5
O’Toole woke up in his chair. After breakfast he headed for the personnel administration building where for the past week a yeoman had been helping him find names and addresses of the Green’s next-of-kin. O’Toole supplied the names, and the yeoman would add the names to routine administrative queries to Washington for the family names and addresses. The process was slow but effective.
The walk took him across a large grassy area trimmed in flowerbeds. The gold and red flowers bobbed in the landward breeze under a brilliant sky. Even the lush grass swayed calmly, and the perfumed breeze pulled at O’Toole’s downcast mood, but he pushed it away. Halfway across the grassy expanse, a singing voice rose up behind him.
“God made the Irish, but he didn’t make much, but they’re a helluva lot better than the goddamned Dutch. . . .”
O’Toole recognized the Annapolis drinking song and the voice of his friend and best man Ron Durham.
“Ron, you wharf-rat, what are you doing in Pearl?”
“Don’t call me a wharf-rat, you Irish whale turd. What are you doing here?”
“Scratching, sweating, and waiting on orders. What about you?”
“I’m stationed at CINCPAC, and after two years I’m due orders anytime, so I guess we’re in the same situation.”
“Same situation? What a joke. You report to Admiral Nimitz, Commander in Chief Pacific. Don’t shit me; you’re not scratching and sweating, you social climber, you. How’d you pull that off?”
“Didn’t do anything; it just happened,” Durham grinned.
“Where are you headed next?”
“Don’t know yet. I requested anything afloat in the South Pacific. I’ll be happy with anything better than a garbage scow. Admiral Karson hinted he put in a good word for me and said the navy would give me a choice command.”
“Sounds like a battlewagon or a carrier.”
“I don’t care as long as it floats. I’m tired of conning a desk all day. Hey, I’m due in headquarters. Ann is with me here in Pearl; would you like to come over for dinner tonight? We can catch up.”
“A home-cooked meal? Are you kidding? Where do I sign up?”
§
Elated to have met up with Pat, Durham couldn’t figure out why Ann was fretting about Pat coming over for dinner. She ordered him to the living room of their small bungalow and commenced banging pots and pans in the kitchen while he read the evening newspaper. There was a short interval of silence when Ann scurried to the bedroom to put on her favorite yellow print dress and fuss with her hair.
Ann served dinner around the small kitchen table while he and Pat regaled her with stories of their Annapolis hijinks. She knew the stories by heart, but everyone enjoyed the camaraderie. As they started to run out of stories, Pat’s demeanor drifted from gaiety to somberness and reflection. It troubled Durham.
“Ann, the fried chicken and mashed potatoes were exquisite,” said O’Toole. “This is the best meal I’ve eaten in over a year. It’s good to be here and enjoy laughter again.”
“Anything exciting happen to you lately?” Ann asked.
“Nothing except Admiral Garrett bought me lunch the other day.”
“You had lunch with Growling Garrett?” Durham asked in amazement.
“I did.”
“I would give a month’s pay to see that.”
“I’m sorry guys, but what’s this all about?” Ann asked.
Durham turned to Ann. “Garrett taught a class on naval doctrine. It was close to the end of the semester, and we all had to submit a term paper on US Navy doctrine. One day Garrett spent the entire class summarizing US Navy doctrine like what he was saying came straight from the lips of God. Just as he finished, this guy,” Durham pointed to O’Toole, “raises his hand and says,” Durham dropped into his best O’Toole imitation, “the doctrine is flawed.”
O’Toole chucked. “You could have heard a pin drop in that room. Someday I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut.”
“Pin drop, hell,” Durham said, “I swear to God the entire building shook.”
Wide-eyed, Ann grinned and glanced at O’Toole.
Durham went on. “Garrett decides to debate the issue with O’Toole. It went something like this:
§
“Why do you say that?” Garrett asked.
“Doctrine calls for battleships to engage the enemy and concentrate their fire power on the enemy’s center. Without that premise, the doctrine completely falls apart. However, you told us that battleships are too valuable to lose, so fleet commanders should hold them in reserve. Either they engage the enemy or they stay out of harm’s way; they can’t do both,” O’Toole said.
“What else?”
“The doctrine depends on a cooperative enemy who will form appropriate battle lines and maneuver in formation, which makes them better targets.”
Garrett countered, “Holding formation in battle lines is the only way battleships and cruisers can bring concentrated fire on the enemy and hold its center.”
“Until one side begins to lose and must take action against specific targets rather than hold the battle line.”
“Still, successful concentrated fire is essential or the destroyers won’t be able to close on the enemy to launch torpedoes,” Garrett said.
“Exactly. The destroyer tactics are similar to a flanking maneuver or a cavalry charge where the destroyers operate independently but with a common purpose. The destroyer maneuvers violate the principles of coordinated attack and concentration of firepower. You forgot to mention that.”
“You obviously don’t understand.”
O’Toole thought for a second. “Could you give me an example of a battle that unfolded according to doctrine that I can research?”
“The battle of the Falkland Islands.”
O’Toole replied, “There were only four capital ships involved, two on each side. There was no force to concentrate, no enemy center to hold, and all ships operated independently.”
“Nevertheless the doctrine is sound,” Garrett said.
“Let’s approach this differently. If you make allowances for long-range guns, destroyers, and torpedoes, what has changed in naval doctrine in the last century other than the fact that ships are no longer required to maneuver with the wind?”
§
Durham was having a hard time keeping a straight face. “By this time Garrett’s face was red as a beet, and this fool wouldn’t let up. But Garrett couldn’t let him win, so he says, ‘This is the only way it can be done.’
So O’Toole says, ‘I disagree sir. The Roman and Phoenician navies are the last example of naval combat independent of the wind where slaves rowed the triremes. In those battles, the ships acted independently but with a common mission.’
“I thought O’Toole was dead. Garrett glared at him, but before he could say anything else, the class bell rang. Talk about being saved by the bell.”
Ann was giggling. “Did you get in any trouble over that?”
“Not exactly,” O’Toole said. “But when I wrote my term paper I laid out my arguments again, backing everything up with research and references. Garrett gave me a D. He said the assignment was to explain naval doctrine, not argue against it.”
“The next semester,” Durham said, “he got busted from battalion commander to a company commander because his grade average fell.”
“That’s not fair,” Ann said.
“I’ve always wanted to ask you,” said Durham, “why the heck you did that. You always found a way to get into trouble like that.”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t ever looking for trouble, but trouble always found me. My grandfather used to say, ‘Good ain’t adequate; you gotta do your best.’ I always tried to do my best. I went the extra mile and worked twice as hard as everyone else. In the end, the better I did, the more likely I was to get in trouble.”
Durham glanced at Ann and O’Toole. “Let’s get a couple of beers and go out on the front porch and catch up on the war.”
Ann sighed. “Okay, you guys do your sailor thing. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Once seated on the porch, Durham asked, “So where were you stationed before coming to Pearl?”
O’Toole lowered his eyes. “I was on the Green.”
The answer caught Durham off guard. He couldn’t have asked a crueler question. “Sorry.”
“You heard?”
“I see all the reports that come through.”
“Did you see who the bridge officer was?”
“No,”
“Me.” O’Toole’s eyes were still downturned as if talking to the porch floor.
“Holy crap, Pat, I wasn’t aware. Honest.”
“I had the watch, and we got blasted out of the water in a few seconds. We didn’t see the Japs or get off a single shot. We lost 151 men.” O’Toole paused and slowly shook his head. “That type of thing isn’t supposed to happen. I can’t figure how they did it or what I should have done to prevent it. I can’t make heads or tails out of it.”
“Is the inquiry board going to hold you responsible?”
“No, I got the word they judged the loss of the Green due to negligence on the part of Captain Levitte, but I am responsible. I lost the ship, and now 151 men are dead.”
“I saw the action reports. The brass won’t blame you. When the reports got to Nimitz, his face was beet red for a week. Ever since then, he’s been throwing lightning bolts from dawn to dusk. He blames the chain of command for those loses, and says they behaved as if the war was interfering with their golf game.”
“He’s cleaning house. Trust me. Admirals and captains will be retiring in the next few weeks. Every admiral assigned to the Pearl Harbor Naval Station retired in the last month, and more are coming. He says we need warriors.”
O’Toole glanced up. “That’s the second time the word warrior has come up in the past couple of days.”
“From who?”
“Admiral Conners.”
“Sounds like he has been talking to Nimitz alright.”
“What’s he mean?”
“The way Nimitz sees it, we’ve been a peacetime navy too long and got soft. Now we are up against a battle-hardened enemy, and our old ways aren’t going to win the war. We’ve got to get tougher, better, and smarter than they are.”
“That’s easy to say when you’re an admiral, but on the Green the man I challenged was the captain.”
“If you were the captain, what would you have done differently?”
“That might be a long list. It starts with attitude, training, and not letting the crew go soft. We fell into a habit of going easy on the crew, and we thought we were being nice. Now they’re dead. Some favor we did them. We were inadequate as leaders.”
“How you handling this?”
“Not well. I can’t figure it out, and I’m having nightmares.”
“How often?”
“Not every night. They all start about the same, but end different. There is a different crewman in each dream. I worry about going to sleep at night.”
Durham shook his head. “Don’t know what to tell you.”
“I hope once I get involved in my next duty station this will go away. Until it does, I’m not going to be worth a shit.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself. Don’t give up.”
“I just don’t know. I seem to have a blind spot where I can’t see what I have to do to get things right. No matter how hard I try, I get a D on my term paper or I lose my ship. I work so damn hard to get things right, but I always fall short.”
6
October 1942
At the end of his survivor’s leave, O’Toole reported for duty and received orders to report as executive officer aboard the USS Able. The Able was the first in a new class of destroyers designed to fight the Pacific War and was in final fit-out. The Able’s design and new weapons dazzled and humbled O’Toole. He wasn’t ready to be the executive officer of such an advanced ship. Going from the Green to the Able was a twenty-year jump in equipment. He would never be able to master her new systems and weapons fast enough, but he would try.
O’Toole wolfed down dinner, excused himself from the wardroom dinner table and headed to his quarters to study the manuals on the Bofor 40-mm anti-aircraft guns and director, all new to him.
He entered his seven-by-nine-foot quarters by sweeping back the beige curtain that served as a door. A two-man bunk sat to the left of the entrance with two locker units on the opposite bulkhead. Two steel chairs, a light, and a jumble of wires and pipes crammed into the overhead were all the quarters held.
O’Toole headed for the stack of manuals sitting on his fold-down desktop. He pushed the crucifix and the small metal statue of Commodore Barry out of the way and opened the book on top.
Lieutenant Leroy Strong lounged in the upper bunk, reading the latest Nancy Drew novel, The Mystery at the Moss-Covered Mansion. It wasn’t his type of book, but it was the only thing he could find to read. He was scratching his bountiful stomach when O’Toole stormed in.
“Well, hello! You my bunkmate?” he asked.
O’Toole spun around. “Sorry, didn’t notice you there.”
“So I see. You seemed a mite rushed when you came in. I’m Leroy Strong, ship’s doctor.”
“Pat O’Toole, executive officer and acting weapons officer. Glad to meet you,” O’Toole replied, pushing his metal desk chair into the aisle.
“Saw your stuff here yesterday, but I was asleep when you came in last night, and you were gone by the time I woke up. I guess being the weapons officer explains the books on the desk.”
“I’m acting weapons officer. It’s temporary until the navy sends us a qualified officer. They said it would be three more months.”
“Funny I haven’t run into you before this. Haven’t seen you at mealtime, and your bed wasn’t slept in the day before.”
“Only need one meal a day, and the other day I napped for a few hours on top of the blanket.”
“Well, you certainly are busy, but you’re not going to be good to anybody if you don’t eat and sleep.”
“I don’t have the time. In addition to my duties, I’m responsible for knowing all this stuff,” O’Toole said, waving his hand at the stack of manuals. “There’s a lot to learn in a very short time.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“We’ve got the latest innovations: better radar, radar fire control for the guns, and the Combat Information Center.”
“Sounds too complicated for me.”
After a second of silence O’Toole said, “I don’t mean to be impolite, but as executive officer, my quarters are supposed to be private. Who put you in here?”
“Captain did. I’m only a Lieutenant, but Captain Shelly said due to my credentials and—age, I would be more at home with you.”
“You are a bit old to be on ship. What happened?”
“Well, I’m beginning to learn how stuff works in the navy. Thought I might enlist in the Army, but they said I was too old. The navy was happy I volunteered, though, and said I’d fit right in at a land-based hospital. So here I am, and we’re still tied to the pier. Does that count as land-based?”
O’Toole chucked. “If it does, it won’t last; we’re off to Pearl in four weeks.”
“Well that’s what people have been telling me. Oh well, so much for government promises. By the way, I caught a glimpse of you upstairs with a chief working on a big gray box near the big machine guns earlier today. What is that thing?”
“You’re new to the navy aren’t you?”
“Does it show?” Strong asked with a grin.
“Yes, and on a ship, it’s topside, not upstairs, and that thing is a gun director, and those machine guns are 40-mm Bofor anti-aircraft guns,” O’Toole said. He didn’t return the grin.
The little fun-loving gremlin living in the back shadows of Strong’s mind popped his head up. O’Toole was mocking them. “I saw it,” Strong told his gremlin, “and yes, two can play at
this game.” The gremlin vanished into the shadows with a giggle.
“Okay, I’ll remember next time,” Strong said. “As you astutely observed, I’m new to the navy, and since I’m the new guy, I think I’m supposed to ask what the captain’s like.”
“Captain Shelly? He’s a heck of a man and a great skipper. Been in the merchant marine for over twenty-years and was a ship’s captain. He signed up and has been through six months of training to be a captain. He’s a good skipper.”
“Merchant ships are a lot different than this boat we’re on. There’s a lot more to it than carrying cargo. Like tactics: that takes experience.”
“It’s a ship, not a boat,” O’Toole said.
Strong’s gremlin giggled.
“Sorry, I’ll remember next time.”
“As for the tactics, the captain is pumping my brain daily to learn what he can, and I gave him two books to read. He’ll be okay.”
“Can I ask you another question?”
“If you let me ask you one first,” O’Toole countered.
“Sure.”
“The last ship I was on got blasted out of the water at night. Somehow, the Japs could see us, but we never saw them. Is there a test you can do to determine how good someone’s night vision is?”
“I think so. I’ll read up on the subject.”
“Could you do that and test the crew? I want the men with the best night vision on lookout duty.”
“Consider it done. My turn now?”
O’Toole nodded.
“What’s that piece of paper taped to your locker mean?”
“Doc, it’s a long story; maybe later. For now, I gotta get into these manuals.”
“Fair enough. I’ll head upstairs to smoke my pipe and let you get to your books on noisy guns.”
“It’s topside, Doc.”
Strong’s gremlin giggled again.
“Thanks, I’ll remember that next time.”
Strong slid out of the bunk and glanced at the handwritten note taped to O’Toole’s locker on his way out. It read:
Be a Warrior
What is a warrior?
Challenge anyone who is not:
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 5
