The Command

Lenson was looking at the records in front of him. He was in cotton khakis with his portable radio clipped to his belt. He looked tired, his long frame pelvis-braced against the table. They ran into each other sometimes in the weight room. Marchetti was a lifter, but the captain spent most of his time on the treadmill, cranking off miles. Behind him the yeoman stood ready with more folders.

Marty ended up in rank with the other chiefs and division officers and department heads, to the captain’s left, directly across from where the exec stood. She looked focused and vindictive. He’d have to spend the whole mast looking at the gap in her front teeth. He closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders.

“Atten-hut,” said the exec. The captain said, almost too soft to hear, “All right, we ready? Bring in the first victim.”

The door opened for a thin boy in dress whites and a white hat. Marty followed him with his gaze, trying to beam encouragement. Goldie was the armorer for the boarding team. He was matched pace for pace by Chief Forker. Forker was a joke as master at arms, a roly-poly with a tentative voice who didn’t swing as much weight in the chiefs’ mess as the ship’s sheriff ought to. He murmured, “Halt… hand salute … sound off.”

“Gunner’s Mate Third Class Gowin Goldstine, reporting as ordered, sir.”

Lenson nodded. He looked at Goldstine as he stood at attention, then down at the papers.

“Goldstine, you are suspected of committing the following violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Article 134, disorders to the prejudice of good order and discipline. You do not have to make any statement regarding the offense of which you are accused or suspected. Any statement made by you may be used as evidence against you. You are advised that a captain’s mast is not a trial and that a determination of misconduct on your part is not a conviction by a court. Further, you are advised that the formal rules of evidence used in trialsby court-martial do not apply at a captain’s mast.” The captain held up a paper. “I have a statement here signed by you acknowledging you were advised of your legal rights pertaining at this hearing. Do you understand the rights explained therein?”

“Yes, sir.” The response was barely audible; the yeoman took a step forward with his steno pad, to hear better.

“Do we have a witness?”

“Witness, step forward,” said Forker. “Sound off.”

A girl stepped out of ranks and came to attention, a pace behind Goldstine. Marchetti looked her up and down. The rat. “Fireman Cobie Kasson, sir.”

“Witness, what can you tell me about the accused’s involvement in the offense?”

Marty noted with contempt she looked more nervous than Goldie, and he was the guy actually at mast. He tried to guess how stacked she was, under the baggy coveralls, then remembered he didn’t have to. He’d seen the pictures.

In a quavering voice she said she’d been on the beach, had several drinks, and had her top stolen. The other women were going topless and she didn’t think it through, just joined them. If she hadn’t been drinking, she wouldn’t have done it.

“Petty Officer Goldstine took the pictures?”

“I saw him with a camera. Taking pictures of Ina and Patryce — of the other women there, too.”

“He took one of you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you pose for it?”

“No, sir. I didn’t pose. I didn’t see him taking it.”

Lenson said, looking at his papers, “If you didn’t see him taking it, how do you know he took it?”

“I saw the flash go off. When I looked, he was doing something to the camera.”

“So you mean, you didn’t see him in time to stop him taking it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did it make you feel, knowing these pictures were circulating among the crew?”

She hesitated. “Humiliated.”

“Do you have anything to add or change in your statement?”

She didn’t. Lenson shuffled paper, then asked Goldstine, “Would you like to ask any questions of this witness?”

Goldstine shook his head. He shook it again when the captain asked him if he had any other witnesses he wanted to call, or evidence to present.

“Any personal statement to make, Petty Officer?”

“Yes, sir. I think I made a mistake there, sir.”

Lenson set the folder aside and leaned forward, looking at the man before him eye to eye. The radio hissed on his belt, but did not speak. “So you admit taking these photos?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was your motivation?”

“Well, sir … just to get shots of the girls. The women.”

“Why?”

“Well, they took their shirts off, sir. And we was all pretty shit-faced … drunk. I figured as long as they were showing it off, it was all right to take a picture.”

“All right. Let’s see. One of your shipmates goes ashore. He gets loaded. Has to piss. He leaves his wallet out on the table while he goes to the head. It’s all right to take his money?”

“No, sir.”

“Excuse me? I can’t hear you.”

“No, sir. It wouldn’t be right to do that.”

“See the point I’m making?”

“I think so.”