“I don’t care if we have to take the highway. Get us the hell out of here,” came Meyers’ urgent reply.
“All lines in, Sir.”
“All back one-third,” Biron yelled.
“Make it two-thirds,” urged Meyers.
“All back two-thirds,” Biron yelled.
The rumble of the engines paused for a second to take a breath, then resumed with a loud roll sounding like distant thunder. The immediate acceleration made Biron happy to be at sea again, especially now since the spirit of fun and adventure had returned.
The top-side speakers of the Raynor came to life. “Now, reveille, reveille, reveille. All hands heave out and trice up. The smoking lamp is lit in all berthing spaces. Now, Reveille.”
In unison, Meyers and Biron yelled, “All back flank!”
THE CONQUERED KNEE
December 1971, En Route to Naples, Italy
Operation Marathon: Day 505
A few hours later, Admiral Eickhoff went into a rage while reviewing his morning message traffic. Cursing, he kicked the gray metal wastebasket next to his desk, sending it flying across the cabin. It clanged against the chairs pulled around his conference table, fell to the floor, and rolled, making a hollow metallic sound. The steward ran into the room to see what had happened. “Get out. Leave me alone.” Eickhoff shouted.
Javert couldn’t leave well enough alone. The guy was a total incompetent; the only man in the world who had been told to do nothing and still had screwed it up. First came the message from the US Embassy and now the message from the Raynor putting a spotlight on the Farnley.
These events indicated his situation was not good because the crew of the Farnley still had some fighting spirit. Marathon assumed crew morale would be low, and that was part of the test. A spirited crew would do things contrary to Marathon’s intent. Such actions on the part of the Farnley’s crew would call his Marathon results into question. The shipyard visit, Eickhoff knew, was the beginning of the trouble.
He couldn’t allow anyone to look too closely at the Farnley, and that was the reason he kept the Farnley away from Commodore Stoner. If anyone looked too carefully at the Farnley, his lies would be uncovered, and his career would be over. He only needed six more weeks for Operation Marathon to end so he could clean things up quietly. He had to get the Farnley under control or all would be lost, including his promotion.
§
REKTHE REKEJELTTE 495763-EIEIEI-REKEHTEB.
KETEEEEE
R 18 1347Z NOV 71
FM: COMSIXTHFLT
TO: USS FARNLEY
SUBJ: DISCIPLINE
BT
CLASS: UNCLASS EFTO
1. US EMBASSY ATHENS REPORTS HOST COUNTRY LODGED STATEMENT OF CONCERN REGARDING DISTURBANCE ELEFSIS AND CONDUCT OF FARNLEY CREW NIGHT OF 13 NOV. SUCH ACTIVITY UNACCEPTABLE AND WILL NOT BE TOLERATED. SUCH BEHAVIOR IS UNMILITARY, DISCREDITS THE NAVY, AND WEAKENS ALREADY TENUOUS NATO ALLIANCE.
2. COMMANDING OFFICER RAYNOR REPORTS THEFT OF PAINT, FIREFIGHTING EQUIPMENT, SIGNAL FLAGS, AND TOOLS WHILE BERTHED AT SECURE PIER ELEFSIS NIGHT OF 14 NOV. INVESTIGATION INTO TOTAL EXTENT OF LOSS STILL UNDER WAY. DUE TO SECURE NATURE ELEFSIS PIER AND FACT THAT FARNLEY ONLY OTHER SHIP PRESENT LEADS TO UNEQUIVOCAL CONCLUSION THEFT PERPETRATED BY FARNLEY CREW.
3. THIS COMMAND VIEWS ITEMS (1) AND (2) ABOVE MOST GRIEVOUS AND A DISGRACE TO FARNLEY, HER OFFICERS, AND SIXTH FLEET. PREPARE RESPONSE ABOVE ITEMS OUTLINING DISCIPLINARY ACTIONS TAKEN AND ACTION PLAN FOR OFFICERS FARNLEY TO REGAIN CONTROL OF THEIR COMMAND.
4. COMMANDING OFFICER FARNLEY UPON ARRIVAL NAPLES REPORT PERSONALLY THIS COMMAND CONTENT OF REPORT ITEM (3) WITH EXPLANATION OF UNMILITARY CONDUCT FARNLEY CREW.
BT
N1048
§
“What do your intel guys make of this?” Admiral Durham asked Beetham while setting the sheaf of messages down.
“They read it as good news,” Beetham began. “First, the fight indicates strong morale, which under the circumstances is amazing. Second, the raid on the Raynor also indicates strong morale and solid teamwork that includes the whole crew. With the amount of stuff they filched, it had to be an all-hands effort. For heaven’s sake, they even stole a huge coffeemaker and two sets of signal flags.”
“And what would you do if you couldn’t get parts or supplies from the supply system?” Durham asked, smiling.
“Improvise, which they did in a big way.”
“What about Eickhoff’s message to the Farnley? It seems a bit harsh. My assessment was the same as yours and the same Admiral Eickhoff should have reached.”
Beetham shrugged. “We searched for past incidents like this to see how Eickhoff reacted but came up dry. We don’t have a clue. All we can do is speculate.”
“Speculate,” Durham urged.
Beetham held up three fingers and ticked off his points as he spoke, “First, that’s just his style; so the message means nothing. Second, he’s trying to hold a tight rein on the Farnley, which is what he’s supposed to do. Or third, and this is a variation on number two, he wants to talk with the Farnley’s captain so he can measure what’s going on.”
Those were essentially the same options Durham had come up with, and he knew they weren’t right. Disappointed, he said, “Thanks for your help. Keep me posted.”
§
The Farnley was heading for Naples and had just turned west into the teeth of a storm. A rogue swell hit and almost threw Javert out of his captain’s chair. He’d been thinking and fingering the folded message form he had in his shirt pocket. He pushed hard against the wooden sill with his feet to jam himself deep into the back cushion. The storm and the growing unease in his stomach had chased him from his closed cabin to the bridge. There he could watch the steady horizon and perhaps quell his growing nausea.
He knew Biron was pretending to ignore him, so he pretended to ignore Biron. He knew Biron was trying to show how well he could command the ship. Javert was thinking to himself, Biron is trying to humiliate me in front of the crew. I know they’re all watching me. I can’t interfere. I have my orders. They know I’m a failure.
Javert ignored the bridge crew and Meyers, who was standing next to Biron, where the captain should be. Meyers knows what he’s doing. He has taken the Farnley away from me. He’s not like the rest. He has made no attempt to hide the fact that he’s watching me. He’s daring me to try to take my ship back. They have all conspired against me. I don’t blame them. I don’t deserve to be a captain.
Javert fingered the folded piece of paper in his khaki shirt pocket. I’ve done everything I can. I’ve tried. I’ve worked harder at this than anything else in my life. Where have I gone wrong? A tear swelled up in Javert’s eye, and he raised his hand to wipe it away. He tried to understand why he’d failed as a captain. The navy wouldn’t have given him the Farnley if he couldn’t handle it. Captains never failed. It wasn’t permitted. It was inexcusable.
Javert braced himself for the next swell and wondered where he’d gone wrong. Earlier when I fought tenaciously to keep the officers in line, they fought back, and my ship went slowly downhill. How do the other captains manage? Why can they succeed? They were handpicked by a selection process that has been refined over hundreds of years. It was that process that picked me. How have I failed the navy and my ship?
I tried. I even tried to be nice to my officers. They ignored me. The ship got better. Without me, the ship got better. Eickhoff was right, and you followed your orders. That’s the only thing you did right. You were such a miserable failure. No captain was better than you.
What would you have done in this storm if things hadn’t been fixed? The ship would have floundered and all hands lost. God. I almost killed someone before. Do your job and you kill people. Don’t do anything and they’re saved. You can’t blame the navy. It doesn’t make mistakes like this. You can’t blame the officers; they saved the ship.
There’s only one person responsible. There’s only one person to blame. There’s only one perso
n who must admit defeat. There’s only one man to be dishonored.
Javert slid out of his chair and began to make his way across the bridge toward the door. He felt old and awkward. He was careful not to make eye contact with any of the men. He was alone, and he wanted to keep it that way.
When he reached his cabin, he opened the drawer to his desk and laid the pictures of his wife and the change-of-command ceremony on the desktop. The ship pitched and they began to slide, so he caught them with one hand and with the other reached into the drawer and retrieved a roll of masking tape. With gentle care, he taped the framed pictures to the top of the desk.
He sat in the steel chair for several minutes, looking at the pictures. He looked at his wife and thought about the day her father told him the truth about his father’s death. His father had been a war profiteer, and the authorities were going to arrest him. He would lose the bank, and his family would be disgraced. His father drove the car off the road at Robinson’s Hollow, crashing through the guardrail and falling to his fiery death in the creek bed below. His father had committed suicide.
Gloria’s father said it was because he didn’t have the strength to face the consequences of his actions. Javert knew better. His father had saved them from disgrace and the dishonor of a public trial. His father was a man of honor.
Javert looked at Gloria’s picture and wondered how he could face her again. He was disgraced. Not only was the Farnley going to be taken away from him, but he would be denied a promotion. He would have to leave the navy, the only life he knew. How could he live without it? How could she live with a total failure? She deserved better.
He opened the flap on the breast pocket and pulled a folded piece of paper from it. Slowly, he unfolded the paper and taped it to the desktop. It was the message from Admiral Eickhoff. He’d underlined the last paragraph. He read it aloud.
“This command views items (1) and (2) above most grievous and a disgrace to Farnley and Sixth Fleet. Prepare response above items outlining disciplinary actions taken and action plan for officers Farnley to regain control of their command.”
Grievous, disgrace. He’d disgraced his command. He’d disgraced his superiors. He’d disgraced himself. He’d disgraced his family. He couldn’t go to Naples. The sea, the military ethos, and honor prevented it. They were unforgiving. They wouldn’t allow a man to admit defeat. He couldn’t avoid the disgrace, but he could avoid the public humiliation. Death before dishonor. I can’t allow myself to further dishonor my name, my wife, my ship, my navy, my superiors. My wife, my ship, my navy will be better off without me.
Javert couldn’t hold back the tears flooding into his eyes; he let them roll down his cheek. Slowly, he slid from the chair, rested his arms and head on the desk, and knelt to pray.
§
REKETYT REKLWERJLY 375485-EIEIEI-REKEKESB.
ZEKEEEEE
R 19 0823Z NOV 71
FM: USS FARNLEY
TO: COMSIXTHFLT
COMDESRON12
SUBJ: INCIDENT REPORT//N05849//
BT
CLASS: CONFIDENTIAL
AT 0811Z CMDR ALLEN JAVERT USN, (495 54 5920) C.O. USS FARNLEY TOOK OWN LIFE SINGLE ROUND THROUGH RIGHT TEMPLE. WEAPON COLT, SEMIAUTOMATIC, 45-CALIBER. SERIAL NUMBER 3738395383. FULL REPORT TO FOLLOW.
LT. CMDR JOHN MEYERS, USN (793 73 0376) X.O. FARNLEY SENIOR OFFICER AFLOAT.
EN ROUTE NEAREST NATO PORT SUDHA BAY. ETA 19 2130Z NOV 71. AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS.
BT
N0597
§
REKEKTT RKKJKJEDKE 475364-EIEIEI-RKEKEESB.
ZZZEEEEE
R 19 0838Z NOV 71
FM: COMSIXTHFLT
TO: USS FARNLEY
INFO: COMDESRON12
SUBJ: INCIDENT REPORT//N05849//
BT
CLASS: CONFIDENTIAL
AWAIT REFUELING PIER SUDHA AIR FORCE MEDICAL TEAM. TEAM TO TRANSPORT BODY CMDR JAVERT BY AIR ATHENS.
UPON COMPLETION REFUELING SUDHA, RETURN ELEFSIS IMMEDIATE. NAPLES VISIT CANCELED.
COMSIXTHFLT IN ROUTE ELEFSIS TO CONVENE BOARD OF INQUIRY DEATH CMDR JAVERT. FILE YOUR FULL PRELIMINARY REPORT ONLY THIS COMMAND. REPEAT ONLY THIS COMMAND NLT 20 1500Z NOV 71.
BT
N0853
NNNN
§
The first ring of the phone on Durham’s nightstand woke him, but he let it ring a second time to be sure it was the secure phone, not the regular phone on his wife’s side of the bed. Before the second ring was complete, he reached out and pulled the receiver to his ear. “Durham.”
“Admiral, this is the duty officer. The captain of the Farnley is dead.”
Durham sat up and rubbed the sleep from his face before asking, “How?”
“The report said suicide, sir. They’re at sea and are heading to Sudha Bay to await orders. That’s all we’ve got right now.”
Durham took a deep breath. His sixth sense had tried to warn him, but he’d missed it. O’Toole had been right; someone got killed. Operation Marathon had put a lot of pressure on crews, but he never would have guessed it would lead to this. He was going to find out what happened.
“I’m coming in. Get everything together and see if you can find the personnel record for the Farnley’s XO, and find out where a Captain Patrick O’Toole is.” Durham pinched the bridge of his nose in thought, then continued, “I think he’s with DESRON 23 right now.”
“Should I send your car, sir?” the duty officer asked.
Durham looked at the illuminated clock on the dresser. It was three-forty-five. “No, I’ll drive in myself. Give me about forty minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” The phone clicked dead.
Durham mentally went through his morning schedule. There wasn’t anything important until ten. What he had to do would only take a few hours, and he would return home for breakfast and to get into uniform. He put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and, without turning over, she said, “I know. I heard.”
He bent over, kissed her on the cheek, and whispered, “I’ll be back in time for breakfast.”
Thirty minutes later on I-95, Durham passed a truck and carefully steered his car into the right lane. Traffic was light, but the highway was covered with small patches of drifting snow, so Durham had held his speed down. When he passed the green and white exit sign for the Pentagon, wary of icy spots, he carefully eased his car off I-95 onto the Pentagon exit.
The truck behind him began blowing its horn. Durham looked over his left shoulder and watched the truck rumble past him. Unable to determine who the trucker was blowing his horn at, Durham looked forward again.
There were two lights directly in front of him, and it took almost a half second before the meaning of the two lights registered. He drove his foot hard into the brake pedal and swerved to the right. He hit the guardrail just as the drunk driver hit him broadside.
HARPIES OF THE SHORE
November 1971, Bethesda Naval Hospital
Operation Marathon: Day 507
Twenty-four hours later, Admiral Durham felt someone playing with his hand, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Nurse Scalzo, dressed in surgical garb, taking his pulse. He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, focused his eyes on the enameled plaster surface, and tried to understand the shadows from the dimples and irregularities in the surface. He’d been here a long time but couldn’t remember why. He’d seen Nurse Scalzo before and knew her name but didn’t know how. He remembered his wife being there, standing next to his bed, but couldn’t remember when.
He looked at Nurse Scalzo and tried to speak, but all that came out was, “Akkk.”
Nurse Scalzo smiled. “Welcome back, Admiral. You had us worried.” Scalzo leaned forward and, putting a thumb on each eyelid, pulled painfully on his eyelashes and shined a small flashlight into his eyes. She smelled like antiseptic. Durham couldn’t understand. He tried to speak again, but his mouth was so dry, all he did was make that awful noise again.
“Don’t try to talk; you need your rest,” Nurse Sc
alzo began. “You were in an accident. You have a bad gash on your head, a few broken ribs, a broken leg, and a bad cut on your arm, but we’re going to have you shipshape in no time. You’re in Bethesda Naval Hospital. You have to rest. Doctor’s orders.”
The pieces started to come together; he remembered the accident and understood what had happened, but he couldn’t remember why. His mind told him it was important.
“I need you to cough,” Nurse Scalzo ordered.
The tight binding tape around his chest made it difficult to move, and not knowing why, he complied and tried to cough. The attempt was feeble but caused sharp bolts of pain to shoot from his sternum.
“Good, can we do it again?” Nurse Scalzo asked while smiling her best all-knowing aren’t-we-being-cheerful-today smile.
In disbelief, Durham shook his head no.
Still smiling, Nurse Scalzo commanded, “You must.”
Durham coughed harder, hoping it would make Nurse Scalzo go away. His entire body winced and tensed up from the blast of pain.
“Good. I have to change the dressing on your arm now,” Nurse Scalzo said, ripping a large bandage, and what felt like most of the skin, off his forearm. Durham winced again.
“Now that wasn’t too bad, was it? It’s better just to get it over with,” Nurse Scalzo said with a smile.
Over with, Durham thought. Operation Marathon.
Nurse Scalzo decided to let him have his arm back and was turning to leave when Durham tried to speak, but all that came out was that awful sound again, “Akkkk.”
“Don’t try to talk. Be quiet.”
“Akk. Akk.”
“If you insist. Your mouth is dry. Here, let me give you some ice,” Nurse Scalzo said, making a commotion with a water pitcher. The thought of a drink of water filled Durham with pleasant anticipation, but instead, Nurse Scalzo delivered a sliver of ice about half the size of a small vitamin pill to his lips. She was all heart.
“I have to see,” Durham began weakly.
Nurse Scalzo smiled her all-knowing smile again and said, “It’s okay, go right ahead. The catheter will take care of everything.”
The Marathon Watch Page 22