Ghostboat (31 page)

Of course, the same problem kept nagging at him. If they followed the log and arrived safely at Latitude 30° on the 11th of December, just how safe would they be? There the log ended. Would this cruise end there too? His mind raced for an answer while he read portions of the log to the crew, letting them know exactly what they were in for. He finished with a carefully worded statement: “We will reach our objective with an eye-opening war record behind us. When we get there, let’s
keep
our eyes open. We must make this work to our advantage—if we’re to come through it alive.”

No slipups—that was the important thing. He ordered the duty officer of each watch to familiarize himself with the log for the current day, make notes, and delegate men to follow prescribed courses of action.

By 1800, the men were breathing easier, gradually breaking out of their melancholy and shifting into a state of excitement. They were beginning to see the whole voyage from the positive points of view: getting even for Byrnes, living through World War Two, something to tell their kids when they got home. Frank was gratified.

The new Captain returned to his old quarters just after supper and went to clean out his locker. He keyed open the padlock and withdrew clothes, shirt and pants, socks and underwear, and piled them into the arms of the steward.

His hand froze when he touched Basquine’s log. It had remained locked up in here since last night. Now he would have to take it with him.

As soon as his gear was stashed in the locker in the captain’s cabin, Frank found himself opening the log. December 2nd was there, and December 3rd, complete up to the minute. But something in the description of the strafing bothered him. Something was missing. The time of the attack was right, the number of planes, description of the armament, of the damage, the two quick passes before
Candlefish
dived, the rush to get under, surfacing again to inspect the damage. Yet something was missing.

He opened Hardy’s log again. The same facts, the same time, planes, number of passes, bullet holes. No casualties, of course. The crew had survived without a single fatality. He felt fine again. It was all there. He closed Hardy’s log and consigned it to a cubbyhole. He placed the Captain’s day-to-day log in the front of the hinged desk and tipped it shut.

Then he stretched out on the bunk and drifted off to sleep.

“No casualties,” he mumbled, and clucked himself a round of congratulations.

At 2000 the
Candlefish
surfaced into the western Pacific twilight. Frank stood with Hardy on the bridge, sweeping the horizon with Byrnes’s binoculars. Frank checked his watch and then spoke softly.

“Professor, only forty-five minutes to go.”

“I know.”

“How does it feel?”

“What?”

“Living through it again.”

“Mr. Frank, I think if we sight that convoy we should run like hell.”

Frank was silent, measuring Hardy with growing mistrust. “One minute you say ‘Follow my log.’ The next you say ‘Skip it’ Make up your mind, Professor.”

Hardy turned and pressed his elbow back on the bridge coaming. “I’m just not sure.”

“Well, I am. We’re here and we have to make the best of it. We’re not going to run like hell. We’re going to
shoot
like hell.”

“Why?”

Hardy never got an answer. Frank was called below to control by the tracking party so they could plan what was to be done when the convoy showed up.

Hardy went below too, and stepped into the crew’s mess with a cup of coffee. The relaxed faces were sporting beards in various stages of growth. There must have been a contest afoot among the men.

Then he noticed other changes in the crew. The men had taken to wearing their t-shirts on duty, instead of their blue Navy fatigues. And the haircuts... Witzgall’s sideburns and the curls around Googles’s neck were gone. What was going on? The men were starting to look like throwbacks. Maybe the Navy does it to you, he thought. He had crossed to the hatch on his way to the forward engine room when someone in the opposite corner caught his eye. He was tucked into a bench, engrossed in what looked to be one of Jenavin’s old OCS manuals. It was one of the quartermasters... Lang was his name. Lang? So Lang wanted to get into OCS?

Hardy felt a brief chill but continued aft, curiosity drawing him on. He was conscious of music piped in over the intercom, but he couldn’t tell what it was until he entered the crew’s quarters, where they had it turned up.

The strains of Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” filtered over to him, and Hardy thought for a moment someone had found old Rah-Rah Stanhill’s record collection and had piped it through from the record player in the crew’s mess. But no—he heard the sounds of static and then the shuffle of hash as Giroux sought a better station. It was the radio. And they were playing Glenn Miller. Nostalgia time at home. Giroux settled on a louder signal, and the men started to hum along to the Harry James version of “You Made Me Love You.” More ‘40s nostalgia. Amazing that these guys knew the songs so well.

The bunks were ranged with off-duty crewmen, asleep, reading, telling jokes, griping. A couple were playing checkers. Hardy’s gaze came around to Clampett, the torpedoman, the fresh youngster with the natural disdain for anyone over thirty. Yet he was mouthing the words of the song while standing in front of the Ann Sheridan poster with his arms folded across his chest. His pose was terribly familiar. Hardy backed away in shock, positive that he was staring at the reincarnation of Corky Jones. He turned and fled the crew’s quarters, stumbling back through the engine room until he found Cassidy.

The Chief was tucked into his bunk over main engine number two. He was fast asleep a foul-smelling pipe clutched in his gnarled palm. Hardy shook him awake. Cassidy opened one eye, saw who it was, made a face, and closed the eye again.

“Cassidy!” Hardy hissed in his ear.

“Go away.” Hardy shook him again. The eye opened, and Cassidy growled. “Wake me when it’s World War Three.”

He turned over and pulled the covers over his head. Hardy stepped back, confused, unsure what to do, who to tell.

Brownhaver turned up the radio so it drowned out the whine of the two diesels, and Hardy heard Giroux shifting stations again—garbled static, then a faraway transmission caught for a moment, long enough for him to determine exactly what it was. Christmas music—a choir singing “Silent Night.” Momentarily relieved, Hardy sank back against the engine stand.

Then the final irony. The voices on the radio—the sweet sacred tones:

Silent night,
 

Holy night.

All is calm; all is bright

Round yon Virgin Mother and Child—

The voices were Japanese, singing in English!

Then another voice cut in, the r’s and l’s of his speech hopelessly transposed: “Melly Chlistmas, Yanks! It’s the rast one you ever see!”

Threats over the radio had never scared Hardy, not even in 1944. So this one didn’t frighten him now. But Brownhaver’s response scared him out of his wits. The old oiler looked up at the intercom speaker and let out a Bronx cheer that drowned out the engines, the radio, and the chorus of “Fuck you’s!” that came in from the crew’s quarters.

Hardy lunged off the bulkhead and blasted through the engine room, swung through the hatch to the crew’s quarters, paused to take in the defiant laughing faces, then raced forward.

He had to find Frank.

He burst into the control room, and Stigwood saw his wild look “Captain’s on the bridge...”

Hardy shot up the ladder and through the con to the bridge. He whirled and grabbed Frank’s arm. “Frank... my God, there’s something going on here. The crew—”

“What the hell is eating you now?”

Hardy was surprised at Frank’s unpleasantness, but he went on. “The crew. They’re acting funny. They were listening to the radio, and we got this Japanese broadcast and it was like it didn’t even matter to them—they were—”

“Hardy.” Frank groaned in exasperation. “What are you talking about?”

“They were acting... the way we used to... thirty years ago.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Frank snapped, “I’ve got enough on my mind without you adding to it!”

Hardy dropped Frank’s arm, stunned. It was like listening to Byrnes all over again. Was Frank picking up where Byrnes had left off?

It was almost 2100, and the sky had grown terribly dark. If the convoy ever showed, they were going to have, a devil of a time spotting it. Have to use infrared on the scopes, Hardy was thinking, letting himself forget the crew for a moment. He had to—they were faced with the imminent appearance of a target—

Scopes’s voice came over the speaker, calm and controlled:

“Radar to bridge. Captain... we have radar contact, bearing zero-one-one degrees true, zero-eight-one relative. Range, eighty-five hundred yards.”

“Captain—smoke on the horizon,” a lookout called softly.

Frank stood stiffly, frozen to the spot. He didn’t respond. Hardy came around him, stared at his face. It had become colorless and beaded with sweat. Hardy shook him angrily. “Come on, Frank—you’ve got your goddamned convoy!”

Slowly Frank came to his senses and turned, raising his binoculars. He focused on a roll of black smoke in the distance, dimly visible in the sparse moonlight.

“Be smart for once,” Hardy said. “Let’s get out of here. Don’t tempt it.”

Hardy turned and went for the hatch; he was stopped by a cold voice.

“Not so fast.”

Hardy looked up at the tight face. But Frank never even got the chance to give his order. They were both thrown off-balance as the submarine picked up speed with a wrenching jerk.

And turned to confront the approaching target

CHAPTER 17

December 3

The helmsman felt a sudden tug on the wheel. He fought to haul it back and found that he couldn’t. It kept pulling hard starboard. Abruptly it popped out of his grasp and steadied itself. “Son of a bitch!” he yelped, kid stepped back.

“This is the Captain. What’s going on down there?” Frank’s voice came over the battle phone.

Dorriss flew to the compass and checked their heading. The sub was coming about to course 030.

“Got a problem, sir,” he called up to the bridge.

The senior controllerman in the maneuvering room looked up sharply as the motor-order telegraph rang up ALL AHEAD FULL without a command relayed by the talker.

“I didn’t hear an order,” said the junior.

“Go wake Hopalong.”

On the bridge, Hardy was peering at the first column of black smoke through the vanes of the TBT, the Target Bearing Transmitter. “There’s more than one,” he said.

Radar called up, “Second radar contact, sir. Bearing twelve degrees true, zero-eight-two relative. Range, eighty-three hundred yards. Both contacts possible Mam tankers.”

Frank stared off at the horizon and saw more columns of black smoke, one behind another. The convoy was on a southeast heading, spread out flank to flank and staggered. Where were the escorts?

“Captain, this is the conning officer.” It was Dorriss, trying to restrain his excitement. “We’ve changed course; we’re on a heading to intercept the radar contacts, sir.”

They could feel the engines revving up to top speed. Hardy looked back at the stern vanes: They were churning up a wake as long as a football field, froth-white and glistening in the sparse moonlight. The sub was sure to be spotted. They hit a hard trough; the bow shot up out of the water and crashed down the steep side of the wave. Spray shot up over the forward deck. Every rivet strained in vibration as the
Candlefish
built up surface speed.

Hardy jumped to the phone. “Engine room—what speed are you making down there?”

Cassidy dashed to the maneuvering room in time to see the levers manipulating themselves, then hurried back to his station. He arrived in time for Hardy’s call. He checked the indicators, and his eyes shot open. “Bridge, this is Cassidy. I make it eighteen knots.”

In control, Roybell whirled to the pit log and watched it climb: 18... 19... 19½...

“We’re gonna break the fuckin’ speed records!” he yelled up to the bridge.

Hardy turned to see what Frank had decided. But Frank was standing rooted to the spot, staring at the targets hull-down on the horizon, shielding his eyes from the spray. They were making headway in a worsening sea. In a few moments the contacts would creep into open view—and so would the
Candlefish.

“Frank! What are you gonna do?”

Frank didn’t answer. Hardy was suddenly frightened that it might all fall to him. And then the klaxon went off—three resounding blasts.

The lookouts nearly jumped out of their skins.

In the conning tower, the helmsman swore again as the wheel jumped out of his hand. And Dorriss stared up at the bridge and muttered a question: “Dive?”

In the control room, Stigwood instinctively ducked a shoulder as he felt a lever at his side move. When he looked up he saw the diving-plane levers moving free of any guiding hands. He grabbed them and tried to hold them in position.