Cap'n Fatso

by Daniel V Gallery

  Later, “Jerusalem: The Israeli government has notified the United States that their forces attacked the Liberty by mistake. It expresses regret for the error.”

  Everyone around the table looked at each other for a moment and then said almost as one, “Sorry about that!”

  That evening the boys held what the Naval War College would call an Estimate of the Situation, except that the phraseology used might have been frowned upon at the War College. Modifying adjectives were often used ascribing to inanimate objects capability possessed only by human beings of opposite sex.

  “What do we hear from the Pillsbury, Professor?” asked Fatso.

  “Not a (modifying adjective) thing,” replied the Professor. “I’m checking in with them twice a day, and old Sparky Wright is right on the ball. He answers himself, every time. He says there hasn’t been a word about us in any of the FOX schedules.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Fatso. “It’s ten days now since the Alamo shoved off. Something mighty screwy has happened, and the Sixth Fleet doesn’t know we been left behind. If they did, they would certainly have checked up on us by this time. I’ll bet that fat-headed ship’s clerk on the Alamo will probably send ComSixthFleet a letter about us and mail him our records and pay accounts when they get to Vietnam.”

  “So where does that leave us now, Cap’n,” asked Scuttlebutt.

  “It leaves us paddling our own little canoe all by ourselves out here in the middle of the Mediterranean. We’re abandoned - just about the way the Salem abandoned Charley Noble.”

  “Well, anyway - we ain’t as helpless as we look,” said the Professor. “We got that Marine tank with a 90 mm gun. That’s more than the Liberty had. If anyone tries to pick on us, we could surprise the hell out of them with it.”

  “Yeah. That’s something to think about,” said Fatso. “You can’t see that tank without coming on board. But if we drop the bow ramp, it would give it a pretty good arc of fire - maybe twenty degrees on each bow. What’s the range of that piece, Professor?”

  “Oh, about seven or eight miles,” replied the Professor. “But we couldn’t hit anything smaller than a battleship at that range. But it’s got a high velocity and a real flat trajectory - out to about a mile, we can’t miss with it.”

  “I don’t want to have no trouble with no battleships,” observed Fatso. “No use in being pig-headed about a thing like that. What kind of ammo you got?”

  “Armor piercing, for use against tanks, and shrapnel. 90 mm is about three and one quarter inch - and that’s a pretty good-sized slug.”

  “Okay,” said Fatso. “Let’s move that tank forward so all we’ll hafta do to blaze away is drop the bow ramp. Then if somebody anywheres near our size tries to push us around, we can do business with ‘em. Professor - you are hereby appointed gunnery officer of this ship of war.”

  “Aye aye, sir, Cap’n,” said the Professor. “I’ll wait till I can see the whites of their eyes.”

  “You know, Cap’n,” said the Judge, “ComSixthFleet put out an order recently to all ships, telling when our ships and planes are entitled to shoot. They call it the Rules of Engagement. It says ...”

  “Yeah,” interrupted Fatso. “I heard the officers on the Alamo talking about it. I’ll bet the Liberty was still trying to figure out what the hell it meant when they got clobbered. There used to be something in the regulations about repelling boarders ...”

  “I just looked it up,” said the Judge. “It’s still in the book. Article 0730. It says you shouldn’t allow no foreign ships to board you. It’s real emphatic about it.”

  “Okay - we’ll follow the book on that,” said Fatso.

  “Do you think that Russian is apt to try to board us?” asked Scuttlebutt.

  “No-o-o-o. I don’t think so,” said Fatso, somewhat dubiously. “You notice he’s been pretty polite to us since we nudged him,” he added, hopefully.

  “How about the Israelis?” asked Webfoot.

  “They won’t mess with us,” said Fatso. “After the goof they made on the Liberty, they’ll be very leery of us.”

  “The goddamned Arabs are the ones I would be worried about,” said Ginsberg, “- if they got any ships left.”

  “You got something there, kid,” said Fatso. “The way we took it on the chin in the Liberty business without doing a damn thing about it, they might get the idea they can get away with murder. I wouldn’t like to see one of their ships show up.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Repel Boarders!”

  The next morning, that’s exactly what did come boiling over the horizon - an Egyptian PT boat, making about forty knots. She charged in on the Turtle and started circling at high speed one hundred yards away, stirring up a great wake that tossed the Turtle around like a cork. She was an evil-looking craft with fifty caliber machine guns mounted on each wing of the bridge and two torpedo tubes on her foredeck. She seemed to have a crew of at least two dozen men, some who were standing around with submachine guns.

  “That’s a hell of a big crew they got, for a PT boat,” observed Webfoot.

  “Yeah,” said Fatso. “I have an idea they may have a prize crew aboard.”

  “Oh oh!” said Scuttlebutt. “You think they’ll try to board us?”

  “Could be,” said Fatso. “We’ll soon see.”

  The PT boat circled them three times, obviously giving them a close inspection. No weapons were visible on the Turtle. After the third circle, the Egyptian ran astern and pulled up close aboard alongside the Russian destroyer.

  “He’s getting his orders now,” observed Fatso. “Those damn Russians are pretty smart cookies. They always get their allies to do their dirty work. This is what that long radio message we heard the other night was all about.”

  After a few moments, Fatso said, “Professor! I want you to go forward, man that gun, and stand by. If we have any trouble with this guy I’m gonna wait till he gets pretty close before I drop the bow ramp. When I do, I want you to whistle five or six shots past him close aboard. But don’t hit him - unless I tell you to. I think he’ll head for home like the Egyptian army did as soon as we start shooting. So I don’t wanta hit him unless we hafta. Ya unnerstand?”

  “Aye aye, sir, Cap’n. Will do.”

  “Who’s going to be helping you on that gun?”

  “Ginsberg.”

  “Get somebody else. I want to have him up here on the wheel where I can see what he’s doing. That crazy kid would put the first shell right into them, if he could.”

  “Aye aye, sir, Cap’n,” said the Professor - and went forward to unlimber the Turtle’s main battery.

  Fatso cocked an eye aloft and noted they were flying the usual small set of steaming colors. “Jughaid,” he said, “I want you to bend on the biggest set of colors we got on board, and stand by. If we start shooting - run them up to the main truck. You gotta have your battle ensign flying when you go into action.”

  “Aye aye, Sir,” said Jughaid.

  In half an hour, the PT boat hauled clear of the Russian and ran up one hundred yards ahead of the Turtle. As she passed abeam only twenty yards away, a dozen sailors could be seen in the stern sheets with submachine guns.

  “They’re gonna try to board,” said Fatso. “Keep your tommy guns handy - but out of sight.”

  The three ships were forging ahead at ten knots. The Egyptian’s searchlight began bunking, “Stop engines or I will fire on you.” At the end of the message they fired a burst of fifty caliber over the Turtle’s head. The burst hit the water near the Russian astern and ricocheted past him dangerously close aboard.

  “All engines stop,” yelled Fatso. “Run up signal ‘I am stopped.’”

  Up fluttered the international signal flags, indicating “I have stopped.”

  The ships were soon dead in the water, and the Egyptian began backing down toward the Turtle.

  “Use your engines to hold her pointed right at that guy,” said Fatso to Ginsberg, at the wheel.

  “Aye aye, sir,
” sang out Ginsberg, kicking ahead slow on one engine and backing the other.

  When the Egyptian got in to fifty yards, a dozen armed men could be seen standing by on the stern. Fatso called coolly to the Professor, “Load your gun. Be ready for a fast burst of six shots.”

  As the PT boat neared twenty-five yards, Fatso yelled, “Down bow ramp!” ... As it flopped open, he sang out, “You may fire when ready, Gridley.”

  “Wham!” went the ninety mm gun, and sent a slug whistling past the PT boat close aboard to port.

  “Don’t give up the ship,” yelled Fatso.

  “Wham!” it went again, and sent another screaming past the starboard side.

  “Run up that battle ensign,” roared Fatso at Jughaid as the boarding party made a wild dive for cover, half of them losing their weapons overboard. In seconds, not a soul could be seen topside. The exhaust pipes belched out a burst of smoke, and the boat leaped ahead with the propellers churning up a storm and flinging clouds of spray astern.

  PT boats like the Egyptian are only supposed to be good for about forty knots. Fatso and his crew swear that this one made at least sixty, zigzagging frantically to the east. “Don’t shave him too close,” yelled Fatso at the Professor between WHAMs. “He might zigzag into one.”

  When she had put a mile of open water between them, the PT boat let out a couple of puffs of powder smoke, one on each bow. There were two big splashes close aboard the fleeing craft, one on each side, and Scuttlebutt yelled, “Torpedoes!”

  “Damn the torpedoes - full speed ahead,” yelled Fatso. “Right full rudder.”

  Fatso and Scuttlebutt put their binoculars on the area where the fish had been launched. As the Professor kept pumping three-inch slugs all around the Egyptian, Scuttlebutt yelled, “I see both wakes, Cap’n. They’re going to miss us plenty - astern.”

  “Yup!” confirmed Fatso. “And now that we’ve pulled out of their way, they’re headed right at the Russian!”

  Soon great clouds of black smoke began pouring out of both the Russian’s stacks, and her propellers churned up a maelstrom astern.

  “Holy cow!” said Fatso. “If she gets sunk, the Russians will sure as hell claim we done it.”

  If the Russian had simply laid to, dead in the water, pointing head on at the torpedoes, they would both have been near misses, one on each side. But as he picked up headway under full left rudder, his bow swung smack into the path of the left-hand fish. There was a terrific explosion and ten feet of the destroyer’s bow went up in the air in a great geyser of water and junk, while the other fish passed harmlessly down the starboard side.

  “Gawd almighty,” said Scuttlebutt. “They sank the poor son-of-a-bitch.”

  “No-o-o-o,” said Fatso judicially, “just - just blew a little piece of his bow off, is all.”

  A minute later the second fish reached the end of its run and blew itself up some miles astern, erupting another replica of Old Faithful from the sea.

  By this time the Egyptian was a mere speck on the horizon, and the paint on the Professor’s gun barrel was bubbling into blisters.

  “Cease firing,” yelled Fatso. “Secure from battle stations ... and splice the main brace.”

  This latter order is somewhat unconstitutional in the present-day U.S. Navy, which has been bone dry at sea since 1914. It goes back to the days of sail in the British Navy when, in order to celebrate a victory, the Admiral used to order a special ration of grog issued to all hands. For reasons known only to old sailors, this was called “splicing the main brace.”

  None of Fatso’s lads knew a mizzentop gallant sail from the lee scuppers, but Scuttlebutt produced a bottle of Bacardi rum, and the main brace was spliced in a smart, seamanlike manner.

  Meantime, Fatso brought the Turtle within hailing distance of the Russian with signal flags flying saying, “Do you need assistance?” The destroyer was down by the bow about five feet and was too busy with other matters to answer the signal. Soon Fatso got on the loud hailer and yelled over, “Do you need any help from us?”

  The answer came back, “Nyet.”

  A few minutes later, the Russian skipper got on the horn. “Thank you,” he yelled - and then added, “Egyptian iss zvoloch.”

  “Da,” replied Fatso. “Now let’s get the hell out of here,” he said to Ginsberg. “Come around to northeast and bend on twelve knots.”

  At dinner that evening the Professor said, “Cap’n, I was real proud of you today. You reminded me of Admirals Dewey, Farragut, and Decatur all rolled into one.”

  “Aw, I’ll bet you say that to all the gals,” said Fatso with mock modesty.

  “I can only think of one famous line you didn’t use,” said the Professor

  “What was that?” demanded Fatso.

  “ ‘I have not yet begun to fight.’”

  “Even if I had thought of it I wouldn’t of said it,” declared Fatso. “You ain’t supposed to say that until you’ve had the hell beat out of you and are about to sink.”

  “Some history books say it was that way - others say it came right at the beginning of the battle,” said Judge Frawley.

  “Anyway,” observed Fatso, “It’s about the dumbest famous saying that ever got famous. I don’t believe John Paul Jones ever said it. What he prob’ly said was, ‘You Limey son-of-a-bitch, I’m going to beat the piss out of you’.”

  “No-o-o,” said the Professor judicially. “That’s how you would of said it, Cap’n. But not John Paul Jones. In them days, officers and gentlemen didn’t call each other son of a bitches. There wasn’t no such a word then. He would of called him a ‘bloody bastard.’ That’s a bad word in England even now - almost as bad as zvoloch in Russia.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Peace Breaks Out

  The day after the Liberty bombshell, with the Arab armies in full flight everywhere and no Arab airplanes left that could fly anywhere, Nasser threw in his jock strap and asked for a ceasefire.

  This caught Washington almost as flat-footed as the outbreak of war had. The global strategists, diplomats, cloak-and-dagger types, and press pundits all said nothing but tried to look as if they knew a lot more than that. Everybody had goofed so badly with their inside dope on the war that now not even Drew Pearson was willing to predict what day tomorrow would be.

  For five days, the statesmen had lost control of events and the world had teetered on the brink of atomic disaster. The hot line between the White House and Kremlin had chattered away like a stock ticker quoting the changing odds on survival of the western world. Top officials in Washington and Moscow hovered over the teleprinters like brokers during the market crash, wondering what those damned fools at the other end would do next. For days the fate of nations depended on things over which no one had any control.

  The Liberty affair showed how easily the whole world might be blown up by mistake. A top-level crisis, which might have become atomic, had been brought on by stupid low-level blunders on both sides. The Pentagon Whiz Kids set the stage for it by passing up regular naval command channels when they stuck the Liberty out on a limb. The ship was attacked by trigger-happy flyers and naval officers who should have know better. When news of the attack first hit the fan, all responsible officials in Washington jumped to the conclusion that the Arabs - or the Russians - had done it. Some high-level hotheads even favored immediate retaliation.

  Several times the Russian snooper-destroyer helped to preserve world peace by confirming what we were telling Moscow about operations by the Sixth Fleet. But the balloon might have gone up when Sixth Fleet launched the Liberty rescue mission, and the snooper warned Moscow that a full-scale strike mission was taking off and heading east. The hot line saved the day there. But a garble on the teleprinter at that point might have blown the world apart.

  When peace broke out again in the Near East, the country heaved a sigh of relief and went back to its normal peacetime business. Stokely Carmichael, Rap Brown, and the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee resumed planning to bu
rn down Detroit in a nonviolent manner. The Supreme Court decided, five to four, that the police had no right to arrest citizens setting fire to buildings when their lawyers were not present. SecDef said we were winning the Vietnam war so fast that our soldiers would be home by Christmas, and General Hershey announced draft calls would be doubled next month.

  Just as everybody was relaxing and getting ready for a short, cool summer, Nasser dropped another blockbuster.

  He hurled charges over Cairo radio that another U.S. spy ship had made an unprovoked attack on an Egyptian naval craft southeast of Crete. He claimed this proved that the Sixth Fleet had been fighting all along on the side of the Israelis. He demanded that the U.S. apologize for this flagrant violation of the ceasefire and punish the pirates who had made this treacherous attack.

  This information leaked out in Washington over the AP news ticker at 2 AM, catching all the Admirals at home in bed. They came scrambling back to the Pentagon as if General Quarters had just sounded. By the time CNO got to the war room, the duty Captain had already quizzed ComSixthFleet.

  “Sixth Fleet has no idea whatever what this is all about,” he reported as the bleary-eyed Admiral gulped down a cup of black coffee.

  “Probably some more of the Whiz Kids’ work,” grunted the Admiral, between gulps.

  “I’ve checked with the SecDef’s duty officer,” said the Captain. “He doesn’t know anything about it either.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” observed the CNO. “The Whiz Kids didn’t tell SecDef about the Liberty until she got in trouble. Do they have any other ships like the Liberty under their Opcon?”

  “That’s the only one we know of, sir,” said the Captain.

  “How about CIA or the Coast Guard?”

  “We’re checking with them now, sir.”

  “Okay,” said the Admiral. “Get me ComSixthFleet on the sideband radio phone.”

  In a minute the duty officer handed the Admiral the shortwave scrambler phone and said, “Admiral Hughes on the line.”