Richard Marsten: Murder in the navy

Note: There is no ship in the United States fleet named the U.S.S. Sykes, nor does any destroyer carry the designating numbers 012. The ship in these pages, therefore, is not intended as a representation of any actual United States naval vessel, since, to the best of the author’s knowledge, there has never been a homicide committed aboard a ship of the United States Navy. In like manner, no attempt has been made to reconstruct the actual physical characteristics of either the nurses’ quarters or the base hospital at Norfolk, Virginia. The characters, too, are all fictional and the opinions they express are not necessarily those of the author.

He sat on the port side of the ship, just outside the radar shack and the ladder leading up to the bridge. He sat on an ammunition box, and he rested one hand on the 20-millimeter antiaircraft gun, which was uncovered now because the ship had visitors.

He was wearing undress blues, as the Old Man had ordered. He didn’t like undress blues, because the sleeves were short and had no cuffs, and he really felt that dress blues would have been more fitting for Navy Day. He kept an eye peeled for officers because he knew he’d be chewed out if anyone saw him just sitting here when the ship was swarming with visitors. But he didn’t want to miss her when she came aboard, and his perch just below the bridge gave him a full view of the approach to the dock.

There were two other ships tied up at the dock, and he looked over at them now. One was a battleship, and it squatted on the waterline like a big gray hotel. The other was a submarine, and it seemed to attract most of the visitors, but he supposed that was natural. He had to admit his own ship, a destroyer, looked smart enough. There was a man on either side of the gangway, each wearing a guard belt, each holding a rifle at Parade Rest. An Army major walked up the dock, heading for the two men with their hats neatly squared, the dull blue barrels of the rifles angled forward. When the major reached the gangway, both men sprang to attention, the rifles snapping back against their thighs, their left hands with palms flat crossing to touch the muzzles of the guns in salute.

The major returned the salute and started up the gangway.

Maybe she won’t come, he thought.

The thought made him uncomfortable, and he slid off the ammo box and began pacing the deck. The ship bobbed gently with the motion of the water. He saw Mr. Haverford starting down the port side of the ship, resplendent in his carefully tailored blues, wearing a new hat with the braid glistening at its peak. He ducked quickly into the passageway, stayed there for several moments, and then went out to stand near the gun again. Mr. Haverford was gone.

He looked off down the dock. When he saw the group of women in blue, his heart quickened. He leaned over the rail at the side, trying to get a better look, trying to determine whether it was really she or not

“... Combat Information Center just behind the door here on your right,” a voice said behind him. “Love to take you in there, but security regulations prohibit that, I’m afraid.”

He turned rapidly and saw the group of visitors led by Mr. Carlucci. One of the bright-eyed matrons asked, “Is that where they keep the radar?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Carlucci said.

“Couldn’t we just...”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Mr. Carlucci said politely. “Security. The ladder up ahead leads to the bridge, and if you’ll follow me I’ll show you the real brains of the ship.”

The matron squealed, and then the guided party went past him and clanked up the ladder to the bridge. He went back to the rail and looked over at the rapidly advancing women in blue. She was one of them, he was sure of that. He studied them until he could pick her out, the one on the end, the one with the loose-hipped walk. He watched the way the sun silhouetted her; even a uniform couldn’t hide her figure. He found it difficult to breathe, and he was surprised to find a grin covering his face. She was looking up at the ship now, and he was tempted to wave until he remembered.

He drew back his arm and hurried into the passageway. He ran through to the hatch leading to the boat deck, ran out past the forward stack, past the torpedo tubes amidships, and past the ladder leading to the quarter-deck. He didn’t want to climb down right near the OD. He ran past the hanging motor launch, past the aft stack, and then down the ladder aft of the quarter-deck. He reached the main deck as the stepped onto the gangway.

The rifles were snapped hack again, and the hands crossed in salute. He saw her raise her own hand in salute, and he thought how ridiculous women in war were, but he shoved the thought aside. She was not just a “woman in war.” She was Claire, and she was a nurse.

She stepped onto the quarter-deck now, threw a snappy salute at the ensign flying from the fantail, and then saluted the OD. The OD returned the salute, and she smiled and then waited for the other nurses to catch up with her. He wondered how he could get rid of the others, but she knew he was waiting for her, and she’d help him.

She looked around casually, and he knew she was looking for him, and the thought pleased him. He waited until the other nurses were aboard, six of them, and then watched as the OD assigned them a guide. Claire fell in behind the rest, and as they passed through the midships passageway, she glanced over her shoulder, looking directly at him, but showing no sign of recognition.

A smart girl, he thought. A very smart girl.

He climbed up to the boat deck again, crossed to the starboard side, and saw that they had not come out of the passageway. He figured their first stop would be sick bay, the logical place to show off to visiting nurses. He ran back to the port side, and then into the passageway that led past the radar shack, and then down the ladder leading to the main deck. He kept going down, stopping on the ladder that went below decks to the mess hall. He waited there until he saw them step into the other end of the passageway. The guide showed them sick bay, and they nodded appreciatively and murmured among themselves. Claire was behind the other nurses, and he couldn’t see her too well. He heard the guide say something, and then they started down the passageway, coming toward him. He went a step farther down the ladder so that just the top of his white hat was showing, and then down another step so that he was unseen.

The party went past him and started up the ladder to the bridge. He looked up from where he stood on the ladder and saw a flurry of strong legs and white petticoats. The nurses were chattering excitedly among themselves. They did not hear him when he urgently whispered, “Claire!”

She turned abruptly, saw him standing on the ladder below her, and stopped as the other nurses continued up to the bridge. He climbed the steps rapidly, waiting until the rest of the party was gone, and then said, smiling, “Hello, Claire.”

“Hello,” she said. He thought her voice sounded distant, but he attributed that to their current surroundings. Her hat was perched jauntily on her black curls. Her hair framed her face, and there was a high flash on her cheeks. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her tight, but he was painfully aware of the officer’s emblem on her hat and the gleaming silver bar on her shoulder.

“This way,” he said.

He led her up the ladder and stopped in the passageway outside C.I.C.

“This is the radar shack,” he said. “No visitors are allowed here.”

“Do you think—”

“It’s all right, Claire,” he said. He fished into the pocket on his jumper and came up with a key. He inserted that in the door lock, looked down the passageway, and then rapidly twisted it and swung the door open in one smooth motion. He took her arm, pulled her inside, and then closed the door and locked it.