Toes of Apollo

The doctor stopped speaking as a shadow invaded the wardroom, blocking bright morning sunlight that had been streaming over the Custom House wall and shining in through the open door. “Answer what question?” demanded an ominous voice. Oxygen seemed to be sucked out of the wardroom. A short, immaculately dressed officer in starched khakis stood ramrod straight and nearly motionless in the doorway. His unannounced presence caused a sudden wave if apprehension. Everyone rose to his feet out of tradition, fear, and nervous respect. Captain Roland D. D. Kearse was five feet five inches of clean-shaven, military self-importance. He had thinning hair, sternly set lips, and piercing steel gray eyes that made his presence awesome. “Sit down,” Captain Kearse ordered. The men responded immediately like a room full of well trained marines. The captain’s eyes clicked from face to face as the officers settled into their seats. None spoke. Birdie nervously began to clear away breakfast dishes. Only Doctor McCadden continued to stand. “So,” sneered Kearse, his voice clearly controlled but seething with rage. “Do I understand that now you’re blaming me for what happened last night?” “Well, sir – ” the doctor began. Kearse didn’t wait. “You have your goddamn nerve, Doctor! What did you ever do for Billy or Agato? I take care of all the sailors on this ship. They are my boys. Do you understand? My boys!” “We’ve seen the results!” “I am like a father to them.” “May they rest in peace!” “What?” “Nothing!” “Listen, you surly sonofabitch, the Albatross’s six thousand miles from the U.S. We have a mission for God and country. I have damn little help around here, particularly from officers like you who can’t do anything better than sit around smoking and sucking up coffee all morning and aren’t worth more than a rusty bucket of warm piss!” Resentment filled the room but nobody dared speak. Captain Kearse stepped close to McCadden. “It’s not easy taking care of the bums Washington sends me to make into men. Agato was an example.” Stierwell, who had never met the captain, was no less intimidated than the others, but the gruesome event of the night before emboldened him. “Why couldn’t you have just left him alone?” he asked. The captain’s jaw fell. He turned to the young lieutenant while the eyes of other seated officers went back and forth between the highest ranking officer on the ship and the recent arrival. Behind the pantry’s drawn green drapes Birdie and other stewards crowded together and listened. The tell-tale tips of their black shoes protruded from under the curtain hiding the galley. Doctor McCadden became braver. “Seaman Agato's suicide resulted from you countermanding my medical orders, Captain. You forced Agato to do things he psychologically wasn’t prepared for. You encourage ‘your boys’ to do things they wouldn’t do at home. You encourage underage sailors to frequent prostitutes at the G-house. Why do you make sure they get laid? Half of the younger ones have been to sickbay unable to piss after coming down with clap a third time.” “Don’t you dare accuse me of anything!” “You push alcoholic officers over the edge.” “That’s enough! You’re a troublemaker and you’re a damn liar, too. I got your number, Mister. I had you pegged before Buckle picked up your letter to the Commandant.” McCadden’s normally pink face turned red. Perspiration dampened his collar. “Stopping that letter was a violation of my rights and it was against the Constitution.” “No, Mister, this is an armed forces ship and you have no rights unless I say you have rights. I am the only law!” “My letter was about violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice,” the doctor said. “But now those violations are small potatoes. Two of our men are dead!” Captain Kearse held a reply but only momentarily. He clenched his fists and moved forward until his eyes were inches from the doctor’s. “You sonofabitch!” Kearse shouted. “You watch your goddamned mouth! Who the hell do you think you are?” “I’m the ship’s doctor and – “ “You’re nothing but a tall, goddamn, lousy drink of water! This is my ship. I can lock you up or kick you off any fucking time I want – and I’m thinking about doing one or the other right now!” A hush pervaded the wardroom. From behind the pantry’s drape issued an embarrassed titter. Kearse enjoyed the audience. He paused only long enough to take a quick measure of Dr. McCadden and then continued. Kearse knew he could be the only winner. “I’ll tell you what you are, you skinny pill-pusher,” he continued, raising himself up on his toes and articulating every syllable. “You’re a shit-for-brains wet behind the ears quack who thinks he’s smart. What you got to learn is this is my goddamn ship, Mister. I’m the commanding officer. I’m the fucking captain. And Mister you don’t count for nothing. This is my ship. We’re six-thousand miles from Washington, D. C., and no goddamn smart fart over there, or here, is going to tell me how to run the Albatross!” “You can’t bully me,” replied McCadden, struggling not to flinch, but growing apprehensive. “Not after what happened last night. You haven’t looked at Julian Agato's body, have you? Would you like to see another mess you’ve caused? Let me pull what’s left of his body out of our makeshift morgue so you can describe the corpse to his family.” “Stop it, Mister, you stop right now!” Kearse warned. A tremor of perverse delight entered the doctor’s voice. “There’s a head and a body down below on ice. They rightly belong to you,” he persisted. “I’d like you to see them. See the open eyes the way I did. What do you think Agato’s eyes saw in his last seconds? Can you imagine his agony? How much pain do you think a headless guy feels?” “Shut up!” Kearse shouted at the top of his lungs. “I want to be sure you know what you did to one of ‘your boys.’ And for what? What? This wasn’t stupidity – it was manslaughter. Your name was on Julian’s lips a minute before he died.” “Shut up, do you fucking hear me?” snapped Kearse who rocked down flat on his heels and contemplated his audience with contempt. Every officer present wished he was anywhere else. Even Stierwell, who had never seen Kearse in anger before, realized he was looking at an erupting volcano.