The Marathon Watch

by Laswell, Lawrence K

  “What’s her status?” Kappel asked, relieved.

  Looking up from the five-page message the aide replied, “What’s so amazing, Admiral, is that she reports estimated time-to-repair as four weeks. The message lists all the parts they need for repair. They had to have this message ready before they broke down.”

  Kappel cracked a small smile, “They probably did. It’s called, ‘Even when you are getting your ass kicked make sure you do it in a smart military manner.’”

  Confused, the aide asked, “How could they have known what, when and where they were going to break down?”

  Kapple knew, but chose to ignore the question. “Assign a ship to tow her back to Sasebo and send an escort with her. All of the repair parts she needs are in a warehouse there.” Reaching into his shirt pocket, he handed the message to the aide. “Send this and a copy of all message traffic to the CNO.”

  “Two ships for a tow? The Chief of Naval Operations? Her parts are in a warehouse?” asked the confused officer.

  “Yes, I’ll explain later,” Kappel replied, dismissing the aide.

  “Aye, aye, Admiral,” the officer said turning to leave.

  Kappel reached into his pocket and retrieved two marble-sized brass bearings. He rolled them in his hand for a second and then jerked around to call after the officer, “Another thing. Her crew doesn’t deserve this humiliation. Have the other ships give her men, parts, anything she needs. If they can patch the problem so she can steam back into port under her own power, do it. I’d like to see her to steam into Sasebo with her head high.”

  Kappel was sad he had lost the Kuntz, but he was glad it was over. He had prepared for this moment and knew what he had to do next. If only he could figure out a way to tell the Kuntz’s captain about Operation Marathon. Resigned to his duty, Kappel lifted the phone from its cradle to call flight operations. He would be waiting on the pier when the Kuntz arrived in Sasebo. He owed her crew that much, and much more.

  TO SUDHA BAY

  September 1971, Elefsis Pier

  Operation Marathon: Day 428

  The Farnley had been held at the Elefsis pier for five days to accommodate the dry dock schedule at Skaramanga. They were finally preparing to get under way for Sudha Bay to offload their munitions.

  The sound of the single motor running in the engine room was lost in the deck-vibrating rumble that emanated from the boiler room. Ross did more than listen to the sound. The air was lifeless, unaffected, and the vibrations felt frothy and lacking intensity, depth, and power. She wasn’t the awakening giant Ross had known.

  He and his crew had been up since midnight warming up the boilers and preparing the plant for sea. The men, excited, were attacking their work with an energy and purpose Ross had not seen for almost a year. He knew what it was all about, but he felt it’d be best if he didn’t make a big deal out of it. So despite wanting to, he never looked up at the valve in the main steam line. It looked so out of place amid the jumble of dirty piping crowding the overhead.

  The main steam line, wrapped in dusty gray insulation, entered the engine room high along the forward bulkhead. After five feet, the insulation changed abruptly to a shiny white bulge around the main steam stop valve.

  Its fresh new insulation gleamed in tribute to its three coats of white gloss enamel. The valve appeared factitious in the grayness of the Farnley’s engine room. It looked like an apparition, a mirage, that couldn’t belong on the Farnley.

  Trying not to draw more attention to the valve, Ross paced the main platform with his checklist. He tended to business and directed the men as they clambered over the maze of pipes, checking settings and opening or closing valves. Ross had seen that his men were not as restrained as he was. Grinning in anticipation, they regularly snuck a glance at the overhead.

  Not all of the excitement was over the valve. Lee had done more to lift the spirits of the crew than anybody, and Ross wasn’t totally immune. Lee insisted that he be directly involved in preparing the plant for sea, and Lee had put on quite a show. Ross thought Lee would reconsider when he almost got his eyebrows singed off lighting the boiler, but his enthusiasm and wide-eyed grin never faded.

  Ross told Lee to follow Stucky on his errands, and Stucky was milking this rare opportunity to have an officer do all of the dirty work for all it was worth. Stucky’s uniform was spotless, but Lee’s was covered with grease and drenched in at least four types of oil. Although anyone could tell Stucky was making the work harder and dirtier than necessary, Lee apparently relished it and had become dirtier than any officer Ross had ever seen.

  The men had taken a liking to Lee, whose intelligent, smiling face seemed impervious to dirt and grease. Initially, Ross guessed that Lee’s silly perpetual grin was contagious, but now he knew it was more than that. The men, talking and smiling, had become animated and reacted purposefully to commands, carrying them out without instruction or coaching. They were beginning to care, and Lee was the spark plug.

  Ross had seen and felt this before and remembered the pride he’d felt on the Able. That valve was his victory. This valve was not. It belonged to the crew and to Lee. Ross was lonely and frustrated. He’d only been a spectator. Ross cursed himself for not doing more.

  He pocketed his screwdriver and walked to the starboard escape ladder that opened directly onto the weather deck. Over the noise, he could hear the distant sound of water beating against the steel deck above as the boatswain’s mates hosed down the deck.

  Unexpectedly, water started pouring into the escape hatch over Ross’ head, drenching him. He jumped to one side and looked up at the sparkling spray of water cascading through the open hatch. Accustomed to the dim light of the engine room, Ross was blinded by the bright circular window of the hatch open directly to the clear morning sky. “Who the hell left the hatch open?” Ross yelled.

  Lee, Stucky, and the others on the main platform laughed as Ross danced out of the way, shaking his arms in a vain attempt to shed the water. Ross glowered back at them, and they all swallowed their smiles except for Lee. One of the free men from the lower level quickly came to the rescue and scaled the ladder to close the hatch.

  With water still pouring in, the man’s body was partially eclipsed. The bright sunlight and the water splashed and sparkled off his head and shoulders. Ross had seen this image before, and the feeling of déjà vu returned.

  Ross returned to his bench and tried to remember. Slowly the darkened windows to his memories opened. “Jam ‘em open, son.”

  Where was he? His friends were dead. He was dying; the boiler room a charnel vault, the Able his tomb, and then he heard the clang of metal, the squeak of heavy hinges, then a voice. Ross floated serenely. He smiled and opened his eyes to see the face of God. Everything about him was blackness, but in the distance, he saw a round, bright light, and in its center was the face of Chief Barnes. Behind the face raged a fire of brilliant red and orange dancing flames. The heat. Am I alive? Oh God, the heat. I’m going to burn. Hell. Is this hell? Oh God, no!

  Ross tried to move, but he couldn’t. He closed his eyes and waited.

  “Son. Son. Ross, is that you?”

  Ross opened his eyes and looked into the light.

  “Hey, he’s still alive.”

  Barnes’ face was joined by another. Ross lay helpless, watching the valkyrian drama unfold.

  “Forget it, Chief, we need more help. I can’t handle this fire hose alone.”

  “I’m going after him. He’s one of mine.”

  “You can’t do it, Chief.”

  “Got to. That’s the deal. They never let me down, I never let them down. I ain’t quittin’ now. That’s the deal.”

  A third face appeared in the light, a blackened face with hair the color of the flames that framed it.

  “We got the hose, Chief. We’ll cover you with fog. Let’s go.”

  The light diffused and sparkled, and shadows moved in it and the shadows shimmered and the light was eclipsed. The heat closed in around him.r />
  The heat; tongues of flame reached out for him. The light was dim. It sparkled, and shadows moved in it. It didn’t matter; the fires of hell were about to consume him. He longed for the light.

  Cold. A cold mist caressed him. The heat was gone. The mist, like a blizzard of flying ice crystals, pricked his skin. He wanted to shiver; he couldn’t. From the mist emerged a face. It was Chief Barnes.

  “Son. Ross. Dammit, son. Stay awake. We’re getting you out of here. Hang on.”

  His head jerked back. His brain felt too small for his skull. Barnes snatched him from the cool water. The cold, icy mist was everywhere. He was upside down, bouncing, Barnes’ shoulder in his gut. He wanted to vomit; he couldn’t. His body quaked trying to shiver, but it couldn’t. He felt safe; Barnes wouldn’t let him die. Tired, he closed his eyes.

  “Stay awake, son. Fight it. You’re a fighter. You’ll be all right, just stay awake. Keep trying. You gotta try to survive. Stay awake.”

  Ross opened his eyes and looked into the reddened face of Chief Barnes. He realized he was on deck, and Barnes was holding him up by a life jacket. He tried to speak, but his lips barely moved. He tried again and heard a weak, distant voice that he knew was his. “Sorry, Chief. I tried.”

  “I know you did, son. You did good. You did your part, but now you have a new job. Stay awake. You have to keep trying to survive. Promise me you’ll stay awake. Don’t let me down,” Barnes yelled while shaking Ross.

  “I try, Chief,” Ross replied.

  Barnes took the screwdriver from his hip pocket and stuffed it inside his shirt under the life vest.

  “Here’s my screwdriver. Take care of it for me,” Barnes said urgently.

  “Yes. Screwdriver, take care.”

  “I know you will, son. You’re a good sailor. I want it back. You have to stay awake to do that.”

  The world spun around Ross, voices shouted. Fire and smoke were everywhere. He felt his body shake. Barnes was still shaking him. Barnes was holding him up by the collar of a life jacket, shaking him. “Stay awake, son. You’re gonna make it. Someone will pick you up.”

  Ross tried to focus, but Barnes was gone. The world tumbled. He saw the sky, the sea, the side of the Able, then Chief Barnes standing there watching him. The blue Pacific had surrounded him. The life jacket had popped him to the surface. There was floating debris, and someone was swimming toward him. Stay awake. Survive. I won’t let you down. I got your screwdriver, Chief.

  Sitting on his bench, still dripping wet, Ross could still feel the Pacific swirling around him. He looked up at the valve and remembered how proud he’d been as a young sailor on the Able. Barnes had given him pride, a pride that had lasted almost thirty years.

  Ross yelled to Stucky, “Open the main steam stop.”

  Stucky jumped onto the bench, ceremoniously extended his index finger, then slowly raised his hand, hooking the finger on the valve wheel spoke. With his single finger, he spun the valve open.

  Cheers and screams drowned out the sound of steam rushing into the engine room’s labyrinth of steam pipes. Stucky’s freckled face glowed, and Ross recognized the look in Stucky’s eyes. He was looking at himself thirty years ago.

  Stucky jumped from the bench and ran to the railing overlooking the lower level, raised his right arm in a “we’re number one” gesture, then spun his arm in a sweeping circular motion and yelled, “Wind her up.”

  Ross felt confused, and he looked at Lee. For the first time he could remember, it was clear Lee wasn’t smiling. Ross took the screwdriver from his hip pocket and held it. In his hands it felt weightless but in his heart… Here’s my screwdriver. Take care of it for me…Yes. Screwdriver, take care.

  Tears welled up in his eyes.

  “Chief?” It was Stucky.

  Ross wiped the tears out of his eyes and turned toward Stucky. “Son, do you know you have water all over your grimy, scuzzy, filthy deck?” Ross said, pointing to the puddle under the hatch.

  Stucky squinted at Ross in mock confusion and asked, “My deck?”

  “I didn’t stutter, did I? It’s your deck, and it’s making my engine room look bad. Why, it looks like a marine’s latrine. If it isn’t a sparkly clean by dinner chow, you’ll be cleaning bilges with a toothbrush for the rest of your tour.”

  Burns, the port throttleman, began to laugh. Ross swung around and blasted him next. “What the hell you laughing about, son?”

  Burns tried to straighten up, but it was too late. Ross continued, “Your evaporators look like crap and work even worse. They even make my engine room look worse than Stucky’s deck. You own ‘em. Fix ‘em.”

  Burns looked to Stucky for moral support, but Stucky was standing at attention by his throttle. “But I don’t know anything about evaporators,” Burns pleaded.

  “That’s no excuse. They’re yours now. Learn what you have to and I’ll teach you the rest, but they’re your responsibility. That’s the deal.”

  “But—”

  “But, but, but, but what? Do I look like a billy goat? How would you like to drain the bilge with a soda straw?”

  “Aye, Chief.” Burns, legs trembling, turned back to the gauge board and gave Stucky one fleeting, desperate glance, which Stucky didn’t return. Stucky’s eyes were glued to the vacuum gauge.

  Cautiously, Stucky turned his head toward Ross and said softly, “Chief, we’ve got vacuum.”

  Ross turned away and marched over to the intercom. He flipped the switch labeled Bridge and depressed the send button. “Bridge, main control. This is Ross. I’m ready for sea.”

  §

  Biron looked at his watch.

  “That’s the first time I can remember Ross being right on schedule,” Biron said to Javert.

  The on-time report from Ross wasn’t lost on Javert, who was seated in his captain’s chair, observing the bridge crew. He leaned back and propped his feet on the wooden sill under the bridge windows. Eickhoff’s instructions to be supportive, handle administrative manners, and not interfere with ship navigation had been right. Eickhoff was a wise man.

  During their stay in Elefsis, he’d kept to his cabin and not interfered with the operation of the ship. He performed his duties diligently, signing papers, filling out reports, welcoming new men, and bidding farewell to those being transferred. He relished the work and submerged himself in it.

  It troubled him that no one came to him for decisions or advice, but he was getting along splendidly with Meyers, who seemed to have everything under control.

  Still, Javert felt awkward in his new role. It didn’t feel right. A captain should command, direct, be decisive, all things Eickhoff’s letter had warned him against. All in all, he’d enjoyed the stay in Elefsis and left his officers alone, except on a few occasions when he sought them out to make helpful suggestions.

  Rather than be confrontational with Biron while he was getting the ship under way, he had tried to be helpful, and it seemed to work. This was the first time he could remember they were getting under way almost on time. No arguments had broken out, and Meyers hadn’t challenged him. How could Meyers challenge me? Javert thought. I’m doing what any good captain would do by being helpful and showing faith and confidence in my officers. It is as easy as that. No more confrontations. I’ll let my officers run the ship, and I’ll stay aloof. Even though it doesn’t feel right, those are my orders.

  NIGHT OPS

  September 1971, En Route to Sudha Bay

  Operation Marathon: Day 429

  It was just after midnight when Biron heard the metallic clicks of the bridge door and recognized Lee’s short silhouette. Lee was uncharacteristically late, and the remainder of the bridge watch already had been relieved. It would still take Lee several minutes to check navigation, tactical, engineering status, weather reports, and the night orders, so Biron walked to the bridge wing to bid farewell to the beautiful night.

  The hot, humid day had followed the sun westward, leaving a cool midnight breeze. The sky, God’s special gi
ft to the sailor, was free of city lights and urban pollution. Placed on display, all of creation was set on the night’s canopy of blue-black velvet adorned with the glistening diamond dust of billions of lesser stars and the sparkling one-point diamonds of the major stars.

  A deep golden harvest moon hung low on the eastern horizon. Its glow cut a pewter path from moon to ship across shifting liquid swells rolling forward to meet the Farnley’s bow. The bow, rocking gently, rose, then floated gently down to embrace the next swell.

  On the bridge, men spoke in soft airy voices and the engines’ soft drone and the radio’s static hiss were whispers in the night. The men, with limbs recently deprived of warmth and slumber, moved about slowly in the low red lights that bathed their faces in ghostly red and black shadows.

  Standing on the bridge wing on nights like this, he opened his senses as he seemed to glide effortlessly across the sea; the sensation of speed was phenomenal. It was like a magic carpet ride.

  Biron also knew these nights to be dangerous. The sensation of solitude and closeness to God overwhelmed man’s logical mental apparatus, and the thoughts and conclusions reached required reexamination in the harsh light of day.

  “I’m ready to relieve you. Sorry I was late.”

  Biron turned casually and had difficulty seeing Lee standing in the moon’s black shadow from the bridge house. Biron and Lee then began the traditional ritual of changing the watch, a ritual perfected over generations in response to tragedies or near tragedies. Its point was simple; clean cut transfer of authority and control with no confusion.

  The men exchanged salutes. Biron called out in a clear voice, “This is Mister Biron. Mister Lee has the deck and the con.”

  Lee’s reply was immediate and as clear. “This is Mister Lee. I have the deck and the con.”

  Next, replies came from the quartermaster, helmsman, and lee helmsman. “Aye, the log shows Mister Lee has the deck and the con.”

  “Helm aye, my head is one-seven-zero true, one-six-seven magnetic.”

  “Lee helm aye, all ahead two-thirds. Making turns for twelve knots.”