The mechanic was startled and thought for a moment. “I think it’s Anderson, sir.”
Wright felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He practically knocked the mechanic aside as he bolted up the ladder to the control room. He ran forward through the officer’s passage and into the forward torpedo room, praying with every step that his fears were wrong and the noise was not what he thought it was. As he came up the forward hatch and emerged on the darkened deck, he could hear a commotion over on the pier. His heart skipped a beat as he noticed two sailors huddled over a body near the sentry stand at the end of Mackerel's brow.
“Oh, no.. ” Wright muttered, as he hurried across the brow.
The sailors noticed his approach and slowly stood up, their faces somber.
“He’s dead, sir,” one of them said. “There was nothing we could do for him.”
Anderson’s body lay face up on the pier between the feet of the two sailors. A pool of dark liquid slowly expanded beneath his head. Blood and pieces of flesh were splattered on the concrete all around the body, along with one spent .45-caliber shell casing. Anderson’s trembling right hand still clutched the smoking pistol.
Wright just stood there and stared at the lifeless form of the boy who had come to him for help only a few hours before. The boy he had put off until after dinner.
“We were just up on deck having a smoke, Mr. Wright,” one of the sailors said nervously. “Nothing seemed unusual. Anderson even waved to us. Next thing we know, Anderson pulls out his gun, puts it in his mouth, and pulls the trigger. It all happened so fast. We… we didn’t…”
The sailor stopped. He could see that Wright was not listening.
Staring hollowly at Anderson’s body, Wright could not help but feel a profound sense of guilt. The boy had been crying out to him for help, for someone to talk to. If he had only taken the time to listen, the boy might still be alive.
Chapter 18
6 Apr ’43 8:23 PM Pearl Harbor
Dearest Judy,
Hello, my love. How are you today? I wanted to write to you before I left again, in case I don’t get to talk to you on the telephone. We’re pulling out in the morning. I know you won’t find this a surprise, since I’ve been doing this kind of thing to you for practically our whole lives together. You have always been so understanding and supportive in the past and I just ask you to bear with me one more time. This is the last time, I promise. I know I’ve said it in the past, but I’m afraid something bad may happen to my crew if I don’t go on this patrol. Please understand.
Steve Ireland has secured me a job at submarine school when I come back. Can you believe it? Quiet little New London, Connecticut. You and me and nothing but time on our hands. They aren’t even sure if I will ever get a boat of my own, now. And at this point, Judes, I have to admit that I don’t even care.
Yesterday, a young sailor in my crew committed suicide. It was horrible. I can’t tell you what an empty feeling it gave me. I had just given the kid a commendation letter, too.
We had his memorial service this morning. I didn’t know what to say. I mean what do you say at something like that?
I miss you so much. All my thoughts are of you and the little things we used to do together. You are my only source of sanity. I close my eyes and I see your lovely face, and it helps me to go on. When this war is over, I’m going to take off this uniform, get some quiet office job somewhere, and spend the rest of my life loving you. Soon, I promise.
By the time this reaches you, I’ll probably already be heading home. Pray for us, honey. You are such an angel, and I know He listens to your prayers.
All my love forever,
Jack
Tremain folded the letter and placed it an envelope. He got up and walked across the passage to the wardroom and poured himself a cup of coffee. He rested his weary body against the table as he sipped at the warm fluid.
The officers were all gone, all except Lieutenant Turner who had the duty. He was somewhere else on the ship with the duty section preparing Mackerel for tomorrow’s departure. Tremain liked the silence in the officers’ spaces. It was not often that he could sit in the wardroom by himself and not worry about someone coming in.
He sat down at the table and rubbed his temples.
Mackerel was ready for sea, finally. And it was no small miracle.
He had not been pleased when he heard that their departure date had been moved up several days. But new information about Kurita’s sea trials had surfaced, and the SubPac intelligence officers were no longer certain about the date that the battleship would reach Kii Suido. Now, they had given him a week-long window in which the Ku-rita “might” pass through the narrow strait. Mackerel would have to leave tomorrow in order to get there in time for the earliest date in the window. Once there, she would sit in Japanese waters and wait for as long as it took.
Admiral Giles had been good enough to lift the requirement that the battleship be sunk at night, something Tremain appreciated, although Giles did not have much of a choice. It made Tremain feel better about the whole operation. Something about targeting shipyard workers still bugged him. The new orders stated that “if the opportunity presented itself,” then Kurita should be sunk at night, but that the main objective was to sink the battleship “at all hazards.” Tremain knew what “at all hazards” meant, and it was a part of the orders he had decided he would refrain from reading to the crew. There was no sense in them knowing that it might be a one-way mission.
He looked at the addressed envelope to Judy on the table.
Would he ever see her again? he wondered. Or would this letter be the last words he would ever communicate to her? He thought about opening the envelope and changing the letter. He could change it to tell her goodbye, but he refrained.
It could do no good, he thought. It would only cause her to worry, and she knew how he felt if anything were to ever happen to him.
He finished the coffee, placed the envelope in his pocket, then put on his hat. Moments later he was off the ship and searching the base for the nearest mailbox.
“Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree” played on the officers’ club radio and it made Wright smile, something he had not been able to do all day. The horrible memory of the night before was still etched in his brain as he slouched in front of several empty shot glasses on the isolated corner table he had selected. All of the other officers were in town having a small get-together over at the bar in the lobby of the Royal Hawaiian, but he did not feel like being social tonight.
Wright blamed himself, of course, for Anderson’s suicide. Anderson had come to him for help and he had turned him away. Wright felt like he had pulled the trigger himself. The events following the suicide were still a confusing blur to him.
The shore patrol had shown up, then the police, then the ambulance. The Cob came within the hour and, soon after, Tremain and Cazanavette had appeared. The ship was a beehive of activity all of the rest of that night, with navy investigators and police taking photographs and asking questions. Five or six different people must have interrogated him. It was not until Cazanavette sat him down alone in the wardroom that things became coherent. Cazanavette asked him a few simple questions, then asked him how he was doing. It was the way in which the XO had asked the question that finally brought Wright back to reality. His tone was understanding, almost fatherly. Cazanavette seemed to know exactly what Wright was going through.