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guided-missile destroyers. David Charles had been here before, as a midshipman, and he knew the destroyer/ submarine piers of Norfolk well. This time he was back with one gold stripe on each of his shoulder boards, ensign's stripes, and with orders for sea duty in his pocket.
    The U.S.S. Bagley was an old ship in the summer of 1961, of World War II vintage, and she owned campaign stripes from more Pacific battles than Washington admirals cared to acknowledge for their aging fleet. A stray Jap five-hundred-pounder had destroyed her after engine room at Leyte Gulf, but they had . patched her up and she had even been back to Korea after a few years in mothballs. The constant attention of tenders kept the Bagley and the other seven ships of heir squadron in decent enough shape so they could survive the weeks of duty in the Atlantic with Task Group Alpha. Right now, she looked more like she'd been steaming underwater than on the surface.
    Ensign Charles looked her over critically from the foot of the pier. The second ship in the nest, her dented hull with the chipped numbers on the bow pleading for redlead and paint, the Bagley would be alongside the pier the next two weeks for some much-needed upkeep. He had been waiting in the bachelor officer's quarters for ten days for his ship to return so he could report aboard. Usually, when the squadron was at sea with one of the carriers, they flew new personnel out with the mail and they then reported aboard their ship swinging from the end of a helicopter cable. But this time the weather was so bad that the personnel officer in Norfolk had found another one-week school for him to attend. And then, the day before the squadron was due to arrive, David had gotten a message from the Bagley's executive officer requesting him not to report aboard until that Saturday morning.
    He picked up the two suitcases, one an extra-heavy foldover type with all his uniforms, and strolled erectly to the edge of the pier to look down into the water. There was a hiss from the steam hoses connected to the pier. The tide was low and just beginning to change, and with no current the scum of oil and garbage and sewage lapped gently against the tired old hulls. The smell was as he always remembered, the stink of the piers in any port in the world—not the rich, heady, salt perfume of the open ocean. The bags were becoming heavier now, and he turned up the pier toward the brow going over to the first ship, another Pacific veteran. He lurried sideways as he inched down the narrow gangway to the quarterdeck with his bulky luggage. A disinterested first-class petty officer looked up, but without taking his elbow from the desk attached to the bulkhead.
    The fresh-caught ensign—the shiny gold gave him away— carefully placed each bag on the deck, straightened immediately to salute the flag on the fantail, then the quarterdeck. The petty officer, noting the young officer was comfortable in his actions, immediately came to attention, returning the salute to the deck. “Are you reporting aboard here, sir?”
    “No. Crossing to Bagley.” “Yes, sir.” Back to the elbow on the desk again.
    Ensign Charles retrieved his bags, ducking his head as he worked his way around a winch through the midships passageway where he could see the brow over to the Bagley. The starboard side of the deck of the Bagley, just forward of the midships passageway, was scarred and dented, and some of the cable and stanchions on the edge of the deck were missing. Redlead emphasized the damage.
    Another PO in a well-worn peacoat began to show some curiosity as Ensign Charles struggled down another very narrow gangway. Again placing his bags on the quarterdeck, he gave the fantail a sharp salute, then turned to the quarterdeck.
    “Ensign David Charles reporting aboard as ordered,” he barked too loudly, bringing his right hand to the visor of his hat. He looked the PO directly in the eyes, establishing his authority early.
    David Charles did