“You mean the captain?” Portalatin asked in disbelief.
“Naw. He couldn’t navigate across a bathtub. It’s higher up than that. The XO’s in on it though. I mean, look at what Ross and Lee have done. They stopped putting up with it.”
“So?” Portalatin asked.
“So look at the abuse we’re taking. I’m telling you, we don’t have to put up with this anymore, but it’s gotta be an all-hands effort. Here we’re letting those scuzzy Sampson-ites move in on our bar; then we let them take over the best tables and control the jukebox. Kong, I’m telling you, we ain’t doing our part.”
Portalatin emptied his beer before replying, “It’s the only jukebox in Elefsis.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. It’s not right,” Sweeney began as he spotted Stucky weaving his way through the door. “Hey, Stucky. Over here. Get us another round, would ya?”
Stucky spotted Sweeney and smiled, then wove his way toward the black and white marble bar.
“So what can we do about it?” Portalatin asked, squinting into the mouth of his empty beer bottle.
“Don’t know,” Sweeney began as he stood, “but stand by for heavy rolls.”
Sweeney steadied himself on the table, and toward the back half of the bar yelled, “Would you guys mind holding it down? Turn that jukebox down. Us respectable guys can’t even hear ourselfs think.”
Sweeney’s shout silenced the crowd for a second as heads turned toward him. “Shove it.” came the reply from the back of the bar near the jukebox.
Portalatin started to stand, but Sweeney put his hand on his shoulder. “Not yet, Kong,” Sweeney said, dropping back into his wooden chair.
The loud clamor of voices returned as the Sampson’s crew resumed their partying. The men of the Farnley glanced over at Sweeney and started tucking their shirt tails in.
Stucky, who was more occupied with trying to hold the room steady than he was with navigation, misjudged the distance to Sweeney’s table. He collided with the table at full speed, and only the table’s heavy round metal base kept Stucky and the table upright. Oblivious to the empty bottles that rattled across the table before falling to the floor with a crash, Sweeney and Portalatin each grabbed a bottle from Stucky’s hands.
Sweeney positioned a chair behind Stucky. “Drop anchor,” Sweeney commanded.
Stucky dropped into the chair with an, “Aye, aye, cur,” but was looking toward the door.
“What’s the skinny on the guy stacked up by the door there?” he asked Sweeney.
Sweeney craned his neck to see what Stucky was talking about.
He said, “Oh, him. He’s the Sampson-ite known as the ouzo warrior. He took a six-shot broadside salvo from an ouzo bottle and went down hard by the bow. They stacked him up there so he wouldn’t be in the way. Shore Patrol’ll haul his butt back on their next round.”
“So what we gonna do?” Portalatin asked.
“About what?” Stucky asked.
“I don’t know, but it won’t take too long,” Sweeney said.
“How long is too long?” Portalatin asked.
“For what?” Stucky asked.
“Don’t know,” Portalatin said with a shrug.
“I don’t know,” Sweeney said thoughtfully, “but I gotta visit the head.”
Standing, Sweeney stuffed his loose shirttails under his belt and pulled in his copious belly. “I said hold it down back there.” he screamed again.
No one seemed to notice, so he headed off through enemy territory toward the door to the left of the jukebox.
After Sweeney relieved himself, he reentered the bar and stopped next to the jukebox. He looked over the bar. It was going to be his kind of night. The bar was hopping, and things were getting extremely drunk.
When the jukebox paused for a breather between records, Sweeney surreptitiously reached behind the jukebox and turned the volume up. The next record came on just as he reached his table. The ear-splitting sound made all heads turn.
Indignantly, Sweeney turned toward the Sampson crew and yelled, “Hey, this is your last warning. I said hold it down.”
A chorus of shouted support from the Farnley’s side of the room welled in agreement with Sweeney’s words, and those who hadn’t done so yet rolled up their sleeves.
A Sampson sailor staggered to the jukebox to turn the volume up higher, and another yelled, “Stow it, fatso.”
Portalatin tried to get to his feet again, but Sweeney held him down. “Not yet, Kong.”
“Yet what?” Stucky yelled, trying to be heard over the racket.
“Hold it down,” someone near the door screamed.
“You don’t want to know,” Sweeney yelled back at Stucky.
A voice near the jukebox rose above the din. “Why don’t you Farnley fatheads go back to your flivver or whatever it is you call that thing.”
Portalatin looked at Sweeney.
“Not yet.”
“Yet what?” Stucky screamed in exasperation.
“It’s a ship whale turd.” someone behind Sweeney yelled.
“That ain’t a ship. It’s so old, it ought to be called an ark. I heard your captain’s named Noah,” the voice by the jukebox returned.
“Please?” Portalatin pleaded with Sweeney.
“Not yet.”
“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Stucky pleaded.
“Well, at least she’s run by men, not fancy computers,” yelled Sweeney.
“Is that why they call you the USS Rustoleum?” a man yelled, seated at the table opposite Sweeney’s.
Stucky’s head snapped around to locate the source of the last insult and, having located the smug grinning face, launched himself across the table with a shriek. “Oh, yeah.”
Sweeney watched as the surprised Sampson sailor disappeared under his up-ended table and under Stucky and three other Farnley crewmen. Admiring his handiwork, Sweeney almost forgot to duck a body and several beer bottles that flew over his table. Safely behind the table, Sweeney shouted, “Incoming! Incoming! Counter battery! Counter battery!”
From under the table, Portalatin asked, “Now?”
“Now, Kong! General Quarters! General Quarters! Man your battle stations!” Sweeney yelled, climbing on top of his table.
Portalatin jumped to his feet and grabbed the nearest man he didn’t recognize. The man took one look at Portalatin’s huge upper body and chose not to use traditional tactics. Instead, he decided to deliver a kick to Portalatin’s groin, which, to his surprise, stopped almost before it began. He looked down and saw Portalatin’s huge hand holding his ankle. In shock, he looked back up at Portalatin, who was still standing straight.
“Kong, left hard rudder,” Sweeney ordered from his tabletop command center.
“Left hard rudder, aye.”
Out of the corner of his eye, the man saw a scythe like right hook hurtling toward his chin. He thought he would be safe, but he leaned back just to make sure. It didn’t help. To his amazement, he didn’t notice any pain when he crashed against the bar, but there was a tremendous ringing in his head, then the lights went out.
“Sweeney, what now?” a voice yelled.
Portalatin, holding half of a man’s shirt in his large fist, neatly held a Sampson-ite suspended at arm’s length with his feet kicking, trying to find the floor. Terrified, the man flailed wildly at Portalatin, giving the air between them a tremendous beating. Sweeney ducked another beer bottle and ordered, “Kong, rudder amidships.”
Portalatin delivered a piston like right jab to the nose and watched the man’s head wobble on its gimbals for a second, then fall forward.
“Drop anchor, Kong.”
Portalatin let go of the man’s shirt, and the man crumpled to the floor.
“Way to goooo… ” Sweeney started to yell, but someone yanked his legs out from underneath him.
Sweeney fell to the tabletop and landed in a sitting position facing an angry-looking Sampson-ite holding both of Sweeney’s ankles. Swee
ney smiled, flipped his beer bottle into the attack position, but before he could deliver a shot across the bow, the man disappeared under a splintering crash of a barstool.
Grinning from ear to ear, Stucky handed Sweeney what seconds before had been a whole barstool leg and said, “Don’t make ‘em like they used to.”
“Thanks, Stucky.” Sweeney replied and turned to see the battle conditions behind him. It was an unfortunate mistake, and Sweeney knew better. He always told his men never turn your back to a storm. A wave of Sampson-ites crashed down on Sweeney and buried him.
The noise of shouts and crashing furniture woke the ouzo warrior who, from floor level, couldn’t quite figure out what was going on. The ouzo warrior managed the perilous climb up the wall to regain his feet when the door opened, and two shore patrolmen entered. Portalatin stepped forward, took one punch at the ouzo warrior, and watched him go down hard by the stern. Ignoring the shore patrolmen, Portalatin waded back into the sea of bodies.
The two shore patrolmen stood motionless. One stared at the fallen ouzo warrior, the other looked at the churning mass of sailors busy destroying the bar.
“What the hell?” the first shore patrolmen said.
“You’re telling me,” replied his partner.
“Time for reinforcements.”
“You got it. We’re outa here,” the first patrolman replied, slamming the door behind him.
§
Lonely, Meyers turned the collar up on his foul weather coat and huddled in closer to the bridge house, seeking refuge from the biting November wind blowing off Elefsis Bay. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, but he’d watched the Sampson leave, and now he could see the Raynor entering the channel to claim the vacated berth. Everything changes, he told himself; ships, men and the seasons. And the November winds that brought the early gales marked a time of change from autumn’s pleasantness to the angry slate-gray swells of icy winter storms.
Athens had turned prematurely cold this year. The damp, gusting wind was chilling, but Meyers didn’t want the warmth and security of the ship’s interior. He wanted to be alone with the stinging reality of the November winds. He’d promised himself to make a decision today and had delayed it long enough to handle the aftermath of the riot.
Called back to the ship just past midnight, he’d been up all night. The fight in the Anchor had evolved into a rolling riot that had spread to several bars and involved hundreds of sailors. Meyers, with the Sampson’s executive officer, met with police officials, promised to pay all damages, and obtained the release of dozens of drunken, battered men to the relief of the local police, who only had cell room for five people.
Secretly, Meyers was happy about the fight and the admirable way the Farnley’s crew had acquitted her honor with alacrity. Three months ago, the insults would have gone unanswered. He’d seen spirited fights like this many times before, and the pattern was always the same. Drunken sailors could destroy a bar in minutes but were extremely poor fighters. No one had been hurt. It was part of the magic that no officer would deliberately try to quash.
Today, however, he would have to deal with the magic. Last night’s boisterous riot couldn’t be officially ignored. He’d spent the night interviewing the men as the shore patrol dragged them back to the ship kicking and screaming. They were a battered and bruised lot, but each man answered his questions standing at attention with exaggerated erectness, chest thrust out and a trace of an insolent smile on his lips. He found it difficult to hide his own smile behind the facade of professional disdain. He knew each man expected to be punished and that, regardless of the punishment meted out, the men would consider it a small price to pay for the privilege of defending his ship’s honor.
He’d already held a mass preliminary hearing for over half the crew. He found that none of the offenses were serious enough to go to the Captain for punishment. Instead, he’d lectured them, fined them for the damages, and restricted them to the ship for two days. Those punished immediately entered an elite fraternity envied by the rest of the crew. The magic wouldn’t only survive, he would nurture it.
Afterwards, Meyers had sequestered himself on the bridge, deserted as it always was when the ship was at the pier, as a quiet place to think.
The November winds whipped Meyers’ thinning brown hair and lashed at the Raynor’s signal flags as she slowly approached the pier across the gray, choppy waters of the bay. The Raynor, a proud, sparkling ship with modern lines, was the navy’s newest ship, and this was her maiden voyage. Everything about her was new. Even the line handlers huddled against the merciless wind seemed to be wearing uniforms right out of the box. She was the type of ship he’d dreamt about as a midshipman so many years ago.
Midshipman Meyers had been an exuberant lad filled with innocence, excitement, wonder, and enthusiasm. In youth, the world was so simple. The navy had taught him the canons of duty, loyalty, and honor. They had seemed so right, so pure and perfect then. Not in his wildest imagination would that idealistic youth believe what the man was now contemplating.
He’d read the regulations over again, and every word dripped disdainful warnings and cautions to the reader. The venom of generations oozed between the lines, and he could almost hear the hateful shout, “Mutineer!”
For his part, Meyers knew he had no choice. Duty now was more important than loyalty or honor. His part would be simple. Next Wednesday in Naples, he would present himself to his next immediate superior, Commodore Stoner, make his case, and formally request the command review. The meeting would be polite, professional, and short. It would end Javert’s career, and the loss of the Farnley would crush whatever dignity and pride Javert had left. Meyers’ action would be recorded in his record without comment on the cause or the result of the command review. Promotion boards would see no honor in his disloyal act regardless of duty. His career would end as certainly as Javert’s. The prescription was clear; mutineers were men who forgot their first duty was to uphold the canons of loyalty with honor.
Meyers pushed his hands deeper into the pockets, seeking a spot the cold November wind couldn’t find, and watched the Raynor’s captain bring his ship to the pier. The Raynor was a beautiful, dashing ship light years removed from the Farnley. It was the type of ship Midshipman Meyers believed he would command one day; so much for the dreams of youth.
Meyers bade her farewell, put thoughts of Naples out of his mind, and stepped into the warm bridge house. He descended the stairs from the bridge level and stopped outside of the captain’s cabin, knocked once, and entered. Javert, unshaven and unkempt, sat at his desk. He didn’t acknowledge Meyers but stared at the pictures of his wife and the change-of-command ceremony he’d set at the edge of the desk.
“Captain, it is a beautiful day outside. You ought to get some time topside,” Meyers said cheerfully.
Javert looked at him with hollow, vacuous eyes. Meyers turned serious. “Have you heard about the problem last night?”
“Yes,” Javert began with a deep, mournful sigh. “Take care of it, will you, XO? I want to keep this quiet. The men should be severely dealt with for breaking the law. You take care of it. By the way, the cook was looking for you, said the coffeemaker was broke.”
The loss of a coffeemaker could be devastating to the morale of the crew, but at the moment, it didn’t seem important to Meyers. “I’ll take care of everything, Captain.” Meyers paused for a second before continuing, “Captain, are you feeling all right?”
Javert shrugged, and with a tired voice said, “I’ll be all right. I’m just tired and feel washed out. It’s the flu probably. It’s probably this damn Greek weather.”
“I’ll send the corpsman in to see you,” Meyers said.
“No, don’t do that. I’m all right, really,” Javert began. “Is there anything else you wanted to see me about?”
“Well, yes. The chiefs have asked me if we could leave at six instead of eight tomorrow morning. They want a few extra hours to run casualty drills. I thin
k it’s a good idea.”
“Fine, whatever you want to do,” Javert replied absentmindedly.
“Thank you, Captain,” Meyers said. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you want to talk about?”
“No. Now, please leave me alone.”
Meyers had one more moral bridge to cross. “Captain, as your executive officer, I have to tell you that I’m concerned about your health. I insist that you submit to a medical examination.” As he waited for the captain to answer, he silently pleaded with him to agree.
Javert didn’t. “I said I was okay, Mister Meyers. I won’t have any more talk about my health. Is that clear?”
Meyers looked at his captain and wanted to say something; anything except “yes, sir.” He had the same feeling before at funerals trying to pick the right words to say to the grief-stricken family members. Nothing appropriate came to mind, so he said good-bye and left the captain alone with his thoughts.
MIDNIGHT PARTIES
November 1971, Elfsis Pier
Operation Marathon: Day 503
Later that night, Lee relieved Ensign Nat Hayes of the quarterdeck watch just before midnight, and Hayes headed directly for his bunk. Preparations for getting under way for Naples had begun, and he could hear the deep rumble of the boilers. As he entered officers’ quarters, he was surprised because there didn’t seem to be anyone around.
After the Corker incident, Hayes had abandoned his upper bunk and had taken the fold-out bunk on the sofa as his. Not only was it closer to the deck, but it gave him a vantage point from which he could keep an eye on Lee across the room. Hayes undressed and released the catch to the back of the couch. With the squeak of springs and the metallic sound of metal sliding on metal, Hayes swung the back of the couch down to prepare his boxlike bed.
Suspiciously, Hayes looked around the compartment and noticed that Lee had done an excellent job of cleaning the room. Even the steel chairs were neatly stacked in the far corner. It’s too neat.
The Marathon Watch Page 20