Wright knew he was getting the “firehose” method of teaching. It was the navy way. The other officers wanted him to be a contributing member of the wardroom as soon as possible, and deep down so did he. He only hoped that he could retain all that he was learning and that he would not let them all down.
“We’re all done here, sir,” the electrician said, rousing the drowsy Wright. “Electrolyte levels are good. Cell voltages are good. Specific gravity is good, too.”
Wright nodded. He would believe anything the electrician told him at this point.
They both crawled up through the access hatch, which opened into the officers’ quarters’ passage. Wright then followed the electrician aft through a hatch into the darkened control room, then through another hatch into the galley and crews’ mess, then through another hatch into the crews’ quarters, then into the forward engine room with its two noisy diesels banging away. Another hatch led into the aft engine room with two more diesels. Finally they reached the manuevering room. Here they found three sailors standing watch at the panels that controlled the ship’s diesel generator loading and the ship’s electrical distribution system. George Olander, the gray-haired southern engineer, leaned against the bulkhead behind them with his arms crossed, his eyes conducting a cursory review of the gauges on the multiple control panels in the room. He nodded to Wright briefly, then continued scanning the panel readings.
The electrician checked off the last blocks on his checklist and went to confer with the electrical control panel operator. As the two sailors discussed how they would conduct the battery charge, Wright struggled to find the energy to pay attention. It was hard to hear what they were saying over the loud diesels. He felt as though his brain had been drained enough for one day.
Olander noticed that he was having trouble staying awake and reached over to jostle him.
“Oh, sorry,” Wright said, feigning alertness.
The engineer shrugged and yelled above the engines, “It happens, Wright.” Looking him up and down, he added, “Why don’t you go to the rack? You look like you’ve had enough for one day. You don’t need to be back here around all this machinery dead on your feet. Just about everything back here can kill you or seriously mangle you in one way or another. Go get some rest.”
Wright nodded. He didn’t say anything. He was too tired to find the words. He just headed forward, thankful for the kindness of the emotionless engineer. He made his way back to the forward compartments and headed directly for his stateroom. As he was passing through the darkened control room, one of the sailors on watch stopped him.
“Mr. Wright? That you, sir?”
The room was rigged red for night so it was difficult to distinguish faces.
“Yes.”
“Mr. O’Connell wants you to come up to the bridge, sir.”
“What?” Wright could not believe it. What was O’Connell doing to him? He was now convinced that O’Connell was either trying to kill him or deliberately prevent him from getting any sleep whatsoever.
“Mr. O’Connell wants you to come up to the bridge. You’re his JOOD.”
Wright looked at his watch and sighed. It would have been nice if O’Connell had let him know he was going to have to stand watch tonight. Maybe he could have gotten some sleep somewhere between the stores and weapons load, the line handling, the piloting, the rig for dive, or the battery charging line up.
Somebody handed him a pair of binoculars as he headed up the ladder to the bridge. Emerging from the bridge hatch and into the cool ocean air, he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The red light was supposed to reduce the adjustment time, but he hadn’t been in the control room long enough for his eyes to get conditioned.
He felt a wisp of cool spray touch the back of his neck. It somewhat revived him, as did the fresh air. Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had not been outside the hull since he had come down from the line handling that afternoon.
“Ryan!” O’Connell’s voice came out of the darkness. “Good to see you. How’d the battery charge line up go?”
Wright’s eyes adjusted and he could make out O’Connell’s form leaning against the bridge coaming, his grinning teeth glimmering in the moonlight.
He must think this is really funny, Wright thought.
“Lieutenant Olander told me to head to the rack. Said it was dangerous for me to be this tired. Frankly, I agree with him.”
Wright immediately wished he had not said it. He did not want to look like he was some kind of whiner. He glanced up at the lookouts in the periscope shears, fearing that they too might have heard him. He didn’t want them to think he was not willing to do his fair share. He didn’t want them to start passing around the crew’s mess that Ensign Wright was a slug.
O’Connell’s grin did not disappear. If he had heard Wright’s comment, he gave no indication of it.
“Come here,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
Wright walked over to the bridge coaming.
“Look out there.” He was pointing away from the ship. Wright looked out at the sea. It was a crystal clear night with a cool moist breeze in the air. An occasional cloud dotted the star-filled sky. The ocean was calm and the moonlit water stretched unimpeded all the way to the horizon. Mackerel’s white wake glowed fluorescent green with the microorganisms it stirred up, leaving a phosphorescent trail to mark the submarine’s path. The only sounds to be heard were the purring of the diesels and the crashing of Mackerel's knife-like bow as it cut a path through the ocean waves. It was all beautiful. In fact, it was the most beautiful and breathtaking thing Wright had ever seen. He had imagined how it would be, but to see it and feel it was something different altogether. It felt like their little ship was all alone in the world, traveling through an infinite space to a destination unknown.
Wright suddenly felt very small and he forgot about his fatigue. He forgot about the war. He forgot about everything.
“ ‘If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me,’ ” O’Connell quoted, quietly. “I always think of that psalm on the first night out. It’s kind of fitting, don’t you think?”
Wright nodded, still overcome by the view.
“Why don’t you go below and get some sleep, Ryan.” O’Connell smiled at him. “You did good today. Don’t worry, you’re going to fit in just fine. You’ve been assigned to my watch section as junior officer of the deck. I can take care of it tonight, but be ready to stand watch with me tomorrow.” He pointed to the darkened shape following astern of the Mackerel. “Tomorrow, we lose our escort and then we’re officially on war patrol. Okay?”
It was the first time O’Connell had spoken to him without the joker tone in his voice.
“Thanks, Rudy.” Wright smiled back at him then headed down the ladder and straight to his stateroom. He didn’t even remove his uniform. He simply collapsed on his bunk and fell sound asleep.
Chapter 7
“Captain to the bridge! Captain to the bridge!”
The 1MC speaker blaring near his head stirred Tremain out of a REM sleep. He had just been enjoying a dream in which he and Judy sat chatting in a coffee house in some cold New England town like they had done so many times before. He could not remember what she was telling him in the dream, but the absurdity of her last statement, “Captain to the bridge,” woke him.
It was the first time he had been called to the bridge using 1MC since Mackerel arrived in the Caroline Islands a week ago. He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. It was nearing noontime in this part of the Pacific Ocean. Rolling out of his rack, he sat for a second and slurped down a lingering half cup of cold coffee that was sitting on the desk. Pulling on his shirt, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and headed to the conning tower where he met Cazanavette peering over the radar operator’s shoulder.