“The Squadron Office told me something about the warhead being armed,” Glover said.
“The stream of water coming out of the tube spun the impeller and armed the exploder,” Flanagan said. “We dropped it out and disarmed it.”
“You’ve had a lot of experience taking exploders out of warheads,” Mr. Glover said with a crooked grin.
“Mr. Glover.” Flanagan’s face was set, expressionless, as he looked at the shorter man. “Between you and me and these other two Chiefs we all know damned well that the Mark Six exploder doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to work. You got to know that every boat that goes to sea out of Australia is modifying the exploder to work on contact. And you know something else. It’s all a bunch of fucking nonsense. Pearl Harbor modifies the torpedo exploders for contact before they give them to the boats. But out here, shit!” He laid a hand on the warhead of a reload torpedo. “The way this room is, full of fish, partly flooded, we couldn’t change the exploders back to the way we got them.”
The Chief Warrant Torpedoman looked at Flanagan, the crooked grin still in place. “You figure you’re looking at a court-martial? Stop worrying. The big boss over in Brisbane, Admiral Carpender, he’s been relieved. Admiral Kinkaid took over. He’s an old buddy of Admiral Nimitiz. Admiral Kinkaid has put out the word, and when he puts out the word you obey. The exploders will be modified in the shop before you get them.
“Admiral Christie’s no dummy. He’s whipped and he knows it. As of now you don’t have to go through that crap of modifying the exploders and then changing them back on the way home.
“Now what the hell else is wrong with this fish? At least you got the bastard shut down, and it looks like the air flask and the after body might be okay. No discoloration in the metal that I can see.”
“The tail cone has got to be all messed up inside,” Flanagan said. “When I got that wire into the screws I know it chewed up the idler and the bevel gears. The gyro is okay. We took it out and checked it and stowed it away. I’d guess the depth and steering engines might be okay. I don’t know about the main engine.
“The warhead split when it hit the outer door. It’s been leaking exudate. We sealed the split with Tacki-wax, but I guess you’ll have to deep-six the warhead.” He paused.
“Okay for me to tell the Old Man about the exploders? He’s kinda worried.”
“I don’t see why not,” Warrant Glover said. “I knew Mike Brannon when he was a cub, down in Panama. He’s good people. Just tell him to act surprised when he gets the official word.”
“We’ll go over the side tomorrow morning,” Chief Wilson said. “Take a look at the door area of the tube. If nothing’s busted up we can hang a new door for you as soon as we get it. When we got a copy of your Skipper’s message I told ‘em we didn’t have a spare door. But they fucked around for three days. Then the paperwork took another three days. You know what the Navy is like.
“If we’re lucky we should have a door in another three, maybe four weeks. Then we got to requisition dry-dock space for you. No telling how that will come out. We might get you in dock the next day, might take a week or two. That shouldn’t make you too hot under the collar. The beer is awful good here, and the ladies are something out of this world.”
“If you want to drop by for lunch at the CPO quarters on the tender tomorrow,” Chief Nuthall said, “We could give you a report on what that tube looks like. If you’re interested.”
“I’m interested,” Flanagan said. He led the way up to the deck. John Olsen saw him climb out of the Engine Room hatch and beckoned to him.
“You’d better get the prisoner ready for transfer, Chief. They’re taking him to our intelligence people at the Bend of the Road. But this is an Australian port and we have to observe protocol; they’re sending a squad of Aussie soldiers to take him over there. Make sure he’s in clean clothes and tell him to be on his best behavior.”
Flanagan stood to one side as the prisoner climbed out of the Forward Torpedo Room hatch, blinking in the bright sunshine. He walked slowly down the deck, speaking to crew members, shaking hands. At the gangway a small, wiry Australian Army sergeant had drawn his squad up in formation. He extended a sheaf of papers to Flanagan.
“Just sign this top one, cobber,” the sergeant said to Flanagan. “I keep that one to show you turned this bastard over to me. The others are for your office wallahs to file away. Thank you, cobber, and now we’ll take this slant-eyed bastard to your people.” He grinned evilly at the prisoner, and Flanagan felt a shiver of premonition.
“You will go with these people to our headquarters,” he said to the Japanese. “I wish you luck.” The prisoner bowed from the waist.
“You have treated me humanely and with much kindness,” he said. “I offer you my hope you survive the war and live in peace and happiness.” He bowed again and turned to the squad and smiled.
“Good morning, gentlemen. A nice day for a walk.”
“I’ll good morning you, you yellow son of a bitch!” A soldier in the squad reversed his rifle, raising it, aiming the steel-shod rifle butt at the prisoner’s head. He drew back his arms to smash the prisoner’s head as Flanagan started toward him.
“Hold it soldier!” Mike Brannon’s voice was a whip. The soldier turned, his rifle still upraised, and looked at Brannon, who was standing on the cigaret deck.
“Ground that rifle and come to attention, soldier!” Brannon roared. He climbed down from the cigaret deck and walked, stiff-legged, his eyes flaming, to the Australian sergeant.
“Identify yourself, Sergeant. Name. Rank. Unit. Name of your commanding officer.” Brannon took a piece of paper and a pen from his breast pocket and wrote, as the sergeant, standing stiffly at attention, carefully gave the identification Brannon had demanded.
“This is an American prisoner,” Brannon said slowly. “American. Not Australian. He will be treated by you in full accordance with the Geneva Convention Articles of War. You will escort him to our headquarters as instructed. You will do so without harming him in any way. I am going to telephone as soon as you leave and a doctor will be on hand to examine him. If there is one mark on him, one mark, Sergeant, I’ll have you court-martialed and shot! Is that clear?”
The Australian looked into Brannon’s blazing eyes.
“Perfectly clear, sir.” He saluted, his hand quivering at his hat brim in the approved Australian manner.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he said. “These chaps of mine, me, we fought in New Guinea, sir. We know what the Jap did to our nurses when they captured them. I can’t blame any of my chaps for wanting to brain this bast —… this prisoner, sir.
Brannon returned the Australian’s defiant stare. “I think I know how you feel. Bear in mind that this prisoner was not at New Guinea. He is not a Japanese soldier. He is an officer in their Merchant Marine. Based on his conduct aboard my ship I am confident that he will make no effort to hinder you in your work or to escape. Which means that if you report that you had to shoot him dead because he tried to escape I will still have you court-martialed. Carry out your orders, Sergeant.” He returned the sergeant’s salute and watched the squad form around the prisoner, each man carefully keeping his distance, and march up the gangway and into the submarine tender. He turned to John Olsen, who had come to the gangway.
“We brought that fellow so damned far and got so much out of him and they’d have killed him on my own quarterdeck!”
Olsen nodded. “I don’t think the Aussies will ever forget the atrocities the Japs committed against their nurses. I don’t think they should forget. It was a beastly, evil thing to do.”
“Let’s get the Chief of the Boat started on getting the crew ready to go ashore,” Brannon said. “We, you and I and Bob Lee, have got to sit down with Admiral Christie and his staff this afternoon.” He turned to go down the deck, and John LaMark, who had the gangway watch, spoke in a low voice.