The club began to fill at noon. Flanagan noted that there were a number of submarine Chiefs in the crowd, their pale faces standing out in contrast to the tanned faces and arms of the submarine tender and base Chiefs. He nodded at Nuthall and Wilson, who sat down at a table next to his in company with two other Chiefs.
“Any word on my outer door?”
“It’s on the way, that’s all I can tell you,” Wilson said. “You get the word on the overhaul, the refit?” Flanagan shook his head.
“Since you got to wait for the door and because there’s a lot of boats in port the people in the Squadron decided you would have to do your own refit.”
“That’s gonna make a lot of people happy when they get back from the hotel,” Flanagan said. He turned his head as a burly Chief Boilermaker standing at the bar raised his voice.
“Too damned many heroes in this club,” the man said. “Too fucking many Feather Merchant Reserves wearin’ the Chief’s hat because they’re on some fucking submarine!”
“Who’s that character?” Flanagan asked Wilson.
“Chief Boilermaker named Scott,” Wilson said in a low voice. “He got kicked off the boats years ago, before the war. Changed his rate from Machinist’s Mate to Boilermaker. Hates all submarine sailors. Likes to make trouble, and he’s a nasty bastard in a fight. Strong as an ox. Trouble is, he’s a hell of a good man at his trade. But the way he’s drinking these days I think his liver has got to go.”
Flanagan raised an arm as he saw Doc Wharton and John Wilkes Booth, newly promoted to Chief Yeoman, come in the door of the club and stand surveying the room. They saw him, and moved to his table and sat down.
“How about letting me celebrate getting the hat and buy a beer before lunch?” Booth asked. Flanagan nodded, and Booth went to the crowded bar. He wedged himself in next to the Chief Boilermaker and tried to get the attention of the busy bartender. “Three beers,” he called out.
“Didn’t know you submarine pukes drank beer,” the Chief Boilermaker said in a loud voice. “Thought all you fucking heroes drank champagne. Ain’t beer just a little bit too common for you shitheads?”
“So?” Booth said. He measured the other man’s bulk with his eyes as he moved away from the bar.
“So?” the Chief bellowed. “So? So I think all you submarine fuckheads are fuckheads. That’s what’s so, you shithead!” He stepped away from the bar holding his empty beer stein in his right hand. The conversation in the club died away. Wilson leaned over and half-whispered to Flanagan.
“Better get your Chief away from that dude or there’s going to be a lot of trouble. Old Scott has had too many and he’s looking for trouble.” Flanagan nodded and got to his feet. Doc Wharton followed Flanagan toward the bar.
“I don’t like the way you talk, Chief,” Booth said in a soft voice. “That is, if you’re really a Chief Petty Officer. Maybe you stole your hat off some real Chief.”
“You callin’ me a thief?” the burly man moved away from the bar, his red-veined eyes glaring at Booth. “You know what I think you are? I think you’re some kind of a Reserve jackass and you know how you get the attention of a damned jackass? You hit the son of a bitch on the head!” He swung the heavy beer stein up and around and smashed it toward Booth’s head. The Chief Yeoman jerked his head to the right but not quickly enough. The chipped glass bottom of the stein sliced downward against his left ear. Booth reeled away, his hand going to his torn ear as Flanagan moved past him.
“You want some of the same medicine, you fucker?” the Chief Boilermaker bellowed. He swung the beer stein upward, and Flanagan moved in, his right fist traveling in a low arc, smashing into the other man’s crotch. The Chief Boilermaker gagged and then he doubled over, retching. He staggered a step or two and went down on his knees, his hands clutching at his genitals, his face agonized. Flanagan moved over a little, took aim, and then kicked out hard with his right foot, slamming the heel of his shoe into the other man’s head. The man toppled on his side, his breath whistling between his teeth, his hands still grabbing at his crotch.
“Will you damned people keep it quiet?” a submarine CPO said in a loud voice. “Man can’t hardly hear himself eat his soup.
“How badly is he hurt?” Flanagan said to Doc Wharton. The Pharmacist’s Mate was pressing a bar towel against the side of Booth’s head. A steady stream of blood was running down the side of Booth’s neck, staining the collar of his new khaki shirt.
“Looked like his ear was torn off about half way down,” Doc said. He motioned to the bartender, who gave him another clean towel. Wharton took the bloodstained towel from the yeoman’s head and looked at the ear closely. He pressed the clean towel against Booth’s head.
“He’s gonna need a lot of stitching,” he said.
“Hospital?” Flanagan asked.
“He should go there, but if we take him there they’ll hold him for God knows how long to check for concussion. Any time someone gets hit in the head they worry.”
“If that happens we’ll lose him off the boat, sure as hell,” Flanagan said. “What with charges and God knows what being brought. Best damned yeoman we ever had. Good man on the twin twenties, too.” He looked at Wharton. “You think you can take care of him?”
“I could sure as hell try,” Wharton said. “My kit is at my girl’s flat. We can do it there. If it works, fine. If it doesn’t we can always send him to the hospital.”
Flanagan turned and faced the Chief Petty Officers in the restaurant and bar. He looked down at the unconscious Chief Boilermaker and then at the seated Chiefs.
“My name is Flanagan, Chief of the Boat of the Eelfish, “ he said in a flat tone of voice. “If this dude or any of his friends wants to see me they can come around.” He turned and saw that the two relief-crew Chiefs, Nuthall and Wilson, were helping Wharton move Booth toward the door. At the end of the gravel path Nuthall left and trotted down the street.
“We’ve got a Squadron car parked down the street,” Wilson said. “We’ll drive you wherever you got to go with this guy
“You’re good people,” Flanagan said. “Doc is going to try and sew him up over at his girl’s place.”
Nuthall drove up and the three men got into the car. Ten minutes later they were in the sitting room of a modest flat. A buxom young blonde went hurrying into the kitchen for a basin of warm water in response to Wharton’s order.
“Her name’s Sheila,” Wharton said. He sat Booth down on a kitchen chair that Nuthall had brought out and carefully moved the bloody towel from the side of Booth’s head. The left ear was hanging, torn away from the scalp skin down half the length of the ear. Wharton gently bathed the area with warm water and soap. He turned to the girl.
“Get me that bottle of rum I bought yesterday. Pour out a big glass. I’m gonna have to hurt this bastard, and a little rum will make it easier on both of us. Not as good as a shot, but I don’t have any morphine.” He handed Booth the glass of rum, and he gagged as he took a swallow.
“Get it down, fella,” Wharton said. “Soon’s you begin to feel brave and happy lemme know, and I’ll go to work.”
Booth smiled wanly. “Fucker sneak-hit me. You fix me up and I’ll go back and cold-cock that son of a bitch so hard he won’t wake up for quarters.” He drank the rest of the rum, shuddering as the powerful liquor bit at his throat. Flanagan held a towel against the damaged ear while Wharton laid out a curved needle and sutures. He threaded the needle and dipped needle and suture in a vial of alcohol. He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, picked up the needle, and moved in beside Flanagan. Flanagan took away the towel, and the upper half of the ear flopped down as the blood began to run.
“Can’t work on that damned thing with him sitting up,” Wharton said. He turned, looking at the furniture in the room.