Muster - an excerpt of At Sea

Quarters
Quarters
All hands to quarters for muster, instruction, and inspection


Sonar Technician Second Class Molly Barrone stood up too fast and it took a few seconds for her equilibrium to catch up. She was still a little hungover, in spite of all the water she drank before finally getting to sleep. She stood still for a bit and took deep breaths while the fluid in her inner ears redistributed, then she walked to the door. When she grabbed the handle of the watertight hatch of her workspace, she felt the weight of the coming months—like so much displaced water —bearing down on her. She rested her head on the door then pressed her cheek against the cool but warming metal and let it be a comfort to her for a few seconds. Her left temple stung from where she’d bumped into her friend Sessions the night before, and she rolled her forehead from left to right and then back again, settling in the middle. She noted the way the moisture from her breath bounced off the cool metal.

Over the years on board USS The Mulligans she had curated a small collection of secret spots for lounging and leaning. One of them was the big red tool box in TACTAS, her largest workspace in the aft-most part of the ship. The tool box was the size of a small coffin that lay just forward of the motor control unit that let out and reeled in the passive sonar array. The tool box also happened to be just enough out of the field of vision of anyone opening the quick-acting watertight door to the space, that even if she was completely passed out, or deeply daydreaming, she had enough time—between when she first heard the latch of the door release and when whoever it might be came inside— to jump off and then open and rifle around in the toolbox as though she was looking for something. She kept a phillips screwdriver on standby, and there were always burned-out lightbulbs in various control panels she could be on her way to changing if she needed to be.

She took one more deep breath and pushed off the door and forced the handle down and told herself not to think about breathing the recirculated air expelled by the 250-some-odd people she would be stuck on the ship with for the next half a year. She closed the hatch behind her then secured it with the padlock, and after checking to see no one was around, hid her extra key in its spot.
She walked down the passageway, past the boatswain’s paint locker which a couple of Deck Seaman Apprentices were just coming out of. She recognized them but didn’t know them so just nodded as she passed then went up the stairs to join the rest of the enlisted crew who were bottlenecked at the airlock leading to the fantail. The khaki set, chiefs and officers, would already be up topside midships getting their briefing from the department heads.

“Break the airlock!” someone shouted from behind her and someone at the airlock did, causing a great gust of wind to rush out of the ship as bodies and air under pressure flowed out into the muggy Florida summer morning.

By the time Barrone got outside, most of her division was already standing in its designated spot by the starboard side center of the flight deck. The nineteen of them had lined up in two rows and she joined the back row, standing directly behind MacFayden, who nodded at her. She was next to Thompson, who was next to Sessions. Dettermeier was at the other end of her row telling everyone about how he had to hitchhike to base that morning because his car was in storage and the friends he started the night with ended up ditching his drunk ass at some frat party. Three people were laughing, six were shaking their heads, two rolled their eyes, four listened but stifled any response, and two were busy having their own conversation.

Sessions stepped forward a bit and was about to ask Barrone something, but he looked at something behind her and stepped back into formation.


Ensign Kyle Denver resisted the urge to seek out Petty Officer Barrone even as his eyes picked her out of the line-up. He was the new Anti-Submarine Warfare Officer, the division officer, or “Div-O” to Combat Acoustics, or CA division, the small contingent of bodies lined up in front of First Class Petty Officers Mitchell and Bradford. Barrone had crossed the quarterdeck with Petty Officers MacFayden and Sessions the night before while Denver stood his Officer Of the Deck watch. He remembered seeing legs first, then the blue sundress she wore, at least he thought it was blue, it had actually been light green, but his memory was already sacrificing certain elements of what had taken place in favor of preserving what it saw fit to highlight: glowing skin, bright eyes, an easy smile, but mostly that he was attracted to her and was not allowed to be. Her hair—which had blown across her face, to then be tucked behind an ear when she begged permission to come aboard the night before—was that morning pulled back into the same tight knot at the nape of her neck many women wore when in uniform. Her face was mostly hidden under her command ball-cap, which she wore very low across her forehead.

Barrone had always liked her hat low. At her training command, she discovered that you could get away with saluting fewer officers if you pulled your hat really low and just pretended not to see them. Officers were everywhere and it was so annoying how, no matter what else you had going on, no matter what kind of hurry you were in, you had to just drop everything and stop and salute them. She suspected most of them resented being stopped and forced to return her salute as much as she hated giving it, because most of the time they let her get away with it. Most of the time.

She was doing her mental deployment inventory when she noticed her division stiffen and fall into line. She looked to her right which was the direction she knew Chief would be coming from. Her vision collided with the new ASWO's glance before she quickly turned away and looked straight ahead. She also remembered their awkward exchange on the quarterdeck the night before—Sessions’ embarrassing, “What the hell was that?” in the airlock afterward and her refusal to respond. She hadn’t been flirting. She stared over the heads of the Gunner's division, assembled across from CA division on the other side of the flight deck, past the chain-link fence that lined the entire perimeter of the basin's piers, and beyond the treetops which were as far as she could see. She felt penned in.

“Shit!” she cried out. “My fucking pillow!” Everyone within earshot jumped and then looked at her and beginning with MacFayden and Thompson, then Sessions and on down the two lines, started laughing at her outburst. Chief Spreckler and ASWO had stopped a few feet from her and were staring at her.

Her face got hot.

“Problem, Petty Officer Barrone?” Chief asked.

“No, Chief. Just realized I forgot to do something.” She said, looking straight at the chief, consciously avoiding the face of the tall officer on her periphery. She had intended to buy a new pillow for the deployment.

“What the hell did you do to your eye?” Ensign Denver asked her, sounding more accusatory than he intended and surprising everyone, no one more than himself.

If she hadn’t turned her head to look up at the Chief he’d likely never have noticed, but the sun was already powerful that July morning and was highlighting the left side of Barrone’s face in a way that made the bluish and purpling patch along her left temple particularly startling. “What?” She didn’t know what he was talking about at first, but quickly remembered. She raised a hand to the side of her face before explaining. “Oh! Sessions forgot all of his underwear.”

Chief Spreckler looked horrified and MacFayden barked with laughter that drew the attention of all the other divisions mustering on the flight deck. All decorum was lost as the rest of the division fell out laughing, except for Sessions, who not for the first time, resented being one of the few black men he knew who visibly blushed when he was embarrassed. He stood there, rigid, while Barrone turned the knife.

“He shoulder-checked me last night on our way back to the ship because he left all his skivvies in the dryer at home,” she said, smiling.

“I did not… she tripped into me, Chief!” Sessions explained, and MacFayden laughed even louder, causing the chief to realize they might be drawing too much attention.

“Shut up, MacFayden,” Chief said. He turned away from Barrone and walked the rest of the way to First Class Petty Officer Bradford, the Lead Petty Officer. Ensign Denver followed close behind him.

Petty Officer Bradford immediately stood at attention and called out, “CA Division! Aten-TION!” Which caused the jiggling and giggling bodies to quiet and come to, each spine stiffening of it’s own accord. The lead petty officer saluted and formally presented the division to the Chief and Division officer for muster and inspection. They returned his salute and then faced their division.
Chief surveyed them a few seconds before saying, “Well at least you’re all here…” and then went on to pass down the plan of the day to his motley crew: Two bodies from each of the four work centers would be needed for a forty person working party for the final stores on-load before getting underway, that would take place at 0830, one body would be needed for the ten person working party to secure from shore power at 0900, there would be a walkthrough of all the spaces throughout the morning to check everything was stowed properly for sea, berthing inspections would be cancelled for the day, the crew would assemble topside in dress whites for sea and anchor detail at 0945, everyone in the division was required to be there except Petty Officer Barrone and whoever was doing shore power. Barrone and the shore power detail would man Sonar while the ship exited the channel. Once the ship secured from sea and anchor detail, everyone was expected to muster back up in Sonar Control so watch sections could be assigned.

“Any questions?” No one responded. “Petty Officer Sessions,” Chief called out.

“Yes, Chief.”

“The Executive Officer needs someone to pick him up from Officer’s Housing, I’ll give you the address. Take the duty van to go get him. On the way you can hit the Exchange and grab some new skivvies.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Make sure you get the skivvies first, don’t make the XO wait for you to do your shopping.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Sessions…” “Yes, Chief.

“Don’t hit girls.”

“She had it coming, Chief.”

There was a brief pause while the chief considered whether there was anything else he needed to tell them, then he remembered the tall young man standing to his left.

“Oh yeah, CA Division, this is your new ASWO. Don’t get him fired.” He looked up at the young man, “Anything to add, sir?”

Ensign Denver smiled, still bewildered by his outburst, and shook his head.