Lee’s eyes grinned and he asked, “What are you going to do?”
“You don’t want to know, Mister Lee, but I promise you, it’ll be the ultimate in naval justice.”
And then Ross and the worker were gone.
§
Meyers welcomed the eight days in dry dock for more than just the new coat of paint the Farnley would receive. It would give the crew a break from their normal routine, but the heat was stifling. The September heat was summer’s last hurrah, and by nine in the morning, the closed ship grew oppressively hot. The sandblasting was done, but the vents hadn’t been reopened.
Meyers told the quarterdeck to pass the word to uncover all the vents and open all ship’s doors to help fight off the heat, then began his morning rounds. Before he reached the personnel office, he was caught by a strange sight. To the side of the main passageway, a large, square bundle of rags was bouncing up and down on the open but small twenty-inch-diameter hatch to the engine room. The sight was so strange it took him a minute to figure out what was happening. Someone on the ladder below the hatch was trying to pull the large bundle of rags through the small opening.
“What’s going on?” Meyers yelled at the bouncing bundle, hoping the man could hear him.
A voice, dampened by the intervening bundle of rags, yelled back in earnest irritation, “Don’t just stand there, you asshole. Give me a hand.”
Without hesitation, Meyers grabbed the bundle by the heavy twine and lifted. The other man was still pulling the other way, so Meyers jerked hard and yanked the bundle away from the hatch.
A surprised and embarrassed young sailor stood on the ladder looking up at Meyers. “I’m… I’m sorry, XO, I didn’t know it was you, sir.” the man said in a quavering voice.
“It’s all right. What do you want me to do?” Meyers asked.
“Please help me get this through the hatch, sir. Chief Ross will be back any time now, and I have to hurry. I think if you push, and I pull, it’ll go through.”
Meyers put the bundle back on top of the hatch, put his foot on it, and began pushing. When the bundle was almost through, Meyers asked, “You haven’t told me what you’re doing.”
“The chief gave me the bilge,” the man answered as he gave the bundle a hefty tug.
“Gave you? The bilge?” Meyers asked, puzzled.
The bundle popped past the hatch combing, and the sailor neatly caught it with one hand as it swung down below his waist while he held to the ladder with his other hand. Sweating, the young sailor looked up at Meyers. “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. The chief gave me the bilge and was fuming mad ‘cause he said it made his engine room look bad.”
“Are you cleaning the bilge?” Meyers asked, almost sure he understood.
“Naw, it’s clean, but Stevens’ fuel pump is leaking oil on my bilge. Gotta get it cleaned up before Ross sees it.”
Meyers smiled. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”
“Thanks, XO, and if you see Stevens, tell him I want his butt.”
Meyers had been in the navy long enough to know better than try to figure out chiefs and engineers. Ross was both, so he put it out of his mind. Still smiling to himself, Meyers started back down the passageway to resume his rounds.
After a few steps, he stopped and, for reasons unclear to him, turned and stepped out onto the main deck.
One thing that seemed right was the crew. For the Farnley, that was unnatural. He had felt the change a few days ago as he walked around the ship. Inexplicably, the atmosphere had changed. The men looked dirtier and more tired than normal, but they smiled and seemed happy despite the unbearable living conditions aboard a dry-docked ship.
Now he was making a point to observe the crew closely. The signs were unmistakable; the dirt was the reward of honest labor, the tired faces the product of honest effort. The smiles were simmering pride that transcended the abysmal circumstances. They seemed totally unconcerned about their environment.
Meyers could see it was more than just a group of individuals. They seemed almost conspiratorial. Their eyes flashed knowingly at each other, and they would raise their hand and, smiling, touch their hair as they passed. Every man had his hair cut in the same horrid style; regulation, but lopsided with gouges and nicks along the side.
A mysterious common language was developing. The words Meyers heard most often were “That’s sweet” and “Wind her up.” As he approached the fantail, he could see the constant procession of men carrying heavy bundles back and forth across the gangway to the dry dock. Even this had taken on the form of a mysterious ritual.
Some of the men returning to the ship would signal their return as they walked down the dry-dock wall. They raised their arm high above their head as if pointing to the sky, then swung their arm in a wide, sweeping circular motion. Meyers knew this wasn’t an idle gesture because, invariably, a few men watching from the Farnley’s deck would rush, pushing and shoving, back into the interior of the ship or disappear down a hatch amid a flurry of snickers, giggles, and excited words.
Meyers had seen similar strains of contagious weirdness sweep through ships before and knew it to be a beneficial bug, one that he would never attempt to diagnose or eradicate. It was the type of thing that, no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to make happen on purpose. Something good was happening, something Lee had probably started, and something that was best if he “didn’t want to know.”
§
Despite his apprehension, Michael Milford Morrison knew he was going to be all right. He was on his own, and now for the first time in his life, he felt like a man. The navy recruiter in Santa Cruz had been friendly, had shared some sea stories with him about Tokyo, Pearl Harbor, Saigon, and Subic Bay. He even took the time to tell him exactly what to do when his plane landed.
Today had been a big day for him, saying good-bye to his mother, father, and brother. Now entering the San Diego Airport, Morrison scrupulously followed the recruiter’s instructions and had brought no luggage, only a small athletic bag containing a few toilet articles and a towel. The recruiter had told him it didn’t matter what he wore, so Morrison, concerned he would meet a lot of new friends his own age, had dressed comfortably in shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and sandals.
When he reached the main baggage claim area, he looked for the navy ground transportation liaison sign as the recruiter had instructed. He saw the small kiosk set in the center of a large open area with the sign above it. Inside the kiosk sat a beautiful smiling WAVE tending a phone and several clipboards.
Outside the kiosk, a man whom Morrison guessed was important paced patiently back and forth. The man was old, like his grandfather but maybe a little younger. His blue uniform, covered with a bewildering array of insignia, ribbons, and gold stripes, made him look really impressive.
Morrison walked directly up to the man and boldly stuck his hand out to introduce himself. “Excuse me. I’m Michael Morrison. The recruiter told me to check in with you.”
The elder man turned and greeted Morrison with a big warm grin. “Morrison? Well, welcome to the navy. Would you follow me, please?”
The WAVE nodded to the older man and made a mark on one of her clipboards. As they walked through the terminal, the older man asked Morrison how his flight had been and engaged in small talk until they stepped outside, leaving the milling crowd of civilians in the terminal behind. The older man had led Morrison through a side door, which to Morrison seemed natural; navy men would be able to use shortcuts denied most travelers.
Outside, Morrison noticed they were in a small, sidewalk-rimmed parking lot. When they reached the curb, the older man turned on Morrison and in a stern, angry voice yelled, “OK, squirrel. You see the man down there by the bus? Report in to him. On the double, dweeb. That means now!”
Stunned by the sudden change in his new friend, Morrison stared at the man dumbstruck. The elder man had little patience. “I said now, slimeball.”
Wounded, Morrison began to walk toward the gray navy
bus. From behind him, the older man screamed, “I said now. That means on the double. Run!”
Morrison broke into a sprint, and by the time he was halfway to the bus, the other man had run to meet him. As they ran toward the bus together, the other man screamed in Morrison’s face, “OK, squirrel. You’re in the navy now. No more mama. Fall in with the others at attention. You’ll see footprints painted on the concrete. Put your left foot in the left footprint and your right foot in the right footprint. Put your bag down next to your right foot and come to attention. When you’re at attention, you will not twitch, you will not move, you will not blink, you will not scratch, you will not talk, you will not pass gas, you will not do anything, not even think, unless I tell you to. Do you understand, squirrel?”
Morrison did his best to comply with the barrage of instructions and replied, “Yeah.”
“What? What did you say, loon lips?” screamed the man. “You mean, ‘Yes Sir’ don’t you?”
“Yes, sir?” mumbled Morrison.
“I can’t hear you, whale turd. What’d you say?”
“Yes, Sir!” Morrison bellowed.
Silence returned. Morrison didn’t think boot camp was going to be like this. Maybe he’d made a mistake. The other man looked away for a second, then spun to glare at Morrison. “Did you say something, bubble brain?”
“No, Sir!”
Morrison tried not to think about it any more.
DIEGO GARCIA
October 1971, Fleet Anchorage, Diego Garcia, Indian Ocean
Operation Marathon: Day 474
Dotting the mirror smooth Indian Ocean just off the island of Diego Garcia, the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise and her resting pride of destroyers lay at anchor. Their high hurricane bows turned into the gentle breeze, the ships basked lazily in the brilliant noonday sun. On the Enterprise’s flag bridge, Admiral Knutsen commander of the battle group waited for his visitor. An invigorating breeze swept in through the bridge doors and swirled inside the bridge. Knutsen soaked up the fresh air and looked across his carrier battle group. The breeze was as gentle, as calm and as clean as the Indian Ocean.
Still, Knutsen felt dirty and had felt that way for months. The pleasantness of the day only made him feel dirtier. After his visitor left, he would take a shower; maybe he would finally feel clean again. He looked across the calm sea toward the USS Talbot, one of the ships riding at anchor. The Talbot was impossible to miss; she was rusty, dirty and looked tired. He knew how she felt.
“Admiral, Captain Braunagel is here to see you.”
Knutsen turned and nodded to Braunagel’s marine escort who stepped back through the door leaving the two men alone.
Braunagel’s appearance shocked Knutsen. It was worse than he thought. Six months ago, Braunagel had been a proud man, the ideal image of a naval commander. This wasn’t the Braunagel he remembered. His hair was mussed, uniform dirty and disheveled. His eyes were deep shadows of endless nights of vexing questions unanswered.
“Welcome aboard,” Knutsen began, hoping he sounded sociable. Knutsen motioned for Braunagel to join him on the bridge wing and continued, “I have some good news for you, Captain.”
“Well, I’m always in the mood for some good news, Admiral.” Braunagel said mustering a weak smile. “What is it?”
Knutsen looked into Braunagel’s haggard face and spoke softly. “Captain, I have been watching the Talbot’s readiness reports.”
Braunagel stiffened and his eyes turned hard.
Knutsen noticed the change, but continued in a soft conversational voice. “I need an honest answer to a question. And please don’t take this wrong, but your ship is now ineffective as a fighting ship, isn’t she?”
Braunagel came to attention and squarely faced Knutsen. He took a deep breath. “Admiral, I take full responsibility for the condition of my ship. I have a good crew from my exec all the way down to the cooks.”
Braunagle’s voice was steady, clear, and professional, but somber tones of resignation filled every word. Knutsen started to interrupt him, but his attention was drawn to the two marble-sized brass bearings in his pocket. They seemed to have grown heavier in the past few seconds. He let Braunagel continue.
“The condition of the ship is in no way a reflection on them. I am sure if we could get our backlog of supply parts they could have the ship back in shape in no time. I’m the captain, sir, the ship is my responsibility.”
Knutsen smiled. Putting his hand on Braunagel’s shoulder, he said. “And so is the crew. I think you answered my question. Captain, you must understand you’ve done a hell of a job, and the condition of the ship is not your fault, nor a reflection on the crew.”
Knutsen continued despite the puzzled look spreading across Braunagel’s face. “The good news is, most of the supplies you want are on board, and I’m sending experienced men aboard your ship to help. I’m also rotating your ship back to Subic Bay early for some much deserved time off.”
“Admiral?”
“You don’t understand, so it is time I tell you about Operation Marathon. It’s a race against time your ship just finished.”
WINDS OF NOVEMBER
November 1971, Elefsis Pier
Operation Marathon: Day 501
Two months after dry-docking, the Farnley was at the pier in Elefsis and would be getting under way Friday for Naples, so as he’d planned, Meyers left the ship early on Wednesday. He didn’t go home but headed for the air force base south of Athens to visit a psychiatrist.
Meyers’ visit wasn’t for himself but for his ship and his captain. As Meyers spoke to the psychiatrist, he picked his words carefully so as not to identify Javert by name or position. Not knowing what was important and what was not, he told the psychiatrist everything that had transpired in the last eight weeks.
The crew had become a spirited, cohesive unit that had found a way to feed on adversity. In the last eight weeks, they had spent six at sea, and the supply situation hadn’t gotten any better. However, the crew had seemed to find a way to manage.
Every attempt he made to find out how met with the same flippant response, “You don’t want to know.” It was the magic he’d seen taking root in Skaramanga. He knew it was good and also knew magic was delicate, so he never pressed the issue. Thankfully, breakdowns seemed to be a thing of the past, a welcome blessing as the stormy winter approached.
All their troubles weren’t behind them. After they left Skaramanga, the old Captain Javert returned for a while. In a silly mix-up on the bridge, Javert was embarrassed by forgetting his own ship’s call sign. It was a small slip that happened even to the best officers. Nonetheless, Javert, mortified by the mistake, had retreated to his cabin and spoke to almost no one for a week.
At first, Meyers tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t. He tried to cajole the captain out of his shell, and when that failed, he took over, as any executive officer would do when the captain was ill.
Javert finally returned to the bridge, and they had argued over a small disciplinary matter. Instead of asserting himself or resorting to one of his typical rages, Javert retreated again to his cabin. When he visited Javert, what he saw was a pathetic, shriveled man huddled on his couch.
Meyers spent hours without success trying to figure out what demons haunted the man. He’d tried to get the captain to talk, but to his questions, his coaxing, his urging, Javert’s replies always carried the same theme: “Go away. There are things that captains can’t talk about. There are things captains must do on their own. It’s a lonely job, but it’s my duty. I must follow my orders.”
The three-hour meeting with the psychiatrist provided little of the help, guidance, or insight Meyers had hoped for. The psychiatrist quickly saw through Meyers’ ruse to protect Javert’s identity and barraged Meyers with pointed, leading questions.
The last hour of the discussion kept going in circles, covering the same ground over and over. The conversation ended when the young doctor looked at Meyers and said, “I get the sense that
you’re confusing your problem by clouding it with emotions that are good but misplaced in this situation. From what you’ve told me, your captain may be psychotic, and you must do what you think is right. We can talk for hours more, but don’t you think you know the answer already? Don’t you think that, deep inside, you know you must take action to relieve your captain? It’ll actually be for his own good.”
Meyers never answered the doctor’s question because he didn’t totally agree. By the time he’d reached his home in Kiffissia, he knew he had to do something about Javert, but what? To do nothing would only hurt the ship and the man; to take action would help the ship but would destroy the man. Tonight, he would spend a peaceful evening at home with his wife and children. Tomorrow, with his mind clear, he would decide.
§
It was a typical night at the Anchor Bar; crowded and rowdy. Seated at a table near the center of the room, an irate Sweeney was trying to hold court. The Sampson had been in port for three days, and her crew had seized Sweeney’s sanctuary as their evening base of operations. Nearly half of the seventy men crammed into the grimy little bar were from the Sampson.
“This pisses me off!” Sweeney yelled over the roar of voices and the sounds blaring from the jukebox.
“What do you mean?” Portalatin asked, squinting in a vain effort to make his eyes focus on Sweeney, who was sitting not three feet from him across the table.
“It’s those cocky Sampson-ites. This is our turf, and they just move in and take over,” Sweeney replied as he looked across the smoke-filled room.
Sweeney crushed a cigarette out on the hard terrazzo floor, fingered the steel band around the edge of the worn and faded Formica table, and took stock of the situation. An informal line of demarcation had developed, with the Sampson crew taking the back half of the bar, including Sweeney’s favorite table.
Sweeney took a deep swallow from his bottle of beer and said to Portalatin, “Like I’ve been saying, the way I got it figured, something’s up. The Farnley has taken a lot of crap but keeps on going. I tell you, the word is out that we ain’t takin’ no more shit offa nobody no more.”
The Marathon Watch Page 19