The Med (32 page)

Just for that reason, he felt he owed it to them to share it, at least for a while. “Scrub it in good now,” he said. “Use the big brushes first. Save the little ones for the angle iron. I don't want to see nothin' but red paint when I come back after you hose down.”

“Sure, Chief,” Blaney grinned, his teeth shining in the dark of the voids. The two other firemen worked silently, or cursed. Wronowicz understood that; cleaning bilges was the least favorite job in the engineroom, probably in the ship, possibly in the Navy. He had done his share of it. But Blaney neither cursed nor complained. He was scrubbing ferociously at the underside of a stringer, flat on his back in muck blacker than his face, humming as if he enjoyed sweating for hours under conditions any sane civilian would walk away from.

Wronowicz wondered darkly what he was on.

When they were well at work, forcing the gritty Navy bilge cleaner deep into the weld seams and steel angles, he hauled himself up through an access and stamped his boots on the deckplates. They left black imprints, as if he had been wading in tar. He wiped them off with a rag—no use tracking it all over the ship—and dragged his arm over his forehead. It did no good, and he saw that his arm was dripping, too. It was well over a hundred ten, maybe a hundred twenty in the space. The engines tore at his ears. He retrieved his cap from where it hung on a valve, cocked it back on his head. He glanced at his watch and went forward, absently checking each gauge he passed, to the oil king's shack.

“Evening, Joe.”

“Oh. Hullo, Chief Wronowicz. How you doing tonight?”

“Okay. How's the fuel situation look?”

The second-class boiler technician waved at the racks of glass bottles lining the bulkheads of the tiny room, hardly larger than an apartment closet. Lit from behind, they glowed amber and yellow. Each fuel sample had been drawn that day from one of the tanks that lined the hull. “I'm about half done … we got some algal contamination in one of the wing tanks. The stuff left over from the Caribbean. I figure we better use it pretty soon.”

“Better switch tomorrow. Use it all.”

“Then saltwater ballast? Word is this weather's going to turn Billy Hell.”

“I hate to do that. A shot of water in the fuel can ruin your whole day. I still don't know how long we'll be out here.”

“Well, we'll keep her steaming somehow.”

“You got that right. Well, I'll be in chief's quarters for the rest of the evening. Going to initiate that first-class radarman tonight.”

“Yeah, I seen him going around in his diapers.” The BT grinned. “What goes on at those things, anyway?”

“That's a deep dark secret. You'll find out, five-six years from now.”

“No way,” said the man, grinning.

“Yeah, I know: sob story number eight, how you're gonna get out, get a fat civvie job waxing floors.”

“You said it. Think I'm gonna re-up on this crappy tub?”

They grinned at each other, and Wronowicz left. As he climbed the ladder the evening routine of the ship echoed through the corridors. “NOW TAPS, TAPS, LIGHTS OUT. KEEP SILENCE ABOUT THE DECKS. THE SMOKING LAMP IS OUT IN ALL BERTHING SPACES.” Upward, past the mess decks, the smells of ham and fried potatoes lingering from evening chow, a few sailors arguing sleepily over a hand of five-card stud while the compartment slanted under them … the unceasing whir hum and murmur of a ship, sleepy and low, the world changing from white to red around him as a petty officer flicked a switch. The ship surrounded him, enclosed him, carried him through the unseen darkness of the sea, gliding over fathomless miles of dark bottom, and he smiled to himself, anticipating the evening.

The chief's mess was full. The XO was there, the department heads, and Lieutenant Morton, the operations officer. It was one of his radarmen (no, “operations specialists”—but to Kelly they were still radarmen) who was pinning on the anchor tonight.

First, though, he had to be initiated.

Wronowicz found a seat next to the court, joking with the men beside him. At the baize-covered mess table Chief Chapman presided in a black robe; his glasses gleamed under a wig of cotton batting. Two other chiefs, the recorder and the prosecutor, sat at either side, and an immense pewter pitcher and two tumblers waited at their elbows. Behind a curtain Wronowicz could see the other implements of trial, and his grin grew wider. Yes, it was going to be a good initiation.

“Is the court ready?” Chapman asked, when the room had settled down.

“The court is ready.”

“Is Captain Foster coming down?”

“He's on the bridge,” said the XO. “He's going to try to come down later.”

“Very good … Bailiff, bring in the accused.”

Operations Specialist First Rogelio appeared in handcuffs, carrying his offense log linked to them on a chain. His bare belly bulged over too-small diapers. Aside from that, and a large crow-and-stripes tattooed on his chest in magic marker, he was naked. Lieutenant Morton got up and stood rather uncertainly beside him, facing the court. They both looked apprehensive, willing to laugh, but uncertain whether they should.

Certainly Chapman's scowl did not encourage it. “This court is convened,” he growled. “Bailiff, read the charges.”

“First. That OS First B.T. Rogelio did say to a certain chief aboard the
Charleston,
while on liberty in Barcelona, that the chiefs aboard this vessel were a six-pack of shitheads.”

The audience groaned. Chapman looked aloof. “Accused, how do you plead?” he asked the first-class.

Morton stepped forward. “Chief—”

“Your honor,”
said the bailiff menacingly.

“Uh … your honor, my client wishes to state—”

“Shut up,” said the judge.

“Sir—”

“He's guilty. I can see it in his fat face. Put down that he pleads guilty.”

“He pleads innocent—”

“The truth serum,” muttered the prosecutor.

“Yes, administer the truth serum. To counsel, too. He looks just as dishonest as this guilty bastard.”

When both Rogelio and Morton had swilled down a tumbler, quickly replenished from the pitcher by the prosecutor, the trial resumed. “Second charge,” grunted Chapman.

“That the accused did attempt to enter the chief petty officer's berthing area, and was discovered lying in the rack of one of the senior chiefs aboard this vessel, stating that he was ‘trying it out'—”

“Hang him!”

“Shoot him and throw him off the fantail!”

“Bailiff, silence these yelping mongrels … does the accused want to try to worm his way out of this one?”

“Sir, my client never—”

“Is he saying I'm a liar?” roared Wronowicz, jumping up. “I'll rip his yellow guts out and eat them for midrats!”

“Is counsel accusing Chief Wronowicz of fabricating this charge?” Chapman asked Morton sweetly.

“No, but—”

“Would counsel like some more truth serum?”

“Counsel would not,” said Morton, swallowing. He looked yellow himself, both from the steady roll of the ship and the tumbler of tabasco sauce, cooking oil, and raw eggs.

“The verdict is guilty. Also, counsel is assessed twenty dollars for insulting the witness. Pay the prosecutor. Next charge.”

“That accused stated in CIC that, having passed the tests for chief and being recommended by his officers, to whom he sucks up shamelessly, especially to the XO, a notorious duck-fucker and nose-picker, he expects to be admitted to the rank of chief petty officer in the United States Navy.”

“Dismissed,” Chapman stated. “Obvious insanity. Any more charges, prosecutor?”

“A whole bagful, not worth wasting the time of the honorable judge,” said the prosecutor, slamming shut the log.

“We agree … we will now proceed to the tests. Blindfold the accused.”

Two more raw eggs seeped down from under the blindfold. Rogelio started to giggle. “Is the accused laughing at this court?” Chapman screamed.

“No, sir. It's hiccups,” said Morton.

“More truth serum for this lying shyster!”

“Yes sir.”

“And another twenty dollars fine. Bring out the first test.”

The board was eight feet long, with mouse traps nailed to it. The chiefs set it a foot off the deck, on firebrick, and hoisted Rogelio to one end. “The accused will note that he is standing on The Plank,” the prosecutor intoned. “The way is narrow and adorned with bear traps. If you slide your foot forward you'll feel one. Just to show you they're armed.…” The prosecutor tripped the first trap with a stick, and the naked man jerked his bare foot backward, almost falling off the plank.

“Proceed,” said Chapman.

Rogelio edged forward blindly, balancing himself against the roll of the ship, and lifted his foot for the first step. He came up on the second trap, missed it, and the prosecutor tripped it closed with a snap. He took another step, another, learning to slide his toes forward until he felt the edge of the mouse trap, then lifting his foot over in a bold step. He came to the end, teetered, then jumped down. The chiefs were dead silent.

“The accused has passed the first test. Prosecutor, bring on the Bed of Glass.”

An aluminum tray was duly produced, and shaken back and forth as audible witness that it was full of jagged shards. “Every piece of glassware broken on the mess decks this year is in that tray. The accused will mount the chair.”

“I am now placing the Bed of Glass beneath you,” the prosecutor explained. Rogelio nodded the blindfold. “You will now call on one of those whose ranks you aspire to join, to properly place the tray.”

“Chief … Wronowicz?” said the radarman.

Wronowicz hustled forward, grinning. He rattled the tray loudly in front of the chair, made as if he was setting it down, and silently switched it with the other tray the prosecutor as silently handed over. “Ready,” he said to Rogelio. “Safe as houses when you're with Wronowicz. Jump right down, straight in front of the chair.”

“I … do I got to?”

“Nope,” said Chapman promptly. “This is the one test that's voluntary. In case the worst happens, we have the Doc standing by. 'Course, if you elect not to take it, you call the whole thing off…”

“Okay,” said Rogelio. They could see him bite his lip. “Here goes.” He stepped off the chair, and a gruesome crunch filled the room. Rogelio tore his blindfold off and stared down at his feet. He lifted one. It was covered with broken potato chips.

“For this next, and last trial, the blindfold will be removed. Attach the Device.”

The Device was a length of ninethread line, tossed over a sturdy pipe in the overhead. One end led through the lifting pad of a generator casing, and Chief Sullivan grunted as he hoisted it above his head. Rogelio paled as Chief Blood, looking his most sadistic, tied a slip knot and made the other end fast around his balls.

“Hey!”

“Is the accused ready?”

“No! Hey, wait—”

“Corpsman, stand by—
let 'er go!
”

Sullivan dropped the casing and jumped back. It plummeted downward, the line twanged taut, and the pipe came out of the overhead, trailing string and masking tape, and followed the casing to the deck with a terrific crash. The room broke into cheers, and Chapman got up to clap a relieved-looking radarman on the back. “Fine performance,” he said, smiling. “Prosecutor, bring out Chief Rogelio's anchors.”

Rogelio's smile vanished as he saw the plate. It was filled with dogshit, a coiled heap of it six inches high. “You'll have to eat a lot of this when you wear khakis,” Chapman said. “Might as well get used to it now. Go on, your anchors are in there. No, don't use your hands.”

When he held his smeared face up at last, the gold anchors gleaming in his teeth, the other chiefs broke from their seats to surround him, clapping him on the back and wiping chocolate icing from his face with a towel. They brought out his uniform and he dropped his diapers for skivvies and then khakis, and the XO and the senior chief pinned on the gleaming new insignia of an E-7. Chapman stepped back, letting the audience applaud, then held up an imperious hand. The room quieted.

“Chief Rogelio, during the course of this day you have suffered indignities and experienced humiliation. This you accomplished with rare good grace, and I now believe it fitting to explain why we did this.

“There was no intent, and no desire, to demean or insult you.

“It was done to show you that your entire life changed today. More will be expected of you; more will be demanded. You have not merely been promoted a pay grade. You have joined an exclusive fraternity.

“Its privileges, and its responsibilities, do not appear in print. They exist because Navy chiefs for two hundred years before you have accepted responsibility beyond the call of their assignments.

“You were humiliated to prove that humiliation cannot mar you. Bear humiliations and accolades alike with the same dignity and good grace you bore them with today.

“We take a deep and sincere pleasure in clasping your hand, and accepting you as one of us.”

With that, the ceremony ended. Wronowicz shook the new chief's hand as the gathering broke up, then strolled thoughtfully back into the scullery for a glass of ice water.

He found himself, more and more these days, musing over things after any kind of ceremony—and the Navy had quite a few, from the oath when you first enlisted to the Service for Burial at Sea. When he was younger, he thought they were a load of baloney; now that his hair was thinning, he realized that a lot of things that he had thought were baloney weren't.

It was like that with the initiation, he thought. Chapman had summed it up pretty well, but there were some things you could say better without words. As a chief you had to walk in the dark sometimes and trust your luck. You had to rely on your fellow chiefs. You had to lay it all on the line sometimes, with the officers or with your men, risk losing your rank or else deny what that rank was all about. And yeah, you did have to eat crap sometimes, and it wasn't always chocolate. It was all part of being a chief. Like the oath said, the chiefs were the Navy, after all.