Meanwhile, Washington hadn’t heard the last of the Turtle, by any means. The day after the Egyptian note had been answered, the Soviet Ambassador had a frosty interview with the Secretary of State and handed him another hot potato. This one protested the way that our Polaris submarines were harassing peaceful Soviet naval vessels in the Med. It said one of these subs had intruded on the Russian naval anchorage in the Gulf of Laconia and had laid mines there, one of which blew the bow off a Russian destroyer. It said the submarine was assisted by the spy ship USS Turtle, which had been making a nuisance of itself snooping around the anchorage.
This note was soon being studied incredulously by a group of Admirals in CNO’s office.
“It just doesn’t make sense, Admiral,” said the Deputy for Operations. “We have no mine-laying subs in the Med. We’ve got two Polaris boats out there, but we keep a rigid check on them all the time, and neither one has been anywhere near the Gulf of Laconia. This job was done by somebody else - not us.”
“Well, who else has got subs in the Med?” asked CNO.
“As of this morning, the Russians have got ten. Tito has a couple, and the Egyptians are trying to learn how to run three old ones the Russians gave them. The French and Italians have thirty-two between them. The Turks have got two, and the Israelis three.”
“Okay,” said CNO. “So it could belong to half a dozen other countries. All we gotta tell the Russians is that it wasn’t one of ours. Let them try to sort out which one of the others it was. Now how about this goddamned USS Turtle?”
“We don’t know any more about it now than we did before, Admiral,” said the Deputy. “Sixth Fleet claims they have nothing that could possibly be involved. The Pillsbury is the only ship they have in that area, and she’s been anchored in Athens for a week.”
“Well, something damned funny is going on out there,” said CNO, “and it’s up to Sixth Fleet to find out what it is.”
That afternoon the State Department sent the Russians a pleasant little note simply saying that no U.S. submarines had been anywhere near the Gulf of Laconia, there was no such ship as the USS Turtle, and United States ships never laid mines in crowded anchorages.
At the same time, CNO sent ComSixthFleet’s Admiral Hughes, a “personal top secret, eyes only” message saying, in effect, “What’s coming off here? Maybe none of your ships are involved in this but these things are happening in your area. It’s up to you to know what the hell goes on in your bailiwick and tell us about it before the Russians and Egyptians do.”
This still wasn’t the end of the Turtle’s saga. That morning, Pravda came out with a story about life in the U.S. Navy and the stern measures necessary to maintain discipline among mutinous crews. Alongside the story was a picture of the USS Turtle with Charley Noble suspended from the yardarm. The story said that this was the same spy ship that had made a treacherous attack on a peaceful Egyptian ship and which the United States claimed did not exist.
One of CIA’s men in Moscow immediately put the story on the facsimile circuit to CIA HQ in Washington. Next morning, the head of CIA gleefully sent the story and picture to CNO by special messenger with a note saying, “recent Supreme Court decisions raise doubt about the constitutionality of such disciplinary measures.”
CNO didn’t think this was very funny but called in all his experts to examine the picture. They gathered around it with magnifying glasses, inspecting it distastefully, like doctors holding a post-mortem on a mule that has been dead in the hot sun for a week.
“What do you make of it?” asked the CNO.
“Damned if I know,” said the Chief of Naval Intelligence. “It sure looks like a man at the yardarm there.”
“What the hell,” said CNO. “Nobody hangs people at the yardarm today - not even the Russians. It must be a dummy and some sort of a gag. Just the sort of gag that only American sailors would think of, I might add. Now, how about the ship?”
“It’s hard to tell from a fuzzy picture like this one,” said the head of ONI. “It looks a little bit like one of our LCUs, except it’s ass backwards. The pilot house is forward instead of aft.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look at this thing sticking out from the side,” said the Navy’s head gumshoe, pointing to Fatso’s can opener. “It’s obviously a propeller guard. So this is the stern. The pilothouse is at the other end in the bow. So this can’t be an LCU”
“Yeah. You’re right about that,” said CNO.
“And that great big radar dish means it’s a spy ship of some kind. But it sure as hell isn’t anything of ours.”
“Then who the hell does it belong to?”
“I must admit we’re stumped, Admiral,” said CNI. “We can’t find anything in our files of foreign ships that looks like it. But of course, it’s a small craft that wouldn’t take too long to build. It could be a new ship that we haven’t photographed yet. Maybe this is part of General De-Gaulle’s ‘force de frappe’.”
“Hmmmm,” observed CNO. “Okay. Get off a dispatch to Sixth Fleet. Tell them I want them to scour the eastern Med till they find that craft and get some good clear pictures of it.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said the Deputy for Operations.
Next day, Sixth Fleet photo planes combed the eastern Med, searching for the mysterious spy ship. They brought back quite an album of pictures: a dozen Russian destroyers, one limping along down by the head with a piece of its bow missing; a Russian sub which they caught on the surface and photographed from a dozen angles before she crash dived; an Italian tanker pumping bilges and polluting the Med with a huge spreading oil slick astern; a lateen-rigged Turkish craft with a suspicious-looking, odd-shaped sail; and a Dutch tug towing a barge with a twenty-foot spherical oil tank on it. But no Turtle. One photo plane flew right over Fatso and his merry men, but by this time they had disposed of their radar dish and the pilot decided it wasn’t worthwhile wasting any film on them.
All these photos went to Washington by facsimile as soon as they were developed aboard ship.
“So ... that’s that,” said CNO next day, after he and his experts examined those pictures. “Looks like the Turtle is a modern version of the Flying Dutchman.”
“Well,” said CNI, “There’s lots of strange things going on in this world today that nobody can explain ... UFOs, for instance. The Air Force had to set up a special task group to study all the sighting reports they’re getting. They’ve got a file of about a thousand photographs that screwballs all over the country claim are flying saucers.”
“Maybe we better set up a file of USOs,” observed CNO. “Unidentified Seagoing Objects.”
Chapter Thirteen
Computerized Groceries
Meanwhile, the USS Turtle had been relieved on station so to speak by LCU 1124, BM/1c Gioninni commanding. The Turtle had disappeared like the Flying Dutchman, and LCU 1124 was now operating on detached duty - in the Eastern Med. A council of war was in progress in the messroom to discuss future plans.
“This thing can’t go on much longer, boys,” said Fatso. “They’re bound to catch up with us pretty soon.”
“Well, I dunno,” said the Judge. “It seems to me like they’ve lost track of us, just like the Army did with that guy we read about in the Navy Times. We might go on like this for months.”
“Except we gotta eat - and we’re running out of grub, and oil, too,” observed Fatso.
“Yeah,” conceded the Judge. “But I’ll betcha we could go back into Malta just like we did last time, draw out everything we need, and there wouldn’t be no questions asked. Unless Sixth Fleet has put out some word about us - they’d never think there was anything funny about it. And if any word was out about us, old Sparky Wright on the Pillsbury would have let us know. We check with him every day, and he’s heard nothing. They just lost track of us - that’s all.”
“Yeah. It looks that way,” conceded Fatso. “But by this time, even the Supply Department in Malta must know the Alamo is in Vietnam.”
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“Okay - they prob’ly do,” said the Judge. “But the USS Turtle has nothing to do with them, and there’s no reason why they should connect us with it. If they get nosy about the Alamo we can tell them we’re operating under ComSixthFleet - even though he may not know it!”
“I don’t think we got a thing to worry about on this Turtle business, Cap’n,” said the Professor. “The government has gone plumb overboard saying that there just ain’t no such craft. So there ain’t - and there never will be. Too many big shots would look stupid now if they had to take back what they said about the Turtle. This ain’t like the U-2 business. The Russians had us over a barrel there, because they had our plane and pilot. When a blooper is made on a high enough level it becomes a fact of life instead of a mistake, unless you get caught cold at it. With all the talk there’s been lately about the credibility gap in Washington, they’d never admit they were wrong on the Turtle now. Hell, even if we came into Naples and tried to admit it was us, they’d prob’ly take us out and scuttle us with all hands on board.”
“You know, Professor - I think you’re right,” said Fatso. “I’m going to head for Malta, and if they get curious there, I’ll just tell ‘em we’re operating on secret orders - you can bet your starboard anchor the Alamo would back us up on that if anybody ever asked them.”
“There’s one other angle you’d better think about before we go into Malta,” observed Scuttlebutt.
“What’s that?”
“The official car and Commodore’s gig,” said Scuttlebutt. “The minute we show up in Malta, one of those supply types is going to run up and tell his boss how he can fix himself up real good. Here’s an official car and a real nice little boat charged up to the Alamo out in Vietnam and expended from the books. The Supply Officer Malta will get himself a private car and yacht before we get through tying up to the dock.”
“By gawd, you’re right on that,” said Fatso.
“Couldn’t we put ‘em ashore in a cove somewheres and pick ‘em up later?” suggested Ginsberg.
“It wouldn’t work,” said Fatso sadly. “That Chief in the supply office knows all about them. He gave me a spiel about all the fuss the Commodore had made about them last time we were in. So he’ll remember. And if we haven’t got them on board, the evil-minded old bastard would prob’ly claim we sold them to the Greeks in Athens. But we gotta get fuel and oil, so we’ll just have to take our chances on losing the car and gig.”
Next morning as LCU 124 cruised northwest toward Malta, a large ship began poking its upper works over the horizon on the port bow. During an uneventful watch at sea, the appearance of a stranger always brings the boys on deck with glasses to look her over and identify her. The colors of this one and her commission pennant showed she was USN. Soon an array of king posts and booms coming up over the horizon marked her as a supply ship - but not a familiar one.
Fatso lowered his glasses and remarked to Scuttlebutt alongside him, “She’s sure a big son of a bitch - and I’ve never seen such cargo handling gear before.” He called over to Webfoot who was nearest the searchlight, “As soon as her bridge comes in sight, exchange calls and find out who she is.”
The upper works of a big ship are, of course, visible to a small one long before her bridge comes over the horizon. And by the same token, the signal force on a big ship doesn’t see the smaller one at first. Webfoot had been blinking his light for some minutes before anyone on the big ship saw it.
On the big ship the skipper was seated in his leather swivel chair on the starboard wing of the bridge on the level above the signal bridge with nothing to do at that particular time but rubber around the horizon with his eight by thirty Zeiss glasses trying to spot things that others should have seen first. He was the first one to note Webfoot’s blinking light, just coming over the horizon, which of course was embarrassing to the OOD, lookouts, and signal force.
He stuck his head over the rail and yelled down at the signal bridge, “Wake up down there! Answer that ship that’s calling you.”
Signal floozies scrambled all over each other to get to the light and answer while the OOD put the blast on the lookouts, and the skipper smugly told himself he had the sharpest eyes on the ship. (Of course, his added height put his horizon about a mile beyond that of the signal floozies. But they were a dopey lot anyway,)
Soon the signal bridge reported, “She’s just exchanging calls, sir.”
“What ship is she?” demanded the skipper, who prided himself on his ability to read blinker - sometimes better than the Signalmen.
“LCU 1124,” came the answer from the signal floozie, who was well aware of the skipper’s unfortunate ability to check up.
“Humph,” grunted the skipper, a little let down that he couldn’t air his skill in reading blinker this time.
Over on LCU 1124, Webfoot reported “USS SANTEE, Cap’n.”
“Hunh,” said Fatso. “She’s a new one on me. Never heard of her before.”
When Navy ships talk to each other officially at sea, the messages go, of course, from Captain to Captain. But on casual passings the signal floozies often exchange unofficial chit chat by blinker. Webfoot blinked back at his pals on the Santee, “Never heard of U, when did U guys join Navy?”
The skipper of the Santee took in this message. He was in an expansive mood this morning, and this was his first contact with the Sixth Fleet. So he figured that although this was only a little spit kit on the horizon, he would start right here spreading the word that a new era in fleet logistics was about to dawn in the Med. He leaned over the rail and yelled to the signal bridge, “Answer that, official MSG for CO. ‘Santee is Navy’s newest logistic ship. Whatever the fleet wants, we’ve got. Our motto is CAN DO. Do you need anything?’”
“Well now,” said Fatso, a bit flabbergasted when he got this official message from the Santee, “Ain’t that somethin’? Maybe we don’t hafta go to Malta after all. Answer this, ‘We need food and oil.’”
This was a bit more than the skipper of the Santee had bargained for. But he wasn’t going to let this little spit kit make him eat his CAN DO motto. He yelled down to the signal bridge, “Tell them, ‘Come alongside, starboard side at forward king post. How much of what do you need?’”
“Well, now, I’ll be dipped in lukewarm gook,” observed Fatso, when this reply came back. “I never heard of such service before!”
“They’re giving us a blank check, Cap’n,” said the Professor. “We oughta ask em for frog legs and Alaska King crabs.”
“If we was a big carrier, I’d sure do it and call their bluff,” observed Fatso. “But little guys like us don’t try to get funny with four-stripe skippers like that bucket has ... Answer him - ‘Request a month’s rations for eight men and two thousand gallons of diesel oil’,” he yelled over at Webfoot.
Over on the Santee the skipper had the Supply Officer up on the bridge. “Here comes our first customer,” he said, pointing to the LCU maneuvering into a position a mile or so off the starboard bow. “Let’s see what kind of service you can give our little friend.”
“Yessir,” said the SO. “I doubt if she’ll strip us bare. Just what does she want?”
When Fatso’s answer came up from the signal bridge he said, “Hunh. That’s a kind of irregular sort of a requisition ... but we can handle it all right.”
He picked up the phone, dialed the supply office, and said, “We got a small craft coming alongside. They want thirty days food for eight men. Give ‘em whatever it takes for the same menu we’re serving our own people. Make up proper requisitions and invoices and have the whole works in a cargo net at king post number 1 in five minutes.”
“I’ll bet you can’t do it,” observed the skipper.
“We’ll soon see,” said the SO. “With all the preprogrammed bookkeeping, mechanical brains, and automatic equipment we got, I think we can. But I don’t carry any oil in stock.”
“Yeah - I stand corrected on that,” said the skipper. “But hell, the chie
f engineer can spare two thousand gallons of diesel. We’ll give it to them out of our own ship’s tanks.”
Ten minutes later, when LCU 1124 eased in alongside the Santee, a six inch fuel hose was dangling from one boom on king post number one and a large cargo net full of stores from another. Scuttlebutt and Jughaid grappled with the hose and screwed it into the fueling connection while the rest of the boys eased the cargo net down on the well deck.
The contents of the net would have been a Paul Bunyan sized cartful at even the most super supermarket. It was everything it takes to feed eight hungry sailors the standard Navy balanced menu for thirty days. And despite the traditional gripes that you hear from old soldiers about the grub, the U.S. Navy eats high on the hog. There were meats of all kinds, fowl, eggs, vegetables, fruits, bread, crackers, cookies, condiments, butter, sugar, vinegar, coffee, and canned milk - the quantities all figured out by mechanical brains. On top of the neatly packaged and bagged food was a big manila envelope with a couple of dozen invoices and requisitions all duly filled in by automatic machines with proper Navy stock numbers, quantities, and prices. The only blank places were for the name of the mother ship that would pay the bill and the signature of the recipient skipper.
By the time Fatso got through filling in the Alamo’s name and signing the invoices, the net was empty and the oil tanks were full. Not more than five minutes after they came alongside, the oil hose was hauled back aboard the Santee, Fatso stuffed the manila envelope into a bag attached to the cargo net, and LCU 1124 hauled clear, full of everything she needed for the next thirty days.
“Boy oh boy!” said Fatso, as they got away. “That was fast service ... How the hell does a Boatswain’s Mate send a four-stripe skipper a ‘well done”?” he demanded of the Professor.
“Just tell him it’s the best goddamned replenishment we over had,” suggested the Professor.
“Okay,” said Fatso to Webfoot. “Send it out on your light - except leave the goddamned out.”
Cap'n Fatso Page 12
