot of the other drivel you send us."
"I didn't have the right code."
"They ought to change your letters to LTK. Last to Know. Do you think anyone as dumb as Flugel could really exist?"
"Sure. I bet he graduated first in his class at Annapolis."
"What do you think, Lieutenant Kruger?"
"I have no opinion," Kruger snapped, slicing his steak as if he wished it was Mullenoe's throat "What do you make of it, MacComber?" Mullenoe said. "Is it literature? Is that why I don't understand it?"
"It's a satire, Mr. Mullenoe," MacComber said. "S-a-t-i-r-e. You may have come across the word in that course in basic English we took at the Academy. Satire pokes nasty fun at someone.”
"But who could that be?" Mullenoe said. "It couldn't be Kruger here, could it? I mean, I hear him walking up and down in his cabin singing 'Deutschland Uber Alles.' But I don't take it seriously. He said Heil Hitler to the captain the other day, but he didn't take it seriously either."
Kruger slammed down his knife and fork. "You son of a bitch," he screamed at Mullenoe. "That goes for all of you.” He flung down his napkin and stalked out of the wardroom.
Mullenoe looked thoughtful. "Maybe the war has lasted too long," he said.
After supper, West received a summons from the captain. In his cabin, he found McKay with the chaplain, who was wringing his hands. "Lieutenant Kruger has complained to me about that column in The Hawthorn. He says he wants me to ban Flanagan from writing for the paper. But he's the only decent writer I've got. I don't know what to do," Bushnell said.
"What do you think we should do, West?" McKay asked.
"I have no idea."
"You better get one fast. I'm putting you in charge of the paper. You'll have to deal with this kind of problem. Do you want a suggestion on Flanagan?"
"I sure do."
"Make him the editor. I've always found the best way to deal with a rebel is to give him some responsibility."
"I'll give that serious consideration, sir."
"In the meantime, I suggest you go see Lieutenant Kruger and tell him you'll make sure he won't be abused in the future."
"Yes, Captain."
West went below, wondering if he had been sandbagged. The answer was clearly yes, but he could not quite believe it.
He had begun to think of the captain as that rare human being, a genuine liberal. Instead he was closer to Machiavelli.
You are in the Navy, and you have received an order, West told himself. He rapped on the bulkhead outside Kruger's stateroom.
"Who is it?"
"West."
He pulled open the folding plastic curtain and found Kruger hunched over something on his bunk. The only light came from a tiny reading lamp. In its feeble glow, West made out a dark blue object on the blanket. He heard the click of metal on metal. "Is that a gun?" he asked.
"Yes," Kruger said, spinning around, his service .45 in his hand. "I'm going to blow his fucking head off"
"Whose head?"
"Flanagan's. Then I'll get Mullenoe and that asshole of a chaplain. They're all trying to destroy me. But I'm going to get them first."
West thought he saw Kruger's finger tighten on the trigger. What a hell of a way to die, he thought. "Wait a second," he said. "The captain sent me down here to apologize."
"Why didn't he come himself?"
"Maybe he will. Let me go ask him.”
"Too late. I'm going to kill that Irish wise guy and his friends Peterson and Homewood. They've been on my back for months. I can't take any more bullshit!"
"Sure, sure," West said. "But why don't you give the captain a chance first?"
"I'll wait five minutes."
West backed into the passageway and fled to Mullenoe's stateroom to tell him what was going on. "I'll go see him," Mullenoe said.
"No!" West said. "You're too high on his hit list. Call the Marines. Tell them to guard the passageways. I'll go get the captain." West scrambled up the ladders to the captain's cabin.
"God damn it," McKay said. "I had a feeling this might happen. Have you called out the Marines?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll go see him."
"It's too dangerous, Captain! I saw him loading that gun."
"He won't use it on me."
McKay said this with such certainty, West was awed into silence.
When they got down to the second deck, they found officers in the passageway, warily watching Kruger's stateroom. Several, including Mullenoe, had guns in their hands. Marines were visible at the door to the wardroom.
"Put those guns away," McKay said.
He knocked at Kruger's cabin and asked if he could come in. For five minutes he vanished into that dim interior. Any moment, West expected to hear a shot. Murder on the high seas. Maybe Kruger was right, they were in danger of a mutiny. Maybe that kid Flanagan was an agent provocateur.
Then the most incredible sound filled the passageway. A kind of a sobbing wail. It reminded West of a recording he had once heard of the death song of an Indian warrior. Someone had proposed it for possible use in a western he was making. Everyone decided it was too eerie.
The captain emerged from the stateroom with Kruger's gun. "Send for the doctor. Give him a sedative," he said.
He handed West the gun. "If you make Flanagan the editor, tell him about this," he said.
Absalom! Absalom!
Captain Byron Maher's voice on the bridge telephone was brisk and matter of fact. "Art, Admiral Spruance would like you to alter course to one five zero and rendezvous with the attack transport Mountain Valley at 1800 hours. Get a sea detail ready to transfer an important passenger by breeches buoy."
What the hell was going on? Captain McKay wondered. Just over the horizon was the island of Saipan. Around them steamed the greatest naval armada ever assembled — two dozen aircraft carriers, almost as many battleships, at least as many cruisers and over a hundred destroyers. They were escorting 127,000 Marines and Army troops to assault this inner fortress of the Japanese Empire, a full thousand miles closer to Tokyo than their previous conquest, Eniwetok.
His was not to ask admirals why. Captain McKay ordered the change of course and Navigator Marse Lee hastily plotted the rendezvous, which was not more than a half hour away. It was exactly 1800 hours when they sighted the big bulky transport, her rails crowded with Marines. The sea was calm as they pulled alongside her and the detail under Boatswain's. Mate First Class Wilkinson fired the breeches buoy line to the sailors on the Mountain Valley's bow with the first shot. In five minutes, the other lines were hauled across and the important passenger began his swaying journey in the canvas bosun's chair. He was wearing a life jacket, and the visor of a Marine officer's hat obscured his face.
"He's just a kid," remarked the venerable officer of the deck, Lieutenant Montgomery West, who was all of thirty-one. "Wonder what he has to tell Spruance?"
"Maybe he knows something about Saipan from a previous incarnation," McKay said. He stared gloom
ily at the two-foot thick operations plan. "That's about the only thing they haven't put into this encyclopedia."
As the bosun's chair grew closer, the important passenger tilted his head to look up at the ship. "My God," Captain McKay said.
It was his son, Second Lieutenant Semmes McKay, USMC.
In Captain McKay's cabin, after Sammy had met Admiral Spruance, Byron Maher and other members of his grinning staff, the lieutenant's cheerful manner vanished. "Okay, Dad. What the hell's going on?" he demanded. "Am I being shanghaied? Are you going to park me on this tub while my men hit the beach without me? If that's the plan, I'm not buying it."
"There is no plan. Spruance just took it into his head that it would be nice if we had dinner together."
"On the level?"
"Sea scout's honor," McKay said. "You'll go back to your men tomorrow morning, when we arrive off Saipan."
A broad smile — Rita's smile — sprang across Sammy's face. "It's a deal," he said, holding out his hand. He was a head shorter than his father, with the same slim, angular build. But he had Rita's features — the determined chin, the bold blue eyes, the combative mouth. He had little of his father's intellectual interests, his wary approach to life. In the perverse way that nature switched genes, it was McKay's daughter, Barbara, who had inherited his temperament.
For supper, Chief Steward's Mate Horace Aquino outdid himself. He mixed two of the coldest most perfectly balanced daiquiris McKay had ever tasted. The meal that followed — shrimp cocktails, steak, chocolate ice cream sundaes — was a masterpiece. Between courses, Horace showed Sammy pictures of his ten children, including a high school graduation picture of his oldest son, who was in the mountains of Luzon fighting the Japanese. Finally, after spiking the coffee liberally with brandy, he withdrew.
Now what? McKay wondered. Since Sammy became a teenager, he had had difficulty talking to him. He seemed to prefer sharing his secrets, if any, with his mother. His attitude toward his father — and the Navy — had been so antagonistic, McKay had been amazed when he decided to go to Annapolis.
"Barbara tells me you and Mom are having a fight about something."
"That's hardly news, is it?" McKay said.
"I hope it isn't about me."
"Of course not.”
"I gather she wanted you to talk me into aviation. I'm really glad you let me make up my own mind, Dad. I meant what I said in my letter."
"I ... I'm glad you feel that way."
He sounded tepid. Was he revealing he had been too absorbed in his ship, in Win Kemble's fate, to think about Sammy's choice? Should he lie outrageously, preach an Emersonian sermon on self-reliance? No.
"What's bugging you and Mom—the usual? She's got you a juicy assignment on King's staff or something like that and you don't want it?"
"Something like that," McKay said.
"Mom's great, unique. But without your example, Dad, I would have wound up the most total yes man in the U.S. of A. You showed me how to stand up to her. How to do it without — you know — losing her affection."
Captain McKay nodded, too amazed to say anything.
"I can see why you want to stay out here and win this thing. It's great for me — to know we'll be on the same team. When we hit the beach tomorrow and I see those shells taking the Japs apart, I can tell my guys, 'That's my old man."
"We'll be doing our best, you can depend on it," McKay said. "The new battleships from Task Force Fifty-eight bombarded today. Seven of them. They fired 2,432 sixteen-inch and 12,544 five-inch. Presuming they obeyed the operations plan."
"Wow!"
There was no point in telling Sammy the fast battleships had never bombarded before and the chances of their hitting anything significant were minimal.
"The old battleships and other rusty hulks like us go to work tomorrow."
"Great. We'll have nothing to worry about but where to bury the bodies."
Dread clutched Arthur McKay's heart. "Let's hope so," he said.
A waning moon gleamed feebly through the clouds as the island of Saipan took shape in the grayish green dawn. For fourteen of the previous twenty-four hours, the Jefferson City's guns had pounded Japanese positions. Eight old battleships, seven heavy cruisers, six light cruisers and twenty-six destroyers had joined her. Unfortunately Saipan was not a coral atoll that could be flattened by a three day hurricane of metal, like Kwajalein. It was twelve miles long and fifteen miles wide. It had mountains and valleys, railroads and towns and a civilian population, as well as a 30,000 man garrison. Targets had to be carefully selected, if any impact was to be made on the Japanese defenses. The bombardment force had divided the island into six sections. The orders from Admiral Spruance emphasized accurate, deliberate fire. Not a shell was to be wasted. Replenishment ammunition was thousands of miles away.
In turret three, Johnny Chase and his men had fired, by Johnny's count, 3,338 eight-inch shells. No other turret on the ship had been able to maintain fire from all three guns for the entire fourteen hours. Johnny's scarred, mask-like face glared down at the crews as they performed their endless mechanical dance around the insatiable guns. They were not just working for Johnny. There was another presence in the turret, watching them as their backs heaved with the clack and hiss of the breechblocks opening, the roar of compressed air rushing through the hot barrels. It was not the green ensign sitting in the little steel booth at the rear of the turret. It was Richard Meade, Ensign Babyface, the man who had saved their lives off Guadalcanal. They were working for him, and Chase never let them forget it.
"Bores clear!" shouted the gun captains. The turret whistle hooted like a berserk owl, straining arms shoved the 260-pound shells into the open breeches. The rammer men threw their levers, the shells thudded home, more arms and shoulders swung the powder bags after the messengers of death, backs bowed and heaved again, and the breechblocks hissed and crashed. With a whir of gears the big silver breeches sank into their pits as the guns elevated. Back danced the men and the firing buzzer went dot-dot-dash. The guns crashed; inside the turret it was more a concussion than a sound, felt more than heard. The guns leaped back, the hungry silver breeches rose, hissing and whining and spat out their empty shell cases. The dance began again.
After fourteen consecutive hours of this labor, the turret crews staggered onto the main deck looking like corpses coming out of a grave. Many of them collapsed and had to be carried to sick bay where Dr. Levy and Dr. Cadwallader, agreeing for once, said it made no sense to drive men past their breaking point. But neither protested when Johnny Chase and the other turret captains came down at dawn to order the hospital cases back to the guns. Even Levy had begun to accept the war as a greater god than science.
As turret three resumed firing at 0430, Johnny Chase made one of his rare utterances. Even off duty, the turret captain seldom spoke. He spent most of his time on deck, staring out at the sea, or in his rack, staring at the overhead. The men were convinced he was communing with the dead. Chase spoke to a little rammer man named Flynn, who drooped beside number two gun.
"I ate chow with the radioman in our scout plane," Johnny said. "He told me we didn't hit a goddamn thing worth shooting at yesterday."
"Did anybody else?"
"Not as far as he could see."
"Stand by to elevate," the ensign said.
The turret trained to starboard, the guns lifted their menacing snouts, the shells rose on their hoists and slid into the gleaming breeches.
"Hit something, you no good fucker," Flynn said. "Hit one for Babyface."
The ensign pressed his ready button. "Commence firing," growled Gunnery Officer Mullenoe in main forward. Dot-DotDash went the warning buzzer. The guns crashed, the breeches rose, spat out their empty casings and the dance began again. Johnny Chase's green eyes acquired their otherworldly glow. Little Flynn crouched by his rammer, gazing in awe at their turret captain. Johnny was talking to Ensign Baby-face, Flynn was sure of it. Maybe they were not hitting anything, but they were doing the
ir jobs. Maybe that was all Babyface wanted them to do.
While the guns boomed, Harold Semple listened to Tokyo Rose on the CIC radio.
“To the crew of the USS Jefferson City, greetings on your last day on earth. As the flagship of Operation Forager, you are target number one for Japan's deadly gunners on Saipan. You have already been blasted by a number of direct hits and spent the night burying your dead. Today will be your coup de grace. As for your friends aboard the Minneapolis, Honolulu and other cruisers, they are destined for the same fate. The submarines of the Imperial Fleet are swarming to the waters around you for easy pickings. Now, to show you that the quality of mercy is not strained from the Emperor's noble heart, we will entertain you with some of your decadent music.”
A jazz band began playing "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight."
"OhI I hate that woman," Harold said. "I'd like to scratch her eyes out.”
"I'd like to fuck her brains out," said CIC Radarman Whizzer Wylie. "She sounds real slinky to me."
Harold found the words terribly exciting. He gave Wylie his sultriest glance. Wylie met his eyes for a split second,
then went back to watching his screen.
No, Harold vowed. He had promised himself, the captain, Edna. He would stay celibate, pure, safe.
For two hours the Jefferson City and three other heavy cruisers pounded the Charan Kanoa beaches where the Marines were to land — the same beaches they had bombarded for fourteen hours on the previous day. Finally, as the sun rose in a blaze of red and gold, the transports carrying the first wave of Marines steamed into position. Overhead roared wave after wave of bombers from the carriers to blast the beaches with 500- and 1,000-pound bombs. For another half hour the cruisers bombarded again. Then the signal fluttered from the halyards of Admiral Kelly Turner's flagship: "Land the Landing Force."
Lieutenant Semmes McKay was not in the first wave. But Captain McKay watched the small boats churning toward the shore with his mouth dry, his heart pounding. The sandy beach was only a few yards deep. It vanished into scrubby grass, palm trees, an occasional flame tree blooming with vermilion flowers. Then the land rose steeply in a series of steps to a looming green ridge called Mount Tapotchau.
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