Signed
Robert J. Tremain, LtCdr USN Commanding Officer
PART II
Chapter 12
“You did a bang up job out there, Jack. I must say, a fine job indeed.” Captain Steven Ireland smiled like a politician as he handed Tremain a cup of steaming coffee.
“Thank you, sir,” Tremain said, taking the cup and relaxing on the chair in front of Ireland’s desk. “But we got pretty lucky. And we did lose a fine officer.”
Ireland paused as his face drew grave for a brief moment. “Yes, that.” Moments later the solemnity was gone and his face beamed as before, as if he could not afford any more sympathy for the moment.
“I can’t tell you how pleased everyone is at your performance, Jack. But then you know how pleased Admiral Nimitz is.” Ireland pointed to the Navy Cross clipped on Tremain’s left breast pocket. “Congratulations on your second.”
Tremain allowed a small smile as he patted the cross emblem affixed with a blue and white ribbon. His khaki shirt was devoid of any other emblems and made the medal look out of place. Medals were not normally worn with the working khaki uniform, but Tremain had no choice. He had received the medal not more than an hour ago, and quite unexpectedly, as he stepped off the Mackerel for the first time after arriving at Pearl Harbor. It had been quite a spectacle. There had been a navy band with all the ruffles and flourishes and even a large crowd to cheer the Mackerel sailors as they tied their weary boat to the pier. To Tremain’s surprise, the commander-in-chief of the Pacific Theater, Admiral Chester Nimitz, presented the medal personally. Admiral Lockwood had been there as well, along with all the other submarine brass, including Ireland.
It’s all quite insane, Tremain thought, as he felt the medal between his fingers. You lose a man and practically get your boat blown out of the water by a destroyer, and what do they do? They give you a medal.
They would be taking away the medal just as quick, too, if Cazanavette had not decided to withdraw his report about the torpedo modifications. Tremain remembered that day during the trip back. Cazanavette had come to his stateroom. “I never thought I would say these words, Captain, but I have to put this ship and crew ahead of my own personal integrity,” he had said. “I’ve decided not to inform SubPac. If those exploders don’t work, I say let’s disable them all.” The torpedo failures during the convoy attack had changed the XO’s mind. When he had told Tremain, he appeared to be suffering from a deep inner turmoil, and Tremain had tried to assure him that in war a leader must make tough decisions.
Tremain felt for Cazanavette, mainly because he himself had been there before. Cazanavette was on the fringe, young enough to still have faith in the “system” but old enough to see the cracks in it. Cazanavette was gloomy the whole trip back, but he seemed to cheer up a little when Admiral Nimitz pinned a Bronze Star to his chest.
Tremain studied Irelend as he sipped the coffee.
I wonder if old Ireland still has faith in the system, he thought.
“You smell like you’ve been at sea for seven weeks, Jack.” Ireland grimaced jokingly, then saw that Tremain was not in the mood. He quickly returned to the subject Tremain obviously wanted to talk about. “About your lost officer, Jack…”
“Lieutenant Rudy O’Connell, sir.”
“Right,” Ireland said, as if he had already forgotten the dead man’s name. “We’ve sent along a notification to his people and I’m sure you would like to include something with the shipment of his personal effects.”
Tremain drew a sealed envelope out of his pocket. “Here it is, sir,” he said gloomily. It had taken several agonizing nights at sea for him to write the letter, to make it say the right things in the right way.
Ireland took the envelope and stared at it for several seconds. “I always hated writing these things. The worst part of the job.”
“But perhaps the most important, sir.”
“Yes, of course.”
Ireland and Tremain sat in awkward silence for a few moments. Tremain wondered if he should even bring up the subject of his transfer. Then he thought to himself, I’ve got a Navy Cross on my chest, why the hell not?
“Sir, about my orders.”
“Oh, yes. Everything’s been arranged, Jack. You’ve done what we asked you to do here and we’re not going to let you down. I’ve got orders to Submarine Base, New London waiting for you in the yeoman’s office. Unfortunately, there are no new boats available right now, but you’ll be put in an instructor status at sub school until one is.”
Tremain’s lower jaw dropped open in disbelief. He did not think it was going to be this easy.
Orders, he thought. He had orders to sub school, that wretched, beautiful little place. And a cushy instructor job. Sure, it wasn’t a new boat, but that would come eventually. They were building boats by the dozen back there. And Judy. He would finally be with Judy. They could spend the summer together, picnicking every Saturday on the green lawns by the Thames River. Evenings in New York and Boston. They would have time to catch up on some of those lost years. Judy would be thrilled to hear the news.
Then a thought crossed Tremain’s mind. He glanced over at Ireland, who had turned his back to him and was looking out the window at the harbor.
“What about the Mackerel, sir?” Tremain asked.
“She’s getting a new captain, Dave Stillsen.” Ireland still stared out the window but he had obviously been anticipating the question. “You know him?”
“No, sir. Never heard of him before.”
“Well, that’s no big surprise,” Ireland said, turning and walking over to his desk. “He just transferred over from the Atlantic theater.”
“Atlantic?”
“Yes, Jack. Does that surprise you? He did his prospective commanding officer tour on Blackfish out of Norfolk.” “Norfolk?” Tremain exclaimed. “Sir, pardon my asking, but what the hell does an East Coast sailor know about submarining?”
Ireland chuckled. “Well, Jack, he scored high on all his exams at PCO School.”
“PCO School?”
Ireland was acting strangely, Tremain thought. Stranger than usual. What was he up to?
“Anyway,” Ireland continued, “it’s no concern of yours. You’ve done your job, and now you deserve a good break with that wife of yours. We’ve even got you hooked up with a flight back to the States. You’ll be leaving next week. Hell, I’m rather envious of you, Jack. It’ll be all fancy uniforms and fine meals for you. You’re going to be a regular hero back at sub school.”
Tremain felt uneasy. Something was not right. Ireland had never acted like this before. The old duffer was being too nice. Something was going on, Tremain realized, but he just could not decipher exactly what it was. Yet he would not bet his bottom dollar that the old man was playing straight with him, nice as he appeared to be. The suspicion niggled at the back of his mind that the old manipulator was teeing him up for another real whack in the head.
But before Tremain could think any further along these lines Ireland ushered him toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me, Jack. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. We’ll have lunch before you fly out. Welcome back and congratulations again.”
Tremain shook Ireland’s hand as he led him out the door. Why was Ireland being so polite? What was going on? Everything was happening too fast. He needed time to think. He was battle-weary but not completely braindamaged. His instincts kept hinting to him that the old man was up to his usual games again, using schoolboy psychology on him, setting him up for something different from what had just been presented. But before Tremain could say anything, he had his hat in his hand and was standing outside Ireland’s closed door, convincing himself with real conviction that the old codger was on the level this time and that Judy would be in his arms within a week.