“It’s becoming a problem, Father. A Union supply ship pulled alongside the last time we were outside of Washington. What I have on my normal list of items doesn’t square with what they have to offer. Come July I think my Selection of the Day sign will read, “Wormhole Road Kill.”
Father Rick laughed. “I can’t wait.”
Sampson made it a rule to sit with a different group of sailors at each meal. He spotted a group he hadn’t dined with before and walked toward the table. “Please have a seat, Padre,” said Petty Officer Tyrone Jones. Jones introduced the chaplain to each of the eight sailors at the table, although Father Rick already knew their names. “So what’s new, Padre?” asked Jones.
“Well, a horse walks into a bar and the bartender says ‘Why the Long Face’?” The uproarious laughter told the chaplain that they had never heard the old joke before. “Haven’t you guys ever heard of Henny Youngman?” asked Father Rick. Confused looks. Either I’m getting older or they’re getting younger, thought Father Rick.
“So how’s everything going with you guys?” Father Rick asked. He braced himself for another bunch of sad stories about sailors missing their loved ones. He expected tears, and readied himself to be the shoulder to cry on. What he heard startled him. It wasn’t sadness that he heard but frustration, bordering on anger.
Tyrone Jones led off. “Well, Padre, you ask how everything is going. It’s weird, Sir. Here we are, a bunch of sailors from the twenty-first century, and we’re fixing to pick a fight with people we whupped over 150 years ago. Hey, I’m a black man. If I lived in 1861 and my people were in chains, I’d be looking to do some ass kicking. But we’re from 2013. Our president is a black guy, my brother just married a white girl, my next door neighbor is a Filipino, and my captain is a black woman. This war was over a long time ago. Why don’t we just go home?”
The table appeared to be in total agreement, with “amens,” “right-ons” and fist pumping. Seaman Bobby Curtis leaned over and looked down the table toward Father Rick. “Yes, Bobby?” said the chaplain.
“When I signed up,” said Curtis, “we were fighting a bunch of people who wanted to kill us. These Southerners don’t even know who we are.”
Petty Officer Pete Mosely weighed in. “Padre, when the shooting starts, people are going to get hurt and killed, at sea or on land. If one of us gets popped in this stupid war, it will make no more sense than a drive-by in Detroit. We should bag ass out of here and get back to fighting real bad guys.”
Petty Officer Ike Ivey had graduated from junior college before joining the Navy. He intended to get his bachelor’s degree when his stint was up. A history buff, he hoped to become a high school history teacher some day. “Father, I’ve been reading a lot about the Civil War. In four years there were 620,000 casualties.” Almost everyone at the table said the same thing, “What?”
Ivey continued. “These nineteenth-century people are out of their minds. They think it’s a noble thing to march into cannon fire shoulder to shoulder. Now here we are, about to go shoulder to shoulder with these maniacs. We don’t belong here, Padre.”
Petty officer William Tyson spoke. “I’m from Mississippi, about as southern as southern gets. I’m a black guy and my neighbor’s a white guy. We play softball together. Our kids go to school together. My father is the mayor of my town. He ran against a white man in a town where 80 percent of the voters are white. My dad won in a landslide. This fucking, excuse me, friggin’ war was over a long time ago. It’s like waking up dead guys and killing them all over again.”
Father Rick realized it was time to talk, not just listen. “So I take it you guys are a bit angry.” The head nodding was unanimous. “I’m going to ask you to consider something. Our involvement in this war is going to be very limited. The purpose, from what I understand, is to cut down on the killing by convincing the South that it’s a terrible idea to continue. It’s not top secret that this ship is going to go through some daily changes in appearance. The idea is to make the Confederacy think that there’s more than one of us. If we do get into actual combat, the idea is the same, to convince the South to give it up, and save a few hundred thousand lives. Then, we steam for home.”
Father Rick realized that it was important to shore up support for the captain, which is part of the chaplain’s job. “I want you folks to know something, and I’m speaking from the bottom of my heart. Captain Ashley Patterson is the finest officer I have ever served with. I meet with her often. And get this: she cares about you people — a lot. She wants to go back to where we came from as much as you and I do.”
Chapter 44
Chief Ray knocked on Bradley’s office door. “Enter,” Bradley said. Ray walked into the office, closing the door behind him. He hadn’t noticed how small the office was before, about nine feet by twelve. This was another thing that preyed on Bradley’s nerves. Dashing Ashley had an expansive office while his couldn’t be a quarter the size of hers. “Have a seat, Chief,” said Bradley, “if you can find the room.”
“The Captain sure has given you some cozy quarters, Commander.” Bradley just waved his hand dismissively.
“Chief, I’ve come up with an idea to make our weapons moving plan a lot easier. Not only easier, but it will kill two birds with one stone. The SEALs are going to move the weapons for us.” Ray’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe what he just heard.
“I don’t get it, Commander.”
“Here’s the idea Chief. I’ve already spoken to Conroy, the SEAL honcho, and he agrees. I told him that I worried about the riskiness of moving two Zodiacs and two rafts full of weapons on the eve of battle. I said that we don’t know what sea conditions will be like and the danger of losing the cache of weapons is too great. I convinced him that we should move the weapons way in advance of the battle, and set up a defensive perimeter around them.”
“But if the SEALs are in charge of the weapons what happens to the big plan, the plan to join the Confederacy?”
Bradley stared into Ray’s eyes. “The SEALs will only look like they’re in charge. We need to have at least six of our people with them.”
The Chief smiled. “Our people, Commander?”
“Yes, our people. Chief, we have to expand our strength to accomplish our mission. We need at least 10 sailors who will want to join us in the Confederacy.”
“Commander, you’ll be happy to know your old friend has been thinking down the road. There’s a group of good ole’ boys aboard, rebels to the soles of their feet. There are twelve of them, four first class and eight second class petty officers. These are tough dudes, Commander. They even have a name they call themselves, although they keep it quiet: the Confederate Navy. Maybe they’d like to make that name official.”
“You haven’t said anything to them have you?” asked Bradley, concerned about the security of their plan.
“Of course not, Sir. I’ve just asked a simple question of each of them. I wanted to see where their minds are on our upcoming operations.” Ray leaned closer and said, “I just asked each of ‘em how they felt about our upcoming war against the South?”
“And what were their responses?”
“Commander, these ole’ boys are spittin’ mad. I got the clear impression that they’re fixing on doing something. What it is I don’t know, but it’s something. I guess you’re thinking, like I am, that we can give these boys something to do, something for Ole Dixie.”
“Tell me a little more about these guys, Chief.”
“Well Sir, six of them are gunners mates and work directly for me. Four are boatswains mates, tough guys. One is a boilerman, and the other is an electronics technician.”