Ensign Charles looked her over critically from the foot of the pier. The second ship in the nest, her dented hull with the chipped numbers on the bow pleading for redlead and paint, the Bagley would be alongside the pier the next two weeks for some much-needed upkeep. He had been waiting in the bachelor officer's quarters for ten days for his ship to return so he could report aboard. Usually, when the squadron was at sea with one of the carriers, they flew new personnel out with the mail and they then reported aboard their ship swinging from the end of a helicopter cable. But this time the weather was so bad that the personnel officer in Norfolk had found another one-week school for him to attend. And then, the day before the squadron was due to arrive, David had gotten a message from the Bagley's executive officer requesting him not to report aboard until that Saturday morning.
He picked up the two suitcases, one an extra-heavy foldover type with all his uniforms, and strolled erectly to the edge of the pier to look down into the water. There was a hiss from the steam hoses connected to the pier. The tide was low and just beginning to change, and with no current the scum of oil and garbage and sewage lapped gently against the tired old hulls. The smell was as he always remembered, the stink of the piers in any port in the world — not the rich, heady, salt perfume of the open ocean. The bags were becoming heavier now, and he turned up the pier toward the brow going over to the first ship, another Pacific veteran. He lurried sideways as he inched down the narrow gangway to the quarterdeck with his bulky luggage. A disinterested first-class petty officer looked up, but without taking his elbow from the desk attached to the bulkhead.
The fresh-caught ensign — the shiny gold gave him away— carefully placed each bag on the deck, straightened immediately to salute the flag on the fantail, then the quarterdeck. The petty officer, noting the young officer was comfortable in his actions, immediately came to attention, returning the salute to the deck. "Are you reporting aboard here, sir?"
"No. Crossing to Bagley." "Yes, sir." Back to the elbow on the desk again.
Ensign Charles retrieved his bags, ducking his head as he worked his way around a winch through the midships passageway where he could see the brow over to the Bagley. The starboard side of the deck of the Bagley, just forward of the midships passageway, was scarred and dented, and some of the cable and stanchions on the edge of the deck were missing. Redlead emphasized the damage.
Another PO in a well-worn peacoat began to show some curiosity as Ensign Charles struggled down another very narrow gangway. Again placing his bags on the quarterdeck, he gave the fantail a sharp salute, then turned to the quarterdeck.
"Ensign David Charles reporting aboard as ordered," he barked too loudly, bringing his right hand to the visor of his hat. He looked the PO directly in the eyes, establishing his authority early.
David Charles did not look a great deal different from so many other ensigns that reported aboard ship each year. He was medium height, about five feet ten, with an average build. His brownish black hair was curly, and he had already learned to his dismay that it became much more curly in the humidity of the tropics. It was thick, and he kept it short to control it in the military style of the day. His face was lean to compliment the body well-conditioned from four years in Annapolis, and only his clear gray-blue eyes set him off from so many of the others. His crisply pressed, custom-made uniform and mirror-shined shoes established his military credentials, as did his comfort in arriving on the Bagley's quarterdeck. He had been at sea before and was already part of the real Navy.
The PO returned his salute with a bit of effort. "Yes, sir. Mr. Donovan told me the XO had sent a message asking you to wait until this morning."
David pulled his orders from his breast pocket and handed them over to be logged in. "You don't have to wait while I log you in, Mr. Charles. I'll take care of that when I go off watch. Then I'll give them back to you and you can turn 'em over to the ship's office Monday morning." He turned to the seaman apprentice who had been leaning against the bulkhead the entire time, cold hands stuffed in his peacoat pockets. "Go wake Mr. Donovan and tell him that Ensign Charles has just reported aboard, and where is he supposed to bunk?"
"You want me to wake him if he's asleep?"
"Make a lot of noise in the passageway. Slam the hatch when you go in after officers. Bang hard on his door, like you had no idea he was back in the rack. He always wants you to think he's catching up on his paperwork. The ensign" — he nodded at Charles—"doesn't want to wait here all day."
The messenger strolled around the corner of the midships passageway and disappeared slowly, giving every indication that it would take ten minutes to find Mr. Donovan.
"Mr. Donovan is the command duty officer this weekend. He's the chief engineer." Quiet for a moment. "Been on board since he was an ensign. Started out as MPA… I guess." It was nervous small talk, since he really wasn't interested in talking with the new ensign until he had been sized up by the crew.
Charles looked at the damaged deck up forward. "What happened there?"
"Oh, that was last Wednesday. Hell of a storm when we were steaming back after being relieved by Bravo. Thirty-, forty-foot seas and half the crew barfing. The carrier decided to turn more into the wind 'cause the cans were taking such a beating — for our benefit it was! It was nighttime and no one on the bridge could really see what was coming. A big wave just caught us wrong as we were coming around and carried the whole whaleboat away. The chief said it bumped down the deck a ways. That's why some of the stanchions are gone. The first lieutenant wanted to make the repairs before we came in, but the captain said no. He wanted everyone back here to see we weren't on another Caribbean joyride… like they always claim we are." The PO smiled at the thought and then added with pride, "Captain Sam Carter's the CO and the best most of us ever served with, sir. You ought to like him."
The messenger returned as slowly as he had departed. "Mr. Donovan says the ensign has to bunk in his stateroom, 'cause it's the only rack left in officer's country." He bent to pick up one of the bags. "I'll show you the way back, sir, and Mr. Donovan says I should carry your bags. I'll get this other," looking unhappily at the larger one, "after I show you back." He moved slowly around the corner again, expecting Charles to follow him.
They went through the midships passageway to the port side of the ship, then toward the stern past some open hatches that went down to the engineering spaces. The messenger pulled open a heavy door, already ajar, and disappeared inside. As David stepped over the coaming into the dimly lit passageway, he barely avoided tripping over the bag that had just been set there. A few feet ahead, the sailor was leaning through a door, "This here's Mr. Charles, sir." He stepped back from the door. "I'll bring your other bag in a few minutes," and he was gone.
David stepped around the bag and moved inside the door, which had been left open. The room was gloomy with only one small porthole above the upper bunk along the bulkhead. In the lower bunk lay a form outlined by a weak reading light. The form, extremely hairy in just a pair of outlandish shorts, heaved into a sitting position. "I was just catching up on my reading." He extended a hand, which David squeezed in return. "I'm Joe Donovan, chief snipe and CDO for this our first weekend in port. Welcome aboard, for what it's worth."
"David Charles." An uneasy pause. "I've been waiting for the ship about ten days over at NOB. I've been looking forward to reporting aboard."