Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series)

by Laswell, Larry

  Within minutes, the British captain handed his sword to Commodore Barry. Barry ordered the crew split into three groups to man the three captured British ships. Barry approached O’Toole and whispered, “None of the British captains were adequate; they were all asleep because they believed in the rules of gentlemanly war. Never sleep, and never follow the rules, but be gracious enough to allow the enemy to do so. This last captain was the worst of the lot. He missed an opportunity. We barely had half our guns manned; he could have made a fight of it.”

  Soon the three ships, their rigging creaking softly, slipped across the harbor toward the twenty-six-gun British frigate. O’Toole asked Commodore Barry, “Do we capture the frigate now?”

  “No, no, lad, we’re barely enough men to man our ships. Know thy limits, lad, lest ye squander opportunity. We shall, however, teach them to sleep less soundly.”

  As the three ships formed a battle line, Barry put his hand on O’Toole’s shoulder and handed him the sword of the first British captain. “It does not befit a warrior to walk the deck with no weapon.”

  O’Toole eagerly strapped the sword around his waist.

  “Come, lad, take the helm. She’s yours to command.”

  O’Toole approached the massive wooden wheel, the scabbard scratching across the deck behind him. He stretched to grab the topknot and swung the ship smartly port to ease her to the rear of the line.

  “Observe now lad and learn. We’ve the finest cannoneers ever to grace the high seas. They shall show the frigate no measure of mercy.”

  O’Toole strained his arms to reach across the great wheel. Smoke and fire thundered from the ship ahead, shredding the frigate’s railing and toppling her mainmast. The volley from the second ship loaded with hot coals splintered the frigate’s hull and set her ablaze. His ship delivered a withering broadside bringing down her foremast.

  Ahead, the seventy-four-gun ship-of-the-line heaved at her anchor and unfurled her sails. “Do we attack the ship-of-the-line?” O’Toole asked.

  Commodore Barry raised one eyebrow. “Lad, do you think me invincible or daft or both? I am neither. Audacity in the face of adversity is opportunity, but heed this imperative of command: know thy limits. Push them, never exceed them. Do otherwise and your men and ship shall pay the price. Now, steer for the open sea. More opportunities await in the morrow.” Pointing with his long strong arm, Barry continued, “Steer for the star one thumb’s breadth below the moon.”

  O’Toole sighted the star and swung the massive wheel over to meet her. The sails luffed, and the rigging groaned with the change of course. The night sky was pure and pristine, and the wind was at their back. They were victorious, vigilant, and ready.

  The ship’s bell rang eight times in four groups of two. The bosun called out, “Eight bells. Set the watch. All is well.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, O’Toole saw the dungaree-clad lookout stiffen, “Sir, flashes of light off the port beam!”

  “Aaaah,” O’Toole screamed, launching himself out of his cot. The book fell to the sandy tent floor with a muffled thud. His tent mates raised their heads, and went back to sleep; they had seen such behavior before.

  §

  The next day, O’Toole stepped out of the command tent to visit the latrine. When he returned, Durham called out to him, “Got a message while you were gone.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “Seems they’re building ships so fast stateside they’re having a hard time manning them, especially finding men to be captains. They must be getting desperate.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The brass found you, you lucky dog. They promoted you to Lieutenant Commander and gave you command of the USS Farnley.”

  “Is this another one of your pranks?”

  “No. Here’s the message.”

  O’Toole read it and read it again. His mind locked on a single thought: he would soon be responsible for a ship and her crew. His mind couldn’t think of anything else. Durham’s smiling face said it all.

  “Holy shit,” O’Toole said.

  “Congratulations! And the promotion isn’t temporary, it’s a full permanent promotion.”

  “My orders are to get stateside for commissioning.”

  “Yeah, well, now that you outrank me I’m glad to get rid of your sorry ass,” Durham said, slapping O’Toole on the back.

  The dig was in good humor, but now nothing seemed funny to O’Toole. He was happy, but dread and fear lurked in the corner of his mind. As captain, when men died there would be no question; their blood would be on his hands. He had failed twice already. Would his wall still block his vision? What couldn’t he see? Why had God cursed him with this blindness? What answers lay in the void beyond his reach?

  How could he take responsibility for an entire ship and all those who sail within her? There would be no one to turn to, no senior officer to back him up. He would be alone. Every decision would be his and his alone. His decisions would affect hundreds of lives and have consequences. Did he have enough experience? Did he know enough? No, he wasn’t adequately prepared for this, but he had no choice. He’d need to step up, work harder, and do his best, or he would fail again.

  §

  After dinner, Durham and O’Toole found a quiet place on the pier under the golden canopy of the setting sun.

  “When you shipping out?” Durham asked.

  “Don’t know yet. It will take a few days to find a ride stateside.”

  “That won’t take long. In a few weeks you’ll be aboard your ship.”

  “That’s what worries me. I’m not ready for this, being responsible for a ship and the lives of hundreds of men.”

  “Are the Green and Able still haunting you?”

  “I guess. But, as Caesar said, Jacta alea esto, let the die be cast. The thought of having to order men to their deaths appalls me. When men die, it tears at me. I have a choice: find a purpose in this damned war that is greater than the loss of life, or be a lackluster, hesitant captain who will lose more men because of it. If that happens, the grief and guilt will destroy me. Command decisions have consequences.”

  “Do you think anybody is ever ready to take their first command?”

  After a second’s thought, O’Toole said, “Probably not. How’d you handle it here with the flotilla?”

  “I figured out what the men needed and gave it to them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “PT boats aren’t like anything else in the navy. Hell, the boats are made of wood. We are lightly armed, and we never get in a fight with the odds on our side. The men needed to be proficient at their jobs, so I set uncompromising standards for training. Once they were proficient, I nurtured a culture of bravado around it.

  “So how are you going to approach it with a destroyer crew?” Durham asked.

  “I tried being a prick once, and it didn’t work. One chief on the Able told me to stop being a prick and start being a bastard. Maybe that’s what I need to do.”

  Durham seemed confused. “What’s a bastard?” he asked.

  “Someone who is tough and uncompromising but with a clear purpose. That makes the men adequate and gives them and their ship the best chance of survival.

  “No, I changed my mind. I can’t be a bastard or a prick because I care too much for my crew. I think a destroyer crew needs a good dose of my grandfather.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  “Yeah, he’s the most hard-bitten man I know. He’s tough as nails, demands the best of everyone. If a crewman impressed him, he’d say, ‘That’s adequate.’ Otherwise all they got was silence; never a compliment, never a pat on the back. As a kid, I busted my butt to get a compliment out of him, but all got was silence.

  “To this day, I’m still afraid of him, but I love him deeply because there is a purpose in everything he says and does. Inside I sense he’s a teddy bear.”

  O’Toole paused for a second before continuing. “I’ve never seen him with a tear in his ey
e, and he’s never given me a hug, but his eyes betray him when he looks at me. Besides, my sisters, my mom, and his wife can turn him into a puddle of mush whenever they want. I’m the only one who can’t break through his shell. Yeah, he’s one salty SOB.”

  Durham thought for a second. “Pat, you and I are different. I’m more into nuance and subtlety. Your Irish temperament is more like a sledgehammer. You’re a bastard, and the name Terror fits you quite well. That’s your nature: use it. It’s not much more complicated than that.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “How so?”

  “A crew needs an SOB, not a bastard.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The teddy bear.”

  22

  Before O’Toole left Tulagi, he sent a message requesting the navy assign Chief Starret, Doc Strong, and several other men to the Farnley, if available. If he got half of them, it would give him a strong core of leaders to build on. O’Toole wrangled a ride stateside on a cargo ship to Los Angeles. In Los Angeles, he set up a long-distance collect call with AT&T to Kate. At three in the morning, the call went through.

  The delay was fortunate since the household had just sat down to breakfast when he connected. He spoke to Kate for over thirty minutes, but their conversation seemed like it lasted only a few seconds. It would be a month before the Farnley deployed, so before he hung up, he asked Kate to come visit him for a week. Kate piled on and said she would bring the entire family out for the commissioning ceremony. O’Toole wanted time alone with her, and she agreed to come a few days early. She would make arrangements and telegraph him the details.

  Later in the morning, he caught a train to Oakland where the Farnley was in final fit-out. Before reporting aboard, he purchased all new uniforms and discarded the few ill-fitting uniforms he carried from Tulagi. He purchased a sea bag and stuffed everything inside.

  Once on the pier in Oakland, there was no problem picking out the Farnley, she was a carbon copy of the Able. At the quarterdeck, O’Toole dropped the sea bag and handed his orders to the petty officer.

  The petty officer puffed up and saluted. “Welcome aboard, Captain.”

  O’Toole stepped aside and turned to salute before he realized he was the captain the petty officer addressed. Embarrassed, he turned to the petty officer and said, “Thank you.”

  “We’ve been expecting you, Captain. I’m your quartermaster, name’s Skittle.”

  “Aren’t you going to read the orders?” O’Toole asked.

  “Not necessary, sir. Only one Lieutenant Commander’s been assigned, and he’s the captain.” Skittle waved to the messenger and said, “Take the Captain to his quarters.”

  O’Toole hefted his sea bag on his shoulder and said, “That’s not necessary. I know where to go.”

  “You do?”

  “My last ship was the Able.”

  “Oh no. Are you the one they call the Terror?”

  O’Toole let his head drop. This Terror thing would never go away.

  “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean any disrespect, but the scuttlebutt says—”

  “Don’t worry about the scuttlebutt, Skittle.”

  The ship was a beehive of activity with navy and shipyard personnel welding, bolting, and painting. After he took a few steps, Skittle’s voice carried through the shipyard noise. “He’s triple bad luck. Word is he’s one tough SOB, and he’s lost two ships.”

  In his cabin, O’Toole dropped the sea bag and unlaced the top. A knock on the door interrupted him.

  “Enter,” he said, turning toward the door.

  A blond lieutenant with a marine haircut entered and gave O’Toole a big, open smile and a salute. “I’m Lieutenant Paxton, your XO.”

  “Come in. Word travels fast around here,” O’Toole said, shaking Paxton’s hand.

  “Skittle’s the official ship worrier and has officially worried you aboard. According to Skittle, you’re bad luck, and he’ll make sure everyone in the shipyard knows about you by morning.”

  He thought about it for a second and wondered if the crew would magnify everything about him ten-fold because he was the captain.

  “The scuttlebutt isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” he said to Paxton.

  “I understand. I wanted to welcome you aboard. I’ll get out and let you get squared away.”

  “I’d rather get a status report while I stow my gear.”

  “Yes sir,” Paxton said. O’Toole started unpacking. “Let’s start with the crew. We’re about eighty percent crewed up. We’ve got the enlisted men quartered in a nearby barracks, and we’ll move them aboard next week. We’ll be at full strength by commissioning, if you accept the idea three recruits can replace one petty officer.”

  O’Toole nodded and grimaced. “Any word on a Chief Starret or a Doctor Strong?”

  “Starret is aboard, and Strong should be here today or tomorrow.”

  “Great. Who’s got gunnery and engineering?”

  “The gunnery officer is a boot ensign, but the engineering officer is an experienced JG by the name of Navarro. Another plus is our chief boatswain mate. With twenty-five years’ experience, he is the ship’s master chief. His name is Grubowski. He’s tough and cantankerous but good.”

  “Tough and cantankerous is a good thing in a boatswain mate,” O’Toole said with a wistful smile. “What about the fit-out?”

  “Everything is a perpetual SNAFU. The schedule gives us about half the time we need, and everyone’s working overtime to get the work done. The workers and crew are tired as hell, but we might make it.”

  “I went through this on the Able, and the SNAFUs will get worse before they get better. All you can do is push like hell and trust everything will work out.”

  Paxton and O’Toole talked for another ten minutes before Paxton left. O’Toole headed for the bridge; it had been calling to him. The Farnley was his fifth ship, but she was different from the others; this was his ship, his bridge, and his crew. In the small crowded wheelhouse, O’Toole turned sideways to squeeze between the magnetic compass and the forward bulkhead to get to the captain’s chair. He ran his hand across the chair’s arm.

  He took a deep breath and climbed into the chair, settling into the thin leather cushions. The weight of authority and responsibility descended and pushed him deeper into the cushions. His breathing hitched and his mood become somber and reflective. Was he ready for this? he wondered.

  He slid out of the chair and walked to the starboard bridge wing above the 20-mm gun tub. Hatfield’s brass balls in his pocket were the only personal possession to survive the Able. As captain, he would order his ship in harm’s way, and men would die. Would he have the balls to do that? Could he live with himself when he did? Would he find a way to lead without guilt? He didn’t know.

  To him, the 20-mm gun was a memorial to Hatfield. The gunnery training saved lives, and training would be his number-one priority. Paxton, his XO, would train the crew. The captain’s job, his job, was to train the officers. There were reports of ships losing most of their wardroom in battle and junior ensigns stepping forward to assume command. The crew deserved competent leadership, and it was O’Toole’s job to make sure they had it. He could do at least this without fear of failure. He owed it to them. He bowed his head and prayed for strength.

  Twenty minutes later, he was tending to a stack of shipyard approval forms awaiting his signature. He welcomed the interruption of Doc Strong’s southern drawl behind him.

  “I guessed it would be you.”

  Strong was standing in his doorway. “Doc, good to see you! Welcome aboard!”

  “I think I’m supposed to say, ‘It’s good to be here,’ but, you see, the navy pulled my orders to the San Diego Naval Hospital and sent me here instead. I suspect you had a hand in that.”

  “Guilty as charged. I wanted the best aboard the Farnley, and that’s you.”

  “That’s okay. Hospital work, with all the pretty nurses and a soft, warm bed that doesn’t go bump in the n
ight would get old after the first week. Convoy duty would be exciting compared to hospital duty. With you as skipper, I don’t think boring will be a problem, even on convoy duty.”

  “You bunked down yet?”

  “No, I got aboard and found out who the captain was and came by to say hello.”

  “Go get bunked down, and we can spend some time tomorrow getting caught up.”

  “Good idea. These old bones are getting tired.” Strong sucked in his paunch and turned away when O’Toole said, “Wait. I need you to run those night vision tests of yours.”

  “I figured that was coming sooner or later. Okay if I start on it tomorrow?”

  O’Toole smiled and waved him goodbye.

  §

  Doctor Strong dedicated his free time to waging war against cockroaches, and he was pleased his efforts proved to be valuable to his new ship and patient. While looking for roach migration paths he found several weld gaps between decks, which would destroy watertight integrity. He accompanied O’Toole to the daily meeting at the yard office to deliver a report on the gaps he found.

  Afterward they returned to the pier. Strong hated the pier. It stunk of grease, gasoline, oil, and dirt. It was a crowded and dangerous place unfit for an afternoon stroll, and his shoes scratched on the concrete surface from the grime. Designed for four ships, the pier now held six and was awash in workers, equipment, and trucks. The noisy diesel of a crane spat noxious fumes as the crane hefted pallets aboard a cargo ship abreast the Farnley. Another crane swung wooden crates overhead from a flatbed truck to the pier.

  “Hang on a minute. We’ve been waiting for line-handling winches. I want to see if they’re in those crates,” O’Toole said.

  Strong’s gremlin popped out of the shadows; they both enjoyed the discovery of treasure hunts. The crates were stacked three high and arranged haphazardly. They wandered the maze looking for the winches when he heard a sound like a whimper.