The Sea Calls

THE

SEA

CALLS

DOUG BALL

Other books by DOUG BALL

The Old Westerns

Blood on the Zuni

Vengeance

Lone Tree

Death by Baseball

The Not So Old Westerns

Gentle Rebellion

4 X Armed

Rebellion’s New Beginnings

The State of Arizona Series

State of Defense (also in audiobook)

State of Threat (also in audiobook)

State of Peril (also in audiobook)

State of Confusion

The Deacon

The Deacon

The Deacon Underground

Deacon of Death

Biblical Studies

Puzzling Theology

The Fishy Prophet

Called to Good Works

Tales of the Sea

Sailor

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Copyright 2019 – Douglas H. Ball

Cover art by the author

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between characters and persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Any references to ships, persons, or dates are purely fiction and the creation of the author’s mind.

It has been 40 years since the author last set foot on a submarine, please excuse any mistakes as to where things are, who does what, terminology, and most of all real life on board.

This book is dedicated to

Submarine Sailors

everywhere

and all those who

go down to the sea in ships

and

travel in harm’s way.

And of course

Patti

The Sea Calls

1

Three weeks before I left my last boat, as submarines are called, an incident happened that made my decision to leave the Navy a sure thing. It was a fight. Oh, what a fight.

The Weapons Department was my department. Fire Control Techs, Missile Techs, Torpedomen, and 15 non-rated young newbees called Deck Division, on board a submarine, were all mine. They were a great bunch and I was dragging my feet about my resignation letter because of just them. I recently received notification of my promotion to Lieutenant Commander and eminent transfer to a surface craft as an Executive Officer on a tin can. Submariners did not like tin cans, Destroyers. Destroyers were designed to kill submarines originally and support the big boys afloat. They were meat for the grinder when a war started. I had no desire to go to surface craft, but that was all a Lt. Cdr. in submarines could hope for if he was not nuclear power trained and blessed by THE Admiral, an admiral that was allowed to stay on active duty by an act of Congress.

Back to the fight.

The men, through the three Chief’s, asked if they could throw me a going away party. I was reluctant due to their propensity to drinking a bit, just a bit, too much. After the third petition, I agreed. At Liberty Call that night we left the offices and hit the bar, with stops to change clothes along the way.

The first place we entered got the pleasure of feeding us, all 32 of us, and separate checks. After the third round they asked us to leave because other customers were being offended by the ditties we were singing. We said, Good bye, in the best Navy tradition. We sang a couple of verses of Barnacle Bill the Sailor for them and filed out to applause. Somehow, I don’t think the crowd was offended.

The second place was a bit lower class than the first. It was on the edge of Honolulu Harbor, near the yacht club where my sloop was tied up, and had sea going men and women from all kinds of boats and ships, coming in at all hours. After two rounds the party got off to a fantastic start when one of our Torpedomen challenged a burly bearded Russian sailor to an arm wrestling match. The Russian won without even putting his beer down. The Torpedoman bought the next round for the house. Of course, everyone had to reciprocate and buy rounds. My 32 men and the 20 or so more that owned a bar stool became one crowd, singing dirty ditties, telling jokes, challenging to pool, darts, arm wrestling, and then finally leg wrestling, my specialty.

I beat the Russian and two women from his ship. That brought on more rounds until I lost count. But, who counts?

A guy that had been sitting grumpily in the back corner near the men’s room got fed up when it became obvious he was expected to participate. He lost it, he rose, grabbed a chair, and threw it at me. I caught it and threw it back. He didn’t catch it. Instead, it hit him in the face, drew blood, and wouldn’t you just know it, he fell down unconscious.

All the Russians rose to their feet.

Ominous.

Turns out he was the Russian skipper. The Russian crew came after me. I decked two and the third hit me with a flying tackle from the side, taking me to the floor. My men wouldn’t stand still for that and closed in. It was now 32 reasonably inebriated sub sailors against the world. The band stand was destroyed with one of the Russian women stuck in the bass drum. A large mirror behind the bar died along with a couple dozen bottles of various varieties of alcoholic beverages. The bartender was tied up with the phone cord and his tie. I swear the Russians did it. We were holding our own until the Russians ganged up on us by backing my bunch into a corner and making a stand.

The world won only after the harbor police showed up. But, before they got there the place was danged near totaled. We were escorted back to the Subbase Pearl Harbor in Shore Patrol wagons and turned over to the Duty Officer, who promptly threw us all in the holding cells that reeked of barf and urine. Thirty-two men and one officer in three cells of maybe 80 square feet of floor space counting the top bunk.

An hour later our Executive Officer, who ruled over us, showed up and bailed us out with a simple signature. He escorted us out to the parking lot where he stopped us. Men. I am ashamed of you. I have looked at the interior of that bar. There were two chairs still upright and one table still standing, and it was broken. You are all restricted to your quarters until 1000 tomorrow when you will report to me in my office with proof that you have cleaned up that entire place, paid for the damages, and kissed all the booboos. Are there any questions?

I stepped forward and threw what I was sure a snappy salute, No, Sir. Thank you, Sir. And, promptly fell down.

Lieutenant, you are disgusting. Get up. Call a bus. Get moving. The Exec turned to the Master Chief, Get your department head off the ground, in a cab, and get that place fixed, Chief.

Yes, Sir. He saluted, even in civvies, and picked me up bodily, threw me over his shoulder, and marched to the gate.

A Navy gray bus showed up, we boarded, and by 0830, the bar being all shipshape except for the mirror, the bus was sent back to the motor pool, and all of us headed to our closets to find clean whites for our 1000 meeting with the Exec.

At 0945 we met at the front door of the boat offices, out on Ford Island, lined up in a column of threes, and marched to the Exec’s office, where I was forcibly redirected to the Captain’s office, which was not the portent of something wonderful at any time. As I stood inside the Captains office, I heard the Exec chewing on my troops loud and clear. My Master Chief could shout louder than the Exec and did so taking the blame for the entire incident. The Exec calmed down just a mite before ordering the Chief of the Boat to write up every man jack of them under article 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice for conduct unbecoming a member of the Armed Forces of the United States of America and creating an international incident detrimental to the security of said United States of America.

After being called, I stepped up to the Captain’s desk to find the Commodore sitting at his desk and the Captain standing to the side. I snapped to attention, tucked my cap under my arm, and said, You wanted to see me, Captain? while I looked only at the Captain.

The Captain looked at the Commodore.

I knew.

I knew it was bad and the manure pile I was in was chin deep and I was on my tippie toes. The entire incident was my responsibility. I started the fight. I am the only one at fault. I was senior man there and just as in ship handling, the senior man bites the bullet. I reached inside my cap and pulled out the requisite piece of paper and put it on the desk before the Commodore.

He took one look at it and started laughing.

The Captain never moved.

Do you really think this is going to change anything? said the Commodore as he stood.

Yes, Sir. It will change my profession. That letter is my resignation.

Again he laughed. Taking the easy way out won’t do, Lieutenant Commander Daniel Kemp the third. I served under your father as an Ensign when he was a Lieutenant Commander aboard his last ship. He, too, got himself in the deep and I watched as he attempted to do just what you just did. He never made Commander did he?

No, Sir. He did not. He left the Navy as a passed over Lieutenant Commander. Three times and you’re out.

I know. I was a lieutenant in charge of his honor guard when he retired. How is he?

My father died nine years ago, Sir, exactly one year after he retired. He spent that year sailing, fishing, and trying to keep an eye on me. All I heard was what a hero his father was and what a dud he was. My father was as big a hero as my grandfather. He took the flak for one of his junior officers and ended his career.

The Captain moved toward me, Lieutenant Kemp, I am very disappointed with you. What was the occasion for the party? How could you let it get so out of hand?

It just happened, Captain. I just let it happen. Bust me out and let my chiefs and the men go.

The Exec walked in. Captain, every one of those Chiefs claim to be responsible for the fight. The Master Chief says he started it, the Senior Chief says he started it, and that new Missile Tech Chief says the other two are lying, he started it, and everybody else just came to his rescue as good shipmates are supposed to do. I even have a few Petty Officers claiming responsibility. The owner of the bar says no one started it, it was just a party. All is well. He looked at the Commodore, Now what?

The Captain was the one laughing now. Mr. Kemp has taken all responsibility, Exec. Turn the enlisted men and Chief’s loose. Tell the Chief of the Boat to come in here, please.

The Commode Door butted in with, One minute.

He looked at me and then continued. Mr. Kemp, I am refusing this resignation. You will stay with us. Why? Let me tell you why. I was the junior officer your father took the blame for. I have never been able to repay even though God knows I tried to get them to take me down rather than him. I never made another mistake. Matter of fact, I pulled some crazy stunts with a few Marines and we all got some heavy medals.

You were the one? The no good worthless Ensign that sunk my father? Now I know I don’t want to stay in this Navy. Accept my resignation and I’m outta here.

Bottom line. They accepted my resignation. My Chiefs and troops threw me a party on the beach off Barber’s Point that lasted from Friday evening until after daylight Monday morning. Leaving the beach at 0500 didn’t give them much time to prepare for 0800 muster in the office. I mentioned that to the Master Chief.

He responded, It’s all your fault, sir.

Not, Sir. I am just plain Daniel since 1400 last Friday.

I stuck my hand out. Take care of the boys, Chief.

Tom to you, Sir.

I walked to the cab waiting in the parking lot, rode to the marina, climbed aboard my sloop, barfed over the side, which made the little fishies happy, into the green water of Honolulu harbor, and crashed in the forward berth head first and flip flops on.

2

Tuesday, after the hangover cures had settled my stomach, but did nothing for my head, I started loading the boat with provisions, spare parts, and got an international provision on my credit card and cell phone with new passwords. The next day I traded my laptop for a newer and tougher one which looked like a small water proof valise when it was all closed up. My collection of CDs was getting old so I went to a used music store and made some swaps, trading where I could and buying where I wanted. All in all, I prepared for a long journey. Just me and my boat until the money ran out, which thanks to my grandfather would not be until long after I was dead if I lived to be a hundred.

As I was getting ready to leave the dock, a couple weeks later, and sail off into the sun set which was still six hours away, the Master Chief showed up. When you leaving?

Within the hour.

Got a favor to ask.

He busted out laughing and turned away.

What? Is this favor that funny?

No, it’s serious, but the name of your boat, NAVAL NAVEL. Where’d you get that?

My grandfather. He said it meant the bellybutton of the seas. I just think it’s the center of my life. At this moment, it really is. Everything I own is on this boat. Matter of fact, right now it is the center of my life, so it is my navel. I might even get rid of the Naval. They would have never forgiven me no matter what that Commode Door said. Damned Ensign ruined my father. I paused, What’s the favor?

"My wife made friends with