Time and Tide

by Thomas Fleming

  Marty Roth and a half dozen other new firemen stood in the well of the after fire room listening to Amos Cartwright explaining the various emergencies that could turn life in the fire room from boredom to terror in the blink of an eye.

  "You see them pipes up there?" Cartwright pointed to the confusion of pipes on the overhead. "They're carry in' oil from the fuel tanks and six hundred pounds of live steam to the inch. They all got flanged connections. There's a gasket in the flange, and if that blows out, you got steam or oil comin' down on you. That oil hits a hot pipe and you got a fire. So you got to know — I mean know — exactly what valve to turn to cut off that pipe and what one cuts in a backup so we don't come to a fuckin' dead stop with Jap shells fallin' all around us."

  Six hundred pounds of superheated steam to the square inch, Roth thought, eyeing the pipes. Apply for a transfer now, urged the survival voice, the one that had whispered to him about death in the Negro bar in Los Angeles.

  "Attention. Attention," roared a voice from the ladder to the main deck. It was Commander Oswald Bradley, the engineering officer. With him was none other than the captain. Everyone stiffened his spine.

  "At ease, at ease," the captain said. "This isn't an inspection. I just found out an old friend is aboard. He strolled over to Amos Cartwright. “How are you, Amos?"

  "Just fine, Captain," Amos said.

  He turned to Marty Roth. "What's your name, sailor?"

  “Roth, sir."

  "He's just come aboard, Captain," Cartwright said. "From Bronx, New York. He's strikin' for water tender. I'm teachin' him."

  "You couldn't have a better professor."

  The captain asked the names and hometowns of everyone else on watch in the fire room. Then he made a little speech. "I hope you fellows understand how much we topside sailors depend on you when the going gets tough and we need all the speed we can get out of this big lady. Don't let the deck apes put you down. This is the really important part of the ship."

  Commander Bradley looked amazed. Later Roth found out why. It was the first time in Bradley's twenty-three years in the Navy that he had ever heard such words from a deck officer.

  The captain and the engineering officer climbed the ladder to the main deck and vanished. "He's a great man," Amos Cartwright said. "He don't look it or act it, but he's a great man.”

  Marty Roth stared up at the two twenty-foot-tall boilers where blazing oil was creating superheated steam. Death, he thought. Out of the maws of these monsters could spew death. Only his brain could prevent it. He had to learn how this lethal machinery worked to challenge death. He summoned the memory of Sylvia Morison whispering praise of his courage, his moral clarity. Besides, how could he walk out on Amos Cartwright now?

  A knock on the door.

  "Captain," said the orderly on duty, "Commander Parker is here."

  "Come in," Captain McKay said.

  Commander Daniel Boone Parker eased his bulk through the door. He glanced with approval at the table set with the heavy silver, the gleaming water goblets and gold-rimmed china with the seal of the state of Missouri emblazoned on them. In his right hand was a briefcase with an odd bulge in the center.

  "I thought perhaps you'd accept this little addition to your private stock on behalf of the wardroom, Captain," he said. From the briefcase he extracted a bottle of twelve-year-old Ballantine Scotch.

  "Why ... thank you," McKay said, taken by surprise.

  Without missing a beat, Parker continued. "Since you haven't said anything about it, I assume you're going to let the old J.C. stay a wet ship. I keep a very close eye on the drinkers. No one's abusing it. I think it does wonders for a man's morale to be able to invite a friend to his cabin for cocktails before dinner or relax with a snort when he comes off a late watch."

  Arthur McKay sat there, a polite smile on his face, silently cursing his friend Win Kemble. Or should he curse Rita and Fleet Admiral Ernest J. King? Normally, Win would have told him the Jefferson City was flouting Order 99 banning liquor in the wardrooms when they talked things over after the transfer of command.

  Parker was on perfectly safe ground assuming Captain Kemble had done so. The executive officer was repeating, probably word for word, sentiments Arthur McKay had heard from Win Kemble more than once. Win agreed with his father-in-law and a lot of other admirals, such as Bill Halsey, that Order 99 was the dumbest, most vicious thing the civilians had done to the Navy since they stranded John Paul Jones in Paris.

  For several reasons, McKay did not agree with this aristocratic stance. But he was confronted with a totally unexpected decision here. Should he tolerate this already established custom among his officers? Intersecting and confusing his reaction was his friendship with Win.

  "I'll go along with breaking the reg for the time being," he said. "But I reserve the right to change my mind when the shooting starts. It's hard to predict how people react to danger."

  "I'd say that's when a man will need a drink more than ever," Parker said.

  "Maybe," McKay said.

  He put the bottle in a drawer of his desk without opening it. An amazingly intense glare of dislike flashed across Parker's face. At this unpropitious moment, Horace Aquino arrived with the trays from the crew's mess. With the flourish of a headwaiter in a posh LA restaurant, the steward transferred rubbery-looking hot dogs and soggy french fries to the gold-rimmed plates.

  "Is this your idea of a joke?" Commander Parker said.

  "Did you ever work for Admiral T. T. Craven?" Arthur McKay said.

  "Tireless Tom, the sailor's friend? No. He was a nut, from everything I've heard."

  "The battleship boys hung that one on him because he fought for carriers. He had a lot of ideas about how to change the Navy. He thought the food served to enlisted men would improve about a hundred percent if the officers ate the same thing. He could never convince anyone it was a good idea."

  "Now you're convincing me he really was a nut."

  "He was a little crazy. You get that way when you buck the system. My father-in-law, Rob Semmes, had a couple of screws loose by the time he died. Anyway, I was on Craven's staff in the late twenties. I've always thought his idea about eating the crew's food was worth trying. But it would take a revolution to put it over. So I’m doing it my way. I'm going to sample one meal a week, at random."

  "The officer of the deck eats every meal that's served while he's on duty. That's regulations."

  "Has any OOD ever complained to you about the food?"

  "No."

  "If you were the OOD and you got this for a meal, what would you think of it?"

  "It's edible," Parker said.

  McKay chewed on a piece of hot dog. "Just barely," he said. "Why isn't the food better?"

  "We've got to feed these men on sixty-nine cents a day, Captain," Parker said. "Let's start with that."

  "I know. But we're buying wholesale from the Navy. I think we can do a lot better than this. Talk to the supply officer about it. If you don't, I will."

  "Yes, Captain."

  Parker sat there waiting for Steward Aquino to take away the tray and replace it with some decent food. McKay started eating the hot dogs and french fries. Parker had no choice but to follow suit.

  "I didn't think much of our performance at those drills today," McKay said.

  "We've got 350 new men aboard. The petty officers haven't had a chance to shape them up."

  "We had a lot more than 350 men who didn't know where the hell they were supposed to go if we had to abandon ship."

  "I don't see the point of that drill, Captain. I think it's bad for morale. If we ever have to abandon ship, no one's going to have time to go to his station. We'll all go over the side wherever we happen to be."

  "That's a panic situation, Commander. The point is, if the principle of going to his station is drilled into every man, someone will show up at the stations and cut loose the life rafts. That could save a couple of hundred lives."

  Parker shrugged. "Okay. We'll drill th
em until all they think about is abandoning ship. But we'll have a lot of guys shitting in their pants when we sound General Quarters."

  McKay was starting to enjoy Commander Parker. It was fascinating the way he walked right up to the edge of insubordination, then veered away.

  "Who was the officer of the deck when the Japs hit us at Savo Island?" McKay said.

  "I was."

  "Weren't you at General Quarters?"

  When the ship went to General Quarters, the executive officer was normally in Battle II, and after steering house where he could take command if the bridge was hit and the captain was killed.

  "We'd secured from General Quarters."

  "Where was Captain Kemble?"

  "He was asleep."

  "Asleep?"

  Was it possible? Would Win Kemble go to sleep when his ship was on patrol, expecting an imminent Japanese attack?

  "We'd been at General Quarters for thirty-six hours," Commander Parker said. "The men were coming apart. I told Kemble we had to secure and let some of them sleep. He didn't want to do it. I had to get the chaplain and the doctor up on the bridge to talk him into it."

  Commander Parker chewed his last piece of rubber hot dog. "He needed a rest more than anyone on the ship. But he wouldn't admit it."

  "What happened when the Japs attacked?"

  "Haven't you read Kemble's after-action report?"

  "Yes. But it didn't explain very much."

  "Don't expect me to explain any more, Captain. I know how the Annapolis system works. You're here to hang the blame for that disaster around my neck. You're here to tie the noose on Uncle Dan Parker —the noose you ring knockers have been trying to tie for twenty-five years. Let me tell you something, Captain. No one's going to hang Uncle Dan. He's got friends in Congress, friends on the Naval Affairs Committee who can blow your career out of the water if you try to rough him up."

  "You've got me all wrong, Commander. I'm not the hangman type. I want to find out what happened to make sure it doesn't happen again."

  "The hell you're not the hangman type. Why are you serving me garbage for dinner? Why are you pulling all these drills without telling me in advance so I could pass the word to the division officers and get the men ready for them? I give you a bottle of my best Scotch and you don't even offer me a drink. You're not treating me with respect, Captain."

  Now Arthur McKay understood how Commander Parker had received all those glowing fitness reports in his file. He had perfected the art and science of intimidating his superiors. McKay also knew how the captain of the Jefferson City should respond to this outburst of defiance. He should inform Commander Parker that he was in hack — confined to his cabin —until they reached Pearl Harbor, where he would be replaced by a new executive officer. At the same time, McKay realized that this extraordinary behavior could only be motivated by extreme desperation. Was Daniel Boone Parker risking the disgrace of being relieved for insubordination to conceal something far worse — something to do with his conduct at Savo Island?

  "As for what happened at Savo Island," Parker said, "the only way to prevent it from happening again would be to get rid of a few dozen admirals who got their stripes because they started kissing the right asses the day they graduated from Annapolis. That's all you'll find out if you keep on investigating Savo Island."

  "I wonder if that's all I'll find out," Captain McKay said.

  Warning Signals

  “What do you think of President Roosevelt, Dr. Levy?" asked Lieutenant Wilson Selvage MacComber in his languid Georgia way.

  "A great man," Dr. Levy said, spooning down his chocolate sundae. He was the ship's junior physician, in the Navy less than six months. Short and swarthy, he had an irritated look on his face most of the time, as if he had weighed the world and found it wanting in some fundamental way. He spent most of his time in his cabin reading medical books.

  "That seems to be a virtually universal opinion among your race," MacComber said.

  "My race? I think opinion about him varies widely among white Americans."

  "There's a perfect example of why I dislike Roosevelt so much. Jews now consider themselves part of the white race, thanks to him. He's given you delusions of grandeur, Dr. Levy."

  "I think it was Thomas Jefferson who did that, Mr. MacComber. When he wrote that stuff about all men being created equal."

  "You don't consider Jews a special race. A chosen people?"

  "No more chosen than anyone else. I'm not religious, Mr. MacComber."

  "Really? I find it hard to respect someone who allows his traditions to lapse."

  "If they become meaningless, what's the point? Do you still salute the Confederate flag?"

  "In my heart I do, Dr. Levy. Are you by any chance related to Commodore Uriah P. Levy, who was in the Navy during and after the Civil War?"

  "No. My family was still in Russia in 1860."

  "He was a very difficult man, Uriah Levy. He went from one court-martial to another, always blamin' his altercations on anti-Semitism. I've investigated some of his allegations rather thoroughly. I concluded he was a Jewish version of an uppity nigger.

  "MacComber," said Lieutenant Mullenoe, who was sitting beside him, "you're the most prejudiced human being I know.”

  "Au contraire, Mr. Mullenoe," MacComber said. "I simply see things as they are. Where have I exhibited the slightest prejudice to Dr. Levy?"

  "Didn't you just compare him to an uppity nigger?"

  "I compared Uriah Levy, who may or may not be related to him, to an uppity nigger. But that only suggests the spirit of utter equality that breathes in my veins and, if I may say so, the veins of the entire South. We hold no prejudice against Jews. We consider them every bit as good as niggers."

  MacComber smiled beatifically at Levy. "I need hardly add, Dr. Levy, that I'm an admirer of the Negro race — as long as they keep their place."

  Montgomery West found himself grinding his teeth. He surveyed the table, looking for someone to support Levy if he decided to fight back.

  At the head of the table, Dr. Cadwallader discussed Missouri politics with the executive officer. They were both from the Show Me state. Nearby, Commander George Washington Tombs, the new damage control officer, was discussing the 1941 World Series between the Dodgers and the Yankees with the engineering officer, Oz Bradley. Lieutenant Commander Moss, on the borderline between the commanders and the lieutenants, was listening to MacComber with what seemed to be complete approval on his prissy Presbyterian face. On the borderline between the lieutenants and the ensigns, the dentist, a Boston Irishman who roomed with Levy, was frowning. Beside him, Ensign Meade and another ensign were shaking their heads and smiling.

  Unfortunately, Levy was too new to the wardroom wars to understand there was only one way to deal with someone like MacComber, you had to give it right back to him. By dropping the argument, he was figuratively striking his colors, giving the younger macho types the privilege of enjoying MacComber's outrageousness.

  Montgomery West was fairly sure the dentist and possibly Mullenoe would cheer if Levy threw his chocolate sundae in MacComber's sneering face. Meade and the other ensign would probably applaud. But Levy kept his head down. Briskly, he finished his sundae, downed his coffee and left the table. West followed him into the passageway. Although he was not about to reveal this his mother was Jewish, he wanted to say something affirmative. "Doctor," he said, "I just thought you'd like to know not everybody agrees with that asshole."

  Levy shrugged. "If you have a scientific view of things, it doesn't bother you. A few more centuries of evolution will eliminate that kind of stupidity."

  After dinner, Harold Semple felt sick. The repulsive hot dogs and french fries floated in a pool of rancid coffee in his churning stomach. He stumbled into a head and vomited. Tears flooded his eyes as he thought of home, his mother's cooking. She always used to have a piece of chocolate cake or a slice of apple pie waiting for him when he came home from school. He had a nervous stomach and often us
ed to throw up the equally vile food they had served in the cafeteria at Dearborn's Fordson High School. On this miserable floating torture chamber, he would now have to starve until supper.

  Semple's body ached from thirty-six hours of loading provisions and ammunition. They had worked last night until 4 A.M. and had been blasted out of an exhausted sleep by reveille at 5:30. In between the captain's idiotic drills, he had spent the morning swabbing the main deck. He reeled down to the First Division's compartment and crawled into his bottom rack. Maybe they would let him sleep for a half hour, at least.

  A few feet away, a voice said, "You look bushed, Prettyboy." It was Boatswain's Mate First Class Jerome Wilkinson.

  "I'm sick," he said.

  "Yeah. I heard what you had for dinner," Wilkinson said. "At the Muscle Inn we had veal chops. Apple pie for dessert. Same as the wardroom."

  The Muscle Inn was a separate mess somewhere in the forward part of the ship that Wilkinson and some of his friends had set up with the help of the chief steward's mate. Wilkinson occasionally invited his favorites to join him for a meal there.

  Semple had been lying with his face to the bulkhead. He turned over and realized Wilkinson was sitting on the rack opposite him. The compartment was empty, except for a dozen or so sailors dozing in their racks. "How'd you like to take it easy?" Wilkinson said. "Maybe get assigned to one of the shellhandlin' rooms, where you only got about a dozen square feet to keep clean each day? Skip a workin' party now and then. Get friendly with a couple of steward's mates who'll slip you some real chow."

  "I'd like it."

  "So would a lot of other guys. If I did all that for you, I'd expect you to sort of return the favor."

  "How could I?"

  "There was a boatswain's mate I knew in China. He broke me into the Navy. He used to say, 'On the beach I got the pretty girls, at sea I got the pretty boys.' You get the idea?"

  Suddenly the hot airless compartment was cold. Semple shivered from head to foot.

  "It don't hurt if you relax. You get to like it," Wilkinson said.