Steve Mcqueen Would Be Proud

By Steve Mitchell

Early morning steam rises from the pier pilings of the Subic Bay Naval Base as the shore patrol escorts a handcuffed Fatty Fitzgerald to the quarterdeck of his new ship, the U.S.S. Dermody. Instead of a uniform, Fatty is clothed in a soiled bed sheet. From that moment, life changes for the men aboard the Dermody, especially Larsen, a young sailor fresh from electronics school.

The year is 1973, the dog days of the Vietnam War, and the Dermody is beginning her WESTPAC cruise. With no enemy to fight, the ship´s crew turns on itself in fits of racial tension, drug use and insubordination.

Enforcing his will with his massive belly, Fatty Fitzgerald brings his spit and polish "rules" to the ship, intent on instilling the discipline of the "old navy" upon his electronics division. Larsen must decide whether to bend to Fatty´s indomitable will, or experience the revolution with Goat, a fellow technician and self-proclaimed hippie. Other influences are Sonny, the emotional leader of the ship´s blacks, and Nettles, the bible-thumping corpsman who attempts to save Larsen´s soul, but loses his own. To complicate things, Larsen falls for Juliet, the Chinese bargirl who steals his heart-for a price.

This 157,000-word novel takes place at sea and in the exotic ports of the Orient. Larsen loses his money on the muddy streets of Olongapo, is chased back to his ship by a typhoon in Hong Kong, and endures the Shellback initiation at the equator. By the time the Dermody arrives in Singapore, Larsen has made a decision that will change his life forever.

"Steve McQueen Would be Proud" is a coming-of-age story that explores a world that no longer exists, except in the memories of thousands of sailors who served in the Western Pacific during the Vietnam War.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 20, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462807574

Steve Mitchell

Born and raised in the Midwest, Steve Mitchell joined the navy after graduating from high school in 1969. He served nine months in Vietnam, then on a destroyer home ported in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. After his six-year navy hitch, Mitchell attended Iowa State University and earned a journalism degree. He wrote for SolarUtilization News before getting a job at the Estes Park Public Library, where he now works as a reference librarian. Mitchell, his wife Lori and his son Jeff live five minutes from the entrance of Rocky Mountain National Park.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Give me the balls of Fatty Fitzgerald!

Steam plumed white against the black sky, hissing from the ship’s fabric hoses like the breath from sleeping dragons. Third Class Petty Officer Randy Larsen stood on Pearl Harbor’s Bravo pier and looked at the ships.

Which one was his?

The ships were probably guided-missile destroyers or destroyer escorts, if his guess was right. But the truth was Larsen couldn’t tell a destroyer from a tuna boat. A year in electronics school at Treasure Island had taught him plenty about radars but nothing at all about ships.

Larsen pushed his wire rim glasses back on the bridge of his nose and took a closer look. He made out the white numbers on the brow of a ship nested with two others. There she was! His destroyer was slender and top-heavy, with a forest of black antennas growing out of a gray superstructure. A meshed radar antenna, cup-shaped like a gravy boat, silently rotated, black against the lighter night sky. The SPS-10 surface radar. He had learned how to repair those in radar school. The ship’s main mast was topped with a red light to warn planes and large birds that there were radars up there.

Larsen’s stomach calmed and his confidence returned. In his mind’s eye he saw himself lighting a cigarette and squinting at his ship through the smoke he carelessly exhaled through his nose.

This is the way Steve McQueen would look at his first ship. This is the way Steve McQueen would do it in the movies.

But Third Class Petty Officer Randy Larsen didn‘t have any cigarettes because he had yet to light his first one. His old man smoked like a chimney, his cartons of Parliaments just out of his reach.

Get me a pack, Randy, his old man ordered as he sat in front of the TV with his beer. When Randy brought one over his old man looked at him critically. Don‘t even think about it, boy. These things will kill you dead.

So he sat at supper every night, a blue cloud of cigarette smoke enveloping the table, and thought about it all the time. Tomorrow he‘d stop by the ship‘s store and buy himself a pack. First, though, Larsen had to board his ship properly. The navy had taught him how to do it in boot camp, but that was a lifetime ago. if only there was music playing in the background, something to get his blood pumping, his courage flowing. He imagined the opening credits rolling and Simon and Garfunkel singing . . . no, no, better yet some kick-ass rock ‚n‘ roll. Yes, that‘s it, the Doors or Stones, something to rev him up so he could board the ship with the appropriate Steve McQueen swagger. Larsen tried to get the music going in his head but all he heard were strange noises. Panicky noises.

Larsen hunched down next to his sea bag. He was alone. No cigarettes. No music. No Steve McQueen squint. Nothing ever worked out the way he thought it would. How many times had he rehearsed this in his head, and now it was all flying out the window.

Larsen glanced toward the quarterdeck, a small area bathed in yellow light along the ship‘s starboard side. The officer in white, a slender man with a beard, looked his way, and then said something Larsen couldn‘t make out. A sailor at the podium looked up.

Well, it was time. They knew he was coming. Larsen hefted his sea bag to his shoulder like he‘d seen McQueen do in the movies. The dead weight of it knocked Larsen off center a little, and he teetered uncertainly before he steadied himself.

Off in the distance, a launch made its way toward Ford Island, its white wake creating ripples that gently jostled the tied-up destroyers, their wooden brows creaking.

Then suddenly, behind him, Larsen heard a car approaching too fast. He stepped back and watched a yellow taxi rush by, screech to a halt 50 yards beyond the ship, then back up in low, whining reverse until it stopped, motor running, before the brow of the ship. Larsen backed into the shadows and watched a large, oriental woman wearing a tent-like muumuu erupt from the taxi, slam the door behind her and stomp toward the brow.

GIVE ME THE BALLS OF FATTY FITZGERALD! The woman bellowed as she lumbered across the brow to the quarterdeck. I‘m gonna squeeze them off and eat ‚em like grapes!

She stopped at the end of the brow and pointed at the bewildered officer of the deck, Take me to Fatty, she moaned, like a foghorn on a thick night. I‘ll grind his dick into hamburger.

Then the lady stepped onto the quarterdeck, her outrage radiating.

Well, that was one way to board a ship, Larsen reasoned.

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The woman took the quarterdeck by surprise.

It was one of those slow nights in port that lulls a watch into a dazed, half-sleep. The officer of the deck stood on the fantail of the ship, snappy in pressed whites. His silver belt buckle shown brightly. It was polished silver with a miniature relief of the fighting ship U.S.S. Dermody welded across the middle. The belt buckle was the first thing the officer had bought when he had reported aboard two months before.

His name was Ensign Sampson, but the crew had already dubbed him the Fork. He stood like one, thin and bowed a little, his beard a million tiny teeth, clipped and sharp. He stifled a yawn with his fist, and then rubbed his brown beard briskly with his hands to restore thought to his brain.

He walked to the lifeline and looked over at the water captured between the ship and the pier. Trapped pieces of wood and several 7-UP cans sloshed against the oil-black pilings.

Sampson glanced up and saw a young sailor in dress blues walking down the pier, struggling under a lumpy sea bag. At last, something to break the monotony. Sampson walked briskly to the quarterdeck and motioned to the Petty Officer of the Watch, who was bent over looking at the quarterdeck log.

Looks like we have a live one, Goetzinger, Sampson said.

Goetzinger looked up, and slowly stuffed the dog-eared paperback he‘d been reading under the lid of the podium. it was Herman Hesse‘s Steppenwolf. Goetzinger walked up beside Sampson and they both watched the sailor. Goetzinger’s belt buckle was a tarnished yellow, bootcamp issue. It cinched his wrinkled, off-white pants tight at the waist.

Now what the hell‘s he doing? Sampson snarled as he watched the young sailor stop before the brow.

Maybe he‘s having second thoughts about the navy, Goetzinger ventured, smiling a bit. If he had any smarts, he‘d turn around right now and walk away, Goetzinger thought. But that never happened.

The Fork didn‘t answer, for at times like this Goetzinger thought of Sampson in terms of his nickname: sharp and prongy, ready to stick you where you were soft and unprotected. The Fork spit disgustedly into the harbor and walked over to the brow where he waited impatiently for the sailor to come aboard.

Some of Goetzinger‘s anticipation at meeting someone new evaporated with the knowledge of what the Fork would do. He sighed and walked back to the fantail, where he dug out his package of Kools. He had just sucked in some sweet smoke when Sampson yelled something at him. Damn! A man couldn‘t even get himself a half decent smoke break on Sampson‘s watch. Goetzinger flicked his ciggie into the water and walked up to the quarterdeck.

A taxi had pulled up on the pier, and suddenly an enormous woman screaming hideous things about a guy named Fatty Fitzgerald was stomping up the brow. Who the hell was this Fitzgerald character? Goetzinger arrived to find Sampson face to face with the woman.

Well? she demanded.

I’m sorry ma‘am. Civilians are not allowed on board ship after taps.

Sampson tried to be civil. An officer and a gentleman, Goetzinger smirked. He must have learned how to do that at the Academy.

TAPS! I give no damn about taps! Where Fatty? I rip out his gizzard with my teeth.

Sampson raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, But ma‘am . . . there is no one by that name . . .

Grunting in disgust, she brushed past the surprised officer. Sampson puffed up as big as he could get. Woman! Get off this ship immediately. That‘s an order.

Sampson‘s face was red and his eyes darted uncertainly. He pulled at the woman‘s brown arm, but couldn‘t budge her. She was a mountain, a mountain ready to explode.

Stay away! she yelled, flinging him off with a forearm sweep. Sampson stood, breathing hard, his hands balled into fists.

She turned to Goetzinger. How I talk to ship?

Goetzinger shrugged, but an inadvertent glance gave him away.

Ha! Men, she roared. Weak, stupid, lying men.

She rumbled over to the 1MC and started flicking switches.

Woman, stay away from there! Sampson screeched, then pointed at Goetzinger. Give me your weapon, Goetzinger. That‘s an order.

Goetzinger began unbuttoning his holster . . .

BONG! BONG! BONG! BONG! The General Quarters alarm engulfed the ship, electrifying Sampson and surprising the woman.

TURN THAT OFF! Sampson screamed. MY GOD!

Within 30 seconds, dozens of half-dressed men appeared on deck like cockroaches flushed from a pantry, wondering what the hell. Sampson‘s voice was squeaky as he tried to make himself heard over the alarm.

Apprehend that woman! Sampson squealed. That‘s an order. Goetzinger! Contact the base shore patrol, ASAP!

Goetzinger nodded, but realized a phone call would be unnecessary. Shore patrol vehicles had already pulled up on the pier. Because of the General Quarters alarm, all of Bravo pier now knew something bizarre was happening on the Dermody.

It took four men to dislodge the woman from her hold on the quarterdeck and carry her, spitting and growling, across the brow to the awaiting shore patrol. The hatless Command Duty Officer, grizzled from sleep, tucked his khaki shirt into his pants as he walked toward the quarterdeck. Sampson saw him coming and stiffened his spine.

Ensign Sampson, what the hell is going on here? the CDO demanded. He rubbed at his tired eyes as he listened to Sampson’s feeble explanation.

A woman? the CDO barked. We ‘re headed for the Tonkin Gulf tomorrow and a United States line officer can’t handle a woman? Jesus . . . the officer shook his head. Have a full report on my desk in the morning.

The CDO walked away muttering. Sampson stared off across the harbor, blinking his eyes rapidly. Once the CDO had left, Sampson snapped at Goetzinger. Get the messenger to sweep down the quarterdeck. This place is a pigsty.

Sampson walked back to the fantail to be alone as Goetzinger smiled and went after the messenger. But Goetzinger realized he shouldn’t be too pleased. Sampson was the type of officer who would make his life miserable for the rest of the watch.

As Goetzinger made his way down the port side, he glanced over at the pier. The new kid was still standing there, hugging his sea bag for comfort.

missing image file

Larsen stepped out of the way as the four shore patrol dragged the kicking, biting, scratching, cursing woman to the waiting shore patrol wagon. After they handcuffed her, a little guy with a pencil mustache was at her with his billy club, prodding her into the back seat like a cowboy forcing a stubborn steer through a chute.

Larsen hoisted his sea bag to his shoulder and steered his way across the brow to the quarterdeck. The OOD stood before him, hands on hips and chin thrust forward, as if attempting to stick him with the sharp bristles of his beard.

Larsen decided to salute. Most officers liked it when you saluted.

Request permission to come on board, sir? Larsen asked. He brought his hand to his forehead in what he hoped was an acceptable salute.

The OOD lowered his eyes and shook his head. Permission denied. Remove yourself and your gear from my ship.

Sir? Larsen’s salute was unsure now, as if he was shielding his eyes from the bright rays of the sun. Only it was night.

Your hair and sideburns are non-regulation. Your shoes are unacceptable. And what do you have wrapped around your neckerchief? A goddamn twisty-tie?

Larsen’s right hand abandoned his salute and went reflex- ively to the back of his neck. There it was. At the airport his neckerchief was unraveling, but his mother was there with a quick fix: a green twisty-tie. She had everything in her purse. She wrapped it around the middle of his neckerchief and hid it under his jumper collar. No one would know the difference, she assured him.

Until now.

Larsen lugged his sea bag to his shoulder and turned to go when he heard a sudden sizzle, as if air was going out of a tire. A cloud of white steam billowed from the fantail.

What the. . . ? Sampson rushed back to the fantail and leaned over the side. A fitting had loosened on a steam hose. Sampson cursed under his breath and yelled at the messenger. Find a snipe with a wrench, on the double.

While Sampson stared at the hose, Goetzinger waved Larsen aboard, took his orders, and snuck him into a passageway. Larsen followed Goetzinger down a ladder into the Operations berthing compartment, his sea bag thumping behind him. Though it was after taps, the overhead lights were on and men in skivvies were sitting around talking about the excitement on the quarterdeck. A man, his naked belly hanging over his skivvy shorts, spotted Goetzinger.

Hey, Goat. We‘re glad you had that .45 and not the Fork. I swear he would have shot her dead.

Goetzinger smiled, showing uneven, yellow teeth. Navy knows better than to give officers guns. Especially boot ensigns.

Who the hell is this Fitzgerald guy? the fat man asked. You know of him?

No idea, Goat shrugged.

Must be a ghost then, huh? the man laughed. Fatty Fitzgerald‘s ghost be haunting this ship all cruise. He just better keep close track of his balls with THAT woman sniffing his trail.

After a few more jokes about balls, and their preservation, the talking subsided as men crawled into their bunks.

Find yourself an empty rack while I get you some bedding, Goat said.

The bunks were made of canvas strapped tightly to wire frames with lengths of line. They were stacked three high with enough space between them for a man to slide in, but just barely. Larsen found a bottom bunk with a naked mattress folded in half.

Goat tossed the linen on the bunk. Reveille‘s at 0600 and special sea detail‘s at 0630. Old Man likes an early start. ETs muster on the ASROC deck at 0630.

Larsen nodded, not knowing what any of that meant. He stuck out his hand. Goetzinger, thanks for your help.

Goetzinger took his hand and gave it a limp shake. I didn‘t do you any favors. And call me Goat. Everybody does.

Goat looked at his watch. Gotta boogie topside before Sampson throws another hissy fit.

And Goat was gone up the ladder, leaving Larsen alone to square away his bunk. The overhead lights went out and the compartment was dark, but for isolated pockets of eerie red light. As he lay in his bunk he heard the muffled snores of the men and the steady clicking of a chronometer. Someone farted. Then an exhaust fan came on from somewhere and whined until it became white noise and Larsen was no longer aware of it.

Larsen stared at the bottom of the bunk above him where someone had scrawled a short timer‘s calendar in the form of Snoopy, the cartoon character. All the dates were blackened.

So this was the navy. It sure the hell wasn‘t like anything he‘d seen in the movies. Larsen was asleep before he thought of anything else.

CHAPTER 2

Drop your cocks and grab your socks.

Reveille, reveille! the loudspeaker barked. All hands heave-to and trice-up. The smoking lamp is now lighted in all berthing spaces. Now reveille.

Larsen’s eyes blinked open as the fluorescent lights hesitated, flicked once, and then flooded the compartment in yellow light. From his bottom bunk Larsen saw men roll over in their bunks and stuff pillows over their heads. A pair of khaki pants and mirror-polished black shoes walked through the compartment. A sharp voice cut through the groans.

Drop your cocks and grab your socks, the pants bellowed. Special detail in 30.

Curses challenged the pants, but the click of polished shoes on linoleum faded and was gone. Bare feet hit the tiled deck. Locker doors clanged against metal bunk frames.

Larsen rolled out of his bunk and was standing up when a man launched himself from the top bunk. His gorilla-sized feet whizzed by his ear and landed on his left foot. Pain stabbed his toe.

Ouch! Larsen yelped. Hey, watch it.

Larsen’s protest brought a brief glare from the shaggy man followed by a guttural, Goddamn bootcamp.

The man turned to his locker, giving Larsen a good view of his back, furry with black hair. He spun the numbers on his combination lock, banged the metal door open and grabbed his toilet kit. The naked man was up the ladder with a flop of his rubber shower shoes, a white towel over one shoulder, the toilet kit tucked under his arm like a football. Stenciled across the side of the toilet kit in white, block letters was the name TOOLARD.

Larsen grabbed his toilet kit and rushed to catch up, following Toolard up the ladder to the aft head. Moist heat fogged Larsen‘s glasses as he stepped into the steamy head. He searched for an empty sink but each one had a man standing before it, squinting into a smeary mirror, combing his hair or brushing his teeth. Larsen clutched the white towel around his thin waist and walked over to the row of steel shower stalls. Steam gushed from the stalls as men shouted to each other over the whoosh of spray. The head was buzzing with the excitement of last night.

This mama-san almost ate Sampson alive last night on the quarterdeck, a man with faded tattoos shouted as he toweled off.

The Fork get his? a man answered through a mouthful of toothpaste.

Damn near. She set off GQ and Sampson was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. CDO reamed him good. Said this old mama-san had more balls than all the boot ensigns on board. Said it to his face.

What set her off?

Same ole, same ole, probably. Ship‘s leaving in the morning and the rent‘s not paid, the groceries aren‘t bought, and the car‘s not fixed. Pussy‘s always paid-for, whether it‘s bought on the street or at the altar. That mama-san was ready to rumble.

Toolard, who had just lathered up his face, rubbed his mirror clean with the heel of his hand and said, That‘ll learn you to keep that pencil dick of yours in your skivvies, huh Thomas?

Thomas reddened, Hey, Toolie, it wasn‘t me she was after.

No shit.

Where were you last night, Toolard? someone else asked. We were all on the quarterdeck . . .

Where do you think, numbnuts. On the beach getting the last round-eye pussy I‘ll see in seven months.

You missed a show, Thomas said. She was yelling his name. What was it? I helped carry her off the ship. Look-it here. Thomas pointed at an angry red scratch on his forearm.

I know the name, Larsen said without thinking. The head went quiet as strange faces stared at Larsen. Water pattered in the showers.

Spit it out, bootcamp, Toolard snapped. Sea detail‘s in 15.

Fatty Fitzgerald, he said, his voice sounding weak. She said she was going to rip out his gizzard.

The men laughed, which gave Larsen courage. But Toolard‘s eyes grew narrow.

Come again.

Fitzgerald, I said, Larsen replied, trying to sound angry but having trouble bringing it off.

Toolard shook his head. Can’t be. Fitzgerald’s dead. His PBR crew bought it in the Rung Sat. That’s Vietnam to you, bootcamp. Brown Water Navy. Toolard got a far-away look.

But she said . . .

Fitzgerald‘s dead! Or wishing he was, Toolard yelled. Man loses his crew and there ain‘t a whole lotta reason for living no more.

The head was silent for a moment, then someone cracked a joke and the noise level was the same as before. Only Toolard was quiet, going about his business as if he was under a dark cloud. Larsen watched him operate. He had yet to learn that it takes a sailor in a hurry five minutes to shit, shower and shave. Toolard was in a hurry. He ran a razor over the familiar geography of his chin with long, careless strokes, slapping gobs of white lather into the metal basin with a snap of his wrist. Once finished, Toolard washed his basin clean of shaving cream and hair as he kept an eye peeled for an empty shower stall. A man, skinny but for a beer belly the size of a basketball, turned off his shower spigot and began drying off. Toolard was at the stall in a heartbeat, but not before he elbowed the man in the breadbasket.

What‘s this? Spending the money you owe me on beer?

Not me, Toolie, the unfortunate man whined. Had to take my kid to the dispensary.

No excuses. See you on payday.

But before the man could escape, Toolard grabbed his arm.

Next time you leave a ring of hair in one of my washbasins your ass is mine, got that?

Toolard jumped into an empty shower stall with the quickness of a middle linebacker, wet down in a 30-second burst of water and steam, then turned off the water and soaped his thick, hairy body, including feet and hair, in 15 seconds, and finally rinsed his body free of soap in 30 seconds of cold water. Toolard was toweling off as he walked toward a line of toilets. He settled in an open stall, and his face took on a pained look of someone lifting large appliances. Blue veins pulsed his temple. A flush and he was gone.

Larsen moved at the more leisurely pace allowed by the navy electronics school he had just completed at Treasure Island. He had found a metal sink, carefully laid his toothbrush, dental floss, razor and shaving cream on the small pedestal below the mirror and studied his face. He was searching for fuzz trying to become whiskers. He spotted a few on his upper lip. Maybe he‘d grow a mustache. Larsen took a length of dental floss and gave careful attention to his teeth. After brushing his longish brown hair, he looked at himself seriously, frowning a bit to give himself a few wrinkles he likened to a grown expression. The head had quieted down quite a bit. In fact, there were no voices or shouts at all. It was if someone had turned off the volume of a loud radio station. Larsen looked around. To his amazement, the head was empty. He rushed down to the living compartment in his shower shoes, only to find it empty, too.

Larsen dressed in his dungarees and made up his bunk, his stomach fluttering like a nervous bird. Where was everyone?

The loudspeaker blared: Now set the special sea detail . . . all hands to quarters for muster, instruction and inspection.

Larsen ran up the ladder to the passageway and walked toward what he thought was the front of the ship only to find himself in the aft head, where he had spent so much time flossing his teeth. The washbasins were gleaming—clean, sterile. The urinals, toilets and showers were mute.

Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and his breathing came in short gasps. He couldn‘t breathe. The ship was airless, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out. He ran back into the passageway but stopped when he felt a tiny vibration, then a shudder, as if a giant was shaking the ship. The fluorescent light fixtures clattered overhead, and the ship hummed with low menace. Pipes and vents clogged the passageway like a machine‘s intestines, stenciled in black with words that made no sense to him. To his left was a fabric hose coiled on the wall, next to a red thing with a valve that resembled a fire hydrant. He gripped it with sweaty hands.

Larsen struggled to calm himself. Walk to the forward part of the ship, he told himself, and everything will be all right. He breathed deeply and walked deliberately, slowly forward. There was an open door. He walked through it and there were sinks. Gleaming. The aft head. Again.

He ran back to the passageway and the deck vibrated again. There were sounds from below, deep, strong sounds from the bowels of the ship, sounds of something alive. Another shudder almost shook him from his feet. Larsen felt live machinery around him, moving, breathing. His heart pounded in his chest. He was inside and had to get out. He found a watertight door closed tight with metal dogs. Larsen grabbed one and pulled with all his strength. It wouldn‘t move. He tried another. They were stuck fast.

Then, as if by magic, the dogs moved by themselves and the door opened. Light poured in around a dark figure.

There you are.

It was Goat, wearing the same wrinkled whites he had on the night before. I‘ve been looking all over for you. You missed quarters and Rice is about to blow a valve.

Larsen sighed in relief.

Goat moved closer. You‘re white as a sheet. Seen a ghost? Seen Fatty Fitzgerald‘s ghost?

Larsen shook his head no. No ghost. But he‘d nearly been eaten alive by a ship.

You ‚re out of uniform. Get into some whites and hustle your ass up to the ASROC deck. Our division is mustering up there for leaving port. ASROC deck?

Goat shook his head and led Larsen down to the compartment.

CHAPTER 3

WESTPAC

Aft of the main superstructure was the ASROC deck, a flat deck dominated by the box-shaped ASROC, acronym for antisubmarine rocket. In theory, the ASROC blasted off in a flame, rose like a bottle rocket, then dipped into the ocean where it sniffed out a submarine and blew it to smithereens. To complicate things, some of the rockets were said to have nuclear warheads. This made everyone nervous and kept one sailor with a .45 pistol busy walking around the box looking dangerous.

The electronics technicians on the ASROC deck ignored the sentry. They stood in uneven lines, the married men, the engaged men, the sad men, waving at the crowd of women and children on the pier while the single men stood at parade rest in that bored, bowed stance one sees on recruiting posters, their eyelids at half mast.

The northeast trades rustled the green palm trees and scoured the sky a crystal blue, but for a few white puffs of white clouds in the distance. The pier was crowded with cars, the sun gleaming off their windshields. Six hula girls in pink leis and fake grass skirts gyrated to the tinny tunes of a local band.

When orders came from the bridge, sailors on the pier singled- up the lines, then tossed them into the water. The ship’s deck force dragged them onboard and, moments later, a sliver of water appeared between the ship and the pier as the ship gently moved away. The crowd cheered as smoke erupted from the forward stack in a black plume.

The pier receded in the distance and the sound of the crowd grew smaller, as if coming from the end of a tunnel. The destroyer moved patiently through Pearl Harbor, passing the Arizona Memorial that marked the sunken battleship, which still entombed 1,000 of her crew.

Larsen watched the land slide by. Moving this slowly, it seemed to him as though the ship was standing still and the land around her was moving. The destroyer was now in the channel and picking up speed through the choppy harbor water, Hickam Air Force Base to her left and Widow’s Point just ahead.

Widow’s Point: the last chance for a wife or lover to wave goodbye to her man before he went to sea. There was a clot of cars on the Point, and Larsen could make out specks of color, flowered dresses bright against the green palm trees.

As the ship approached the Point, Larsen shifted his legs and locked his knees in an effort to steady himself on the shifting deck. He felt someone behind him and turned to see Goat, sucking on a ciggie. Smoke snuck out of his nostrils as he jerked a thumb at Widow’s Point, I got a five-spot says Mama-san is waiting on that Point for Fatty Fitzgerald.

Toolard said Fitzgerald was dead, Larsen said.

Goat took another drag. Whatever. If she doesn’t get him she’ll get one of us. Guaranteed.

Goat was making a joke, Larsen thought, so he didn’t say anything.

They all wait there, Goat continued. It’s their last chance to get their hooks into you.

Who’s waiting? Larsen asked.

Goat smiled. The women, man. They don’t want us to go. What woman has ever let her man go to sea willingly? You’re only free of them when you get out on open sea. Then there are some guys who still can’t shake ‘em. Letters, man. Men get letters from their women and they think about them. Think too much. They think they‘re screwing around on them while they‘re away. Man, they think so hard it becomes true. It‘s true in their heads and that‘s where it matters.

Larsen tried to think of something to say, but it seemed his opinion wouldn‘t matter much to Goat.

Goat telling you all about women? A black man said as he walked up.

Hey Sonny, Goat said, his face brightening as they did the dap, a ritual dance of the hands—tap, slap, grip, then a slow slide to a shake, all too fast for Larsen to follow.

Goat‘s always badmouthing the ladies cuz he has a true love, or had one once, Sonny said. Nothin‘ ruins a good woman faster than love.

Goat stiffened, then took a long drag on his ciggie. He turned to Larsen. Sonny here has a wife, three kids and a mistress in Pearl. On WESTPAC he‘ll have pussy in every port. My man knows nothing about love.

Sonny didn‘t look like a ladies man to Larsen. He was tall and slender with an Afro picked out to resemble a springy black beach ball. But there was something different about him, something magnetizing. It was the eyes: powder blue marbles staring out of black velvet. Maybe the ladies went for the eyes.

Sonny held out a fist in Larsen‘s direction. Sonny Jackson‘s the name. Welcome to the radar gang, or what‘s left of it.

Larsen held out his hand and Sonny, noticing his discomfort, took it in a firm handshake.

That‘s cool, Sonny grinned. It‘s you, me and Goat. You know repeaters?

I studied them some in school, Larsen said. I just graduated . . .

You ‚re forgetting Shipman, Goat interrupted.

Yeah, the Monk. Goat‘s compadre. Our leading radar tech and repeater expert.

Where‘s he? Larsen asked, looking around.

"In the lotus position somewhere, meditating. He doesn‘t feel it is necessary to attend such functions as quarters and sea detail. Might disrupt his karma. When a repeater goes down the Monk meditates, and meditates some more, until the repeater fixes itself. A righteous trick if it works. Unfortunately, it never does.»

«Man, quit badmouthing Shipman,» Goat said. «He’s dealing with some issues right now. The war, shit like that.»

«Issues my ass.»

Larsen could see it was a sore point, and it brought an uneasy silence to the three of them.

The destroyer dipped through a swell, knocking Larsen against a stanchion.

«Gonna take a day or two to get our sea legs,» Sonny observed. «Loosen your legs up, Larsen. Don’t lock your knees. Go with it.»

Larsen tried too hard and another jerk threw him off-balance.

Sonny grinned. «Lordy, Lordy. No rhythm at all. It’s a goddamn miracle white folk can walk down the street without hurting themselves.»

They all laughed and the tension was broken. The Dermody left the mouth of the Pearl Harbor in a wash of white wake. Soon the island of Oahu was a green strip smothered by clouds lying close to her mountains. The Pacific stretched a deep blue before them.

Larsen felt the ship rock under his feet. Salt air brushed his face and seagulls followed the ship out, swooping and dipping for tidbits of food and trash in the ship’s wake.

Goat pulled a new pack of Kools from his sock, tapped the top of the pack against his palm briskly several times, then ripped the cellophane strip off with his teeth.

Want a smoke? Goat asked, offering them around. It seemed like a peace offering so Sonny took one and Larsen, deciding what the hell, took one, too. But he fumbled the handoff and the cigarette dropped to the deck. Larsen grabbed it before it rolled far.

Larsen watched Goat light up, his back to the wind and his hands cupped around the flickering flame. Then Goat gave Sonny a light, the two bent over against the wind, the match protected behind cupped hands. After several tries, the tip of Sonny‘s cigarette glowed and he took a deep drag. Larsen watched it all closely so he wouldn‘t screw it up.

It was his turn. The three of them grouped into a small circle and Goat touched the flame of the Zippo to the tip of Larsen‘s cigarette. He sucked hard, not wanting the cigarette to go out.

Suddenly his lungs were filled with fire, searing hot. Larsen hacked up the smoke as he knelt down to regain his breath.

Whoa, slow down, Goat patted him on the back.

Larsen felt woozy and light-headed, as if his head would twist from his neck and float away. Each time the destroyer rose on a swell and then dropped, Larsen felt like he was on an elevator run by a lunatic. His stomach rose to his throat, then the deck lunged and he felt it drop to his toes. Something was trying to crawl up his throat. Oh, if could just lie down.

Does the ship always jump around this much? Larsen groaned.

Just at sea, Goat said. What till it gets rough. Here, we‘ll get you to the side.

Goat and Sonny guided Larsen to the starboard side.

Remember the sailor‘s first commandment. Thou shalt not puke up-wind, Sonny said.

Larsen groaned and bent forward, his forehead resting on the lifeline.

The soulful lilting sound of the boatswain‘s whistle came over the loudspeaker, followed by a laconic voice: Second Class Petty Officer Shipman, report to the bridge. Second Class Petty Officer Shipman.

Damn! Sonny snapped. Goat, it‘s that port repeater again, sure as my ass is black.

Goat nodded. This will be the third yoke driver in a month.

Sonny looked disgusted. Do we cover his ass again?

Goat didn‘t answer. He looked at the ocean and sucked on cigarette. At that moment Larsen thought Goat looked a little like those troubled men McQueen played in the movies. It was then Larsen decided he liked Goat. Another roller coaster ride turned over his stomach.

You coming, Sonny asked. Or you gonna check in green gills here.

The two talked electronics as they skipped up the ladders to the bridge, a white Mutt and a black Jeff.

Larsen stayed where he was, two thin metal lifelines between him and the ocean that rushed past. Waves slapped the side of the ship and sprayed him with salt mist. Just do it, he thought. Get it over with and he would certainly feel better. He knew he couldn‘t feel any worse. He felt it come and he bent over and did his business. When he finished he sat up and realized he didn‘t mess himself.

Thank God for commandment number one.

CHAPTER 4

Warrant Officer Rice

Warrant Officer Irving Rice closed the pay record and placed it on his desk as he squeezed a yellow rubber ball in his right fist. He tapped the pay record with his forefinger and unconsciously opened it again.

On the top line was the name: FITZGERALD, GERALD.

The fat man was back.

Rice stood up and paced the length of his narrow stateroom. He was a small man with a gymnast’s body. His 145 pounds were hard and tightly coiled on a five-foot, seven-inch frame; even his brushed blond hair and curls of yellow hair on his forearms were springy with strength.

His superbly conditioned body was no accident. In port, daily matches of squash kept his stomach firm, his legs strong. At sea, 100 pushups in the morning and a half hour of running on the helo deck in the afternoon kept him in trim. His handshake was a vise because of the rubber ball. In private he always squeezed the yellow rubber ball.

You may be bigger than I am but I’m better, Rice challenged larger men who tried to intimidate him with their size. Let’s mix it up!

But he rarely got the chance. He was an officer, a gentleman. That much he had learned in the schools the navy had sent him to become a warrant officer. Underneath, though, he was still a white hat. A few drinks under his belt and he was ready to take on the marines. Who could forget that brawl at the Green Door Bar with Fatty at his side? Damn, wasn’t that something.

Now Fatty was coming back. Last night that woman on the quarterdeck wanted her pound of flesh from Fatty. She KNEW he was aboard. One thing Rice had learned during his enlistment in the navy was that women knew. They knew ship’s movements. They knew when a man had duty or was just blowing smoke.

If Rice’s ship was in Subic and he wanted the straight skinny on when his ship was going to sea, he didn’t go to the OPs boss, he consulted his bargirl in Olongapo. She knew to the hour when the ship was leaving for the Tonkin Gulf. She had to; it was her livelihood. While he was away, she had to arrange a substitute meal ticket, and then conveniently make sure the man was gone when his ship arrived back in port. Timing was everything. Rarely did a sailor surprise an experienced bargirl with another man. In the rare instances when a woman was wrong, such as in this case, it was usually a navy fuck-up.

Maybe that explained the pay record appearing mysteriously on the Dermody without the service record or the man. A man was never to be separated from his service record, for that manila envelope was the navy’s definition of the man; it was who he was in the navy’s eyes. And a savvy sailor like Fatty never let his pay record leave his service record because, without it, the navy couldn’t pay him.

Rice laughed to himself. Wherever the fat man was right now, he didn’t have a dime to his name. That thought warmed his innards as he squeezed his ball.

The woman on the quarterdeck last night. Now the pay record. Welcome home, Fatty, Rice breathed. Things have changed.

And things really had changed. The thought brought a frown to Rice’s face, accentuating the furrows on his tanned forehead. His electronics division was in serious trouble. The ship was on its way to the coast of Vietnam for a seven-month WESTPAC cruise and his division was short of men.

Shipman, his leading radar tech, was looking for a way out. Not only had he quit leading, but he had quit working. On most days Rice couldn’t even find him to put him on report. Not that it mattered much. The report chits didn’t faze him and efforts to transfer him failed miserably. Now the XO was on his ass to get rid of the troublemaker any way he could.

Rice fired the rubber ball at the wall and it bounced around the stateroom like a ricocheting bullet. Dammit! Having one of his men fail was the same as failing himself. It was a simple case of failed leadership, he admitted to himself. He had hesitated to take action because he thought he could save the situation, but realized now that it was a lost cause.

Rice picked his ball off the deck and squeezed it with his iron right hand. This simple mechanical routine never failed to calm him. All right, he told himself, the navy was changing. There were potheads, longhair hippies, and black agitators. Not only were they on the ship, but also in his division, mixed together like a bowl of bad alphabet soup. They listened to acid rock on the fantail, wore peace symbols to quarters, and raised black power fists in the air everywhere he looked . . . on the messdecks, in the passageways. Things were simmering, ready to boil, to explode. Efforts at strict discipline were undermined from the top by directives from the CNO himself: Z-grams on everything from long hair and sideburns to beauty aids for blacks.

Mollycoddling the malcontents was what Rice called it.

Rice cocked his arm again, aiming the ball at the bulkhead, when the thought struck him.

But were things really that different from the old days? Men were men underneath: they wanted warm women and good booze in port and strong leadership at sea—someone to crack the whip.

Rice’s eyes rested on the manila folder on his desk. Fatty Fitzgerald. The answer to my prayers.

Rice walked over to his desk and picked up Fatty’s pay record.

It had seemed so long ago, but it had been only six years, 1966 it was, back on the PBRs in Vietnam when he and Fatty were both second class. But he was new to the boats.

Fatty was old school. He hazed new seamen so viciously that they came around to his way of seeing things, or they didn’t stay around long. That wasn’t leadership, but simple bully tactics any tough could enforce with pure muscle. And back then Rice hated Fatty for it.

Rice found himself grinding his teeth, a habit he had forced himself to quit once he made warrant officer. The fat man. Why couldn’t he forget what had happened so long ago?

But things had changed, he told himself. He could have stayed a white hat and followed the brutish orders of men like Fatty for the rest of his career, but he had busted his butt and made warrant. Now he would be giving Fatty orders. Now he would have Fatty working for him.

And that could be the answer. Rice found Fatty’s techniques abhorrent, but he couldn’t argue with the results. Fatty’s men were always shipshape and loyal to a man. He would have to disregard what he had learned in school and go with his gut feeling on this one. He would have to go with the fat man.

Rice sat at his desk, relieved that there was finally some light out there somewhere. Now all he had to do was work out the details. How would he get rid of Shipman? When would Fatty show his face? Who would he put in charge until Fatty arrived on board?

The stateroom door slammed and Rice turned, angry that his train of thought was interrupted. It was Sampson, his new roommate. The young ensign flung his cover on his desk and slammed himself down on his bunk.

Rice smiled. Goddamn Academy ring knocker. Thought his shit didn’t stink. Fatty’s woman on the quarterdeck had brought Sampson down off his high horse. Rice was certain Sampson’s little meeting with the CDO was why he was so pissed. And things weren’t made much better considering the CDO was Lieutenant

Small, the OPs boss. Things could get a little personal when your department head dresses you down.

Who in the hell is this Fatty Fitzgerald? Sampson snapped, leaning up on one elbow.

Rice didn’t answer. Let him stew in his own juices.

You know but you’re not telling? Sampson growled. Doesn’t matter. Whoever he is, I’m going to kick his ass good when he gets on board. No one messes with Ensign Sampson and gets away with it.

Annapolis butt-licker! Rice felt the anger rise in his throat. He stood up and stripped off his shirt, then sat down at his desk and positioned his right elbow in the classic arm-wrestling pose.

Let’s go! Rice challenged.

Sampson jumped up, eager to get at the action. When he came on board he had boasted of being one of the best arm- wrestlers in his Annapolis class. Eager to test the new ensign, Rice had arm wrestled Sampson . . . and lost. Badly. But this was different. This was for pride. This was for all the white hats who had to take orders from men like Sampson.

They locked arms and Rice could immediately feel his fingers squeezed in Sampson’s big, meat hand, that ring of his pinching his skin like a crab claw.

Logic told him there was no way he could beat this guy. The ensign outweighed him by 35 pounds. But that didn’t matter now.

You’re going . . . (uhhh!) . . . to lose. Sampson managed, and Rice felt the ensign was right. But he hung on.

Two minutes into the struggle and there was a fire burning in Rice’s right arm. Give up! Give up! his arm screamed, and stop this exquisite pain. It was bad, like holding a piss, dancing from leg to leg, every nerve, every fiber telling him to let go, but refusing to do it.

Rice reached deep down into his guts and pleaded for more strength. Heart, you got any more? Lungs? Who’s going to help me on this? He got a push from the center of his gut, and he felt Sampson’s wrist give a fraction. But then it held fast. What was this guy made of? Rice needed something to break Sampson’s concentration, and Rice hoped, his arm. His lungs shot him a fresh load of air and he regained his calm.

For the first time Rice looked at Sampson’s face, which was red as a kid’s crayon, the veins sticking out on his neck. He decided to try and shake the ensign.

Fatty . . . will not . . . be intimidated . . . by (urrrh!) . . . a BOOT ensign!

That one hit a nerve. Teeth clenched and throat growling, Sampson made a frontal attack on Rice’s arm with the intensity of a mad bulldog. Rice held on, his fingers squeezed in Sampson’s claw, that damn ring pinching his skin.

Hold on; hold on just a little longer. As he felt himself slip