Tally Ho
03-24-15, 12:07 AM
Captain Tally reporting from the warm, placid, and infuriatingly empty waters of New Georgia Sound.
It's been eight years since I've posted and twenty days since the USS Seal left Brisbane, and sixteen that we've been on station at a little orange life ring icon, bobbing like a cork, all the while keeping a wary eye on the loom of Jap-infested Guadalcanal, just over the southern horizon.
"Captain Tally,", Admiral Fleshhead said to me, nearly three weeks ago, "I have JUST the mission for you. I know you love your S-Boats, but we've got the USS Seal all ready to go for you..."
"The Seal, sir? Sounds great ... no way I could sink that... on account of the name and all."
"It's 'Seal' as in marine animal, Tally, it doesn't refer to the vessel's airtightness."
"Oh, darn."
"Ahem... to continue ... The Seal is to proceed at once to the Solomons and take up station there to provide lifeguard duty for our aviators..."
"You mean, like, sit on one of those little tall chairs and watch them play shirtless beach volleyball? I think I'd like to pass, sir."
"No, Tally. While Hollywood has established that naval aviators DO enjoy a good game of shirtless beach volleyball, I'm talking about DOWNED aviators ... you rescue them. At sea. Look for the pink smoke."
"Pink smoke, sir? Ummm... are you sure our boys are projecting the proper aura of tough-as-nails grit to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy, I mean between that and the shirtless beach volleyball?"
"Tally ... just get your marginally insubordinate, questionably competent butt into the Seal and make revolutions for the Solomons. Be sure to be on station byyyyyyy.... ohhhh.... October 9th."
"But sir, it's July?"
"DISMISSED, TALLY!"
As I saluted and left his office, I could SWEAR I heard the admiral mutter 'That oughtta keep the little twerp out of my hair for a few months."
So here I am ... I arrived on station pronto, three weeks ago. No smoke. No aviators. I checked out the little orange icon. I patrolled around a bit. I came back to the little orange icon. And waited. And waited. And waited.
I'm pretty sure there are no aviators here. I mean, there probably WILL be one day. Maybe in the mid-1970s when a Cessna Skylane full of drunk tourists tries a little too hard to buzz a vacationing Ferdinand Marcos' sex-yacht, but right now, in mid-1942? Nada.
The crew grows restless. They're sick of playing cribbage and acey-ducey. Our fresh food is gone and Cookie is starting to flavor the oatmeal with toothpaste just for variety's sake. The toothpaste shortage, combined with the incipient scurvy (see 'fresh food gone', above) has given us all terrible breath. The days wear on, and STILL no aviator to rescue.
Unless one of you kind souls can throw us a lifeline and tell us what we're supposed to do, the beleaguered crew of the USS Seal will have to do the unthinkable...
We're going to have to sail over the southern horizon and check out Guadalcanal to see if the Japs know how to play beach volleyball.
God help us.
Captain Tally
USS Seal (SS-183)
The Solomons. Forever, apparently.
It's been eight years since I've posted and twenty days since the USS Seal left Brisbane, and sixteen that we've been on station at a little orange life ring icon, bobbing like a cork, all the while keeping a wary eye on the loom of Jap-infested Guadalcanal, just over the southern horizon.
"Captain Tally,", Admiral Fleshhead said to me, nearly three weeks ago, "I have JUST the mission for you. I know you love your S-Boats, but we've got the USS Seal all ready to go for you..."
"The Seal, sir? Sounds great ... no way I could sink that... on account of the name and all."
"It's 'Seal' as in marine animal, Tally, it doesn't refer to the vessel's airtightness."
"Oh, darn."
"Ahem... to continue ... The Seal is to proceed at once to the Solomons and take up station there to provide lifeguard duty for our aviators..."
"You mean, like, sit on one of those little tall chairs and watch them play shirtless beach volleyball? I think I'd like to pass, sir."
"No, Tally. While Hollywood has established that naval aviators DO enjoy a good game of shirtless beach volleyball, I'm talking about DOWNED aviators ... you rescue them. At sea. Look for the pink smoke."
"Pink smoke, sir? Ummm... are you sure our boys are projecting the proper aura of tough-as-nails grit to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy, I mean between that and the shirtless beach volleyball?"
"Tally ... just get your marginally insubordinate, questionably competent butt into the Seal and make revolutions for the Solomons. Be sure to be on station byyyyyyy.... ohhhh.... October 9th."
"But sir, it's July?"
"DISMISSED, TALLY!"
As I saluted and left his office, I could SWEAR I heard the admiral mutter 'That oughtta keep the little twerp out of my hair for a few months."
So here I am ... I arrived on station pronto, three weeks ago. No smoke. No aviators. I checked out the little orange icon. I patrolled around a bit. I came back to the little orange icon. And waited. And waited. And waited.
I'm pretty sure there are no aviators here. I mean, there probably WILL be one day. Maybe in the mid-1970s when a Cessna Skylane full of drunk tourists tries a little too hard to buzz a vacationing Ferdinand Marcos' sex-yacht, but right now, in mid-1942? Nada.
The crew grows restless. They're sick of playing cribbage and acey-ducey. Our fresh food is gone and Cookie is starting to flavor the oatmeal with toothpaste just for variety's sake. The toothpaste shortage, combined with the incipient scurvy (see 'fresh food gone', above) has given us all terrible breath. The days wear on, and STILL no aviator to rescue.
Unless one of you kind souls can throw us a lifeline and tell us what we're supposed to do, the beleaguered crew of the USS Seal will have to do the unthinkable...
We're going to have to sail over the southern horizon and check out Guadalcanal to see if the Japs know how to play beach volleyball.
God help us.
Captain Tally
USS Seal (SS-183)
The Solomons. Forever, apparently.