“Don’t patronize me. Damn right they deserve better! But the navy doesn’t care and won’t give us the support we need. Don’t raise their hopes, then let ‘em down. They’re good men; don’t poison them against the navy forever.”
“The navy isn’t poisoning them; you are.”
“What?” Ross yelled. “I’m not doing a damn thing to them.”
“Or for them. That’s my point.”
Ross buried his face in his hands. The kid just didn’t understand. Ross raised his head to look at Lee. “It’s not my fault because there isn’t a darn thing we, you, or I can do. I tried. No matter which way you turn, the navy stops you.”
“Chief, the situation today wasn’t good. I’m not going to let that happen in my engine room. I won’t give up. That’s the deal.”
Ross half rose from the couch. “Your engine room?”
“You said it was mine the first time we met. Remember?”
Ross’ mind was reeling. “Well, there’s nothing you can do to keep it from happening again.”
“The men can fix the engine room. They don’t need parts; they need your example.”
“Come off the crap, Mister Lee. Just lay it on the table. What do you want from me?”
“All I want is for you to do your job.”
“I am,” Ross yelled
“Are you?” Lee’s voice was calm.
Ross was tiring of this game and was having difficulty controlling his anger. “If you’re so god-awful smart, what do you think we should do?”
“We’re going to make an honest effort.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! It’s not worth the effort. There’s nothing you can do; you can’t win!”
Ross was confused and angry; he had to get away to be by himself. Ross threw up his hands and stood. “Mister Lee, I don’t know what I have to do to get through to you. Just leave me alone.”
Lee remained seated, looking up at Ross, still smiling, eyes clear and firm. It was as if the conversation had no effect on him.
Ross stormed out of the room, and when he reached the chief’s quarters, he didn’t undress but lay down in his bunk fully clothed on his stomach. He tried to concentrate on something that would take his mind away from the day’s events.
He put Lee out of his mind and tried to imagine what it would be like to be out of the navy. Those thoughts only brought him sadness and melancholy. He turned his thoughts to happier times and the Able. His mouth had turned dry and he swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth. He swallowed wrong, and it made him cough as the ship rolled awkwardly to port, and Ross drifted across time and became the young man again in the Able’s boiler room.
His chest heaved spasmodically. Chief Barnes’ words echoed through his head. “Jam ‘em open, son!” He was calm and languid, his body floating gently on the breast of a cool, peaceful cloud. The coolness caressed his face and chest. He felt a paralyzing burning pain down his neck and back; the pain was far away as if the pain wasn’t his but someone else’s.
The choking paroxysm in his chest returned, and, wrenching his head away from the coolness of the cloud, he spat the foul taste of phlegm, blood, oil, and seawater from his mouth.
With rasping heaves, he sucked in the oven-hot air. His arm, floating limp in the water, hooked itself around an object he could sense but not feel and steadied him against the awkward sloshing movement. He opened his eyes to the darkness, but he couldn’t see anything. He opened his eyes again to make sure. The blackness was total. He tried to move, but his limbs didn’t respond. The world lurched, sending a wave across the water in the bilge, and he felt himself pivot on his arm and roll slowly onto his back.
Where am I? Where am I? He twisted his face in concentration and tried to focus his feeble senses on the blackness. Voices. No voices. Moans. Someone was moaning. The Able. I’m on the Able. He could hear a roar. A continuous roar like a boiler but different. Heat. Searing heat. Fire. I’m being cooked alive.
Unable to move, Ross knew he was dying. He closed his eyes and accepted death with calm, quiet anticipation. He reached out to embrace it and begged it to take him before the fire reached him. Floating peacefully, he waited as eternity swirled around him, lovingly wrapping him in welcome silence and darkness.
With a start, Ross jumped out of his bunk gasping for air, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. He looked around and saw that he was in his compartment on the Farnley. Ross sat back down on his bunk and tried to calm himself. He wasn’t sure if he’d been remembering or if he’d been dreaming; it was so vivid.
Ross climbed back into his bunk. He didn’t try to sleep. He couldn’t.
§
After his midwatch, Biron went to his stateroom to catch up on paperwork and reports. When his work was done, it was too late to go to bed; reveille was less than thirty minutes away. The sea was calm and the weather nice so he headed to the fo’c’scle for some quiet time.
Once on the fo’c’scle, he sat, as he always did at times like this, on the anchor windlass. Biron ignored the chilling sensation as the heavy, cold morning dew on the windlass soaked his trousers. He wanted time to think and watch the sunrise. He had less than six months to go before his hitch was up, and he didn’t know what to do.
He knew he had a brilliant career ahead of him, and he loved… loved what? The navy? The sea? The ships? He loved his wife, Ann, and his daughter, Sarah. When he thought of them, his heart ached. He hated the separations, and he grieved over the time he had lost with them.
Biron knew what his options were and knew exactly how the navy would deal with him. The navy would give him his new orders and a choice; accept the orders or leave the navy. The orders would be the naval equivalent of a bribe, a good billet at a good duty station, probably with early promotion to lieutenant commander thrown in to sweeten the deal. He wanted, and had promised Ann, to make up his mind before the orders arrived lest he be seduced.
Was that the real issue, or was it Sarah, his daughter? He’d missed her first tooth, her first step, and so many other things. What of her? What had she missed? What responsibilities and obligations had he failed to fulfill? What special moments had he missed?
He had marveled at Sarah’s nimble child’s mind and the way she could connect ideas that seemed childish at first but upon reflection were almost profound. Recently he had taken Ann and Sarah to Sounion for a picnic lunch. The talk had turned to the navy, and a new word for Sarah popped up, warship. She connected war with killing and death, then after a few questions climbed into his lap and hugged him.
“Promise me you won’t ever do anything that would kill people. Please, Daddy?” she pleaded.
“I promise.”
“Promise me you won’t get hurt or killed.”
“It’s okay sweetheart. I promise.”
“Promise, Daddy?”
“I promise,” he had assured her.
It was a precious moment and one he would treasure. How many treasures had he lost?
Biron’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps and a shadowy figure as it emerged from the forward deck hatch. In the soft glow of the morning light, he recognized Ross, tired and haggard. Ross saw Biron and walked forward to join him.
“Good morning, Chief. Up a little early, aren’t you?” Biron said.
“What about you? As for me, I couldn’t sleep,” Ross replied, seating himself on the moist deck.
“Why not?”
“It’s Mister Lee. I’m worried about him.”
Biron looked at Ross carefully. “You know, Chief, you look like hell. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m just worried and a little mixed up right now. Maybe you can help. We’ve both been in the navy for a while, and we’re both due to get out soon.”
“Haven’t made up my mind yet, Chief,” Biron corrected.
“Well, anyway, maybe you could talk to Lee before he gets himself into trouble. I tried last night but couldn’t get through to him.”
&n
bsp; “What’s the problem?”
“Lee thinks he can get everything fixed just like that,” Ross snapped his fingers for emphasis. “Only one of two things can come of it. Either he’s going to take a fall, or he’s going to destroy the morale of the crew. Probably both. He’s just going the wrong way with this. And now with the crew talking about him, he’s already made a fool of himself.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Biron said. “Tell me. What do you think is the right way?”
“Don’t fight it. Roll with the seas.”
Biron looked at Ross for a long moment, then turned toward the brightening sky that was now a crescent of brilliant white above the horizon. As if speaking to himself, he began:
Her decks, once red with heroes’ blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor’s tread
Or know the conquered knee—
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Ross listened intently to Biron’s soft voice, and when Biron paused, he asked, “What’s that from?”
Biron ignored Ross’ question and continued:
Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the ocean deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
Biron turned to Ross and said, “That’s from Oliver Wendell Holmes’s poem ‘Old Ironsides.’ Do you know why he wrote it?”
“No, but what does this have to do with Mister Lee?”
“Nothing and everything. Holmes wrote that poem in the early eighteen hundreds when the navy decided to scrap the USS Constitution. The resulting public outcry forced the navy to keep her and ultimately turn her into a national memorial. Why do you think that happened?”
Ross thought the question trivial and shrugged. “She was a great ship.”
“Not exactly. A mountain, a tree, a bridge, a building, a flower, or a hull is a thing. Things can be beautiful, ugly, awe-inspiring, simple, but they can’t be great. Greatness springs only from strength and courage; only from the soul and spirit of man. The men who served on Old Ironsides made her great, and their greatness is our inheritance from them.
“Old Ironsides is a symbol of greatness. She inspired a nation to greatness. Her destruction would have destroyed her legacy.”
Biron fell silent for a minute, then looked at Ross, his face sad. “The thing that always troubled me was that the admirals didn’t understand that, but the common man did.”
“Understand what?” Ross asked.
Biron took a deep breath and tried to find a way to explain something he’d never said in words. “Each generation gives its wisdom to the next. That’s their gift. But with the gift comes the responsibility to keep it, cherish it, care for it, add to it, make it better, then give it to the next generation.
“It’s like the watch,” Biron continued, pointing to the bridge. “Each watch turns over its knowledge to the next. Watches proceed in an endless, unbroken chain from officer to officer across generations. Each watch carries with it the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of those who went before and the duty to stand the watch well. The watch I just left is as connected to Old Ironsides as the watch I’ll stand ten years from now.”
Ross looked confused. “But this is the Farnley, not Old Ironsides. We’re an old, broken-down ship, and if she ever had any glory days, they’re far behind her.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s our watch now, and that’s why I won’t ask Lee to back off. He knows what he’s doing.”
“What’s he doing?” Ross asked.
Biron pursed his lips, then began, “Your last station was the shipyards, right?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“You’re a certified navy shipyard inspector, correct?” Biron asked.
“Yeah, so?”
“I would think that a man of your experience and credentials could figure something out. Anyway, I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a lot of things to do before chow,” Biron said, getting up to leave.
“But what do you think he’s trying to do?” Ross asked.
Biron stopped and looked down at Ross. “Emerson said, ‘Tis man’s perdition to be safe, when for the truth he ought to die.’ Think about it, Chief. Emerson knew something about greatness.”
ASHORE
August 1971, 2 Miles off the west coast of Greece
Operation Marathon: Day 423
Even though it was just after six in the morning, sailors lined the Farnley’s rail straining for the first sight of the brilliant Glyfada beaches, which to Mediterranean sailors are the outer beacon on the approach to Athens. The mixed sand and marble dust beaches, bleached by the scorching Hellenic sun since the dawn of time and washed by the pristine cerulean waters of the Saronic Gulf, appeared to luminesce a brilliant white despite the long morning shadows of the resort hotels and rocky inland hills.
Charged with quiet excitement and anticipation, the crew watched as they passed the airport, Kalamaki, Faliron Delta and the inland city of Athens crowned by the Parthenon poised high above the Athenian plain. After forty-three days away, they would soon be home.
As they entered the channel between Salamis Island and the ancient port of Piraeus, the deck hands readying the mooring lines paused to admire the picturesque cruise ships, ferries, and wooden fishing boats huddled in the harbor’s natural basin.
The Farnley steamed northward, entering the murky waters of Elefsis Bay. Once abreast of the Skaramanga Shipyard she came thirty degrees to port, setting her head on port of Elefsis.
The late August sun in Greece was relentless and the ever present stony terrain its anvil. The knot of pier spectators, of incomplete families, was dressed in breezy light colored clothing that was their Grecian Sunday best. All the children jumped, ran, and continued to vent their excited energy. The women had stopped talking and each turned toward the sea, straining their eyes to find their man, their sailor returned from the sea.
Soon the Farnley was secure alongside the pier. The in-port watch was set and all of the off-duty married men collected their loved ones and headed home. Ross did not go ashore.
§
Ross finished lunch and headed directly to the engine room; he had a noisy fuel pump that needed tending. When he arrived, the engine room was as cool and quiet as Ross thought an office would be. No steam hissed and no machinery hummed, but the engine room buzzed with activity. Hushed voices echoed from the bowels, catwalks rattled quietly under unhurried footsteps, tools clinked. The sound and peaceful mood of a sleeping ship were special to Ross as if it were a mystical undersea temple of steel.
Ross went directly to the lower level and found that Stucky had already started on the pump, so Ross sat on the catwalk, cleaned his screwdriver with his shop rag, and watched.
For the first time in months, he felt good, really good, because he’d accomplished something. Since the night Elmo died, Ross had done a lot of thinking. Part of it was because of Lee, part because of what Biron had said, and part because for some reason, the Able had been haunting him.
What would Barnes have done? Ross kept asking himself. No matter how many times Ross asked the question, he came up with the same answer. He could hear Barnes bellowing, “That’s the deal,” to add emphasis to every lesson, but these were different times, different ships, different navies. Chief Barnes’s old bromides didn’t cut it anymore.
Ross had also decided he hadn’t given Lee enough credit, and saw no problem letting Lee do little things like uniforms, morale, and cleanliness. It wouldn’t make much difference so long as Lee didn’t get expectations set too high, but at least the men would have something to keep
their minds off their other problems.
Earlier, when they had tied up at the pier, the Greek pier workers had connected the Farnley to the shore electrical power, but had refused to connect the steam lines that would provide steam for hot water and heat for the cook’s large steam kettles. Without the steam line, Ross would have to keep the boilers and his engineering plant running. The pier workers insisted that they only had orders to hook up the electricity. Without the appropriate paperwork, there was no way they would connect the steam.
Normally, such incidents were taken to the captain, who would threaten the pier workers as only a captain could, with death by slow dismemberment or some other equally unpleasant event, and the matter would be quickly resolved.
This had happened before because the Farnley never had authorization to hook up to shore steam. The screwup had to be administrative because the only real problem was the piece of paper the dock workers had didn’t have a small X in the right box. Ross knew that going to Javert wouldn’t produce the desired effect, so, in the past, he’d resigned himself to the situation.
As Ross had walked back to the ship from the shack the dockworkers used for an office, he experienced an almost perverse pleasure in his anger at the workers and their damned piece of paper. By the time he had reached the brow, Ross had worked himself into a fighting frenzy. He wasn’t gonna take this shit anymore.
Ross headed forward, spoke with the gunner’s mates, and got dressed in his ribbon-covered dress-blue uniform with its left sleeve blanketed in gold hash marks and insignia. Ross almost tore the door off the hinges when he stormed into the pier workers’ little plywood shack and demanded to know who was in charge.
The three men in the shack were dressed alike, black dirty slacks and semi-dirty Greek white shirts that resembled short smocks. The fat one continued to munch on some bread, the one with the butch haircut scratched the black stubble on his head, and the short one stood and said, “I speak English. Can I help you?”
Ross’ entrance hadn’t had the effect he desired, but he was determined to see it through. “Who’s in charge?” Ross demanded.
“The supervisor,” Shorty said.
The Marathon Watch Page 15