It had been a close call but a defining moment in Tremain’s career. From that moment, he was placed on the fast track for success. He was sort-of-a-celebrity at every officers’ club social and a poster child for the local admiral. As a reward for his good leadership, he was sent to Prospective Executive Officers’ School well before the rest of his classmates. It was while he was at the PXO School in New London that he met and fell in love with Judy. Upon graduation he was placed aboard the USS Barracuda as Executive Officer under an aged skipper, Commander Steve Ireland.
Ireland may have been aged and out of touch in the minds of many, but Tremain could attribute most of his submarine expertise to him. Tremain had reported on board with an understandably large head, and Ireland quickly showed him that he still had a lot to learn. He taught him how to be a good XO and, more importantly, how to be a good CO. Ireland spent years fine-tuning Tremain with the devotion that a father has for his son, but the two men had kept their relationship completely professional throughout. Ireland was not one for “boozing it up” with his officers and the junior officers feared him for his angry scowl. Tremain respected this and the two became an excellent team.
Tremain’s peacetime exploits paled in comparison to the feats he had accomplished in the first months of the war. After a brief shore tour in 1939, he was selected to attend the Prospective Commanding Officer School and six months later he was appointed as Commanding Officer of the USS Seatrout, a P-Class submarine, once again stationed in Manila. When the Japanese invaded the Philippines, Seatrout had been one of the first American submarines to challenge the Imperial Navy. Before Manila was evacuated in late December, the boat had already sunk a Japanese destroyer and a troop transport. With Manila in Japanese hands, Seatrout transferred to the makeshift submarine base in Darwin, Australia, from whence she continued to exact punishment on the Japanese, sinking a total of 15,240 tons of enemy shipping during a span of four major war patrols.
Before the fifth patrol, Tremain was awarded the Navy Cross and received new orders to proceed to New London, Connecticut, where he was to take command of a new boat still in the yards. Sadly, Tremain bid his crew a fond farewell and waved to them from the pier as they shoved off for that fifth patrol without him. He then spent a few weeks in Darwin doing an odd assortment of administrative tasks before embarking on the long trip back to the States by hitching a ride with every mode of transportation heading in the right direction. It had taken him two weeks just to get to New Guinea, and it was there that the news had reached him. His beloved Seatrout had been declared missing and presumed sunk. The news had shattered Tremain. He had locked himself in his BOQ room and drunk himself to oblivion. Then he had slept for two days without stirring.
I wonder what you’d say, Old Captain Ireland, if you knew about that, he thought. The last time he had smelled that diesel aroma he was waving goodbye to his crew on the way to their doom. Thus, in his mind, the aroma now became the smell of death, and it made him cold all over.
He lit the fifth cigarette.
Why did he get this job, anyway? Why him?
Old Ireland had said that Sammy Russo was “all used up.” What did Ireland think Tremain had been through over the last year, a shore desk job? Four patrols can take a lot out of a man.
And what about Judy? Poor soul, she sounded so torn today when he told her the news. As always she supported him but he could feel her resentment building. At some point the strain would get to her and she would lash out because he was putting her through the emotional roller coaster again. Had their marriage been a submarine the pressure on the hull would have been popping the bolts. Military marriages were among the hardest to hold together. They always had been, and especially so in wartime. Judy was a great gal, but what the hell? How much could she take? And for what? To quell the anxiety of a crusty old submariner who’s upset because he doesn’t have enough boats to cover his zone?
He took a long drag on the cigarette and exhaled with a loud sigh.
He was not fooling himself. He knew why he had taken the job, and it wasn’t because he was the “good man” that Ireland had so graciously dubbed him. It wasn’t because he felt it was his duty either. It was for one reason — and one reason alone. He wanted revenge. He wanted to kill the enemy that had killed his beloved crew. He wanted to kill the Japanese that had killed his friends. He wanted to kill every damn Japanese bastard who had started this bloody war.
Had Judy sensed all this in the phone call? He felt sure that she had. She knew him all too well. But what could he tell her? How could he make her understand the demons that haunted him in his sleep? The ninety lost souls that cried to him for vengeance on those who had robbed them of their youths.
He looked up from the ground. There she was, just across the jetty. The infamous Mackerel sitting silently at the pier. The would-be instrument of his vengeance. Her gray-green camouflaged hull sharply contrasting against the shoreline beyond. A solitary sailor stood watch at her brow, a .45-caliber pistol hanging loosely from his hip.
The Mackerel sat well down the pier from the other submarines and seemed to be abandoned. No sign of life, save the bored sentry, picking his nose.
The black sheep, Tremain thought.
Then he shook himself. This was silly. What was he doing? He should march right back up to that office, look Old Ireland straight in the eyes, and tell him he simply would not do it! And if Ireland put up a fight, he would threaten to bypass the chain of command and take his case straight to ComSubPac! He was going to be on that plane tonight, by damn!
Just then, he noticed a khaki figure emerge from Mackerel's forward hatch. The figure had a white laundry bag in one hand and a leather attache case tucked under his arm. He stood slouching on deck facing the conning tower for a few moments, then another figure emerged from the same hatch. He was in khaki, too. The two men shook hands and exchanged warm smiles, then the first headed across the brow. Halfway across he gave the customary salute to the colors at the submarine’s stern. The ship’s bell then rang out, clearly audible from where Tremain stood.
Ding-ding… ding-ding… ding-ding… ding.
That must be Sammy Russo, Tremain thought. Leaving his command for the last time. The man headed straight for the headquarters building. As he drew closer, he caught sight of Tremain. He stopped momentarily, as if unsure of what he should do. Then he smiled and waved and crossed the courtyard to meet him.
Tremain smiled and extended his hand.
“Hello, Sammy.”
“Hello, Jack.”
“Smoke?”
“No … thanks, though.”
Russo looked like a broken man. His eyes shifted from side to side. His uniform hung on him like loose rags. He had not shaved that day. Could this be the strait-laced, confident man Tremain had known years before?
“So I hear you’re going to take over, Jack?”
Tremain did not respond. He did not know what to say.
“They’re a good crew, Jack. They’ve just been pushed too hard. And I can’t push them anymore.”
“I heard about that last patrol, Sam … sorry about your lost men.” Tremain tried to say it in the most consoling way he could.
Russo nodded and looked away, back toward his former boat. Tremain thought he saw a tear start to form in his eye.
“It may sound funny, Jack, but I’m glad you’re taking my place. I trust you rather than some untried moron who’ll just take them out and get them killed.” He paused, fighting for emotional control and a steady voice. Then he said, “This crew can do the job. They’re the best in the fleet, but … shit.” He broke off talking again and Tremain said nothing.