Dangerous Ground

by Larry Bond

  “Sir, I don’t understand. I’m sure Senior Chief Foster’s watch schedule was correct for a port and starboard duty section.” Jerry wasn’t entirely certain of this, but defending his leading chief was the right thing to do.

  “I said it was OBE, Mr Mitchell, not incorrect. The XO and the COB have convinced the Captain that a Port and Starboard watch rotation isn’t necessary and would likely have a negative impact on the crew’s performance when we finally get underway. So we are now going to a three-section duty rotation.”

  Foster let out a short whistle and said, “Leave it to Mr. B and Master Chief Reynolds to tag-team the Captain, again!”

  “Regardless of how it happened, Senior Chief, I still need a new watch bill for your division and I want it by 1700 today,” snapped Richards.

  “Understood, sir,” replied Jerry, who then turned to Foster. “Senior Chief, I’ll take the first stab at the new three-section duty schedule while you handle the repair parts list and are looking in on the PM work. I’ll bring the schedule by for your review before I turn it in to the WEPS.”

  “Yes, sir, if you insist, sir,” said Foster coldly.

  “Yes, Senior Chief, I do insist. I need to start pulling my weight on this boat and I can begin by doing this. Oh, and Senior Chief, please pass on the news to the rest of the division. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”

  Foster merely nodded and walked over to where Moran and company were performing the maintenance check.

  “I expect your schedule to be correct, Mr. Mitchell,” warned Richards.

  “Of course, sir. You’ve made that very clear. Now, if you will excuse me, sir.” And with that, Jerry headed back to his stateroom to begin his first assignment.

  As Jerry was hustling back to his stateroom, he nearly collided with Lenny Berg as he and Washburn were leaving.

  “That’s the second time in one day that I almost collided with you, Jerry!” exclaimed Berg, who feigned a fainting spell. “You, sir, are a menace to navigation.”

  Jerry was also surprised by the near miss and while he heard Berg’s little quip, for some reason he homed in on the word “menace,” his former call sign. Jerry’s face must have been a looking glass to his heart as Berg quickly dropped his goofy smile and said, “Hey, Jerry, lighten up. It was only a joke. Hey, the Chop and I were just going to lunch. Care to join us? I know this neat little place down the passageway that serves great fried chicken.”

  “Uh, no thanks, Lenny. I’m really not all that hungry and I have to redo the watch bill for the WEPS, so I guess I’ll pass.”

  “Oh, Jerry, bad move, dude! You don’t want to insult the Chop here. You’ll find puree of peas at your next meal. It’s naasty.”

  “Knock it off, Lenny,” said Washburn. “If the man has work to do and he wants to skip a meal, I will in no way be insulted. However, if I hear any more about the smashed peas I served with the fish and chips from you again, it will become a self-fulfilling prophecy!”

  “Okay, okay! Some people just can’t handle honest criticism. See ya later, Jerry.”

  Jerry entered his stateroom and retrieved the service jackets he had left on his bunk. He started to review them again with a new sense of purpose, as he had to identify who had the proper qualifications and compare the records to the original watch bill that Senior Chief Foster had put together. The process took longer than Jerry had thought it would, a lot longer. But at 1600, he had what he believed was a good draft watch bill. With an hour left before his deadline, Jerry returned the service jackets to YN1 Glover and he went in search of Senior Chief Foster.

  When Jerry reached the torpedo room, Foster was nowhere to be found. Jerry looked around the room and saw one of the TMs cleaning up over by the port tube nest. As Jerry approached, the sailor stood up and Jerry recognized him as the second class he had seen earlier.

  “Excuse me, Petty Officer Greer, do you know where I can find the senior chief?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t seen him for about half an hour. He left after putting the repairs parts list together and filling out the electronic two-kilos,” replied Greer. The “two-kilo” is the standard Navy requisition form that has to be filled out for every spare part in the supply system. The fact that Foster had already done them was encouraging.

  “Thank you, Petty Officer Greer. Maybe he’s in the chiefs’ quarters.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. And if I see Senior Chief Foster, I’ll let him know you are looking for him.”

  Jerry proceeded back toward the chiefs’ quarters, or Goat Locker, which was immediately outboard of the ship’s office in Forward compartment middle level. He was seasoned enough to know that a junior officer did not just barge into the Goat Locker; one knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. Only the CO had the right to walk in without knocking, although a smart one did not, out of respect for his chiefs.

  The door opened and a huge man poked his upper body through the clearly inadequate opening. The nametag said REYNOLDS and his collar devices had the anchor and two stars of a master chief. This man is the Chief of the Boat, Jerry thought. The Chief of the Boat, or COB, is the senior enlisted man on the submarine and the direct representative of the crew to the CO and XO.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?” asked Reynolds in a voice that was as deep and impressive as his size.

  Jerry momentarily hesitated, as all he could think of was the line from the original Star Wars movie: “Let the wookie win!” Quickly recovering his composure, Jerry replied, “Excuse me, Master Chief, I’m Lieutenant (j.g.) Mitchell, the new Torpedo Officer. I’m looking for Senior Chief Foster. Is he here?”

  “Senior Chief Foster, aye, wait one,” boomed the COB. Turning toward the interior of the chiefs’ quarters, he called, “Has anyone seen Foster?”

  A voice from inside responded, “I saw him and Bearden heading to the torpedo shop on base about fifteen minutes ago.”

  The COB turned around and said, “Did you get that, Mr. Mitchell?”

  Jerry nodded and asked, “Did they say when they would be back?”

  Again, the COB relayed the question. No one knew when they were to return. Now Jerry would have to take his draft watch bill to the WEPS without the most senior man in the division being able to review it and correct any mistakes he had made. As Jerry’s frustration grew, he was certain that the timing of this trip to the SUBASE torpedo shop wasn’t just a coincidence.

  “Thank you, Master Chief. I’ll just finish up without him.”

  “I prefer ‘COB,’ Mr. Mitchell, and welcome aboard.” Reynolds then extended his massive hand. Jerry gladly accepted the COB’s offer and as they shook hands, Jerry noticed that in addition to the silver dolphins on the COB’s chest, he also wore the helmet with sea horses pin of a master diver.

  Jerry started heading toward the WEPS’ stateroom, then thought the better of it and went back to the torpedo room. Since Foster was unavailable, he would at least have TM1 Moran give it a quick look over. Arriving in the torpedo room, Jerry found Moran talking to the rest of the division about a problem they had discovered during the maintenance check that morning. As Jerry came up to the group, he didn’t immediately interrupt as Moran was going over the procedures that would have to be used to troubleshoot the problem. However, Jerry couldn’t help but notice that time was growing short and he raised his hand and made a slashing movement across his throat. Moran nodded his head in acknowledgement of Jerry’s order and sent the other TMs off to do some more cleaning before knocking off for the day. He reminded all of them to come back and see him before hitting the beach as the watch bill hadn’t been finalized yet.

  “Yes, sir, you wanted to see me?” said Moran as he walked over to Jerry.

  “Petty Officer Moran, I’d like you to take a few minutes and review this draft watch bill before I turn it in to the WEPS.”

  “Sir, Senior Chief Foster typically reviews these,” replied Moran nervously.

  “I understand that, Petty Officer Moran,
but the Senior Chief isn’t on the boat right now and I have to turn this in soon. You’re the senior petty officer aboard right now, and I need a pair of experienced eyes to look it over.” Jerry smiled as he emphasized the last part, hoping to reduce the tension that he felt growing.

  “Yes, sir, of course.” Moran took the paper from Jerry’s hand examined at the draft watch bill. Every now and then, Moran would look up at Jerry, clearly uncomfortable with the task. Jerry tried not to let on that he knew just how jittery Moran was; embarrassing him wouldn’t help the situation. Just what I need, Jerry thought, another scared rabbit. Moran soon finished and handed the paper back to his division officer.

  “It looks good to me, sir. The only change I’d recommend is that you switch Seaman Jobin to my watch section. I’m his ‘sea daddy,’ his mentor, and I’ve been working with him now for the past two months. I’d like to keep him with me if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, Petty Officer Moran. Thank you for informing me. I’ll make the change and turn in the watch bill. I’ll let you know as soon as the WEPS approves it.” Jerry left the torpedo room feeling good about his watch bill, a trivial assignment in the grand scheme of things, but it had passed muster with a senior petty officer and he would be turning it in on time. Returning to his stateroom, Jerry quickly made the change and then took the final version to the WEPS with five minutes to spare.

  Richards took the paper without saying anything. As he started reading it, his face became crimson. Then he slammed the watch bill on his desktop and yelled, “What kind of bullshit are you trying to give me, Mitchell!”

  “Excuse me, sir?” Jerry replied in a confused tone.

  “This watch bill is all hosed up! You have Jobin and Davidson in the same watch section. Jobin isn’t qualified to do anything yet and Davidson will be gone for three weeks. This leaves only two qualified people in the first section.”

  “I wasn’t aware that Davidson was going to be gone,” said Jerry as his temper started rising. “He was on the Senior Chief’s port and starboard watch bill and I assumed he would be available. And as for Seaman Jobin, TM1 Moran specifically requested that I put Jobin in his watch section.”

  Jerry’s response seemed to irritate Richards even more as he rose from his chair and started speaking through clinched teeth. “Mr. Mitchell, FT2 Davidson has a quota to an advanced maintenance course for the CCS Mk 2 fire-control system. Once it was announced that we were going to a three-section duty rotation, Senior Chief Foster asked me to let Davidson go to the course as originally planned. If you would bother to talk to your leading chief, you would know what the hell is going on in your division.”

  Jerry had to fight hard to keep from blowing up on his department head. Senior Chief Foster had intentionally withheld information he needed to know, and on top of that, had left the boat so that he couldn’t be ordered to ensure that the watch bill was correct. Jerry sensed that arguing with Cal Richards about the senior chief’s malicious attempts at sabotage would be a lost cause and would only make things worse. Instead, Jerry took a number of slow, deep breaths and pulled the watch bill from Richards’ desk.

  “Sir, given this new information, all we need to do is move Petty Officer Larsen from the third section to the first and each section now has three qualified watch standers.”

  Richards seemed to be mollified by Jerry’s calm reply and he sat back down. “Very well, Mr. Mitchell. I accept your recommendation.”

  Jerry turned to leave, but Richards called him back. “Where is your repair parts list, mister? Senior Chief Foster said he had finished it and the two-kilos over an hour ago.”

  “I don’t know where the list is, sir. Senior Chief Foster never gave it to me,” said Jerry in a non-confrontational, matter-of-fact tone. “But I’ll go find the list and get it to you ASAP.” The puzzled look on Richards’ face told Jerry that perhaps he was starting to get through to the WEPS. Jerry certainly hoped so. Richards said nothing. He simply returned to his mountain of paperwork while Jerry quickly returned to his stateroom. Once there, Jerry picked up the boat’s internal telephone and called down to the torpedo room.

  “Torpedo room,” responded the other person on the line. Jerry didn’t recognize the voice.

  “This is Mr. Mitchell. Is TM1 Moran there?”

  “Yes sir. Wait one.”

  After a brief pause, Jerry heard a familiar voice: “Moran here. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Petty Officer Moran, the WEPS has approved the watch bill with minor modifications. You, Jobin, Willis, and Larsen have the duty, the rest may knock off work and go home for the night after they check out with you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll pass the word to the division. Anything else?”

  “Yes, just one question,” said Jerry. “Do you know if Senior Chief Foster and Petty Officer Bearden have returned to the boat yet?”

  “I haven’t seen the Senior Chief, but FT1 Bearden is here now. Would you like to speak to him?” replied Moran.

  “Yes, please.”

  After another brief pause, the lead fire-control technician was on the line, “Bearden, sir.”

  “Petty Officer Bearden, do you know where Senior Chief Foster is? I need to get the repair part list he was working on into the WEPS.”

  There was absolute silence on the other end. Then, somewhat hesitantly, Bearden answered, “Sir, I believe the Senior Chief went home for the day.”

  “Really? Well, that wasn’t very wise now, was it?” responded Jerry in a cynical tone. He wasn’t at all surprised that Foster had not returned. “Petty Officer Bearden, do you know where he normally keeps the division’s laptop?”

  “Certainly, sir. Senior Chief Foster usually keeps it in his locker under his bunk in the chiefs’ quarters.”

  “Thank you, I’ll take care of the matter. Have a good evening.” And with that Jerry hung up the phone and headed back to the chiefs’ quarters. As Jerry went by the wardroom, he could see that dinner was being served and he realized that he was a bit hungry himself. The COB answered the door again and Jerry apologized profusely for interrupting the chiefs’ meal. He explained that he needed the division’s laptop to answer the WEPS’ requirement and that it was very likely in Senior Chief Foster’s bunk locker. The COB disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with the laptop in hand. Jerry thanked the COB and hurried back to his stateroom.

  Fortunately, Foster hadn’t buried the files in some folder that was deeply nested in another. Jerry took a quick look at the list. He didn’t have the time or expertise to know if it was complete and printed out a copy on paper and saved the files to two diskettes. Jerry took one of the diskettes and the paper copy and laid it on top of the WEPS’ desk and proceeded to the wardroom to get something to eat. Since he had arrived very late, Jerry ate, alone, at the second sitting.

  Exhausted, Jerry went back to his stateroom and literally fell into his rack. He tried to read some more out of the ship’s information book, but he was mentally and physically spent and he just couldn’t concentrate. Realizing that this was a waste of time, Jerry got ready for bed, crawled back in, and closed the curtain on his rack. After getting comfortable, Jerry thought back on the terrible day he had had. And for the second night in a row he found himself asking the same nagging question: Had he done the right thing in asking for subs?

  * * * *

  Jerry remembered the last hurdle he had to clear before the Navy would grant his request. It was an interview with the Director of Naval Reactors. Before that meeting, Jerry and his squadron commander had visited “Uncle Jim” Thorvald in his office. The senator would not, of course, attend the meeting, but wanted to wish Jerry well. And Jerry wanted to thank the senator for his efforts.

  Jerry had never been in Washington, D.C. before, or the Russell Senate Office Building, or a senator’s office. Starting with the seal of the Great State of Nebraska on the door, it was filled with symbols of the state, as well as a fair amount of Cornhuskers memorabilia.


  They went into the senator’s inner office, and he welcomed the two officers warmly. “Jerry, Commander Casey, please come in. Take a seat.” An aide materialized with juice and rolls, appropriate for the early hour. Jerry sat nervously on the leather couch.

  The balding, thin, almost scrawny senator regarded his nephew fondly, but also appraisingly. “I’ve spent some political coin to get you a second chance with the Navy, Jerry. Assuming you pass the Naval Reactors inquisition, are the taxpayers going to get their money back?” Although he smiled and joked a little, Jerry knew the senator was serious.

  “You know I’ll do my best. Senator...Uncle Jim.”

  “But is that enough, Jerry? We all knew you’d be a good pilot. You’re the type, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted. I can remember you saying it when you were six, and it never changed. Now, suddenly, it’s subs. You know the Navy will make it hard for you. Can you do it?”