Mackerel slowly backed away from the pier and into the channel. When she was well clear and there was enough room to maneuver, Hubley ordered, “Helm, bridge, right fifteen degrees rudder.”
The submarine pivoted around gently, leaning slightly to the left. The astern propulsion and right rudder combination caused the ship’s head to turn to the left. Hubley kept the right rudder on until Mackerel was lined up in the center of the channel.
“Helm, bridge. All ahead one third,” he said, once the ship was nearly aligned with the channel. “Come left, steer course three five four.”
The helm responded and Mackerel slowed her backward motion, came to a complete stop, then slowly picked up speed in the ahead direction. Slowly, her bow inched over to steady on the base course that would drive her just to the right of the channel’s center.
Tremain watched as the figures on the pier resumed their work and the submarine base’s one hundred-foot tower used for escape training slowly fell astern. He took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. He was on patrol once again. Just yesterday, he had been looking forward to seeing his wife. If he had refused to accept this command, he could be waking up with her in his arms at this very moment. Now, instead, he was on patrol again, and his body was fast accepting all of the familiar sensations it had tried so hard to forget. How long had it been since he had left Seatrout? Two or three months? It seemed like years. He felt the wind on his face, the poignant exhaust fumes of the diesels, the low putter of his ship’s engines vibrate and surge through his body. It gave him an indescribable energy that he could never explain it. He had tried to explain it to Judy many times but for all her good intentions he knew that she did not understand. It had to be felt, it had to be experienced to understand its pull. The call of the sea — one had to hear it personally to really know about it, to really get it.
Drifting by on the left, the two dozen or so cruisers and destroyers at the naval base swayed gently at their moorings as Mackerel's wake rolled out to reach them. Then came the shipyard, with its immense three-story cranes working away like giant ants.
On the right, Ford Island drifted by. Mackerel passed the spot where the Arizona lay and the boatswain’s mate sounded his whistle to bring the men on deck to attention. They faced the battleship’s final resting place and in unison saluted the watery grave of their fallen comrades. It was a tradition carried out on every United States Navy vessel as it passed the hallowed spot where so many were lost. It gave every man a strong sense of the job that had to be done— and why it had to be done.
They were doing well so far, Tremain thought, as the Arizona fell behind them. Hubley and the crew had shown him that they were at least skilled in seamanship and that was a great comfort. He had something to work with.
Mackerel continued on its journey and wound around the bends in the channel. Hubley expertly conned the ship through the harbor, around to the southerly channel and then out into the open ocean. Hickam Field passed by on the port side, just as Mackerel started to feel the first large swells of the Pacific, and through his binoculars Tremain could see several Army Air Corps officers eating brunch on the green lawn in front of the base officers’ club. A few of them waved to the submarine as it left the shelter of the land. A few of Mackerel's sailors on deck waved back.
Tremain was generally satisfied with the crew’s performance. They had successfully brought the ship out of port and Hubley had done a fair job at the conn. He then ordered Hubley to set the normal watch.
“Secure the sea and anchor detail,” Hubley announced on the 1MC circuit, a shipwide announcing circuit that could be heard by all hands. “Set the normal underway watch, section one.”
Tremain rested his hands on the bridge coaming and inhaled a full breath of the fresh ocean air. The deck was now cleared of personnel and rigged for surface running. Mackerel was making a good fifteen knots through the white-capped waves, fast leaving lush Oahu astern. She was traveling against the direction of the seas and every few minutes a wave would crash against the deck below, sending cold spray over the men on the bridge. Soon Tremain’s and Hub-ley’s shirts were soaking wet.
Tremain thought about what was transpiring below as the ship’s crew adjusted to being at sea once more. The watch stations were being relieved below. A third of the hands would be coming on watch. Another third would be eating and performing routine maintenance. And the last third would be going to their racks for some attempted sleep. The crew would follow this routine everyday for the next two months.
“Contact!” one of the lookouts up in the periscope sheers called out, above the crashing seas. “Ship, sir. Hull down and fifteen degrees off the port bow!”
Tremain scanned the horizon off the port bow. He spotted the small object on the horizon where the lookout had indicated. He fixed his binoculars on it and saw that it was the pilothouse of a small patrol craft. It was battling the waves several miles away from them and appeared to be headed in their direction.
“That would be the escort, sir. PC-128.” Hubley had sighted it too.
“Very well, Mister Hubley,” Tremain said. “Close her and signal her to follow us.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Tremain held his binoculars up to look once more at the distant patrol craft. It was standard operating procedure for a submarine leaving on patrol to rendezvous with an escorting patrol craft. As long as the patrol craft was nearby any American aircraft flying overhead would identify Mackerel as a friendly submarine and not attack. The patrol craft would stay with them until they were outside the aircraft’s search radius or “kill zone.” After that, Mackerel would be on her own and fair game to all attackers, friendly or enemy.
“I’m going below, Mr. Hubley,” Tremain said, starting down the ladder. “Notify me when the patrol craft has taken station.”
Tremain passed down the ladder through the conning tower and into the control room. He stopped at the chart table where Cazanavette was hovering with a quartermaster, reviewing the ship’s projected track.
“How does it look, XO?” Tremain asked.
“Good, sir,” Cazanavette answered impassively. “We have rendezvoused with the escort on schedule and are making a good fourteen and a half knots on two engines.”
“Good,” Tremain said. He nodded and then headed forward through the watertight door and on to his stateroom. He knew that every eye in the control room had been on him, and that every ear had been listening to his every word. He knew that all conversations would cease in every room he entered for weeks to come. Sailors had a peculiar way of letting a person know he was not welcome. They had a habit of shifting to an almost defiantly businesslike attitude and would not speak unless spoken to.
Tremain smiled as he drew his curtain and sat down at the tiny desk. It was all for the better, he thought. The crew would be united in their defiance of him and that would help them to merge together as a team — or so he hoped.
His body ached. The day had been a long one and he almost could not believe that Mackerel had actually made it to sea. He could smell the dinner being prepared in the galley, two compartments aft. He could also hear the off-watch officers talking in the wardroom, just across the passageway from his stateroom. He could make out bits and pieces of the conversation. From what he could tell, the others were harassing the new ensign about some woman he had run into the night before. The ensign was emphatically denying every accusation they threw at him.