D. M. Ulmer 01 - Silent Battleground (5 page)

Dave understood the circumstances and nerves of steel needed to perform Brent’s rescue feat.  He sensed Brent didn’t want to discuss it further. 

“It’s really a lousy design, driven by the need to push torpedoes against the higher sea pressures of deeper diving submarines.  Other things should have been factors, but they weren’t.”

“Other things?”

 “War fighting capability.  We had ten launchers in the ships that won World War II and only four in that 688 of yours.  You got two eject pumps.  If one goes down, and you just found out it can, you’re left with only two launchers.  Result … we got the fastest, quietest boats in the world, but they’re tactically bankrupt.”

“You’ve witnessed a lot of change, Dave.”

With an edge on his voice Dave asked, “For the better?”  Then went on in softer tones, “I can get heavy on this subject, especially after a couple of vinos.  Be thankful it’s not after a couple of gins.  We’re not warriors now, we’re scientists and professors.  Academia has replaced initiative.  Not too good, in my humble view.”

“Humble, Dave?  You?”

Bea entered the room.  “The choir still preaches to the choir, I see.  Here’s the only topic more important than you two saving the submarine Navy.  Dinner is served, gentlemen.”

They moved to the dining room and sat down to Bea’s succulent rack of lamb that could hold its own in any four star restaurant.  Brent enjoyed the change of venue.  With Bea around, more pleasurable topics held greater appeal.

Brent primed Dave’s memories of earlier happy times, many which included his wife.  At the conclusion of each monologue, Dave’s face brightened, and he would turn to Bea, no doubt to capture traces of his wife’s countenance so apparent in her daughter.

Next came cognacs by the fire and a few more tales before Dave excused himself for the evening.

With Dave out of earshot, Brent said, “What a guy.  I can't think of your dad in any other way than he is now.”

Bea gave a curious look, “Meaning?”  Her tone signaled need for a good explanation.

Brent caught the signal and groped for words.  “You know, old, wise.”

Staring Brent down, Bea asked, “Old?”

He squirmed. 
When will I learn to think before speaking to this woman?

She went on, “You mean it’s hard to visualize Dad as a young guy like yourself?”

Brent leapt on her words like a drowning man upon a sandy beach.  “Exactly,” he replied.

Bea said, “Let me show you.”  She took a photo album from the mahogany bookshelf above the fireplace and began to page through.  “Here.”  She produced a black and white snapshot of twenty-six year old Lieutenant Junior Grade Dave Zane, Navy binoculars hanging about his neck, standing on the bridge of a World War II fleet type submarine. “There’s one fine looking officer.  Too bad you didn’t look that good as a JG.”

“Touché.”

They paged through the album and shared occasional oohs, aahs and laughs, mostly over childhood photos of Bea.  They came upon a five by eight folder fronted with a formal photo of Bea’s mother, beneath which read
Celebrating the Life of Dale Beatrice Walker-Zane
,
July 22, 1930 to August 12, 1984.

“What a beautiful lady.”

Bea, pleased by his remark, rewarded him with a smile.  “Really want to know Dad?  Read this.”

      Remembering my Beloved Wife, Dale

A summer hike through the Olympic National Park at Sol Duc Hot Springs brought me upon a rare orchid that would beautify the rest of my life.  It came about while doing an unwise thing - leaving the trail to explore side canyons.  Good fortune for me that I elected the ‘unwise’ path.  Though searching for the elusive cephalanthera austinae orchid, I found instead my own Olympic Blossom, Dale, whose beauty exceeds that of every flower in the forest.  A soft cry, “Help,” floated through the balmy afternoon air, and I found a young lady lying on the ground in great pain. “I think my ankle’s broken.”  She raised her eyes to me apologetically.  A quick look proved her right.  Words came to mind, you shouldn’t hike alone!   But then that would be the pot calling the kettle black.  Depleting my first aid kit supplies, and with help from two small tree branches, I fashioned a splint, then gathered Dale into my arms for the six mile trek back to the trailhead.  Such a dilemma!  Speaking depleted my breath and strength, but how could I impress her without doing that?  And from the first instant, impressing her became more important than anything in my life.  I must have done well.  The trail we walked together that blessed day extended through thirty-two beautiful and precious years.
 
My Olympic Blossom, Dale, wife, mother and enduring companion of my life.  I shall never walk alone,
Sweetheart.

Brent exclaimed, “Wow!”

“My uncle, Mom’s oldest brother read this for Dad at the funeral.  Then a woman in the choir sang
You’ll Never Walk Alone
, Mom’s favorite song.”

Taking her hand Brent asked, “Hard for you to talk about it?”

“No, Brent.  The pain’s gone now.  Only the happy memories are left.”

They looked through some remaining photos and Bea returned the album to its place on the shelf.

She rejected Brent’s suggestion they drive to the Bangor ‘O’ club for a nightcap and check the action.  He had the key to Jack Olsen’s room at the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, vacant and available because the executive officer’s wife’s visit to Bremerton had been delayed.

“It’s a waste of time to drive over there.  Dad won’t come down unless I call him.  You don’t plan to make me do that, do you?”

Brent answered with a smile, “Not if you can control yourself.”

“Male chauvinist.”

Later, firelight illuminated the highlights in Bea’s hair as they lay nude with a small blanket and dwindling fire for warmth.  They slept in each other’s arms until the flames burned low and a chill awakened them.

Bea pleaded, “Don’t leave.  Not just yet.”

They gathered the blanket over them and lingered another hour, holding each other in the afterglow of their lovemaking.

Chapter 3

Lieutenant Commander Jack Olsen,
Denver’s
executive officer, barked, “Crew…a-ten-SHUN.”

Shuffling feet echoed throughout the warehouse-turned-drill-field as a hundred crewmen came to a semblance of the traditional military position.  Submarine crews are plumbers, electricians, technicians and mechanics and do not parade often and it showed. 

Lieutenant Commander Olsen gave his impression of a salute when greeting Squadron Commander Commodore Danis, a sincere gesture if not military.  An arm slithered up his right side; the hand bent ninety degrees at the wrist.  It reminded him of a rising periscope. 

At the same time he rendered the weird looking salute, Lieutenant Commander Olsen said, “Good morning, Commodore. 
Denver
officers and crew ready for your inspection, sir.”

The commodore returned the salute, hand swung in a precise and graceful arc, back ramrod straight, yet relaxed and comfortable.  His crisp military bearing showed him to be a product of earlier times.

“Good morning, Jack,” the commodore said, and then to Captain Bostwick, “If you would lead the way, Captain.”

The inspection party moved single file through the waiting ranks, first Captain Bostwick, followed by Commodore Danis, Lieutenant Commander Jack Olsen, and Senior Chief Quartermaster Richard Cunningham,
Denver
’s Chief of the Boat.  The COB, the executive officer’s strong right arm, enforced directives to the crew and also assisted the first lieutenant in organizing the crew members for grunt work and keeping
Denver
shipshape.  Chief of the boat ratings exist only in submarines, the position inaugurated prior to World War II and awarded to the ablest chief petty officer aboard. 

Captain Bostwick introduced each officer in order of rank and upon reaching Brent said, “You know Lieutenant Maddock, Commodore.  He’s been with us the longest.  And if I may say so, did valuable service with his quick action during our problem on sea trials.”

Brent contained his surprise at the captain’s comment. 

It pleased Commodore Danis that Bostwick had gotten the message and he said, “Oh?  I must hear all about this, Brent.  But for now, congratulations.”

Ensign Woody Parnell’s cherubic face looked stern from beneath the brilliant gold chinstrap on his cap.  A single gold stripe, equally brilliant, circled each sleeve cuff.

The commodore said, “You’re a fine looking officer, Ensign Parnell,” then winked.  “Don’t let these crusty old submariners change that.”

The officers followed with polite laughter.

Next, the commodore inspected the crew.  He made random stops by a number of men and spoke to each one.  Some he questioned, “Where is your home?  Many of our best submariners came from the plains states.  Did your family come to Bremerton for the overhaul?  Bet it’ll be good to get back to San Diego.”  

All standards for senior officers interacting with enlisted, however, the commodore’s personal interaction made each recipient feel special.

With the inspection of ranks completed, the inspection party filed to a podium in the center of the warehouse as Lieutenant Commander Jack Olsen ordered, “Pa-rade REST!” 

Again, shuffling feet moved to the comfortable military position.

The commodore read letters of commendation to crewmembers who made special contributions to the overhaul’s success.  Next, he passed out chevrons and advance rating certificates for new promotions among the crew.

Brent managed an unmilitary wink at Gary Hansen who made Fire Control Technician, First Class.

Commodore Danis addressed
Denver
’
s
crew.  “Officers and men of
Denver. 
You’ve a right to be proud of the overhaul … your overhaul.  You brought a tired ship to Bremerton and rejuvenated her.  She leaves here with elevated fighting power and a top notch fighting spirit based on what I see of her crew.

“Combat readiness is paramount, I mince no words.  Overtones in the news are valid and of great concern.  You must depart the Strait of Juan de Fuca ready and with your guard up.

“Officers who served in World War II guided me through my early career, their agenda and emphasis experience driven.  But they are gone now and lessons of the war are diminished by time.  Submariners have not heard a shot fired in anger for many years and so we must avoid the complacency that grows from this.

“Our 688 class submarines have no peers in the navies of the world and will serve us well in the event of war.  They run faster, quieter and deeper than our prospective adversaries.  But the bitter lessons of war often show opening poker hands are seldom the ones played at the end.

“Nuclear propulsion has revolutionized submarine warfare, but its demands for attention have diluted the resources needed for other tasks.  Combat readiness suffers accordingly.  While I do not suggest we back off from safe reactor operation, I ask you all to dig deep and find the means to maintain a high level of combat effectiveness.  In a word, be ready to fight.”

Brent
thought,
Ready to fight?
 
Sounds damn serious
.

Denver’s
crew caught the emphasis.  Commodore Danis’s words departed from the normal rah-rah, go get ’em pabulum usually served up on these occasions.

Was this a war warning?

His audience stirred at the commodore’s ominous words so he paused a moment to let this settle in.  Then continued with, “You cannot rest upon success of your efforts in the yard, however hard you’ve worked.  Monday, you get under way for two weeks refresher training and return to San Diego, though I would not make book on the latter.  This time must be used well to ready you for combat.

“I’ve ordered
Denver
to depart Bremerton with a full weapons load and provisions for an extended patrol.  Your sister ships are doing likewise throughout the Pacific.  Be mindful that
Denver
exists only because of her need in time of war.  This is the sole justification for all Navy warships.  We must be worthy of the trust that accompanies a huge national investment to this extent.  I am confident the officers and men of
Denver
will discharge this trust with skill and honor. 

“Thank you and congratulations on a job well done.”

Applause, led by Captain Bostwick, interrupted the shocked silence of
Denver’s
crew.

Lieutenant Commander Olsen ordered, “At-ten-SHUN,” and the commodore and Captain Bostwick departed.

After being dismissed from formation, troops reassembled in small groups, wanting to get the straight scoop. 

Gary Hansen asked, “What the hell’s going on, Mr. Maddock?”

Several others gathered to hear Brent’s response, a testimony to their confidence in the young officer.

Brent knew this, thus chose his words carefully.  “You heard what the man said.  This isn’t Monday Night Football.  Second guesses are not worth much.  We’ve got a job to do, but what else is new?  We don’t break with our tradition of doing it right.

“Hansen, our work is cut out for us if we’re to be ready by Monday.  A full load-out will be a first.  Look at it this way.  Same as all the other ones, except more bullets.  So let’s get out of these sailor suits and into working gear.  And Hansen,” he called to his leading petty officer who started to walk away, “congratulations on the new stripe.  This means I can expect more and better things, okay?”

Grinning at his division officer in response, Hansen continued to walk off.

Quartermaster Henri, ever the self-starter, said, “Not sure where I’ll find them, Mr. Maddock, but we don’t leave here without every Pacific chart printed in the last ten years.”

Brent grinned, “Don’t forget the Atlantic, Henri.  We can get there under the Pole, ya know.”

Henri provided a rare glimpse into his sense of humor with a wide grin spread over his face.  “You’re tough, Mr. Maddock.  Real tough.”