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not look a great deal different from so many other ensigns that reported aboard ship each year. He was medium height, about five feet ten, with an average build. His brownish black hair was curly, and he had already learned to his dismay that it became much more curly in the humidity of the tropics. It was thick, and he kept it short to control it in the military style of the day. His face was lean to compliment the body well-conditioned from four years in Annapolis, and only his clear gray-blue eyes set him off from so many of the others. His crisply pressed, custom-made uniform and mirror-shined shoes established his military credentials, as did his comfort in arriving on the Bagley's quarterdeck. He had been at sea before and was already part of the real Navy.
    The PO returned his salute with a bit of effort. “Yes, sir. Mr. Donovan told me the XO had sent a message asking you to wait until this morning.”
    David pulled his orders from his breast pocket and handed them over to be logged in. “You don't have to wait while I log you in, Mr. Charles. I'll take care of that when I go off watch. Then I'll give them back to you and you can turn 'em over to the ship's office Monday morning.” He turned to the seaman apprentice who had been leaning against the bulkhead the entire time, cold hands stuffed in his peacoat pockets. “Go wake Mr. Donovan and tell him that Ensign Charles has just reported aboard, and where is he supposed to bunk?”
    “You want me to wake him if he's asleep?”
    “Make a lot of noise in the passageway. Slam the hatch when you go in after officers. Bang hard on his door, like you had no idea he was back in the rack. He always wants you to think he's catching up on his paperwork. The ensign”—he nodded at Charles—“doesn't want to wait here all day.”
    The messenger strolled around the corner of the midships passageway and disappeared slowly, giving every indication that it would take ten minutes to find Mr. Donovan.
    “Mr. Donovan is the command duty officer this weekend. He's the chief engineer.” Quiet for a moment. “Been on board since he was an ensign. Started out as MPA ... I guess.” It was nervous small talk, since he really wasn't interested in talking with the new ensign until he had been sized up by the crew.
    Charles looked at the damaged deck up forward. “What happened there?”
    “Oh, that was last Wednesday. Hell of a storm when we were steaming back after being relieved by Bravo. Thirty-, forty-foot seas and half the crew barfing. The carrier decided to turn more into the wind 'cause the cans were taking such a beating—for our benefit it was! It was nighttime and no one on the bridge could really see what was coming. A big wave just caught us wrong as we were coming around and carried the whole whaleboat away. The chief said it bumped down the deck a ways. That's why some of the stanchions are gone. The first lieutenant wanted to make the repairs before we came in, but the captain said no. He wanted everyone back here to see we weren't on another Caribbean joyride . . . like they always claim we are.” The PO smiled at the thought and then added with pride, “Captain Sam Carter's the CO and the best most of us ever served with, sir. You ought to like him.”
    The messenger returned as slowly as he had departed. “Mr. Donovan says the ensign has to bunk in his stateroom, 'cause it's the only rack left in officer's country.” He bent to pick up one of the bags. “I'll show you the way back, sir, and Mr. Donovan says I should carry your bags. I'll get this other,” looking unhappily at the larger one, “after I show you back.” He moved slowly around the corner again, expecting Charles to follow him.
    They went through the midships passageway to the port side of the ship, then toward the stern past some open hatches that went down to the engineering spaces. The messenger pulled open a heavy door, already ajar, and disappeared inside. As David stepped over the