Final Harbor (The Silent War Book 1)

by Harry Homewood

  “I guess so,” Brannon said slowly. “We sure as hell showed them,” he looked down at the message slip. “Departure route to Pearl is Seven George, Four X-Ray Zebra. I better get on that right away, sir.” He left the Wardroom and headed for the Control Room and his charts. Hinman watched the green curtain swing back into place after Brannon had passed through it.

  He knows, he thought to himself. We’re being called home with eighteen fish aboard for only one reason, to be made an example of for disobeying orders. Well, let them do their damnedest! If I never fired another torpedo at an enemy ship I’ve made a down payment on evening the score for Marie’s death. He sat at the Wardroom table, thinking.

  This would be the third time since the war started that he had returned to Pearl Harbor and for the third time there would be no long, lean, wonderful woman waiting for him. No one would ever wait for him again. He was alone, now.

  But I remember, he said to himself, I remember the other times when she was waiting for me after we’d been apart.

  Chapter 6

  He remembered the last time they had met after a long separation. He had spent that morning cleaning the sparse quarters the Navy had assigned him at the New London, Conn., Submarine Base when he had reported there to take command of the submarine that was to be called the U.S.S. Mako. Then he had showered and shaved and put on his best dress blue uniform and went out and bought two bottles of champagne and a big bouquet of flowers. He put the champagne in the refrigerator to chill and dragged the wobbly-legged table in the living room of the quarters to a position where Marie would see it as soon as she entered the room. He put the flowers on the table, took a final look around to make sure everything was ready and then he had gone to the train station to wait for his wife. When the passengers from New York came streaming into the station he stood on tip-toe, straining to see Marie’s head above the crowd. He saw her, far down the platform and swiftly rehearsed his opening remarks.

  “Going somewhere, baby?” he asked as he fell into step beside her.

  “What do you have in mind, sailor?” she said.

  “A drink or two, something to eat, show you my tattoo.”

  “Sounds exciting,” she said. “But I’m expensive.”

  “Who cares? Money doesn’t mean anything to a sailor when he’s chasing a pretty girl.”

  She reached out and patted him on the head.

  “You’re a little short for me, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll stand on a bucket or, better yet, I’ll put the bucket over your head and hang by the handle,” he said and they both broke up, howling with laughter, clutching each other. The train’s passengers streamed by them, some frowning at the sight of a Naval officer and a woman behaving like kids in a public place.

  “I want to show you my ship,” he said shyly as they walked out of the train station. His words held a quiet pride that she was quick to detect.

  “I want to see your ship,” she said. “Let’s do that first.”

  “First before what?” he asked as he opened the door of the car he had borrowed from the Naval Base Motor Pool.

  “You know first before what!” she said. “It’s been almost eight months since I’ve seen you! Whaddya mean? You got a girl or something like that here?”

  “Had one,” he said as he shifted the car into gear and began to drive away from the train station. “I kicked her out this morning. Little blonde with a big, big bosom. It was time she got out. She left hair in the wash basin all the time.” He fumbled for her hand, found it and squeezed it gently.

  She stood beside him on the dock, looking at the Boat. The submarine’s topside was a clutter of electrical cables and welder’s hoses that ran everywhere in a crazy-quilt spider’s web. From somewhere deep within the hull the muted clatter of a riveter’s gun punctuated the warm June air. Marie Hinman looked at the ship with a critical eye.

  “I can see why you like her,” she said. “She’s long and skinny and ugly, just like me.”

  He slid his arm around her waist. “She’s long and she’s lean, yes, but she’s beautiful, just like you.”

  “Take me home, sailor,” she said softly.

  She made lunch after admiring the flowers and encouraged him to talk about the ship as she waited for the coffee pot to boil.

  “We’re almost at full strength in the crew,” he said. “The Wardroom is pretty damned good, we’ve got one guy coming from the Submarine School and another who’ll join us in Pearl when we get back there. All of the Chiefs and the senior petty officers have been aboard for weeks and the crew is all here except for a few firemen for the engine rooms and one or two lower-rated people in the torpedo gangs and the radio gang.

  “The routine can start tomorrow, now that the Captain’s lady is on board. I’ve talked to the Chief at the Officer’s Club about holding a small buffet for the officers and their ladies. I’d like to do that next week if you will.”

  She nodded. “No problem. How’s Mike Brannon? Gloria wanted me to write to her, tell her how he looks, how he is.”

  “He’s a little thinner,” Hinman smiled. “Old Mike’s had his tail worked off! But he’s fine. Misses Gloria and the little girl. Shame that she didn’t come with you from Pearl.”

  “She wanted to come,” Marie said, “but the little girl picked up some sort of a cold or something and the doctor at the hospital said it wouldn’t be a good idea. It’s a long, long way from Pearl and those trains aren’t the best thing for anyone to ride, let me tell you. Who are the rest of the officers?”

  “No one you’d know,” he said. “They gave me a mix of Regulars and Reserves. Mike is the Executive Officer, you know that. The First Lieutenant and Gunnery Officer is a guy named Donald Grilley, a Lieutenant. He’s a Reserve. Geologist in civilian life, he worked for some big oil company out West. Doesn’t say much but nothing seems to get by him. Very sharp. Gets along with almost everyone.”

  “Married?” Maria asked.

  “Girl named Bernice. Tall, very pretty, slim. Green eyes and black hair, an Irish type.”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?” she grinned.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said. “I’ve missed what I should be getting right now instead of sitting here talking.”

  “Can’t make love with coffee yet to drink and dirty dishes in the sink,” she said. “Is this Irish beauty a mother?”

  “No. They’ve moved around the country a lot, searching for oil. You’ll like Bernice. She’s solid.

  “Let’s see, that takes care of that one. Pete, Peter Simms is the Engineering Officer. He’s a Regular. Played football at the Academy. He’s all Navy, a driver. Came off a battleship but we’ll take some of his starch out when we begin the shakedown cruise. He’s married, her name is Mary. Very nice woman, a little heavy. They’ve got a little girl about four years old, almost as old as Mike and Gloria’s daughter.”

  “You’re not too sure about this Simms, are you?” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “You do sense things, don’t you? I’ll have to watch that, letting my feelings show when I talk about someone. But you’re right, I’m not too sure about him. He talks a good fight, you know what I mean? And he’s had some family trouble since he and his wife got here. I understand that his wife isn’t the best housekeeper in the world and Pete gets on her all the time about that. I haven’t done anything about it because I knew you were coming. Your extra duties start with Mary Simms. Get her to shape up a little more. I don’t want Pete to be distracted.

  “Pete Simms’ assistant is a Regular, a Lieutenant Junior Grade named Bob Edge. He’s another football player from the Academy. He’ll have the electrical gang as well. He’s single but I don’t know how long that’s going to last. Two or three girls around here are after him.

  “That’s it, so far. I’m getting a man from the Sub School tomorrow or next day. They say he’s the best man they ever saw on sound gear, got ears that can hear a fish changing its mind. I’m going to give him the Radio and
Sonar stuff and the Commissary. His name is Nathan Cohen, he’s a Reserve J.G.”

  “Jewish?” she asked, her voice rising slightly.

  “Obviously,” he said.

  “That’s odd,” she said. “We’ve never had any Jews in the submarine service, have we?”

  “Not that I know of. Damned few of them in the Navy. I’ve only known of one who got command and there was a hell of a stink when that happened even though his ship was only a minesweeper. Man named Hyman Rickover. But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. All I know right now is that Cohen is some sort of a whiz on the sound gear and that he was a Rabbinical student.

  “The other officer we’re getting is a guy named Paul Botts. I think I knew him years ago when I was in R-Boats. He was a Chief then and he made Warrant and just recently got himself bumped up to Ensign. I think he must have about twenty-two years in.”

  “That makes him pretty old, doesn’t it?” she asked.

  “I would think in his early forties,” Hinman said. “But that might be all for the best. He could be a steadying influence on the younger people in the Wardroom.”

  She poured the coffee. “Who’s your Chief of the Boat?”

  “Lady Luck kissed me not once but about four times,” he said, thanking her with his eyes for the coffee.

  “I got Dusty Rhodes as the Chief of the Boat. You should remember him, he was the Chief of the Boat when I was Exec under Bob Rudd in Pearl.”

  “I do!” she said, clapping her hands. “He’s that big man, very quiet. Married to that sweet little Island girl. They have two boys if I remember. She’s a beautiful little thing! I saw her about three weeks ago in the Commissary at Pearl.”

  He nodded. “That’s him. The other Chiefs are aces. I’ve got John Barber in the Engine Rooms and he knows as much about a diesel engine as the man who invented it. His wife and Dusty’s wife are close friends from what I hear.

  “J.J. Maxwell is the Chief Yeoman. You wouldn’t know him. He’s been doing duty here at New London on 0-Boats. Used to be a Marine and then switched to the Navy. The Chief Electrician is Hendershot. Everybody calls him Hindu. You might remember seeing him a few years back when we were in Panama. Good-looking man! From Kentucky. Regular lady-killer.

  “The rest of the crew is a mix of Regulars and Reserves. Most of the leading petty officers are Regular Navy, all qualified submarine men. Most of the Reserves have never been to sea. But once we’re commissioned and operating we’ll make sailors out of them or kill them.”

  “When is Commissioning Day?”

  “That was going to be a surprise,” he said with a slow grin. “But I might as well tell you right now.

  “On August the fifteenth in this year of Our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and Forty-One, Marie Hinman will break a bottle of champagne across the bow of that submarine she looked at a couple of hours ago and christen it the United States Ship Mako.”

  “This isn’t one of our jokes, is it?” she said. “Do you mean that the Navy Department is going to let the wife of a Lieutenant Commander christen a ship, not let the wife of a Senator or a Governor do it?”

  “You’re the daughter of a respected Admiral,” he said. “No, it’s not a joke. You will do the honors. But if I can work it, I’ll switch the bottle of champagne for a bottle of sea water and we’ll come back here and have an orgy.”

  “I’m in favor of that!” she said.

  “You’d better be,” he said, “because the day after that you start across country and go on to Pearl Harbor in charge of the officers’ wives and families. I won’t see you again until we reach Pearl.”

  She turned from the sink where she was wiping the dishes. “You mean I came all the way here from Pearl Harbor and I’ve got to leave in two months?”

  “Yup,” he said. “Don’t blame me, the orders came from on high. Finish the dishes and get your skinny rear end into bed!”

  “Always the romantic sailor!” she made a face at him and went into the bedroom. He waited, grinning.

  The screech that came out of the bedroom was followed by a naked Marie holding a long rubber snake.

  “You bastard!” she hissed. “I almost had a heart attack!”

  He doubled over in the chair with laughter and she was on him, throwing him from the chair to the floor, her long legs clamping around him in a scissors grip. He howled with glee and squirmed upward until he could put his mouth against one of her small breasts. She stiffened and gasped and then she spread herself for him, pulling his head upward, searching for his mouth with hers, undoing his clothing, drawing him to her and into her.

  “More coffee, Captain?” He looked up and saw Thomas Thompson, Officers’ Cook, standing in the door of the Wardroom.

  “No thank you,” he said. “I must have been day-dreaming.”

  The tall, powerfully built black man looked at him shrewdly. “My Grandma used to say day-dreaming was a gift of God,” he said in his deep voice. “But it don’t do you any good to dream about the past, according to her. You got to dream about the future.”

  “Is it that easy to see?” Hinman said.

  “For me it is. I been with you a long time, sir. Grandma used to say you could remember the past but don’t think on it. Ain’t nothin’ back there but hurt. You don’t think it’s hurt but it is, it leaves scars you can’t cover up.”

  Chapter 7

  The U.S.S. Mako slid through the oily waters of Pearl Harbor in the first full flush of morning, passing the torpedoed, burned hulks of Battleship Row to port. The off-duty crew members, dressed in clean dungarees and white hats, were standing at ease in two long rows on the after deck, their eyes taking in the feverish activity of the Pearl Harbor Navy Yard to starboard. Captain Hinman stood on the starboard side of Mako’s small bridge with Mike Brannon, who held a folded chart of the harbor. Brannon studied the course line he had drawn on the chart as the quartermaster sang out the bearings from a pelorus mounted on the bridge rail.

  Down in the Maneuvering Room, just forward of the After Torpedo Room, Chief Electrician’s Mate Robert E. “Hindu” Hendershot sat at the big electrical control console beside one of his electrical gang, ready to go into action at the ring of the annunciators ordering him to change the rpms of the propeller shafts for one or both screws or to throw the massive electrical motors that turned the propeller shafts into full reverse. He lounged on a padded bench, one sandaled bare foot propped negligently against the shiny steel edge of the control console.

  “Bridge talker says he’ll give us the word when we make the turn into the Southeast Loch,” the telephone talker said to Hendershot. “Mr. Simms is standing by in the Control Room.”

  “Standing by for what?” Hendershot said in his soft Kentucky drawl. He waggled a foot at the ten control levers that stuck up out of the console and the score of dials above it. “Fucking battleship sailor knows the book but he don’t know what it’s like to be down here playin’ on this piano when the Old Man starts calling the square dance for docking. If we don’t make any mistakes he won’t come back here and tell us so, but if we fuck up one ring of those bells he’s gonna be back here hollerin’ his fool head off.” He pushed a curl of black hair from his white forehead. His dark blue eyes, fringed with luxuriant long lashes that were the envy of every girl he went out with, took on a dreamy look.

  “Wonder if that Lola is still dealin’ beer off the arm at the Blackstone?” he said. He nudged the electrician beside him on the bench. “Now there is a broad, that Lola! She gives the best blow job you ever had, turn you inside out in about three minutes!”

  On the bridge Mike Brannon studied his chart. “We can come right into the Southeast Loch in about one minute, Captain.” Hinman nodded, his eyes searching the harbor. He gave the order for the course change and the Mako turned slowly to starboard to head up the Southeast Loch toward the Submarine Base. As they neared the long concrete pier where they were to tie up, Brannon nudged Hinman’s arm.

  “Look at the crowd on that pier!” H
e fumbled for the pair of binoculars that hung from his neck but Hinman’s hand stopped him.

  “Don’t let them see you looking at them with the glasses,” he said in a low voice. “There’s always a crowd for a hanging!”

  On Mako’s deck Dusty Rhodes checked his line-handlers. A submarine on war patrol carries no mooring lines, anchor or anchor chain. Mooring lines are stored in slatted lockers beneath the deck in several different locations and if a depth charge should rip those deck lockers open the hundreds of fathoms of four-inch manila line could foul the propellers. Depth charges could also cause the 105 fathoms of 1-inch steel anchor chain to rattle in its metal locker under the forward deck and give away the position of the submarine or worse, could dislodge the 2,200-pound anchor from its billboard and cause it to drop, dragging out the anchor chain and virtually immobilizing the submarine as it tried to maneuver submerged.

  “Don’t try to catch the monkey fist when they throw over the heaving lines,” Rhodes cautioned a young seaman. “The monkey fist on the end of the heavin’ line is full of lead, it’ll break your hands. Let it drop, haul in the eye of the mooring line and get it on your cleat. Don’t panic.” His sharp eyes studied the pier. “That’s only old Admiral Nimitz standing there waiting for us!”

  The Mako turned into the docking area, moving slowly, and then a huge boil of water erupted at her stern as Captain Hinman ordered both screws to back at full speed. A steady stream of orders to the helmsman and the Maneuvering Room came out of Hinman’s tight lips as he judged the way of his ship, the distance to the solid concrete at the end of the pier, the distance to the side of the pier where he was to dock his ship. His voice rose suddenly.