The captain raised his hand and sat down at his desk. “Now, don’t get all excited. Hear me out.”
“Right, sir.”
“You know Sammy Russo?”
“Yes, sir. Spent some time together in the Asiatic. Last I heard he had command of a boat out here.”
“Mackerel. One of my boats.”
Ireland paused for a moment and took several sips of coffee.
“Mackerel just returned from a patrol last week, Jack. She had been assigned to a position off the northeastern coast of Honshu. From the get-go the patrol was Fubar. First week on station, they sighted what they thought was a freighter coming out of Tsugara Straight. They conducted a night approach on the surface and when they got within a thousand yards, you guessed it, their ‘freighter’ turned out to be a Fubuki destroyer. What’s more, before they could submerge and get the hell out of there, the Fubuki saw them and opened up. The bridge was peppered with twenty-five millimeter shells. One lookout, up in the shears, had his head taken clean off. Another lookout, covered with the blood of his shipmate, panicked and jumped over the side. Russo had no choice but to dive and leave the poor boy to the mercy of the sea. Of course, once they were finally down, that Fubuki unloaded every one of its depth charges in a four-hour attack. Close ones, too. Light bulbs blown, valves ruptured — they even had some minor flooding. Eventually, Russo was able to give the Fubuki the slip and the flooding was brought under control. The lost sailor was never recovered.”
“Could’ve happened to anyone, sir. A tough break for Sammy, though.”
“There’s more, Jack. After this brush, Russo assessed the damage, which was relatively light, and ascertained that the patrol could continue. Two days later, they did spot a freighter, a real one this time, and conducted a textbook submerged approach. They shot four fish inside one thousand yards and got no hits. One fish must have run under the target, because they didn’t see any explosion. Two fish exploded prematurely several hundred yards in front of the bastard. The last fish never left the tube and got fouled in the shutter door mechanism.”
“Rotten luck.” Tremain heard himself say this, realized he was being pulled into the story, and determined to himself to remain detached and emotionless.
“All efforts to dislodge it from the tube failed,” Ireland continued. “So they spent the rest of the patrol wondering if the torpedo’s exploder had armed itself — knowing that any heavy sea could set off the warhead and mean instant death for them all.”
“Those damn Bureau of Ordnance idiots keep giving us faulty torpedoes!” Tremain said. He hated that his anger had compromised his promise to himself to remain uninvolved. He told himself to clam up and concentrate on catching his hop back Stateside tonight. Let Ireland fix his own problems without sucking him into them.
“There’s more than that, Jack.”
When only silence followed this remark, Ireland continued.
“Yes. After the torpedo mishap, Russo decided to break off the patrol and head for Midway Island. Before making it out of Japanese waters, they were caught on the surface and strafed by a Zero. Russo submerged the boat and got away, but another man was seriously injured before they could clear the bridge, bringing their total casualty list up to three. After this incident, Russo decided to bring the boat back to Pearl instead of Midway as his patrol orders stated. They arrived last Friday with twenty good torpedoes on board and well over fifty percent of their fuel.”
“Was Sammy okay?”
“He’s just fine … physically.”
Tremain eyed him suspiciously. Then he said, “Captain, I am almost afraid to ask, but why are you telling me all this?”
Ireland rose from his desk and walked over by the window. He said nothing and clasped his hands behind his back. Finally he said, “I lost a boat this month, Jack. She’s missing and presumed sunk.”
“Sorry to hear that, sir.”
“I’ve got another boat with a shell-shocked crew. Do you know what that means?”
“A load of bad luck, sir.”
“Wrong!” Ireland said, suddenly agitated, turning away from the window to face Tremain. “It means that two out of the six submarines in this division are no longer in the war! It means my fighting force has been reduced by one third! It means that this area of Japanese water,” he gestured to the chart on the wall, “which my squadron has been assigned to contain, now has only two submarines guarding it — instead of four!”
Tremain did not know how to respond and so he chose to remain silent.
“It means that Japanese shipping is getting through our submarine net, Jack. Japanese shipping to resupply the Japanese war machine and provide fuel, weapons, ammunition, food, and supplies to the hundreds of enemy outposts throughout the Pacific — outposts that young American soldiers and marines are going to have to land on and fight and die to take. Every ship that gets through means American lives lost.
“I’ll come to the point, Jack. You and I both know that this ‘bad luck’ line is bullshit. To claim “bad luck” is to simply shirk responsibility. It is simply a way to hide problems— serious problems lurking in the unit. The ultimate responsibility in any command resides with the commander. I don’t have to tell you that.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, here it is. I need Mackerel. I need her back in the war — fast. I need her and her twenty-four torpedoes out there sinking enemy ships.” Ireland drew a deep breath. “In peacetime we have the time and convenience to nurture and aid a commander when he’s not cutting it, even to give him a break. Hell, if we had enough boats to cover everywhere we could even give Sammy a break now. But this is not peacetime, Jack, and we’re definitely short on boats. Russo’s been in the war since the beginning. He’s made six war patrols and done more than his part for the war effort, but he’s all used up and his command is suffering for it.”
Tremain cringed inside at what he could see coming a mile off.
“I relieved Sammy of his command earlier this morning, Jack. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I hated to do it, but it had to be done.” Ireland shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “So now I come to the reason you’re here. I need someone to take Sammy’s boat and crew and get them both back into the war. I’ve considered it long and hard. And come to the conclusion you’re that man.” “Sir, there have to be plenty of qualified PCOs in the pipeline to—”
“Sure there are, Jack. I could put a green CO in Sammy’s place and chances are that things would work out just fine— but I don’t have the time or the resources to gamble on that green CO. I need someone who’s been there. Someone who knows how to pick up a crew that’s taken a beating and make them want to go out there for some more.” Suddenly he clapped his hands. Then he leaned forward and wagged his index finger. “Now I know you’ve done your share and you’re looking forward to seeing your wife and getting to that new boat of yours, but I need you here.”
Tremain leaned back in the chair and breathed a long sigh. He thought of Judy’s beautiful red hair waiting for him on the other end of that plane tonight. He wanted so much to see her. She wanted to see him, her husband that had abandoned her to go off and fight in this terrible war. Would she understand again? Or would this be the proverbial straw that broke the back of their strained marriage? Would this be the final blow to their war-blighted domestic bliss?