“Snorkel working well, Skipper, as far as I can see,” Bleecker said. “We should be able to give you up to twenty knots while on snorkel submerged — more if we had all four Fairchilds connected to the motors. No casualties at this time,” the mustang continued, the word “casualties” referring to the engine room equipment. “These are fine Fairchild engines we have, sir. Did I tell you that, Captain? Did I recommend, sir, you send a letter to the yard thanking them for the refit? I may even light a candle to the Fairchild Corporation.”
“Yes, you did, CHENG, and thanks for the report. As I said, you write the letters and I’ll sign them,” Shipley replied, envisioning the sly smile of the CHENG scratching the stubble on his chin. “Status of the batteries?”
“They’re nearly fully charged, sir. You can have sixteen hours submerged at four knots or any variation thereof. Last time down we drained them a little, but we weren’t down that long. If you don’t mind me asking, Skipper, are you planning to do a few more dunks today or are we staying down for a while?”
“Haven’t decided yet, Lieutenant Bleecker, but you’ll be the first to know.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Very well, CHENG.” Bleecker loved his engines like most men loved their mistresses. And if Shipley didn’t cut him off, Greaser Bleecker would provide a running monologue on the status of everything within the chief engineer’s domain, like a new father showing off photographs of his first child.
Most wardrooms on the warships of the U.S. Navy were filled with regular Navy officers. Annapolis graduates had the choke hold on the senior ranks of the Navy — ring knockers, as those less fortunate to attend the legendary school of Navy heroes called them. On the other hand, the Academy failed to teach how to keep diesel engines and batteries operating to full capacity. It was a skill learned with the book closed and hands fiddling with the gear. Bleecker could fix a diesel in his sleep — with one hand. Unlike the other submarines in the squadron, Shipley kept the mustang, despite less than tactful suggestions that he accept a “real” officer. He knew a good thing when he had it.
The most recent attempt to replace Bleecker had been last week, when Shipley had diverted an attempt by the Submarine Group Commander, Commodore Jeff “Sink ’em” Lightly, to replace Bleecker. Commodore Lightly was a full four-strike Navy captain who, like Shipley, wore the submarine warfare device— the symbol of a successful war patrol. You had little choice but to respect a man who had sunk ships and survived depth charges. Those assigned as the Submarine Group Commander were given the honorific title of “Commodore,” much like his as “Captain” of the Squallfish.
“You know, Chad,” Lightly had said, as if he had just thought of the idea, “Lieutenant Bleecker is only a limited-duty officer. LDOs are supposed to provide their technical expertise, not be put in position of authority.” When Shipley had opened his mouth to interrupt, the commodore had raised his hand and waved him quiet. “I know, I know; it’s your submarine, and if you want to keep him, I’ll understand, but I have several other junior submarine officers who need their turn in a division officer slot — an engineer slot. Your LDO is taking up one of those slots now. I can move a lieutenant over — an Academy grad. You can keep Bleecker. Bleecker can be the man’s assistant division officer. Teach him what he needs to know. He’ll understand. He’s former enlisted. They’re raised to understand.”
Shipley also knew Commodore Lightly could just as well order the transfer to occur without Shipley having any recourse. After all, he was the commodore for the eight submarines at Holy Loch. He was responsible for their war-fighting readiness, and exercising his command prerogatives, Lightly could have done it for the “good of Group readiness.” Shipley also knew that if anything went wrong on board the Squallfish because of such a unilateral command decision, Lightly would bear some of the responsibility. Lucky for Squallfish, Lightly was nearing retirement and was a World War II veteran. The commodore may want to put a “real” officer on board as the Squallfish’s chief engineer, but Lightly also knew the importance of the responsibilities of the commanding officer. The commodore had a reputation for sidestepping actions that shifted responsibilities onto his own shoulders when he could leave them on others’.
“Periscope up,” Shipley ordered, squatting so when the eyepiece rose, he could rise with his eyes already against the periscope as it ascended. He flipped the handholds out as they came up. Through the handles he felt the tremor of the hydraulics raising the scope. The hum of motors raising it mixed with the low-level noise of the conning tower. Smooth. That’s what he wanted. He leaned forward, his eyes against the eyepiece. Water filled the scope for a moment before it broke surface, the smear quickly draining away as the periscope continued upward.
When he wanted the periscope, the last thing he needed was cranky motors generating noise in the water, or the periscope failing to rise all the way. Sixty feet was maximum depth for the snorkel, radar, and periscope to work. Surfaced, the periscope doubled sometimes as a surface watch. Having a skimmer emerge without detection over the horizon was a black mark on the watch.
“Christ, I love this ole boat,” he said.
“Won’t be long before these diesels have to give way to the nukes,” Arneau said.
“Bite your tongue, XO. Nukes are a fad.”
Shipley heard the light laughter in the conning tower. The XO was right. If he were lucky, he’d finish his career before the Navy decommissioned the last diesel. He didn’t know if he wanted to be confined to a boat that never had to surface. What would you do all day?
He spun the search periscope, making a 360-degree search of the sea. Off to the southeast, the cloudbank was visible covering the Western Isles of Scotland. They’d reach the Iceland-U.K. gap tomorrow. Once outside the protected waters of the United Kingdom, then began the growing games among the U.S. Navy, the
Royal Navy, and the Soviet forces looking for each other’s submarines. Today, the hunted; tomorrow, the hunter. Which one depended on the event. He preferred being the hunter.
“Down periscope.” Shipley stepped back. He never rode the periscope down. No value in watching the scope sink beneath the waves. Always value in the few seconds a quick look provided on the way up.
The light noise of the hydraulics kept everyone quiet as the scope descended. Shipley thought of the USS Gar (SS-206) and his sixteenth combat mission in January 1945. A few months before that final mission of the war — a mission never recorded.
He recalled his first wartime mission as vividly as he recalled the sixteenth and final one. He had barely checked in when the submarine arrived at Pearl Harbor before, in the early-morning hours of the next day, Gar had eased out of Pearl. It had returned to the Pacific Theater. They had penetrated Tokyo Harbor to launch several buoys configured to look like fishing buoys, but with sensitive acoustic sensors that transmitted the noise inside the harbor. Once outside the harbor and several miles out to sea near deep water, the skipper had invited the new Ensign Shipley to look through the periscope. When he spun the scope, the bow of a destroyer filled his view.
“How did we do, Skipper?” Arneau asked, interrupting Shipley’s thoughts.
Shipley drew back from the periscope and looked at the XO for a couple of seconds as his thoughts returned to the present. His face scrunched, he nodded crisply, and he replied, “It took twenty seconds to clear the bridge; fifty seconds for all secure; and nearly a minute and a half for us to reach final trim.” He looked at his watch. “Raising the scope is optional time. I don’t count it in getting this boat below the water, out of sight, and out of harm’s way. We can do it faster. Goal is eleven seconds to clear the bridge; forty-five seconds for water to cover the bridge; and no more than sixty seconds for the ship to be completely out of sight.” Shipley paused. “We’re improving, but we still need to improve.”