Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

“Even Navy coffee? I find that hard to believe.”

Jerry could only grin at Berg’s humor. As if on cue, Berg cleared his throat. “Ahem. So, how was your interview with the Captain?”

“I guess the best way to describe it would be as unexpected.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. He said I was useless ballast until I finished my quals. The Captain is not one to mince words, even unpleasant ones. But Jerry, the secret to surviving on Memphis is to not let it bother you.” Berg then moved closer to Jerry and slapped him on the back. Lowering his voice a little, he advised, “I know that’s easier said than done, but you won’t make it if you take everything the Captain says personally.”

Jerry nodded his understanding and gathered his shaving kit and towel. He was looking forward to a hot shower and a chance to collect his thoughts. As he was starting to leave the stateroom, Berg called to him.

“Oh, Jerry, remember to take a submarine shower. The XO likes to shut the hot water off on those who dare to take a Hollywood, even in port.” The humor in his voice bespoke of personal experience and Jerry thanked him for his words of wisdom as he set off for the officer’s head.

Like everything else in Memphis, the officer’s head was small. There was a single shower off to the right with a sink next to it. The remaining space held one commode and a urinal. All this for a dozen guys. Things were going to get quite cozy indeed, Jerry thought.

He turned on the water and waited for it to warm up. Once the water had reached an acceptable temperature, he went in and quickly got thoroughly wet. He then closed a valve at the base of the showerhead, shutting off the flow of water, lathered up his washcloth, and scrubbed himself down. Jerry opened the valve after he was finished scrubbing and rinsed himself off. He then repeated the same procedure for washing his hair.

While Jerry basically understood the need to conserve water on a submarine, a long hot shower where the water poured on his body for fifteen minutes sounded really good right now, and in port, with the sub’s water supply hooked up to the pier, Memphis had an unlimited supply. Jerry regarded the XO’s prohibition against “Hollywood showers” as a minor injustice, but avoiding the XO’s ire was much more important than comfort. Before Jerry left the shower stall, he grabbed the squeegee hanging on the soap dish and removed all the excess water from the shower’s steel walls. This was done in order to prevent mildew from forming on the walls and making the head more unpleasant.

After shaving, Jerry headed back to his stateroom to get dressed. Ten minutes had gone by. Berg was already gone by the time Jerry got back; he was probably in the wardroom getting breakfast. Jerry’s other roommate, Lieutenant Washburn, had gone home for the night and was likely already aboard. Jerry put his gear away in one of the wall lockers and made up his bunk before proceeding to the wardroom.

The cramped wardroom was filled. At most, it could seat ten, and all the chairs, save the Captain’s, were occupied, so Jerry had to wait for someone to finish before he could sit down. The mess steward, bustling around with serving dishes and dirty plates, offered Jerry a cup of coffee. He gladly accepted the coffee and stood quietly, as out of the way as best he could and studied his new shipmates.

All were in khaki working uniforms, sitting silently, reading their morning message traffic as they hurriedly ate. Berg was demolishing a plate of scrambled eggs and hash browns, but most settled for cereal or a fresh sticky bun with their coffee.

It was quiet, too quiet. The only words spoken were the occasional comments or questions when someone discussed ship’s business with another officer. It was completely unlike a squadron mess. This wardroom was tense, cold, and uncomfortable.

As he studied his fellow officers, he also studied the wardroom, which didn’t take long, considering its size. It was about the size of a small bedroom, with most of the space taken up by the ten-foot by three-foot table, roughly in the middle. The decor was Navy standard, with fake wood paneling wallpaper on all the walls and drawers and blue vinyl covers on the chairs, table, and the couch at the forward end of the room. Except for a picture of Memphis’ launching and some plaques from other U.S. Navy commands and various foreign navies, there were no decorations. The wardroom’s spartan look only reinforced the isolation, the lack of camaraderie that Jerry felt.

Besides being the place where all officers on board had their meals, the wardroom table also functioned as a workspace for pre-deployment briefs, drill critiques, tactical reviews, and as a place to relax. Here the officers could watch a movie or play some games to help unwind a little. In an emergency, the wardroom could also be turned into an operating room. At that thought, Jerry’s right arm started to ache and he decided that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to think about the wardroom’s auxiliary medical function.

He spotted a bulletin board on the forward bulkhead and edged over to it, dodging the mess steward on the way. Several sheets of paper had been tacked over a layer of older notices and newspaper clippings. The new sheets were printouts from an internet news service, and Jerry started to read the one closest to him. Under the brightly colored banner, the headline read NAVY JET CRASHES IN CALIFORNIA. He started to read the piece, assuming it was a report from this morning, and felt déjà vu when he saw that it was an F/A-18, then more so when he read it was at Naval Air Station Lemoore. When he saw that the cause was a flat tire, he felt positively creeped out, but the pilot, Lieutenant (j.g.) Jerry Mitchell, was recovering from his injuries…

His eyes flashed back to the headline and then to the date: JANUARY 2, 2003. He looked at the second sheet. It was dated a few months later and was titled aviator fights to stay. It described Jerry’s aviation background, his political connections, and his attempts to transfer to the submarine service. In the section describing Jerry’s aviation training, his call sign, “Menace,” was mentioned, and someone had marked the word with a yellow highlighter.

The call sign, so appropriate for an aviator, sounded silly and trivial now. He fought the urge to rip the pages off the board, then another impulse to turn and scan the room, as if he could detect the individual who put them up just by looking. He finally turned around, reluctantly, feeling even more isolated, singled out. He knew someone, maybe all of them, was watching him, waiting for a reaction, but did his best to deny them the pleasure.

“Mr. Mitchell, sir? You can sit down now. What would you like for breakfast?”

Jerry settled for some cereal and fruit, then tried to listen and learn. There was no message traffic for him, of course, but he kept an ear cocked to anything Cal Richards, his new boss, had to say. Richards didn’t acknowledge his presence at breakfast, and spoke little, instead writing furiously on a clipboard. After a minute or two, Richards began to flip through the pages on his clipboard, and his face seemed to turn white before Jerry’s eyes.

“Mr. Weyer, when did SUBASE say they were sending over the team to help you troubleshoot the sonar display console?”

“They said it would be sometime this afternoon, sir,” responded Lieutenant (j.g.) Tim Weyer, Memphis’ Sonar Officer. “They have to completely redo their schedule to fit us in and the Repair Officer said he wouldn’t know the time until this morning.”

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, Mr. Weyer, it is morning and I need that time so I can finish my morning report for the Captain. So why don’t you get your butt in gear and find out!” snapped Richards.