the men as they heaved and wrestled with the heavy cables, and continued aft on the weatherdecks until he reached the quarterdeck area, where there was the usual crowd of people present whenever a ship came back into port. The Officer of the Deck saw him coming and cleared the quarterdeck so that the Captain could get through the milling crowd. The ship’s loudspeakers blared out four gongs, and the words, “Goldsborough, departing.” Mike saluted the Officer of the Deck and then the American flag
flapping at the stern, and then walked across the narrow brow to the next ship, whose own announcing system was proclaiming “Goldsborough, crossing,” to the world at large.
He crossed the frigate’s quarterdeck, and walked down her brow to the pier itself. The Commodore’s office was up on a small, man-made hill above the piers, less than a half block away. The office had a large plate glass window on its pier side, with darkened one-way glass. Mike was conscious of the probability that the Commodore was sitting up there at his desk watching him walk down the crowded pier. It was a typical Mayport afternoon, clear, sunny, and hot, with an afternoon breeze pumping some loose papers along the waterfront street. It being Friday, there was already a steady stream of sailors walking down the street with the Captain, their beach outfits in vivid contrast to his pressed khakis and shiny shoes. Hope Himself is in a good mood, thought Mike. He was always a bit nervous when he went to see Captain Aronson, whose mercurial temper was legendary on the waterfront.
He was met in the Commodore’s outer office by Commander Bill Barstowe, the Chief Staff Officer of Destroyer Squadron Twelve. Bill was a good friend, which was fortunate, because he was in a position to make life much easier or very much harder for any CO. He had already finished his command tour, and was thus an experienced filter of both good news and bad news to the Commodore.
“Michael,” he said, warmly, standing up as Montgomery walked into his office. “How’s the deep blue sea, Sir?”
“Deep and blue, Bill. And empty of submarines, I might add.”
“Sit down. The Commodore’s talking to some guy in Washington. Want some coffee?” He reached for his own mug on the corner of his cluttered desk.
“No thanks; it’s almost Miller time. I’m coffee’d out, anyway.”
“Right; hang on a minute while I refill.”
Mike looked around while Barstowe went to refill his coffee cup. The Chief Staff Officer’s desk was literally piled
high with paperwork. For all the hassle of being a destroyer commanding officer in the peacetime Navy, it had to beat being a staff officer, even a Chief Staff Officer. Or a Chief of Staff, he thought, darkly. He was still convinced that his nemesis on the Group staff, Captain J. Walker Martinson, III, had been behind the little trip out to the Gulf Stream. Barstowe returned.
“So,” he said, sitting down again. “No U-boats lurking out there amongst those upstanding citizens of the real Mayport, our shrimpy friends?”
“Nary a one,” replied Mike, stretching his long legs out in front of the overstuffed chair. “We could have made better use of our time back here going cold iron and working steam leaks.”
“Yes, Sir, I know. Even the Commodore thought that was a little strange. But the Chief of Staff—”
“I knew it!” exclaimed Mike. “I just frigging knew it. That guy has a hardon for Goldsborough, and takes every opportunity to jerk us around. He’s just trying to cut us out of the Fleetex.”
Barstowe grinned. “Now, now, you can’t make a federal case out of it just because he sent Goldy—you guys were already out at sea, and you are technically duty destroyer this week, until 1600 today as a matter of fact.”
Barstowe, along with almost every other Commander on the waterfront, knew of the antipathy between Montgomery and Martinson. It was just one of those things—the two officers had taken an
flapping at the stern, and then walked across the narrow brow to the next ship, whose own announcing system was proclaiming “Goldsborough, crossing,” to the world at large.
He crossed the frigate’s quarterdeck, and walked down her brow to the pier itself. The Commodore’s office was up on a small, man-made hill above the piers, less than a half block away. The office had a large plate glass window on its pier side, with darkened one-way glass. Mike was conscious of the probability that the Commodore was sitting up there at his desk watching him walk down the crowded pier. It was a typical Mayport afternoon, clear, sunny, and hot, with an afternoon breeze pumping some loose papers along the waterfront street. It being Friday, there was already a steady stream of sailors walking down the street with the Captain, their beach outfits in vivid contrast to his pressed khakis and shiny shoes. Hope Himself is in a good mood, thought Mike. He was always a bit nervous when he went to see Captain Aronson, whose mercurial temper was legendary on the waterfront.
He was met in the Commodore’s outer office by Commander Bill Barstowe, the Chief Staff Officer of Destroyer Squadron Twelve. Bill was a good friend, which was fortunate, because he was in a position to make life much easier or very much harder for any CO. He had already finished his command tour, and was thus an experienced filter of both good news and bad news to the Commodore.
“Michael,” he said, warmly, standing up as Montgomery walked into his office. “How’s the deep blue sea, Sir?”
“Deep and blue, Bill. And empty of submarines, I might add.”
“Sit down. The Commodore’s talking to some guy in Washington. Want some coffee?” He reached for his own mug on the corner of his cluttered desk.
“No thanks; it’s almost Miller time. I’m coffee’d out, anyway.”
“Right; hang on a minute while I refill.”
Mike looked around while Barstowe went to refill his coffee cup. The Chief Staff Officer’s desk was literally piled
high with paperwork. For all the hassle of being a destroyer commanding officer in the peacetime Navy, it had to beat being a staff officer, even a Chief Staff Officer. Or a Chief of Staff, he thought, darkly. He was still convinced that his nemesis on the Group staff, Captain J. Walker Martinson, III, had been behind the little trip out to the Gulf Stream. Barstowe returned.
“So,” he said, sitting down again. “No U-boats lurking out there amongst those upstanding citizens of the real Mayport, our shrimpy friends?”
“Nary a one,” replied Mike, stretching his long legs out in front of the overstuffed chair. “We could have made better use of our time back here going cold iron and working steam leaks.”
“Yes, Sir, I know. Even the Commodore thought that was a little strange. But the Chief of Staff—”
“I knew it!” exclaimed Mike. “I just frigging knew it. That guy has a hardon for Goldsborough, and takes every opportunity to jerk us around. He’s just trying to cut us out of the Fleetex.”
Barstowe grinned. “Now, now, you can’t make a federal case out of it just because he sent Goldy—you guys were already out at sea, and you are technically duty destroyer this week, until 1600 today as a matter of fact.”
Barstowe, along with almost every other Commander on the waterfront, knew of the antipathy between Montgomery and Martinson. It was just one of those things—the two officers had taken an
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