“Mr. Corodini. That’s what we’re paying him for.”
Kruger paused. A loud horn bleated in the background. “Captain, we’re not entirely certain of this main feed pump.”
“Then tell Corodini to get on it. It’s his job, not yours.”
“Sir, I really think we should–”
“CIC, now, Mr. Kruger. I don’t care if you’re in your overalls or in your underwear. Get up here and let Corodini handle main control.”
“But Captain--”
“For crying out loud, Dick. How do you expect the man to learn his job with you hovering over him? He’ll figure it out. And if he doesn’t, we’ll fire him and get someone else. Now get up here. That’s an order.” Donovan jammed the phone in its bracket, stood, and looked out the porthole. He didn’t know if Kruger realized it, but he really needed his XO up here. It was foggy as hell. He couldn’t see more than a hundred feet.
Once again, he splashed water on his face and patted dry with a towel. Leaning close to the mirror, he saw that his eyes were red. In fact, he looked as if he’d been on an all-night drunk.
Hey, crazy Mike. Time to be captain.
Shut up, Mario. Grabbing his foul-weather jacket, he opened the door and stepped into the passageway.
* * * * *
Khaki-clad officers and chiefs, signalmen, quartermasters, and boatswain’s mates jammed the pilothouse and open bridge. Climbing the ladder, Donovan eased among them, looking for Hammond. Fog swirled as he stepped to the starboard bridge wing. A sailor, a first-class yeoman, blocked his way as he went to stand on the pedestal. “Can I help you, sailor?”
The man looked bewildered. “Well, er, no, sir. You see...”
“What is it then?”
The man chewed gum and clacked it loudly. “Er, I’m your talker, sir.” He was tall, stringy, with tufts of wheat-colored hair sticking out from under his sailor’s cap.
“You ever comb your hair, sailor?”
“Well, er, I was in a hurry, this morning, sir.” His Adam’s apple bounced, but he had a generous resonance in his voice.
The bridge became quiet. It was as if Donovan and this sailor were the only people there. “You ever been a bridge talker before – what’s your name, anyway?” demanded Donovan.
“Yes, sir.” The man’s gum clacked.ABeen a talker for six months now. And my name’s Potter, Lucian B.” He stood almost to attention.
“All right, Potter. Spit out the gum, comb your hair, and stand right here. I’ll relay orders from atop the pilothouse.”
“Yes, sir!” Potter leaned over and expertly ejected a giant wad of gum into the oily water between the ship and the pier.
“Mr. Hammond?” Donovan called.
Hammond walked out carrying a mug of coffee. “Yes, sir?”
“I notice the gangway is already gone. Who gave permission to do that?”
“Er, I did, sir. I thought--”
“Henceforth you’ll ask the commanding officer for permission to take in the gangway. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Now, who do you recommend to get this ship under way?”
Hammond did a double take. “I thought it would be you, sir. I mean, Captain Drake always...” His voice trailed off.
“Who is your JOOD?”
“Why, Mr. Peete, sir.”
Donovan walked to the ladder. “Have Mr. Peete join me on top of the pilothouse. I’d like you down here to relay orders directly to the helm and lee helm.”
“Mr. Peete?” Hammond’s hand went to his hips.
“Yes, send him up, please.” Donovan climbed the ladder rungs to the open platform atop the pilothouse. The only items up here were the tank-like structure of the main-battery director and two twenty-millimeter cannon mounts. Aside from that, the platform offered a fine view of the whole ship, bow and stern. It was his favorite area from which to conn the ship in close quarters. Trouble was, with the fog, he couldn’t see more than four or five hundred feet. But just then a soft breeze tickled the back of his neck. The San Francisco Bay fog, so typical for this time of year, was about to be swept away.
Ensign Peete walked up wearing a heavy foul-weather jacket. Binoculars dangled from a strap around his neck. “You sent for me, Captain?”
A cold, damp zephyr curled around Donovan’s cheek and into his shirt. Ah, yes. He turned to Peete. “You ever get a ship underway, son?”
Peete stepped back, his eyebrows raised, “Who, Me sir?”
“I take that as a ‘no.’”
“That is correct, sir.”
He stepped close to Peete. “First time at sea?”
“Well, first time on one of these things, Captain.”
Donovan looked from side to side. He needed to build on someone and decided to start with Peete. He grinned and said, “Half the trick is making people think you know what you’re doing.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Shhh. Look, dammit. You’re not going to wreck the ship. I won’t let you do that. Look at it this way. Do you realize how much fun you can have with sixty thousand horsepower?”
“Haven’t thought of it that way, Captain.”
“Right. Here’s what you do. Relax. Enjoy it. Just do what I tell you to do. You’ll get the hang of it. Okay?”
“Well... “
“You ever do Shakespeare?”
Peete straighten up. “At Yale, Sir.”
“Very well. Now go over there, lean over the rail, and pretend like you’re Laurence Olivier.” He nodded to a racked megaphone. “Use that if you have to.”
“I think I can do without, Captain.”
“Very well. We begin by telling Mr. Hammond you have the conn and to single up all lines.”
“Now, sir?”
“Right now.” Donovan walked to the opposite side of the platform, a good ten feet away. He called softly, “Okay, Mr. Peete, take one; the camera is rolling.”
Peete’s eyes had that Don’t-leave-me-now look. “Yes, sir.” He stepped to the starboard rail, braced his hands, and bellowed, “Mr. Hammond. I have the conn. Single up all lines and prepare to get under way.” His tones were electric: pure, resonant, compelling. And damn, Donovan stifled a grin, Peete sure didn’t need a megaphone, and he did sound like Olivier.
With the captain out of view, the men milling below looked up in disbelief at the apparently lone Ensign Jonathan Peete, the newly minted ninety-day wonder. Three seconds passed.
Hammond recovered first. “Mr. Peete has the conn,” he yelled into the pilothouse. Then he said to Potter, “Tell fo’c’sle and fantail to single up all lines.” That done, he looked up to Peete, his face saying, What’s next, Kid?
Peete looked to Donovan.
Donovan strolled past and, covering his mouth, said, “Now you say ‘Tell main control to stand by to answer all bells.’”
Standing tall, Peete barked the order then asked softly, “Now what?”
“Wait.”
A voice in the pilothouse echoed, “Main control answers nine-nine-nine turns for maneuvering bells, sir.”
Donovan walked by casually again, looking up in the sky, and whispered, “Very well.”
Again, Peete braced his hands on the rail and looked down. “Very well.”
Donovan moved beside him and said, “Your next command is ‘Rudder amidships.’”
“Rudder amidships,” bellowed Peete.
By now everyone had caught on, but Peete’s performance was compelling, the timbre in his voice near charismatic.
“My rudder is amidships, sir,” hollered the helmsman in the pilothouse.
Hammond repeated it.
Without prompting, Peete said, “Very well,”
Donovan walked around the main-battery director and again stood beside Peete.
“What do you think now, Mr. Peete?”
Ensign Jonathan Peete said, “I wish I knew, sir.”
Donovan clasped Peete’s elbow. “Come on, figure it out, son. Look.” His hand waved
at the sky. “See that? Wind. The fog’s blowing away.”
“Yes, sir.”
The 1 MC gave a metallic screech, and the bosun’s mate of the watch announced, “On deck attention to colors.”
Along with everyone topside, Donovan and Peete faced aft, stood to attention, and saluted as the national ensign was raised on the fantail. At the same time, the jack was raised on the fo’c’sle jackstaff. The same announcement echoed from the other ships as topside personnel honored their flag.
“Ready, two,” called the boatswain’s mate of the watch.
“And what kind of wind is it, Mr. Peete?” asked Donovan.
“Uh, an offshore wind, sir. Right on our beam.”
“Very good, Mr. Peete. So tell them to take in lines one, two, three, four, five, and six. Then let Mother Nature take care of the rest.”
The resonance in Peete’s voice could have ripped lumber as he bellowed the order. The lines were taken in.
The last line left the pier and the boatswain’s mate of the watch announced on the 1 MC, “Under way, shift colors.” The union jack was lowered from the foredeck, the national ensign was lowered aft, and a new national ensign was run up the halyard and to-blocked at the mainmast.
They had drifted out about a half a ship’s length from the pier when Donovan said, “Very good, Mr. Peete. What do you think so far?”
“Nothing better than to wind up sixty thousand horsepower, Captain.”
“Well then, Mr. Peete. Go over there, check your ship’s heading, and tell the helmsman to steer five degrees to the left of that course. Then we’ll put some of your horsepower to work as you ring up all ahead one-third.”
“All ahead one-third, sir?”
“That’s right.”
Peete rendered the maneuvering orders in a clipped, metallic staccato; the Matthew’s screws bit the water and she gathered way. Then he gave the order for the course to be relayed to the helmsman.
“Well, what do you think so far, Mr. Peete?” asked Donovan.
“Really keen, sir. When do I get to use all sixty thousand?”
“Sooner than you’d think.”
Ensign Peete gave more orders and Hammond relayed them crisply into the pilothouse where the helmsman and lee helmsman executed them perfectly. With a prolonged blast of her whistle, the USS Matthew gathered way for the first time in sixty-two days. Ensign Jonathan Peete wore a thin smile as Donovan kept feeding orders.
The crew on the bridge took it all in, marveling at Peete’s immediate command presence. All except for Burt Hammond, who had trouble imagining why the captain had picked this Johnnie Hollywood to conn the ship for their first time under way. Getting a ship under way was an honor, a gift the captain usually gave to senior officers. Why not me? Hammond wondered.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
August 25, 1944
Southern Pacific Railroad Station
Roseville, California
The evening was balmy, the temperature a dry eighty-eight, with plenty of twilight in a deep amber sky. It was a little after eight as a dog-tired Donovan jostled among other servicemen toward the street, looking for a taxi. The devilish train ride epitomized everything he’d heard about milk trains. This one, the 532, had stopped every mile or so, either on a siding to let a freight train roar past, or simply... to stop and wait, and do nothing. The maddening trip from Oakland took four and a half hours, arriving two hours late.
He reached the platform’s edge, finding three taxis. But all were stuffed with five or six men sharing rides. Scratching his head, Donovan looked in vain for another taxi, realizing he would have to take the bus. Even the damn benches were full.
On Mare Island he’d found a sympathetic operator who placed the call to Diane. She’d invited him for a home-cooked meal at six. He was welcome to stay the night, but she was due at the hospital at eight, working until six the next morning.
He checked his watch: nearly eight fifteen. Diane would be gone, and the next bus wasn’t due for another half hour. Start walking.
He’d taken only a few steps when he heard, “Hey! Mike! Hold on a minute.”
“Hello?” He turned to find Walt Logan rushing up. “Walt, it’s good to see you.”
They shook left-handed as Logan nodded to a control tower across the tracks. “On duty, so I don’t have much time. Look, Diane says you two were supposed to have dinner, but then I gave her the lowdown on the 532.”
“So she knows?”
“Right. There was a derailment near Fairfield. That’s why everything was so fouled up. We’re working around it. Look, go over to the house. There’s a key above the door sill and meat loaf is in the icebox.”
“Wow, meat loaf!”
“It’s her recipe. Spicy. Makes your hair stand on end.”
“Here’s to the 532.”
“Best we can do. I’ll be home around midnight, so leave some for me.”
“Maybe not.”
“Don’t be a pig. Say, how about a game of chess tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure. I’d be playing among excellence.”
“Hah! Excellence. You should see what Milo Lattimer does to me.”
“Now, that’s something I’d like to see.”
“Well, he’ll be there, too.”
“Okay. That’ll give me a chance to thank him properly. Feel like I owe him my life.”
“Nah. I’m sure he’s forgotten it by now. Look, I have to go. See you tomorrow. Here.” He tossed a set of keys. “Take my car. It’s the dark blue Chevy two-door in the SP parking lot next block over. You’ll need lots of choke to get her started.”
“Thanks. You want me to pick you up at midnight?”
“It’s okay. Ken Taylor will give me a ride. And don’t forget to leave me some meat loaf.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Logan grinned, tipped his hat, and, crossing four sets of tracks, began scrambling up a ladder to his control tower just before a sixteen-driver Mallet clanked past, pulling an interminable string of refrigerated fruit cars.
Five minutes later, Donovan mounted the Logan front porch, found the key, and opened the door. Diane’s meat loaf was indeed wonderful, and it took all his willpower not to wolf the entire dish. Then he walked into the living room, flipped on the radio, and sat in a deep armchair. Fibber McGee and Molly was playing on radio station KGEI all the way from San Francisco. He rubbed his face, realizing he was tired and could really hit the sack without any trouble. He let his mind wander over the week. Luckily, they let the Matthew steam independently, getting the kinks out of a ship that had only recently been worked up to fighting trim. There had been the usual screw-ups, but they had done fairly well, he had to admit. They’d been eager to please, and that made him feel good with hopes that soon, they would overcome the “Matthew the Motionless” sobriquet.
But a dark moment came the last night out. Kruger let on that he and Sloan had been investigating the food situation and had irrefutable proof that Watson, a first-class commissary man, was selling the ship’s food on the black market. That’s why the food had been so horrible. Watson had been watering it down and thinning out portions. Kruger and Sloan had the chief master at arms bring Watson to the wardroom. After two minutes, the tall, athletic and well-liked commissary man first-class Elmer Watson broke down and admitted all.
The next morning, they held captain’s mast on the way in from the Farallon Islands. When the question of mitigating circumstances came up, it turned out Watson’s younger brother had polio. The kid was in an iron lung, and Watson was selling the ship’s food to pay medical bills. With all the evidence presented, Donovan didn’t have to think long about Watson’s punishment, but he hesitated before pronouncing it. Watson’s career was wrecked; he’d been due for promotion to chief, but now everything was over for him. Innumerable seconds passed in the wardroom as Donovan searched for a way out. There wasn’t any. Despite the younger brother’s dilemma, Watson had broken the law, stolen from his shipmates, and jeopard
ized the ship. It was up to Donovan to finish it. Everyone’s eyes, even Watson’s, remained fixed on the bulkhead when Donovan sentenced Watson to six months in the brig and a dishonorable discharge.
Later, Donovan climbed to the bridge just before they slipped under a fog-shrouded Golden Gate. It was quiet. The word on Watson’s sentence had flashed around the ship like wildfire. Now it was sinking in, the jocularity of the homeward voyage lost in the screaming silence.
Right after they docked at Mare Island and doubled up, Watson was led to the quarterdeck in handcuffs and leg chains. Activity topside turned deathly still. Even people on the ships around them stopped what they were doing. The sailor cried while Marines led him off the ship, shoved him in a paddy wagon and rattled off for the brig.
Donovan walked off the gangway next and headed down the dock. Feeling their eyes on his back, he thought, Mike, it sure didn’t take long for you to make your mark.
That took care of the food problem, but two issues lingered in his wardroom, and he wasn’t sure how to handle them. One was that Kruger was inclined to stay with things most familiar--his engines and boilers. He spent far too much time in the hole, rather than acting as a true exec and absorbing the administrative details for Donovan. as Admiral Nimitz said, Kruger was a great engineer -- but except for the Watson investigation, he’d fallen short as an exec.
The second problem was more volatile. Burt Hammond and Jonathan Peete were like two of Diane’s enormous compound locomotives rushing head-on at 120 miles per hour. The two were similar in demeanor and both were handsome: in a way they could have passed for brothers. Both had strong intellects, athletic frames, and quick minds. The main difference was that Hammond was more inner-directed and analytical. He never acted without examining things from all angles. Peete, on the other hand, seemed to do things spontaneously. He had a broad smile and got along with officers and men alike, something that infuriated Hammond. Hammond often pulled rank on Peete, sometimes in front of the enlisted, doing his best to embarrass the young ensign. Two days ago, Donovan watched from the bridge as the two went at it just beneath on the 01 level. Hammond became strident and drew close. Peete smiled. Then openly grinned. Hammond braced Peete to attention and began circling the ensign, yelling, chewing him out.
A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF Page 21
