(Previously)
The JG looked forward in the ready room to see his squadron CO and XO break from a closely whispered conference – his CO looked him in they eye even as the JG tried to answer the questions of his brother JO’s. The old man pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, raised his chin pugnaciously – and then nodded, almost imperceptibly. Nodded at him. Well done.
Turning his smiling face back to his brothers, it was all the young man could do not to weep.
The JG sat at the huge round table forward in the “dirty shirt” wardroom -the pilot’s wardroom traditionally, a place, especially at this hour: With all the “old heads” gone to bed, they were free to be fully themselves, free to dine in flight suits, free to speak loudly and laugh boisterously, for these were their customs. Free also from the foreign and sometimes stultifying traditions of the “clean shirt” wardroom down below on the second deck, where the ship’s company officers dined more fussily in pressed khakis, and looked down their noses at the brash aviators in their smelly flight suits.
Midrats – midnight rations – and for most of the assembled aviators, their second or third meal of the day ” very few would arise to eat breakfast before it closed at 0700. Not when they’d been hurling themselves at the back of the ship at 140 knots in the darkness only an hour or so before. You didn’t go right to sleep after something like that, you couldn’t. It takes a man a while to tick down.
The JG looked down with some regret at the remains of his “Barney Clark” – a double cheeseburger with bacon and a fried egg atop, accompanied by greasy fries and a coke. There would come a day, he thought, when a man might have to pay his dues on a meal like this, just before going to bed. But he was not quite 24 years old, in the arrogant bloom of youth, and obesity, never mind heart disease, was the furthest thing from his mind.
A lieutenant to his left – the one that had broken off a probe tip during the tanker rendezvous earlier in the day, in fact – noticed his momentary introspection and broke in upon it ” “What’s up with you, hero-of-the-moment?”
“Ah,” the JG replied. “I was just thinking that it’d turn the flight surgeon’s hair gray to see us eating like this.”
“You must be an optimist,” the young lieutenant rejoined, smiling broadly in anticipation of twisting the blade, “Any man who flies the ball like you do and worries about dying from a heart attack is either an optimist or delusional.”
“Ah, fuggoff you – what’s a probe tip cost, anyway?” the JG answered, laughing heartily right alongside the rest of them before falling thoughtfully silent again, looking at each man at the table from beneath lowered brows, almost shyly. After last night’s “night in the barrel, he hadn’t had the heart come to midrats – he had mostly wanted to be alone, to try to pull the curtains shut on his rack and hide from the world, to try to sleep.
The sudden realization had hit him that, had he come to midrats the previous night, no one would have teased him ” they wouldn’t have had the heart for it. They were not unkind, these men, although a stranger to their tribe might wonder at the pleasure they took in their customary exchange of verbal barbs, their casual japes and mockeries. And while they would not in general kick a man when he was down, neither was theirs a culture of public sympathies. They wouldn’t have been pitching me crap, he thought, not last night. They probably wouldn’t have even looked at me.
But tonight he was a part of the brotherhood again, having won through against hardship. He was back on the team, although, like all of them, he knew his membership was still conditional on future successes not yet achieved. But he was with his friends, and his belly was full, and he was still alive, and none of these things had been certain an hour or two ago. He sat back quietly in his chair, enjoying the easy camaraderie, laughing as the others prodded and poked at each other, always testing, always looking for weakness. This was how they were with each other when perfectly at ease, he thought – this was for them the verbal equivalent of puppies wrestling.
Tomorrow was a new day, and the JG was on the night schedule again, he remembered with a sigh – it was not yet over, not with just one good pass. He still had to demonstrate his ability to land consistently. But a huge weight had been taken from his chest, and he was, for now, content. Half an hour later he would lie down in his rack, flick off the reading lamp above his head, close his eyes and wonder how long he would toss and turn before finally falling asleep. Not for the first time he marveled at the sound of the air circulating through the vents, like the ship’s own breathing. The passing footsteps of night check maintenance personnel moving through the passageways like the blood flowing in her veins. Odd mechanical noises slammed and banged in the distance, and high pressure hydraulic lines spat and shook above his head, but these had become for him like the sound of his own heartbeat, his own breathing ” mere background noise.
Somewhere down in engineering, young men were standing their watches, staring at their gauges and dials, preparing for the inevitable array of reactor drills designed to test their skills, to test their knowledge. In Combat, the TAOs and Operations Specialists watched their tactical displays and radar scopes with lidless eyes and counted the hours until they were relieved. The aircraft maintenance crews were moving to the flight deck to service their charges, fixing what the pilots had broken during the course of the day, the ordies reloading the weapons they had expended, re-testing the ones that they had not. On the flight deck, the yellow shirts and blue shirts were untangling the mess on the bow, pulling fighters back to the fantail with tow tractors, preparing the deck for the night alerts, and the first launch. A single auxiliary power unit of an FA-18 shut down, singing its mournful, dying song as its pilot finished setting the alert, raised his canopy, removed his helmet, placed it on the canopy rail and looked at the glowing hands of his wristwatch – two more hours, he thought. Two more hours and I’ll be relieved. In a moment’s quiet, he heard the sibilant sound of the ocean sea pressing against the ship’s hull as she cut through the waves, always pressing. It whispered to him beckoningly, whispered to him promises, promises of sleep. But still pressing against her hull, always pressing, always trying to get in. Two more hours, he thought, two more hours and I can sleep.
On the bridge, the Navigator put the final touches to the Captain’s night orders, walked from the starboard side to port and waited as patiently as he could, as tired as he was. The Captain sat there in his sacred chair on the bridge’s port side, wrapped in the darkness and his mantle of severe authority, listening impassively to the Operations Officer’s brief about the next three day’s events and the flag’s intentions. The Chief Engineer and Reactor Officer awaited their turn to brief the CO on the status of the propulsion plant, and outline for him the upcoming engineering drills, and the reactions they anticipated from the watch standers. He took all of this in, he had to: There were decisions to be made that only he could make. It would be 45 minutes at least before the Captain could stumble his way towards his own rack, nearly weeping from exhaustion, and falling into it like a young man returning to a grateful lover. He looked at his watch, rubbed his face wearily, and thought, like he did each and every night for the last thirty, I can do this – I can make it. I can do this for one more day.
The Officer of the Deck stood just outside the CO’s senior circle, one eye on the old man, the other on his watch team. Course 350, speed 13 knots, no traffic of concern for now. Weather fine. The customary, cackling indiscipline of the Arabian Gulf mariners on the VHF radio brought a professional frown to the corner of his mouth. Three more hours and I”ll be relieved.
Down below, in a coffin rack on the O3 level, in a darkened 8-man junior officer berthing the JG heard the sounds of the ship’s breathing, her circulation, her musculature and thought to himself, this ship is alive. And she never really sleeps.
But she does tick down.
He blinked twice in the darkness, shifted to his left side and was instantly asleep.
At 0330, an alarm went off in a coffin rack in the Ops berthing. A hand groped in the darkness behind the rack curtains to silence the alarm. The curtains served as a demarcation line – they marked this space as the owners. This space is his only privacy, the only thing that is truly his own in a berthing area shared with 100 other men, themselves stacked in bunk beds three high, arrayed in cells that fade into the greater darkness.
He is only 19 years old, and a third class operations specialist and what he wants more than anything else in the world is to go back to sleep. All around him are the exhalations of 75 deeply tired, deeply sleeping men – the rest are on watch and it’s his task to relieve them in 30 minutes. When he gets there he has to be fully awake, so he turns the reading light on above his rack, hoping that the flicker and buzz of the light bulb as it starts up will help him shake off his torpor. He shares responsibility for the safety of the ship, and the 5000 people on board. Most of whom he does not know. Most of whom are still asleep, and will be for hours.
Thank you, Lex. What a great trip it’s been!
I’m looking forward to the day when I can say I have a friend who’s a “published” author…
Thanks, Lex, for a great read. A relatively recent fan of your site, it has been a pleasure to catch up on your stuff. Please keep it up.
Lex,
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Thanks again for a great story. That last paragraph really brought back some 50 year old memories.
The tradition goes on.
Really appreciate you.
old can sailor…
C’est magnifique, mon capitaine. For the tale, and the telling of it, I thank you.
A Barney Clark…not good for your body but oh so good for your soul. I’m getting hungry just thinking about one! Can’t eat them now though, just too much cholesterol….sigh.
Lex…Thanks for the peek into your world. I appreciate the time you took to write all of this, it was a very enjoyable story.
Awesome story Lex. I’d say right up there with Clancy and Bond.
Though new to your site I read it everytime I can get and spend much of my time going back thru the archives.
I actually am glad I am new. It would have been unbearably tormenting to have to WAIT for each new Rythms Installment..LOL
I’ll very much miss the continuing story. This was an exciting and insightful look into naval aviation, combining technical/tactical with the psychology of these warriors and their navy society.
Fascinating and exciting.
Is there more in your creative mind?
Thanks, Lex, for that wonderful story cycle.
Thanks, Captain.
Bravo Zulu Lex.
Mustang Coastie sends.
Bravo good Sir.
Thanks for the read.
Thanks for the great story
Thank you!
Somewhere, as we write and read here, they are standing watch right now. Someone is cooking breakfast for 500, bombs are being loaded, the ready rooms are full. On July 2nd, 2006, while I, an old man of 49, sit sipping coffee and reliving old times, ships and planes are out there. Thanks for the reminder.
I wonder if they would take an old man back?
Semper Fidelis,
ASM826
Wow, I didn’t realize it has been a year since you began. I knew it had been a while, but a year?
Thanks, Lex. It was more than worth the wait each and every time.
“An artist is a man of action, whether he creates a personality, invents an expedient, or finds the issue of a complicated situation.”–Joseph Conrad
You do all three sir, and make it look easy [when it most assuredly is not]
Well Done, and thanks
A fitting conclusion to a story that never ends. Thanks.
A nice finish with incredible lightness. I can taste the onions from that double slider and I think I hear that rack lights hissing and cracling start up. Glad to see they carry on same as always.
Thanks for the memories.
B2
Thank you, Captain Lex!
Wishing a very happy Independence Day to all here, with gratitude!
wow, I feel kind of sad that it’s all over. But I guess you’re not!
I enjoyed it very much, thank you Lex. I’ll put this to print soon and send it over to ya.
Nice touch, adding the OS3. I hope the OS3 sneaks into the Chief’s Mess, grabs a couple of boxes of Raisin Bran, sits down and ramps up his mind for the next watch.
Capt. Lex,
Thank you for the story!
You really should consider writing a novel or history when you retire. BZ.
On the 4th of July I would like to express my thanks to you, and all the other men and women who stand watch, to their families and friends for their support, to the men and women who have been relieved and those yet to stand watch.
bc
A “Barney Clark”? Sounds like a small story right there.
(Google tells me that Barney Clark was the first recipient of an artificial heart, the Jarvik-7, back in 1982. Gotta love that gallows humor.)
Great stuff. Your writing makes Tom Clancy seem like Chaucer on LSD after an aneurysm. Shoot, that didn’t come out right. Wait, I can do this . . . You make Gandhi look like a child pornographer. Good Lord, that’s no improvement.
Wait, I got it: your stories make me happy. Love to read your book some day.
Thanks again and again. I loved every bit of it. Wishing I were 20 years younger, 70 pounds lighter, and 20/400 better vision…
Nice, Lex. Thanks.
Hey Badbob, thanks for the flashback.
“and I think I hear that rack lights hissing and crackling start up.”
I forgot all about that.
That last “endit” link was truly irresistible. I couldn’t help reading it all over again. I don’t know what exactly makes it so compelling, maybe it’s the level of detail.
I’m sitting here in stunned silence…
It’s… It’s… It’s over? The ride is over?
And then I realize that this story starts out afresh everyday, be it a Naval Aviator aboard a CVN, an Army Private getting up to cook the eggs for morning chow, a Coastie rescue swimmer watching out of the side of his bird as they return to base on the Gulf Coast, an Air Force tech-type opening an eye, listening to the breathing of her husband, and remembering that she’s supervising her team pulling number three engine on old No. 4356-12 today, to the Marine grunt who chucks a boot at his buddy because he’s snoring too loud…
Thanks for the ride, Skipper, thanks for the insight…
I think, Lex, that if you wanted to, you could give the “heavies” a run for their money…
In the meantime…
“At about the same time, across the vast expanse of ocean, a Marine Sergeant fought his way out of sleep as his wristwatch alarm bleeped…
…Another day in Bagdad…”
Again, BZ, Skipper…
Great writing… I echo the comments above and take the time to repeat them because your writing deserves it. Thank you.
I’m a bit late to the party due to my vacation, but I’ll echo everyone else in thanking you for a great ride. The stories were always well worth the wait. I think the vivid insight into the daily realities up and down the chain of command gives those of us who haven’t served just that much more appreciation for those who have and/or are.
I’m an old man now – I’ve flown all my life, in flight testing, mostly. It’s been great…but never as great as how it was as an Ensign and JG on the straight deck carriers, day and night. It took me to the absolute limit of my capabilities, and I loved it for that. Your writing brought that back to me in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible. I cried some. Thank you for that.
This is an extremely well done yarn. Your writing flows easily and you have a natural flair for the language. One bugaboo I noticed – the difference between affect and effect. The latter is the verb. the former noun. You should find yourself an agent and go to work. Spent 2 years on CVA 42, the FDR and went through OCS class 41. Congratulations…Tony Austin
Thanks, Tony. Glad you liked. One day when I can stand to look at ‘em again, I’ll go back and tidy up.
Amazing – I am so glad I didn’t have to wait as you wrote it, think I might have smashed
my monitor if I couldn’t keep clicking the “continue” link. Thanks so much for writing it -
you know, if you can so completely hook someone like me (I think I dreamt some of it last
night) with no military background or experience…….
Great job!
Now if only you could see your way clear to sequel. Thanks again
Lex,
Coming back late to this. I had peeked into some of the parts a while back and told myself I need to read all of this. Procrastinator that I am, I just got to it. Read the whole thing over the last several days and would also like to echo my thank you, thank you very much.
It brought back so many memories of my days as an engine mech with a VF squadron (F-14) on two different carriers. It provided this old former maintainer with a much better understanding of why so many relatively young pilots in their late 20s and early 30s had such gray hair.
Glad you liked it, Rick. And you were probably better off for procrastinating. You got to read it at your pace, not mine
Lex,
After reading the comments from those who did read in installments, I have to agree. I didn’t want to stop reading once I got started. Gripping. I’ll probably go back and re-read.
I think you may have missed a part though…
This is a drill…This is a drill
Lex:
Brilliant writing!
I’d like to be on the advance reading list
for your next book. I’ve never been a Naval
Aviator, but it seems like I know how it
feels after reading Rythms.
I’ll pass the links on to the F-4 pilots
that taught me how to fly formation. I’m
they’ll enjoy it too.
Retire and do this for a living.
Outstanding! A different view at what was going on in other parts of the boat. Thanks!
Read Rhythms in two days.
Am exhausted. And changed for it.
And…and…words come slow to this teary eyed old salt.
Fifty years out from the rhythms of life at sea in a fighting ship: the rhythms, the memories, the wretched fatigue, the drills, the pride of getting the job done well, knowing what we did was important, learning next steps, shipmates, the sometimes gentle summer seas of the Gulf Stream, the North Atlantic in winter sub ops–all came back to me in your beautiful story.
You made this geezer young again. For awhile again. Joyful, and sad, and straight-backed, squared-shouldered, tucked-in chin proud again.
Thank you for the words. Thank you for your service.
I salute you, sir.
Hey Lex,
just read the Rhythms Series – again. Its still as good as I remembered it. Thank you!
Bravo Zulu Captain Lex!
Surely you should get an agent and go pro. You’re writing style captures all of the flavor of the carriers rhythm, and explains it in great detail without being pedantic; all the better for those unacquainted with the experience personally.
I especially liked the way you flowed through the character’s perspectives; down to Farokh in his dhow!