A Commodore of Errors (5 page)

“I'm not privy to his personal life, sir,” the Commodore said. “I can only assume that his relationship with Miss Conrad is chaste.”

“Mogelefsky doesn't have a chaste bone in his body,” Johnson said, gnashing his teeth.

The others at the table bobbed their heads in agreement.

“Nevertheless,” the Commodore said, “I do agree with the mayor that it couldn't hurt to hire a PR firm to improve our relations with the outside world. This place can be fairly insular, as you know, sir.”

“We like it insular, Bobby. That's the way WASPs are.”

The others nodded in perfect synchronization.

“Very well then, sir,” the Commodore said. “I'll call Miss Conrad and tell her we're not interested.”

“Now hold on a minute.” Johnson's Johnson winked at his cronies. “Reschedule the meeting with Miss Conrad anyway. I'd like to have a look at her—what'd you call them?—shapely legs.”

The Commodore was thrilled but tried not to show it. “Will do, sir.”

The commandant suddenly pushed his ample girth back from the table. “Hey, Commodore, I saw you in the auditorium practicing your speech. I must say, you make beautiful hand gestures.”

The others at the table had another good laugh at the Commodore's expense. The Commodore, knowing that his roughneck colleagues were simply jealous of his numerous talents, decided to take the higher road.

“Thank you, Commandant. Coming from a sycophant such as yourself, your praise certainly is expected.”

The assistant commandant pushed back from the table now as well, following his boss's lead. “Hey, what's a sycophant anyhow?”

“It means I'm sophisticated, dummy.” The commandant slapped his little buddy on the back of the head. “Let's go. We'll leave Mr. Commodore here with Admiral Johnson so he can tell him why he fired our bandleader this morning.”

“You did what?” Johnson shouted while the others walked away, laughing.

“I fired the man,” the Commodore said. “He was tone-deaf. There is simply no room in this institution for mediocrity.”

Johnson's face reddened. “Who died and left you boss, Bobby? You take care of the back end of things here at the academy and don't you forget it. I do the hiring and firing.”

“I was merely trying to raise the standards of our dear regimental band, sir. They are truly dreadful and it is for want of a proper leader.”

Johnson was about to respond further when he spotted a young woman in a white nurse's uniform enter the mess hall from the galley.

“Who's that?” Johnson was on the edge of his chair.

“Oh her?” The Commodore pretended to look to see who it was. “That's our new nurse. Fresh out of nursing school, I'm afraid. She appears to be a bit wet behind the ears. I'm keeping an eye on her.”

“You don't need to do that,” Johnson said. “
I'll
keep an eye on her thank you very much. You run along now, Bobby. I think I'll introduce myself to our new inexperienced nurse.”

The Commodore breathed a sigh of relief. The poor nurse would have her hands full in a moment, but the Commodore couldn't care less. All he cared about was that she had saved him from Johnson's wrath, for the moment anyhow. The only surprise was that the young thing had followed his orders so well and showed up in the mess hall at the exact time he had asked her to.

PLEBE KNOWLEDGE

T
he next morning, Johnson's Johnson gave the new nurse a firm kiss on the cheek and a soft pat on the ass before ducking out the back entrance of the infirmary and walking the short distance across the parking lot to the Superintendent's Residence.

The Superintendent's Residence was the most prominent house on the academy grounds. It stood next to the officers' club on a high bluff overlooking the Sound. Johnson had promised his wife he would stop in during the day to watch her paint a still life of the clay pot he'd bought her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. His wife had never tried a still life before but she had always wanted to paint in their English garden overlooking the Sound.

Yes, twenty-five years they had been married. The last ten or so had not been easy. His wife had developed “nervous trouble,” as he called it, out of the blue and for no apparent reason it seemed—at least to him. Anyhow, she was not good for much anymore. It put a strain on their marriage for a time, but
things had long ago reached a sort of equilibrium. It was the navy chaplain who had saved Johnson's own sanity. “It's about loyalty, not fidelity,” he remembered the chaplain telling him one day. The chaplain's words greatly eased Johnson's conscience.

Johnson entered the quaint garden and found his wife sitting on a wood stool with her back to the water. She faced the clay pot, which was situated on a wrought iron table next to a vine-covered trellis. Johnson sank into an Adirondack chair behind her. Nary a word passed between them for over two hours while his wife mixed her palette of paints until—

“The blue is wrong, don't you think, sweetie?

“Yeah, I think it is, sweetie. Why don't you work on it some more? I have to go now to meet with the Board of Governors about building this monument the Commodore wants.”

“Maybe you're right. Maybe the blue is wrong. And the green as well. Maybe it's the light.”

“I think maybe it's the light.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

Johnson patted his wife's shoulder and beat a fast retreat from the garden. He passed through the iron gate in the privacy hedge and nearly bumped into the Commodore, who just happened to be coming out of the officers' club. Of course, the Commodore was on his way to the same meeting as Johnson. The two senior-most officers of the academy cut through the foyer in First Company and crossed Barney Square on the way to Wiley Hall.

“So, Bobby,” Johnson said to fill the silence, “how's the incoming class of plebes shaping up? Have you heard any gossip?”

“As I understand it, their two weeks of Indoctrination for Training into the regimental system went smoothly enough. We saw no more plebes than usual show up at the infirmary complaining of the flu. You know—their way of trying to get a breather from the hazing dished out by the upperclassmen.”

“Oh, I know, you don't have to tell me,” Johnson said. “It's the yelling, Some of them just can't take being yelled at.”

Both the Commodore and Johnson, having been plebes themselves once a long time ago, knew that the “gauntlets” were the worst. After an exhausting day that began at dawn; after all the calisthenics, drilling, and marching; after all the room inspections, personal appearance inspections, and duty-station inspections; after a day full of brainwashing and garden-variety hazing, came a specialized form of hazing. A squad of upperclassmen formed a gauntlet by lining up on both sides of the hallway in the barracks with the lights turned off. Another squad of upperclassman would then herd a platoon of plebes through the darkened barracks to the head of the gauntlet. One by one, the upperclassman passed the plebes through the gauntlet in the pitch darkness.

The upperclassmen in the gauntlet would then begin to scream at the plebes:

How many cadet-midshipmen died in the line of duty in WWII? I said how many? You're not sure, you dumb shit? Those poor bastards died so your slutty mother can drive an SUV and you don't know how many died? How high is the flagpole? The United States Merchant Marine Academy has the tallest un-guyed flagpole in the world and you can't be bothered to learn how high it is, you worthless piece of shit? Do you have any pride? You're a worthless piece of shit, do you know that? Oh that you know, but you don't know how many cadet-midshipmen died for your sorry ass? Sound off, dickhead! Midshipman fourth class who? Midshipman Fourth Class Harris? Did your brother go here, Harris? He did? Your brother was an asshole, Harris. He stuck me. Gave me demerits for no good fucking reason. Get out of my sight, you sorry piece of shit.

Back into the gauntlet the sorry piece of shit went. Gauntlets lasted for no more than fifteen minutes, but to the plebes, it seemed an eternity.

“Yes, sir,” the Commodore said, “the wonderful cacophony of Indoc—the gauntlets, the cries of plebes sounding off in the barracks, the slapping of hands against the wood stock of parade rifles on Barney Square, all of the wonderful sights and sounds of Indoc have finally given way to the quiet of academic classes. The silence feels kind of eerie to me.”

“Suits me just fine,” Johnson said. He didn't like Indoc. It pained him to see the upperclassmen hazing the plebes. The official term for the upperclassmen who volunteered to cut their paltry summer vacation even shorter to train the plebes during Indoc was “pusher.” Johnson called them “dipshits” and thought
they oughta be chasing pussy on some beach somewhere instead of insulting some poor plebe's mother for forgetting a ridiculous bit of plebe knowledge.

“Why the hell do the plebes have to know who Edwin J. O'Hara is, anyway?” Johnson asked.

“Why, old boy,” the Commodore said, “O'Hara is the academy's first son, a war hero who died serving his country.”

“Bullshit. He was one of one hundred and forty-two cadets who died during World War II. How come the plebes don't know the names of the other one hundred and forty-one poor bastards? And don't old boy me.”

“O'Hara is unique, sir, a legitimate hero who deserves a monument.”

“Bullshit.” Johnson liked the War Memorial, which honored all one hundred and forty-two fallen cadets without singling out any one individual. They were selfless boys who never called attention to themselves and they deserved to be remembered that way. All for one and one for all, wasn't that what it was all about?

In the meeting with the Board of Governors, Johnson explained his tiresome all-for-one-and-one-for-all line of thinking once again. The Commodore seethed.
No, that is not what it was all about. It is about differentiation. All men are decidedly not created equal. Is it not obvious that a rare few of us walk alone? Without the elevating power of the elite, the rest would sink under the weight of their own mediocrity. Who will stand up for the few, the daring few, the difference makers, those willing to stick their neck out for an idea deeply held?

Granted, the Commodore had not yet developed the unique idea he would someday stand behind with all his might. And until that time, why take chances? If in order to become great one needed to take risks, and if one risked becoming great by not taking any risks, then that in itself was a daring risk, was it not? The dignity of risk! The Commodore first heard the phrase from his life coach. He embraced the phrase from the first and believed it with all his might. It was what set him apart from the risk-averse cowards who needed assurances and handholding. It was what made him special. And it was what made Edwin J. O'Hara special.

Edwin J. O'Hara was a strapping eighteen-year-old from Lindsay, California, who served as engine cadet aboard the liberty ship
SS Stephen Hopkins
during the Second World War. The
Stephen Hopkins
was one of the first liberty ships built and was on its maiden voyage when O'Hara, on his first assignment, joined the ship in San Francisco. The liberty ship's first wartime assignment was to carry a load of war supplies to the South Pacific. After unloading its cargo in Bora Bora, the ship set sail for New Zealand to take on a load of bunker oil. The ship arrived in New Zealand after a long sea passage, loaded the bunkers, and departed for Melbourne, Australia. The voyage plan then called for the
Hopkins
to offload its cargo in Durban, South Africa, and proceed under ballast across the South Atlantic to Paramaribo, Surinam, in Dutch Guyana for a load of bauxite, a raw material vital to the war effort. The ship unloaded its cargo of sugar, took on its ballast, and put to sea once again. But the liberty ship never reached the coast of Dutch Guyana, and cadet O'Hara never again saw the shores of his native California.