24 December 2007

Mission Complete


Vesuvius in Winter

The weather was crappy, but the Jugs were determined to get the Admiral and his party back to their ship in order to get the heavy cruiser Des Moines underway on schedule. The port visit was scheduled for four days, and four days only. Leaving on the 23rd gave her plenty of time to get to her next appointed mission, which was a Christmas Day visit to Athens to buck up the liberals. 1952 looked to be an unsettled year in Greece, and the big warship was just the right statement to the local Communists.

VADM Gardner got back on his flagship Des Moines, may her steel flanks rest in piece. Imagine the cruiser pulling out of the old Italian port into the teeth of a rising gale under gray skies; gray ship, gray sky, gray water topped by white foam.

The warship is bound on important Fleet business; thus the need to fly Lieutenant Commander Showers and Lieutenant Newell from the nearest friendly field at Trieste back to CINCNELM Headquarters at Naples.

The portents and notes of the meeting with Tito merited the expeditious handling of the two junior officers. VADM Gardner was once more insulated in the blue-tile of the Flag Spaces in the mighty Des Moines, and the unusual intimacy required by the mission was sundered abruptly, and the icy remoteness of rank and command were once more imposed.

Rank in the Navy, as you know, is a thing of wonder. We live in such forced proximity at sea that the barriers between us are vertical social stratification, from the mess decks north through Officers Country to the Flag spaces.

So once in international waters, the cruiser took up a line of advance for restricted maneuvering as a plucky destroyer came alongside in the swells. I had to go look to see how they did the Hi-line transfer; I knew well enough from my days at sea how the process went, at least from the perspective of a capital ship.

Once, out of boredom and curiosity, I stationed myself in the background as the bridge team aligned the carrier to come alongside a fast stores ship for underway replenishment. The carrier was to take on provisions and fuel and ammunition through vertical replenishment by helicopter and by lines stretched between the ships. It took miles to set up the position properly, and the consequences of failure were grave for the hapless young OOD, and those being trained in the art.

Without replenishment, the great ships would lose their military value swiftly. As we closed, and fell into formation, I could feel the crackling tension on the bridge.

A rudder casualty or other navigational mischance would could the great ships to plow into one another, and there would be hell to pay. Damage and lost careers at a minimum, death in addition if was worse.

In the case of Des Moines and the destroyer, there was nothing to transfer but Mac and Art, in their Blues with small duffels for their personal gear.

No matter: the process was the same. In those days, only a hundred feet separated the two. The heavy cruiser at 17,000 tons burden handled the rising seas well; the DD bobbed wildly, her bow coming right out of the water at times, plunging as she did in the waves. The process was the same as transferring mail and movies in the surface Navy. First the deck fired the guns with the messenger line attached.

One or two might suffice to get the messenger across. Sometimes, more attempts were needed. Once across, and assuming no one actually got hit, the light steel line was hauled in and secured, followed by another, heavier line and rigged for the sling in which the men would ride, the changing tension on the wire causing it to rise and fall, sometimes dipping into the water.

Mac said it was the only time he had to do it, and it was a terrifying and foam-flecked adventure. Done expeditiously, the evolution might take an hour in peacetime, though there were those on the bridge who had done it when enemy aircraft might suddenly appear, and considered this an excellent opportunity for training. The men were hauled with alacrity with a minimum of immersion.

The breakaway, once the transfer was complete, was done with adroit skill and élan. Not to mention relief on the part of the bridge team that concentration could be relaxed a bit, and the next item on the Schedule of Events could be addressed.

On the smaller ship, there was equal joy in being away from the leviathan that could have crushed and sunk them, and then the attention to getting into Trieste in the bad weather to put Mac and Art ashore, and combine the mission with a brief stop for fuel. All business for the tin-can sailirs, no liberty.

The two officers secured a driver and a duty car at the fleet landing, and made their way to the airport, where a Navy Air Transport C-47 Dakota was to pick them up. They could hear it, at the appointed minute of its arrival, though that was as close as they could get. The plane circled over the thick clouds in the thin gray light. The pilot made a decent effort, but there was no hole to pick in the thick gray wool below, and no way to land safely.

He was ordered to return to base in Napoli, sans PAX, and mission complete for him and his crew if not for Mac and Art.

For their part it was another ride in the duty car, this time to the train station in the old central city. It was the day before the day before Christmas, and the great waiting area was thronged with holiday travelers. At the ticket office they bargained in broken Italian and English for first class tickets to Roma, via Rapido, with onward transportation via the Metropolitana To Napoli.

Seated in first class, tired now, dress blues wrinkled, the overnight journey did not seem so bad. The rains had been awful, that December, and the North of Italy was flooded. Shortly out of the station, and one or two snorts from the bottle of brandy the two had secured to while away the time, the breaks failed on the only first class car. The smell of burning asbestos pads filled the train, and with confusion and great show of energy, they eventually found themselves on the only seats available, the hard wooden benches in the unheated Third Class car.

No amount of brandy could warm them, and the coffee they bought to doctor with it was gone. Their blues, which had looked so trim and proud at the White Palace, were now wrinkled and the once-snowy white shirt collars were gray as the skies. The two were looking "pretty drab," in Mac's words. That is quite a turn of events for the pair, who were only a day away from dining with a legitimate world figure.

Shivering overnight, they passed through Rapido, where a dining car was added to the train.

An Italian businessman in a well-tailored car coat boarded the train there, headed for Roma, his mistress and his holiday, in that order.

He looked at the naval officers and took pity on them. "Ah," he said in gently rounded English, "You are officers, and should not be in such conditions. Join me, and let us share this journey in a civilized manner! It is my gift to you!"

In the dining car there was civilization aplenty: white tablecloths and heavy silver, gleaming china, steaming coffee and a breakfast that stretched elegantly into lunch, the waterlogged countryside in muted green rushing by, clickety-click.

Eventually the ancient ruins of the massive aqueducts began to appear, marching toward the Imperial City, and soon enough they were on the platform once more, watching their elegant benefactor disappear into the holiday throng.

Another train, this one not so long, and they approached Napoli, the bay the color of gun-metal in the dying light, Vesuvius looming darkly under the low skies. On the platform at last, and through the grand old pile of the train station, they emerged in the streets.

Mac told Art he would see him at the headquarters in a day or so, and secured a cab. He directed the driver to the apartment block where he had secured a genteel residence for his little family, a curious place that had seen better days.

He had to buy his own light and bathroom fixtures when they moved in, but that was just part of the merry anarchy of Naples. At length, the car pulled up in front of the apartment, and Mac fished the last of his lira out of his wallet and paid off the cabbie.

He trudged up the grand staircase to their place above the inner courtyard, and put his key in the lock. Inside, the lights glowed and it was warm. Though it was Naples, and far away from America, Mac had made it home for the holidays.

He sailed his Naval Officers hat toward the chair near the coal fire. Sounds came from the kitchen that sounded like dinner, and a small voice could be heard from the direction of the bedrooms.

"Honey," he said. "I'm home!"

Merry Christmas, 2008.

Copyright 2007 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

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