Editor’s Note: This was written almost six years ago, to the day. Things were very different then, more so than I can even imagine. Liz-S is now an attorney for the IG of one of the large agencies around town, and regularly is on the civilian side of the bar. Mac is gone, as you well know, and so is the fabulous Willow. I guess America will get around to deciding the fate of the Republic in a day or two. I am earnestly hoping that means everything will be resolved. Actually, I know in my heart that regardless of who wins, this is just going to on, endlessly. Can it all have changed this much in just six years?

– Vic

(Elisabeth-with-an-S, a known attorney and mixologist, with Mac at the Willow Bar, 04 November 2010. Photo Socotra)

Approaching from the west, I saw Mac’s champagne-colored Jag parked in the premier spot at the curb directly in front of Willow’s patio. It had been raining all day, grim and gray and persistent, and the umbrellas were pulled down, somber, and water puddled the red paving bricks.

It was a good day to be indoors, and in a place that was nice and dry. I needed to get away from the roar of the industrial fan that has been blowing cold air to dry the seams in the parquet floors at Big Pink since the flood. It was like living on the ship, working or sleeping near one of the great ventilators that forced air deep into the steel leviathan.

Unplugging the thing brought on a sudden silence that did not bring relief. Instead, it made me uneasy, just as it did on the ship when things went silent and that meant trouble.

There was no trouble at Willow, though. Old Jim was parked in his usual place at the corner of the bar, contemplating a cold long-neck Bud with earbuds from his iPhone plugged into both ears.

I slapped him on the shoulder as I slid into the stool on the other side of the corner. “What did you do with Mac?” I asked. “His car is out front.”

Jim scowled at me and unscrewed one of his earpieces. “What?” he said.

I repeated my question and he shrugged. “Don’t know. I don’t have the duty today.”

“What are you listening to?” I asked. “You come to a bar to have some human interaction and then tune us out.”

“I am listening to Joan Baez,” he said with dignity. “And you just got here. Cool your jets.” I looked up and saw the Admiral opening the outer door to the bar. He was wearing a bright red sweater and an amiable grin under his tan windbreaker.

“I wondered where you were,” I asked. “I saw your car and thought you were here already.”

“I was having a radio moment. Have you heard about the engine problems on the new mega-Airbus?”

“Between the cargo bombs from those jerks in Yemen and the Rolls-Royce engine problems, I am staying away from cargo jets and any airplane that has more than 400 seats.”

“How goes the flood?” asked Jim, rolling up the cords to his earphones.

“The rug guys are coming tomorrow morning to pick up the waterlogged tribal,” I said as I slid down a seat to let Mac sit between us. “Things may work out on that front. The plumber installed an aircraft-grade braided stainless feed to the ice-maker to replace the plastic one that failed. “

Mac smiled. “The lesson, which we learn again and again, is to never go low-budget on things that handle water or electricity. The effects can be catastrophic.”

I grimaced. “There are undoubtedly plastic connectors in the units above me. That’s the hazard of an older building that has had significant and undisciplined modifications,” I declared. “All of them at “lowest cost, technically feasible,” if I can borrow from government language.”

Peter slid gracefully down the alley behind the bar with a sparkling tulip glass and a bottle of the Happy Hour loss-leader white. He knew what I would be having and did not have to ask. Mac leaned forward and said “I will have a Bell’s, Kalamazoo’s finest.”

I started to sing the lyrics to the old song as I saw foppish John-with-an-H enter the bar with a poker face. He stopped by Jim, handed something over, and then disappeared to his customary seat down the bar without a word.

“Did he pay up?” I asked. Jim smiled broadly. There had been a C-note on the outcome of the election in Nevada, and Jim was dead-on about Harry Reid, the fall of the House and the Democrat defense of the Senate.

“Damn straight,” he said. “The man may be an idiot, but he is an honorable one. Unusual here in Washington.”

I took a sip of white wine and felt my mood rising. That was accompanied by a glimpse of Elisibeth-with-an-S who was working the restaurant side of the bar this afternoon. She is- hate to say it- a willowy young woman with a graceful swan-like neck and auburn hair usually pulled back in a pony-tail.

She is a graduate of one of the Case Western Reserve Law School, and she is bar-tending and working the tables just until she pays off the tuition bills, which she calculates will be by early 2032. “Hey, Elisibeth,” I called out. “There is someone you need to meet.”

I introduced her to Mac, who beamed with approval. He may be getting on in years, but he is still dapper and likes the ladies. He was proud of the new crimson sweater he purchased at Macy’s that day to start the cool weather season. “Elisibeth was part of that crazy Halloween party. She wore a pink camouflage mini-dress with a matching fore-and-aft cap that was disturbing on several levels.”

Mac smiled. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, contemplating the image.

“Likewise, I am sure,” responded Elisibeth, sticking out her hand to take his.

“The Admiral is one of the last survivors of Fleet Admiral Nimitz’s staff in World War two, and one of the architects of the victory at Midway.”

“I was a code-breaker,” said Mac. “They don’t teach the history of Midway in the schools any more.”

“I have heard about the battle,” she said, smiling. I suspect she humors us just like Peter and Big Jim and Sabrina do. “I have to set up for the dinner service. I will be seeing you boys around the restaurant.”

“The pleasure is ours,” I said, suddenly remembering that there was a point to our meeting at Willow. I reached for my notebook and pull out my Pilot G-2 micro-fine gel pen. Serious business calls for serious tools.

“I wanted to talk to you about 1950, and why you were transferred to Naples and back to London, and the best job you ever had in the Navy.”

Mac looked thoughtful. “That would be my time as a liaison officer at the British Admiralty with Nick. Nick Cheshire, that is. He was the greatest Russian naval analyst the Brits ever had. Spoke Russian, since his father had married a lovely Russian lady.”

“How did you wind up at the Admiralty?” I asked, writing hastily.

Mac paused to let my pen keep up with his words. “Captain Ford was the N2. I was sent to relieve Ted Rifenburgh as the CINCNELM Current Intelligence Officer. Ted wound up commanding the Naval Investigative Service, but while I was en route to London with Billie, Ted managed to wrangle a six-month extension to line up for another set of orders.”

“So there was no job for you when you arrived.”

“Correct. Captain Ford decided he would rotate me through the elements in the Intelligence Division a couple weeks at a time. Those were Current Intel with Ted, Technical Intelligence, Merchant Shipping, Political Intelligence and Admiralty Liaison.”

“Which did you like best?” I asked.

“Oh, Admiralty liaison beyond a doubt. That was one of the highlights of my career, working with Nick on the Russian Navy problem. Nick understood the Office of Naval Intelligence Y1 organization and our intelligence products. When I got to the Admiralty there were two other Americans embedded there doing merchant ship activities.”

“That was a prototype for the modern mission, right? Like integrating Lloyds shipping data with operational reporting?”

“Close. Remember, we were working on five-by-eight index cards to keep our records. I got a chance to work direct with Nick on the Russian Current problem.”

“That would have meant looking for intelligence on the new Russian Cruisers, right? Was Commander “Buster” Crabb murdered by the Russians while you were there? The Crabb Affair has never been solved for sure.”

(Commander Lionel “Buster” Crabb in Gibraltar. Photo Imperial War Museum.)

“No, that happened later, in 1956, when he tried the underhull scuba swim when the Sverdlov-class cruiser Ordzhonikidze made a port call in Portsmith. But we certainly were hungry for any information we could get. The Sverdlov-class cruisers were the first post-war construction Soviet warships, and it was clear that Stalin was committed to supporting Admiral Gorshkov in building a world-class fleet.”

“Those must have been heady times,” I said.

“Nick Cheshire wanted me to stay. But that was when Admiral Carney had to deal with the establishment of NATO, and the new structure of the Alliance in Europe. That is why we moved CINCNELM to Naples. I was picked to be Rudy Fabians’s Deputy, and so off we went. Best tour in the Navy, though, working at the Admiralty.”

“How did you get the family to Naples,” I asked.

“We drove. But that is going to take another Bell’s.” The Admiral waved to Peter, and I took a pause to drink some of that marvelously crisp white wine.

(Sverdlov-Class Cruiser Sverdlov underway in the Black Sea. Official US Navy Photo.)

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com