“Not at all, Petty Officer Moran. Thank you for informing me. I’ll make the change and turn in the watch bill. I’ll let you know as soon as the WEPS approves it.” Jerry left the torpedo room feeling good about his watch bill, a trivial assignment in the grand scheme of things, but it had passed muster with a senior petty officer and he would be turning it in on time. Returning to his stateroom, Jerry quickly made the change and then took the final version to the WEPS with five minutes to spare.
Richards took the paper without saying anything. As he started reading it, his face became crimson. Then he slammed the watch bill on his desktop and yelled, “What kind of bullshit are you trying to give me, Mitchell!”
“Excuse me, sir?” Jerry replied in a confused tone.
“This watch bill is all hosed up! You have Jobin and Davidson in the same watch section. Jobin isn’t qualified to do anything yet and Davidson will be gone for three weeks. This leaves only two qualified people in the first section.”
“I wasn’t aware that Davidson was going to be gone,” said Jerry as his temper started rising. “He was on the Senior Chief’s port and starboard watch bill and I assumed he would be available. And as for Seaman Jobin, TM1 Moran specifically requested that I put Jobin in his watch section.”
Jerry’s response seemed to irritate Richards even more as he rose from his chair and started speaking through clinched teeth. “Mr. Mitchell, FT2 Davidson has a quota to an advanced maintenance course for the CCS Mk 2 fire-control system. Once it was announced that we were going to a three-section duty rotation, Senior Chief Foster asked me to let Davidson go to the course as originally planned. If you would bother to talk to your leading chief, you would know what the hell is going on in your division.”
Jerry had to fight hard to keep from blowing up on his department head. Senior Chief Foster had intentionally withheld information he needed to know, and on top of that, had left the boat so that he couldn’t be ordered to ensure that the watch bill was correct. Jerry sensed that arguing with Cal Richards about the senior chief’s malicious attempts at sabotage would be a lost cause and would only make things worse. Instead, Jerry took a number of slow, deep breaths and pulled the watch bill from Richards’ desk.
“Sir, given this new information, all we need to do is move Petty Officer Larsen from the third section to the first and each section now has three qualified watch standers.”
Richards seemed to be mollified by Jerry’s calm reply and he sat back down. “Very well, Mr. Mitchell. I accept your recommendation.”
Jerry turned to leave, but Richards called him back. “Where is your repair parts list, mister? Senior Chief Foster said he had finished it and the two-kilos over an hour ago.”
“I don’t know where the list is, sir. Senior Chief Foster never gave it to me,” said Jerry in a non- confrontational, matter-of-fact tone. “But I’ll go find the list and get it to you ASAP.” The puzzled look on Richards’ face told Jerry that perhaps he was starting to get through to the WEPS. Jerry certainly hoped so. Richards said nothing. He simply returned to his mountain of paperwork while Jerry quickly returned to his stateroom. Once there, Jerry picked up the boat’s internal telephone and called down to the torpedo room.
“Torpedo room,” responded the other person on the line. Jerry didn’t recognize the voice.
“This is Mr. Mitchell. Is TM1 Moran there?”
“Yes sir. Wait one.”
After a brief pause, Jerry heard a familiar voice: “Moran here. What can I do for you, sir?”
“Petty Officer Moran, the WEPS has approved the watch bill with minor modifications. You, Jobin, Willis, and Larsen have the duty, the rest may knock off work and go home for the night after they check out with you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll pass the word to the division. Anything else?”
“Yes, just one question,” said Jerry. “Do you know if Senior Chief Foster and Petty Officer Bearden have returned to the boat yet?”
“I haven’t seen the Senior Chief, but FT1 Bearden is here now. Would you like to speak to him?” replied Moran.
“Yes, please.”
After another brief pause, the lead fire-control technician was on the line, “Bearden, sir.”
“Petty Officer Bearden, do you know where Senior Chief Foster is? I need to get the repair part list he was working on into the WEPS.”
There was absolute silence on the other end. Then, somewhat hesitantly, Bearden answered, “Sir, I believe the Senior Chief went home for the day.”
“Really? Well, that wasn’t very wise now, was it?” responded Jerry in a cynical tone. He wasn’t at all surprised that Foster had not returned. “Petty Officer Bearden, do you know where he normally keeps the division’s laptop?”
“Certainly, sir. Senior Chief Foster usually keeps it in his locker under his bunk in the chiefs’ quarters.”
“Thank you, I’ll take care of the matter. Have a good evening.” And with that Jerry hung up the phone and headed back to the chiefs’ quarters. As Jerry went by the wardroom, he could see that dinner was being served and he realized that he was a bit hungry himself. The COB answered the door again and Jerry apologized profusely for interrupting the chiefs’ meal. He explained that he needed the division’s laptop to answer the WEPS’ requirement and that it was very likely in Senior Chief Foster’s bunk locker. The COB disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with the laptop in hand. Jerry thanked the COB and hurried back to his stateroom.
Fortunately, Foster hadn’t buried the files in some folder that was deeply nested in another. Jerry took a quick look at the list. He didn’t have the time or expertise to know if it was complete and printed out a copy on paper and saved the files to two diskettes. Jerry took one of the diskettes and the paper copy and laid it on top of the WEPS’ desk and proceeded to the wardroom to get something to eat. Since he had arrived very late, Jerry ate, alone, at the second sitting.
Exhausted, Jerry went back to his stateroom and literally fell into his rack. He tried to read some more out of the ship’s information book, but he was mentally and physically spent and he just couldn’t concentrate. Realizing that this was a waste of time, Jerry got ready for bed, crawled back in, and closed the curtain on his rack. After getting comfortable, Jerry thought back on the terrible day he had had. And for the second night in a row he found himself asking the same nagging question: Had he done the right thing in asking for subs?
Jerry remembered the last hurdle he had to clear before the Navy would grant his request. It was an interview with the Director of Naval Reactors. Before that meeting, Jerry and his squadron commander had visited “Uncle Jim” Thorvald in his office. The senator would not, of course, attend the meeting, but wanted to wish Jerry well. And Jerry wanted to thank the senator for his efforts.
Jerry had never been in Washington, D.C. before, or the Russell Senate Office Building, or a senator’s office. Starting with the seal of the Great State of Nebraska on the door, it was filled with symbols of the state, as well as a fair amount of Cornhuskers memorabilia.
They went into the senator’s inner office, and he welcomed the two officers warmly. “Jerry, Commander Casey, please come in. Take a seat.” An aide materialized with juice and rolls, appropriate for the early hour. Jerry sat nervously on the leather couch.
The balding, thin, almost scrawny senator regarded his nephew fondly, but also appraisingly. “I’ve spent some political coin to get you a second chance with the Navy, Jerry. Assuming you pass the Naval Reactors inquisition, are the taxpayers going to get their money back?” Although he smiled and joked a little, Jerry knew the senator was serious.
“You know I’ll do my best. Senator…Uncle Jim.”
“But is that enough, Jerry? We all knew you’d be a good pilot. You’re the type, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted. I can remember you saying it when you were six, and it never changed. Now, suddenly, it’s subs. You know the Navy will make it hard for you. Can you do it?”
Jerry nodded. “Remember when I taught myself Japanese so I could watch all those anime films undubbed? How about when I built that hang glider?”
“You mean the scaring us to death part?” Thorvald asked, smiling.
Jerry laughed, remembering. “No, I mean the part where I met all the FAA safety requirements — and Mom’s. Built it, and paid for it, all by myself, when I was seventeen.”
“Maybe you should have built a minisub,” the senator responded, half-jokingly.
“And I’ve been scuba diving since my senior year in high school.”
Torvald held up his hands in surrender. “All right, Jerry, I remember.”
