“You will take good care of Mackerel for me, won’t you? Go and sink a few for me, and bring her back safely, won’t you, Jack?”
“Sure I will, Sammy. I’ll even send you an autographed photo of our first kill.” Tremain smiled and winked.
Russo smiled. He wiped the moisture from his eyes and seemed to regain his composure. “Well, I better get up to Old Ireland’s office. I’m sure he already has a desk picked out for me!”
“Take care, Sammy.”
“Good luck, Jack.”
As Russo headed for the steps of the headquarters building, Tremain took another drag on his smoldering cigarette and turned to look at the Mackerel. As the smoke left his body, his eyes grew cold and hard, as if he was sizing up an opponent in a prize fight. One more drag and he straightened his back, standing as tall as he could. He threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with one turn of his heel. Shouldering his sea bag he marched straight for the unsuspecting submarine at the pier.
Seaman MacDougal twirled the whistle in his hand as he attempted to enact the tedious motions of standing guard at the brow. He could not know what was about to happen to him. If he had known he would have run. He was about to be made an example of.
He had seen the officer coming from the headquarters building. But he thought nothing of it. Several officers unknown to him had been on board that day. And he did not recognize this one either. It did not really matter. After all, what Japanese would try to sneak on board in the middle of Pearl Harbor?
This officer, however, was approaching at a most alarming rate, swinging his free arm wide and taking strides as if he was on his way to a fire. His eyes seemed fixed on Mac-Dougal. They did not blink. They did not waver. They simply stared. The eyes were filled with hatred. For what, MacDougal could not know. But it alarmed him. These fixed eyes were fierce.
MacDougal swallowed hard. What was the rank? He had better check. But those eyes, holy shit! Still locked on him and ever so steady. What should he do?
“Seaman!”
MacDougal snapped to attention. Before he could blink, the officer stood before him.
“Permission … granted to go aboard … sir.” MacDou-gal fumbled with his speech.
“What’s your name?” the officer demanded. He had not moved an inch.
“Seaman MacDougal, si—”
“Do you know who I am?”
“N-no, sir.”
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Tremain, the new commanding officer of this boat.” Tremain flashed his identification card in front of MacDougal’s face. “And the next time I catch you or any other sentry allowing someone onboard without checking identification, failing to salute an officer, improperly standing a watch … you’ll wish the Japanese had got you first. Is that clear?”
MacDougal shot up a salute.
“Yessir.”
Tremain abruptly returned the salute, hefted the bag on his shoulder, and stormed across the brow. A lieutenant (j.g), obviously the duty officer, the same man that had bid Russo goodbye, was on deck and hurried to meet Tremain as he stepped aboard. The lieutenant had witnessed the incident on the pier and shot up a sharp salute to avoid similar treatment.
Tremain returned it. “Permission to come aboard.” “Permission granted, sir.”
“And who are you?” Tremain snapped.
“Lieutenant (j.g) Salisbury, sir.”
“And what is your billet?”
“I’m the sonar officer, sir.”
“I see. Tell me Mr. Salisbury, do you always have such shabby standards for your duty section?”
“No, sir… I—” Salisbury seemed a little irritated by Tremain’s remark, “I apologize for MacDougal, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“I’ll say it won’t,” Tremain shot back, dropping his bag on the deck and marching aft.
Salisbury didn’t know whether he should follow him, pick up the bag, or do nothing. He looked at the crumpled bag lying on the deck, then back at Tremain already conducting an inspection of Mackerel’s topside deck. Tremain walked all the way aft, stood and stared at something for a moment, then came back to pick up his bag.
“Mr. Salisbury, I am your new Commanding Officer. Lieutenant Commander Tremain is my name.”
“Yes, si—”
“Mr. Salisbury, this topside looks like a typhoon hit it! Why?”
Salisbury had no answer.
Tremain did not wait for an answer and began to point out the deficiencies.
“Those lines need tending,” he said. “They shouldn’t droop into the water like that. And coil up that excess line. But before you do that, I want this deck scrubbed and washed down. What are that broom and those two buckets doing topside? They should be stowed below. That sanitary connection is leaking all over the place. Have it tightened. Why are there two food crates topside? Can’t you get enough hands to stow them below? This is a warship, not a grocery store, Mr. Salisbury. Also, get those damn shore power cables out of the water! You’re lucky if you haven’t had a ground by now. And send some men over to clean up the pier. I’ll be damned if it doesn’t look as bad as topside.”
Salisbury didn’t know what to say. To Tremain he seemed defiant, yet embarrassed.
“Sir,” Salisbury said, “I don’t have that many men available. We just have a skeleton duty section on board.”
“Why?” Tremain asked, slightly surprised at Salisbury’s response. “Where is everyone?”
“They’re all staying at the Royal Hawaiian, sir.”
Tremain inwardly cursed Ireland: He expects me to turn this ship around, but, meanwhile, he lets this crew go on liberty. They’re probably scattered all over the island by now.
“You the only officer on board, Mr. Salisbury?”
“Yessir.”
“Then I suggest you get on the phone to the exec. Tell him from this moment on all leave and liberty has been canceled, and I expect every man to be back on board by 0700 tomorrow morning. I don’t care if he has to send the shore patrol after them or even if he has to search every corner of the island himself, but I want them back on board. Is that clear?”
“Yessir.”
“Then call over to Squadron and reserve the sub base theater for 0715 tomorrow morning. Understood?”
“Yessir.”
Tremain glanced around the deck once more and shook his head before starting down the forward hatch.
Salisbury called after him. “Sir, shall I show you to your cabin?”
“No, that won’t be necessary, Mr. Salisbury,” Tremain yelled back up the open hatch. “I suggest you get your section started on that deck. If you have only a skeleton section, it might well take most of the night.”
“Aye, sir.”
After Tremain disappeared below, Salisbury visibly slouched and let out a large sigh. Why on earth did they send us this guy? he thought. Haven’t we had enough?
Tremain stood at the base of the ladder for a few moments. He had come down into the forward torpedo room. He slowly took it all in. It was the first time he had been inside a boat since he had left Seatrout. He already felt confined.
The room bristled with valves and gauges. The six torpedo tube breech doors at the forward end of the room glimmered in the dull light. He walked aft, passing between the long ominous torpedoes and racks. They took up most of the room and created a passage barely wide enough for a man to get through. Ducking his head, he passed through the watertight door and into the next compartment. Here were the officer and chief petty officer quarters, a short passageway with rooms on either side: three for the officers, one for the chief petty officers and one for the captain. By landsman’s terms they could not be characterized as rooms at all but more adequately as large closets with bunks. Instead of doors, curtains hung for privacy, but there really never was any privacy on board a submarine. At the far end of the passage was the officer wardroom, a slightly larger closet with a table that the officers could squeeze around and use for meals and meetings. The captain’s cabin was just across the passage from this room.