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Authors: George E. Simpson, Neal R. Burger
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peered into the wardroom. It was a shambles: books, records, record player, charts, cups, pencils, clipboards, everything flung about as if someone had had a violent tantrum.
He opened the door to the captain’s tiny cabin. It resembled a dozen others he had seen, including the one he had lived in when he took over command of the Prang for a month in 1969. It held a double bunk, the lower one tucked out of sight behind an overhanging curtain. There were two chairs, a stainless steel washbasin, and a desk, the last two on piano hinges that could drop from the bulkhead. Frank opened the desk and found it crammed with stacks of papers, a few books, and other litter. Either the captain of the Candlefish had been a very disorganized man or someone had worked his desk over in a cocktail shaker. Frank paused over the signature flamboyantly displayed on a ship’s order dated 20 NOV 1944:
LT. COMDR. BILLY G. BASQUINE, U.S.N.
The name was a mouthful. Something slipped out of a cubbyhole, and Frank caught it before it crashed to the floor: a black-and-white portrait of the Captain, with his arms around his wife and two young children. Frank stared at it a long time, trying to measure strength and resolve in the man’s features. But something lurked behind the stiff smile, and for the moment Frank couldn’t decipher what it was.
He turned and saw the low filing cabinet across the tiny cabin. He sat down on the bunk; and opened the drawers: They were thick with manila folders containing dossiers, fitness reports, promotion recommendations, a ship’s-organization pamphlet, copies of the watch bills, diving bills, emergency bills—a wealth of information. Good. He would have Cook remove all this material to his office right away.
He got up, and as he turned to close the desk the log caught his eye. It was not the official ship’s log; that was kept in the control room by a quartermaster. This was the captain’s day-to-day log, his personal account of all events aboard the boat that ran counter to the Ship’s Daily Orders. In it there should be records of every dive, every attack, every gun action, every course change or order change enacted by the Candlefish during her last patrol. Immensely valuable. The book was open, face down, buried under a stack of papers. He flipped it over and gazed at the open entry, the top of the page ribboned with the Captain’s hasty scrawl.
The date was November 21, 1944. The entry began: “0800. Underway from Pearl, proceeding under orders to general area Kuriles, Pacific.”
That was all. Nothing more on that page or the one opposite. Frank flipped back and found entries running back to January. He flipped to November 22, 1944.
His hand froze, and he stared at the page.
It was blank.
He went on. November 23rd, 24th... right on through to December... up to December 11th, the day the Candlefish was reported lost.
Nothing. Blank and fresh, not even the mark of an eraser.
How could that be? The sub had left Pearl; that much was certain. They had fired eight torpedoes. SubPac had records of their kills on that last patrol. Had Basquine failed to keep his log? Frank stared at the blank pages until he was interrupted by a tapping on the door. He closed the log and tucked it under his arm.
“Come in.”
Cook opened the door and grinned at Frank. “Found a survivor.”
CHAPTER 5
October 11, 1974
Frank was angry. Cook had obviously taken time to read all the material before he even told Frank he had it Cook turned red in the face and apologized profusely. The notes had come in that morning; he had read them through himself; he wanted to be able to brief Frank. “And I mean brief,” he added, and indicated the crammed manila folder under his arm.
They walked back up the dock together, heading for the Imperator. Cook gave Frank a resume, occasionally referring to the file.
“He came aboard the Candlefish in January of ‘44 as a lieutenant and served
He opened the door to the captain’s tiny cabin. It resembled a dozen others he had seen, including the one he had lived in when he took over command of the Prang for a month in 1969. It held a double bunk, the lower one tucked out of sight behind an overhanging curtain. There were two chairs, a stainless steel washbasin, and a desk, the last two on piano hinges that could drop from the bulkhead. Frank opened the desk and found it crammed with stacks of papers, a few books, and other litter. Either the captain of the Candlefish had been a very disorganized man or someone had worked his desk over in a cocktail shaker. Frank paused over the signature flamboyantly displayed on a ship’s order dated 20 NOV 1944:
LT. COMDR. BILLY G. BASQUINE, U.S.N.
The name was a mouthful. Something slipped out of a cubbyhole, and Frank caught it before it crashed to the floor: a black-and-white portrait of the Captain, with his arms around his wife and two young children. Frank stared at it a long time, trying to measure strength and resolve in the man’s features. But something lurked behind the stiff smile, and for the moment Frank couldn’t decipher what it was.
He turned and saw the low filing cabinet across the tiny cabin. He sat down on the bunk; and opened the drawers: They were thick with manila folders containing dossiers, fitness reports, promotion recommendations, a ship’s-organization pamphlet, copies of the watch bills, diving bills, emergency bills—a wealth of information. Good. He would have Cook remove all this material to his office right away.
He got up, and as he turned to close the desk the log caught his eye. It was not the official ship’s log; that was kept in the control room by a quartermaster. This was the captain’s day-to-day log, his personal account of all events aboard the boat that ran counter to the Ship’s Daily Orders. In it there should be records of every dive, every attack, every gun action, every course change or order change enacted by the Candlefish during her last patrol. Immensely valuable. The book was open, face down, buried under a stack of papers. He flipped it over and gazed at the open entry, the top of the page ribboned with the Captain’s hasty scrawl.
The date was November 21, 1944. The entry began: “0800. Underway from Pearl, proceeding under orders to general area Kuriles, Pacific.”
That was all. Nothing more on that page or the one opposite. Frank flipped back and found entries running back to January. He flipped to November 22, 1944.
His hand froze, and he stared at the page.
It was blank.
He went on. November 23rd, 24th... right on through to December... up to December 11th, the day the Candlefish was reported lost.
Nothing. Blank and fresh, not even the mark of an eraser.
How could that be? The sub had left Pearl; that much was certain. They had fired eight torpedoes. SubPac had records of their kills on that last patrol. Had Basquine failed to keep his log? Frank stared at the blank pages until he was interrupted by a tapping on the door. He closed the log and tucked it under his arm.
“Come in.”
Cook opened the door and grinned at Frank. “Found a survivor.”
CHAPTER 5
October 11, 1974
Frank was angry. Cook had obviously taken time to read all the material before he even told Frank he had it Cook turned red in the face and apologized profusely. The notes had come in that morning; he had read them through himself; he wanted to be able to brief Frank. “And I mean brief,” he added, and indicated the crammed manila folder under his arm.
They walked back up the dock together, heading for the Imperator. Cook gave Frank a resume, occasionally referring to the file.
“He came aboard the Candlefish in January of ‘44 as a lieutenant and served
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