Show of Force (3 page)

T
he nest of dirty gray destroyers, four abreast, were starkly outlined against the brackish water of Hampton Roads and the gray Saturday-morning skies. They were offset even more by their larger, more modern counterparts two piers down, high-bowed frigates and guided-missile destroyers. David Charles had been here before, as a midshipman, and he knew the destroyer/ submarine piers of Norfolk well. This time he was back with one gold stripe on each of his shoulder boards, ensign's stripes, and with orders for sea duty in his pocket.

The U.S.S.
Bagley
was an old ship in the summer of 1961, of World War II vintage, and she owned campaign stripes from more Pacific battles than Washington admirals cared to acknowledge for their aging fleet. A stray Jap five-hundred-pounder had destroyed her after engine room at Leyte Gulf, but they had . patched her up and she had even been back to Korea after a few years in mothballs. The constant attention of tenders kept the
Bagley
and the other seven ships of heir squadron in decent enough shape so they could survive the weeks of duty in the Atlantic with Task Group Alpha. Right now, she looked more like she'd been steaming underwater than on the surface.

Ensign Charles looked her over critically from the foot of the pier. The second ship in the nest, her dented hull with the chipped numbers on the bow pleading for redlead and paint, the
Bagley
would be alongside the pier the next two weeks for some much-needed upkeep. He had been waiting in the bachelor officer's quarters for ten days for his ship to return so he could report aboard. Usually, when the squadron was at sea with one of the carriers, they flew new personnel out with the mail and they then reported aboard their ship swinging from the end of a helicopter cable. But this time the weather was so bad that the personnel officer in Norfolk had found another one-week school for him to attend. And then, the day before the squadron was due to arrive, David had gotten a message from the
Bagley's
executive officer requesting him not to report aboard until that Saturday morning.

He picked up the two suitcases, one an extra-heavy foldover type with all his uniforms, and strolled erectly to the edge of the pier to look down into the water. There was a hiss from the steam hoses connected to the pier. The tide was low and just beginning to change, and with no current the scum of oil and garbage and sewage lapped gently against the tired old hulls. The smell was as he always remembered, the stink of the piers in any port in the world—not the rich, heady, salt perfume of the open ocean. The bags were becoming heavier now, and he turned up the pier toward the brow going over to the first ship, another Pacific veteran. He lurried sideways as he inched down the narrow gangway to the quarterdeck with his bulky luggage. A disinterested first-class petty officer looked up, but without taking his elbow from the desk attached to the bulkhead.

The fresh-caught ensign—the shiny gold gave him away— carefully placed each bag on the deck, straightened immediately to salute the flag on the fantail, then the quarterdeck. The petty officer, noting the young officer was comfortable in his actions, immediately came to attention, returning the salute to the deck. “Are you reporting aboard here, sir?”

“No. Crossing to
Bagley.”
“Yes, sir.” Back to the elbow on the desk again.

Ensign Charles retrieved his bags, ducking his head as he worked his way around a winch through the midships passageway where he could see the brow over to the
Bagley.
The starboard side of the deck of the
Bagley,
just forward of the midships passageway, was scarred and dented, and some of the cable and stanchions on the edge of the deck were missing. Redlead emphasized the damage.

Another PO in a well-worn peacoat began to show some curiosity as Ensign Charles struggled down another very narrow gangway. Again placing his bags on the quarterdeck, he gave the fantail a sharp salute, then turned to the quarterdeck.

“Ensign David Charles reporting aboard as ordered,” he barked too loudly, bringing his right hand to the visor of his hat. He looked the PO directly in the eyes, establishing his authority early.

David Charles did not look a great deal different from so many other ensigns that reported aboard ship each year. He was medium height, about five feet ten, with an average build. His brownish black hair was curly, and he had already learned to his dismay that it became much more curly in the humidity of the tropics. It was thick, and he kept it short to control it in the military style of the day. His face was lean to compliment the body well-conditioned from four years in Annapolis, and only his clear gray-blue eyes set him off from so many of the others. His crisply pressed, custom-made uniform and mirror-shined shoes established his military credentials, as did his comfort in arriving on the
Bagley's
quarterdeck. He had been at sea before and was already part of the real Navy.

The PO returned his salute with a bit of effort. “Yes, sir. Mr. Donovan told me the XO had sent a message asking you to wait until this morning.”

David pulled his orders from his breast pocket and handed them over to be logged in. “You don't have to wait while I log you in, Mr. Charles. I'll take care of that when I go off watch. Then I'll give them back to you and you can turn 'em over to the ship's office Monday morning.” He turned to the seaman apprentice who had been leaning against the bulkhead the entire time, cold hands stuffed in his peacoat pockets. “Go wake Mr. Donovan and tell him that Ensign Charles has just reported aboard, and where is he supposed to bunk?”

“You want me to wake him if he's asleep?”

“Make a lot of noise in the passageway. Slam the hatch when you go in after officers. Bang hard on his door, like you had no idea he was back in the rack. He always wants you to think he's catching up on his paperwork. The ensign”—he nodded at Charles—“doesn't want to wait here all day.”

The messenger strolled around the corner of the midships passageway and disappeared slowly, giving every indication that it would take ten minutes to find Mr. Donovan.

“Mr. Donovan is the command duty officer this weekend. He's the chief engineer.” Quiet for a moment. “Been on board since he was an ensign. Started out as MPA ... I guess.” It was nervous small talk, since he really wasn't interested in talking with the new ensign until he had been sized up by the crew.

Charles looked at the damaged deck up forward. “What happened there?”

“Oh, that was last Wednesday. Hell of a storm when we were steaming back after being relieved by
Bravo.
Thirty-, forty-foot seas and half the crew barfing. The carrier decided to turn more into the wind 'cause the cans were taking such a beating—for our benefit it was! It was nighttime and no one on the bridge could really see what was coming. A big wave just caught us wrong as we were coming around and carried the whole whaleboat away. The chief said it bumped down the deck a ways. That's why some of the stanchions are gone. The first lieutenant wanted to make the repairs before we came in, but the captain said no. He wanted everyone back here to see we weren't on another Caribbean joyride . . . like they always claim we are.” The PO smiled at the thought and then added with pride, “Captain Sam Carter's the CO and the best most of us ever served with, sir. You ought to like him.”

The messenger returned as slowly as he had departed. “Mr. Donovan says the ensign has to bunk in his stateroom, 'cause it's the only rack left in officer's country.” He bent to pick up one of the bags. “I'll show you the way back, sir, and Mr. Donovan says I should carry your bags. I'll get this other,” looking unhappily at the larger one, “after I show you back.” He moved slowly around the corner again, expecting Charles to follow him.

They went through the midships passageway to the port side of the ship, then toward the stern past some open hatches that went down to the engineering spaces. The messenger pulled open a heavy door, already ajar, and disappeared inside. As David stepped over the coaming into the dimly lit passageway, he barely avoided tripping over the bag that had just been set there. A few feet ahead, the sailor was leaning through a door, “This here's Mr. Charles, sir.” He stepped back from the door. “I'll bring your other bag in a few minutes,” and he was gone.

David stepped around the bag and moved inside the door, which had been left open. The room was gloomy with only one small porthole above the upper bunk along the bulkhead. In the lower bunk lay a form outlined by a weak reading light. The form, extremely hairy in just a pair of outlandish shorts, heaved into a sitting position. “I was just catching up on my reading.” He extended a hand, which David squeezed in return. “I'm Joe Donovan, chief snipe and CDO for this our first weekend in port. Welcome aboard, for what it's worth.”

“David Charles.” An uneasy pause. “I've been waiting for the ship about ten days over at NOB. I've been looking forward to reporting aboard.”

“So has Ensign Werwaiss,” Donovan said with an amused grin. “He's been boot ensign for nine months now, and he's been looking forward to someone else taking all the shit for the last eight of them. Believe me, he's the happiest to see you come.” He scratched his belly and lay back down on his bunk, yawning.

Charles looked around the small stateroom. There were tiers of
two
bunks on either side, separated by about two feet of standard green linoleum. A metal sink and a medicine cabinet were at the end of the room. It was hardly wide enough for anyone's shoulders if they were shaving in the mirror. Behind him and inboard were two lockers, one wide open and jammed with uniforms. There were drawers under each of the bottom bunks, no doubt overflowing. On the outboard side of the room, against the bulkhead, were what he realized were two desks, one of which had the top folded down with papers strewn across it. Above the desk were two short lockers. The bunks were covered with books, papers, clothes, and foul-weather gear.

He looked hopefully up at the bunk that was under the porthole. “Is that bunk open?”

“Nope, that's mine,” replied Donovan. Charles looked at the officer stretched on the lower bunk where he had obviously been sleeping. “They're both mine,” he added. “This lower one is mine in port, so I don't have to climb up there when I'm drunk, and,” he pointed, “that's mine when we're at sea. My goddamn snipes tried to weld that seam,”—he pointed at a seam in the bulkhead, that looked like any other one on the ship—“but it opens up every goddamn time we're in a storm, which is often. Then the water flows in, so I move up to that one.” A grin and a wink. "Anyway, I've been on this can for two and a half years, so I've gotten squatter's rights to the extra one. That other lower one belongs to Mike FitzGibbon, and believe me you'll be glad he's there when we get underway the next time. He gets seasick . . . very! And he's a barfer. When you see him making love to the bucket, you'll be glad you're up there." He pointed to the inboard top bunk covered with junk. "Let me go through that stuff first, so I can sort out what's mine. Then you can dump the rest on Fitz's bunk, and he can sort it out Monday morning. He's married and he'll be happy enough by then so he won't mind if you pile it all up for him." He scratched again. "Why don't yon go up to the wardroom and have some coffee and I'll get some clothes on. There's no reason to unpack anyway, 'cause I don't know where you're going to cram all that crap." He pointed at the second bag that had finally appeared. "You and Fitz are going to have to do a lot of space sharing 'cause I'm comfortable. When I leave in six months, then the two of you can fight over my space until someone else moves in." He stretched back out on the bunk. "Go on up to the wardroom, and I'll be up shortly to get you started. You're going to be in my duty section anyway, so I might as well start you off right."

“Okay, I'll see you soon, sir.”

“Call me Joe. We're going to see a lot of each other, every fourth day and every fourth weekend.” Life, thought David, really is less formal on destroyers.

It wasn't hard to find the wardroom on the Bagley. They were all in the same location in
Fletcher-class
destroyers. He went back through the midships passageway, nodded at the PO of the watch who was blowing on a cup of coffee, and proceeded up the starboard side to the wardroom.

A pot of coffee that had probably been on the hot plate since the previous night simmered by the open space to the pantry. The table was covered with the standard dark green felt, bearing the stains of many unidentified spills. A beige couch riveted to the deck and bulkhead extended on either side in one corner: On the forward bulkhead, emphasized by reflections from the water outside, were the ship's plaque, photos of the ship at various stages of her life, and a photo of a white bearded man in an ancient navy uniform—probably Bagley himself. Magazines that had been waiting a few weeks for the ship's return were lying open on the couch, no doubt left there by a bored Donovan.

David Charles poured himself a cup of coffee after locating some milk in the pantry refrigerator. The milk barely changed the color and did nothing at all for the taste. He stretched out on the cracked leather of the couch and picked up a copy of a torn
Navy Times.
Donovan made an unkempt appearance a few minutes later, tossing his cap on the table beside David and nodding. He poured a cup of coffee, taking it black, sat down at the head of the table, and gulped down half of the black mess as if he didn't notice the taste. When it finally registered, he went angrily over to the ship's phone and pressed the buzzer for the quarterdeck. When a voice answered, he said, “This is Mr. Donovan. Find the duty steward and send him to the wardroom, on the double.” Turning to the new ensign, he added, “I thought I was doing him a favor last night when I said that he didn't have to prepare breakfast this morning, but the son of a bitch was too goddamn lazy to even fix a fresh pot.”