He sat on the edge of his bed, knowing that none of the other officers were up yet, thinking that maybe he could get dressed and make his way to the base galley for coffee. But he decided against it. There was always some guy over there who wanted to talk about something or other, and Cole just wanted to be left alone.
Guilt had become his companion. It was in him at all times; sometimes he could hardly feel the weight of it, but he could always feel its presence. It snapped at him when he had nearly forgotten that it was there. Cruel reminders of his faults, responsibilities, mistakes — sometimes embellished or distorted — guilt taking a perverse pleasure in coating reality with imaginary failures. It didn’t make any difference — he accepted them all.
Jordan Cole took a deep breath, wiping the corners of his eyes with the heel of one hand, and stretched the stiffness out of his back. Harry Lowe.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and lapsed into an inventory of duties out of habit. All of the boats needed engine overhauls. The few remaining boats, his guilt reminded him, but in a surprisingly gentle manner as if to show Cole that guilt was not without compassion.
His eyes fell on a gray, battered metal ammunition box. In its previous life it had held .30-caliber ammunition, according to the stenciled legend on its side. Now Cole used it for another purpose. Pictures from home, his will, mementoes of friendships, and a stack of letters bundled by a thick rubber band.
Sometimes Cole would slide a letter out and read it, remembering Rebecca. There weren’t many letters — eight in fact — but there were so few because Cole wrote nothing in return, and Rebecca did what Cole wanted her to do. She stopped writing. One tiny victory for Jordan Cole.
He sat on the edge of the bed for several minutes, his mind frozen into inaction by fatigue. The best way to stop thinking, Cole thought one day. Insomnia. Lack of sleep turned the brain to mush; pretty soon you don’t have enough energy to form a single coherent thought.
He stood, fished around the room for his clothes, and got dressed. He glanced at his watch; oh-two-oh-five, and shook his head in disgust. Two fucking hours — he’d slept for less than two hours. He’d decided that maybe he’d go over to the galley and pick up some coffee and head to the duty shed, find a quiet corner, and settle in, listening to the radio chatter.
Cole had the door open when he turned and glanced at the ammo box. He hadn’t read her letters in a while. He’d thought about her, first with regret and then with anger at what she’d done, and finally with a longing so intense that he could barely stand it. Well, he thought, it’s over anyway. Things happen, there’s nothing you can do about it.
Guilt reemerged, refreshed and ready to accompany Cole. Lowe’s face flashed before his eyes — guilt taunting him again. And in a whisper so faint that it could have been the distant rustle of leaves, guilt told him: “There was plenty you could have done about it.”
Chapter 2
Seaman 1st Class Foster watched a tiny blip dart across the SG radar screen under the slow pass of the strobe. “Hey, Mr. Lewis? Take a look at this.”
Lieutenant (j.g.) Lewis shook his head in disgust as he moved through the crowded Combat-Information-Center to the radar station. Foster should have made petty officer, but his mouth and holier-than-thou attitude had kept him at seaman 1st. Maybe he had the prerequisite ten hours of training, but that had been on the old SC radar and the SG was far more complex than the SC. Lewis never let on that he still didn’t completely understand the intricacies of the SG. Not to the captain or the exec, and certainly not to the enlisted men. And never, never to the chiefs. They could make a young, inexperienced officer’s life a living hell aboard a destroyer escort. Better to act like you knew what you were doing even if you didn’t, especially in the CIC. They sure didn’t teach you that at the Reserve Midshipman’s School.
The tiny room, pulsating with life, was stuffed with speakers, situation tables for surface and air activities, and plotting boards with the names, call signs, and other data of the ships in the convoy. The bulkheads and overhead were alive with cables, wires, and conduits — the nerves that carried the information in and out. It was a clearinghouse for information that came in from radio, radar, sonar, and from the lookouts positioned at various stations on the Southern. It was dark in the CIC; the only light allowed was the eerie red glow of the emergency lamps. To the uninitiated the cramped room was a confusing maze of instruments half hidden in the gloom. The five or six men who manned CIC were ghostly images who moved silently in the tiny space, caring for the instruments. The fragile electronic gear needed constant tending; rangefinders, radars, transmitters, identification gear, direction finders, and receivers, everything sensitive to saltwater, salt air, and the pounding that the ship endured while under way. The only other movement was that of the strobe arm that flicked across the pale green face of surface and air radar screens.
“Foster, how many times have I asked you not to say ‘Hey, Mr. Lewis’?”
“Yeah, but, sir, something screwy just happened.”
“You see, that’s what I mean,” Lewis said. He’d tried since he came aboard to bring a sense of dignity to the USS Jeremiah B. Southern, but the captain and the other officers had ignored his efforts. The crew followed suit, behaving in a lackadaisical manner, completely lacking in professionalism. Lewis studied the screen. It was blank except for the column of steady ships in the convoy. “I don’t see anything.” He was tired and anxious for his relief. They had been steaming Condition II, half the guns manned and the men working four on and four off because they were nearing E-boat Alley. It was a state of readiness ordered by the captain. To Lewis it was a waste of time and another example of Captain MacKay’s inability to grasp the obvious: the Nazis were on the ropes, anybody could see that. And the invasion would be a cakewalk. Lewis had seen the buildup in the ports, the long columns of infantry marching along the narrow British roads, and the flights of bombers that thundered overhead on their way to Germany.
Now the captain was worried about a bunch of torpedo boats in the goddamned English Channel. Where the hell was his relief? Lewis thought again. He suddenly realized that Foster was talking.
“Yes, sir, but it was there a minute ago. Just on the edge of the scope.”
Lewis’s eyes traveled furtively over the screen. “Whatever was there is not there now. You know we’ve got a couple of AOGs just aft of us.” He felt salty using the official acronym for tankers that carried aviation fuel, oil, and gas. He hoped it made up for his youth and inexperience.
“Jeez, Mr. Lewis, even I can tell the difference between a gasoline tanker and something that shouldn’t have been there. Besides. That last target was to port.”
Lewis was unconvinced. He looked over the array of intimidating gauges and dials covering the console to either side of the screen, his mind racing over the operating instructions about the SG that he had tried to commit to memory. But his mind wasn’t fast enough and the dials warned him to leave them alone. “Maybe you just imagined it,” he finally said, ending the mystery.
“Yes, sir,” Foster said grimly. He felt Lewis leave his side and cursed the officer silently. That guy was an embarrassment to the ship and to the uniform. Nothing but a chicken-shit attitude…. Foster leaned back in his chair and motioned to Chesty Marx at the Plotting Board. Marx looked at him quizzically as Foster mouthed the word Chief.