“Stop right there!” the first class yells.
And I do. In a jerk. I wrestle to keep the sea bag on my shoulder.
Maybe he is saving my life. It may be the knots. Lots of them on the wood beams I’m standing on. If those 3X8 boards start clattering, they might crumble. They’re not even anchored to anything. They buckle and my skinny body will smack hard onto the concrete pit below. Or crush down on some unlucky yardbirds, the Philadelphia navy yard workers chipping off the sea crud. They sidestep along scaffold planks, swinging their chipping hammers onto the steel hull in rhythmic, tinkling rings, an impromptu anvil chorus.
I guess I better obey the first class. I don’t need trouble my first day. I’ll just respect him as if he’s a high-ranking officer. With lots of gold, scrambled-eggs braid on his hat brim, wide, gilded bands on his sleeves. Though both were petty officers paunchy from galley goodies, guarding the planked bridge to the ship. Both were in spotless dress whites, one wearing the insignia of a first class rating, the other a third class. OOD armbands were on their hefty biceps, whatever those letters meant. I was to learn they stood for Officer of the Deck. Or for a not-so-salty guy like me, the bosses of boarding.
I await further instructions. And he gives them.
“Backup and start over. Do it right this time!”
In the fashion of a shaky tightrope walker, I backup about three steps.
With my mouth open as if waiting to be spoon fed, I thought: Do what right? I’m only a seaman, the lowest rank in all the navies of the world. Except for maybe cabin boy. So what’s this guy want?
I look at my shoes. They’re spit-shine glimmering. Though sprinkled with a little macadam dust.
Maybe it’s my hat. I better check it out. This guy is serious.
I place the bag at my feet. Then slowly and ceremoniously I lift my milky white hat from my head as if it were Queen Elizabeth’s bejeweled crown. Holding it in front of me, I snap my fingers along its entire round rim which to an onlooker it may appear I was flicking off a goose-stepping line of army ants, one by one.
Just that worthless effort alone ought to impress them. Or maybe not—since they’re staring at me now.
To finish, I carefully raised my arms, a hand on each side of the hat, and slowly lower it over my closely trimmed-back, light brown hair. I gently touch around the perimeter of the brim and I am satisfied it was not tilted. Now what can they say? This is definitely regulation. About as horizontal to the ground as you can get.
I know I was being slow about this but I was afraid of another outburst by the petty officer.
Being a slowpoke and lowly seaman, I couldn’t blame him if he blurted: “Knock off that crap and get your ass on board!”
I would like that. Just to get this boarding over with. But I am disappointed when I face them again. Mostly because of their quizzical faces. Like they were wondering what the hell I was doing. As when the impatient Hardy yells at Laurel for taking his time whisking away dust from of his black derby. But to these two sailors it wasn’t funny. I mean, I really did try to do what was right. Whatever that was.
I awaited some sign of approval.
The first class was shaking his head the way some people do as a sign of disbelief.
I interpreted it to mean everything was okay.
So I took a step onto the boards.
“Hold it!” came a surprise yell from the First Class. “Don’t you know you gotta salute the flag before you board a ship?”
My shock to his response lasted only a few seconds before I switched to a feeling of relief. Since now I at least knew what I’m doing wrong.
“I forgot,” I said, mumbling my answer because it was an outright lie. Surely the man already believes I’m an idiot. Shall I scream out my confession?
Now which way do I salute?
I have no idea.
I had only two weeks boot camp the July before last and was told I was to salute anything that is alive. I would have saluted Peter Cottontail if he hopped by me. But a flag on a destroyer? I don’t remember a flag being mentioned at all.
So where is it?
I glance at the massive gray blob before me and I am bewildered by its thousand shapes and shadows. All strange to me. The big stuff, in steely contour, was easy to pick out. Like the two tubular smokestacks that rose above me like fat, field goal posts ready for a two point hook shot.
Or the squat gun mounts about the size of large armored tanks; two huge cannon barrels stuck out from its rear side.
No flag up there.
Rising behind the OOD was a silo-shaped structure with a curved balcony on the third deck. On that arc was a series of shaded windows facing forward as if someone buckled on a set of giant sunglasses with multiple lenses. I would later learn that it was the bridge where the helmsman hangs out.
Still no flag.
I also search the smaller stuff, frantically flicking my eyes quickly among the maze of hues including shades of slate, sunlit whites, and orange rust streaks dappled throughout.
No luck.
Now where the hell is that flag?
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