10 January, 1952; Norfolk, Virginia

She was a small seaplane tender, three hundred and eleven feet in length, but appeared much smaller in Drydock #2 at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard. The ship appeared to be resting in a gigantic bathtub, with all her hull and most of the upper decks below the ground level of the drydock. The gangway "brow," from the edge of the drydock to the ship, entered the vessel at the bridge level, or "03," as it was called. She was shored up with bracing from the hull to the drydock, and heavy timbers kept her rigidly in place on gigantic wooden chocks underneath her hull at the keel. All of this was covered with a canvas tarp from stem to stern, causing the ship to take on the appearance of a very large, dust- and soot- covered cocoon.

Scott observed the loathsome sight from his vantage point at the head of the dock. For the past two years, he had served on a sister ship; otherwise he would not have been able to make out her lines and recognize bow from fantail.

The prospect of spending the next few years onboard did not appeal to the Senior Petty Officer. He had just been ordered aboard that morning from his comfortable billet aboard the sister ship, and did not relish the idea of having a new crew to break in. Rumor had it that the Val's equipment was run down and suffered from misuse and age, all of which was soon to be confirmed.

Scott lifted the heavy canvas "roll" that contained all of his worldly goods and placed it across his left shoulder. It contained his sea bag, ditty bag, hammock, and was lashed in sea-going fashion after the method of bygone times. He was one of the few ole-timers still clinging to his hammock. They had not been issued for years; he had, however, considered it a status symbol of the Old Navy, and it marked him as a veteran of World War II.

With a sigh of resignation, he placed one foot on the shaky brow, tested its slack, and mounted the makeshift gangway in order to enter the vessel. A single word escaped from his lips; "Shit." A cold wind had whistled across the gangway and found its way into and through his pea coat and blues chilling him, causing his skin, and all appendages to shrink, seeking the warmth of nature's nest in his crotch.

Scott saluted the quarterdeck and the fantail, although the colors was not in sight. Then he addressed the gangway watch; "Scott, Electrician First, reporting."

"Welcome aboard, Sparks," responded the seaman. "We've been hearing you was coming. The Chief wants to see you in quarters as soon as you get onboard."

Scott made his way down the midship's portside ladder and headed forward to Chief's quarters. The deck and passageway were littered with trash and spare parts, and were crowded with yard workers and fire-watch sailors. The air was filled with smoke and dust from the cutting and welding. The burning paint and other equally unpleasant odors permeated Scott's respiratory system, causing him to stop and purge his nostrils several times; the discharge from his nose contained thick, black mucous with heavy particulate matter and some items that defied recognition; "no wonder these yard birds die early with their lungs full of shit," he muttered.

Entering the Chief's quarters and closing the watertight door behind him, relieved some of the putrid air. He found himself in the sleeping compartment. The chain-suspended bunks were only two-high in Chief's country, rather then three- or four- high as in the "white hats" compartment. Chiefs being older and fatter, Scott presumed, they could not climb that high. "Permission to enter," he shouted.

"What the hell ya want?" came the reply, from a rather pudgy man lying in his bunk with only his skivvie shorts for cover. "Reporting to the Chief Electrician," Scott replied.

"He's up forward on the mess — name's Smith — Ignorant Smith," came the reply. Scott made his way through the littered passageway to the Chiefs' Galley and entered without knocking. Several senior Chief Petty Officers (C.P.O.'s) were seated at the mess table.

"Chief Smith?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, here," answered a short, heavy-set man, probably in his forties.

"Scott, Electrician First reporting, Chief."

The Chief rose and extended his hand to Scott. "Glad to have you aboard, Scott. I've been waiting for ya; I hear you know your shit!"

"I know this one, Chief. She's a sister to mine."

"We got us a job here, Mate — she's tore all to hell — she's got

W. W. II gear of "make-do" equipment, and the damn stuff's never been indexed — can't even find the spares. Buships don't even carry spares on the books."

"I just left her sister, Chief — she's a whore, too," said Scott. "Knock off the shit, Smith, and get out of my light — I can't see what I'm eating!" shouted another younger Chief at the table.

The younger offending chief, apparently a Boson, was clean and dressed in a proper uniform — white shirt, tie, and the works — just got off watch or was going on duty. Chief Smith gently picked up a large butcher-knife from the mess table and, almost in slow motion, deftly cut the man's tie off at the knot, and dunked it in his coffee cup.

The Chief Boson recoiled in horror, too stunned to reply. He sputtered coffee and egg over the front of his starched white shirt, and soon retreated to the living compartment.

"Damn slick-arm kids can't keep their shitting mouths shut!" — Smith's only comment as he replaced the knife.

"Ya know where yer shop is?" Smith addressed Scott.

"Yeah, Chief, portside aft, right?"

"Right!" Smith replied. "Ya got fourteen men in the gang. Find 'em, and try to get 'em squared away for quarters in the morning. Stop by the X.O.'s (Executive Officer) office if you go ashore tonight. I'll have your liberty card signed for ya!"

"Thanks, Chief," Scott replied, and turned to leave the Chief's Quarters. "Damn, crazy ole bastard," Scott muttered to himself. "No wonder they call him Ignorant Smith!"

Scott managed to find eight of his crewmembers before liberty call. The others were either ashore, at schools, on leave, or perhaps were just outside the Navy Yard gate in some High Street beer joint, screwing off. The eight men that he was able to locate seemed rather reluctant to talk and Scott sensed a "stand-offish" attitude. He felt that he was to be isolated as the new man onboard, probably because of some misguided loyalty to the man now in charge of the shop, a Second Class Petty Officer by the name of Deno Pescatello — Italian, no doubt. Come to think of it, all eight of the men that he had located appeared to be Italian northerners from New York and New Jersey.

"That's all this ole country boy needs," he thought. "Me,...