LITMIR.BIZ

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may help put them on a better course. Helen may act very mature and modern, but I know she still looks up to you. Don’t let her manner stop you from doing your duty to her as your sister. She has a way of getting involved with some queer ducks, but your opinion is important to her. She wants your respect, and you can use that to keep her from getting herself into any more of these messes. I know I can count on you.”

      “Of course, sir.” He tried to imagine himself laying down the law to Helen about her latest man—or men; she wasn’t always exclusive in her habits—and failed. He would sooner tangle with a Jap destroyer.

      “There won’t be a lot of money,” his father continued. “I’ve always lived up to my income. I’ve asked Harley to handle all that. If it meets with your approval, he’ll rent out the house and invest what capital there is. Helen and Arabella will continue to receive their usual allowances. Since you haven’t approached me, I assume you’re managing on your salary. If you have any special needs, just tell Harley and he’ll take care of it.” His voice faded away and his eyes closed. After a few moments he opened them and said, “I think you should send Helen in now. I’ll see you later?”

      “Of course, Dad. I’ll be right here.”

      Chapter 4

      “Where the hell is the skipper? He’s been gone a whole fucking week!” Torpedoman Mike Antonelli had spent twelve years in parochial school and six years as an alter boy at St. Theresa’s in Baltimore. As soon as he enlisted in the Navy, he’d started developing a vocabulary worthy of a bo’sun’s mate.

      Motor Machinist’s Mate Jerry O’Dwyer drained his coffee mug before replying. “Didn’t nobody tell you? His old man just kicked the bucket.”

      “So what? When my old man shoved off, the cocksuckers only gave me a weekend pass.”

      “Your old man wasn’t an admiral, unless it was in the Italian navy.”

      “Hey, at least we got a navy, right? You Micks probably make do with a couple of fucking rowboats full of potatoes.”

      O’Dwyer stood up. “Another cup of mud?” he asked. Antonelli shook his head. From the coffee urn O’Dwyer continued, “You hear the one about what they drink in different navies? The Limeys drink rum, the Frogs drink wine, the Krauts like beer, we Americans drink coffee, but the Italians stick to port!” He was joined on the punch line by “Smoky” Stover, the cook, who was in the galley cutting sandwiches.

      “Very funny. You guys oughta be on Amateur Hour. The first time I heard that one, I laughed so hard I pissed in my diaper. Anyway, I wish the skipper would get the fuck back here.”

      “What’s the rush? They won’t start the war without us.”

      “Yeah, Antonelli,” Stover chimed in, “what’s your problem? Aren’t there enough V-girls in New London to keep you happy?”

      “Mike here is a real businessman,” said O’Dwyer, deadpan. “Last week, for the price of a Coke, he got a dose of the clap. Who was it, Antonelli, that bobbysoxer with the Veronica Lake hairdo and bazooms out to here?”

      “Aw, blow it out your assholes, the both of you. Selma’s a nice girl, she only does it after dark. Not like that floozie you were with the other day. She’s made you a blood-brother to half the fucking fleet. Anyway, that’s all crap. It’s what’s happening on this pigboat that gets me. A couple more days of Mister By-the-Book and I just might take a walk.”

      O’Dwyer instinctively glanced around the mess-room to see if the torpedoman had been overheard. “You want to watch that lip of yours,” he said in a lowered voice. “Talk like that can get you in heap big trouble.”

      “Screw it. We didn’t have any of this bullshit on my last boat, and we took care of our share of Japs and then some. A fucking torpedo doesn’t go any faster because you dust and polish it every watch. The skipper seems like an okay joe with a lot on the ball, but for all I care, Old Stoneface can disappear up his own asshole. He’s got his head up his ass already.”

      A musical chime sounded through the boat and the men in the messroom, who had come off watch only a quarter hour before, got hastily to their feet. “See what I mean?” Antonelli demanded as he dropped his mug in the basin. “Fucking battle stations. You wait—we’ll stand down in half an hour on the nose, then just when you’re ready to dig into a sandwich, he’ll sound the collision alarm. Fucking Mickey Mouse, that’s what it is.” The two men threaded their way aft, through the crew quarters with its triple tiers of bunks and into the forward engine room. O’Dwyer waved casually and stopped next to the control panel of the number two engine, while Antonelli continued across the catwalk to the after hatch, on his way to his battle station in the aft torpedo room. Moments later the command came to rig for depth charge. Cursing, he slammed the heavy hatch and spun the wheel that sealed it, then shut down the ventilating ducts. In other parts of the boat other men were doing the same. In less than twenty seconds the submarine was divided into eight separate watertight compartments.

      One of the compartments was the control room. Art Hunt, the exec and acting CO, stood with his back to the periscope housing, his eyes flicking between the depth gauge and the pit log that indicated the boat’s speed through the water. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment; the stale air was making his headache worse. “Make turns for three knots,” he ordered. “Hold her at seventy-two feet.”

      “Three knots, seventy-two feet, aye, aye.” Dutch, at the diving manifold, continued to manipulate the valves, trying to catch a trim. His task was harder than usual. Far to the north, in the mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire, the spring thaw had begun. The melted snow collected in the Connecticut and Housatonic Rivers and flowed southward, emptying into the enclosed waters of Long Island Sound and diluting them. Manta had been designed to operate in salt water. In this brackish element she acted unpredictably. To make things worse, not all the fresh water had mixed with the salty Sound yet. A layer of it sat on the top, thicker near the mouths of the rivers. When they began their dive, it was this less dense fluid that had filled their ballast tanks, and now the boat was sitting on the boundary between the two layers as if on a floor, without enough negative buoyancy to break through. The diving planes might have helped, but at three knots they had little effect.

      “I said seventy-two feet, Mr. Wing! Come on, get the lead out of your pants!”

      The young ensign flushed, while the crewmen looked away with instinctive tact. He knew that the men were having difficulty with this dive, though he didn’t know the reason, and he had learned to trust their experience and competence. Barking at them wouldn’t help at all. He passed a handkerchief across his forehead. Why was the exec keeping the boat buttoned up? It was important to practice rigging for depth charge, of course, but to stay rigged for half an hour made no sense. He saw with relief that Hunt was making for the ladder to the conning tower. He would do his job a lot better without the exec breathing down his neck.

      Art Hunt was trying to remember the plan he had drafted the night before for today’s exercises. How long since he had last checked their position with the periscope? He started toward the ladder and noticed that their depth had crept up to almost sixty-eight feet. Goddammit, why couldn’t the planesmen do their job properly? Were they goofing off just to make him look bad? He stood between them and scrutinized their faces. They glanced over, then ignored him, concentrating on the dials.

      “Chief!”

      “Sir?” Dutch looked around, puzzled by the venom in the exec’s tone.

      “This man’s on report! He is unshaven and slovenly!”

      “Aye, aye, sir,” the chief replied tonelessly. The other men in the compartment looked up in surprise, then looked away. Tommy Outerbridge, the bow planesman, felt sick with humiliation. He had three war patrols under his belt already, but until three months before he had never needed a razor. He had taken a lot of ribbing about his baby-soft complexion and was absurdly proud of the light-brown fuzz that was starting to appear on his cheeks.

      Paul took Art’s arm and led him to the rear of the control

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