Cold is the Sea

by Edward L. Beach

  Richardson broke the silence. “Maybe this is why Admiral Brighting sent all three of us for this job that any one of us could have done. Matter of fact, anybody at all could have done it. I’m sure the Brazilians won’t really care very much who presents the ship to them, and I’ll bet ComSubPac doesn’t care either, just so it’s done right. That’s why we’re down as volunteers, so they couldn’t turn us down. This is Brighting’s way of showing us that you can’t live in the past.” He swung up the ladder, disappeared. Keith found Buck staring at him, unblinkingly.

  Topside, a brilliant sun bounced countless glitters from the tall shafts of San Francisco’s skyline, accentuated because many of them stood on hills already high above sea level. To the right, high enough for the tallest ship to pass beneath, gleaming red above the infinite western sea, a great bridge leaped from promontory bluff to promontory bluff. The swooping curve of its suspension cables, the delicate traceries of wires supporting the roadbed, the complex steel structure of the span itself, all resembled an extraordinarily well-ordered spider’s weaving. The Golden Gate Bridge.

  This was the Mecca of the war years, that one thing, above all others, which symbolized coming home again. Violently opposed before its building by claims it would disfigure one of nature’s masterpieces, when complete this bridge over the spectacular entrance to San Francisco Bay came to epitomize the meaning of the land. Men had died to build it. Novels had been composed around it. Movies had been made of it. Daredevils had dived from it, and some had lived to tell of their feat. Suicides had jumped from it. Ships had collided under it, or with its concrete piers. Songs had been written expressing the yearning for which it stood. It was the gateway to adventure and the all-embracing arms of the motherland welcoming home the traveler, at one and the same time.

  To the left, the silvery suspensions of two more great bridges, end to end, spanned the bay from San Francisco to the mound of Yerba Buena Island with its flat, man-made beaver’s tail, Treasure Island. A tremendous truss-and-cantilever structure, tailing off to a long curved causeway, spanned the distance from Yerba Buena to Oakland, on the east side of the bay. Silent for long minutes, the three naval officers stood absorbed in the grandeur and the beauty, each feeling a stirring of the spirit within himself.

  The tug, phlegmatically puffing along, was aiming to pass to the left of the tremendous block of concrete which joined the two Bay Bridge suspensions. Rich, Keith and Buck inspected them with interest through their binoculars as they drew nearer. Autos were crossing on two different levels, those traveling toward San Francisco on the upper level, those going to Oakland on the lower. The ceaseless movement of multicolored machines was steady, regular, as though they were connected by some invisible linkage. It wasn’t so, of course, for each car was driven by a different set of compulsions. But from the distant perspective of the water surface far below, the only impression that could exist was that of order, not the hurly-burly of highway traffic that must be there.

  Not all was motor cars and traffic, however. There were workmen on scaffolds, painters carrying out the ceaseless maintenance the tremendous structure required. There was something else, too, and the three pairs of binoculars on Eel’s damaged bridge focused almost simultaneously on it. “Something’s wrong over there,” said Keith.

  There were red lights flashing, a crowd gathered along the bridge rail on the lower level. At least half of them were in blue uniforms. Police. As the submariners watched, the blue uniforms gathered together, wedged what were evidently onlookers away from their focal point of interest. Then Richardson saw it.

  “There’s a man down there,” he said. “He’s sitting out on the edge. Just sitting there. It looks like the police are after him, but they can’t reach him without going out there too.”

  “It’s a suicide,” said Keith.

  “The cops are getting a man out over the rail with a rope around his waist,” said Buck, “but it’s pretty far, and they’re moving slowly. They’re afraid he’ll go ahead and jump if they get too close too fast.”

  “We’re heading to pass about underneath him,” mused Richardson half to himself. “If he jumps at the wrong time he might land on deck. That wouldn’t be very pretty to see.” Irresolutely, he lowered his binoculars, looked at his companions, put them back up again. “I suppose we ought to stand by to help the police pick him up if he does do it,” he said. Still no answer from Keith or Buck. The submarine and tug drew nearer to the span. So far as anyone on Eel’s bridge could tell, the tug skipper, still steering his craft himself, was paying no attention to the drama taking place high above him.

  “At least, we ought to alert the tug to what’s going on,” said Keith. “He’ll probably alter course to pass under the other span, well clear of where the man might hit the water.”

  “If I were going to jump off the bridge, I’d want us to get out of the way too,” said Buck. “Landing on a steel hull with hard-looking things like hatches and girders wouldn’t be quite as clean a way to go as dropping into the bay. I guess the cops hope he’ll wait until we’re clear. The extra time might be just what they need to reach him, or talk him out of it, or something.”

  “That’s it!” said Rich, impulsively snapping his fingers. “Buck, you get down on deck to relay word to the tug! Tell the skipper to put us right under that fellow up there. I’ll help him conn from here and pass any changes to him via Keith and you.” Startled, both younger officers glanced away from their binoculars, still holding the glasses up as before, stared at Richardson. Buck recovered first.

  “I’ve got it! Great! This may give them some time!” He swung himself through the bridge railing, climbed down to the main deck, ran aft. In a moment he could be seen talking earnestly through cupped hands to the tugmaster, who had placed his megaphone to his ear the better to hear over the noise of his diesels. Buck ran back alongside the submarine bridge. “He says okay, he’ll do it. But he can’t see straight up out of his pilothouse, so he’ll need you to tell him which way to go. Also, maneuvering sideways will be tricky with the current through here, so try to anticipate your orders as much as you can.”

  “Tell him to put a line on his best swimmer and be ready to send him after the man if he does jump into the water!”

  “Roger, Skipper!” Buck ran back to his station.

  The welcoming committee at the San Francisco Naval Shipyard, Hunter’s Point, was within minutes of becoming vocally impatient when Eel and her tug finally appeared off the designated berth. There were some quizzical looks cast at her smashed bridge bulwark and the new scratches in the weathered gray paint as the tug brought her in starboard side to the pier. The ComSubPac representative on the scene was nevertheless able to report by telephone to the Twelfth Naval District Commandant, and by official letter to the Submarine Force Commander in Pearl Harbor, that the aristocratic Brazilian naval officers had been well impressed with the condition of their newest acquisition. They had felt particularly honored, he said over the telephone, that her wartime commanding officer and two others of her wartime complement, albeit in civilian clothes, had been on board to assist in the arrival inspection. And they deeply regretted that the unexpected lateness of the hour had made it impossible for Capitao-de-Mar-e-Guerra Richardson, Capitao-de-Fragata Leone and Capitao-de-Fragata Williams to attend the reception they had arranged in honor of the transfer of the submarino Eel to their Navy.

  Richardson, Leone and Williams were in the landing pattern at Idlewild International Airport as the morning editions of the San Francisco Examiner and Chronicle came off the presses. They never saw the little articles on the third and eighth pages, respectively, of the two newspapers, detailing that rescue of a would-be suicide from one of the main spans of the Bay Bridge had been possible because of the curiosity of a tug and decommissioned submarine which had stopped to rubberneck directly beneath her. The woman, who gave her name as Mrs. Susie Glotz of upper Geary Street, said she had prepared for the attempt by dressing in trousers and a jacket belo
nging to her estranged husband, but had lost her nerve for fear she would be horribly mangled upon striking the ships beneath. While she was thus delayed, a minister who happened upon the scene was able to dissuade her from her purpose, and police took her into protective custody.

  The Chronicle also carried a short editorial in the same issue, decrying the morbid curiosity of those who would go out of their way to see someone commit suicide. It noted that in this instance at least, as a sort of poetic justice, the lugubrious onlookers below had unknowingly prevented the very tragedy they had stopped to watch.

  7

  “No one’s ever figured out Admiral Brighting, Peggy. You’re wasting your time.” Laura had not intended to speak sharply, instantly realized her impatience with Peggy Leone’s growing obsession had shown in her voice. She tried to smooth over the momentary awkwardness. “Now that our husbands are nukes, I guess Brighting is just someone we’ll have to learn to live with. Rich says he’s a totally dedicated individual, one of those people who put their whole personality into what they’re doing.”

  “Keith says the same thing.” Peggy raised her cup to her lips, thoughtfully sipped the hot light brown liquid, looked appraisingly at Laura. “He told me some of the things that went on out in Idaho, though, and I’m surprised you can defend him after the way he treated your husband.”

  “Maybe Keith took more offense than Rich did. He’s one of Rich’s best friends, ever since the war. Anyway, the big thing was to be nuked, as they say. They all got that, and they think the training was great. I’m like you, though, I’m glad it’s over and finished.” Laura consciously kept her voice light. Peggy’s single-minded concentration on finding fault with the Navy was becoming vaguely unsettling. She changed the subject. “When does Keith get in with the Cushing? Have you gotten any letters from Cape Canaveral?”

  “He’s been so busy with those ship qualification tests he’s only written a couple of times. They’ll be back next week. I thought you would know that.”

  Again there was something accusatory in Peggy’s comment, some fine edge of feeling not yet out in the open. The warm midmorning sun streamed through the kitchen windows, dappled the floor with the pattern of lace curtains. Peggy was a small, intense, very pretty woman, apparently immune to the large quantities of sweets she habitually consumed. Her increasingly frequent arrivals at Laura’s door were always preceded by a polite phone call citing an errand bringing her across the Thames River to New London, and initially Laura welcomed the resulting morning coffee break. Lately, however, she had begun to realize that the growing regularity of Peggy’s visits must be more than mere happenstance. “I guess I did know it,” she carefully replied. “Rich says Keith’s got his crew very well checked out. The Cushing’s flying through her tests and he doesn’t think there’ll be any holdups. But it is a pretty strenuous time for them. It ought to be easier—more regular, anyway—when they finally start going on patrol.”

  “I don’t think I’ll like it any better, to tell the truth. The missile boats stay away so long. . . .”

  “Sure, Peggy, but they have two crews, don’t forget. Two skippers and all. Except for the turnover period, either you or Nancy Dulany will have your husband at home. He won’t even have the ship around to worry about. You’re luckier than Cindy Williams. The Manta doesn’t have two crews. Buck’s the only skipper she’s got. Even in port, there’s no relief for him.”

  “Somebody was figuring out that because of the slow training program for replacements, a missile boat sailor would have to stay continuously on sea duty for thirteen years. That’s Admiral Brighting’s fault.”

  “There’s always somebody talking that way at the beginning of anything that’s new and big,” said Laura. “It’s only last year the George Washington went to sea for the first time. You can’t . . .” The conversation was right back in its old track. Peggy was not looking at her, was staring out the window instead. Laura felt rising resentment at the U.S. Navy for putting her in the position of having to defend it, then realized it was exasperation with her visitor. She fought down the ire, made her voice gentle. “Come on, Peggy,” she finally said, “with two crews, the blue crew and the gold crew, Keith’s going to be home half the time, maybe more, counting overhauls and such. Besides, he’s barely begun with the Cushing. It hasn’t been too bad yet, has it? How was it with his previous boat?”

  “Just the same,” said Peggy. “He was married to it, too.”

  “Well, you’re not blaming Brighting for that, are you? Anyway, how long was he skipper of it?”

  “About two years. That’s when the baby was born. Even then, I hardly saw him.”

  “Has he had any shore duty since you’ve been married?”

  “Yes, sure. He was in the Pentagon just before he got the Dogfish. It was nearly as bad. Sometimes he stayed nearly all night there. It’s just not fair!”

  “What’s not fair, Peggy?” Despite Laura’s resolve, she sensed asperity creeping back into her voice, had to make an effort to will it out.

  “The Navy. The way it treats people. Especially the ones like Keith who didn’t go to Annapolis!”

  “That’s not true, Peggy. The Navy isn’t that way at all. Keith’s been treated exactly the same as everyone else.”

  “Then why does he always get these tough jobs?”

  “He doesn’t. At least, they’re not only tough jobs. They’re also very good jobs. Keith’s reputation is tops in the Navy. Look at the Cushing. She’s the newest and the best of the big new missile subs. Don’t you think every submarine skipper around would like to take Keith’s place? Or Bud Dulany’s in the other crew? Why do you think Keith was picked?”

  No answer from Peggy. Again she was staring into the distance. Laura had the feeling that nothing she was saying, or could say, would change Peggy’s determination to find fault with her situation.

  Proteus, a floating machine shop built during the war to tend diesel submarines, had been modified by the addition of facilities for the servicing of nuclear submarines and Polaris missiles. She was, by consequence, some forty-five feet longer than her sisters, but the extra length was indistinguishable except for the huge pair of gantry cranes that surmounted it. What was noticeable about the ship was that she looked more like an ocean liner than a warship. She had two promenade decks from bow to stern, two large smokestacks for appearance only (since she, too, was diesel-propelled) and she had many portholes along her sides. Only the anti-aircraft guns, still mounted, though seldom exercised, her coat of navy “war color” gray paint, and the cranes—far heavier than any liner would need—testified to her military purpose. That, and the fact that she seldom moved from her berth alongside a pier on the New London side of the Thames River. No ocean liner in service to an active shipping company would have been allowed to remain so immobile.

  But Proteus was actively carrying out her primary function, although her propellers hardly ever turned, for there was always at least one and sometimes as many as four submarines alongside. The whaleback hulls, dull black in color, lay very low in the water. Only a tenth of their structure showed above the surface, and were it not for a prominent protuberance amidships vaguely resembling a sail, their presence would be easy to overlook.

  Not that the residents of New London and Groton were likely to overlook anything. The easiest way to keep aware of what submarines were alongside the Proteus was to look southward over the rail of the high arched bridge across the Thames River as one drove eastward from New London to Groton. To the initiated, the white block numbers painted on the respective sails translated automatically to an intimate communication of the myriad of details beneath.

  To be sure, the submarine nearest the bridge obscured the numbers of those between her and the tender. But such details presented little difficulty to residents of the area, who had long since become nearly as adept as any members of the U.S. Navy at checking out the submarines alongside the Proteus.

  Rich’s office, as Commander Submarine Squad
ron Ten, or ComSubRon Ten, was at the forward end of the topmost “promenade deck” of Proteus, with large circular ports opening out upon the forecastle which lay two decks below. There was a watertight door to the side, backed up by a light wooden screen door, giving access to a verandalike extension of the covered promenade. Aft of his main room Rich had a private bedroom with a standard civilian-type metal bed bolted to the floor, and a private bathroom. The suite had a twin, on the other side of the ship’s centerline and easily accessible through a door, assigned to her skipper. Over the years it had become customary for the captain and commodore to mess together in the captain’s sitting room, thus leaving the squadron commander’s sitting room available for discussions and conferences. It was an arrangement dictated by necessity, for these seemed always to be going on.

  There was a desk flush against the slightly curved forward bulkhead of the space, upon which rested a standard dial telephone, supposedly plugged into a special dock connection when the ship moored. It had been so long since Proteus had moved from her accustomed berth, however, that, for all Rich knew, the wiring might have been run directly to the nearest telephone pole. Attached to the bulkhead were the standard ship’s telephone, a gyrocompass repeater, a voice tube with swing cap leading to the bridge and, prominently centered, a bows-on photograph of Proteus with ten tired diesel submarines alongside. The caption read, “Tokyo Bay, 1945.”

  Richardson had swiveled around to face Keith Leone, who was slouched in an armchair.

  “You must really have pushed your gang on the Cushing, Keith. All the tests down at Canaveral were perfect, and you got away three days early. Now what can we do for you up here?”