Vows to the Fallen: O'Toole (The Marathon Series)

by Laswell, Larry

  “There’s a shorter version,” O’Toole said. “When you don’t know what to do next, win the war. In other words, use your best judgment.”

  26

  March 17, 1943; 0400 Hours

  USS Farnley; wardroom

  Paxton’s eyes were heavy, and his body craved a warm bed. He forced his brain forward through the mental fog. With unfocused eyes, he gazed at the mountain of manuals and notepads heaped on the wardroom table. Mock, the engineering officer, and Grimes, the engineering chief petty officer, stared at the table, waiting for someone else to speak.

  Paxton stood and pushed the ragged stack of manuals as far down the table as he could. “I think I figured it out,” he said. “What do the regulations say about boiler warm-up times?”

  “Minimum is four hours,” Reeves said.

  “What did the preface say about the purpose of the regulations?”

  Grimes retrieved one of the manuals, flipped through the pages, and began reading, “To insure proper maintenance, operation, and equipment longevity.”

  “Doesn’t say anything about safety does it?”

  “No,” said Grimes, “but everyone knows the warm-up time is about safety.”

  “That’s where we’re wrong. The captain mentioned the General Prudential Rule, which means when you can’t get the job done following the rules, ignore the rules and win the war.”

  “I don’t understand,” Grimes said.

  “If we put all the engineering data together and stack up the design specs, safety factors, and technical limits, they say you can go from cold iron to underway in less than an hour.”

  Reeves stared at the overhead for a second. “You’re right. How the hell did the captain figure that out?”

  “Beats me,” Paxton said.

  “Okay, so we light fires at 0630 hours,” Grimes said. He stood and started to collect the tech manuals.

  Paxton stopped him, “Wait, Chief, could I borrow those for a few days?”

  §

  O’Toole and Ship Shape took the captain’s chair while Lieutenant Navarro maneuvered the Farnley from the pier and headed the ship across San Francisco Bay. The sky was clear, but a brisk March wind swept the Bay’s gray waters.

  “Sir, the ship is five-zero yards south of track,” Skittle, the quartermaster, called out.

  Navarro corrected. “Right ten degrees rudder.”

  Crossing San Francisco harbor with its unpredictable currents and wind was a challenge. O’Toole said nothing to Navarro; he was learning.

  “Sir, the ship is seven-five yards north of track.”

  “Left ten degrees rudder,” Navarro said.

  Four minutes later, Skittle said, “Sir, the ship is one-zero-five yards south of track. I hate San Francisco; the bay is always like this. Why don’t we wait till slack tide to leave port?”

  “A schedule is a schedule, Skittle,” O’Toole said.

  Navarro corrected his course, “Right ten degrees rudder.”

  Navarro managed the Farnley across the bay and under the Golden Gate Bridge. At 0833, he turned the Farnley southwest and set her head on the great circle route to Pearl Harbor.

  O’Toole pulled Hatfield’s brass balls from his pocket and fingered them pensively for a moment. He motioned for Navarro and in a low voice said, “Good job bringing her out of the harbor. The bay is always a bitch. Once you got past Treasure Island, the wind and current kept pushing you south of track. To compensate, you kept jiggering your rudder to get back on track. What would happen if you set your initial course two degrees right of track and into the wind?”

  Navarro thought for a second. “The wind would blow me back down toward the planned track.” Navarro’s eyes lit up. “Less jockeying with the rudder.”

  “We all do things different. Next time you’re in a similar situation, try it. It’s better than having to work your rudder all the way across the bay.”

  “Do you think two degrees would be enough?”

  “Heck if I know, but after a few minutes the ship and the wind would tell you how much you needed, and you could make one adjustment, not twenty.”

  Navarro smiled. “Thanks, Captain.”

  O’Toole stayed in his captain’s chair. He skipped lunch, but Ship Shape didn’t. O’Toole ordered an early lunch for the crew so everyone would have a full belly before the training started. At noon the general quarters klaxon sounded, and the ship’s public address system, the 1MC, blared, “General quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations!”

  O’Toole kept his eyes on the horizon but used his hearing and peripheral vision to monitor bridge activity as the battle stations crew took their posts. He realized he was acting like other captains he’d known. He thought they were being aloof, but now he understood the crew would interpret too much attention from the captain as a lack of confidence.

  Ship Shape strutted onto the bridge wearing a life jacket made of two kapok pockets, one on each side of his body. The stencil on the life jacket read, “Shape, Ship SN USS Farnley.”

  O’Toole was still shaking his head when Skittle approached him with his helmet, pistol, and life jacket. O’Toole stood, fastened the pistol around his waist then put the life jacket on and pulled the chest straps tight. Next, he pulled the crotch straps painfully tight since a loose life jacket would hit a man’s chin when entering the water and knock him out.

  “Keep the helmet, Skittle. I never wear one.”

  “That’s against regulations, sir.”

  He caught himself. He was the captain, and the crew would take their cue from him no matter how trivial his action.

  “You’re right, Skittle.” O’Toole took the helmet and cinched the chinstrap.

  Don’t forget to take this off next time you go in the water.

  “What about the dog, sir?” Skittle asked.

  “I guess he doesn’t wear a helmet. Besides, I don’t recall any regulations regarding dog uniforms.”

  “I wasn’t talking about dog uniforms, sir.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The dog, sir, he doesn’t like me.”

  “Well, do you like him?”

  “Well, at least he doesn’t shed hair all over the bridge, but can’t he stay below sometimes, like at general quarters?”

  “Skittle, what’s your problem?”

  “I don’t like dogs, sir. They’re trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “I don’t know, just trouble, you know?”

  “No, I don’t, Skittle. Get used to the dog. He won’t bother you unless you bother him.”

  “Never works that way for me. I just know he’s going to be more work.” Skittle’s head and shoulders drooped, and he shuffled off toward the chart table. “There is enough work to do without me having to worry about a dog.”

  Holmes the bridge officer approached O’Toole. He would follow standard procedure and turn the deck and the conn over to him. O’Toole motioned to Paxton, and to both officers he said, “XO, take the deck and the conn. The ship is yours. I’m headed to the flying bridge.”

  Paxton’s face went blank. O’Toole patted him on the back and said, “You’ll do fine, XO.”

  All stations reported manned and ready by the time O’Toole reached the flying bridge. Seaman Mills’ young face, already red from the brisk wind across the deck, was bright and wide-eyed. This was his first time at sea, and his first time at battle stations. O’Toole walked over to his fifty-caliber gun position.

  “What’s going to happen, Captain?”

  “We’re coming to flank speed so everyone gets use to the feel of the ship when we’re hauling ass. We’ll do some turns to put the decks awash so the guys stationed on the main deck know what to expect and what to do when that happens. Next, we’ll do one of my favorites: we’ll slam her into reverse, and all hell will break loose. The shaking will scare the crap out of you your first time. That’s why we’re doing it. I don’t want my crew crapping their pants at battle stations.”


  The ship’s vibration increased with its speed until the deck felt like a continuous earthquake tremor. O’Toole leaned into the stiff wind, and when he couldn’t ignore the shaking any longer, he spread his legs to shoulder width. Mills followed suit. Soon the building gale-force wind and shaking deck forced Mills to grab the rail for support. O’Toole permitted himself a small smile. Mills’ expression reminded O’Toole of his first rollercoaster ride.

  “How fast are we going, Captain?” Mills yelled over the wind.

  “About forty knots.”

  “Seems a lot faster.”

  “The engines, boilers, and sea chop all mix into one huge vibrator. The ship comes to life at these speeds.”

  The ship heeled to port in response to a smart starboard rudder. All the seamen were edging toward him without leaving their stations. Without exception, they turned one ear toward him. O’Toole smiled.

  He moved to the center of the flying bridge, and as loud as he was able, said, “Now look down at the main deck. The turn will bury the deck in a six-foot wall of water moving at forty knots. The K-gunners will climb to the oh-one level to keep from getting washed away.”

  They all went to the railing and craned their necks.

  “Wow.”

  “I don’t want to be down there.”

  “Conners is hauling ass. The water almost got him.”

  The ship swung the other way and repeated the procedure on the opposite side.

  “Didn’t think the ship was that powerful, sir,” Mills said with a grin.

  The ship straightened back out. Confused and startled, the grins from the men’s faces dissolved when the ship lost forward momentum.

  “We’re going all back flank. Hang on,” O’Toole called out to the men.

  The tremor turned into an earthquake. Semaphore flags and a small wooden crate slid forward across the deck. Fighting the deceleration, the shaking, and the gear, the men scrambled to retrieve them. Those not trying to retrieve the gear leaned backward and clutched any handhold they could find.

  The earthquake subsided, and the ship started to move forward again. One of the men called out, “Think we better make sure the gear is secured next time we go to battle stations.”

  O’Toole smiled; it would be a good day.

  Every two hours, they rotated men through different battle stations assignments, and O’Toole continued his commentary on each exercise until they secured from battle stations. Today’s training had been excellent, and he was more than satisfied with the crew’s performance. He wondered if the chiefs and officers cheated on him, and somehow started training early.

  Yes, it had been a great day.

  He went below and thanked Paxton for the good job before using the 1MC to thank the crew for their fine effort. Not once did he use the word adequate.

  As he headed for his bridge chair, he spotted Chief Grubowski and a thought came to him.

  “Chief, I want a coffee pot on the bridge for the bridge crew. Problem is we don’t have any place to put one or a way to keep it in place. Any ideas?”

  Grubowski took a chomp on the cigar stub sticking out of the corner of his mouth, then swiveled his head around the bridge. He yanked the cigar stub from his mouth to use as a pointer. “I could mount a shelf and cage above the chart table, Captain.”

  O’Toole wondered about the cigar stub. Did Grubowski ever change it? It always looked the same. O’Toole shook the thought off and said, “Put it above the shelf over there. I wouldn’t want coffee all over the charts if someone spills something.”

  Grubowski jammed the cigar back into the corner of his mouth. “Yes, sir. Consider it done. Is tomorrow soon enough?”

  “That’ll be adequate.”

  The next morning, banging erupted from the port bridge ladder accompanied by a curse from Chief Grubowski. O’Toole couldn’t figure out what was happening. The banging and cursing continued until Chief Grubowski appeared on the bridge with a welding machine and three sailors. Doctor Strong was in tow and seemed curious about the commotion.

  Within minutes, Grubowski had welded a metal cage and shelf for the coffee pot on the bulkhead. One of his seamen produced a small pot of gray paint, which Grubowski used to cover the black weld seams.

  The coffee pot holder was a shelf with a metal back plate. To hold the coffee pot in place, Grubowski had welded two one-inch-wide steel straps in a square from one side of the back plate to the other. The coffee pot would sit on the shelf and be held in place by the straps. The metal cage was neat in appearance and painted gray to match the rest of the bridge.

  O’Toole admired Grubowski’s work. No one would suspect it wasn’t shipyard work.

  “Chief, good job. That’s more than adequate.”

  Grubowski replied with the left side of his mouth, “Anytime, Captain. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

  Grubowski and his seamen lugged the welder off the bridge and worked it down the ladder.

  Strong stood back, admiring the coffee pot holder, and asked O’Toole, “Would you mind if the chief put a coffee pot holder in my quarters?”

  O’Toole shook his head and shrugged, “No, go ahead. By the way, how did the casualty drill go yesterday?”

  “Paxton and I set it up so each simulated casualty had a piece of paper pinned to them that stated what their wounds were. We split them up between survivable wounds, wounds that required medical attention to prevent fatality, and fatal wounds. Paxton rigged the drill on me. He flooded me with thirty non-fatal wounds then dropped five fatal and five seriously wounded on me. Three of the seriously wounded would have died. I need to work the procedures and train the crew on first aid and how to handle the wounded. You were right; medical needs to be part of the drills.”

  “Good man, Doc. Figure it out.”

  “Yup, this old dog needs to learn new tricks if he wants to be adequate,” Strong said.

  §

  During breakfast the next day, O’Toole headed to the mess deck to make an appearance for the crew. The chow line formed on the port side, and O’Toole jostled his way down the ladder only wide enough for one man. At the bottom, someone yelled, “Captain on deck.”

  Everyone snapped to attention before O’Toole said, “At ease.”

  An unruly line of sailors clogged the passageway to the serving tables.

  “What’s all the fuss about?” O’Toole asked the group.

  “The scores, sir.”

  “What scores?”

  “They’re on the bulkhead, sir. Proficiency scores from yesterday.”

  Six mimeographed sheets of paper were taped to the bulkhead leading to the serving tables. The masthead on each sheet read,

  The Fighting Farnley

  Holy Shit Proficiency Scores

  The pages listed the proficiency rating for each division and battle station on the ship. Some were starred to indicate excellence, and some were in red pencil to indicate needed improvement. The proficiency rating was a percent of the Holy Shit Standard. Bravado, digs, and challenges filled the chatter.

  “M Division is sucking bilge.”

  “We work harder than you pussies.”

  “Well if you want any pointers, come up and ask, and we’ll show you how it’s done.”

  “Shove it up your poop shoot, asshole.”

  Feigning indifference, O’Toole pushed his way to the mess deck as the men in front of him shouted, “Make a hole, Captain’s coming through.”

  On the mess deck, Ship Shape scurried around, begging. O’Toole spotted Seaman Mills and walked over to his table. “Happy birthday, Mills!”

  Mills smiled. “Thanks, Captain.”

  “Get any presents for your birthday?”

  “Chief Grubowski said he’d cut me some slack. I only have to polish half the brass aboard ship today.”

  Turning to the man seated next to Mills, O’Toole asked, “What’s the word from the farm?”

  The man beamed. “Mom’s last letter said Dad’s
turned into a grizzly bear wanting to get in the fields, but it keeps raining.”

  “What’s he going to plant?”

  “Don’t know. He switches between corn and beans.”

  “Navy beans, I hope,” O’Toole said and moved on to the next table.

  After chatting with a half-dozen more men, O’Toole headed for Paxton’s quarters. He was impressed. Paxton’s plan was brilliant, and much better than the one he’d put together aboard the Able. Obviously, he was not as good as he thought he was, but the best he could do for his crew was give Paxton all the rope he needed.

  “XO, I like the way you posted the proficiency scores from yesterday. You’re stirring up a hornet’s nest on the mess deck.”

  “I’m happy with yesterday, Captain. I think the junior officers and chiefs did one hell of a job.”

  “We’re lucky to have such a high-caliber group of officers and chiefs, and I’m lucky to have you as my XO.”

  “Thank you, Captain, and I think we’re lucky to—”

  “Are you going to meet the proficiency standard before we reach Pearl?”

  “It’s too early to tell, but I think we’ll make it.”

  “Thinking isn’t adequate. You’ve got to know you’ll make it.”

  A puzzled expression spread across Paxton’s face, so O’Toole continued, “Figure it out. Hoping we’ll make it isn’t adequate.”

  O’Toole turned and headed down the passageway.

  Paxton’s better at this that you are.

  §

  Strong searched the entire ship for Chief Grubowski and was starting his second round when he found him on the fantail.

  “Chief, I was wondering if you could put one of those coffee pot holders in my quarters. I work a lot at night, and having a coffee pot in my quarters would help.”

  Grubowski frowned and took a chomp at his cigar. “You’re asking me to make you a coffee pot holder, lug the welder up two levels out of the bosun locker, down one level to your quarters, mount it, and lug the welder back to the bosun locker so you can have bedside coffee?”

  Strong rocked back on his heels. “Yes, I was just wondering if maybe you could put one in for me.”