Silent Sea

CHAPTER 18

Mike Brannon walked into the Wardroom and found Captain Mealey sitting there, a cup of coffee in front of him. The Captain reached for his pipe and tobacco and began to fill his pipe with slow, deliberate motions.

“As part of my last duties as the wolf-pack commander,” he said, “I think we should get off a report at once telling Pearl Harbor and Fremantle what ships we sank and what the Sea Chub sank and advise Fremantle that we are returning to port because we have only one torpedo left. Advise Fremantle that Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub have been sent to the original patrol area by my order. That’s the only mention I want made of Hatchet Fish in this message. Advise Fremantle of our course and ETA. I don’t want some trigger-happy submarine skipper shooting at us on our way home because he doesn’t know we’re supposed to be going through his area.”

Mealey stopped and sipped at his coffee, and then he lit his pipe. “I don’t know how you go about getting ready to write a contact and action report, Mike. But if I may make a suggestion: So much was going on during our action, so damned much, that rather than leave something out it might be a good idea to get everyone in here and get the benefit of their recollections. With the plots, of course. I think if we do that we’ll have a very comprehensive report, and that’s what Captain Rudd is going to need. We can do that right after the noon meal.”

“If I may suggest it, sir…” Brannon’s face was concerned. “You look awfully tired.”

“I know how I look,” Mealey said. “I washed my face when I came below. I am not that tired, sir, nor that old. I am forty-one years old this past birthday. This is supposed to be the prime of my adult life, at least intellectually. What you see in my face, sir, is not weariness. It is disgust.

“I am sick to my stomach, sir. Sicker than I have ever been in my life, and the sickness is not due to anything I ate.”

“I understand, sir,” Brannon said softly.

“Do you?” Mealey’s eyes were boring into Brannon. “Yes. You probably do. You’re Irish. You would understand.” He looked up as Pete Mahaffey came into the Wardroom with a carafe of coffee.

“Captain,” Mahaffey said to Brannon, “cook wants to know if he can feed steak for the noon meal. Cook figures Captain Mealey needs some more red meat.” His cheerful face split in a wide grin.

“Absolutely,” Brannon said.

“One steak or two for you, sir?” Mahaffey said to Captain Mealey.

“One. Very rare.”

The contact report from the Eelfish arrived at the Bend of the Road while Admiral Christie was holding a staff meeting. He read the message and bounced to his feet, waving the message flimsy in the air.

“Mealey smashed that task force to bits!” he shouted. “He sank, let me see, it says here he sank one small aircraft carrier, a tanker, a freighter loaded with ammunition, a troop transport — he says he saw hundreds of troops in the water — and two destroyers! My God!

“He says the rest of the task force hauled ass back toward Manila Bay. Call General MacArthur right away, Sam. This can make a hell of a difference to his plans.” He sat down in his chair, holding the message in front of him.

“Oh, this makes my day! My whole week! That crusty old S.O.B., he was right. The wolf pack idea is a good one.”

“How many Captain Mealeys do we have in our skipper locker to run wolf packs?” Sam Rivers said dryly. “And what about Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub?”

“Let me see, I didn’t even read the whole thing. Oh, he says that Shelton in Sea Chub got a troop transport and has two prisoners and that he got a destroyer.” He read through the message again. “That’s strange, not one word about Hatchet Fish’s part in the action. The only time he mentions Captain Marble and Hatchet Fish is at the end where he says he ordered the other two boats to proceed to the original patrol area under command of Chet Marble. That’s very strange.”

“Not to me,” the Operations Officer growled. “Old Chet Marble was probably hunting for a way to get away from that action if I know him. Either the water wasn’t deep enough or it was too deep or the Japanese destroyers were vicious. He’d find some reason not to put his ass in danger.”

“Now wait a minute, Sam,” Admiral Christie said. “We don’t have Chet’s side of the story. Maybe he lost touch with Mealey, maybe his communications got fouled up. Maybe Mealey deployed him way out in left field and he couldn’t get into the fight. We just don’t know.”

“I know one thing,” Sam Rivers growled. “Being with Mealey must have done something for Shelton in Sea Chub. If he got two ships he must be creamin’ his shorts! He’s never hit a ship up until now, and he’s made three war patrols.”

In Pearl Harbor Captain Mealey’s boss, a tall, beefy, red-faced four-striper named Bob Rudd, was eating dinner in the Officers’ Club when a Marine Sergeant came up to his table and handed him a sealed envelope. He opened the envelope by running a thick index finger between the flap and the back of the envelope, pulled the message out, and read it. His eyes widened, and he read the message again; then he leaped to his feet with a whoop that startled the other diners, grabbed a roll and stuffed it in his pocket, and ran for the door. Back at his office he sat down at his desk and began dialing telephone numbers. When his staff had assembled in a cluster in front of his desk he held up the message he had received in the O-Club.

“I didn’t drag you away from your dinners for nothing, fellas. Listen to this.” He read the message slowly and then reread it.

“That old bastard did it again! He purely knocked the living shit out of those people and sent them running back to Manila Bay! Christ, he even got Jim Shelton to bust his cherry. He isn’t a virgin any more, he got two ships. But he doesn’t say anything about the other boat in the wolf pack. Chet Marble in Hatchet Fish. Must be Marble is still a virgin. Something funny there, but we’ll know about it soon enough.” He turned to his Operations Officer.

“Walt, make a copy of this and hand deliver it to those people in Ultra. Read it out loud to the whole damned bunch. They did an absolutely superb job of pinpointing the assembly and the departure of that task force, and we owe them one hell of a lot of thanks. So let them know how we feel.”

“Maybe if I go down into that damned cubbyhole of theirs with something like this,” the Operations Officer said with a small grin, “maybe if I give them something like this that weird guy in charge who walks around in a damned smoking jacket and slippers will finally give me the time of day. Every time I’ve had to talk to him he just looks right through me and grunts.”

“I don’t give a damn if he grunts or if he wants to wear bathing trunks and a diver’s helmet. Mr. Rochefort is a damned genius, that’s what the son of a bitch is.

“Now, the rest of you: First thing tomorrow morning call a meeting of all Squadron Commanders. I’ll have copies made of Mealey’s message by then.

“We are going to wolf pack, fellas. Mealey’s proved it can be done and by God, we’ll do it!” He reached for the telephone. “You people can go back to doing what you were doing when I called you. Breakfast staff meeting at zero seven hundred tomorrow.” He put the phone to his ear and spoke to the yeoman outside his office.

“Get me Admiral Nimitz, son. Get him no matter what he’s doing, even if he’s in the sack with some broad.” He waited, drumming his fingers on the desk.

“Sorry to take you away from dinner, Admiral,” he said, “but I knew you’d want to know this.” He began to read the message from Captain Mealey.

The arrival of the Eelfish in Fremantle was a celebration. A fire tug, its fire nozzles spouting great arcs of water, accompanied the Eelfish into the harbor, where ships responded with congratulatory blasts of their whistles. The Eelfish slid in alongside the outboard submarine of the clutch of submarines nestled alongside the submarine tender. A crew of ship’s carpenters was waiting with a section of wooden platform to lay over the torn deck near the afterdeck gun. The gangway was run over when the carpenters had finished, and Admiral Christie raced down the gangway, his hand outstretched to Captain Mealey.

“Just absolutely damned great, Arvin!” Christie boomed.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Mealey said. He released the Admiral’s hand and stood to one side so the Admiral could pump Mike Brannon’s hand. The Admiral looked up and down the deck. “If this is all that’s busted up we can take care of that in no time. No leaks? You must have taken a hell of a pounding.”

“Nothing major, sir,” Brannon said.

“Good,” Christie said. “Staff meeting at fourteen hundred hours, gentlemen, at my headquarters. Captain Mealey, Captain Brannon, your Executive Officer.” His bright eyes fastened on Captain Mealey.

“I’m told that Admiral Nimitz is so damned happy that he’s turning cartwheels, or so Bob Rudd says. I’d be doing the same thing if I could turn cartwheels. Mike, the buses will be here at eleven hundred thirty hours. Dress blues, white hats, shined shoes. It’s winter here now. Gets a little cold in the evening and at night. Noon meal will be served at the hotel. Paymaster will be in the lobby after the noon meal. See you this afternoon.” He turned and bounded over the gangway, followed by his staff. A Lieutenant and three Chief Petty Officers who had been standing patiently on the submarine alongside came over the gangway. The Lieutenant saluted Mike Brannon. “I’m Lieutenant Pinter,” he said. “We’re the relief crew people. I guess we’d better meet in the Forward Torpedo Room, sir. Not much room up here.”

Mike Brannon looked at the shattered decks of his ship. His crew was perched in the wreckage, eating apples and oranges and reading their mail. He turned to John Olsen.

“Tell Chief Flanagan to get the other Chiefs up in the Forward Room. Round up the Division Officers. Tell Flanagan that uniform of the day is dress blues and white hats. Buses will be here at half hour before noon. Noon meal in the hotel. Payday after that.”

Brannon noticed a difference when he got out of the car Admiral Christie had sent for them. The Marine sentry at the gate wore a broad smile. An aide of the Admiral’s was waiting in the lobby to lead them down the long hall to the conference room. Walking behind Captain Mealey, Brannon whispered to Olsen.

“Makes a difference when you’ve had a real good patrol. Those people didn’t know we existed the last time we were here. Now they’re all smiles.” Olsen nodded and grinned.

Admiral Christie and his staff were waiting in the conference room. Christie shook hands again with Mealey and Mike Brannon and with John Olsen. The staff lined up to offer their congratulations.

“Get yourselves some coffee and sit down, gentlemen,” Christie said. He shuffled a stack of papers in front of him. “We’ve all read your patrol report, Captain Mealey, Captain Brannon. So this debriefing shouldn’t take too long.” He looked at Mealey.

“Arvin, I’ve got to say that what you and Mike Brannon did on that night must have been one of the wildest sixty minutes in the history of submarine warfare. I’ve read God only knows how many patrol reports and ship action reports, and I’ve read widely in the history of submarine warfare, the reports from British ship captains in the Atlantic Theater. Nothing comes close to your report.”

“We should have done better,” Mealey said in a dry voice. “I missed with too many torpedoes. Captain Brannon missed with some of his shots, but that was mainly my fault. I had the conn and I was maneuvering radically, and he didn’t know which way I was going to go.” His right forefinger crept up and touched the right side of his white mustache.

“I will say those torpedoes we missed with did serve a purpose. They kept two or three Japanese destroyers from ramming us. They turned away when they saw the torpedo wakes.”

“They could see your torpedo wakes at night?” Sam Rivers said.

“Yes, Sam, you can see torpedo wakes at night. There’s a lot of phosphorescence in that water. The wake stands out like a chalk mark in the black water,” Mealey said.

“Didn’t know that,” Rivers muttered.

“The hits you did get, and there were plenty of them,” Christie said, “all good solid explosions? No low-order detonation?”

“Excellent warheads and exploders,” Mealey said. “Rather astounding results on a couple of them. We apparently hit the aviation fuel tanks in that small carrier, because she burned like a big torch. The one freighter I hit started to explode like a Fourth of July display at a county fair. It must have been loaded with ammunition. I’ve been told that their tankers are often hard to sink because of their excellent compartmentation and watertight integrity, but the one we hit simply went up with a big roar.” He looked at Admiral Christie.

“Any word from the rest of the wolf pack, sir?”

“Yes,” Christie said. “Jim Shelton in Sea Chub went after the rest of the ships of the task force that had turned back to Manila Bay. He confirmed that they did return, as did an Ultra message two days later. The Ultra people also confirmed every one of your ships, gentlemen. Higher tonnages than you had estimated on the tanker and the freighter. I have a copy of the Ultra report here for you. Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub are on their way back here. They’ll be in day after tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t they go on to the patrol area?” Mealey snapped. “Those were my orders.”

“Admiral Nimitz ordered four submarines that were in the area just north of your patrol area to form up as a wolf pack and take over that spot,” Christie said. “All four of those skippers had the benefit of some long discussions, or so I gather, with Bob Rudd and Nimitz about wolf-pack operations. So they won’t be going in cold, so to speak. They know what they want to do.” He looked at Mealey.

“Where did you station Hatchet Fish and Sea Chub, Captain?”

“As I mentioned in our action report and our patrol report, sir, we stationed Hatchet Fish three miles to the east of the proposed attack area and slightly to the south. Sea Chub was stationed three miles east and slightly north. I thought it reasonable from a seaman’s point of view, and Captain Brannon concurred, that the task-force captains would not attempt to reverse course and go back through that narrow gut between Luzon and Mindoro. “I reasoned that when they came under my attack they would bolt the task-force formation and go east, breaking off to the north and south. Sea Chub got the troop transport when the captain of that ship did precisely that. He slanted off to the northeast in an effort to get away from the attack. Sea Chub stopped to pick up two prisoners and a life ring. I think that was good thinking on his part.” Mealey’s long forefinger rose and touched the side of his mustache.

“Speaking for myself alone, Admiral, I deeply appreciate the attack made by Sea Chub on the destroyers that had pinned us down for some nine hours, but I submit. .” His face hardened, and the pale blue eyes bored at Admiral Christie. “I submit, sir, that they took one hell of a long damned time to make up their mind to attack!”

“That’s a grave charge, Captain Mealey,” the Admiral said. “We haven’t been told his side of the story. He may have had some problem in materiel. We don’t know.”

“Granted,” Mealey said, his voice dry.

“And Hatchet Fish?” Admiral Christie’s voice was almost silken in tone.

“I intend to prefer charges of cowardice against that man!” Mealey snapped. “He lay out there, six thousand yards from the action, safe and sound. He could see the fires of our targets — Sea Chub saw them. He could hear the Japanese destroyers giving us hell — Sea Chub heard them. He made no effort to come to our assistance. I demand, sir, that he be relieved of command, and if there is any way I can do it I am going to have that man hung!”

There was a dead silence around the conference table. Mike Brannon moved restlessly in his chair. John Olsen sat very still, his eyes on Captain Mealey. The silence was broken at last by Captain Sam Rivers, the Operations Officer.

“Captain Marble has informed us that you gave him very strict orders to maintain his patrol position. He says you sent him no orders to join in the action, as you say in your action report you did. If, sir, I may say this without prejudice on my part, I am merely reading what Captain Marble has said — he charges you with hogging the action. Those are his words, hogging the action so that you could attack the targets and get, ahem, another medal.” He sat hack in his chair, his powerful chest and shoulders rigid.

Captain Mealey turned to Admiral Christie. “A moment ago, sir, you said I had made a grave charge against the Captain of the Sea Chub when I said he took too damned long to come to our aid. Captain Marble has made a heinous charge against me, and I demand satisfaction.” He paused, and Mike Brannon could see him fighting for composure and control.

“I demand, sir, with all due respect to you, that the commanding officers of the Sea Chub and the Hatchet Fish face me in this room, before you and your staff, sir, and we’ll find out who the damned liars are!”

Admiral Christie stared at the table in front of him for a long moment and then raised his face.

“Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Captain Mealey, I cannot grant your legitimate request.

“Admiral Nimitz has ordered you home to Pearl by the fastest possible means. A plane is available tomorrow morning. I must insist that you be on it.” His normally jovial face was grim, almost sad.

“If I were you, sir, I would thank Captain Rudd when you get back. He received a copy of your action report. He has been informed of Captain Marble’s charge. I think he anticipated your reaction, and he has added his own urgent request for your immediate return. His exact words in a cable to me are…” He shuffled in the papers in front of him. “He said, and I quote, tell the S.O.B. that we’ve won a little war and there is no reason to risk another battle, unquote. You undoubtedly know what Captain Rudd is referring to, sir. Now…” His face brightened.

“I cannot recommend you for another Congressional Medal of Honor, as much as I, all of us here, want to. So we have settled for a Navy Cross. Captain Brannon is to get a Navy Cross also, and Mr. Olsen, for his sterling work as the Executive Officer of the Eelfish in what will go down in our history sir, as the Battle of the Sibuyan Sea.

“We have also decided to award every member of the Wardroom a Silver Star. We’ve never done that before, but we think they deserve it.” The Admiral stood up, and the people around the table rose in response. He looked at Captain Mealey and Mike Brannon.

“Gentlemen,” he said softly, “if we had an Arvin Mealey and a Mike Brannon on every submarine and if every submarine we had was an Eelfish this war would be over now. Please accept my heartfelt thanks and congratulations.”

Later, standing in the lobby waiting for the car to take them back to the Eelfish, Captain Mealey turned as Captain Sam Rivers walked up. He looked up at the taller man and put his hand on Mealey’s arm.

“Chet Marble is being relieved of command with prejudice, sir,” he said in a low tone. “The Admiral has decided to give Jim Shelton another chance, now that you’ve shown him how to sink ships.”

“With prejudice?” Mealey said.

“He’s going to the Navy Yard in San Diego,” Rivers said. “That, sir, is prejudice, and it won’t look good in his service jacket. Be content.” He turned and walked away, his short, squat figure rigid.

Mike Brannon sat astride a chair in his stateroom, resting his arms on the chair back, and watched Captain Mealey pack.

Mealey turned to him, holding his razor in his hand. “You should understand a little more about politics by now, Mike. For a minute or two I forgot what I’d learned at Pearl Harbor. Captain Rudd never forgets. He knew I’d blow my stack about Chet Marble. So he’s getting me back there where he can keep a tight rein on my big mouth.” He smiled briefly. “Captain Marble has very powerful friends in Washington. Admiral Christie will have to run the risk of those people.”

Brannon shifted on his chair. “I want to say something, sir, but I don’t want it to come out the wrong way. If you ever command another wolf pack I’d be honored to serve under you, sir.”

“You would?” Mealey said. “You know what Bob Rudd called me, the S.O.B.?”

“Oh, sure,” Brannon said. “Everyone knows you’re the S.O.B. I heard a fireman in the engine room one day before we started this patrol run say to an engineman that the old S.O.B. was sailing with us. He was proud you were aboard. We all feel that way, sir. If a man can sail with you he could sail with the devil himself.” He flushed. “I didn’t mean it to come out that way, sir.”

Mealey stared at Brannon. “You’re a little bit too sentimental, Captain. That could be a weakness unless you keep it under control.” He picked up a suitcase and moved toward the door of the stateroom.

“You’re a damned good seaman, Mike, and one damned good fighting man. Don’t change.”

Brannon watched as Pete Mahaffey picked the bag Mealey had been carrying out of his hand and went into the Forward Torpedo Room. John Olsen stuck his head in the stateroom.

“We have to come back to the tender tomorrow to get paid, sir.”

“Oh, hell,” Brannon said. “I was going to invite you to a good dinner downtown, on me, to celebrate your Navy Cross. Not every day that the Executive Officer gets a Navy Cross. But I’m broke.”

“I’m a single dude,” Olsen said. “I’ve got some money.”

“Good,” Brannon said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“You can pay me back tomorrow,” Olsen said.