I went to the best retirement ceremony ever yesterday. That is a pretty dramatic statement since all of us, of a certain age, are retiring all at once. There is a certain competition to do it right, since there are so many to try to remember and celebrate. It is a question of timing, all of us coming up on the year when you must retire according to United State Code. No more than thirty-years service is permitted for Captains, and since there are no pay raises after twenty-six, there are a lot of them this summer. I am not having one, not like this. I have my reasons, it being a matter of timing and civil legal details. So to see this one was particularly poignant.

The retirement was dead-on, everything worked. The guest speaker was one of our most distinguished Flag Officers, and his remarks were deft and light. The guests filled all the seats, and the atmosphere one of celebration. I learned a number of things. I heard that Duke University had only one sports team, and the University of Maryland had more than that. It seemed to be a running joke, something about Basketball I think, but being from the University of Michigan, I couldn’t quite get what it was.

One of our new Captains did a fine job as the emcee, and he presented congratualtory letters from a broad assortment of notables. Both Presidents Bush had letters, as did President Reagan, though I am not sure how. It was that sort of margical event. Plus, it is always comical to watch Naval officers try to do ceremonial formations. Whether to put hats on at the same time, which rank turns at which time, when to drop the salute after That is not one of our long suits. And there was the magical moment when the Bosun piped the retiree ashore for the last time, the wail of the pipe rising before the announcement “Captain, United States Navy, Retired, Departing.” It was finally time for him to go.

Henry Ford was born on this day, in 1863. Not long after the battle of Gettysburg. It is also the anniversary of the sinking of the heavy cruiser Indianapolis, the warship that carried The Fat Man bomb to Tianian Atoll. It would later be carried to Hiroshima by Colonel Tibbets in the Enola Gay, and that would create a number of downstream issues. Including the surrender of the Empire of Japan, and the legacy of the use of the first real weapon of mass destruction. The news of the sinking did not reach the Stateside papers until the 14th of August, which leads to a bit of confusion. The Navy Department made the announcement just before President Truman announced the surrender of the Chrysanthemum Throne, so the story sort of got lost. Timing is everything.

It was the worst disaster to befall the Navy since the beginning of the War, when poor old Arizona had her bottom blown out and 2,000 sailors died. The Times headline read: “Casualties included five Navy dead, including one officer; 845 Navy missing, including sixty-three officers; 307 Navy wounded, including fifteen officers; thirty Marine missing, including two officers, and nine enlisted Marine wounded. Next of kin have been notified.”

The skipper, CAPT. Charles B. McVay 3d, 47, lived. He spent the rest of his life trying to clear his name, and his children did, too. At the end, the commander of the Japanese I-boat that put two torpedoes into his ship testified that he had done nothing tactically incorrect. He just zigged into the spread of hissing fish and the ship was underwater in fifteen minutes. Timing is everything.

It isn’t just about historical timing, either. Tom Ridge is going to come out and talk to the public today because the stories are swirling about the end-of-summer terror attack that is coming. The stories come from the interrogation of the al Qaida operatives in custody. They get a teaser from one of them and take it to another man in a cage and play him with the tidbit, augmenting and filling it out. Then they take it to another. None of them know what has been said or who is saying it. To gain small advantage or privilege they are creating a competition between the caged men to see if there is something new and original to spill. The story that is emerging is one about airplanes and weapons of mass destruction. I talked to a gathering of Tribal Emergency Response people over in G-50, the big hearing room over at the Senate Dirksen Building next to where Senator Daschle has his office and the anthrax-filled letter was delivered. I gave them the unclassified version, of course, just like this one.

I started out by reminding them of the story of the British General Jeffry Amherst, and his war of bio-terror against the Indians. Smallpox in the blankets was one way to cut down the enemy population. The Indians seemed to know it, part of our shared legacy that we in the larger society prefer not to remember. One of the Delaware Tribe thanked me for remembering after the speech was done, though his dark eyes remained distrustful of me. I told them it was important to recall that can happen here, and it has. I reminded them about Senator Daschle’s office and told them that United Flight 93 was headed for the Capitol dome across the street. And there are people living among us who want to do it again.

I didn’t tell them that when it happens, I hope I am not living downwind of the spray of deadly agent, I hope that those of us who control the stockpiles of Cipro and Doxi and the other anti-biotics that will combat the disease have placed them near by. I hope that we have exercised the procedure for distributing them. Maybe that is something I should get on when I get to work.

My favorite part of the ceremony- and this was the best such ceremony I have ever attended- was when the entire family lined up to be piped ashore. As though on cue, the overhead loudspeaker cut in. It should have been turned off for the ceremony, secured, in Naval parlance, but it isn’t used very often. A female voice rang out clearly. It was just like being back on the ship, the memory flooding back from the timeless hours down inside the skin of the gray ship. From the bridge, announcements of general interest could be piped throughout every space and void. This one rang out, just as the Bosun was raising the whistle to his lips. “Please ignore the last announcement.”

My friend was startled. Was he un-retired? The crowd roared in appreciation. It was a hell of a ceremony. And it helped me forget and also remember.

Timing is everything.

Copyright 2003 Vic Socotra