Cap'n Fatso

by Daniel V Gallery

  “You still worrying about the Turtle bit, Cap’n?” asked I he Judge. “I’d be a lot more worried about eating up the Commodore’s crabs, or putting holes in his car - except that he’s way the hell and gone out in Vietnam. I think the medal will take the curse off the Turtle caper even if they find out about it.”

  “Well - maybe so,” said Fatso. “And after all, presenting a Bronze Star doesn’t call for a fleet review. Maybe they’ll just mail it to me ... I hope! What do you think, Professor?”

  “You never can tell about a thing like that,” said the Professor judicially. “I read in a book about Napoleon, where one of his Generals won a battle by disobeying orders. After the battle Napoleon sends for him and says, “For winning the battle, you get the Croix de guerre. For disobeying orders, you’re gonna be shot.”

  “Holy cow,” said Fatso. “I hope this new Admiral in the Sixth Fleet ain’t like that. If he was one of our old-time Admirals like Halsey or Nimitz, I wouldn’t be worried. They was real sailormen. As long as you stood a good watch and knew how to man your gun, they didn’t believe none of the idle rumors, they might hear about you from the MP’s. But these new Admirals are always thinking about their public image. They’re scared stiff that Drew Pearson will put their name in his column if one of their sailors lets a loud fart ... What’s this new Admiral’s name?”

  Nobody around the table knew.

  Ginsberg didn’t know a thing about him either but saw his chance to make Fatso sweat a little for throwing his films overboard. “I dunno his name,” he said. “But I heard a lot about him. He’s a hard-assed computerized Captain Bligh - busted a 30-year Chief to First Class because somebody wrote to a Congressman about him. He’s a regular square-rigged son of a bitch.”

  “Boy oh boy,” said Fatso. “If this Turtle business ever hits the fan the UN and the State Department will be in the act, and half the Admirals in the Navy will get busted to Wave Second Class ... and I’ll probably retire to the Naval Prison Portsmouth instead of to the farm.”

  “That’s exactly why you got nothin’ to worry about,” said the Judge. “Even if the Admirals found out about it they’d make damn sure nobody else did. Too many big wheels involved. It’s like the professor told us in law school - it’s easier to beat the rap defending a guy for diddling the government out of ten million bucks than it is for picking pockets. I’d much rather run the Missouri aground than get caught swiping a gallon of government alky.”

  “Maybe so,” said Fatso. “It’s easy enough for the rest of you guys to laugh it off that way, but I’m the guy that’s holding the sack. From now on the officers can have jobs like this. That’s what they get paid for. I’ll just work at being a Boatswain’s Mate.”

  Next morning they went through the Straits of Messina separating Sicily from the toe of the Italian boot. This is a turbulent stretch of water full of nasty currents and eddies and usually cluttered with fishing boats.

  Navigation there is tricky, because you don’t always go the way you are heading in those tide rips. So Fatso had the conn, and all hands were on deck kibitzing and enjoying the scenery which featured Mount Etna towering over them to the southwest. Hazy puffs of smoke coming out of the crater showed that though the mountain was asleep at the moment, it was far from dead. In many places on its sides you can see the rivers of now-cold lava that had poured down the slopes during past eruptions, engulfing everything before them. But the volcano’s skirts are cluttered with little farms and villages of people who figure it won’t happen again in their lifetime.

  “Look at that,” said Ginsberg, focusing his glass on the slopes. “People living right on the slopes of a volcano that can erupt again anytime. Nobody but a bunch of crazy dagos would do that.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Fatso, taking up for his ancestors. “How about all them people back home that live on the banks of the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers? Almost every year you see pictures of ‘em being rescued off the tops of their houses by boats. But they come right back as soon as the water goes down. Etna only erupts every fifty years or so.”

  “Ain’t this where that city got buried back in the Roman times?” asked Webfoot. “And now they dug it up, and you can see everything just the way it was the day it got buried?”

  “Nah. You’re thinking of Pompeii,” said the Professor. “That’s up on the slope of Vesuvius near Naples. And that got buried in dust, not red hot lava.”

  “I heard a lot about that place,” said Jughaid. “I’m gonna take a day and go have a look at it. They say that if you get a good guide, he can show you some stuff that’s worth the price of admission. Used ta be a lot of screwing went on there in Roman days,” he added with a knowing leer.

  “Hunh,” said the Professor. “There was no more screwing then than there is now in Peyton Place. But all the dago guides in Pompeii got rich showing popeyed tourists dirty pictures on the walls. It shocks the hell out of these people to see pictures that ain’t nothing compared to what their kids see every day at home in girlie and queer magazines. I’ll betcha if one of our dirty-book peddlers had tried to set up shop in Pompeii the Romans would of thrun him to the lions in the Colosseum.”

  “Not if our Supreme Court could stop them,” observed the Judge.

  “You guys are Fascists,” declared Ginsberg. “I’ll bet you’re in favor of burning books just like you were of throwing my films overboard. Don’t you know that the Bible is full of dirty stories? Do you wanta burn that?”

  “Yeah,” said the Judge. “The smut peddlers always drag in the Bible when they wind up in court. How often do you think a kid sneaks out to the barn with the Bible to read the dirty stories?”

  “Well - if you’re gonna censor one thing you gotta censor them all.”

  “Balls,” said the Professor. “I wouldn’t be found dead trying to peddle dirty books. I’d rather be the head pimp in a high class whorehouse.”

  “Who the hell wouldn’t?” demanded Ginsberg.

  At this point the discussion of publishing ethics was interrupted by a hail from a small fishing boat. “What’s bothering him?” asked Fatso.

  “Sounds like he’s hollering Postal Postal” said Scuttlebutt.

  “Oh yeah - I forgot about that,” said Fatso. “It’s too late now, but they want us to throw mail overboard. The stamp collectors in the fleet have got a racket going. Whenever a ship goes through here they put letters and a handful of lira in a tin can with a little marker buoy tied to it. They heave it overboard, the fishermen find it and mail the letters. The post office in Messina puts a special postmark on them.”

  “Stamp collectors are all nuts,” declared Ginsberg.

  “Yeah - everybody is nuts - except photographers,” said the Professor.

  Next morning the ex-Turtle made its landfall on the Isle of Capri. A lot of sightseeing can be done with a pair of binoculars passing that famous spot. In fact, for most mortals that’s the closest they can ever get to the millionaires’ villas that dot the cliffs. All glasses were exploring the fairyland of castles, chateaux, and villas as they passed the island abeam.

  “Some pretty cushy flea bags in that housing development,” observed Webfoot.

  “Look at that little pad right smack on top of the mountain,” exclaimed Jughaid.

  “Yeah,” said Ginsberg. “That one belongs to a retired movie queen. She got tired of having a lot of nosey neighbors. Nobody but the birds can bother her up there. That ‘little pad’ cost a couple of million bucks. They claim all the johnnies in it are made outta solid gold.”

  “Well, you can’t take it with you,” observed Webfoot. “And I’ll bet them solid gold cans don’t flush any better than the one we got on here.”

  An hour later, LCU 1124 stood into the harbor of Naples and headed for the U.S. amphibious base with a signal flying, “Request berth assignment.” Soon a light blinked from the tower at the base and said “South Side Pier Four.” Satchmo, with Fatso kibitzing, brought her alongside, tied up, and secured the engines.


  “Now,” said Fatso, “We’ll soon find out if we can get back in this U.S. Navy again without answering too damn many nosy questions.”

  As Fatso walked into the duty shack at the end of the dock, he found an old pal seated behind the OOD’s desk, Chief Boatswain’s Mate “Hawsepipe” Haley. “Hey, hey, Fatso,” exclaimed the Chief. “What are you doing around here?”

  “Hi there, Hawsepipe,” said Fatso. “Just checking in.”

  “You mean reporting here for duty?” asked the chief.

  “No. I brought in that LCU that just tied up to the pier,” said Fatso, “and came up here to request assignment.”

  “What ship you belong to?” asked the Chief.

  “The Alamo.”

  “Alamo. Hell - she left for Vietnam three weeks ago. How come you got left behind?”

  “They sent me to Malta to get some stuff, and when 1 got back to Crete they was gone. Been looking for her ever since.”

  “Hunh,” said the Chief. “Somebody goofed. They shoulda told us they was leaving you behind. Some long-haired yeoman manning a mechanical brain punched the wrong button, I guess. Well - that’s the way it goes these days. This Navy is going to hell in a computerized piss pot ... Lemme see ... um ... we’ll just assign you to the boat pool here at the base till one of the LSD’s needs you.”

  “That’ll be fine,” said Fatso. “We need some time to work on our engines. And how about reminding the Alamo to send us our records and pay accounts.”

  “Okay. I’ll get the Commodore to send a dispatch.”

  “Well, I’d rather you didn’t bother the Commodore about this,” said Fatso. “Can’t you just send the Paymaster of the Alamo a routine letter signed by direction?”

  “Oh, no,” said the Chief. “Not in a case like this. When somebody goofs, the Commodore wants to know. I gotta tell him.”

  “Well - there’s another angle to this that you oughta think about. I got a lot of stuff that was meant for the Alamo that I gotta get rid of.”

  “Okay - just turn it in to Supply.”

  “This is stuff that they’re sure as hell not going to ship all the way to Vietnam,” said Fatso. “None of it is on charge any more. But it will be again if we turn it in to Supply,” he added, with a knowing squint.

  Hawsepipe was well aware of the advantages that sometimes accrue to custodians of stuff that isn’t on charge. “Yeah?” he said. “What kind of stuff?”

  “One item is a black four-door sedan,” said Fatso.

  “Hmmm,” observed Hawsepipe - beginning to see the merit of keeping this business on a low level.

  “It’s got some holes in the stern end,” said Fatso.

  “What kind of holes?”

  “Bullet holes.”

  “Oh ... bullet holes ... Any blood on the upholstery?”

  “Nope ... and the metalsmith shop can plug up the holes easy enough.”

  Hawsepipe saw no point in probing into the bullet holes any further. “Well,” he said, “I shouldn’t think any officers would want to go around in a car with a lot of bullet holes in it. But it would come in handy if I had it to use for official business.”

  “You can have this one,” said Fatso, “if you don’t get the Commodore stirred up about this thing.”

  “Hmmmm ... Look, Fatso. We’ll just put you in the boat pool here and send the Paymaster of the Alamo a routine letter. I don’t guess we oughta bother the Commodore about it, after all.”

  “Okay, Chief,” said Fatso. “Your car will be on the dock this afternoon.”

  When Fatso got back to the ship there was a note there for him from the Staff Duty Officer. “Be on dock at 0900 tomorrow to accompany Commodore out to flagship and receive a medal.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Prodigal Son

  Next morning, Fatso, in dress blues with all his ribbons on his chest and six gold hash marks on his sleeve, met the Commodore on the dock. Anchored half a mile off shore was the fleet flagship, the missile cruiser Memphis. She was a sleek, powerful-looking craft of fifteen thousand tons, her topside covered with rocket launchers and Buck Rogers arrays of guidance gadgets. The Commodore motioned Fatso into the after cockpit so they could talk on the way out to the flagship. Fatso embarked first and remained standing till the Commodore seated himself in the stern sheets facing forward. (By long-standing naval custom juniors get in a boat first and get out last.)

  “Now, Gioninni,” said the Commodore, “tell me about this rescue business.”

  Fatso related how it had happened and wound up his story by saying, “We wuz very lucky, sir.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said the Commodore. “I think the aviators were the lucky ones, to have one of my alert amphibious craft spot them so quickly ... What ship are you attached to, my man?”

  “We’re in the boat pool at the amphibious base, sir,” said Fatso, and held his breath for a moment.

  The Commodore was more interested in the forthcoming meeting with the Admiral than he was in the family history of LCU 1124.

  “I haven’t met the new Admiral yet,” he said. “And this is a nice way to do it. Better than being hauled up on the carpet when some of my people goof and do something wrong,” he added tolerantly.

  “Yes, SIR!” agreed Fatso.

  “When we meet the Admiral,” continued the Commodore, “you better let me do most of the talking. You probably aren’t as used to talking to Admirals as I am. But if he asks you any questions, don’t be bashful about answering them. He won’t bite you,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Fatso.

  As they came alongside the rakish looking cruiser, four sideboys for the Commodore hustled to their stations at the head of the brass-covered mahogany VIP’s gang-wily, two on each side. The Boatswain’s Mate of the watch look his place next to the after pair, ready to pipe the VIP aboard. The Memphis’ Captain and the Chief of Staff stood facing the gangway ten feet inboard. The young OOD with a spyglass under his arm stood at the head of the gangway watching the gig come alongside until the bow hook grabbed the guess warp, flipped it over a cleat, and the coxswain began backing down. Then the OOD stepped back on deck just inboard of the forward pair of sideboys.

  As the gig came alongside the bugler blared “Attention to Starboard,” and all hands on the weather decks knocked off whatever they were doing and stood at attention, facing to starboard. The Boatswain’s Mate started a prolonged blast on his pipe, which began when the Commodore’s head emerged from the cockpit and had to blast until he got up on deck. The sideboys, OOD, Captain and COS all snapped up to salute as the blast began and held it while it lasted.

  When the Commodore reached the top of the gangway he faced aft, saluted the colors, then stepped aboard, saluted the OOD, and said, “Permission-to-come-aboard, sir.”

  “Very well,” said the OOD, and the skipper and COS stepped forward and shook hands with their visitor.

  Meantime, Fatso had followed up the gangway half a dozen paces behind. He went through the same ritual with the colors and OOD, and exchanged a solemn wink with the Boatswain’s Mate as he passed him.

  The bugle sounded “Carry on,” and all hands went back to their business as the official party headed aft toward the Admiral’s hatch.

  “The Admiral is tied up in a briefing now,” explained the COS as they marched along the immaculately scrubbed teak deck, dotted with pieces of glistening bright work, with neatly faked down coils of boat falls near the scuppers. A wisp of marline adrift on that quarter deck would have been as conspicuous as a garbage can on the White House steps.

  “He’ll be through with the briefing soon. We’ll wait in the cabin,” said the COS, as they went down the hatch adorned with the fancy white line doodads that old-time Boatswain’s Mates love to make.

  In the cabin they were met by a Filipino steward in a white high-collared jacket with the ship’s coat of arms on the breast pocket and three stars on each sleeve.

  “Coffee for me, the Captain, and
the Commodore,” said the COS.

  As the steward bustled off for the coffee, the three Captains seated themselves around the table in the center of the spacious cabin. Fatso, standing just inside the door with the Marine orderly, noted that this was a somewhat plushier layout than his cabin. It took up half the beam of the ship, had overstuffed leather furniture, a carpeted deck, and half a dozen king-sized portholes. At one end was the Admiral’s walnut desk, and alongside it a door leading to his bedroom and head. At the other end were the pantry and galley, with sliding panels for passing in the food. There was a big buffet for the Admiral’s silver service and plates and on it a handsome silver punch bowl and a set of fancy goblets presented by the Memphis Chamber of Commerce. On the bulkheads were autographed portraits of the President, Secretary of the Navy, and Chief of Naval Operations, as well as a painting of John Paul Jones with a disdainful scowl on his face. He seemed to be saying to himself, “We didn’t have all this frippery in my day.”

  While the Captains were having their coffee a couple of sailor photographers and white-hat journalists, accompanied by the Public Information Officer, entered and lined up next to Fatso and the Marine. The Admiral’s Flag Lieutenant, with gold aiguillettes circling his left shoulder, came in carrying a black leather case with a Bronze Star medal and the citation that goes with it. Addressing the PubInfo Officer he said, “Your people can shoot pictures while the ceremony is going on. You can get all you want of Gioninni afterwards. I’ll give you a handout from the Admiral about it, and you can interview Gioninni if you want to.”

  Turning to Fatso the Flag Lieutenant said, “When the Admiral comes in, you just wait here until I motion you to come front and center. Then you take three steps forward and stand at attention while the Admiral reads the citation. Then you step forward so he can pin the medal on you and shake hands. That’s all there is to it. Okay?”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Fatso.