Haines nodded, his seamed face thoughtful. “We’ve been talking about depth settings at the shop. I just can’t believe that every skipper out there is a bad shot. The Chief in charge of the After Body Shop says he’s willing to bet a case of beer that the fish are running a lot deeper than they’re set to run.”
“Why in the hell don’t you take a net and go out on the far side of the harbor and fire a fish with an exercise head on it and find out?” Rhodes said.
“We’d like to do that,” Haines said. “But to do that I’ve got to have a submarine to fire from. Captain Severn says there’s nothing wrong with the torpedoes, that they’re running at the depth set. He used to be at Newport, you know, he’s one of the old Gun Club boys. He thinks the torpedoes are perfect and the fault is all with the skippers. I’m not so sure. What I’m waiting for is for one of the boats to come in with a malfunctioning torpedo tube. Then I’ll fire a torpedo out of the tube when it’s fixed and we’ll find out.” He stared at Rhodes and Ginty.
“We aren’t fighting you people, you know. The Chief in the After Body Shop has got the net all ready, had it made at the Sail Locker and he’s got it stowed away. Soon as we can get the chance we’re gonna find out about how deep those fish run.”
“While you’re waitin’ for that why don’t you put an exploder in an old exercise head and have a crane drop the son of a bitch nose down on the dock?” Ginty rasped. “I won’t bet you any case of cheap beer, I’ll bet a case of Schenley’s that the fucking exploder ring won’t upset when you drop that fucker twenty feet!”
Haines nodded his head slowly. “You might have something there, sailor. I might do just that. Otherwise, it doesn’t look too bad to me.”
“What do you mean?” Rhodes said, his voice flat.
“You should know how the Navy operates by now, Chief,” Haines had a wry grin on his face. “There’s two ways to do everything. The right way and the Navy way. I’ve got orders to put those exploders you changed back the way they were. If you’ve only done what you said then it won’t be too much of a job.”
“God Almighty!” Rhodes snorted. “If you do that they won’t work!”
“I know that. You know that. But those are the orders I got from Captain Severn. See you around. I hope.” He turned and left.
“Jeeesus!” Ginty breathed. “This fucking Navy Yard Navy! You goin’ to the hotel with us, Chief? We’re gonna throw a beer party this afternoon like you never saw!”
“You don’t want me at your party,” Rhodes said. “I’ll drop by the hotel in a couple of days and buy you a brew. But thanks for asking me.”
The awards ceremony on Mako’s salt-stained, slotted black wooden deck was brief. Admiral Nimitz pinned the Navy Cross on Captain Hinman’s high-necked white dress tunic and shook his hand. He moved to the line of officers and pinned a Silver Star on Mike Brannon’s chest and shook hands with each officer. One of the Admiral’s aides read a letter of commendation for Mako’s patrol run, a copy of which would be put in each crew member’s service record with a letter authorizing Mako’s crewmen to wear the silver Submarine Combat Pin, the insignia of successful war patrol. Then Admiral Nimitz moved slowly down the double line of sailors, shaking hands with each man, talking briefly to those he knew. As he left the ship two Navy Yard buses parked at the land end of the pier clanked into gear and began to move slowly down the dock. Mako’s crew, shouting and laughing, crowded aboard the buses and rolled off to two weeks of “R & R,” rest and recreation in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel on Waikiki Beach. Rhodes and Barber picked up their small duffel bags of shaving gear and began walking to the end of the pier where their wives had been waiting for the past hour.
The table in the Officers’ Club where Captain Hinman and Mike Brannon sat while they waited for Commander Rudd and Ben Butler was conspicuous for its isolation. Word had flashed around the Submarine Base that Hinman and Brannon were being relieved for disobedience of orders. The officers entering the O-Club for lunch veered away from Captain Hinman’s table, taking tables as far away from Hinman and Brannon as they could find. There was a small stir in the room when Commander Rudd and Lieut. Comdr. Ben Butler entered the O-Club and went directly to Hinman’s table and sat down. After the introductions had been completed and coffee poured Captain Hinman went directly to the heart of the matter.
“Will you be going with me on this bond-selling tour?” he asked Ben Butler.
“Only as far as Washington,” Butler said. “I’ll be with you through the meeting with the President and the first press conference and then I have to come back here. I wanted to go the whole route but Admiral Nimitz decided I should get back here as soon as possible to help out Captain Severn.” He smiled. “Captain Severn doesn’t think I should come back at all or that he needs my help.” A waiter appeared and they ordered lunch.
“You people who spend your lives at sea may not have paid much attention to the news,” Butler continued. “You’ve got women in the Navy now. They call them WAVES, Women Accepted for Voluntary Emergency Service. The first classes of officers and enlisted women graduated a few weeks ago.
“A woman I know in Chicago, she works in public relations for a big advertising agency, got all full of patriotism and enlisted. They made her a Lieutenant, Junior Grade. She wrote me about her enlistment and her rank and when this thing began to shape up I figured she’d be just the person you needed on this tour so I asked a couple of guys in Washington to arrange it and they did. She’ll meet us in Washington.”
“Why this one particular woman?” Hinman asked.
“Let me put it this way, Captain,” Butler said. “There are some things I assume you don’t know about this war that I do know, as a newspaper editor.” He stopped and drew a little circle with his forefinger on the table cloth.
“You’re a Naval officer, sir, the Captain of a submarine. How much do you know about the press? Not much, I’d guess and there’s no reason why you should. What you have to know is that a pretty fair section of the press, quite a few newspaper publishers, hate this war! They’re against President Roosevelt and they’re against what they call ‘Roosevelt’s War.’ ”
“My God!” Hinman snapped. “This isn’t ‘Roosevelt’s War’ or whatever you called it! We were attacked! Look at that harbor out there! We were attacked, we didn’t declare war on anyone!”
“I know that,” Butler said patiently. “You know that. But the people who are against this war blame the Japanese attack on President Roosevelt’s decision to give help to England in the war against Hitler. Those same people didn’t want us to give any destroyers or food or munitions or anything else to England.
“What I’m saying is that not all the reporters who will be interviewing you will be friendly. Some of them will be out to trap you, to make you look foolish or what’s worse, dangerous!” He sat back in his chair, his eyes on Hinman.
“Captain, you put me aboard your ship and I confess I would not know what to do. I admit that. Yet I’m a Lieutenant Commander. I would guess that I outrank most of your officers. But I’m not a Naval Officer, not at all. What I am is a damned good newspaper editor, a civilian, a Reservist doing what I can in this war.
“If I were working for a publisher who was against this war, if I were against this war and I assure you that I am not, but if I were I could sit down to interview you and when I got through I’d have enough — taken out of context I admit — I’d have enough to make you look like a bastard in print!”