enlisted man, Koval, and thought he was well within his rights to date Laurie. Then there was the camp that thought Bob Doyle had been wronged. It was like some bad play. He began skipping work to follow his wife around town, hoping to catch her and her boyfriend in a lustful act while Koval riled up sentiment in the engineering department against his nemesis. The command, fearing that Koval might walk into the barracks guns blazing, tried to wade into the whole affair. But it only made things worse. Soon people developed opinions about what the command had done and whether it was fair or not fair, and in the end morale only sank even lower.
Then one Sunday, a number of couples who had anchored out in the sound saw Koval, Laurie and another couple returning together from a weekend boat trip. It was all over town within hours and the following morning Bob Doyle filed yet another chit. This one stuck. Koval was court-martialed that September and pleaded guilty to disobeying a written order from his superiors. It came at a bad time for Koval, who had just put in for a promotion to warrant officer; he was busted down a pay grade, though ultimately the court did allow him to stay in the Coast Guard.
The hobbling of Koval did nothing to prevent Bob Doyle from walking his own gangplank. He drank day and night, Miller Genuine Draft by day, Crown Royal by night, mostly because they were convenient. When he was transferred to Sitka and promoted to supply officer, his immediate supervisor, a lieutenant by the name of Bill Adickes, put him in charge of overseeing the exchange and the Eagle’s Nest, a pub for officers complete with outdated jukebox, pool tables worn to the threads and cheap ashtrays. It was, in retrospect, almost funny how the Coast Guard could put an alcoholic in charge of all of the booze and cigarettes he could possibly want. He took full advantage. Before closing the exchange he’d nick a couple of cases of Miller off the front display stack, a few packs of Luckies, a bottle of Crown Royal or Canadian Hunter for good measure, and polish them off at home on his couch.
He would skip work, or show up, frazzled, after lunch. His subordinates covered for him for months. But the exchange manager, one of the only people he’d ever pushed to do her job and who thoroughly despised him, went to Adickes, his supervisor, and ratted him out. One day Adickes confronted him about the missing merchandise and he denied taking it.
“Your Coast Guard career is over!” Adickes shrieked. Whenever he got upset, the veins in his neck looked like they were about to explode. “I’ll make sure of that. Now get your stuff and get out of my office!”
Bob Doyle had not gotten angry or violent over that, either. Why hadn’t he? Most anyone else would have fought back. Defended his honor. Maybe he had no honor anymore. Maybe he never should have become an officer. The Coast Guard policy had always been to move up or ship out. He liked being a Coastie, so he’d had to rise through the ranks to stay. But he never fit as an officer. It wasn’t just a simple progression. He didn’t like the politics of officialdom. The responsibility. Maybe that’s where the Coast Guard failed him —by promoting him.
It all came to a head two days before Thanksgiving in 1996, when the cops pulled him over into the parking lot of the Mormon church on Sawmill Creek Road. He’d downed more than a few boilermakers at the Eagle’s Nest and had been soaring around town in his van. The charge was driving under the influence, and they locked him up for three days.
His conviction came down in January. It was his second offense in a year, and by the book, the Coast Guard had every right to throw him out. Adickes suggested a graceful exit—an administrative discharge, he called it. And so, on April 30, 1997, twenty-one years, five months and twenty-seven days after joining up in Springfield, Massachusetts, Bob Doyle signed the forms for early
Then one Sunday, a number of couples who had anchored out in the sound saw Koval, Laurie and another couple returning together from a weekend boat trip. It was all over town within hours and the following morning Bob Doyle filed yet another chit. This one stuck. Koval was court-martialed that September and pleaded guilty to disobeying a written order from his superiors. It came at a bad time for Koval, who had just put in for a promotion to warrant officer; he was busted down a pay grade, though ultimately the court did allow him to stay in the Coast Guard.
The hobbling of Koval did nothing to prevent Bob Doyle from walking his own gangplank. He drank day and night, Miller Genuine Draft by day, Crown Royal by night, mostly because they were convenient. When he was transferred to Sitka and promoted to supply officer, his immediate supervisor, a lieutenant by the name of Bill Adickes, put him in charge of overseeing the exchange and the Eagle’s Nest, a pub for officers complete with outdated jukebox, pool tables worn to the threads and cheap ashtrays. It was, in retrospect, almost funny how the Coast Guard could put an alcoholic in charge of all of the booze and cigarettes he could possibly want. He took full advantage. Before closing the exchange he’d nick a couple of cases of Miller off the front display stack, a few packs of Luckies, a bottle of Crown Royal or Canadian Hunter for good measure, and polish them off at home on his couch.
He would skip work, or show up, frazzled, after lunch. His subordinates covered for him for months. But the exchange manager, one of the only people he’d ever pushed to do her job and who thoroughly despised him, went to Adickes, his supervisor, and ratted him out. One day Adickes confronted him about the missing merchandise and he denied taking it.
“Your Coast Guard career is over!” Adickes shrieked. Whenever he got upset, the veins in his neck looked like they were about to explode. “I’ll make sure of that. Now get your stuff and get out of my office!”
Bob Doyle had not gotten angry or violent over that, either. Why hadn’t he? Most anyone else would have fought back. Defended his honor. Maybe he had no honor anymore. Maybe he never should have become an officer. The Coast Guard policy had always been to move up or ship out. He liked being a Coastie, so he’d had to rise through the ranks to stay. But he never fit as an officer. It wasn’t just a simple progression. He didn’t like the politics of officialdom. The responsibility. Maybe that’s where the Coast Guard failed him —by promoting him.
It all came to a head two days before Thanksgiving in 1996, when the cops pulled him over into the parking lot of the Mormon church on Sawmill Creek Road. He’d downed more than a few boilermakers at the Eagle’s Nest and had been soaring around town in his van. The charge was driving under the influence, and they locked him up for three days.
His conviction came down in January. It was his second offense in a year, and by the book, the Coast Guard had every right to throw him out. Adickes suggested a graceful exit—an administrative discharge, he called it. And so, on April 30, 1997, twenty-one years, five months and twenty-seven days after joining up in Springfield, Massachusetts, Bob Doyle signed the forms for early
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