A Commodore of Errors

by John Jacobson

The Commodore stood by himself under the grandstand and watched the regiment file into the bleachers to take their seats directly behind the Board of Governors. Their restlessness was palpable—they were displaying the skittishness of an unbroken steed. As for the Commodore himself, Mogie’s unequivocal statement that he would get rid of Tannenbaume—and make the Commodore the superintendent—had put him in a state of grace. He was so blissful that when Miss Lambright arrived with a coterie of reporters, the Commodore remained unfazed. He had prepared for months to give this speech, on this day, and he determined that nothing was going to knock him off his game.

  The Commodore knew that he never looked more splendiferous than he did that day. Raymond had worked diligently on the Commodore’s service dress whites and it showed. It was as if he had etched in the creases with a stiletto knife. The Commodore had received a haircut just that morning and his hair looked as radiant as ever. Miss Lambright had mentioned at his dress rehearsal the day before that perhaps he was overdoing it with all of the medals, that he looked like the generalissimo of some banana republic, but the Commodore thought otherwise. He had personally picked each ribbon and medal out of a catalog, and he took pains arranging them for best effect. That the Commodore did not actually merit any of the medals he wore worried him not. It was the look that was important, the impression that the phalanx of medals and ribbons conveyed.

  After he gave the benediction, the chaplain made a few introductory remarks about Edwin J. O’Hara. His remarks seemed to pacify the regiment. The Commodore knew that the regiment liked the chaplain. He attended every sporting event he could make, and he knew all of the boys by name, a skill the Commodore was never able to master. Whenever any of them felt the need to talk to someone, they went not to the Commodore, but to the chaplain. Today, he told them they were there to honor a boy just like themselves. He was no different from them. He had looked forward to returning from his sea year to play ball, just as they had. And up until the day of his heroic last stand on the fantail of his ship, he had been enjoying his sea year as each of them had enjoyed theirs. When the chaplain made a comment about the joys of studying abroad in the foreign seaports of the world, the regiment gave a loud cheer.

  The Commodore, off stage, waiting for the chaplain to introduce him, could scarcely believe his own ears. To suggest that Edwin was anything like the unruly lot of boys in the bleachers was an affront to Edwin’s morality. But why was the chaplain making any comment at all about Edwin? The chaplain’s job was to give a benediction and then introduce the Commodore. Period.

  When the Commodore finally took the stage, he took a moment to correct the record before taking the lectern. “Edwin remained unsullied until the day he died. He was nothing like these ruffians who call themselves officers in training.” The Commodore flung his arm dismissively in the direction of the regiment sitting in the bleachers. “And he most assuredly was not out cavorting on his port visits as you so coarsely insinuated in your unauthorized comments up there, Chaplain.” Then the Commodore poked the chaplain in his breast. “You were told to give a benediction. Your remarks about Edwin were inappropriate.”

  The public reprimand of the chaplain made the Commodore feel better. It occurred to him as he approached the lectern that after today he would have license to publicly scold any and all personnel under his aegis. It was a stray thought, the sort that pops in and out of one’s mind throughout the day, but it was just the thought the Commodore needed to truly calm his nerves. When he took the lectern, a preternatural peace came over him.

  “Board of Governors. Colleagues. Regiment of midshipmen. Alumni and guests.”

  The Commodore paused. He had been waiting so long for this moment that he took another second to savor it. Then he scanned the audience. He first scanned to his left, paused for a fraction of a second, and then scanned back to the right. When he finished scanning the audience, he nodded his head repeatedly.

  A beatific smile came over his face. His first “pause, scan, and nod” of the day had gone perfectly.

  “Welcome.”

  The Commodore felt emboldened by his first scan and nod so he took another moment to scan the audience. When he finished scanning and nodding his head the entire regiment nodded in unison with him. It warmed the Commodore’s heart to see it. Mimicry was the highest form of flattery.

  “The chaplain’s remarks of a moment ago were wrong. The person we are here to honor today was not like any of you. The person we are here to honor today possessed character and high morals.”

  The Commodore was off-script—he knew that—but he felt he needed to set the record straight before he went any further.

  “Cadet-midshipman Edwin J. O’Hara was disciplined. He was virtuous and pure. He was, to be certain, unsullied.”

  When the Commodore said “unsullied,” he heard the regiment say the word in concert with him. So the regiment had heard all this before, was that it? Well, at least they were listening. The Commodore needed a moment to compose himself after the interruption from the regiment. Now would be the time for another scan of the audience—a way to start over.

  What happened next horrified the Commodore. The entire regiment mimicked his scan technique. And they were perfectly in sync, as if they had been practicing it. Mimicry was one thing, but this bordered on mockery. The Commodore felt his face flush. He forced himself to look down and read from his prepared text:

  On a fateful day in the South Atlantic in the year 1944, one of our own gave up his life so that the rest of us could live in freedom. When the German raider Stier emerged out of the mist and fired upon the SS Stephen Hopkins, cadet-midshipman Edwin J. O’Hara was ready. He had been preparing for this moment his entire young but perfect life. He fired his . . .

  The Commodore realized that in his eagerness to start in on the body of his speech he was reading the text with his head down and had completely lost eye contact with his audience. He looked up and tried to catch the eye of one of the widows but they were not paying attention to his speech. In fact both widows were fast asleep.

  The Commodore’s first attempt at making eye contact was a total failure! And then he was in such a rush to look down at his text again that the abrupt head movement caused him to lose his place.

  He felt his pulse quicken and the feeling of nervousness made him even more nervous.

  “He fired his four-inch gun at the Stier and watched mark after mark make their round. Uh, that is—round after round make their mark.”

  The Commodore looked up at the audience. He did not make any real eye contact with anyone but he knew that eye contact was critical to a good speech so he looked up again. He desperately searched the audience for a friendly face but he could not find a single one.

  “Young cadet-midshipman Edwin J. O’Hara finally ran out of ammunition in his four-inch gattling. Racing aft, he stationed himself on the fantail and took up the four-inch gattling. Mark after—uh, I mean the five-inch houser. And mark after—wait —round after round hit their roun—mark.”

  The Commodore felt the sweat running down his back. He heard the audience begin to stir, which he knew was the kiss of death for a platform speaker. He saw in the margins of his prepared text a note to remind him to use his thumb point now. He made a loose fist with his right hand and draped his thumb over his index finger.

  “And here . . . ”

  The Commodore pointed at the audience with his thumb point.

  “ . . . is where Edwin J. O’Hara showed his true colors.”

  When the Commodore looked up and saw the regiment extending their own thumbs back at him, his knees nearly gave way. He dropped his thumb point and gripped the lectern. The regiment was mocking him outright. It was all too obvious now. The Commodore struggled to keep his composure. He had to continue as if nothing was wrong. He just had to.

  He owed it to Edwin.

  Knowing that his ship was mortally wounded, Edwin J. O’Hara fought on. The last five shells of his houser hit the Stier. The dreaded Germ
an raider sank below the waves. It was to be the last thing Edwin witnessed in this earthly world. For no sooner had the Stier slipped into the abyss then so, too, had the SS Stephen Hopkins. Cadet-midshipman Edwin J. O’Hara gave his life in sinking the Stier, and for his heroic actions we honor him here today.

  The Commodore’s eyes had been glued to his text. He had not dared look up for fear of seeing a regiment of thumbs pointing at him. His margin notes told him that it was now time for his Toe Hang. But how could he venture out from behind the lectern? How? His knees were knocking, his service dress whites were soaked in sweat.

  But he knew he could not live with himself if he did not go through with his Toe Hang. Truth be told, at this point an effective Toe Hang was probably the only way for him to win back his audience. The Commodore took one more look down at his text before he left the safe confines of the lectern.

  It was only twenty feet to the front of the stage, but brooking those twenty feet was the equivalent of fording a swift-moving river. His first steps were tentative, but he knew that he had to venture forth with confidence, without fear. That, after all, was what the Toe Hang was all about: the speaker leaves the lectern and strides purposefully toward the front of the stage, stops just before the edge, then moves one foot confidently forward so that his toes hang off the edge of the stage, and then glides the other foot forward and lines it up precisely so that both shoes are jutting out over the edge. A speaker cannot get any closer to his audience.

  The Commodore somehow summoned the wherewithal to move with a semblance of self-assurance. He came to a stop just before the edge. He placed one foot forward with a confidence that surprised him. Buoyed by the feel of his left toes hanging off the edge of the stage, he began to slide his other foot forward. He felt a sudden elation begin to creep up his spine. He was so close now.

  He heard a stirring in the audience. There was fidgeting, people were turning around in there seats. The murmur grew louder. The Commodore’s foot was almost in place when a flash of white light struck his eyes.

  It was from the widows’ parasols. The brilliant October sunshine hit the white parasols and sent a flash of light that temporarily blinded the Commodore.

  He overstepped.

  The widows, by now, were moving around like little children at the circus. A second flash of light upset his equilibrium. The Commodore lost his balance. He desperately tried to recover, but the trauma of losing his balance with one foot already hanging off the edge of the stage was too great.

  The Commodore’s quest for the perfect Toe Hang ended in a way he could never have envisioned. He came crashing down off the stage and landed awkwardly on the soft green lawn next to his beloved statue of Edwin.

  Captain Cooper rushed to the Commodore’s side. Mitzi made room for the Commodore in the first row and Captains Cooper and Tannenbaume carried the Commodore to the bleachers.

  The Commodore was in a state of shock. It was immediately apparent that he suffered no significant physical injuries, the only injury being to his psyche. He was inconsolable. Mitzi held his hands in hers.

  Mogie marched right up to the two of them. “Hey, are we gonna uncover this monument today or aren’t we?”

  “Oh come on, Moges,” Mitzi said. “Give us a minute here, would you? Can’t you see how shook up the Commodore is over this?”

  “Come on, Mitz. Everybody is waiting for the big unveiling of this monu—”

  “Can’t you wait a minute—”

  “No, Ms. Paultz,” the Commodore said, coming around now. “The mayor is right. This is Edwin’s day. We must proceed with the unveiling. I always hoped to give the unveiling the flourish it deserves.” The Commodore’s voice broke. He waived his arm at Mogie. “Go ahead, Mayor. Give the word to Morris.”

  Morris, the groundskeeper, was standing next to the monument with his hand on the heavy tarp covering the statue. Mogie waved at him. “Go ahead. Let’s have a look at this thing.”

  The Commodore’s vision of the unveiling proved prescient. The sun did, in fact, sparkle just so off Edwin’s square jaw, just as he envisioned it. And there was a gleam in Edwin’s eye. And the crowd did gasp. It was a beautiful monument. Mrs. Tannenbaume, in fact, fainted at the sight of it, something the Commodore never would have predicted. The Commodore was buoyed by the crowd’s reaction to the unveiling. He looked around him with pride.

  Captain Tannenbaume was not even tending to his mother, so great was his interest in the bronze bust of Edwin J. O’Hara. And even Mogie seemed terribly impressed with Edwin. He walked up to the statue for a better look. Then he looked over at Captain Tannenbaume who was slowly walking toward the statue. The Commodore was bursting with pride. Their reaction was everything he could have hoped for. He pinched himself. He wanted to be sure this wasn’t a dream, that this was really happening.

  His reverie was shaken only by Mogie’s outburst.

  “Hey! What gives?” Mogie pointed at the statue. “It’s Tannenbaume!”

  The Commodore was in a state of disbelief. But then he finally saw what Mogie saw, and what had caused Mrs. Tannenbaume to faint.

  The bronze bust of Edwin J. O’Hara was the spitting image of Captain Tannenbaume.

  THE BUTLER’S BOW

  “So it was Eddie.”

  Those were the first words out of Mrs. Tannenbaume’s mouth when she came to. The longstanding mystery of Eddie, Teddy, and Freddie—the sailor, the tailor, and the jailor—had finally been solved: Edwin J. O’Hara, the cadet a young Mrs. Tannenbaume had romped with all those years ago in Durban, was most certainly Captain Tannenbaume’s father.

  Or, as Mogie crowed, “Tannenbaume’s the bastard son of the Commodore’s hero.”

  The news was too much for the Commodore to process.

  “Captain Tannenbaume’s father?” the Commodore stated over and over again as he stood in front of the statue of his fallen hero. “How can that be?”

  “We had a situation,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said.

  “A situation?”

  “You know, the hoo hoo and the ha ha.”

  “The hoo hoo? With Edwin?”

  “I called him Eddie,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said. “My Eddie was your Edwin.”

  “But Edwin was unsullied.”

  “Not with me he wasn’t.”

  “I cannot accept it.”

  “But look at them!” It was Mogie interjecting this time. He had one hand pointed at Captain Tannenbaume and one hand at Edwin. “They could be brothers.”

  “No,” the Commodore said. “Mrs. Tannenbaume is mistaken. It was so long ago. How can she remember? No, she must have been with someone other than Edwin. Some other boy, I’m sure of it.”

  “But look at them!” Mogie said again.

  “I can prove it.” Mrs. Tannenbaume said this quietly, so quietly that it made the others take notice. They turned to her.

  “I can prove it was Edwin,” she said again, looking directly at the Commodore. “I kept one of his uniforms. It’s back home in the attic. Cadets are required to stencil all of their clothing. I remember I thought it was so funny that he wrote his name on his underwear.” Mrs. Tannenbaume looked at the Commodore again, this time with a little more pity. “I have one of his uniforms that has his name stenciled on it.”

  The others looked at the Commodore for his response, wondering how he would accept this piece of news, but his face was blank. It was hard not to feel sorry for him. He had been so sure of Edwin’s chastity that evidence proving otherwise was simply impossible for him to compute.

  Mogie was the only one who seemed to be taking pleasure in the Commodore’s plight. “Well, that ought to prove it, hey, Commodore? The kid’s name on his pants?”

  Mitzi glared at Mogie before taking the Commodore by the hand. “Let’s go, sir,” she said. “Let’s go see this uniform.”

  “No, Ms. Paultz. I cannot.”

  “You need closure.”

  “Mitzi’s right, Commodore. We gotta close this deal.” Mogie walked over and
put his hand on the Commodore’s back, pushing him along. “Let’s go see this uniform.”

  “Okay, Tannenbaume,” Mogie said to Captain Tannenbaume. “Up the ladder.”

  Captain Tannenbaume stood firm. All he did was raise his eyebrows at Mogie.

  Mogie looked up at Captain Tannenbaume. “Somebody’s gotta be the boss,” he said.

  Mogie and Captain Tannenbaume glared at each other before Mogie walked off to the side, planted his feet, and put his hands on his hips, looking very much like “the boss.” “You,” he pointed at Captain Tannenbaume. “Up the ladder.”

  “Morty’s right, Moges,” Mitzi chimed in. “Who died and left you boss?”

  “Look, Mitz. We’re here to seal the deal. Somebody’s got to do the schlepping.” Mogie looked at Captain Tannenbaume and pointed at the ladder. “Up.”

  “Oh, would you listen to you two,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said. “Step aside. I’ll get the trunk down.”

  “No, Mother. Of course I’ll go up the ladder.” Captain Tannenbaume stared at Mogie. “I just don’t like being told what to do by this guy.”

  Mrs. Tannenbaume remembered that the last time she tried to get into the attic the key broke off in the lock, so she went to the garage to get the hacksaw. By the time she got back, Captain Tannenbaume was at the top of the ladder.

  “Here, sonny,” she said. “Use this.”

  When her sonny got the lock off, Mrs. Tannenbaume felt her pulse quicken. Her past was up in that attic. A past she had buried a long time ago. Some things were about to come to light now, some things she had kept from her son his entire life.

  Mitzi came over to Mrs. Tannenbaume and took her hand. “You’ve probably got a lot of memories stored up there, huh?”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Hey!” Captain Tannenbaume shouted from the attic. “It’s pretty dark up here, Mother. Where’s this uniform?”

  “It’s in the trunk, sonny. Just bring the trunk down.”

  The hinges on the trunk creaked when Captain Tannenbaume opened it up in front of the small crowd at the base of the ladder. The khaki uniform was right on top. It was more of a yellowish color after years of storage, and it was brittle to the touch. Captain Tannenbaume gingerly pulled back the waistband, and there it was: Edwin J. O’Hara’s name stenciled in block letters, the black ink faded to gray.