Cape Cod Bay, December 10, 1943
USS St. Paul, fresh from her birthing yard in Quincy accelerated. Soon she was cutting through waves at just over thirty two knots. Her rudder heeled over and she turned hard to port as the three main battery turrets barked. Super heavy shells arced down the range. They were tightly clustered but off to the left by 400 yards and short 600. Adjustments were quickly calculated even as the gun crews serviced their weapons. Thirty seconds later, another salvo entered the cold air. The results were better. On azimuth and slightly over. Against a real target, at least one shell was likely to have hit but against the flat wooden targets towed by a yard tug, no damage had been done.
Minutes later, Leonard Eberhardt was cursing silently. Being in the Navy had the benefit of a tremendous expansion of a vocabulary he would never use around his mother. The flexibility of the English language was something he had never thought much about until boot camp.
He had been warm and safe inside the superstructure tending to the busy air search radar scope. The seventh salvo which had destroyed the wooden targets had tripped something and the radar had failed. Standard protocols had not restored function so now the chief was getting a work party together to trouble-shoot the problems. And as the youngest and most junior man, he knew that he would be getting the shit jobs ninety feet above the frigid seas.
He is not going up first. They will send an experienced Boatswains mate up to rig any safety lines and anything need to raise or lower stuff from up there. He won’t go up until a First class or even Chief determines its safe for him and the equipment to be up there. All he is responsible for is the actual radar, everything else is someone’s else’s responsibility.