by Larry Bond
“Good morning, Jerry. Sorry about just jumping out of my rack, I, ah, forgot you were down here,” Berg said apologetically. “I trust I didn’t startle you too much with my graceful rollout.”
“That’s okay, Lenny. I prefer a good dose of adrenaline to coffee in the morning. It gets the blood flowing so much more quickly,” replied Jerry with as much humor as sarcasm.
“Even Navy coffee? I find that hard to believe.”
Jerry could only grin at Berg’s humor. As if on cue, Berg cleared his throat. “Ahem. So, how was your interview with the Captain?”
“I guess the best way to describe it would be as unexpected.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. He said I was useless ballast until I finished my quals. The Captain is not one to mince words, even unpleasant ones. But Jerry, the secret to surviving on Memphis is to not let it bother you.” Berg then moved closer to Jerry and slapped him on the back. Lowering his voice a little, he advised, “I know that’s easier said than done, but you won’t make it if you take everything the Captain says personally.”
Jerry nodded his understanding and gathered his shaving kit and towel. He was looking forward to a hot shower and a chance to collect his thoughts. As he was starting to leave the stateroom, Berg called to him.
“Oh, Jerry, remember to take a submarine shower. The XO likes to shut the hot water off on those who dare to take a Hollywood, even in port.” The humor in his voice bespoke of personal experience and Jerry thanked him for his words of wisdom as he set off for the officer’s head.
Like everything else in Memphis, the officer’s head was small. There was a single shower off to the right with a sink next to it. The remaining space held one commode and a urinal. All this for a dozen guys. Things were going to get quite cozy indeed, Jerry thought.
He turned on the water and waited for it to warm up. Once the water had reached an acceptable temperature, he went in and quickly got thoroughly wet. He then closed a valve at the base of the showerhead, shutting off the flow of water, lathered up his washcloth, and scrubbed himself down. Jerry opened the valve after he was finished scrubbing and rinsed himself off. He then repeated the same procedure for washing his hair.
While Jerry basically understood the need to conserve water on a submarine, a long hot shower where the water poured on his body for fifteen minutes sounded really good right now, and in port, with the sub’s water supply hooked up to the pier, Memphis had an unlimited supply. Jerry regarded the XO’s prohibition against “Hollywood showers” as a minor injustice, but avoiding the XO’s ire was much more important than comfort. Before Jerry left the shower stall, he grabbed the squeegee hanging on the soap dish and removed all the excess water from the shower’s steel walls. This was done in order to prevent mildew from forming on the walls and making the head more unpleasant.
After shaving, Jerry headed back to his stateroom to get dressed. Ten minutes had gone by. Berg was already gone by the time Jerry got back; he was probably in the wardroom getting breakfast. Jerry’s other roommate, Lieutenant Washburn, had gone home for the night and was likely already aboard. Jerry put his gear away in one of the wall lockers and made up his bunk before proceeding to the wardroom.
The cramped wardroom was filled. At most, it could seat ten, and all the chairs, save the Captain’s, were occupied, so Jerry had to wait for someone to finish before he could sit down. The mess steward, bustling around with serving dishes and dirty plates, offered Jerry a cup of coffee. He gladly accepted the coffee and stood quietly, as out of the way as best he could and studied his new shipmates.
All were in khaki working uniforms, sitting silently, reading their morning message traffic as they hurriedly ate. Berg was demolishing a plate of scrambled eggs and hash browns, but most settled for cereal or a fresh sticky bun with their coffee.
It was quiet, too quiet. The only words spoken were the occasional comments or questions when someone discussed ship’s business with another officer. It was completely unlike a squadron mess. This wardroom was tense, cold, and uncomfortable.
As he studied his fellow officers, he also studied the wardroom, which didn’t take long, considering its size. It was about the size of a small bedroom, with most of the space taken up by the ten-foot by three-foot table, roughly in the middle. The decor was Navy standard, with fake wood paneling wallpaper on all the walls and drawers and blue vinyl covers on the chairs, table, and the couch at the forward end of the room. Except for a picture of Memphis’ launching and some plaques from other U.S. Navy commands and various foreign navies, there were no decorations. The wardroom’s spartan look only reinforced the isolation, the lack of camaraderie that Jerry felt.
Besides being the place where all officers on board had their meals, the wardroom table also functioned as a workspace for pre-deployment briefs, drill critiques, tactical reviews, and as a place to relax. Here the officers could watch a movie or play some games to help unwind a little. In an emergency, the wardroom could also be turned into an operating room. At that thought, Jerry’s right arm started to ache and he decided that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to think about the wardroom’s auxiliary medical function.
He spotted a bulletin board on the forward bulkhead and edged over to it, dodging the mess steward on the way. Several sheets of paper had been tacked over a layer of older notices and newspaper clippings. The new sheets were printouts from an internet news service, and Jerry started to read the one closest to him. Under the brightly colored banner, the headline read NAVY JET CRASHES IN CALIFORNIA. He started to read the piece, assuming it was a report from this morning, and felt déjà vu when he saw that it was an F/A-18, then more so when he read it was at Naval Air Station Lemoore. When he saw that the cause was a flat tire, he felt positively creeped out, but the pilot, Lieutenant (j.g.) Jerry Mitchell, was recovering from his injuries...
His eyes flashed back to the headline and then to the date: JANUARY 2, 2003. He looked at the second sheet. It was dated a few months later and was titled aviator fights to stay. It described Jerry’s aviation background, his political connections, and his attempts to transfer to the submarine service. In the section describing Jerry’s aviation training, his call sign, “Menace,” was mentioned, and someone had marked the word with a yellow highlighter.
The call sign, so appropriate for an aviator, sounded silly and trivial now. He fought the urge to rip the pages off the board, then another impulse to turn and scan the room, as if he could detect the individual who put them up just by looking. He finally turned around, reluctantly, feeling even more isolated, singled out. He knew someone, maybe all of them, was watching him, waiting for a reaction, but did his best to deny them the pleasure.
“Mr. Mitchell, sir? You can sit down now. What would you like for breakfast?”
* * * *
Jerry settled for some cereal and fruit, then tried to listen and learn. There was no message traffic for him, of course, but he kept an ear cocked to anything Cal Richards, his new boss, had to say. Richards didn’t acknowledge his presence at breakfast, and spoke little, instead writing furiously on a clipboard. After a minute or two, Richards began to flip through the pages on his clipboard, and his face seemed to turn white before Jerry’s eyes.
“Mr. Weyer, when did SUBASE say they were sending over the team to help you troubleshoot the sonar display console?”
“They said it would be sometime this afternoon, sir,” responded Lieutenant (j.g.) Tim Weyer, Memphis’ Sonar Officer. “They have to completely redo their schedule to fit us in and the Repair Officer said he wouldn’t know the time until this morning.”
“Well, if you haven’t noticed, Mr. Weyer, it is morning and I need that time so I can finish my morning report for the Captain. So why don’t you get your butt in gear and find out!” snapped Richards.
“Yes, sir,” replied Weyer tersely as he quickly rose from his chair, threw his napkin on the table, and left the wardroom.
Surprised by the sudden exchange between his depa
rtment head and a fellow division officer, Jerry hunkered down and concentrated on finishing his breakfast, desperately trying not to meet Richards’ cold stare.
“As for you, Mr. Mitchell,” said Richards sternly. “You have five minutes to finish, and then you are to meet me in the torpedo room. I assume you can find your way there?”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir,” Jerry answered.
Without responding, Cal Richards collected the small pile of paperwork he was working on and walked out of the wardroom. After Richards had gone, Jerry let out a deep sigh and pushed the bowl with some fruit left in it away from him. Putting the napkin on the table, he stood up and started making his way to the door.
“Excuse me sir. Are you finished?” asked the mess steward.
“Yes, yes, I am. Thank you.” And with that, Jerry returned to his stateroom to get his cover, jacket, and notebook. Checking his watch, he had three minutes to get to the torpedo room, Jerry walked quickly back toward the main passageway As he walked, Jerry couldn’t help but be reminded just how much space was at a premium on a submarine. The passageway couldn’t be more than two feet wide and two people going opposite directions would have to turn sideways just to get past each other. On a submarine, outside of your rack, there was no such thing as “personal space.” After reaching the wardroom, Jerry turned the corner and exited the opening in the bulkhead that separated officers’ country from the rest of the boat and walked across to the ladder that went down to the torpedo room in the forward compartment lower level.
Jerry had only been to this part of Memphis once before, so it took him a few seconds to orient himself. The heavy traffic was also momentarily confusing, as sailors were going back and forth between a berthing area on the starboard side and a head by the base of the ladder on the port side. One of the sailors shook his head, smiling, and pointed to a door at the forward end of the passageway. Jerry nodded and headed into the torpedo room, carefully closing the door behind him. Entering “his spaces,” Jerry saw Lieutenant Richards talking to a chief petty officer and two first class petty officers. As he approached the foursome, he only heard the last part of Richards’ instructions. “. .. and I want a list of all the necessary repair parts on my desk by 1700. If there is nothing else, I suggest you get started and remember we’ll be forming up for Quarters in about twenty minutes.”
As the two petty officers left, Lieutenant Richards brought over the chief. Correction, Jerry thought as they got closer, a senior chief. Jerry was immediately encouraged, having a man with such a wealth of experience as the leading chief would be very beneficial to Jerry to help run the division and for his own education. Jerry paused to think that this might be one of the first rays of hope since he had come to Memphis. He was immediately snapped out of his musings when Richards addressed him.
“Well, I see you made it,” Jerry couldn’t help but notice the biting sarcasm in Richards’ voice. “Mr. Mitchell, this is Senior Chief Torpedoman’s Mate Foster. Senior Chief Foster, this is Lieutenant (j.g.) Mitchell. He is Mr. Adelman’s relief.”
“Pleased to meet you, Senior Chief,” said Jerry as he extended his hand. Foster looked confused by what Richards had just said, and it took him a moment to recover and to shake Jerry’s hand. “Sir,” was all Foster said. Jerry sensed that something wasn’t quite right, but he didn’t have time to think it about as Richards kept on going.
“There will be time for you two to begin turnover later today, Senior Chief, but right now I need to talk to Mr. Mitchell before Quarters. Make sure that everyone in the division is topside and on time.”
“Aye, aye sir,” replied Foster, who now was staring intently at Jerry. “I’ll have the men up promptly at 0745.” Foster then left the torpedo room through the same door that Jerry had used, only the senior chief slammed the door shut on his way out. Jerry didn’t understand why the senior chief would do such a thing, but before he could ask Richards what was wrong, his department head lashed into him.
“All right, let me make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Mitchell. You will become intimately familiar with every piece of equipment in this room. You’ll ensure that all maintenance is done properly and on time and that your maintenance records will be flawlessly maintained. Don’t bring me any problem that you haven’t already thought of a solution. And don’t bring me sloppy or incorrect paperwork. I expect you to perform all of your duties impeccably and that includes your qualifications. Any questions?”
Jerry was stunned by the way Richards dressed him down. He hadn’t done anything yet, but apparently that was the problem. The duties that Richards described were the norm for a new officer on board his first ship, but the venom with which Richards had delivered them was totally inappropriate. Jerry felt angry for the first time since his arrival. The fighter pilot aggression that had served him so well during his flight training bubbled to the surface, and he straightened himself and looked Richards straight in the eye.
“No, sir. I clearly understand exactly what you expect from me.”
Cal Richards noticeably balked when Jerry stood his ground. And with a far more civil tone he said, “Very well, then, Mr. Mitchell. Carry on.” Richards then turned around and left the torpedo room.
Leaning up against the centerline torpedo stowage rack, Jerry tried to make sense out of the last ten minutes. What was it about him that Richards viewed as threatening? Surely it wasn’t him personally, Richards had only met him yesterday. But something was obviously bugging his department head, the look on Richards’ face, his treatment of Tim Weyer in the wardroom, his boisterousness. It was as if Richards had to intimidate or frighten others to have them do what he wanted done. Then it clicked; Richards was faking it, trying to act as if he had everything under control when in fact he was barely hanging on; it was all a façade.
Jerry had seen this before down at the training squadron. It was the sign of a man running scared. Cal Richards was afraid, but afraid of what or whom? Immediately after he had asked himself that question, Jerry intuitively knew the answer: Lieutenant Richards lived in dreadful fear of Captain Hardy.
Just as Jerry was making some progress in understanding his situation, the IMC announced “All hands not on watch lay topside for Quarters.” Jerry quickly made his way up to forward compartment middle level and then waited for his turn to climb up the forward escape trunk. Emerging from Memphis, Jerry found the weather to be sunny and milder than yesterday. In fact, it was quite pleasant by comparison. Still a bit nippy, but nothing a Midwestern boy couldn’t handle. Jerry then made his way to the gangplank, saluted the colors, and walked down on to the pier in search of his division. He soon found Senior Chief Foster with a group of ten sailors forming up in the second row of three. Jerry walked over and stood next to Foster, but the senior chief did not acknowledge his presence. The wind seemed colder than Jerry had first thought.
The XO was carefully watching the forward escape trunk, and as soon as Hardy emerged from the hatch, Bair shouted, “Attention on deck!” The crew, standing at ease, instantly became three neat, motionless lines, drawn up on the pier. The only sounds left were the cold breeze and the waves as they slapped against the pier and the submarine’s hull. Every man’s attention was on Hardy. Now they would get some answers.
“All right, listen up.” Hardy’s tone matched his expression—both were stern, almost angry. “The CNO has given us one more patrol to do, one that will be more difficult than the last few we’ve done. We’ll be getting underway on May 13th, about sixty days from now. I can’t tell you our destination or what our mission is until we’re underway, but I can tell you that we will have guests aboard.” That started a chorus of whispers in the ranks, but that stopped as the Captain continued.
“This boat not only has to be made ready for patrol, but all the preparations made for the decommissioning have to be turned around. And there are a lot of deficiencies that have to be corrected.” This earned the crew a hard glare from Hardy.
“Anyone who was scheduled to tran
sfer off Memphis will have their orders deferred until we finish this patrol. All leaves are canceled, and until this boat is completely ready for sea, the crew will go to port and starboard duty sections.”
That raised a real murmur, almost a groan. “Port and starboard” meant that half the crew would stay aboard after the working day was finished. On Navy subs in port, part of the crew always stayed aboard each night to deal with emergencies and monitor the reactor, which was never left unattended, but those tasks didn’t take half the crew.
“Understand, this patrol is not my idea, but come mid-May, we will get underway and this boat will be ready in all respects for its mission. Executive Officer, take charge and carry out the plan of the day.”
The XO called out as Hardy quickly walked up the gangplank and disappeared below. “All right, people, we have a lot of work to do and not much time to do it in, so let’s get moving. There will be a department head meeting immediately after lunch. Dismissed!”
* * * *
Jerry looked over at Foster, who seemed preoccupied with the news. Several of the torpedo gang approached the senior chief, ready to protest or ask him questions, but Jerry spoke up. “Senior Chief Foster, I’d like to meet the division.”
