A Commodore of Errors (6 page)

A German commerce raider named
Stier
sank the
Stephen Hopkins
in the South Atlantic in one of the most heroic sea battles of the war. The
Hopkins
did not go down without a fight, and cadet-midshipman O'Hara led the charge, risking his life in a vain attempt to save the ship. He was not able to save his ship but he did score five direct hits on the raider
Stier
with the
Hopkins
' four-inch aft-mounted gun, and the
Stier
sank alongside the
Stephen Hopkins
in 2,200 fathoms of water.

The Commodore embraced the heroic image of O'Hara with the fervor of an iconophile. Photos of the sunburned face of the young O'Hara lined the Commodore's office. He admired the young man's square jawline, the imperious gaze, the Roman nose, the erectness of his carriage. O'Hara's image, and the story of his heroic sea battle, was something the academy could and should embody as its own, argued the Commodore. Another faceless war memorial was not what the regiment needed. The boys deserved something more, something mythic. Something that would inspire a desire for greatness. A hero. God knew, the Commodore endeavored to comport himself in a way that would inspire awe in the young boys, but he could not do it all on his own. The boys needed to be in the continual presence of greatness, to be reminded over and over of
potential
fulfilled
. The boys desperately needed an icon. Fallen cadet-midshipman Edwin J. O'Hara, if the Commodore had his way, would be that icon.

In the end, the Commodore got his way. It had been a brawl, a real donnybrook as Johnson put it, but somehow the Commodore convinced the Board of Governors to erect a monument honoring Edwin J. O'Hara. In a nod to Johnson, they would call it, not the Edwin J. O'Hara monument, but rather, the Mariners Monument. The Commodore could have cared less, as long as the boys got their icon.

When the meeting ended, Johnson called the chaplain and asked him to meet him down at the boathouse for a cup of coffee. On the way there, he caught up with two plebes who were talking between themselves. Talking out-of-doors was a violation of the fourth-class Regs, and Johnson knew that they were aware of that. Before they realized he was behind them, Johnson had a chance to listen in on their conversation. The bigger kid was talking about how he could've gone to Ohio State to play football. He said how when he visited the academy his senior year in high school he had thought it was so cool. He had never seen a large body of water growing up in Ohio, had never even been to Lake Erie, and the waterfront campus of the academy really made an impression on him. But now that he was here, it was like he couldn't see what it was he had liked so much about it. With all of the regimental bullshit they had to put up with—getting stuck by upperclassmen for no good reason—it felt like they were living in a prison, not some beautiful waterfront estate.

When the two midshipmen realized Johnson was behind them, they stopped, braced, and shouted, “Sir, good morning, sir!” They looked scared, like they were in big trouble. He knew what they were feeling. They were sick to their stomachs, actually, sick because they were thinking, Ugh! After all of our hard work and being so careful to follow the rules we're about to get stuck! That meant demerits, extra duty, and even more scrutiny from upperclassmen. They were scared, indeed.

But Johnson did not stick them. He knew they were good kids. He just smiled and said a quiet good morning as he walked past them.

BIGGER FISH TO FRY

T
he Commodore smelled Johnson's Johnson's rancid cologne the moment he stepped foot in Wiley Hall. So did Miss Conrad.

“What's that smell?” Miss Conrad said.

“Smell?” the Commodore said. “I don't smell anything.”

In his previous conversations with Miss Conrad, the Commodore mentioned nothing about the legend of Johnson's Johnson. He did not want her to have her guard up when meeting him for the first time.

“You can't smell that?” Miss Conrad said.

The Commodore sniffed the air. “Oh, that. Well, the truth is, Miss Conrad, Admiral Johnson does not have the best sense of smell. Years ago, when he was captain of a chemical tanker, he nearly vaporized his olfactory lobes in a tragic chemical spill. Poor chap never knows if he's wearing too much cologne, I'm afraid.”

Miss Conrad seemed genuinely sympathetic. They climbed the marble stairs to Johnson's suite of offices. When the Commodore and Miss Conrad approached the anteroom leading to Johnson's suite, they came upon Mitzi wearing a surgical mask. Mitzi cocked her thumb over her shoulder. “Follow your nose.”

The Commodore and Miss Conrad entered Johnson's lair.

Johnson's eyes locked onto Miss Conrad's legs the moment she entered the room. Miss Conrad's business skirt came down to just above her knees and set off her long sinewy calf muscles and slender ankles. Johnson sat back on his red leather couch and never took his eyes off her legs as she walked toward him. The Commodore and Miss Conrad stopped at a respectful distance from the red couch. They waited for Johnson to acknowledge them but he continued to stare at Miss Conrad's legs, never lifting his eyes above her knees. The Commodore cleared his throat. Johnson finally looked up and smiled without saying a word. After an awkward moment, the Commodore spoke up.

“Sir, I'd like to introduce you to Miss Conrad.”

Johnson stayed seated. “Hello, Miss Conrad, I'm Admiral Johnson, may I offer you a seat?” He patted the space next to him on the couch. “Unless, of course, you'd prefer to sit on this side.” Johnson patted the space to the other side of him.

The meeting could not have gotten off to a better start. The Commodore watched Miss Conrad out of the corner of his eye and waited for her response.

“The red leather clashes with my outfit,” Miss Conrad said, looking around for another place to sit. Of course, Johnson did not keep a single chair in what he called his “bachelor pad,” nothing but sofas and love seats. Miss Conrad chose the pink velour upholstered love seat to her left and sat in the middle of it. “Here,” she said. “This looks comfortable.” Unfortunately, she crossed her legs when she sat down and her skirt lifted up, exposing her thigh.

Johnson leapt up from the red couch and squeezed in next to Miss Conrad. “I couldn't agree more. This is my favorite seat!”

Miss Conrad looked up at the Commodore for help. The Commodore ignored her wordless plea. “Well, then, it looks like you two don't need my help
here. I'll just leave you alone so you can get down to business.” He shook Miss Conrad's hand, struggled to release her grip, and walked out of the room.

Mitzi stood when she heard the intercom buzz, straightened her surgical mask, and strolled into Johnson's Johnson's office.

“Do you have a cold today, Mitzi?” Johnson asked when he saw her.

Mitzi didn't feel like she needed to answer. Besides, with the surgical mask on, she sounded like Darth Vader when she talked.

“Mitzi, it seems that Miss Conrad isn't comfortable here. Would you please show her into my office? I have to make a phone call.”

Mitzi had noticed the leggy blond gal on the way in. She certainly looked a lot less comfortable now than when she first walked in.

Johnson turned to Miss Conrad. “This will only take a minute. Mitzi will show you where to sit.”

Where to sit. Right. Well, this Conrad looks like a good kid. She deserves a break.

Mitzi motioned for Miss Conrad to follow her. They left the bachelor pad and entered Johnson's office. Mitzi walked over to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the right side of the office, looked over her shoulder toward the door for any sign of Johnson, and then pressed a hidden button.

A Murphy bed plopped out of the bookcase.

Mitzi touched the bed. “Satin sheets, babe.” She pressed the hidden button again and the Murphy bed sprang up, once more becoming a bookcase. Miss Conrad stared at the bookcase with her hand pressed to her mouth. Mitzi again looked out for Johnson, then pointed at the door next to the bookcase. A brass sign on the door said
Conference Room
. Mitzi pushed open the door so Miss Conrad could peek inside. Miss Conrad saw a hot tub, a wet bar, and a sauna. Mirrors covered the walls and ceiling. Steam wafted from the room.

She stared at Mitzi with her mouth open.

“Have fun, babe,” Mitzi said.

They heard Johnson coming. “He'll want you to sit here.” Mitzi pointed to one of two rickety director's chairs placed in front of Johnson's desk. “Good
luck keeping your legs crossed,” she said and walked out of the office, just as Johnson walked in.

Mitzi went back to her desk and pulled up the QVC Channel website that she kept hidden behind a Word document. She kept the corner of her eye on Johnson's door.

Two minutes later, Miss Conrad marched out with Johnson right behind her.

“No!” Miss Conrad said. “I don't want to be in the conference room, or this office with all these bookcases, or that, that, that room back there with all the love seats and sofas.”

“But, Miss Conrad.” Johnson stamped his foot on the floor. “I so much wanted to meet with you.”

Miss Conrad was already out the door. Johnson started running after her but stopped at Mitzi's desk.

“What on earth do you suppose got into her?” he said.

Mitzi snapped her gum behind the surgical mask. She'd been waiting for this. “I guess she has bigger fish to fry.”

“Bigger fish?” Johnson said. “Did you say
bigger
fish, Mitzi?”

“Yeah, you know, bigger.”

“You do know, Mitzi, that I am the biggest this institution has to offer?”

“Yeah.” Mitzi snapped her gum. “So I've heard.”

“It sounds to me as if you don't believe it.”

“I guess I'd have to see it to believe it.” Mitzi, acting as if she did not care either way, discretely slid her hand toward her desk drawer.

Sure enough, Johnson, after a lifetime of obsessing over the size of his johnson, did the only thing he knew to do when challenged. He whipped it out right there in front of Mitzi's desk. Before he realized what was happening, Mitzi had reached into her drawer and pulled out a digital camera.

Johnson froze.

Mitzi snapped a close-up and ran.

Johnson's Johnson stood there with his trousers around his ankles. “Mitzi! Get back here with that camera!”

Johnson chased Mitzi down the marble stairs and out of Wiley Hall. She ran as fast as she could, struggling to breathe through the surgical mask. She ran all the way to the main gate and kept on running down Steamboat Road and did not stop running until she got to the Great Neck Martinizing Dry Cleaners on Middle Neck Road, where Mogie was waiting for her in their secret hideaway upstairs.