O’Connell and Tee led Wright to a table where three other officers and one woman sat. O’Connell proceeded to introduce him to each one.
“This is the engineer and diving officer, George Olande,” O’Connell said.
A gray-haired lieutenant who looked like he was in his forties rose and shook Wright’s hand. The gray hair suited the lines at the corners of his eyes and Wright could feel the man exuding the experience of many years at sea.
“George has been in the navy awhile. He’s the saltiest of us all. He knows diesels better than the rest of us know dames.”
Everyone around the table chuckled and the woman giggled a little with her hand over her mouth. The engineer gave a small smile and returned to his seat.
“Next to him is Carl Hubley, our torpedo and gunnery officer.”
Hubley was a slightly chubby lieutenant and appeared to be not much older than Wright. With flushed cheeks and a warm smile he rose from his seat and shook Wright’s hand.
“Welcome aboard, Wright.” Hubley said, then motioned to the woman seated next to him. “This’s my wife, Barbara.”
The woman was rather homely. She had the signs of strain in her eyes and face that resulted from the many sleepless nights of uncertain waiting that accompanied the profession of navy wife, but her smile was pleasant and sincere as she greeted Wright. He nodded warmly to both of them.
“And this,” O’Connell said, pointing Wright in the direction of the last officer, “is Lieutenant Frank Cazanavette, our XO.”
“Hello, sir,” Wright said, shaking Cazanavette’s hand.
“Welcome aboard, Ryan.”
Cazanavette had a soft-spoken, easygoing manner and kind eyes, Wright thought. He had a considerate and mild nature about him. He was certainly not what Wright would have expected in an XO. It was difficult for him to believe that this man was second in command of the submarine he would be serving on. The guy had a medium build which he carried with a slight slouch. To Wright he looked more like a church camp leader than a naval officer.
“Where you coming to us from, Ryan?” Cazanavette asked.
“From officer candidate school, sir. I went to Yale.” “Holy shit!” Tee blurted. “Not only a ninety-day wonder but an Ivy Leaguer to boot! What the hell’re they sending us these days?”
“Shut up, Tee.” Carl Hubley said. “Wright’s not the only one here who didn’t go to the Academy.”
“At least you’ve got experience,” Tee said. “I was hoping our replacement would be able to help us, but I guess we’re going to have to wet-nurse his ass.”
Wright said nothing. He could see that he was going to have trouble with Tee. The man had a chip on his shoulder a mile wide and now he was using Wright’s inexperience to try to get a rise out of him. There had always been a rivalry between officers from the Naval Academy and officers who came in from different sources. Academy men had traditionally looked down their noses at their ROTC and OCS counterparts with the belief that only the Academy had the credentials to produce a qualified officer. This war had changed the minds of many, but not all. With the number of ships being built for the war in the Pacific, the non-traditional sources for officers had become essential to manning the fleet. Obviously Tee was one of those who still needed convincing. Either that or he was just looking for an excuse to harass the new ensign.
“Don’t worry about him,” O’Connell said to Wright. “He’s a lot more pleasant when he’s sober. Well, maybe not,” he added with a grin.
Tee seemed to ignore O’Connell and shifted his concentration back to the bottle on the table before him.
“In case you were wondering, Tee is the damage control assistant and an Academy grad,” O’Connell said. “We put up with him only because his dad is an admiral. Go figure. And I’m the electrical officer. And now you’ve met everyone. Everyone except for Joe Salisbury, that is. He’s the sonar officer. He’s got the duty tonight.”
“Poor Joe,” Carl Hubley said, shaking his head. “What a shitty day to get stuck with the duty.”
Everyone at the table chuckled, except Wright. O’Connell saw his confusion and placed one hand on his shoulder.
“Young Wright.” O’Connell said. He was no more than a year older than Wright himself. “You have come to join our little boat at a rather onerous time. We have just returned from what may quite possibly be the worst war patrol in submarine history. The only saving grace is that the boat made it back alive.”
“Our boat made it back, but not Ecklund and Withers,” George Olander said in his deep Georgia drawl.
All smiles vanished from their faces as if the old engineer had just reminded them of some bad deed they had done.
“They were good sailors,” Hubley said, somberly. “Good men.”
“Gentlemen and Mrs. Hubley,” Cazanavette said and raised his bottle, “here’s to our dearly departed shipmates. May they rest peacefully.”
Everyone touched their bottles in the middle and took a long drink. Wright did not know who Ecklund and Withers were or how they had died, but he decided it would be best to join the toast.
They all sat in somber silence for several minutes while the large Hawaiian with the ukulele strummed out a soft rhythm. It sounded serene and sad at the same time. It matched the new mood at the table.
“We lost two sailors last time out,” O’Connell finally said to Wright.
“And a captain,” Hubley added.
“And a captain,” O’Connell said, nodding. “Our captain was relieved of command this afternoon. Relieved because of our poor performance on the last patrol. So you see, Wright, you’re coming to us at a rather awkward time. Our crew is at their wits’ end. They’ve lost two of their shipmates, they’ve had a patrol jinxed with bad luck, and now they’ve lost their captain, not to mention their nerves. And to top everything off, Squadron has just sent some asshole to take over the ship and whip us into shape. And this one’s a real beauty. Tremain’s his name. He’s supposed to be some super sub ace or something like that. He came on board this afternoon and had Joe call the XO here to get the whole crew back on base by tomorrow morning.” Cazanavette appeared devoid of expression like he was only half paying attention to what O’Connell was saying.
“XO, I still can’t believe it!” O’Connell said. “The man’s crazy! Doesn’t he realize this crew needs a rest? After all we’ve been through?”
“I don’t know what he was thinking,” Cazanavette said neutrally. “I’ve got the chief of the boat searching every bar on the island. I hope he can find them all. Don’t overreact though, Rudy. Maybe our new captain just wants to show us his face, tell us his policies, and then send us on our merry way. I’m sure he’ll cut everyone loose after the meeting tomorrow. He’s got to know the crew’s been through a lot.”
“I don’t know, XO,” Hubley interjected. “I talked to Joe on the phone a couple hours ago. He said the new captain’s already given him enough housekeeping items to keep his whole duty section working until tomorrow morning. Joe also told me this new captain has somehow arranged a fuel, torpedo, and stores load for tomorrow. I don’t know how he pulled that one off. He must have some connections up at squadron. He’s probably related to Ireland somehow. Joe said the guy’s just sitting in the wardroom going through the service records, drinking cup after cup of coffee.”
“A perfectly normal thing for a new CO to do, Carl.”
“I hope you’re right, XO.”
“I hope he’s wrong, Carl,” Olander said abruptly.
Everyone appeared taken aback by the southern engineer’s statement.