“Did you hear something?” Strong asked.
“Yeah, it came from over there,” O’Toole said.
Strong walked toward the sound. A small, shivering dog lay between two crates, licking a bloody front paw. “Captain, over here.”
O’Toole rounded the stack of crates and said, “Poor thing.”
The dog was emaciated, and dirt and grease matted its semi-long hair. Warily, the dog looked at him.
“Poor thing is scared to death,” O’Toole said.
“I’ll find one of the yard foremen to take care of him,” Strong said.
“No need. We can take care of him.”
“His front paw is wounded.”
“He needs a doctor for sure. Know where I can find one?”
“He’s a dog, not a human.”
“The dog’s paw is probably cut. You know how to fix cuts don’t you?”
“But he’s a dog.”
O’Toole approached the dog and bent over to examine the bloody paw. The dog yelped and pulled the paw back in pain, his eyes pleading. O’Toole gently picked the dog up and turned toward Strong. “You can see surrender in his eyes. All the fight in him is gone. He’s hanging limp in my arms and would suffer any fate we handed him. You need to fix him up, Doc.”
Strong fell into the dogs’ pleading black eyes and melted. “Well, he’s malnourished, filthy, and he has a bum paw. I can manage that much.”
An hour later, a messenger told O’Toole Strong wanted him to come to the mess deck. At the bottom of the mess deck ladder he found a group of sailors huddled around the dog with a large bandage on his front paw. Strong had obviously given the dog a bath, and his markings were clearer. The dog was a cross between a rat terrier and an explosion at a wig factory. The dog’s white coat was fine-haired but unruly, and silver socks marked each foot. Bushy whiskers and eyebrows framed the short silver hair on the dog’s face, and the black, white-tipped ears gave the dog an aura of cocky impertinence. The dog’s uncertain eyes were wondering what all the fuss was about, but a promising but uncertain sparkle flickered in his eyes.
Strong approached O’Toole and said, “Poor dog is almost too weak to stand. The cooks whipped up a mixture of rice, cereal, and sugar for him, and he inhaled two bowls. If he keeps his lunch down, we’ll try giving him some meat tomorrow.”
“What about the paw?”
“I took a sharp piece of metal out of the paw and stitched the cut closed. I suspect he’ll be okay in a few days.”
O’Toole crouched to pet the dog and was rewarded with a long, gentle kiss on the cheek.
“What’s going on here?”
O’Toole recognized Paxton’s stern voice and replied, “We rescued a dog off the pier.”
“We can’t keep a dog on board.”
“Yes we can, XO.”
“Okay, we’ll keep it till it’s healthy and then find it a home.”
“Sure.”
O’Toole didn’t want to push the issue yet. Paxton’s marine haircut told the world he was a tough rules-and-regulations officer. O’Toole wanted a strong, competent executive officer, and Paxton was that and more. Even though Paxton was friendly and sociable, his heart-of-stone aura grated on O’Toole. He needed to put some slack in Paxton’s hawsers, but he hadn’t figured out how to do it yet.
23
Strong took a liking to his new patient and as yet unnamed mutt. The crew nicknamed him Captain Mutt since he followed O’Toole around most of the day and otherwise roamed the ship freely.
Strong sat at his desk stitching a white navy jumper when Seaman Dodson appeared at the door. “Excuse me, sir.”
Strong jumped and hid the navy jumper behind him with a jerk. “Yes.”
“Sorry to bother you, but Chief Starret told me to tell you there’s an outbreak of roaches in forward berthing.”
Strong shivered. “Okay, I’ll get the pharmacist mates to spray first thing in the morning. Damn, I hate cockroaches. Tell the guys to stop bringing snacks into the berthing areas.”
“Yes, sir.”
Strong retrieved the white jumper from behind his back and asked, “Have you seen Captain Mutt lately?”
“He’s in aft berthing, trolling for sympathy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he comes up to the guys, hobbling on three legs with his front paw sticking out. The guys feel sorry for him and start petting him and all. He gets his fill of sympathy then trots off like nothing is wrong until someone else comes along. Then he starts hobbling again.”
“Con artist?”
“Professional con artist.”
“I’ll talk to him about it,” Strong said with a smile. “In the meantime, I need to see him about a fitting.”
§
That evening when O’Toole was about to turn in, there was a scratching sound at his door. He opened the door, and the dog marched in, swiveled his head to examine the small space, jumped up in O’Toole’s bunk, lay down on the pillow, and stared at O’Toole. O’Toole stared back for several seconds before giving up. The dog’s unruly coat struck O’Toole as unmilitary. O’Toole said, “You’re not shipshape. Maybe we can square you away.”
O’Toole took his hairbrush and brushed the dog down until the unruly coat surrendered and lay flat. “Now that’s better,” O’Toole said.
The dog jumped off the pillow into the center of the cabin. He turned his head to gaze back over his shoulder and scowled at O’Toole. The dog planted his feet wide and shook from stem to stern, then craned his neck to check his work. His hair was back to its original unruly state, or so O’Toole thought. The dog shook and inspected his work again. Satisfied, the dog sat down and glared at O’Toole. O’Toole interpreted the dog’s facial expression as, “There, that’s better.”
“You’re a mess. You’re not shipshape,” O’Toole replied. “And that’s your name: Ship Shape.”
O’Toole undressed while Ship Shape supervised. Once O’Toole climbed into bed, Ship Shape jumped up and curled his warm body around O’Toole’s head. O’Toole looked at the statue of Commodore Barry with his outstretched arm for several minutes before drifting off into a deep, peaceful slumber.
§
Kate’s train would arrive in an hour, and O’Toole fought for a half-hour to get off the ship. He almost managed to get to the pier several times, but each time a new emergency thwarted his efforts. He could delay no longer, so he told them, “Take your problems to the XO.”
He caught a cab to the train station and arrived on the platform just as the train’s brakes exhaled with a loud whooshing sound. A throng of passengers soon filled the platform, and he craned his neck trying to get a glimpse of Kate.
Through the crowd, he spotted Kate’s auburn hair in a Veronica Lake Victory Hairdo, and she wore a navy blue Sears Roebuck dress with blue Montgomery Ward pumps. At five foot two, she struggled with the two large suitcases. He ran to her, shouting her name. She caught his voice and lifted her head, dropped the suitcases, and ran toward him.
They embraced in a bear hug that dissolved into gentleness. Her soft body curled into his. With her face buried in his neck, her perfume filled his senses. He pushed the war, its horrors, panic, fear, and revulsion, into the deepest part of his soul where she would never find them. He surrendered to her. Their bodies and souls danced, intermingled, and became one, and a deep sigh escaped from his lips. He felt safe and loved. It had been a long time since he had felt that.
After a moment, Kate cautiously pushed him away. Her face turned serious and concerned. She gazed into his eyes, probing, asking if he was still the same man she married. He wanted to please her, so he smiled at her the way she liked. She returned his smile. They hugged again.
O’Toole picked up the suitcases and said, “Come on, the cabs are this way.”
“Paddy,” Kate began, “I’ve been dying to ask you, what do you want to do with the living room lamp your grandfather gave us?”
“I don’t know. Put it in the living room
, I guess.”
“But the lamp doesn’t match the chairs.”
O’Toole smiled, he knew this game. “Why don’t you tell me the right answer, so we don’t have to play twenty questions?”
“I think we should put it in the attic,” she said.
“Well, I think you should put it in the attic.”
“You’re right, dear; I’ll put it in the attic.” They both laughed.
After he got Kate settled in at the hotel, they headed for one of the nicer dinner clubs. He wanted Kate to meet Strong, so he invited Strong to come along, but Kate wasn’t too keen on the idea. Strong was waiting for them in a booth next to the dance floor.
“Kate, this is Leroy Strong, my ship’s doctor,” O’Toole said.
Kate seemed surprised. “Glad to meet you, Leroy. Paddy told me all about you in his letters. I thought you would be a little younger.”
Strong sucked in his paunch. “I wish I was younger. And call me Doc, everyone else does.”
The waitress took their drink orders. Kate wanted a Shirley Temple, Strong asked for Kentucky bourbon, and O’Toole ordered Irish whiskey on the rocks.
Kate beamed at O’Toole and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so proud of Paddy being a ship’s captain.”
“Not a captain yet,” O’Toole said. “That doesn’t come until the ship is commissioned.”
Strong stared into his drink. “Technicalities. Kate, if there ever was a man made to be a destroyer captain, your husband is it. Heck, he’s a legend.”
“A legend?” Kate asked.
O’Toole scowled at Strong.
“He didn’t tell you about the battle of Kogeri?”
O’Toole doubled his scowl. Strong glanced at him.
“What? Is that classified?” Strong asked.
O’Toole doubled down on his scowl again.
“Kate, your husband’s gunners shot down half of the Jap air force. The captain got wounded, and your husband took over the whole ship and single-handedly sank two Jap destroyers and damaged a Jap cruiser before the Able sank. Why, in the navy they call him Terror O’Toole.”
Kate’s facial expression went from surprise to glowing pride before settling on concern. “You told me the Able sank, not that she got sunk. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
O’Toole glared at Strong. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Worry me? You could have been killed!”
Kate’s gave him her you’re-in-trouble-mister look, and she punctuated that thought with a playful blow to his chest. Strong was in his own world, and there was no remorse in his eyes.
Talking to no one, Strong said, “Captain O’Toole. I like the sound of that. It seems right.”
“I’m not a captain yet, and I’m not sure I’m ready for the job,” O’Toole said.
“Not ready? Why not?” Strong asked.
“I don’t have the experience yet to take on the responsibility for over three hundred men.”
“The navy sent me to school after I enlisted,” Strong said. “They taught me that an officer had four primary duties: training, equipment, caring for the men, and leading. You’re one hell of a teacher, you’re the captain of a new ship, you care about your men, and you’re a natural leader. What is there to worry about, Captain?”
Kate settled back in the booth.
“I care about the men, and I don’t want them hurt.”
“No one would expect anything less from a captain, Captain.”
Kate leaned forward. “You will be a great captain. Your grandfather strutted around like a banty rooster for a week when he heard you were going to be a captain. I’m glad he isn’t here. He would have you cleaned, dressed, filleted, and salted by now.”
They sat in silence for several minutes before Kate bent over toward Strong, gave him a kiss on the forehead, and whispered in his ear, “You’re a foxy old scoundrel.” Turning to O’Toole, she said, “Aren’t you ever going to ask me to dance?”
§
Paxton had lost control. His head hurt, and all he wanted was to get away from the milling crowd on the fantail and find some place quiet. Yard workers and crewmembers buzzed at him like moths to a light. Every worker had problems or questions, and every crewman wanted to know what to do. He was at his wit’s end. If he could find his way to the wardroom, he could have ten minutes of quiet. He turned to escape.
“XO?”
Paxton cringed; it was the captain. “Yes, sir.”
“You checked the engineering maintenance schedule?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The blower in aft berthing?”
“Fixed.”
“Hydraulics in mount 53?”
“Done.”
“We’re short bedding in forward berthing.”
“Taken care of: more mattresses are coming this afternoon.”
“Fuel report.”
“On your desk.”
“Has Admiral Murphy been confirmed on the commissioning ceremony?”
“Yes.”
“Is the band lined up?”
“Confirmed yesterday.”
“Parts for the number-three transfer pump?”
“Arrived this morning.”
Paxton took a breath and smiled. He was in control and proud of how much he had accomplished. He half expected a compliment from O’Toole, but he didn’t know why: O’Toole seldom handed out compliments.
“Training plan?”
Paxton’s mind and face went blank. “Training plan?”
“Yes, the training plan I asked you to put together two weeks ago. The plan was due this morning.”
“Captain, I’m sorry, with the rush to finish the fit-out, there wasn’t much time to work on training.”
“That’s inadequate, XO. Training programs take time to work up, and I want training exercises to start at noon the day we leave for Pearl. You’re out of time: we need the plan today.”
“Well, I planned on some gunnery practice, a few man-overboard drills, and—”
“That’s inadequate, XO,” O’Toole began. “I gave you our proficiency standards after I came aboard. I also told you I wanted a draft plan today and a final plan tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Paxton said.
“I rely on you to make sure every man aboard this ship is trained to the best of our and his ability. When we meet the Japs, a few man-overboard drills will not cut it. The men need faith in the officers, their equipment, and their training. They need to know they are not just proficient at their battle stations; they must believe they are better than the Japs. That’s how we win this war; that’s how we keep them alive.”
“I’ll put together a draft plan, can I get it to your tomorrow?” Paxton replied.
“XO, if we were in the South Pacific, tomorrow could be too late, and men would die because you didn’t get around to it. That’s UNSAT and will not happen on my ship.”
“Captain, I can’t get the plan done today—”
“That’s inadequate. You should have thought about that yesterday. So tell me, what part of ‘today’ don’t you understand?”
Paxton was at a loss for words. He was learning there was the United States Navy, the Japanese Navy, the Allied Navies, and O’Toole’s Navy. Terror was more than a battle-earned nickname. “I’ll prepare something for you this evening.”
“That’s inadequate, XO. I’ll give you six hours to put the plan together. You will deliver your plan in my cabin at 1500. Read the proficiency standards I gave you so you know your objective.” Then he walked away as if nothing had happened.
Damn, what’s it take to make him happy?
Paxton headed to Doc Strong’s quarters. Of all the officers, Strong had the best read on the captain, and his quarters were always quiet.
He entered officer’s country, and Strong’s voice filled the passageway. “Salute! Come on boy, salute!”
When Paxton pushed back the curtain, Strong stood at attention saluting Ship Shape, who sat with his head cocked, sta
ring back at Strong.
“Excuse me,” Paxton said. “You were with the captain before, and I was wondering: is he always a hard-ass?”
Embarrassed, Strong broke his salute, and said, “On the Able he was worse than he is now. He’s calmed down a lot. The Able’s crew gave him the nickname Terror, so what do you expect?”
“That’s hard to comprehend. Sometimes I can’t keep up with him, and when I do a good job, he never says anything.”
“Have you got an adequate yet?”
“No, and what’s an adequate?”
“Well, I can’t say I’ve figured it all out yet,” Strong said. “It seems you catch hell or you get silence. Take the silence as a compliment; it means he’s noticed you’re getting the job done. When he believes you’ve done the best job possible he’ll praise you with an adequate. He pats the enlisted men on the back all day long, but officer standards are higher, much higher, so don’t be expecting a pat on the back, especially if you’re a senior officer. You need to get to adequate to get his attention.”
“Or goof up.”
“Well, that too.”
24
At 1500 hours, Paxton entered the captain’s cabin to present his training plan. As Paxton explained his plan, O’Toole’s brow furrowed deeper and deeper.
“This is not adequate, XO. You’ll never reach the proficiency standards with this plan, and the plan is conflicted. You can’t do a man-overboard drill at the same time you’re doing gunnery exercises. Who put this plan together?”
“I did, with input from some of the officers and chiefs.”
“That’s what I guessed, and it’s inadequate. The training needs to be intense and coordinated, or we won’t meet the proficiency standards I set.”
Paxton’s mind went blank. He glanced at the proficiency standards; they were ludicrous, and only a few hours were left to put the plan together. His plan wasn’t perfect, but with a little more work, it would be a good plan.
“You don’t know what I expect,” O’Toole began, “so let me lay things out for you. Get the chiefs and officers together. Build a comprehensive plan to exercise and train every man on this ship. The plan must cover every combat job. Once we leave for Pearl, I want gunfire, alarms, and running feet from sunrise to sunset.”
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 19