We had actually gotten a boathook twisted inside this fellow’s life jacket and were hauling him aboard when he broke free. Maneuvering a three-hundred-foot ship sideways is rather a difficult operation, so we had to watch him drown before our eyes. Ensign Buck Dietzen’s comment was perhaps the most appropriate epitaph: “The poor, stupid bastard!”
Brought the second enlisted man alongside. This was a nice looking lad, about nineteen. He was willing to be rescued after more cajoling by our KOREAN through a megaphone. Undressed him completely on deck searching for hidden knives and hand grenades. No lethal weapons found.
Brought the pilot alongside. He had shed his life-jacket, evidently thinking of suicide. He seemed conscious and in good control until close aboard, when he appeared to lose consciousness and became helpless. Lt. PEABODY and SPENCE, GMlc dived over the side with sheath knives and heaving lines tied around them, grabbed the inert Jap, and boosted him over the bow. He was still inert when undressed, and when examined below decks by the Chief Pharmacist’s Mate, whose verdict was that the man was shamming. This was substantiated by the fact that, when startled by the general announcing equipment, he jerked upright, then relaxed into insensibility again. Evidently, having been brought aboard while unable to help it, his honor, or something, had been saved. He apparently had not the nerve to carry out his own suicide order.
We found nothing much of value in the pockets of either of the men we rescued except, perhaps, the notebooks which all Japs apparently carried. These were impounded for delivery upon arrival in port.
It took us nine days to reach Midway. During that time we let our Koreans repay a few old scores by making it obvious that they rated higher than the Japanese. The Korean with the wounded arm was placed in charge of the head-cleaning detail, a chore which our crew naturally hated, and the Jap pilot was placed under him. Since he had no rank insignia or identifying marks, and made no attempt to identify himself as an officer, we had no worries about the Geneva Convention as far as this fellow was concerned. Once the Korean realized what we wanted of him, the crew’s head was kept nearly spotless. The Korean inspected it at least half-a-dozen-times a day. Whenever it showed the least need of cleaning, his broad leathery face would light up, and he would hie himself off in search of his Jap working party.
Shortly before we reached Midway I presented each Korean with ten new one-dollar bills, which we hoped would alleviate to some extent their prison-camp existence. The Japs, of course, received nothing.
A huge crowd, including several movie cameramen, awaited Tirante when she moored alongside the dock at Midway. Several crates of fresh fruit were waiting on the dock for us, along with ten gallons of ice cream — which we didn’t need because Tirante too had her own ice-cream making equipment — and that most desired thing of all, mail from home. A band broke into “Anchors Aweigh” as the first line hit the dock — singularly inappropriately, I thought — and played the tune lustily as we warped our ship alongside. Then it let us have “There’s a Long, Long Trail A-Winding,” which seemed to suit the occasion better.
I dived into a packet of letters, immediately oblivious to everything else. Those from my wife I hurriedly shuffled until I found the latest one, which I immediately opened and read. All was well at home; I stuffed them into a pocket for more private and leisurely perusal. An official-looking missive next drew my attention: I was detached from Tirante, and from such other duties as might have been assigned to me, to report to Submarine Division 322 awaiting the arrival of USS Piper. Upon return of the Piper from patrol I was to report to her commanding officer as his relief.
The band was on “Dixie” as I realized that although my ambitions to have a command of my own were at last to come true, I would have to leave the magnificent fighting machine on whose decks I stood and the wonderful crew of submariners which I had had a hand in shaping.
“Swannie River” was playing as a natty marine captain saluted, then touched my arm to break the spell. I hastily returned the salute, the movement rusty from long disuse. “I’ve come for your prisoners,” he stated. I pointed to the nearest hatch, just opening for the fifth time in as many minutes. Movie cameras perched all about it ground away solemnly as the Jap pilot, blindfolded, wearily climbed up for the fifth time and stood, swaying slightly, on its edge. Another salute, and the marine marched forward to claim his charge. Little did he know what he was in for, I thought, as the cameramen turned their machines on him with delight.
Ralph Pleatman, shocking black hair, smooth rosy complexion, hard as nails, approached with his hand held out. “Congratulations on your patrol,” he said. “You and George have called out the biggest celebration I’ve seen yet on this damned island. Have you heard about your old ship?”
Hope flooded through me. “No. What is it?” Maybe, after all, there was some other explanation for her non-appearance a month ago — maybe she was all right after all…
“Awfully sorry, Ned. She’s three weeks overdue. We’ve turned her in as overdue and presumed lost!” Ralph’s sorrow was genuine, and I knew why he felt he had to bring Trigger up at this moment. He himself had survived Pompano in exactly the same circumstances, and Dave Connole, one of his shipmates then, had also.
“Oh,” was all I could think of saying.
All this time George Street had been surrounded by a group of the biggest brass of Midway Island — not that anybody higher than a Captain in the Navy ever managed to get shunted away in this spot — and now he broke away, beckoned to me.
“Ned,” he said, “The Commodore has invited me to his quarters for dinner tonight. He’s got a big party on for us, and wants you to come too.”
I knew where the Commodore had got the idea of including me, but that didn’t alter the anticipation of a big party with all the trimmings. “Swell,” I said.
The band was playing, “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” which — even for Midway — could be true.
18
Piper
Piper was a strong and well-found ship, and I was happy to get her. She had preceded Tirante out of Portsmouth by only a few months, and was of almost identical design. The only flaw in her, so far as I was concerned, was that she had just begun her second patrol, and I had a long wait ahead of me.
In the meantime, Tirante completed refit at Midway and set forth on her second nm. Ed Campbell had succeeded me as exec, and Jim Donnelly had been promoted into Ed’s job. The rest of the crew was left essentially as before. When George took her out, I personally lifted her number-one line off the bollard, walked down the dock with the bitter end as Chub superintended hauling it in, and pitched it over so that the whole line landed on deck clean and dry. Then I stood on the end of the pier and watched the ship out of sight.
As she drew into the distance a light began to flash from the afterpart of the bridge. I made the Go Ahead sign with my arms. Slowly, so that I would not miss any of the letters, Karlesses — it must have been he — spelled out the message: GOOD LUCK NED K. I stood there a full minute with my arms outstretched in the R sign.