“His experience on the Green was pretty horrific. Could that be behind this?”
“Something’s going on, and the first place I’d look is the Green.”
“Do you have a recommendation?”
“Back home, I’d give him some medicine and knock his ass out for a week.”
Shelly smiled. “I’ll get him to back off and get some rest; he’s more valuable to us conscious.”
“I don’t think he’ll back off.”
“Then I’ll confine him to his quarters and force him to work through the other officers and petty officers.”
“And I can keep an eye on him and make sure he eats and sleeps.”
“I’ll talk to him right away. Thanks for coming to me with this.”
Strong nodded and left. Shelly had been impressed with O’Toole from the start. He expected O’Toole to ask for help, but instead he continued to bulldoze his way through his responsibilities as if he welcomed the work and responsibility. Shelly sent a messenger to summon O’Toole to his cabin.
When O’Toole knocked at his door, Shelly turned his chair away from his desk. “Come in Pat, take a seat.” Shelly kept his voice conversational.
“You wanted to see me, sir.”
“I don’t know how to put this, so I’m just going to give it to you straight out. Two things are concerning me. First, for the past several weeks, you’ve let your physical condition go downhill, and everyone on the crew is suffering because of it. We need you healthy and at your best. This morning Doc Strong paid a visit. He’s concerned about you. You’re not eating and not sleeping.”
“Captain, there’s so much to do—”
“Strong feels you’re on the way to a physical breakdown, and I can’t argue with him. Second, the chiefs and officers are bitching about what they call a perfectionist attitude—”
“Most don’t know what the South Pacific is like. I do. I know what an adequate job is; they don’t.”
Shelly took a deep breath so he wouldn’t adopt O’Toole’s combative attitude. “With your record and stellar fitness reports, the way you’re acting makes little sense. After what happened on the Green, I’m wondering if you might be headed for emotional breakdown.”
“I’m okay, Captain.”
“No, you’re not, and you’re going to back off.”
“I can’t. The men are depending on me to make sure this ship is ready to face the enemy. If everything isn’t working right, then—”
“Then what?”
“Men will die.”
“Is that it? It is the Green, isn’t it?”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“I doubt that. You’re guilty because you didn’t die out there, aren’t you?”
Silence.
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes. If there were any justice in the world, I’d be dead.”
“Why?”
“I had the bridge when we were attacked. We didn’t get a shot off, and 151 men died.”
“Now you’re doing your mea culpa and taking it out on yourself and the crew.”
“The Green has nothing to do with this.”
The bulging veins in O’Toole neck and temples told Shelly the truth. “Do you really believe that? Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Captain, I appreciate your concern, but I am alright. Can I get back to work now?”
“No. Pat, I can’t imagine what demons are haunting you, but I can’t let them devour my executive officer. You leave me no choice. I’m confining you to your quarters until the commissioning ceremony. Doc Strong is responsible to make sure lights out at ten and you get three squares a day. You’ll do your work from your quarters.”
“You can’t confine me to quarters, Captain; there’s too much to do.”
“If you push it, Lieutenant, I’ll order Doc Strong to strap your ass in your bunk.”
“Captain—”
“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant. Report to your quarters. That’s a direct order. Please get your head together. We need you healthy.”
§
After Doc Strong spoke with the captain, he needed something to do, so he toured the ship looking for cockroaches or anything that would attract cockroaches. The activity couldn’t hold his interest. The ship was his patient, and O’Toole was infecting the crew. The roach infection could wait. He had a hunch about the outcome of the captain’s conversation with O’Toole, so he cut his tour short and headed to his quarters.
He climbed in the upper bunk and began reading a month-old copy of the Rock Rapids Iowa Gazette. On page two in the Hospital report he learned the doctor had admitted Mrs. Simon with pneumonia. On page three he learned Reverend Hall’s parishioners had a bake sale to raise money to buy supplies for making bandages for the war effort.
“Fine bunkmate you are,” O’Toole said.
“I told you more than once to back off and take care of yourself. You won’t listen. My first loyalty is to the ship. I had to talk to the captain.”
“And a fine job you did. I’m confined to my quarters thanks to you.”
“Pat, I watched you up on deck and the way you deal with the men. You’re not tough, you’re an unreasonable man possessed. The scuttlebutt is you’re not acting rational. The alignment of the gun director with the Bofors is an example.”
“A misaligned gun could cost lives, and—”
“Chief Starret told me the alignment was within tolerance. Five seconds of arc wasn’t going to make any difference.”
“Are you spying on me?”
“No. I’m like the ship’s father-confessor. Everyone tells me everything.”
“So even Chief Starret is against me.”
Strong climbed out of his bunk and took a chair opposite O’Toole so he could look him in the eye. “Pat, Starret, the captain, and I aren’t against you. Please take a second and think about this. You’re exhausted and becoming paranoid. Paranoia’s not rational, and I doubt it is in your nature. Look yourself in the mirror and tell me the man you see is the real Patrick O’Toole.”
O’Toole bent over in his chair and buried his head in his hands. After a moment Strong asked, “Why do you insist on working day and night. Why won’t you sleep?”
“Nightmares. I can always feel the Green lurking in the background. The work keeps my mind off the carnage.”
“The nightmares are a normal reaction to what you experienced. It’s your mind’s way of working through the experience so you can put it behind you.”
“Never. She’ll be with me for the rest of my life. I killed those men. I was negligent.”
“The navy sees the situation differently, or you wouldn’t be the executive officer of the newest, most advanced ship in the fleet.”
“Admiral Garrett said I got dealt a bad hand.”
“Then shuffle the cards and deal again.”
“How?”
“The way you’re acting it’s all about you and what happened to you. What about the here and now? What about your men? What about your ship? What’s more important, your problems or them?”
8
November 13, 1942, 1400 Hours
USS Able; six hours out of Oakland, en route to Pearl Harbor
Now at sea, the Able hummed with a positive energy that calmed the crew as they settled into the monotonous at-sea routine. The routine reassured the crew and gave structure to life at sea. Ships and sailors seemed happiest at sea, and O’Toole wasn’t immune.
While he had been confined to his quarters in Oakland, O’Toole was under Strong’s care, which was like being pecked to death by a duck. After a few days of good sleep he regained his perspective and could understand why Shelly had confined him to his quarters. It was a challenge for him to stay on top of everything, and he learned how to work with the junior officers and chiefs to get things done. He still kept his mind busy to fend off memories of the Green, and the nightmares weren’t as frequent as he had feared. He spent his spare time working up a crew-training prog
ram for the trip to Pearl. He finished the training plan just before commissioning and had to admit he did feel better. Now at sea, he dug into his first task, crew training, with gusto.
The training program for each department called for six hours training every day. The officers grumbled, as did the chiefs and the crew. He didn’t care; they weren’t ready to face the enemy. By the time they reached Pearl, the crew would be tired, but they would be adequate enough to make it home after the war.
Training started with the 20-mm guns. After lunch, he followed Chief Starret, his gunnery chief, to the 20-mm gun tub below the starboard bridge wing. Periodic nervous laughter bubbled up from the thirty-six seaman shuffling around on the crowded deck. The gun crews were starting to bond, and the men organized themselves into eight groups of four-man teams.
All the men, except Hatfield, kept glancing at the gun but seemed afraid to touch it. Hatfield stood to the side smiling. His eyes danced and gleamed in anticipation, and his legs swung to-and-fro, as if dancing in place.
Chief Starret was all business when he began the indoctrination. “This is the Oerlikon 20-mm cannon.” He held up a round as long as his hand containing a pointed bullet three-quarters of an inch in diameter.
“It fires 400 rounds a minute to a range of 4,000 yards. Accurate range is about 2,500 yards. As you will see, every seventh round is a tracer round. You will use the tracer rounds to adjust your aim.”
Starret summoned Hatfield’s group front and center. For the next fifteen minutes, Starret went over every piece of the gun and demonstrated how to operate and fire the gun. As he did, he allowed each team member to work and handle the magazines, breech, and other working components. O’Toole locked his mind on Starret’s words to catch any new detail or insight Starret might reveal.
Satisfied his charges were ready, Starret said, “Okay, now let’s see if you can hit something with it.”
He assigned each man a position on the gun crew—trunnion operator, loader, gunner, and phone-talker. He released a three-foot balloon, and when it was five hundred yards away, he told the gunner, “Shoot the balloon down.”
The Oerlikon rattled, spitting out rounds. After about one hundred fifty rounds, the gunner hit the balloon.
O’Toole worried. At this range, this was horrible shooting. Fifty rounds would be good.
Starret rotated the men’s positions and repeated the process. The second gunner was a little better, hitting the balloon after one hundred twenty rounds. The third gunner was miserable and emptied the magazine before hitting the balloon. Then came Hatfield’s turn.
Hatfield stepped into the gun’s two shoulder rests and cinched his chest harness tight. Unlike the others, who had stood stiffly waiting for the order to fire, Hatfield swung the gun around, up, down, right, and left. Chief Starret grinned at Hatfield’s behavior, but he said nothing.
Starret gave the order, and Hatfield swung the gun around and let off a five-round burst that didn’t include a tracer round. The balloon disappeared. The group of seamen let out a chorus of hoots and yells. “Good shoots, Hats!”
Hatfield slipped the harness, and danced away from the gun in joy singing, “Hot damn, I love this gun!”
Starret and O’Toole exchanged glances. O’Toole said, “Let him try another.”
This time, it took Hatfield eight rounds to destroy the balloon. Hatfield’s face beamed. Again, Starret and O’Toole exchanged glances.
“Let the balloon go to a thousand yards, Chief.”
Starret nodded, and released another balloon. By the time Starret gave the order to fire, the balloon was almost invisible. Hatfield squeezed off thirty rounds in three bursts before the balloon disappeared. Both O’Toole and Starret squinted at the sky to make sure Hatfield actually hit the balloon.
“Okay, Hatfield, at battle stations you’re number-one gunner on this gun,” Starret said.
“How do you do that, Hatfield?” O’Toole asked.
“Don’t rightly know, sir. Seems the gun and I understand each other. She’s a sweetheart. Heck, I could shoot a gnat off a seagull’s ass at two thousand yards with this baby.”
Everyone laughed, and O’Toole joined in. Five minutes ago, O’Toole would have thought Hatfield’s accuracy was impossible. Hatfield was unaware of his accomplishment.
Starret stepped back to study Hatfield. After a moment, he asked, “Could you teach the others how to do that?”
“Don’t know, chief. Maybe.”
O’Toole motioned for Starret to join him off to the side.
“Yes, sir.”
“How many rounds should it take for a good gunner to hit the balloon at a thousand yards?”
“Fifty or sixty, I guess.”
“Before we reach Pearl, I want every primary gunner to be at forty rounds. His back-up can be at fifty. Everyone else can be at sixty or better, but no more.”
“Sir, that’s impossible. I haven’t seen many who could do fifty rounds; forty is way out of line, sir. I can’t get everyone shooting like Hatfield. If you think I can, you’re nuts; I’ve never seen or heard of anyone who could shoot like Hatfield.”
“See if Hatfield can teach them to understand the gun like he does. Here on out, forty, fifty, sixty rounds are the minimum Able standards.”
“I’ll try XO, but don’t expect me to perform miracles.” Starret clenched his jaw and grumbled under his breath.
Starret turned to Hatfield. “You’re with me, Hats. Can you explain to us how you shoot like that?”
“A gun’s like a woman, chief. Touch ‘em softly, show ‘em love, and they’ll do whatever ya want.”
Starret’s head dropped. “Heaven help me.”
§
After gunnery training, O’Toole joined Chief Barnes in the forward boiler room to observe casualty drills. The Able’s boiler rooms were larger than the Green’s. They resembled catacombs carved through a thick forest of pipes and machinery. The catwalks formed a crazy maze cut through the pipe bramble. Machinery boulders protruded into the catwalks, and along the sides, red, blue, green, yellow, and white value wheels blossomed amid the pervasive gray piping. Only the shiny white asbestos-wrapped steam pipes stood out in the dim lighting. At six feet tall, the low pipes and valves were a hazard, and O’Toole moved deliberately. The catwalks were wide enough for two thin men to pass each other.
Barnes positioned himself on the upper level catwalk so he could observe most of the boiler room and shouted, “Feed water pump one is down.”
Two men on the lower level lifted a section of the catwalk grating to gain access to the bilge area and closed valves. Other men shifted positions with the precision and speed of a well-executed football play. A third man lugged a toolbox to the pump. One of the men in the bilge craned his neck to see Barnes and yelled, “Feed water pump one isolated. Repair party in place.”
O’Toole wasn’t impressed.
Barnes grinned at O’Toole. “Tried to trick them into changing pumps. Number one is our back-up pump. That’s all there is to do.”
Barnes reset his men before calling out, “Number two feed water pump is down.”
This time, everyone moved, and men appeared from nowhere to cover abandoned positions. Fireman Ross backed his fuel throttle valve off to one-third, scrambled to the second-level catwalk and reached for a steam valve.
“Stop,” Barnes yelled, and walked to Ross. “What’re we supposed to do in this situation?”
“Isolate the boiler and shut off steam flow to the main engine room,” Ross responded.
“What valve were you reaching for?”
“Cross-connect valve.”
“Sounds like you know what to do, and what you were going to do was wrong. Which valve needed to be closed?”
Ross pointed to another valve.
“That’s right. That’s the valve you’re responsible for. If you don’t get it right, no one will. That’s the deal.”
Barnes repeated the drill twice without problems. The drills increased in comp
lexity. Barnes was tougher than a marine drill instructor, except he wasn’t abusive. To O’Toole there was a certain beauty and magic in the way Barnes taught his men. It felt good. It felt right. He wished he could be like Barnes.
After running through a dozen drills, Barnes did something that surprised O’Toole. After they reset from the previous drill, Barnes told Ross to lie down, then shouted, “Ross is down, feed pump two down.”
The men shifted positions as before, except another man took Ross’ responsibility for the valve. Another ran to Ross’ station while yet another dragged Ross’ body clear of the action.
Barnes repeated the series of drills with one or two simulated crew casualties. Every time, men backfilled critical positions while others moved the casualties clear and supposedly rendered medical assistance. O’Toole was impressed.
O’Toole turned to Chief Barnes when the drills were over and said, “Chief, I would say you got one very adequate crew down here.”
Barnes glanced at O’Toole out of the corner of his eye and said, “Really, sir. Adequate. I like the sound of that.”
§
November 22, 1942
Befuddled, Captain Shelly left the wardroom table in search of O’Toole. The navy ordered the Able to Pearl at ten knots, making the six-day trip nine; something about conserving fuel. The ten-day trip gave O’Toole more time to train the crew, so he backed off a little, but not enough. The casualty, fire, and gunnery drills were unrelenting. Last night was the last straw. The guns fired all night, and word reached the captain that Chief Starret was bitching. Two hours of firing the five-inch mounts in manual without power or lights left his gun crews exhausted.
At breakfast, he read the plan of the day and discovered O’Toole had scheduled a series of simultaneous gunnery, casualty, fire drills, and high-speed evasive turn maneuvers after lunch. There would be chaos.
Shelly walked a tightrope with O’Toole. The captain ran the executive officer, and the executive officer ran the ship. The executive officer was the lightning rod, the tough, demanding disciplinarian, but the afternoon exercises were too much.
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 7
