Pacific Standoff, page 6
Three of the stools at the soda fountain were taken, but otherwise the place was empty. Woody’s heart sank. Maybe he should just buy a magazine and thumb a ride back to the base. He pulled a new Collier’s off the rack and flipped through it, then exchanged it for a Saturday Evening Post. They didn’t seem to carry Black Mask, and all their copies of Esquire were already gone.
As he reached over to replace the Post, his elbow bumped someone. “Sorry,” he said automatically, and looked around.
“That’s all reet, Pete!” The girl was standing so close that she was practically leaning on him. He took in her Sloppy Joe sweater and saddle shoes and smiled to himself; this was more like it. Under the heavy makeup she looked very young and a little nervous, but game. “You read the Post?” she said.
“Sometimes. How about you?”
“Yeah, sometimes. I like what’s-her-name, Tugboat Annie. You’re an officer, ain’t you? You at the base?”
“Uh-huh. My name’s Woody.”
To his surprise she didn’t make a joke about woodpeckers. Instead she said simply, “I’m Sharon.”
“Hi, Sharon. Would you like a Coke?”
Over sodas he found out that she was from Willimantic, which she said was a nothing town up that way, waving toward the prescription counter. She had left school to come stay with her sister, who had a good job at the plant and had promised to get her one, too, but it was really dull right now, with her sister on the night shift.
“How old are you, Sharon?”
“Nineteen.”
Sure, he thought, and I’m Admiral Nimitz.
She almost bounced off the stool with excitement when she learned he was from Texas. After six months in the East, Woody was used to this response. He patiently explained that he didn’t know Johnny Mack Brown, didn’t own a horse, and didn’t much want to be called Tex. When he went on to say that the part of Texas he was from was mostly timberland, she obviously thought he was pulling her leg, so he decided to give up broadening her education and asked if she’d like to go to the movies.
It was a double feature: one in which Ellery Queen uncovered a dastardly Nazi spy plot, and a second in which Charlie Chan uncovered a dastardly Jap spy plot. The balcony was small, a little smelly, and empty, and the usher was too old and tired to bother climbing the stairs with his flashlight. They groped their way to the middle of the third row and sat down, while on the screen the DA was explaining the grave danger to Queen.
Woody was about to put his arm around Sharon when he felt her hand on his fly, fumbling with the buttons. In an instant he was so stiff that it was almost painful. He slid down in the seat to ease the pressure on his crotch, and she slipped her fingers into his pants, running them lightly up and down the throbbing shaft. Just when he thought he couldn’t stand any more, she leaned over and took it between her lips, flicking the head expertly with her tongue. He clenched the arms of the seat and bit his lower lip to keep from crying out as his body arched and shuddered convulsively. From the direction of his lap, he heard a faint giggle. A voice whispered, “You sure believe in saving it up for a rainy day!”
She was back in her seat, apparently intent on Ellery Queen’s exchange with a sinister waiter in a beer garden, but even in the faint light from the screen, her eyes glittered with excitement. He reached for her and discovered that under her skirt she was naked. He felt himself begin to stir again as he caressed the warm dampness. Her hips began to move rhythmically and she moaned softly under her breath. He was starting to consider how to manage the next step when again she took matters out of his hands. She stood, hiked up her skirt, and straddled his legs in one fluid motion. For one moment he remembered all the warnings he had heard about V-girls, then he pushed them out of his mind. He could get Doc to give him a shot in the morning. He put his arms around Sharon and held her tightly as they rocked back and forth, hardly noticing when she nipped at his neck. This time it took longer to climb the hill, and the ride down was that much more intense. He was not completely sure that he had managed to stay quiet, but no one came to investigate.
“Are we as good as those cowgirls?” she asked in an undertone. By way of answer he slid his hand up under her sweater. She was a little on the small side, or else she was even younger than he thought, but he didn’t mind particularly. For the price of a Coke and a movie he didn’t expect Jane Russell. Besides, Sharon was a good kid and a lot of fun. Her hand was in his lap again, and he was astonished to find out that he could still be aroused. Son of a bitch, he thought; ride ‘em, cowboy!
On the screen Ellery Queen was holding a gun on a burly man with a bullet head and a thick accent, and telling him that Americans working together in freedom and harmony could never be beaten.
Chapter 6
Almost as soon as he stepped aboard the Manta, Jack sensed that the atmosphere on the boat had changed, and not for the better. The men did their jobs readily and well, but he missed a certain spark of eagerness that he had felt in them before his absence. He blamed himself for staying away so long. The early weeks of a commission began welding the crew together; the patterns that formed then were very difficult to alter later, and often remained even after the last “plank-owner” or original crew member had been transferred away. He had been trying to shape those patterns, and had thought that he was succeeding, but now he wasn’t so sure. The Manta promised to be a taut ship, but he wanted her to be a happy ship as well. In fact, he admitted ruefully to himself, he would not be satisfied unless the men thought she was the best damn submarine in the best damn Navy in the world. That was a lot to expect after less than a month of training. Perhaps he was simply depressed by his father’s death and not seeing fairly as a result. The mood of the men would pick up next week, when they went to Newport for torpedo practice. He intended to put them through the wringer, and when they came out the other side, they would know they were good.
He spent the evening after his return with Art Hunt, taking care of the paperwork that had piled up while he was gone. At last he finished initialing the last stack of bulletins and pushed it to the side of the wardroom table. He was stiff from sitting so long. He gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Sam Houston, the wardroom steward, and lit one of his rare cigarettes.
“Well, Art,” he said, “how has it gone the last week? I’ve been through the log, but I’d like your personal impressions.”
The exec rested his clasped hands on the table and cleared his throat. “We lost a day because of engine trouble, as you know, but we managed to make it up. The training is proceeding on schedule.”
“Good, good. And the men? You’re satisfied with their performance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about the other officers? They’re a pretty green bunch on the whole; any problems?”
“No, sir, no complaints.” His voice was colorless. Jack lifted his coffee mug to disguise his spasm of irritation. What did he have to do to get this guy to talk? “I see there was some sort of snafu last Wednesday. What happened? The log is pretty vague.”
“We had to crash dive to avoid a cargo ship that strayed into our operating area. When we surfaced, we found that number three engine was acting up, so I broke off maneuvers. I didn’t want to risk further damage.”
“I see.” Whose ass was he covering, Jack wondered—his own, or one of the junior officers? Did he really think his commanding officer was so dense that he wouldn’t guess there was a lot more to the story? “Did the incident point to any shortcomings I should know about?”
Art hesitated. There was something, then. “No, sir,” he said at last. “The men took it in stride.”
Jack scratched along the line of his jaw with his thumbnail and wondered if he should pursue the matter. Sometimes a captain had to know how to turn a blind eye. Art was obviously planning to say as little as possible, and Jack could not undermine his exec’s position by questioning one of the other officers. Better drop it; if there was a serious problem, it would show itself again, one way or another, and he would be on the lookout when it did.
He called to Sam for more coffee, then turned back to Art. “What’s the story on Outerbridge?” The exec looked blank. “Outerbridge, T. J., Seaman Third Class. Blond kid with big ears. I notice he’s on report for improper uniform.”
“Oh. Him. He was unshaven on duty. I didn’t like his attitude when I braced him about it either, but I let it pass.”
Jack stared at him. “Unshaven?”
“Yes, and several days’ worth, too, if I’m any judge. It was a clear disregard of regulations. I had to take notice.”
Jack closed his eyes for a moment. He did not want to make Hunt resentful, but this nonsense had to be stopped right now. “This is your first tour on a submarine, isn’t it?” He asked it in a conversational tone, but something must have shown in his voice.
Hunt stiffened in his seat. “Yes, sir.”
“Um. You’ve probably noticed already that submariners are a pretty funny bunch. They have to be—always in each other’s hair, not seeing the sun from week to week, cruising around underwater in a glorified sardine can—and that’s just peacetime. Wait until you try sitting forty fathoms down, completely helpless, while some Jap drops depth charges on you. You have to be a little nuts to put yourself through something like that. What we do, what we put up with, sets us a little apart from the rest of the Navy. I’m not saying we’re any better than someone who’s serving on a flattop or a battlewagon, just different. And by and large, the Navy recognizes that difference, just as it recognizes that flyers are different. We wear our dolphins as proudly as they wear their wings.”
He was starting to sound preachy; better get to the point. “One way we mark that difference is by tacitly ignoring the regulation on beards. At first it was a matter of sheer necessity—fresh water was too precious to waste on shaving. I hear our brethren in the Royal Navy are still forbidden to bathe or shave on patrol. You can imagine the state they’re in after a month at sea. These days, with our improved stills and our electric washing machines, we can manage to keep ourselves fairly clean and neat, and I mean for us to do it, too. The Manta is not going to be a floating pigsty if I can help it. But. The traditional privilege of growing a moustache, or nonregulation sideburns, or even a full set of whiskers, is important even to the men who don’t do it. They like the idea that they could if they wanted to; it sets them apart, makes them feel special, and that’s good for morale.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Hunt said stiffly. “I was out of line.”
“No, Art, you did what you thought was right. The reason I’m saying all this isn’t to criticize you. I just want you to know why I think it would be better for all of us if you didn’t worry so much about doing everything according to the book.”
“I understand. Is there anything else, sir? I have some changes to make on the watch bill.”
“No, that’s all,” Jack said tiredly. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Well, he thought as the exec disappeared down the passageway, I wasted my breath that time. At least he won’t be upsetting the men with his spit-and-polish crap, and maybe a few months at sea will loosen him up; either that, or wind him up so tight that his mainspring breaks.
He stood and stretched luxuriously. Some of the papers had to be returned to the safe in his cabin; the others he would leave in the yeoman’s cubicle.
Let him figure out where to put them. Problems or no, he was happy to be back aboard; now, more than ever, it felt like his home.
* * * *
“Final observation—Mark!” Jim Ryan read the bearing off the azimuth ring of the periscope and Lou daCosta cranked it into the TDG. “Solution!” he announced.
“Fire!” Jack stayed at the periscope. In a real attack he would have lowered it the moment he had the target’s bearing, but now it was more important to watch the torpedo’s wake.
Art stood by the firing panel, his arms crossed. “Fire one,” he said tonelessly. He reached up and adjusted the switches. “Fire two.” He pressed the brass firing lever down, then crossed his arms again. “Fire three.”
A line of white bubbles appeared on the sparkling blue of Narragansett Bay, pointing arrow-straight toward the small coastal steamer. Moments later a flag on the steamer’s mainmast dipped. “Bullseye!” Jack shouted. “Down scope. Surface!”
They had spent almost three days sighting-in Manta’s torpedo tubes, making sure that each one pointed precisely ahead or astern. This afternoon’s mock attack was billed as a final check, but really it was just for fun. Tonight they would take on a full load of exercise fish and start back for New London, and tomorrow the training began in earnest.
It was a beautiful spring day, with a soft southwesterly breeze that raised a small chop and ruffled Jack’s hair as he stood on the bridge watching the target ship retrieve the practice torpedo. On the whole he was pleased. Lou had an instinctive understanding of the TDC that Jack, who had grown up with the much cruder methods of the prewar years, could only envy. The men in the conning tower and control room were beginning to work as a single unit, without the constant confusion and getting in each other’s way of a couple of weeks ago. And Paul, with the help of his thoroughly experienced men, was proving to be a competent diving officer.
Then there was Art. Since the night that Jack had had his talk with him, he had been more reserved, more formal than ever. He did all his work—and there was a great deal of it—promptly and ably, he responded to comments and questions briefly but politely, and his attitude toward the other officers and the crew was strictly correct. There was no legitimate complaint Jack could have made against him, and yet, it was as if the man was not there at all. The others were becoming part of something, call it the Manta, and he was not and didn’t seem to want to. Inevitably he was affecting the others. Look at the way he had fired that practice fish this afternoon, as if he was reading off the birth years of the presidents. His lack of excitement had kept the others from developing, or at least showing, excitement themselves. Jack had tried to generate a little enthusiasm, but it had not quite worked, and the exec was responsible for the failure. But how could Jack put something so hazy and psychological into the framework of an evaluation? Too, he noticed that the men were starting to sidestep Art, taking problems that came up to Lou daCosta instead. Strictly speaking, that was in order, but it pointed to a problem in morale. The officer’s and crew had to function as a team, and if an important member was excluded, it caused inefficiency as well as bad feeling. And inefficiency on a submarine could be fatal.
“Permission to come to the bridge?”
“Permission granted.” Lou skipped up the ladder with an ease that Jack envied and took a deep breath.
“Air conditioning is a wonderful invention,” he said, “but it can’t measure up to Mother Nature. That wind will shift to easterly around sunset.”
“That’s right, you grew up around here, didn’t you?”
Lou pointed off to starboard. “Right over there; if I had the night glasses I could probably show you the house. I called my mom last night, and she wanted me to bring you to dinner, but I told her we didn’t have time. It’s too bad; I haven’t had any decent fish since the last time I was home. But maybe you don’t like fish that much.”
“Well… I’d rather eat them than the other way around.”
Lou chuckled. “Yeah, I sailed all these waters as a kid. I loved the freedom of it. I must have been twelve when I decided on the Navy; I thought it would be like sailing for a living. Damned if I know how I ended up on this pigboat!” He patted the side of the bridge to show he wasn’t serious.
They fell silent for a few minutes as they watched the practice torpedo being hoisted up the side of the target steamer, then Jack glanced at his wrist. “Nearly eight bells; do you have the first dogwatch?”
Lou nodded. “Now that we’ve seen our torpedo recovered, we will proceed back to the station prepared to take on torpedoes.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I relieve you.”
“Very well; you have the conn. I’ll hang around up here if you don’t mind. The air is nice, isn’t it?”
* * * *
In the next few days the crew of the Manta learned about more ways to launch torpedoes at a target than they had dreamed of. After a series of increasingly tricky submerged attacks using the periscope, Jack had them doing simulated night surface attacks at high speed, skittering the submarine over the water like a PT boat, firing at successive targets, and crash diving the instant the salvo was away. The stern tubes got as much work as the forward tubes. They even spent part of an afternoon firing from deep submergence, using sonar bearings to aim with. Lou likened it to throwing a beanbag at a radio from another room with the lights out, but difficult or not, it was a tactic that they might well need someday.
Once the first team, with Jack at the periscope and Lou at the TDC, seemed to know what it was doing, Jack started breaking in the other officers, starting with Woody Stone, the most junior. Each in turn was to make one surface and one submerged approach; Jack would have liked more, but time was running out. The results, as he expected, were mixed. Woody seemed to have overcome his initial shyness and gained a good deal of confidence in the last couple of weeks; when his submerged shot was declared a hit, he did a little dance at the periscope that had the whole conning tower grinning. Ted Fuller’s two attacks were methodical and unimaginative, and Jack made a mental note that the engine room was exactly the place for him. Paul Wing was a little slow, but when one of his fish failed to launch, he dealt with the situation coolly and effectively. Given their age and experience, Jack felt that the ensigns had handled themselves well, and told them so. Charlie conducted himself as if he had the textbook open in front of him and got full marks. Lou, by contrast, was more intuitive. He made a daring simultaneous surface attack on the target and escort, then nearly screwed up his submerged attack by forgetting to order the outer doors opened. His anger at himself was carried a little too far—perhaps it was his Latin blood, Jack supposed—but he managed to recover and get off a shot.
