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“Why yes, Laz. You were missed. In fact the better part of 5000 people have been looking for you for the last two hours and…(muffled, aside:) Yes, sir it’s Lazlo. Just a minute, Laz - The Skipper would like to speak to you.”
All throughout Ready Room 8, Compartment 2-242-0-L aboard the USS Constellation, a warship then at sea in execution of national tasking in the Indian Ocean, junior officers lowered their faces thoughtfully into month-old magazines, staring with a fixed and terrible intensity on single words or even punctuation marks in the text while their associated ears nearly herniated themselves in straining to capture every rapturous moment of the tide about to burst upon the person of Lazlo, poor unfortunate Lazlo.
Having caught some whiff of the reason for Lazlo’s unexcused absence from the ship, the CO’s towering rage, which had already been approvingly described as “pretty darned epic” in scale, somehow astonishingly re-doubled itself. The effect took place to such an alarming degree that those who cared for him grew concerned for his well-being, not to mention his state of mind and he was just getting up a good head of steam as he got to the phone, ripping it from the duty officer’s hand and quickly asking of Lazlo whether, in his studied professional opinion, it was really true that the naval service was little more than a transportation system for his wedding tackle? Because that was the way it might appear to the disinterested observer.
Without pausing for reply, the CO then offered Lazlo fairly detailed sartorial advice in preparation for a face-to-face meeting right there in the ready room, just as soon as he could change out of that ridiculous costume the entire ship had seen him wearing, disgrace that he was to his squadron in particular and the service in general. During this meeting it was plausibly forecast to Laz that the CO might frabbing kill him, cork-sticking gasper that he was, even going so far as to offer detailed anatomical descriptions of how the deed might be accomplished, complete with promises of sterner measures which would immediately follow.
All of this was put on hold however, as the squawk box beside the duty officer crackled to life with the stern salutation of, “Ready 8, Bridge!”
“Ready 8 aye!” responded the duty officer, just as he’d been taught, and with perhaps a somewhat greater mindfulness of his duty than usual given the current atmosphere in the ready room. In doing so he manfully forbore from the normally overwhelming temptation to make hilarious squawk box responses such as belches and even worse than belches in reply gentle reader, disgusting as they were and having only the slenderest thread of plausible deniability to go along with them. This would all have been in the time honored aviation tradition of biffing the blackshoe professional surface warfare officer, which although it was a simple sport, not unlike clubbing baby seals, was yet considered worth the effort, if only for the practice that was in it.
Something in the current mood made him pause, and a right good pause it was too, for the very next voice to come through the box itself was that of the Actual Captain of the Whole Frabbing Ship, who in no-nonsense verbiage studded with short, stout, Anglo-Saxon derivatives strongly desired and required of our CO that the sun of a beach piece of carp that had kept the Entire Goram Navy from getting about the nation’s business join him up on the bridge for a short but exciting conversation, adding that it would not be very much resented if the CO came along as well, if he wasn’t too busy?
Collar devices were mentally consulted for relative merit, and as events unfolded, our CO’s leisure suited the Captain’s pleasure. The two of them, Lazlo and The Man (who would in a matter of moments and a nine deck climb be just “a man” again) y-clad not in flight suits gentle reader but in khakis as befits a walk-of-shame, reported to the bridge no very long time later, sweat streaming down their faces, chests heaving and eyes bulging out of their heads. What followed after your humble scribe cannot reliably relay, lacking as he did the physical courage to attempt to follow, and not being able to wheedle it out either from Lazlo himself, nor any of the junior officers on watch up on the bridge, selfish bastiches that they were, and we’d have shared it with them maybe, had the roles been reversed. We are left with the strongest impression that the conversation could not be considered a dialogue really, unless your definition of “dialogue” is expansive enough to cover a discussion wherein the party of the first part is entirely in transmit, and the party of the second almost entirely in receive, apart from a few carefully timed “yessirs” and “nosirs” and the occasional, remorseful “no excuse sirs.”
What I can tell you is that a letter of reprimand is better than no mail at all, and that the next four weeks saw a great deal more of Lazlo at the duty desk and wearing khakis, with only someone to spot him at the desk every seven days or so for him to get a night trap and thereby maintain night currency, great store being set in night currency on the line. Of daylight flights there were few or none, which was all to the good for the rest of us, for we’d gladly take his day hop. When the time came for fitness reports, there were 10 of us in the top 1% category, which is the way things were done in those days, and one of us in the top 5% category, which was the kiss of professional doom. I do not know for a fact that Laz was our anchor man, but if he was not, then some one of the other of us must have been caught by Dad diddling livestock, and word of it never got down to our level.
Laz was with us the best part of year before leaving the service, that being the best thing all the way around, really, and joining a major airline, where I imagine he remains to this day. He has by now no doubt risen to the august rank of airline pilot captain-type guy, and if you’re traveling this Christmas gentle reader, who knows but that you may be placing your life in his hands?
And you know where they have been…
December 15th, 2005 at 3:52 pm
Lazlo was creamed chipped beef on toast! Serves him right for hangin with an enlisted honey!
BTW: Nobody could bribe the QM on duty to tell the story???
December 15th, 2005 at 6:57 pm
And once again, Captain, sir, (as I shamelessly attempt, poorly, to imitate your style)it’s not a bad tale in itself, but so much the better for your telling of it. Poor Laz!. I can empathize, having been sort of the young enlisted Marine version of him once or twice. After I became an actual Sailor, I heard frequently that a Captain’s Mast or two was almost a requirement to make Chief, a court-martial even better. Usually said, I think, as a kind of condolence for someone NOT making rate at a particualr point in time. It turned out to be true in my case, both the NJP and a summary Court in my far past at least not stalling me (long) at the E-6 level. Whether they have any effect on the star(s) over my anchors is yet to be seen.
Lex, it’s good to see you back in the saddle. You do have a gift that we all enjoy. Daily you make me proud to be a small part of this great Navy. I’ve a good feeling you’re the knid of officer any Chief, or Sailor, would be honored to work for.
December 15th, 2005 at 7:14 pm
Highjinks in Diego Garcia
If you have not yet had the pleasure of a Sea Story as told by Lex, you have my sympathies. But here’s your chance to rectify the deficiency!
December 15th, 2005 at 7:25 pm
I’ve had a bad couple of days, fuming about work. This really put it all in perspective! Thanks so much.
December 15th, 2005 at 8:14 pm
An epic tale, masterfully told. All it needs is a chorus declaiming in the background to make the first Greek tragi-comedy. It is a pity that the actual reaming has been lost to posterity. Of course in the classic tradition any action that would *excessively* excite the fear and pity of the audience was always done offstage. (But I would have enjoyed it …)
December 15th, 2005 at 8:47 pm
Capt Lex, this has got to be one of your best sea stories yet — the Rythyms are great, but noting beats your all-too-true sea stories. Keep em’ coming.
December 16th, 2005 at 8:50 am
That brought back some memories… not terribly fondly recalled ones, either!
December 16th, 2005 at 10:06 am
Great Sea Story!! Came close to missing movement myself during a stop at Pearl. One of those “My wife, she” episodes as she had met the ship and was suffering during pregnancy and we were at the ER. As it turns out, the arrival of SecNav aboard saved my hide. Was able to get aboard but ran right into my Boss on the Q’Deck. He did allow me a two way conversation after we got underway.
December 16th, 2005 at 10:14 am
Poor guy was rail-roaded Lex!
The best GD sea-story I’ve ever seen or heard capured in writng! And I’ve read, heard, made up and lived a heck of a lot.
Beauti-full!
B2
December 16th, 2005 at 10:45 am
[…] “Anybody miss me?” […]
December 16th, 2005 at 11:42 am
Ouch! Bet that left a mark.
December 16th, 2005 at 2:19 pm
Good stuff. Sounds all too familiar from my deployment days on Saratoga. Several mornings in the Med were spent at quarters on the flight deck, standing in ranks downwind from a shipmate who had eaten garlic seasoned snails the previous evening ashore, while the 1MC blared out the name of some unfortunate man who had missed movement. Bad scene…. really bad scene. It felt good to be aboard, even with a monster hangover.
December 16th, 2005 at 3:39 pm
I’m still striking a brace, eyes boring into the bulkhead… “staring with a fixed and terrible intensity” at Haze Gray slapped on wiring and flanges. The memories of one-way conversations past…
December 16th, 2005 at 3:41 pm
I think the best part of this story is even a civilian would get a good smile out of this, while missing 90% of “the rest of the story.”
Ah, the jabs at the “professional” Naval Officers…the guys who heard you “complaining” that you’d already seen that movie several times, and found the mostly empty ice cream cartons in the wardroom fridge.
I have to admit, this is a GREAT story, and makes my one about locking the HSL Det OIC out of his stateroom on random mornings on the frigate pale in comparison. It isn’t worthy.
You needed to have written it a few days ago, just before the end of the weblog voting…would have pumped up your voting points for sure.
Thanks! (and may we have another, sir?)
December 16th, 2005 at 4:43 pm
I think the best part of this story is even a civilian would get a good smile out of this, while missing 90% of “the rest of the story.”
This civilian got more than a “good smile” out of it, but as to how much of the rest of the story I got, ignorance by definition excludes me from an estimation. Regardless, it’s great stuff.
December 16th, 2005 at 7:58 pm
I have seen the ultimate representation of this phemon when our Company Commander (which, regardless of what anyone would tell you, is the apex of a Marine Officer’s career, unless he makes Commandant) proved upon the body of my (soon to be “ex”) Platoon Commander that it is indeed possible to inlay a human form into the side of an AAV7 simply through the power of the human voice…
In a word, magnificent…
December 16th, 2005 at 8:09 pm
Sgt. B, you must share that story on your blog!
December 17th, 2005 at 3:32 am
Guess the old adage, “If you are not in hack at least once a cruise, you are not carrying your sahre of the load!” no longer applies………