Charles Taylor: Show of Force

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."