“Is that you, Mr. O’Connell?” Anderson murmured. Wright paused. To hear the drunken sailor call out his dead friend’s name disturbed him.
“No, Anderson,” he finally said. “It’s Ensign Wright and Lieutenant Salisbury.”
“Oh, Mr. Wright.” Anderson slurred his speech. “You’re a good man, sir.”
“Thanks. We’re going to take you back to the hotel, now. You know that you’ve been missing for two days? You even missed your duty day? Cob and everyone’s been looking all over for you. You’re lucky we found you.”
“Where’s Mr. O’Connell, sir?”
Wright paused and exchanged glances with Salisbury. “Mr. O’Connell’s dead, Anderson,” Wright said. “Remember?”
Anderson’s bloodshot eyes shot wide open. He suddenly appeared terrified and groped at Wright’s shirt. “He’s dead?”
“Right. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Anderson’s body writhed as he shouted at the top of his lungs. “I killed him! I killed him! I killed him!” He kept shouting the same thing over and over, and each time his voice got softer, until he was eventually whispering it, and then, finally, he was quiet again. He began to cry.
“You didn’t kill him, Anderson. That Zeke bomber did,” Wright said, trying to console him. He didn’t quite know what to make of the man’s condition. “You did all you could. The captain gave you a commendation because you saved the ship, remember?”
Wright’s words did not appear to help, and the tormented Anderson continued to whisper “I killed him” as the tears streamed down his face. Wright and Salisbury used the moment to heft Anderson to his feet, and then they began to march briskly toward the hotel supporting the drunken man between them.
Ducking into a couple of alleys on the way, they successfully avoided the roving bands of baton-wielding shore patrol, who would have most certainly sent Anderson to the brig had they seen him. Once at the hotel, Salisbury woke Chief Freund from his room, and together the three men hauled Anderson’s limp body up to his own room.
Freund thanked the officers for their help in finding the lost sailor and asked them to keep the whole thing between the three of them. They all agreed to keep silent about it, not wanting to see their pathetic shipmate court-martialed. Then Wright and Salisbury called it a night, both too tired to go out again, after lugging Anderson halfway across Honolulu.
As Wright tried to get some sleep that night, he thought of Anderson. He felt sorry for the poor man, who could not forgive himself for something that was not his fault. He also thought about Margie and wondered if she knew how “faithful” Tee really was to her. He was certain that Tee had not seen them and he wondered how Tee would react if he ever informed him that he and Salisbury had been at the club and saw him groping two hookers.
He would probably shit his pants, Wright thought. He was actually glad that he had this dope on Tee. It made him feel like he had some power over the man. If Tee ever got too unruly again, he would spring this secret on him and watch him squirm.
With a broad smile on his face, Wright faded off to sleep.
Chapter 15
Tremain fidgeted in the small waiting area outside Ireland’s office. He thumbed through the war news while the enlisted yeoman across the room whacked away incessantly on a typewriter. It seemed that not much had changed in the war since before Mackerel left on patrol. On the other side of the world, the war in North Africa still seesawed back and forth, and the Allies still had not driven Rommel’s forces out of Tunisia. Offensives and counteroffensives continued on the Eastern Front, yet the Germans had been defeated at Stalingrad. German U-Boat sinkings were on the rise in the Atlantic, but the Allies continued to lose hundreds of thousands of tons of shipping each month. In the Pacific, fighting continued to rage in the Solomon Islands and New Guinea, but Guadalcanal was now securely in Allied hands. A world on fire, summed up in a few headlines.
Tremain tossed down the paper when he heard some loud voices coming from Ireland’s office, then the door opened. A navy lieutenant commander walked out laughing with Ireland slapping him on the back. Ireland had obviously just told the man one of his world famous gutter-quality jokes.
“Oh, Jack.” Ireland noticed him. “I didn’t know you were out here. Great. Now you can meet your replacement. Jack Tremain, this is Dave Stillsen, your ticket back to the States.”
Tremain shook Stillsen’s hand and smiled pleasantly. The guy seemed like a square. The uniform was immaculate. The hair slicked back. He had a smile that began on one side of his face and ended there too. He appeared to be a little arrogant to Tremain and awfully young.
“Nice to meet you, Jack,” Stillsen said in a ridiculously loud command voice. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It sounds like you had a good patrol last time out. I’m sure you’ll be a legend at the sub school when you get there.”
Tremain did not like the way he said “the sub school.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be just as successful in Mackerel as I was,” Tremain said, politely.
“Yes, well, I’ve got to run, I’ve only just arrived in Pearl this morning. I’ll be seeing you later, Jack.” Then to Ireland he said, “Thanks for your time, Captain.” Stillsen then grabbed his hat and walked out the door. He was too confident, Tremain thought. Too matter-of-fact. Too much of an imposter. He had a lot to learn.
“What’s on your mind, Jack?” Ireland asked.
“Could I see you for a moment, sir?”
“Certainly.”
The two went back inside Ireland’s office. Ireland poured his usual cup of coffee and sat on his desk while Tremain sat in the chair. He must drink twenty cups a day, Tremain thought. Something was still wrong with Ireland’s demeanor. He was too smug about something.
“Sir, I just received word that Mackerel has been placed in a priority repair status.”
Ireland nodded and sipped his coffee. He said nothing. “May I ask why, sir?” Tremain finally said.
“You don’t need to know, Jack. As far as you’re concerned, Mackerel’s just leaving early on patrol, that’s all.” “Is that the reason, sir? Or is there something else?” “Who have you been talking to, Jack?” Ireland shot back at him.
Ireland was quick, Tremain thought.
“No one, sir. I just think the crew’s been through a lot. They have had to do back-to-back patrols, and now I think they should get all the time ashore they can. They’re a good crew, sir, and they need some time away from that boat.” Tremain was trying to draw it out of Ireland without betraying Russo. So far it was not working.
Ireland set the coffee cup down and crossed his arms. “Why should you care what happens, now, Jack? You’ve got your relief. You’ve got your orders home. Why should the officers and crew of USS Mackerel even concern Lieutenant Commander Jack Tremain?”
Tremain raised his eyebrows. He suddenly got the feeling that Ireland was toying with him. It was that old sensation of being worked on by a master psychologist. And worked over by one. But to Tremain his old crew still came first, so he went along with this cruddy gamesmanship, even if he had to discount his intelligence and play dumb to do it.
“I’ll always care about them, sir. No matter where I am.” Tremain paused, then added, “Just like I still care for my lost men on the Seatrout.”