by David Poyer
He felt their examination, too, eyes flickering toward him, then away. He held himself straight, hands locked behind him, as Norden introduced him.
“Good morning,” he began, and stopped. His voice sounded high; he forced it louder, to overcome the wind. “I’m Ensign Daniel Lenson. Captain Packer has asked me to take over as first lieutenant.
“This is my first assignment on active duty. There’s a lot I have to learn, just as you all had to learn the ropes once. I hope you’ll help me out and then later I can help you.
“Neither the chief nor the lieutenant here have told me anything about you individually.” (Not precisely true, but …) “As far as I’m concerned, we’ll all start with a clean slate. I expect seamanlike work and a seamanlike attitude. If I get it, I’ll do everything I can to get you the things you need. If I don’t, then we’ll have to talk.
“If you have problems, personal or Navy, feel free to come to me with them at any time.
“I’m glad to be aboard, and glad to be assigned to this division.” He waited, but could think of nothing else. “I guess that’s about all for now. Chief, go ahead with routine.”
Bloch nodded heavily. He removed his cap and wiped his baldness with a hairy arm. “Welcome aboard, sir, from the division. Okay, today’s our first workday at sea. We got ichi-ban weather this morning. We won’t where we’re going. You three petty officers, we got to lay some primer today. Assholes and elbows! No shortcuts, no holidays, no gundecking. I want guys at the paint locker ten minutes after we break from quarters.”
The men regarded him stolidly, their bodies swaying toward him and then away. The moment of query had passed. Dan was part of their world now. Their faces were shut, hostile as a lee shore in a storm. For a moment he wished he’d spoken different words, something beyond the standard phrases, something ringing and electric. But when he tried to imagine what they would have been, he couldn’t. The bow dipped and spray broke over it, blowing over them. The men flinched and cursed. “Can’t do no painting in salt spray,” a voice grumbled from the back rank.
Bloch ignored it. “Isaacs, Rambaugh, Pettus, see me for a minute. Rest of you bastards”—he seemed to recall the officers’ presence—“of you personnel, atten-hut, dismissed.” He gave a salute as a man might throw dung.
The formation broke. The men straggled aft. Norden left, too. Bloch turned to Lenson. “Sir, these here are the petty officers.”
Boatswain’s Mate First Class Isaacs was big, graphite black, his movements slow and somehow tentative. BM2 Rambaugh was grizzled and wizened, with a tough jaw and tattoos like bad carbons of the chief’s. Both were old enough to be Lenson’s father. The third-class, Pettus, didn’t look a clock tick over eighteen. His mouth worked like a cow’s. Dan recognized him as the sailor on the quarterdeck when he’d arrived. “For topside maintenance, I divvied the ship into three parts,” Bloch was explaining, picking at the wrapping of a King Edward. “Put a PO in charge of each, with his own men. I’ve seen it work that way. But we’re so goddamned undermanned—”
“Do you men feel you can make up what we missed in the yard?”
He saw the exchange of glances, saw them wait for the chief to speak. He decided to start with the junior. That encouraged honest opinions. “Pettus?” he prompted.
“Uh, it’s gonna be rough, but, uh, we’ll try.”
“Sir,” Bloch said.
“Sir.”
“Petty Officer Rambaugh?”
The second-class squinted at the passing sea as he answered. “Got a lot of gear midships, sir. Boats, unrep fittings. It’s old. Keep it operating, takes a lot of work. We was just about keeping abreast before. Biggest problem is, we’re short men. Division’s allowance is forty. We got twenty-six.”
“How long has it been that low?”
Bloch turned back from a wind-cheating crouch, cigar lighted, flicking a smoking match to leeward. “Since the war got hot, sir. They took a draft of ten men off her year before last. Then we lost five more in the yard and got three recruits.”
“So it’s not exactly news.”
“No, but that don’t make it good.”
“Isaacs?”
The first-class lifted his shoulders and moved his feet. He was avoiding Dan’s eyes; he realized Isaacs avoided all their eyes. At last his voice came up, deep and slow as a collapsing mine shaft. “We can catch up aft, sir. No problem there.”
He caught Bloch’s lifted eyebrow, Rambaugh’s glance away. Meaning? He didn’t know. He didn’t like the undercurrent here. Undertows could sweep you where you didn’t want to go. But for the moment, he’d done what he had to do. Met them. Asked for cooperation. He could fly by wire for a day or two, see how things went.
He felt them weighing him. There was resentment. There was also a grudging attempt at respect—or at least tolerance. All in all, he figured they’d try to get the job done. But these were the senior enlisted, career men.
“Thanks. I’ll be seeing you all on deck later.” He half-lifted his hand. They saluted, together, and he completed his salute. He walked aft, leaving the four men standing in a circle, surrounded by the sea. Halfway down the length of the ship, he stopped, looking at the brass turnbuckles of the lifelines, at the green crud that covered them, and pulled out the notebook.
But before he wrote, he leaned over the lifeline, not resting his weight on it but leaning, and looked out over the heaving blue.
He had a brief daydream. Ryan, former rust bucket, become the pride of the Atlantic Fleet. A taut ship, clean, hard-working. That was happiness; knowing what you had to do, how to do it, and going to it with all your strength. The conversation during the midwatch came back to him and he smiled, staring down into the hissing sea.
He lifted the notebook, feeling their eyes still on him, and began.
4
Latitude 57°–52′ North, Longitude 23°–21′ West: 300 Miles South of Iceland
SIX days later he narrowed his eyes to a freezing wind beneath a charcoal dawn. “Sir,” he said. “Morning fix is plotted.”
Lieutenant (jg) Aaron Reed turned his head from his contemplation of the passing sea. The taciturn, somber West Virginian was Ryan’s antisubmarine officer, and stood OOD in Section III. “We on track?” he grunted.
“A little ahead, by loran.” Bryce expected the JOD to do a morning fix. Ostensibly, it was for training, but Dan wondered sourly whether the XO, who was officially the navigator, bothered to do his own at all. He hadn’t seen Bryce on the bridge yet this cruise.
“Loran. No star fix?”
“No, sir. I looked for a break, but no luck. Solid overcast. So I worked out a TD.”
“Okay.” Reed turned away. A moment later the wind banged the pilothouse hatch shut behind him.
Dan lingered on the wing, snugging the zipper of his foul-weather jacket. He felt disappointed. Reed hadn’t asked him what he was doing still up, or complimented him on doing his first time-difference fix. He seemed to care more for his sonars than for the people around him. Stop whining, he told himself sternly. They’re still paying you, no matter how they treat you.
He looked down on a changed sea. A week before, he’d lingered out here, enjoying the winter sunlight. Now, under a sky poured solid as concrete with low, dark, amorphous clouds, he clung to the splinter shield with gloved hands against a buffeting wind.
At fifty-seven degrees, the latitude of Scotland, the Atlantic was not blue but gray-blue, the whitecapped rollers fifteen feet from crest to trough. Ryan cut her way through them like a huge, slow jigsaw. When the bullnose scooped a sea aboard, the solid water was smoky emerald for an instant, then suddenly white as spray exploded over the ground tackle. The wind, varying between twenty-four and twenty-seven knots, flapped the legs of his trousers and whistled in the taut lines and antennas on the signal bridge.
He’d watched the sea-change in fascination, standing above it eight to twelve hours out of twenty-four. Strange that water could present so many moods, that sky and sea to
gether could mirror all the rages and softnesses of the human heart …
He caught his head drooping and shook himself. A shiver explored the backs of his legs. Yet he still lingered, relishing being free of duty, if only for a few minutes.
The days had passed like hours in continuous work. The beginning of the cruise already seemed distant, as if they’d been out for months. He was learning the ship in the traditional way. He’d memorized it from his stateroom to the bridge, bridge to the wardroom, wardroom to the head. He spent his time off watch reading equipment manuals, updating division records, and keeping his men at work. Four or five times a day, he’d stop by the office to get a form or a piece of advice from the eternally busy Vogelpohl, and he’d get called to Norden’s room about as often.
A smoothly heaved hillock closed from ahead, crest ruffled like a child’s hair by the driving wind. The old destroyer rose majestically, threatening the clouds with the stubby barrels of the forward mount. He felt his weight lessen as she hesitated at the peak of her bound. Then the bow dropped like a guillotine, tossing the sea up in two curved sheets the color of window glass seen end-on. He heard the crash through the hum of the rigging, felt the splinter shield tremble.
Jesus, he thought. This is getting to be serious weather. He found himself grinning.
His need for coffee became overwhelming, as did a related requirement for a leak. He turned, and slid down the ladder to the 01 level. The aluminum handrails left black semicircles on his palms. He headed aft, weaving as the ship pitched, glancing at the lashings of the life-raft containers.
In the shelter of the Asroc deck, one of the signalmen was lying on a coil of manila, spearing sardines out of mustard sauce with a marlinespike and drinking cola from a rusty can. Above them the wind whipped brown gas off the stack. To either side, Dan looked out over an immense heaving circle of empty ocean. Their last surface contact, the last ship they’d sighted, had been two days before, when they left the transatlantic latitudes. They were alone, and headed north.
His gaze traveled ahead to the whaleboat, and he paused, examining it with the critical eye he was developing under Norden’s tutelage.
His scrutiny swept twenty-six feet of motorboat without the interruption of rust or dirt. The teak trim was smoothly varnished; the hull paint gleamed. A scarlet stripe separated gray from white. Even the brass letters on the bow had been polished. The releasing hooks at the bow and stern were slathered with fresh amber grease. When he bent, looking down the davit arm, the tint recurred at the turnbuckles, operating screw, and the hand crank used to lower away if power failed. The white paint, though, was a little dingy. Repaint? No, a scrub would do.
Even as he thought this, a man emerged from the half-cabin with a bucket in his hands. It was Greenwald. Unconscious of Lenson’s gaze, he began scrubbing with a palmetto brush. Dan was about to speak, but just then someone inside started the boat’s engine. It ran for thirty seconds, smooth and loud, then cut off.
Hard at work, and early, too, he thought. He thought of complimenting them but didn’t. There was something about it he didn’t like. It clashed too glaringly with the rest of Ryan. Instead, he shivered suddenly, and slid down the ladder to the main deck.
The narrow corridors were snug after the weather decks. He made his way to Boy’s Town, tossed cap and flashlight into his desk, and looked around.
The anonymous cubicle was home now. He had a foldout desk, working surface two square feet, and a little safe with a broken lock. He was getting used to the speckled mirror, the dirty sink, the round-the-clock mess and jostle of four men working, dressing, coming off watch or getting ready to go on. The pipes and wireways made racks for his Gardner and Conrad, Dostoyevski, Wouk, Huxley, and Vonnegut.
And for her. Above his head, shielded so that only he could see it, he’d taped the photo of Susan he’d taken on the beach at Chincoteague early one morning. Two bands of white across a body that had spent the summer in a bikini. It was better not to think about her pale, small breasts, nipples erect with a want he’d satisfied between the dunes moments after laying the camera aside, wrapped in a beach towel against the blowing sand …
He pulled off jacket and shirt, and tried the faucet. One of the evaporators had gone down, and Bryce had set a quota for the crew and junior officers. He cupped the tepid trickle, lathered, and began to shave.
There were two things he hadn’t gotten used to yet. The heat was one. It felt good when he came in from topside, but already sweat dotted his forehead in the mirror. Cummings had told him to tuck his socks under his pillow and put them on before jumping down. That gave him enough insulation to find his shoes. The second was the occasional visitor from the cable runs. He’d had no time to read, but his paperbacks came in handy as roach swatters.
He finished scraping and tried for a rinse. Too late. The faucet sucked air like an out-of-shape boxer punched in the gut. He wiped off lather and whiskers, pulled his shirt back on, and headed for the wardroom.
Most of the officers had eaten and the table was cleared. Some of them were still sitting at it, though, talking. They glanced up as he came in. “Hey, it’s Dirty Shirt Dan,” said one.
“Damn it, it’s all I got. Nobody told me we were pulling out so soon.”
“See the XO; he’s got some used ones he’ll sell you.”
“Sailors belong on ships, and ships belong at sea.”
“I guess we’re where we belong, then.”
“Not me, man. I belong in the Black Pearl, slamming down brewskis till I fall on my sword,” said Cummings. “You just get off watch?”
“No, I was trying for morning stars.”
“Good luck in this murk,” muttered Silver. “If we see Rigel again this cruise, I’ll eat it.”
“Mabalacat saved out oatmeal and toast for you.”
He got coffee and began to eat, sitting opposite Evlin. He was thinking about what he had to do that day, idly noticing the graceful curve of the lieutenant’s wrist as he lifted a spoon, when laughter interrupted his thoughts. He glanced down the table, at the smiling, young, slightly empty faces.
“What could I do? I took my hand off her ass, flashed him my hazel eyes and boyish grin, and waddled off.”
“Risky shit, messing with another guy’s wife. Look what happened to Sully.”
“He was drunk.”
“Him? The O club don’t stock enough. That sucker can hold more than any three normal men.”
“He don’t show it, either. I didn’t know he drank till I saw him sober once.”
“What happened, anyway? I heard—”
“I got it from the duty officer. He was at the bar at the Sheraton over on Goat Island. He picked up this chick who swore her husband was in the Med. Anyway, she invites him home, base housing over on Girard. Next morning, he’s in the kitchen pouring himself a wake-up when a key turns in the door and this huge marine gunny comes in. Sullivan freezes as the guy stalks toward him, then says, ‘Glad you’re here, buddy. The sonofabitch you’re after is in there with her now,’ and he points to the bedroom. The jarhead wheels, and Sully goes out the front door at the speed of sound.
“So now he’s out in the bushes, wearing nothing but goose bumps. He works his way out to the street and waits till he sees a guy in uniform driving toward him. He runs out in the road, flags him down, and jumps in. ‘Take me to Pier Two, please,’ he says. Only the guy’s a gung ho shore patrolman, and he takes him straight to the stockade.”
“Risky.”
“Maybe the variety’s worth it. They got streets named after my wife.”
“No Entry?”
“One Way.”
“Like they say, sailors, whores, and officers’ wives don’t give a fuck.”
“Did you hear Lassard’s latest? He and the rest of his bunch picked up some captain’s daughter on Thames Street and set Circle William on her.”
“That guy’s a BS artist. I don’t believe anything from that quarter.”
Dan remembered that
Circle William meant closing all accesses to open air. “Hey,” he said. “I thought you were supposed to keep the conversation light in here.”
“That’s as light as we get, sex and drinking.”
“Light, but not obnoxious. That why you been keeping quiet, Dan?”
“I’m here trying to eat.”
“What is that shit, anyway? Looks like lamb barf.”
“It’s Navy all-purpose breakfast!” said Johnson.
“It’s used for breakfast, mucilage, damage-control compound, too.”
“Don’t make fun. Supply Corps spent a lot of money developing APB,” said Cummings, blowing his nose in his napkin. “You even get it in two colors, haze gray and khaki.”
“Didn’t they just pass the word for you, Tom?”
“No, that was my rack calling me.”
“You spent all night there.”
“I rate eight hours a day, my man. What I get in the nighttime’s gravy.”
Dan gave up. The disbursing officer had all the comebacks. He pushed away his plate. His stomach wasn’t as enthusiastic as it had been on the bridge. Maybe it was the way the bulkheads tilted. He freshened his coffee and flipped open his notebook. The quarterdeck passageway had to be prepped for spray painting. The training schedule was due, maintenance chits had to be rewritten, and he had to review his men’s records for dependency certificates.
The big item today, though, would be refueling. They’d rendezvous with USS Calloosahatchee at 1400. He thought about it while the room dipped and swayed around him, then got up. “’Scuse me,” he said to Evlin. The lieutenant nodded absently.
The chief petty officers’ quarters was one deck down. Three of the chiefs looked up from the mess table as he came in. The talking stopped. “Morning,” he said. “Chief Bloch here?”
“Try in back, Ensign. Through that door, hang a right.”
He found Bloch between two tiers of bunks, sitting at a wobbly card table in his undershirt. The chief’s head gleamed like a freshly waxed car under the fluorescent lights. His big hands were paring a sliver of balsa from a three-inch-long boom with an X-Acto knife. He didn’t look up as Dan pulled out a chair. Lenson stared at him—the combination of muscle and delicacy was so incongruous—then at the model. Each plank had been riveted with minuscule copper nails. Gun ports were hinged up, suspended with tiny chains. A cannon muzzle poked out through one of them.