Cap'n Fatso

by Daniel V Gallery

  “How do you mean?”

  “Ver-rry carefully,” said Fatso. “I want to just ease into the Amphib Base there without attracting any attention, check in with the Chief who has the duty, and then just wait till somebody sends for me.”

  “What are you worried about, Cap’n,” asked the Judge. “You don’t think they’ll try to say we been AWOL or nothing like that, do you?”

  “No-o-o-o,” said Fatso. “They can’t pin that rap on us. We just carried out our orders as best we could. We checked in with SOPA Athens when we couldn’t find the ship, and we been standing by for further orders ever since. So we’re okay on that. It’s the USS Turtle bit that can really get our ass in a bight.”

  “What did the Turtle do that was so awful?” demanded Scuttlebutt.

  “It got itself in the newspapers,” said Fatso. “Russia and the Arabs both put us on the report, and the Navy went on record officially saying there never was such a ship. If it should leak out now that we are the Turtle a lot of big wheels will look bad, and there will be hell to pay.”

  “Well, yeah. I can see how there would be some very red faces in high level circles if they had to admit now that we was the Turtle. Maybe half a dozen Admirals would suddenly retire. But what could they do to us?” demanded the Judge.

  “Hunh!” said Fatso. “Any time low-level guys like us make high-level faces red, some low-level asses get awful red, too.”

  “Yeah,” said the Professor. “The Turtle got in the papers, all right. But it got itself officially abolished, too. For that very reason, the Navy wouldn’t dare let it come to life again. Too many big shots would be embarrassed.”

  “Okay,” said Fatso; “That’s why I say we gotta go into Naples carefully without attracting no attention. If the Navy ever found out that we was the Turtle they’d ship us down to Antarctica and keep us on ice there till our enlistments were up. Because if the press ever got hold of the story, all hell would bust loose.”

  “Well, I see what you mean now, Cap’n,” said Scuttlebutt. “We gotta come into Naples as if nothing at all had happened, keep our mouths shut, and just wait till our records and pay accounts catch up with us.”

  “That’s right. I know a Chief in the supply department there who can make a routine check with the Alamo and remind them about our records and pay accounts. Then they’ll find another ship to put us on and that will be that.”

  At this point Ginsberg, who had been working on his films and taking no part in the critique, let out a whoop.

  “Boy oh boy!” he shouted, “You oughta see this film of shooting them Arab spies.”

  Several of the boys gathered around, and Ginsberg proudly showed a blow-up of his film. “Look at this shot - just before he gets hit - He’s saying his last words.”

  “Gee!” said the group.

  Abie flipped the viewer to the next picture and said, “And now the bullet hits him and his eyes are popping as if he seen a ghost.”

  “There ain’t much blood in it,” observed the Judge critically.

  “That comes later,” said Ginsberg, flipping a few frames through the viewer. “There you are. Blood all over, but no brains.”

  “What do you figure on doing with them pictures?” asked. Fatso.

  “I’m going to mail ‘em to LIFE as soon as we get to Naples.”

  “I think we better hold them for a while,” said Fatso. “It wouldn’t be so good for us to make a big splurge in LIFE right now.”

  “We can’t hold ‘em, Cap’n,” said Ginsberg. “These pictures are red hot. Gotta get ‘em in right away - air mail. I would of sent them from Tel Aviv, but I was afraid the Israeli censors might get ‘em.”

  “I think we better hold them,” said Fatso.

  “I wish I could, Cap’n,” said Ginsberg. “But stuff like this don’t keep. This is a whale of a scoop, and time is very important. Pictures that would make a feature story today may go in the ash can two weeks from now. Even my exclusive scoop like this one can get out of date.”

  “I said we gotta hold ‘em,” said Fatso.

  “I’d sure like to oblige you, Cap’n,” said Ginsberg. “But I just can’t do it. This is a cinch to make the cover of LIFE.”

  “Bring ‘em over here and let me have a look at ‘em,” said Fatso.

  Ginsberg gathered up three rolls of movie film, several dozen still pictures, and films and lugged them down to the other end of the messroom. “Look at that print on top, Cap’n,” he said. “That’s a blow-up from the movie showing the guy’s face when he gets hit right in the middle of a word. That’s the one you’ll see on the cover of LIFE.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Fatso, examining the photo. “Is this all you got? The whole works?”

  “Yessir, Cap’n,” said Ginsberg. “That’s the whole package. Negatives, positives, prints, and all.”

  “Bring your viewer down here so I can look at these films,” said Fatso.

  As Abie went back to the other end of the messroom to get the viewer, Fatso swept films, negatives, and prints into a bucket, kicked open the door behind him, strode out on deck, and heaved the bucket over the side.

  When Ginsberg saw what was happening he let out an agonized scream, and rushed out on deck with his eyes popping like the Arab in the picture.

  “Goddam it. You can’t do that,” he yelled at Fatso, as the bucket began drifting astern. “Right full rudder,” he howled at Satchmo, who had the wheel. “Keep that bucket in sight. Right full rudder!”

  Satchmo held his course and looked quizzically at Fatso.

  “Steady as you go,” Fatso said.

  “Aye aye, sir, Cap’n - steady on two seven zero,” replied Satchmo.

  Ginsberg ran over to the rail and would have leaped overboard to rescue the bucket if Jughaid and Webfoot hadn’t grabbed and restrained him.

  Then the stern wave broke over the bucket, engulfed it, and down it went to Davey Jones.

  “Oi yoi yoi,” moaned Ginsberg, along with a lot of seafaring language which cannot be repeated in this family journal. “You can’t do that! I got a constitutional right - I could of got fifty thousand bucks for those pictures - I might of got a Pulitzer Prize, you son of a bitch - sir.”

  “Yeah,” said Fatso. “And the rest of us, including you, would of been down in Antarctica for the next year, getting our balls frosted.”

  While these scenes were being enacted on the former USS Turtle, Commander Sixth Fleet was getting his regular daily briefing by his staff on board the flagship in Naples. The Admiral was seated in front of a big vertical chart of the Med, dotted all over with little moveable magnetic markers of various shapes and colors. The shapes told the size and class of various ships; the colors, their nationality. Russian ships had brilliant red markers, which were becoming more numerous every day. The board was kept up to date by a constant stream of position reports from allied ships and by daily photo flights which spotted all the others. By a quick glance at this board the Admiral could tell the current location of all large merchant ships and tankers, and of every naval ship of any nationality in the Mediterranean. (Except, of course, LCU 1124.)

  The briefing began with a run-down on the war in Vietnam. The Chief of Staff, thumbing through the top secret dispatches, said, “The White House announced yesterday that we are now winning the war on all fronts, and an enemy collapse is expected soon. The Secretary of Defense, just back from a trip to front lines, declared there is a good chance our troops will be coming home by Christmas. The Associated Press says there was a heavy rocket attack on Saigon yesterday, that two more of the new TFX airplanes are missing, and that a million dollars worth of whiskey has been stolen from the PX by black market operators. Selective Service announced yesterday that draft calls for the next three months will be double as much as previously announced.”

  “There seems to be a sort of credibility gap,” observed the Admiral. “But General Hershey always was a skeptical old curmudgeon. Even if a Pentagon announcement was so, he wouldn’t believe
it.”

  Next a sharp young Captain read a bulletin from UN Headquarters in New York. “The UN yesterday passed a resolution by a large majority calling on both sides in the Arab-Israeli dispute to arbitrate their differences. It warned that the use of force would be severely condemned by world public opinion and might require the UN to take further action.”

  “By Gad, that will give them something to think about,” said the Admiral. “I knew we could depend on the UN when the chips were down. I’ll bet that will scare hell out of that one-eyed Jew General - if he ever hears about it.”

  “Three more Russian submarines and six destroyers came through the Bosphorous yesterday bound for the Med,” continued the Captain. “This brings the total of Russian naval ships in the Med up to forty-eight, half of them now concentrated in Alexandria.”

  “Hunh!” observed the Admiral. “Ever since the Russo-Japanese war, I’ve always figured Russian naval officers were sort of stupid on the starboard side. But I must say they are beginning to learn how to use sea power now.”

  The next briefer was the Public Information officer. “We have a complaint,” he said, “from the editors of TIME against the Captain of the America. They say he was uncooperative during the Arab-Israeli crisis and refused to let their man have proper access to the news, despite his clearance from the Defense Department.”

  “The Captain told me all about that,” said the Admiral. “He says all the TIME man wanted was to take over command of the ship. Some of these reporters think that the major mission of this fleet is to provide them with a grandstand seat, copies of all the top secret dispatches, and a radio transmitter. Send TIME the bedbug letter.”

  “That concludes the morning briefing, sir,” said the COS.

  “Okay,” said the Admiral. “Now, while we’ve got everybody here, I want one last run-down on the USS Turtle business. I’ve got the smooth report for CNO on my desk now, ready for signature. It has already been revised twice because the first versions were entirely too sweeping and cocksure. I’m not ready to go on record saying the Turtle could not be a U.S. ship. That covers entirely too much ground such as the CIA, DIA, MATS, and even merchant ships. I’m going to confine my disavowal to Sixth Fleet ships under my operational control. I still think I smell a small skunk somewhere in this Turtle business. That hanging is just the sort of a thing some smart young American would dream up to booby trap the Russians. But I am ready now, if you all agree, to certify that it definitely was no ship of the Sixth Fleet. So if any of you have any doubts, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

  The group of Captains and Commanders stared straight ahead with what they all hoped were confident expressions on their faces. No one could think of any reasonable way to hedge.

  “Can we be sure this is not another Liberty affair,” demanded the Admiral, “a ship that was actually getting its orders from CIA or DIA without our knowledge but theoretically under our Opcon if she got in a jam?”

  The Chief of Staff spoke up. “I’ve checked that from every possible angle, Admiral. That is impossible in this case.”

  “Okay,” said the Admiral. “I’ll take your word for that. But there is always the outside chance that some group of long-haired screwballs did this with a chartered U.S. ship that isn’t registered anywhere.”

  “That’s a one-in-a-million chance, sir,” said the COS. “It’s much more likely that if there is any such ship as the Turtle at all, it belongs to one of a dozen or so Mediterranean sea powers. I don’t think the Israelis would hesitate one minute to pull a stunt like that to stir up trouble between us, the Russians, and the Arabs. Or our adversaries as the State Department calls them - might just make up the whole bit out of thin air, trying to prove that we really did help the Israelis after all.”

  “The last one seems the most likely to me - I hope,” said the Admiral. “All right. I’m signing that report right after this meeting. After that, we’re stuck with it, no matter what. See you tomorrow, gentlemen.”

  That evening Ginsberg had the wheel watch and Scuttlebutt, Fatso, the Judge, and the Professor were discussing military law in the messroom.

  “Ginsberg spent about an hour with me this afternoon,” said the Judge, “quizzing me about his constitutional rights.”

  “Which ones is he having trouble with?” asked Fatso.

  “Well, he figured you must of violated most of them when you heaved that bucket overboard.”

  “Hunh,” said Fatso. “Where does the Constitution say anything about heaving buckets overboard? And I ain’t heard of the Supreme Court passing any new amendments about buckets - yet.”

  “He claims it comes under the part about freedom of speech, freedom of the press, due process of law, and several others.”

  “Well, I dunno much about all that stuff,” said Fatso. “The Navy that I grew up in was supposed to defend the United States against foreign invasion. They didn’t spend much time explaining about legal rights when I was in boot camp. You had a legal right to three square meals a day, a gun that would shoot straight, and all the ammunition you needed for it. At sea you stood four on and eight off, and in port you got liberty whenever the Captain couldn’t think of some reason for not giving it. And it seemed to work out pretty good in World War II - at least I’ll betcha the Germans and Japs would say it did.”

  “There’s no doubt about that, Cap’n,” said the Judge. “But if you want to get technical about it, I think maybe Ginsberg has a case. You didn’t have no legal right to heave his pictures overboard.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have no legal right to take the pictures in the first place,” said Fatso.

  “Now wait a minute, Cap’n,” put in the Professor. “Photographers have got a right to do any goddamned thing they want.”

  “Well - yeah,” conceded Fatso. “I dunno about a legal right, but we sure as hell let ‘em trample all over us. What legal advice did you give him, Judge?”

  “I advised him that when we get to Naples, he should go to see the head chaplain and ask him for a sympathy chit and the key to the weep locker.”

  “Exactly right, counselor,” said Fatso. “I couldn’t have done any better myself. How does he feel about it now? Is he going to serve out the rest of his enlistment with us, or will he pack up his bag and hammock and quit when we get to Naples?”

  “Oh, he’ll sweat it out with us,” said the Judge. “But he thinks what you did to him was pretty awful. He says not even Hitler would have done a thing like that. He thinks he had it made for a big spread in LIFE, and any photographer figures that’s better than getting a Congressional Medal of Honor. It’s worth whatever it costs - even a couple of years in Antarctica.”

  “He shoulda been flogged for even thinking about sending that stuff in,” declared Fatso. “You know, abolishing flogging was one of the biggest mistakes this Navy ever made. Hell - we got kids in the Navy now that ain’t ever even been spanked by their old man. They’re as useless as rubber swab handles. But a good flogging might make fine upstanding citizens out of them.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Scuttlebutt. “Just like sand and canvas used to clean up the crumb bums.”

  “What do you mean, sand and canvas?” asked the Judge.

  “At the start of World War II, we used to have a lot of sand on the big ships for scrubbing down the wooden decks. Every now and then some new guy would come aboard who’d never take a bath. When he got to stinking too much for the other guys to stand it, a bunch of them used to scrub him down with sand, using canvas washrags. The guy would wind up as pink all over as a spanked lady’s ass. They never had to do it twice.”

  “Yeah - them was the good old days,” said Fatso. “Before the he lawyers took over the Navy.”

  “How do you mean?” demanded the Judge.

  “Before the war the Navy was run by the Articles for the Government of the Navy. They came down to us from the days of sailing ships. Every now and then they had to abolish some that got out of date - like the ones about hanging and flog
ging. But we won every war we fought under ‘em. If you kept your nose clean, you got along okay. If you didn’t, the government would wipe it for you whether you liked it or not. But after World War II the lawyers decided that maybe wars would be won quicker if they were fought in a more legal manner and if lawyers had more to say about global strategy. So they abolished the Articles and came up with the Uniform Code of Justice, which made everything uniformly bad for all services.”

  “Yeah, we learned a little bit about that in law school,” said the Judge. “They told us it was a very good thing.”

  “Sure it was - for the lawyers. It made good jobs for a lot of them that couldn’t make a living on the outside. Now we’ve got lawyers all over in the Navy, wearing Captain’s and Commander’s stripes, who don’t know which end of the ship is the bow.”

  “But aren’t your legal rights protected better now than they used ta be?” asked the Judge.

  “Balls,” said Fatso. “The main thing that’s protected under the new system is a lot of good jobs for lawyers. I don’t care what kind of a system you cook up for running a Navy - it’s going to depend in the end on the guys who are running it. If you’ve got a good skipper, you’ll have a good ship, under any system. A bad skipper can figure out ways to get around any rules you write and make a madhouse out of any ship, no matter what the book says, or how many lawyers you got running around wearing gold stripes.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  USS America

  Next morning, six hundred miles to the west, a task group of the Sixth Fleet cruised eastward alert and ready to take any action necessary to defend the interests of the United States in that area. In the center spot of the armada was the sixty-thousand-ton carrier America, wearing the flag of Rear Admiral Dugan. Around her on circle three, three thousand yards away, were three cruisers with heavy batteries of AA guns and heat-seeking guided missiles. Further out on circle eight, a dozen destroyers formed an antisub screen around the big ships.