Pacific Standoff, page 18
“Aye, aye, sir.” What now? The last time an admiral had said “Well done” to him, he had jerked him from command in the next sentence.
“Sit down, McCrary,” Garfield said after he escorted the other captains to the door. “I have a couple of pieces of news for you. First of all, those damned engines. Manta isn’t the only boat that’s had problems with them, not by a long shot. I’ve made it clear to CincPac and CNO that I will not send my men into combat in defective vessels, and after a certain amount of bureaucratic hoo-ha, I’ve carried my point. As soon as the men here on Midway have effected temporary repairs, you will proceed directly to Mare Island for refitting with Winton diesels.”
Jack was aware of a confused rush of reactions to the news, gratitude that the admiral was sympathetic and helpful, relief that Manta would finally be equipped to show what she could do, fury at the featherbrains in BuShips who allowed the defective engines to be installed in the first place, and joy at the way his men would react to the news of six weeks or more Stateside. But beneath all these was a groundswell of dismay. On this last patrol he had become aware for the first time that he was no longer a kid. Manta was probably the last sub he would command before his seniority forced him into a staff job, and the prospect of losing a couple of months, of sitting idle in San Francisco while other boats racked up tonnage records, didn’t please him. The war might drag on for another year or so, but it had clearly turned a corner. As the Japs were forced increasingly onto the defensive, there would be fewer and fewer targets for ever-larger numbers of American submarines. He was happy that his country was winning the war, of course, but a stunning combat record was his best chance to wipe away the faint smell of unreliability that had clung to his name ever since the Sebago disaster. Now he saw that chance slipping from his grasp.
Admiral Garfield was waiting for a reaction from him. He pulled himself together and said, “That’s great, sir. I can’t swear that we would have done more damage on this mission with four engines, but it certainly would have increased our confidence to know we had reliable equipment.”
“Yes.” The admiral looked down at his desk and seemed to be suppressing a smile. “While you’re in Frisco, McCrary, maybe you can arrange to correct your improper uniform.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, one of those stripes is only half as wide as regulations require.” While Jack was still deciphering his meaning, he stood up and extended his hand. “Congratulations, Commander. Word came through just before I left Pearl. You’ll be happy to know that the Navy, in its wisdom, has also approved promotions for your exec and your torpedo officer, daCosta. Judging from your reports, you’ve got a fine bunch serving with you.”
“Yes, sir, thank you. May I return to my boat? I’d like to inform Lieutenant Commander Church and Lieutenant daCosta as soon as possible.”
“Certainly, on condition that you and all your officers join me for dinner tonight. I smuggled some strawberries with me, and the cook at the officers’ mess swears he’s been making shortcake since he was eight years old.”
* * * *
Seaman Second Class Ron Shoemaker braced himself against the periscope housing and slowly scanned the waters off the port quarter. He carried out his duty by the book, but his thoughts were elsewhere, on the rugged cliffs and wooded hills of California coast that now loomed on the horizon, and on his wife Kitty, who was living and working in Oakland for the duration. Boy, would she be surprised when he walked in! This really felt like his lucky day. He had drawn this watch, and would be on deck when Manta sailed through the Golden Gate, and he had won at least fifty bucks in the ship’s pool, picking the day and hour of landfall. He had been so sure of winning that he had kept his mouth shut and waited for Stacey, the starboard lookout, to call “Land ho!” No one was going to say that he had fudged the sighting in order to win. He planned to blow the whole wad on a dinner with Kitty at the fanciest beanery in Frisco.
Ensign Ted Fuller was below in the maneuvering room, keeping careful watch on the dials and gauges that monitored the condition of the four cranky engines, but his thoughts were also ahead, in San Francisco. He and Lois had only had those few days of marriage before he sailed from New London. Since then they had written constantly, but it wasn’t the same thing as being together. Would he recognize her when they met? He kept her picture in his wallet and looked at it before turning in, but what if she had changed the way she wore her hair? She had been in San Francisco for over four months now, away from her family for the first time. Had it changed her? She was a good Catholic; she would never allow herself to get interested in another man; but what if she wasn’t interested in him anymore? A worry line appeared between his eyebrows as he adjusted the load on the starboard motor.
Commander Jack McCrary was in his cabin taking care of all the paperwork he had put off until some other time. Fitness reports, recommendations for promotion, inventories of stores, catalogues of code books and classified documents—he was responsible for all of them. Bob Church and Yeoman Gold had worked heroically to get them all together, but he still had to read and sign every piece of required paper, usually in triplicate. His right hand was starting to cramp, and with each form his signature became more and more indecipherable. Would anyone ever look at these idiotic documents? Probably not, but like every naval officer, he had heard stories about some poor dope who found his pay docked for an improperly executed requisition he had signed years before. And there was a certain interest in discovering how many cans of Vienna sausages the men went through in a month. Still, he was glad when the speaker over his bunk blared, “Bridge to captain, request permission to enter port.”
“Bridge, this is the captain. Permission granted. I’m coming right up, Lou, so don’t open the champagne yet!”
No matter how often he sailed into San Francisco, it still took his breath away. On the right the multileveled city, its houses and buildings rising and falling with the underlying rhythm of the hills; on the left the gray rocks and dark green woods of Mendocino; and between the two, soaring at an impossible height across the blue waters of the inlet, the orange lace-work of the Golden Gate Bridge. For a few moments he drank in the sight, then he turned to Lou. “Station the maneuvering watch.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Lou relayed the order over the intercom, and the bridge boiled with activity. Last through the hatch was the quartermaster, a pile of bunting tucked under his arm.
“Permission to dress ship, sir?” he said to Jack. Jack nodded, and soon a string of small Jap flags was fluttering in the breeze. Something new had been added this time: when White climbed down from the shears, he left tied to the shaft of the attack scope the boat’s new battle flag. On a dark blue background a fierce if fanciful Manta ray brandished two torpedoes. Six tiny Jap insignia were ranked along the edge, and Jack was pleased to see that the makers had left lots of room for more.
“Permission to open hatches, sir?”
“Granted.” In moments every man not on duty was on deck, pointing out familiar sights to his buddies or simply watching the scenery. An outward-bound freighter greeted them with a blast of her horn, the first of many salutes the homecoming submarine received as she turned up the bay toward the Navy yard at Mare Island. Soon Jack and the rest of the maneuvering watch were too engrossed with the familiar but always different complexities of docking the boat to think about the fact that this time they were tying up on U. S. soil.
* * * *
“Extension 314.”
“Ensign Fuller, please? Lois Fuller?”
“Just a moment.” Ted switched the earpiece of the pay telephone to his left hand and wiped his right palm on his pants leg. It was stifling in the phone booth, but the yard outside was too noisy to leave the door open. Why was it taking so long? They had just transferred Lois to Timbuktu. She had been run over by a truck and they were trying to decide what to say. He swallowed as the phone clicked and he heard her voice. “Hello, this is Ensign Fuller.”
“Hello, this is Ensign Fuller!”
After a moment of disbelieving silence, “Ted! Is it really you? This isn’t some kind of joke, is it? Where are you? Is anything wrong?”
“Hey, slow down, sugar pie. Yes, it’s really me, and there isn’t a thing in the world wrong, and I’m at Mare Island. They’ll be doing a lot of work on the boat, and the skipper has promised me two weeks’ leave. Can you manage to get some time off? We never did have a real honeymoon, did we? How does a trip to Yosemite sound?”
“Oh, Ted!” He heard what sounded very much like a sniffle. “I’ll speak to Commander Bringle as soon as I get off the phone. I’m sure she’ll understand—her husband’s a bomber pilot in England. When does your leave start?”
“I don’t know, honey, not for a few days, but I’m off duty now until 0800 tomorrow. Doing anything for dinner? I don’t usually date married women, but I’ll make an exception in your case. What’s your favorite place to eat around here?”
“Home, silly! Do you know what prices are like in this town? Besides, I’ve been putting as much as I could aside.”
There was a click, and a new voice demanded another nickel from him. Of course, when he fumbled through his pocket, he didn’t have one, but the operator agreed to accept a dime instead. “Honey, are you still there? Can I meet you at your office? I can be there in an hour or so.”
“Oh, yes, do. I don’t know if I can wait that long! Oh, but you won’t get in—you have to have a pass. I’ll get permission to leave early and meet you outside. Ted?”
“Yes?”
“Nothing—I just wanted to hear your voice. I still can’t believe it.” She lowered her voice. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Lois. If you don’t believe it, just wait.”
* * * *
At 1800 the exec handed Ron Shoemaker an overnight pass. The journey to Oakland involved two buses, a ferry, and another bus. By the time he found the small bungalow Kitty was sharing with two other Navy wives, it was almost dark. He was glad to see some lights in the house. He hadn’t called; he wanted to see Kitty’s face when she opened the door and found him there.
He felt around for a doorbell, gave up, and rapped on the door. The porch light came on, the door opened, and Kitty stood there smiling at him. She was wearing a nice-looking yellow dress he didn’t remember seeing before. Her face was made up, and she had piled her hair high on her head. As he reached for her, her smile faded and her face went so pale that the spots of rouge on her cheeks stood out like spots of red paint on a china doll. He caught her as she started to slip to the floor.
“Hey, Kitty, I’m sorry,” he said, fanning her face with his free hand. “I guess I should have let you know I was back, huh? I just wanted to surprise you, that’s all.”
“I…I thought something must have happened. When I saw you standing there, I thought you were a ghost.” She reached out gingerly and touched his cheek. “It really is you, isn’t it? You’re not a spirit or anything like that?”
“Hell, no, I’m not!” He gave her a hard squeeze. “Does that feel like a ghost to you? Say, look at you, all dolled up—anybody would think you knew I was coming home.”
“No, I…” She glanced toward the door and her eyes widened. He heard footsteps coming up the walk and turned to see a Marine corporal approaching the door. In an instant he understood.
“You bitch!” He slapped her hard and she recoiled against the wall.
“Hey, what do you think you’re—Ouf!” At the touch on his shoulder Shoemaker had whirled around and buried his fist in the Marine’s midsection, skinning his knuckles on the brass belt buckle.
Kitty grabbed his arm. “Ronnie, no, stop! Please, it’s not what you think! Please!” The Marine had picked himself up and was rolling his sleeves up. He had a mean look in his eye. “Dick, stop it,” Kitty pleaded. “This is Ron. My husband. He’s been at sea and he just got back, just now. He got the wrong idea, that’s all.” She turned back to face Ron’s glower. “Dick is Edna’s kid brother, you remember Edna St. Vincent, my best friend in high school? Well, she told Dick to look me up while he was here. He’s shipping out this week. That’s all it was, just a friendly reunion. I swear it!”
Did he believe her? He hardly knew, but through his confusion and dying rage, he understood that he had to seem to accept what she told him. He shook himself, straightened his blouse, and said, “Sorry, Corporal, I guess I jumped the gun there. No hard feelings?”
The Marine was gingerly rubbing his stomach, but he said, “Don’t give it another thought, buddy. I can see how it looked to you, coming home like that, but it’s just like your wife said, just a friendly reunion before I go overseas.” He hesitated, looking from one to the other. “I guess I’d better roll along, then—you folks must have a lot to catch up on.”
“Yeah. Good luck, fella.” Ron’s voice was gruff, and he didn’t look at the other man.
“Good-bye, Dick,” Kitty said. “I’ll write Edna that I saw you and that you looked well. Take care of yourself over there.”
“Sure, thanks. Well, good-bye.”
The door closed, and Kitty fell into Ron’s arms, sobbing hysterically. She tried to speak, but her words were muffled. He awkwardly stroked her hair and wished that he had come home a day later.
Chapter 17
Rattling and creaking, the cable car rounded a curve and started down a long, steep hill toward the Pacific Ocean. Jack clung to the railing and leaned out over the street to enjoy the magnificent panorama. The main reason he had accepted tonight’s invitation was that he was intrigued by the idea of a private cable car. The organizers had rented two of them to carry guests from Nob Hill out to Cliff House, where the party was taking place.
He glanced around at his fellow passengers again. Most of them were middle-aged couples, probably successful businessmen and their wives, with a few other officers sprinkled through the crowd. They, like he, must have been invited as a sort of patriotic gesture, a token acknowledgement that there was a war going on. He would have liked the gesture better if the hosts had invited a few more young ladies. He wondered how soon after they got to Cliff House the first cable car would start back to town. The way things looked now, he would be on it.
Jack had always thought of San Francisco as a romantic place, but so far this visit was a dud. His boat was completely in the hands of the shipwrights at the Navy yard, who didn’t want him hanging around, and most of his men had used their leave to go home. He had thought about it himself, but then he realized that there was nowhere he much wanted to go.
Manta was the closest he had to a home these days, and she was temporarily out of his reach.
He tightened his grasp on the pole as the cable car lurched across an intersection, bell clanging, and tilted onto the slope again. Near him one of the women on the lengthwise wooden bench had been caught unawares by the jolt and thrown against her neighbor. As she sat up and straightened her hat, she caught Jack’s eye and smiled. “A beautiful view, isn’t it, Captain,” she said, gesturing slightly from the wrist. A diamond and sapphire bracelet sparkled in the reddish light of the setting sun. “Are you stationed in San Francisco?”
“No, ma’am, just a visitor, I’m afraid. It’s certainly spectacular here.”
“Yes. We came here from Omaha right after the last war, and I’ve never gotten over the scenery. I’m Virginia Olsen, by the way. My husband Hiram is up front watching the gripman. That’s what they call the drivers of these contraptions, you know. It may be disloyal of me, but I prefer a nice modern motorbus that doesn’t shake all your bones together.” Another jolt reinforced her words.
“How do you do, Mrs. Olsen. I’m Jack McCrary. Does your husband have a professional interest in cable cars?”
“No, though he did start out as a mining engineer. He’s just fascinated by mechanical gadgets, that’s all. He’s the sort of man who can’t pass a construction site without watching for half an hour, and you should see the electric train layout he built in our basement. It’s so complicated that he wouldn’t let the boys near it until they were in high school, and by then they didn’t much care about it—too interested in girls.” She chuckled comfortably. “And what about you, Captain McCrary? Is that an aviator’s badge you’re wearing?” She peered nearsightedly at his dolphins.
“No, ma’am, I’m in the Submarine Service. And it’s Commander McCrary, though I’d rather you called me Jack.”
“Submarines? How exciting! But isn’t it terribly dangerous? You can bail out of an airplane, but I don’t suppose you can bail out of a submarine, can you?” Her smile told him not to treat the comment seriously. “Are you in town for long?”
“I’m not sure,” he said vaguely. “Another three or four weeks, maybe.”
“Then you must come to dinner and meet some of our friends. I know they’d be thrilled—though I don’t suppose you’re allowed to talk about your experiences?”
“Not in detail, but there are a few stories I could tell.”
“Wonderful. I won’t let you get away this evening without picking a date. Oh, thank goodness, here we are. I don’t think I could have stood being bounced around much more. Come meet Hiram.”
He followed her to the front of the cable car and shook hands with a tall, rugged, gray-haired man who looked like he could still handle a pickaxe if he had to, though the tailoring of his evening dress suggested that he was not likely to be reduced to that. He questioned Jack closely as the three of them wandered inside, and it turned out that he had a professional interest in submarines, if not in cable cars. In peacetime his company manufactured mining equipment, but for the last six months they had been working on a hydraulic system for the new Tench-class submarines.
