Lee’s eyes probed O’Toole’s face, then softened. His grin widened as he replied, “I think you already know the answer to that.”
O’Toole smiled and tried to suppress a chuckle, then asked, “Where can we talk?”
“Over there out of the wind,” Lee replied, pointing toward the white plywood shore patrol shack.
As both men walked toward the shelter, Lee said, “I just have one question, Captain.”
“What’s that?”
“Yankee ingenuity?”
THE GOD OF STORMS
November 1971, Tyrrhenian Sea
Operation Marathon: Day 522
Aboard the Farnley, Seaman Apprentice Michael Morrison had discovered why his new shipmates had been so kind and given him the lower bunk. The bunks were stacked five high, and two of the four men above him had gotten seasick last night. His great adventure had developed a few other kinks as well, like the kinks in his shoulders and legs. His small bunk wasn’t made for his large, muscular frame, and he was now painfully aware why navy bunks were called racks.
He tried to work out the physical kinks while he balanced on the pitching deck trying to dress. That was tricky enough, but he also had to be careful not to elbow the shipmates dressing behind and on each side of him in the crowded compartment.
Morrison wasn’t disappointed. His seafaring adventure had not let him down, and today was going to be another big day. The weather had been rough the past few days, but the way the ship was pounding, he could tell they were in a real storm. He could hear the pelting shiishhh of the water breaking over the decks, and everything was in a constant mixed motion of slow, graceful pitches and spasmodic, random lurches. It was his first storm, and since it was Sunday, he would have time to enjoy it.
Unfortunately, Morrison’s stomach turned sour and felt as if it were trying to roll over in his gut. He decided to lie back down.
§
Meyers had been on the bridge for ten hours and hadn’t slept for twenty. He turned his body diagonally in the captain’s chair to wedge himself in firmly enough so he could sleep despite the storm.
The newness of command, the bad weather, and the night ops off the coast of Libya had exhausted him. Then having to deal with a badly demoralized crew had drained him emotionally. After the exercises were complete, the Farnley had sailed between Tunisia and Sicily and headed north for a two-day port visit in Genoa.
As soon as they entered the Tyrrhenian Sea, the weather went from bad to worse. The storm built constantly throughout the night, and at dawn the ship was rolling so badly, Meyers had ordered a westerly course to keep her bow into the seas. Just one-hundred miles east of Sardinia, he’d dropped the Farnley’s speed to five knots, so hopefully they wouldn’t run out of ocean before they ran out of storm. It was still building, and he knew the best thing to do was to ride it out.
§
Biron saw the calm expression on Meyers’ face and guessed he was napping. Biron hoped he was, but he could never tell with captains; they seemed to have transparent eyelids. Biron was impressed at how quickly and effectively Meyers had taken control of the Farnley. The metamorphosis from officer to captain had only taken a few days. Meyers was going to be one hell of a skipper.
Biron wondered what type of captain he would make. His new orders were as tempting as he feared they would be and included early promotion to lieutenant commander along with an assignment as commanding officer of a minesweeper. It was a small ship, but it was a command, and he would be called “Captain.”
The orders had distressed Ann, and he could see she secretly hated the navy for its unscrupulous bribery. He also knew she was mad at him; he couldn’t decide. He loved his family, and he loved the sea. The sea was his destiny, so how could he leave it? The love of his family was his most cherished gift. How could he choose between the two?
“What’s the barometer doing?” Biron yelled over the pounding storm.
The quartermaster, hanging on the edge of the chart table, didn’t look up. “Falling like a rock,” he replied.
The bow mounted a huge roller, and the entire forward third of the Farnley became airborne off the back of the swell. Biron grabbed the gyro compass pedestal to brace himself as the bow started its graceful arching free fall into the trough. At the bottom, the downward force of the bow buried the forward third of the ship, submerging the entire forward deck.
The sky disappeared, and a menacing wall of gray water streaked with running white foam bore down on the bridge. Biron tightened his grip on the gyro compass. The Farnley’s forward motion drove the ship into the oncoming mountain. Within a second, the onrushing sea hit the forward superstructure like a roaring freight train. With a sickening shudder, the impact stole most of the Farnley’s forward motion, and the bridge windows went opaque with water. The buoyant hull started to rise, but not being able to overcome the weight of the swell, the entire hull flexed and bowed upward with the sickening groan of flexing metal.
The sea cleared the superstructure, and, lurching violently to starboard, the bow tore itself free of the sea, launching sheets of blistering white spay skyward to be caught by the sixty-knot wind and driven lashing into the bridge windows.
Biron looked at the compass heading. That last swell had pulled them twenty degrees off course. At five knots, they barely had rudder control, and he needed a bit more speed. Meyers was still asleep, but he would concur. “Indicate turns for seven knots,” Biron called to the lee helmsman.
The deck pitched violently, and Biron looked at the bridge watch as each man grabbed a handhold to stay standing. He could see it in their eyes; they felt the same silent aching fear, the same dragging apprehension and realization that they were mortal men trespassing into an angry alien world. These were things unspoken, and every man knew that they were a breath away from death. Only skill, iron ship or not, kept the deadly sea at bay.
At times like these, the men became silent, and when they spoke, it was softly. All they wanted was to be alone with their thoughts of loved ones, hearth, home, safety, and dry land.
Biron looked at the row upon row of giant slate-gray swells coming toward them and tried to locate one that didn’t line up with the others. There was a rogue swell out there somewhere. The swells had been running in sets of eight, with each set separated by a huge rogue swell coming from thirty to forty degrees to port.
Momentarily it had stopped raining, but in the distance, a new wall of low, smoke-black clouds like inverted black anvils marked the front of the next squall line. It’s going to be a bad one, Biron thought.
§
Two hours later, Morrison decided lying down wasn’t working anymore, so he got up to move around and retrieved the blue fishing jacket his mother had given him. The jacket was a perfect match for the standard blue uniform working jackets. His mother had turned every store in Santa Cruz upside down looking for it when she heard he was going to be stationed on a ship. She made him swear he would wear it, and since it was lightweight, comfortable, and buoyant, he assured her he would.
Morrison zipped the jacket and headed toward the mess decks. Moving around was helping, and he was feeling better already. The spirit of adventure was returning, and he wondered if he could find a spot where he could see the storm.
A few minutes later, he had his wish, and he snuck out on the main deck between swells just aft of the fair-weather bulkheads that shed most of the water from the waves. What he saw exceeded his wildest expectations. It was as if he were at the bottom of a huge canyon with greenish-gray roiling walls. Then suddenly, it was as if he were flying and all he could see was sky. The sight was too magnificent to describe. He ran to his locker and retrieved his Instamatic camera.
He waited inside the watertight door and listened to the ocean pound the ship and run off the decks while the ship plunged its way through two swells. Once certain that he knew the rhythm, he leapt out on deck and started snapping pictures. Sweeney had told him, “Never turn your back to the sea,” but Morrison
forgot and didn’t see the approaching rogue swell.
Before Morrison knew what happened, he was submerged in a thundering, foaming churn of water. He was slammed against the side, then thrown upward. His head hit the overhang above him. He was stunned, but there was no pain. Helpless and tumbling wildly in the maelstrom, he lashed out in all directions, trying to grab onto something, anything. Upside down, he was thrown clear of the water and the ship. In the split second before he hit the water again, he sucked in a huge breath.
Morrison tried to understand what was happening. Somehow he understood the ship was above him. He felt the sea dragging him across the hard bottom of the ship. Only one thought came to his mind—The screws.
§
“Here you are, Captain. Made it fresh myself. Didn’t spill a drop.”
Meyers looked at the chubby bosun holding out a cup of coffee to him. “Thanks, Sweeney. I guess it pays to have a low center of gravity.”
As Meyers took the cup from Sweeney, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the status board keeper go stiff and push the earpiece on his headset firmly against his ear.
Meyers was looking straight at him when he blurted, “Aft lookout reports man overboard. Starboard side. No. Port side. Wait. A wave washed him clean over the fantail.”
Instantly, Meyers was on his feet. The suddenness of his movements spoke of urgency, but his voice was calm, slow, and rhythmic. “Which side? Port or starboard?” Meyers asked while throwing the binocular strap over his head.
“Port,” the sailor replied.
“Sweeney, pass the word, then go to general quarters. Have the gunnery crews muster in after berthing. Bring us about, Mister Biron. Quartermaster, get our location to radio and send out a man overboard advisory,” Meyers said while walking across the bridge. His voice sounded like he was ordering dinner in a restaurant.
Meyers undogged the bridge door, pushed the door open, and stepped onto the bridge wing. The door slammed shut behind him, but he could hear Sweeney’s voice booming over the speakers, then the gonging of the general quarters klaxon. With his binoculars, he tried to scan the water aft, but he couldn’t see the man in the confusing boiling sea.
A wave crashed over the bridge and threw him facedown onto the steel deck grating. Meyers grasped the grating with his fingers to keep from being washed away. When the water was gone, he was back to his feet searching for the man again. A voice yelled, “I’ve got him, Captain.”
Meyers looked to see a signalman on the level above him pointing with one hand and clinging to the railing with the other. Meyers tried to follow the line indicated by the man’s arm but couldn’t find the man in the undulating seas, then he realized the ship hadn’t changed course, and they were moving away from the man at two-hundred yards a minute. They were losing valuable time.
Sweeney swung the bridge door open and locked it into position. Meyers could clearly see the bridge now. Biron was hugging the gyro compass, his mouth agape and his eyes staring at the sea. The bridge crew had panicked, and men were yelling in disorganized frenzy.
Meyers stepped back on the bridge and headed for Biron.
“Man bears two-zero-five relative.”
The quartermaster yelled, “At current water temperature survival time is six-zero minutes. In water time, two minutes.”
“Engineering reports manned and ready.”
“Man bears two-zero-zero relative.”
“Plot has the man five-zero-zero yards astern.”
“Break out the line guns, one aft, one on the signal bridge, and one here,” Meyers said.
§
Biron watched wall after wall of water charging at him. He had to turn the ship, but timing was everything. One mistake, one minor miscalculation and they could capsize, and he would kill hundreds of men. He turned to look for Portalatin, but he wasn’t there yet.
Biron swallowed, closed his eyes, and saw Ann and Sarah. Sarah’s words echoed through his head. “Promise me you won’t ever do anything that would kill people, please, Daddy. Promise me you won’t get killed.” The risks were too great. He had to wait until the time was exactly right to turn the ship.
“Mister Biron.”
Biron turned to see the captain standing behind him. He was whispering, “I need you. If you wish, I can turn the ship for you, but that man out there needs your help.”
In the back of his mind, Biron knew the storm was raging and men were yelling, but all he could hear was the captain’s whispering voice. “Do you wish to turn the ship, or do you want me to talk you through it?”
“Captain, it’s too dangerous.”
“You’re a damn good ship driver. That man, we, need you. Come on, I’ll talk you through it. First, you need more rudder control. Bring the ship to all ahead flank.”
Biron turned his head toward the lee helmsman and yelled, “All ahead flank.” He realized he had to lean outward to see the lee helmsman, then it dawned on him. Meyers had positioned himself between him and the bridge crew. No one else could have seen or heard their conversation. It would just look like the captain was standing confidently behind his conning officer.
Biron swiveled his head so he could see the captain’s face, and his confidence began to return. Meyers gave him a smiling wink. “I can handle this, Captain,” Biron said.
“Helm ready, aye sir.” It was Portalatin’s voice.
Biron turned to acknowledge Portalatin, who as lay leader for Sunday service, was still in his dress blues.
Portalatin smiled, and Biron turned to the sea to take the measure of his adversary.
“Left full rudder. Port engine back full.” Biron yelled, allowing his confidence to fill his voice.
Like a whip, Portalatin’s arm lashed at the wheel.
The ship shuddered from the violent change of engine thrust and radical rudder command. Above the storm, he heard Meyers’ soft, quiet voice again carrying its message clearly over the raging storm like a bell on Christmas night.
“Good to see we have the A-Team on the bridge. Belay the relative bearings to the man. I’ll get that direct from the men on the signal bridge.” Meyers sounded like he was ordering an after-dinner wine.
Biron tried to recall the procedures for storm rescue; he couldn’t. He put it out of his mind; he had to get the ship turned around first.
The ship’s bow swung sideways into a wall of water. The swell smashed the port side and blasted through the open bridge door, flooding the bridge and scattered men helter-skelter in its wake. The tidal wave subsided, and men scrambled back to their posts. The Farnley slid down the back side of the swell, and wallowed dead in the trough when the next swell hit. Biron was about to yell that they weren’t going to make it when Meyers yelled at him, “Steady on your rudder, and we’ll squeak by this one.”
The ship began its lifting rolling motion, heeling farther and farther over as she went. Biron watched the meter indicating the ship’s roll swing past thirty, then forty degrees. It settled on the red line at forty-two, the point at which she would capsize. The ship stopped rolling. All motion stopped. For Biron, time stopped. He held his breath. The ship shuddered and trembled, trying to decide which way to go, then with a sliding, sinking motion, the Farnley started her slide down the back side of the swell and righted herself.
“Nice going, Biron,” Meyers yelled from the bridge wing. “Next time, would you mind not cutting it so close?”
The bridge crew broke out in giddy laughter, and the men started breathing again.
The ship was swinging rapidly and was in danger of overshooting its turn. Biron steadied her on a reciprocal course and cut her speed. He made his way to the bridge wing and took a position beside the captain.
As both men scoured the horizon with their eyes trying to see the man, Biron said, “Captain, I don’t know what the procedures are for a storm rescue. You have more experience. Maybe you should take it. The man doesn’t have any chance in weather like this anyhow.”
“No one has any experience at t
his,” Meyers said casually. “There are no procedures. It’s never been done before. The navy’ll make us write the procedures after we get him back aboard.”
Biron looked at his captain and knew somehow, someway, he was right. They would write the procedures, and they would get their shipmate back alive.
Biron looked at Meyers holding onto the rail, bracing himself against the storm, and sensed the magic; the captain’s will, the crew’s will, the captain’s confidence, the crew’s confidence were one, a powerful force committed without question against the deadly storm to save the life of a single man.
Sarah’s words returned to Biron again. “Promise me you won’t ever do anything that would kill people, please, Daddy.” He finally understood. He understood Sarah would get her father back. He understood they would get their shipmate back.
“There he is. One-hundred yards to port.” a voice yelled from the signal bridge. Simultaneously, the quartermaster announced calmly, “Sir, man in the water five minutes. Survival time remaining five-five minutes.”
§
RTEEKYT RUKLKDTOTY 009682-EIEIEI-RAKDKESB.
ZNYEEEEE
R 05 0832Z DEC 71
FM: USS FARNLEY
TO: COMDESRON12
INFO: COMSIXTHFLT
SUBJ: MAN OVERBOARD
BT
CLASS: UNCLASS
UNIDENTIFIED MAN OVERBOARD 0827Z. SEA STATE EIGHT. MAN IN SIGHT. RESCUE OPERATION UNDER WAY.
LAT 40 01 15 NORTH
LON 12 32 45 EAST
BT
N5867
NNNN
§
Chief Ross didn’t need a window to see what was going on. They were trying to tear his engines apart, and by God, he was going to help them. It didn’t matter; she could take anything they threw at her.
It had only taken the black gang two minutes to bring all four boilers to full power and another two to cross-connect the plant for full battle redundancy. When they threw the throttles wide open to answer the first flank bell, she was free of her mechanical harness, and her full seventy thousand horsepower exploded through the turbines.
The Marathon Watch Page 27