Sam laughed. “If you’re on convoy-escort duty, you hope to Jesus it isn’t exciting. Everything that could make it exciting is bad.”
“I suppose so.” Cooley grudged him a nod, then winked. “One thing, Skipper-all that zigzagging will do wonders for you at the wheel.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam answered seriously, which spoiled Cooley’s joke, but the same thought had already occurred to him. And he wanted his shiphandling to get better. He wanted everything he did to get better. He’d got such a late start at being an officer, and still had so much catching up to do…
Fremont Blaine Dalby stared at the ships coming into Pearl Harbor. The CPO shook his head. “If those aren’t two of the ugliest sons of bitches I ever set eyes on, then you two guys are.” He nodded to Fritz Gustafson and George Enos, Jr.
George said, “I dunno, Chief. They look pretty damn good to me.”
“Yeah.” Gustafson added a nod.
“Bullshit,” Dalby said. The boss of the twin-40mm crew was a man of strong opinions. His being a Republican proved that. Some of his opinions were crackpot, too; as far as George was concerned, his being a Republican also proved that. He went on, “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying we don’t need ’em, on account of we do. But they’re still as ugly as the guy sitting next to you on the head.”
George grunted at that. Like any new sailor, he’d had to get used to doing his business in a facility without stalls. He hadn’t thought about it for a while now, and wondered if he’d be stricken with constipation because he did. He admitted to himself-if not to Fremont Dalby-that the senior rating had a point of sorts. The Trenton and the Chapultepec didn’t have the raked grace of a heavy cruiser. But the escort carriers brought something vital to the Sandwich Islands: hope.
They looked like what they were-freighters that had had their superstructures torn off and replaced with a flight deck. A tiny starboard island didn’t begin to make up for what had been amputated. But they carried thirty airplanes apiece. They had dive bombers and torpedo-carriers, and fighters to protect the strike aircraft and the ships themselves. The two of them put together were worth about as much as one fleet carrier.
“What I want to know is, are there more of them out in the Pacific?” George said. “That’s what really counts. If they can watch the gap where airplanes from the Sandwich Islands can’t stay and the ones from the West Coast can’t, either, then we really might hang on to this place.”
“They didn’t come by themselves, you know,” Dalby reminded him. “Most of the freighters and tankers that came with ’em are unloading in Honolulu, not here. But everybody’ll have enough beans and gasoline for a while longer.”
“Sure, Chief.” Disagreeing with a CPO when you were only an able seaman took diplomacy. Picking his words with care, George went on, “But it’s not waddayacallit-not economical, that’s what I want to say-to send these ugly ducklings back and forth to Frisco or wherever for each new convoy.”
“He’s right,” Gustafson said-another good-sized speech for him. He was a petty officer himself, though not an exalted chief. He could speak somewhat more freely to Dalby, but only somewhat. George was more than halfway convinced that CPOs really ran the Navy. They let officers think they did, but so many officers’ orders were based on what they heard from CPOs. A lieutenant, J.G., who tried to buck one of the senior ratings didn’t have a prayer. Even his own superiors wouldn’t back him, and it wouldn’t have helped if they did.
“Well, yeah,” Fremont Dalby said, “but these babies ought to be good for more than defense. They ought to be able to play sixty minutes. How many of ’em d’you figure we’d need to take Midway back from the Buddhaheads?”
Gustafson eyed the Chapultepec, which was closer. “Damn thing can’t do more’n eighteen knots if you chuck her off a cliff,” he opined-a veritable oration. He didn’t bother to say what he already knew: that Japanese fleet carriers, like most self-respecting warships, could make better than thirty.
Dalby only shrugged. “Doesn’t matter all that much. Airplanes are a hell of a lot faster than ships any which way.”
That held some truth, but only some. Other things went into the mix. “Jap carriers can walk away from subs. These little guys won’t be able to.”
Another shrug from the gun chief. “That’s why the Townsend’s in the Navy. If we can’t keep submersibles off of carriers, what the hell good are we?”
George gave up. He wasn’t about to change Dalby’s mind. That was as plain as the nose on the CPO’s face-which was saying something, because Dalby had a formidable honker. In the end, changing Dalby’s mind didn’t matter a dime’s worth anyhow. Dalby wasn’t the one who’d decide what to do with the escort carriers. He wasn’t the one who’d decide what to do with the Townsend, either, though he often acted as if he were the skipper.
He said, “It’ll be goddamn nice operating with real air cover for a change. Not even the brass’d be dumb enough to send us out naked anymore.”
“Here’s hoping.” Fritz Gustafson packed a world of skepticism into two words.
This time, George thought Dalby had the right of it. There were plenty of land-based airplanes on Oahu. Why send carriers all the way to the Sandwich Islands if not to use them with the rest of the Navy?
When the Townsend put to sea a few days later, she did so without either the Trenton or the Chapultepec. Even though she did, George didn’t flabble about it: she went out on an antisubmersible patrol to the east of Oahu. Japanese carrier-based aircraft were most unlikely to find her there.
After George remarked on that, Dalby looked at him-looked through him, really. “You’d sooner be torpedoed?”
“Got a better chance against a sub than we would against airplanes,” George said stubbornly. Then he wondered if that was true. His father hadn’t had any chance against a submarine. But he got sucker-punched after the war was over. We’d be on our toes.
Whenever George was on deck, he kept an eye peeled for periscopes. He also looked for the thin, pale exhaust from a submersible’s diesel engine. What with the Townsend’s hydrophone gear, all that was probably wasted effort. He didn’t care, not even a little bit. He did it anyhow. He noticed he was far from the only one who did.
He wasn’t on deck when general quarters sounded. He was rinsing off in the shower. He threw on his skivvies and ran for his gun with the rest of his clothes, including his shoes, under his arm.
Nobody laughed, or not very much. Nobody who’d been in the Navy longer than a few weeks hadn’t been caught the same way. He dressed at his post. His hair was still wet. It dripped in his face and down his back. He would have minded that much more in the North Atlantic in December than he did here.
“Now hear this!” The exec’s voice crackled out of the loudspeakers. “We’ve found us a submarine, and we are going to prosecute the son of a bitch.”
An excited buzz ran through the sailors. George looked enviously up toward the depth-charge launchers near the destroyer’s bow. Their crews were the ones who’d have the fun of dropping things on the Japs’ heads.
“Don’t go to sleep, now,” Fremont Dalby warned. “If those bastards surface, we’re the ones who’ll fill ’em full of holes.” He set a hand on one of the 40mm’s twin barrels. The quick-firing gun made an admirable can opener.
The Townsend swung to port. Down under the surface, a submersible was no doubt maneuvering, too. It could have been cat-and-mouse, but the mouse here had almost as good a chance as the cat. The Townsend’s advantage was speed, the sub’s stealth. Where was that boat?
They must have thought they knew, for depth charges flew from the launchers and splashed into the Pacific. George waited, bracing himself. When the ashcans burst, it was like a kick in the ass from an elephant. The Townsend’s bow lifted, then slammed back down.