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you tell me what fish we’re carrying?”
    O’Brien opened his tunic pocket and flipped over some pages of his notebook. “Six war shots and eight exercise, sir.”
    Kyle nodded. “Right, carry on. I’ll discuss our course with you later, Mr. O’Brien.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    After O’Brien showed the captain to his tiny cabin, the two men went up to the bridge so that Kyle could inspect the new compass mounting. They were just in time to see a crewman coming down the gangplank. Pretending not to see them, the sailor raised his hand in a particularly sloppy salute to the Canadian flag astern instead of to O’Brien as officer of the watch. O’Brien called out angrily to him.
    “Lambrecker!” Lambrecker wheeled a little unsteadily and walked up to the bridge without answering, openly scowling at the first officer.
    “Lambrecker, why didn’t you salute the officer of the watch?”
    Lambrecker stared ahead. “Didn’t see you. Sir.”
    Kyle had noticed something odd in the way Lambrecker had swung about in response to O’Brien’s call. He stepped forward. “Are you ill?”
    Lambrecker stared ahead.
    Kyle’s face flushed. “I asked you if you’re ill.”
    “No.”
    “No sir!” bellowed O’Brien.
    “No, sir,” answered Lambrecker sourly, still staring ahead. Kyle turned to O’Brien, who by now knew as well as the captain what was the matter. “This man’s drunk. Put him on a charge.”
    “Yes, sir. Lambrecker, follow me.”
    Applying extraordinary concentration to his walk, Lambrecker endeavored to walk a straight line behind O’Brien. As he disappeared down the conning tower he shot a defiant glare at Kyle. The captain shouted after him, “Come back up here, you!”
    Lambrecker hesitated for a second, then crawled up. As regulations dictated, he stood at attention; but his slovenly demeanor plainly teetered on the brink of insolence.
    Kyle’s face was purple. Nothing enraged him more than this kind of unspoken insubordination. He came across it daily on shore. The “democratization” of the navy. Well, “democratization” or not, the only way to deal with old-fashioned insubordination was by the old-fashioned method—let the smartasses know that you weren’t going to tolerate it.
    “Stand up straight, man,” Kyle snapped.
    “I am. Sir.”
    “You listen to me, sailor. You look at me like that again and there’ll be trouble. Understand?”
    Lambrecker looked down at O’Brien as if utterly confounded, then turned back to face Kyle. “How are we supposed to look? Sir?”
    Kyle ignored the baiting tone. “You’re supposed to look respectful.”
    “Of what? Sir.”
    O’Brien glanced first at the deck, then out to sea. Jesus, he thought, what a start to a three-month cruise, and a training one at that.
    “Respectful of rank, sailor—that’s what,” answered Kyle.
    “Oh,” began Lambrecker, and belched, issuing another cloud of spirit fumes. “Oh, now I remember, sir,” he said facetiously. “It’s not the man we salute; it’s the rank, isn’t it?”
    Kyle had not known such anger since the war. The veins in his temples bulged and he clung desperately to his self-control. “Get below!” he snapped. “Long voyage or not, sailor, you ever turn up in this condition again and you’ll be more than on the charge sheet. You’ll be in front of a court-martial. Now get yourself sober before we cast off.”
    Lambrecker saluted and descended the conning tower for a second time, grinning smugly to himself.
    O’Brien climbed to the bridge again. Quite unreasonably, he somehow felt responsible for the crewman’s condition. “Sorry about that, sir,” he said apologetically.
    Kyle, by now somewhat cooler, waved it aside. “Not your fault. Is that his usual style? Or is he a newcomer?”
    “No, he’s one of the old hands,” answered O’Brien, looking puzzled. “Matter of fact, I don’t recall him ever being drunk before. He’s a bit moody at times, but he’s not normally the