by Larry Bond
Bair quizzed each officer in turn, and those who didn’t have answers made careful notes. Jerry kept a low profile, wishing he could help, and knowing that sooner rather than later he would be helping—just not how. The XO’s deadline for everyone’s answers was Hardy’s arrival back on board, a mere two or three hours away.
Only after all possible ship’s business had been discussed was there any personal conversation. Jerry fielded a few more questions about his background, but that was old news. The new schedule, and its effect on the crew’s lives, raised other issues. None of the officers had been able to tell their wives anything more than they were working late, but each of them had a life that had suddenly been put on cosmic hold. Not only would the patrol mean leaving their families again, it would delay the sub’s decommissioning.
Decommissioning meant leaving Memphis for another duty station. It meant houses sold and bought, kids changing schools, and new jobs elsewhere in the Navy. Nobody had called their detailers yet, there hadn’t been time, but all planned to do so as soon as they knew anything at all.
Each time a service member changes assignments, he works with a “detailer.” This personnel officer balances the officer’s or sailor’s desires, for instance, assignment to Hawaii, with the Navy’s needs, for instance, an open billet in Alaska. Since most tours of duty are of a fixed length, officers start working with their detailers as much as a year ahead of time, and the process can take months to resolve. It’s not as complicated for enlisted personnel, but it still takes time.
Part clerk, part accountant, and part used-car salesman, the detailer searches for billets opening up at the appropriate time, matching them against an officer’s skills and the Navy’s requirements for “career growth.” This means that if an officer is presently in an engineering post, he should go to an operations or weapons posting next, not another engineering slot. If he’s at sea, he’ll probably get a shore posting. Guys on shore duty try to go back to sea.
The Navy, in spite of its size, may have only three or two or possibly just one open billet that matches the officer’s skills, career needs, and timing. Hopefully it’s something the officer likes. Should an officer need training to help them with a new assignment, then that has to be arranged first. Of course, school schedules and class sizes may not match the rest of the schedule, and this requires even more finagling. And let’s not talk about what failing a school would do to the detailer’s plans or the person’s career.
Finally, after all the pieces have been carefully fitted together, the service member will use the time remaining, hopefully a month or two, to househunt, probably in an unfamiliar location, find new schools for his kids and possibly even a new job for his spouse. It is not uncommon, however, for all these significant responsibilities to be unceremoniously dumped on the spouse while the Navy member immediately reports to his next assignment. The needs of the Navy, at times, can be hard on a Navy family.
And right now, 135 carefully prepared plans had just been thrown up into the air, and only the Almighty knew where they would land. The single officers and sailors had less to worry about—only where they’d be working for the next few years.
Again, Jerry just kept quiet and listened. Some were fatalistic, and some were bitter about this latest turn in their fortunes. Harry O’Connell, the Navigator, was scheduled for PXO school, “Prospective Executive Officer School.” He had been promoted to Lieutenant Commander just two years earlier, and he was on the list to get an Executive Officer’s billet on another attack boat. The problem was timing. If he didn’t leave Memphis in time, he’d miss the start of the course. More important, it could get him bumped from his billet. “Hardy’s worked my tail off here, and it’s time for me to move on. It’s going to be a major pain in the ass if I can’t make the start of that course.” He said the last part with a tone that implied that the problems he foresaw might not be exclusively his own.
After dinner, Jerry retreated to his three-man stateroom again, with Lenny Berg following him in. Jerry, with little to do, curled up on his bunk and pretended to read a paperback while Berg worked at the desk. There wasn’t much space in their stateroom, even with just two bodies occupying it. Berg in the chair took up half the available floor space.
The room (“space” in Navy talk) was only slightly longer than the length of the cramped bunks and just a few feet wide. The bulkhead opposite the door held the three-man bunks, lockers occupied the left side of the room, and the right side was filled with two side-by-side desks, each with a fold-down work surface and a small closet. In the right corner was a small sink and mirror. A fluorescent fixture half-hid among a jumble of pipes and cables on the “overhead” (more Navy talk for ceiling). Most of the surfaces were painted a very distasteful pale green.
Berg had an angular face and an almost Roman nose under an untidy short mop of brown hair. He pushed the paperwork to one side, then turned his chair to face Jerry’s bunk, the lowest of the three. “So, Jerry, what do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think about first,” evaded Jerry. Then, more honestly, he answered, “I think this boat’s just been stood on one end and shaken.”
Berg nodded. “Things are really confused. Even when we get more information, it still means a total turnaround in our schedule, both here on the boat and our next assignments. And nobody in the Navy likes uncertainty or confusion. When we decommission, I’m supposed to go to another boat, a boomer in Bremerton. I don’t have a family to worry about, so if I end up going to a different boat, that’s okay, I’m flexible.” He sighed. “Just so long as it’s off this one.”
“You’re not happy here?” Jerry asked.
“I’ve been here one year, seven months, and five days, and I’m definitely ready to move on.”
“LCDR O’Connell said the same thing.”
Berg replied, “We’d all say that, no matter how long we’ve been aboard.” He seemed to hesitate, then continued, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. “Look, you’ll form your own opinion of the Captain, but here are a few thoughts to stuff in your seabag.” He started ticking off items on his fingers.
“One. This is a tight ship, and things run smoothly, because that’s what the Captain likes. If it doesn’t run smoothly, the Captain lets us know about it—big time.
“Two. The Captain knows his stuff. He’s very good, but he’s a detail freak and a micro-micro manager. Which means he also knows your stuff, and expects you to be a detail freak, too. If he asks you a question, you’d better damn well know the answer.
“Three. Every man on this boat has been looking forward to getting out from under him. This patrol, whatever it is, will delay that, as well as upsetting everyone’s orders.”
Jerry felt his future grow more uncertain with each passing moment. “So the Captain’s a hard master.”
“The hardest,” Berg confirmed, still in a low voice. “We could shoot him, but they hang you for that.’” The pixie-like grin on Lenny’s face made it clear that he was joking, of course. But it was forced humor, one born out of frustration and fatigue. “The only way to get away from him is to have orders off the boat.”
Jerry lay in his bunk, pondering this new information, while Berg finished checking his clipboard and shook his head. “I’m definitely staying on board tonight,” he announced. “I’ll see you later, shipmate. Try and get a decent night’s sleep. It may be the last time for quite a while.” With that, Berg collected his paperwork and left.
Bair was hard at work in his stateroom when the topside watch buzzed him. “Mr. B, sir, the Captain’s coming down the pier.”
Grabbing his ball cap and clipboard, he headed for the forward escape hatch and managed to make it topside just as Commander Hardy stepped off the brow onto Memphis. Bair saluted. “Good evening, Captain.”
Hardy returned the salute, but in reply, simply asked, “Where do we stand?”
Bair filled him in on the ship’s preparations, following as Hardy proceeded briskly down the hatch
, then forward to his stateroom. Crewmen stepped into doorways or flattened themselves against the bulkhead as the pair passed.
In a much-rehearsed brief, Bair filled in his captain on the status of each department. Supply department had already scheduled with Group Two for provisions and fuel oil. Spare part request chits were to be submitted by the other departments by the end of the week. Weapons department had requested SUBASE technical assistance to help them track down the problem they were having with the number four sonar command and display console, and surprisingly it had already been approved. Torpedoes still needed to be requested and a date set to load them. Navigation department was pretty much ready to go. All they needed to finish up were some calibrations to the ring-laser gyro and the mini-SINS. Engineering department had big problems with the number one lube oil pump and the number two auxiliary sea-water pump. Both needed bearing replacements and had to be stripped down. There was more, a lot more, but Bair had hit all the high points. Hardy quizzed him heavily, especially about engineering. Memphis was old and needed an overhaul, but she was at the end of her service life and the Navy had decided it was cheaper to decommission her. Now they had to make her ready for one more cruise.
They reached Hardy’s stateroom as the XO finished. As the final item of his brief, Bair offered the Captain Jerry Mitchell’s personnel file. “He came aboard at oh nine hundred this morning.”
“Yes, you told me all that this afternoon,” Hardy answered impatiently. “The aviator with ‘pull.’ Where did you assign him?”
“Well, sir, I’d recommend Mr. Adelman’s billet. We need a torpedo officer and . ..”
“But you haven’t done it yet?” Hardy interrupted. His tone was more than critical.
“Not without your approval, sir.” Bair carefully kept this tone neutral.
“All right, then. Do it,” Hardy ordered. He sounded slightly mollified.
Careful to keep his tone neutral, the XO asked, “Sir, can you tell me anything more about the mission?”
Hardy’s face darkened, and Bair thought he was about to lash out, but instead the Captain started unpacking his briefcase, almost attacking its contents. “Yes, there is. I can tell you that this mission is the misguided product of poor leadership and political expediency.” He yanked a bundle of papers out and stuffed them in a drawer. “That it’s a waste of our time and a risk to our careers.” He slammed the case closed and shoved it into a corner.
“And I can tell you that if this mission succeeds, it will be a miracle,” he declared, suddenly turning to face his XO, “but if it fails, it will not be our fault. Is that clear, Commander?”
“Absolutely, sir,” replied Bair in his firmest, most positive voice.
Hardy handed Bair a thick folder. “Here’s what they gave me in Norfolk. Read it, then report back to me with any problems you have right away.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Bair looked at Jerry’s personnel folder. “What about Mitchell?” he asked.
“Give me ten minutes, then send him up here.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
* * * *
Jerry had managed to locate a ship’s information book and was leafing though the pages when the phone rang.
“The Captain wants to see you,” Bair’s voice informed him, and Jerry jumped up, nervousness drenching him. He suddenly wished Lenny Berg hadn’t given him a heads-up about the Captain, and also wished he’d thought ahead. The Captain’s cabin was only a dozen steps away and one ladder up, so there was no time to delay. His first impression of Jerry would have to include a rumpled shirt and a five o’clock shadow.
Jerry hurried to the ladder, then climbed up and took the few steps forward to the Captain’s cabin. He knocked and waited to hear “Come” before turning the knob and stepping in.
Captain Hardy sat at his desk, still in his blues but with his uniform jacket hung on a nearby hook. Feeling underdressed in his khakis, Mitchell announced, “Reporting as ordered, sir.”
Hardy didn’t reply immediately, but studied his newest junior officer carefully. All Jerry could do was meet his gaze without challenging him. Hardy was bigger than Mitchell, in his mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper black hair. His face was lined, and Mitchell saw them converge into a scowl.
“Mr. Mitchell, you’re going to be my new Torpedo Officer.” Hardy made the statement flatly, without any tone, but his expression said he wasn’t happy with the situation.
“Aye, aye, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll expect more than that, mister,” the Captain told him. “You’re a key man on this patrol, and your performance will have a direct effect on the success of the mission, the careers of the men aboard, and possibly on their survival.”
“Yes, sir. May I ask what the mission is?”
“You may not,” Hardy replied tersely. “It’s not my job to explain things to division officers. The crew, of which you are now a member, will be briefed at Quarters tomorrow morning.” He paused for a moment, as if finished, but then continued.
“I will explain this to you, Mr. Mitchell.” The Captain leaned forward in his chair a little. “You’ve used political pull to jump from one set of rails to another and I don’t like it. You couldn’t make it here on your own or you wouldn’t have needed pull to get here. You think you’re a special case, and I don’t like special cases.”
He pointed at the personnel file. “And frankly, I don’t care what kind of grades you got in the nuclear pipeline or sub school. I’ve seen plenty of theory men fall flat on their faces when they actually had to perform in the real world, so whatever you may think of your skills, at this point they count for zero.”
Then Hardy corrected himself. “No, they don’t count for zero. They’re unknown, and I don’t like unknowns, either.”
Jerry had stood stock-still through Hardy’s lecture, searching for a reply. He wanted to answer Hardy, to explain, but couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound either silly or disrespectful.
Finally, after a few moments of silence, Hardy glanced at the folder again. “And this says you’re supposed to qualify in subs in less than a year.” He looked sharply at Mitchell. “Was this some sort of deal your patron got for you? Some sort of Softball qualification process?”
“Sir, I didn’t ask for anything special. . .” Jerry protested.
“But you got it, all the same,” Hardy interrupted. “I happen to agree with this requirement. You need to pull your weight, and you can’t do that unless you know this boat. But I won’t give you a free ride. No shortcuts.”
Jerry ventured a hopefully safe, “Yes, sir.”
“You will spend every free moment learning this boat and filling in the signatures in your qualification book. If I see you reading anything on this boat, it damn well better have a piping diagram in it. ... Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this will in no way excuse you from your regular duties, which you will exercise perfectly. Any screw-ups by you will affect the success of this upcoming patrol. And if your error causes us to fail, I’ll make sure the Navy knows exactly whose fault it was. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Jerry, who’d been standing at attention the entire time, tried to straighten even further.
“Now get out.”
Jerry quickly backed out of the CO’s stateroom. He made his way back to his stateroom and leaned against the bunks. He was drained, emotionally and physically, but sleep seemed impossible. He shed his uniform, climbed into his coffin-sized bunk, and pulled the privacy curtain shut. As he worked to relax his body, his mind spun with fearful possibilities. Reason told him it couldn’t be as bad as it seemed, but the day’s events didn’t give him much hope. He finally fell asleep arguing with himself.
* * * *
A New Day
“Reveille, reveille, up all bunks. All hands turn to and commence ship’s work. Quarters to be held on the pier at oh eight hundred,” squawked the ship’s main announcing system, or IMC. Jerry slowly, groggily, fumbled
for his watch and checked the time: 0630. It was earlier than Jerry would have liked, particularly given the hard time he’d had in falling asleep, but he was awake now. Pulling the curtain on his bunk back, Jerry started crawling out on to the deck when the shadow of two feet magically appeared on the floor in front of him. Jerry recoiled back as Lenny Berg hit the deck with a dull thump. Berg straightened up from his landing, stretched, and turned on the lights. He looked down for his flip-flops and saw Jerry’s face poking out of his bunk with a surprised expression on it. Berg quickly figured out what had almost happened and made room for Jerry to get out of his bunk.
