He needed to have a talk with Cazanavette. They would have to work in tandem. Cazanavette would need a little work but Tremain was sure that, with a little encouragement, he would measure up to the task before him. The rest of the officers looked as they had in their service record photos, all except the young ensign. Tremain had not been aware that there was an ensign on board. He must have just arrived. Tremain had been scanning the officers’ faces as he spoke, looking for their reactions. The most notable had been the ensign’s. He had sat at attention the entire time, eyes wide. He had not flinched even once throughout the whole briefing. This ensign must think I’m a pretty tough guy, Tremain thought. I would, if I was in his shoes. The tougher he thinks I am the more he will pay attention, the more he will learn.
Tremain wanted to place a call to Judy to tell her once again how sorry he was and that he loved her. He checked his watch. There was not enough time. There was never enough time. Maybe he could call her later.
I’ll write a letter underway and mail it to her when I get back, he thought. He closed his eyes and banished the thought of his wife from his mind. He could not think of her. He couldn’t afford it now. He could not think of her and keep a clear mind. He needed to focus on the task that lay before him. He was in command.
He gave a short sigh, then headed across the jetty to his waiting boat.
Chapter 5
Mackerel took on new form as her monstrous diesel engines sputtered to life one at a time, and then fell into a rhythmic combustion cycle together. The exhaust manifolds near the waterline spewed first white smoke, then black, then settled into a dirty brownish semi-transparent vapor. The men working the lines near the exhaust manifolds covered their noses and mouths to avoid the nauseous fumes.
“Bridge, maneuvering,” the voice box on the bridge squawked — it was George Olander’s voice. “Placing a warmup load on the diesel engines.”
Carl Hubley, the officer of the deck, glanced at Tremain on the other side of the bridge before keying the microphone and acknowledging the report.
“Maneuvering, bridge, aye.”
Hubley looked as though he expected Tremain to voice some kind of disapproval about something, but Tremain said nothing, so he carried on.
They were all on edge. Captain meets crew. Crew meets captain. But it was a marriage of necessity.
The morning’s preparations had gone well for the most part. The six torpedoes had been loaded without event to bring Mackerel's magazine back up to a full status. They had taken on a sixty-day load out of food and supplies, and the diesel fuel oil tanks had been topped off. All had been completed without incident. The only issue of note to Tremain during the morning’s events had been the crew’s apparent laziness with regard to procedures. Tremain responded by reprimanding each sailor he caught loading fuel or torpedoes without following an approved procedure or even having the procedure present at the work site.
From time to time Tremain had seen this type of behavior on the various boats he had served on. This crew had fallen into a rut that many crews, and even captains, often allow themselves to slip into. Their knowledge base was in people and not in procedures. Tremain needed to change that. He needed to change it before their laxity caused a serious accident or oversight, which might get one or all of them killed.
But that would have to wait. Mackerel was getting underway now, and Tremain would need to focus all his attention on that operation. He noticed a signalman standing idly on the cigarette deck, aft of the bridge, with the ship’s colors in his hands. The sailor was standing by to hoist the wrinkled flag up the mast the minute the ship got underway.
“Seaman, where is our battle flag?” Tremain asked.
The seaman looked embarrassed at first and then shot a pleading glance at Hubley on the other side of the bridge, but Hubley pretended to be preoccupied.
“We haven’t been displaying the battle flag, sir,” he finally answered.
“Why not?”
“Well, sir, we don’t have anything on it except for a few sampans we sank a couple patrols ago.”
“Indeed?”
The sailor added reluctantly, “You see, sir, we came upon these sampans off Saipan a couple patrols ago, it was near the beginning of the patrol. We sank them with our deck gun and then we thought it would be kind of funny to sew three sampan silhouettes on our flag. You know, until we sank some real targets. We didn’t think anything of it. Kind of a joke, you know, sir. Well, we were sure we would sink some real ships later on, and then we’d be able to add some warship patches to the flag, too. But then we didn’t sink any more, sir, so now we have this flag with nothing on it but sampans. And that’s why we don’t dare run that thing up. We’d be the laughing stock of the harbor, sir.”
“I see.”
Tremain turned to Hubley. “Mr. Hubley, from now on when this boat enters or leaves port it flies the battle flag. Is that clear?”
“Aye aye, Captain.” Hubley nodded. He also seemed embarrassed for the boat. “Ross, go below and get the battle flag.”
Seaman Ross started down the ladder at a trot.
“And leave the sampans on it, Ross,” Tremain called after him.
Tremain and Hubley exchanged glances before Hubley went back to his preparations to get the ship underway.
Tremain leaned over the bridge coaming on the starboard side, watching the sailors on deck prepare for departure. Each man had his job and they all seemed to be engaged in what they were doing. Russo had trained them well in this aspect and they did at least appear to be efficient seamen, though they were not yet adept at following procedures.
Tremain watched as the chief of the boat, Chief Freund, strode up and down the deck, barking orders. He was inspecting the quality of stowage, looking for anything on the sleek hull that might come loose when it felt the force of twenty knots of water. When he reached the conning tower, he checked each of the equipment access hatches and pounded on them with a large rubber hammer to make sure they were properly secured for the open sea. He kept one eye on the men handling the large hemp lines. Whenever he saw a sailor doing something wrong or dangerous, he would threaten to use the rubber hammer on him as well.
“Do you want to lose your fingers?” Freund shouted to one of them. “Because you will if you hold that line like that!”
“Don’t stand there!” he yelled to another. “Not unless you want to lose your leg at the knee when that line parts!”
Tremain smiled. He knew that he would be able to count on Freund. One look at the wiry Freund and anyone could tell that he had been in “boats” for a long time. He was a grizzled old sea dog from the early days of submarining, from the days when the enemy was the least of the fears. When the number of dives and the number of surfaces did not always match.
Cazanavette emerged from the conning tower hatch. He was followed by two lookouts that shuffled past the officers and continued climbing to their station up in the periscope shears.
Cazanavette nodded to Hubley and then cleared his throat to get Tremain’s attention. “All departments are ready to get underway, Captain.” He paused before adding, “The unaccounted for men, Mitchell, Stallworth, and Sykes, are now on board, sir.”