The crew stood quietly at ease in ranks. Occasionally there would be a subdued ripple of whispers as an officer hurried aboard Mako or left the ship. Word of what had happened in Mako’s Conning Tower had flashed all over the hotel that morning and Johnny Paul, mindful of Ginty’s murderous rages and his awesome strength, had hurried to Ginty’s room to tell him that everyone was talking about the tragedy and that he wasn’t the source. Ginty was shaving and as he rinsed his face he stared at Paul. The younger man backed away.
“I know the word’s gettin’ around,” Ginty said through a towel he was using to dry his face. “Fucking yeoman on the Base is spreadin’ the word. Just keep your own nose clean.”
Captain Severn’s Chief Yeoman coughed discreetly and nodded his head at Dusty Rhodes as two staff cars pulled up. Rhodes stepped out a pace and faced left.
“Dress right!” he rasped. He waited a moment as the two ranks shuffled into a straight line.
“Front!” He watched carefully and as he saw four gold stripes on the shoulder boards of Captain Severn come into view he drew a deep breath.
“Tennn-Shunn!” He turned and stepped back into line.
Captain Severn walked over and stood in front of Mako’s small group of officers, drawn up rigidly in a line. Two other officers, one a three-stripe Commander, the other a two-and-a-half-stripe Lieutenant Commander, got out of the cars and walked over. The Lieutenant Commander took up a position to one side. The Commander walked up to Captain Severn and saluted smartly. Captain Severn returned the salute and motioned the Commander to stand to one side. He pulled a handkerchief out of his sleeve and coughed and hawked into the white cloth, looked at it and returned the handkerchief to his sleeve.
“I have a few words to say,” he began in a nasal drone.
“We are here to observe a tradition that is as old as our Navy. All of our ship captains have gone through this ceremony we participate in today — the change of command of a warship of the United States Navy, the designation of a Captain to command a warship.
“Command is a very heavy responsibility in time of peace,” he went on, his cold eyes sweeping over Mako’s officers and men. “In time of war it is a crushing responsibility!
“We who serve in submarines know we are the nation’s only effective weapon at this time. Until the Navy is able to regroup it is the submarines which must defend our nation.
“It is the submarines which must show the enemy what it means to stage a sneak attack on Pearl Harbor!” His voice rose.
“The submarine force is showing the enemy its teeth! It will do that with even greater force and resolution in the months to come. We are going to make the Jap wish he had never heard of Pearl Harbor!” His voice was shaking now.
“By the Grace of our Christian God Almighty in Heaven we shall win this war in His name!” He turned toward his yeoman to take the envelope the yeoman was holding and Rhodes caught a glimpse of Nate Cohen’s lean profile. Cohen had a slight smile on his face. Captain Severn held out the envelope to the Commander who had been standing back of him during his talk.
“These are your orders, sir. Please read them aloud to your command.”
The Commander, a tall, slim man with a thick, sun-bleached white mustache, saluted and walked over and stood in front of Mako’s officers. He ran a thumb under the flap of the envelope and the heavy red wax seal made a dry cracking sound as it broke. He took out a sheet of paper and began to read, the traditional recitation of the orders assigning an officer to command of a warship. When he had finished he faced Captain Severn and in a loud, clear voice said:
“Sir, I, Arvin R. Mealey, Commander, United States Navy, do hereby acknowledge receipt of orders to take command of U.S.S. Mako and to discharge my duties as that ship’s Commanding Officer to the best of my ability, so help me God.”
He snapped off a smart salute that was returned by Captain Severn, who stepped forward, his hand outstretched.
“Congratulations, Captain! Strike the enemy hard and often! My yeoman will be in touch with you later, I want to have you and your lady to dinner with me at my quarters this evening.” He turned and walked rapidly toward his car. Captain Mealey turned to face his crew. He eyed them for a long moment, his face set and stern.
“At ease,” he said. “I have very little to say to you. I do not make speeches. I will tell you this.
“This is not my first command. I know what I want done on a ship I command. I know how to get it done.
“There is a body of rules of conduct called Navy Regulations. You may call it by another name, the Book. I live by it. You will live by it. If you do, we will get along fine. If you do not, you will be in trouble. I have no time, no desire, to play nursemaid to sailors who cannot or will not obey orders. I will see all the officers aboard Mako tomorrow morning at zero nine hundred. I will see all the Chief Petty Officers at ten hundred hours. Dismiss!” He turned and walked away, toward the other staff car.
The Lieutenant Commander who had arrived with Captain Mealey and Captain Severn was still standing where he had first positioned himself, at one side. He walked toward Mako’s officers and Don Grilley stepped out to meet him.
“Sir?” Grilley said.
“I’m Joe Sirocco,” the Lieutenant Commander said. “I’ve been ordered aboard Mako as the Executive Officer.”
There was a dead silence in the small group of Mako’s officers. Back of the officers those crew members who had not begun to walk toward the buses turned and stood quietly, listening. Lieut. Peter Simms spoke, his voice harsh.
“Did you say you were the new Executive Officer? By whose orders, sir, and when did you get your orders?” Simms’ eyes were hot, studying the other man’s face. Sirocco met his angry stare with a slow smile.
“Why, by order of Captain Severn, the Chief of Staff, sir. I received the orders from Commander Rudd, yesterday.”
“What class are you?” Simms demanded.
“I don’t follow you, Mister,” Sirocco said.
“What year did you graduate from the Academy, damn it! Do you follow that, Mister?”
“Oh,” Sirocco said, “the Academy. I didn’t graduate from the Academy. I graduated from M.I.T. I’m a Reserve officer.”
“A Reserve!” Simms’ voice was strangled. “I’m going to find out about this!” He wheeled and walked away, his back stiff, heading for the Staff Headquarters building.
“Mr. Simms is a little upset, sir,” Don Grilley said in a low voice to Sirocco. “I apologize for him. I think he had expected to be assigned as the Executive Officer.”
“So I was told yesterday,” Sirocco said.
“Oh? By whom, if I may ask, sir.”
“You may,” Sirocco said with a grin. “The Chief of Staff made a point of saying that Mr. Simms had his sights set on the job.”
“I’m forgetting my manners,” Grilley said. “I’m Don Grilley, I take care of Torpedo and Gunnery stuff. I’m a Reserve. Pete Simms is the Engineering Officer and Bob Edge, here, is his assistant. This is Nate Cohen, the best damned Sonar Officer in the whole fleet and a joy to talk with off-watch, and this is Paul Botts, our old man in the Wardroom, Paul’s a mustang.” Grilley looked around and beckoned to Dusty Rhodes.
“This is Lieutenant Commander Sirocco, Chief. Mr. Sirocco, Chief Torpedoman Rhodes, called Dusty by his friends, the Chief of the Boat.”