After the first month, Nimitz directed that, except for submarines, all warships and not just destroyers chopping to PacFleet for the first time would go through the special training squadron. That created the occasional problem when a cruiser skipper, technically senior to Sluff, got stiff-necked about reporting to a junior captain, even if he was called Commodore Wolf. When that happened, Sluff would actually go to sea, taking his three senior lieutenant commanders along. They would then put that ship through a series of drills and self-imposed casualties to both men and machinery that would usually end with the ship dead in the water and unable to function. The lieutenant commanders would wander through the ship, unplugging vital electrical circuits, telling key officers and petty officers that they were now “dead,” or tripping steam machinery off the line to simulate battle damage. After a day of that, attitudes usually changed and things went much better.
Sluff would then invite the embarrassed CO up to his quarters or to the officers’ club for a quiet dinner, one-on-one, over which he would describe his own personal experiences in and around Ironbottom Sound, to include the news that however much the skipper might think he was in control, once the eight-inch shells began to come through the bridge windows, the ship’s survival would depend much more on how well the crew had been trained than on anything he, the captain, might do from the wreckage of the pilothouse. The next day, his staff would usually report a remarkable change aboard the USS whatever, and then they could get to work in earnest.
Twice a week, Sluff would have himself driven to the sprawling Army hospital complex up on Fort Shafter, situated in a valley above Pearl. It looked a lot like the field hospital in Nouméa as it frantically expanded to meet the demands created by the intensifying conflict in the South Pacific. Taking a page out of Halsey’s book, he would walk through the wards of no-longer-critical patients, carrying a briefcase of the things that might be hard to get in a military hospital and an open bottle of Coke. He quickly discovered that the favorite thing was a cigarette, which were not allowed on most wards. Sluff would sit down among a cluster of hospital beds, talking to the men, asking them what ship or unit they were from and where they’d been hurt, while waiting for the nearest nurse to be called away, and then light up three or four cigarettes and pass them around. If the nurse was spotted returning, the cigarettes would be passed quickly back to the strange-looking Navy captain with a plate in his head and doused in the half-empty Coke bottle.
The ward nurses were, of course, on to the game, but allowed it because they were just a little bit intimidated by the muscular four-striper with his scowling Indian visage. After a while, he became a fixture as the word got around about his briefcase full of Camels, and sometimes even a ward nurse might sneak a quick puff or five, egged on by her patients. The word also got around Pearl Harbor circles because one night Chester Nimitz himself sent his car around to pick Sluff up at his quarters, and then the two of them, followed at a discreet distance by two aides and Nimitz’s four Marine bodyguards, made the rounds. When they’d been there about an hour Nimitz indicated he had to get back, but he asked Sluff where he’d come up with the idea.
“Admiral Halsey does it twice a week out in Nouméa,” Sluff said. “The troops are usually glad to see him, and, from what I saw, he’s pretty good for their morale.”
After hearing that, Nimitz set up a schedule to do the same thing. Sluff found that out when the admiral’s aide called and asked which nights Sluff would be up there, so that Nimitz wouldn’t interfere.
“You tell me when the admiral might be going up there and I’ll just stay home,” Sluff had responded.
“No, sir, Commodore, that’s not what the admiral wants. You go up there Tuesday and Thursdays? He’ll go up there Wednesdays. How about that?”
“Sounds good,” Sluff said, marveling not for the first time at the magnanimity of C. W. Nimitz.
He was there one night in February, doing his hush-hush cigarette-girl act, when a voice from over his shoulder said, “What is it with you, Harmon Wolf? You like being in the hospital? And do I smell cigarette smoke, gentlemen?”
It was Tina, now sporting the insignia of a nurse corps lieutenant commander. The patients looked uncertainly from her face to his and then realized they knew each other. For one thing, the notorious scowl had vanished.
“No, ma’am, you do not,” Sluff asserted, the Coke bottle in his hand hissing in a definitely guilty fashion. “There’s no smoking allowed in this ward.”
“There better not be,” she said, trying hard for a severe frown, but the twinkle in her eyes gave her away. Some of the patients were nudging each other with knowing grins. “Come with me, sir,” she said in her best boss-nurse voice. “While I explain this hospital’s rules and why we have them.”
Sluff got up, leaving the briefcase full of cigarettes, and followed her down the line until they went through the batwing doors out into the main corridor that connected the ward buildings. Seeing no one around, she gave him a big hug and then a kiss.
“God, I’m glad to see you, Harmon Wolf,” she said. “I’ve had this terrible feeling that…”
He smiled down at her. “And I’m very glad you even gave me a thought,” he replied. “Now, let’s try that again, with feeling this time.”
Her eyes widened as if she’d taken offense, but a moment later, maybe two, they parted and then, almost sheepishly, sat down on one of the benches out in the hallway.
“I’ve done okay,” he said. “Some moments, but nothing scary. One day at a time.”
She nodded. “Oh,” she said, reaching into her purse and handing him a small white envelope. “This is for you.”
He looked at the envelope, which had his name and rank handwritten on it, and a return address that said only: WFH. He opened the envelope. Inside was a white card with four blue stars engraved across the top. A hand-scrawled note read: Nimitz delighted with what you’re doing. Wish you were here instead. Best regards, Bill Halsey. PS, I’ve sent you a present.
“What’s it say?” she asked.
“It’s from Halsey, if you can believe that,” Sluff said. “Says Nimitz is happy with the training squadron.”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s it?”
He gave her a big grin. “No, that’s not ‘it.’ However, we’re going to have to know each other a whole lot better before I tell you. So: I have a car and a driver. I’ll bet we can get a drink down at the O-club in Pearl.”
She drew herself up as best she could sitting on a hallway bench. “I’m not that kind of girl, Captain,” she said. “It has to be drinks and dinner.”
“Deal,” he said, feeling for the first time since his stroke that maybe, just maybe, there was a future.
Then they just sat there, grinning at each other like two idiots.
ALSO BY P. T. DEUTERMANN
THE CAM RICHTER NOVELS
The Cat Dancers
Spider Mountain
The Moonpool
Nightwalkers
THRILLERS
The Last Man
The Firefly
Darkside
Hunting Season
Train Man
Zero Option
Sweepers
Official Privilege
Cold Frame
SEA STORIES
Sentinels of Fire
Ghosts of Bungo Suido
Pacific Glory
The Edge of Honor
Scorpion in the Sea
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
P. T. Deutermann is the author of eighteen previous novels, including the World War II novels Sentinels of Fire, Ghosts of Bungo Suido, and Pacific Glory, which won the W. Y. Boyd Literary Award for Excellence in Military Fiction. He spent twenty-six years in military service, which included a Pearl Harbor tour of duty; his father was a commodore on the Okinawa picket line; and Deutermann’s uncle, both of his brothers, and both of his children were naval officers. He lives with his wife in North Carolina. You can sign up for email updates her
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CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART ONE: THE MAKEE-LEARN
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
PART TWO: THE CASTAWAY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
PART THREE: THE COMMODORE
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
ALSO BY P. T. DEUTERMANN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE COMMODORE. Copyright © 2016 by P. T. Deutermann. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Young Jin Lim
Cover photograph of USS Kidd courtesy of USS Kidd Veterans Museum
Cover illustration by Steve Gardner / Pixelworks Studio, Inc.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07807-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-09175-8 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781250091758
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: August 2016
The Commodore Page 31
