by Sharon Timm
The same old oatmeal, eggs any style, pancakes, French toast... After twenty eight days at sea there was no fresh fruit. Oh, how she longed for a nice fresh orange! She popped a bowl out of the spring-loaded plate dispenser, slipped a spoon into her back pocket and flipped a cup and a glass out of the rack. The cup, she filled with hot coffee. She filled the glass with milk.
"Cow's running dry." she commented to the junior enlisted man behind the serving counter.
He nodded and rushed to get another five gallon carton of milk for the dispenser.
She set everything down at the table next to another Chief, and rifled through the cereal drawer in search of some raisin bran. "Did you eat the last box of Raising Bran, Doug?" She asked in mock anger, starting the daily ritual of harassing Doug.
"Yeah, Doug," someone else moaned. "What happened to the Raisin Bran?"
Everyone laughed. Sam settled for a box of plain bran flakes and sat next to Doug.
Boatswain Mate Senior Chief Douglas Jones was a bear of a man, over six feet tall with huge arms, broad shoulders and receding dark brown hair. He'd sat in the wrong place one day and had eaten another Chief's raisin bran by mistake while the other was on the phone. It had been the last box of raisin bran. It was an honest mistake but, nearly a year later, he still couldn't live it down. He pointed at his bowl. "Oatmeal," he said. "Sticky, brown freakin' oatmeal."
"Good morning, Doug," she said.
"Hi Sam," he answered.
She poured milk over her bran flakes, glanced at Doug who was staring at the wall mounted television set. The closed circuit TV channel had been selected. The forward-looking camera from the pilot house was trained on the forecastle of the ship. Doug was keeping an eye on his crew as they scurried about mopping up the pools of seawater and condensation from the deck.
Sam thought about Doug. She had known him almost as long as she'd been in the Navy. This was the first ship they had served on together but he had been a good friend for years. He would probably have been more than that if she'd let him.
Doug was one of the most senior Chiefs on the ship. He'd been a Chief since before Sam joined the Navy. He had been promoted to the rank of Senior Chief the year before. That was also the year that Sam had been promoted to Chief. Sam confided in him and trusted his judgment and experience but their relationship stopped at friendship.
She always stopped at friendship. There had been no shortage of offers in the last few years but she had always walked away. Doug reminded her of the reason why, he was taller, and broader but something in his eyes reminded her of.... someone else.
"So what did you decide, Sam, are you staying in or getting out?" He asked it softly. The decision to stay in the Navy or get out had been weighing on her mind for several months.
Her enlistment in the Navy was a volunteer contract. No one would force her to stay. She'd finished her first four-year enlistment and signed up for a second one. Now, with ten years under her belt, her second contract was over and she wasn't sure she wanted to reenlist.
Sailors with ten years of service were assumed to be in it for a twenty year career. With her record, further advancement was guaranteed. Gena told her she'd be nuts to walk away now. Her only problem was that she wasn't sure. She was wrestling with the decision to stay in or move on to something else. Gena knew about her struggle and she'd confided in Doug but none of the other Chiefs knew.
Sam shrugged her shoulders. "The Career Counselor has been dogging me for a week now. Says he's got the paperwork all filled out for me to reenlist. All I have to do is sign. I don't know... I just don't know. I think I've done everything I wanted to do. I'm losing interest."
"If what you do is called `losing interest'," Doug stirred his coffee and shook his head. "I'd love to see you motivated."
"Good morning, Baby," a voice boomed from the door.
The other Chiefs laughed. Sam didn't look up. "Shut up, Sheriff," she mumbled between bites of bran flakes.
The Chief Master-at-Arms was the chief of police on board. Jim Buford had started calling her, "Baby" just after she arrived. The Chiefs teased Doug about the raisin bran. They, especially Jim "Sheriff" Buford, ribbed her about her age.
At twenty-seven she was by far the youngest Chief on the ship, one of the youngest in the Navy. She was intelligent, talented and competent but there was more. Something else had driven her to achieve what she had. Something they didn't know. Something only Doug suspected.
She finished her cereal, gulped her coffee and took her dishes to the pass-through window which opened into the scullery, where the dishes were washed. She pulled her red ball cap emblazoned with the ship's insignia off a peg on the long hat rack by the door and said, "If you old farts will excuse me, I have to go to work."
The laughter faded as she pulled the door closed and turned aft, along the passageway toward the medical department.
Sam was an Independent Duty Hospital Corpsman. She was the medical specialist on the ship, qualified to fill the shoes of a doctor for all but the most serious of emergencies. She was the first woman to hold the job on a combatant ship. USS FORT DONELSON was the first cruiser modified to carry a crew of both women and men.
She'd come highly recommended by a very senior Admiral, but she didn't rely on recommendations. Within four months of taking charge of the medical unit she had been awarded the Navy Achievement Medal for the third time in her career.
She walked past a line of sailors gathered around her door, inserted her key and turned on the lights in sick bay. She gently kicked the foot of one of her two junior corpsmen, who was sleeping, fully dressed, on the floor. "Reveille, reveille," she said. "Fifteen minutes until sick call and they're already lining up."
Sam fingered the gold letters on the back of her hat and thought about the grave responsibility implied by the red color as she slipped her red hat onto a hook by the door. Red hats were worn by members of the Damage Control Training Team. She was the First Aid Trainer but was fully qualified to put out fires, patch holes, shore up weak, battle damaged bulkheads, rig pumps and just about anything else that was required to keep a ship afloat.
At sea, there was no fire department to call. The crew had to handle any emergencies that arose. A fire at sea was a terrifying thing and sailors feared the possibility. Some had actually fought a fire at sea. Everyone had heard the stories. Sam knew, too well, what a fire could do. She pushed the thought from her mind.
The Third Class Petty Officer was up. He rubbed his eyes and stretched. "Mornin' Chief," he said with a yawn.
"I told you not to sleep in here." Her face was serious, but her eyes belayed her previous orders. She remembered how it was to live in the crew's berthing compartment. Her subordinate had often complained of the noise and confusion of having ninety people sleeping in a fifty by thirty foot compartment, stacked three high and working shifts twenty-four hours per day. Getting some sleep under those conditions could be tough. She sympathized and didn't mind if he crashed-out on the deck from time to time.
"I wasn't sleeping, Chief. Honest, I was planning my day." He grinned sheepishly and rushed out the side door leaving Sam alone with her thoughts.
She looked at her reflection in the screen of the computer monitor. It was turned off and the dark glass tube reflected her gentle features. Her blond hair was short and uncooperative. She had ice blue eyes that slipped into shades of gray and green with the changes in the weather. Her nose was "straight, cute and enviable" as her friend Gena liked to say. She had managed to take care of herself over her ten year career. She was good looking, she had to admit, but her looks were going to waste.
She wouldn't, couldn't let a man get too close. The Navy made that pretty easy, if you followed the rules. It was especially easy since she had been promoted to Chief. There were limits set on who you could and couldn't date. Strict lines were in place to ensure that relationships in the chain of command were kept professional and objective. She had hidden in that system for years.
Maybe
that is a reason to stay in the Navy, she thought.
At sea, the lines were drawn even tighter. Shore duty sailors could date and marry as long as their relationships crossed the boundaries of commands. A good friend of hers was a Senior Chief who had married a Second Class, three grades his junior. They worked for different commands and were in different fields so it was no problem.
Sam enjoyed the structure and hid behind its rules. She'd buried herself in sea duty assignments and isolated duty locations. She took the jobs no one else wanted. She had done well. She'd risen fast. Deep inside, she knew she was hiding out.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key slipping into the door lock. She turned the computer on and reached for her notebook. As the Corpsman began to set up for morning sick call, she went up the ladder for the daily Department Head meeting.
The Executive Officer was a tall, thin Lieutenant Commander with dark brown hair, bushy eyebrows and dark, piercing eyes. He was athletic and looked several years younger than his nearly forty years of age. There was not a touch of gray in his full head of hair. Samantha had arrived after several of the Department Heads and stood by the door to the Executive Officer's private head. As always, it was crowded. She sandwiched herself between a senior Lieutenant and the only other enlisted person who attended the daily get together with the Executive Officer.
The XO, as he was known, had a couple of executive assistants who were not officers. Sam held that title, and in some matters she reported only to the Commanding Officer himself. The other enlisted executive assistant was the Chief Master-at-Arms.
Jim Buford nudged her arm with his elbow. "Hey, Sam." He nodded. "Baby" was a name he only ever uttered in the sanctuary of the Chief's Mess. What was said in the mess, stayed in the mess. That tradition had been around as long as Chiefs had, for about a hundred years.
"Hi Jim," she answered.
The XO started the meeting with a fast barrage of "action items" he was following up on relating to the ship’s current mission: patrolling the Adriatic Sea intercepting any ships or vessels suspected of smuggling weapons or contraband into the area of the Bosnian conflict.
His crisp and efficient questions were answered quickly and to the point, there were no excuses and no long explanations. He asked the question, got the answer, and moved on. He tossed his list onto his cluttered desk and reached for the plan of the day which had been prepared the evening before. He held it in both hands and suddenly tore it in half.
Everyone groaned and shook their heads. The officer next to Sam swore silently. Another fine Navy day, Sam thought, shot before it's even begun. That was another reality of Navy life: change.
Change was the only constant. Every attempt to plan operations and daily routine seemed destined to immediate and disastrous failure. Each routine task was buried under a ceaseless avalanche of new requirements, changes in operational commitments and twists in international events. Usually the XO tore up his plan of the day just before he broke some bad news.
Are we going through the Suez Canal and into the Red Sea? she wondered. That had happened to more than half of the previous Battle Group, only four months before. One ship from the present force was already there. A liberty port had already been cancelled and the next one, nine days away might be jeopardized as well, depending on what the XO said.
He paused. Sam thought he did that just for the "Hollywood" effect. He studied the reactions of his senior staff, and then, to Sam's surprise he smiled. "Liberty call will be announced at fifteen-hundred," he said. "Anchored out..." He paused again. "Golfo di Venezia."
"Did you say Venice, XO?" Sam asked.
"I did," the XO replied, "and I have some more good news for you, in particular, Chief," he shuffled some papers around on his desk and handed her a radio message. "In Venice, we are picking up one of the doctors from the carrier. He's a fully qualified Medical Officer and he'll be taking over your sickbay for the week. You, Chief, will be on the beach!"
"But Sir..."
The XO cut her off. "That's an order Chief. You have been on board since before the ship was commissioned. You don't go home. I don't think you have a home. When we are in port, you're here when I get in at O-dark-thirty and you're still here when I get ready to leave at night. I'm the XO of this ship and, damn it, I won't have anyone, especially a Chief working longer hours than I do! All you do is work! I'm throwing you off my ship! Go have fun."
The other members of the meeting were amused by the order. The Lieutenant next to Sam echoed the XO's comment, "Yeah, Chief. Go have fun."
A glare from the XO silenced him. He turned to the Chief Master-at-Arms. "Sheriff, I want her off my ship on the first liberty boat. If she gives you any trouble, handcuff her, tie her up and have her carried to the Venice pier by the first shift of Shore Patrol.
"Yes Sir," Jim replied. He winked at Sam.
Shifting his gaze to Sam the XO queried, "Questions?"
"None, Sir."
She said it unenthusiastically and walked out of the stateroom. The quiet laughter and whispered comments of the Department Heads faded behind her as she trudged down the passageway. Liberty ports were dead time for her. More than anything she dreaded dead time. Memories came rushing back to her when she let down her guard. When she stopped working and relaxed, her mind would pull her back into the horrors and nightmares of her past.
Venice would be even worse than your standard, everyday liberty port. Venice was about love. Venice was all about romance, gondolas and serenades and lovers. Everything she had read about that enchanted city sent warning signals to the very core of her being. Venice was isolated, serene, and beautiful.
I can't go there, she thought. She stopped abruptly in the passageway, but a hand between her shoulder blades pushed her back into motion. "Keep walking Sam."
It was Jim, dutifully carrying out the orders of the Executive Officer and, predictably, getting a kick out of it too.
In the hours that followed, Sam immersed herself in her work. As the four massive gas turbine engines vibrated beneath her feet, hurling the cruiser through the waves, Sam treated patients, updated records and made sure all was in order in her tiny clinic. She wrote a detailed turn-over list for the doctor and gave it to her junior corpsman. She felt cheated in a way. She didn't want to part with this medical facility she had built up from nothing.
When she had arrived, the keel of the ship was just being laid. Her sickbay only existed in blue prints. She had worked out of a trailer on the pier for nearly a year. Now some stranger was going to come in and desecrate her space with his presence.
Who are you kidding? she thought. You just don't want to go ashore. A deeper feeling overcame her. It was excitement, anticipation. Her self-discipline fought to hold the emotion back but another part of her was emerging. Why not go ashore? Why not relax and have fun? "You've paid enough," she whispered. "You kept your promise."
"You say something, Chief?" Her Corpsman was standing beside her.
"Nope, nothing," she said. "Just mumbling to myself, that's all." She stood up and took a last look around the sick bay. "I need some fresh air."
She went out the side door and forward along the passageway. She stopped at the ship's money machine, inserted her card and took out a large sum of money. She rapped on the door to the disbursing office. It wasn't open, but the officer in charge had heard of her situation. "Need some Italian money?" he asked.
Sam nodded and handed him a stack of bills. He handed her a slip of paper with the exchange rates on it and a pile of colored money. "Thanks, Sir." she said.
"Good luck, Doc." he said.
She stood by the lifelines on the main deck, just aft of the helicopter landing deck. She breathed deeply and studied the colored bills in her hand. The salty sea air was cool and fresh and invigorating. The day was a brisk and overcast. Three weeks into April, a touch of winter still crept down from the Alps to the Adriatic and lingered in the air. She looked at the gray sky and braced herself for what lie
ahead.
The ships 1MC loudspeaker blared, "Station the Sea and Anchor Detail."
She watched as the line handlers and safety observers gathered on the black, non-skid surface of the fantail. Her corpsman rushed by her to man his station.
Handling the immense lines used for mooring and working around anchor chain was dangerous work. Her Corpsmen were stationed where they could keep an eye on the men and be immediately available to provide first aid in an emergency.
The ship's Career Counselor rushed by on his way to his station on the bridge. "Let me know, Chief," he said.
Sam nodded. The clock was ticking she would be out of the Navy in less than three months if she didn't decide to stay. She had made some promises long ago. She had set some goals for herself and had achieved them all. She wondered if promises to the dead were stronger than those she made to herself. He fingers stroked the gold fouled anchor on her collar point. She hadn't planned anything beyond this point. Making Chief had been the only thing that mattered. She was a Chief. Now what? she wondered.
She sensed rather than saw the towering figure man crept up behind her. "Hi Doug," she said without turning.
"I heard you got the boot from the XO."
"Sheriff's been running his mouth again, I take it."
Doug placed a huge hand on her shoulder. "You need a break, Sam." he said. "Take some time off for a change. Kick up your heels. Relax."
She nodded. She didn't want to talk about it. "You going ashore, Doug?"
The brawny Boatswain's Mate shook his head with almost theatrical sadness. "I've got the Duty Blues today." His face brightened and his eyebrows bounced up and down. "But tomorrow," he chuckled. "Tomorrow I'll hit the beach on the first liberty boat. Maybe I'll run into you."
"You won't be able to miss me," Sam moaned. "I'll be camped out on the pier waiting for the XO to let me back on board."
"You sure are attached to this ship for a person who is losing interest." Doug teased. "See ya, Sam"
"Yeah," she answered. "See ya."