Wright found himself sobbing uncontrollably as he inched O’Connell toward the hatch. They were moving too slowly. He knew they would never make it down the hatch in time. Frothing water began to enter the bridge scuppers, swirling with O’Connell’s blood.
Just then, a bloody hand reached up and grasped Wright’s arm. “Get… below, damn you.” O’Connell gurgled. Then he somehow managed a smile. “Ship … first… Ryan.”
Tears streamed down Wright’s face as he squeezed O’Connell’s hand once more. Then he let go and jumped down the hatch, a torrent of seawater following after him. The water rushed into the conning tower, soaking men and equipment all the way down to the control room. Wright, standing on the ladder in the midst of the downpour, pulled the hatch lanyard with all his might, and, eventually, the hatch fell shut. The outside water pressure helped the hatch to seal. With Wright still clutching the lanyard, Cazanavette brushed up the ladder past him to spin the hatch wheel tight, locking out the sea.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was all over. Everyone in the conning tower stood in stark silence as Mackerel plunged beneath the waves.
“Eighty … ninety … one hundred feet…” Only Olander’s voice chimed up through the control room hatch.
Drenched and heaving, Wright pressed his forehead against the cold ladder rungs and released the soaked hatch lanyard. His mind could not make sense of what had just happened. One moment, he and O’Connell had been merrily discussing the coming chili and macaroni dinner. The next, he was leaving his friend to die on the bridge as the ship submerged beneath him.
Wright heard a noise like a faucet running. To his left he noticed a small hole, the size of a quarter, in the port side of the conning tower with a stream of water shooting through it. Two sailors, one with a wooden plug and the other with a hammer, quickly plugged the small hole without saying a word.
Then Wright felt a hand on his shoulder. Strangely, it startled him. He was completely on edge, even shaking. He looked up into Tremain’s eyes. The blue eyes appeared intense. More so than he had ever seen them before. They were consoling, even understanding, but only for a moment. Then they reverted to their usual cold glaze.
“Right full rudder!” Tremain barked to the helmsman, not taking his hand from Wright’s shoulder.
“Passing one hundred fifty feet, Captain,” Olander called from the control room.
“Very well.” Tremain looked at Wright again. “What kind of a plane was it, Ryan?”
Wright was shocked. Are you mad? he thought. How can you possibly care about the damn plane? We just lost Rudy, for God’s sake.
“Ryan?” Tremain’s voice was compassionate but firm.
Wright’s mind cleared enough for him to remember the target identification course at submarine school.
“Twin engine Zeke bomber, sir,” he managed to say.
Tremain turned to Cazanavette. “Two bombs, at the most. We’ll turn to ninety degrees off our base course and go to two hundred and fifty feet.”
Cazanavette nodded.
Minutes later, Salisbury detected two splashes, followed soon after by two shallow explosions. Except for a small shudder, the bombs had little affect on Mackerel, cruising down below two hundred feet. The Japanese bomber had missed.
Tensions remained high as Salisbury, with his sonar headset on, heard the bomber fly over twice more, but no more bombs were dropped.
Tremain kept the boat deep for half an hour before returning to periscope depth in a hopeless attempt to find O’Connell. Everyone in the conning tower waited with dismal hopes as Tremain spun the periscope around again and again.
“No sign of Mr. O’Connell,” Tremain said somberly.
“He was too badly shot up to be able to swim all this time, Captain,” Wright managed to say.
Tremain gave the periscope to Hubley, and turned to face Wright. “What the hell happened, anyway?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Didn’t you pick the bastard up on radar?”
“Yes, sir. That’s when Rudy ordered the crash dive. It all just happened so fast.” Wright tried to piece the images together in his mind.
Tremain turned to the radar station, where Anderson stood forlorn. Anderson was staring impassively at the bulkhead, oblivious to the conversation. Oblivious to the world around him.
“Anderson?” Tremain said.
Anderson did not hear him.
“Anderson!”
“Yes, sir?” Anderson suddenly realized that the captain was speaking to him, though he could barely recognize his own name.
“What range did you first detect the aircraft, Anderson?”
Anderson paused. He did not know what to say. He felt terrible. He felt as though he had personally shot Mr. O’Connell to death. What should he say? What could he say? That he abandoned his post and now a man was dead? That he was ordered to abandon his post?
He glanced at Mr. Turner, standing in the opposite corner. He looked to him for some inkling of guidance, but Turner avoided eye contact with him as if he too felt ashamed — but obviously did not have the courage to step forward and explain everything to the captain. Anderson realized he would get no help from Turner. He was on his own, and he made his choice.
“Sir, I didn’t pick up that bomber until he was only two thousand yards away,” he said finally. “We’ve been having all kinds of atmospheric interference all through the last watch, with the weather the way it is and all. I was lucky to even make him out at two thousand yards.”
Tremain considered for a moment, then nodded: “The weather will do that to the SD radar. From now on we will have a double lookout in these weather conditions, since our radar cannot be relied upon.”
Cazanavette nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“We’ve lost one good man today,” Tremain continued. “I know that everyone had a high opinion of Mr. O’Connell. May God bless his soul for his sacrifice. We were very fortunate that we didn’t lose the ship. And we have you to thank for that, Anderson.”
All eyes in the conning tower turned to look at Anderson, and Tremain extended his hand with a grim smile. Anderson returned Tremain’s handshake slightly confused. “Th… Thank? Wh.. What for, sir?”
“For saving the ship, that’s what for.” Tremain patted him on the shoulder. “Your keen eye on the radar allowed us enough time to submerge before that son of a bitch could unload his bombs on us. This will, no doubt, call for a commendation when we return to port.”
Anderson suddenly felt sick. His heart sank into his stomach. At that moment, he wanted to blurt it all out, to tell the captain everything. But he did not. He could not turn back now. He would receive a commendation for killing Mr. O’Connell, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“We’ll hold a memorial service for Mr. O’Connell this evening, XO,” Tremain continued. “He will be sorely missed by us all.”
The men solemnly filed back to their stations. Expecting the Japanese pilot to radio his base and call for more aircraft, Tremain ordered that Mackerel stay submerged until after dark. When night fell on the remote Caroline Islands, the ship once again groped to the surface. Batteries were charged and she returned to her base course, headed for her hunting ground off Mogami Bank.
Wright remained in a stupor the rest of the evening. After picking at his meal in the wardroom, then attending O’Connell’s memorial service in the crew’s mess, he did not feel much like sleeping. He walked into his stateroom and closed the curtain. George Olander snoozed on the top rack, oblivious to his presence. The middle and bottom racks were empty. The bottom rack was his. The middle rack had been O’Connell’s.