Run Silent, Run Deep - Страница 59

Would it! In spite of the ominous shadow that lay on my mind, I started up eagerly at the news.

"The Eel is coming in from Balboa, and they think their skip- per has pneumonia. We'll have to check the whole crew, of course, and may have to transfer some of them if they show signs of having contracted the disease. You can have her as soon as she gets in."

Eel was a brand-new Portsmouth-built boat, containing all the new and fancy gadgets which we in the old Walrus had wanted for so long, and improvised to get. She had a thicker skin and heavier frames, a narrower silhouette bows on, a larger conning tower with more gear in it and a smaller bridge, and the very latest in radar. In her engine rooms were four of the new ten- cylinder double-crankshaft Fairbanks-Morse diesels, rated at the same horsepower as the earlier nine-cylinder jobs and as the sixteens of the Walrus, but capable of considerably more. On deck she carried the same gun armament as Walrus, except for a new five-inch gun instead of our old S-boat four-incher.

Altogether she was a wonderful command, a real dreamboat, except for one thing-she had no crew.

It turned out that the trouble with her skipper was diagnosed as tuberculosis, and every man in her whole complement had to be sent up for observation. The probability of any others having it, the submarine force doctor said, was not too high, but they had been breathing the same air as their skipper for a long time, and in the confined quarters of a submarine, especially when submerged and recirculating the ventilation, the chances for wholesale exchange of germs could not help but be at their highest. The ship was thoroughly fumigated after the crew was taken off, and a crew of medical corpsmen went over her with disinfectant before anyone else was permitted to go aboard. When I got my new ship, that's exactly what I got, a ship. Bare.

Not that getting a crew assigned was difficult. With the normal rotation system in full swing, there were ample men with the necessary rates and skills to fill out several complete crews.

And some of the old Walrus crew, who had been left behind when she last departed, had already had enough of the rotation and specially asked to be assigned to the Eel. Among these were Quin and Oregon, both now first-class Petty — Officers with war experience which belied their youth.

My best piece of luck, however, was in getting Keith assigned also. He was due back anyway from leave in a few days, so I sent a telegram to his leave address asking him if he wanted the job of Executive Officer, and telling him to come back right away if he did. The answer came back next morning, and consisted of only one word: ENROUTE.

The rest of the officers were taken from the various relief crews which were the usual rotation assignments. I was careful to take only volunteers, however. A thin, nervous-looking Lieutenant named Buckley Williams came as Gunnery and Torpedo Officer, and another Lieutenant, Al Dugan, rather heavy-set and phlegmatic in appearance but already known for his sure touch on the dive, as Engineer and Diving Officer.

But merely having the personnel assigned is a very long way from having a fighting submarine, or a fighting anything else, for that matter. First we had to get things organized, lay out a Watch, Quarter and Station Bill, assign everyone in the crew a locker and a bunk, divide them into watch sections and into the various departments aboard a ship, lay out all their duties in accordance with what needed to be done as determined by the way the ship was built-and then begin the training.

Fortunately, having had the pick of the relief crews, Eel's new complement was basically all experienced. We were not, at least, required to take aboard a load of trainees in addition to the rest of our training problem. Though it was a back-breaking job, it turned out to be a fruitful one. I was amazed at the amount of progress that could be made in a day. As an Exec, Keith was a natural. In four days we had Eel at sea for her first dive, and in six we were shooting torpedoes. In two weeks I was beginning to wonder what area we would draw for our patrol.

The last week, our third, was spent merely polishing things up. We practiced the quick snap shot at an enemy submarine, taught all the officers, and the Quartermasters too, how to determine the quickest way to turn, how to line up the shot with sight of eye, what essential inputs the TDC had to have, and how to shoot. And we practiced how to shift instantly from one target to another, how to anticipate the enemy's next zig during the firing and how to correct for it. By the time I reported Eel to Captain Blunt as in all respects ready for a combat assignment, there was no doubt in my mind that this was the case.

He had to come out with us for a day's operations to see for himself, of course, and his comment before the day was half over was proof of his satisfaction. "You've got a beautiful ship here, Rich," he told me. And he told me where he planned to send us for our first patrol: AREA — TWELVE, the Yellow Sea, between Kyushu and the mainland of China, all the way up to the Gulf of Pohai on the north.

It took quite a while to put Eel through all her paces, and it was long after dark before we finally put her back alongside the dock in the submarine base. As we came in, the ComSub- Pac Duty Officer and a car were waiting for Captain Blunt.

There was a whispered consultation. He turned back to me before stepping in: "Rich," he said, "after you get finished with the ship, come on up to my office, will you?" His face was grave. Something was wrong.

I turned a few details over to Keith, followed Blunt in a few minutes, a cold foreboding clutching at my heart. I knew what it was the moment I opened the door to his office. He was standing alone, looking out the window at the black waters of Pearl Harbor, the pipe in his mouth, hands clenched behind his back.

He didn't turn when he heard the door open. "That you, Rich?"

Upon my affirmative, he told me to sit down. Still he didn't turn. just stood there. I stood also, waiting.

For about a minute he stood there, motionless. I could hear him breathing. His hands were working gently behind his back, massaging his fingers.

Then, without turning, he commenced to speak softly, almost tenderly. "There are some parts of that ocean out near Japan which are worth more than any material value can ever express.

They are parts which are consecrated, for they are hallowed by our heroic dead. One day God, in His infinite wisdom, may let us see the reason why some men must die young that others may live to a useless old age-why men like me, who have never heard a shot or seen a torpedo fired in anger, must be the arbiter of life and death for younger and better men."

He paused, turned to face me. "Every grave on land and in that ocean is a tomb to an ideal. Some of the ideals are wrong, some right. But the graves are never wrong, they are monuments to the heroic men of either side who sleep there. For who has the right to say to the men who bear the brunt of the battle, 'This was wrong, this was worthless to die for?' Is not the warrior the purest and most heroic of all, because he dies for his beliefs? It is the men who send the warriors on their quests who must answer to that question."

He stopped.

"When did it happen?" I asked quietly.

"Maybe it hasn't happened!" he turned away again, almost fiercely. "This might just be their propaganda claim!"

"Jim was not due out till tomorrow, was he? Should we have heard from him?"

"Rich, we had him reporting weather every three days from his area. Our task forces need to know that weather data. It moves from west to east, you know. Three days ago he sent a message, giving the weather and telling us that his total bag for the patrol so far was then six ships. He had only four torpedoes left, all aft. Ordinarily we would have had him come back, but we have to keep a watch on the Bungo, and we have to have those weather reports. So we told him to stay till tomorrow, which is the day the Tuna is scheduled to move in there to relieve him. Bun, — o Pete claims to have sunk him the same night he sent his message. Another one was due this morning, but he made no transmission."

"Maybe he's only been damaged and his antenna or his radio are out of commission."

"Maybe so. Anyway, we can't send any more boats into SEVEN. You were right, it is suicide. I've already sent a message to the Tuna to stay clear, and the Admiral has an appointment with CinCPac in the morning to tell him the same. If only there were a way of eliminating that bastard Nakame! Until we do, I'm afraid we'll have to give up on this much of our assigned mission. The trouble is, of course, that once he realizes we're not going into the area around Bungo any more, he'll simply shift his own operating ground."

"Let me go into SEVEN! I can get him!" I spoke with a surge of confidence and rage. "I've been practicing for just this type of thing all during the past months at the Attack Trainer. Give us just a couple of days to get ready." I argued a long time, finally got down to pleading with the old man.

At first he wouldn't hear of it, but the thought of the Explanations, the Admiral would have to make finally swung the tide in my favor. I was determined, reckless, in a mad fury. Bungo Pete had to got Walrus had outwitted him twice before, with a little luck. Now Eel would not only outwit him, but sink him, and we'd not need luck!

We got the base ordnance shop to give us a little high-priority emergency assistance: we designed some waterproof demolition charges which we could put into the garbage which would go off when the package was opened. We carried along a lot of old Walrus stationery and got some papers made up with rubber stamps and other markings, just as we had improvised for the Octopus, only using the name Walrus.