"So has Ensign Werwaiss," Donovan said with an amused grin. "He's been boot ensign for nine months now, and he's been looking forward to someone else taking all the shit for the last eight of them. Believe me, he's the happiest to see you come." He scratched his belly and lay back down on his bunk, yawning.
Charles looked around the small stateroom. There were tiers of two bunks on either side, separated by about two feet of standard green linoleum. A metal sink and a medicine cabinet were at the end of the room. It was hardly wide enough for anyone's shoulders if they were shaving in the mirror. Behind him and inboard were two lockers, one wide open and jammed with uniforms. There were drawers under each of the bottom bunks, no doubt overflowing. On the outboard side of the room, against the bulkhead, were what he realized were two desks, one of which had the top folded down with papers strewn across it. Above the desk were two short lockers. The bunks were covered with books, papers, clothes, and foul-weather gear.
He looked hopefully up at the bunk that was under the porthole. "Is that bunk open?"
"Nope, that's mine," replied Donovan. Charles looked at the officer stretched on the lower bunk where he had obviously been sleeping. "They're both mine," he added. "This lower one is mine in port, so I don't have to climb up there when I'm drunk, and," he pointed, "that's mine when we're at sea. My goddamn snipes tried to weld that seam," — he pointed at a seam in the bulkhead, that looked like any other one on the ship—"but it opens up every goddamn time we're in a storm, which is often. Then the water flows in, so I move up to that one." A grin and a wink. "Anyway, I've been on this can for two and a half years, so I've gotten squatter's rights to the extra one. That other lower one belongs to Mike FitzGibbon, and believe me you'll be glad he's there when we get underway the next time. He gets seasick… very! And he's a barfer. When you see him making love to the bucket, you'll be glad you're up there." He pointed to the inboard top bunk covered with junk. "Let me go through that stuff first, so I can sort out what's mine. Then you can dump the rest on Fitz's bunk, and he can sort it out Monday morning. He's married and he'll be happy enough by then so he won't mind if you pile it all up for him." He scratched again. "Why don't yon go up to the wardroom and have some coffee and I'll get some clothes on. There's no reason to unpack anyway, 'cause I don't know where you're going to cram all that crap." He pointed at the second bag that had finally appeared. "You and Fitz are going to have to do a lot of space sharing 'cause I'm comfortable. When I leave in six months, then the two of you can fight over my space until someone else moves in." He stretched back out on the bunk. "Go on up to the wardroom, and I'll be up shortly to get you started. You're going to be in my duty section anyway, so I might as well start you off right."
"Okay, I'll see you soon, sir."
"Call me Joe. We're going to see a lot of each other, every fourth day and every fourth weekend." Life, thought David, really is less formal on destroyers.
It wasn't hard to find the wardroom on the Bagley. They were all in the same location in Fletcher-class destroyers. He went back through the midships passageway, nodded at the PO of the watch who was blowing on a cup of coffee, and proceeded up the starboard side to the wardroom.
A pot of coffee that had probably been on the hot plate since the previous night simmered by the open space to the pantry. The table was covered with the standard dark green felt, bearing the stains of many unidentified spills. A beige couch riveted to the deck and bulkhead extended on either side in one corner: On the forward bulkhead, emphasized by reflections from the water outside, were the ship's plaque, photos of the ship at various stages of her life, and a photo of a white bearded man in an ancient navy uniform — probably Bagley himself. Magazines that had been waiting a few weeks for the ship's return were lying open on the couch, no doubt left there by a bored Donovan.
David Charles poured himself a cup of coffee after locating some milk in the pantry refrigerator. The milk barely changed the color and did nothing at all for the taste. He stretched out on the cracked leather of the couch and picked up a copy of a torn Navy Times. Donovan made an unkempt appearance a few minutes later, tossing his cap on the table beside David and nodding. He poured a cup of coffee, taking it black, sat down at the head of the table, and gulped down half of the black mess as if he didn't notice the taste. When it finally registered, he went angrily over to the ship's phone and pressed the buzzer for the quarterdeck. When a voice answered, he said, "This is Mr. Donovan. Find the duty steward and send him to the wardroom, on the double." Turning to the new ensign, he added, "I thought I was doing him a favor last night when I said that he didn't have to prepare breakfast this morning, but the son of a bitch was too goddamn lazy to even fix a fresh pot."
"We're not the only ones on duty this weekend?" questioned David.
"Nope." Another scratch, which David thought was perhaps a habit. "The captain let me send Craig Scott home last night, since he's married, too. He decided that Paul Goorjian and I could handle everything until Saturday morning, but I sure don't know what he thought you could do. On the other hand, he's always good to the brown baggers. I'm a bachelor and that wild Armenian, Goorjian, is a bachelor. You caught this section because you are too, and Craig was unfortunate enough to earn me because the operations officer says he wants one officer from his department in each section." He paused for a second. "You see, we're not supposed to be as horny as they are when we come into home port, and there's nothing uglier than a married officer who knows he has to wait one more night before he can pole-vault home. So the captain made a deal. When we're in any other port, my section is guaranteed liberty, and Captain Carter decided that arrangement keeps everybody happy."
"It sounds good," said David. "Does it always work right?"
"We've spent more damn time during exercises this year going into tombs like Newport, Charleston, and Mayport, Florida." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "But, San Juan was great last winter. Let me tell you what the best part is about being guardian of the brown-bag morals — the dinner invitations! We have some wives that are the best cooks in Norfolk, and they're honestly sorry that we have to live on the ship like monks — they think! But the best part of all is that the young ones all work, and they have single girl friends who show up for dinner, and sometimes it's just like shooting fish in a barrel." He grinned for the first time and then, thinking more about what he had said, laughed. "You play your cards right, and follow old Joe Donovans guidance, and you'll eat good and get plenty of action, too."
The young ensign smiled back, not quite knowing what to say. The formal training at Annapolis hadn't covered this aspect of Navy life, nor did it mention CO's who seemed concerned about wardroom sex life. Donovan was certainly not the Academy's idea of the average command-duty officer, yet he had been left in charge of the ship.
The duty steward, a Filipino in dungarees and a work shirt, stuck his head cautiously in through the pantryway. "Mr. Donovan, you call me?" he asked in broken English.
"Damn right I did, Santo. Would you drink that crap?" pointing at the thick mess in the coffeepot.
The steward shrugged his shoulders, maintaining a neutral expression.
"You can be damn sure the crew wouldn't touch that." He waved his arms above his head. "I want another pot super fast." The little dark-skinned man came around from the pantry to pick up the pot. Donovan looked down at his slippered feet. "And after you do that, go back down and get on the uniform of the day and report back to me." Turning away toward David, he muttered, "The little bastards will always take advantage of you, if you give them half a chance. And you better believe they understand English! I said last night that he didn't have to make breakfast for us, since I always let Goorjian sleep in on the weekends, and I don't eat breakfast anyway. You can be damn sure he won't do that again."