"I had that unpleasant thought shortly after I got in the rubber boat," Lewis said. "Shall I pass the Sunfish the word to start unloading cargo?"
"The radio's right inside the bushes, over there," McCoy said, pointing.
Captain Robert B. Macklin waded the final steps ashore and then threw himself flat on the sand, as if exhausted.
"He hurt, or what?" Everly asked, concerned.
"Fuck him, let him lie there," McCoy said.
"We have to get those boats back into the water," Lewis said, and then bellowed "Macklin!" in a surprisingly loud voice.
Macklin raised his head to look at him, then moved his arms in a helpless gesture.
"Get your ass moving, Macklin, start helping us get the boats back through the surf, or I'll shoot you myself!" Lieutenant Lewis called.
Captain Macklin continued to make gestures implying helpless exhaustion until Lieutenant Lewis took one of the carbines from Lieutenant McCoy, chambered a round, and put the weapon to his shoulder. Then, his strength having miraculously returned, Captain Macklin scurried down the beach, grabbed the line on a rubber boat, and started to drag the boat toward the water.
Lieutenant Everly's eyes grew wide, but he said nothing.
"Were you really going to shoot him?" McCoy asked, a smile on his face.
"I don't know," Lewis said wonderingly. "Fortunately for both of us, neither did he." He then had a second thought. "Why don't we just let him paddle out to the Sunfish and go aboard?"
"He stays," McCoy said firmly.
Lewis nodded, turned away, and trotted toward the radio.
"Who's he, McCoy?" Everly asked.
"He's a dog robber for an admiral at Pearl Harbor."
"I meant the asshole on the beach."
"It's a long story, Everly. I'll tell you later," he said.
[FOUR]
United States Submarine Sunfish
126? 48 East Longitude 7? 35 West Latitude
Philippine Sea
0527 Hours 24 December 1942
"Skipper?" Lieutenant Amos P. Youngman, USN, asked, leaving the second part of the interrogatory-"Do you see that?"-unsaid.
"I see it," Lieutenant Commander Warren T. Houser, USN, replied.
Both Commander Houser and Lieutenant Youngman were on the crowded conning-tower bridge of the Sunfish, binoculars to their eyes, alternately watching the rubber boats close to shore and scanning the skies and horizon for signs of Japanese activity.
A passenger in the first rubber boat was returning to the Sunfish from the beach-a passenger wearing an old-fashioned, broad-brimmed campaign hat, what looked like dirty white pajamas, and a full, blond beard.
"McCoy said he would try to send a senior officer out," Commander Houser said. "That must be him."
Lieutenant Youngman turned to the Chief of the Boat, who was scanning the horizon through binoculars.
"Chief, make sure we bring that man safely aboard," he ordered.
"Aye, aye, Sir," Chief Buchanan said.
Chief Bosun's Mate Buchanan turned, trained his binoculars toward shore, looked a moment, and then handed the binoculars to a sailor standing in the center of the people crowding the bridge.
Then, moving with surprising agility for someone of his bulk, he disap-peared down the hatch in the deck of the conning tower, and a moment later emerged on the deck of the submarine.
By the time the rubber boat reached the Sunfish, Chief Buchanan had tied a half-inch line securely around his waist and placed the end into the hands of three sailors on the deck. He had also made a loop in a second length of half-inch line, handed the end to the sailors, and was swinging the looped end in his hand, not unlike a cowboy about to lasso a calf for branding.
"Put the line around that gentleman," he bellowed as he made his way down the slippery, curved hull of the Sunfish.
He tossed the line to the two sailors in the rubber boat. Their attempt to grab it failed, and Chief Buchanan, using language not customarily heard in Sunday schools, offered an unkind opinion vis-a-vis the legitimacy of their births.
He retrieved the line and tossed it again. This time the sailor in the aft of the rubber boat managed to snag it.
"Just put that over your head, Sir," he called encouragingly. "And under your arms, and we'll have you aboard in no time."
Captain James B. Weston did as ordered, then lifted himself very un-steadily to his feet and jumped onto the curved hull. He lost his footing, fell flat on his face, and started to slide down the hull into the water.
"Haul away!" Chief Buchanan bellowed.
Captain Weston's descent became an ascent; he was dragged up the hull to the deck, where Chief Buchanan and one of the sailors jerked him to his feet.
"Right this way, Sir, if you please," Chief Buchanan said.
From some long-dormant corner of Weston's memory, Naval protocol suddenly came to life and could not be denied. He shrugged free of Chief Bu-chanan's arm, faced aft, and saluted.
"Permission to come aboard, Sir?"
Chief Buchanan tried to place his hand on Weston's arm to guide him to the port in the conning tower. Weston, his right hand and arm still raised in salute, pushed him away with his left.
"Permission granted!" a voice called.
Weston followed the sound of the voice and saw a Naval officer's face high on the conning tower. His salute was returned. Weston lowered his arm.
"Escort the gentleman to the wardroom," Commander Houser ordered.
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Weston allowed himself to be led down the deck, and then through a hatch in the conning tower. He found himself in a hot, crowded world of dials and pipes, smelling of oil and sweat, with sailors in work clothing and officers in khaki staring at him with undisguised curiosity.
He was led aft, and then Chief Buchanan pushed aside a green curtain and motioned him inside.
"Someone will be with you shortly, Sir," Chief Buchanan said. "You'll have to excuse me. I've got to get back topside."
"Thank you," Weston said politely.
He walked into the small compartment and turned around. The curtain was back in place, and the Chief gone.
Weston sat down at the small table. On the chair beside him was a copy of The Saturday Evening Post. He picked it up.
The curtain parted, and a sailor stepped inside.
"Fresh coffee, Sir," he said. "If there's anything else, just push the but-ton."
He set a tray before Weston. It held a cup and saucer, a silver coffeepot, a pitcher of something like cream, and a bowl of sugar cubes. A small plate held a half-dozen chocolate-chip cookies.
Weston pushed at the cookies with his index finger, then picked one up and took a small bite.
"Are you hungry, Sir?" the sailor asked. "Can I fix you something?"
Weston looked at him without replying.
"Anything from an egg sandwich to steak and eggs, Sir," the sailor said.
"Yes, please," Weston said.
"Which, Sir? The sandwich or the steak and eggs."
"Could I have both?"
"Absolutely," the sailor said, and left.
Weston took another bite of the chocolate-chip cookie, and then thrust the whole thing in his mouth and chewed it very slowly.