Free Reluctant Warriors by Jon Stafford Page B

nodded. “A broken leg, several
broken arms, many contusions, a bad concussion, as bad as yours, but they should
all recover.”
    The doorway curtain opened, and the steward stuck his head in the cabin. “Sir, if
you’re okay, the captain says you are to eat something first, then come see him on
the bridge.”
    “Okay. What’s the time?”
    “About 1600, sir.”
    Twenty-four hours have passed , Harry thought as he stood up. I guess I feel okay
so far. He was wavering a little, but only because he had been off his feet for so
long.
    “Thanks,” he said to Botel, then stepped into the submarine’s narrow hallway and
wobbled down to the Wardroom down the hall. There were only a few people there, drinking
coffee and talking amongst themselves.
    Harry stood uncertainly in the doorway, looking around. One of the guys looked familiar.
He stared, then remembered the man’s name: Julian “Rocky” Fordyce, from the class
after his at the Naval Academy.
    “Harry, come on in!” Rocky called.
    Harry stepped in and was glad to sit down again.
    “Sorry about your crew, Harry,” Rocky said.
    “Yeah.”
    Soon, they were joined by Ted Felders, whom Harry recognized—barely—from one of the
later Academy classes. Both men sat quietly and respectfully as Harry had some coffee
and a sandwich. He wasn’t sure exactly what was in the sandwich—but it sure tasted
good.
    Afterward, as he made his way past the Sonar Room to the Control Room, a passing
young officer stuck out his hand.
    “I’m Pete Danford, sir. Glad to have you aboard.”
    “Thanks.”
    Harry nodded to each man in the Control Room and felt okay going up the ladder and
through the tiny opening to the conning tower.
    “Is the captain on the bridge?” he asked. As the men looked his way, he recognized
Rudy Ferrell, who had been a year behind him at the Academy.
    “Hey, Harry!” Ferrell bounced over to him, and they shook hands warmly. “I’m sorry
about Walter. I know how close you two were.”
    “Thanks. The captain up top?”
    “Yeah.”
    Harry ascended the ladder to the bridge, feeling much more encouraged. As he emerged
into the light and wind, he immediately saw the captain from slightly behind.
    The boat was traveling at Standard speed, about sixteen knots. Phelps’ famous red
hair blew straight back. Harry remembered that Phelps had been a star on the Academy
football team and become famous for a particular goal line stand in the Army-Navy
game of 1935. He was well known throughout the service as a good commander, fair
in his dealings, good to the men.
    “You okay, Harry?”
    “I think so, sir,” he said as the two shook hands.
    “Harry,” Phelps began, “there are several things I need to talk to you about.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Well, that’s probably the first one. Harry, we’re very informal on Bluefin . The
men might have called you ‘lieutenant’ or ‘sir,’ but that’s only because they don’t
know you yet. Soon they’ll start calling you ‘Harry.’ I want you to be okay with
that.”
    Harry thought how different that would be from the formality Fostel had demanded—and
how much nicer. He’d already noticed a different air to this boat. The men were contented,
happy, something he had not seen before.
    “That’s fine, sir,” he answered.
    “Everyone calls me ‘Red.’”
    “Red, how the hell did you find us?”
    “It was just sheer luck, Harry. We heard your report of the convoy, and Pearl ordered
us to back you up. We were coming up as fast as we could, dead astern of the convoy.
My exec [executive officer] Louie Rice was on the bridge, and he thought he saw an
explosion to the west. None of the lookouts saw anything, because they were concentrating
on the convoy to the north. He thought it was either a ship being torpedoed or hitting
a mine. Was it a mine?”
    “I think so.”
    “Anyhow, we couldn’t raise you. We had to assume that either you had blown up or
were submerged ahead of the convoy. From your last