at
Haury’s? Why did she want to meet me? Who was she, really? To know
would have spoiled the evening. The yellow Corvette with the black
hardtop was showing up too many times. Lisa Mallory, in some way,
was a threat. Lisa Mallory spelled ‘trouble’.
* * *
Trent felt the biting cold salt air lace his face as
he stood out in the open on the upper deck of the Bremerton ferry.
As the ferry plowed on steadily westward, he braced himself and
clutched his fur-lined collar tight about his neck. The city of
Bremerton and the Yard soon appeared in the distance, an
inseparable pair. The bow propeller thrashed easing the ferry into
her slip. Navy Patrol Boat #41, a number painstakingly painted on
her gray hull, lay idling next to the ferry terminal. Disembarking,
he and Madden were carried forward by a crowd of tourists heading
for the Navy Base gate. They waited for a Marine guard to check
their ID’s and place a phone call. Madden reminisced of the fast
gearing up of the war years, 1941-45, when the Yard hit its stride.
Now things were very different: no yard birds in sight, civilian
workers, welders, ship-fitters, electricians, keepers of the
Reserve Fleet, were off. Except for crews working the Missouri , these were unhurried times.
“ The Yard used to be jumping
‘round-the-clock and no weekends off,” Madden said. “I passed
through here in ‘44 when the Washington steamed in with her
bow stove in clear back from keel to within ten feet of the main
deck. He crew rigged her anchor chains to hold on the whole bow.
She had collided with the Indiana . In less than 30 days they
had on a whole new front end. The Yard Commandant had told his men:
The Washington is in, and the Washington is out.”
Madden laughed, “And that’s exactly what they did; but there was a
war on then. There was no slacking.”
Looking coldly at Madden, Trent said, “And, the
Captain of the Indiana was court-martialed for ‘dereliction
of duty and needlessly hazarding his ship’. He was found guilty,”
he stated bitterly. “Captain Steele, relieved of command, was never
promoted, and never again served at sea. He accepted his fate; I do
not.”
Innocently cornered, Madden felt relieved when a
small Navy bus drove up. They joined other contractors in a low,
gray building standing about drinking coffee and waiting. Chief
Yeoman Newby and Radarman 1/C Sean Barclay introduced themselves.
Moments later, as if on cue, they snapped to attention as an
officer entered. A hush fell over the room.
“ My name is Ward Conover:
Commander Ward Conover, to you,” he said. His hair was cropped
short and the color of black coal; the eyebrows were thick and
bushy and matted over his nose. He wore a hard expression that
oozed sternness: he could be characterized a chief bosun in the
Merchant Marine. In a gravelly, husky voice, he proclaimed, “I am
in charge of the Missouri . My job is a tough one, thirty
days to get her ready to tow. And, she will depart on time.
Understood. If you have any doubts, feel free to back out now. If
you have any other questions…?”
“ What kind of shape is she
in?”
Conover frowned as he cleared his throat.
“ After this briefing, you will be
taken on a tour. You can see for yourselves. The Missouri has been mothballed, sealed up below decks. Dry air is constantly
piped into all possible spaces using the ship’s fire mains.
Relative humidity has been kept at 30 percent. The Missouri is well preserved internally. Her equipment is in excellent
shape.”
‘“ When can we start?”
“ Contracts will be signed Tuesday
and you will be notified of assigned work areas. This job must be
done quickly.”
“ How extensive is the
work?”
“ Everything below decks is to be
opened up Dehumidification and preservation systems stripped out to
remain here at the Yard. Once inside, you will find the ship’s gear
stowed everywhere, valves, fittings, every gismo and doodad left
aboard. Each was tagged for a future
Haury’s? Why did she want to meet me? Who was she, really? To know
would have spoiled the evening. The yellow Corvette with the black
hardtop was showing up too many times. Lisa Mallory, in some way,
was a threat. Lisa Mallory spelled ‘trouble’.
* * *
Trent felt the biting cold salt air lace his face as
he stood out in the open on the upper deck of the Bremerton ferry.
As the ferry plowed on steadily westward, he braced himself and
clutched his fur-lined collar tight about his neck. The city of
Bremerton and the Yard soon appeared in the distance, an
inseparable pair. The bow propeller thrashed easing the ferry into
her slip. Navy Patrol Boat #41, a number painstakingly painted on
her gray hull, lay idling next to the ferry terminal. Disembarking,
he and Madden were carried forward by a crowd of tourists heading
for the Navy Base gate. They waited for a Marine guard to check
their ID’s and place a phone call. Madden reminisced of the fast
gearing up of the war years, 1941-45, when the Yard hit its stride.
Now things were very different: no yard birds in sight, civilian
workers, welders, ship-fitters, electricians, keepers of the
Reserve Fleet, were off. Except for crews working the Missouri , these were unhurried times.
“ The Yard used to be jumping
‘round-the-clock and no weekends off,” Madden said. “I passed
through here in ‘44 when the Washington steamed in with her
bow stove in clear back from keel to within ten feet of the main
deck. He crew rigged her anchor chains to hold on the whole bow.
She had collided with the Indiana . In less than 30 days they
had on a whole new front end. The Yard Commandant had told his men:
The Washington is in, and the Washington is out.”
Madden laughed, “And that’s exactly what they did; but there was a
war on then. There was no slacking.”
Looking coldly at Madden, Trent said, “And, the
Captain of the Indiana was court-martialed for ‘dereliction
of duty and needlessly hazarding his ship’. He was found guilty,”
he stated bitterly. “Captain Steele, relieved of command, was never
promoted, and never again served at sea. He accepted his fate; I do
not.”
Innocently cornered, Madden felt relieved when a
small Navy bus drove up. They joined other contractors in a low,
gray building standing about drinking coffee and waiting. Chief
Yeoman Newby and Radarman 1/C Sean Barclay introduced themselves.
Moments later, as if on cue, they snapped to attention as an
officer entered. A hush fell over the room.
“ My name is Ward Conover:
Commander Ward Conover, to you,” he said. His hair was cropped
short and the color of black coal; the eyebrows were thick and
bushy and matted over his nose. He wore a hard expression that
oozed sternness: he could be characterized a chief bosun in the
Merchant Marine. In a gravelly, husky voice, he proclaimed, “I am
in charge of the Missouri . My job is a tough one, thirty
days to get her ready to tow. And, she will depart on time.
Understood. If you have any doubts, feel free to back out now. If
you have any other questions…?”
“ What kind of shape is she
in?”
Conover frowned as he cleared his throat.
“ After this briefing, you will be
taken on a tour. You can see for yourselves. The Missouri has been mothballed, sealed up below decks. Dry air is constantly
piped into all possible spaces using the ship’s fire mains.
Relative humidity has been kept at 30 percent. The Missouri is well preserved internally. Her equipment is in excellent
shape.”
‘“ When can we start?”
“ Contracts will be signed Tuesday
and you will be notified of assigned work areas. This job must be
done quickly.”
“ How extensive is the
work?”
“ Everything below decks is to be
opened up Dehumidification and preservation systems stripped out to
remain here at the Yard. Once inside, you will find the ship’s gear
stowed everywhere, valves, fittings, every gismo and doodad left
aboard. Each was tagged for a future
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