Tremain chuckled to himself. What was the ensign’s name… ah yes, Wright. Let’s see if I can help you out, Mr. Wright.
Taking the key from his pocket, Tremain unlocked and opened his safe from which he removed a manila envelope marked “Top Secret.” It contained the patrol order. He set the envelope on the desk in front of him and stared at it for a few minutes. The moment of truth, he thought. Where will they be sending us this time?
He tore the envelope open, removed the papers and began to read them. Even in his exhausted state, he could not help but flip through the new order with a surge of excitement.
It contained nothing unusual. It was just a standard patrol order assigning the Mackerel to a zone with light shipping activity. Ireland was giving him a run-of-the-mill patrol to get the ship up to speed. That much was obvious to him.
After a cursory glance Tremain keyed the call box on the bulkhead activating the 1MC throughout the ship. “May I have your attention,” he said. He could hear his own voice emanating from the passageway and spaces beyond. “This is the captain. I have just read our patrol order and now I will read it to you.” Tremain paused long enough to notice that the noise coming from the wardroom had ceased. “ ‘Item one, sink enemy shipping. Item two, proceed to 150 degrees East, 7 degrees, 20 minutes North and patrol in the designated patrol zone. Item three, conduct coastal reconnaissance whenever possible.’ The rest of the order is just the standard verbiage that you’ve all heard before.”
He paused for a second before continuing, choosing his words carefully. “Now, today has been a long day for all of us. I want to congratulate you all for an expert job in getting the ship underway on time. Tonight we have an escort by our side, but tomorrow we will leave our escort behind and from then on we will be all alone against the world. So stay sharp. Lookouts should use a good relief rotation. Any more than two hours of looking through a pair of binoculars and a man’s eyes become worthless up there. Remember your basic submarining, gentlemen. You’ve shown me a fine bit of it today. Let’s keep it up. That is all.”
Tremain released the call box switch and sat back in his chair. He wondered if he had done the right thing by letting up on them a little. The hardest part was done now. They were at sea. He had pried them away from their moorings and their desire to wallow in drunken misery on dry land. The ship was now at sea and he could train them out here.
Yes, he thought to himself. He had done the right thing. Now he had to see how they worked together at sea. He had to see how they handled the day-to-day routine of a war patrol. That would be the test.
A knock came at the bulkhead and Petty Officer Mills poked his head through the curtain.
“Can I get you anything, Captain?”
Mills was right on cue, Tremain thought.
“Ask the steward to bring me a cup of coffee, will you, Mills.” Tremain considered for a moment. “Oh, and Mills..”
“Yes, sir?”
“Ask the XO and Chief Freund and the torpedo chief to meet me in the wardroom at 2100, please.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Mills said and then disappeared again behind the drawn curtain.
Tremain considered what he was about to do. No matter how good this crew was at submarining, nothing could help them if their torpedoes did not hit the targets. Tremain was going to get to the bottom of the Mackerel’s torpedo problems, once and for all.
Chapter 6
Chief Torpedoman Ike Konhausen did not know what to make of the new captain. He had seen many captains come and go during his fifteen years in the navy. Most of them he had been able to size up after the first meeting, but this captain was different. He was harsh one minute and complimentary the next. Stoic and cold, and then suddenly warm and personable. He was indeed a hard one to figure out.
As Konhausen walked down the passageway to the wardroom, he pondered why the captain had summoned him. The burly chief had been busted many times in the past. He did not have a spotless record by any sense of the word. In fact, he knew that he was lucky to be wearing the anchors of a chief petty officer. His mouth had always gotten him into trouble in the past. He had a knack for speaking his mind to senior officers, and most of them did not like to hear what was on Konhausen’s mind.
Ever since he got promoted to chief petty officer back in ’42, Konhausen recognized that his habit of speaking out at every opportunity would hurt his chances for further promotion, and now he made every effort to hold his tongue. He had been on good behavior — an entire year without any disciplinary action against him. It seemed almost like a miracle. The salty chief took it as a sign of getting older, or becoming more responsible, or both. Three months ago he became the Chief Torpedoman of the Mackerel, and he was determined not to ruin this new opportunity. But after hearing the captain’s speech this morning, he could not help but simmer. He could not muster up enough self-control to contain his anger, and his ugly temper had flared again.
Earlier that morning as Konhausen led his division through the unexpected torpedo load, he had cursed the captain’s name many times under his breath, sometimes audibly. The stress made him do it even though he knew better. The unreasonable expectations of the new captain made him do it. Now he was sure that somehow the captain had overheard him. Or maybe another officer had overheard his tirade and reported it to the captain. Or maybe it had been the Cob. Maybe even one of the sailors in his division had turned him in. Every scenario ran through the chief ’s mind as he approached the officer passage. This was it, he thought. This time he would lose his anchor, his billet, and maybe even his career.
Reluctantly, Konhausen knocked on the wardroom bulkhead then pushed the curtain aside to enter. He found Tremain, Cazanavette and Chief Freund all sitting around the small table.
“Chief Konhausen reporting, sir.”
“Chief, come in,” Tremain said cordially and motioned to a chair. “Have a seat.”
Konhausen seated himself at the table, waiting for the worst. He felt their eyes locked on him like vultures.
“Chief,” Tremain said. “I’ve called you here to talk about our torpedo problems.”
Konhausen visibly breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t believe it. This was a professional meeting and not a disciplinary one. His anchors were spared once again.
“Now, Chief,” Tremain said, “we both know that Captain Russo wasn’t a bad shot. He was an experienced skipper who knew submarines and knew how to fight with them. I checked out the squadron records from Mackerel's last run on the torpedo range just a few months ago. Among other things, I noticed that Mackerel scored a ninety-eight percent overall in torpedo firings. I find that very impressive.”
Konhausen nodded.
“That’s a good score, Chief. With that kind of shooting on the exercise range, Sammy Russo should have been sinking ships right and left on patrol. Agreed?”
“Yessir.”
“So, it had to be something else.” Tremain fingered the notebook in front of him. “The ship’s logs indicate that the last eight torpedoes fired from this ship failed to hit their mark for one reason or another. Right?”
“They were all Mark 14s. They’re supposed to be good fish, so they should’ve hit.” Konhausen felt like Tremain was about to turn the tables on him, and he suddenly feared the loss of his anchors again. He decided he would not volunteer any more information unless Tremain specifically asked for it.