Russell Moran: The Gray Ship

“Good evening,” said Smitty.

“Ready for the war, boys?” said the man.

“War?”

“Everybody’s talking about it,” said the man, tapping his pipe. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it happens any day now.”

“You don’t mean the reenactment ceremony at Fort Sumter tomorrow do you?”

“Reenactment of what?”

Smitty wished the man a good evening, and the two walked on.

Jackson and Donnelly entered the bar last. Jackson noticed that he was the only black person in the place. A tall, slim man with a beard and a Stetson hat walked up to Jackson, along with two other men. Jackson imagined a movie director calling a casting agent and saying, “Send me three people who look like characters from Deliverance .”

The tall man with the Stetson squared off in front of Chief Jackson and said, “Wachoo dewin heah boy?” SEALs are trained to act fast and think faster. They’re also trained to keep their emotions to themselves and to concentrate on one thing: the mission. Jackson’s first inclination was to turn this cracker’s face into meatloaf, but he stopped short. He thought to himself: We’ve been sent here to look, observe and report. Our recon mission does not include busting up a bar. It’s time to role play.

“Pahdin me, suh,” said Jackson, “my massa done tole me to come here to look see if I kin find his brotha. I ain’t seein him, so I’ll be gittin on.” He walked out the front door. Conroy had seen the encounter and motioned with a flip of his head to Donnelly, indicating that he should follow Jackson. Donnelly slipped out a side door and strolled a distance behind Jackson, who was walking back toward Morton’s Dry Goods. Donnelly’s eyes scanned the street to make sure that the three primitives from the bar were not in pursuit. He didn’t notice that the three had run across the street behind a large cart, which blocked his view. As Jackson walked down the alley toward the rear door, the three jumped out in front of him.

“Ah thought ya’ll was fixin to go back to yo massa, boy. Looks lahk ya’ll needin some whuppin.”

Jackson stopped role playing. He said with his dialect-free voice, “Ah, Mr. Meatloaf Face, so nice to see you again.”

“Wachoo call me, boy? It’s time for you to meet yo maker,” said the man as he drew a large hunting knife with a 6-inch blade. His companions drew theirs at the same time. Jackson realized he was about to be murdered. Suddenly, Mr. Meatloaf Face saw a dark four knuckled piston rocketing out of the darkness toward his eyes. The karate punch caved in his nose, fractured both eye sockets, and drove the resulting mass of tissue and bone into his brain. As his lifeless body fell, Jackson delivered a high arcing kick to the temple of the second man, crushing his skull and causing a massive brain hemorrhage. The third froze, as Jackson caved in his solar plexus with four rapid punches. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

Petty Officer Donnelly came running up the alley. He saw the entire confrontation even though he sprinted. “Are you okay, Chief?”

“I’m doing better than these guys.” The two men dragged the bodies into a nearby clump of bushes. Hearing the commotion, Juarez ran to the alley, his M4A1 carbine at the ready.

Lieutenant Conroy continued his conversation with his new banker friend at the bar. Petty Officer Durbin joined them. “So why are Yankees so unpopular around here?” Conroy asked as pleasantly as possible, looking for information.

“I have a number of Yankee friends and business associates,” said the banker, “all of whom are fine people. The problem is those damn meddling Northern politicians, especially Abraham Lincoln.”

Conroy and Giordano glanced at each other. Giordano chimed in. “What do you think of Barack Obama?”

“Who?” said the banker. The look on the man’s face, as both Conroy and Giordano would later agree, belied any pretense, faking, lying, acting, or reenacting. This man had never heard the name Barack Obama, the President of the United States.

Petty Officer Durbin struck up a conversation with three guys who looked like fishermen, judging from their clothing and scent. One of the men asked him, “Have you seen the Gray Ship ?”

“No I haven’t,” said Durbin. “What is it?”

“That thing is about 1,000 feet long,” said the fisherman. “It had a big white number 36 painted on each side of her bow. I couldn’t see the name on the stern because the ship was so fast.”

Another fisherman spoke. “One thousand feet? Shoot, the damn thing was at least 2,000 feet long.”

Durbin asked, “Was it a Navy ship or some kind of merchant ship?”

“That thing is definitely military,” said one of the men. “It had guns that must have been 100 feet long and a foot wide.”

Conroy glanced at his watch, which he kept in his pocket. It was 2245, almost time to rendezvous at Morton’s. They exchanged pleasantries and departed their new banker friend. As he and Giordano walked for the door, Conroy gave a head motion to Durbin, who politely broke off his conversation with the fishermen.

The SEALs met at 2300 as planned. Chief Jackson debriefed everyone on his encounter with the thugs in the alley. Donnelly said that he had seen the entire thing and would give a written report to Conroy when they got back to the ship. They were SEALs, not cops, but they were on a surveillance mission with no clear Rules of Engagement.

“We’ll change into our fatigues back at the boat,” Conroy said. “Grab any other piece of clothing you can find on the shelves. Something tells me we may need a change of outfits down the road. Also bring ladies’ garments. Captain Patterson or another of our female crew may visit the shore at some point. It will be tight but I want to bring as much stuff as we can fit on the Zodiac. Anything that doesn’t fit we’ll stash in the bushes and pick up later. I hope Mr. Morton has insurance.”

“Lieutenant,” Chief Jackson said, “are we going to plan to be back at the ship at 0300 or sooner?”

“We’ve accomplished our mission,” Conroy said. “Hanging out any longer may be a problem, especially since your encounter with those thugs. The boat is about a 20 minute walk from here. On our way to the boat I want everyone to take as many photos as you can. Let’s empty the shelves and move out.”

Chief Petty Officer Jackson, age 35, had seen intense combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. He had been wounded and had taken many lives. But he had just gone through the most amazing experience of his life, and now his very presence was changing the mission. He grew up in a racially mixed neighborhood in Philadelphia. He had white friends and black friends, white neighbors and black. He never gave race much thought. Although he’d seen prejudice in his life, he was never obsessed with it. But he had never experienced sheer hatred as he did from those thugs in the alley. He had to kill to save his own life.

On their way back to the ship they noticed much heavier boat traffic in the harbor. “Carbines ready, lock and load.” Conroy didn’t want any trouble with “reenactors.” He decided to break radio silence, as was his option. He didn’t worry about anyone in this strange place intercepting a radio transmission. “Lima Juliette, Lima Juliette (The radio call sign of the USS California ) this is Tango Xray.

“This is Lima Juliette, go ahead Tango Xray.”

“Please advise the Captain that we’re returning to the ship, ETA 20 minutes”

“Roger, Tango Xray, Lima Juliette out.”

They knew they were heading for a debriefing. A debriefing that may change history, Conroy thought.