Ken Whiting now ruled both cruisers out of the action. The Omaha, already short of fuel, slowed down, but the Detroit, calmly taking up the plane-guard station, began a play-by-play account of Big Sara’s every move. Well, the fat was in the fire now; Captain Dick knew we needed a plane guard too badly to wave him off, and besides, he knew Bull Reeves too well to worry about any future disciplining.
The tropic night fell on the Gulf of Panama, coming down suddenly at five bells of the first dog watch. All night we steamed at thirty knots with the stars closed in around our darkened decks. At midnight the admiral called me to the flag bridge.
“All the squadron commanders have been up in a body to ask me to launch immediately and not wait for dawn. What do you say?” That was a poser. No doubt, sweating it out down in the ready room, fearful that Army or Navy aircraft might catch them flat-footed on deck during the night, they had come up with their big idea.
“Sir,” I replied, finally, “we have no reason to believe that any night fighters or bombers can be out this far. At least we haven’t seen or heard any signs. To change a plan involves new risks, and we have enough already.”
“You’re right,” the admiral agreed. “I’ll tell them to turn in; we’ll stick to the original plan.”
Standing on the flag bridge with the seas slapping against the side and the night breeze filtering down our necks, I began to appreciate, for the first time, the kind of courage that was being displayed by this man. A half-dozen rivals, candidates for his job, were sitting back, waiting for a break. It was the old Navy Game, keep your neck in and let the other fellow take the risks. Sooner or later it pays off—if you live long enough. Bull Reeves had never played that game.
“Sir,” I began, “there’s a lot of brass hats watching us tonight.” The admiral inclined his head to hear me above the roar of the wind. “And,” I went on, “there’d be many a dry eye tomorrow if you should slip.” For a while I thought he hadn’t heard.
“I know,” he replied slowly, “but a commander who stops to appraise the impact of a military decision upon his personal fortunes has no right to be entrusted with a command.”
After a while, dark figures began stirring among the parked airplanes, and the blue lights winked on—flashlights screened by paper torn from packages of absorbent cotton, loaned by the sick bay. Still later, the staccato bark of an engine and red flashes from its short exhaust stacks signaled all mechanics to start their engines.
By now the night air was cold and we shivered as we stood around on the bridge, looking down on an expanse of exhaust flames. Ship’s officers had taken their stations, their telephone helmets on their heads. Pete Mitscher and Ken Whiting stood in the wings of the bridge. The roar of engines swelled then ceased as suddenly as it had started.