RascalPuff's Blog

Excerpts from Butterfly, Owl & Eagle

Chapter 15


Fleet Operations, Pt. II, continued:
0630 hours, 3 June 1959:
Crewmen with filled, steaming breakfast trays are moving through the steam line commissary service and beginning to sit near and around Ericson’s improvised, pre-reveille study hall and counseling chambers. He’s no longer being even mildly hazed - harassed as a newcome. Being on the boat crew has helped his initiation. Coxswains must keep a lot of important schedules for a lot of important people, and they don’t like anyone messing with their crew. Boat duty is a prestigious position, even for a bowhook.

He goes to breakfast just before the line closes at 0700. That way, he can stack all the food he wants - and he eats like a horse - on the tray at one time, instead of going back for seconds when the chow line closes. He is uncomplainingly allowed to cut into the front of the still lined up sailors who haven’t eaten yet. It's to everyone's advantage. The entire ship’s company already knows he’s a duty boat crew bowhook. They see him working every day. Boatcrews work ‘on call’; under restricted, often hurried and erratically demanding and shifting time schedules.

The crew musters on main decks forward and aft in accordance with division memberships, at 0730. When duty boat crews are aboard at this time, they must report to muster on deck, along with everyone else. Duane has been reading up on boat etiquette in THE BLUEJACKET’S MANUAL lately, and notices the Captain’s Gig pull alongside the in port Quarterdeck’s accommodation ladder. Apparently to let off a commissioned ‘finance officer’ - a Lt. j.g., and a third class (E-4) petty officer Disbursing Clerk. The two men ascend the accommodation ladder from the gig, with what looks like the ship’s funding money in a large, canvas mail bag. Such delivery men always carry sidearms because they are carrying money from a local bank.

The ship’s P.A. system crackles out instructions for this forthcoming afternoon’s Liberty section, airing the opportunity to exchange dollars for local denominations of pesetas. That’s what their bag is full of in this particular port of Barcelona. In France it’s francs, in Greece, drachma, in Italy, lira and so forth. The navy has a direct NATO connection to the Swiss banking system in every port of call, of which there are scores, if not hundreds, all over Europe.

Who was to say how much money the black market made during any year, month or day; in what ports, exchanged for what merchandise? The navy not only has the largest of military budgets, it is also the least accessible to the audit of press and public. If you’re a disbursing officer or clerk, you might at times be a knowing or inadvertent part of operating the largest monetary laundromat in the world.

What comes to Ericson’s attention regarding the Captain’s Gig, as it departs the accommodation ladder below, is that the Captain’s pennant is flying and the only two men aboard it besides its crew, were the two described finance personnel. The BlueJacket’s Manual says, the only time the Captain’s pennant is to be flown on the gig is when the Four Striper is actually aboard. That’s his underway ensign. That’s the law. Yet, they are flying the Captain’s pennant anyway. Surely the Officer Of The Quarterdeck noticed this, without a word of criticism or correction. Ericson isn’t even suspicious, of a lot of things he’s learning but does not yet understand. Very few people - coxswains, engineers, bowhooks; even enlisted and commissioned finance officers actually know what's sometimes going on here, let alone ‘how it’s done’, for whom, and when. Compromised mules all, whether they know it or not - factorial accessories.

Following muster, coxswain Pearson makes a pre-Liberty call run to Fleet Landing and back, for ship’s stores and mail. A short, uneventful run, upon the return of which. Ericson goes to the O3 level blower room to await further orders from his coxswain. Coxswains often sleep in the blower room. It’s a noisy compartment full of incoming and outgoing, intersecting ventilating ducts from all over the ship - the reason it’s called ‘the blower room’. Unofficially known as the ‘boat crew housing’; not designed or intended for human habitation, but often improvisationally inhabited, nonetheless. What the inhabitants are buying here, at least part time, is a relatively increased amount of personal privacy.

This space is not inspected as a habitation quarters. The officers are aware that it is being used as such, but when it’s inspected, all personal effects, mattresses, etceteras, are temporarily removed to meet the requirements. As soon as the inspection is over, it’s inhabited and refurnished again.

Coxswain Thornton - a North Dakota Sioux Indian - rolls over in his improvised bunk-bed and looks down at Ericson, standing just outside the hatchway to the compartment. Thornton has to shout to be heard above the blower room din.
“Hey Kid!”
“Yes sir!” Laughter from all over the blower room.
“How long was it you said?! What was your discharge date, again?! Say it loud enough so everyone here can here you!”
“Yes sir! My discharge date is 10 July 1962!”

Boisterous laughter from all over the blower room. Then, an anonymous voice from somewhere further back inside:
“Gawd damn! Kid! If I was you, I’d commit suicide!”
Another boisterous tirade of laughter.

Ericson remains the reluctant straight man, roll his eyes slightly, perhaps finding amusement from within.

The only E-3 there that isn’t laughing is Byron Napoleon. His friends call him ‘Nap’. He is a very Black man of twenty four years age, nearly six feet tall; a farm boy with the body and facial features of a Greek god. Nap does one-armed chin-ups with either arm; with ease. He never starts trouble and rarely gets it from anyone else. He had just re-enlisted for six years. The reason he wasn’t laughing. The Boatswain’s Mate rating he was unsuccessfully striking for was a ‘frozen rating’, meaning that even when you pass the test, the quota is filled and you don’t get promoted.

Ericson isn’t allowed in the blower room without express permission from his coxswain. Bowhooks are seen hovering about the outside of this hatch, awaiting further orders. They don’t usually have to wait long before someone puts them to work doing something, until the next boat run is made. Break his butt ‘til he drops out of boat duty. Any good petty officer would do the same thing. If he makes coxswain, so what? Big deal. Then he’ll do the same to his ever expendable bowhooks, and so on...

Roman Holiday, continued:
An elegantly semi-clothed Tre Jolie follows conventional supper. Upon consummation of this celebration a quiet interval finds Beatrice asking Mara, aloud; for all to consider (Italian to English translation follows):
“Is he circumcised?”

Mara is under the table with Augusta Chichi, out of eye contact with her inquiring elder sister. All present know the Mirage question is about Duane 'Horse' Ericson, for Mara to answer, only if she feels like it.

There is an extended, thoughtful silence in the mellow aftermath of the suspended interrogatory; to which the Mare finally replies, unexpectedly, “Uhhh, I think so...”

The table vibrates slightly with roundly subdued laughter on this latest note from ‘the Philosopher’. Another curiously impinging silence ensues.

Bee finally makes the inevitable inquiry,
“What do you mean, you think so?”

“Well. I never really noticed. But I’d be happy to tell you after the next time I see him.”

Another entertained, moderate table vibration, this time followed by a, thoughtful period of silence.

Beatrice puts the ball in another court:
“Have you anything to say, to add or subtract, to or from that, Moocha?”

The interrogative entendre evokes another roundly tabled tinkle of laughter.
“Uh. Yes he is. Neatly so.”

More silence follows the newly acquired information. The philosophizing floor fairy under the table on her back, gazing into Chichi’s eyes and alternately staring at the bottom of the table occupied by her out of sight audience, resolutely says aloud, as though absent mindedly talking to herself...
“One moment, it’s no bigger than my finger, and the next moment it’s...”
“And the next moment, it’s what...?” Queries the Giraf, in the midst of another multiple chuckle, followed by another pause...

The talking Mare finally answers back with liberal savoir faire ,
“I respectfully submit that the curious find out for themselves.”
“Ohhhhh”, comes the reply from several quarters around the table.

A brief interval of silence follows. Whereupon, Beatrice abruptly begins a short series of exaggerated coughs and voluntary throat clearings; summarizing in perfectly straight faced, mid western English (in contrast to the French spoken conversation that preceded it), “I think I’m getting a little horse.”

On this bawdy note, Sola laughs with abrupt vigor, almost choking on her espresso. Mara, Chichi and Yevonne, go into a near howling at the ceiling together from the floor. When Giraf finally recovers, she gamely adds in mock, ominous earnestness aimed at Beatrice, “Only if you get to him before I do.” / “Ohh-ohh-ooo!”
...............................

Boat Runs & Fleet Landing:
There is usually no radio transceiver equipment aboard any of the (four) ship’s boats (The Captain’s Gig, the LIberty Launch, the Landing Craft Variable Personnel - LCVP, Higgin’s Boat - and the Whaleboat). When there is, it's accompanied by an assigned, enlisted radio operator and/or an Operations Division officer. On the other hand, there are navy-Marine banded, ship-to-shore transceivers at or near every navy established Fleet Landing, in all ports of call.

Designated Fleet Landings are where the presiding navy lands, unloads and/or docks its ever-commuting small craft - the ship’s boats. Fleet landings always have Shore Patrol - military police - stations on or near the assigned premises. Organized arrangements for this prevailing routine policy were established centuries ago, in every ocean port in ‘the Med’, through local avenues of government.

The civilian shore’s unqualified native perception of and response to Fleet Landing is usually a proletariat affair, exceptions granted where found. Like a large, electrified arcade establishment anywhere, regarding the all too frequent company it magnetizes, and all too often patronizes. International smuggling is particularly active in and around Naples harbor.
As to what element - civilian or military - is responsible for the corruption, it is in every sense of the word, a two way street. T’was ever such in all major ports of call.

Stolen or pilfered items and the sales of same, along with prostitution and organized black markets are standard. ‘Graft’ and ‘cavalier free enterprise’ are real headings under which very little is ever officially impounded or recognized as ‘misappropriated’. Enhancing these illegal elements and dynamics is the fact that often the military (of that era) is not required to go through any kind of ‘customs inspections’, entailing few if any searches or seizures. The only ‘inspection’ that may occur regarding a navy ship or boat, will invariably be conducted by the navy itself, and not the hosting country it happens to be in.

Rogue U.S. military smugglers are discovered, arrested and brought to justice from time to time, but the politically organized avenues of ‘graft’ and ‘extra revenue’ are immune to the law, all the way up the chain of command, to Washington, D.C. and the State Department. This is especially true of the U.S. overseas military - the army as well as the navy - since World War One. (Until the mid- '60s, hard drugs were a very small percentage of the purloined smuggler's grist. At the advent of the Vietnam War, and ever since, hard drugs became much more abundant in the illegally trafficked inventories.)
7 June 1959:
U.S.S. Great Sitkin weighs anchor and departs Barcelona to rendezvous with fleet elements for more at-sea operations, scheduled to intermittently continue at sea, for the next ten days. She does this for the next four days, whereupon the Captain and his crew are entreated to an unexpected respite of privileged Liberty call in and about the southern French Riviera.

12 June 1959.
Steaming Independently Off The Southern Coast Of France
“We’re not coming off the dog watch back to the regular underway routine, Lieutenant. We’re going to Special Sea and Anchor Detail right after chow call is piped down.”
“Very good, sir.”
The latter response is from the underway bridge Officer of the Deck (O.D.) - full senior Lt. Haley, responding to the only man on the ship who can tell him what to do with the Deck and the Con(ning) tower - both levels of bridge on the upper superstructure, the ship’s Captain, of course. Seated comfortably in his plush padded, leather upholstered chair up there, where no one else sits... The only seat on the bridge; built right into it. His next promotion will be to Vice Admiral. Should war break out in five minutes, he will automatically be a Commodore.

“Mind my asking where we’re going, Captain?”

Any other officer - including the X.O., a Lt. Commander - would have crossed the bridge to more discreetly drop this question in a subdued voice, directly into the Captain’s ear. But Haley is outside the wheelhouse, leaning over the starboard wing and looking aft, apparently preoccupied with checking the outboard rigged ready life boat - a motorized 27 foot whaleboat; the craft that Ericson is being broken in as a bowhook upon.

Cruiser and carrier commanding Admirals call this command’s Captain, ‘Blackie’, an olive complexioned, handsome Italian American; maybe fifty years old. About 6’ 4” in height, at 250 pounds. Much more easy going than most four stripers. Usually wears a brown leather flight jacket. Holds the Distinguished Service Cross with a cluster of lesser decorations; smiles a lot and converses amiably with enlisted men on the bridge. Blackie also has a high, NATO CRYPTO clearance for 'classified information' .
The seated Captain replies, “We’re dropping by St. Tropez (‘Sawn Tropay’), Lieutenant, by way of Nice and Cannes. We get to stay for nearly a week. Should be there in a few hours. Put your navigator on that.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Upon hearing this news from the Captain, the on-duty dog-watch enlisted Quartermaster (‘Krauss’, enlisted navigator and underway ship’s log keeper and weather watcher) is breaking out his charts to speculate exactly where and when the Captain intends to park the ‘sea witch’ - Great Sitkin.

“Let me know when you have a fix on when we can arrive in San Tropez.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Pause. The Captain fluidly digresses to informality.
“What do you think, Lieutenant. Does this beat more Fleet Operations exercises for the next week or so?”
“I think it’s great, Captain. The crew will be delighted.”

The subjected area harbors the best Liberty ports in the Med. Although Nice sprawls with a fairly large population, it’s central township area is smallish and village-like, as are Cannes and St. Tropez. Sailors were generally on their best behavior in these relatively fragile ports, because they want to be welcome to return to them. Even badly motivated individuals knew that anonymity was much more difficult to get lost in, relative to these comparatively small and delicate Liberty ports.

Lieutenant Haley has returned from the wing to his usual station on the bridge, near the Captain’s chair and overlooking the main deck forward of the superstructure all the way to the bow - 1st Deck Division territory.
“How did you do it, sir?”
“How did I do what, Lieutenant?”
Both men are at ease with each other in their informality, it seems to be well established that the two officers share a lot of CRYPTO information unknown to anyone else on board.
“How did you get it over, on upper?”
“Do you mean, southern French Liberty ports, Lieutenant?”
“Yes sir.” Pause
“Believe it or not, Mr. senior Crypto officer, I was ordered here less than a day ago.”
Now both men are laughing. It’s apparently an inside joke of some kind.
“Were you here during the last war, Lieutenant?”
“No sir.”
“Too young for enlistment?” / “I was eighteen just in time to go through San Diego and make Peleilu and several other places in the Pacific, Captain. Almost ruined my military career.”
“I understand a lot of them ended there. What part of the 7th (Pacific) Fleet were you in?”
“Carriers, Captain. I was qualified aviation instructor material when I was sixteen. The only thing I lacked was certification and I was too young for that. The navy carriers needed flyers. They commissioned me to aviation Ensign, straight out of enlisted bootcamp. 7th Fleet Pacific is where I cut my wings.” Pause
“And, that’s where you got shot down and picked up, several times over, culminating in your medical grounding for the rest of your military flying career.”
“You’ve been reading my mail, Captain.”
Both men grin.

The phone talker calls out to the O.D.:
"Sir! Engineroom requests permission to blow boiler tubes!”
“Very well.”
Haley winks at the Captain, walks across the wheel house and steps out on the port wing for about thirty seconds, standing beside the lookout at his raised wing station. Haley shades his eyes, looking up toward the mid-ship's huge, straight funnel smoke-stack. Then he turns to study the surface of the sea itself and the prevailing wind conditions. Quartermaster Krauss is out on the same wing with a sextant and azimuth, getting a shot of the sun for a reading on the ship’s present position.

The O.D. returns to the interior bridge to re-station himself back alongside the Captain in his chair. The latter promptly passes his own personal, filled coffee cup to the Lieutenant. Haley nods at the Old Man, takes a sip, grimaces slightly at its unexpected ingredients and potency, while the Captain winks at him over the armrest of his chair. Haley takes a deeper, more gratefully eye-opening draught, hands the cup back to the Captain and addresses the phone talker:

“Tell the engine room to hold off for a while. We’re up for a course change, soon.”
“Aye, sir.”
Haley was one of the few underway officers who actually gave a chip about whether or not the engine room activated, steam pressured boiler tube cleaning system - which blasted out of the stack to the above decks at least twice daily, several bushels of very fine, floating carbon waste particles. The ship’s 2nd Division working area - aft of the superstructure, was frequently crapped upon this way.

Except when Haley was the O.D. He would change course - if only temporarily - for this occasion. Just to line the wind up, to take the dirty carbon from the blown boiler tubes, directly off the port or starboard - right angle - beams. Instead of letting it trail off over the stern from the emitting stack and all over the 2nd Division’s working space; before falling off finally into the spin-churning, white plumed, ever unfolding wake of the hosting piddle dee dee.

Lt. Haley is back to enjoying the Captain’s re-surrendered, unexpectedly cheery coffee. The aromatic bouquet of which is far too strongly charactered to be entirely caffeine derived.
Blackie candidly volunteers, “Some of that coffee came from mountain grown, Riviera distilled grapes, Lieutenant. What do you think of it?”
“Mountain grown coffee is it, Captain? Why, isn’t that the richest kind?”
(Quiet on the set?) Pause.

Haley excuses himself from the Captain’s company, to join Ensign Keene - the jr. Officer Of The Deck. The two of them are leaned over the plotting and chart table on the port side of the interior bridge. They’re planning a course and E.T.A. (estimated time of arrival) to the roughly aligned ports of San Tropez, Cannes, and Nice (‘Neese’), from their present position - the coordinates of which were just returned to the bridge by the reliable Quartermaster, Krauss. A minute later the Lieutenant is re-joined with the Captain.

“Ever hear the name of Henri Matisse, in these parts, Mr. Haley?”
“Can’t say as I have, Pard.”
Both men chuckle on the subordinate officer's usage of friendly informality.
“I actually met him here, just as the war ended. His town was liberated and secured, relatively early, due to its non-industrial interests, low population, international popularity and generally non-strategic military value. It’s a really nice place, and it’s spelled the same way - ‘N-i-c-e’. Matisse is a noted painter. Was painting pictures then - where we’re headed for. Had been doing so since before World War One ended.”
Another shared sip of elevated coffee transpires.

The Old man on a calm sea and a pleasantly painless roll, continues...
“Small as the town itself is, it sprawls out to include a lot of residential people in the low profile suburbs. Nice and nearby Cannes are known all over the world as important parts of the renowned French Riviera. Southern France being much warmer than the northern coastal regions - such as Normandy, facing the English Channel. The southern climate, they say, is ideal for the finest soil conditions, supporting vineyards, citrus orchards and ancient groves of olive trees as good or better than any in Italy or Spain. International film festival country. Helps cure respiratory ailments, evokes bikinis containing inordinately attractive people - topless and nude beaches. Last but not least, Lieutenant, inhabited by a covey of residential and itinerant oil painting artists from all over Europe.

“This latter collection of distinctive persons, typically taking up working - masterpiece painting - residence, almost exclusively in the small hotels that make up most of the urban coastal areas. Finding inspirational comfort in their geophysical and social surroundings, as well as the low key transience of arriving and departing international tourist population.”

Noting his favorite ship’s officer listening with unfeigned interest, the vineyard inspired Captain continues brush stroking his Riviera distillations.

“Matisse did some of his best work in and around Nice, from just after the war ‘til about four years later. He was much inspired by Van Gogh, of the preceding generation, as were so many others of this era and region. Word is, that Van Gogh predicted this artistic proliferation would happen here - the one eared master himself having done some work around Paris, and in and around this south Riviera area, including Golf Juan, San Tropez and Cannes... What do you think of all this unofficial information, Mr. Haley? Would I make a good travel agent?”

“Yes sir. But perhaps even a better museum curator. Until now, I had no knowledge of any of this, though I was superficially aware of Matisse and do follow some American artists. Please continue.”
“You flatter me, Lieutenant.”
“I do my best, sir. You must know, you make my work easy.”
“Then Matisse’s quality - his focus - began to decline. Frankly, I learned most of this from my wife. We can’t afford to own any of his originals, of course. But I think she’s collected most of his marketed prints. I don’t pretend to understand why, but she knows a great deal about art and enjoys it. I’ve learned a lot from her and her collections, myself. There’s one of his more famous ladies with a parasol on the wall of our dining room at home.”

Lt. Haley has the Deck and the Conn, but the happily waxing Captain definitely has the undisputed floor. Presently pausing to draw heavily on his brown stained, white Meerschaum pipe - a hand carved, miniaturized frieze of King Neptune himself, being kissed - and kissing back - a pretty little mermaid. Relaxing a little more in his chair; continuing in the same lazy tone - this time with a complete change of conversational format.

“Fourteen years and ten months ago today, the German Wolfpack had finally begun to be effectively subdued in - then routed from - the North Atlantic, and their bases in the neutral Irish coastal regions. But, they were still strong in the Mediterranean. Most of their surviving U boats were, at that time, coming out of Francisco Franco’s politically disengaged Spain, which remained malevolently neutral throughout the war. To the very end, Franco’s dictatorial Spain seemed to harbor far more Germans than Allies. To make a longer story shorter, I was X.O. (executive officer) on a tin can (destroyer) that got killed, right about where we are now...”
Long, stoically thoughtful pause...

“The navy is cutting you loose to celebrate some sort of anniversary, Captain?”
“Something like that, Lieutenant. But only because the destroyer I was the X.O. on at the time, was skippered by a fellow who is today one of the most powerful men in MED FLEETCOMM. He's presently stationed with shore duty in Naples.”

Haley looks the Old Man straight in the eyes over the coffee cup between them, whistles slightly through his teeth, then laconically summarizes:
“Congratulations, Captain. This is wild copy, sir.”
“Yes. It is, isn’t it. And it gets wilder. Pay attention.”
“Yes sir.” Laughter.

Several more short, quick draws on the pipe and a little more hunkered down in the chair finds the Captain easily reflecting furthermore...
“I’ve always been a little superstitious about this event in my life. Because it was preceded within a matter of hours, by an on-board suicide. It seems a certain enlisted man received a Dear John letter; sat very quietly on the outside of an ongoing messdeck poker game for a few minutes; then departed without a word to anyone. Walked to the sail locker on the foc’stle, the space he was in charge of, and promptly hung himself with several fathoms of hemp line thrown over a tackle upright. As X.O., I had just been called to this scene when General Quarters sounded - we never even got a chance to cut him down, before two Jerry U boats on either side of us threw a wide spread of steel fish, bearing down on us from both beams..."

Long pause. The Captain breathes a sigh and continues:
"He wanted us that bad. We were in the middle of an emergency full right rudder ‘evasive action maneuver’, in the successful process of missing several well aimed torpedoes. Well. You can zig, and you can zag, but of course you can’t do both and protect yourself on both sides at the same time. Another fish took us on the zagging beam, at the time we were evasively zigging...”

The Captain interrupts himself with an ironic, spectral chuckle. The reverently attentive O.D. is all ears. “We’d spent the last four and a half months sinking a lot of Krauts. U boats, mostly. Caught three of them on the surface. Each of these had been pressured to the surface by our depth charges, out of unsuccessfully executed evasive dives. You know, they still tried to slug it out with us? One three inch gun and some small arms. But they were no match for our speed and accuracy as well as our size and number of guns. Tried to slug it out with us on the surface after we forced them up. Nazi insanity.

“Marked and logged another dozen confirmed kills we had bracketed, run over and unloaded our racks on. God knows, all those Fascist bastards deserved to die. We were unabashedly thrilled to do it.” Laughter.

“They’re weren’t all that many of them left for us, then, toward the end of the war. Hell. Another month or so was it? And, we’d have been home, free. What was left of the depleted, notorious Wolfpack was still fiercely trying to prove something, still living up to its observed ruthless reputation. Especially in the Med. Particularly since they were by then, clearly losing their previously dominant control of the Atlantic. One of their favorite recreations after sinking an unescorted ship was to remain at periscope depth and go to dead slow speed among the survivors on the surface. Letting a maimed and/or drowning man or two hang on to their surfaced scope. Then descending slowly - often taking pictures all the way.”

“I’d heard about that, Captain. Not even the Nips (Nippon, Japanese) did that...”
“We often operated alone, toward the end of the war. Strangely enough, we were therefore frequently outnumbered. It became increasingly evident that we might be singled out and ambushed somewhere along the line. We’d troubled them enough and intercepted enough of their signals to know they knew our name, and had a special sentiment for us. That finally did happen. They troubled to intersect upon and gang up on us. We were broadsided amidships with a 2,000 pound - probably armor piercing - Nazi torpedo. Not that it was necessary for it to have been that big or penetrating. We were a DE, displaced only slightly more than a large minesweeper; had no armor plate at or below the waterline. We already had shorings with make-shift welds keeping us afloat in several previously damaged, below waterline compartments...
"The mid ships boilers went first. Then the ammo magazines. It didn’t take long.”

The attentive subaltern queries in an almost matter of fact, yet palpably sensitive tone: “How many people survived, Captain - besides yourself and the skipper? Were you on the bridge?” Pause

“Out of a crew of three hundred ten, we were forty three survivors on the first day. Within three more days we were twenty eight. All picked up together, just under a month later - then there were but thirteen of us, in two lifeboats we had lashed together. Another few days adrift and we may actually have inadvertently gone ashore in or near Cannes, proper - or one of those other lusty little, undeniably quaint places on the Riviera that sells those fruit flavored snow cones on the beach...
“That’s how close we wound up to getting home the hard way. But then, a French fishing family happened upon our motley little party - refreshed and fed us, doing what they could for the worst off. After they brought us safely ashore, they covertly hospitalized the ailing and distributed our remainder among the French Partisan underground. Who, in turn, pipelined us all behind several secured allied lines on as many compass points, including northern Italy." Pause

"You ever hear of the 'Eyeties', Lieutenant?"
"Can't say as I have, sir. As you know, I was with the Pacific Campaign" Pause
"They're Italian peasant civilians. Very poor, strong people, scratching out a living in the barren foothills. Never had a say or a part in Musso's war. The Germans hated them, the Italian Blackshirts hated them, and we hated them, though we didn't punish them or purge their villages as the the Nazis did, especially toward the end of the war, when Italy capitulated and declared war on Germany."
Pause
"Myself personally, and several members of my crew were sequestered by the Eyeties for several days, at much risk to themselves. They contacted the Group Action Partisans, who I know you've been briefed on only recently."
"Yes sir. Indeed I have."

Lieutenant Haley looks up and around to insure that they aren't being overheard, then adds: "I understand we are recently blessed with that second generation element, in our own ship's company." Pause
The Captain grins back, "Here-here." Laughter.

“Another few days - perhaps even one more day adrift, would have done us all in. It was that close. We may have independently made shore under the modest way of our own deployed sea anchors, but it would have been too late. Having no navigational equipment, we had only the roughest idea of where we were and where the currents were taking us. But we’d not have lived to enjoy any such lucky landing... The badly wounded died first. And those whose lungs and stomachs had taken on too much fuel oil. Traumatic shock and blood loss took them promptly. Most of them didn’t even get time to die of pneumonia. The less seriously injured and disabled began to take on infections we could do nothing to deter, and then there was hypothermia, exposure casualties, and so forth...

“We had very little food and water stores. We weren't catching any fish or birds. But we never had any trouble with the non-violent acquirement of fresh meat. There was always plenty of that - resorting to cannibalism fairly early in the game...”
The Captain lets out a slightly audible sigh.

The Lieutenant queries, out of a mask of disciplined compassion.
“May I ask, sir, where you were, when your ship was hit?”

“Of course. I was on the starboard side bridge lookout wing, when the torpedo took us on that same side, amidships. I watched it come in. I don’t know why I stayed there, but remain there I did. Really had plenty of time to clear that immediate area. It would have been a reasonable move on my part. Yet, for some reason, or perhaps none at all, I stood right there, reporting it through the voice tube, to the O.D. - another Lt. j.g. on the bridge. My best friend of that era. There was really nothing he could do. I would later learn the alarm caught the Old Man - a senior Lieutenant like yourself - in the shower. Consequently, he never had time to make it to the bridge. Though he would tell me shortly thereafter that he was on his way there wearing only a towel and shower clogs for a uniform when we were hit. That’s what saved his life. Wouldn’t you know, everyone in the wheelhouse perished outright, along with everyone on the opposite side of where the torpedo hit us. Would you believe it?”

The question is conversationally rhetorical. The Lieutenant does not respond in words. The still slightly smiling Captain continues...

“When we had time to think about it, later, we figured the torpedo must have gotten damned near to the other side of the ship from the starboard entry to the port side, before it detonated. It must have almost made it through the entire ship to where it may have much less effectively detonated on the outboard port side... But, we weren’t that lucky. We figured it was a delayed fuse set for post contact and deep penetration prior to exploding. We were almost narrow enough for it to pass completely through, but not quite...
“No one on duty in the engine room survived. But some of those must have seen that steel barracuda cross most of the engine room, the instant before it went off...”

Heavy single draw on the pipe. Sparkling dark commandorial eyes straight ahead over the bow, to the gently rising and falling horizon. No hint of melancholy.

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you there aren’t sharks in the Mediterranean, Lieutenant.”
Haley finally adds, with a slight touch of emotion in sympathy for his Captain, “Or, that the Mediterranean is not a very big place...”
(Si. Sea riders. See what they have done...)

Haley is unanimously recognized through all on-board ranks, as the finest and most responsible Line Officer on board, save the Captain. Yet, he would evoke this carefree, almost serenely disarming attitude from anyone he talked to. Seemed to have the natural ability to bring out the best in everyone - from Seaman Apprentices to Captains Commodorial.

Lieutenant Haley and Warrant Bo’sun Jessier were the only officers on board who actually smiled sometimes during main battery gunnery practice and/or tense moments of rearming. The Bo’sun grinning like a silly little bulldog, and the senior Lt. leaned into the mind ripping outrage like an equally senseless, larger variety of curiously smiling wire haired terrier. Highly contagious behavior. The military calls it exemplary leadership.

Excerpted Chapter from http://forums.delphiforums.com/Waboose2