The Marathon Watch

by Laswell, Lawrence K

  Meyers was standing nearby, hanging onto the steel dogs that secured the door. Sitting down was impossible. Every loose object on the bridge had been removed because they became missiles as soon as they had reached twenty-five knots. There was nothing Biron could do but hang on and try not to bite his tongue off.

  For now, Biron knew he was just along for the ride. Everything was up to Portalatin’s skill and long, muscular arms. As he watched Portalatin whip the wheel from side to side, he remembered that Portalatin’s skill as a helmsman was partly an acquired skill and partly a gift. Few men had the physique to do what he was doing.

  Biron knew he had gifts as well; gifts for leadership and gifts for ship handling. It was strange, but somehow he’d been given the gift to understand ships, currents, wind, thrust, and maneuver to a depth and extent few others had. What others worked at and studied for years was intuitive to him. It was easy, he did it well, and he loved doing it, but the gift misled him, or maybe he misled himself, or perhaps the poetry of the sea seduced him; now he understood that a gift does not make a calling.

  Captains were men called to greatness. These were men you could trust your life to, men you would fight and die for because these were men willing to die for you and for what they believed.

  Initially he couldn’t find the courage to turn the ship because of the danger, not for himself but for the safety of Sarah’s father. He’d promised her. She was more important to him than anything else. He knew that now, and he knew he didn’t have the gift to become captain and would never be able to make split-second, life-and-death decisions the office demanded. Sarah was his gift, and she would get her father back full time.

  Biron checked the radar screen. They were fifteen miles from the coast and perhaps thirteen to calm water.

  The spray covering the windows went dark, then black. The ship shuddered. In mid-thrust through a wave, all forward motion stopped. It felt as if the Farnley had run into a solid wall. The impact threw Biron over the top of the radar set. The bridge windows exploded inward with a thunderclap. Thousands of gallons of water shot through the openings, flooding the bridge.

  Stunned, Biron picked himself up. Standing in almost two feet of water, he checked himself over. To his amazement, he wasn’t hurt. The other men were up and wading back to their posts. Meyers still clung to the bridge door. “Captain, we have to slow down,” Biron pleaded.

  “We’re already wet; just a few more minutes,” Meyers said to Biron, then to Sweeney, “Tell the cooks to break out the battle rations for the crew. We’ll be in calm water shortly.”

  §

  The camouflaged DC-3, her engines idling, waited on the tarmac at the Naples NATO air base. Lieutenant Pew took a position directly behind O’Toole and Lee as they waited for the F-15A Air Force Eagle taxiing toward them. The fighter’s canopy slid open, and the craft came to a stop. When the two Pratt & Whitney engines shut down, the pilot saw O’Toole, smiled, and gave him a happy salute. The pilot looked over his shoulder at the man riding in the backseat and said something to him. The pilot looked back at O’Toole and laughed, pointing to the backseat with his thumb.

  Slowly the figure in the backseat emerged and climbed out of the plane. Once on the ground, a pale middle-aged man, unaccustomed to traveling at Mach 2.5, gingerly stepped away from the craft as if he were afraid the ground would betray him and not be there when he lowered his foot. Dressed in white shorts and white pullover shirt, the man was comfortably dressed for an afternoon of indoor tennis. In his left hand he held a tennis racket and a barf bag.

  When Pew saw the man, his jaw dropped, and he retreated toward the waiting DC-3. O’Toole’s face showed no emotion as the jet’s engines roared back to life and the jet taxied away, leaving its pale, bewildered passenger behind.

  The would-be tennis player walked up to O’Toole, and as he began to extend his hand in welcome, O’Toole asked, “Who are you?”

  The tennis player shook O’Toole’s hand and replied, “Why, I’m the doctor you asked for.”

  The softness returned to O’Toole’s voice. “I know that, but who are you?”

  The tennis player tried to hold his left-hand cargo a bit lower so it wouldn’t be so obvious. “Colonel Groomer, NATO Hospital, Wiesbaden. I’m sorry about my appearance. I was just starting a match when this helicopter—”

  “Surgeon?” O’Toole queried.

  “I’m chief of surgery at Wiesbaden,” Groomer offered.

  “Neurosurgeon?”

  “Yes, that’s my specialty.”

  O’Toole smiled. “That’s adequate. Let’s go.”

  §

  As soon as they were in the lee of the Sardinia coast, Meyers had turned the Farnley south toward Cagliari. They had rung up flank speed and told the engine room to make best speed. With the bridge windows out, the rain and cold wind reached every corner of the bridge and quickly numbed the limbs of the bridge crew.

  After he was sure that the bridge crew had been given a chance to warm up and change into dry clothes, he went below and did the same. By the time he’d returned to the bridge, Sweeney had found a towel and dried off his captain’s chair. Someone else had a hot cup of coffee waiting for him. These small tokens of approbation embarrassed Meyers, but he accepted them graciously.

  It felt good to sit again. The ship was riding better now in the calmer seas. The seas were choppy, but there was no swell. The ship’s ride reminded him of the time when, as a boy, he had sat on top of a lopsided washing machine during the spin cycle. The rough ride came only partly from the sea but mostly from the sheer force of the Farnley’s engines.

  He couldn’t believe what the Farnley had been through. She was a great ship, and he was proud of the crew. He was afraid that the violent maneuvering they did during the rescue would have torn her guts out. Ross had done one hell of a job.

  Meyers thought that if Morrison owed his life to anyone, he owed it to Lee. The old Farnley would never have held up. He had to talk to Stoner about that and the ten unanswered letters he’d sent demanding action on past-due parts requisitions.

  §

  Biron stood shoulder to shoulder with the quartermaster examining the Cagliari harbor chart. Getting through the breakwater was going to be hell. They would have to make a one-eighty turn to enter the narrow and twisted breakwater, then execute an S-turn to enter the harbor. If they went in too fast, they would never make the turns. Too slow and they would lose rudder control and be blown into the breakwater.

  Any conning officer who could maneuver their ship into Cagliari under these conditions would become a legend to the crew. A crew’s esprit de corps centered on the skill of their captain. Biron knew he could bring the ship in, but he didn’t deserve this victory lap. This legend belonged to his captain.

  §

  Ross had refused to leave his engine room, so the corpsman splinted his ankle and offered painkillers, which Ross refused. For the past several hours, he’d clung to his white bench and waited for this moment. He ignored the pain in his ankle; his ship and his men needed him.

  The Farnley was running wide open and making forty-two knots. He watched his men move about the cavernous engine room in their blue uniforms against the blinding white background. The throttles were full open, her reins released.

  She was his thoroughbred in full thunderous gallop, a sound he hadn’t heard in almost thirty years. The cavernous engine room trembled from the white-hot steam exploding through the turbines. The sound filled the deck, his bench, the air, and his chest. The sound, the noise, the raw power possessed everything, and everything shook from the roar so deep that it couldn’t be heard, only felt.

  The men communicated with hand signals and raised their hands in a triumphant circular motion. Ross was proud of them. They had come through an experience most men could never imagine. Someday his men would tell their story to their wide-eyed children gathered at their feet. The children would listen, sharing a moment of greatness, and make it their own. They would know the Farn
ley was a great ship. That’s the way it should be. This is screaming steaming.

  §

  Meyers cursed himself for sitting down. His tired muscles had relaxed as his nerves unwound. His body felt like it weighed a ton, and he had to fight just to stay awake. He tried to remember the last time he slept. He couldn’t.

  Every time he turned around, Sweeney would be there, belly hanging out, to hand him another cup of coffee. He gladly accepted the hot coffee not only for the caffeine and warmth but for the fluid. Every muscle in his body hurt, and every movement brought a sharp, painful muscle spasm. He was also extremely thirsty and guessed he’d become dehydrated.

  The sea was a dark gray, and the choppy waves were trimmed with white foam. The sky was a featureless, uniform smear of gray. In the evening shadows, he could see a few white buildings along the coast dulled by the relentless gray of the day. However, his eyes were fixed on a low black line between the sky and sea jutting from the shore. It was the seawall at Cagliari.

  In a few hours, he’d be able to sleep. All he had to do was get the ship to the pier first. The Cagliari harbor entrance was tricky, and with the current conditions, it would take some bold maneuvering. Biron could handle it and deserved the opportunity to try.

  “Captain?”

  Meyers turned, expecting to see Sweeney holding another mug of coffee. It was Biron.

  “Yes?” Meyers replied.

  “Do you want to take her in, Captain?” Biron asked.

  The way Biron said it, it wasn’t a question, but a request. Meyers was too tired and his muscles ached, but as he started to decline, he realized everyone on the bridge was looking at him. He’d never experienced a situation like this. Every face radiated pride, confidence, and hope. Every eye was on him, pleading, imploring him to say yes. He accepted their command, and his fatigue dissolved as he jumped out of his chair.

  Without a word from him, Biron yelled to the bridge watch, “The captain has the con,” and the age-old ritual began.

  Meyers called out to his men, “This is the Captain. I have the con.”

  The quartermaster scribbled in his log and yelled, “The log shows the Captain has the con.”

  “Captain, my head is two-eight-zero,” Portalatin called out.

  “More coffee, Captain?” Sweeney asked.

  §

  O’Toole stood near the edge of the windy pier in the protected Cagliari harbor next to Lee. A half mile from where he stood, huge rollers pounded the seawall. As each swell hit the riprap wall, hundred-foot-high sheets of water like giant hands shot into the air, trying to claw their way into the safe harbor.

  In the semidarkness, O’Toole strained his eyes for a glimpse of the Farnley as she approached from the east. As her bow emerged from behind the high bluff, he shouted to the other men huddled in the ambulance and the half-dozen Italian pier workers.

  Pew ran up to O’Toole and offered him a set of binoculars. “Don’t need ‘em. I can see.”

  The Farnley cut through the seawall opening and swung toward the pier. After a second, Pew blurted, “My God, Admiral, she has to be doing twenty knots. You can’t do that. She’s coming too fast.”

  “Fifteen knots, and who says?” O’Toole corrected.

  The doctor and the corpsman from Naples joined O’Toole.

  Despite the bad light, O’Toole’s sharp eyes scanned the Farnley as she bore directly down on their position. He could only imagine what she’d been through. The gun mount sat askew on the forward deck. Except for the anchor chains, the fo’c’scle had been swept completely clean. All the railings and stanchions were gone. Torn metal mounting pads on the superstructure showed where the storage lockers had been. The pounding seas had stripped most of the paint away from her bow and superstructure. All the bridge windows were gone, and the railings around the signal bridge had been bent back like twigs. Her signal flags held by taut, springy lines snapped back and forth in the wind.

  From nowhere, a dozen men appeared on her forward deck and ran back and forth, laying out mooring lines. The activity prompted Pew to put the binoculars to his eyes. After a second, he said in disgust, “Admiral, she’s a rusty wreck. It’s going to take a lot of work to square her away.”

  O’Toole’s chest swelled to the point he thought his shirt buttons were going to pop. “You’re wrong Lieutenant, she’s magnificent,” O’Toole replied.

  A strange mix of nostalgia and grief tempered his pride. Many years ago, she had been his first command, and he had been her first skipper. He had seen her carry battle scars much deeper than those he saw now, but today no courageous young men had perished on her sacred decks; thankfully, there was no ‘Butcher Bill’ to pay. Generations of sailors had guarded her honor and cherished her legacy. Her spirit and the steel of her crew had not changed since before the battle of Leyte Gulf. Right here, right now, O’Toole could imagine no greater honor than the chance to walk her decks again.

  “I think I’ve finally got my rusty barge,” O’Toole said, smiling. “I’m shifting my flag to the Farnley.”

  Pew looked stunned. “If I may speak freely, sir,” Pew began, remembering not to say the A-word, “I don’t think that’s wise. She’s a disgrace to the fleet. Just look at her.”

  O’Toole didn’t move but responded, “The only thing that would disgrace the fleet is not honoring her with the flag.”

  Pew persisted. “But she’s small, cramped, and old. You wouldn’t be comfortable. There wouldn’t be room for your staff. It’s unheard of. An old destroyer as fleet flagship. You’re putting Admiral Durham in a difficult position.”

  “Exactly,” smiled O’Toole. “It’s my fleet, and she’s my flagship. Anyhow, Durham promised me it’s only temporary. By the way, Pew, you won’t be inconvenienced at all. I’m sending you back with the surgeon and the injured. It wouldn’t be safe for you aboard the Farnley.”

  The Farnley’s bow was aimed directly at the spot where O’Toole stood and still showed no sign of slowing down. O’Toole fell silent and listened as the wind carried the robust baritone rumble of her engines to his ears.

  Pew and the ambulance drivers started to back away from the edge of the pier. The Farnley still kept coming. After a few backward steps, the men turned and jogged back to the ambulance. O’Toole came to attention and took one step forward so his toes just hung over the edge of the pier.

  The Farnley was close now, and O’Toole looked at the cluster of men standing on the starboard bridge wing. None of the men wore hats, and all were dressed in olive-drab foul weather jackets. Instantly, he located the one he was looking for; a blind man could see it. O’Toole watched his man. The man’s head moved slightly, and all other men on the bridge wing reacted. The rumble of the engines paused for a second with an airy whooshing sound, then resumed in a guttural growl as the engines backed down with authority.

  The translucent smoke from her stacks shot straight up into the air and seemed unaffected by the wind. The ship slowed rapidly, and the bow swung smartly to port. With the ship parallel to the pier, the man O’Toole had been watching moved his head again, and the engines stopped. Line handlers threw lines the last five feet to the pier. O’Toole saluted the Farnley, her crew and man on the bridge. He didn’t have to ask who the man was; he was a singular man the crew called— Captain.

  §

  Stucky had been awake through most of it. The DC-3 was gaining altitude, and the doctor had gone forward to radio instructions to Naples. Chief Ross was in a fold-down canvas bunk above him, snoring like an asthmatic boiler. The corpsman from Naples was checking Morrison’s pulse again.

  Stucky was groggy, and there was a sharp, burning pain across the back of his head. They hadn’t let him walk to the ambulance or the plane, and treated him like he was really hurt or something. The doctor said he would have to stay in Naples for a few days’ observation, so he got comfortable under the covers of his stretcher and submitted quietly to the indignity of being carried off his ship. Next to the tight bandage wrapped a
round his head, he disliked being taken off the Farnley most.

  When they loaded Ross into the ambulance at the pier, Stucky had been shocked. Not knowing Ross had been injured, he asked the corpsman what had happened. The corpsman simply replied, “Broke his ankle somehow. Couldn’t get him to leave the engine room, so the doctor gave him a shot for the pain. Actually, he gave him enough Demerol to KO an elephant. He’ll be in the hospital with a cast on his leg before he wakes up.”

  That started Stucky laughing, but each laugh brought with it a heavy, pounding pain in the back of his head. He swallowed his laughter.

  The corpsman finished checking Morrison’s pulse and wrote something on a clipboard. “Is he going to be all right?” Stucky asked.

  “He’s in pretty bad shape now,” the corpsman began as he checked the white bandage that encircled Morrison’s head, “but the doctor said if we can get him into surgery in the next two hours, he’ll be good as new in a couple of months.”

  Satisfied Morrison was okay, the corpsman turned to Stucky and asked, “What the heck happened to you guys? Your ship’s a wreck. Looks like you’ve been through World War Three.”

  Stucky’s arm slid off of his chest, slipped down to his side, and grasped the gift Ross had given him. It was Stucky’s prize possession.

  Holding Ross’ old, battered screwdriver tight, Stucky tried to put his thoughts together as he spoke.

  “The Farnley’s a fighter…”

  “We never gave up…”

  “We had to get Morrison back…”

  “Ya see, that’s the deal.”