Chapter Text
San Francisco, April 15th 1943
The sun was glaring down mercilessly, making droplets of sweat pearl on Ian’s face as he wandered along Ocean Beach. The temperatures were not even excessively high yet, it was only April after all, but today was already on the warmer side and Ian felt uncomfortably hot in the layers of his uniform within minutes of his walk.
To his right were the buildings of Sunset District and to his left the vast, open blues of the Pacific. Seagulls circled near the shore, occasionally dipping down when they spotted prey among the waves. In the distance, he could make out the silhouettes of two PCEs patrolling the coast. Tomorrow already, he would be out there as well, along with sixty other men he had yet to meet.
He stopped for a moment, turning to face the water. As he stared into the shimmering waves, he felt a sense of dread spread through his body, but at the same time, excitement. When he signed up for the Navy, he felt, for the first time, that he had a clear goal in mind. He did it to support his family financially, but to him, becoming an officer in the Navy meant more than that; it gave him a purpose, a path for his life.
It would be his first war patrol. He recently graduated from Submarine School and not long after received his orders to join the crew of the “U.S.S. Blackfish” in San Francisco as their new Chief Engineer. The submarine and her crew were previously stationed in the Atlantic and embarked on five war patrols before they were reassigned to the Pacific. Ian was curious to meet such an experienced and successful crew and to work alongside them, but he also felt the coils of anxiety in his stomach tighten at the thought of it. They must be such a well-coordinated team, he figured, and he would be the newbie, the rookie, the greenhorn stumbling among these war-hardened seamen. He feared they might reproach him for his inexperience, but he was determined to prove himself worthy.
Hands in the pockets of his jacket, he closed his fingers around the small pocket watch, slightly thumbing at the clasp. His older sister, Fiona, gave it to him the day he signed up for the Academy. It belonged to his father. He supposedly carried it during his service in the Army in the Great War. Nowadays, he was usually so piss-drunk, Ian doubted he even remembered he had a pocket watch to begin with.
Despite its unpleasant owner, the little token still filled Ian with a sense of warmth. It reminded him of what he left behind in Chicago, and what he would fight to return to one day. It made him think of Fiona’s big, emotional hugs that always made him tear up a little; of Lip, his older brother, and their meaningful conversations late at night; of Debbie, who was growing up far too soon; of Carl and his tendency to cause trouble in whatever place he graced with his presence; and of Liam, their little baby-brother, and his happy, carefree giggles. (And yes, it even made him think of Frank lying in an alcohol-induced coma on their front porch somewhat fondly.)
He already sent them a letter when he arrived in San Francisco three days ago, telling them the usual platitudes about how he had a safe journey, how beautiful San Francisco was and how excited he was for his first war patrol. He also included some of the more unpleasant experiences (like the sick child vomiting on his recently polished boots in the train or how the windowsill of his hotel room was covered in bird shit), but he made a point of leaving out the doubts creeping along the edges of his consciousness regarding the crew. In the end, he might be worried for nothing and they would welcome him with open arms, and he would have upset his family for nothing.
After a few more moments spent standing in the sand, staring into the distance, Ian removed his hands from his pockets and turned his back to the sea. He was on a mission to explore as much of San Francisco as possible during his short stay, and he was nowhere near being done. He would have more than enough time enjoying the Pacific in the upcoming weeks aboard the Blackfish.
After his expedition through San Francisco, Ian returned to his hotel room to get some rest before the evening. It was tradition for the crew of any naval vessel to get properly wasted the night before setting sail and it was also custom for the officers to at least be seen during these escapades, to strengthen morale and gain their crew’s trust. Ian did not plan on drinking - he wanted to be in top shape tomorrow - but he figured it was a good opportunity to meet the crew and get on everyone’s good graces by buying a round of drinks.
He settled in the small armchair in the corner of the room and opened his edition of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. It was his favorite book, he was reading it for the third time since its publication and the story about the deaf-mute man who was friend to many but had no friends himself touched him all the same every time.
As he read, the light slowly travelled across the room, turning a deeper shade of orange until it disappeared entirely. The sun hat set. Ian put his book aside. It was too early to join the others in the local pubs, but he could not sit still any longer. So, he decided to return to the harbor and pay the Blackfish a visit. After all, she would be his home for the next weeks to come and he would like to get to know her.
The air was still warm, but Ian could already feel the cold of a mid-spring night underneath and he was thankful for the jacket of his uniform, no matter how much he cursed it throughout the day. San Francisco was still hustling and bustling, a continuous thrum setting the rhythm of the city. In the twilight, the lights seemed even brighter than in pitch black night. On his way to the piers, he passed several bars and pubs, loud music, smoke and laughter wafting out of opening and closing doors. Most were filled with seamen spending their last day on shore indulging in alcohol and women.
The piers themselves laid in comparable silence. Only the occasional technician or executive officer was hurrying around preparing for tomorrow's departures. Ian saluted everyone in an orderly manner, but often received barely a glance in return. He continued on his way, unpertubed.
And then, he reached the pier where the Blackfish rested in the shallow water, unmoving and clouded in darkness. She was a Gato-class, around 311 feet in length and 27 feet wide at the beam, in light gray design, although in the darkness she looked as black as the water under her bow. A real beauty of a submarine, Ian decided.
Slowly, he stepped forward, taking in every inch of her as he walked along her port side. He wanted to ingrain every detail into his brain, to make sure he fully understood her. She would be in his care for the upcoming war patrols and he wanted to treat her well. After he walked from stern to bow and back, he paused at the landing stage, hesitating. He was desperate to go inside, take a look at her engines, but he was unsure if he was allowed to enter since he hadn’t reported to his commanding officer yet.
The sound of shoes crunching on concrete coming from the shadows behind him made Ian startle and he whipped around.A man in the typical attire of a naval officer stood not more than five feet from him. His face was hard to see because of the lack of a light source, but Ian could make out the silhouette of a square jaw and the stern look in dark eyes. He hurried to salute the officer (he could barely make out the silvery rectangular bars on the man's epaulettes), and the man returned the gesture with a tired look on his face.
“Shouldn’t you be drinking and whoring around like the others?“ he asked gruffly.
Ian was taken aback by these coarse words. “I uh, I wanted to take a look at her before going,“ he answered and felt his cheeks heat up.
The man nodded, and his eyes fixated Ian again. “I’m guessing you’re our new engineer, hm? Ensign Gallagher, am I right?” he asked, "Lieutenant Sinclair, executive officer.“
“Yes sir,“ Ian felt his chest swelling with pride that the Lieutenant recognized him, despite his rather rude welcome. He supposed this was the seamen’s way. “I wanted to meet her before our departure, get to know her,” he admitted, an unexpected sense of shyness overcoming him.
The Lieutenant nodded again. “You want a tour?”
Ian agreed, barely able to contain his excitement. It was not his first time aboard a submarine, during training they had repeatedly practiced various maneuvers with real submarines, but this time was different nonetheless. Here, he had no instructor to tell him what situation required which reaction, but the added responsibility for the functionality of the sub. All he had was his knowledge and trust that his training had actually prepared him well enough for when things got serious.
Together, they walked across the short bridge and climbed the side of the tower before entering the dimly lit conn through the hatch. Immediately, they were surrounded by a mix of smells of stale air, various machinery oils, and human smells that stemmed from spending weeks in a tightly confined space. At first, it took some getting used to, and Ian remembered how he grimaced the first time the concoction reached his nose, but soon it would be as familiar as the smell of his sister'smeatloaf. From the conn, they continued first down into the control room and then aft toward the engine rooms. Most of the cargo was already loaded; only the crew’s personal belongings were not yet aboard, so Ian and the Lieutenant had relatively ample room to move around. This would change soon, and then Ian would have to watch his every step on the way from the officer’s quarters to the engine rooms.
They entered the forward engine room and Ian’s eyes lit up at the sight of the two huge diesel engines to the left and right. When he read up about this specific submarine, he learned that it was equipped with four state-of-the-art General Motors V16 diesel engines. With these, they could travel up to 21 knots at the surface, an impressive speed for a submarine this size. Behind the diesel engines, Ian also spotted two of the four generators.
These eight engines (and the two Sargo batteries underneath their feet) would be in his care, his and the chief machinist’s mate’s. If they failed their task of ensuring the engines were in good shape, their whole war patrol would fail. It was a lot of responsibility, Ian knew that. But he was certain that he could live up to the job.
“I suppose you already know all about these engines, hmm? You got that look in your eyes,” Lieutenant Sinclair spoke up, grounding Ian back in reality.
He felt the heat rise in his cheeks again at the obviousness of his enthusiasm. He was by no means a freak about machines, but after learning about the diesel engines strong enough to move these huge submarines thousands of miles through the water, he couldn’t help himself but have respect for them.
The Lieutenant must think he was an idiot. Stumbling around in the dark, blushing all the time and falling in love at first sight with a diesel engine. He resumed his posture, back straight, chest pushed out and head held high, to save at least some of his dignity. He thought he heard the Lieutenant snort.
“I read a lot about her and your war patrols in the Atlantic, and I was excited when I was assigned to your crew,” he said, “I’m looking forward to a successful next war patrol.”
The older man’s face was hard to read. He did not seem particularly enthused by Ian’s admittedly rather generic speech.
“Hmm,” he made noncommittally and Ian felt how his excitement was dimmed a little. He might not have expected a parade, but this tired, rude officer was not what his instructors had promised would await him in the Navy.
They continued their short tour through the submarine in relative silence, with only the occasional explanation and shop talk being exchanged, and soon after, they stepped outside on deck again. The Lieutenant halted next to the bridge connecting the sub to the pier. “The crew is at the Treasure on Bush and Sansome. I’ll report your arrival to the commander. Go and have fun, ease up a little. You won’t get the chance again anytime soon.”
“Yes sir,” Ian said, and they saluted each other before Ian turned away, leaving the Blackfish and its XO behind in the dark.
Even from afar, Ian could hear the loud and upbeat music and smell the booze that welcomed every customer into the old and shabby bar that was the Treasure. The air inside was so stuffy and humid he could nearly cut it with a knife, and he had trouble finding a spot to stand on in the masses that were swaying in the rhythm of the shanty some drunk growled down from the stage at the back center wall. The horrible singer was encouraged by an equally drunk audience while pretty women with long curls and sweaty faces elegantly weaved their way through the crowd, bringing pints of beer to the tables and getting groped by pathetically horny sailors in return.
It didn’t take him too long to find the crew of the Blackfish. A tattered and dirty-looking tablecloth with the hastily scribbled words U.S.S. Blackfish, SS-283 was hung up in one corner, and below sat a bunch of dangerously swaying men (or rather, boys; Ian figured they couldn’t be older than twenty), loudly proclaiming that the Blackfish would sink more Nips than any other submarine in the USN. Interestingly, Ian couldn’t find any sign of the telltale khaki of a Navy officers uniform. As it seemed, he was the only officer present. He wondered if the tradition that all naval officers joined their crew during the last night ashore was just an exaggeration the Academy had told him.
He made it to their cluster of tables pushed together and awkwardly stood around until someone, a chief petty officer according to the stripes on his sleeves, noticed him and instantly stood at attention. Impressively, he only swayed a little. The rest of the crew followed suit, albeit slowed down by their varying levels of alcohol and with the occasional outstretched hand to balance themselves on their neighbors shoulder.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Ian greeted, “I’m Ensign Gallagher, the new chief engineer aboard the U.S.S. Blackfish. I’m looking forward to working with you,” he repeated the same words he also said to the XO. This time, the reception was much friendlier, although Ian could see the occasional shine of discreet rejection in some of their eyes. He hadn't expected everyone to welcome him with open arms into a crew that had already been through so many joint war patrols. He was glad the broad majority seemed to take his arrival well.
To convince even the distrustful, he promised to buy the next round of drinks, and immediately, loud cheering broke out. After the initial wave of excitement passed, the CPO who noticed him first made room for him on the bench and Ian plopped down rather ungracefully. He could definitely feel the past few days of traveling and exploring in his legs. The CPO introduced himself as Frederick Winters, chief radioman, and immediately roped Ian into a heated discussion about who was the better Jazz singer, Billie Holiday or Bing Crosby.
“C’mon, Bing Crosby is ace! I mean, God love Billie Holiday, amazing singer and beautiful woman, but she can’t hold a candle to Bing Crosby!” Winters claimed with alcohol-fueled fervor.
“Bullshit,” a new voice chimed in. “Billie Holiday is way too good to second Bing fucking Crosby!” With a voice lowered only slightly below his previous yelling, the mate introduced himself as Petty Officer First Class Dean Hefley, amachinist’s mate. “Guess we’ll be workin’ under your command, Sir. I’ll introduce you to the Chief later, he’s takin’ a piss right now.”
From there on, their circle got bigger by the minute and the conversation shifted from Jazz singers to movies to dog breeds to whose mother made the best apple pie. Ian offered the occasional input, but mostly listened in while nursing his beer.
He had trouble keeping up with all the new names. A few he could remember by the end of the night, like the cook was called Robert Sheffield (“Bob’s alright, Sir”) and the torpedomen’s mates introduced themselves as Petty Officer Second Class Charlie McMiller and Petty Officer Third Class Bill Stewart, but soon, the faces and names blurred together and Ian decided that he would have enough time to learn all these identities in the weeks to come.
Suddenly, Ian felt someone stumble into his chair, making him spill his beer all over himself and across half of the table. He jumped up from his chair, startled by the cold trickling down his neck and chest, and spun around to give the perpetrator the dressing-down of his life.
Blue, ice-cold eyes burned into his and made Ian halt. Never before had he been looked at like that. Not with such burning intensity, such challenge. He didn’t even know what he was being challenged for. It was like he was trapped, unable to form a thought beyond these eyes.
In his stupor, it took him a moment to realize the full image of the man standing in front of him. He was smaller than Ian, but in terms of stockiness, he was every bit his equal. Atop his head short, black hair glistened with sweat and pomade, and a few strands had fallen into his forehead. The reddened cheeks and nose also indicated that the man had had a few drinks already. The man, who was a CPO, according to his blue uniform with the two rows of golden buttons.
In the end, to not make his prolonged silent staring embarrass him even more, Ian lamely said: “Watch where you’re going.”
The CPO gave him a drunken grin, but the mischievous glint in his eyes contradicted it. “Sorry, Sir, had a few too many,” he apologized insincerely and already turned away again to stalk back to wherever he came from, but Winters interrupted him
“Don’t be an ass, Mick. Buy the Ensign a new drink and apologize properly. You’re making a bad first impression,” hespoke up, giving ‘Mick’ a stern look.
“But I already spent all my money! He’s an officer, surely he has enough money to buy himself another beer.” His clear and stable speech confirmed Ian’s suspicion that he was not nearly as drunk as he presented himself to be. But Ian struggled to figure out why the CPO would try to embarrass him on purpose. They didn’t even know each other.
Another CPO (Roe, the chief torpedomen’s mate, Ian believed) put a hand on Mick’s shoulder and gently pushed him toward the bar, ignoring the smaller male’s attempts at pushing back. “Behave yourself. He’s your superior.”
Still complaining, albeit silent enough Ian couldn’t make out what he said, the black-haired male roughly shoved his way through the masses and soon disappeared from sight.
Fuming inwardly, Ian sat back down and silently collected a few paper towels to try and minimize the damage, to no avail. He was glad his uniform concealed some of the stains, only his white shirt was ruined by yellow spots. For a few moments, there was an awkward silence at the table while Ian tried to dry himself off, riled up by a swirl of emotions.
“I apologize for his behavior, Sir. Mickey has a bit of an issue with authoritative figures, you know?” Winters broke through the quiet.
“If he has a problem with authority, he should reconsider his choice to join the Navy.” It came out harsher than Ian intended, but his mood was properly ruined. In a conciliatory tone, he added: “Don’t apologize on his behalf. He must take responsibility for his mistakes himself.” Sighing, he added: “Who is he, anyway?”
“Chief Petty Officer Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich. He’s our chief machinist’s mate,” Roe supplied. Embarrassmentcrossed his face. “He reports directly to you.”
Ian sighed again.
Later that night, Ian tossed and turned in his bed, unable to fall asleep. He had hoped his doubts would be dispersed, but instead, they intensified. His talk with the XO had crumbled any illusion his instructors at the Academy had imbued in him to dust. He got along with most of the crew he met tonight, but Milkovich already promised to cause him trouble. Hopefully, the Chief could stop himself from putting them in difficult and potentially dangerous situations with his inability to respect superiors. Ian was still mad, but not just at Milkovich. He was mad at himself for not answering to Milkovich’s disrespect with the necessary assertiveness. Instead, he got thrown off balance by a pair of intriguing eyes and allowed Milkovich indirectly to hold the high ground until the other CPOs had to step in to call him out on his behavior. It wasn’t just the machinist who made a bad first impression tonight. While he may have received some bonus points for paying for the crew's drinks, Ian failed to assert himself as an officer and he feared no one would take him seriously from now on. And aboard a swimming tin can, thousands of miles from solid land, and surrounded by the enemy, this could be fatal.
Ensign Ian C. Gallagher, USN
U.S.S. Blackfish (SS-283)
FPO
San Francisco, California
April 15th 1943
Dear Fiona and family,
I have finally arrived in San Francisco after a long and rather uneventful journey through the States. The trains were so cramped, there was barely a seat free and I had to stand for hours on end. Once I finally managed to get a seat next to a mother with her child, the little one almost immediately threw up all over my the new boots you bought for me after my graduation. I swear, this kid did it deliberately. Other than that, it was incredibly boring. My room in SF is spacious and cosy (though the windowsill seems to be the go-to toilet for seagulls) and I have a great view of the nearby park. I might take a walk through it later, but I definitely want to go see the Pacific before that. I know I will spend more than enough time looking at it soon, but I’m so excited I can’t wait. The city is beautiful. After living in Chicago all my life, I could never have imagined that a city can be beautiful, but there is no other way to describe SF, and what I have seen so far is only a small part of it. I will see if I can find a postcard that captures the city in all its magnificence, but for now, you have to trust my words.
I’m also excited for tomorrow. I know, Fiona, you have your doubts about it, but this is the right thing to do, I’m sure about it. I will help defend America and our democracy, I will protect our country, our home, our life. And I will forward my paychecks to you, so you can pay the bills. I won’t need the money out there anyway.
I’m sorry if this letter is rather short and lacking in content, but you see, it was an exhausting few days. Please give Liam, Debbie and Carl a kiss from me and tell Lip I’ll think of him if he thinks of me in New Guinea. I love you all, and I hope I’ll see you again soon.
With lots of love
Ian