Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  Nigel turned his head and smiled as the front door of the house opened and a young fella walked out to meet him on the lawn. Nigel didn’t hesitate. He met him halfway. As they were approaching each other, the guy asked, “Are you the fella I spoke with on the phone? I didn’t catch your name.”

  Nigel produced a C-note from his front shirt pocket and handed it to him as he extended a hand. “Does this answer your question? The name is Ben Franklin. Nice to meet you.”

  The guy took the bill and they shook hands. The young guy said, “Thompson. Scott Thompson.”

  “Nice to meet you. My name is Nigel Logan.”

  Thompson’s eyebrows came together in thought. Then he asked, “Did I hear you say, ‘Nigel Logan’ as in the Nigel Logan? Chief Logan?”

  Nigel said nothing. He wasn’t expecting to have his name recognized. He felt stupid and careless for not thinking of the possibility. Any relief or escape he was feeling had now vanished. It was written all over his face.

  “I’m sorry,” said Thompson. “I upset you. I didn’t mean to sound...”

  Nigel raised a hand to stop him. “It’s okay. Really. Forget about it.” Then he turned toward the vehicle and said, “Let’s talk about your Bronco here. She looks great.”

  Still a little starstruck, Thompson said, “Sure.”

  Thompson gave Nigel the tour. It was a full-size Bronco, 1993 model, black with a beige top. It had a lift kit installed to help accommodate the oversized tires. Nigel sat behind the wheel and rubbed his hand across the dash. It was perfect.

  “How many miles?”

  “A hundred and twenty-seven thou.”

  “That’s it? Nice. Does everything work?”

  “Yup. I bought it about five years ago. I had been looking for one, and it was the only one I could find. So, I grabbed it. It’s been great. It’s never been wrecked, and it doesn’t leak any fluids. She does burn a little oil, though. He handed Nigel the keys and said, “Fire it up.”

  Nigel inserted the key and gave it a twist. The engine roared to life and idled. The guy raised his voice over the engine, “Glasspacks! You won’t be able to sneak up on anybody.”

  Nigel liked what he was hearing. He turned the engine off and said, “So why are you selling?”

  The guy motioned with his head for Nigel to follow, so he did. The guy reached through the grill and popped and lifted the hood. “I wouldn’t tell most folks this, but ... you being who you are and all. But...” Pointing to the engine he said, “You see that? It’s the 351 Windsor, the large block, one thirsty son of a bitch. I can’t afford the gas anymore and … the wife is expecting. It’s not doing me any good just sitting.”

  “Oh, congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nigel looked the engine over and checked the oil. It was about a half-quart low, but looked good. It wasn’t burnt. “Very clean. I’m impressed.” Nigel pulled out a small flashlight from his bag and crawled underneath. While he was inspecting the undercarriage, a car pulled into the drive. Nigel watched two guys get out and approach the Bronco. He crawled out from underneath and brushed the grass off his clothes. “No rust. She looks perfect.” Nigel looked at the two guys that were walking toward them and said, “It’s sold, fellas. You’re too late.”

  The two guys threw their hands up in the air and grumbled as they turned to leave. The guy looked at Nigel and said, “Don’t you want to test drive it?”

  “Do I need to?”

  “Well, no. I guess not, but...”

  “Shut up then and go get the title.”

  The guy disappeared into the house as Nigel walked around and admired his new ride. As far back as he could remember, he always wanted a big, full-size Bronco. He could have gotten one years ago, but it always got put on a back burner. Now, with so much uncertainty in his life, he might never get another opportunity. He wasn’t going to let this one slip by.

  Nigel sat with his back against a front wheel and opened his bag. He counted out eight-thousand five hundred dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills and stacked them in the grass. He thought about the price. In his opinion, it wasn’t too high. He felt like he was getting a deal.

  When the guy emerged from the house, Nigel stood up. The guy was carrying the title in one hand and a skinny, ornate, wooden box in the other. Nigel recognized it immediately. It put a smile on his face. The guy handed Nigel the title. He glanced at the back, it was already signed away. Then he looked at the guy and said, “You’re a fucking SLUG? Or do they even use that term for you slimy bastards anymore?”

  SLUG is the acronym for Selectee Learning Under Guidance. It is the title earned by a Petty Officer First Class, but only after being tested and selected. If everything goes as planned, he would later be known as Chief. When you put on the hat, it’s a big deal. The world of the Navy Chief is far different than the rest of the enlisted ranks, or at least it used to be. There is plenty of Navy brass trying their best to muddy the waters and fuck that distinction up. It still pisses Nigel off to think about it.

  Thompson said, “The chiefs...” He saw Logan’s eyes raise in displeasure. “Excuse me, the genuine chiefs that have been around a long time still call us SLUGs, but the others just call us Selectees.”

  Nigel said, “Listen, pay attention, especially to the old guys. There will be hidden lessons in what they tell you. Who is your sponsor?”

  “Genuine Senior Chief, Jethro Bear.”

  Nigel busted out laughing. He collected himself and said, “You got Max as a sponsor. You got a good one. He’ll teach you right.”

  The SLUG asked, “You know the Genuine Senior Chief?”

  “Yeah. You can say that. Max Bear and I went through initiation together. He’s a bad ass. One tough, crusty fucker. You pay close attention to what he does and tells you. He’s like me, he doesn’t like all this watered-down transition shit. He likes the old lessons. He will teach you good.”

  The SLUG said, “I’ve noticed that he doesn’t exactly follow the CPO transition guidance from the MCPON.”

  “That’s because he knows better.”

  The MCPON, the Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy, is the Navy’s most senior enlisted and serves as advisor to the CNO, the Chief Naval Officer. The further you get away from the fleet, and the closer you get to the top, the less chiefly and more polished you become. It’s understandable to a certain degree.

  Each year the MCPON comes out with that year’s “CPO Transition Guidance,” the blueprint for successfully absorbing a two-tone blue, white-hat petty officer into the khaki ranks of Chief! None of the guidance approves of the old ways, but that’s okay, the old salts view the guidance more as mere suggestions anyway. Certain parts of the MCPON’s recommendations are ignored. Max was that kind of salty.

  It’s funny how things can get turned around. Nigel came to this house as a silly villain, just a guy looking to buy a Bronco. Now, in a flash, his deportment had changed. The Bronco no longer mattered. He was back in the Navy, wearing the hat.

  “So,” said Logan, “I guess you want me to sign your fucking charge book?”

  The SLUG went into a very well-rehearsed response. Nigel, who was now playing Chief Logan, smiled as he listened to the SLUG grovel the very words he too had often repeated. “Oh great, all knowing, most honorable fountain of wisdom, excuse my slovenly appearance and accept my most humble apologies for encroaching on your most valuable time. I most humbly beseech you...”

  Chief Logan raised a hand. He was satisfied the SLUG knew the words. Max had been teaching him well. “That’s enough. You’re boring me. Tell me. How many in your class know those words?”

  “Not many. Just a couple of us, Genuine Chief Logan.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. Now did you prepare a page for me in your book?”

  “Yes. I did. While I was in the house. That’s what took me so long. I dedicated a page just for you. It’s the last page in the back, but ... I don’t know what page number to give you.”

  “The l
ast page? In the back? What the fuck?”

  The SLUG looked embarrassed, not knowing what to say. He had no idea he would come across Chief Logan. All the other pages toward the front of the book were already dedicated for the other chiefs on active duty. He stood there looking dumb, not knowing what to say.

  “Jesus, SLUG! Can’t you do anything, right? Seventeen! Make it seventeen, then give me the book, goddammit. You’re wasting my fucking time.”

  Chief Logan snickered as he watched the SLUG pull the old green logbook out of the wooden box and open it to his page. After marking the page number, he opened the book wide and handed it to him.

  “Is there a particular color pen you wish to use?” asked the SLUG.

  In the old days, Chief Logan wouldn’t have cared. But the mention of color caused him to think about his newest, old friend in Port St. Joe and said, “Make it red.”

  Chief Logan was about to write in the book, then he stopped. He looked at the SLUG and said, “Before I do this, I have one more test for you.”

  The SLUG said nothing.

  “Tell me, SLUG. How long have you been in the Navy?”

  “It will be fifteen years this January.”

  Chief Logan was not pleased. He said nothing, but his anger showed all over his face. SLUG Thompson immediately caught his mistake and started to back-pedal.

  “Excuse me, Honorable Genuine Chief Logan ... if I may have another go at it.

  “Do they even teach this stuff anymore?” asked Chief Logan.

  “They don’t … but Genuine Senior Chief Bear does. He said others would ask. Not all, but others.”

  “Well, SLUG. From now on you consider me to be one of the others. So, I’ll ask you one more time, but before I do, I will tell you this: Never once, ever, when asked, did your sponsor or I do anything but put our entire heart and soul into answering. It’s not about the words, it’s about the attitude. Do you understand me?”

  The SLUG said nothing and nodded his head.

  Logan raised his voice, “Is that supposed to be some kind of fucking answer you piece of shit? I asked you a question. I want a fucking answer.”

  The SLUG sprang to attention and said, “Yes, Genuine Chief Logan. I understand.”

  “Then tell me SLUG, how long have you been in my Navy?”

  The SLUG began to move slowly, in a crouch. He closed one eye, as if in need of a patch. One shoulder began to rise, creating a hump on his back. He tilted his head and began to growl through the side of his mouth.

  Logan feigned impatience and yelled, “Tell me, dammit. Tell me now, How long...?

  The SLUG interrupted Logan, “All me blooming life, Chief! Me mudder was a mermaid. Me fodder was King Neptune. I was born on the crest of a wave and rocked in the cradle of the deep. Barnacles and kelp is me clothes. Seaweed is me hair. Every tooth in me head’s a marlin spike. Every bone in me body’s a spar. And when’s I spit...” The SLUG hawked up a mouthful of sputum and spat it in the grass. “I spits tar! I am hard, I is, I am, I are.”

  Logan showed no emotion. He looked at the SLUG with neither approval nor displeasure. Then he turned away, placed the charge book on the hood of the Bronco, and began to write.

  On the bottom right corner of the page was a note to the SLUG’s sponsor.

  Max, by what chance of fabulous misfortune did you end up with this shit-bird as a SLUG? Did you piss in the Master Chief’s Wheaties again? Damn, you are one unlucky bastard. Remind me to never fly or ride in a car with you again. Peace, brother.

  Using the rest of the page, he wrote his note to SLUG Thompson.

  SLUG, You will probably get a lot of advice until your pinning day. Most of it will be good, some of it will be shit. A favorite phrase is “Take care of your sailors.” Personally, I think that’s stupid. Your sponsor would agree. It’s a safe, emotional, happy, over-simplification and totally inaccurate description of your duties as CHIEF. Momma and Papa take care of their children. Sailors are not your offspring and it isn’t your job to make them your friends.

  I would say, by whatever method necessary, TEACH.

  Teach the new sailors how to take care of themselves. Most, probably not unlike yourself, will never have been truly held accountable for anything. Their joining the Navy is their wake-up call. Hold them accountable for everything. Give them nothing. Except! ... every opportunity to make mistakes and excel.

  When they make mistakes, be sure there are consequences that fit the circumstances. Consequences that send a clear message: Don’t do that again. Then turn around and show a caring side. TEACH them the right way. Show them the error of their ways and how not to make the same mistake twice. It is always in your best interest to have effective sailors.

  When they excel, tell them in a public and fitting manner. And just like consequences, make sure the rewards fit the achievement. Even small achievements deserve a reward, even if it’s just a “Bravo Zulu” at the morning muster. TEACH them there are rewards for being effective and earning your respect. These are lessons that will serve them well, long after they have left the fleet.

  As your sailors advance as petty officers, build an army of teachers. TEACH them to TEACH others. Having a deep bench of effective petty officers is invaluable. Use and TEACH them well to one day fill your shoes.

  You may have also heard the idea that there’s no such thing as a worthless sailor. I agree, as long as we’re talking about sailors. A recruit takes on the title the day he or she joins. Welcome to the Navy, sailor! This, however, doesn’t make them an actual sailor. Becoming a sailor is easy. All one has to do is accept and embrace the life, even if that means faking it. Point is, not everyone is cut out for the life of a sailor. Bootcamp will weed many of them out, but a few will fall through the cracks. They will disrupt harmony, resist authority, and be unproductive. Above all else, they will be unreliable when the shit hits the fan. The World’s most powerful Navy doesn’t have room for bugs like that. Document your efforts and TEACH them to find the door.

  I know this is a lengthy entry. It will likely be the only book I sign this season, maybe the last ever, so I wanted to make it count. To that end, I will leave you with these final thoughts.

  Don’t be a tyrant, even though there will be times your sailors will think you are one. “Let them.” Some days they will hate you: “So fucking what? Let them.” If you do it right, you will create sailors that will want to be just like you, and they will follow you down into the depths of hell, which, God forbid, is part of a sailor’s job description.

  Good luck, CHIEF!

  Then Logan signed it at the bottom

  From Stool 17, Nigel Logan, QMC(SW), USN (Ret.)

  The remarks covered the better part of two pages. He looked them over one last time, then snapped the book shut. He turned around to find SLUG Thompson holding two frosty beers. Somewhere along the way he had slipped away to get them. He set them on the hood as Logan handed him the charge book and the money for the Bronco. Thompson put the money in his pocket and stowed the book in its box.

  “Aren’t you going to count that?” asked Logan.

  “Do I have to?”

  Logan smiled. They grabbed their beers and clanked the bottles together. “I think you’re going to be just fine.”

  They made small talk about the Navy and life in general. Nothing too serious. Logan wanted it that way, nice and simple, while it could last. He was enjoying his beer and talk of the service. It made him happy, but he knew it was temporary. He knew, all too soon, things were about to change. Changes were coming, no doubt, with outcomes he would have little control over.

  After finishing his beer, Nigel handed Thompson his bottle. “Thanks. That hit the spot.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “So, before I take off, does Max have you bring him coffee every morning along with a...”

  Thompson chimed in to helped Logan finish his question. They both laughed after they both said in unison, “...bear claw.”

  Logan kicked at the gras
s with the tip of his shoe and said, “It was a dumb question.”

  “No such thing as a dumb question, Chief.”

  “That’s bullshit and never forget it.”

  There was some awkward silence. They had run out of things to say. Logan couldn’t procrastinate any longer. It was time to go.

  As Logan opened the door to the Bronco he said, “I have one last order for you, and it must be done without fail. Do you understand me? There’s no ignoring this. It’s important.”

  “Sure. Just name it.”

  Logan rolled down the window and gave SLUG Thompson the meticulous details of his marching orders.

  Thompson said, “Salt in his coffee!!!! He’ll kill me dead.”

  “Lots of salt … and yes, he will. But you’ll live through it. I promise.” And with that, Nigel stuck his hand out the window and said, “Scott. It’s been a real pleasure doing business with you.”

  Nigel fired up the Bronco. He liked the way it sounded. He ran his hands over the steering wheel. He liked the way it felt. He fiddled with the radio and out of habit dialed in 100.5 FM, but found only static. He laughed at himself and watched through the rearview mirror as Thompson walked up his front porch steps.

  Then Logan stopped smiling. It was great while it lasted, but the fun was over. Logan turned his attention to the black Crown Vic that was parked across the street and down two houses. It had been there the entire time. It followed him from the diner where he and Grace met for breakfast.

  The driver of the Vic was watching and snapping pictures through the driver’s side window. The camera zoomed in tight to Logan’s face. It looked angry, mean, and irritated. The driver was startled when suddenly they were making eye contact through the lens. Logan was looking right down the barrel of the lens and into the driver’s soul. A slight gasp was made, when there was erratic movement and everything was out of focus.