The Corydon Snow

By Richard Whitten Barnes

The white hot story of a WWII freighter, loaded with high explosive fuel, its heroic crew and navy gunners drawn face to face with the most dangerous battle areas of the Pacific. A young Japanese Naval Air cadet trains for a mission that will bring him to in direct conflict with the star-crossed SS Corydon Snow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597052696

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THE CORYDON SNOW

Wings book Logo-150 x1 5.jpg

Richard Whitten Barnes

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Historical Novel

Edited by: Camille Netherton

Copy Edited by: Joan Powell

Senior Editor: Pat Evans

Executive Editor: Marilyn Kapp

Cover Artist: Richard Stroud

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2010 by Richard W. Barnes

ISBN 978-1-59705-269-6

Published by Wings ePress, Inc. at Pronoun

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

To the Merchant Sailors of World War Two who, with their U.S. Navy gunners, so bravely carried the supplies of war into the thick of battle. The merchant service had a higher casualty rate than in any other branch of service

Author’s Note

This is a war story ; not about heroic airmen, gallant soldiers, or marines, but civilians. They were the men of the Merchant Marine who manned the supply ships that won World War II. Over sixteen hundred ships were lost, along with eighty-four hundred of their Merchant Marine crew—one in twenty-six men in the Merchant service—the highest death in the line of duty ratio of all services. It is also a tribute to the United States Navy Armed Guard, sailors assigned to man the meager weaponry availed to the slow-moving freighters.

Merchant Mariners have never received full recognition for their contribution to that war. Four decades after the war, they were finally awarded the status of veteran, but never compensated as were other services. As this book is written, the US Senate has neglected to consider their version of a House bill (H.R.23) that attempts to partially correct this wrong.

Much of the lack of attention to the Merchant Marine veterans stems from a combination of ‘misinformation, misunderstandings, and outright lies,’ as one source puts it. The conception that merchant seamen had little or nothing to do with the firing of the ships’ armament is still prevalent, despite proof to the contrary.

The Corydon Snow is a novel, but historically accurate as the best of my research would allow. While the characters and situations are fictional, they are set in a background of actual events. Most of the situations are based on either written memoirs, or my interviews with retired crewmen, both Merchant Marine and US Navy.

Though sometimes incredible, these fictional events are well in keeping with the true heroisms of the US Merchant Fleet in World War II.

RWB

S.S. Corydon C. Snow

Ship’s Complement of Characters

Merchant Marine

Ship’s Master—Patrick Garver

Chief Mate—Darrell Thane

Second Mate—Teddy Christopolis

Boatswain—Avery Twill

Chief Engineer—Marion Dunne

First Asst. Engineer—Red Paulson

Second Asst.—Engineer Dan Tanner

Deck Hands:

Brian Donnely

Angelo Pirelli

Phillip Dahlman

Oiler—Boris Brunski

Wipers:

Marshall Rosen

Michael Leary

Victor Brenz

Ship’s Steward—Alan Carlson

Galleyman—Honus Washington

Messman—B.J. Banks

Baker—John Cook

Radio Operator—Clarence Allen

Pharmacist’s Mate—Gary Tannenbaum

U.S.Navy Armed Guard

Commander Robert Stark— Lt. (JG)

Chief Gunner Anthony Riocci—Chief Petty Oficer

Gunners:

Henry Baldwin—Able Seaman

Doolie Cheetham—Seaman

William Carling—Seaman

Billy Allison—Seaman

David Brill—Seaman

Dan Witsotsky—Seaman

Sid Tullen—Seaman

Signalmen:

Randy Hoffner—Able Seaman

Archibald Persky—Seaman

One

Friday, April 6, 1945

United States Federal Court Building,

Honolulu, Hawaii

The open windows and slowly turning fans on the high ceiling of the second floor hallway did little to allay the oppressive atmosphere of the place—an aroma of old woodwork and plaster that seemed to be requisite in these old public buildings. Seaman Henry Baldwin sat alone on the heavy oak bench outside the hearing room. A fly buzzed and bumped against the half open window that looked down on Alakea street. There, Friday traffic ground to a torpor in the baking sun of late afternoon.

Not quite three years ago Henry Turlow Baldwin, of Muncie, Indiana, had been drafted after finishing his second year at IU. That year he’d tried out and made the varsity wrestling team at five feet ten, one hundred and eighty-five pounds, eleven pounds more than the scale read on his release from the hospital this past Wednesday. The four months of rehabilitation seemed like years. As he left the hospital, that day, the same hot sun radiating off the sidewalk of Maonalua Road had felt good on the stiff muscles of his left side where the bullet had torn through his upper arm and back. In two days the whole mess would be decided one way or the other, and what he did, or did not say would be crucial.

Seaman Baldwin? A voice reverberated in the hallway.

Henry Baldwin turned his attention from the lone janitor mopping the marble floor. He rose from the wooden bench, made a vain attempt to press the wrinkles from his whites, and followed the civilian bailiff into the smallish hearing room. There, perhaps a dozen men turned to watch as he was led up the center aisle. He was shown the witness chair and duly sworn in to testify on the case of alleged murder aboard merchant vessel SS Corydon C. Snow on October 26, 1944.

AUGUST 2, 1943

Middle Loch Port Facility,

Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

The 1939 Plymouth, battleship gray with white U.S.Navy markings, pulled onto the pier at the head of the West Bay at Waipahu. An immaculately uniformed Navy driver got out, opened the rear door, and proffered a halfhearted salute with, This is the place, sir. You can get a launch right over there at the Harbormaster’s officer.

Lt. (JG) Robert Stark Jr. struggled out of his seat, trying to return the salute and yank his duffel along at the same time. Without additional formality the staff car made a u-turn in the gravel, and was gone. Stark reached inside his blouse for a cigarette, hooked the last Old Gold out of its flattened pack, and lit it with his silver Ronson. He looked across the bay to the homely cargo ships anchored and lined up like unwilling soldiers in the middle of this small arm of Pearl Harbor, and wondered what he had been thinking to volunteer for this.

Stark had gained post-Academy training on a destroyer, and had distinguished himself in gunnery. This earned him an instructor’s slot at the Little Creek, Virginia Training Command—just what Stark did not want. What he wanted was sea duty, and the only way he could get it without waiting —who knew how long—was volunteering for Navy Armed Guard duty, and in an Ensign’s slot at that.

Shortly before America’s entry into the war, the navy organized the ‘Armed Guard,’ a volunteer branch with a gunnery training center at Little Creek for the purpose of providing protection to America’s merchant fleet. Three weeks of training was given to the men on the armament that was common to the growing fleet of merchant ships supplying Great Britain since 1939.

As Robert Stark looked out at the crowded wharf and the bustling harbor with its row of ugly ducklings at anchor, he wondered if there was any way this could be called an auspicious start to a naval career. He took off his cap and wiped the inside band with a handkerchief, did the same to the back of his neck and forehead, then hoisted his duffel, and headed for the pier.

The Harbormaster’s office was nothing more than a corrugated metal hut, crammed with shipping documentation and a harried Warrant Officer. The man looked up from his journal entries to consider him. Yes, sir?

LT. Robert Stark. Need transport to the— Stark glanced at his orders and slid them across the counter "—SS Snow."

The Warrant Officer sighed and rummaged through a pile of folders. He pulled out a roster for the SS Corydon C. Snow. Stark’s name was duly checked off.

Without looking up the man roared, Bergstrom! A young, slow-moving sailor, face still sporting teenage acne, sauntered out from a room at the back. Get the Lieutenant’s gear on a dispatch boat! Without a word the youth picked up the duffel and ambled for the wharf.

Stark’s large duffel was unceremoniously pitched aboard a battered civilian launch, but crewed by two sailors in blue dungarees. They were soon away from the dock, and the launch made its slow journey to the anchorage while a following wind drifted choking, blue-white exhaust along with them.

The day was a carbon copy of yesterday; a Sunday when, with nothing to do, Stark had walked up and down the docks across from Ford Island staring longingly at the ships of war. He’d marveled at how much had been cleaned up from the Japanese attack in just eighteen months. At 0900, the sun and humidity made a joke of his pressed khakis, and damp patches were already starting to form under his arms.

This part of the harbor was the ugly duckling of the complex of anchorages collectively referred to as Pearl Harbor. The shoreline presented its dingy piers, its activity of vessels being loaded, and the associated odor of dead fish, ‘Bunker C’ fuel, and seawater.

Stark considered his new ship as the launch approached. Ugly as sin, right out of a Bogart movie, even if she did look spanking new. She was something over four hundred feet long, had a hull like a shoebox with three masts: two forward, and one aft of a central block shaped structure topped by a single funnel. Clearly not the destroyer or light cruiser he had dreamed of just weeks ago. One saving grace, he’d be the only naval officer aboard in full command of maybe twenty sailors.

Coming along side, the launch deftly approached the lowered ladder. Stark heaved his duffel out ahead of himself, and no sooner had he gained a foothold, the launch powered away. He made his way up the boarding ladder to find a lanky, dark complexioned officer in a Merchant Marine uniform looking down at him. He wrestled his gear to the deck and saluted.

Lieutenant Stark requesting permission to come aboard, sir.

The officer smirked. At ease, Lieutenant, we’re not so formal here.

Was that true? Stark didn’t know if he meant just this ship or the whole Merchant Service. He regarded this officer with his sharp nose, slicked-back brown hair, and distinct Boston accent, although certainly not Beacon Hill. More like Beverly or Danvers. The guy could have passed for a private eye in one of those corny movies back in the thirties.

Darrell Thane, the officer drawled. First Mate, only in the Merchant Service we say ‘Chief Mate’. I expect, if you’re the Guard officer, you’ll want to report to the Ship’s Master.

Well, yeah, Stark replied. Can I stow my gear first?

Sure, come on. I’ll show you.

Stark turned to follow the man, but stopped short. The deck was jammed fore and aft with heavy equipment; two and a half ton trucks tied down fender to fender and bumper to bumper. Light tanks, armored half-tracks. My God! said Stark. How can you move around up here?"

It’s a lot, alright—loaded it at San Francisco.

They ascended a ladder up to the officers’ quarters, and Stark asked, What else are we carrying?

Nothing much. Thane smiled at Stark’s reaction. Really, he said. Two of the holds are empty. We sail in a couple of days, and no hint from the old man that we’re taking on anything else.

What does that mean?

Could mean we’ll be picking something up. I really don’t know.

They climbed one level to the landing of the boat deck where Stark was shown, to his surprise, he actually had a small roomette of his own overlooking the aft half of the ship. Could be worse.

The Chief Mate stood on the landing and watched through the open door as Stark began unloading his gear. The Master’s name is Garver—‘Captain’ Garver to us. Second Mate is Teddy Christopolis. We’re sailing without a Third Mate, but the Captain is filling that shift at present. You’ll get to learn the others. Let me know if you need anything, but for now you’d better report yourself on board. The Captain can be a bit of a—well—demanding. Anyway, he’s got orders to sail, and your guys are without an officer—wandering around, getting in the way, or so says he. He should be up here somewhere.

Stark thanked Thane, and watched him disappear down the ladder. The guy had a ‘military’ bearing, unlike most of the merchant sailors he had ever observed. A dark, humorless guy, he thought. Not just his complexion and the hair; something morose about the guy. Something going on there.

Looking around his home for the next Christ knew how long, he checked himself in the small mirror over the basin, put a hand through his longer-than-regulation blonde hair, and said aloud, Okay, Bobby boy, it’s no battleship. Make the fucking most of it. He retrieved the manila envelope holding his orders, and stepped out of his cabin. Pulling the roomette door closed and walking out to the rail looking aft, Stark once again surveyed the ship from that vantage. Everything was new on this vessel. It looked like it was built yesterday. Fresh paint everywhere, even on the expanded steel ladders and companionways where traffic was constant. He imagined he could smell the newness like one does a new car. Still, no amount of fresh paint could hide the fact that this ugly sister was just a freighter; destined to bounce around from one backwater port to the next. Christ!

Looking down on the aft deck Stark had to admit he could see signs of a disciplined ship. A gang loading a crate from a barge was going about their business in an efficient way, notwithstanding the Hawaiian sun beating down and reflecting off the decks like a dry sauna. Deck men were overhauling lines and other gear. All this was taking place under the watchful eye of a short, stocky older man with a jet-black crew cut, and clearly in charge.

He walked forward through the narrow starboard corridor of the boat deck past closed doors on his right until he found the ladder to the bridge, and once there, peered through the glass in the door. A seaman was alone sorting signal flags in pigeon holes behind the ships wheel. Looking for the Captain, Stark said; as he cracked open the door.

The merchant seaman was engrossed in his work, and did not look up. You must have just passed him. He’s in the chart room, or was a minute ago.

Sure enough, the last door on the way to the bridge was slightly ajar, and Stark could see someone was there. He stuck his cap under his arm, drew a breath and tapped on the jamb.

Come, said a raspy voice.

Stark opened the door to see a dark, burly man with his back turned, bent over a chart table. He was surrounded by a cloud of cigar smoke.

Lieutenant Robert Stark reporting for duty, sir.

Ship’s Master Patrick Garver, at first impression had a sober, even brooding, bearing. Stocky, about five feet eight, his hunched shoulders didn’t straighten as he looked up and around from the table.

Garver removed the stub of cigar from his puffy face and said, Well, well. Finally.

Awkward silence.

Uh—Chief Thane has been kind enough to get me settled, sir. I look forward to serving under you, Stark offered, as he studied the man. Around fifty, he guessed; thin, combed over hair. Demanding. He remembered Thane’s comment.

Garver ignored the pleasantry.

Relax, Mister Stark. Sit there. Garver stepped into the corridor, walked the few steps to the bridge, and Stark heard him ask the seaman there to order up two coffees from the galley.

When he returned, Garver made no move to take the orders contained in the manila envelope Stark was offering, but continued standing. Alright, Lieutenant, I want to give you a rundown on what this ship is all about and what I expect from you and your men.

Again, a brief silence as Garver grimaced, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts or was in some kind of pain. Stark fiddled with the envelope and hat he held on his lap.

First, the Ship. Garver went on. "She’s an EC2, number 357, built in just sixty days, and commissioned in Portland, Oregon this past January. What you call a ‘Liberty Ship.’ She’s four hundred and forty-two feet long, fifty-seven on the beam with a draft of twenty-eight feet. We’re powered by an old fashioned steam piston engine designed in the nineteenth century. Our top speed is eleven knots on a good day. Some of these EC2s are troop ships, some oilers, some colliers. We’re configured for cargo. I expect you, as an officer on this ship, to know as much about her capabilities as any of my deck officers.

We carry a crew of thirty-nine, he went on, not including the Armed Guard. How many do you have?

Sir, I don’t know yet. Stark flummoxed. I reported to you on coming aboard.

I’ll tell you: fifteen. About the minimum that’ll do us any good. You may have to reassign your radio operators. We already have our own.

Sir, I can’t do that. My guys will have been cleared for codes. Stark felt himself start to flush. Less than fifteen minutes on this ship, and already arguing with the Captain.

Garver stared at Stark like he was an imbecile. Lieutenant Stark, as Master of this vessel I am king—no, God. There is no ‘can’t do that’ allowed. He said this like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school.

I understand that, Captain, and I will so instruct my men, but I have written orders on my duties and obligations for protecting your vessel. One of them includes strict guidelines for the security of U.S. Navy codes. Until I get a direct order to the contrary, I’ll obey them—uh, sir.

Again, silence.

A knock at the entrance to the bridge broke the tension. A tubby seaman in soiled galley whites set the tray down.

What’s your name?—Banks? Garver demanded.

Aaa ... Yessir. The seaman wheezed.

You dare ever creep out of that galley looking like that again I’ll give your ass to the Black Gang

The little man looked terrified. He uttered, Aye, sir, and scuttled away.

Garver stood up and walked around behind the chart table. He did not look at Stark, but toyed with the brass dividers on the chart. Lieutenant Stark, I want you to muster your men, and explain the facts of life aboard this vessel. They are ill disciplined, wandering all over the place, and impeding our lading schedule. I want you to assess their level of competence; then, by 0900 tomorrow I want a report from you on a plan for guarding this ship in hostile waters. That’s under all conditions, and with the limited compliment of men you have in your command. I want us ready to sail in three days.

Stark started to rise, but Garver went on.

Oh, by the way, most of the gunnery officers on these vessels are Ensigns. Garver let the implication sink in. I don’t know or care who you pissed off to get this assignment as a JG, but you’d better believe I expect your nose in joint on this tour, and the same goes for those delinquents of yours. Any questions? He did not wait for a reply. Dismissed.

Aye, Aye, sir. Stark laid his orders on the chart table. A salute, a crisp about face, and he got the hell out of there.

LOCATED AT THE MIDDLE of the EC2 hull was the midship house, or simply ‘the house’, a three story structure that housed the ship’s crew. At the very top were the flying bridge and four 20mm Anti-Aircraft (AA) guns, one at each corner. Below that was the ‘bridge deck’ housing the bridge, Captain’s quarters, Captain’s office, Radio operator’s quarters, and radio room. The next level down, or ‘boat deck’ was where officers were quartered, and at the bottom, the curiously named ‘upper deck’ accommodating the bulk of the crew, their mess facilities, and the officers’ lounge. Just below the upper deck of the midship house, running the length of the ship was the lower deck, what sailors called ‘tween decks’. Here were the machine shop, carpentry shop, dispensary, laundry, and a multitude of storage rooms necessary for the running of a ship at sea for months at a time.

The navy and merchant sailors were not forbidden, nor were they encouraged to fraternize. Some cooperation was necessary, since the guns required more men than the navy ever supplied a single ship; the understanding being, that jobs as ammunition handlers and the like could be accomplished by the civilian crew. This separation was physically established by the separate sleeping facilities for the two crews.

The Navy crew for the forward guns and the midship guns were berthed in the midship house. The aft guns of the Snow were manned by men berthed in the stern House, a free-standing structure located under the bays (or tubs) of the stern 20mm AA guns. This morning, most of the aft crew was lounging by the rail outside of the Stern House.

So—Baldwin, taunted Seaman Apprentice James ‘Doolie’ Cheetham, whose ass did you kiss to get that third stripe?

He had a typical East Philly accent—Camden, NJ, actually—with a tight, wiry build. Still in his teens, he had the intimidating look of a street tough. An overbite gave his ‘s’ words a slight ‘sh’ sound, but did nothing to inhibit this aggressive, chip on shoulder attitude. Cheetham had been with the ship since embarking from San Francisco in March, and considered this experience worth seniority to the ‘newbie.’

Baldwin had recently graduated from the Navy Armed Guard Gunnery School at Little Creek, VA. and had joined the ship in Hawaii just the week before. Fair-skinned, despite his dark brown hair, he had an open, farm boy face not alien to his home town of Muncie, Indiana. Baldwin’s rejoinder could have been that he was awarded the ‘Able Seaman’ stripe for outstanding proficiency at the school, but he wisely let the likely perceived boast pass. I couldn’t kiss it, ‘cause it looked like your face, Cheetham, he quietly said in his flat Midwestern voice.

That got a laugh from the younger of the eight or nine enlisted ‘rates’ lounging around the area. Cheetham, a natural and self-knighted leader among the young gun crew wasn’t accustomed to being one-upped, and grew livid. Without warning he came at Baldwin, head down.

Baldwin, a half head taller, dropped to one knee in order to get under Cheetham’s shoulders. For an instant it seemed Cheetham would have Baldwin pinned as he drove his opponent to the deck. Then, with a deft move, Baldwin used Cheetham’s body as leverage to slip from under and around on top. Cheetham hit the deck hard—face down—knocking the breath from him. It was over almost before it had started.

Baldwin got up. Cheetham, his wind gone and right cheek bone already starting to redden, got to his hands and knees. Someone went to help him up, and he angrily jerked away with an expletive. Finally standing, red-faced, he glared at Baldwin, and started to speak.

Hey, someone shouted. Who’s the new brass?

Immediately, everyone looked forward to the ladder leading down from the bridge deck. Chief Thane was talking to a Navy officer who was glancing their way.

A new face on the ship, especially an officer, was always a source of attention. Speculation was high among the young navy crew, already forgetting the dust-up with Cheetham and the new guy, Baldwin. Looks like a ninety day wonder t’me, drawled Brill, a gunner from Savannah, GA.

Nah, that’s a JG bar, someone else said.

The door to the Stern house opened, and a bullet headed hulk of a man in Tee-shirt and white Navy-issue under shorts looked out to see for himself. The men quieted at once. Alright you guys, can the school yard gossip. It’s probably your new senior officer, and how you skinheads behave is on my ass. Every last one of you swingin’ Richards will treat this guy like he was Admiral Spruance. You got that?

There was a mumbled chorus of assent.

Henry Baldwin stood by the aft rail and watched as Chief Petty Officer Anthony Riocci continued to berate the crew. Everyone knew an Armed Guard normally did not have a Chief rating assigned to an Armed Guard crew. Why the Navy, in all its wisdom sent Riocci on this tour was a mystery yet to be solved. The big, barrel-chested man was more like a Marine drill sergeant than anything else.

Riocci was supposedly Gunners Mate on a big Cruiser before this assignment. He was an old guy, forty or fifty, and Baldwin wondered how he got on a tub like this. Did he screw up somewhere? The boozy blush on his face and nose might have had something to do with it. Why did he volunteer for this assignment?

In the midst of his musings, Baldwin noted the new officer walking down the starboard side toward them, the single silver bar on khaki collar now clearly visible.

Attention, he yelled. For a minute it looked like this new officer was looking directly at him, but then his eyes turned to the group.

Feet began to shuffle, and conversation ended, but Stark exclaimed, Rest easy, men. He hesitated, not having thought through what he really wanted to say. I—uh—am Lt. Stark.

They stared back.

It will be my—um—pleasure to serve with you on this tour.

Silence.

Finally Stark said something a little less inane. Who’s senior here?

Chief Riocci, is sir. A seaman’s voice from the back volunteered.

Chief? Stark was curious.

It’s a long story, sir. Riocci glared at the volunteer.

Okay, Chief, I want to see you after tonight’s mess call. What time is that on this ship?

It’s over at 1830 sir, replied Riocci.

Good, meanwhile, I am told that we will be shipping out in a matter of days. I don’t know what kind of leave privileges you are enjoying, but until I feel satisfied that we are in a state of readiness to protect this ship, shore leave is suspended.

Surprisingly, only a few groans filtered back through the men.

Carry on, men, and Stark left, but not before giving Baldwin another glance.

CWO RIOCCI SAT ON THE bunk in Stark's quarters while Stark sat backwards on his small desk chair. I think the Old Man’s fuck’n playin’ with you—Sir. These guys ain’t wizards or nuthin’ but they’re just as good as any bunch of ‘cruits you might see. Maybe he’s tryin’ to get to you, bein’ new an all. I drilled with ‘em in San Francisco an’ on the way to Pearl. They’re Okay an’ the new guy, Baldwin, was pretty damn impressive on our dry run last Friday.

Stark flipped a folder of personnel records on the bed. Yeah, I see he got a first in his class at Little Creek, which earned him a third stripe.

He’d better be as good as that stripe, ‘cause one or two of the guys resents it. Riocci ignored the folder. Jesus fuckn’ Christ he could use a drink. This new Academy puke had fucked up his ‘cocktail hour’ with Dunne. Riocci didn’t know how that wild ass Chief Engineer kept his booze hidden, but he always had it, even if he was stingy as a maiden aunt with it.

I’ve got to admit, I have no experience with managing armament on a layout like this. I’ll need your help, said Stark. All my training’s been on a ship of war.

Shit, sir—same here. Guns is guns, though! I figure it’s just how fast you get to ‘em when things get hairy.

Yeah, well—I want to see at least a dry run, and it’ll have to be right away. The Captain is talking like we won’t be here much longer. I’ve got to report to him about our capability by 0900 tomorrow, so get your guys fed by 0730. If it takes longer than an hour to convince anyone, we are in deep shit.

Riocci held his hand up. Wait one, sir. He hesitated, looking down on rough hands. These ain’t ‘my guys.’ I got assigned to this duty as a result of a courts marshal. They did me a favor and didn’t bust me, so I could retire with grade.

Stark’s eyebrows jumped. What happened, Chief?

The big one: missed a ship.

Holy Cow!

Yeah. Night before my cruiser is shipping out to the Med, I throw a real blast for some of the guys from my last ship. I must be getting’ old, ‘cause those young bucks drank me under the table. I didn’t even wake up in time to see it leave port.

The ensuing silence, uncomfortable for both men, was broken by a waft of breeze from the landing that bumped the open cabin door back against the bulkhead.

Finally, Stark said, Chief, I figure we have to work as a team, but the way they’ve got us separated into two groups, fore and aft, makes that hard to do. I want you to share the daily drills with me. We’ll rotate the men on all the guns. You take the aft ones. That’ll take the pressure off of me, at least for now. You’ll have full authority. What do you think?

Look, sir, I just kinda took over leadership of the guys, ‘cause the Ensign assigned to the ship got appendicitis the night before we left the States.

Stark shook his head. All the more reason to do this. They already accept you as their Chief. How about it? It won’t look bad on your record.

I guess so, sir.