Chapter Text
Pearl Harbor, April 20th 1943
After an uneventful, bordering boring passage from San Francisco to O’ahu, Hawaii, the Blackfish docked at Pearl Harbor on the 20th of April at twenty-hundred hours, and Ian was truly glad they had arrived. No one had prepared him for how dull it could be to travel across the sea for days without seeing any action, only the vast, blue ocean to stare at. He also wasn’t the only one who shared this sentiment. The crew was bored out of their minds which caused the general mood to plummet and arguments and the occasional fight over meaningless things to break out, quickly ended by a harsh ‘everybody shut the fuck up already, what is this, kindergarten?’ voiced by the chiefs.
Interestingly, no further insubordination by Milkovich occurred. Ian was sure he’d be the main cause of trouble. So far, the man had been docile, though. Ian didn’t trust the peace for one second. He was sure that sooner or later the loud-mouthed chief machinist would try his patience again. Especially since he kept giving Ian the stink-eye every time their paths crossed.
Ian had noticed in the first few days out at sea that Milkovich was not nearly as hostile and prone to insubordination toward the other officers. Sure, he occasionally talked back when he should have kept quiet, but so far, no one but Ian got doused in any kind of drink. His tone toward the officers was challenging, but still laced with respect. Ian chalked it up to Milkovich having served multiple war patrols with them already. He knew that they were capable. Ian figured somewhere between the nasty looks Milkovich gave him in the engine rooms and the bored tone of his voice over the comms that the chief was testing him, seeing if he was up to the task. He had scoffed at the realization. It was not his job to prove himself to his subordinates.
Other than that, they had been working together efficiently. They understood each other using as little words as possible, filling the blanks in themselves, and despite the sour looks, Milkovich didn’t seem to find any reasons to object to Ian’s orders. He gave it his best, tried to remember everything he learned at the academy all at once, but he was inexperienced and he knew as much. At some point, he was going to make a mistake and when that happened, it would be like Christmas Day to Milkovich.
The first thing about Pearl Harbor that caught Ian’s eye were the piles of rubble between the repaired and resurrected buildings. The attack by the Imperial Japanese Navy had happened more than a year ago, but reconstructions were still underway and it would take a long time to cover the craters left behind in the tarmac. Ian was sure that Pearl Harbor as well as the rest of Pearl City looked mesmerizing under different circumstances, but now it gave him the chills. He knew another attack was unlikely, but a part of him feared for Japanese bombers to appear on the horizon again.
A part of the harbor around Fort Island was still closed off, but the majority of the docks as well as the submarine base were in use and bustling with life. Sailors huddled together, sharing cigarettes and laughter while officers barked orders at them and staff runners hurried around in between, relaying messages and carrying cargo boxes. The sun had already set, but the waterfront was lit-up by spotlights and business continued on unhindered. Ian couldn’t make out just how big the area was, the buildings behind the piers soon became indiscernible in the dark, but he estimated it to stretch hundreds of yards inland. He had heard that currently the base housed almost three-thousand enlisted men. It was even supposed to have a state-of-the-art recreational facility.
For the next thirteen days, this would be their home. Ian could think of worse places to be.
April 23rd 1943
Up, down, up, down, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, aaand stop.
Sweat poured down Ian's face and neck, running down his back and collecting at his waistband. It was nearly oh-seven-hundred, they had just finished their second set of sit-ups out of four, and Ian seriously contemplated ending it all right now, once and forever. Why was there a necessity for physical fitness, anyway? It wasn’t like the crew would have to run two miles in ten minutes on a ninety-foot long swimming tincan.
Next to him, Lieutenant Fulton, the comms and gunnery officer on the Blackfish, drew deep, controlled breaths and Ian envied his ability to hide the strain the exercise took on them all. The crew, on the other hand, was much more vocal about their disdain for PT at the asscrack of dawn. He could hear the constant murmur of people swearing under their breaths and the occasional curse. Even if he had any breath to spare, Ian wouldn’t reprimand them for their loose tongues. Silently, he agreed when Sheffield spat out a slightly too loud ‘Fuck me, this shit’s torture and they know it.’
During the short break between sets, Ian let his eyes wander over the men. To the far right, there were the two torpedomen’s mates, McMiller and Stewart (Ian got better at remembering everyone’s names), mingling with a couple of seamen. Then there was Dean Hefley, who looked back to him at this moment and gave him a pained smile and a wink. Next to him stood Winters and the Chief Torpedomen’s Mate Joseph Roe. Both were snickering quietly among themselves, no doubt making fun of the poor condition of some of their mates. Ian just hoped he wasn’t one of the subjects in their conversation. After them came a few mates whose names Ian could not yet remember. They were petty officers, but he didn’t work directly with them, only crossed their paths occasionally when he went between the conn and engine rooms.
And finally, to the far left stood Milkovich, drenched in sweat and with a healthy flush on his cheeks. The thin white shirt with the Navy’s insignia stuck to his chest like a second skin, leaving almost nothing to imagination. He was currently sipping water from his canteen, pausing every so often to get a short, greedy gulp of air in. A few drops missed and slid down over his jaw and throat until they were stopped by the collar.
Ian felt a rush of heat rising up inside him until he was sure he looked equally flushed. Irritated by his body’s weird reaction, he picked up his towel and dried off most of the sweat with rough movements. The harsh treatment left his skin tingling and burning uncomfortably, only adding to his foul mood. He let the towel sink. Where did this suddenly come from, Ian wondered. Of course he knew what it meant, he was not an idiot, but he could not for the life of him figure out why. Why Milkovich?
In the end, he chalked it up to his being confused by the unusual hostility coming from the other man and his body mixing up irritation and attraction in the process. He refrained from looking at Milkovich for the remainder of the exercise, but the heat in his belly never left even once.
April 24th 1943
He knew he should not have trusted the peace. Not with Milkovich. In hindsight, Ian realized that his chief machinist must have carefully planned his next step, which made sense. In the presence of the commander, he could not just outright challenge Ian. No, he had to be more subtle than that. And he found a way.
Four days into their stay at Pearl Harbor, they ran a routine diving drill. It was not their first, Commander McDowell had been working them hard and relentlessly ever since they left San Francisco, and so far, things had been going well. Ian was under the impression that he did a good job. He didn’t let his inexperience show, his voice and orders were confident and he rarely had to think about his next moves. Even the commander had voiced his approval.
Ian had assumed he found his place in the crew, and that he had gained their respect. It made him inattentive. He should have seen Milkovich’s attack coming.
They were underway a few miles outside Pearl Harbor when the expected call to rig for dive came from the bridge and the alarm sounded off. Immediately, what looked like utter chaos to the untrained eye but was actually a process rehearsed down to the last detail, almost like a choreography, broke out. Ian made space for all the men passing through, then resumed his position at the control station, standing behind the planesmen. Keeping an eye on the Christmas Tree, he waited for all hatches and valves to be closed.
The last red light turned green. “All green,” he said. “Bleed air.”
“Pressure in the boat,” came the answer.
“Ship rigged for dive,” he reported to McDowell. Unlike the commander, he didn’t have a pocked watch to keep track of their speed, but he had a feeling that this was their new best time.
McDowell nodded. “Take her down to three-hundred feet.”
“Five degrees rise on the stern planes,” he said to the stern planesman, and already turned to observe the inclinometer when suddenly, the ground under his feet tilted further than expected. He slipped and barely managed to hold onto the seats of the planesmen to steady himself. From behind, he heard surprised shouts and something crash. He prayed it was nothing important, else the CO would have his ass.
“I said five! Ease the bubble!” he yelled at the planesmen and hectic rummaging on the control station began. Slowly, the submarine came up, and he managed to stand upright again. “Wilson, what the hell!”
“Sorry, sir. Thought you said full rise.” Wilson didn’t sound sorry at all.
“Gallagher! What is going on?” McDowell called from behind.
“I’m sorry, sir. It was a misunderstanding. Petty Officer Wilson misheard me,” Ian tried to explain.
“Well, talk more clearly, then! I can’t have you mumbling your orders during an emergency dive, you understand?”
“Yes sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Take her up again. We’ll do another round, so our diving officer can learn how to talk.” Ian heard quiet sniggering coming from somewhere to his left.
“Rig for surface!” came the call and Ian’s cheeks burned in shame for the rest of the drill.
He didn’t need to think for long to come to the conclusion that Wilson hadn’t actually misheard him. He knew the man was a friend of Milkovich’s, and he was sure that Milkovich had asked Wilson to sabotage their drill to test Ian. Or to make him furious. Either way, he got what he wanted. Ian was mad. More so at himself, because he really should have seen it coming, but also because he was concerned that Milkovich would pull a similar stunt when they were on patrol, and that could only end fatally. It could have now, had they trained loading the torpedo tubes simultaneously.
His pride forbade Ian from running to his CO to share his suspicion (he also believed that McDowell didn’t care about his personal feud with Milkovich, he would probably tell him to take care of his problems himself). Instead, he waited until they returned to the base to confront the chief.
“Milkovich,” he called when the other tried to slink away with his friends. “A word.”
For a second, Milkovich seemed to seriously consider ignoring him, and Ian contemplated whether he should actually chase him if this was the case, but then the chief stopped and turned around.
“What can I do for you, sir?” When he called Ian sir, it sounded like an insult.
“If you have a problem with me, you take it up to me personally. You don’t tell your friends to sabotage me. Have I made myself clear?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Milkovich. I know Wilson’s mistake was deliberate and I know you’re behind this. So again, if you got a problem, you come to me directly.”
“Listen, it ain’t my fault you’re bad at your job. Don’t blame it on me. Or on Wilson.” Milkovich’s face showed no emotion, but his eyes betrayed him. They held the same mischievous glint as the evening at the bar.
“I don’t think you understand how serious this is. If you pull something like that while we’re under attack, it won’t matter what you think of me, we’re all going to die. So pull yourself together and do your job. And let others do theirs,” Ian insisted.
“’Else what?” Milkovich had the audacity to ask.
“Or else I report you to Commander McDowell and get you transferred to another submarine.”
Milkovich actually laughed, loud and harsh and cold. “You do that. See if he believes you, the new, inexperienced guy over someone he served with on multiple successful war patrols. It’s your word against mine, Gallagher. He’s more likely to boot your ass outta here.”
“That’s Ensign Gallagher to you.”
Milkovich snorted. “Sure, sir.”
Fuck him. The game was on. If Milkovich wanted to play dirty, Ian would return the favor.
“You’re dismissed.”
Milkovich gave a mocking salute, then turned on his heels to disappear toward the mess. Ian followed his shrinking figure with his eyes, until the CPO turned around a corner and disappeared from his sight.
April 27th 1943
Out of all the boring tasks an officer had to do, attending briefings was probably among the most boring ones. Right after writing up reports. Ian sat in his chair, rather to the back of the room, and tried to stifle the third consecutive yawn by pressing his teeth together. This briefing wasn’t even interesting. The Commander of SUBRON One lectured them about a newly invented camouflage technique for submarines. Ian didn’t see why he should care. He mostly saw the sub from the inside, anyway.
Next to him, Lieutenant Fulton seemed similarly bored, although he was better at hiding it. His eyes faced the commander, but Ian could see he did not focus at all on what was being said. As though he sensed that he was being watched, Fulton turned around to Ian and slightly rolled his eyes. The corners of Ian’s mouth ticked upward before he schooled his face into a neutral expression again. He shouldn’t be caught fooling around at a briefing, but seriously, why did he have to hear about countershading? He turned back to the front, making an effort to at least look like he was listening. From the corner of his eye, he could see Fulton doing the same.
The meeting soon shifted to the more interesting topic of Japanese convoy movements in the past few weeks and ended up lasting until well past twenty-hundred hours. By the time he and Fulton stepped outside, Ian’s stomach was grumbling loud enough that even the front row must have heard.
“Now, wasn’t this the most interesting meeting? I swear, if they test us on that shading-nonsense, I’m going to step into the ocean,” Fulton said with a grin. “You want to grab something to eat? The mess is probably closed already, but there’s a good diner not far from the base.”
“Sure,” Ian said, a bit hesitant. He still wasn’t too familiar with the other commissioned officers on SS-283, but Fulton seemed like a nice guy. And he should probably try to be seen with the crew at least a few times during their stay. He couldn’t always hole up in his quarters.
On their walk to the diner, Ian and Fulton made light conversation about their hometowns – Chicago and Bedford, Massachusetts respectively – and the academy experience, sharing stories about their time in basic training and laughing until all the hesitancy had dissipated into the chilly night air.
“So, there was this one RDC, I already forgot his name because, full offense to the guy, he was an ass. Anyway, me and a couple of other recruits were in room 69. And he hated that number, of course, because of the sexual innuendo. We thought it was funny, made a lot of jokes about it, but this guy, he hated this number with a passion, like it had personally offended him. So, he hated everyone in room 69 by default, too. I swear, during room inspection, he did his very best to always find something so that he could make us stay for two hours longer, cleaning the whole thing again until he was happy. Not that he was ever happy.”
Ian hummed affirmatively. He knew a thing or two about RDCs and their peculiarities too.
“I swear, you can’t make this up. One time, he unscrewed the clothes rail to check the inside of the pole for dust! I mean, what the hell?”
They laughed maybe a bit more loudly than what was appropriate and immediately caught the sharp side-eye of some officer walking past them. They didn’t care.
Their banter continued until they stood in front of the glass doors to a small and slightly dingy diner with large ugly lamps on the tables that emitted a warm light. The walls were decorated with photographs and paintings of various landscapes, a mountain range hanging right next to the black and white of the sea. It looked homey.
A little bell above the door sounded off as they stepped inside. It was mostly empty, safe for a group of civilians in a corner in the back and the sole waitress filling up pints of beer at the bar. She briefly looked up and acknowledged their presence with a curt nod before returning her attention to the task at hand. Ian and Fulton sat down at a table next to the windows that overlooked the street.
“I’m starving,” Fulton said. “It should be illegal for briefings to go on until after dinner. Especially if they’re as pointless as this one.”
“I wouldn’t say it was pointless,” Ian said and picked up the menu. “They told us some valuable information about the IJN’s movements. We need all the intel we can get.”
“Alright,” Fulton sniggered. “Suck up.”
They ordered roast beef with mashed potatoes and peas and a pint of beer each. Fulton threw rather obvious glances at the waitress, but she ignored him professionally and Ian decided against pointing out his fruitless and admittedly embarrassing attempts. In the end, Fulton would only ask why he wasn’t throwing glances at her, and Ian wanted to avoid having that conversation.
It wasn’t until their beers were already served and their tongues had slightly loosened that the door to the diner opened again to give way to a couple of faces Ian had gotten familiar with in the past few days. Their commander, McDowell, took point, and on his heels walked the exec and the navigator, Lieutenant Hagberg. Ian immediately averted his eyes to his pint again in the hopes that the other officers might not notice them, but Fulton did not seem to share that idea. He fully turned around in his seat and raised his arm, giving a short wave with his hand. From the corner of his eye, Ian saw the commander reciprocate the gesture and the group heading their way.
Pretending he didn’t notice them as they walked closer would be conspicuous, and so Ian raised his head with a silent sigh and offered a short nod.
“Evening, gentlemen. Do you mind if we sit here?” the XO asked.
Wordlessly, Ian scooted over, offering his seat to Hagberg, who stood closest to him. They exchanged short and superficial platitudes – fine evening, isn’t it – before McDowell turned his attention to Ian.
“Gallagher. I meant to ask you, how are you doing on the Blackfish? Do you feel ready for your first patrol?”
“I’m doing fine, sir. So far, work with the crew has been going well, too. It’s better than I could have hoped for and I’m ready for this tour.”
The Commander nodded, his eyes not leaving Ian for even a second.
“I heard there is some tension between you and Milkovich. I also heard you blame him for what happened the other day.” He left the sentence hanging in the air like an unspoken yet unmistakable warning. It required no further comment for Ian to understand what it meant: get your shit together and don’t let it become my problem to deal with.
“Chief Milkovich and I are still warming up to each other,” was what Ian decided to respond with in the end. Considering the look on the commander’s face, it wasn’t the correct answer.
“I’m not interested in your personal feelings about each other. Make sure they don’t interfere with our duty,” he said, voice noticeably sharper than before.
“We won’t let our personal issues affect our working relationship, sir.”
McDowell quietly stared at Ian for a few seconds longer. Then he nodded. “Good,” was all he had to offer and like that, the matter was taken care of. The conversation shifted to more navy-unrelated topics and Ian finally felt some of the insecurity drain away as he participated more actively. By the end of the night, he felt more comfortable among the other officers and for the first time since the night in San Francisco, he was positive that he could actually find his place among the crew.
And he would figure out what to do with Milkovich.
Ensign Ian C. Gallagher, USN
U.S.S. Blackfish (SS-283)
Pearl Harbor, T.H.
May 2nd 1943
Dear Fiona and family,
We finally made it to Pearl Harbor on the 20th. The passage was so uneventful, it isn’t even worth talking about. We did routine drills and otherwise sat around trying not to die of boredom. However, I’m sure that will change once we have reached our designated area. I can’t tell you much, but from the looks of it, we’ll be very busy in the next couple of weeks. I know that’s not exactly what you would like to hear, but this is a good thing, trust me.
Pearl Harbor is still mostly a big pile of rubble. They haven’t even moved all the wrecks yet. But the place is working on full performance again already, despite the repairs and constructions still underway. The rest of Pearl City is beautiful, I’m sure of it, but I haven’t had the opportunity to explore it yet. Our schedule was packed with briefings, check-ups and drills, and in the evening, I was often too tired to explore the island. I found a nice diner just outside the base the other day, though. Maybe when this war patrol is over, I can see more of O’ahu and tell you all about it.
About the crew, well, I’m starting to find my place. There have been some minor problems, but really, it’s not worth mentioning. I have it under control. Most of the guys make me feel like I fit right in with them. The commander is strict but fair, a prime example of leadership. I’m positive we’ll be very successful under him.
Now, what do you mean Carl is gone? For how long has he been away? You know, it isn’t unlike him to disappear for a couple of days, it’s happened before, and he’s always returned. Maybe he just found something new to obsess over. It would do him good, to invest all that energy into something other than causing trouble. I’m sure he’ll return soon, don’t you worry too much about it, Fiona.
Alright, tell Debbie and Liam I love them, and give Carl a well-deserved ass whooping when he returns. And tell him I love him too.
Please tell me as soon as you hear something new from Lip.
We are leaving tomorrow and I won’t be able to read your letter and answer you until after the patrol, so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while. I miss you all and hope to see you again soon.
With lots of love
Ian