“Time I ain’t got, sir,” Grubowski growled. “We got lots going on with this training, I got watches to stand, and I still got my own work. Maybe after we get to Pearl if I feel like it.”
Strong was at a loss. He smiled weakly. “Well, thank you, Chief. That would be nice.”
§
The four-inch brass clock on O’Toole’s desk chimed four bells. He put down his reading and rubbed his eyes. It was 2200 hours, and he still had hours of reading to finish. The ship gently rolled as its bow gracefully crested each swell. The ship’s movements hadn’t changed for hours. Vaguely aware of the ship’s vibration and the sound of air blowing into his small cabin from some distant blower, he stood up and stretched. Another day was almost done. He worried he was neglecting his officers, so despite the late hour, he picked up his reading and headed to the wardroom to make himself available. As expected, the wardroom was empty, but he poured himself a cup of coffee and returned to his reading. Someone would show; the wardroom never stayed empty when the ship was at sea.
Soon the door opened and Strong strolled in. “Late night, Captain?”
“Always a late night.”
“What you reading?”
“Nothing you would be interested in. Says here the navy is shifting from linear square formations to circular formations to address the threat of aerial attacks. That’s fascinating.”
“Does that fit with your chaos theory?”
“I guess in a way it does. I’ll need to think about it.”
Strong poured himself a cup of coffee. “You might want to know, I talked with Chief Grubowski. He’s been grumbling for two straight days.”
“Bitching is what chief boatswain mates do. So what is Chief Grubowski grumbling about?”
“He’s grumbling because all the men want assignments on the flying bridge during the exercises. Everyone wants to hear your commentary.”
“So what’s the chief going to do?”
“Well, he got the chiefs together, and they got the petty officers together, and they got the junior officers together, and they all decided they would do the same thing so nobody gets left out.”
27
March 25, 1943
USS Farnley; en route to Pearl Harbor
O’Toole spent his days on the bridge or flying bridge and only managed a few hours of sleep a night. In one of the few daylight interludes between drills, O’Toole and Ship Shape napped in the captain’s bridge chair.
“Captain.”
Paxton’s voice snapped O’Toole to full consciousness. “What?” he asked.
“Could we step out on the bridge wing?”
“What’s up, XO?” O’Toole asked.
“Competition is getting fierce on the proficiency standings. A few scuffles have broken out among the crew.”
“Scuffles, not fights, right?”
“Scuffles.”
“What do the chiefs say?”
“As long as no one gets hurt, ignore them.”
“What do you say?”
“It’s a breakdown of discipline. We’ve got to stop the fighting.”
O’Toole thought about that response for a second; now was the time to loosen Paxton’s hawsers.
“Are the scuffles getting in the way of training?”
“No.”
“Is anyone not doing their job?”
“No.”
“Anyone not following orders?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want to stop, XO?”
“The fighting.”
“What’s causing the fights?”
“Don’t know.”
“The men are getting good at their duties, and they know it. The better they get, the cockier they get. The cockier they get, the more fights there will be. The problem, if you want to call it that, is not the fights, it’s esprit de corps.”
“But Captain, the fights are a breakdown in discipline.”
“No, XO, the fights are because of the training you’re giving them, and the discipline that follows from the training. Your Holy Shit Proficiency Scores set up a competition aboard ship. That’s a good thing.”
“Do you think posting the proficiency scores is causing this? If so, I’ll stop posting them.”
“I think you are missing the point. The proficiency scores make the men proud because the scores are a tangible measure of how good they are becoming. Take away the proficiency scores, and you take the wind out of their sails, and you put your training program at risk. Clamp down on the fighting, and they won’t be able to show their pride. Do that and esprit de corps suffers. Trust me, they’ll stop fighting each other as soon as we meet the Japs.”
“Are you saying the fights are good for morale?”
“Not quite. They’re because of good morale. Good morale is magic and fragile. I wouldn’t fiddle with the magic, XO.”
“Yes, sir.”
O’Toole grimaced. “My grandfather used to post a list of the ten best fishing hauls of the season and of all time on his fishing schooner. He listed the weight of the catch and the names of the dory boat crews. About once a week at dinner he would regale the crew about how hard and wonderful those days were. Each day he posted the catch from each dory boat. Why do you think he did that?”
“Competition?”
“Competition and standards. Everyone likes to break records, and no one likes to come in last. The dory boat crews worked their butts off to outdo the other crews and to get a day listed in the top ten. When they succeeded, they knew they had accomplished something special.
“That’s what you’re doing here. Don’t take their sense of accomplishment away from them.”
§
O’Toole relaxed, leaning against the chest-high bulkhead surrounding the bridge wing. The sky was clear, and the sun burned at his face. The sea was calm except for its random pulse.
Ensign Navarro, the weapons officer, Chief Starret and Paxton approached. “You wanted to see us, Captain?”
“Yes, I was wondering what the problem was with mount 51. During the last rapid and continuous firing drill, their rate of fire trailed off after a minute or two.”
“We don’t have enough big men to load the shells and powder casings. After twenty or twenty-five rounds their arms turn to rubber handing the fifty-pound shells and casings,” Starret said.
The words prick, bastard, and SOB echoed through O’Toole’s head; he hated moments like this, but there was a solution somewhere. He promised himself he would not fall short again where his men were concerned. He settled on SOB.
“Inadequate. How do you intend to change things so our rate of fire doesn’t trail off?”
“Could we rotate men in the mount?” Navarro asked.
“Could, but the men would require more training,” Starret said.
“There isn’t enough time to do that,” Paxton said, shaking his head.
Starret shrugged.
O’Toole scratched the back of his neck. “Gentlemen, you’re trying to change the rules of a game you can’t win. How do we change the game?”
“We can’t requisition bigger men,” Navarro said, pleading.
“If we can’t requisition bigger men, can we build them?” O’Toole asked.
The three men glanced at each other and stood silent, trying to avoid eye contact with O’Toole. O’Toole knew how to fix the problem but feared his blind spot and the previous failures it had caused. He decided to stay silent until someone else spoke.
The silence continued for what seemed like an eternity before Navarro spoke up. “Calisthenics?”
“Calisthenics?” Starret said.
“What?” said Paxton.
Navarro’s voice filled with confidence. “In college I was on the boxing and wrestling teams. Even the guys in the lowest weight classes were strong enough to load ammo for hours. We built our strength through calisthenics.”
“We do calisthenics every morning now,” Starret said.
“You do twenty-five of eve
rything. For men in weapons we go to one hundred of everything, and in a month, our gun crews won’t slow down until we run out of ammo,” Paxton said.
“That’s imp—tough,” Starret said, glancing at O’Toole.
“Where we are now isn’t adequate. Toughen them up.” O’Toole said.
“Start first thing tomorrow,” Paxton said, addressing Navarro and Starret. “In a month, we’ll find out if the extra workouts fix the problem.”
§
Paxton left the bridge filled with dread fueled by an undefined frustration he couldn’t get his head around. Every man in the weapons department will bitch about the extra calisthenics. He’d be the fall guy and the one who needed to deal with the morale problems. Somehow, he needed to get in front of the problem, but he was at a loss for ideas. He headed off in search of Doc Strong and found him atop a capstan on the fantail, puffing his pipe.
“Doc you got a few minutes?”
Strong let out a small cloud of smoke as if in deep thought. “Well, I don’t think I have any appointments scheduled.”
“The captain’s got me in trouble again, and I wondered if you might have some ideas how to get out of it.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Paxton filled Strong in on the bridge conversation and the morale problems the extra calisthenics would create.
“Well,” said Strong, “if the crew is as bored as I am, they’re itching for something to bitch about; it’ll give them something to do. You’re a bit upset about the conversation with the captain, aren’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“Upset at who?”
“The captain, I guess.”
“You knew the firing rate was substandard?
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you do something?”
“Couldn’t come up with an answer.”
“And now the captain ordered you to up the daily calisthenics?”
“No, I ordered them.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“Navarro’s.”
“Well, it seems to me there was a problem, and you and Navarro had the answer. All the captain did was pull it out of you. Might I suggest you get out in front of the captain next time?”
“I try, but his brain goes places I can’t even dream of.”
“If you’re dreaming, you’re asleep at the switch. The captain thinks in basics, and everything fits into two categories: adequate and inadequate. Whatever is not the best it can be is inadequate, and bet your bottom dollar you’ll hear about it.”
“In spades. Why didn’t the captain just tell me to fix it?” Paxton asked.
“Good question. His mother was a teacher, he married a teacher, and he is a teacher, but he hasn’t realized that yet. I think teaching just comes natural to him.”
“What is he trying to teach?”
“What type of answers does he look for?”
“An answer that doesn’t contain a no, if, but, or impossible in it or an easy answer with a standard operating procedure ring to it.”
“There you have it. Sounds as if he’s teaching you how to think,” Strong said, relighting his pipe.
“But what about the morale problem?”
“Not my problem. What are you going to do?”
Paxton thought for a second. “I need to talk to Navarro and Chief Starret.”
“Good answer. Anything else on your mind?”
§
Over the next three days, the proficiency ratings climbed toward the ninety percent mark. The last ten percent was the difference between good and spectacular and would be the hardest. On his morning visit to the mess deck, O’Toole noticed that someone had changed the masthead on the sheets taped to the bulkhead. They had penciled in “Terror of the Pacific” after the Farnley’s name.
O’Toole smiled to himself; the legend would never die. As he pushed his way thought the crowd, Paxton nudged him from behind.
They walked to a small deserted spot on the mess deck. “You created a monster, XO.”
Paxton wiped his hand across his forehead and said, “Looks like it. There have been a few more fights. I think you’re right. The crew’s itching for the real thing. They’re good, and they know it. I would hate to be the first Jap we meet.”
“Me too. It will be a bad day for him. Are you going to change the masthead on your score sheets?”
“I thought about that after our discussion about the fights. The crew came up with the Terror stuff, and it belongs to them. If I adopt it, well . . .”
“Good thinking and good choice. Do you think the crew will hit a hundred percent by the time we reach Pearl?”
Paxton cocked his head, and grinned, “I don’t think we will, I know we will. Those are ambitious standards. My feeling is most scores will come in at a hundred percent, give or take two percent. Some will blow the top off, and a few will lag behind. Overall, I didn’t believe we could get to where we are now. You’re one hell of a skipper, sir.”
“Paxton, check your diary. I didn’t do a thing. You did it all, including handling the bridge during the drills.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Did you take charge of drawing up the training plan?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get the crew stoked up on it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you organize and orchestrate the drills?”
“Yes.”
“Did you monitor the results and track the progress?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t think I’m hard of hearing, but I didn’t hear my name in that discussion. You did it. You own it. Good job, XO. Matter of fact, it’s a damned adequate job, that is, if you get to the one hundred percent neighborhood, which you will.”
“But—”
“Anything else you need to talk to me about?”
“No, sir.”
“Then go find something useful to do. You’re dismissed, XO.”
§
March 27, 1943
USS Farnley; Pearl Harbor, Oahu, Hawaii
O’Toole was proud of Paxton. As predicted, they reached Pearl Harbor with a crew that measured up to the Holy Shit standards. They set the navigation watch and navigated the channel to the harbor.
O’Toole thought about how a man’s perspective changed when he became captain. The Farnley was the navy’s newest ship, and he the navy’s youngest captain. He worried that once they entered the harbor all eyes would be on the Farnley, and he wanted to make a smart military harbor crossing and mooring.
A man on each bridge wing called bearings to pre-determined landmarks to Skittle, who triangulated their position. Twice a minute, Skittle would give the conning officer his position within ten yards.
Strong strolled over to O’Toole in the captain’s chair. “Mind if I hang out up here? I might learn something.”
“No, just stay clear of the doorways.”
“Where’s Ship Shape?”
“He wanted to help the line handlers this morning.”
“Who’s bringing the ship in?”
“Ensign Mock. He hasn’t brought the ship into a harbor or tied up to a mooring buoy yet. Paxton will stay close to him and keep him out of trouble.”
I hope.
“So we’re going to tie up to one of those big bobbers.” Strong said, peering out one of the bridge portholes.
“They’re mooring buoys.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that next time.”
Strong’s gremlin giggled and dove back into the shadows.
O’Toole shrugged and wondered if his effort to teach Strong things nautical was a lost cause.
“This evolution is similar to anchoring, except it’s easier. You need to drop anchor on an imaginary spot in the ocean when you’re anchoring. Here with the mooring buoy you can see your target.”
“That seems easy enough. Steer over to the bobber and hook up.”
“Doc, you’re hopeless.”
“Fifty yards to the buoy, d
ead ahead,” Skittle announced.
A few seconds later, Skittle reported, “Forty yards to the buoy, dead ahead. Wind at one-eight-zero relative at five knots and is gusting.”
Skittle had changed his report, and O’Toole’s brain lit up. He looked at the anemometer. The wind had shifted from the port beam to the stern.
“Mister Mock, the quartermaster is talking to you.”
Both Paxton and Mock turned their heads. Confused, Mock said, “Very well,” to acknowledge Skittle’s report.
“Thirty yards to the buoy, dead ahead,” Skittle said. With a louder, firmer voice he added, “Wind still at one-eight-zero relative and gusting.”
Mock frowned at Skittle and said, “Very well.”
O’Toole considered his options: intervene or let the wind drive the Farnley into the buoy.
Nothing too bad can happen; let him learn.
“Twenty yards to the buoy. Wind at one-eight-zero relative and increasing.”
Last chance.
A gust of wind swept across the harbor, embraced the Farnley’s superstructure, and pushed the ship bow-on into buoy. The ship shook, the buoy rang like a bell over a loud metallic thud.
Skittle announced, “You have reached the buoy, sir.”
O’Toole cringed at the sound. The Farnley just lost her virginity with that dent, he thought.
What the hell, there will be many more.
O’Toole turned to Skittle and said, “Skittle, good job on your position and wind reports.”
“Thank you, sir, but it didn’t help much.”
Once moored, Paxton stayed with Ensign Mock, debriefing him on his approach. Paxton finished talking to Mock, and O’Toole walked over to both men and said, “That might have been an adequate mooring if you paid better attention to your quartermaster. The next time your quartermaster changes what he reports to you, listen and figure out what he’s telling you. Ask if it doesn’t make sense. It’ll be easier on the equipment.”
“Yes, sir,” Mock said.
To Paxton, O’Toole said, “XO, Mister Mock dented my ship and undoubtedly scratched the paint. Find Chief Grubowski and have him put Mister Mock in a bosun’s chair, lower his butt over the side with a bucket of paint, and let Mister Mock paint out any scratches or scuff marks.”
“Yes, sir.”
O’Toole scowled at Mock. “Mister Mock, you dented my ship. Your mooring was inadequate. Do an adequate paint job, and I’ll forget this incident. Don’t dent my ship again.”
Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series) Page 23