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you off right."
    “Okay, I'll see you soon, sir.”
    “Call me Joe. We're going to see a lot of each other, every fourth day and every fourth weekend.” Life, thought David, really is less formal on destroyers.
    It wasn't hard to find the wardroom on the Bagley. They were all in the same location in Fletcher-class destroyers. He went back through the midships passageway, nodded at the PO of the watch who was blowing on a cup of coffee, and proceeded up the starboard side to the wardroom.
    A pot of coffee that had probably been on the hot plate since the previous night simmered by the open space to the pantry. The table was covered with the standard dark green felt, bearing the stains of many unidentified spills. A beige couch riveted to the deck and bulkhead extended on either side in one corner: On the forward bulkhead, emphasized by reflections from the water outside, were the ship's plaque, photos of the ship at various stages of her life, and a photo of a white bearded man in an ancient navy uniform—probably Bagley himself. Magazines that had been waiting a few weeks for the ship's return were lying open on the couch, no doubt left there by a bored Donovan.
    David Charles poured himself a cup of coffee after locating some milk in the pantry refrigerator. The milk barely changed the color and did nothing at all for the taste. He stretched out on the cracked leather of the couch and picked up a copy of a torn Navy Times. Donovan made an unkempt appearance a few minutes later, tossing his cap on the table beside David and nodding. He poured a cup of coffee, taking it black, sat down at the head of the table, and gulped down half of the black mess as if he didn't notice the taste. When it finally registered, he went angrily over to the ship's phone and pressed the buzzer for the quarterdeck. When a voice answered, he said, “This is Mr. Donovan. Find the duty steward and send him to the wardroom, on the double.” Turning to the new ensign, he added, “I thought I was doing him a favor last night when I said that he didn't have to prepare breakfast this morning, but the son of a bitch was too goddamn lazy to even fix a fresh pot.”
    “We're not the only ones on duty this weekend?” questioned David.
    “Nope.” Another scratch, which David thought was perhaps a habit. “The captain let me send Craig Scott home last night, since he's married, too. He decided that Paul Goorjian and I could handle everything until Saturday morning, but I sure don't know what he thought you could do. On the other hand, he's always good to the brown baggers. I'm a bachelor and that wild Armenian, Goorjian, is a bachelor. You caught this section because you are too, and Craig was unfortunate enough to earn me because the operations officer says he wants one officer from his department in each section.” He paused for a second. “You see, we're not supposed to be as horny as they are when we come into home port, and there's nothing uglier than a married officer who knows he has to wait one more night before he can pole-vault home. So the captain made a deal. When we're in any other port, my section is guaranteed liberty, and Captain Carter decided that arrangement keeps everybody happy.”
    “It sounds good,” said David. “Does it always work right?”
    “We've spent more damn time during exercises this year going into tombs like Newport, Charleston, and Mayport, Florida.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “But, San Juan was great last winter. Let me tell you what the best part is about being guardian of the brown-bag morals—the dinner invitations! We have some wives that are the best cooks in Norfolk, and they're honestly sorry that we have to live on the ship like monks—they think! But the best part of all is that the young ones all work, and they have single girl friends who show up for dinner, and sometimes it's just like shooting fish in a barrel.” He grinned for the first time and then, thinking more about what he