Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

“Yes, sir,” replied Weyer tersely as he quickly rose from his chair, threw his napkin on the table, and left the wardroom.

Surprised by the sudden exchange between his department head and a fellow division officer, Jerry hunkered down and concentrated on finishing his breakfast, desperately trying not to meet Richards’ cold stare.

“As for you, Mr. Mitchell,” said Richards sternly. “You have five minutes to finish, and then you are to meet me in the torpedo room. I assume you can find your way there?”

“Yes, sir, of course, sir,” Jerry answered.

Without responding, Cal Richards collected the small pile of paperwork he was working on and walked out of the wardroom. After Richards had gone, Jerry let out a deep sigh and pushed the bowl with some fruit left in it away from him. Putting the napkin on the table, he stood up and started making his way to the door.

“Excuse me sir. Are you finished?” asked the mess steward.

“Yes, yes, I am. Thank you.” And with that, Jerry returned to his stateroom to get his cover, jacket, and notebook. Checking his watch, he had three minutes to get to the torpedo room, Jerry walked quickly back toward the main passageway As he walked, Jerry couldn’t help but be reminded just how much space was at a premium on a submarine. The passageway couldn’t be more than two feet wide and two people going opposite directions would have to turn sideways just to get past each other. On a submarine, outside of your rack, there was no such thing as “personal space.” After reaching the wardroom, Jerry turned the corner and exited the opening in the bulkhead that separated officers’ country from the rest of the boat and walked across to the ladder that went down to the torpedo room in the forward compartment lower level.

Jerry had only been to this part of Memphis once before, so it took him a few seconds to orient himself. The heavy traffic was also momentarily confusing, as sailors were going back and forth between a berthing area on the starboard side and a head by the base of the ladder on the port side. One of the sailors shook his head, smiling, and pointed to a door at the forward end of the passageway. Jerry nodded and headed into the torpedo room, carefully closing the door behind him. Entering “his spaces,” Jerry saw Lieutenant Richards talking to a chief petty officer and two first class petty officers. As he approached the foursome, he only heard the last part of Richards’ instructions. “…and I want a list of all the necessary repair parts on my desk by 1700. If there is nothing else, I suggest you get started and remember we’ll be forming up for Quarters in about twenty minutes.”

As the two petty officers left, Lieutenant Richards brought over the chief. Correction, Jerry thought as they got closer, a senior chief. Jerry was immediately encouraged, having a man with such a wealth of experience as the leading chief would be very beneficial to Jerry to help run the division and for his own education. Jerry paused to think that this might be one of the first rays of hope since he had come to Memphis. He was immediately snapped out of his musings when Richards addressed him.

“Well, I see you made it,” Jerry couldn’t help but notice the biting sarcasm in Richards’ voice. “Mr. Mitchell, this is Senior Chief Torpedoman’s Mate Foster. Senior Chief Foster, this is Lieutenant (j.g.) Mitchell. He is Mr. Adelman’s relief.”

“Pleased to meet you, Senior Chief,” said Jerry as he extended his hand. Foster looked confused by what Richards had just said, and it took him a moment to recover and to shake Jerry’s hand. “Sir,” was all Foster said. Jerry sensed that something wasn’t quite right, but he didn’t have time to think it about as Richards kept on going.

“There will be time for you two to begin turnover later today, Senior Chief, but right now I need to talk to Mr. Mitchell before Quarters. Make sure that everyone in the division is topside and on time.”

“Aye, aye sir,” replied Foster, who now was staring intently at Jerry. “I’ll have the men up promptly at 0745.” Foster then left the torpedo room through the same door that Jerry had used, only the senior chief slammed the door shut on his way out. Jerry didn’t understand why the senior chief would do such a thing, but before he could ask Richards what was wrong, his department head lashed into him.

“All right, let me make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Mitchell. You will become intimately familiar with every piece of equipment in this room. You’ll ensure that all maintenance is done properly and on time and that your maintenance records will be flawlessly maintained. Don’t bring me any problem that you haven’t already thought of a solution. And don’t bring me sloppy or incorrect paperwork. I expect you to perform all of your duties impeccably and that includes your qualifications. Any questions?”

Jerry was stunned by the way Richards dressed him down. He hadn’t done anything yet, but apparently that was the problem. The duties that Richards described were the norm for a new officer on board his first ship, but the venom with which Richards had delivered them was totally inappropriate. Jerry felt angry for the first time since his arrival. The fighter pilot aggression that had served him so well during his flight training bubbled to the surface, and he straightened himself and looked Richards straight in the eye.

“No, sir. I clearly understand exactly what you expect from me.”

Cal Richards noticeably balked when Jerry stood his ground. And with a far more civil tone he said, “Very well, then, Mr. Mitchell. Carry on.” Richards then turned around and left the torpedo room.

Leaning up against the centerline torpedo stowage rack, Jerry tried to make sense out of the last ten minutes. What was it about him that Richards viewed as threatening? Surely it wasn’t him personally, Richards had only met him yesterday. But something was obviously bugging his department head, the look on Richards’ face, his treatment of Tim Weyer in the wardroom, his boisterousness. It was as if Richards had to intimidate or frighten others to have them do what he wanted done. Then it clicked; Richards was faking it, trying to act as if he had everything under control when in fact he was barely hanging on; it was all a façade.

Jerry had seen this before down at the training squadron. It was the sign of a man running scared. Cal Richards was afraid, but afraid of what or whom? Immediately after he had asked himself that question, Jerry intuitively knew the answer: Lieutenant Richards lived in dreadful fear of Captain Hardy.

Just as Jerry was making some progress in understanding his situation, the IMC announced “All hands not on watch lay topside for Quarters.” Jerry quickly made his way up to forward compartment middle level and then waited for his turn to climb up the forward escape trunk. Emerging from Memphis, Jerry found the weather to be sunny and milder than yesterday. In fact, it was quite pleasant by comparison. Still a bit nippy, but nothing a Midwestern boy couldn’t handle. Jerry then made his way to the gangplank, saluted the colors, and walked down on to the pier in search of his division. He soon found Senior Chief Foster with a group of ten sailors forming up in the second row of three. Jerry walked over and stood next to Foster, but the senior chief did not acknowledge his presence. The wind seemed colder than Jerry had first thought.

The XO was carefully watching the forward escape trunk, and as soon as Hardy emerged from the hatch, Bair shouted, “Attention on deck!” The crew, standing at ease, instantly became three neat, motionless lines, drawn up on the pier. The only sounds left were the cold breeze and the waves as they slapped against the pier and the submarine’s hull. Every man’s attention was on Hardy. Now they would get some answers.