“I’ve got to write to Art Hinman’s bride,” Brannon said. “They were only married, together, a few weeks, you know. I don’t know what to say, I’ve never met her.”
“I wrote to her,” Admiral Christie said. “I told her that based on what you had told us, what the Mako told you, that Captain Hinman died instantly when the Mako’s bridge was swept by very heavy gunfire. I think it makes it a lot easier for someone who has lost a loved one if they believe that the loved one died instantly, with no pain or suffering.” His face sobered. “I’ve had to write too many of those letters, Mike. Too many. But you write to her. You should.”
“That’s good of you, sir,” Brannon said. “One other thing. I’d appreciate it if someone in your office could give me a roster of Mako’s crew. I knew most of them and I’ll spend my rest period writing to their survivors.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Admiral Christie said. “Now, if you don’t mind, let’s talk about other things. The exploders worked all right?”
“Yes, sir.” Brannon’s voice was suddenly flat, without emotion. “I missed with some fish. John Olsen missed with one he fired, but those we were accurate with, they worked.”
“The only real criticism I have, Mike,” the Admiral said, “is that you shot too many torpedoes at those small freighters. One torpedo for each would have been enough. By the way, we can’t give you a kill on that patrol craft that was rammed by the freighter. You didn’t have anything to do with its going down, but we’ll give you a damage on that one.”
“The patrol vessel wouldn’t have sunk if we didn’t go into the convoy, sir.” Brannon’s voice was suddenly edged with an anger he tried to conceal. “It was our direct action that caused him to get rammed. My contact report noted that the patrol ship fired at us and we had to silence him with our machine guns.
“I’m sorry, Mike,” the Admiral said. He slapped Brannon on the shoulder. “All the same a damned fine patrol. I’d like to see you at my office for a debriefing in, oh, about three hours. I’ll have one of my aides come down and pick you up. The buses to take your crew to the hotel in Perth will be here in two hours, a little less.” The two men turned and walked up the deck. Admiral Christie stopped and turned to face Brannon.
“I’ll tell you this, before the briefing, and you’ll hear it again from my intelligence people. It should make you feel a little better about the Mako.
“When you blasted those two Fubukis you killed the man we call the ‘Professor.’ His name was Captain Akihito Hideki. He was the best antisubmarine man they had in their whole Navy. Our code breakers in Pearl Harbor said the traffic about his going down in your attack was very heavy. You’ve probably saved a lot of our own submariners by sinking him. Try to keep that part in mind.” He stopped at the gangway, saluted, and bounced across the swaying gangway to the next submarine. Mike Brannon watched his bounding progress across the other submarines and into the vast hull of the submarine tender, wondering where he got his energy, how he retained it under the enormous weight of his responsibilities. He turned as John Olsen walked up to him.
“We’ve got to paint over one of those Rising Sun flags on the Conning Tower, John. They’re giving us a damaged on that patrol boat that was rammed.”
“I know,” Olsen grumbled. “I damned near swung on that ass of a Lieutenant who works for the Staff when he told me. You’d think he’d just hit a home run or something. Son of a bitch has never made a patrol run and he’s drawing submarine and sea pay for working here on land.
“I gave the tender permission to bring fresh fruit and mail aboard, sir, while you were talking with the Admiral.” He looked at Brannon.
“Did he say anything about the exploders, sir?”
“He asked if they worked,” Brannon said. “I told him the simple truth, that the ones we got hits with worked fine. He didn’t ask anything more than that, I didn’t offer anything more than that.” He looked down the deck at his crew, many of them sitting on the deck reading their mail while they ate the cold-storage apples and oranges that were a standing feature of a return to port.
“The buses will be here in a couple of hours, John. You’d better tell the Chief of the Boat to get the crew ready to go to the hotel. I want you to take over for me. I’ve got to go to the Admiral’s office this afternoon.” Olsen nodded and went in search of Chief Flanagan. He found him sitting on the after capstan eating an orange.
“Read all your mail already?” Olsen asked.
“Didn’t get any,” Flanagan said. “I was brought up in an orphanage. Stayed there until I was seventeen. Then I enlisted in the Navy. Makes it kind of convenient. I don’t get any mail so I don’t have to write any letters.” He nodded toward Paul Blake, the sonar operator who was standing by the side of the ship staring at the water.
“Blake got one of those Dear John letters. His girl back home dumped him for some Four-F civilian. He’s taking it pretty hard.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Olsen said.
“I don’t know,” Flanagan said. “I’ve got to think about it some. He’s too good a kid, too damned good on that sonar for us to lose, to go sour over some silly-assed broad. I might get him pissy-assed drunk or something. I don’t know.”
“Captain wants all hands to be ready to get on the buses in two hours, Chief. You’d better take care of that now.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Flanagan said. He wadded the orange peel in a big hand, walked forward to where a big trash can had been placed, and dropped the peel into the can. The yeoman, John Wilkes Booth, came over the gangway holding a piece of paper in his hand.
“Some dude out in the country from Perth has written a letter to the Staff, Chief,” Booth said. “He says that next Monday he’ll throw a big barbecue for up to twenty of the crew on his ranch. They call the countryside the ‘outback’ in this part of the world. He says he’s got horses to ride and that if we bring our own rifles and ammunition the guys can hunt kangaroos and emus. Staff has already okayed drawing rifles and ammunition for anyone wants to go.” He handed the paper to Flanagan.
“I’ll announce it at quarters,” Flanagan said. Booth turned and looked down the deck.
“Hey, Geronimo,” he yelled at a swarthy Machinist’s Mate. “Some rancher out in the country wants to take us huntin’ on horseback for kangaroos. I’ll put your name down for the hunting party and we’ll find out if you can really ride a horse.”
“You do that,” the Machinist’s Mate said. “I’ll show you how to ride bareback, like I used to do back home.”
“Shit,” John LaMark said. “You Indians didn’t have enough money to own horses. You walked around dressed in an old crummy blanket until you came in the Navy and they gave you a sea bag full of new clothes.” He ducked as the Indian threw an apple core at him.
“You know my name,” the Indian said. “My name is Charles Two Blankets. And they were good blankets. I didn’t have to go to Small Stores to get a pair of shoes if I wanted shoes. I just shot me a deer, skinned it, and tanned the hide and made me a pair of moccasins. You white people would starve to death if you lived in my part of the desert and the mountains. You know something else, wise ass? I don’t have to stay on this ship with clowns like you if I don’t want to. Friend of mine on the tender come down here a little while ago. He told me they’re looking for Indians who can speak the Indian languages. It’s better than code for sending messages. We begin to talk in Apache and that old Jap won’t know what the fuck to do.”
“How you gonna make smoke signals big enough to be seen in Pearl from out here?” LaMark inquired innocently. “You gonna burn both your blankets?”