Wright stared at the empty rack for a few minutes, then opened O’Connell’s locker. Here were all the things that
Rudy O’Connell had used on a daily basis. The things still felt like him, still had his scent. His comb, his razor, his girlie magazines, the letter from his sweetheart back home, all sat in the locker like small pets waiting for their owner to return for them. But he would never return. They were all that remained of him. They were the only indication that Rudy O’Connell had ever shipped aboard USS Mackerel.
A small photograph of Rudy’s parents and brothers adorned the inside of the locker door. They looked like pleasant people, and all of them were smiling on whatever occasion the picture was taken. It looked like they had all gone on some kind of picnic near a lake, which glimmered in the background.
Somewhere over thousands of miles of land and sea, Wright thought, these same smiling people were sitting down to supper. They would be talking about their day, sharing stories, saying a prayer for their son whose picture probably hung on full display over the mantel. They could not know that that same son and brother for whom they prayed was now gone. They could not know that the memories of Rudy that now filled their minds would have to last them for a lifetime. In several weeks they would receive a telegram, and there would be a woeful day in that happy home. A few weeks after that, they would receive the trinkets and personal effects that Wright now held and touched in his hands. And that would be all. An empty casket would be placed in the ground in the town cemetery, and the weeping Mrs. O’Connell would receive a flag. There would be no body to bury. No closure for them.
Wright thought of his own family. Would they ever see him again? Would they ever truly believe it in their hearts if the war department informed them that he was lost somewhere in the vast Pacific Ocean?
As he shut the locker and crawled into his rack, Wright found himself sobbing uncontrollably. He swore to himself that if he survived the war, he would go and see Rudy’s family and tell them how brave and well-liked their son was. He would try whatever he could to provide them with some sense of closure. And perhaps he would find some, too.
Chapter 10
Mogami Bank was the northwesternmost part of the Caroline Island group and the closest to the Japanese island stronghold of Saipan in the Marianas chain. Japanese shipping coming from the Imperial homeland normally took an “island hopping” route to ferry badly needed supplies to the hundreds of remote garrisons across the Pacific. Com-SubPac could easily determine this route using a chart and simply connecting the “dots” across thousands of miles of ocean, from Japan to the Bonins to the Marianas to the Carolines and from there to the final destination whether it was in New Guinea, the Solomons, or the Gilberts. This arrangement made the area off Mogami Bank an ideal hunting ground for U.S. submarines since it was the most likely place a Japanese convoy coming from the homeland would enter the Caroline Islands. It was here that Mackerel now searched for more prey.
Tremain lounged on his bunk picking the remains of his supper from his teeth as he studied the chart across his lap.
The supper was okay, but not very exciting. The soup had been a bit thin and devoid of vegetables but the meat loaf had been decent. The meals were starting to show signs of the limited provisions on board as was typical after so many weeks at sea.
After the bomber attack it had taken Mackerel another whole day to reach the Mogami Bank area. Damage had been light, considering what might have happened. No major equipment had been affected, but several of the bomber’s twenty-millimeter shells had punctured the pressure hull and one of the main ballast tanks in eleven places.
The ballast tank was of little consequence. It leaked air slowly, but as long as they conducted periodic high-pressure blows the boat’s stability would not be affected. Of greater concern were the holes in the pressure hulclass="underline" one in the conning tower and the other in the radio room. Tremain was thankful that no one had been injured or killed by either round, but the two small holes would become thorns in his side if he needed to take Mackerel deep again. As a temporary fix Tremain had ordered that the holes be shored up with wood planks and wedges, but they still leaked slightly. There could be no guarantee that the makeshift repairs would hold at test depth, or during a depth charging.
The question now remained, Tremain thought: Should he do the safe thing and return to Pearl Harbor? Or should he take his chances and stay on station?
Tremain tossed the chart on his bunk and moved over to his desk, where the letter to Rudy O’Connell’s parents lay unfinished. He had wanted to write the thing while O’Connell’s image was still fresh in his mind. He knew how quickly a face could fade into the vast recesses of the mind to dwell with all those other lost friends and shipmates. Soon O’Connell’s face, like the faces of the men on the Seatrout, would live there and come out to haunt him in the sleepless nights.
“Captain?” Cazanavette poked his head though the curtain. “Do you have a minute, sir?”
“Come in and have a seat, XO. What’s on your mind?” Tremain normally tried to avoid one-on-one conversations with Cazanavette, but this time he welcomed a break from his dreaded task.
Cazanavette seated himself on the bunk. The torpedo issue had not been discussed between them for several weeks and despite that fact they had managed to keep their relationship professional and cordial throughout the patrol. Tremain had been grateful to Cazanavette for that at least; for not allowing their personal differences to jeopardize the success of the mission. It spoke well for his sense of priorities. After the past weeks Tremain even considered him to be a good executive officer in almost every sense of the word. He had never shown his contempt for Tremain in front of the crew. He supported him when things got rough, and their few heated arguments had taken place in private. Tremain appreciated all of those qualities, but he still had a feeling that Cazanavette was out to get him, watching and waiting for that one time he would slip up, looking for anything that he could add to his report to the admirals back in Pearl.
“Sir, I’ve overheard some conversations among some of the crew and I thought I should inform you about it.” Cazanavette’s expression was not confrontational but very serious. He was obviously being sincere. “I think that plane attack and Rudy’s death has shaken them up a bit.” “I would expect it to, XO. That’s normal.”
“Yes, sir, I know, but it’s worse than I had expected. They’re starting to grumble again. They’re talking about hard luck again and even something about there being a curse on this ship. To put it plainly, Captain, the men are skittish. And they’re looking for someone to blame. I’ve even heard them mention your name a few times, comparing you to Captain Russo.”
“Oh?”
“The fact that we have not attacked a ship in two weeks hasn’t helped any. They had some revived confidence after the freighter, but if they continue like this, that will all be for nothing. I think they’re getting to the point where they think that the freighter sinking was just blind luck.”
Tremain was struck more by the fact that Cazanavette was sharing these things with him than he was by the news. There was a new tone in Cazanavette’s voice.
“Why’re you telling me this, XO? I thought you’d want to see me fail.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Tremain wished he had not said this. Cazanavette was being professional with him, and he had let a glimpse of his personal emotion show through.