Caught flatfooted, Charlie didn’t say a word. Sandtiger wasn’t scheduled to go to sea for another week. He’d hoped to help prepare the boat for sea and learn her systems, particularly her new upgrades. Maybe stay aboard the submarine the whole time and get used to his claustrophobia.
Thrown into the pool again. Sink or swim, and he’d better swim.
“You’re from here, ain’t you?” the captain asked him. “Go home. See your mama. Kiss your girlfriend. May be last time you do it. Be back tomorrow bright and early. Now go on, sunshine. Git.”
Charlie left the captains hunched over their poker game.
“Harrison!”
Two young officers waved from a nearby table. The man on the left slouched in wrinkled service khakis with a smirk etched on his bland face. His clean-cut comrade sat ramrod straight, blinking nervously. Empty beer bottles littered the table next to an overflowing ashtray.
The slouch offered his hand. “Gerald Percy, communications. This is Tom Nixon, engineering.”
Charlie shook it. “Nice to meet you fellas.”
Percy didn’t let go. “Help me up. We’re getting out of here.”
He hauled the officer to his feet. The man staggered against him. “You all right?”
“Better than all right, Exec. I’m deep in the sauce.”
Charlie shot a look at Nixon, who stood smiling shyly with his hands fidgeting in his pockets. “What about him?”
“He doesn’t drink. He’s plain certifiable, though.”
“Where are you fellas off to?”
“San Francisco. Got to pick up some stuff before we take off tomorrow. Stuff the boat needs. Want to tag along?”
Charlie pictured the rest of the night lying on his bunk. “Sure.” Being around people would be good for him. “Count me in.”
He feared Percy would be a chatterbox during the ferry ride, but Nixon did most of the talking while the communications officer leaned on the gunwale and smirked at the view. The engineering officer opened up once Charlie brought up the refit.
“They mounted a new deck gun—a five-inch pulled off an S-boat—on the forward deck,” Nixon told him. “Replaced the twenty-millimeter ack-acks with forty-millimeter Bofors. Installed ammo stowage on deck for the machine guns—”
“Tell him about the bridge,” Percy said.
“The sheltered bridge is gone. They cut it down. Took out the surface steering and the plating on the periscope shears. The smaller silhouette makes the boat harder to see. We have new SJ radar too, more reliable and able to detect ships at a longer range. PPI added to the radar. New engines, motors, wiring. More limber holes in the hull to let out trapped air so we can dive faster.”
Percy lit a cigarette with a steel lighter. “Don’t forget the bathythermograph.”
Nixon nodded gravely like a Catholic priest asked a question about God. “Oh, I was getting to that. You know the ocean is made of thermal layers. Water temperature varies according to how deep it is. These thermal layers affect sonar; they reflect and scatter sonar pings. Sandtiger now has its very own bathythermograph, which records the temperature of the water around the boat and puts that info right in the conning tower. Allows us to hide from the Japs.”
Charlie agreed it was an amazing innovation.
“If it works,” Percy snorted.
Nixon shrugged. “Well, yeah. What you said.”
Sandtiger sounded loaded. Charlie couldn’t wait to take her out.
Percy pointed. “There she is. You can just see her behind Warmouth.”
Charlie caught a glimpse of the gray submarine’s nose. The briny bay breeze brought a whiff of diesel oil stench. He smiled.
Almost home, he thought.
God, Evie was right about him.
Percy’s objective turned out to be Pirates Cove, another of the city’s few establishments allowed to serve liquor to men in uniform. Sailors and soldiers filled the place. Percy found them space at the bar. The bartender welcomed him by name and promptly plonked three cold bottles of beer on the counter. He next lined up three shots and filled them to the brim.
The communications officer raised his shot glass. “Welcome to Sandtiger, Harrison. Down the hatch.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said while Percy downed his liquor. He threw back his own shot and braced as the burning liquid poured down his throat. Splice the mainbrace. Outside, the sun was falling fast. The city would black out soon. He wondered how they were going to get back. “Where’s the torpedo officer tonight?”
Percy had already chugged his beer. He scooped up Nixon’s shot and tossed it back with a wince. “Hiding in his room, probably. The captain has it in for him.”
“What did he do?”
“Got on the captain’s radar. The captain already kicked our last exec off the boat. Poor Trombly was next on his shit list.”
Nixon smiled. “You’ll be our third exec in three patrols.”
“Bottoms up, sailor,” Percy said and took a long pull on Nixon’s beer.
Charlie sipped. “What did he do? The exec?”
“The Old Man has anger issues.”
Nixon said, “He’s a fighter. He pushes the boat hard. Anything goes wrong, anybody can’t keep up, the captain doesn’t like it.”
Percy said, “Shit rolls downhill. The Old Man flushes execs like turds.”
Charlie drank the rest of his beer in two long swallows. If these men were being straight with him, his plum assignment might turn out to be his last time out in the submarines. He’d have to tread carefully with Moreau and avoid any mistakes.
After two more rounds, they went back out into the cool night air. The walk helped clear Charlie’s buzzing head. “Aren’t we supposed to be getting something for the boat?”
“Oh, right,” the communications officer said. “No, I made that up.”
“How are we getting back to the base?”
“The ferries stopped running for the night. We’ll catch the first tomorrow morning.” Percy caught Charlie’s expression and laughed. “Live a little, Harrison. The way the captain fights, this might our last time out. And here we are.”
Rowdy groups of servicemen trickled in and out of the building. Pounding drums vibrated through the walls.
Charlie followed him inside. “What is this place?”
“I hope you like to dance, Harrison.”
They went in. A swing band roared on the stage. Drums rattled as scores of dancers jitterbugged on the crowded dance floor. Soldiers and sailors twirled smiling women in short dresses. A member of the band stepped out in front for his solo and blew piercing notes on his trumpet.
“Come on,” Percy shouted over the music. “The nickel-hoppers are waiting.”
Charlie followed him to a booth. Percy told him to buy nine tickets, which cost him a cool ninety cents. He passed them out.
Nixon accepted his with a lopsided smile. “Oh, goodie.”
He ran off and gave the ticket to a redhead twice his size. She demurely lifted the hem of her dress and slipped it in her stocking. Nixon grabbed her hand and dragged the big woman onto the dance floor.
“Taxi dancers,” Percy said. “Ten cents a dance. The girl gets a nickel.”
“Wow. Nixon’s a good dancer.”
“Yeah. He can really swing. Otherwise, he can barely look a girl in the eye, much less talk to her. A genius with anything mechanical, though, I’ll give him that. Now go out there and cut a rug, champ. If you don’t know how to dance, one of the girls will show you the ropes.”
Percy staggered toward the women and offered a buxom blonde his ticket with a courtly gesture. The woman cut him down with a glance and took his hand. Charlie watched them dance, his head heavy and buzzed again.
Brass gleamed onstage. The band played as if possessed. Horns blared across the bouncing room. Charlie leaned against the wall and tapped his feet. He fingered the tickets in his pocket and thought about dancing.
The dancing had a frantic quality, a last hurrah before shippi
ng out to the war. For one last night, they reveled and thumbed their noses at death.
His last night too. He was shipping out tomorrow. Percy was right, this could be his last patrol, one way or the other. He should live it up a little. Why not?
Still, Charlie suspected dancing with total strangers would only make him lonelier. Make him miss Evie and Jane even more.
After a few songs, the communications officer stumbled out of the press. “Wow, that broad can sure drag a hoof.”
“What’s the mission?”
Percy regarded him blearily. “What are you talking about?”
“The captain said ComSubPac gave us operations orders that promised some good hunting. I’m curious where we’re going.”
The man laughed. “Why are you talking about work? For Christ’s sake, you’re at the Barbary Coast. Go out there and dance. Some of these girls are khaki wacky. A good-looking, earnest guy like you might even get lucky.”
“Look, I just got here, and—”
“That does it. I’ll find you one who’s suitably patriotic.” Percy ignored Charlie’s protests and scanned the crowd. “Wow, there’s a hot patootie for you. Check out that babe.”
Charlie stiffened. Percy was pointing right at Evie.
Evie, laughing while she danced in the arms of a khaki-clad man.
He waded into the crowd.
“That’s the spirit, Exec!” Percy called after him.
Charlie grabbed her arm. “Evie! What are you doing here?”
She stared back at him, her mouth an O. “What are you doing here?”
He had no good answer to that. He had no good reason to interrupt her dance, either. A large hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed.
“You her boyfriend, pal?” the man growled. He was a Marine.
Evie lifted her chin and appraised Charlie. “No. Apparently, he’s not.”
The Marine said, “Then you’ve got three seconds to get the fuck out of here before I come after you. One.”
“Sorry I barged in like that, but—”
“Not nearly sorry yet. Two.”
“Hey, don’t start trouble. If we get caught, it’ll go bad for you. I’m an officer.”
The man grinned. “So am I.”
His fist blurred toward Charlie’s face.
Charlie saw it coming. He lunged backward. His back connected with another dancer whose motion shoved him straight into bare knuckles.
The lights went out.
He came to shaking his head as Percy yelled, “Hey, jarhead!” and sucker-punched the Marine in the ear. The man flinched and roared.
Evie: “What the hell is going on?”
“Working Navy here!” Percy yelled.
Marines released their partners and surged toward the scene with clenched fists. A sailor grabbed one by the shoulder, spun him around, and decked him. Women screamed and fled the dance floor as the song abruptly died.
Percy howled and threw himself at the Marines. The trumpet player struck up, “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” while sailors and Marines laid into each other and Army didn’t know whose side to take.
Evie cupped Charlie’s face in her hands. “You all right?”
Those who weren’t fighting sang, “You’re a grand old flag, though you’re torn to rag, and forever in peace may you wave!”
Evie’s Marine pummeled Percy in a headlock while the buxom blonde pounded the jarhead’s back with her fists.
Charlie straightened his shoulders. “Never better.”
“Don’t do it, Charlie Harrison,” she warned. “Don’t even think about—”
He kissed her on the mouth. “Sorry about everything, Evie.” He sighed as his eyes swept the brawl. “Goddamn honor.”
Then he waded into the fight, lashing out with his fists.
The rest of the band joined in to play the song as men roared, “You’re the emblem of the land that I love, the home of the free and the brave!”
Charlie grew up in Tiburon and had often ventured down into San Francisco’s mean streets looking for work during the Depression. He knew how to fight.
He punched a man in the jaw and doubled over as a fist slammed into his gut. He launched himself against his assailant shoulder first, knocking him on his ass. Somebody grabbed him from behind. He stomped the man’s feet and broke free.
He spun with his fist raised to strike—
“Heat!” a woman screamed.
Whistles blew. Policemen rushed into the Barbary Coast swinging billy clubs while the patrons stampeded for the exits.
Evie grabbed Charlie’s hand and pulled. “Come on, you big stupid idiot!”
The band serenaded them on their way out the door with, “Anchors Aweigh.”
Percy and the blonde hit the sidewalk laughing and kept going. Charlie and Evie chased after them, navigating by moonlight alone.
“Wait!” Charlie said. “Where’s Nixon?”
“Right here,” Nixon said from behind. He held the redhead’s hand. “I actually punched a man in the face!”
Percy stopped and bent over to catch his breath. “Jesus, Exec. You can fight.”
“You men are all idiots,” Evie said.
“Taking on that Marine. No wonder they call you Hara-kiri.”
“Evie’s right,” Charlie said. “I’m a big stupid idiot.”
The communications officer smiled. “Hey, we’re only getting started.”
“What now? We can’t head back to base until tomorrow morning.”
“Says you. We’re going to find us a boat and go back to Mare Island. Show the girls the attack trainer we have set up out there.”
The blonde looked confused. “Or we could all just go to my place.”
Percy draped his arm over her shoulders. “You’ll love the attack trainer, Betty darling. I’ll bet any man alive you sink a Jap ship on your first go.”
Betty shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“You all go ahead,” Charlie said. “I’m going to stick around. I’ll catch the first ferry out to the island.”
The foursome walked off into the darkness, singing, “You’re a Grand Old Flag.”
“My crew,” Charlie told Evie.
She socked his shoulder hard. “What were you doing at the Barbary Coast when you told me you had to report to your CO, whatever that is?!”
“I did.” He yelped as she hit him again. “Honest! The captain told me I had the night off. I ran into Percy and Nixon and they brought me here. That’s it.”
“I didn’t see you on the dance floor,” she said.
“Because I wasn’t. To be honest, I was missing you. Your turn.”
“I have to explain? There’s a war on, Charlie. The government rations almost everything, and what isn’t costs a lot of money, more than I can afford on my salary at the plant. I make good side money at the dance hall. I come down twice a week. Don’t you dare tell my mom and dad about it or I’ll kill you.”
“I won’t.” Her explanation sobered him. While everybody back home lived on strict rationing for the war effort, submariners ate fresh meat and eggs. They were the best-fed branch of the service. “I promise.”
“I also get lonely,” she said. “To be completely honest. I can’t have you, but I haven’t met anybody yet who can replace you. I just want a little contact.”
Charlie understood that too, all too well. “I get it, Evie.”
Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight. He remembered how she’d always been able to nail him to the wall with those eyes.
He showed her his three dance hall tickets, lifted the hem of her dress a few inches, and slipped them into her stocking.
“Guess I’m yours for the next ten minutes,” she said. “Where to?”
They entered an all-night movie theater and found a remote spot to sit. Around them, snoring servicemen slept off their benders. On the silver screen, Spencer Tracy told Katharine Hepburn she didn’t spend enough time with him.
Evie snorted. She took his hand and squeezed. “H
ow’s your face?”
Charlie touched his sore cheekbone and sighed. “I’ll have a shiner tomorrow. My CO’s going to love that.”
“TB, Charlie Harrison. So what’s she like?”
“What’s who like?”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The war.”
What was it like?
The submarine gliding through the depths, each creak of the hull reminding him how badly the ocean wanted inside. Depth charges rattling the boat. Japanese sailors screaming in a burning oil slick.
So much tedium. Fear. Misery. Horror.
But also elation.
There was nothing like it, combat. The rush of it. Endless tension, sudden catharsis. He never felt so alive. As much as he feared it, he wanted to face it again. He wanted to face himself again as he really was.
No way could Evie ever understand that.
He didn’t want her to understand it.
“She’s the devil I know,” he said. A devil he’d made a deal with.
Evie said nothing. He thought about kissing her again.
On the big screen, Fay Bainter said, “Success is no fun unless you share it with someone.”
Evie nestled against his shoulder, the one she favored punching. “I still love you, Charlie Harrison.”
“I …”
“Oh, shut it. Go back to your war. But come home to me, okay? Promise.”
“I promise,” Charlie said. “I’ll come home. I’ll come home to you.”
She let out an explosive yawn. “Good.”
Tracy told Hepburn to go to the gala without him.
He said, “I love you too, you know.”
She began to snore.
CHAPTER SIX
ARTICLES OF WAR
Dawn saw him jogging toward the docks on three hours of sleep. Charlie stretched out on the ferry’s deck and napped the whole way back to Mare Island.
He showered, shaved, and knocked back a quick breakfast. Then he hurried to the wharf where Sandtiger lay moored between Redhorse and Warmouth.
Charlie had spent his first three years in the Navy among large surface ships. When he reported to the S-55, he’d been struck by her size. A game little fighter, but tired, outclassed. Sandtiger exuded confidence.
Battle Stations: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 3) Page 3
