When I first realized that of twenty people in the deck force only three had appreciable sea experience, I wondered what would become of us. The decks were so vast, the gear so heavy, that it seemed we must be overwhelmed if we tried to handle her in a gale. As the days passed in Yokosuka KO, it sank into my consciousness that in the boatswain we had a true seaman and leader of men. Once I realized that, I was no longer apprehensive, but only curious to watch how things would work out under stress.

The boatswain was a small man, well-muscled and cat-like. One’s first reaction to him might be that submerged thrill of terror the subconscious recognition of an elemental character always inspires, but it was his beard which caught the eye. Flaring straight out around his face, nowhere cut square, firm but silky, it was an ornament the like of which has not been sported since Charles V sat for his portraits. I have tried to describe the color officially. Sometimes I thought it was black with a hint of brown, sometimes brown with a hint of red, sometime mahogany, but of this I am sure – if you could get cloth of that shade it would be expensive.

It seems doubtful that the boatswain ever thought very much about himself or anything else except the situation at hand. Certainly he never weighed his words for the disconcerting effect they might produce. I shall not soon forget the day I explained to the deck force how I wanted a towing-bridle rigged. The boatswain looked up at me with all the bright-eyed benevolence of an otter appraising a proffered fish and remarked: “I didn’t just understand the malarkey about frapping lines, Commander.” We then decided not to use frapping lines. Be that as it may be, his judgment was sound and he had that rare attribute of a saint or a prophet: men would follow him into any situation without question.

The boatswain’s mate was a study in contrast to his Bo’sun. He was huge man, also richly muscled. A coarse black beard was trimmed close to the outlines of his massive face and he had a blank stare of an ogre out of Grimm. The Japanese were in dread of him, and it was only after long acquaintance that I realized that for all his bulk and mien, he was only twenty-two and thought just like any other college boy, except for that one thing the war did for most young people – he no longer kidded himself. “Commander, I’m scared” he would sometimes remark as we looked over a situation. I was genuinely sorry with a wave caught him on the forecastle and scrubbed the anchor chain with him.

There was a rare bond of sympathy between the Bo’sun and his Mate. They were unlike men. Each had what the other lacked. Until the sea itself forged one for us, they were the deck force. They kept pretty much to themselves. The pirate crew nicknamed the Bo’sun “Hairless Joe,” and his hulking Mate “Lonesome Polecat.”

Perhaps I should have realized what continuous failure can do even to the strongest characters. The deck forces spent days rigging ladders, hanging boat booms, stringing guest-warps and knotting fenders fenders day after day. Then a single rogue wave would sweep along Nagato’s low freeboard and reduce them to a tangled mass of rope, wire and splinters. The disappointment took its toll upon the Bo’sun.

After all, he had his pride. He was a man-of-war sailor, used to doing things in a military way. The sloppy habits and un-nautical phraseology of our boots distressed him no end. One morning muster, he simply wasn’t there. The Mate and I realized at once what happened, and within a radius of a few miles where he was: in pastoral Japan, having some fascinating adventures in an alien culture without a word of Japanese to aid him.

It would have been convenient to assume he had gone to Tokyo, which was the partially correct answer. But he was not lying in some banjo ditch intoxicated. He had done the right thing and boarded the last train to return to the harbor, but had gone to sleep on the ride back to the Honcho-ku station and therefore missed the connecting train at Ofuna. He would not be back for a few days, since he had to thumb his way from Nagoya.

The trouble was that on the evening of his disappearance the date of our sailing was advanced from eight days hence to just two, and he didn’t know the new urgency that went along with his hitchhiking adventure back to the harbor in the countryside.

For our part, he was so essential to my Deck Department that it would have been unsafe to sail without him. The Eighth Army could have picked him up for us easily enough, but that would have brought him back to Nagato plastered with charges and with a file of official correspondence I would have had to answer. In our extremity, recourse was had to the humble Japanese police. So the Bo’sun was restored to use on time, somewhat dazed but otherwise in good condition. I doubt whether he ever found out exactly what happened.

During the days of preparation, there had been much bantering in the bars outside the gate of the Fleet Activities- Yokosuka between men of the Nagato and the cruiser Sakawa, which would accompany us to Bikini. The latter taunted the former with being stuck on an ancient beaten-up old hulk of a dreadnaught instead of a fine modern cruiser. When the news came out from the Fleet Commander that the Sakawa was to sail in company with Nagato as junior ship in the formation. This indignity was met with gnashed teeth and lamentations; why should a ship capable of making eighteen knots, with two months to spare and the world waiting, be tied to a hulk which couldn’t make ten, and probably would break down at sea? Feelings grew bitter. Later, we were to feel the effects of the bad blood.

Preparations for sea never come to an end; you keep on repairing things while other things break down until someone’s blood pressure rises and the decision is reached that, ready or not, you will sail on a certain date. The pirate crew was ready mentally; they had confidence in the ship. Morale was high with everyone anxious to get away from Yokosuka. Though I had enjoyed my stay in Japan and would feel the hurt of parting, I, too, was ready to go.

On the last afternoon I managed to get away from the ship for a few hours to visit the shrine of Kamakrura an see the gigantic statue of Buddha- the. Daibutsu.. The first cherry buds had burst along the path to the temple, and I felt a the sense of peace that seemed to radiate from the great figure seated in the lotus position.

Coming back to the waterfront, I passed the file of workmen returning from the Nagato.

All bowed deeply, and I gave them a salute. Then, reluctantly, I boarded a landing craft for the stinging, icy ride to the ship. As we neared her red-lead painted bulk, the grey cone of Fuji was delicately etched against the greyer sky.

Sayonara, Yoko!

Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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