A Commodore of Errors (2 page)

Mrs. Tannenbaume turned and walked out onto the porch. Midshipman Jones followed along. This assignment was turning out to be a lot more interesting
than he'd thought it would be. He pointed at the ship's bell serving as Mrs. Tannenbaume's doorbell. “Where'd you get the ship's bell, Mrs. Tannenbaume?”

“That's from my son's ship, the
God is Able
. My sonny boy is the captain.” Midshipman Jones bent over for a closer look at the ship's bell. The
God is Able
? Where had he—

And then it hit him.

“That's it! I knew I had heard the story before. Captain Tannenbaume is your son? He's, like, a legend. The stories about the
God is Able
are the best! I can't wait to tell the guys.”

Mrs. Tannenbaume beamed. “You just made my day, young man.” Then together Mrs. Tannenbaume and Midshipman Jones turned and faced the wooden cross and the papier-mâché Jesus.

“So what do you think?” Mrs. Tannenbaume asked. “Should we put up the cross first and then nail the Jesus to it, or would it be easier to nail the Jesus to the cross while it's lying on the ground?”

SECOND IN COMMAND

C
ommodore Robert S. Dickey marched across Barney Square in full view of the cregiment of midshipmen. The midshipmen had just finished mustering for Morning Colors and were standing at attention in formation. The Commodore felt them follow his every step with their eyes and basked in their adoration.

Dressed in his summer whites, he knew that he was the very essence of “the officer and the gentleman.” The crease in his pant leg was a knife's edge. His shined brass belt buckle glinted off the morning sun. The Filipino Martinizer at the Great Neck Martinizing Dry Cleaners knew that the Commodore liked his shirts pressed crisp, and this morning his shirt was so crisp it audibly crackled as he walked. And even though his hair was mostly covered by his gold-braided white hat, it, too, was perfect. The Commodore took great pride in his hair. His hair was patrician white and possessed a natural luster that needed no mousse, gel, oil, or spray. He looked forward to his semi-weekly visits to the academy barbershop. He liked the compliments he received as he sat, erect and smiling,
in the barber's chair. His hair was gorgeous, the barber would say, gorgeous, and so thick and white. When the barber finished trimming his hair this morning, the Commodore asked if he needed any mousse or gel. He knew what the barber would say, but he liked to hear him say it anyway.

“Mousse? In your hair?” The barber placed his hand to his mouth in mock horror. “Commodore, please, your hair is so thick, so gorgeous. A good barber would never soil your hair with such junk.”

As the Commodore strode across Barney Square—taking care to avoid the bigger cracks in the black asphalt—three regimental drummers began beating bass drums with mallets that looked like long sticks with marshmallows stuck on the end.
Boom! Boom! Ba boom, boom, boom! Boom! Boom! Ba boom, boom, boom!
The Commodore timed his walk across Barney Square to coincide with the beating of the drums. The sound of the big bass drums stirred his heart with pride. How he loved the United States Merchant Marine Academy!

Boom! Boom! Ba boom, boom, boom!

The Commodore pursed his lips and sucked in his cheeks. The effect on the midshipmen, he surmised, must be overwhelming. As he made his way toward Wiley Hall, the academy's main administrative building (and former summer home to a wealthy automobile magnate), he smiled up at Admiral Johnson, who stood at attention on Wiley Hall's balcony. The balcony overlooked Powell Oval and the flagpole, which stood at the epicenter of the academy's grounds.

Admiral John J. Johnson, the academy's superintendent, did not return the smile.

The Commodore entered the cool marble foyer of Wiley Hall, doffed his cap with a flick of his wrist, and tucked it beneath his left arm. He greeted the secretaries gathered inside the foyer—it was the only place in Wiley Hall, built before the advent of air-conditioning, that provided a natural respite from the oppressive heat—by pulling up with a click of his heels and then bowing like a butler. The secretaries responded as they usually did, by covering their mouths to muffle their giggles and comments, presumably about his beautiful white hair.

“Good morning, ladies,” the Commodore said.

“Good morning, Commodore,” the women sang in unison.

The Commodore walked toward the staircase to the left of the foyer. “And what kind of day is it today?”

“It's another day to excel, sir,” the women said together, before collapsing again into giggles.

“That's right, ladies. Today is just another day in which to excel.”

The Commodore took the stairs two at a time. He did this out of habit, not because he was in a hurry. Indeed, he intended to join Admiral Johnson on the balcony at the precise moment the regimental band struck its first note of the “Star-Spangled Banner” and not a moment sooner. So the Commodore waited in the alcove until he heard the regimental band strike a few extraneous notes preparatory to playing the song. Then he stepped onto the balcony, whipped his hand to the brim of his cap, and saluted the flag.

Johnson stiffened. “Late again, I see.” Even though they were alone on the balcony, Johnson spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Is the humidity messing up your hair this morning, Bobby?”

The Commodore angled his head toward Johnson and spoke above the din of the band.

“No, sir. The hair's just fine, thank you. I'm just not a morning person, as you know.”

The regimental band fumbled through the National Anthem the best they could. Staying up half the night drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes while hitting the books was poor preparation for blowing on a trumpet first thing in the morning. More often than not, Morning Colors featured what sounded like the Star-
Mangled
Banner.

The Commodore winced. “Isn't there something we can do about the band, sir? They are hopeless.”

Johnson looked straight ahead at the American flag lying limp against the flagpole in the still air. “The band is fine. At least they show up on time.”

“This new bandleader—where did we get him? Is the man not tone-deaf ?”

The song was coming to its familiar close now. Try as they might, the stressed-out band jocks simply could not muster the energy to finish the song with the flourish the Commodore craved. This day, like every other in July on Long Island, was shaping up to be hazy, hot, and humid, the kind of weather that
can sap the spirit, making it all the more imperative that the regimental band kick off the day with gusto. Couldn't Johnson see that? As the anthem died with a whimper, the Commodore dropped his salute and turned to Johnson. “Surely the United States Merchant Marine Academy can afford a proper bandleader. Might you want me to look into the matter, old boy?”

“Old boy? Enough with the Gatsby bit, Bobby. And no, I don't want you looking for a new bandleader. I like the band just the way it is.”

“Yes, of course, sir. The band is perfectly fine. Fine indeed. I just wish they'd end the ‘Star-Spangled Banner' with the flourish it deserves. What a wonderful reminder it would be that today is just another day in which—”

Johnson put his hand up.

“Spare me, please.”

An awkward moment passed between the two before Johnson broke the silence. “So what's on your agenda today, Bobby? Anything special?”

The Commodore grinned, his mood brightening. “I thought I'd work on my Recognition Day speech, sir. It's coming up, you know.”

“It's two months away, for Chrissakes.”

“You never can be too prepared. It's an important speech, sir.”

“You planning on giving them the ‘Back End' speech, Bobby?”

“Well, I do think it is my best speech, sir. It does seem to get the best response from the midshipmen anyway.”

“Whatever. Work on your speech, if that's what you want.”

Johnson turned to leave the balcony but stopped and turned back when he got to the door. “Oh, and, Bobby . . . don't think your cute little trick went unnoticed by me. The next time you join me for Colors, enter the building through the rear like you're supposed to. If anyone parades across Barney Square in front of the regiment, it'll be me, okay?”

The Commodore sought to reassure Johnson by clicking his heels and bowing—his butler's bow. The gesture was ignored.

“And by the way,” Johnson said, “did I hear you say yesterday that someone is joining us for lunch today?”

“Yes indeed, sir. A Miss Conrad from the public relations firm I told you about.”

The Commodore saw Johnson perk up. “Miss Conrad? You know anything about her?”

“Yes, sir. I've met with her before. She's smart as a whip, I dare say. And she's quite charming, as well.”

The Commodore held back what he knew Johnson really wanted to know. He wanted to make the old horn-dog grovel for it.

“Is she good looking?” Johnson asked.

“That depends on what you consider good looking, sir. Miss Conrad is blonde, has piercing blue eyes, and a rather shapely pair of legs.”

Johnson could not hide a lascivious grin. “I look forward to meeting her. See you at lunch.”

The Commodore waited until Johnson left the balcony before he turned to face the flagpole and the rest of the academy grounds. He gripped the stone balustrade with both hands and spread his stance wide, devouring all that stood before him—the neat flower beds, the pathways bordered by white painted stones, the shined brass bell at the center of the oval. Yes, the asphalt-covered oval was just as badly cracked and splintered as Barney Square, but the Commodore chose, on this fine morning, to look past the unsightly aspects of the campus. He knew the physical plant of the Merchant Marine Academy fell far short of the other federal service academies, with their elegant brick and granite pavers, but he also knew that with the proper leadership, his alma mater could one day be as pristine as the others.

A group of midshipmen marched by, and one of them looked up toward the balcony and said, “Good morning, Admiral.”

The Commodore did not bother to correct the midshipman. “Good morning, boys,” he said, sounding, for all the world, like an admiral himself.

JOHNSON'S JOHNSON

T
he Commodore departed Wiley Hall with a spring in his step and started off across the academy's grounds to Bowditch Hall to practice his speech. Along the way he greeted still more midshipmen marching to class, only now, up close, they called him Commodore. He had to admit that hearing the midshipmen call him “Admiral” when he stood atop Johnson's balcony was music to his ears. Admiral Dickey had a ring to it, and he so desired to hear it again. But there was room for only one admiral at the academy, and if it was going to be him, Admiral Johnson would have to be taken out of the way first. The Commodore thought of Miss Conrad. She certainly seemed to be Johnson's type—not that he needed a specific type, of course. Any port in a storm would do for “Johnson's Johnson.”