“Sir, the proficiency standards are unrealistic. Even if we had the time, which we don’t, we could never reach those standards, they’re impossible.”
“Never say never or impossible on board this ship, XO.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Those standards are achievable. They were the standards on my last ship, the Able. Never underestimate your men. They are better than you believe. Raise your standards above theirs. That’s leadership. That’s how you make a good ship a great ship.”
Paxton did not try to respond.
“What did you ask the officers and chief for when you put this together?”
“I told them what you wanted and asked them to give me some ideas, and—”
“First, this is not about what I want. It’s about what you want unless you want to do something different than I asked for. Do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Second, you didn’t tell them why this is necessary, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you seen any action yet?”
“Most of my sea time was on convoy duty. There were a few skirmishes with subs, but nothing major.”
“We, you and I, should expect this ship will see much worse. The Japs are better than good, and they have this samurai thing going on in their head. What do you know about the battle of Kogeri?”
“Just the stories about you and the Able. It’s some amazing stuff: the Able single-handedly shot down fifty planes, sank three destroyers and a cruiser. You never said anything, and I know you hate the nickname Terror so I put it out of my mind.”
“That amazing stuff is what this is about and why we’re doing this. Without the training on the Able, hundreds of men would have died. Get Chief Starret and make sure every man aboard this ship hears his story about the training and the battle. He’s so damn proud of the Able’s gunnery crew he’ll bust his buttons telling the story. The crew is smart enough to figure out the rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One other thing, XO. Because every man aboard this ship has more training or experience than the crew on the Able, I expect the Farnley to be better than the Able.”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
O’Toole nodded.
“Holy shit!”
O’Toole swallowed the smile creeping across his face. “You got it, XO. That’s a good way to summarize the Farnley’s proficiency standards. If it doesn’t reach the holy-shit level, it’s not adequate.”
“Holy shit.”
“Can your plan achieve the proficiency standards I gave you?”
“No sir,” Paxton said. The clock on O’Toole’s desk read 1510. “Is it okay if I revise this plan and give you the plan tomorrow morning?”
“No, XO, tomorrow is not okay. I said I wanted a workable draft by today. Stop making me repeat myself. Revise your plan in six hours; I will see you at 2100 hours. You’re dismissed.”
§
Once Paxton left, O’Toole glanced at his check-off list; only one major item left. The Farnley’s permanent chronometers weren’t aboard yet, and without them navigation would be impossible. He found Quartermaster Skittle on the bridge, inventorying a stack of charts.
“Skittle, what’s the word on our chronometers?”
“Yes, sir. They said they would deliver them about 1600 hours, but they’ll be late. They always are. I got the brass polish all ready to clean them.”
Brass polish?
The brass-cased chronometers rested in a three-way gimbal system to keep them level at sea. He had never seen a tarnished chronometer. “What do you mean, Skittle?”
“I figured with the war and all we would never get new ones. The navy probably has a bunch of banged-up chronometers left over from the Great War sitting on a shelf collecting dust for twenty years. They will give us one of those, so I’ll need to polish them for a month to get them up to snuff.”
“Skittle, don’t worry, they’ll be adequate.”
“Never works for me, sir.”
Exasperated, O’Toole left the bridge and continued his checklist of last-minute items. At 1610 hours, a messenger informed him the chronometers were aboard and required his signature.
When O’Toole entered the chartroom, the chronometers sat in their drawer, and Skittle hovered over them.
“Are they new?” Skittle asked the technician.
“They’re brand new.”
“I hoped we would get older used ones so I would know they’ll work once we get to sea. New ones aren’t reliable because the navy doesn’t test them at sea. A lot can go wrong with them, you know.”
The technician’s face drooped, and his eyes pleaded with O’Toole for rescue.
“Do I need to sign something for you?” O’Toole asked.
The technician snapped out of his doldrums. “Yes, sir. Need you to sign here,” the technician said, pointing to a line on a clipboard.
O’Toole signed, and the technician darted for the door.
“Are you satisfied, Skittle?”
“I guess we just deal with them. When the seas get rough there is no way to know if they will hold up. I’ll hope for the best, but—”
“They will be fine, Skittle. At least they’re already polished.”
“I was out of polish, and I had to search high and low for more. All that work wasted.”
§
March 12, 1943
Ubella Atoll
Piper Feakes basked in the warm tropical sun and reveled in the gentle sea breeze flowing over his mountaintop perch. Only the fluttering palms and the occasional flap of the camouflage netting broke the silence. Seated on some cool grass, Piper Feakes sighed and began another scan of the Pacific horizon through his binoculars.
This is heaven on earth.
His perch atop the highest peak on Ubella afforded a 360-degree view of the sky and brilliant blue ocean surrounding Ubella. Ubella Atoll was a strange bird. Both a minor island chain and an atoll, Ubella was the largest in a string of three or four dozen islands. At the center of the string sat a three-mile-wide circular coral atoll, probably the remnants of a volcanic mountain range from millions of years ago.
After the disaster at Kogeri, the Allies sent him to Ubella, a far larger and more hospitable home.
“Pip?”
It was Fau, an islander who worked with him. Feakes took a drink from his canteen and said, “Slow day today; not a single ship or plane. I’m headed to my hut to catch some shut-eye, be back before dark,” he said.
Fau sat down beside him, and Feakes slid the canvas pouch containing the ship and aircraft identification silhouettes toward him before heading to his hut halfway down the hill.
§
The crews worked around the clock to finish the fit-out and inspection. An hour after dinner, O’Toole headed aft to check the work on one of the quad 40-mm Bofors.
Sailors and workers crowded the port main deck, and Ship Shape was in the midst of it all; he always popped up when something interesting was happening. Ship Shape spotted him and trotted up the port side toward him. Ship Shape swatted at something on his muzzle and repeated the motion several times. It took a second for O’Toole to understand what was happening. As Ship Shape passed a crewman, the crewman saluted, and Ship Shape wasn’t swatting at his muzzle, he was returning the salutes.
O’Toole stopped and waited for Ship Shape to reach him. With his tail wagging, Ship Shape stopped and cocked his head as if asking, “You want something?”
O’Toole saluted Ship Shape, and Ship Shape returned the salute. “Who taught you to salute?” O’Toole asked.
Ship Shape took the comment as praise, and his tail tempo increased to flank speed. O’Toole shook his head and cautioned Ship Shape, “Just stay out of trouble.”
On the opposite side of the Bofor deck, a crane hook swung up and out of the way, and three sailors scooted underneath the quad-barreled Bofor to bolt it down. Chiefs Starret and Grubowski were supervising.
It seemed the
Good Lord had assembled Chief Grubowski, the lead boatswain mate, from spare parts. He had the square head of a boxer whose hydraulic ram arms jutted out of his fifty-five-gallon chest while his torso sat atop the waist and legs of a ballet dancer.
“Everything okay?” O’Toole asked.
Grubowski yanked the half-smoked cigar from the corner of his mouth and pointed it at the crane. “Freaking yard-bird crane operator damn near dropped the gun overboard. Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll square his ass away.”
Chief Starret smiled, “Everything’s fine, Captain. We’re done here in another ten minutes.”
“So you’re ready for sea after commissioning?”
“Yes, sir,” Starret answered.
Grubowski huffed.
“You got problems, Chief?”
Grubowski huffed again before replying, “It’s the damned pencil-necked navy inspectors running around with their little clipboards and check-off lists. Most of them couldn’t tell the difference between a marlinspike and the Washington Monument. They’re wasting my time and in my way.”
“We’ll be underway in a few days, and they will be out of our lives forever.”
“Speaking of underway,” Starret began, “I don’t know what you did to the XO, but the transit to Pearl is going to be noisy. Promise me we aren’t going to receive an invitation to visit an admiral upon arrival.”
O’Toole chuckled. “Not going to happen, I promise. Did the XO put you on stage to tell the story of the Battle of Kogeri?”
“Yes, sir, told the story to five groups on the mess deck, and the message got through loud and clear.”
“You kept to the facts, right?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely, Captain. It’s a good sea story all by itself. Not a single word of exaggeration. I swear.”
“Oh crap.”
Both men laughed and went their ways.
§
Paxton pulled the officers and chief petty officers together on the mess deck, handed out mimeographed copies of the proficiency standards, and asked the group how they would achieve them.
To his surprise, no one objected, but several men scratched their heads. An hour later, a skeleton plan was in place, and each officer and chief would fill in the details within the next two hours.
At 2100 hours, Paxton looked for O’Toole. He wasn’t in his cabin, but he found him in the wardroom. He ran into Doc Strong as he entered. O’Toole was reading recent message traffic, and three other officers sat at the far end of the table chatting. Strong filled a coffee cup and joined the officers at the far end of the table. Paxton hoped this round with O’Toole would go better than the last one.
“Is now a good time?” he asked.
“Well?”
“I think I’ve got it, Captain.”
“Think? Do you or don’t you?”
Paxton cursed at himself for his choice of words and replied, “I’ve got it, sir.” He made sure his voice was strong with a positive tone; he didn’t want to give O’Toole an opening. The other officers in the wardroom continued chatting while pretending not to eavesdrop.
Paxton walked O’Toole through the plan department by department, expecting questions or objections, but none came. When he reached the section on the daily schedule, his pulse quickened and his nerves tingled. He feared this part because it pulled everything together. O’Toole remained silent. Paxton worried; the silence might be good or bad. O’Toole sat still for several seconds scanning the papers spread on the table.
“XO, this is a good plan. I like the way you used normal duty rotation to save time and reduce crew fatigue. The plan is better than what I used on the Able. I can’t think of a single improvement I could suggest.”
Paxton blinked. He was ready for anything except that.
“Can you do this, XO?” O’Toole asked.
“We can do it. The crew will be tired when we reach Pearl, but the chiefs said the crew is behind the plan 100 percent.”
“Wait,” O’Toole said. “I just realized it, there is something missing. In our drills, we need to include handling casualties and getting them to Battle Dressing, and we need abandon-ship drills including evacuation of the wounded. The drills should also include the men in Battle Dressing so they know how to handle a large number of casualties all at once.”
“I hadn’t thought about that, but won’t that type of training be hard on morale?”
Doc Strong stood up. “Captain, we don’t need training on how to handle casualties. What are you going to do? Shoot a bunch of men so I can stitch them up? I don’t need practice doing that.”
O’Toole slid sideways in his chair to face Strong. “I disagree. The men will feel better if they know they are going to get to Battle Dressing and get the best care possible. I know you can treat the men, but I don’t think the crew knows how to manage casualties, and I am not sure you and your pharmacist mates know how manage a large group of casualties in a short period of time.”
“We did damned good on the Able. We do not need to include casualty management in the drills,” Strong said.
“Yes, you did a good job on the Able, but it might have been better. We had wounded men scattered all over the ship. That’s not adequate. You and your pharmacist mates will train with the rest of the crew.”
“I protest,” Strong said.
“Overruled,” O’Toole said.
Strong sat back down in a huff.
O’Toole lifted his voice. “XO, I would say this plan is well north of adequate. Far better than what I put together on the Able. Tidy it up, add the casualty management and abandon-ship drills, put it across the mimeo machine, and hand out copies.”
Paxton’s bleary eyes cleared, and he tried to suppress a wide smile, “Adequate?”
“Yes, north of adequate. Did I stutter?”
25
March 14, 1943
Headquarters Naval Ordnance Command Pacific; Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
Admiral March puzzled over the strange message from the Farnley’s captain. Since he’d relieved Admiral Garrett a month ago he was still learning the job, and he never expected such an unusual request.
USN MESSAGE
1823 19430314
FROM USS FARNLEY
TO COMNAVORDPAC
Farnley will leave Oakland with full ammunition load-out. Request gunnery training allowance be doubled to thirty percent of load-out.
Lt. Cmdr Patrick O’Toole, Captain USS Farnley
The navy increased the training allowance to fifteen percent of load-out two months ago. Why would this ship want thirty percent, and on what basis?
He was about to deny the request when the captain’s name caught his eye.
O’Toole. The name is familiar. What was it? The battle of Colari . . . Kolagi . . . Koguri? No Kogeri. O’Toole? Is this Terror O’Toole?
He hadn’t seen the official reports, but even if the scuttlebutt was half right, O’Toole had pull in high places, and the message sounded like he expected approval.
March decided not to tempt fate. He marked the request approved and put it in his out basket.
§
March 16, 1943
Oakland Naval Yard; Oakland, California
O’Toole’s mind and body buzzed somewhere between complete exhaustion and unlimited energy. His mother, grandfather, and grandmother had arrived the day before and joined Kate for the commissioning ceremony. Up an hour earlier than normal, he soon realized for him, the day would be like his wedding day: a blur of activity driven by a relentless clock. Before him lay a mountain of preparations and a short ceremony followed by a reception for dignitaries. All eyes would be on him; he would become the captain of a ship-of-the-line.
He needed to find Ship Shape and turn him over to someone so he wouldn’t stick his nose in the commissioning ceremony. Sometimes Ship Shape liked to hang out at the gangway to keep track of those coming and going, so O’Toole headed aft. He asked the first sailor he encountered, “Do you know where Ship Shape is?”
> “They’re serving chow; check the mess deck, sir.”
O’Toole reversed course and found Ship Shape enjoying breakfast with the crew. Dressed in a tailored white navy jumper complete with neckerchief and seaman stripes, Ship Shape pranced between the tables begging.
“Who gave Ship Shape the jumper?” O’Toole asked the crowd of sailors in their dress whites. His voice carried over the crowd noise and clanging metal mess trays. A few men laughed, and the mess deck filled with body language denying all knowledge of Ship Shape’s uniform.
O’Toole spotted Chief Grubowski walking through. “Chief, could you do something for me?”
Grubowski turned and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Who made the jumper for Ship Shape?”
“Don’t know, but he’s strutting his stuff. I think he likes it.”
“Ship Shape is pretty full of himself, and I need your help. He gets his nose into everything, and I don’t want his nose in the commissioning ceremony. Could you find someone to keep an eye on him and keep him out of the way?”
“Will do, Captain.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
To Ship Shape, Grubowski said, “Ship Shape, aten-hut!”
Ship Shape snapped into a stiff-legged statue and stared straight ahead.
“Forward, march!” Grubowski said and walked off with Ship Shape in step behind him.
§
As a courtesy, Admiral Murphy timed his arrival at the Farnley to 0730 hours, a mere thirty minutes before the commissioning ceremony. An admiral underfoot right before the ceremony was the last thing a commissioning ship needed. As Commandant of the shipyard, he spent a good portion of his time commissioning ships, but this one would be different.
Everyone knew the story of Kogeri and the heroics of Terror O’Toole. The war was but a year old, and O’Toole had earned a purple heart, a bronze star, and a silver star. The admiral hadn’t met O’Toole and wondered if so young an officer could measure up to his reputation.
The watch posted at the gangway handled him efficiently, and a junior officer escorted him to the fantail. To the right of the podium, the twenty steel chairs draped in white awaited the guests. O’Toole’s family and the ship sponsor sat in the first row.
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 20