Chapter
8
Dry Dock
Two Weeks Later
Chief Adams spun
around in his chair and kicked his feet across the back of his desk. A thin,
blue, cigar smoke vapor filled the room as he puffed several times blowing the fumes
toward the ceiling. Matt tried to ignore the pungent smoky accent but he had
to wave his hand across his face a few times to clear a small area of clean air
from which to breathe. “You really ought to quit smoking those disgusting
things,” he said as he inclined to a shallow bend pulling a chair to one side in
front of the desk. His ribs and back were still sore and he grunted as he reclined into the soft confines of the chair.
The Chief took
another long drag and exhaled again adding another layer of smoke to the room. “No
way, I like them too much, besides it builds confidence in the crew.”
“Confidence. How?”
“Well, it’s like
this. Think about it. When we’re out on a run, as long as I have a cigar stuck
in jaw, they know we’re okay.”
“Oh really…"
“Now if there comes a time when I spit it out...then...”
He laughed out loud at his old joke. “So, they let you out early. You must have
given them too much grief and they couldn’t put up with you anymore.”
“I think it was the
other way around Chief.”
“Yeah…sure, that’s what
it was - not. Anyway, good to have you back, so how’s the ribs anyway?”
“Hurts.”
An uneasy silence followed
while Matt twisted in his chair to achieve a more comfortable position. With
each movement his face contorted with discomfort. Chief Adams watched in
silence until he resettled.
“Matt, listen. I need
you take it easy for a while. No operational duty, no heavy work load. The doc
said you need more time to heal.”
“Physically or in my
head.”
“Well, frankly, both?
Listen, you went though hell. If anyone deserves a break, you do, so just take
it easy for a while. Regroup, maybe even take some leave and get away from here
for a while.”
“I’ve already been
laid up for four weeks. I’m sick of just laying around regrouping.”
“Your call matt, but,
I can put you behind a desk.”
Matt threw a
disgusted look at the Chief. “Do me no favors, okay.”
Chief Adams spoke
through his cigar, “Wasn’t trying to. Alright, listen, maybe there is something
you can do. The 303 is ahead of schedule in its refit. Bob called this morning
said she would be ready for a test run by tomorrow. If all is well, we can
bring her home.”
His statement caught Matt’s
interest. “…and.”
“Think you should check her out.”
“Thought you wanted
me to shy away from operational duty.”
“I do. Just take a
look at her make sure she’s fit for duty. Red can do all the field testing.”
Chief Adams removed
the cigar and held it to one side, between his thumb and forefinger. “Not
asking you to take her out, just look her over, Red will take her for a quick spin
and bring her back home, be good experience for him and it’ll give you
something to do. That old sea snipe Bob Crandell and his crew do good work at
the dry dock, but I do want the 303 checked out before we bring her back.
Nothing fancy, don’t overdo it. Just look her over. You game?”
“Bob is a good man as
long as he isn’t talking so much. He sure likes to spin a long yarn. I guess I’m
in.”
“You leave first
thing in the morning…0900. If the 303 is fit to go, I expect the her back here
by late afternoon.”
1000 The Next Morning
The CG44303 sat
gleaming white with a fresh coat of vinyl paint across her hull and
superstructure. A new blue and red stripe adorned the front flanks. Her deck
appeared pristine, painted with blue deck gray paint embedded with nonskid coarse
sand and all of the stanchions were freshly painted buff brown. The newly
replaced superstructure looked like she had never received a scratch. Except
for shallow dents in the bow and on the rear compartment, she was once again a
beautiful boat.
Matt ran his hand across
the handrail that curved around the backend of the rear compartment, caressing
the coldness of painted metal with his warm hand. He climbed into the forward compartment
then into the engine room. There the brand-new diesel engines shined in perfection,
illuminated by the warm glow of lights from each corner. Back on deck, he limped
into the coxswains flat and sat in the new operational chair. Finishing work
was still required like the detail rope work that once adorned the wheel and
many of the fittings, but the wheel felt like home. He placed his hand on the
throttles and pitched a glance out the new windshield. His eyes focused across
her bow that extended almost twenty feet from the coxswains flat.
Slowly, almost imperceptivity
his mind drifted. The moment left him behind and his mind stumbled back to that
night, and he again heard the roar of the surf and felt the power of the storm.
Strobe like images filled his thoughts; screams, collapsing breakers,
shattering spars, choking, gasping for air. They tore at his soul. It was the
same haunting images and sounds he so often wrestled across his nightmares, but
now they subverted his waking hours. He closed his eyes and shook his head
trying to reestablish his presence to the here and now, but they would not vanish.
They gripped his mind and choked off his air. His breathing turned shallow. His
skin clammy and pale, he became an imitation of who he was. He wanted to vomit.
“You okay son?”
A voice startled him
back from his self-induced nightmare and he spun self-consciously around in the
seat.
“Uh, yeah. I’m fine
Bob. She looks great.”
“You kind of pale
looking. Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No…I’m alright. Just
tired. My ribs still hurt some.”
“Alright then. It took
some work to get her back in proper trim, but she’s about as ready as we can
make her.”
“I can see that. She
looks great Bob. Let’s do a walk around.”
The two of them spent
the next twenty minutes surveying the repairs. The engine room now filled with
two brand new Cummins diesels with brass fittings that shined bright and golden.
Two new power props shined with a copper like hue and her hull newly painted with
a special dark maroon paint look clean and trim. Under the stern, near where
the props were located, two new zinc plates were attached, to act as sacrificial
anodes to prevent premature electrolysis deterioration on the metal parts of
the hull.
Bob explained some of
the improvements he had made during the repairs that would help eliminate some
of the potential issues they might face, like new Morse throttles that were
less likely to cause an engine stall. Louder alarms should there be an engine stall,
and a new more modern radar system.
After their walk through, they returned to the
work shed where a rustic, potbellied wood burning stove greeted them with warm
dry air. For several minutes they sat warming their hands toward the stove and
drinking a hot cup of coffee. Matt’s crew, along with Bob’s crew were making some
last-minute touch up repairs before they lowered the 303 into the water.
Bob sat
uncharacteristically quiet during most of this time. He was about sixty-two
years old with white hair. His sunburned face was creased with dark lines. He
was a stout, handsome man, but not tall with strong hands and broad shoulders.
Matt spent most of the
indoor time scanning the décor of the old shed. Hanging on the walls were a
half dozen or more old photos of WWII submarines. Tucked into one corner was a
glass case about six feet long and two feet wide and high. Inside was an
immaculate scale model of one of the fleet submarines from that war. He deliberately
leaned over so he could get a closer look.
“You build this?” He
asked.
“Took me better than
a year to finish it, almost two years, but yeah. It’s the old Blue Fin, the sub
I was on during the war back in 44.”
“I knew you were in
the Navy, but you never said anything about being on a sub.”
“Yeah, I was a snipe.
Kept those engines running and just about everything else working too.”
“See much action?” Matt
asked.
Bob, turned away toward
the stove and hesitated before answering. As he refreshed his coffee he rather
stoically replied, “Yeah, we saw some action.”
“Ever get scared.”
Again, Bob hesitated.
“Scared. Well, no, never scared, but I was terrified a few times.”
Matt chuckled under
his breath. “What happened to get you so terrified?”
“It doesn’t matter
none now, that was a long time ago. All that matters is that the Good Lord got me
through it and I survived and went on to help win the war.”
Matt straightened returned
to his seat. His expression drifted into a somber mood, one that Bob recognized.
“I couldn’t help but
notice how you reacted when you first climbed onboard the 303. Got some
lingering bothers don’t you. I know. I can see it.”
“Good grief Bob. Now
don’t you go prying into my head too.”
“Not prying son. Just
concerned. You are not the same as you were before the accident. A blind man
can see that. I’d suspect most everyone can see it, except maybe you. Nothing
to be ashamed of. Things like that happen.”
“Not everyone loses
their crew and their friends.” Matt shook his head with a shallow side to side
wave. “Not everyone kills their crew and their friends,” he repeated in a lower
voice.
“Now you’re just feeling
sorry for yourself because you survived.” Bob waited for Matt to react, but all
he did was stare at the floor. “I’m going to tell you something I rarely ever
talk about and I’m going to ask you to not repeat it to anyone.” Bob continued.
“That’s okay Bob, you
don’t have to…”
“Yes. I do,” Bob cut
Matt off. “It was June 12th, 1943. We were patrolling the area just
west of Mindanao hoping to find some Japanese cargo ships or oil tankers
carrying oil from Malaysia back to the main islands. We just sighted our first
convoy and spent the next three hours working our way into position to get off
a few torpedoes.
Moved in real close
as those Mark 14 torpedoes were no good, had all kinds of design flaws at that time.
Crews risked their lives to fire off torpedoes that would not explode or ran too
deep, or ran wild. Skipper wanted to make sure we got a good hit so we worked
our way in. Before we could fire, sonar indicated a fast- moving vessel was
bearing down on us. Turned out to be a Jap destroyer escorting the convoy
hell-bent on taking us out.
Must have spotted the
wake of our periscope as we were taking a bearing. We barely had time to dive and
spent the next six hours sitting as deep as the hull would allow us, deeper
really, just off the bottom, having depth charges dropped on us. That Jap
destroyer skipper was pretty salty and persistent. The closer he got, the more
leaks we developed, but we were able to bypass most of them and keep them under
control. Things were getting a bit dicey so our skipper had had enough and
decided to fight back. Turned out to be the wrong move. On our way back to periscope
depth, their sonar got a good lock on us and the destroyer dropped four cans, must
have been right on top of us. Cracked the pressure hull and we were done for.
The forward section
collapsed trapping half the crew. We blew everything trying to surface but we
were just too heavy taking on too much water. All we could do was button up all
the hatches and move the rest of us, eight guys, into the control room which
was still air tight and where we had the ability to use the airlock to get out.
I guess we were lucky in that by
that time, we were pretty shallow, only about one hundred and fifty feet, but
that is a long way to make a free ascent to the surface using an Escape
Apparatus made of a rubber lung and an oxygen bottle and pair of goggles. They taught
us how to do that in sub school, but that was in a tank under controlled
conditions from maybe 100 feet depth. Those things were not designed to operate
that deep.
We drew numbers to
see who would go in what order. I never won anything in my life but I got number1
so was the first to go out. I was scared out of my hind end and tried to not
panic as I ascended, but I don’t know, I must have blacked out on the way up
because I do not remember what happened. Somehow, I made it to the surface without
drowning or blowing up my lungs with an embolism. When I came too my life vest
was inflated and I was drifting all alone.
None of the others
made it. I saw one body…his lungs all bloodied. Drifted for several days in
shark infested waters before being spotted by a Catalina search plane and
picked up. Spent three weeks recovering.
For years I carried a heavy
guilt on my shoulders. Kept asking myself, why did I survive and the rest did
not? I blamed just about everything and everyone including myself trying to reconcile
what had happened. Started drinking, hard drinking. Started getting into fights,
got busted up bad several times as a result. Ended up in the brig busted
several times.
Honest truth was, I
was a wreck and headed for a bigtime crash and burn. I didn’t know who I was or
why I was even alive. This went on even after the war ended. Until one day
several years later I found myself living on the streets. I was hungry, cold,
and scared. I had no purpose, no direction, I hated myself and wanted to die
but couldn’t. One day, I ended up walking by this little church and I felt
compelled to go inside. Not something I was inclined to do, hadn’t been in a church
since I was three. But I went in and this preacher man started talking to me.
Guess he just knew I needed someone like him to set me straight. Oddly enough
he never did preach to me, just listened as I recounted what had happened.
After I finished my story, he just patted me on the back and said, “Forgiveness
can be the most difficult of actions, especially when we must forgive ourselves.
Problem is, I don’t see where you did anything that needs forgiving. What happened
was not your fault. You can’t keep beating up yourself.”
“I began right then
to see myself differently, it changed my life Matt. When I accepted the truth
about who I was and what had happened, I could no more refuse to accepted it than
I could refuse to breathe. The terror I had carried with me for all those years
were wasted years.”
“Just like that, poof,
you were good again.”
“Oh no, all those
demons fought hard to hang on to me and I struggled, had a lot to learn, still
needed to grow, still do. There isn’t a day I haven’t thought about all those
other guys, and sometimes I still question why I made it and they didn’t. What
I do know now is it wasn’t my fault and I had nothing to run away from. I knew
there wasn’t anything I could not face, no matter how scared I was”.
“So, you’ve never been
scared since then.”
“Didn’t say that.
Said I could face those difficulties with assurance that no matter what
happened, I could accept the outcome.”
Matt jumped in, “Being
scared and feeling defeated are two different things. One is temporary, the
other eats at your gut wasting your insides away.”
Bob, slow to answer,
calculated his next words. “It is through defeat men are made. Through defeat,
we begin to see ourselves in a different light. The ones who overcome it are
the ones who ultimately win.”
Matt stepped over to
the submarine model again and stared at it for several seconds without saying
anything. Bob simply let him stand without speaking.
“Well, Bob. Great
story. I just have a hard time buying into it.”
“I understand why you
might feel that way. Whatever you are searching for, whatever the reasons you use
to keep blaming yourself is something you have to face yourself. All I can do
is to share how my life changed once I accepted what happened and that I had nothing
to do with its outcome. What you do, what you believe is between you and God. For
what it’s worth, I think you’re just running away. There aint no shame in getting help when you need it.”
Bob stood and walked
over to the submarine model. “I know it’s been hard., but I also know just how
tough you really are. You are a good man caught up in an unfortunate accident.”
Matt placed his hand
on Bob’s shoulder, “Thanks Bob, you’re a good snipe, but a lousy shrink.”
Red stepped into the
office, “Hey Matt, looks like we’re ready to go. Time to drop her in the
water.”
“Just think about it,
Matt.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.”
They made their way
back to the covered dry dock area where the 303 was perched. Red climbed aboard
and made a rapid inspection of the engine room and the coxswains flat. After
satisfying himself all was good, he leaned over the port side and waved to Bob.
“Let her fly Bob,
let’s see if she’s seaworthy”.
Bob waved back and walked
over to the winch controls that raised and lowered the trolley frame that
carried the 303. Raising his right hand with a thumbs up he waited for Red to
respond likewise, then he pressed the down button.
A medium pitched
whine filled the air along with some creaking and growling when pulleys and metal
wheels strained against the railing as the entire structure began to roll
toward the water. It took about thirty seconds for the 303 to finally float
free.
Red shouted to EN1 Johnson
to fire off the engines and within a few seconds of each other, both of the powerful
Cummins diesels roared to life. Red pressed the throttles into reverse and
backed the 303 into the channel and for the next half hour he ran the 303
through a series of maneuvers using the wheel and throttles. At times reaching
full speed, then, bringing the bow around in a highspeed turn.
Back and forth, forward
and reverse, the 303 seemed herself again flying about like a young colt on a
summer day. After being satisfied all was back to normal, Red brought the 303
alongside the dock next to the dry dock and shut down the engines.
Bob took the bow line
and secured it while another of his crew secured the stern line. “How’s she
feel?” he shouted.
Red, a lanky redheaded kid from Alaska, jumped across
onto the dock, “She feels real good Bob, you did a great job. Good to have her
back.”
Red spoke with Matt for a few moments before he
and the other two crewmen climbed aboard and shoved off. It would take a good
number of hours to make the run down the channel and across the Newport Bar,
then down the coast to Winchester Bay. Matt and Bob watched the 303 motor down
the channel, neither of them saying anything until it was out of sight around the
bend.
As Matt and Bob
walked away from the dock, Bob commented, “She’s a good boat Matt.”
“You got that right
my friend. She just needs a good skipper. By the way, I’ll think about what you
said.”
Bob smiled and
nodded, “You do that. You’re going to be okay.”
