My Journal

By Harriman Nelson

68

It was supper time and both breakfast and lunch had been ordinary fare so I wasn’t too concerned when I entered the Wardroom for supper. I was surprised, however, to find some of the crew, among them Riley, decorating it with green St. Patrick’s Day shamrocks from the party supply box.

“You do realize,” I said, after I made my presence known, the lone officer there, “that it’s not St. Patrick’s Day?”

“Oh, yeah, like, we know,” Riley grinned after he and the crew had begun to breathe again after having been somewhat startled. “But it’s Irish...you know, like, that’s where the Skipper’s gonna’ be next,  right? You, um, you’re not gonna’ make us take ‘em all down are you, sir?”

“No,” I said, amused,  “no, carry on...”

After I’d poured myself some of the freshly brewed coffee, something the mess specialists always tried to have available on the sideboard, I checked my watch. Yes, I was a little early for the main event. But then we were fast approaching our destination, and no doubt Chip had everyone at the ready.

“What the,” Sharkey bellowed as he passed by, quickly entering, and finding himself in a sea of shamrocks dangling from the ceiling. “Who gave you men permission to be in Officer’s Country, let alone the Wardroom? Well? Oh, excuse me Admiral, I didn’t see you there...I’ll just get these birdbrains out of your hair....”

“He doesn’t mind,” Riley said, “he said so.”

“Be that as it may, but you know the rules about not being down here in the first place without permission.”

“But Chief, like, the Skip’s gonna’ be in Ireland soon,  and....”

“Sharkey,” I interrupted, “let it go this time. I’m sure they’ve learned their lesson.”

Sometimes I amaze myself with my diplomatic skills.

“Yes sir.”

Just then the mess specialists began to lay out the selections for supper.

“A bit on the heavy side, isn’t it?” I asked regarding the Shepard’s Pie and some kind of stew I couldn’t put a name to.

“Well,” one of the specialists said, “Cookie thought something both Irish and Scottish would fit the bill. He also made some Irish Soda Bread. It’s coming out in a minute.”

“I see. You know, I think we’re all going to have to go on a strict diet when this is all over.”

“Any word on the skipper, sir? About him coming back, maybe?”

“Nothing yet...but, I do know for a fact that only this morning he was thinking about Seaview...”

“No kidding?”

“It was something Ames said.” (No one aboard would question that explanation. As far as they knew, Ames was ‘in the loop’ regarding the captain. Of course, I didn’t know if he was or wasn’t. But one excuse is as good as another.)

It was later in the crowded Wardroom, when I was having my third helping of the Shepherd’s Pie that the BBC was switched on by Sparks.

“At just about sunset today,” the anchor reporter was saying from her desk, the images forming behind her, “the port city of Youghal in Ireland saw the arrival of Mrs. Piccadilly’s Culinary Tour. Somewhat in decline, the city is hoping for an upswing in the cruise ship industry, even the smaller lines like this. But what was of most interest to the locals, as you can see in this video, was the arrival of Captain Nelson-Crane....”

We saw the boys walking down the gangplank while all of the tourist’s luggage was being taken care of by deck hands further toward the stern. The mayor, or at least someone who looked as if he could be the mayor, with some kind of symbol of office around his neck, approached them. But whatever he was going to say, was interrupted by some elderly women wearing black shawls and genuflecting, grabbing Lee.

“De’ roghnaithe ar. De roghnaithe ar,” they were saying, taking his hands into theirs and placing them over their hearts in turn,  bowing their heads in reverence.

“What are they saying?” Lee asked gently, and wouldn’t let the mayor shoo them away,  then to the nearest woman, “What is it, Grandmother?”

“They’re saying you’re ‘God’s chosen one’,” the official said. And he wasn’t laughing.

“What? Oh, no...no, no,” Lee said aghast, “I’m not special. Tell her I’m just a guy...please...”

“Uimh Ta’ se’ ach Guy,” the mayor translated.

But the women shook their heads ‘no’, all of them taking Lee’s hands and kissing them.

“Stop, please. I’m no saint...” Lee said urgently.

“That’s for sure,” Joe said.

“Ta se’ aon naomh,” the mayor said. “I told them  what you said, Captain.”

But just then the last stream of sunlight bathed Lee in its brilliance that needed no translation, at least as far as the women were concerned.

“Laoch Pharas’...one of the women muttered, patting Lee’s check and running her hand through his hair.

“She said ‘Hero of Paris’, Lee,” Joe said, “I got that much.”

“Grandmother,” Lee said and took her hand shaking his head ‘no’. “I wasn’t alone there.”

“Ni raibh me’ fein ann,” the mayor said.

The women only shook their heads defiantly, disbelieving.

 “Someone’s got to explain to them,” Lee said, rather desperate, “I’m not a saint...I’m not chosen...and I’m not the only one who brought Ozno down...”

“I’ll take care of it, Captain,” a priest said. “Teacht, teacht," he told the women.

“Er,” Joe said, finding the word in his phrase book, “means come along.”

“You will treat them gently, won’t you?” Lee asked as the priest began to  try to talk with them. “Please, no hell fire and brimstone? I mean, they’re just confused.”
“No fear about that Captain. You know, though,” the priest said, contemplating, “there are still saints among us, and most of them don’t even know they are. Argue all you want...but...you could be one of God’s anointed. You’re a good man, Captain Nelson-Crane. The whole world knows it, and most of all, God knows it.”

Soon the women, being herded away by the priest looked back toward Lee, but were soon  lost in the crowd.

I could tell Lee was mighty uncomfortable from the whole episode.

“Captain,” the mayor recovered his composure, and handed Lee a cardboard ‘key’. “Welcome to our city. We hope you’ll find it a jewel in the Irish crown, even if we don’t have a crown any more and your visit is only for a few hours before you catch the bus to Cork.”

“Thank you, er….”

“Mayor O’Hara.”

“O’Hara?” Lee perked up. “Any relation to...”

“No, Captain, no relation to Captain Sheamus O’Hara Nelson that we know of, though, it’s a small country....”

“Oh, I’d like you to meet Commander Jackson, and over here,” Lee said motioning Mrs. P. over, “is our tour organizer, Mrs. Piccadilly.”

“Delighted. The Lucky Shamrock’s just down the road. That is the pub you selected for your group’s supper, isn’t it, ma’am?”

“Indeed,” Mrs. P. “It’s famed for its traditional fare, I hear. We’re all most anxious to try it. Oh, I realize it’s probably past visiting hours but the captain and commander have expressed an interest in seeing Myrtle Grove. I don’t suppose there’s any way to extend the hours? I’d hate for the boys to miss out as we’re bussing to Cork right after supper.”

“Indeed, that can be arranged. In fact, I’ll escort them myself. Quite an interesting history...”

“And so,” the reporter said as the image faded, “Captain Nelson-Crane has embarked on the last part of his culinary tour, including the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, for the next four days. Originally he’d planned to fly back to California afterwards, but with Seaview making landfall tonight at the Royal Navy’s submarine base at Clyde, Scotland, it’s possible he may be going home aboard her. Either way, we’re sure his European tour will be something to remember. And now, in other news....”

“Admiral?” Chip said from the doorway. “I have some of that information you wanted. I left it on your desk. We’ll be nearing Clyde in a few hours.”

“Very well, Chip, thanks. Oh, did you see the broadcast?”

“Yes, Lee looks halfway normal with his stitches out now, for a saint, anyway,” he chuckled and then was suddenly serious. “That stream of light though...shining on him when it did...could make one wonder. See you later.”

Lee had earned various nicknames on this tour, but I had to wonder just how he was going to take ‘Saint Lee’ as one of them, if those elderly locals have  their way, that is.

As soon as I finished supper I waddled to my cabin to peruse the printout Chip had left on my desk.

Dr. James Bunyan, I read, was an  M.D. or  General Practitioner. Military service had been in the US Navy with a specialty in traumatic injury rehabilitation.

Damn, was that all it said? It looked as if the matter was even more of a mystery now. If I wanted to know more, I might just have to ask Lee himself. And then the jig would be up.

“Admiral?” Will said, knocking on my door frame. “May I come in?”

“Suit yourself.”

“I don’t approve, but,” he sat down. “And this is strictly off the record. Bunyan was at Bethesda Naval Hospital when Lt. Jg. Crane was a patient there. Lee had gone on an extraction assignment but while successful, he'd remained behind to lure the bad guys away from the extraction point. He was captured, tortured, and dumped into an abandoned well which was then covered over with a wooden plank. It was pitch black in the pit. No food, no water.  He managed to dig and climb his way out, inch by bloody inch, despite his battered body.  He had to crawl toward the waves he could hear but not see even though it was a full moon. Thank God the waiting sub saw him.

“He was concussed, had broken ribs, torn ligaments, a broken forearm, I could go on and on, and the blindness was psychosomatic, no physical cause. Trauma induced.

“Lt. Jg. Bunyan assisted with the muscular rehab. He learned about the nightmares Lee was having, and got him to talk about them. Oh, the debrief team had learned about everything, but left any post traumatic nightmares to the hospital. Bunyan, well, he wasn't a shrink, but they hadn't managed to get Lee to talk about the dreams. Bunyan did.  It wasn’t much longer before Lee’s sight came back.

“Now Bunyan must have been thinking that Lee’s recent blindness might have trigged nightmares again. That’s all ONI knows...or is willing to tell us.”

“Thank you, Will. I know it was hard for you to do.”

“Hard? I feel like a traitor to my profession. But...I’m glad I know.”

It’s been a few hours since Will left and I can feel the change of course as Seaview heads nearer toward the naval base.

No doubt Chip, as captain, and I, as owner, will be invited to dinner with the base commander. Hopefully,  it won’t be Haggis.