CHAPTER 7 - IMPROVISE ADAPT OVERCOME
“It will forge you into steel.” The Bosun.
The savory aroma of bacon drifted throughout the lower deck, nudging the fog from Jack’s mind. He breathed deeper until it pushed the stench of stale air out of his nostrils. His eyes fluttered open to wisps of sunlight filtering past the compartment’s curtain, barely bright enough to surpass the lantern light.
Even as he was waking, Jack could hear the slow rhythmic crackle of pages turning. Curiosity took over as he reluctantly slung his legs over the side of his hammock and dropped his feet to the floor. He started to stretch and stand up, though he forgot about his banged-up knee. The second his weight shifted to that leg, a bolt of pain shot through him as he crumpled to the floor with a resounding thud. Messing up first thing in the morning! Stupid me!
Davey dropped his book and flung his legs over the side of his hammock. “Jack?”
“Dang it.” Jack tried to push himself back up and onto the bunk, but his knee gave out again, accompanied by another shot of searing pain. He screamed and clutched his knee with both hands.
“WHAT IN THE BLAZES IS GOING ON HERE?”
The grizzled Bosun stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, large anchor tattoos on each. His stare belied his concern.
Jack spoke up first. “I forgot about my brace, Bosun. And fell on the deck.”
“I can see that.” The Bosun remained in the doorway. “Pick yourself up again, son. And put your brace on.”
Davey leaned forward for a clear view of Jack. “Don’t let it beat you.”
The Bosun put his hands on his hips. “Indeed, Davey.”
I’ll never let it beat me. Never! His knee throbbing, Jack pushed his hands on the deck and slid his butt backwards toward his hammock.
Davey bent to help Jack, but the Bosun caught his eye and gave a slow shake of his head. They both watched Jack grab the hammock behind him and drag himself up and in.
While Jack strapped his brace on his leg, the Bosun allowed himself a faint smile and stepped to the center of the room. “Lads, this is as good a time as any to learn something. So hit the deck, gather ‘round, and pay attention.”
The midshipmen swung out of their hammocks and onto the deck. Each took a quick glance at Jack and Davey, then focused their attention on the Bosun. Jack tightened his brace and pushed himself up with his crutches.
The Bosun nodded approvingly. Then addressed the group without his usual gruffness. “First lesson. Acceptance. A storm can brew up out of nothing. You’ve all experienced it. We cannot stop it.”
His eyes shifted from one midshipman to the next. “We can’t change the wind or the waves. But we are not at its mercy either. We can adjust our sails and steer our course. Sometimes that means changing our immediate course several times before we settle back on the original. That goes for every storm that brews up in your lives. Accept the storm for what it is. Steer into the waves and make your adjustments, and you’ll get where you want to go.”
“The waves will crash over the deck. The wind will howl in your ears. It will seem easy to let fear take hold. But you are sailors and officers. Stare the fear in the eye and lead men through it. Keep your wits about you and keep your men focused on the task at hand.”
The Bosun paused to, again, look into the eyes of each midshipman. “This is the most important part of the lesson. Every challenge faced is a chance to grow stronger in skill and experience. For you, it is a chance to become better leaders and better men.”
“When the storm passes and the sun breaks through the clouds, look back on these trials and know that they’ve made you who you are.” He looked directly at Jack. “It will forge you into steel.”
The Bosun looked down at the deck. Drew in a deep breath. Then brought his gaze back up to the midshipmen with his full gruffness restored. “I’ve got a ship to run. For some ungodly reason, Lieutenant Means wants to teach you idiots how to shoot. And, God help me, I have to teach you how to make a bosun’s chair so we can get Pyle up on deck. Now, MOVE!”
Davey waited for them to don their uniforms, then led them all to the main hatch where the Bosun waited. Under the Bosun’s tutelage and Davey’s leadership, the midshipmen learned, assembled, and put into use that bosun’s chair in a short amount of time.
“Finally!” The Bosun looked each midshipman in the eye. “You actually accomplished something.” He nodded toward Jack. “Now. Get him up there. Midshipman Faust, get up there to the Spar Deck and finish the job.”
“Aye, Bosun! Scotty! Paddy! Come with me!” Davey and his two-man detail quickly climbed the ladders that took them up through two decks and out onto the open Spar Deck and to the main hatch.
“Alright, lads. Paddy, take up the port line. Scotty to starboard.” When the pair were in their positions, Davey leaned over and called down through the hatch, “Jack, we’re ready to hoist you!”
Jack nodded, held his crutches, and sat down into what was basically a small hammock attached to ropes. He gave a wave to Davey and grabbed the ropes.
“Very well.” Davey held up his own hand, looked at each of his detail, then turned back to keep his eyes on Jack. “On my mark, lads. Ready! Heave! Hold! Heave! Hold! Heave! Hold!”
Davey and his team kept Jack level through the entire evolution of the task. When they got him through the hatch, Davey pulled one rope to the edge of the hatch, which allowed Jack to step off. “Very well. Secure the bosun’s chair and the hatch.” He glanced at Jack’s hands and the deep red rope marks, patted him on the shoulder and whispered. “I don’t blame you. I would’ve held on for dear life too.”
Jack’s face broke into a wide smile. The sting of the fresh salty breeze felt wonderful on his cheeks and flushed away the remnants of the stale odor of the lower decks. Worth it!
He managed two deep breaths before the Bosun arrived to observe the hatch grating being re-secured.
The Bosun looked around and nodded approval. “Well done, lads. You might actually become useful one day. Now, go bother Lieutenant Means.”
The midshipmen arrived topside to see Lieutenant Means standing stoically near the bow of the ship. Average height, but solidly built, even at a distance, he cut an imposing figure, immaculate uniform, tall hat with a gold Marine badge, and a gold-braided navy-blue tunic with a crimson collar and sash. A white leather scabbard, sword, breeches, and boots, all perfectly crisp and clean, completed the intimidating marine officer.
Davey Faust led his midshipmen to Means, stopped, stood at attention, and saluted. “Good morning, sir.”
Means snapped to attention himself and returned the salute. “Good morning, Mister Faust. I trust you have your midshipmen at the ready for musket instruction?”
“I do, Sir.”
“Very well. Each of you step forward, take a musket, and stand at the ready on the port side.”
The midshipmen followed his orders, collecting their weapons in order of seniority and taking positions along the port rail. Jack was the last to approach and clomped forward on his crutches. It took a little time and some effort for him to figure out how to handle the weapon, along with his crutches. But once accomplished, he took his position with his fellows.
Means picked up his own musket and stepped toward the line of midshipmen. Keeping an appropriate distance, the lieutenant began a meticulous inspection of the weapon, ensuring that every part was in pristine condition. Completed, he held it at a diagonal to his body and faced the midshipmen.
“Gentlemen. This is your lifeline in battle, the Model 1795 Springfield Musket, a .69 caliber carbine. That means it’s shorter than the army version for closer quarters on naval vessels. A well-maintained musket is a reliable companion. Neglect it, and you jeopardize not only your life but the lives of those beside you.”
Means crisply set the musket down with its butt on the deck on his right side, then simply looked to Davey and waited.
Davey nodded, then repeated the inspection steps, set the musket down on his right side, then nodded to the midshipman next to him. Each midshipman did the same. Jack fumbled with his musket, trying to figure out the adjustments his disability demanded.
Means shot a menacing glare at an observing marine who snickered. Once Jack settled in, he nodded approvingly. “Know your weapon as you know your ship. It becomes an extension of yourself. Now. Take three steps forward.”
On Davey’s command, the midshipmen moved in unison, though Jack was a couple of seconds behind, and was now a few feet behind the rail facing the open ocean, with a gunnery target bobbing on the water about thirty yards away.
Means came up alongside them, looking down the line. Reaching for a pouch behind his sash. “Handle your ammunition with care. Wastefulness may lead to calamity in battle.”
With well-practiced choreography, Means loaded his rifle, brought it up to his shoulder and effortlessly fired a series of six precise shots, seamlessly reloading before each.
After the sixth hole was visible in the target, he turned back to the line of midshipmen. “Now, it’s your turn. Remember what you’ve learned and let your training guide your hand.”
He observed them carefully, nodding approval as Davey led them through six full volleys. All the while, Means kept a watchful eye on Jack and noticed the frustration of disability take over the lad’s confidence as he struggled with his balance.
“Cease fire! Everyone but Pyle, three steps back. Mister Pyle, stand fast.”
Means waited for the compliance, then approached Jack. “Your injury doesn’t define your abilities. Remember what I’ve taught you. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. Find a way.”
Jack looked the veteran Marine squarely in the eye, took a deep breath, and nodded.
Means smiled. “Good! Now. Improvise.” He stood back and watched.
Jack took a moment to scan the surrounding deck. Spotting a crate, he slung the musket over his shoulder, dropped one of his crutches, grabbed the edge and, with great effort, pulled it next to the inboard flange of the anchor and sat down upon it. He then re-shouldered his musket, resting his arm on the anchor flange and the musket on the rail. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.
Means smiled and his eyes flashed pride as he walked over to Jack. He refocused, turned back toward the midshipmen, and demonstrated how Jack’s position provided stability for aiming and firing.
“Well done, Mister Pyle. Now. Adapt. You might not stand as the others do, but you can adapt your posture for accuracy. Sit comfortably, brace the musket against your shoulder, and focus on your target. Use the rest to your advantage.”
Jack readjusted his seat and re-aimed his musket, pressing the stock hard against his shoulder and holding it down on top of the rail.
“Good. Now. Overcome. Take aim, control your breathing, and squeeze the trigger gently. Remember, it’s about precision, not speed.”
Jack steadied himself, his eyes fixed on the target. The crack of the musket echoed across the deck as he fired, hitting the target with surprising accuracy. Ow! I gotta remember to hold it tighter against my shoulder. The kick nearly knocked it clean off.
“Excellent, Mister Pyle,” Means praised. “You’ve adapted well. In battle, things don’t always go as planned, and we must adapt to the circumstances. This applies just as much to all of your work. Now, continue practicing. The crew needs to know that, no matter the situation, you can handle your musket effectively.”