Gardenia Duty

“Mess Gear. Clear the mess decks,” cued the crew to prepare executing the captain’s Plan of the Day. Bobby already knew his captain’s plan, he’d familiarized himself earlier. He liked a heads-up regarding drills or department meetings so he could maximize reducing the repair list in his department.

They referred to damage control and engine room sailors as snipes. It wasn’t uncommon for several snipe departments to collaborate and regroup as they resolved issues to keep the engine rooms running. Long hours with his welding torch and crawling into the bowels of the engine room didn’t give him much break time to walk among the deck hands. Even his watches were deprived of sunshine. Bobby was behind on the damage control repair requests since they had weathered the typhoon. He was still finding tools that had escaped drawers and hooks as the ship pitched under the storm’s madness. Captain Graham was pushing day 73 at sea.

Bobby loved his captain. He was a Mustang. He’d been quickly raised from the ranks of seaman through the end of WWII and promoted to officer. His command of the CONN was not only intuitive but he’d served under great mentors during sea deployments. But, the best thing that Bobby loved about his captain was his sense of humor and genuine concern about crew morale. Their departure tune was bagpipes– honoring his Scottish heritage.

Not only had the Captain Graham hunted and taunted the enemy with a hawk’s eye, he loved to fly a custom created flag: HIIYA. Bobby rarely was on deck when it was hoisted but the surface men always laughed and chatted as “Hang It In Your Ass” was flagrantly displayed. Captain Graham was relentless with anti-submarine patrols. It seemed as if he could smell a submarine. Periscopes, sonar blips or radar detections would silently change the ship’s course to force the dangerous torpedoed enemy to surface or sometimes, sink.

As he slid down the ladder to the fireroom, Bobby felt the temperature changing. The heat from the engine room reminded him of working in the Hole. Jones had beaten him there and was pulling a clip board off the tool wall.

“Have you ever been above when the HIIYA flag is hoisted?” Bobby asked his fellow snipe.

“Only once. I was headed to my battle station,” Jones responded. “A Russian destroyer passed so close you could see their faces. Captain Graham blasted them with the bagpipes.”

“I remember that day but I was already in the Hole,” Bobby said. “Where’s Smitty? I’ve got to get to the deck and weld.”

“You know him, he’s a little slack,” Jones said. “Did you hear that some of the guys jumped him and threw him into the shower, scrubbing him with soap and deck brushes?”

“Yeah, heard that too; he’s only a few racks from me. Can’t blame them though. He won’t bathe and the vents are not that great down in the aft quarters,” Bobby said, distinctly removing himself from the gang and changing the subject. “I hear we have a swim break coming up soon. I have an idea for making a diving board.”

“Hey, if I can make the bbqs out of the captain’s oil drums, I have some ideas for a diving board,” Bobby grinned. He’d observed the captain’s wisdom in maintaining balance and team spirit from a crew forced to deal with all the aspects of destroyer living. Because of long weeks of sea duty, there was a lot of testosterone and little male distraction other than drills. Not everyone fired a gun, spotted a sub’s periscope or alerted the Bridge of unidentified aircraft. Some sailors were there to get conscription duty over to return home, but some were there to learn the ropes and hopefully craft a career. Bobby loved the challenge; to learn something new, or pass on the experience of those that had walked before him. And he had learned that stepping up uncompelled always helped his service record.

“Can’t wait, Higgins. Sounds like a good way to get Smitty in the water again,” Jones laughed, grabbing a torch. “I’m off to the engine room. Still finding leaks from the storm. They don’t call her Leakin’ Leonard for nothing!”

“I have a door repair on deck,” Bobby said. “I’ll wait for Shitty Smitty so Chief has someone in the department.”

He opened the filing cabinets to pull the file for the midship passageway. Everyone knew the key to keeping the ship afloat was securing hatches and bulkheads. There was a door on the starboard bulkhead that wouldn’t dog down since the typhoon.

Bobby turned and pulled out his shipfitter’s little blue book. It had become his cheat sheet after welding school. He wanted to re-check the heat settings and cooling recommendations. As he opened the small shipfitter’s testament, he re-read: This information was compiled to make it more accessible to the Shipfitters who are looking for quality as well as quantity in their work. As he looked for the melting point of aluminum, his attention was diverted by a friend who worked nearby as a machinist.

“Hey, Bobby,” Stanley said, slapping him on the back. “Got a break until Oscar drill. Are you welding today?”

“Yep, midway passage door. Got messed up during storm,” Bobby answered, reaching for the tip for his torch. “Still want to learn some welding?”

“That’s why I popped in,” Stanley answered, picking up the welding rods strewn across the work table. “Hope we get back to Yokosuka soon. Ready to see some nylons and smell perfume instead of dungarees and fuel fumes.”

“Or sewer lines. A cold beer sounds good, too,” Bobby said. He handed Stanley the welding hat as Smitty finally walked into the shop. “Let’s go before they call us to muster stations.”

As they walked towards the stern, Bobby shook his head. “I’d like to throw Smitty overboard instead of poor Oscar. Can’t believe he’s so lazy. Maybe treading water and waiting for us to search and rescue him would get his attention.”

“Chief, I’m going to check out the door. It should be cool by now,” Bobby said, popping his head into the chief’s office. “I want to make sure it can be dogged down in case we’re called to general quarters.”

He waited as Master Chief Connerty put the caffeine stained coffee cup on his desk. As a seaman, Bobby had learned the hard way to never touch anyone’s coffee mug no matter how stained. He’d been summoned to be verbally reamed after he’d returned a spanking clean white mug to his superior in the Philippines. His punishment was crawling in the bowels of an engine room inspecting sewer pipes.

“See you back at muster,” Chief Connerty grumbled. “Cleaning filters after mess.”

“Yes, sir.” Bobby left and walked briskly through the passageway. He saw the XO headed towards him and stood aside. The XO stopped and looked at his name stenciled on the chambray shirt. “Higgins?” he asked. Bobby saluted and said, “yes sir.”

“Damage control, sir,” Bobby said. “I’m checking on a door repair before muster.”

“Report to my office after you’re done. Don’t tell anyone—and Higgins, report straight to my office,” the XO ordered.

Bobby knew immediately that he was being kidnapped to test his department’s report during overboard drill. The Oscar dummy would figuratively be called Higgins today. He had faith in his chief to alert the bridge of his absence. A few weeks earlier, a well-meaning co-worker in the forward engine room failed to report a boilerman missing. Luckily, it was a test but heads rolled. The petty officer took a reduced rate for thirty days.

Bobby tested the repaired door and it sealed tight. He re-opened it and proceeded to the XO’s office. As he approached, the XO waved him into the room. “Close the door,” he said. “You know the drill, Petty Officer Higgins?”

“Yes, sir. I’m not to muster or respond to my name being sent out over the intercom,” Bobby said.

“Good. I’m headed to the bridge. Sit tight until I relieve you,” the XO grabbed his hat and left Bobby.

Five minutes slowly passed and the intercom came alive. “All hands muster,” the OOD announced. Bobby could hear the hundreds of shoes pounding the port and starboard decks. Snipes were headed to the fantail by port, deckhands forward starboard. He resisted mustering. He stared at the citation-covered walls of the XO’s office. He hoped Chief Connerty would notice his absence and report him overboard. Especially in the event that one day, God forbid, it would not be a drill.

“Petty Officer Higgins, report to your muster station,” the intercom blasted.

Another minute passed and the announcement initiated the drill. “Man overboard, man overboard!” the officer repeated several times. Bobby felt the destroyer take a sudden turn to retrace and retrieve the Oscar dummy. Hopefully, it would be quick. His stomach growled, anticipating lunch while the aroma of bread teased him through the office vents. He was pretty certain the fresh bread was heading to the Ward Room for the captain and his staff.

While he waited, he perfected tossing his sailor’s cap into the XO’s trash can. As it sailed to the can, the door swung open and the XO ducked and grabbed it. “Bored, Higgins?” he said dryly. Bobby felt his face turn red and apologized.

“You’re relieved. Thanks for your cooperation. Search and rescue had you back on the ship pretty quick,” he said and handed Bobby his cap. “Sunburn free.”

“All non-watch personnel report to your UNREP station,” was announced over the intercom.

Bobby knew the ropes of fire watch of the forward fuel bell. He grabbed his life vest and headed to the stern’s fire watch station. As he exited the passageway, the seas confirmed what he’d felt below. They were churning and he was concerned as the ship tried to pace herself beside the oiler, heading into the strong head wind. Waves erratically slammed the bow, baptizing sailors with generous sprays of salt water. The linesmen were losing no time connecting to their lifelines.

“What do you think, Higgins?” Shouted Smith from the cable line, wiping spray from his eyes. Bobby shook his head at the borderline conditions and appreciated the captain’s endless breakaway drills, critical if the ships were pulled too close.

“Not the easiest one we’ve done,” Bobby yelled. “They’re signaling the holding line is about to be shot.” A large wave crashed the bow and Bobby’s head lurched from the impact. He felt his feet slipping and he barely retained his footing. This is going to be a mother fucker, he said to himself.

Within five minutes, the fueling hose had been transferred to the ship’s receiving bell. The ship continued to drink deeply from the oiler. The waves pounded but the helmsman was somehow holding the distance between the two ships.

Bobby looked down the row at his water-soaked shipmates handling the lines. The fuel hose was released and returned to the oiler. New stores were hoisted to the transfer line and carried away to storage. Not a moment too soon either; the galley would be able to cook something other than hotdogs served on stale buns. Bobby strained to see if there was a mailbag. He knew that mail and the exchange of movies were lowest priority, especially under these conditions. The ship would confine the crew for several weeks as they headed to Boston for a FRAM. The Leakin’ Leonard was to receive updated guns and other improvements.

He grinned as he saw canvas bags being hoisted and delivered to the ship. Mail! Otherwise, they would have had to wait until they were closer to land to receive by helicopter. Bobby hoped there may be news from home– maybe from House, too.

Before he could enjoy the moment, another rogue wave hit the port deck and a line-handler was washed over. “Man overboard,” screamed from the fantail. Bobby strained, looking for a life preserver among the white caps. The suction between the two ships would more than likely seal the sailor’s doom. Best case scenario would be the destroyer behind waiting to refuel would receive the alert from the bridge and pick him up. But something in Bobby’s stomach said the sailor was a goner.

As the lines were released, the PA system did not blast the oiler with the signature bagpipes as they broke away. Bobby had always dreaded this drill becoming a reality. His face was stinging from the pelting of the waves and his dungarees were soaked. The ship picked up speed in spite of the aggressive seas. Reluctantly, he turned and joined the men filing back to quarters, reminding himself to stay alert on the slippery deck. He overheard his friend chatting with others about the rough fuel replenishment.

“Man, I thought I was going to be Oscar today. I fell at least three times and prayed I wouldn’t be fucked up between the two hulls,” a pale-faced seaman said to his friend. “I wonder who the poor bastard is?”

“I think it was Shitty Smitty,” his friend interjected, shaking his head. “That guy has the worst luck. Hell of a way to clean up!” The two pals chuckled while shaking their heads.

Bobby lurched at the casual comment, that poor guy has the worst luck? Smitty had been a pain in the ass, he admitted. But, he’d enlisted for a lot of the same reasons as Bobby. He was a small-town boy avoiding the draft. The poor kid didn’t seem to catch a break and Bobby realized that he had been just as callous as the other crew members. He should have taken him under his wing like his mentors had him. He suddenly felt ashamed that complacency had crept in and distracted him. Girlie magazines, beer, poker and locker talk had lulled him away from why he was in the Navy. His parents raised him better than that and his mamma would have been disappointed. He continued to stare off the fantail, ship lurching through the chop and he prayed the ship behind them in line for refueling had found Smitty. God? I’ll make you a deal. If we get him back, I will take him under my wing— lazy smelly bastard and all!

He turned and directed his focus on getting out of the wet salty clothes. Time to grow up, Bobby, he thought to himself.

“Higgins, you’re the department mail rep today. Jones is on watch,” Chief Connerty shouted from his desk.

“Yes, sir,” Bobby answered, and headed up the ladder to the post office. As he joined the line, he stood behind a radioman. “Hey, Sparky. Expecting anything good from home?”

“Yeah, I’m hoping my girlfriend’s letters will finally hit. Maybe the guys at FPO slid in a few girlie magazines like they did at Christmas,” he said, grinning. “But, all I really need is to look up at her photo I pinned up in my office. She looks just like Ava Gardner in On the Beach, oo-la-la!”

They both stood aside as three bags were carried away by a seaman to the fantail bosun. “I’d say by the lumpy look of those bags, we’re getting packages,” Bobby observed aloud.

“Thank you, sir,” Wickerham answered and hauled the stash down the passageway towards the communications area. “See you later, Higgins. Hear we have a new movie tonight!”

“There are three bags,” the post office petty officer advised. “I’ll bring one. Don’t waste time returning for it,” he growled without looking up.

Bobby checked the engine calibrations as he anticipated four bells, relieving him of Last Dog Watch. He wanted some time to go through his mail and packages before joining the others for the new movie. Maybe after the movie he would pop down to the mess for mid-rats. Due to his watch, he’d only grabbed a few bites at dinner. It would be interesting to see how the galley would reinvent the leftovers of the day. He didn’t care, he just wanted to catch up on news from home. The dials were slightly vibrating as the ship got underway against impending weather. The red lights helped him acclimate to the dark.

“Great! Hope it is better than Landry’s choices before we left port,” Bobby answered. “I was pretty tired of Oklahoma. One more time and we’ll all start having periods.”

“Hey, it did sound like a Western. There’s no guarantee what the oiler handed off either,” Bobby said, defending Landry. Four bells sounded over the PA and he looked at the ladder hoping First Watch relief was on time. As he looked over his shoulder, he saw bell bottoms jog towards him. “Steady underway, 15 knots so far.” Bobby pointed at his last log entries to his relief as the ship listed heavier than normal.

Bobby flopped in his rack and grabbed the stack of letters. As much as he wanted to visit with family first, there was one with an APO address. House! It was postmarked December. Bobby grinned as he pried the envelope open and removed the ship issued letterhead. He leaned back to talk with his childhood friend.

Dear Bobby,

Haven’t had leave for a while. Guess you’ve heard about the Ruskies and Cuba. We’ve been on carrier guard. Between anti-submarine watch and retrieving pilots that failed to land on deck, it’s pretty sleepless. I didn’t get a break from the radio room for several days. Communications were intense and someone brought my food to me. It was a far cry from our port to port stops between Spain and Greece. I can’t even remember being in the sunlight and drinking sangria, French wine or throwing plates as we drank Ouzo. Anyway, traffic has died down since the President got Russia to back off. Most of the activity is tracking the Russian ships hauling the missiles off Cuba. It’s the underwater activity that always keeps us on our toes.

Guess you heard that dad got too sick. Your mom was really good to Ma and made sure there was a lot of help. I’m worried about her now. She’s lost dad but I think she is still reeling from losing Jimmy in Korea. I left his loafers behind when we joined up. She hated when I wore them anyway. I think I may ask for leave as soon as I can. I hated missing dad’s funeral.

How do you like the Leakin’ Leonard? Someone told me that y’all stay at sea a lot too and there are huge storms. At least you have school and Subic under your belt, bet some of the greener guys are sick as dogs. We’ve had several chicken wars between Ruskie destroyers when we get reassigned.

I can’t help but laugh at our captain’s music choices. He’s from Texas. You know how we always loved our western movies. He keeps Marty Robbins tunes on hand. I’ve gotten to know the lyrics of El Paso well. But, I have to confess, since I heard of Pearl Miller’s engagement, I’m looking for Felina. Without the shoot out of course. Want to kiss her until I’m old and grey. No Rosa’s Cantina over on this side though.

What have you invented new these days? Eight bells and I need to grab some shut eye before watch.

Write soon.
House

Bobby smiled but felt sad at some of the news. He was well aware of chicken wars with Ruskie vessels. His captain was the master of anti-submarine warfare. Depth chargers were a normal activity. Leave for home? He’d put in so he could go home during the shipyard FRAM. His dad wasn’t doing well either.

Bobby sorted through the other letters. He smelled the two goodwill packages. He picked his sister’s with the red postmark from Atlanta. Someone snored below him and he was relieved as he hoped there would be no sharing...not yet.

Just like Christmas’ pasts, he peeled the brown paper off and opened the reused cardboard box. It was from Charlie’s Grill. The logo was from a local Atlanta hamburger joint. His brother-in-law was working for the railroad nearby. As he broke the brown flaps, he saw two newspapers, cookies and cigarettes. He tasted the cookie. Stale, but they were from a loving family’s hand. He stared at the headline of Atlanta’s paper-- JFK diffuses the Cuban Missile Crisis. How timely. House had been there, now Bobby could get more info. As he played with his rack’s bounty, he heard seven bells. Thirty minutes before the new fucking movie, as his comrades called it. His stomach rumbled as he stashed his packages from home and rushed to join the others in the mess. He pushed a pack of Pall Malls into his shirt pocket and prepared to adjust to the white light of non-watch ship sections.

The smoking lamp was still on, as well as the red lights engaged to help watch standers adjust to the night conditions. The ocean was churning angry in spite of so recently claiming his shipmate. Poor Smitty. Between three ship’s efforts, no one ever spotted him. Bobby didn’t want to think the worst but the suction between the oiler and the Leonard had been unusually dangerous. As he stood under the smoking lamp and puffed on his cigarette, he heard the vibration of the propellers as they were forced out of the water. Correction...the screws were whirling above the surf line. Props, screws...propellers. The waves pulled the bow under; the fantail see-sawed and violently shuddered. Until the seas calmed, everyone’s sleep would be interrupted with the bucking. Clouds hid the moon and starlight, all indicating a perfect recipe for storm conditions as they headed to the Panama Canal.

As he finished his smoke, he thought of the stars and fireflies at home. Peaceful days that seemed like a lifetime ago. Jones approached the doorway. “Come on, Bobby. You’re going to miss the fucking movie. I hear it’s a real Western.”