It was eight thirty in the morning when I went to the gangway on the foc’sle. We were to have the ships’ Harbour Inspection in half an hour, and I was the Executive Officer (EXO, Second-in-Command) of a 5000-ton destroyer. I had gone to see if things were alright, and that there were no last-minute hiccups. The responsibility for harbour inspection and everything associated with it, from sailors' uniforms to the ship’s appearance, rested on the EXO’s shoulders.
I was telling the Officer of the Day to get the Quarter Master’s Table tidied up when the Captain stepped out. He was in full ceremonial uniform (No. 2’s), sword in his left hand and a gentle smile on his face. I saluted, “Good Morning, Sir.”
“Good Morning, MP. Come, let us go around,” he replied.
So, off we started towards the quarter deck along the port waist, with him pointing out this and that - some paint over rubber, some ropes a little dirty and so on. I followed him, wondering all the while if things were really okay, even as the Ceremonial Guard and Sailors’ platoons were taking their positions for inspection at Divisions. We were to be inspected by the stern Fleet Commander, known for his exacting standards, and a penchant for expressing his displeasure rather forcefully when things were off kilter. I was still in my working rig and needed to change into No 2’s for the Divisions.
The Captain continued along, we crossed the quarter deck and came on to the starboard side. It was when we reached the Boat Deck that the Captain finally noticed it. He was in the middle of pointing out a dab of white paint from a careless brush on the open ship’s galley porthole glass, when he suddenly asked, “You don’t seem to be paying attention. Normally you write down everything in your scribble pad, but now you are just saying “Yes Sir” to everything?”
“Divisions are in 20 minutes, Sir.”
The Captain didn't seem to understand. “So?” “So, this is it. Nothing can be done now,” I blurted.
“Then why am I pointing out all these things to you?” he was clearly irritated.
“I don’t know,” was all I could say. I was exasperated. Couldn’t the Captain see that I had a zillion other things to do in the next 20 minutes, besides changing my uniform? Had they changed the fender ropes? The capstan drums needed to be touched up with a ‘dry brush’; the Engine Room sailors had spilt lub oil on the starboard catwalk last night. My mind was elsewhere, racing.
And for the first time, in those seventeen years that I had known him, the smile left the Captain’s face - it turned a deep shade of red instead.
“Ek blade leke yeh paint nikal do,” (Take a blade and scrape off the paint) he ordered the cook inside the ship’s galley. The cook was a young sailor, who was dressed in a vest and shorts, for a little respite from the heat of four electric hot plates that cooked the afternoon meal. The Duty Cook was one of the few who were ‘excused divisions’ because of the nature of his job. He appeared cheerful - the galley frying pan was usually better than the fire at Divisions.
The Captain glared at me, then walked away - and I went on to change my uniform.
Divisions commenced at 0900. The Admiral looked pleased with the Rogues’ Yarn and Small Stuff standard of the Ceremonial Guard and the turnout of senior sailors’ platoons on the helo deck. All seemed to be going well; things that could have normally gone wrong hadn’t, and I was starting to feel a little relaxed. We moved down to the quarter-deck, where he inspected two more platoons. All fine there as well.
We were walking towards the boat deck when something caught his eye near the galley - a head bobbed through the open porthole. The cook, still in his vest and shorts, was diligently doing what his Commanding Officer had ordered him to do - scraping paint off the glass.
The Admiral stopped. He turned, his eyes bored through me, silently yelling, “What the hell?”
I had nothing much to say, so instead, I looked beyond the Admiral’s shoulder, at the Captain standing behind. He looked away.
Fortunately, the Divisions and rounds thereafter went off well, and the Fleet Commander was pleased with the ship - at least that’s what he wrote in the Visitors’ Book. And life was good, as before.
The Captain never discussed the incident with me during the next seventeen years, till he retired as the CNS. Prudence dictated that I shouldn’t remind him either.
But I am sure, the Captain remembers.
And each time I think of my tenure as EXO, the face of that young sailor, scraping paint off the porthole glass in his vest springs to my mind - and I just can't seem to suppress that grin!
