The Graduation

Spring wasn't coming easy to the Navy in Newport. Mid April might be officially spring, but the wind off Narragansett Bay is unkind. We of the fourth class of 1975 at the Officer Candidate School did our best to shield ourselves from it as we marched to class each day. This was a low point for a Navy that had been shrinking since 1973, and now had to endure frequent news coverage of the fact that it was so short of sailors that its ships sometimes couldn't get underway. We were to be the bow wave of the new Navy that would fix that.

Along with our three officer candidate classes were three international classes — Iranians, Saudis, and Cambodians. Each of the international classes were kept segregated, for language, cultural, and training requirement reasons. The Saudis and Iranians all drove sports cars when they were permitted off the base. The Cambodians walked or took the bus if they left at all.

Richard Nixon, the President who had “vietnamized” the war that had divided our country for so long, had resigned the previous summer. Our new president, Gerald Ford, had inherited a Far East that his predecessors had set afire, and that he had no desire to be involved with. Each day we saw the Cambodians march down from their own special floor in King Hall, our massive dorm, eyes straight ahead, and go off to study the naval arts that would be of use back in their besieged land.

Saigon and Phnom Penh fell in the same month. My soon to be wife had a Vietnamese room mate. I heard all about what was happening in that country as her room mate tried to get her family out. The fall of Cambodia, on the other hand, passed almost without notice; we were getting ready for commissioning, our final orders, and travel to our ships. But in spite of the fall of Cambodia, the Cambodian officers continued to train, marching to classes with straight faces, never smiling, just as they had never smiled when they had had a country.

One day our company commander mustered us after lunch. The Cambodians were graduating that afternoon. They had no one to come to their ceremony — their country had fallen to the Communists less than a month ago. They had no family in the US, and we would be their appreciative audience.

At 1400 sharp we were in our seats, turned out in our service dress blue uniforms. The Northeast Navy Band played Anchors Aweigh, and two dozen very short naval Officers of a non existent country marched solemnly in, eyes straight ahead. When they were at their seats we all stood; the band played the national anthem of their former country. Then Captain Howard N. Kaye, Commander of the Training Center, and an inspirational officer, gave a short speech that somehow managed to congratulate the young Cambodian officers for having completed the course without referring to the fact that they had no country to return to. Captain Kaye then presented each officer with his diploma, flawlessly pronouncing each name as if he'd spoken Khmer all his life.

Then the Cambodians marched out, eyes straight ahead, to the sounds of what I assume was a well known Khmer naval tune, and we were all dismissed. When the band stopped, there was silence in the gym. No one said a word. The men without a country had gone off to their new life.

This is Chapter Two of My Novel: A Little Navy Spy Work

[Scroll Down for Chapter One, where Genady Navolska, a Soviet illegal, receives his first delivery of stolen crypto from U.S. Navy LT (jg) Howard Simeneau, who believes he is working in the cause of peace by betraying his country]

The drive to his next stop was about two hours. The material Howard had given him was time sensitive, and it needed to begin its journey back to The Center as soon as possible. Also, the longer it remained in his possession, the greater his personal danger. Once he was on the road he took out a Camel, cracked the driver's side window, and lit the cigarette. American cigarettes were good, and inexpensive. Genady especially liked Camels, but one of his conceits was that he hated smoke in the car. He never smoked when he worked, so it was a relief to get on the road.

He took the first Newport News exit and found a legal on street parking spot near the Trailways bus depot. He opened the car door, disposed of his cigarette on the street, and entered the depot, where he stashed the pack in a locker. 

Genady returned to his car and drove to a pay phone. As the coins clanged down the slot, he casually confirmed that he was not being observed. It was a lazy Sunday evening, and there was no one about in that part of town. It would have been obvious if someone had been following him unless it was a remarkable job. A French accent answered at the other end. "Allo?" "Good evening my friend, this is Allie. Can we meet for breakfast tomorrow morning? I have a present for you." "Of course. Would seven be convenient?" "Yes. I will be there. See you then." The Frenchman hung up without saying goodbye.

He drove home through the the rapidly fading twilight. As he pulled into the driveway he told himself that it had been a good day. Things were coming together. He could have pulled into the garage - just barely. He always had some project going on in there, but he needed to keep room for the car, in case he needed to do some private project on the car itself. He left the car outside. It was dark by now. The  Gibbous Moon had risen in the south east, casting a comforting glow on the modest neighborhood. The house would have been small for an American family, just two bedrooms, a living room, a tiny study or den, an eat-in kitchen, one and a half bathrooms. Definitely a leftover from an earlier time. One bedroom and bath were on an abbreviated second floor. For the average Soviet family it would have been a palace, and he had it all to himself, a fact that made him feel occasionally guilty. It wasn't a beach front house, but it was close enough to the beach that there wasn't really the lawn that Americans prized. The property surrounding the house, as with all the others in the neighborhood, was sandy, with some scrub trees scattered about that could tolerate the unwelcoming soil.

He thought of celebrating his first successful delivery from Howard with a shot or two of aquavit, but decided to put it off. As long as he was in the west he was working, and the danger was there. It was best to run sober and alert.

The Phone Call — 1 November 2019

'Ring, ring. Ring, ring.' “Hello.” “Is Dick Misch there?” “Well, he's here, but he's not available. He's fishin'. Is this Geary?” “Yeah. Is this Frank Witcomb?” I couldn't believe it. A guy from the old dock in Wickford. “Yeah. Hi Geary. How ya doin'?” “I'm good, Frank. Can you get Dad for me?” “Sorry, Geary, he's fishin'. The blues are runnin'. They're chasin' the menhaden, chopin' 'em to pieces. Your dad won't be home for hours. He went out with a ten weight fly rod and a bunch of clousers. I'll bet he's havin' the time of his life.” I was taken aback — Dad with a fly rod? “He's using a fly rod now, eh Frank?” “Yeah. He can see outta both eyes again, and he's deadly with that rod. A fifteen pound blue on that ten weight is a blast!” “I'll bet it is, Frank.”

“Look, Frank, would you ask Dad to call me when he gets back? I really need to talk to him.” “I understand, Geary, but things don't work that way with this phone. No outgoing calls. It just doesn't work that way. I'm sorry.”

“I understand, Frank. How's Tina?” “She's not here. No bikinis allowed in this section. You remember how she loved that bikini. She's in anothah section. We get to visit once a year. She was fine last time I saw her. Of course once you get here you don't get sick anymore.

“Right, Frank. Thanks. Goodnight.” “Goodnight, Geary.” Click.

I Know What You Did

He came to me,

First at night,

Awaking me,

The tiny face in tears,

But not in tears,

Untouchable,

“I know what you did.”

At first,

His grief was not mine,

Then he came to me by day,

Somehow,

Just beyond my reach,

“I know what you did.”

He no longer need come to me by night,

My sad psyche seemed to summon him,

Or await him,

That my slumber might be disturbed.

I was powerless to reach out,

Powerless to silence him,

As he called me to account for an evil,

An evil done long ago,

In a far off place,

Who could remember?

“I know what you did.”

I had stepped across a line

Into a space,

Where none should be.

I could not undo,

What I had done.

I knew him not,

But he knew me,

Or knew my heart,

As it once was.

“I know what you did.”

But I knew not,

It lay too far,

In my wake,

As I hoped,

For a peace,

That would not come.

The Room

Those who suffer a great tragedy often feel they are alone. You are never alone. Many have gone before you. Forget not this fact.

The Room

In the room there stands,

Shelf on yellow shelf of Geographics,

Looking down upon a couch that once saw

Gentle passion,

And a long past dinner party.

Now there just remains a silent coffee table,

Holding on its muted top,

A sad few dusty cards,

That wish condolences,

In a house where emptiness is

Destined ever more to live.

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Farewell, Little Kitten

I was feeding my community cats, who live in two warehouses in downtown Syria, when a lady I know came up to me. She had spotted something in the road, which at first appeared to be a small clump of leaves, but turned out to be a very small, buff colored kitten. She had seen me feeding, so here she was, asking if I could take the kitten. After all, my wife and I are half of the MAD Cats organization. The poor little guy's eyes were glued shut with puss, and he was squeaking with unhappiness. At about five weeks old he clearly missed his mom. I slipped him into a box full of towels on the front passenger seat of my car, where he constantly tried to climb out while I drove the three plus miles home, with one hand holding him in.

My wife cleaned up his eyes. We named him Reid, after Kathie Reid, who had brought him to us (we couldn't name him Kathie). We took Reid to Laurie Counts, our kitten specialist, who treated his eyes with medicine, and bottle fed him (Reid could and did eat real kitten food, but Laurie liked to give very young kittens a little extra something to make sure they had all the right nutrients since they couldn't nurse).

Reid was very active, and lots of fun. He played with the other kittens, all bigger than he was, but a few weeks later he began to lose energy and became dehydrated. Laurie took him to the vet, but he continued to go down hill until he died. It was a very sad experience for us. We felt that we had all saved a very special kitten, then we had lost him. Many kittens don't survive to adulthood; as an organization we have unfortunately lost many kittens this way, so we are used to this, but it's always very sad.

Little Reid,

The energy that launched,

A dozen smiles,

And more,

You lived so much,

In just a few short weeks,

Go join your brothers,

And your sisters,

Who charmed us so,

In days gone past,

Farewell.