Time and Tide

by Thomas Fleming

Parker turned to the boatswain's mate of the watch, massive Ernest Homewood. "Pass the word for Wilkinson to report to the bridge."

  Both Homewood and the officer of the deck, Lieutenant Robert Mullenoe, glowered and glanced at Captain McKay, as if they longed to tell him something. Homewood blew a call to attention on his pipe and passed the order: "Now Bosun's Mate First Class Wilkinson, lay up to the bridge."

  Nothing happened for several minutes. A party of sailors gathered on the bow; a petty officer checked the capstan, the big metal drum with which the anchor chair was hauled in. But nothing else was done until Wilkinson, tall, swarthy and, McKay thought, shifty-looking, appeared on the bridge. He glanced uneasily at Captain McKay, saluted and said to Parker, "Ship is ready for sea, sir."

  "I like to keep Wilkinson around when I take a ship into or out of port, Captain," Parker said. "He's forgotten more seamanship and ship-handling than the average deck officer has ever learned."

  Speak for yourself, Commander, Arthur McKay thought. But he simply nodded. He had had several conversations with Parker since he took command. All had been sparring matches. Parker seemed to resent even the most casual inquiry into the morale and competence of the ship's personnel. He assured Captain McKay there were no problems "Uncle Dan" (he liked to refer to himself in the third person) could not handle. He had followed up this straight-arm with a lecture on how the captain and executive officer should function. The exec was the nuts and bolts man — he ran the ship and freed the captain to worry about their relationship to the fleet.

  McKay had seen this kind of executive officer before. He wanted to convert the captain to a passenger on his own ship. That way, there was nothing for the exec to worry about when the captain evaluated his performance in his fitness report. The captain did not know enough to decide whether the exec was doing a good, bad or mediocre job. There were more than a few captains who preferred this arrangement. They were not comfortable dealing with the crew. They preferred a lofty isolation. They were more interested in their relationship with the admiral in immediate command.

  McKay, with his inclination to take nothing for granted, wanted to find out a lot more about Commander Parker before he trusted his judgment and ability to deal with the crew. He had read his personnel file and was impressed by the invariably high praise Parker's superiors had bestowed on him. Parker's tour as a naval attaché in London suggested he had some political pull too.

  None of this had prepared McKay for Boatswain's Mate First Class Wilkinson's appearance on the bridge. He put his pipe to his lips and sounded Boat Call. "Away the motor whaleboat," he barked into the PA system.

  The motor whaleboat putted along the starboard side of the ship with the buoy man, a life-jacketed sailor who had the ticklish job of freeing the anchor chain from the buoy. Beyond the breakwater, the two destroyers that were going to escort them to Pearl Harbor, the Hamilton Bruce and Quentin Calhoun, were sweeping the turbulent sea with their sonars to make sure there were no submarines out there waiting to greet the Jefferson City with a spread of torpedoes.

  McKay waited for Parker to begin the standard routine for getting under way, first testing the engine order telegraph (also called the annunciator), then the main engines. Apparently in a hurry, Parker skipped the first test and barked, "Test the main engines.

  From the belly of the ship came the rumble of the turbines turning over. The engine telegrapher said, "Ready to answer all bells."

  Wilkinson murmured something in Parker's ear. It was obviously a reminder to test the engine order telegraph. "Okay, okay," he growled. "Let's test the telegraph. All ahead one third, all back one third—"

  The engine telegrapher shoved the annunciator to ahead one third. Before he could slick to back one third, the engines rumbled again and the ship lurched forward. The engine room, confused by the departure from the standard routine, thought they had received an order to go ahead.

  There was a cry of alarm from the telephone talker on the bow. "Back off! Back off!"

  "What happened?" Wilkinson shouted into the PA system. "The buoy man's in the water! He got hit by the bow!" Parker looked wildly around the bridge. Everyone was waiting for him to give an order. His eyes finally settled on Wilkinson. "All back one third," muttered the boatswain's mate. "All back one third," Parker cried.

  "All back one third," the engine telegrapher said, shoving the annunciator into position.

  "Goddamn those fucking black-gang assholes. Don't they know an engine telegraph test when they see one?" Parker cried. "I think you ought to ream their asses for this, Captain."

  "Why?" McKay said.

  "If it isn't obvious, I won't try to explain it."

  Commander Parker, I will give you exactly ten seconds to retract that remark. If you don't, you're relieved from command of this bridge.

  These furious words hurtled through McKay's mind, but he did not speak them. It had never been his style to issue reprimands or corrections to subordinates in front of other men. The last thing he wanted was a brawl with his executive officer. The moment a crew scented that kind of acrimony at the top, a ship became a madhouse.

  Parker saw the glare in McKay's eyes and switched from truculence to contrition. "What do you want me to do, Captain?"

  "Shut down the engines. Signal those destroyers we've had an accident. No point in putting it on the radio and telling the whole goddamn port," McKay said. "Find out if the buoy man's hurt."

  Within seconds, signalmen began using blinkers to send this message to the destroyers. The sea detail on the bow reported the buoy man was unconscious. One of the men in the motor whaleboat had jumped into oily waters of the harbor to rescue him.

  "Get him aboard," McKay said. "Tell the doctor to lay up to the forcastle on the double."

  McKay got to the forecastle as a half dozen sailors hoisted the dripping buoy man aboard. He was a tall thin kid with a narrow face and an odd Pinocchio nose. A trickle of blood drooled from a corner of his mouth. He groaned and coughed up water and blood when they laid him on the deck. "I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled. "It happened so fast. I couldn't see the ship movin'."

  "It was our fault, son," McKay said.

  Lieutenant Commander Wyatt Cadwallader, the ship's doctor, appeared, accompanied by a pharmacist's mate. McKay had served on several ship's with Cadwallader, a heavy-set handsome man who moved and spoke with the solemnity of an undertaker. He had never had to seek his medical advice, but he suspected from his wardroom conversation that he was not very bright.

  "Is he badly hurt?" McKay asked.

  "I don't think so," Cadwallader said, peeling back one of the boy's eyes. "His vital signs are good.”

  "What about that blood?"

  "Probably just a few teeth shaken loose."

  It would take at least an hour to transfer the kid to a hospital on shore. Provisioning and arming the ship had taken thirty-six hours instead of the twenty-four McKay had allotted to it. He would have to report the accident to Admiral Tomlinson and put up with his sarcastic remarks. "Take him down to sick bay," McKay said, feeling vaguely uneasy about the decision. The kid was about the same age as his own son, sitting safe and sound in an Annapolis classroom.

  They sent out another buoy man, and McKay ordered Boatswain's Mate Wilkinson up to the bow to make sure things went smoothly. Without Wilkinson on the bridge, Parker was as jittery as a green ensign. "Meet her, meet her, you stupid bastard," he snapped at the helmsman, when the Jefferson City's head swung slightly off course as they got under way.

  They made it out of the harbor without further mishap and set a course for Hawaii at twenty-five knots. The destroyers steamed ahead of them to port and starboard on a standard zigzag plan. Captain McKay went below to his cabin. Thinking over the incident on the bridge, McKay decided to invite Commander Parker to dinner. He sent the invitation via one of the Marine orderlies who sat outside his cabin twenty-four hours a day. A few minutes later, Horace Aquino, his stocky, solemn Filipino steward, appeared at the door to ask the capt
ain what he would like to have for dinner.

  "What's the crew eating today?"

  Aquino looked blank. "I don't know, Captain."

  "Whatever it is, we'll have it. Commander Parker's joining me."

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Don't do anything fancy to what you get from the crew's mess. Just load two trays and bring them up here."

  "Aye, aye, Captain."

  McKay glanced at his watch. They had two hours to dinner, which was served at 1200 hours. Plenty of time for some drills. Ordinarily, a captain notified the executive officer well before he staged a drill. Commander Parker's performance on the bridge inclined Captain McKay to alter this routine. It was peacetime Navy nonsense, anyway. Everything —inspections, drills — was announced in advance to guarantee a perfect performance. The Japs were not going to announce anything in advance. Captain McKay picked up the phone and called Lieutenant Mullenoe on the bridge. "McKay here. Sound Abandon Ship Drill."

  Frank Flanagan sprawled on the deck outside the main battery fire control director listening to Jack Peterson torment the ship's weatherman. Every day while they were at sea, he sent up a big gray balloon and wrote a forecast for the benefit of the captain and the navigator. According to Jack, he had yet to be right. The aerographer, an intense, skinny little redhead from Minnesota, spluttered and swore he would back his latest prediction with ten dollars, if Jack gave him decent odds. Jack gave him four to one, and the seer departed, leaving his striker to wind up the mile and a half of twine attached to the balloon.

  Flanagan found it hard to muster a smile for this entertainment. He could not decide which ached more acutely, his muscles or his conscience. He had spent most of the previous night lugging fifty-five-pound five-inch shells half the length of the ship on his shoulder. In his head, Flanagan caressed Teresa Brownlow. Over the past two weeks he had seen her a half dozen times. The first three times, they made love. The next three times, they argued. Flanagan wanted her to promise him she would not let any other sailor find Jesus in that special place. She absolutely refused and amply confirmed what Jack Peterson had told Flanagan on their first liberty together. When the spirit of the Lord moved her, Teresa had been inviting sailors to discover divine love there for some years now When Flanagan told her it was a sin, Teresa serenely informed him Jesus had abolished sin, and quoted St. Paul to prove it. In his twelve years of Catholic education, Flanagan had never read a line of the Bible. He found himself baffled and enraged.

  Jack Peterson grinned at him. "You look like a lovesick camel," he said. "I knew you'd kick yourself for makin' Teresa so sore she wouldn't let you touch her. Take it when you can get it, kid, that's the only philosophy for a sailor."

  "What does Martha think about that?"

  "Not much. But I don't think much of the way she plays around and talks about it to my face."

  "That's what you do," Flanagan said.

  "That's my privilege."

  "Who says so?"

  "I do."

  "You're nuts about her and you won't admit it. You're afraid you might have to turn something down if you did."

  "Jesus Christ. Maybe you ought to become a Jesuit preacher. You're great at minding other people's love lives and you mess up your own.”

  The ship's alarm bell clanged through this acrimonious profundity. It was followed by the blast of a bugle and a shrill whine of a boatswain's pipe. "Now hear this. All hands stand by for a drill. Abandon ship," boomed the PA system.

  "Holy shit," Peterson said. "I hope you know your station. I'm not sure if I remember mine."

  Flanagan could hear Boats Homewood urging him and all the other new men to study the Watch Quarter and Station Bill on the bulletin board in their compartment. Beside each man's name was the place where he was supposed to go for General Quarters, Fire, Collision, Abandon Ship and a half dozen other emergencies. Like most sailors, Flanagan only paid serious attention to his General Quarters station. Two weeks in port had obliterated the other assignments.

  He fought his way down ladders and along passageways full of snarling, cursing sailors in the same state of ignorance. In the F Division compartment, a furious Homewood stood by the bulletin board bellowing out names and assignments. "I knew you'd forget it, Romeo," he roared at Flanagan. "The captain won't be the last man off this ship. The fucking F Division will."

  Flanagan was supposed to muster by the number-two boat. Unfortunately he forgot to ask Homewood where that was. Losing his head completely, he rushed up to Ensign Kruger and asked him for directions. "Forget it. You're on report," Kruger snarled.

  "Gangway, gangway," roared a voice behind them. It was the Marine orderly preceding Captain McKay. For a moment all Flanagan could see was the gold braid on his hat. He had never seen such thick crusts of it, surrounding a menacing-looking eagle.

  "Where's your station, sailor?" the captain asked in an amazingly mild voice.

  "Boat two, Captain. But I don't know where it is."

  "How long have you been aboard this ship?"

  "Two and a half weeks, Captain."

  "That's a pretty good excuse. But I don't think the sharks would be interested in it Ensign Kruger, take this man over to number-two boat."

  "Aye, aye, Captain."

  He grabbed Flanagan by the arm and led him to the starboard side of the ship, aft the number-two turret. There was no boat in sight, just a life raft lashed against the side of the turret. "You're a lucky son of a bitch," Kruger said. "If that was Captain Kemble, you'd be up for another mast."

  "Where's the lifeboat?"

  "We don't put lifeboats on a ship in wartime."

  "Wouldn't it help to change that on the Station Bill?" Kruger's eyes bulged. "Stand at attention when you speak to me! Say sir!"

  Flanagan came to attention. "Wouldn't, it help to change that on the. Station Bill, sir?" he said.

  "You've been spending too much time with Peterson," Kruger said. "Wise guys get taught hard lessons in this man's Navy. You better start changing your attitude now, sailor."

  "Yes, sir.”

  "He's right," hissed Lieutenant Montgomery West, dismay all over his handsome face. "Jesus Christ, Kruger, we turned in the worst performance on the ship. Half our yo-yos couldn't find their stations."

  "I've been telling you to stop treating them as if they were in a college fraternity. They're just a bunch of deck apes who happen to be aiming the guns instead of loading them.”

  The bugle sounded secure from Abandon Ship. Lieutenant West mustered F Division beside turret one and ordered Boats Homewood to read off everyone's station for every drill on the list. He was about halfway through the ninety names when the bugle sounded again, followed by another whine of the boatswain's pipe.

  "Now hear this. General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations," boomed the PA system.

  There was another wild scramble up and down ladders. Flanagan's battle station was inside the main battery gun director. Six men squeezed into this huge barrel on top of the ship, containing the range finder and a backup computer that would enable the guns to keep firing even if main forward and main plot were knocked out. Jack Peterson manned the range finder. The others dialed information into the computer as he gave it to them. A chubby ensign was in theoretical command. But Peterson really ran the show.

  It was not the most exciting battle station on the ship or the most comfortable. Flanagan's six-feet-two-inch frame was jammed into a space designed for a man half his size. He could see nothing except the glowing dials of the computer and the handle on which he cranked in the range. The ventilation was poor. Next to him sat Leo Daley, who did not shower more than once a week. On the other side of the computer sat Louis Camutti, who used a bottle of cologne a day. The mixture of odors was peculiarly unpleasant.

  "Okay, guys," Peterson said. "We're gonna blow one of those fuckin' tin cans out of the water.”

  Using pedals that turned the director from left to right with electric power, he whirled them around the horizon, barking o
ut ranges and bearings. "Fire!" he howled. "There goes the goddamn Calhoun." Peterson loved this part of his job. He had already given Flanagan a lecture on the range finder. It contained 1,500 mechanical parts and 160 different lenses and prisms. It took a year and a half to build one.

  "Hey, I'm getting seasick," Leo Daley said as Peterson swiveled them in the opposite direction to sink the other destroyer.

  "Me too," said the ensign, who was a ninety-day wonder on his first cruise.

  The bugle sounded secure from General Quarters. They crawled out of the director, and Peterson said, "Daley, from now on you take a shower every day or we'll all throw up in there."

  "You're not supposed to spin that thing around that way," Daley said.

  "The hell I'm not," Peterson said. "In a couple of weeks I'll be spinnin' it like a goddamn top. Our asses depend on what I see through that range finder. The Japs are gonna be out there lookin' for us the same way."

  "Japanese equipment can't match ours," Daley said. "We beat the hell out of them at Midway and in the Coral Sea."

  "You don't know what you're talkin' about, sailor," Peterson said. "I saw their gunnery at Savo Island. Every fuckin' shell was on target.”

  “How come they didn't sink this ship?"

  "We ran away."

  The ensign frowned. He wanted to tell. Peterson to shut up, but he didn't know how. He wanted to be one of the boys and an officer at the same time.

  Another bugle call blasted their ears, followed by another boatswain mate's pipe. "Fire. Fire on the hangar deck," boomed the PA. "All hands man their fire stations."

  "Christ," Flanagan said. "I've forgotten that one already."

  "Now this gauge is the most important one on the ship. It tells us how much water's in the boiler. If there ain't enough, you get a low-water casualty. That's the word we use in the Navy for a breakdown. It ain't chosen by accident. Down here a casualty can cause casualties, get it? In a low-water, the pipes inside the boiler melt and superheated steam comes blastin' out into your face. In about ten seconds you ain't got no face. If there's too much water, it goes through the pipes and into the turbines in the engine room next door. It'll bend the blades and tear them fuckin' turbines apart."