Whisky Tango Foxtrot...Copy?

WHISKY TANGO FOXTROT

John Regan

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Copyright John Regan 2016

Chapter 1

In the summer of 1964, Jim Price and his mate Charlie Krantz found themselves aboard the Daring class destroyer HMAS Voyager somewhere off Jervis Bay on a beautiful, clear moonlit night. Jim had achieved his boyhood dream of sailing in fast ships and Voyager hammered along at full speed ahead, better than 30 knots, in company with the aircraft carrier Melbourne. Their task that night was to give flyboys practice landing their Gannet aircraft on Melbourne’s flight deck, about the size of two football fields.

As Engine Room Artificers Fourth Class in the rank of acting petty officer it was their job to operate the twin chrome-plated throttles that admitted superheated steam to the turbines driving the ship through the water. Generators roared, steam-driven pumps went kapunk, kapunk, kapunk, turbines screamed, the steel checker-plates under his feet rattled and so did his head while his body streamed with sweat. For the last couple of hours it had been stop and go; half ahead both, full ahead, stop, and even slow ahead port with slow astern starboard.

What the fuck are they doing up there? Charlie wanted to know, to which Jim had no answer. They had played football together; got drunk together, peed over the same fences, fought over the same girls and nearly killed themselves driving fast cars, so comments like this required no response. Jim had no more idea than Charlie what was happening on deck except by guesswork from the engine orders. That was the worst part. Right now the telegraph indicated full ahead and the ship was going flat strap, probably shifting station from Melbourne’s quarter to somewhere further ahead. With all the machinery working overtime, Jim was trying to concentrate on his job.

Then the telegraph rang straight through from full ahead to full astern. For an instant, he could hardly believe it. You can’t go from full ahead to full astern in a car and you can’t do it in a ship. He glanced at Charlie, beside him, staring at the telegraph in disbelief. It resembled a clock face and, definitely, the brass pointer had swung right around the dial from full ahead to full astern. They both turned to look at The Baron, the engineer officer in white overalls standing behind them on the manoeuvring platform high above the generators, turbines and pumps. The Baron had earned his nickname because he seemed to think he was a member of royalty, with a habit of looking down his nose at you but the full astern order obviously gave him a shock. For a moment he seemed undecided, but then he said, Just do it, but watch the steam.

Jim and Charlie began winding back on the throttles, keeping an eye on the steam pressure gauges. Too fast and they could destroy the turbine blades or black out the boilers. Too slow and the emergency that called for the full astern order, whatever it was, could also become a disaster.

Then everything went haywire. An explosion tossed Jim through the air. He screamed, and his arms flailed like a windmill. He grabbed at a stanchion to save himself from going over the edge but lost his grip and fell, hit a diesel generator, bounced off and landed on a catwalk. He screamed again when pain shot up his left leg as if from a red hot knife. He clutched another stanchion to keep from falling down further, into the oily bilge, the bowels of the ship. Voyager seemed to have stabilised but heeled over at a steep angle. Dazed and dizzy, he hung on to keep from sliding down the slope. He strained to look at his leg, wondering why his foot was sticking out sideways. Blood soaked the leg of his overalls and puddled on the catwalk. He had to stop the bleeding. It was a gigantic task, requiring all his concentration. Hanging on with one hand and biting his lip, he rolled up the trouser leg to the break below the knee and made a bundle of it to soak up the blood. He tore his sweat rag into strips and tied the pad in place over the wound. It nearly exhausted him. He shut his eyes and felt his hands trembling uncontrollably, his mind a blank.

Then Charlie appeared, clambering along the tilted catwalk hand over hand on the guardrail. Blood ran down his cheek from a cut on his forehead but otherwise he looked unharmed. Charlie to the rescue, Jim thought with relief. It wouldn’t be the first time Charlie had got him out of trouble, but it worked both ways. Jim had saved Charlie’s pickle once or twice. That’s what mates are for.

You okay, mate? Charlie looked worried, which worried Jim. Maybe the leg was worse than he thought.

Leg’s buggered, Jim said, and added stupidly, I put a bandage on it.

Charlie squatted to look at it but did not touch. Yes, I see you’ve put a bandage on it. How’s your other leg?

I think it’s okay, but I wouldn’t know.

Well, we’ve got to get you out of here. I’ll give you a lift.

He grabbed Jim under the armpits and hoisted him up on to one leg, careful not to damage the other further. With one of Jim’s arms over his shoulder he headed back along the catwalk gripping the hand rail. They reached the ladder and both clung to it, with Jim panting from the pain. No way was he going to be able to climb that ladder.

Hang on, Charlie said. I’ll go and get a rope. You’ll be right, mate.

He climbed the ladder, crossed the platform to the workshop and came back with a length of rope. He tied it around Jim’s chest under the armpits and then climbed back up to the platform.

Ready? I’m going to pull you up.

Jim was having another dizzy spell and everything looked fuzzy. He grabbed the rope, his only lifeline.

Yeah. Go ahead.

Charlie took the line around his back and over his shoulder like a mountaineer and heaved. Jim assisted by hauling himself up on the rungs. His left leg dangled uselessly and bumped against the ladder and he shouted with the pain.

Charlie got him up to the platform and they both collapsed on the plates, exhausted. One of the generators shut down, probably on low oil, Jim thought, because the ship was still heeling more and also going down forward. The lights were growing dim and alarm bells were ringing. It was becoming hard even to stay in place.

Jesus Christ, what’s happened? Jim said. Have we run aground or what?

Just then the ship gave another lurch.

No, Charlie said. She’s still moving.

Someone down below screamed.

That’s The Baron, Jim said.

Stiff shit. We’ve got to get out of here, mate. This ship’s buggered.

Charlie lifted him upright again and Jim clung to his back like a baby koala while Charlie mounted the ladder leading up to the main deck. It was supposed to be vertical but the list pressed Charlie against the rungs and he struggled to make progress. The ship must be over about fifteen or twenty degrees. When he could, Jim grabbed a rung with one hand and hauled on it, trying to ignore the knifelike pain gouging his leg. The Baron screamed again. Maybe he was hurt too, Jim thought, but nothing could be done. At the top, the problem was to get up over the coaming, the little wall around the hatch.

You hang on, Charlie said. I’m gonna get your bum on my shoulder.

Charlie backed down the ladder, got his shoulder under and heaved up like an earthquake. Jim was ejected out over the coaming into the main passageway with more excruciating pain. Except for the fireflies of battery light it was as dark as a bat’s cave, with men scrambling, shouting, crying, kicking, punching and fighting for the exit while emergency klaxons hooted over the PA.

Charlie got Jim up on his back again and staggered along the passageway, supporting himself with a hand against the bulkhead. The hordes pushed past them out on to the quarterdeck where the chief coxswain waved them through, broke them up into two streams, left and right, uphill and downhill, trying to impose order upon the rabble.

Out in the cool fresh air, Jim caught the scent of ozone and knew he was lucky to be alive. He felt sorry for the Baron, still down below, but nothing could be done for him now.

Settle down, the chief coxswain yelled. Get yourselves in line. This is not a rehearsal. Anyone without a lifejacket, get it on now. Let’s have a bit of order here.

Sailors in a panic jostled and shoved, fear written on their faces, but the chief was a beacon of sanity in this madness. He stared them down and the line held.

Now, who’s wounded?

Jim Price, Swain, Charlie said.

Get him into the boat. The rest of you, stand back. Anyone else? Who’s next?

Hopping along with Charlie for a crutch, Jim headed for the downhill boat, already nearly full, hanging in the davits. He turned around and a couple of blokes grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him backwards into the boat. Jim let out a howl when his sore leg smacked against the side.

Come on, mate, Jim said. There’s room for you.

Charlie mopped the blood off his forehead with the sleeve of his overalls. He raised his hand in a kind of half-salute. I’m going back for The Baron.

"What? You stupid prick, get into the boat."

Charlie turned and shoved his way back through the mob. Jim could hardly believe it. Where did he think he was going? This ship doesn’t have long to live. Charlie was famous for mad hatter escapades but this was just plain stupid.

Charlie. Come back!

The boat dropped with a jerk and Jim nearly fell out. Someone started the engine and they let go the falls and motored away from the doomed ship, picking up sailors out of the water until the boat was nearly gunwales under and they could take no more.

Sweet Jesus, it looked like she’d been chopped clean in half. The stern was right out of the water and the propellers silhouetted by starlight. What a beautiful night: stars and moonlight, smooth sea, light breeze. If he’d had a woman it would have been romantic. It was surreal. It was a dream. It wasn’t really happening.

The aircraft carrier, Melbourne, had stopped about a mile away. Voyager had been her guard ship, keeping station nearby while she launched and landed aircraft. It was Voyager’s duty to pick up aircrew from any plane that ditched but somehow Voyager had become the casualty. There was no land in sight, so she hadn’t run aground. The only other possibility, the unthinkable one, was that she had been rammed by Melbourne. Jim struggled without success to get his head around this idea.

Choppers lifted off Melbourne’s deck and choppered over the sea, dropping bundles that ballooned and blossomed into life rafts. A fleet of boats headed for the sinking ship. Jim was trying to find a comfortable place for his leg in the overcrowded boat. It was still bleeding. The trouser leg was soaked with blood and he had nothing else to bandage it with. One of the blokes ripped a sleeve off his shirt and wrapped it around the leg. Jim nearly screamed again, but managed, Thanks, mate. A few more shirt sleeves got ripped off to patch up some of the other wounded.

Approaching the carrier, he saw a great chunk chopped out of her bow so it looked like the gaping jaws of a shark. It must have been a T-bone collision. How in the name of hell does an aircraft carrier run right over a destroyer on a night like this?

The lifeboat hooked on to the carrier’s winch and was hoisted out of the water. They ascended the grey steel cliff that was the carrier’s side. Melbourne’s sailors peered over guard rails, standing by to help. Arriving at the boat deck, survivors scrambled out of the boat and boarded Melbourne. Two sailors lifted Jim out and picked him up in a firemen’s carry, but just then Voyager let out a huge white cloud and the roar of escaping steam.

They watched, agape and silent, as the bow section disappeared amidst bubbles like bursting balloons spewing out debris. The aft section remained afloat but only just. It was nearly standing on end now, with the propellers right out of the water, jerking as if bumping down stairs. If he hadn’t managed to escape, Charlie was still in the stern section. Maybe he still had time. Why did the stupid bastard go back?

‘Come on, get your arse out of there for Chrissake,’ Jim muttered to himself, but knew it was already too late. He had nothing more to say, even to himself. He was numb, empty, bewildered, desolate and exhausted. If only he could sleep forever. Charlie was gone. Fuck.

Chapter 2

Nurse Robinson pulled back the curtains and flooded the room with morning sunlight and the picture postcard view across Middle Harbour.

Right then, let’s have you up and about. She wasn’t just a nurse; she was head honcho, or matron, like a chief coxswain of nurses. She stripped the sheet off and stood back with her hands on her hips, waiting for him to spring out of bed, which he had no intention of doing.

I’m going to get you some crutches, she said. I want to see you up and dressed when I get back.

After three weeks lying on his back, Jim had no inclination to go anywhere. He would rather stay here: most expensive piece of real estate in Sydney with three meals a day, harbour views and bossy women. What more could he want? Three weeks’ leave with a plaster cast on his leg was not high on the list. The oldies had only bothered to come and visit once. The old man kept gazing out the window at the view and the old lady dried up after about ten minutes of repeating, Oh, what a terrible thing, plus the stuff she had read in the papers. Jim was half-expecting the old man to say ‘I told you so.’ Way back when, at the age of 15, Jim presented him with forms to sign he’d said, Fucking Navy? What do you want to join the navy for? Bunch of poofters in the Navy.

Jim didn’t really know why he wanted to join the Navy. All he knew was that he did not want to be a pig farmer. His only nautical experience was paddling a canoe on the river. Along with a bunch of school mates he built the canoe from a sheet of corrugated roofing iron and plugged the nail holes with tar dug up from the road on hot summer days. Shooting the rapids, they spent more time dragging it ashore to bail it out than paddling it. He didn’t know why he wanted to join the Navy. It just seemed the right thing to do.

I dunno. Get to go on fast ships. Sail around the world.

Rum, sodomy and the lash. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The old man scowled as he signed the forms and it seemed to Jim he had never forgiven his only son for not taking over the farm. Jim felt somehow guilty for the Voyager disaster and was thankful the old man did not gloat.

It could have been worse. Eighty-two men died but a couple of hundred got out. Twenty or thirty were injured. The finger of fate was a mysterious thing indeed. Lying on his back staring at his bandaged leg suspended from a frame over the foot of his bed, Jim puzzled over that. Why them and not me? Why Charlie and not me? It could have been Charlie who broke his leg. Why did he go back? Charlie’s final silliness seemed like wilful self-destruction, which Jim could never understand. Charlie was a larrikin, a practical joker, a big puppy dog of a man, not the hero type. What a waste.

Chook Fowler and a few other injured survivors hobbled in and gathered around his bed; one on crutches, another in a wheelchair, one with a walking stick.

We heard they’re letting you out today, mate, Chook said.

Yeah, the Dragon Lady has gone to get me some crutches. I’m supposed to get out of bed.

Chook was well named: as scrawny as a plucked chook, with a prominent Adam’s Apple and a voice like a rooster’s, which he was not shy about using. His left arm had been mangled in the collision. The doctors had operated several times trying to reconstruct it, a process that Chook regarded with detachment as if it was someone else’s arm. He kept Jim informed of progress.

Have you seen the paper today? He opened his newspaper to a cartoon of a navy captain with a bottle of rum in his hand and a parrot on his shoulder over the caption ‘Arrh, matey, shiver me timbers.’

Jim had a chuckle over the cartoon although there wasn’t much humour in it for him.

I’d like to shiver his timbers, Chook said with a scowl. He obviously didn’t find the cartoon very funny either. The papers are on his case, at least.

Voyager’s Captain Stevens was better known in the Navy as Drunken Duncan for his legendary consumption of alcohol. He was said to have drunk a bottle of brandy in one forenoon watch. It appeared some journalist had sniffed out his reputation.

Says here they’re going to hold an enquiry, Chook said. A Royal Commission.

Well, we need some answers, don’t we?

Bloody lot of use that will be, I don’t think, said Ernie Forrest, a PO radar plotter who had been one of the last to get out of the ship, barely alive. "How many enquiries have they had into cock-ups like Vendetta ramming the dock gates in Williamstown and nothing ever comes of them. The best one was the submarine Tabard that submerged with two blokes out on the casing. ‘Shit, sorry boys; we forgot you were still outside.’ The skipper of the submarine got promoted. Bastard should have been flogged."

Yeah, that’s right, said another, but at least it’s a Royal Commission so we won’t have Pussers pigs investigating Pussers pigs. That’s about as much use as police investigating police.

Just then, Robinson returned with an armful of crutches.

All right, you lot. Clear out. Petty Officer Price is being discharged today. If he ever gets around to getting dressed, that is.

She glared at Jim’s visitors and they retreated without a whimper.

Three weeks of unwanted liberty seemed almost like a punishment, just when he had got used to the routine of meals, bedpans and blood tests. The only thing left to him since his ship disappeared beneath the waves was the ragged, blood-soaked blue overalls he had been wearing. The Navy had magnanimously issued him with a new outfit of uniforms in a khaki kitbag. He chose the schooner rig; navy blue trousers (not bellbottoms), and white, short-sleeved shirt with a petty officer’s crossed anchors in blue on the sleeve. Bell bottoms would have been easier to get over the plaster. It would have to do until he got some civvies with flares. He’d had one payday in hospital so he had a little cash but the kitbag at the foot of his bed was the first real problem.

Robinson fitted him up with the crutches, detailed instructions concerning his leg, his hours of rest and his intake of alcohol. As far as possible, he was to keep the leg horizontal.

Yes, ma’am, Jim said. What am I supposed to do with that kit bag? I can’t carry it.

We’ll send it on when you get your next posting. Meanwhile, you’re on leave. Enjoy! She actually smiled, and Jim was astounded. The only time he ever saw her smile was when she was getting rid of him.

Whoopdedoo, he said, just kidding.

He wanted to collect his car from his parents’ place but before that there was another chore he did not relish. Charlie had married a girl called Big Red about a year before. They only got married because she was up the duff but then Charlie kind of settled into the idea, especially when the kid came along. Big Red was a regular at the Friday night dances, with crimson hair done up in a pompadour so stiff with hair spray it was like wire wool. Jim had touched it once and it gave off sparks of static electricity. She was a star performer at the Friday night dances but now he owed it to Charlie to say something and had no idea what. Nothing was going to bring him back. It was not as if the ship had been lost in some heroic sea battle or overwhelmed by a cyclone. As far as Jim could figure it out, 82 men had lost their lives through carelessness. His father had been right.

It was only a short hobble on crutches from the hospital to the ferry wharf but he worried about having to ride across the harbour by ferry. Something had fundamentally changed over the last three weeks lying on his back, seeing Voyager go down again and again in his mind’s eye, wondering what Charlie’s last minutes had been like, when all the lights failed and he could hear the water rushing in.

If he had any sense he would never get in a boat again. The ferry came alongside the jetty with water churning under the stern and a toot on the whistle. The deckhand neatly dropped a line on a bollard, and ran out a rattly gangway. Jim held back while three or four other passengers walked aboard. He wasn’t too sure about the idea of hobbling along that gangway.

Are you coming or not, mate? the deckhand called, impatient at the delay.

Yes, I’m coming. I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming.

Do you need a hand on your crutches?

No. I can manage. I’m coming. I’m coming.

The first step was the hardest. He mounted the gangway, which wobbled. He froze for a minute and then took another step. One after the other. Maybe ten steps. He stepped off the end of it and took a seat on the after deck. The deckhand flipped the mooring line off the bollard, water churned under the ferry’s stern and she pulled away from the wharf. So far, so good.

Normally, he would have climbed to the upper deck but the lower deck was safer. It was midmorning in late summer. The commuters had already gone to work and apart from a few sailboats making slow progress in a light breeze, the harbour was like a daydream, with the sun sparkling on the water. Seagulls squabbled over scraps and schoolboys on an outing skylarked on the upper deck. All perfectly normal.

It’s okay, he told himself. It’s okay.

All the same, later on the train, he found it necessary to scrutinise his fellow passengers while huddling in a corner of his seat, sensing they were somehow different from him, or he was different from them, whichever way you wanted to look at it. At the Happy Valley station he took a taxi to the Navy ghetto: boxes made of ticky-tacky with identical picket fences for non-commissioned officers. The junior rates’ married accommodation farther up the road lacked picket fences. Something to do with class distinction, he assumed.

Hanging on his crutches, Jim rang the bell but it wasn’t Big Red who appeared and for a moment he was confused. Had he got the wrong address? This person was blonde, not redhead, and she had big brown eyes that looked at him quizzically. Maybe she’d been expecting Seventh Day Adventists.

Oh. I thought this was the Krantz residence. I’m looking for Nola.

She gave him a little smile of encouragement. Yes, you have the right place. Nola will be pleased to see you. You’re Jim Price, aren’t you?

How do you know that?

The smile broadened into a cheeky grin. Detective work. We heard you had a broken leg and you’re on crutches with a plaster cast. Dead give-away. I’m Jenny, by the way.

She held the door open for him and waved him inside to a living room in gloom, with curtains drawn, and a stale smell. Nola, lying on the couch in her dressing gown, didn’t look too pleased about anything. The cottage combined living with dining room and had a tiny kitchen off to the side. It looked like she slept on the couch permanently, with the baby sleeping in a cot alongside. Nola obviously couldn’t be bothered to get dressed. Her pompadour had collapsed into a sorry looking mop and she looked tired with dull eyes. She seemed to have shrunk since the last time he saw her.

Gidday, Red. How you going?

Well, look what the cat dragged in. If it isn’t Shagger Price.

Just thought I’d drop in and say hello.

As he said it he realised how measly it was. He hadn’t just dropped in to say hello. He was here to ease the guilt over having destroyed her man and his own mate. He was here on behalf of the other 80 who had gone down, not counting Drunken Duncan. He was here haunted by the silhouette of that ship by moonlight with its propellers sticking up in the air and men floundering in the water. In his mind he saw it as a tombstone on their watery grave. He was not just dropping by to say hello; he was here for absolution and only Big Red could give it.

Siddown, she said. Take the weight off your mind.

He sat in an easy chair with his leg stuck out and laid his crutches on the floor. He knew he should say something but had no idea what. He was not equipped for this. What do you say to a woman whose man will never come home? Charlie had been his mate but they had both abhorred anything resembling sentimentality. Charlie would have been tongue-tied in this situation too.

Would you like a cup of tea or coffee? Jenny asked, and he was grateful for this distraction.

Yes thanks. Coffee. No milk. One sugar.

He watched her walk the few steps to the kitchen as if on stepping stones, the pony tail swaying across her shoulders. It was enough to loosen his tongue.

You okay for money? he asked Nola.

Yeah. I guess I’ll get the pension now. Mum and Dad help out. But the Navy says I have to get out of the house at the end of the month.

What?

The Navy says I have to get out of the house.

"I heard you. I just didn’t believe it. They’re going to kick you out?"

Nola shrugged, reached down under the settee and pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker. She splashed a good slug into a coffee