Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

The Navy, in spite of its size, may have only three or two or possibly just one open billet that matches the officer’s skills, career needs, and timing. Hopefully it’s something the officer likes. Should an officer need training to help them with a new assignment, then that has to be arranged first. Of course, school schedules and class sizes may not match the rest of the schedule, and this requires even more finagling. And let’s not talk about what failing a school would do to the detailer’s plans or the person’s career.

Finally, after all the pieces have been carefully fitted together, the service member will use the time remaining, hopefully a month or two, to househunt, probably in an unfamiliar location, find new schools for his kids and possibly even a new job for his spouse. It is not uncommon, however, for all these significant responsibilities to be unceremoniously dumped on the spouse while the Navy member immediately reports to his next assignment. The needs of the Navy, at times, can be hard on a Navy family.

And right now, 135 carefully prepared plans had just been thrown up into the air, and only the Almighty knew where they would land. The single officers and sailors had less to worry about — only where they’d be working for the next few years.

Again, Jerry just kept quiet and listened. Some were fatalistic, and some were bitter about this latest turn in their fortunes. Harry O’Connell, the Navigator, was scheduled for PXO school, “Prospective Executive Officer School.” He had been promoted to Lieutenant Commander just two years earlier, and he was on the list to get an Executive Officer’s billet on another attack boat. The problem was timing. If he didn’t leave Memphis in time, he’d miss the start of the course. More important, it could get him bumped from his billet. “Hardy’s worked my tail off here, and it’s time for me to move on. It’s going to be a major pain in the ass if I can’t make the start of that course.” He said the last part with a tone that implied that the problems he foresaw might not be exclusively his own.

After dinner, Jerry retreated to his three-man stateroom again, with Lenny Berg following him in. Jerry, with little to do, curled up on his bunk and pretended to read a paperback while Berg worked at the desk. There wasn’t much space in their stateroom, even with just two bodies occupying it. Berg in the chair took up half the available floor space.

The room (“space” in Navy talk) was only slightly longer than the length of the cramped bunks and just a few feet wide. The bulkhead opposite the door held the three-man bunks, lockers occupied the left side of the room, and the right side was filled with two side-by-side desks, each with a fold-down work surface and a small closet. In the right corner was a small sink and mirror. A fluorescent fixture half-hid among a jumble of pipes and cables on the “overhead” (more Navy talk for ceiling). Most of the surfaces were painted a very distasteful pale green.

Berg had an angular face and an almost Roman nose under an untidy short mop of brown hair. He pushed the paperwork to one side, then turned his chair to face Jerry’s bunk, the lowest of the three. “So, Jerry, what do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think about first,” evaded Jerry. Then, more honestly, he answered, “I think this boat’s just been stood on one end and shaken.”

Berg nodded. “Things are really confused. Even when we get more information, it still means a total turnaround in our schedule, both here on the boat and our next assignments. And nobody in the Navy likes uncertainty or confusion. When we decommission, I’m supposed to go to another boat, a boomer in Bremerton. I don’t have a family to worry about, so if I end up going to a different boat, that’s okay, I’m flexible.” He sighed. “Just so long as it’s off this one.”

“You’re not happy here?” Jerry asked.

“I’ve been here one year, seven months, and five days, and I’m definitely ready to move on.”

“LCDR O’Connell said the same thing.”

Berg replied, “We’d all say that, no matter how long we’ve been aboard.” He seemed to hesitate, then continued, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. “Look, you’ll form your own opinion of the Captain, but here are a few thoughts to stuff in your seabag.” He started ticking off items on his fingers.

“One. This is a tight ship, and things run smoothly, because that’s what the Captain likes. If it doesn’t run smoothly, the Captain lets us know about it — big time.

“Two. The Captain knows his stuff. He’s very good, but he’s a detail freak and a micro-micro manager. Which means he also knows your stuff, and expects you to be a detail freak, too. If he asks you a question, you’d better damn well know the answer.

“Three. Every man on this boat has been looking forward to getting out from under him. This patrol, whatever it is, will delay that, as well as upsetting everyone’s orders.”

Jerry felt his future grow more uncertain with each passing moment. “So the Captain’s a hard master.”

“The hardest,” Berg confirmed, still in a low voice. “We could shoot him, but they hang you for that.’” The pixie-like grin on Lenny’s face made it clear that he was joking, of course. But it was forced humor, one born out of frustration and fatigue. “The only way to get away from him is to have orders off the boat.”

Jerry lay in his bunk, pondering this new information, while Berg finished checking his clipboard and shook his head. “I’m definitely staying on board tonight,” he announced. “I’ll see you later, shipmate. Try and get a decent night’s sleep. It may be the last time for quite a while.” With that, Berg collected his paperwork and left.

Bair was hard at work in his stateroom when the topside watch buzzed him. “Mr. B, sir, the Captain’s coming down the pier.”

Grabbing his ball cap and clipboard, he headed for the forward escape hatch and managed to make it topside just as Commander Hardy stepped off the brow onto Memphis. Bair saluted. “Good evening, Captain.”

Hardy returned the salute, but in reply, simply asked, “Where do we stand?”

Bair filled him in on the ship’s preparations, following as Hardy proceeded briskly down the hatch, then forward to his stateroom. Crewmen stepped into doorways or flattened themselves against the bulkhead as the pair passed.

In a much-rehearsed brief, Bair filled in his captain on the status of each department. Supply department had already scheduled with Group Two for provisions and fuel oil. Spare part request chits were to be submitted by the other departments by the end of the week. Weapons department had requested SUBASE technical assistance to help them track down the problem they were having with the number four sonar command and display console, and surprisingly it had already been approved. Torpedoes still needed to be requested and a date set to load them. Navigation department was pretty much ready to go. All they needed to finish up were some calibrations to the ring-laser gyro and the mini-SINS. Engineering department had big problems with the number one lube oil pump and the number two auxiliary sea-water pump. Both needed bearing replacements and had to be stripped down. There was more, a lot more, but Bair had hit all the high points. Hardy quizzed him heavily, especially about engineering. Memphis was old and needed an overhaul, but she was at the end of her service life and the Navy had decided it was cheaper to decommission her. Now they had to make her ready for one more cruise.

They reached Hardy’s stateroom as the XO finished. As the final item of his brief, Bair offered the Captain Jerry Mitchell’s personnel file. “He came aboard at oh nine hundred this morning.”