“The crew and I are getting better, sir. Maybe we should do another one now while everyone is at their stations?”
Shipley shook his head. “Let’s not,” he said with a sigh. “We’ve done five dunks since we got under way early this morning. Let’s give the crew a rest. Set normal steaming for the time being. We might do a nighttime dunk or two later.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Aye” was the Navy term for “yes.” Two of them back to back meant acknowledging and understanding the order.
Shipley glanced around the conning tower. Twenty-one years since World War II ended. Only three members of the crew remembered what it was like to be depth-charged. There was he; Bleecker; and the colored cook Crocky. An important sailor, he had been cajoled-enticed-bribed even to come aboard the Squall-fish. A good cook made all the difference in crew morale.
Shipley shifted himself to his familiar place inside the conning tower. He leaned against the starboard bulkhead, allowing his memories to go back to his first submarine. There were still members of the Gar on active duty. His first skipper, Commander Mark Anastos, had died of a heart attack years ago. The XO on the Gar was a two-star admiral on the Chief of Naval Operations staff. He kept in contact with the others and tried to make the annual reunion, but active duty seldom complemented reunions.
“XO, you have the conn. Check with the CHENG and when ready, secure the snorkel and take her down to two hundred feet; continue on current heading and reduce speed to six knots. Stand clear of the sea lanes. Once trimmed, set the normal underway watch. Call me if you have any questions or concerns. If you aren’t sure about something, call me anyway.”
“Aye, sir.”
Shipley turned from the conning tower and started down the ladder. “I’ll be in my cabin for bit, XO. Once the underway watch is set, grab the OPSO, and you two join me in the wardroom mess. Time to open that package those two communications technicians delivered from CINCNELM.” Curiosity is a strange creature. He had been wanting to open the couriered package since he had signed for it an hour before they cast off lines and got under way. What did Admiral Wright, Commander, U.S. Naval Forces, Eastern Atlantic and Mediterranean, sitting at his desk in London, England, want them to do? He had no doubt it was something dangerous and something covert. Couriered packages were not used for cake and cookies.
Shipley disappeared down the ladder leading to the control room below the conning tower. Communications technician was a new rating in the Navy. These technicians wore a lightning bolt crisscrossed over a feather. “Lightning-fast chicken pluckers” someone called them.
No one really knew what they did, but he suspected it had to do with the Ultra program from World War II. He took a deep breath as he stepped into the control room beneath the conning tower. His mission was to patrol the Iceland-U.K. gap to search for Soviet warships that sometimes ventured this far out. “Captain, how we doing, sir?” Chief Topnotch asked.
“We’re doing fine, Chief. How’s the torpedo rooms look?”
“Sir, my men are ready fore and aft. Just say the word.”
“Good, Chief.” Not many full-blooded Cherokee Native Americans in the Navy that he knew of. Topnotch looked like the stereotyped television Indian with his broad chest, short legs, and dark hair. He could imagine the man in a loincloth, riding bareback.
Shipley spoke a few words of encouragement to the sailors at the Christmas Tree as he left the control room through the forward hatch, heading toward officers’ country. His experience during World War II had dealt with last-minute changes to missions, and most times couriers delivered them. Whatever it was had better not last longer than sixty days. He had outfitted for that duration only.
“You better be careful, boy. You got too much anger trying to leap out and git yoreself killed.”
Washington dropped the pans into the open drawer. The clang of the shiny aluminum pans hitting the others filled the small galley kitchen.
“Why you do that, boy?” Crocky said, jumping at the noise. The career Navy mess cook put his hands on his hips and stared at the young sailor. “You don’t be careful and I might rip that head of yore’s off and stuff it up yore ass like a Greek water fountain.” Washington squatted and started shuffling the pots and pans around so the drawer would shut. “Petty Officer Crocky, you tell me to be careful?” Washington asked, the noise of the heavy metal cooking items nearly drowning out his words. “He a cracker bastard is what he is. Why I got to be careful? He the one better be careful.” Washington stood up.
Crocky stretched his foot out and shoved the drawer shut. “Boy, if you ain’t careful, you gonna get whacked. Lots more of them’ums then us’ums.”
“Whacked? I’m gonna get whacked?” Washington jammed his thumb into his chest. “I ain’t gonna get whacked.”
“Stop that shit. Bring me the salt from the cupboard and stop yore daydreaming, boy.”
“He’s the one gonna get whacked.”
“On board the boat, you be the one who get whacked, if you git out of line. You already seen the ole man once; he don’t like to see sailors twice.”
“Whacked,” Washington muttered, reaching up to pull the huge container of salt from the top counter. His T-shirt drooped at the arms, revealing a heavy stock of underarm hair. “All he gotta do is leave me alone and I’ll leave him alone. I ain’t the one who started this shit, Crocky.”
Washington lifted the huge container of salt over the i nch-high metal bar mounted across the front of the shelves to keep stuff from sliding onto the deck when the submarine rolled. He walked along the serving counter, between it and the long iron frying surface to where Crocky, the Squallfish head mess cook, stirred water in a huge pot.
“This what you want?” Washington looked toward the door leading into the small, twenty-man mess hall.
“Fightin’ ain’t got no place on board a submarine. The ole man will have you both carried off in cuffs and slammed into the brig. If you think Potts is bad, you ain’t seen nuthin’ until you seen the southern boys they—”
Washington twisted and did a full turn. “But why do we put up with this shit?” He leaned forward. “You know, Crocky, you ought to join the NAACP.” He reached for his wallet.
“Don’t drop that salt, Wash.” Crocky straightened, continuing to stir the heating water with one hand while pulling a white washcloth from his rear pocket and wiping the sweat from his face. Crocky looked at the young sailor. Washington and he were the only mess cooks in the Supply Department. The two Filipinos, Santos and Marcos, were more a two-man cleaning crew than cooks.
Crocky had seen angrier and better-built young men than Washington try to change inherited racism. Most were civilians now. He jammed the washcloth back in his pocket, ignoring the beads of sweat that dropped into the water.
“Washington,” he whispered, “you join any damn thing you want. I’ll keep my joining to myself. We got one job on the Squall-fish: that’s feed the crew. Ain’t no job on board the boat for fightin’ them. I know you don’t want to hear it, but most of them white boys are all right. There’s always a bad apple in the bunch just like there are bad apples in ours.” He pointed at Washington. “You keep yore temper, ya hear? You know there are worse things than takin’ the man’s arrogant comments. I don’t want you thrown off the boat and into the Holy Loch brig — no, siree, I don’t want that.”