A quick evaluation. No visible dents or even scratches on Eel’s smooth rounded side. With the tanker propeller stopped as the two vessels ground past each other, it was even possible that momentary contact with the propeller had merely rotated it slightly to where the blades cleared. At worst, a single blade might be bent near the tip, and there might be a dent in the corresponding part of the Eel’s underwater surface. The only visible damage was on the submarine’s bridge, where the side plating had been smashed in and the TBT cavity crushed out of recognizable shape.
“Good thing he hit us on the bulletproof steel bulwark,” said Buck, grimacing. “That’s pretty strong stuff. With the tug pulling, that bump pushed us out of the way. I don’t believe we hit at all, down below, so there’s really no damage.”
“That’s what I think, too. This whole bridge is going to be ripped off in Hunter’s Point when the snorkel is put in, you know. So, far as Brazil’s concerned, there’s no damage at all. Looks like old Eel’s luck is still good.” The unalloyed relief in Keith’s voice matched Buck’s. Richardson also felt it. It would of course be necessary to alert the Navy yard people to check for underwater scrapes and dents, but the danger of crippling damage had passed.
Behind them, to port, a great froth of water continued to boil up along both sides of the tug. It had swung around so that the full power of its engine at Emergency Astern was pulling Eel away from the tanker. The tug’s bow was high, unnaturally so. Its stern squatted under the pull of its big tugboat propeller and the strain of the towing lines. Eel was moving sideways in a fairly satisfactory manner — and the tug’s diesels would need an overhaul when it got back to Mare Island. Now, the crisis past, Rich could see the tug skipper fumble with his engine annunciator. A moment later the wash from astern subsided. The man made a show of mopping his face, then picked up a megaphone near his feet.
“Any damage over there?” he yelled. “You look okay — any injuries?”
“We’re all right!” Richardson yelled back through his cupped hands. “He hit us up high. No damage to the hull!” He paused. Now that the emergency was over, another emotion was sweeping through his body. The adrenaline which had been commanding him was still surging through his system. He could feel the hot, impotent rage. “You get his name?” he yelled.
“No! Too busy!”
“Well, I did! I’ll file the report! That incompetent bastard ought to have his license lifted!” Rich could feel his hands trembling against his cheeks. Pilot or skipper, whoever had been conning the loaded tanker, should not get away scot-free. He should have known that his deeply laden ship could not have turned inside the approaching tug and tow, that the rules of the road required him, as the privileged vessel in a crossing situation, to hold his course and speed!
The tugmaster waved his megaphone in acknowledgment. Two men appeared on his forecastle and another pair aft to handle his lines as he began to maneuver back to his original position on Eel’s port quarter.
“He sure belongs to the Don’t Worry Club,” said Buck after a moment. “Me, I’m mad as hell at that tanker. What in the devil was that son of a bitch over there thinking of? Who taught him to handle a ship?”
“He was a fool, that’s for sure,” said Keith. “Maybe we looked farther away than we were because we’re so small compared to him. That’s no excuse, though, even if he didn’t have a radar.”
“He had a radar, all right,” Buck said. “I saw it turning on top of his bridge.”
“At least he reversed his rudder in time,” said Rich, the fury still strong in him. Then he added, “Good thing he had the sense to stop his engine, too, when he saw we were going to hit aft.” He could feel the anger leveling out, the hot blood cooling into more professional indignation.
“I’ll bet he was thinking more of bent blades than the damage the spinning propeller might do to us,” said Buck, angrily. “Besides that, some of us could have been hurt. You were right alongside the periscope shears. You could have been squashed between them and the overhang of that big tub of his.”
The thought of personal danger seemed suddenly calming. The determination to make an official report of the incident was still fixed — it was his duty in any event, and the Brazilian Navy would no doubt want to know. So would the commander of the shipyard at Hunter’s Point, who would have to allocate funds for whatever repairs were thereby necessitated.
Rich realized he was hungry too, as he heard Keith say, “Me, I’m all at once hungry. Do you think we might drop below and have one last meal in our old wardroom? Things look pretty clear now.”
The prospect of leaving Eel’s bridge unwatched went against the grain, but a short shouted conversation with the tugmaster from the main deck abreast his pilothouse took care of the matter. His instructions punctuated by massive bites from the spread of sandwiches before him on top of the binnacle, the warrant boatswain sent one of his crew members over to the submarine, where he could relay immediate information below by telephone. Once this was arranged, the operation of the ship’s phones explained, Rich climbed down the familiar ladders into the control room, ducked through a watertight doorway and joined the others.
Keith and Buck had arranged lanterns in the corners of the tiny wardroom — strange how small it looked — and they had spread a white tablecloth on the green linoleum of the tabletop. The cloth had seen better days. It was yellow around the edges and along its prominent creases. “Where did you find this?” asked Richardson, surprised.
“We were wondering if it was still here,” said Keith. “Remember our last meal aboard, back in ’45? There weren’t many of us left, then, just a couple of the chiefs and two other sailors, plus Woodrow and the three of us. So all of us were around this table for that last breakfast. The lights were already out, too, just like now, and we had to use the battle lanterns. Anyway, after it was over we cleaned up, and I folded the tablecloth and stuck it in a drawer under my desk. That’s where I found it, right where I left it.”
Keith’s words loosed a compartment in Richardson’s mind. Some locked door, as yet only imperfectly opened, suddenly flung itself wide. A naval career always involved leaving behind old friends, and old ships, and moving on to new ones. Knowing the day was coming when it would be necessary to turn the key on the ship and crew which had meant so much to him, knowing that things could never be the same anyway, he had nerved himself to go through the ritual. If he had been the only one to consider, he would simply have gone away. But there had been a decommissioning ceremony, a required inspection in company with the reserve force commander who was about to add Eel to the list of ships of which he was nominally commanding officer. There was completion of the machinery history and the deficiency list, and a hundred other items invented by Navy bureaucracy for the better administration of its ships. All were now unnecessary, outmoded, no longer relevant. They were required because some regulation, or some senior officer, somewhere, said so. But few were actually of any earthly significance in the particular circumstance of the postwar decommissioning and mothballing of the Eel. The last thing of all was the official terminal entry in the log, which he had made himself.